Disclaimer: dun own HP

Notes/Dedications: This is a cheap rip off of S-Star’s beautiful fic ‘Saviour.’ :) ...An awesome, awesome story, btw, that you should all go read! (Oh, and I didn’t ask permission to steal their relationship, so I’m very sorry if this fic offends you, S-Star. I mean it as more of a tribute to you, honest! XP :)) So, even though this fic thoroughly sucks and isn’t worthy of you, here’s to you, S-Star! :)!! Thankies for your reviews!

Warnings: Slash, DracoNeville (DMNL), and mildly implied abuse and sex. Nothing graphic. ...But still be aware of this fic’s rating, ‘kies? :) Oh, and heads up, this fic contains both uke!Draco (bottom!Draco) and seme!Draco (top!Draco). ...Which also applies to Neville :) Creepy, ne?

How this fic works: The actual fic is broken up into several parts, with memories inserted in-between so you can better understand how their relationship works. It basically goes, after the prologue, present fic, then a random memory, continuing the present fic, then a random memory, and so on until the last part of the present fic works into the prologue. ... Did that make any sense? XP

Notes2: There isn’t really a specific time frame for this. The ending, or “present fic (oOo),” is probably somewhere after or in OotP though, ‘cause Neville knows about the room of requirements. :P However, that part’s written from Draco’s POV, so it doesn’t label it that in the fic. :) Remember, though, their relationship in this fic has been going on a lot longer than that, so the first memory mentioned here isn’t necessarily their first meeting. :) ...Oh, and sorry this wasn’t proofread. It’s a little dry in some parts, and littered with mistakes. Sorry. :) Enjoy.

-.-Prologue-.-

x

The sheets were uncannily warm.

The atmosphere was nice, the light just right, and the sheets, the bed, and all of his surroundings, completely and utterly warm. It irritated him. Sort of.

He wasn’t really feeling in an irritable mood. ...Which was even more uncanny, come to think of it. Draco Malfoy was always in an irritable mood. He always found little things to pick at, hateful things to say, hurt to dish out. These little annoyances should have meant more to him.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t feeling up to noticing little annoyances.

He wasn’t really feeling up to anything.

For once, he actually felt quite docile, and relaxation was present in surprising doses. His knees were drawn loosely to his chest, his arms bent at right angles just a little above them, limply clutching at another’s robes. He was lying on his side, a makeshift pillow of more black robes sitting comfortably under his head. The robes’ owner was gently stroking his head, soft fingers brushing tenderly through his silver-blond hair. The nails raked his scalp, making him arch ever so slightly, and his breath hitch. It felt good. The warmth felt good. Everything did. A smile twitched at his lips.

And then he remembered why he was there in the first place.

And whom he was with.

And the smile was gone in an instant. He couldn’t remember why he had ever smiled. Why he had ever let a grin grace his lips in his life. There was certainly nothing to smile about.

Smoothly tracing patterns in his skin, the hands couldn’t help but make him want to do so. They made him feel at peace, and whole. As though he could just forget. One of the hands in his hair paused momentarily, and slowly faltered downwards again, stroking his cheek, cupping his chin. The boy inclined his head upwards, only by a fraction, but Draco’s eyelids immediately fell closed in shame. It didn’t matter how nice everything felt. He couldn’t help it. It was all so much to take...

“Relax,” the boy whispered, kindly.

Draco couldn’t help but wince, his eyes determinedly remaining closed. He held them tightly shut. The other boy didn’t seem surprised, nor did he appear to care. Draco bit his lip. Unable to take the sudden switch in their positions, he jerked his head down again, burying it in those same comforting robes. There was a sigh from above, and gentle hands went back to caressing him. He only squeezed his eyes tighter. It wasn’t fair. “Don’t worry,” the voice continued. “We’ll find a way to fix this.”

We? Draco sneered. When had it become them? It was supposed to be him.

That was what being a Slytherin, a Malfoy, was all about. Him. Him. Him.

... Right?

And something, deep down inside, answered him solemnly. And he knew the voice was the one that was right.

... Even if he didn’t want to accept it.

It had always been them.

Always.

x

oOo

xXxXx

oOo

x

oOo

-.-Beginning-.-

xXxXx

Neville Longbottom was a good little boy.

He was a nice little Gryffindor, from a well-respected little pure-blood family, with a set of sweet little morals. He stood up for his friends, was generally well liked, and he tended to look on the positive side like most of his Gryffindor friends. He was brave when he truly needed to be, and he could master his shy nature when the situation truly called for it. He wasn’t exactly bad to look at, and wasn’t that bad in the physical strengths department. For the most part, he was pretty much average. A little clumsy, fine, but still mostly average. In general, Neville Longbottom was, truly, a nice little boy.

Sure, he was practically a squib, but that wasn’t really the point.

The point was that he possessed all the perfect little qualities that Draco Malfoy oh-so perfectly despised.

Gryffindor. Mudblood loving. Utterly, completely, pathetic.

Perfect.

Now, Draco Malfoy was another story entirely. He was anything but a good little boy, whether in the opinion of his enemies, or friends, or even his parents. Now, his particular psyche might take a little explaining. You see, he was half Draco, and half Malfoy, once you got down to it. Half bitter defiance, disregard, and rebellion. Half loathing, luxury, and selfish schemes. He liked going against everything his family stood for, as spitting in his father’s face in these subtle little ways was the only freedom he truly had. But he was also proud of his heritage, and he knew that he stood far above the rest of Hogwarts. Neither side of him, as you can see, truly had any allusions what so ever to the status of ‘a good little boy.’ Everything pointed to the opposite. Yet still, he saw himself as superior. Socially, financially, intellectually, he was. Neville was inferior. And corrupting the innocent was fun.

So, understandably, a relationship between the two was bound to be about as messed up as one could get. And it was fairly obvious why.

Being a nice little boy was no problem in a relationship. Being the exact opposite was. And Draco, of course, wasn’t about to give up everything he was for a tiny little fling. ... A fling he had created himself, back when he could hardly remember why. A fling he had yet to end, and truthfully, didn’t mean to.

After all, to him, it was all fun and games. Because he was always the one in control.

The beginning of the year had only begun when Draco decided to make his control clear.

As if there was ever really any doubt.

They had merely bumped shoulders in the train, Neville searching for Trevor and Draco Crabbe and Goyle. They were simply walking past each other, nearing the end of the train, while everyone else sat neatly in their compartments. A simple brush of the shoulders, while they were simply focused on their search. A careful shove of those shoulders had instantly abolished that.

Neville hadn’t protested, of course, when he was slammed harshly into the nearest compartment. After all, he was a good little boy, and good little boys don’t complain when their bad little partners do bad little things. He made a noise of surprise, of course, and perhaps a touch of a whimper, but he never really made any true protest. Of course not. Draco smirked. He hadn’t expected any.

Draco could have turned around to close the door behind him. After all, he couldn’t have just anyone walking in, when their oh-so messed up relationship was oh-so disruptively taking place. However, it was much more fun to keep eye contact with his prey, while skillfully clicking it closed without looking. His fingers played the lock back into place, his cold eyes reflecting his smile. Neville didn’t look too well. Draco hadn’t expected him to, either.

“Longbottom,” he greeted, with an ever-present sneer and a condescending tone. The face he always wore at Hogwarts, that made him look as though they were all so inferior that it irritated him to his very core, was in place, as usual. He tilted his chin upwards, staring down at the boy through thick lashes, while crossing his arms. Neville squirmed. Good. Draco liked being in control.

“...Malfoy...” the boy replied, unsure. He never really was. Draco used whatever name he wanted. Longbottom. Neville. Slave. He changed it all the time. Pet. Property. Possession. It kept things interesting.

...Neville was never granted such freedom.

...And he never complained, either. It was all part of being a good little boy.

Only, good little boys never shone. It was the bad ones that broke free, that meant anything, that were worth anything at all. Draco was the one who got his way. Draco was the one who got the better end of everything, the controlling end, while the deserving little boy got nothing he deserved.

Draco liked to tell himself this. He liked to tell Neville this. And, as the good little boy he was, Neville never denied it.

Life was good when you were bad.

Draco decided that being higher than the other wasn’t worth the uncomfortable nature it gave his pose. He made to sit down, and, of course, his ‘partner’ shifted over. Flattening himself against the window, the Gryffindor looked as though he were dying inside. Just like always. Perhaps he was, in a way. Draco only smirked. He knew this wasn’t true, in other ways. He knew that Neville loved the attention.

...As it was the only attention he ever really got.

Draco was the only thing that kept him from being completely invisible. If it weren’t for Draco, Neville wouldn’t even exist. He never shone on his own. No one cared about him. No one even acknowledged his existence. ...Except for Draco. So for Draco, he would keep being a good little boy.

...Even when he felt like dying.

Every day of his life.

Because it wasn’t about how Neville felt.

It was all about Draco.

Always.

Now, Draco was never really one for foreplay. He wasn’t really a romantic, and the wait usually bored him. He liked to get straight to the point, straight to the goods, never mind any pointless plays in-between. However, foreplay was one thing. And toying with a victim was quite another.

Toying with a victim was something else entirely.

The moment a pale hand was placed on his leg, Neville shivered, and turned away. Facing out the window, it was amazing how rigid his body went when it had relaxed only a moment before. Draco chuckled, and another clawed finger brought that plump little face back to where it should be. Focused on him. Like everything else in the world. Draco moved in closer, and the hand below moved up farther.

“So, how was your summer?” He purred.

Neville winced. And squirmed. And looked towards the door. No one passed by. No one cared. They were very near the back of the train, now. Draco blocked him from view, anyway. Draco tended to think of everything.

“Fine,” he muttered, looking sick. This was where friends would normally be coming in handy. Not that they would interrupt Draco’s little game, of course. Neville didn’t truly have any.

The boy didn’t bother elaborating.

Draco didn’t ask him too.

With a winning smirk, he leaned over, and Neville tilted his neck accordingly, with a sigh. Draco’s fanged sneer never ceased as he took the offer up. Biting, kissing, licking, all the while his silky fingers running over the boy’s thigh. The warmth he received was so great it was chilling, while he knew his own body was freezing the other to his soul. The Gryffindor didn’t say anything about it. He only bit his lip, barely stifling the moans. Just enough to make his agony known, not quite enough for anyone outside the compartment to hear. It changed every time. Sometimes Draco didn’t want to hear a sound. Others he wanted to hear screams.

On the surface, Draco knew the other loved the attention, and nearly wished he didn’t. He wouldn’t admit that the knowledge of this being truly consensual comforted him. In his mind he was irritated by the way Neville secretly smiled when his tormentor turned away. In his heart he was glad. He couldn’t decide which was right. So all the little bits of attention he gave were always immediately ripped away. Always.

And he told himself that was right.

As he pulled back, only slightly, he stabbed words of hate into the ear closest him. Words that were true, if undeserved. Words that always accompanied the pleasure. Because pleasure was nothing without pain.

“You’re nothing without me,” he drawled, seductively. Shifting up and over, he positioned himself carefully higher than the boy, now resting right atop his legs. Arms hitting the wall on either side of Neville’s head, he allowed their foreheads to touch, and leaned down to stare perfectly into those hazel eyes with his own silvery ones.

He couldn’t really tell if there was emotion in them. He had read a thousand times of lovers seeing eternity in their other’s eyes, but he had always found this notion crazy. Neville’s eyes just looked like... well... eyes.

It didn’t really matter, though. He knew what emotions he was stirring up. It was obvious.

Hatred. Pain. Embarrassment.

Pleasure.

Torturing the innocent was always ever so fun.

He couldn’t stop smirking. He was warmer than ever, and warmer still as shivers traced down his spine, warmer as they ran lower, and lower. That same thrill he got every time he did this was arriving. Adrenaline, blocking his mind, till he could hardly think and everything he knew was reflected in those plump features. He twisted his lips into a smirk, his teeth clamped together. His shoulders shook with silent laughter. And he tilted his head to the side, smiling. Whispering. “You’re nothing even with me.”

Neville only averted his eyes. He didn’t look as though any thrill was eating away at his insides. But his body betrayed him. And he was as warm as Draco.

He was blushing, too.

“I know.”

It had barely begun, before it was over.

The compartment door suddenly clicked, and Draco just managed to stand up in time. Potter and Weasley entered unceremoniously, and gritted their teeth the minute they saw who was there. Neville blushed himself scarlet. He still refused to look up.

“Get the bloody hell away from him, Malfoy!” Weasley instantly shouted. Potter’s fists were clenched. Draco ignored them both.

He turned momentarily, considering. The atmosphere gone, his body temperature had gone down substantially. He was now feeling, if anything, rather angry. He hadn’t even gotten to the good parts of play, yet, and once again it was all because of that stupid Boy-Who-Lived and his moronic little followers. Neville wasn’t looking at him. He was now staring fixedly out the window, as if it held the answer to all life’s questions. This didn’t really help Draco much.

When he had anger to take out, it was usually done on Neville. But, as he was outnumbered at the moment, and Crabbe and Goyle weren’t around to mindlessly follow his every word, he decided against backhanding the boy. Instead, he simply snickered.

“Later, loser,” he drawled to his toy, and kicked him in the leg once for good measure. Neville only grimaced as he turned, and brushed quickly past the Gryffindors in his way.

It didn’t really matter whether it was Neville’s fault or not.

Regardless, he would be paying for it, just like he always did. And without complaint, just as he always did. Because Neville Longbottom was a good little boy. Just as always.

And until they met again, he knew his message would be ringing in his victim’s ears. Over, and over, and over again. Echoing through a corrupted mind, burning home, over, and over, and over again.

Because that was the way their relationship worked.

Just as it always did.

You’re nothing without me.

And you’re still nothing with me.

Always.

o

xx

oOo

xx

o

He couldn’t believe it.

He honestly, truly, couldn’t believe his eyes.

He reread it, desperately, in deep denial and furiously fighting reality. He read it again. And again. And again. But it said the same thing. Exactly how it had the last five times. And still, he refused to accept it. He reread it, again. Still the same thing. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe his eyes...

No, he wanted to shout, to everyone and everything that would listen. To everything that wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. NO! But that wouldn’t really change anything. And screaming didn’t seem enough. He shook his head. Screaming wasn’t nearly enough. Screaming wouldn’t cause enough damage... It couldn’t be true...

It was.

Written, quite clearly, in his own father’s hand, was the neat scrawl that judged him to eternal fires he had been fighting since his birth. No matter how many times he read it over, hoping for another meaning, it still felt as though he were reading his death sentence. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. It wasn’t... It just... No...

How could this have happened? How could it sneak so suddenly upon him? There had been no warning. None, whatsoever. There should have been, he should have known a year before. This altered his life, his destiny, and one week’s notice was all he got. One week... One minute, he had simply been free, and the next...

Suddenly it hurt to breathe.

His eyes were stinging, but he knew he wasn’t crying. He didn’t cry. Ever. His heart hurt, it ached, but he refused to listen to its quickened beat, and he forcibly ignored the blood he felt already soaking his hands. The blood rushing to his head. His mind fogging, numbing, pounding. Slowly, he felt himself sink to the floor. Hands clutching at his hair, knees giving way, he crashed to the ground and screamed louder than he ever had in his entire life.

His jaw suddenly hurt. His vocal cords ached. The common room below had gone completely quiet, deathly ill, and he knew, faintly, that they could all hear his little break down. Hear him snap. It didn’t matter. So he screamed, and screamed, and screamed...

It didn’t matter if he was Slytherin. It didn’t matter if he was a pure-blood. It didn’t even matter if he was a Malfoy. He wasn’t the same as them. He wasn’t a carbon copy of his father, and this was NOT what he wanted. A sneer forced its way onto his pale, pointed features, and his eyes closed as another resounding shrieked echoed against the dormitory’s walls. Unwanted, but not unexpected.

He was always told that his pretty little facial features were a lovely inheritance of his father. That sneer was a Malfoy tradition.

That sneer was twisting his mouth, fangs aching, teeth grinding. Tears soaking, body shaking, eyes remaining wide. It was insane for it to hurt this much...

But if he went through with what they were asking... It would begin hurting a thousand times more...

And it wouldn’t stop until he died...

Draco Malfoy, Slytherin pure-blood or not, was NOT going to be getting the Dark Mark. No matter what they said. Not in their week. Not in a month. Not in a year. Not ever.

Never...

x

oo

xXx

oo

x

Draco and Neville never ‘hung out.’

Sometimes Draco found him, sometimes they sat together, but it always ended in Draco’s little games. They never simply talked. They never caught up on their summers, or shared a meal together, or played Neville’s pointless games. Draco talked, Neville listened. Neville talked, Draco ignored. Neville grimaced. Draco abused. They had sex. That was all it ever really was.

Draco usually was the one to find Neville. When the Gryffindor was the one to stumble upon the Slytherin, nothing happened. Unlike the other, Draco always traveled in flocks. Crabbe and Goyle stalking him, Pansy simpering after him, Blaise chatting along. And he certainly was not going to drop one of them off for a slightly pudgy moron. Neville never complained about this. Any of this. Neville had learned that complaining got him nowhere.

And besides, at heart, Neville was still a good little boy.

Like he always was.

They weren’t ‘hanging out’ now. Draco wasn’t really sure what they were doing. Sitting behind the greenhouse, blocked from the view of wandering students, he leant against the wall. His arm was looped around Neville’s shoulders. The boy had his knees drawn to his chest, his face buried in them. Draco wasn’t sure if he was crying. He decided he didn’t care.

A distressed boy had met him on his way out of the great hall. Puffy-eyed and sniffing, Neville had looked on the verge of tears. Or rather, dried out after shedding so very many. Draco had ignored this, and swept the boy up with an arm draped around the other’s back. Neville had protested for once, tried to get away, but Draco had whispered things in his ear that chilled him to the point of forgetting any means of escaping. They had come out here. Draco had sat them down.

He wasn’t really sure why. He wasn’t in the mood for their encounters, at the moment.

For some reason, he wasn’t in the mood for anything. Besides, what fun would it be if the waterworks turned on? He didn’t want his expensive robes getting wet.

It was stupid, really. Neville was stupid.

“I failed an assignment...” The boy had mumbled. Though Draco hadn’t asked.

“You fail everything,” he had replied.

His companion said nothing.

Then, quietly, “It was Herbology...”

A pause.

“So?”

“That’s my best subject... the only one I’m even remotely good at... Professor Sprout said I was doing fine...”

“No wonder. That class is bloody easy.”

Neville had been quiet since.

Draco didn’t understand what the problem was. He was right. The boy failed everything, and Herbology was nothing more than potting plants. Failing it was just plain sad. ...Even for someone as untalented as Neville.

So they sat there. Simply sitting. Draco wasn’t sure why he put up with it, actually. It quickly grew to bore him.

And when Draco got bored, Neville paid.

He would have, too.

If the muffled silence hadn’t been shattered by a sudden sniff, twice as loud as before.

So Neville finally lifted his head up, sniffing again and looking all together as though he had just been informed of his Grandmother’s death. Then, surprisingly, he looked over at Draco. With, of all things, expectance on his features. This was uncharacteristic enough to make the Slytherin stare confusedly for a whole two minutes straight. When it didn’t seem like an explanation was coming, he gave an aggravated growl. Draco blinked a moment, then sneered in an irritated voice, “What?”

And Neville only twisted his mouth defiantly.

“Well?” he demanded, quite out of the blue. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Well that was shocking.

Draco gave him a flat glare, and removed his hand from the boy’s shoulders. He didn’t understand what was being asked of him. Or why, for that matter. And, like all things that didn’t meet his understanding, it annoyed him immensely. “Say what?” He had half a mind to add something about that tone. He didn’t much like being addressed that way.

It ended as quickly as it had come.

Neville, for all his former boldness, suddenly looked quite defeated. His features slipped painfully back into meekness, disappointment obvious in his expression. “You know...” he mumbled, though it was clear that Draco didn’t. He sighed. “Something... comforting... There’s this couple in Gryffindor, and whenever the girl fails something her boyfriend says something nice to her.”

Draco gave Neville the flattest expression he had ever worn in his life. Neville turned to look at the ground, his shoulders drooping.

Then after a second... “You’re going to hurt me now, aren’t you.”

“Yup.”

So Draco got up, kicked the boy hard in the side, and set off for the castle, rather upset that he had failed to get the sex he had originally intended by dragging the other out there.

He only stopped once he was back from behind the large glass buildings. Only then did he turn around, to find Neville looking after him with the tears barely held back.

“You’re pathetic, Longbottom,” he drawled, before wandering off to find Crabbe and Goyle.

Then Potter and Weasley.

He felt like punching something.

But that was nothing new.

o

xx

oOo

xx

o

Draco stormed out of his dormitory, the doors flinging open wildly before him. Everything in the common room stopped, frozen, as he descended the staircase, fuming more furiously than any of them had ever seen before. He looked practically possessed. Even Crabbe and Goyle stepped back, rather wisely, for once.

He couldn’t believe what was happening. He refused to accept it, just as his brain refused to comprehend it. It didn’t add up. It wasn’t fair. No.

His feet pounded across the carpeted floor, ringing in his deaf ears. It was the only sound in the room. He stomped over to the corner, and it was easily emptied.

Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson quickly evacuated the couch nearest the stairs, distractedly brushing away their exploding snap game without any real notice. Draco didn’t even bother to acknowledge their existence as he silently plopped down where they had just been sitting. His fists were clenched so tightly they were shaking, and several first years stepped back. At least, those that hadn’t already just plain ran. Draco wasn’t exactly pleasant company when he was in a decent mood. When he was like this... well, lets just say even a Basilisk would be stepping lightly around Hogwarts’ dungeons at a time like this.

Draco, himself, was still shaking his head in disbelieve, a sneer permanently chiseled into his lips. The occasional scream made it past his throat, and his hands were already clutching his hair again. This wasn’t fair.

Draco didn’t WANT the Dark Mark. However odd it sounded, he truly, really didn’t. Voldemort could just stay under a rock for the rest of eternity, for all he cared. It was a stupid thing to do to truly sign yourself over to Satan, anyway. Draco was smarter than that. Much smarter.

Oh, sure, playing the dark side for a while was an intelligent thing to do. Power became yours, fear bent your enemies in two, and finding the right... acquaintances... were far easier. Draco had nothing wrong with being FROM a death eating family, to be honest. He was rather proud of being Slytherin, which, as far as he was concerned, was the best house in Hogwarts. If Voldemort was in full, complete power, with a definite chance of wining the wizarding world, so be it. Draco would receive the mark. But ONLY if those conditions were true. Anything less... anything less was just crazy. Suicidal. And Draco was not a fan of pain.

As it was, Dumbledore had just as much chance of the Earth as Voldemort did, and as much as Draco despised the man, his interests lied with power. Besides, working for the truly evil was a tedious business, and working for an any lesser kind of evil was foolish. If you screwed up on Dumbledore’s side, what would he do, shun you? If you screwed up on Voldemort’s side... well... let’s just say you wouldn’t have to worry about being alive long enough to be ‘shunned.’

Draco shivered involuntarily. If he was forced to get that wretched mark, Draco decided one thing was certain. He was NOT going to screw up.

But he still didn’t want it.

He didn’t want to walk around as Lucius junior, committing exactly the same mistakes as daddy dearest. He didn’t want to pick the loosing side, where conditions were always harsh, traps were everywhere, and failure was unacceptable. And, most importantly, he didn’t want some horrific scar marring his beautiful skin.

His marvelous, handsome, perfect skin.

That was the last thing he wanted.

What he did want was a good, long, scream.

He wanted to hurt something. He wanted everything to hurt.

So he picked up the nearest pillow, and hurled it across the room with all his might. Millicent Bulstrode took it to the head, scowling, then saw who it was, and quickly went back to the homework she had been copying. He didn’t notice. He simply picked up another pillow, wishing he had some sharper objects in reach, and crashed it against the wall. Then, deciding everything in the world was within his reach, he stomped over to the nearest table, and overturned it. There were several gasps, and the second years who had been working at it timidly grabbed their books and raced off to another one. Draco didn’t care. He threw some books off the shelves. He toppled a few chairs to the floor. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and determinedly ignored the tears he knew were pressing at the back of his eyes.

Then it struck him. He stopped in the middle of kicking another coach, mind blatantly out of control and tears desperately close to releasing themselves. With one last, earsplitting cry, he kicked a good-sized dent into the couch’s base and stormed off through the stone wall that entered the Slytherin common room.

Voldemort’s slave. He couldn’t stand the idea of being Voldemort’s slave. That’s all the Death Eaters ever were, after all. No matter how high they climbed, they were always far below him. As far as Draco was concerned, those mind-numbing drones could stay under a failed wizard’s feet. So long as he wasn’t standing with them.

The dungeons were cold; he barely noticed. His robes were thin, silk, of course, but he was so furious over the letter that despite all this his world felt afire.

And suddenly, he realized, as a pair of first years coming down from the feast flattened against the wall to avoid him, it wasn’t even about the letter anymore. It wasn’t about becoming a true Death Eater. It was just about... everything. Everything that had plagued him since birth. About living with parents who were together only superficially, a mother who didn’t care enough to remember your name, a father who thought you were born a slave to the family, and both parents willing to pose for photos as if a more caring family never existed. About putting up with abuse from said evil overlords, and all their associates. Verbal, physical, sexual. About depression waves, suicide attempts, and such tightly cut off freedom that it was difficult to breathe. About harsh punishments, and icy rewards, and talks that were hollow and dry.

Life as a Malfoy should have been easy. He was rich, powerful, and of a higher intellect that most of his ‘friends.’ He was superior. It should have been all fun and games...

But darkness is never easy.

Stopping at the bottom of a staircase, still deep within the dungeons, Draco found himself sinking to his knees again. There was no one around this time as he pounded the ground and screamed at voices that were all in his mind. A suit of armor hurriedly scuttled away. ...Probably to retrieve Professor Snape... most likely to inform him that one of his students had finally cracked. Draco smiled a little, despite the tears ripping at his eyes and blood boiling in his veins. He liked Snape. The man actually CARED. He found himself choking on the water streaming down his cheeks suddenly, and realized it didn’t matter. He didn’t want pity. Not even from someone as close to him as the potions master. Determinedly, he straightened to his feet.

Stubbornly, he forced himself ahead. He was gripping the railing so tight it was a wonder it held. He didn’t need pity. He wasn’t depressed, or injured, or cracking.

He was simply angry. Very, very, angry.

And Draco knew exactly what to take that anger out on.

Where he always did.

x

oo

xXx

oo

x

Draco was in one of his more irritable moods. He didn’t want to admit to his anger, as he only had those feelings over something that, in his opinion, was not worthy of any emotions higher than amusement. He told himself that it was silly to get worked up over someone like Neville, and something so stupid as a simple misunderstanding. So he told himself he was only mildly irritated.

Draco, as a Malfoy and a Slytherin, was a marvelous liar. Even when the one being lied to was himself. So he sat in his seat, perfectly straight, as usual, perfectly ‘calm,’ while his mind raged in stunned disbelief.

Draco didn’t know much about any of the other Gryffindors in his year. He didn’t care; they weren’t worth his time. A few names were all he really had in the way of information. Finnigan, the annoying kid with sandy hair, and Thomas, his counter part. He didn’t even bother with names for the girls. Granger alone was enough to put him off the rest of them.

Anyway, he really had no idea what went on in the Gryffindor psyche. He did, however, suspect that it varied considerably from the Slytherin mind. Or, more appropriately, his own. ...Which happened to consist mainly of money and sex, by the way.

So, when had arrived early for Potions class, with the intention of scoring more points with his oh-so favourite teacher, he truly hadn’t been able to explain the event he had witnessed. Neville, his partner, his pet – his slave, had been leaning on Finnigan’s shoulder, while the foreign wizard had had a relaxed arm slumped roughly around his waist. Thomas, who really had no business being at the same table with Neville anyway, had also had an arm draped across the other’s shoulders.

Now, Draco didn’t really care if there was a perfectly good reason for this. He didn’t care if the touching was all a misunderstanding or not. He didn’t care if Thomas had been passing a note to Finnigan, or if Neville had been checking the other’s paper. The fact was that someone else had been touching HIS property, three times over, and HIS possession hadn’t done a thing about it.

And Draco, who didn’t want to care, found it immensely irritating.

So Neville, who probably hadn’t even done anything wrong, was paying for it.

Because that was how their relationship worked.

Neville gave, and Draco took. Draco exploded, Neville tolerated. Draco whispered how much better he was, how much higher, and Neville, kneeling at his feet, agreed.

That was the way it was working now.

Neville had tried to explain. Draco hadn’t listened. He had pretended it didn’t matter. He had pretended that Neville meant nothing to him, and it was simply the principle of the matter. He didn’t like sharing. And that was that.

So Neville, realizing that nothing he did would ever change the way Draco wanted them to work, quieted. He accepted the rough treatment, as he always did. He got down when Draco told him to, and he did what Draco told him to, and he shivered as Draco whispered the rewards in his ear. Poison, sleek and shuttering, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes as Draco dug his nails deeper.

“You’re mine,” he was told, again and again. “How DARE you let anyone else touch you.”

And things grew rougher, harder, and Neville arched backwards in an intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain.

And then it slipped... “You’re jealous...”

Sliding over the warm body, biting his neck as the boy’s head rolled to the side, Draco made sure his point was clear. Scratching the seamless skin before him, Draco inflicted as much pain as he possibly could, causing Neville to hiss uncharacteristically. Ripping and tearing, causing scars that he knew would stay. Marks, that meant something solely to him. He smirked into the flesh of Neville’s neck.

He wasn’t jealous. Never jealous.

He simply wanted what was his. And for what was his to be ONLY his. To be jealous meant emotional attachment. Draco was not emotionally attached. He was simply selfish. That was all.

“My dear little squib, you make it sound as if I care,” he drawled in return. Quiet as a whisper, yet flat as his panting would allow.

Then it was over, quickly, and he grinned as he nuzzled into a shoulder now streaked in blood. A trail that came from his fingers, now glinting in crimson paint. Neville was still breathing deeply. Draco didn’t notice.

He rolled off the desks they had pushed together, and straightened his outfit back into acceptable condition. He needed a shower. And his hair needed to be fixed, again. In one, fluid movement, he swung his bag’s strap onto his shoulder, and spun to meet the other.

With a horrible sneer, he repeated the things the boy had known all along. But they needed to be said. Because Draco needed to hurt. And that was what the boy was there for.

“You’re my possession, Pet. Period. But don’t think that means you’re worth anything.”

Spinning around again, he marched out of the abandoned classroom, as though nothing had happened, leaving a half-naked Gryffindor sprawled across two empty desks, alone.

He thought he heard muffled sobs, as the door swung closed behind him.

But then again, it wasn’t as if that ever even mattered.

Because that was the way it was.

Neville never mattered.

Never.

o

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oOo Read my Notes2 before continuing!

xx

o

Draco’s partner was a rather forgetful boy. He tended to misplace things quite often, and trusted objects were better left out of his possession. Such as the Gryffindor password, for example.

Now, Neville had never been particularly good with such passwords. Usually forgetting them in an instant, he had taken to writing them down. And Neville, being the forgetful boy he was, also tended to lose them. However, it was presently a different situation. To say that Neville had once again, as expected, lost that piece of parchment, was something very near a lie.

Something a little nearer to the truth, was that Draco had stolen it.

Stealing wasn’t his favourite of activities. His moral code placed him above it, and he didn’t really enjoy the knowledge that he was very akin to a common criminal. ...But when something so valuable as that could be so easily attained... well, exceptions could be made.

Which was why the fat lady, with a rather obvious glare on her features, was forced to give way to him as he moodily recited the password for her.

The minute he climbed through the portrait hole, all eyes fell directly on him. Most were just quick glances at first, the usual looking up at the sound of a creak, but when they saw who it was their eyes could barely keep in their sockets. Suddenly he had every pair of Gryffindor eyes in the castle on him. Draco didn’t notice any of them.

He was staring fixedly at one person in particular. One person who now looked as if he were severely seasick.

Neville Longbottom, seated at a table next to Granger, looked just about as pale as one could be. His pencil had toppled out of his hands at the sudden realization of his visitor... and that visitor’s particular state. Draco didn’t really care how the kid was feeling. He made a beeline for the table, kicking some second year’s books out of their hands as he passed a group huddled on the floor. Absently he noticed how much cozier the common room was than his own. But absently he also noticed how much it lacked in quality and organization, so it didn’t exactly mean much. All that meant anything was the rather frightened looking Gryffindor boy sitting right before his eyes.

As he reached the table Weasley and Potter sat up straight, quite obviously on the alert. For once he didn’t even send them a sneer. Neither was worth his time. He grabbed Neville’s wrist in a sudden jerk, hauling the boy forcibly to his feet. He was only slightly grateful that Finnigan and Thomas held Potter and Weasley back as they lunged at him; he would have enjoyed the fight. In his current state of mind, Crabbe and Goyle were no longer a dueling necessity. Here, he could conjure an unforgivable curse, and not feel in the least bit guilty.

Then he was swiveling around, and marching back across the floor as if he owned the place. Neville, tripping over his own feet to keep up, hurriedly muttered ‘it’s okay,’ and a few other explanations to his friends, who still looked as if they’d seen a parade of ghosts. Draco didn’t care. He tightened his hold on Neville’s wrist; satisfied at the squeak of pain he received. Draco even went so far as to let a smirk grace his lips. Growing up with Death Eaters tended to make you a bit of a sadist.

Neville didn’t protest as he was jerked back through the portrait hole, and down the corridor. He didn’t say anything for a while, and after only one attempt to free his hand, he stopped bothering. Draco kept on marching.

He wasn’t really sure where he was going.

He wasn’t really sure what he was going to do to Neville.

He wasn’t really sure of anything any more.

All he knew was that the world had hurt him, and he wanted it all to burn down.

“Malfoy...?” came a sudden timid voice.

He didn’t answer.

The world was starting to spin. He knew he was crying now, he could feel the tears burning trails down his cheeks, and the sound of drops hitting the stone floor echoed in his ears. His free hand was balled in a tight fist, and he wondered absently if his palm was bleeding from it. One minute he was choking so hard that it was becoming hard to breathe, and the next his teeth were grinding so hard that his jaw ached. Everything hurt. Everything was cold. And everything was on fire. He just wanted to punch something.

The only thing there really was to punch at the moment was Neville. And as far as Draco was concerned, that was all the boy was good for.

But before he could do much damage with the hand he had raised, Neville had suddenly spun them around. And then, just as Draco had regained his balance, they were spinning around again, and marching down the exact same hallway. In fact, they did this three times, with Neville leading a surprisingly strong lead.

Draco was just about to turn him back around and beat the boy for all he was worth, when he was forced to stop immediately on the spot. A handsome door, well polished and old, had just appeared in the wall. Out of nowhere. And Neville, uncharacteristically sturdy, was now pushing them both inside.

This wasn’t helping matters.

He was supposed to be in control.

Always...

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oo

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Neville certainly was not the prettiest person in Hogwarts. He wasn’t the most handsome boy, either, and frankly, there was no hope of him ever being so. In fact, he couldn’t truthfully be placed in the top ten, probably not even in the top twenties, and, well, the top thirties didn’t really have a place for him either. Whereas Draco... well, Draco was probably the first. Really. That wasn’t just a personal opinion.

It wasn’t that Neville was ugly, exactly. He just wasn’t pretty. As far as handsome or not, he was probably just about average. A little on the cute site, true, and he still carried remnants of baby fat where many of his piers did not, but he was still just about normal in the way of physical attraction.

Nothing special, really. Draco liked to think that.

But he knew, really, that deep down, he didn’t quite agree. There was just something about him that was so appealing to Draco, and he really couldn’t for the life of him understand why. Every time he looked at the boy his heart skipped a beat, and he knew that every time he shot Neville down it was either undeserved or untrue. Or both. Neville simply wasn’t as ugly as Draco liked to say he was. Nor as weak. Nor as pathetic. And nor, when it really got down to it, as stupid.

Neville could do... things. Things that no one else in the world could, though he was never ever rewarded for them. He made Draco see colours, colours Draco never even knew existed. When they were together, Draco could take every colour in the world with him wherever he went.

But Draco was blind.

And colours, just like everything else, were nothing. To Draco, Neville’s talent was nonexistent, nothingness. His mind told him that every day. Even when his heart told him something completely different.

Of course, Draco would never admit these things out loud. He’d rather face a Basilisk alone.

And things only got worse, too. Because guilt, something that usually was never in the least an issue, started to leak through. Only in tiny doses, at first, of course. After all, living with Death Eaters tended to completely kill off any conscience you might have been born with, and even in Hogwarts, he was mostly subjected to Slytherins, who, for the most port, supported the complete lack of moral standing. In fact, if he hadn’t been of such intelligence, he probably would never have developed one at all. And Neville, for better or worse, was changing that.

It started small, of course. Draco began noticing little things, things that would usually slip his mind completely, were he not exposed to the Gryffindor way of thinking through his newest relationship. Little things, like Neville avoiding his eyes, or Neville smiling at his back when no one was looking, or Neville staying quiet while he himself could hardly stop the stream of lies that seemed to flow forth every time he lost control.

He started noticing that no matter how many times he hit Neville, Neville never hit back. And that Neville cringed whenever Draco mentioned his parents, even in passing. That Neville always offered comforting words, even when they weren’t needed, and even though Draco always attacked him for them. That was the difference, he realized. While he was a Slytherin, Neville was a Gryffindor, and those attributes were so blatantly contrasted that he couldn’t believe it sometimes.

And then there was the most recent development in his revelations, too. The Gryffindor way of doing things, for all its stupidity and fake nobility, was somehow, miraculously, stronger. Neville, how every many times hit down, would always stand strong. Neville, how every many times berated, would always have a positive side. Neville, how ever many times stabbed fiercely in the back, with the dagger twisted, deeply embedded in the flesh, would always have something warm and comforting to say to his attacker, standing nobly to his ground.

And Draco, of course, hated this.

He hated every part of it.

He denied it.

He turned his back on it, blocked it out, and completely acted as though this entire conclusion had never been reached.

He told Neville, day after day, how much better it was to be Slytherin, and how glorious it was in his shoes. He whispered hatred so deep in his precious pet’s ear, and denying all the accusations burning in the eyes he so forcefully refused to read. It didn’t make any sense. But nothing Draco believed in did, any more.

He didn’t care if he was noticing Neville more often. He didn’t care if he suddenly liked the way Neville was clumsier than average, or if he suddenly thought that Neville’s baby fat created a remarkably adorable look. He told himself it wasn’t happening, when he found himself trailing his eyes up and down the body before him every class they shared. And he fervently denied it whenever Neville subtly brought it up. Then the boy would pay for his observations, though they were true, and Draco knew it.

Because of his late enlightenment, everything they did was intensified. Rougher, harder, and Neville always got the sharp end. Every time, Draco pushed down old limitations, and he never received new ones. And yet, Draco was sure that even as he raked his nails through sore skin, and bit down hard on scars already there, a smile somehow always managed to form on Neville’s lips.

Draco knew why, of course. Neville knew that he knew, even if they both knew that he would never admit it.

Draco hated those smiles. However more beautiful they managed to make the boy’s already gorgeous face. Draco blocked this out. Just like everything else that proved he was alive.

At the moment, it was one of those times.

Neville was smiling to himself, curled up on the floor, facing away. Draco couldn’t see the smile directly, but he knew it was there. From his spot against the wall, he could see the shivering body before him, covered in sweat among other things that Draco knew caused a view of the boy that no one else would ever get to see. With each shuddering breath the boy took, each stretch of his exhausted arms, Draco knew that a grin graced those features. And he hated it. As always.

But Draco hated everything.

He hated the way he himself couldn’t stop sneering. Back to the wall, legs spread lazily, his entire body as worn out and wet as the other. He hated himself for letting it go this far, when usually he could walk away without much preparation. His hand throbbed at his side, for he had banged it on a near-by table, rolling off. He hated the pain, hated that he couldn’t honestly feel it anymore, hated the desk for hurting him, and himself for being so careless.

He hated life.

When Neville slowly rolled over, he wasn’t smiling. Draco couldn’t decide whether he hated that or not.

Neville, being an inferior, could never straighten himself out after their sessions. Like Draco, he would head directly to the showers, but looking discombobulated and thoroughly out-of-it all the way there. He was frequently asked questions as to what he was up to, and he always turned an awkward scarlet when asked. He grew flustered very easily afterwards, and Draco always poked fun at him when he had the time and/or care.

Today, however, he wasn’t really feeling up to leaving himself.

So he simply brought one leg across the floor, and kicked the boy hard in the side. There was a soft sound as it slid across the brick, a padded one as it met the fabric at the other’s body. Neville didn’t move. As usual. He sighed, though, and did look immediately downcast.

“I love you, too,” he mumbled. It only sounded half sarcastic. Draco snorted.

“It isn’t returned.”

There was silence in the room. Again. It was late. Two wands lay on a desk a couple rows back, permanently set on a powerful ‘Lumos.’ Draco could make out every inch of his property’s body. But then again, he had the eyes of a snake.

When Neville spoke again, it was between a sniff and pants. It was amazing how much emotion was still clear in it. Draco hated the tone.

“Are you okay?”

Draco simply sneered.

“It’s none of your business.”

Neville was quiet.

Again, silence took them, and Draco watched the other with his lips held firmly closed. He trailed his eyes up and down the other boy, back and forth, telling himself all the while that he didn’t like what he was seeing. He wanted to believe that voice, but another kept poking into his mind, whispering about the truth and how he knew it, whether he wanted to or not. Draco preferred the first.

Then Neville moved again. He pulled himself a little forward, lifted up on his arms, and Draco stayed perfectly still the entire time. He watched in confusion, as the boy made his way over to Draco’s hand, and lifted it up. The hand that still throbbed, that he was ignoring.

And he watched, in complete fascination, as Neville brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

Draco didn’t want to admit that it felt better after that.

He simply refused to.

Even as Neville straightened up, straightened what was left of his clothes, stumbled forward, and fell to his knees again. Crouching, between Draco’s legs, he lowered his head, and leant forward till his forehead was pressing lightly into Draco’s shoulder. Draco knew there was a smile there, then, wider than ever. Draco didn’t return the sign of affection at all. He turned his head to the side. And refused to look.

Because that was the difference between them.

Neville was kind, and caring, and comforting, and warm.

And Draco just wanted everything to hurt.

Everything to burn down.

Everything to crumble.

Everything to drown.

Everything to suffer for forever.

And for always.

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oOo

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o

Draco wasn’t exactly in the mood for this sudden switch in positions. He was the dominant one. He was a Malfoy, after all. It was in his genes. And here a Longbottom was, now trying to play the ascendant role. His temper only flared.

Spinning around, Draco raised his hand again to give the boy a piece of his mind, and a good beating to boot. But Neville simply shoved him backwards, and with an ungraceful plop he found himself sprawled out on a bed. A nice one, too, by the feel of the sheets. What the hell was this room? It was like a personal bedroom, comforting and cozy. But Draco was a little too boiled to notice any of this. His eyes were still set fixatedly on his partner’s. No, his slave’s. What was the meaning of this? But he wasn’t given the chance to speak.

“Malfoy,” Neville suddenly commanded, looking abnormally stubborn, “tell me what’s wrong. Now.”

Draco sneered. His jaw still hurt from clenching. He could still feel the tears. His knuckles hurt as they balled in the sheets. But he didn’t care. This defiance was misplaced. It wasn’t fair.

He didn’t want the Dark Mark. He didn’t want to be a Death Eater. He didn’t want to play the roll that was set him. He didn’t want to play the submissive one, either. He just wanted to rip what ever was closest to shreds.

Neville was closest.

“Nothing’s wrong, you stupid little-”

And he was cut off. Shockingly, Neville took a daring step closer, and even went so far as to stare him straight in the eyes. Right back. There was a set look on his face, the undeniable Gryffindor quality shining through. Draco still wanted to scream.

“Something’s obviously wrong,” he was saying, levelly. Draco tried to tune out the words. “I’ve NEVER seen you cry before.” That was for a reason. “And insulting me won’t make it any better.” Liar.

Draco didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He was sitting down on a bed he had never seen before, Neville stubbornly cowering over him, and everything in the world was crashing down on him in an insistent flood that promised him torture. He wanted to spend eternity shrieking. So his words came out a yell, causing Neville to jump backwards, as the tears came crashing down.

“NOTHING’S WRONG!” he bellowed, reaching behind him for something to throw. He groped at a pillow, held it a fraction of a second, and sent it forcefully in Neville’s direction. The boy dodged it easily, looking a little pale again, and less sure than before. But he still looked kind. He still, obviously, wanted to help. Draco would have none of it. He opened his mouth wider and screeched again, clawed fingers clutching at his head. He dropped his head down, pressed it into the comfort of the bed, and let out everything that hurt so very, very badly.

There was utter silence in the room as his scream ended, and he broke down in tears. Shuttering with sobs, he kept his face buried in the white sheets and refused to look up again. Shame was suddenly a part of the raging mass. Neville shouldn’t have been allowed to see this. But he was. And it hurt.

A definite warmth was slowly placed in the small of his back. The hand traced gentle circles on his skin. They were soothing, and he felt himself choking on the salty taste in his mouth. He didn’t want Neville’s comfort. He didn’t want the pity.

But it felt... nice.

And he didn’t tell the other to stop.

He could hear the bed creaking down beside him. He could feel it tip down, and he knew Neville now sat next to him. The hand trailed across his back, stopping at his hips, and pulled him softly over. He didn’t raise his head. He didn’t want to see, he didn’t want to be seen. But Neville forced him up anyway. He was too exhausted to protest.

Draco had always known Neville was strong. The boy was clumsy, yes. Forgetful, of course. Not particularly bright, too compassionate for his own good, accident prone, and generally, pathetically, timid. But when he really wanted to, he could be brave, as well. Strong. The arms that were soon encircling him felt very strong indeed.

Draco didn’t understand. He used to hate all that.

He was kind of running low on hatred, of late. It was all being channeled in to one being right now, and he felt as if there was nothing left for the rest of the world. He had come here to take all that out on Neville... hadn’t he...?

But the arms felt so good...

That didn’t matter, he realized. His cheeks burned with shame, or something else he refused to acknowledge. He bit back the chokes that continued to shake his soul, but the whimpers still made it through... it wasn’t fair... it wasn’t... No...

He didn’t want Neville to see him. Not like this. Not when he was in the middle of a break down, pain and hurt running deeply through his veins. He pressed his wet face into the boy’s robes, at his shoulder, wincing only slightly when all too familiar fingers began raking his silver-blonde hair. This wasn’t right. This was all wrong. He wasn’t supposed to break like this... how had he shattered so easily...?

He knew, though. He had always been on the break of shattering.

And now... finally... there was someone there for him when he did.

“Draco...” Neville started, suddenly, causing him to jump. The name sounded foreign to his ears, as even his family rarely referenced him in such a way. For once, he didn’t say anything about it, though. He was too tired. Too angry. And even more unusually, Neville seemed to know what he was doing. “...tell me what happened.”

Resolve seemed to be cracking, life flowing free. Draco knew he shouldn’t be saying what he was about to. But it hurt so much. He didn’t care if it sent his parents to Azkaban. They belonged there. HE belonged there. The words just came pouring out.

Brokenly, through sobs, of course.

“I’m... over the winter holidays... I’m...” he couldn’t say it. Neville rubbed his back soothingly, held him close, and kept a firm hand fisted in his hair. The comfort was... nice. And the words wove themselves together. “...getting... the Dark Mark... .”

He hadn’t expected the sudden bout of pain his own voice brought upon him. It was as if everything he had hated up till now was suddenly real, now that he was accepting it. Acknowledging it. He didn’t want to. No!

He heard Neville gasp, and the arms around him loosened. Draco sniffed, and smiled. Then frowned again. He had nothing to smile about. His arms, pressed up against Neville’s chest, now wrapped around it, and he squeezed the boy lightly. Neville got the picture, and hugged him back, suddenly back to reality.

The fervor in his answer was only half expected. The degree was on a whole new level. “YouCAN’T!”

Draco almost laughed at that. A bitter laugh. Soaked with salty tears. Then suddenly, those arms, so gentle one moment, were tight the next. It was his turn to gasp, and he looked up momentarily as Neville buried his own face in Draco’s shoulder.

“You can’t!” he repeated stubbornly. It was... odd, to say the least. He was suddenly possessive, demanding, and hurt was plain in his tone. Draco squirmed in the vice-like grip, and Neville loosened halfheartedly. His body felt sore from screaming. He sniffed. His head hurt.

Neville continued on with a resolute, “Sorry.”

“I mean... you can’t... you just...” he sighed, angrily. “No! I won’t be involved with someone like that! You don’t...” his voice dropped as he trailed off sadly. “You have no idea... how much they’ve taken from me...”

The warm hug was back. Draco decided, quite uncannily, that he liked it. He hated the world. But he liked Neville’s hugs. He felt like curling up to die.

Neville went on, half to himself, but Draco listened, anyway. “This just isn’t right. You can’t. ...You’re too good for that,” he whispered.

Draco caught himself at a smile. It felt good to know someone cared. It shouldn’t have. This was wrong. So very, very wrong.

His head was throbbing.

“I know,” he mumbled in return, with his usual drawl. “I just... augh. I don’t want to, really, I don’t.”

Neville snorted, and Draco felt his blood boil instantly. He dug his nails into the boys back with a sneer, and a satisfying yelp was his reward. Neville squirmed irritably, but like the usual Gryffindor he was, said nothing. Draco may have been playing the submissive at the moment... but he wasn’t going to go quietly. If he had to be the bottom role, he was going to be a dangerous one.

“I don’t,” he repeated. This time more firmly. Neville remained quiet. Draco sighed, and continued. “I... I mean, the thing’s ugly, I don’t want something so hideous marring my beautiful skin.” Here, the snort came again, but he merely smirked along with it. Okay, so that wasn’t the most important reason. It was one. And he couldn’t spill his heart out to a Gryffindor... especially not the most pathetic one of his year... but... talking like this... it actually didn’t feel so bad.

It helped.

“Go on,” Neville coaxed gently. Draco sniffed, moved his hand back to his cheeks for a moment, wiping slowly at the tears. This was stupid. Everything was stupid. He still just wanted it all to crumble down. “Let it all out. It’ll make you feel better.”

Somehow, Draco severely doubted that. But at the same time, his insides were sore from all the loathing he carried, and he was pretty much willing to try anything at this point. His head swam violently, and the traces of a migraine refused to be ignored. Stupid world. Stupid Longbottom. With a sudden bout of anger, Draco forcibly pushed his captor down onto the bed, lying on top with a somewhat satisfied grin. This was how it was supposed to be. With him on top.

The anger was shifting again. Not into tears, this time, but into a beast like form that just begged to be released. Neville was what he had brought to take it out on. His head hurt. His body hurt. His entire being, really, really hurt.

So logically, in Draco’s mind, Neville had to hurt too.

Bitterly his head laughed, at the thought that he had possible mood disorder. He was insane. It hurt.

He didn’t really mean the words that slipped out, anymore. They had become a formality, though. A habit. He didn’t feel even remotely guilty for them. “Quit acting like you’re so high and mighty,” he growled, now glaring the boy heatedly in the eye. His hands on either side of Neville’s head, he knew there were still traces of tears on his cheek. He didn’t care anymore. He sniffed defiantly. He was stronger than this. ...He was... “You stupid, pathetic little Gryffindor. Stop acting like you’re above me. You’re not even on the same level as me. You’re just a moronic little flee I picked up for a few laughs. I shouldn’t have done that – you’re not worth my time. You’re just plain worthless.”

For once, Neville didn’t look even remotely hurt at his words. If anything, he looked pitying. Draco hated that.

So what did he do, now? Draco wasn’t sure. He couldn’t understand why this was so different. Everything had changed. He wanted it back the way it was. He needed a distraction. This couldn’t be happening.

And what was the best distraction? Why, Neville’s body, of course. He suddenly pressed himself down upon the boy, bruising and as rough as he could manage. Neville gave a muffled cry against his lips, but a hard bite on the other’s lower lip efficiently silenced that.

He couldn’t even remember why it was Neville, any more. He wasn’t really anything to look at. He wasn’t exactly ugly, or anything, certainly not, but beyond general cuteness he didn’t have much in the way of looks. Maybe it didn’t matter. It would have, once.

Draco blocked everything out as he trailed down Neville’s neck and back again. He told himself that nothing was wrong, and everything was normal, as he bit and sucked and scratched. Neville was obviously in a resistant mood. Surprisingly, he made grunts of protests, though they were mostly indistinguishable between the moans and gasps. It didn’t matter. Even were they clear, Draco wouldn’t have listened. He didn’t want to listen. He just wanted someone else to hurt.

Dimly, he knew he was crying again. One fist in Neville’s hair, the other sliding steadily lower, he couldn’t help but notice the water mixed with sweat between them. He refused to care. He kept pressing on, as fierce as he could, as rough. Neville was, as always, compliant. Up to a point. And then everything... everything just sort of stopped.

Neville was suddenly on top, and his lips were on Draco’s neck, working so much more gently than he had done. The hands on his neck and waist were so much more careful than his had been. For a minute he was unable to push the other away. He simply sat in utter shock. Neville continued on carefully, and even in his state of ice, Draco had to notice that it did feel good. But that wasn’t the important part. He wasn’t going to play the bottom role. Not to a Gryffindor. Not to a Longbottom.

But when he tried to push them back around, the grip on his body became so tight he had to gasp for breath. He had never noticed how strong Neville was before. He had always known he was nothing in the way of muscles without Crabbe and Goyle... but the strength that held him down was still shocking. No wonder Neville was in his chosen house.

Draco’s head arched back, as Neville’s hot mouth made its way closer to his, half from shame, half from pleasure. His hands were soon at his sides, Neville’s soon in them. Their lips met, their tongues battled, and Neville kissed away his tears. He didn’t remember the sheets being this warm when he first lay down. It was all so different. But it still felt good. Draco hated that.

“You know,” Neville was suddenly mumbling in his ear, sounding sulky, but sure. “Taking things out on me won’t make anything any better.”

Draco sniffed. He didn’t want to accept that. He didn’t care if it was true. He could feel the other’s smile.

“It’s okay,” the boy finished sweetly. “We’ll figure something out. I know we will.”

Of course it wasn’t okay. It would never be okay. It wasn’t okay from the day he was born. Life was a living hell, and the fires only burned more each day. Being with Neville seemed to quench the flames.

With a sigh, the weight on Draco’s chest shifted, and the Gryffindor was soon sitting next to him, instead. Draco almost missed the kisses. Of course, he didn’t say that. He wouldn’t admit it. Instead he lay stubbornly still, stretched out among the sheets, sniffing and sneering. Neville crawled around him, until he was sitting at his head. He gently nudged Draco, who lifted his head half unwillingly, and lowered it again as if onto a pillow. Neville instantly wove swift fingers into his hair, holding it tightly. Draco bit his lip. It felt good. He should have hated that.

The sheets were now uncannily warm. It irritated him. Sort of.

He wasn’t really feeling in an irritable mood, any more. ...Which was even more uncanny, come to think of it. Draco was always in an irritable mood. He had been only moments before. These little annoyances should have meant more to him.

And suddenly, Draco wasn’t feeling up to noticing little annoyances.

He wasn’t really feeling up to anything.

For once, he was actually beginning to feel quite docile, and relaxation was surprisingly present. It shouldn’t have been. His knees were drawn loosely to his chest, his arms bent at right angles just a little above them, limply clutching at Neville’s robes. He shouldn’t have been there. He was lying on his side, a makeshift pillow of more black robes sitting comfortably under his head. The robes’ owner was gently stroking his head, soft fingers brushing tenderly through his blonde-silver hair. He shouldn’t have allowed this. The nails raked his scalp, making him arch ever so slightly, and his breath hitch. It felt good. The warmth felt good. Everything did. A smile twitched at his lips.

And then he remembered why he was there in the first place.

And whom he was with.

And the smile was gone in an instant. Because nothing should have been as it was. One of the hands in his hair paused momentarily, and slowly faltered downwards again, stroking his cheek, cupping his chin. Neville inclined Draco’s head upwards, only by a fraction, but his eyelids immediately fell closed in shame.

“Relax,” Neville whispered kindly. Stubbornly Draco winced, his eyes determinedly remaining. The other boy didn’t seem surprised, nor did he appear to care. He was back to standing strong. Draco bit his lip. Unable to take the sudden switch in their positions, he jerked his head down again, burying it in those same comforting robes. There was a sigh from above, and gentle hands went back to caressing him. He only squeezed his eyes tighter. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. No... “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to fix this.”

We? As in, the pair? Both of them, together? When had it even become them? How could it have become them? It was supposed to be him. Only him. That was what being a Malfoy was all about.

And something, deep down inside, answered him solemnly. He didn’t want to hear it, but he did. And he knew the voice was right. It was true.

Whether he wanted to accept it, or not.

It had always been them.

Always.

Always.

Always.

-.-Ending-.-

1, :) don’t forget to read S-Star’s stuff! It’s much better than this ;), and S-Star yourself, I loved your DracoNeville ficcie so much, as you can see! :) Please keep up the brilliant work!

2, Please review, people! This fic took me forever, even though I never got around to proofreading it, and it’s SO incredibly craptastic! XD

3, Hi, paddy! ((waves to ragdollsally13 and Cain)) :) You guys rock!