There are some days you can't remember.
Not long ago, either, so you can't blame it on being too young, or too distracted. There are large, gaping holes in your memory, and for the life of you, you have no idea why. Your sixteenth birthday, for example, a Christmas when you were ten years old, the Potions test you took last week. You don't remember losing your first Quidditch match, and, most frustrating of all, you don't remember your first kiss.
Not that it matters (he was the only one to ever kiss you, so at least you know who it was), it's just irritating. But lately, everything seems to irritate you, and you don't quite know why. You realize suddenly that you're staring at him and you duck your head, hoping to hide your blush. You know you're not fooling anyone.
He smiles, you can hear it in his voice when he says, "So how've you been?" You debate, for a moment, whether or not you should answer truthfully—should you tell him you woke up this morning crying? Should you tell him about how panicked you were, how you held yourself and sobbed, just because you woke up and forgot your name? It was a stupid thing to cry over and you know it, it's happened before, loads of times, so you paste on a smile and tell him you've been fine, how about him? And you do it quickly, so he doesn't even notice you stop to think about it.
"I'm alright," he sighs, leaning his head on the arm of his chair. He's curled up in it like a cat, and you almost think you hear him purr when his eyes half-close and he stretches towards the fireplace. He's adorable, you know he is, and yet you can't quite bring yourself to touch him. Instead you smirk and close your own eyes, basking in the warmth and the quiet. It's odd, being here, you still can't quite believe it. Two years ago you would have been hexed the moment you set foot in the Gryffindor common room, and now you've become as common a fixture as the large painting of a perpetually-sleeping lion that hangs over the mantle. Some people step around you, a few smile and give you little half-waves.
But it's late now, and you're the only ones awake. You wait, watching him watch you, because you know what's coming. He'll get frustrated with you at some point and he'll come sit down on the arm of your chair. You'll lean your head into his lap and he'll stroke your hair for a while, murmuring how beautiful you are, he'll chatter about nonsensical things: lessons, sports, spells, things you really don't care about but you'll listen to them anyway because you love hearing him talk. It doesn't matter what he's saying, you feel safe with him, safe when he's petting you so gently and you're so warm inside, so content. You wish you were in Gryffindor, you wish you could sleep in his bed with him and feel that content all night, but eventually you'll slip away just like you always do. And you don't ever want to leave, but you have to, you have to, there's no other choice.
And yes, here he comes, perching on the armrest and nudging your head into his lap. Gentle fingers ruffle your hair and you eyes drop to half-mast; he can't know how good that feels. He leans his head down to whisper in your ear. "I love you." And he punctuates it with a nibble, a slow flick of the tongue that makes you shiver. He's said it before and you always turn your head away. It hurts him, you know it does, but you can't bring yourself to love him, not yet. It's too soon, you don't even know if you trust him. It's nights like this that make you wonder, nights when you're feeling so alone, so needy and you'd give anything to be able to cling to him and cry, the way he did last year when he lost his godfather. You want him to hold you the way you held him, to rock you back and forth and tell you everything would be alright, even though you'll know it's a lie.
But you're stiff and cold, just like always, and he merely sighs. The fingers tug slightly and you bite your tongue. It doesn't hurt, but it strikes a nerve somewhere that you're not at all sure you want him anywhere near. "I don't understand what you're so afraid of."
"Afraid?" Your voice sounds harsh, even to you, but he's used to it. God help him, he still loves you, despite everything. Well, maybe. Wants you, anyways. Maybe he thinks you won't let him have you unless he courts you first, feeding you pretty lies and empty promises. He's wrong, you'd give yourself without question, without expectation. It's a routine you're all too used to, but he's never asked. Maybe he doesn't find you attractive? Nonsense, everyone wants you. Even when you don't want them.
"You're so quiet. You never used to be like this." Your head snaps up, and maybe he sees the panic in your eyes, because he runs a soothing hand down the side of your face and you lean into the touch with a faint half-smile. "It's not bad. Just different."
"You don't like it?" You'll change, all he has to do is tell you. You'll change for him.
"I like it. I like you. I just worry about you sometimes." That gives you pause and you stare at him, puzzled, for the longest time. He worries about you? Poor thing, of course he does; you have been acting odd lately. Everything seems to hurt more lately, you're getting worse at forcing yourself to forget, and you don't know why. You're forgetting important things now, things you want desperately to remember, and you don't know what's wrong with you.
"I'm fine," you tell him. "Just tired."
He knows you're lying and you know he knows; it's an awkward dance you two do sometimes, him trying to avoid whatever it is that makes you so withdrawn and you trying to avoid him avoiding it. Because he wants to know, he wants you to trust him so badly, but you can't. And you wish you could explain but you'll never be able to. It's been too long, too long falling into this routine, breaking it now would kill you. So he settles for leaning back against the chair and letting you lean your head on his chest while he strokes your hair and stares into the fire. It's quiet but comfortable, and you find yourself half-asleep before very long.
"I should be going," you say suddenly. "I…need…oh God, I'm late." And you are, you're panicking, because it's eleven o' clock on a Friday night and you're half an hour past due. Oh, you're in trouble now, yes you are. You push him away a little harder than absolutely necessary and he gives you a hurt look, a look you rectify with a brief kiss before you bid him good night and take off at full speed towards the portrait hole.
You practically fly down the hallway, nearly tripping yourself over Mrs. Norris, who arches her back and hisses at you, baring yellowed, aged fangs and you mutter a brief apology before you're off again. Apologizing to a cat, what's wrong with you?
You reach the dungeon flushed and out of breath; it's only by the grace of God that you manage to gasp out the password and stagger into your common room. You look around, heart hammering in your chest, because no one's here, the fire isn't even lit, and you hope for a brief, brief moment that maybe everyone's gone to bed, that you'll be able to do the same. You're careful, going up the stairs, careful to not let your shoe scrape the stone too loudly, and you curse yourself for choosing the room at the end of the hallway; your antisocial tendencies always come back to haunt you.
Harry told you once about the Gryffindor dorms (you've never been in them, of course), and the idea scared you. A room shared between all the boys in a year, a room that you'd never have to yourself? A room where people can hear every whimper you make at night when nightmares come to play and you wake up screaming something that only makes sense to you…? No, you couldn't do that. You'd hate it. But it does make sense, you have to admit, the difference between Gryffindor and Slytherin dorms. Gryffindors are lions, right? Proud, fierce, brave, but they depend on each other. Lion live in prides, for their own protection. Slytherins are snakes, cold, calculating and lonely. Snakes are solitary beasts, and so are you. So you live in separate rooms, because if you were forced to be together every night and day, eventually you would begin to kill each other.
You're almost there, almost safe, you're halfway down the hall already, but you know you have to pass his room before you reach yours; you desperately pray he's fallen asleep. He got detention in Defense Against the Dark Arts today, maybe…
"Little late, aren't we?"
No. Your throat clenches, every muscle in your body freezes, paralyzed, and you can do no more than stare pleadingly as he watches you, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that rivals your own on his handsome face. No no nonononononono…
"Yes, Master." Your eyes drop to the ground automatically. "I lost track of time."
"Where are you supposed to be every Friday night at exactly ten-thirty?" His arms are folded across his chest, perfectly manicured nails tapping at toned biceps. He's not wearing pajamas, opting instead for jeans and a half-open green button-down. He seems to have abandoned shoes and socks, and you wish for a moment that the cold stone floor would freeze to the soles and trap him there until he has to rip the flesh from his own feet in order to free himself. But it's a ridiculous thought, since the Slytherin hallways never drop below a comfortable seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.
"Here," you mumble pitifully, clenching your fists at your sides. He's playing with you, you know he is. Ah, you should've made some excuse up, you should have stayed with Harry, where you felt safe…maybe he's right, maybe you are scared…
"Be specific now, little one," he orders with a lazy smile, beckoning you forward. You obey and bow your head so he can play with your hair, trying not to think of the way Harry was stroking it not ten minutes ago. You hate it when he does this, because it blurs the lines between him and Harry just that much more, and you're muddled as it is. "Tell me exactly where you're supposed to be."
"In your bed," you choke, fighting back tears of humiliation. "I'm supposed to be in your bed."
"Doing what?" he asks gently, and there are two fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his. You don't know why he does this, you're not allowed to look into his eyes and he knows that, but he seems to enjoy seeing you squirm. You make a point of looking anywhere but into those startlingly green orbs that remind you so much of Harry, and you focus on an immaculately-groomed lock of red hair. He does have pretty hair, even you have to admit that. It's just the right shade of auburn, and he's deeply tanned, so he doesn't look as…as…well, he wears the red hair far better than any of the Weasley children do. You wonder if he ever makes Harry think of his mother, with that hair and those eyes, but you don't think Harry really pays much attention to any of the Slytherins. "Tell me what you're supposed to be doing. Don't pretend shyness with me."
"P-preparing myself." You wince at the stutter—your father always hated any misspeaking on your part—and try once again to duck your head but he seems to have a stubborn grip on your jaw and it's starting to hurt.
"F-for you t-to—" your voice breaks and you bite back a terrified whimper; oh, you don't want to say this, you don't, but he's not giving you much choice, is he? No, you suppose not, and you know you'll succumb eventually. He knows it, too. "For you to f-f—" You cough and continue in a steadier voice now, berating yourself for getting this riled up over something you've gotten so used to. "For you to fuck me, Master."
You think he groans but you're not quite sure—there's naked lust in those emerald eyes now, and you shiver as he runs them up and down your body for a good thirty seconds before he leers and jerks you into his bedroom. The door slams behind you, you've come to hate that sound. It's the finality of it, you suppose—you can't escape, no matter how hard you try.
He never bothers with foreplay, not usually, not like some of the other Slytherins do. There had been one boy, when you were in fifth year—oh, but this is his time now, you shouldn't be thinking about anyone else. Especially not about someone he loaned you out to. You'd been indignant about it at the time—fifth year, you still struggled then—but you'd given in, just like always.
You don't bother fighting anymore.
It's always quick, hard and fast, just like Blaise himself. Ten seconds and you're down on the floor, shirt tied around your wrists and arms wrenched rather painfully behind your back. He's fumbling at your belt-buckle and you whimper as he tugs your pants off of you, boxers with them. Your shoes, he manages, but the socks seems to be outwitting him at this point; he gives a frustrated growl and stops trying to prise them off you. It's not your feet he's interested in anyways. "You've been bad, Draco."
Your stomach seizes at the words and you give a pitiful little mewl. He chuckles and you can feel the rumble deep in his chest. "You've disappointed me, Draco. I don't like being disappointed." You know you look horrified and you are, you are, you don't want to anger him, no, you need him and he laughs outright this time. "That upsets you, doesn't it? Good." You nod as he flips you over and roughly shoves you into the stone floor. No, it's not cold, but the skin scrapes at sensitive skin, drawing little beads of blood across your chest. You have been bad, you know you've been bad, and he does too. Seeing a half-breed and all, spending time with a Gryffindor—you wonder why he never orders you to stop dating Harry, but you suspect it's because he wants to have something to punish you for. He reaches around in front of you and…touches you, tanned, smooth fingers working you expertly. You don't want him now, but it's only a matter of time, only so long before you end up begging him, just like you always do. You don't gasp at initial contact, but when his fingers start moving you can scarcely contain your moan. It feels good and he knows it, he knows you can't bring yourself to do this on your own so he makes a pretense of doing you a favour. "Feel good, Draco?"
You never know what to say to this, he's so unpredictable. Tonight, though, your answer is acceptable: "If you want me to be, Master." He smirks and you whimper as his thumb presses into the soft skin just before your…entrance, you can't think about it any more crudely than that. He moves so slowly, so agonizingly, and he knows how much this affects you, especially when his hot tongue is on the back of your neck and you're writhing before you know quite what's happening. "Shhh," he whispers against your neck. "Dolls can't talk, pretty one." He's rolling his hips into you steadily, smoothly, pumping you in time to his own thrusts and you can feel your muscles clench around nothing as you pant and try not to moan, wanton with desire and it's only taken a few minutes. You're such a whore. An attention-seeking whore, just like Daddy always told you. He was right, he was right, right about everything and you close your eyes as the hand tightens, jerking you off more violently than before. You want him inside you, you need him inside you, someone anyone—
"Please," you gasp raggedly. "Please, master, please—"
"My little doll seems to have grown a tongue. Please what?" he asks, rolling you onto your back. He cups you again and you whimper, squirming under the assault. "Aren't you sweet. Is this for me?"
You open your legs wider until your hips hurt and you're practically arching off the floor. You want him inside you so badly, so very badly… "Please," is all you manage, a pitiful, whispered mantra.
"Tell me what you want me to do." He likes this, you don't really know why, but he likes humiliating you. "Every detail, Draco."
"I want you to fuck me," you moan. He shudders with pleasure and that lazy smile stretches over his face again. You close your eyes and steady yourself best you can. "I want you inside me, I want you to make me scream. Fuck me raw, Master. Please. I need you."
It takes you by surprise every time and you squeak when he's fully inside you, every muscle in your body gone rigid and you're curled up off the floor, trying as hard as you can to fold up into yourself but he won't let you. You're trapped, trapped not only by the hands on your shoulders and his superior weight, but by his dick halfway up your ass because if you so much as breathe wrong, it'll hurt. It hurts anyways, as he's torn open the old wounds again, but he doesn't care—he doesn't care a thing about you, he's told you that before. You're just a weak mind and a convenient hole, you know that. That's all you can ever be.
He waits all of five seconds for you to adjust and then he's drawing out of you and slamming right back in and you can feel your muscles protesting, feel them threatening to tear because he's too big for you, much too big, but you don't protest because you're afraid to scream. He doesn't mind you crying though, says it makes you all them more beautiful, and so you throw your head back with a low, keening moan and let the tears fall.
It takes a few moments before you realize what game he's playing tonight—he's not touching you. Your aching erection is trapped against your stomach, sorely neglected in more sense than one, but he's made up his mind, he just keeps pounding into you and as he explodes inside you he gives a guttural, strangled noise and draws out.
You're still lying there, tears coursing down your cheeks, painfully hard and too scared to move. You're covered in sweat, his and yours, your pale platinum hair spilling around you in a sick mockery of a halo. Your ass aches, his semen burning in the wounds he's reopened, and you wiggle your hips a little, hoping if you can put less pressure on it…but no, you're still stretched out pitifully on the floor, legs wide open, looking, you're sure, thoroughly fucked. He cleans himself off and tugs his jeans on, smirking at you. "As good as ever," he murmurs and you flush—it's as close to a compliment as you've ever gotten from him.
You spread your legs a bit wider, hoping he'll take the hint—you don't want to talk, not now. Sometimes he's in a good mood after he gets through with you, sometimes he just gets mad, but today he seems to be plain…well, sadistic is the first thing that comes to mind. Tonight's a good night for humiliation, it seems, because he draws an armchair away from his fireplace and sits in it, crossing his legs primly and leaning his cheek on his palm. "Do you want something, pet?"
You whimper and buck into nothingness again, hoping against hope that he'll take the damn hint already, but that smile is back and you know he's not quite through with you…you nod frantically, since one no longer seems sufficient to express yourself. He understands, you're sure he does, and you nearly sob with the unfairness of it, you've been good for him tonight, haven't you?
Not good enough, it seems.
"You're filthy. I have no intention of touching you." There they are, straight to the heart and this time you do sob, just a little. "I will, however, allow you to do it yourself."
Well. This is new.
You don't like touching yourself, you've only done it once before and he knows that; it's what he's been planning on, isn't it? But you're so hard, it hurts so much…you want to cum so badly…you whimper and trail your right hand down your chest, toying with your nipple. No more than a few moments and it's as hard as you are.
"The other one," Blaise whispers huskily and you half-open one eye. He's a bit flushed, you note—he seems to be enjoying the show. You comply and roll the other between forefinger and thumb and every motion seems as if it's been burned into your skin, you're so horny right now…oh God…your hips buck again and he gives a strangled sort of laugh. "Enough," he says at last and you freeze. It seems he's going to guide you through every step of this…
"Three fingers. Inside yourself. Now. Jerk off with the other hand if you want." You moan and your eyes fly open, pleading with him…you don't want to do that, you're red with shame and hot with lust, but his eyes are hard. "Do I need to tell you again, pet?"
You shake your head, again and reach down between parted thighs. "Open your legs wider. I want to see everything." The first finger hurts, as you accidentally scrape your fingernail against the wall of your abused channel and you whine like an injured puppy. Once the initial pain is past, it feels good…no, better than good, you want more…
"I said three fingers, slut. I don't care how unprepared you are. Fuck yourself now." He's getting impatient and you shove the other two fingers in beside the first, writhing as you barely brush that…that spot inside you that makes your blood burn. You whimper and bite your tongue—no sound, sound is bad, sound gets you punished. Oh, but you're shaking so badly, you can scarcely manage to hit anywhere near that spot and in the space of five minutes you really are crying, tossing your head from side to side as you try desperately to force your fingers deeper.
"—idiot." You realize abruptly that he's talking to you and your hand slows (your wrist aches already, you're never going to get off at this rate). "Up on all fours. Think you can manage that, or should I do it for you?" You scramble to your knees and that helps a little, changes the angle, but your cheek is pressed against the hard stone floor and you don't really like that. You're bowed, almost like you're worshiping him, ass in the air and head on the ground. Ah, that feels so good…but dear God it's not enough, you want more, you need more and you can't believe he'd just abandon you like this, leave you to do this yourself…your other hand wraps around yourself, hoping that maybe this will speed things up. Your hips give an involuntary spasm and you nearly collapse with a strangled groan but somehow manage to stay upright. White's already obscuring the corners of your vision and you grit your teeth as the world around you breaks apart and when you come back to yourself, Blaise has turned the lights off and already gotten into bed, leaving you sprawled out, bleeding on the floor.
Shame hits you in an overwhelming rush, all at once, and you manage an animalistic whine as you try desperately to make your hair cover your face while cold green eyes watch you from the bed. "Clean yourself up and get the hell out of my room," he spits at last. "Filthy whore." You whimper and bury your face in your arm, but he's not giving you a choice. Rough hands are jerking at you, pulling you upright by a fistful of hair and before you know it you're stark naked in the hallway, clutching your clothes to your chest, and Blaise has slammed the door in your face. Your head drops and the faintest hint of a tear splashes onto the flagstones as you limp to the safety of your own bed.
You hear a low whistle from the next doorway you're forced to pass, and a few of your fellow Slytherins have emerged from their rooms at the front of the hall to smirk at you. You duck your head, cheeks blazing, and try desperately to ignore them.
"Bad night, eh Malfoy?"
"Always reckoned 'im for a screamer—whaddya know, I was right."
"Oy, Blaise! How much for two hours?"
Goyle, damn him to hell, is leaning against his door, a stupid, ugly grin across his face and normally you would have dearly loved to punch him, but you've already slipped into your submissive mode, and you won't be coming out of it anytime soon. You don't see his foot until it's too late.
You sprawl across the stone floor with a whimper, dropping your clothes and scraping your knees and hands quite badly. You don't dare argue as Goyle's sock-clad foot rests between your shoulder blades and pushes down; you merely try to keep breathing, to fight off your inevitable panic attack until he's finished with you. Blaise doesn't mind if the others harass you, he actually encourages it, but he draws the line at anything that might mar your pretty face. Goyle knows exactly where that line is, and he's toeing it tonight, but it's only a matter of time before his mob-driven bravado wears away. You try to muster up a ghost of your old Malfoy glare, but it seems to have vanished alone with your pride and you turn away as Goyle laughs.
"How far the mighty have fallen," he sneers and you flinch. "Not so tough now, are you, whore?"
"I'm not a whore," you whisper, but it's an awful defense because you are, you know you are, you've always been like this. You just want them to leave you alone, alone with your shame so you can break down and cry in private without anyone to see. Tears are already prickling at the corners of your eyes and you bite down hard on your tongue. You won't cry, not in front of them. They, who once worshipped you, followed your every order, they're taking their revenge now. Now that your father is on the run from every self-respecting wizard in the world, leaving you and your mother to fend for yourselves—well, Narcissa's never been the most nurturing of mothers, and seems to be spending more and more time alone in the manor, which might be why she called you 'Lucius' all through your last visit until you threw a teacup at her and swore you'd never be like your father, you'd die first. She'd burst into tears and ran from the study, leaving you alone and furious, which never made for a good combination.
You want your life back. You want to be small again, to have your parents smile at you, dote on you, because it seems once you turned thirteen something happened and they won't even look at you anymore. You want the old days when Lucius would wave his wand and make tiny, glittering dragons fly around you as you giggled and tried to catch one, when Narcissa would rock you on her lap when you'd woken up screaming after a nightmare—
You still scream, but now…now there's no one to comfort you.
Goyle's foot presses down harder and you whine like a dog, because every inch of you hurts, from your bloodied knees to your wrists, bruised from where Blaise bound you. The worst pain, though, is in your head, banging around and messing everything up until you can feel the pressure building behind your eyes, you can't breathe anymore, everything's gone black…
And you're lying there, naked, curled up on the ground and hyperventilating as you groan and clutch at your aching head. You can hear them laughing and you're sure you look pitiful, lying there like that, but you can't help it. Your heart is thumping so loudly in your chest that it actually aches, and aches badly. This is going to be a bad attack, you can tell already.
Oh, go away, go away, you think. They've tortured you enough for one night, can't they just leave you alone? Something warm and wet is running into your eyes and you realize dully that you're clawing at your temples, tearing your own skin with finely-cut nails and when you can't feel that pain anymore you move on to mutilate your arms, biting and ripping at your own flesh. Pain is all that can bring you back, all that keeps you anchored to reality when you get like this. You want it to stop…oh God, how much longer can you hold out?
You hear dull footsteps from far away, a vague curse being shouted and you imagine you can see a flash of light, but you're too blinded by pain and rage and blood to think much of anything right now. There are hands on yours, tugging at your wrists, immobilizing you and you freeze, every nerve on end. Who now? You've given yourself once tonight, surely—no—
"I'm sorry." The words slip out automatically and the haze is clearing, just enough for you to stare into luminous green eyes. You panic, you can hear yourself screaming, and you're thrashing in his grip because you can't take it again tonight, no matter how much he'll punish you next time, you can't do it again, it'll kill you.
"Draco! Draco, calm down—"
"No!" You howl, scrabbling for a face you can't really see. You toss your head from side to side, fighting as hard as you can, malnourished and battered as you are, but the muscles on the hands holding you are unrelenting and you surrender. "Please," you plead, dropping your head to a firm chest, exposing the back of your neck in apology. "Please don't hurt me anymore…"
"Shh," he says, and he's rocking you, rocking you like Narcissa used to and before you quite realize it you're crying. "I promise I won't hurt you,c alm down, just breathe…" He's never been this nice, and you're half-afraid it's another sick game, but the other half of you is so happy, this feels so good, so much better than sex…you whimper and clutch his pajama top tighter.
Blaise wasn't…oh…he wasn't wearing pajamas…
You stare up into Harry's eyes.
"Draco, what's going on?"