Title: "Stained"
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Stretch Yourself.
Other Warnings: Disturbing-ness. Dirty pictures. Character death.
Word Count: 1015
Summary/Description: Contents of a Room.
Author's Notes: Well this was particularly difficult for me as I will and do write anything. I figured that since I despise Harry/Draco and I'm a fluffy angst whore who loves poignant significance, it was time for some stark bleakness with Harry/Draco. About halfway through writing this, I realized I could have just written a straight submissive Remus fic for this month. Oh well. Anyway, here. Have something... empty, instead.
Any mistakes are the wine's fault.



Draco's hair was tossled, his body stretched open and waiting. His straining cock was flushed and dark against his pale skin. Nipples peaked high. Mouth parted. Back bowed.

Gone still now. The magic long since leaked out from the paper, not even a stain marking its loss.

Another twitched, half-focused and head out of frame. A hand suddenly raised to stop the photographer, reaching out to shield and deny the captured exposure of blushing flesh. Pleasure turned to guilt turned to anger. Then another twitch and the hand had dropped again. A strobing glitch in two dimensions.

Two figures curled around one another, static, forever caught between pressing forward and drawing backward. A glistening streak slipping in a uneven track from between them, over the curve of arse and below the plunge of cock. But these two failed to progress, failed to move or act or be. They just were.

Nearby a book lay open, a quill dropped into the pinch of the spine. The tiniest of ink droplets barely visible at its tip. Lines marked the page, steadily crossing tails and loops of text: “-ly forgo the traditional approach to using Arathera's Containment Principles in favour of a more simplistic mechanism in the moderate alteration of thumb position to half-inch above the balance point. Thus, the wizard can add the additional pressure in the second downward arc necessary to-”

A glass of milk was set to the left of the book, a crumpled napkin halfway between. Crumbs littered the tabletop where they had spilled and scattered, a few in the glass itself. A thin film had so far kept the golden specks from sinking into what was left and spoiling.

Dropped to one side of the swath of blue and bluer sofa, a red pillow half-hid, half-revealed where a wine glass had long ago fallen. Any bother of Scower may have taken it up again but the rug was doing as it was designed, left to catch and protect from even the best of candlelit evenings. The pillow had a small tear along one seam, a small white cloud escaping from narrow folds of brocade.

The fireplace was cold and long empty, but for the black smudges coating the bricks. A poker leaning against a metal frame, its surface smudged, the tip darkened by ash long cooled and drawn up the flue and blown over the roof. A garland of green hung in dipping swags above the grate, small lights glowed in yellow white and a ribbon bowed red at just to the left of center, turned slightly on edge, one trailing ribbon creased in contrary lines.

Set amongst the spikes of green were a set of black frames: Neville owlishly blinking forward, Hermione looking up from another book, Ron grinning over the top of yet another ginger head, James and Lily arm and arm, laughing silently at something lost into the silence of years past and the muffling of graveyard dust. Another picture of Draco, leaning close to his mother who sat as his left and keeping one arm around Harry at his right. Empty wine glasses on the table before them fueled Draco's spreading grin, Narcissa's softened edges, and Harry's perplexed head tip.

The light was brighter here, over a tall bookshelf, only partially filled but arranged from Boulatter's Broom Care to The YRP Casebook for Training Advancement to Explorations of Wizarding Literature. A few embarrassing shotglasses battled for space from the broken snitches and old metal soldiers and a bowl of decaying leaves and still damp pebbles. Dust lightened the shelves, coating toys and book alike.

The curtains were still open, the afternoon light filtered through windows that needed washed, but the need was a permanent one. Never made crystal clear, but clear enough that both outside and inside were visible one to the other.

Harry Potter was there, just to the right side of the lounge window. His lean body stretched out under new denims, under old jumper. His full mouth was parted for breath, seeking to draw it in, deep and gulping. His scar was nearly invisible even before the falls of his black hair sought to obscure it and its significance, a significance made into irony now.

Green wool covered his torso, knitted into a careful pattern of knots and wands, though a narrow stretch of pale skin was visible between hem and waistband. The dark hair there along the low of his belly was sparse but wild, turned and twisted as it sought to meet up with the curls that must rest around the base of his cock.

He'd not bothered to remove his shoes, though one threatened to escape from its risky perch across the toes of his left foot, the black leather curving over dark blue socks on feet that didn't touch the floor, presumably put on by hands that hung now without will or purpose, lifeless.

Around his throat was a simple twist of rope, knotted up behind his head, the delicate flesh of his throat turned red and purple, blue and gray. It stretched from him to the rafter above, a solid thing of English oak that was marked and pitted with darkness of age, and wrapped around it twice and tied off again with more knots than was necessary. No slippage of rope or intent.

And there he hung until the cautious aurors carefully cut the rope from the rafter, freeing the Boy Who Lived from the Man who Died, and floated him down onto canvas stretcher, wrapped him, covered him from crown to heel to carry him from the house and eventually into St Mungo's some blocks beyond where he would be looked over by one of the healers who specialized in such things, before being cleaned up, washed up, and set aside to wait for someone to claim what was left of him, someone with connection and purpose who sought no glory from him. He may have some time to wait.

A crisp sheet was pulled up over his still form, his own hands and wand stained for their parts in his end.