Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
Warnings: Crying, swearing, rape.
The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf'
When it happened, you didn't scream.
You didn't scream, you didn't beg, you didn't call out for help, and you didn't go into shock.
For the first time since . . . well . . . since you can remember, really. It had felt like you were being torn apart by a crazy animal bit – by – painful – bit.
You had cried, softly at first, but then louder, louder and louder and louderandLOUDERANDLOUDERANDLOUDER but then he hit you and you went quiet and you didn't make any noise at all. No groaning, no moaning, no sniffling, no screaming.
Your silent tears did all your screaming for you.
It's been days, maybe even weeks, but you haven't thought about it since it happened. Why should you? It's nothing to dwell on, is it? The embarrassment and the humility and the pain – Merlin, the pain – and the hurt and the burning and the tears and-
YOU WERE RAPED BY HARRY-FUCKING-POTTER WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING TELL ANYONE is what your consciousness screams at you day after day after day after-
But how can you even consider it? If you tell someone . . . Lord, if you tell anyone . . .
What the hell will they think of you?
Draco Malfoy, the slut? Draco Malfoy, The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf'? Draco Malfoy, The Boy Who Cried 'Rape'?
Raped by Harry Potter, the Golden Boy, the Wonder Boy, the Saviour, the Hero.
It's unthinkable. Unthinkable, unimaginable, immoral, and wrong.
For fuck's sake, he's Harry Potter and you're Draco Malfoy, if anything, it should be the other way around, it should not be you who has been stripped of your dignity and your clothes, lying on the cold, cold floor of the dungeons, crying until you have no tears left as he slowly kills you from the inside out, burning you choking you bleeding you . . .
Oh Lord. Oh Lord. OhLordohLordohLordwhatwouldFatherthinkwhatwouldFatherthinkWHATWOULDFATHERTHINK?
Sick, demented, twisted and wrong, wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongWRONG, bad boy, BAD boy Draco, how could you, how COULD YOU LET HIM DO THAT TO YOU, you're not worthy of your name you pathetic child, into the dungeons, INTO THE DUNGEONS, go just GO, yesyesyes you've been a bad boy, Draco, bad boy and now it's time for you to burn and churn until you're nothing but a pile of ash and broken bones and fragmented dreams and you're just WRONG.
Which is why you do nothing.
And when you see him in the corridors, in the Great Hall, in lessons, you ignore him. Completely. He's not worth it he's not worth it HE IS NOT WORTH IT.
You only wish that you could convince your fast-beating heart and your sweaty palms of it.
He tries to get your attention, throws countless terrifiedguiltybleedingsorrowful glances your way, sends you millions of notes, asking you to meet him, telling you to meet him, begging you to meet him, and sometimes, when it's just the two of you alone in the corridors, he drops right down to his knees and begs, begs for your forgiveness, but . . .
He's not really there. Not to you, at any rate.
After all, the Boy Who Lived is just a boy. He's not worth it.
So you ignore his guilty, haunted eyes, his dead, sorrowful stare, the downward curve of his lip, the pained and so terribly sorry tears that fall down his face, and you look straight ahead of you and walk right over him, step over him as if he's not even there.
You leave him crying on the cold stone floor, only it's not for the same reason you had been crying that night many many weeks ago, it's because the guilt is eating him alive, and he can't understand why you just won't listen to him won't talk to him won't even look at him, he can't understand why you don't accept his apologies, hit him, report him, kill him, anything but ignore him.
He deserves to suffer.
After all, does he not understand what the consequences might be if you do? Is he so ridiculously naïve to believe that telling someone would make it all OK, would make it better, WOULD KEEP YOU SAFE?
Which is why it is better to pretend it never happened.
"Malfoy . . . Malfoy please."
He's not there he's not there he's not there he's not-
"Malfoy, look at me!"
Get your hand off my shoulder you disgusting piece of filth, get your eyes off my face you dirty fag, get your worthless carcass away from me it's not gonna work, it's not gonna workit'snotgonnaworkit'snotgonna-
You stop. You turn.
He is crying on the floor. Again. What is WRONG with him? Does he not understand, it never happened, it didn't, which is why Draco Malfoy did not cry wolf he did not cry wolf to avoid all this to stop the guilt and the hurt and the pain and Father and WHY IS HE STILL GOING ON ABOUT IT?
You turn away without even a sneer.
"Why don't you just tell someone, Draco?" the Boy Who Lived sobs.
"Just tell them, tell them what I did to you! Please, please, the guilt is eating me up inside, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, please, please, just . . . just tell Dumbledore, get me expelled, do something, please Draco, please, I'm dying, I'm dying inside . . ."
What about you? You're the one who was pushed to the floor, you're the one who got all the cuts and bruises all over your body, you're the one whose pride was ripped away from him! Why is he the one moaning and crying and-
He's dying? WHAT ABOUT YOU?
Why should it be about him, it's always about you, it is ALWAYS ABOUT YOU. Why should you even care what he's going through, why should you even-
"Draco, if . . . if you don't tell anyone . . . I will. I'll confess. I've done wrong, and I am prepared to suffer the consequences. Please, just . . . just know how terribly sorry I am, and how I wish I could take it all back. But . . . this is the right thing, I have to do the right thing. I'll go to Dumbledore tomorrow, he always knows the truth, and I'll tell him, yes, I'll tell him, and then-"
"NOO!" you scream, and launch yourself at him.
He's pinned under you and is looking surprised. Yes, he's finally got a reaction out of you, but your eyes are wide and your veins are popping and your hands are shaking and-
"NonononononoNO! Don't, you can't, Potter, you can't!" you scream.
"I have to!" he wails. "Can't you understand, this is killing me, we can't go on pretending this never happen-"
"IT DIDN'T HAPPEN! You hear me, Potter, IT. NEVER. HAPPENED."
Your fists beat against him wildly with each word, but it has no affect on him.
"Draco, I . . . I can't carry on like this, I-"
"THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU! YOU CAN'T TELL ANYONE, POTTER!"
Your fists beat against him harder, and his nose is bloodied and his eye is bruised, but he still doesn't care, it doesn't affect him, he's too special to be affected by this, he's so unique and wonderful and courageous . . .
"If you don't want me to tell them, Draco," he pauses to cough up a bit of blood, "you tell them."
Your eyes widen and you stop hitting him.
Does he even understand what he is implying? Is he completely brain-dead? Can he even comprehend what his twisted mind is even suggesting?
"Potter . . ." you hiss. "I will not be the boy who cried 'wolf'! I will not cry wolf over something that did not happen!"
His eyes have widened. He is probably surprised at that you know the muggle story.
"Draco, please," he whispers, "you've got to understand, this is importa-"
He's not going to shut up any time soon, not going to stop with his inane blabberings and ridiculous ideas, so you shut him up the only way you can think how.
With your mouth.
He responds eagerly to the kiss, and you feel your stomach knot in disgust. So the fag likes you, does he?
Slowly you pull away, and force yourself to smile at him.
"Come on, Harry," you whisper, feeling disgust right down to the bottom of your stomach at saying that disgusting name, "it could be our little secret."
He frowns and then looks wretched again.
You shut him up again. You kiss for longer this time. You still feel sickened with what you have been forced to do to protect yourself, but it's not quite as horrible as it was the first time.
Potter tastes of the slow path to self-destruction you embarked on long ago, and it's horrible and bitter and familiar and that makes it OK.
"Promise you won't tell anyone," you say, looking right into his eyes and making sure he means it, he's a Gryffindor, they always mean it, so if he says it it will be true, and you will have nothing to worry about anymore . . .
"Promise," you repeat, as your hand starts to caress his chest and your stomach clenches slightly in disgust.
"I . . ." he looks hesitant.
"Come to my dorm, Harry?" you suggest alluringly, and swallow back bile as your hand disappears into his trousers.
He moans loudly, hardly believing his luck.
"Promise," you whisper again.
"I . . ." he gasps, "I . . . God yes . . . I promise."
You nod, satisfied. Withdraw your hand. Get up.
"Follow me," you say, and lead him to your room.
You are very busy that night, and find that it's quite ironic that the second time you ever have sex, it is with the same person who raped you on your first time.
You guess you're just one sick masochist who does anything he can in order to be kept safe.
You open up bleary eyes and he is gone.
Chickened out, no doubt. Realised who he was, and who you were, and left like the coward he is. Didn't stick around to watch you wake up.
As you stretch, you wince slightly. Your behind aches a bit, but it's not as bad as before, you reckon. As bad as it was as the time that didn't happen.
You get up and put some clothes on. You've finally gotten rid of him, you decide, smirking. Gotten rid of the Boy Who Wouldn't Die, gotten him away from you, and now, hopefully, he would stop making ridiculous suggestions and approaching you, and talking to you, and looking at you in that guilty way of his, and you can go right back to ignoring him.
Because there's no way in hell you're going to talk to him after last night.
You used your body to convince him not to tell anyone – and it worked. The Boy Who Lived was just a hormone-driven pervert after all.
But you don't know why you feel yourself frown at that fact.
You guess you'd always thought he'd be more than that. But he proved you wrong – you should have known not to expect too much of people. Especially the Boy Who Lived. He is, after all, just a boy.
No, no, not like you, he is nothing like you.
Scowling, you make your way to the Great Hall. But just before you enter, you are stopped by someone's hand on your shoulder. You flinch and turn around quickly, your eyes wild.
It's just Snape.
But he is looking obviously furious – for once it is not a tight-lipped look, or an evil scowl or sneer, but it is full-blown rage written all over his face, shining in his eyes.
"Come with me," he says stiffly, leading you away.
What did I do? you think.
You frown. Why would Dumbledore need to see you?
You are taken into his office, and . . .
There is Harry Potter in the seat, with red-rimmed eyes, hands placed on knees, and looking immensely guilty.
The horror of it dawns on you suddenly. You feel sick down to your stomach. You clench your fists.
"You . . . you didn't," you say quietly. He can't have. He can't have.
Potter looks sorrowful, but he nods.
"NOOOO!" you scream, and launch yourself at him.
You will tear his eyes out with your nails you will wring his wiry neck with your own bare hands you will kick him in the head until he dies you will fucking hurt him hit him kick him rip him tear him you'll fucking KILL HIM!
Snape and McGonagall (you didn't even notice she was there) grab you by your robes and your arms and their fingers are strong and biting and they stop you from killing their precious Wonder Boy.
"But you promised, Potter, you PROMISED!" you scream at him, wildly trying to get at that boy sitting in the chair looking so sad and sorry and DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHAT HE'S DONE?
"I'm sorry, Draco," he whispers.
"Sorry? SORRY! SORRY DOESN'T CUT IT POTTER! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE? DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE FUCKING DONE?" And then you take a breath and you scream and scream and scream and scream as your hands shake and your eyes bug and veins pop out of your skin and McGonagall is looking terrified and even Snape is looking worried he's never seen you like this before, never seen you lose control like this before, never seen you-
"I FUCKING HATE YOU POTTER! YOU'VE RUINED MY LIFE! RUINED MY FUCKING LIFE!" you scream, and you feel disgust so deep down to your stomach you almost retch.
How dare he how dare he, the little brat, how could he how could he how the fuck could he, he PROMISED!
"I assume you know what Harry has told me, Draco," Dumbledore says quietly.
You are silent, breathing heavily and glaring at Perfect-fucking-Potter.
"Harry has told us that, three weeks ago, near the Slytherin common room, he raped you." Dumbledore says gently. "Is it true?"
"No," your answer is instantaneous.
Potter looks wretched, and you mouth at him 'I won't cry 'wolf''.
"I ask again. Is it true?"
You shake your head. "No," you repeat.
"Mister Malfoy. Is. It. True?" his voice is still gentle. It's starting to piss you off. Why the fuck is he pretending to care?
"No!" you snap.
"But Draco," Professor Snape says, sounding worried, "Potter was questioned under Veritaserum. He admitted it, Draco. You're not in the wrong, he is. Nothing will happen to you if you speak out."
"He didn't fucking rape me!" you snap.
"Mister Malfoy . . ." McGonagall starts.
"No!" Why won't they fucking believe you? "No! No no NO NO!" you scream.
Dumbledore sighs heavily, and Harry's eyes are all red.
"Draco, just tell them," Harry whispers. "Tell them I did it, just once, that's all."
"Are you trying to protect Potter?" Snape asks.
You look at him, disgusted. Why the fuck would you try to do that? The bastard deserves to ROT. IN. HELL because does he not KNOW what will happen now, what he's done to you?
Walls have ears.
First thing at dinner, you'll get a Howler with your father's voice screaming at him how you're dirtydisgustingtaintedwrongshamefulworthlesspatheticNOTHING, and it'll spread all around the school and they'll mock you, they'll mock you and your reputation will be ruined, they'll mock you and laugh and call you a slut and claim you cried wolf even though you didn't you didn't you didn't . . .
And Daddy. Daddy, Daddy, what would he think no you know what he'd think but what would he do what would he do?
Nothing, n-nothing, Daddy does nothing, Draco, remember that, just keep telling yourself that, keep telling yourself that and it'll all be OK, it'll all be O-K-K-K . . .
"Draco, I shall ask you one more time. Did Harry rape you?" Dumbledore's voice is even more gentle and you barely stop yourself from walking over to him and punching him in his fucking crooked nose.
"Harry fucking Potter did not fucking rape me," you hiss slowly, making sure they hear every word.
Something diminishes in Dumbledore's eyes, and he sighs.
"Then you are free to go," he tells Potter.
"What?" Snape snaps.
"But Albus!" McGonagall cries, outraged. It seem even she's taken your side in this.
"No!" Potter cries.
Shut up Potter. You ruined my life, your lifeless eyes say.
"Headmaster, he must be punished! He must be sent to Azkaban, he must rot there for his whole fucking life!" Snape snarls. It is the first time you have heard him swear at Dumbledore. You smile dryly, inside.
Dumbledore shakes his head gravely.
"I am afraid there is nothing I can do. I cannot prove anything against Harry."
"But he was questioned under Veritaserum!" McGonagall cries.
"But if Mister Malfoy does not speak out, then there is nothing I can do."
"But . . . but I admitted it, I . . . please, sir, this is killing me inside, I'll serve a million detentions, I'll get expelled from Hogwarts, I'll go to Azkaban, anything to pay the price!"
What the fuck is wrong with Potter? You didn't know he was that cracked, wanting to go to Azkaban.
Dumbledore shakes his head.
"We need you, Harry." He says quietly.
And it is then that the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin realise why Dumbledore isn't sending Harry to Azkaban, even though he quite clearly can.
The wizarding world 'needs' him. They need him to defeat Voldemort. They need to train him up and make him tough and make him learn and make him killkillkill Voldemort.
Dumbledore looks vaguely ashamed, McGonagall starts crying and runs out, and Snape gives the old man the most poisonous look you've ever seen him give anyone, turns to Potter and snarls, "Detention for the rest of the year, Potter! Every single day, weekday, holiday, weekend, from six until ten!"
"Yes, sir, yes, anything, anything else, I'll do anything, anything you want, just punish me, make sure I'm punished," Potter says. He looks like he can't believe he's not being sent to Azkaban so he's happy, and yet looks so utterly disgusted that he's not.
And now day after day you walk around school alert, hyper-paranoid and with all your senses awake.
Because someone's going to try and do something. You know they are. You know.
Granted, they haven't yet, but it's only a matter of time.
It's spread around the whole school, of course. The news. The news that you had hoped no one would evereverever find out but then they did because Potter the fucking bastard is an idiot and Potter has a big mouth and you do not want to think about Potter youdon'twanttothinkabouthimbecauseitmakesyousick.
"Potter raped the Prince of Slytherin."
"Malfoy was ruined by the Boy Who Lived."
Weasley and many many other guys have made comments at you, and you try to ignore them and ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach and pretend that your nerves have not been frayed raw because of your anxiety, and you try to keep your head up high and walk away from all those whispers (slutwhorepoorlittlerapedrichboy).
Weasley says, "So tell me, Malfoy, if I corner you late at night will that make you cry and give me a good fuck?" and you have to shrink back because he is standing too close to you and you never suspected him of being a fag, but you guess that it's rubbed off on him from hanging around Potter too much.
Weasley corners you right outside the Great Hall one day, pins you right against the wall with his big, broad, disgusting body, breathes all over your face and starts rubbing and you're sneering and scowling and trying to get him to stop but you can't seem to move.
Weasley tries to push your head down, but he can't make you move for the terror, so he sticks to kissing you and taking your hand and shoving it on his crotch.
You don't move, disgusted, and then people leave the Great Hall and Weasley jumps away and leaves without a backward glance.
You stand there, perfectly still.
And then carefully, slowly, tensely, you walk into the Prefects bathroom, calmly open a cubicle door, lean over the toilet and puke your guts out.
You straighten, wiping your mouth, and look into the mirror.
You're looking unnaturally pale today.
"Why me?" you whisper at your reflection. "Why do I have to be subjected to these . . . attentions. Attentions from . . . from . . . from boys." You barely stop yourself throwing up again.
Every now and then you take Potter to your room, because Potter is hopelessly obsessed with you and so you pick him up after his detention and ignore Snape's distressed eyes, and take him up to your room.
Potter whispers how sorry he is as he fucks the life out of you, and you find that you still hate it more and more each time, but you let it go on.
You let it go on.
Not for Potter, definitely not for Potter, Potter is a sick, twisted, nymphomaniac who will rot in hell once he's dead, and you know that he at least hates himself more and more each time he fucks you although he thinks that he loves you although he'd never say.
No, you do not let it go on for Potter.
You let it go on for . . . for . . .
You let it go on because you must take it like a man, son and not groan and not complain and not yell or shout or scream or cry you can never cry and you shall not be the boy who cried wolf you shall notbetheboywhocriedwolf because that would be weak and Malfoys are NEVER weak and Malfoysareneverweak,boy and I'msorryDaddy.
You have never cried wolf in your life, and you're not about to start now.