Title: Eleven Days
Warnings: are hiding behind the white mask: *Noncon, which might be barely-con, but more non than not. Set after chapter 1 of DH, which makes Draco 17 and a bit. Generally cruel people.
A/N: for the fake-spoilers month at daily_deviant
. Prompt: Draco is bitten by Fenrir as punishment from Voldemort for not killing Dumbledore. Thanks to NQ for the quickie read-through.
The body of Professor Burbage was spinning, round and round, blood draining from impossible gaping holes in her flesh, her eyes fixed on him despite the rotation, and somehow, with her throat ripped open and her limbs gone cold and gray, she called out to him for help. He couldn't give it, but his apologies fell silent from his mouth, and only left her entreating all the harder, nose swelling from the blow when she fell, fingers splitting open as she reached toward him.
Draco woke with a start, sitting up in bed, heart pounding, eyes straining to see in the dark, the only sounds the rush of blood in his ears and the harsh rasping gasps of his own body remembering to breathe. He swallowed, trying to ignore the sour sick taste of his own pathetic cowardice, and stood, drawing on his dressing gown because clearly he wasn't going to sleep again now. He went to his window and looked out, propping his knee on the plush cushion of the seat, pressing his hand to the cool clear glass to feel something solid and real.
Eleven days, and he'd go back to school, where he'd be away from here, away from the long heavy table where one of his teachers--well, not his
teachers, but a
teacher at his school--had fallen begging and then dead, only to be savaged further by the horrid snake. He wouldn’t pass the scene several times a day, or be expected to eat there despite the bloodstains the Dark Lord wouldn’t allow to be entirely removed. He wouldn't remember with rising bile and aching shudders every time he heard the word 'Muggle' from his contemptuous aunt, or sat trying to present a calm front in the drawing room.
Maybe then he'd be able to sleep.
He turned slightly at the new sound of footsteps; the pulsing sound of blood in his ears was dwindling. His door opened a crack, and the warm yellow light of the corridor's seventeen gleaming sconces bloomed across his floor.
"You're awake." His mother slipped in and closed the door, her ice-white hair falling over her face not quite quickly enough to cover her fear.
"What is it?"
"The Dark Lord wishes to see you."
"Now?" Draco turned back to the window, looking out over the black and gray of the unlit gardens to the first pale trace limning the horizon to the east. "He couldn't have expected I'd be up."
"No." Her voice was low, but the quiver was unmistakable, and Draco closed his eyes.
"You were to wake me, to send me confused."
He turned. "And then?"
"I would hope for the best," she said, still not meeting his eyes.
He didn't answer, but closed the front of his dressing gown, tying a careful knot in front of himself. Hope for the best, he supposed, was all he could do. At least he was alert, and as he'd not gone to the bath or combed his hair, would look just-awakened never the less. Maybe it would help. He brushed past his mother, who remained in place, recoiling slightly from the rasp of cloth where their shoulders rubbed, and went out barefoot to make his way along the chilly polished wood to the cool marble stairs and down.
He stood at the door to the drawing room, shifting his weight uncertainly; he didn't want to go in. He bit his lip, summoning what courage he could find because the precedent was clear enough, and not going forward would only drag his mother into whatever trouble he was in now, too. He'd barely lifted his foot to proceed when he felt the presence behind him just before he was shoved roughly forward. He hit the floor with a crack of his kneecaps and put his hands out to catch himself just in time not to break his nose.
"Young Mister Malfoy." The voice, high and clear as ever, was Voldemort's, a name Draco only allowed to pass through his mind when he was truly distracted. He squeezed his eyes shut and kept his head down.
"Yes, my lord?" He'd used 'sir' once and been rather convincingly corrected. "You asked to see me?"
The presence behind him stalked past, and Draco shuddered; the footsteps were heavy and oddly balanced, and he knew who that was. And Greyback made him uncomfortable just by being in the room.
"Yes," the Dark Lord agreed. "I did. It's occurred to me, you see, that you've only a few more days with us here."
Draco didn't say, thank God
or it's occurred to me too
or any of the other several expressions of relief that crowded into his mind. He swallowed and managed a neutral, "Yes, I'd noticed the days shortening; September must be near." He hoped that wasn't too careless, but then, they did
have House-elves to remind him of engagements.
"Very near," the Dark Lord said. His tone was agreeable, even pleasant, but there was an underlying note of something oily, and Draco waited, head down. "And I realized, Draco, that we've never had an opportunity to discuss the assignment you promised to complete."
Draco felt the cold prickle of sweat breaking out on his scalp and down his spine. He'd allowed himself to hope against hope his failure had been mitigated enough, but of course, the Dark Lord did like toying with his prey, just like the teacher, just like the woman in Manchester, just like Potter himself in a graveyard two years earlier. He kept his face pointing at the floor and hoped the trickling sweat wouldn't drip. "Yes, my lord."
"You failed me."
He nodded, one sharp jerk of his head. "I was unable to complete my task before--"
"You were unable to complete your task, the task you were assigned and gave your word about. There is no before, Draco." The voice lowered and roughened as the Dark Lord rose from his seat and strode near. "There is only failure."
"I apologize, my--"
"My lord." That low voice was wilder, rougher, and Draco realized all at once that Greyback had moved near again.
"Draco, it would appear, needs a lesson in the price of failure."
"My lord," Draco began, mind racing to think what he could say. "I--"
." The curse was spoken lightly, lovingly, and Draco's shoulders spasmed as he fell, his face hitting the marble hard as electricity sparked through his muscles. It seemed to last forever, though he knew it was probably only a second, and then the curse lifted and a thick boot shoved against and under his side, kicking him over onto his back. He looked up at the nasty grin of Greyback, but it was still the Dark Lord whose voice held his attention. "Now, if you're quite finished, Fenrir will administer your punishment."
Draco shuddered, but he couldn’t have moved if he'd wanted to, and he hadn't enough will about him to formulate any sense of want. Before he'd even finished that realization, Greyback was crouching over him, long wicked tongue sweeping across his lower lip as he lowered his face to sniff, grotesquely, at Draco's chest.
"Do leave him able to function, Fenrir," the Dark Lord said casually, retreating to his chair and crossing one leg over the other as he watched. "It won't serve as punishment if he cannot feel it."
Greyback, teeth bared, looked up and nodded once, so slowly Draco wondered, fleetingly, whether it would be considered disrespectful. And then, also slowly, he lowered his head again and growled before raking those sharp teeth against the soft skin under Draco's jaw.
"What are you--" Draco gasped. "You can't just. Are you…"
Greyback chuckled, a low horrible sound, and brought up one gnarled hand to tear at the knot of Draco's dressing gown. His pyjamas, summer-weight and fine, tore easily, and before he managed anything more than a quivering hand up, those teeth were tearing into the flesh of his chest, his shoulder, his belly. He whined in terror, then screamed as blood trickled down along his ribs to pool sticky under him, but Greyback was hanging back, controlled, his movements wild but not reckless. He wasn't going to kill him, and the blood loss was nowhere near as great as what he'd felt two months prior, when Potter had sliced his chest cleanly with magical scalpels that spouted great gouts of hot blood. Now, no. Now, he was bleeding slowly, sluggishly from jagged tears, and he wasn't in danger of death, just pain. He writhed, trying to somehow avoid the teeth and work his way free without touching the snarling mouth that hadn't moved off him.
He'd managed to squirm a few inches when Crucio
rang out again, this time from his aunt, who was never gentle, and he stopped trying to escape and instead tried not to move at all as his flesh burned and throbbed. Somehow the descriptions of this curse never quite encompassed the searing nature of the pain, and it crossed his mind that if the curse were honest, it would leave blisters and streaks of charred black. He ground his teeth together and waited the seconds or minutes or forever for it to stop, while Greyback, still on top of him, laughed nastily and moved to one side, biting his way across in short sharp jabs that Draco barely even noticed amid the assault. And then Aunt Bellatrix ceased the curse, but held her wand on him still, cackling madly and looking to the Dark Lord for approval as the punctures of Greyback's teeth slowed. Draco looked around, panicked, wondering wildly why that was, why the torture was ebbing, but there was nothing in the Dark Lord's expression, or his aunt's, to explain it. They both watched, fascinated, eyes gleaming with horrible anticipation, as Greyback growled and moved, his body pressing closer and harder until he was rocking slowly, rubbing against Draco's still-scalding body, nibbling like a… Draco froze, panting, as Greyback grunted and stilled above him, his bloody lips stretched in a terrible fierce expression.
Like a lover, he realized, a moment too late to be remotely prepared for the hot spurt of semen on his thigh and belly.
He lay there for a long moment until the werewolf moved away, standing and unhurriedly, luridly, arranging his dirty--now dirtier-- robes to tuck away his spent red cock, still glistening with welling drops of fluid that now touched against the rough fabric and bloomed into dark wet spots. Draco couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the pair of dirty damp circles, and couldn’t figure out what that meant. He decided not to consider it further, and ignored the low strange throb between his hipbones that felt like the first stirring of arousal but couldn't be because he couldn't recall a less arousing experience in his life. He concluded it was a response to the Cruciatus curse and blinked, dragging his gaze up to the Dark Lord, still watching, still fascinated, still amused..
There was no option but to stand when he was directed, to let his aunt clumsily work at closing his wounds, a task at which she was profoundly unpracticed and unskilled. His pyjamas were hopelessly torn and irredeemably sullied, and his body ached and shook with every prod of her wand, but he stood and bore her untender ministrations and the interested attention of all three of his assailants silently, willing himself not to vomit. It could have been worse, he tried to tell himself. He could have had that cock, that semen, forced up inside himself. He could have had to participate. He could have been driven mad by prolonged use of the curse.
None of this made him feel any less violated.
It was no surprise that the best Aunt Bellatrix could do was stop the sluggish bleeding; the bites of the werewolf were curse injuries even in the waning moon, and healing charms weren't very effective. Just as the sun came up--had it really only been half an hour? Less?--Draco left the room, stumbling, working not to openly sob, and made for the stairs, away from the cackling voices calling him back, taunting him for his terror. He avoided glancing down at the ruined flesh of his chest, now not merely finely lined but jaggedly torn and permanently scarred.
He went back to his suite and directly to the bath to find the water already run, the soothing scent of his mother's good oils in the steam. He'd already sunk down into the tub, hissing at the sting when the wounds hit the surface, before he realized that in order to leave him this, she must have known what awaited him, or--and he wasn't sure which was worse--seen.
He tensed, sloshing water over the side, and fumbled for the flannel to wash himself quickly; the need to get out, get dressed, get back to normal was overwhelming. He felt the shake of his hand as he drew the cloth over his body, over the painful punctures that throbbed in the water, and no amount of deep breathing or closing his eyes slowed it, so he rinsed as quickly and got back out, standing, dripping, on the bare floor, blinking as water ran down his legs and back, trying to think what he should do next. Nothing, he thought. He should do nothing. He should pretend everything was fine, should dry his body and his hair and go to the wardrobe for a fresh set of pyjamas. It was too early to be up, and sleep would do him good. He toweled off gently, avoiding the worst of the nasty rough blemishes, and pulled on cool soft silk, careful not to let it catch on the scars.
He drew the heavy curtains closed against the early light now bright in the room, slid under the duvet and closed his eyes, determined not to open them until he'd slept.
When he woke, the room was blazing with light, the curtains reopened, and he thought, just for a moment, it had all been another horrible dream. He sat up abruptly, blinking the sleep away, then groaned at the pain in his wounds, too many and too fresh not to pull no matter how he moved. Not a dream, then. He lay back down and turned carefully on his side to roll upright and get out of bed.
The chuckle behind him made the hair on his neck stand and jolted him upright faster than he wanted to move.
"Sore, are you?" Greyback asked.
Draco turned carefully. Greyback was seated--sprawled--still in his dirty robes on the arm chair beside the window. The robes gaped open, displaying his cock once more, no doubt still sticky from before, dark and erect again. There was no good answer, so he stuck with a neutral, "Yes."
Greyback grinned, showing sharp teeth stained with something dark that Draco tried not to think was his blood. "Good." He stood and walked--no, stalked
--around the foot of the bed. "I do like when it's easy."
Draco backed away, but there wasn't really anywhere to go, so he stopped and looked down. "What?"
There was the chuckle again, laced with a malice Draco didn't think he'd ever heard even when Aunt Bellatrix was crazy, or even when his father was angry. "To remind you, pet
, why you're mine to discipline Eight days, is it, until you go?" Greyback reached to tug at Draco's hair. "Eight days to be mine?"
"Eleven," Draco said automatically before thinking maybe he could have got out in eight.
"Ah, just the one moon, then."
Draco gasped, and Greyback laughed one more time.
"Perhaps your lovely lady mother
will try to stop me."
"She." Draco stopped and swallowed hard. There would be no chance--none
--that that wouldn't lead to more death on his hands, and that couldn’t happen. "She won't."
"No. I'll." He swallowed again. "I won't let her."
Greyback's smile broadened to a feral leer. "Good." He ran a filed nail down Draco's chest, slicing another pair of pyjamas to ruins, and dropping them to the floor. "You washed my seed off you."
"I'll just have to put it back." He pushed Draco back until his knees hit the bed and he sat, then without another word he wrapped his hand around his still-hard cock and stroked, dragging Draco's head down toward it.
Draco swallowed once more, trying not to recoil at the scents of musk and come and metallic blood, and opened his mouth, but his hair was tangled in Greyback's fist, and before he could do anything more there was more come, splashing in his eyes and dripping from his nose. He fell back, panting, when he was pushed, and looked up into eager leering eyes. "Turn over," Greyback said.
"What?" He'd just come, so he couldn’t mean--
"Earlier," Greyback said, licking his lips, "I only had time for your chest."