Room of Requirement

When Draco realized that the Room of Requirement could simulate people, his schoolwork improved. As he had been spending all of his time researching vanishing cabinets, he had barely been putting effort into his studies. After a few teachers pulled him aside with speeches about how concerned they were, he had asked the room for a place that would give him what he needed to complete his work with as little effort as possible. Upon entering the requested room, a nondescript figure took his bag and set to finishing the papers for him.

He sat on the couch all night, with nothing at all to do. With stress-induced insomnia, even sleep didn’t offer itself up as comfort. Being seventeen and male, with no romantic life to speak of, tinted his boredom with a sharp and aggravated edge.

Frustrated as he was, and alone save for an intelligent yet mindless golem, Draco entertained himself with his hand, all the while wishing he had company; someone who cared for him, expected nothing of him, wanted to please him, and somehow managed not to disgust him.

For a week after that, he brought his research to the golem room, and tried to puzzle out the broken cabinet while the room did his schoolwork. His teachers seemed impressed, if a bit suspicious, and he was able to stress about one thing at a time, effectively improving his concentration.

By the end of the week, he was exhausted and wired at once, unable to force himself into opening one more book, and a thought occurred to him. He smiled wickedly as he paced three times past the door, imagining himself a caring, pleasing, beautiful, proud woman who wanted him. When he stepped into the room, he was disturbed by the resemblance to his mother. He left the room and tried again, giving specific physical attributes to avoid such a mistake.

She had brown skin and dark eyes and she was indeed everything he had asked for. She touched him, hands smooth as silk as they caressed his skin. This gentle affection did nothing for him, and though she tried, he couldn’t bring himself to want her.

He entered the room over a dozen times, each time thinking of a different woman. He tried every appearance he could think of, each completely different from the others, from every corner of the globe. He tried personalities traits that he appreciated, and even a few that he hated. It wasn’t that they couldn’t arouse him physically; it was that they left his mind bored.

Furious at his high standards, he contemplated what turned him off about them. They were fake. He didn’t know them. He had created them to please him, which made them nothing more than high-functioning toys.

So that was it.

He tried to think of a girl or woman he knew who didn’t turn him off by walking into the room. He couldn’t think of any.

Frustrated emotionally and physically, he paced before the room once more, this time asking simply for a person who wouldn’t turn him off. And if it hadn’t been for the undeniable change in his pants, he would have thought the room was broken when he opened the door.

Before him stood, not a beautiful, busty woman, fully clothed so as to appear modest, but a completely naked and aroused Harry Potter.

Draco almost fled the room, forgetting for a moment that this was a golem, and that he hadn’t been transported into the Gryffindor boy’s dormitory. Taking a deep breath, and reminding himself that this wasn’t real, he stepped into the room and closed the door.

So Potter was the best the room could do? If indeed Draco was gay—something he had never before considered, but might explain a few things—than surely there was a better man for the room to have chosen?

Curious, he flopped down into a chair and stared at the Potter golem, intent on finding the imperfections. There didn’t seem to be any, aside from the things vapid blinking and enduring silence. It was as though Potter had been possessed by a modest, timid, fourth year girl.

Breathing out heavily through his nose, Draco adjusted his seating arrangement until his was LOUNGING in the chair, arms on the armrests, legs spread almost lewdly.

Potter stepped forward and knelt down between his legs. It placed its hands on Draco’s thighs, massaging gently through the fabric of his pants. Sinful fingertips slid up to his crotch and began petting him through the cloth. Potter’s painfully green eyes were blinking owlishly up at him, as though begging.

Potter. Begging.

And oooh, Draco LIKED that.

He smirked, jutted his chin up in silent affirmation. Potter unzipped his pants and slid his borderline delicate fingers inside, wrapping around his cock with tentative affection. He breathed deeply, feeling as though making noise would somehow ruin this perverse tableau. The fingers gingerly freed him from his pants, careful not to scratch him on his zip, and then there was wet heat, and those terrible eyes were still staring up at him, blinking innocently.

It was difficult to keep from making noise. Pressure was building up in his chest that merely BREATHING DEEPLY would not ease, and only part of it was that delicious wet heat. The other part was coiling laughter at Potter’s near-comical face. Without the perfectly round glasses to compare too, those eyes were nearing circular in shape, and probably much larger than their real counterpart’s. The boy’s mouth was held in a perfect ‘O’ around the head of Draco’s cock. It was just damned comical to look at.

And then it started sucking, and Draco was gone. He sighed and gasped his pleasure, bucking his hips, dropping his head back against the chair, and letting his eyes slide closed. Five minutes or so of sucking up, down, and back up, and Draco groaned, spasmed, and shot his load.

And the golem swallowed.

He felt like laughing again, letting it bubble up at the absurdity of his situation. He had just jazzed down the back of a blow-up-doll HARRY POTTER'S throat. And Harry Potter had pursed his lips, blinked like a little girl, and swallowed.

On the verge of hysteria, produced—surely—by his extreme lack of sleep, Draco wondered what the room would do with his spunk. After all, the Room of Requirement had just blown him, and kept his seed. He wondered vaguely if the room could make a real person out of DNA. He still didn’t understand what “cloning” meant, as he made a point not to pay attention in muggle studies, but he was pretty sure that this would be the wizarding version.

A hundred other ideas of the use for his family milk flitted through his exhausted mind, and for once he actually drifted off to sleep.


When he woke, it was nearing two in the morning. He had been asleep for almost eight hours. Tucking himself back into his pants, he cast a glance around the room and his eyes landed on the Potter golem, seated at the end of a large mahogany bed.

He just stared at it, frowning.

Why Potter?

He began to sift through the list of eligible males in school, starting with the most desirable, and ending with Potter.

Theo was… well, he was bloody brilliant, to be honest, but he was also the most apathetic person Draco had ever met. There was no such thing as a meaningful relationship with Theodore. This happened to be the only reason they weren’t friends; Draco wasn’t comfortable becoming emotionally invested in a person who’d just as soon gut him on orders without even the bat of an eye, as buy him chocolate when he wasn’t feeling well. Theo was brilliant, but Theo was dangerous, and Draco just didn’t need that in his life.

Blaise… not a chance. Even if Draco could get past his purely brotherly feelings for the boy, and the knowledge that Blaise had never been and would never be attracted to Draco, he had to grudgingly admit that Blaise was the backstabbing type. If Draco did something to offend him in any way, he’d find poison in his coffee the next day, compliments of Mrs. Zabini.

Vince and Greg were sweet and all, but there was just no way in hell that Draco could think of them sexually without gagging.

All the rest of the attractive boys in the school were half-bloods or mudbloods or mudblood sympathizers, Hufflepuffs, and/or just plain stupid. There were a couple purebloods, who weren’t all that special, and then there was everyone else. And ANY of them should have been better than Potter. Even WEASLEY.

But when he thought of them naked, and sweaty, and squirming under him, there just wasn’t a nicer view to be found than Potter’s venomous green eyes blinking back tears.

And maybe that was it. Maybe, really, Draco was just sick enough to get off on making his enemy cry. Maybe he really was sadistic, and he wanted to cause the boy pain.

With a snarl, Draco pushed himself out of the chair and left the room. Pacing in front of it, he wished for a more defiant Potter—one who didn’t look at him like an innocent child; one who knew exactly what was going on and reacted accordingly; and most importantly, one with a voice.

He reentered the room and was immediately rewarded with a flippant, snotty remark. “You look like shite, Malfoy. Somebody finally put you in your place?”

“No, Potter,” he retorted with a slow smile, “Actually, I put you in yours.”

“Yeah,” Potter snapped, rolling his eyes and shifting his hips, “Because I TOTALLY believe you. My best guess? You’ve forgotten the difference between your father’s fantasies and reality.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have wished for quite so much defiance.

Draco sneered, stepped closer, and backhanded his classmate, knocking the boy backwards onto the bed, and sending a shockwave of pain up his arm in the process. He stood frozen for a moment, reveling in physical violence the likes of which he’d never before stooped to.

And if he wasn’t mistaken, he liked it quite a bit.

A string of curses were thrown at him from the bed, where Potter was attempting to sit up and rub at his face at once.

Draco practically launched himself on the other boy, flicking his wand in a hazardously careless manner. The clothes on the boy’s frame shredded under the spell, leaving him flustered and flushed and completely naked. “Wh-what what HELL? What is WRONG with you?!”

Draco straddled him to hold him down, and backhanded him across the face again. The skin turning red excited him, but he had no intention of drawing blood or breaking bones—not on his face, anyway—so he grabbed the boy’s wrists and wrestled him onto his stomach. Slipping backward off the bed, and dragging the cursing boy with him by the hips, he aimed another powerful slap—this time at his captive’s ass.

Potter let out a screech and bucked wildly, and again the pain shot up his own arm as Potter’s skin jiggled and reddened. With a smirk, Draco grabbed the boy by the hair and did it again, then again, and again, savoring the screams of bloody murder that he knew couldn’t be heard outside the room’s AMAZING walls.

And now he was painfully hard.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips up next to Potter’s ear. “How do you like it?” he whispered. “You feel this sting? This shame?” With a thrill, he rammed two fingers up the boy’s arse, making Potter scream and thrash and wail. There were tears now.

And oooh, Draco LIKED that.

“You feel this helpless humiliation?” he spat out past grinding teeth, pressing his clothed erection against his enemy’s reddened thigh.

Potter sobbed, and nodded, body jerking as Draco twisted his fingers in further.

“You make me feel this every goddamn day, Potter.”

Draco bit down on the boy’s ear, hard enough to draw blood. And that tasted damn good.

“You make this unbelievable shame my own personal living hell, Potter.”

He pulled his hand back and shoved in three fingers this time, still without lubrication of any kind. Potter wailed.

“And then,” he said, teeth still digging into the bleeding flesh of Potter’s ear, “You LAUGH.”

A hard jab forward with his fingers and Potter was screaming and crying and thrashing again. Draco pulled back, pulled out, but didn’t let go of the boy’s hair, pressing one side of his damp face firmly into the mattress. With his other hand, he unzipped his pants and aligned himself. As an afterthought, he snorted and spit onto his cock, rubbing the moisture into his skin with the pad of his thumb.

Potter could feel what he was about to do, and was whining, wriggling, trying to pull away. And if it had been a real person he wouldn’t have been able to do it. If it had really been Potter, he wouldn’t have gotten past the first blow, too afraid of causing actual lasting hurt.

But it wasn’t real. It was fake—a creation stemmed of his own sick fantasies—and Draco thrust forward, lying his chest down over Potter’s back, and he relished the screams.

So tight. So bloody tight. And he thrust again, and again, and again, fucking the boy into the side of the mattress. And just to fulfill his sickest dreams, he reached around beneath Potter, and—DAMN—the boy was as hard as he was.

And that was just sinful.

Wrapping his hand around the stiff dick pressed into the mattress, Draco flicked his wrist and Potter howled. The mixture of pain and pleasure was leaving wet tracks down the Gryffindor’s cheeks.

And he thrust harder.

“Oh god!” Potter gasped out between thrusts, using that muggle expletive that Draco had never been bothered to look up. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, DRACO!”

He came, and his body tightened even more, and it was painful, which somehow managed to do the trick. Draco cried out, spasmed, and filled the golem Potter with his cum.

And again he wondered what the Room intended to do with his cum. Maybe the jizz on his hand was his recycled spunk from earlier. Maybe the Room just liked the taste of spunk.

Draco laughed, a little shakily, and tried not to think about how brutal he’d just been. He closed his eyes as he got up, not wanting to see the golem Potter anymore. Casting a quick cleaning charm on himself—and a second one for good measure—he bolted from the room, and made his way toward the common room, eight flights below.


He didn’t go back to the room for a few days, and when he finally did it was out of necessity. He had to fix that goddamn cabinet! His life literally depended on it.

He didn’t use the Room for anything but cabinet research and homework for a week and a half, he was so freaked out by his own fantasies. And in the meantime, he didn’t jack off either, for fear of reliving his psychotic break, as he had taken to calling it. The problem with not masturbating, however, seemed to be that it merely fueled his depraved desires. Now, instead of remembering spanking, fingering, fucking Potter’s ass raw, he was imagining using a riding crop, a cane, a startling variety of toys on the boy as he fucked him—as he listened to him scream.

And when Draco finally gave in and asked the room for a defiant-as-fuck fuck-toy Potter, he was ready to burst. The room provided him with an assortment of toys that intrigued him. He threw the boy to the ground and handcuffed him to the bedposts, attached him to a spreader bar, and beat his ass with a belt until it was the color of poppies and he could hardly tell one stripe from the next.

The next time Draco tried a crop, shoved a dildo up the boy’s ass, and made Potter swallow his cock. This proved to be less satisfying, as there were only delicious, reverberating moans—no screams.

And the next time Draco plugged him, tied him up, and hung his hands over a hook on the wall, and used a cat-o-nine-tails all across his chest, occasionally stopping to torment the boy with stimulation from his tongue.

And on and on it went. Innumerable Harry Potters pleading, begging, screaming at him; moaning ‘Draco, Draco, Draco’ in his ears, as though they’d forgotten that he even HAD a last name.

Again and again he fled the room, disturbed and disgusted with himself, only to return within the week, unsatisfied and high-strung. Months of this, spiraling into the depths of depravity, and he wasn’t feeling nearly as satisfied as he thought he’d be. Still there seemed to be something worse that he wanted. Still there seemed to be something HARDER that he just hadn’t managed yet. Something wasn’t fulfilling him, and his frustration at this fact was distracting him from his task.

Finally he approached the door and, pacing before it slowly, he closed his eyes and asked for his deepest desire, whatever that may be. He didn’t know what was going to meet his gaze when he opened the door—it could have been anything—and so was almost disappointed when it was just Potter, dressed and looking pissed off as usual.

“What the fuck?” Potter snarled. “Do you make it your life’s goal to piss me off or something, Malfoy?”

Draco huffed and rolled his eyes, closing them as he drawled, “Well, YEAH, Potter. I thought THAT, at least, would’ve been obvious by—”

A fist closed in his robes and Draco suddenly found himself nose to nose with a furious Harry Potter. He had never seen the Room make Potter like this, and had it not been for the thick glasses separating them, the intensity in those eyes might have physically harmed him.

“What, so you think it’s FUNNY keeping me late?” That snarling was really doing something terrible to Draco’s circulation. The speed of his blood rushing south made him feel faint. “I’m fucking HUMORING you, Malfoy. I don’t have to BE here. You’re the one who can’t get your rocks off without me.”

And before he could say anything he was being tossed—yes, TOSSED, as though he were light weight and flimsy, and not masculine at all—across the room. He managed to catch himself just short of stumbling onto the bed, and for a moment thought he had evaded danger.

Then a hot body pressed against his back, shoving his chest down against the mattress, and grinding against his ass. Draco balked at the idea of what was happening, but when Potter hissed, “bitch” into his ear, he thought his cock had never been so hard.

A familiar spell was uttered behind him, and suddenly his clothed were in tatters, falling to the floor around him. “Wha-” he cried, eyes going wide. Before he could ask how the hell he was supposed to get to the common room tonight, the Gryffindor grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled. The weight of his body kept Draco on the bed, but now Potter had an amazing angle to suck and bite at his neck.

“God, you’re such a bitch,” Potter growled, “Why do you make me want you?”

Draco moaned at the solid bites and nips being dosed out over his neck, ignoring or forgetting how easily his skin bruises. Apparently, his moans didn’t make the other boy happy. Potter shoved Draco face first into the mattress and—

-SLAP-

Draco screamed. He had never been hit so hard in his life. The blow reverberated up his spine, and it’s placement made his skin flush in humiliation from his toes to his scalp.

-SLAP-

He screamed again, wrenching his head to the side so he could breathe, and letting the sobs escape him. And he had NEVER been so hard.

-SLAP-

His entire body quivered and shook, and he couldn’t stop the tears. It didn’t make sense how one hand could make him sting from the backs of his knees all the way up the back of his neck.

“PLEASE!” he cried before he even knew what he was begging for.

Then next slap didn’t come. Instead, Potter leaned back on top of him, suddenly naked and very much erect. “Please what?” he purred, nipping at the back of Draco’s neck.

Draco shook his head. He wanted something so badly that he couldn’t breathe, but really he didn’t know what it was. “Please,” was all he could say, so he said it again, and again, and again, and then he sobbed it, broke it, and tried again.

Potter shook him violently by the hair. “Please WHAT?” he yelled, and Draco was shaking now. He was shaking like a leaf, and he was crying like he hadn’t cried in YEARS.

“Please,” he sobbed again, unsure if he were asking for punishment or mercy. “Please, please, PLEASE!”

“Don’t you even know what you want, Malfoy?” Harry asked scathingly. “Well what do you USUALLY want, you slut?”

“PLEASE fuck me!” Draco sobbed, only realizing what he’d said after he said it.

“Yeah,” Potter snickered darkly, shoving two fingers roughly inside of Draco, who bucked and cried out at the sudden unlubed penetration. “I THOUGHT that was what you wanted.”

The fingers were shoved in and out of him a half dozen times, and then removed, which was a merciful thing to Draco, who had never even finger-fucked HIMSELF before, and so was more than a little over stimulated by the experience. It was painful—undoubtedly—but mostly it was bizarre and jarring.

The next second, the fingers that had been rooting around in his ass were shoved forcibly into his mouth. He shrieked and kicked and almost bit down when Potter growled into his ear.

“Bite me, and I’ll leave you.”

And for a reason that Draco did not understand, that kept his jaw from biting down. He sucked on the fingers, as he was clearly expected to do. Potter gripped his hair tighter, moaned, and bucked his hips against Draco’s ass, causing his stomach to jump.


Potter removed his hand from Draco’s face and shoved three fingers back inside Draco, not seeming to care how much it hurt. And then he pulled then out, pulled away for only a second, and slammed his entire cock into his rival.

And Draco SCREAMED.

And oooh, Harry LIKED that.

Potter lifted him up by the hair so that they were both standing, and wrapped both arms around the blond boy’s chest, pulling them as tight together as possible, and impaling Draco further. And the burn was unbearable. And Draco had truly NEVER been so hard.

Potter bit into his shoulder—HARD—and reached down to palm Draco’s dick as he rocked in and out of the Slytherin. He stretched Draco SO wide, and he was SO full, and it almost made up for the years of feeling empty inside. Potter thrust harder, and harder, and he drew blood with his teeth, and Draco screamed, spasmed, and came harder than he had ever come before.

Potter dropped him back on the bed and pistoned in and out of him harder, and faster, and so much more painful than before. As Draco came down from his high, Harry was still thrusting, and the burn was worse than before. He cried out with each thrust, trying to clench his muscles to make Potter cum. It was terrible, and awful, and he really wasn’t all that shocked when—over five minutes later, as Potter had yet to slow his madman’s pace—Draco started to get hard again.

And just when he was clawing at the sheets, fully erect again, whining and crying out and sobbing like the VICTIM in this façade, Potter jerked, moaned, and held him as tightly as he could without breaking any bones. Draco felt his ribs creak as the boy thrust once, twice, three times more and moaned so desperately into Draco’s ear. “God, Draco,” his voice quivered as he spilled himself inside the Slytherin. “God, I love you!”

And Draco choked, sobbed, choked again, eyes wide as Galleons. Potter stopped moving, loosened his grip, pulled out, pulled away, and then he wasn’t there any more; he was swallowed up by the room.

Draco’s knees gave out, and his torso’s weight on the bed was the only thing keeping him off the floor. Violated and used by his own sick fantasies, he clutched at the sheets and sobbed and cried like he didn’t remember doing EVER, and he wished her were anywhere else, anyone else. He wished someone wanted him; wished someone loved him.

And he knew that he couldn’t do what he had to do, even though it would likely mean his family and his life. He couldn’t do it.

And he knew that it wouldn’t make a difference what he did or didn’t do now, because he was going to die, alone and unloved by everyone buy his own damn fantasies.