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I look at my wristwatch, attempting to calculate exactly how long I have to kill before apparating to the platform in Hogsmeade. I want to time it so I arrive more or less when the train does. So it looks like I actually took the Hogwarts Express to school.

Which…let’s be honest. There was no fucking way that was ever going to happen.

As if I would willingly subject myself to that. To so wholly integrate myself with the student body. To do so in such a confined space. 

Fuck that.

Fuck that, and fuck the fucking Wizengamot for forcing me to be here at all. For making me go back to school – as if it were some benevolent act on their part. To spare me from Azkaban. 

I spent three months in prison awaiting my trial, and can honestly say I would much rather be there than headed back to bloody fucking Hogwarts. To going back to classes. To pretending everything is right in the world.

Now.

Now that Voldemort is dead. That his followers have been defeated. That purebloods have been effectively neutered. That my father is in prison for life. 

And now that I’m a fucking pariah because I’m not rotting in some cell in Azkaban.

A pureblood, a branded Death Eater, and a Malfoy.

Released.

My sentence commuted to time-served and probation spent at Hogwarts completing my education and taking my N.E.W.Ts.

All because Harry fucking Potter spoke in my defence. Painted a picture of…what? Redemption? Convincing the Wizengamot that I wasn’t evil, but rather some victim of circumstance. Of my upbringing. That I was just trying to survive a situation no sixteen year old should ever have to face.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a packet of fags. Absentmindedly take one out and place it between my lips, holding it there as I pat myself down, searching for a light. 

My wand isn’t an option – I’m in muggle London, just outside the train station.

I find a matchbox and open it. Take out a match and strike it against the side. Lift the flame up to the end of my cigarette and inhale, lighting it. Take a deep drag and hold the smoke in my lungs, relishing the burn, before slowly exhaling. 

I lean back against a brick wall, watching people pass by. Not paying me the slightest bit of attention. I’m anonymous among muggles. A fucking nobody. And it’s honestly the only time I feel at ease anymore.

I lick my lips, wondering what to do with myself. Where I should go. Unable to stop myself from dwelling. Rethinking the past. 

Fucking Potter.

To say that his presence at my trial was a shock would be an understatement. I had expected it to be a rather quick affair. The list of my crimes read out. A few damning witness statements. A guilty verdict followed by a return to Azkaban.

Easy. Simple. Straightforward.

But then Potter showed up and everything fucking changed. 

My trial? Turned around.

My life? Completely fucking upended.

Because as he stood there in the witness box, speaking more eloquently than I’ve ever heard him before – honestly I always thought he was rather dim – and wearing a perfectly tailored muggle suit, I had a life-altering revelation.

Which I’m aware sounds overly dramatic, but it really is the only way to describe it.

I knew I was attracted to Potter. I’ve always been attracted to him in some way. Drawn to him. Desperate for him to be my friend, be my rival…to just fucking notice me, as fucking pathetic as that sounds. But sometime during sixth year, not long after he’d cursed me in the boy’s toilets and almost killed me, I realised I didn’t just want Potter to notice me anymore. 

I wanted him to fuck me.

Hard.

Mercilessly.

To punish me for being marked. For trying to kill Dumbledore. For being bad. For not dying. 

For being weak.

A coward.

I dreamt about how he might do it.

How he might teach me a lesson. Make me a good boy worthy of the chosen one’s attention. Of his attention. 

Of his body.

His mouth.

His cock.

From that moment – and let’s be honest, to this very day – I’ve tossed off to thoughts of Harry Potter. At school. At home. In Azkaban.

So when he showed up in that courtroom and fucking saved me? It felt like the earth had been pulled out from under my feet. Like the universe itself had tilted and revealed the secret I had so carefully kept hidden even from myself. That I had refused to acknowledge until that very moment, standing in the defendant’s cage, watching him intently. Studying every detail of his hair. His eyes. His face. The jagged scar descending down his forehead, through his left eyebrow and onto his cheek. Committing them to memory so I could think back upon them in my cell.

I realised I was in love with him.

Not a healthy kind of love, obviously.

But an obsessive kind. The kind that twists your insides and eats away at your soul. The kind that drives you completely fucking mad and makes you wonder if you wouldn’t be better off dead. Because the alternative of loving someone in such a perverted fucking way is just too unbearable – too sick – to live with.

But here I am.

Living with it.

-

I fuck around London all day – wasting time. In cafés and shops. In the park. 

I’m stressed.

Smoke almost constantly in an attempt to distract myself from the fact I’m already violating the terms of my probation, and failing miserably at it.

I’m anxious.

Both dreading and excited for what’s to come. Because as much as I don’t want to return to Hogwarts – which is quite easily the place I loathe most in all the world – I do want to see the object of my desire.

I’m pathetic.

So fucking pathetic.

Because the mere thought of seeing Potter again makes my breath catch and my cock twitch. 

-

I time my arrival almost perfectly, hearing the train’s whistle as I apparate onto the platform. Take a step back into the shadows and light a cigarette, waiting for it to pull into the station. For the throngs of students to pour out so I can just…blend in with them. 

At least that’s the hope.

The plan.

I am acutely aware, however, that the likelihood of me blending in is pretty fucking low.

I am Draco Malfoy, after all.

-

I merge into the crowd, keeping my head low. Not making eye contact with anyone. I don’t want to see their faces. Don’t want to feel their judgement. Hear their comments. I feel surrounded. Claustrophobic…and I haven’t even set foot on school grounds, or entered the castle, yet.

I can’t do this.

I cannot fucking do this.

My heart is pounding in my chest and in my ears. I feel like I can’t catch my breath. I’m lightheaded. My hands and face tingle as my breaths come out rapidly and unevenly. I stop moving, trying to just breathe. The crowd parts around me as they head to the thestral-drawn carriages.

“Draco?” A shrill voice pierces the sounds of the crowd. It’s not entirely welcome, but it’s not unwelcome, either.

“Pansy,” I choke out. Turn around, watching her approach me.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” she says gesturing towards the castle grounds, her overly plucked eyebrows making her look more surprised than she really is.

“Didn’t have a choice,” I tell her. “It was part of the terms of my release.”

“Oh, Draco,” she sighs, running her hand up my arm in what I can only presume is meant to be a reassuring gesture. She falls in step with me as I start back towards the school. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through.”

“No,” I agree. “You can’t.”

Cunt.

Of course she can’t fucking imagine… anything. Despite the fact she wanted to throw Potter to the wolves during the final battle, she hasn’t suffered any consequences. No charges laid against her. No trial. No infamy. She gets to move on with her life as if nothing happened. To…I don’t know. Marry some fucking pureblood and drive him crazy with her grating fucking voice.

I clench my teeth as we make our way to the line-up for the carriages. Look up for the first time and…it’s just as I thought.

Everyone is staring. Pointing. Whispering.

I want to fucking die.

I want to scream.

I want to run and hide.

Disapparate.

Go home.

Because I feel like an open gaping wound. Bleeding. Dying. With everyone just…watching it happen and doing absolutely nothing to stop it. Nothing to help. 

Because I deserve it.

-

“Bloody fucking hell,” I breathe out, looking up at the imposing silhouette of Hogwart’s castle – or what’s left of it. It actually looks like a gaping wound. Damage from the war scarring and scorching its stone surface. Towers and parapets jagged, crumbling or collapsed.

It looks…fucking terrible.

I can’t believe they’re going ahead with the school year. Forcing students who have yet to get over the trauma of the war – of the battle that took place on these very grounds – to return to the scene. To effectively relive it all, because as far as I can tell, nothing has been done to erase or repair the events of last May.

The only thing they’ve cleaned up are the bodies strewn about the grounds. Laid in rows in the Great Hall…

My chest feels tight.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t want to go to the Great Hall.

I don’t want to go anywhere near the castle, but the carriage keeps moving steadily towards it while Pansy is going on about…what the fuck is she even talking about? I try to concentrate on her voice – as nasal and irritating as it is – about how absurd it is that the school is open…wondering if it’s safe…if the dungeons have collapsed, and if so where will we sleep…but I can’t answer her. Can’t agree with her. I can’t even acknowledge her.

I lean forward. Rest my elbows on my knees and try to take a slow, deep, breath. Try to fill my lungs. Try not to panic.

I look up suddenly, thinking I might disapparate. Go home. Go back to Azkaban. Anything but this. But it’s too late. 

We’ve passed through the castle gates. We’re inside the wards.

Trapped.

Like animals.

Or prisoners.

-

The bodies are gone.

The house tables arranged as if nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t been pushed over and upended to serve as barriers during battle. Like they hadn’t been moved over to lay the dead in their place. There are more tapestries, though. More banners decorating the walls of the Great Hall. Hiding the damage. 

I find a spot at the end of the Slytherin table, closest to the doors – and the exit – and sit.

Pansy drifts off, searching for a more interesting – less depressing and panicked – companion. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t want her company, anyway. I don’t want anyone’s company. I’m happy to sit alone. Happy not to pretend I’m okay. To not make conversation or feign interest in anything they have to say.

My supposed friends are nowhere to be seen, because they don’t want to be seen with me.

And I don’t blame them. I would absolutely do the same if our positions were reversed. Speaking of positions, I’ve ensured I have a perfect view of the Gryffindor table – obviously because I’m pathetic – and so I can survey it. Watching and waiting…

For him.

Potter.

The only thing I’ve been looking forward to since I got my sentencing reduced. Since they told me I’d be heading back to Hogwarts in the Fall.

He’s among the last students to file in. And no wonder. I’m not the only one who’s been waiting for him. The entire student body takes notice. Collectively leans towards him. Watches him with bated breath.

Their saviour.

The boy who not only lived, but came back from the dead because…because why? I don’t honestly know how the fuck he did that. Why he’s even here. How he’s alive.

Of course, I’m thankful he is.

That I still get to…what? Look at him? Lust and pine after someone who’s living rather than dead? It doesn’t really change anything for me. It’s not like I’ll ever get to do anything more than look. To see how one summer has changed him. Made him more chiseled. More angular. He’s grown facial hair, which…fuck me, looks really fucking good. I’ll be adding that little detail to my late night fantasies. Feeling Potter’s beard rub against my face…my thighs…my arse.

I take a deep breath. Watch as he sits at roughly the halfway mark of the Gryffindor table. As that ginger abomination – his girlfriend – sits next to him.  

Honestly.

What the fuck does he see in that freckled nightmare? She’s…just…like a male version of the Weasel. Of the Weasels, plural. They all look the fucking same. Same garish red hair. Same fucking freckles covering every inch of their bodies…

I frown. Can’t help myself from wondering – is it her similarity to her brothers that attracted Potter to her? She is a bit of a tomboy after all…not at all known for her femininity, but rather her quidditch skills and her bat bogey hex.

Huh.

I mean…she’s got a cunt. I’m sure – positive – she and Potter are fucking. So, he must like it. Like her. Like women.

Maybe he likes both? Or doesn’t realise he’s dating the female equivalent of his best friend?

The sorting has started. People are clapping. I have no fucking clue what’s happening, or who’s being sorted where. I don’t care. Have the vague sense that more students are being sorted into other houses. That Slytherin is…on the decline.

As well it should be.

Founding members be damned. Slytherin house deserves to die. As do its members. Well, some of them, at least. 

Me, anyway.

-

I go through the motions all evening.

Barely listen to the headmistress give her speech. Barely eat. Head down to the dungeons as soon as I can. Can’t help noticing the fallen pillars, the broken statues, the scorch marks throughout the corridors. 

Fuck, I need a smoke. I’m desperate for a smoke. Just to take the edge off. Of being here. Of seeing the state of things. Of seeing Potter and his She-Weasel holding hands. How he looked at her with adoring eyes. Kissed her hair. Her hand. Her lips.

Fucking cunt.

I walk straight through the common room to the dorms, all while thinking she doesn’t deserve him. Can’t possibly have anything in common with him other than her brother. 

And quidditch.

I guess there’s that. But there can’t be anything else. What the fuck could they possibly talk about? I mean, other than quidditch.  

I find my trunk. Pull out a jacket and a pack of cigarettes, then make my way back up and outside. Descend the front steps into the courtyard, skirting my way around the fallen debris of what used to be the face from the clock tower, then lean against it. Light a fag, take a long drag and…feel myself relax.

If only slightly.

I’m so fucking wound up, I don’t think it’d be possible to actually relax. To feel at all at ease. I’m not sure that’ll ever be possible.

Not here, anyway.

Not at home either…it’s a a fucking disaster there, too. The location of my mother’s house arrest and her descent into insanity. The fact she’s stuck there, amid Voldemort’s – and Nagini’s – mess is driving her bat-shit crazy. 

I close my eyes and focus on the breeze. How it feels against my skin. How it blows my hair into my face. 

Fuck, it’s annoying.

I fish around in my pockets until I find an elastic and tie my hair back in a quick bun. My father would not approve. There are no ribbons or bows or anything. No product to ensure my hair is sleek and smooth. I wouldn’t have even let my hair grow out if it weren’t for the fact it covers my Azkaban tattoo.

I snort. 

They obviously don’t expect anyone to ever get out of there…to tattoo their prisoners so blatantly. So obviously. On their fucking necks, visible to all…forever. We’re never meant to leave. To be free again. 

Always branded.

Always marked.

Always identifiable.

I shake my head. Contemplating the fact I have two marks, now, neither of which can ever be removed. That I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life…forever setting me apart. Forever reminding me – and everyone else – of what a fuck up I am. 

-

I walk around the grounds assessing the damage. Killing time. Waiting until I can safely bet on the common room being largely empty. Of the dorm being mostly quiet. Only then do I head back into the castle and to the dungeons.

I slip through the common room – occupied only by Pansy and the Greengrass sisters who…give me a look. I’m pretty sure they abandoned all hope of either of them becoming the next Lady Malfoy long before our name became synonymous with defeat. When Pansy broke it to them that I prefer cocks over cunts. 

I never came out to her, but she knows. She’s one of the few people who understands the depths of my obsession with Potter. What it means. I think she knew even before I did. After our disastrous attempt at dating in fifth year and my complete and utter disinterest in…well, her.

The dorm is silent. All curtains to the four-posters drawn. It doesn’t mean everyone is asleep, of course, but it affords me the semblance of privacy. I take my toiletries out of my trunk and bring them to the bathrooms. Look at myself in the mirror. Sigh.

I don’t even look the same, anymore.

I don’t look like me.

Like Draco Malfoy.

It isn’t even the hair. Or the fact I’ve grown a few inches. It’s my gaunt face. The expression in my eyes. I look haunted. Tired. Dead inside. I turn and angle my neck, frown at the runes and numbers on it. Unbutton my shirt and take it off. Pull the hem of my t-shirt over my head, and look at myself. Really look at myself.

Not just at the Dark Mark on my forearm – though it’s fucking hard to miss – but at me. 

The new me, that is. The one who looks like a mere shadow of my former self.

The door opens and closes.

I look over my shoulder to find Theo standing behind me. Looking at me.

“Where did you go after the feast?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” I reply to his reflection in the mirror. “You’d already made it abundantly clear you wanted to keep your distance.” The fucker wouldn’t even look at me in the Great Hall. 

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I just…” He looks up, his eyes wide. Pleading? He’s fucking pathetic. The least he could do is own up to his behaviour. To avoiding me in public. To crawling in here now, expecting me to, what?

I know exactly what he wants. What he’s hoping to get with those puppy dog eyes.

“I was told it would be best to steer clear of you,” he admits. “For appearances’ sake,” he adds.

I turn and face him. Lean back against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. Waiting.

“I didn’t want to,” he goes on.

“What’s your excuse for the summer?” I ask. There was nobody watching then. No appearances to maintain.

“Draco, you have to understand,” he pleads. “I can repair the Nott family reputation. I didn’t get marked, I can distance myself from all of that. From my father…”

“From me.”

He nods. “And from you,” he agrees.

“So what are you doing here?” I ask him. Challenge him.

He winces slightly as he moves closer. Reaches out, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my trousers. Slides them along to the button, then steps forward and uses his other hand to unfasten it. Pulls down the zip and slides a hand in, caressing my length.

I uncross my arms and hold on to the edge of the counter, watching him. Feeling him. I don’t say anything. What the fuck is there to say? From the moment I saw his reflection in the mirror I knew this was what he wanted. Not me. Not really. Just the way I make him feel. 

My hard cock in his hand. 

In his mouth.

His arse.

He claims I’m the only bloke he’s ever been with. Will ever be with. That he’s straight and intends to marry a nice pureblood witch one day.

I’ll believe it when I see it.

I take a shaky breath and watch as he gets down on his knees. Pulls my trousers and my pants down to my thighs. Pumps my cock a few times before leaning close and licking it, his tongue circling my glans. Tracing the slit on its tip. The vein underneath. Taking me into his mouth. Sucking. He moans, holding the base of my cock with one hand while gripping the back of my thigh with the other. 

No. Theodore Nott is definitely not straight. Of that I am certain.

His head starts bobbing back and forth, his tongue running along the length of my shaft, his teeth just barely grazing me. It feels good. Really fucking good.

I hate to admit I’ve missed this. Missed him. Or the way he makes me feel, anyway. How if I don’t look hard enough, I can imagine it isn’t Theo going down on me, but someone else. But I haven’t seen him – felt this – since I got out of Azkaban. Haven’t been able to pretend. So instead, I spent the summer chasing after this feeling. Looking for a close enough approximation to Potter. Fucking my way across muggle London searching for something I would never find.

Because who could possibly compare to the saviour of the wizarding world? To my saviour?

Theo… oh fuck, Theo can come close, though. If I screw up my eyes, at least. Don’t focus on him and instead focus on what he’s doing. What he can do.

The man has no gag reflex.

Which was funny when we were kids. But now? I can’t help moving my hips, pushing myself deeper into his mouth. And he takes me. All of me. My cock slides down his throat and his mouth wraps around the base of my cock.

“Fucking fuck,” I groan, increasing my speed, deep throating my former best friend. 

Because, really, I don’t have any friends now. Just acquaintances. And former friends who want to fuck me.

“I’m close,” I warn him, my muscles beginning to tense. A growing intensity in my cock. He backs off, removing his mouth, a string of spit and precum connecting us. He stands up quickly. Unfastens his trousers with shaking hands and pulls out his own cock – hard and leaking with desire. Pumps it once or twice before taking us both in his hands and rubbing us together. Finishing me off. I grunt and come all over him. My semen dripping over his shaft – which is exactly what he likes. 

Straight my fucking arse.

He keeps rubbing himself against my softening cock. Coating himself in my emissions. Lubricating himself. Moves his cock under my own, rubbing his tip against my perineum. Nudging my arse.

“Turn around,” he huffs, because he knows that’s what I like. That I don’t want to look at him while he fucks me. That if I can see him – if he’s in my face – I can’t imagine he’s someone else. Theo backs away to give me space to turn around and face the mirror. I close my eyes as he runs a finger up my arse crack. Circles my rim, then mutters a lubricating charm before pushing it in. 

He’s not particularly gentle – he’s too anxious to take it slow. To loosen me up before he’s forcing two fingers in and pumping them back and forth. “Nngghh,” I groan. Imagining it’s Potter fingering me. Picturing his muscular forearms. His strong veiny hands pushing his fingers deeper into my anus. Oh gods, oh fuck it feels good.

I imagine what he might look like. What facial expression he might have when he’s hard. Needy. I imagine his cock, heavy with desire, pushing against my arse cheek, waiting to penetrate me. To enter and claim me.

“Fuck me, already,” I moan, pushing back, feeling Theo’s cock against me. 

He rubs his tip over me, huffing out another lubricating charm. Pauses a moment, and then pushes – forces – his cock inside me. “Fucking yes,” I choke out. “Harder,” I beg as he starts pumping his hips. His pelvis slams against my arse while his cock feels like he’s skewering me. I breathe deeply. Grunt with each and every thrust. Push back against him, ensuring I feel every inch of his length. Ensuring I can enjoy it. Imagining that it’s Potter’s cock inside me. That it’s him breathing heavily behind me. That it’s his hands squeezing my hips. 

Bloody fucking hell I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want him. Feel myself getting hard again at the mere thought of Potter standing behind me. Fucking me so deeply.

I’m desperate for it. Desperate for him. I keep my eyes closed – not wanting to spoil the illusion by seeing Theo in the mirror – and take myself in hand. I’m rough. Slide my hand up and down my shaft pumping my foreskin in time with his thrusts. Running my thumb over the slit in my glans. Squeezing myself. Feeling increasingly desperate. Overstimulated. I’m going to come again. I’m going to come hard. I picture his face. His new facial hair. Imagine how rough it would feel against my skin. How it would tickle and chafe. And just as I’m wondering if Theo would grow a beard for me, he pauses when he’s at his deepest – his pelvis against my rump – and lets out a long, drawn out, moan. Coming inside me. Leaning heavily against me.

I speed up. Rub myself harder. Desperately. I need to come again. Theo extracts his cock from my arse and replaces it with his fingers, circling and teasing my rim. Helping me get there.

It doesn’t take long. Not when I picture Potter’s callused fingers circling my rim. His face screwed up in concentration. His hair falling over his eyes, and…and that does it. My breath becomes shallow and my legs tense. I lean more heavily on the counter and hiss, open my eyes and come hard, looking at myself in the mirror. 

At the look of disgust and self-loathing on my face.

And on Theo’s.

-

I have no intention of making any considerable effort with my studies. I’ll do the bare minimum in class and take my N.E.W.T.s – the terms of my release mandated I finish school and sit for my exams – they did not indicate I had to do well on them.

So when I get to my first class on Monday I really have no idea what to do with myself. I open my textbook. Kind of listen to the lecture. Take a few cursory and entirely illegible notes. 

And then I leave.

Immediately.

I do not stick around and talk to my classmates. I do not walk to the Great Hall with them. I keep my head down and do everything I can to avoid interacting with them. With anyone. I eat a quick lunch and go outside – by myself. Light a smoke and walk around the grounds. Exploring, if you will, looking for the quietest and least frequented locations. Hidden courtyards, alcoves and nooks. Benches or ledges I can sit on, so I can stare at nothing and space out.

Then I repeat the process for my afternoon classes and after dinner. And again the next day. And the day after that.

On Thursday, however, Slytherin has its first class with Gryffindor and suddenly I am paying attention. I’m alert. Watchful. Quite possibly aroused.

Because we’re in potions and as his cauldron has boiled and steamed, Potter has taken off his robe, rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt. And fuck me if he doesn’t look absolutely incredible when he’s hot and sweaty. I can’t take my eyes off him. Can’t stop thinking how much I’d like to press my body against his. To feel his heat – his sweat – against my skin. To lick him. To taste his salt. To compare it between his brow and his neck. His balls and between his arse cheeks.

Gods, I’m desperate for it.

For him.

The mere thought of Potter’s arse…of pressing my face against him and licking it? Has me licking my lips. Shifting on my stool.

His redhead laughs, moving into my field of vision. She’s all angles and freckles, grabbing onto him needily – possessively – and I’ve never hated anyone more in my life. I despise her. Can’t stop myself from scowling.

“Draco, you’re staring,” Pansy hisses from just next to me.

“I know,” I reply. Obviously I’m staring. How else am I supposed to watch – obsess – over Potter?

“Someone will notice,” she chides me. 

“I don’t care,” I tell her.

“Don’t you?” she asks, her tone incredulous. “Don’t you care what people will think?”

I take a deep breath and tear my gaze away from Potter. Fix it on Pansy, scowling even more at the interruption. “I do not,” I start, then laugh mirthlessly. “Everyone already thinks the worst of me. Wants nothing to do with me…so what do I care if they catch me staring?”

She frowns. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “But…” she starts, then trails off.

“But what?”

“But don’t you care if people think you’re…” she trails off again. Pulls a hair out of her mouth, then waves vaguely in Potter’s direction. “…Attracted to another man?” she whisper-hisses at me.

I burst out laughing.

The entire potions class looks in our direction – Potter included. 

“Is it not fucking obvious?” I finally ask once everyone but Potter has turned their attention back to their potions. “I am attracted to other men, Pansy. I don’t fucking care who knows. Not anymore.”

“What if your father finds out?” she asks rather naively.

“What’s he going to do about it, Pans?”

She shrugs and turns her attention back to our workstation. Pushes a few ingredients around and stirs the cauldron. “Are you going to help with this potion or not?” she finally asks.

“I’m not,” I reply, and suck my teeth. Look back across the classroom and catch Potter’s eye. He’s been watching us. 

Watching me.

And despite the heat in the classroom, the flush he’s already got from his boiling cauldron, I swear to fucking Merlin his cheeks go pink when I catch him looking at me. Before he diverts his eyes and turns his attention back to the ginger cunt sitting next to him.

-

Later that night, after I’ve avoided everyone in the Great Hall and the common room, I find Theo so I can lick his arse.

-

The next day we’re with Gryffindor again for Defence Against the Dark Arts. I spend the majority of the class watching the back of Potter’s head. Memorising the colour of his hair. The way it naturally seems to just stick out everywhere and look utterly – but roguishly – dishevelled. I imagine running my fingers through it – I bet it’s thick – grabbing a fistful of it and pulling his head to the side to expose his neck so I can kiss it. Lick it. Bite it.

I want to devour him.

Consume and digest him.

Make him a part of me.

I bite my lips and imagine the back of Potter’s head right in front of me, rather than across the classroom. Imagine him sitting on my lap…which is to say, sitting on my cock. My hands wrapped around him. Fondling him.

Making him come.

Making him mine.

-

I continue avoiding everyone through the weekend, spending my time outside. I’ve found a courtyard I quite like. It’s round the back of the school near the base of the astronomy tower. Largely destroyed by falling debris. Completely deserted. 

It’s perfect.

I settle myself at the base of a large yew tree that’s half fallen and scan our reading assignments. Scribble my homework. I don’t put much effort into anything, but I do it. 

When it starts raining I head to the library. Scowl at Swotty Granger who’s monopolising the best table at the back. I glare at her for a moment, feeling somewhat defeated, before moving on and looking for an alternative. Find something suitable just outside the restricted section. 

I pause and listen.

Hear the rustle of clothing. The sound of muted kisses. Of laboured breathing.

Bloody fucking hell.

I sigh audibly and throw my book bag onto the table with a thump. Determined. I am not leaving. Whoever is trying to fuck in the library can just move right the fuck along. Or have an audience.

I don’t fucking care.

Could they be any less original?

The library for fuck’s sake.

I drag the chair out, purposefully scraping its feet against the floor, the sound of it making me wince. It’s like nails on a chalkboard.

The fumbling stops. I hear whispers.

And then of all fucking people Potter and the ginger abomination exit the stacks holding hands, their skin flushed. While her eyes remain fixed on the floor, avoiding eye contact at all costs, Potter looks right at me. Shrugs slightly, then follows the She-Weasel out of my line of sight, and – if the tent he was pitching is any indication – somewhere more private.

-

Fuck me.

It was a large tent.

-

Every week is largely the same. I develop a routine. Classes, meals, pining, wandering, wanking, rinse, repeat.

The only difference, really, is that with each passing week the school faculty and staff become increasingly adamant that students avoid the Forbidden Forest. Which is to say, they’re actively reminding the student body not to go in there. Not to even go near it. Which is a shift from past years when they sent eleven year olds in for detention, which was…complete and utter bullshit. 

Totally irresponsible.

Despite their warnings, I regularly go near the Forbidden Forest during my meanderings. Even enter its outskirts. Like everything at Hogwarts, it’s a fucking mess. The war – the giants and the acromantula – left the forest battered and torn. Trees are broken or uprooted. The forest floor crisscrossed by great gashes, exposing roots and boulders. Rather than a dense canopy of leaves, the treetops are ragged. Even bare. Strewn with cobwebs, vines and debris.

I sometimes hear the rustling of leaves or heavy breathing when I’m near there. As if something is following me, just beyond where I can see. Where the brush becomes thickest. Where it’s darkest.

Whatever it is never reveals itself, though. Never attempts to engage.

So I ignore it.

I know the forest is filled with dangerous creatures, both magical and otherwise. But if whatever’s been following – stalking – me hasn’t attacked yet…well, I can’t help wondering if it ever will.

Or honestly if I even care.

Chapter Text

About a month into the term, when my routine of self-isolation, flagellation and loathing is firmly established, two things happen that give me pause. That make me question…well, maybe not everything, but a lot of things.

First, the Hogsmeade weekend is cancelled with no explanation why. 

Of course I wasn’t planning on going to Hogsmeade – I wouldn’t be caught dead there – but I was looking forward to the school population being more than halved. For there to be no quidditch trials or practice so I could raid the broom shed and go flying by myself. 

I can’t help feeling a little disappointed. I was really looking forward to it. To feel the rush of air against my face and in my hair. To feel my clothes rippling against my skin. To feel the dip in my stomach when I take a dive.

To feel.

Full stop.

Because apart from my feelings for Potter – which only seem to grow in intensity with each passing day…gnawing away at my insides and making me sick with jealousy and longing – I don’t feel much of anything these days.

Besides hate, that is.

I hate myself. I hate Hogwarts. I hate the professors, their classes, and their stupid fucking homework assignments. I hate my classmates. I hate my former friends. I hate that I crawl into Theo’s four-poster several times a week so I can feel something close to intimacy…if you can call what we do intimate. Me, pretending he’s someone else, and him pretending it isn’t even happening.

And above all else, I hate Ginny fucking Weasley. Like, really hate her. I loathe everything she is and represents. I loathe the way she looks, the way she talks, and I especially loathe that she has Potter’s love.

It makes me sick just seeing them together. Watching how he touches her with such tenderness. Such devotion. How he kisses her. How he closes his eyes just before their lips meet. How he opens his mouth to hers. How he explores her with his tongue.

Not that I pay them any attention.

Nor do I imagine what he does with – to – her when they’re alone. Wonder if she lets him fuck her up the arse. If he’d like to fuck her that way. Be fucked that way.

The news does not go over well. 

The Great Hall erupts into expressions of disappointment, and general murmurs of dissatisfaction. I sigh, resigned to one more thing in life not going my way.

I’m used to it. Should have expected it.

I cross my arms and look across the hall at the Gryffindor table. 

At Potter, obviously.

While he doesn’t seem overly pleased with the news, it seems – to me at least – that he’s not overly upset, either. His ginger atrocity, however, appears outraged. As if she – they – had some sort of plans that they’ll have to forego.

Good.

I hope their whole weekend is ruined. Maybe they’ll have a fight. A big one. Where he finally notices how shrill and obnoxious she is. And then maybe he’ll ditch that fucking cunt once and for all.

-

The second thing happens on the night of the cancelled Hogsmeade visit. Instead of spending the evening with his freckle-faced girlfriend, Potter unexpectedly shows up, interrupting my late-night walk.

It’s after dinner and I’m slowly making my way to my favourite bench, thinking berating thoughts about myself, the school and its faculty, as well as considering the implications of the latest incomprehensible letter I received from my mother. It’s clear she’s not handling her house arrest well. Not with any semblance of sanity, anyway.

I pause and pull out a fag, lighting it with a snap of my fingers. Take a long drag and keep going, only to stop dead in my tracks once I reach the courtyard by the Astronomy tower. Because Potter is there. Standing at the far end, his hands in his pockets, observing the damage. Obviously killing time. 

Waiting.

For me.

“Potter?!” I ask, the surprise evident in my voice. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I frown, immediately suspicious – I may be in love with the arsehole, but it doesn’t mean I trust him. “How did you know where to find me?”

He turns and runs his hand through his already dishevelled hair, pushing it back up off his forehead. Exposing the start of the jagged scar that runs down over his left eye and onto his cheek. Looking even more roguishly handsome and irresistible, if that’s possible.

I mean, it is.

He’s making me weak in the knees.

A little breathless, to be honest.

But I stand my ground. Finish my cigarette and toss the butt aside, waiting for an answer.

“I have a map,” he tells me unhelpfully. He shrugs and takes a few steps towards me, adding, “It shows the location of everyone in the castle.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Of course you do,” I reply, my voice already bitter as my mind races, connecting dots. “How long have you had it?” 

“Since third year.”  

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, pulling out my pack of smokes. Fidgeting with it. Slowly opening it up and selecting another cigarette because I’m fucking desperate to have something to do. To not look at him. “What do you want?” I finally ask, placing the filter in my mouth.

I don’t light it.

Not yet.

“I wanted to talk to you, Malfoy…” He trails off, moving closer. Leans back against what’s left of a fallen pillar. Looks at his feet, his body language awkward and uncomfortable. “You’re always alone,“ he says. “You always look so…so angry…and sad.” He sighs. “I wanted to check you’re okay.”

I can’t help laughing. Meanly. “You’re kidding, right?” I remove the as yet unlit cigarette from my mouth. “Because I should think it was abundantly obvious that I am not even remotely okay.”

He looks up at me, his expression pained. He winces, asking, “Because you’re here? At Hogwarts, I mean?”

“That’s a large part of it, yeah.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t know they’d force you to come back…” He hesitates, looking around himself. At the rubble. Up at the Astronomy Tower. “…to all of this,” he finishes, waving his hand vaguely. “If I’d known, maybe I could have said something on your behalf—”

“No,” I interrupt, placing the fag back in my mouth and lighting it. I take a long drag, adding while exhaling, “You said quite enough, Potter.”

He grimaces. Ducks his head and runs his hands back and forth through his hair as his cheeks begin to turn pink. He looks upset and I have a sudden, overwhelming, need to comfort him. To make him feel better, even if it makes me feel worse. “And I thank you for that,” I add, trying hard to sound grateful. To suppress the permanently bitter tone my voice has adopted since I’ve been constantly angry with everything and everyone. “Truly,” I add, flicking the ashes from my cigarette. “I appreciate it. Thank you, Potter.”

“I was just trying to help,” he tells me quietly, his features smoothing over.

“And you did. If it weren’t for you, I’d be looking at life in Azkaban, rather than a year here.” I cock my head to the side, unable to stop myself from smirking. “A hellish, insufferable year, no doubt. But just one year.”

He nods and smiles at me. “Gotta look at the bright side,” he says, knowing full well I’m a fucking pessimist.

“Indeed.” I narrow my eyes. Point my smoke at him. “Why did you do it?”

“Why?” he asks, his tone and face confused.

“Yes, why.”

Because I can’t for the life of me figure it out. Can’t fathom why Harry fucking Potter decided to speak on my behalf. To so passionately fight for my freedom.

He looks at me for a long time, as if trying to figure it out for himself. As if he never stopped to wonder why helping Draco Malfoy might seem…odd. Out of character, even. He sucks on his teeth and walks towards me, stopping only when he’s right in front of me. Maybe a foot, foot-and-a-half? Reaches out and takes my fag – brushing my fingers with his own.

I suck in my breath. Watch intently as he raises the cigarette to his mouth and inhales deeply. Holds the smoke in his lungs as he hands it back to me, then exhales and says, “I dunno. It just seemed the right thing to do.” I bring it back up to my lips and take another puff, never taking my eyes off him. Barely able to fucking inhale, let alone breathe. My heart racing a mile a minute. 

Because this?

What’s happened right here?

Is somehow the most intimate moment I’ve ever had with Harry Potter.

Sharing a cigarette.

Something we’ve both put between our lips.

“You know, I admire you,” he adds apropos of nothing.

I almost choke.

“You what? ” I can’t help exclaiming. “Not five minutes ago you implied I might be having a mental breakdown, and now you fucking admire me?” 

“It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” he chuckles. 

“I really does.”

He scratches his chin and fixes me with the most penetrating gaze. His green eyes…fuck me, they’re gorgeous. The colour of…moss. Which doesn’t sound particularly beautiful, but the nuance, depth, and flecks of different shades of green in them look just like it. 

They – he – is breathtaking.

“What I meant to say is, I admire how you’re just unapologetically you, now.”

“That’s because I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to impress anyone, or make friends, or make anyone proud…” I shrug. “None of that matters anymore. None of it’s even possible. Not anymore. Not with what I’ve done. With who I am.”

He bites his lips and nods. “I think you’re exactly who you were always meant to be,” he tells me, and I can’t for the fucking like of me figure out if it’s an insult or a compliment. He takes a deep breath and looks around himself. His eyes raking over me before declaring, “I should go.”

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, watching as he makes his way through the debris. Taking a very long, very appreciative look at his arse.

He stops as he’s about to exit the courtyard. Looks over his shoulder and says, “Don’t change, Malfoy.”

And then he’s gone.

-

Don’t change.

Don’t change?

What the bloody fuck does that even mean?

Don’t change what? That I’m about to fucking drown in self-loathing and doubt? That I don’t care what anyone thinks? My hair? My smoking? My pessimistic outlook on life? 

That I’m in love with him?

Fuck me.

What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with a comment like that?

Spiral, apparently.

Obsess.

I pull out another fag and light it. Blow out the smoke and pace the courtyard, my mind reeling. Trapped in a vicious cycle. Unable to help myself from wondering – does Potter know? 

He must know something. 

He definitely knows I watch him. Stare at him. The whole bloody school knows that.

But does he know I’m in love with him? Obsessed with him? That I’d let him curse me again – kill me , even – if it meant he was the last thing I saw. If it meant maybe he’d touch me. Hold my hand. Show he cared even a little for me as I bled out.

I take a drag and let it out slowly, blowing the smoke up towards the sky, looking at the stars. 

He did come here tonight to check if I was okay.

He’s noticed I’m alone. Angry. Sad. 

He’s noticed me.

Which means…he’s been watching me, too. At least to some degree.

Cared enough to come and talk to me.

Nobody else has done that. 

Nobody.

I lean back against the stone wall of the courtyard and sigh. Look up at the clear night sky – at the stars – and can’t help wondering if there’s more to it. If deep down Harry Potter actually cares about me. If maybe his concern is borne out of something more, compelling him to do the right thing – by me – even if he doesn’t understand why he’s doing it.

Arrrggghhhh.

It’s so fucking frustrating.

I push my hair back off my face and sink down to the ground. Sit with my knees bent, and rest my forearms on them. Staring at my cigarette as it slowly burns. Still lost in thought. Still thinking about Potter. Why he came here tonight. His motives. His saviour-complex. His lips. How they closed around the end of my cigarette. His cheeks. How they hollowed as he took a drag from it. The way he looked at me the whole time. The intensity in his eyes. The way his jaw clenched and the muscles in his neck flexed as he passed the fag back to me. His hands. His muscular forearms. His broad shoulders and his tapered waist. 

His tight arse.

My cock twitches and I can’t help my thoughts from focusing on Potter’s arse. Squeezing it. Running a finger up between its cheeks. Circling its rim. Gently teasing my finger into it. Pushing it in. Pushing my cock in. Would he like it? Would he squirm with pleasure? Cry out?

The mere thought of Potter crying out in pleasure makes me hard.

I shift my position and pull on my trousers, attempting to give my growing erection space to…grow. I flick my butt away and absentmindedly start rubbing myself. Unable to help from wondering if Potter still has any need to wank, or if he just fucks the freckled fiend to get his rocks off. If she’s always willing. Always there.

I bet she is.

I mean, I would be if I was with Potter. If I was hoping to keep my claws in him. To keep him with me. Satisfied. I would fuck him anytime, anywhere he wanted. Let him do anything he wanted. Use me – my body – in any way that gave him pleasure.

I’m not proud. I’d be completely willing to degrade myself for him.

To beg for him.

For him to kiss me – to feel his facial hair against my skin. 

To fuck me – to feel his body against mine. Curved around me, his chest against my back. His pelvis against my arse. His cock inside me. His hand wrapped around my waist, pumping my cock in time with his thrusts.

Fucking fuck, I want it so fucking bad.

Want him.

I unfasten the button on my trousers and pull down the zip. Lift my arse and pull them off just enough to extricate my now very hard cock from my pants. Breathe raggedly as I run my hand along its length. Rub my thumb around, then up over my glans, back and forth over the slit on its tip. Sucking in my breath. Squeezing myself as I collect the bead of precum that emerges from it and rub it over my shaft, pumping my hand up and down.

I close my eyes. Lean my head back against the wall and reach into my pants with my other hand. Slide my fingers over my perineum to my arse. Tease its opening. Rub my fingers over its rim. Huff out a quick lubrication charm and slowly push a finger in, imagining it’s Potter’s broom-callused finger. Imagining the slight breeze I feel is his breath against my face as he watches me with those incredibly green eyes, and pushes a second finger into my arse. “Nngghh…fuck,” I moan, pumping my cock with one hand, while thrusting my fingers inside my arse with the other. 

Panting.

Desperate.

Close.

Mutter another lubrication charm. Add another finger because I’m convinced the saviour of the wizarding world is extremely well hung. A theory – a fantasy – that was confirmed by that bulge I saw when he came out of the restricted section with his ginger cunt.

It snaked its way down his leg.

I bite my bottom lip. 

The thought of Potter’s cock sends me over the edge. 

I feel a growing urgency in the base of my spine and my legs – my whole body – tenses up. I gasp, pumping my hand rapidly over my shaft and pushing my fingers as deep as they’ll go, curling them forward to massage my prostate. And then…“Nnnnggghhhh…” my stomach muscles flex and my sphincter muscles contract. My cock pulses and I ejaculate – my cum spurting out of my cock onto the ground between my legs.

I release my cock and push my hair out of my face. Wipe the sweat off my forehead. Breathing deeply, slowly sliding my fingers out of my anus. Circle my rim again. Rub back and forth over my arsehole, massaging myself, because…well, because my party trick is I take very little time to recover. And as a result? 

I’m greedy.

Needy?

I take another deep breath. Focus on how the pad of my finger feels as it circles my rim. Whisper a lubrication charm and imagine it’s Potter’s tongue licking me. His mouth greedily lapping my arsehole. 

Fuck, I’d love to have Potter’s head between my legs.

To have him look up at me with those moss-green eyes as he licks my arse. As he takes my cock into his mouth and fondles my balls.

I reach back down and take my once-again erect cock in hand, and start pumping rapidly. Panting. Thrusting my fingers roughly in and out of my arse. Desperate to make myself come quickly while the image of Potter is still fresh in my mind. The colour and glint of his eyes – while they’re fixed on me – still accurate. 

Oh gods, I’m so fucking in love with him it hurts.

I’ve never believed in religion, but I believe in him. In Potter. He is the closest fucking thing to God for me. I want to fucking worship him. Give him everything I have and everything I am, as terrible and flawed as it may be. I want to kneel at his feet, and serve him. Be enslaved by him. 

Be owned by him.

Body, mind and soul.

I cry out. Pull my hand out of my pants and place it on the ground, balancing myself as I pump my shaft and come hard. The intensity – the ferocity – of my orgasm taking me by surprise. I breathe deeply and bend over, hugging my knees. Try to catch my breath. I wipe my face, my eyes, unable to comprehend why my cheeks are wet.

Unable to remember when I started crying.

-

I’m not ready to head back to the castle.

Partly because I can’t fucking stand being inside the school and around, well, everyone, and partly because I’m pretty sure my face is splotchy and my eyes bloodshot from crying.

What the actual fuck? I’m fucking crying now?

Because Potter came to see me? Because he showed a modicum of concern for me? Because I love him?

I’m so fucking pathetic, it makes me sick.

I want to vomit I'm so sick of myself. Of my feelings. Of the depth of my need for him. How I crave him. Want him. How I would carve out my insides and give them to him if he asked. Do or give anything for him. Destroy myself if it meant it would build him up.

I stand up. Take a few deep breaths, attempting to calm myself. To regulate my racing heart. My racing mind. Head out of the courtyard and walk. I don’t know or care where I’m going, I have no destination in mind, I’m just not going back to the castle. 

I walk with my head down. Looking at my feet. Find myself counting my steps in an effort not to fucking think. Because my mind is still wholly preoccupied – obsessed – with Potter. So much so, it’s driving me fucking crazy. My love for him – my veneration, my worship – is killing me. The grass beneath my feet gives way to sand…I stop and look up, surprised to find myself on the beach, next to the Black Lake. Only now noticing the sound of the water lapping at its shore.

It’s soothing.

Mesmerising.

I bury my hands in my pockets and resume walking, my pace slow. Attempting to…maybe not enjoy, but appreciate the sounds of the water. The breeze coming off the lake. The reflection of the moon upon it.

As I approach the end of the beach and the beginning of the Forbidden Forest, I come across a felled tree. Sit down on its trunk, and take a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet – both outside and, finally, in my mind as well.

I can do this.

I have been doing this.

Just because Potter spoke to me doesn’t mean anything has changed. He’s still the Chosen One. The saviour of the wizarding world. Beautiful both inside and out. And I’m…well, me. Marked Death Eater. Former resident of Azkaban. Ugly down to my very core.

I rub my hands up and down my thighs, warming them up. Realising I’m cold. That I’ve been outside for hours. That it must be…I look at my watch. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

It’s late.

Later than I thought.

I stand up and step over the tree trunk and start making my way along the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest. It isn’t exactly a direct route towards the castle, but it has easier – flatter – terrain. If I keep going in this direction, I’ll hit the ignominious groundskeeper’s cabin. From there, it’s straight across the grounds to the school’s front entrance.

I’m about halfway to Hagrid’s hovel when I hear footsteps in the forest mirroring my own. I look into the brush, already knowing I won’t see anything. Whatever’s in there has done this to me before. Followed me. Stayed out of sight.

Something is different this time, though. I don’t just hear heavy breathing, I can hear it…snorting? Sniffing? Like it’s taking deep breaths. Catching my scent. 

My heart rate picks up. 

I don’t like this new behaviour. This change.

I pivot and start heading across the grounds, making a beeline for the castle.

I hear a grunt of some sort behind me from the forest. The sound of disturbed branches and the crunching of leaves. 

I pick up my pace and then, fuck me I can’t help myself, I turn around. Almost trip on a rock, stop myself from falling, and steady myself. Look at what’s emerged from the forest. What’s been watching me.

I don’t know what it is. I can’t name it.

But it’s large. Or more so tall. Maybe eight feet? It stands on two cloven hooves with shaggy, matted, brown fur covering its lower trunk and forming a mane of sorts over its neck and shoulders. Its arms, legs and abdomen are muscular and sinewy. I can see the definition of each and every muscle straining under its skin, because despite its large size, it appears almost emaciated. Starving. Its arms are abnormally long. Its hands massive, with curved black claws.

The creature's face – its head – is the most striking, though. Shaped like some kind of skeletal ungulate. A deer, elk or thestral. Its nostrils flared and its lips…chewed away. Exposing sharp teeth, stained red. I can’t see its eyes – they look like hollow cavities, shadowed by darkness. All crowned by a huge set of antlers. Reaching high and wide, with multiple tines projecting from the main beam. I’d consider them – it – magnificent if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying.

I stand rooted to the spot, unable to move. Unable to take my eyes off the creature. Watching it watch me. Until it fucking points at me with its massive hand. Its clawed index finger reaching out towards me.

And that’s it.

I turn and run for my fucking life. Suddenly, acutely, aware that despite my almost constant desire to offer myself – my life – to Potter, I do not want to fucking die a meaningless death.

I don’t look back.

I run faster than I think I’ve ever run before, jumping over rocks and roots, and up the steep incline I’d been trying to avoid by skirting the forest.

By the time I reach the castle’s main entrance, I’m spent. Exhausted. Sweating. Out of breath – swearing I’m going to give up smoking. I run up the front steps anyway, my legs and lungs searing with pain. Open the large front door, and only then do I turn and look over my shoulder. And see...

Nothing.

It hasn’t followed me.

Which should have been fucking obvious, because I’m positive it could have easily caught me if it had wanted to.

So…why didn’t it?

-

I round a corner and bump into a pair of Hufflepuffs. Prefects from the looks of them – their badges, obviously, and the look of self-importance on their faces. Which means they must be fifth-years.

“It’s past curfew, you’re not allowed outside your common room,” one of them tells me with a voice that cracks.

“We’ll have to report you,” the other says, pulling out a clipboard. “Name?”

Is she fucking serious? Everyone knows who I am. That’s not just ego, that’s fact. 

I narrow my eyes at her, growl “Fuck off,” and push past the pair, making my way down the corridor and to the staircase to the dungeons.

-

The common room is empty, which is a fucking relief, because I feel shell-shocked. Overwhelmed. Still slightly out of breath.

Still scared.

Unable to get the creature out of my mind, which is almost funny in a bizarre and completely fucked up way, because it’s the first time something has pushed Potter out of it. 

I head straight to the boys’ dorm and to the washroom. Strip off my clothes and get into a shower stall, turning the water on to an almost scalding temperature. Focus on that while trying to empty my mind. To forget the antlers. The claws. The eyes I couldn’t see, but which I knew were watching me. Fixed on me. 

I stay in the shower until I stop shivering. Unsure if it was due to cold or fear. Grab a towel and dry myself off before wrapping it around my waist and heading to my four-poster in the dorm, pausing briefly to fetch a pair of pyjama bottoms from my trunk. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’ll put them on. I’m so fucking desperate to get into bed and just close my eyes. 

To sleep.

To rest.

To forget.

I pull aside the curtains, and stop. Frown.

My bed is occupied.

Theo is lying on his back on top of the blankets. He turns and looks at me. His expression a bit bewildered – he’s in that half-awake half-asleep state. “Hey,” he says dreamily. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting for you…”

“Not tonight, Theo—”

“But Draco, I’ve been waiting,” he says again, as if it’ll make a difference. Reaches down and starts rubbing himself between his legs, encouraging an already growing erection.

I guess he really was waiting.

“I’m not interested,” I say firmly, feeling my cock twitch, because it’s a fucking traitor.

“Are you sure?” he asks, sitting up, more awake. He reaches forward and untucks my towel, a mischievous expression on his face. The towel falls to the floor in a puddle at my feet.

“I’m sure,” I reply, not at all feeling sure. My cock now semi-erect. I take a deep breath. Watch as Theo takes my length in hand and caresses it. As it grows harder under his ministrations. I reach up and grab hold of a bedpost for support, taking in a ragged breath.

“Draco? Theo?” A sleepy voice interrupts us. I frown. Snap my gaze over my shoulder and find Blaise pulling his curtains aside. A confused expression on his face. “What’s going? What are…what are you doing?”

I don’t think.

I crouch down abruptly, rummaging through my pile of clothes. Pull out my wand and point it at Blaise, hissing, “Obliviate!” Watch as his expression goes blank, then mutter, “Imperio …Go back to sleep. There’s nothing to see.”

He nods his head sleepily. Yawns and closes the curtains.

I look back at Theo, my expression murderous. “Get out.”

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he exclaims, sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at me as if…well, as if he didn’t think me capable of such a thing. 

I grab my pyjama bottoms and yank them on, looking at him incredulously. “I did that for you ,” I spit at him. “I couldn’t give two fucks who sees me with another bloke – if anyone doesn’t already know I’m gay, they’ve been living under a fucking rock. But you ? You’re still walking around insisting you’re straight. I didn’t think you wanted a fucking gossip like Blaise Zabini seeing you fondling my cock.”

Theo takes in a sharp breath, the implications of what just happened – of what he just risked – finally dawning on him. He bites his lips and looks up at me, his eyes wide.

“I…I wasn’t thinking,” he says quietly.

“Not with your head, you weren’t,” I agree, my tone harsh. 

“I thought everyone was asleep,” he adds, standing up and looking around the dorm room. At each of the four-poster beds and their drawn curtains, as if expecting any one of our dorm mates to suddenly jump out. To see him with me. His cock still hard and pitching a rather impressive tent in his pyjamas.

“Maybe they were,” I concede. “Now go to bed, Theo.” I look down at him. Suck my teeth. “Your bed,” I add for good measure.

He nods, absentmindedly adjusting himself. 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles, his expression looking conflicted. As if almost being outed has maybe made him reconsider, if not his sexual orientation, then at the very least his level of caution in concealing his preferences. 

I watch until he’s tucked himself in bed and drawn the curtains. Cast a silencing charm on it just in case, then climb into my own. Push my wet hair out of my face and pull the blankets up to my chin, staring at the canopy overhead.

Wide awake.

Chapter Text

Either because I’m stupid, or because I fear having to spend time with my peers even more than I do the creature, I keep going out onto the school grounds at night.

It’s still there. I can hear it following me. Breathing. The odd snort.

But it stays out of sight.

Honestly, if it plans to attack or kill me, I wish it’d just get it over with – because then at least I wouldn’t have to suffer through classes every day. Which isn’t to say all of my classes are awful. I mean, the professors, the homework, and the assignments are. They’re completely fucking painful to put up with. Leave me feeling all woeful and nostalgic about Azkaban. But I do get to watch Potter in Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, which makes obsessing over him – examining and memorising every little detail about him, every mannerism – considerably easier.

For instance, he’s stopped trying to hide his scar. Which he never really could, because it’s across half his face, but he always used to cover the top-most part of it – the telltale lightning bolt shape – with his fringe. Not anymore. Someone, either his cunt of a girlfriend or his swotty best friend, cut his disheveled mop of hair into something actually resembling a haircut.

And he looks good.

Really fucking good.

It opens up his whole face. Makes those beautiful and expressive eyes of his so much more visible. 

He’s positively heart-stopping.

If I couldn’t stop looking at him before, I really can’t now. The freckled fiasco has taken to giving me nasty looks. Actually sneers at me from time to time. Always follows it up by some sort of demonstration that Potter is hers. She’ll hold his hand. Run her hand up his arm or along his thigh. Trail her fingers through his hair. Brush them – or her lips – on his neck. 

Kiss him.

Cunt.

It’s enough to make me wonder if she isn’t worried, though. Is she showing me that Potter is hers, or is she proving it to herself? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not just my imagination – Potter’s been watching me, too. He’s good at hiding it. Much better than me. Then again, he has more reason to do so. 

More to lose.

But I am absolutely positive I’ve caught him looking at me. He’ll immediately look away, of course, but his cheeks will go pink. The expression on his face mortified.

Every time it happens it makes my heart race.

Gives me hope.

A very little, mind you. I’m not delusional. But hope all the same.

-

A few weeks later we find out why the Hogsmeade visit was cancelled. Not because the headmistress or the school faculty think it’s important to tell us, of course, but because they can’t hide it anymore.

I’m sitting in the Great Hall eating breakfast. Avoiding everyone and watching Potter, as usual. Specifically how he collects the leftover maple syrup off his plate onto his fork and licks it. Like he can’t stand to let it go to waste. I narrow my eyes, fixated on his tongue. How he runs it up the tines of his fork. How his lips close over it as he cleans it off. I imagine that tongue of his running along the underside of my cock. Licking my tip, cleaning up my precum. His lips pressing against my shaft. Surrounding it as he takes me into his mouth—

Swotty Granger gasps, interrupting my reverie – she is sitting right next to him, I can hardly avoid noticing her. How her hand flies up to her mouth. How she hisses to Potter and the two Weasels who lean in as if there were some great big conspiracy to discuss.

Which…there is.

She stabs her finger at an article in a folded Daily Prophet. Potter scans it. Stands up, taking the paper from his bushy-haired friend and steps over the bench. Walks very purposefully towards the head table and speaks to the headmistress. 

And that’s all it takes. 

For Potter to, once again, point out the school’s ineptitude. Its shortcomings. Its overall lack of good judgement. He must be so fucking tired of being the only one to care about…well, everyone and everything. Of being the only one willing to do the right thing, no matter the cost. 

Turns out there’s been a series of disappearances from Hogsmeade and the surrounding areas that the authorities were trying to keep quiet. Trying to find the missing people. To save them. Until last night, that is, when they couldn’t hide it any longer. Had to acknowledge they were no longer on a rescue mission, but a recovery.

They found bodies.

Three of them.

Mangled. Torn apart.

Half eaten.

The headmistress reminds us to avoid the Forbidden Forest and to remain on school grounds. That all trips to Hogsmeade will be canceled until whoever – or whatever – is responsible for these atrocities is caught.

I watch as the student body erupts. A cacophony of voices theorising about and discussing the news. Wondering who, or what , could be capable of such a thing. Of eating people. If it’s a lone actor or a group. If it’s animals, magical creatures or – most horrifying of all – some kind of cannibal.

I suck on my teeth and look towards the Gryffindor table. Catch Potter’s eye before he swiftly turns away. 

My heart skips a beat. Sinks down to my stomach.

First, because I caught Potter watching me. And second, because I’m fairly confident the creature eating Hogsmeade residents is the very same one that’s been stalking me. 

Which means it already has access to the school’s grounds and is visiting nightly.

My only question, then, is why hasn’t it eaten me yet?

-

The next few days are fucking unbearable. 

All anyone wants to talk about are the half-eaten bodies. Not that they’re talking to me about them. I’m still avoiding everyone. Still spending most of my time outside, because nothing has changed as far as I’m concerned.

I’m still a pariah.

Still an outcast.

-

It’s after lunch, and I’m outside sit-leaning against the clock face that fell from the tower during what they’re now calling the battle of Hogwarts. 

The one we lost.

I’m having a fag, thinking about how futile and utterly meaningless my life is, when I hear the door to the main entrance creak open somewhere behind me. I pay no mind as someone descends the steps – nobody ever comes to see or talk to me.

So I’m admittedly surprised when Potter comes along, hands in his pockets, and leans against the clock-face a mere two feet away from me. I take a drag and look at him. Frowning. Wondering why the fuck he’s interrupting my self-pity fest.

“It’s getting a little tiresome in there,” he comments, apropos of nothing.

I smirk. Can’t even fucking imagine what it must be like for the one who killed Voldemort to have everyone in the whole bloody school looking at him for answers to this new crisis. Assuming he’ll just…what? Save everyone again?

I don’t say anything. Sigh. Pull out my pack of smokes and hold it out to him.

He looks me in the eye, then down at the cigarettes. Takes his hands out of his pockets and reaches for them. Pulling one out and putting it behind his ear, as he takes another and places it nonchalantly between his lips and I can’t help thinking how fucking cool he is. Like James fucking Dean, or some other muggle movie icon.

I could melt right here and now.

Or go down on him.

That would be infinitely better.

Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out a Zippo, offering it to him. He takes it from me, brushing his fingers against mine, flips it open and lights his cigarette.

“Thanks,” he mumbles from around the fag in his mouth, while simultaneously exhaling.

My heart starts palpitating.

“This is very muggle of you,” he comments, handing the Zippo back. “It suits you,” he adds, taking another drag.

I can’t speak. Can’t take my eyes off his mouth. How his cheeks hollow out as he sucks on his smoke. 

“How did you come by it?” he asks. 

Is he just trying to get me to talk? I can’t quite figure out what the fuck he’s doing here.

“I spent a lot of time in muggle London after I got out of Azkaban,” I finally reply with a shrug. He looks at me, waiting. I inhale, wondering what the fuck for. His green eyes bore a hole into my soul. I can’t take it, so I keep talking. “I couldn’t stand being at the manor. It smells of Nagini and death. I couldn’t go to Diagon Alley—”

“Why not?” he interrupts.

I can’t help scowling. “Because as far as the magical population is concerned, Potter, I shouldn’t be free. I should be suffering in Azkaban. If I go to Diagon it’s because I have to – I get jeered at, spat at, even hexed…”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“So yeah, I prefer to spend my time where nobody knows who I am. What I’ve done.”

“So your muggle experience extends beyond Zippos, then?” he comments, his lips pulling up in a smile.

“It does,” I confirm. “I’ve been in muggle shops, muggle diners, cafés, movie theatres, parks, museums, bars…”

Arseholes.

I’ve been in a lot of those, too.

“And?” he asks, flicking his butt to the ground.

“And what?!” I ask, starting to feel flustered. Wondering what he’s playing at. Why he’s here talking to me.

“And what do you think of muggles?” he replies calmly. His voice like a soothing caress. 

I bite my lips. Shake my head. “They’re not what I grew up thinking,” I admit. "Rather innovative, really.”

He looks at me again, not saying anything.

Salazar fucking Slytherin, if the rumours are true, and Potter is going to become an auror, they should immediately put him in the interrogation room. Because he has this way of…of getting you to talk. It’s fucking irritating. I know it’s happening, but I just can’t fucking stop myself. “The way they’re always improving upon things,” I go on. “Muggles are never satisfied to just leave well enough alone, they keep re-inventing everything…” I huff. “ We, on the other hand, think our magic is the pinnacle of existence. That we don’t have to change or evolve. That we’re already bloody perfect.”

I realise my smoke has burned to the filter and gone out. Toss it to the ground and immediately light another one, Potter’s intense gaze never once leaving my face.

“Did you know,” I can’t fucking stop myself from continuing – am I that starved for conversation? –“that apart from their pathetic excuse for a muggle studies class, the Hogwarts curriculum hasn’t changed in centuries? It’s fucking absurd.”

I force myself to shut up. To wait for an answer. Take a long drag from my cigarette and hold it in my lungs. Looking at him. Desperate for him to speak.

“Well,” he finally says, tilting his head to the side in thought. “I guess that might explain why they have us brewing Amortentia this year.” 

“We’re brewing Amortentia because it ticks all the right boxes,” I sneer. “It’s an expert-level long-brew potion of minor consequence,” I add.

“I suppose you’re right,” he nods. “A love potion does seem of less consequence than, say, Veritaserum, Felix Felicis, or Polyjuice.” He screws up his face. “I wonder what mine will smell like,” he adds, and I can’t help frowning.

“Are you telling me you don’t know what your heart most desires?” I ask, incredulous.

Shouldn’t it smell like his weasel girl? Like her hair, or her cunt, or…something.

His cheeks go pink before he turns the question back on me. “And you do?” he asks, and I can’t help wondering if he’s really fucking stupid or just oblivious.

“Yes,” I nod. “I know exactly what mine will smell like.”

You, you fucking moron.

Or whatever reminds me of you.

Broomstick oil. Flannel. Sweat.

I don’t elaborate.

When it becomes clear I have nothing more to say on the matter, he clears his throat. Pushes off from the clock-face and turns to look at me, asking, “Are you still walking about at night?” 

“I am.”

He nods and then frowns. Bites his lips. “Be careful out there,” he finally tells me, then walks towards the castle, his hands back in his pockets.

-

I should have listened to him.

-

A mere two days later I’m out walking late in a quiet, out of the way spot behind the greenhouses near the forest. I’ve got a fag hanging out of my mouth, thinking about that day’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class – when the professor asked Potter to explain why he’d used Expelliarmus against the Dark Lord and he…refused.

It was fucking brilliant.

The way he didn’t allow himself to be put on display like that. The way he declined to participate in yet another instance of the wizarding world claiming him as their own. An example for us all. Some model to emulate. Some idol.

I do idolise him, of course. 

Just not because he saved the world from Voldemort. No. My admiration stems solely from the fact I want to get into his pants and fuck him six ways to Sunday. I’m so deep in my thoughts, so thoroughly engrossed enumerating all the different ways I’d actually like to fuck Potter. Up the arse, of course. Up my arse. His cock in my mouth. My cock in—

It happens faster than I can react, or even truly understand what’s happening.

One moment I’m imagining my cock in Potter’s mouth, and the next it’s a blur. An intense pressure on my neck. My feet lifting off the ground and my head – my whole body – slamming into a tree trunk. 

I can’t gasp or stutter for breath. 

I can’t breathe.  

The pressure mounting in my head is incredible.

And yet.

I manage to discern what’s happening.

That the pressure around my neck is the creature’s hand. The sharp pain its claws digging into the back of it. The throbbing where my head hit the tree trunk. 

My eyes focus. Travel up the length of the creature’s arm to its long face. Its flaring nostrils, breathing deeply. Its teeth visible through its chewed up lips. Stained red. 

It snorts and I can feel its spittle against my face. Leans in further, burying its snout in my neck… smelling me.

My body jerks. I reach up and grab hold of the creatures arm, attempting to…I’m not sure what I’m trying to do. Relieve some pressure from my neck? To get some air? It’s futile, of course.

It’s going to eat me.

Why the fuck do I want to be alive for that? Better to just let it suffocate me now.

My movement seems to affect it, though. It jerks its head back and looks at me. I can see its eyes. They’re recessed pools of…not quite black. There’s a touch of something in them. A touch of—

It pulls me away from the tree and throws me to the ground. I land with a thump, face down. Unable to brace myself for the impact. 

I taste dirt. Spit, and attempt to move, but my body feels numb. It’s as if I’ve been petrified, only I’m limp instead of rigid.

At the very least I can breathe.

I gasp for breath. Breathe in dirt. Hear movement. Footsteps. The crunch of leaves. Claws trailing up my arm to my shoulder. It grasps me. Pulls on my shoulder and pushes on my hip, turning me over so I’m on my back. So I can see it towering above me.

I squint, trying to clear my vision. 

Watch it step over my body, one leg on either side of me. It crouches down. Lowers itself onto all fours, straddling me.

I’m pretty sure this is it.

It’s going to eat me, and I’m going to do…nothing.

I’m going to let it.

Because I can’t fucking move. My whole body is tingling. Feeling only just starting to return to it. Just in time to feel its claws trail down my cheek. It takes my chin in its hand and turns my head. Leans over. I squint my eyes. Grimace. Prepare myself to feel its teeth tear into my flesh.

It snorts.

Pushes my hair out of the way and buries its nose in the crook of my neck and inhales deeply.

I hear a low rumble emanating from the creature. 

A growl. 

It moves its snout down along my neck. Across my collarbone to my shoulder. Lifts my arm and smells my armpit. I…don’t know what it’s doing. It moves down my side. I look the other way – to avoid its antlers in my face, but also because I don’t want to watch it bite me. 

I’m now convinced it’s going to eat me alive.

I’m gasping for breath.

Completely and utterly terrified, while also resigned to what’s happening.

I’ve been expecting this, haven’t I?

It digs its claws into my waist as it pulls my shirt out of my trousers and pushes it up over my lower abdomen. Its nose touches my stomach. It inhales deeply again. I feel its teeth brush against my skin.

What the fuck is it waiting for?

It shifts down again. Pushes its snout against my groin – between my legs. Sniffs. Runs its hands down my legs, its claws catching at my trousers.

I realise I can move.

Not really move – the creature has my bottom half pinned to the ground. But I can move my arms. I reach up and hold on to the creature’s antlers. To ground myself. Brace for its teeth.

The waiting is torture. More terrifying than the creature itself. I can’t help wondering if it’s doing this on purpose. If it does this to all its victims. 

Makes them wait. 

Makes them watch it decide where to bite them. How to start devouring them.

It returns to my middle, considering. Lingering. Then moves rapidly. Leans down, its teeth tearing into my side, into the flesh just above my hip, and—

Fucking fuck it hurts like a thousand fucking knives.

All thought – all sensation – centres in that one spot where the creature’s teeth are biting into me. I grasp its antlers and attempt to push away. Attempt to curl into myself. To kick it off of me.

But it's futile.

I try to wandlessly throw the creature off me – Everte Statum – but fail. 

As usual.

Its teeth meet. I can feel the moment when my flesh is no longer providing any resistance. It leans back on its haunches. Sits on my legs, blood dribbling down its chin, a hunk of meat – of me – in its mouth, and chews. Watches me as it does so. Its eyes fixed on mine as its jaw moves up and down.

Challenging me to do…something. Anything.

I’m not up to this challenge, though.

Not by a long shot.

Tears stream down my face. I gasp for breath. I look down at myself. At the smears of blood across my stomach. At the hole in my side. 

It should hurt more.

I’m sure of it.

I must be in shock.

I look up at the creature’s mouth as it continues to masticate – to grind – my flesh between its teeth, bits and pieces of it falling from its mouth. Its eyes rake my body, its hand trails over my middle. Its claws tease my wound. Tracing it. Pushing into it.

I want to die now.

I don’t want to watch it eat me piece by piece.

I gasp. 

Whimper a single word.

“Please.”

I’m not sure if I’m begging it to kill me or release me. I just want the pain to stop. The fear to go away.

Its eyes snap up to my face. Go wide. Then it stands abruptly – lifting itself off me in one swift motion – and runs into the Forbidden Forest.

-

I don’t move for what feels like a very long time. Trying to catch my breath. To deal with the pain radiating out of my side. To come to terms with the fact I’m still alive, which…I’m honestly not sure how I feel about. Because for a few minutes there, it felt like it might be easier if the creature just killed me. There’d be nothing left to feel angry about. Nothing left to crave and desire so much it hurts. Nothing left to feel…full stop.

But I am alive, and acutely aware that despite the fact the creature left me so, the forest is filled with other creatures that would be more than happy to finish the job.

I have to move.

I slowly turn on to my uninjured side, and eventually push up off the ground, onto my hands and knees. My head bent. Breathing deeply through the pain.

It hurts like a motherfucker. 

I push up again – my upper half at least – so I’m kneeling. Sitting on my feet. I pull my shirt off and grimace through the pain every movement causes. Look at the bloody mess at my side and bunch it up, holding it against my wound. Attempting to stop the flow of blood.

Attempting not to panic.

I try to focus. Keep my mind busy on what I have to do, rather than what I feel.

Stand up.

Put one foot in front of the other.

Walk.

Walk…a lot.

Get to the castle. 

Get to the hospital wing.

Get…Essence of Dittany. Wiggenweld. Blood replenishing potion. Bandages.

Anything else?

I can’t think. 

Not right now. 

Now I need to do it.

-

Mercifully, I don’t run into any prefects or staff. I raid the hospital, get my supplies, make my way down to the dungeons and straight to the boy’s washroom.

I cast a silencing charm and then tentatively remove my makeshift bandage for the first time, looking at the hole in my side – I mean really look at it.

Take a deep breath. 

It’s fucking gross. There’s no other way to put it. I can make out teeth marks where the creature tore my flesh, leaving flaps of skin. Muscle. Fat. It doesn’t appear to have bitten into any organs. And while I can see the hint of a rib bone, nothing is broken 

That’s good.

It’s fairly straightforward, then. Nothing complex to regrow.

I can handle this.

-

With my potions taken, creams applied and bandages wrapped around my abdomen, I go to bed and fall into a deep sleep.

I dream of the creature.

Of its dark and deep-set eyes.

They were green.

-

I stay in my four-poster bed all weekend, leaving only to use the toilets, reapply my creams and bandages, and to raid the kitchens for food.

The only person to check in on me is Theo.

I suspect it’s less out of concern for me, though, and more to do with his neglected cock.

I tell him to “Fuck off” for his efforts.

-

By Monday I’m not feeling great, but I’m able to pretend I am. I force myself to go to the Great Hall for breakfast. My eyes immediately seeking Potter.

I haven’t seen him all weekend, after all.

When I find him about halfway down the Gryffindor table, he’s already looking at me. He doesn’t turn away. Not immediately, anyway. Instead his brows pull together slightly and he appears to examine me. Watches until I sit down at the end of the Slytherin table and start piling food on my plate.

His eyes linger before he finally dips his chin in a curt nod, then turns his attention back to his housemates.

-

I vow not to roam the grounds anymore.

Instead, I explore the castle. 

Abandoned corridors, classrooms and hallways. Partially destroyed towers and cloisters. 

The main problem with this strategy, though, is that I’m not the only one implementing it. I run into other students who are also exploring or just trying to get away from everyone. I run into couples looking for quiet out-of-the-way locations to hook up. And by ‘run into’ I mean I accidentally interrupt them. I stumble upon them making out. Groping each other. Going down on each other. Fucking each other.

It doesn’t surprise or scandalise me in the slightest – I did spend the summer fucking strangers in toilets and back alleys. So when it happens, I just avert my eyes and back away. 

Until I stumble upon Potter and his freckled gremlin, that is.

Because with them – with him – I’m frozen. Rooted to the spot. Completely fucking speechless. Unable to move or avert my eyes, because…because…he’s glorious. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can’t not look at him. 

At his broad back, tight arse and muscular thighs. And when he removes himself from his cunt’s…well, cunt? I can’t not look at his cock. His absolutely perfect cock which, much to everyone’s surprise I think, does not wilt at my appearance. Rather, it remains erect, confirming all of my wildest dreams that Harry Potter is, indeed, extremely well hung. 

Despite his cock’s shamelessness, Potter’s cheeks go pink. He pushes up his glasses and runs a hand awkwardly through his hair, saying, “We’re ummm, kinda in the middle of something, Malfoy.”

“Yes,” I reply. “I see that.”

I don’t move, though.

I can’t.

I swallow very deliberately. 

Staring.

I can’t help myself.

Somewhere in my peripheral vision I notice his freckle-covered imp grabbing at her clothes and then scurrying for cover. I also notice we’re both ignoring her.

He looks down at his erection, frowns, then back up at me. “D’you mind?” he asks, his tone…I want to say amused? 

He definitely isn’t ashamed.

And he shouldn’t be.

He’s magnificent.

I rub a hand over my mouth and chin. Scratch at my neck. Shake my head slightly. “No,” I start. “I mean, yes. I mean…I’m sorry. I’ll just…I’ll go,” I stammer, feeling my cheeks getting hot.

His lips pull up at my response.

My awkwardness.

I hesitate. Lingering just a moment to fully take him in. To etch this scene – his beauty, his strength, his cock – into my mind. 

Then I turn on my heel and flee.

-

I can’t think of anything else.

-

I’m going stir crazy in and around the castle, so start venturing further afield. I know I promised myself I wouldn’t, but…what can I say? 

I’m a fucking idiot.

I’ve also managed to convince the powers that be to allow me time on the pitch so I can fly. I have to work around quidditch practices, but I’m actually motivated for once, so I make it work. Typically it means I’m out there gods-awful early. I grumble and curse about it the entire way to the broom shed, but once I’m in the air? I couldn’t care less what time it is. Because when I’m flying it’s the only time I feel free. Unhindered. Like my old self. The one that wasn’t crushed under the weight of the mark on my arm. The duties and responsibilities that came with it. 

The failures.

I close my eyes and focus on the feel of the cold wind against my face. In my hair. Making my clothes ripple. 

I finally feel like I can breathe. Like I’m alive.

Free.

I open my eyes and speed up. I fly high. I dive down low and speed mere feet above the ground. Then back up again for a few loops. I glance over my shoulder, checking my location vis-à-vis the goalposts, and…

What the fuck?

There’s someone sitting in the stands at the opposite end of the pitch, watching me.

I frown. Turn and head in that direction, unable to help myself from adding a few spinning rotations while I’m at it. 

I am still in the air, after all.

They’ve made themselves comfortable, whoever it is. Sitting on a bench, leaning back against the one behind them, their feet up on the one in front. As I get closer I can see it’s definitely a guy. With dark hair. Wearing glasses. 

Fuck me, it’s Potter.

I break into a sweat and my heart nervously plunges into my stomach. 

My cock twitches, too, because…well, it is Potter, after all.

I pull up short in front of him, hover on the broom for a moment before jumping off, landing on the same bench he’s seated on, asking, “What the fuck are you doing here, Potter?”

He pulls his legs back and sits up straight, his green eyes boring into me. “That was some pretty good flying, Malfoy,” he tells me instead, while actually fucking smiling and completely ignoring my question. “Really good,” he adds, watching my every move as I step down off the bench and sit on it, scowling.

“I have the pitch—”

“Yeah, how did you manage that?” he interrupts.

I blink at him. My mouth still open. “I asked,” I reply stupidly.

He sucks his teeth, cocks his head. “I’m surprised McGonagall allowed it,” he says, looking slightly apologetic.

“Yeah, well, I think she took pity on me,” I admit.

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

“What are you doing here?” I repeat.

He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly. Shrugs. “Our house team asked for tips during practice today.”

My eyes narrow. “You mean your girlfriend asked you…”

“I do,” he sighs, then looks at me with an expression I can’t for the life of me read. Resignation, maybe? I don’t get it. 

Instead I pull up my sleeve and check my watch. “There’s still twenty-minutes before practice starts,” I tell him.

“I know. I got here early,” he replies unhelpfully. “You can go ahead,” he adds, gesturing vaguely towards the pitch. “Keep flying.”

“I can’t fly with you watching me.”

“Oh,” he replies, then smiles mischievously. “So does that explain your shit flying in our matches together?”

I lick my lips. Bite them. Attempt not to smile back, but…I can’t help it. It’s a great comeback. I smile. Really smile and look at him. “Fuck you,” I respond petulantly, unable to come up with anything wittier.

My mind is a blank slate, filled only with him and the way he laughs in response.

I worship him. Love him. Adore him.

Does he know it?

How can he not?

Chapter Text

“Oh fuck,” I cry out, forcing myself deeper, coming hard. I slump over Theo’s backside for a moment, catching my breath before pushing away from – and out of – him. Rolling over onto my back, breathing deeply.

“You talked to him today, didn’t you?” he asks.

“What?” I frown and turn my head. Look at him for the first time since we started fucking.

“Potter,” he elaborates. “You’re always a little more…enthusiastic after you’ve had some kind of interaction with him.”

“Am I really?”

“You are,” he confirms.

“Fuck.” I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I didn’t know it was that obvious.”

“It’s fine,” Theo assures me, pulling his pyjama bottoms back on. “I’m not complaining, I’m just…observing.”

I bite my lips, considering Theo’s remark. He’s right, of course. Anytime Potter so much as looks at me, I get excited. My heart dips into my stomach. And if he talks to me? Fuck. I don’t stand a fucking chance. It’s all I can do not to get hard right then and there. 

Not to do something completely fucking stupid. Like touch him. 

Or touch myself.

“You know, he looks at you, right?”

“What?” 

“All the time.”

“He does not,” I scowl, pushing up into a sitting position and looking for my pants, running my hands under the blankets and flipping them over. They should be around here somewhere.

“He really does,” Theo counters. “He’s good at hiding it – from you, from his girlfriend – but I don’t register with him, like, at all. He doesn’t notice me noticing where he’s looking.” I pause and consider my friend. The one I just unceremoniously fucked up the arse. He’s always been honest. To me, at least. He’s completely fucking lying to himself – about his preferences, about what he likes – all the fucking time. But about this?

I believe him.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that information,” I admit.

Theo shrugs. “I’m not sure there’s anything to do…just, be yourself. For some reason, he seems to like it.”

“Fuck you,” I reply.

“You literally just did that,” he deadpans, and tosses my pants to me.

-

I’m skipping rocks at the Black Lake, a fag hanging out of my mouth. Regularly getting up to eight skips, with the odd ten or twelve. I’m running out of good rocks, though, so move down the shore. My eyes are on the ground, nudging the rocks that have accumulated by the waves with my toe, searching for flat-ish ones, when I hear it. 

A splash I didn’t make.

I look up.

Find a merman looking back at me. He looks pissed off. Throws a rock at the shore – at me – then descends below the water.

Ah.

Maybe it’s time to take a break.

I sigh and make my way to where the beach meets the forest. Sit on the trunk of the fallen tree that has effectively become my go-to bench, and finish my smoke, contemplating the water. The way it glistens in the moonlight. The odd current or ripple that has no apparent source – at least no visible source. The sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore.

It’s peaceful.

Apart from the irate merman, that is.

He pops up and out of the water a few more times, as if checking to see if I’m still there. Warning me not to start throwing rocks again.

It’s not like I was throwing them at him.

For fuck’s sake, everyone is so fucking sensitive. Were they always this way? Or is it just since the war—

A sudden sharp pain cuts into my shoulder, like five knives digging into me.

Or claws.

I cry out while I’m dragged off the tree trunk and pulled towards the forest. Reach up and try to extricate myself from the creature’s vice-like grip. Kick my feet as they drag across the ground.

It’s no use.

I gasp as it releases me. Collapsing onto the forest floor, unable to think, move, or do anything before it pounces. Straddles me, holding me down by my shoulders. Its nostrils flaring, its eyes wide. It snorts in my face, covering me with spittle. I grimace, and try to turn away. To look away. But its clawed hand grasps my chin, scratching at my neck, and forces me to look at it.

Into its eyes.

It’s going to eat me this time. I fucking know it. I should have stayed in the castle. Shouldn’t have gotten so cocky, assuming…assuming what? That the creature didn’t like how I tasted? That it was perfectly happy eating villagers instead of students? Instead of me?

I don’t fucking know what I was thinking.

It was wrong, whatever it was.

Fucking stupid.

It leans over me, inserting its snout into the crook of my neck. Inhales. Moves down over my chest, a low growl growing in intensity as it gets closer to—

It scrabbles at my waistline. Pulls my jacket up, my shirt out of my trousers and appears to examine where it last bit me. Leans down and smells my side. Sits up and bellows loudly, as if it’s angry I healed myself. That there’s no trace of its last attack.

It’s breathing deeply. Its eyes scanning me. 

I reach behind my head and find a root. Dig my fingers into the ground and grasp it as best I can, attempting to pull myself away. To get some leverage. Its clawed hand descends upon my shoulder, hard. It leans against me, putting all its weight on me. Holding me there. Pinning me down.

I release the root and whimper in submission.

It seems satisfied. 

Turns its attention back to my side, trailing its claws over my stomach. Hooking one of them into my belt and pulling on it, cutting through the leather.

My breaths speed up. 

It pulls at my trousers, rips them at the seam rather than unfastening them, and leans over. Smelling between my legs. I can feel the heat of its breath through my clothes as its snout pushes against me. Its hands holding on to my thighs tightly, its claws digging into me.

It’s going to eat my cock.

Motherfucker.

Could it at least kill me first?

It hooks its claws into the waistband of my trousers and pulls them down to my knees. Leaving deep, burning, scratches all down the tops of my thighs. Reaches back up and claws at my waist again. Gets hold of my pants and pulls them down, too.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

My heart is beating rapidly in my chest. In my ears. My wand is somewhere down around my knees in my trouser pocket. I try to move my legs – to kick it? – but it’s sitting on them. It’s heavy. They’re going numb. Getting tingly.

I can’t move.

I resign myself to being castrated. A eunuch. 

It leans over and smells my groin. Its snout pushes into the crease of my leg and then burrows down until it’s under my cock, leaving a trail of wet as it sniffs its way down along my upper thigh, grazing me with its teeth. If it bites me there it’ll catch an artery. I won’t be able to heal myself before bleeding out. Presuming it leaves me alive, of course. Which—

It lifts itself up off my legs and grasps my hip, the claw on its thumb dangerously close to the base of my cock, digging into my skin. It squeezes and then pulls up and turns me fucking over. I land with a grunt on my stomach. Unable to fucking see the creature anymore. I have no idea where it is, or what it’s do—

It places one hand on my shoulder blade, pushing down. Keeping me pinned to the ground. Making it hard to breathe. The other rests on the back of my thigh, squeezing. Its claws digging into my skin. I feel its hot breath, then its snout, on my lower back. Trailing across it. It snorts, and its spittle feels cold in contrast. Its teeth graze the top of my arse and I cry out in pain as it finally bites right into my arse cheek. 

I can feel myself panicking as its teeth sink deeper into my skin. Its grip on me tightens and it growls as it tears my flesh away and then—a slight relief. Less weight. I gasp for breath, listening to it chew. The clicking of its teeth. The up and down motion of its jaws as it masticates my raw flesh.

It audibly swallows.

Groans with pleasure. 

It leans down again and I take a deep breath. Hold it as I brace myself to feel another bite. For it to keep eating my fucking arse – I can’t help thinking of all the ways to go, this one seems highly fucking ironic.

Instead of its teeth, though, I feel something else. 

Its tongue. 

Licking the wound it inflicted upon me. Lapping and slurping up my blood. 

I let out my breath and pant. Gulping down air too quickly, risking hyperventilation.

It moves its tongue down over my hip, where my blood is dripping, and licks it up. Retraces its path back to the wound, where it lingers again. I grimace in pain as it nibbles on the edges of it. Gnawing on and biting off loose pieces of skin. Oh gods. I’m convinced it’s preparing to take another bite. Try to mentally prepare myself for it.

Instead, though, it resumes licking. Follows the drips of blood in the opposite direction.

Towards my arse.

I gasp as the creature’s tongue pushes between my cheeks. Licks along my entire crack, down to my perineum then back up again, and then…stays there. Moving its tongue slowly and very deliberately over my rim – presumably tasting my arsehole? – and fuck me if I don’t find myself getting aroused, sick fuck that I am.

I groan.

Not in pain, and I think even the creature notices the difference.

It backs off. 

Sits up, its claws digging into my hips.

And then the weight on my legs is gone.

The creature, too.

-

I fish around my trousers and locate my wand. Repair my torn clothes and slowly make my way back to the school, a literal hole in my arse making it painful to walk. Raid the hospital wing again, this time grabbing a few invigoration draughts to help get me through classes the next day, then make my way to the dungeons to tend to my wounds. 

-

I want to die.

Honest to Slytherin, I wish the creature had eaten me last night. Then I wouldn’t be sitting here, my arse killing me, suffering through Potions class.

Normally, I quite like Potions, if only because it affords me the opportunity to stare at Potter. To imagine all the filthy things I’d like to do to him. For him to do to me.

But today? With a chunk missing from my left buttock? 

No.

I’d rather be dead.

Especially because we’ve finished our Amortentia potions. Today is the big reveal, which…fucking kill me now. Despite the fact Slughorn explicitly said there was no need to divulge what the potion smells like, everyone is doing it, and I just want to fucking Avada myself.

“Gold bullion, Chanel number five, and violets.”

“Pans, you’re just describing yourself,” I point out. 

She smirks, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hip sticking out. “Because right now? What I desire most is a positive relationship with myself. I don’t need anyone else.”

I can’t help smiling, despite myself. 

“What about you?” she asks. “What do you smell?”

“I’m not telling you,” I reply conclusively. It smells almost exactly as I thought it would. Broom oil. Potter’s…smell, whatever that is. His musk? His sweat? It can’t be aftershave, the man is bearded. And something sweet I can’t quite place. It’s somewhat disconcerting I don’t know what it is.

There’s clapping across the classroom. The ginger parasite jumps up and down, exclaiming, “Oh Harry, see?! I told you, we’re meant to be! Mine smells like broom oil, your cologne, and treacle tart.”

I can’t help frowning. First, because I’m surprised Potter wears cologne…I thought he just smelled that way…like…him. And second, because the sweet smell I picked up in my Amortentia was indeed treacle tart, and it fucking pisses me off that Potter’s cunt knew what it was and I didn’t.

His favourite dessert.

“Now you,” the ginger groupie exclaims.

Honestly, how does he put up with her? She’s intolerable.

I can’t help myself, though. Can’t help myself from wanting to know what his bloody potion smells like. From knowing what he desires most in the world. Potter leans over his cauldron and inhales deeply. He frowns, looks up at me, then blinks and smooths his features over. Smiles and exclaims, “Just like your shampoo, Ginny.”

“What else?” she asks. Pushes.

I can see the smallest moment of frustration cross his face. “Broom oil, too,” he adds. “And treacle tart, of course.”

“Of course,” the freckled stain repeats with a smile, insinuating herself under his arm. And…frankly, I want to vomit. The mere sight of them together makes me physically ill. I can’t fucking stand seeing them together. Watching Potter debase himself with that undeserving ginger nightmare. 

Not that I think I’m particularly deserving of him either. But that’s different.

Because it’s me. 

And because I want him so fucking much it feels like I can’t breathe. Like the only time I have air filling my lungs is when he’s looking at me. Giving me oxygen. Giving me life.

-

My invigoration draught is wearing off and I’m in desperate need of another dose of healing potions and creams. I’m moving slowly.

Carefully.

Making my way down the corridor to the stairs.

“Malfoy,” Potter calls out from somewhere behind me.

I stop, sigh, and try to master my features. Try to mask the very real pain I’m feeling.

He catches up to me and comes round to stand in front of me. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m just peachy,” I sneer.

His brows draw together. Not so much in a frown but…in concern. “You don’t look well,” he comments.

No shit.

“I’m fine, Potter.”

“You’re clearly not.”

I breathe in deeply and grimace. “I’ll be fine,” I tell him, and push past him moving faster than I really ought to.

“But Malfoy—”

I spin back round, interrupting him. “What do you want me to say, Potter? Eh? What do you want? You want me to open up to you? Tell you all my problems? All my woes?” I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back. His eyes immediately go to the tattoo on my neck. “Why the fuck do you even care?”

I’m shouting

In the fucking corridor.

Potter’s entourage has convened behind him, the bushy-haired squirrel taking his arm, saying, “Come on, Harry, he doesn’t want your help. He isn’t worth it.”

What a fucking cunt.

I mean, she’s right. But she doesn’t have to say it in front of my face.

Potter looks down at her, then back up at me. “But I do—”

“No,” I cut him off. “You don’t.” 

Then I turn my back on him and walk as fast as I can to the stairwell and out of sight. Once around the corner I lean back against the wall, breathing deeply. Trying to compose myself. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub the heels of my hands against them, trying desperately not to fucking cry.

Because more than anything, I do want him to care about me. So much it’s eating me up and ripping me apart. Consuming me inside and out.

I just don’t want it to be out of pity.

-

I’m back to my usual surly self – which is to say my arse has healed and I’m just normal cantankerous, rather than in pain cantankerous – suffering through Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Not even Potter can improve my mood, despite the fact he looks particularly good today. Like, file an image of him away for later use, good. His hair is perfectly tousled, and he has a small section of fringe falling over his forehead…he reminds me of Clark Kent, actually. Only not stiff or in a suit, or bumbling around like an idiot trying to hide his real identity.

No. Potter is just an idiot all the time.

I grimace, remembering the Superman movie marathon I wasted a whole day watching this summer. I quite liked the movies, actually. Though I liked the bloke who went down on me repeatedly during them even more. What was his name, anyway? 

Trevor? Tristan? Terrence?

It started with a ‘T’ I’m sure of it.

He had hair almost the exact same shade as Potter’s. Almost as messy, too.

I frown, pulled back to reality, as the professor asks a question. I don’t know if it’s a rhetorical question to the class as a whole, or an actual question to a specific student.

Maybe me?

I look around and…fuck. Everyone is looking at me, including Potter who’s got a worried expression on his face.

So definitely a question for me. Maybe something worrisome?

“I’m sorry, professor, could you repeat that?” I ask.

Her face pinches in irritation. I don’t know what she was expecting. It’s obvious I haven’t been paying attention in class all year. Why would today be any different? She clasps her hands in front of her, looking at me with condescension. “Mr. Malfoy,” she says slowly, as if I have a problem with comprehension and not listening, “I was asking which Unforgivables you were taught.”

I lean back in my chair and frown at her.

“Last year, the…school faculty put into place by He Who Must Not be Named taught the Imperius and Cruciatus curses,” she goes on. “I’m asking if you were taught more.”

“I was taught all of them,” I reply, narrowing my eyes. Wondering what this bitch is getting at.

“When and by whom?” she asks.

I curse under my breath. Look around the classroom. Everyone is watching me. Holding their breath. “Summer before sixth year,” I finally tell her. “By my aunt.”

“Your aunt?” she inquires as if she doesn’t fucking already know who my aunt was.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” I provide, half choking on the name.

“And were you able to successfully cast all of them?” 

I scratch at my left forearm. At the Dark Mark I keep hidden beneath my sleeve, but which everyone fucking knows is there.

“Yeah,” I respond.

She cocks her head. “How?” she asks.

“How?” I repeat, grimacing slightly.

“Yes, how?” she says again. "In order to cast an Unforgivable you must truly desire to do harm. Did you truly wish to harm others Mr. Malfoy?”

I suck in my breath. Swallow very deliberately trying to decide how to answer. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” I finally say. “If I didn’t succeed my aunt Bella would Crucio me.”

The class murmurs at this response. Potter almost stands up, but Swotty Granger places a hand on his arm and stays him. I still don’t fucking know why we’re talking about this. Why I’ve been singled out.

“So you succeeded in performing the killing curse?” The professor pushes. “In preparation for…” she trails off, looking at me meanly. I hate this fucking cunt. “…for the task He Who Must Not be Named gave you?”

I can feel my pulse racing. My breathing getting uneven and my temperature rising. I break into a sweat. “I did,” I confirm.

“Professor,” Potter interrupts, pushing Granger’s hand away, his expression…well, he looks livid, honestly. “I really don’t see how this is relevant. We can learn about the Unforgivables without dragging Malfoy into this.”

“I did not call upon you, Mr. Potter,” she responds icily, looking at him briefly before turning her attention back to me. “What…or whom…did you kill Mr. Malfoy?” 

I can’t breathe. Can’t get enough air. I look around the classroom. At everyone watching me. Looking…they look almost giddy. Like this is the best show they’ve had all year. I fucking hate every single one of them. Including my fucking friends who all look just as curious – just as fucking anxious – to hear my answer.

Except Potter, of course.

He looks like he’s about to jump out of his seat.

I bite my lips. Close my eyes and answer, “Small things at first. Insects. Rodents…” 

“Anything larger?” she asks. “Bellatrix Lestrange wouldn’t consider a rat an adequate substitute for the headmaster, would she?”

I shake my head. My vision going blurry as my eyes begin to fill with tears. “A dog,” I choke out, trying desperately not to actually fucking cry in front of the whole bloody class.

I can see him now.

A Dalmatian. 

He belonged to the estate next to ours. Spot. He listened real well. Came right up to me, wagging his tail, when I told him to ‘come.’

I can’t help remembering how it felt. To be so conflicted. So scared. To not want to take a life, but hyper aware of what defying my aunt would mean. I was just so fucking tired of the pain. Of the mind games. Of being tortured – physically, mentally, and let’s be honest, sexually. With all those Death Eaters roaming the manor? I had more than my fair share of run-ins. 

What was it they called me? 

A tasty morsel. 

If I could do this. If I could prove myself to her, to them, to him, then maybe they’d leave me alone. Leave me to my fucking impossible task, die in the process, and just be done with it all.

In the end, I wanted to kill that dog. I desperately wanted to kill it.

And I did.

“That’s enough,” Potter stands up and shouts, his voice filled with authority. His face filled with determination. This isn’t Harry Potter, Hogwarts Student talking. It’s Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World. Slayer of Voldemort.

The whole class falls silent.

Even the professor looks at him and appears chagrined.

“Malfoy already stood trial,” he goes on. “And he was sentenced for his crimes. If you want to know the details, you can get a transcript of the proceedings from the Wizengamot. There is no reason to make him share the details. You – we – have no right to ask him to relive that time of his life.” He clenches his jaw, the muscles straining. Looks at me, the professor, and then sweeps the whole class with his penetrating gaze. His eyes flashing with anger.

Nobody says a word. 

“Are we in agreement?” he asks. There’s no doubt it’s not really a question. That he expects compliance. Obeyance.

There is also no longer any doubt – in my mind, at least – that in some strange way, Potter really does care. 

About me.

And the mere thought of it makes me feel lightheaded. 

“I just thought if we could pick the mind of someone who’s actually cast the Unforgivables in a real-life setting, it would provide more insight,” the professor attempts to rationalise.

Potter frowns at her. “We don’t need a first-hand account,” he sneers, and I swear to fucking Slytherin I’ve never been so attracted to him in my life. Never wanted him more than I do right now. I would give anything to be with him. Do anything to be with him.

I’d cast an Unforgivable in a heartbeat. Any one of them. There’d be no question of wanting – of desiring – to do harm if it meant Potter would be mine.

-

There’s a noticeable change after that Defence Against the Dark Arts class. 

A shift.

News of Potter’s defiance – that he shouted at a professor in defence of me, of all people – spreads like wildfire. It’s all anyone can talk about for at least a week. Potter appears restless and frustrated by the increased attention. His entourage seems to close in around him. Surrounding him. Protecting him. Clinging to him. The ginger monstrosity is never not by his side. Always touching him. Always clutching on to him in some way. Always drawing his attention towards her.

It’s almost like she’s afraid she’s losing him, and wants to constantly remind him of her presence. That he’s hers.

She’s no longer proving it to me, but to herself.

To him.

I catch Potter watching me. He stops averting his eyes. Instead he just looks at me for a moment or two before turning away.

Sometimes he’ll dip his head.

Sometimes he bites his lip.

He always looks slightly confused. Like he’s been confunded and is trying to figure out where the fuck he is, and why he’s even looking at me in the first place.

I don’t permit myself to hope. To think that this change in Potter’s behaviour means anything.

Because villains don’t deserve happy endings, and I am most definitely the villain of this story.

-

More villagers go missing from Hogsmeade. 

More bodies are found.

They are, according to the Daily Prophet, less well hidden than before and more mangled. Torn apart. Larger portions of them eaten and chewed up. More pieces completely gone.

The paper theorises that the creature is getting sloppier. I think it’s just getting hungrier. More ravenous. Unable to stop. Increasing the number and severity of its attacks as a result.

Of course I was right.

-

I’m in the broom shed putting my gear away after a rather long and extended fly. Nobody said I could fly at night – I was just told to avoid quidditch practice. No teams are on the pitch at one o’clock in the morning, so it’s not like I’m breaking any rules.

Well, curfew, maybe.

But not any others.

I take one last look, checking everything is as I found it – I may have borrowed someone else’s Firebolt rather than use one of the school’s shitty brooms – then head towards the open door. Stop abruptly, almost ramming into something blocking it.

Which is to say, the creature’s chest. 

“Fucking hell,” I exclaim, reeling backwards, tripping, and falling on my arse.

It pounces. 

Bellows in my face then pushes my shoulders to the ground, straddling my legs.

It leans down, putting its weight on my upper arms, keeping me pinned. Its nostrils flare as it lowers its head, its snout pushing into my neck. Its teeth graze my skin, and its tongue travels from the base of my neck, up behind my ear – licking me.

Tasting me.

Its claws scratch at my shoulder as it pushes them into my jacket, and then the neck of my jumper. It pulls, tearing it at the seam, exposing my shoulder. It grunts, runs its tongue along my collarbone.

I try to kick. To knee the creature. To somehow squirm out of its grasp.

It growls and bites down on my shoulder. I cry out. Its teeth hit bone. It adjusts its position and bites again, sinking its teeth into muscle and skin, before its jaws meet and it pulls away, sitting on top of me, chewing.

Aww, fuck. I don’t want to see this. Don’t want to watch it chewing my flesh. My blood dripping down its chin.

“Why,” I choke out. Unable to comprehend why it keeps doing this to me. Keeps tasting me. Keeps leaving me alive when it massacres all its other victims.

It looks at me and cocks its head. Swallows very deliberately. Appears to narrow its eyes then shifts back over my legs, releasing my arms and trailing its claws over my chest to my waist, tearing my clothes and scratching me in the process. It pulls my shirt out of my trousers and runs its claws across my stomach, rubbing its hand on my side where it had first bitten me. I’d venture to say it looks petulant. Like it’s still upset I healed it.

It moves its attention to my trousers. Taps a claw on my belt buckle, then slides it under the prong, releasing it. Next, the creature insinuates its claw next to the button of my trousers and pulls it loose.

I can’t help feeling slightly impressed – it’s learned from last time.

Then it breaks the zip on my trousers by pulling them apart, which is decidedly less impressive. Pulls down on them clawing at my hips, then sniffs my pants, moving its snout into my crotch, forcing my legs wider to accommodate it.

It’s going to fucking bite me again.

I just know it.

I’m convinced it really is going to eat me this time. My heart rate picks up. I grab hold of its antlers in preparation. To brace myself. 

Its snout trails along the inside of my upper leg, leaving a trail of blood and slobber. It moves over the top of it, dragging its tongue across, before I feel its teeth on my skin. Inhale sharply as the creature growls and sinks them into my outer thigh. My grip on its antlers tighten until my knuckles turn white and I grimace in pain. It shakes its head and growls as it rips a chunk of my leg away. Pushing up slightly and forcing me to release its antlers. Forcing me to watch it chew me. To watch my blood drip from its mouth, and pieces of my fucking leg fall through its teeth onto me. Onto the ground.

I can feel the warmth of my blood dripping down the side of my leg. The warmth of my tears dripping down the side of my face.

“Please don’t,” I gasp, closing my eyes. Unable to look at it anymore. Unwilling to watch its disgusting display masticating my flesh.

I feel like it’s doing it on purpose.

It wants me to watch it.

I’m positive.

I feel it move on top of me. It leans down, its breath hot against my face. Against my neck. Its claws scrape against my skin. Push my hair out of the way, before its tongue licks up my neck under my chin. I can feel – hear – it catch and drag across my stubble. It licks my neck, my collarbone, and my shoulder. It presses its body down against my own, lingering at my wound, slurping up my blood and sucking on it with its chewed up lips.

Fucking hell.

I lean my head back, my eyes still closed. Focusing on breathing under the weight of the creature. Waiting for…I’m not sure what. I don’t honestly think I can escape. And even if I did manage to get out from under it, it’d remain between me and the door to the broom shed.

I’m trapped.

Completely fucked.

I’m—

I frown as the creature groans into my neck. Realise it’s no longer just leaning on me as it licks and nibbles at my shoulder and neck, but is pushing its bottom half against me. 

Rhythmically.

Its hips roll on top of mine and I feel a definite firmness pushing into my groin. 

Against my cock.

I take in a ragged breath and open my eyes. Try to get a sense of what the actual fuck is happening – I mean, besides the obvious. 

First, that the creature is male.

And second? It’s gay.

It pushes its hips down more firmly. More deliberately. Dragging its cock against mine, rubbing me through the fabric of my boxer-briefs. It groans again, and fuck me if my cock doesn’t twitch at the sound of it. At the friction, which is...well, it feels good, to be honest. Distracts from the pain in my shoulder and leg. Distracts from the fucking nightmare I’m in. The creature feels it. Increases its efforts and dry humps me until I’m groaning, my hips pushing up to meet its own and my cock completely fucking hard and straining against my pants.

It raises itself up to its knees, straddling my legs, and—

Salazar fucking Slytherin, its cock is protruding from the fur between its legs and it’s…it’s large. Fucking enormous. Completely hard. A string of precum dripping from its tip.

It is…well, I have to admit, it’s a beautiful cock.

Much too fucking large, but…I look up at the creature's face. At its deep-set green eyes. At the emotion within them. At the way it’s looking at me.

They’re filled with desire. With need. With longing.

It wants me. It wants to devour and consume me, but…not as food. I know that now. The biting and the licking? 

That was foreplay. 

It was consuming me the only way it knew how.

I look at the creature. I mean, really look at it. At its long and muscular limbs. Its huge hands and long claws. Its hard body. Its long angular face and the magnificent antlers crowning its head. It’s beautiful, in a strange and frightening way.

Majestic.

I look back down at its cock and lick my lips. 

It really is beautiful, and…I can’t fucking believe what I’m doing, but apparently I’m a sick and depraved miscreant, so I do it anyway. I reach down, lifting my arse and pushing my pants down over my hips. Pull out my cock and stroke it. 

The creatures hands flex by its sides – like it wants to touch me, but won’t. Or can’t. Not without its claws causing injury. 

Or castration.

I don’t even think it can touch itself with those sharp and dangerous claws. It watches me and groans. A fresh bead of precum emerging from its tip. I take a deep breath. Tentatively reach up and gently brush my fingers along the creature’s length, from its base towards its tip. Circle its glans with my thumb before running it over the slit, collecting its precum, then spreading it back over its shaft.

It breathes out raggedly, its hips pushing forward. Its gaze positively desperate.

I lick my lips and tug on its cock – just ever so slightly.

“Come closer,” I tell it, my voice low. Husky. My cock positively throbbing with desire at this point, which is…absolutely concerning. But I’m willing to ignore it for the moment. Unpack it at a later time.

The creature leans forward, lowering itself back down onto its hands, straddling my whole body once more. I caress its cock and guide it towards my own, rubbing its tip – and the substantial amount of desire oozing out of it – over my shaft, back and forth, until I’m coated with it. Then I repeat the process, rubbing my cock over his length. His glorious fucking length. I shift my arse – my body – down so I can line our cocks up. I hold them together over my stomach and start pumping my hand, breathing raggedly. 

“Nnggghh,” I groan…because it feels fucking incredible. His cock’s hard length – his enormous vein – rubbing against my own, creating the most intense – the most amazing – friction. 

It looks down at me, a low growl growing from deep within its chest. It starts breathing deeply. Snorting. Lowers its mouth to my neck and drags its tongue up the side of it to just behind my ear, where it lingers, licking me. Licking the wound on my shoulder while I continue to pump my hand up and down. Running my thumb over our tips. Spreading our collective precum over our shafts.

Fucking hell.

I’m going to come.

I’m going to come while fucking a…I don’t know what it is.

All I know is there’s an increasing tension building within my entire body, centred at the base of my spine. I stretch out my legs and lift my hips, attempting  to get closer to the creature, to feel more of it. “Oh fuck,” I mutter, my breath ragged and my cock pulsing, my emissions spilling out of my tip and onto my hands and stomach.

I loosen my grip.

The creature groans, pushing down against my pelvis, grinding itself against my softened shaft as if it’s unwilling to lose contact with it. With me. It arches its back and looks up at the ceiling of the broom shed, bellowing with pleasure as thick ropes of hot cum spurt forth from its cock all over my abdomen.

The creature shifts on top of me. Moves down my body, straddling me once more, and begins to lick my stomach. Cleaning our mutual emissions.

I take hold of its antlers, ensuring they’re a sufficient distance from my face and neck. Lean my head back on the floor and try to catch my breath. Try to come to terms with what I’ve just done – what I’ve just fucked – and attempt to figure out what it all means. What it says about me. That I’m willing to do such a thing. To take pleasure from something that’s caused so much pain and tragedy to so many.

It’s been eating villagers, and yet here I am, with two chunks torn out of me, rubbing my cock against it.

Am I a monster too?

Deep down, I think – know – I am.

Especially when its tongue abandons my stomach and licks up the crease of my groin and my cock immediately stands to attention. Wanting attention.

The creature is quick to address my obvious need – grasping my thighs with its hands, its claws digging into me – running its tongue up the length of my cock. It’s long, thick and textured – almost like a cat, but not so rough – and feels fucking amazing. I can’t help myself from moaning. From pushing my pelvis up, encouraging it to move its tongue down.

I try to raise my knees – to spread my legs wide – but they’re trapped in my pants and trousers.

It backs off and I immediately miss its tongue. Whimper at the loss of it. Desperate for it to return its attention to me. Desperate to come again.

It reaches down between us and grasps the offending clothing between my legs and pulls it down to my ankles.

That’ll do.

I lift my knees, getting into a frog-like position, and the creature obviously understands my intention. Immediately goes down on me, licking the base of my cock. My perineum. My arse.

And oh fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.

I resume my grip on its antlers as its tongue alternates between circling my rim, and rubbing it back and forth. I roll my hips in time with it, groaning with unadulterated bliss. Wondering – hoping – it might try to—

“Nnnggghhh…” I moan as it pushes – forces – its thick tongue inside my anus. Just a little at first, then deeper. More forcefully. I grip its antlers again, using them to provide leverage as it thrusts, ensuring maximum depth. 

It doesn’t matter that I’m injured anymore. It doesn’t matter that the creature is growling, or that it’s slobbering – drooling – all over my cock and arse. Because it feels fucking amazing.

And right now?

That’s all that matters.

That’s all I want.

To feel good.

To feel alive.

And I have never felt so fucking alive before in my life. With a creature I thought was going to kill me – literally eat me – now eating me out.

And exceptionally well, at that.

It slides its hands up to my abdomen, leaving a trail of scratches, as it moves its tongue out of my arse and up along the underside of my cock. Circling it. I reach down with one hand to hold it steady for the creature, allowing it to lick my tip with the flat of its tongue. To trace the slit in my tip and to tease my glans until my whole body is strained and I’m shaking with need. 

“I’m going to come,” I grunt, not entirely sure why I’m telling it, or even if it understands me—

But it’s got to, because it drags its tongue up over my arsehole, my perineum, and along the vein on my cock. Stopping when I’m in its mouth, which it leaves hanging open. Preventing its razor-sharp teeth from touching or injuring me, its tongue resting against my length and caressing it ever so slightly. And that’s when I come, directly down its throat.

It sits up on its knees, swallowing, slurping, and licking its lips. Its eyes rake over me, pausing at my cock, and then my face.

It cocks its head and then it stands up in one swift motion, turns, and exits the broom shed, disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

I’m not sure how long I lie on the broom shed floor…quite some time, anyway, my shirt pushed up over my stomach, my trousers and pants down around my ankles. 

I need to catch my breath. 

To muster the energy to move. To get up…because…well, because I’ve lost a lot of blood, actually.

I force myself into a sitting position and take stock. Of the chunk missing from my shoulder and the blood seeping out of it, saturating my shirt and jacket. Of the substantially larger bite wound on my outer thigh – deep and still actively bleeding. 

I look around myself feeling helpless. Looking for…What the fuck am I looking for?

I frown, trying to think, only it’s harder to do than usual. My thoughts are all jumbled. Fuzzy. Just out of my reach. I bite my lips and grimace, looking at the sticky mess under my leg. I could really use something to—

That was it. Something to staunch the blood with.

Right.

My clothes are already soaked, but…I look around the shed and spot a few quidditch jerseys hanging on the wall. They’ll do nicely. 

I take a deep breath and roll over, turning on to my hands and knees. Wait a moment to balance myself before putting one foot on the ground and pushing up to a standing position. Sway, then stagger to the wall – my trousers still down around my ankles making it more difficult to move – and almost slam into it. Lean against it for a moment and rest. Breathe. Reach for the closest jersey – it’s Hufflepuff – and attempt to rip it at the seam, can’t, and just tie it around my leg as is. It’s bulky, but it’ll have to do. Only then do I pull my pants and trousers up, forcing them over my makeshift bandage. I grab the next jersey within reach – Gryffindor – and wrap it around my shoulder and arm.

That’s it.

That’s all I can do.

I half walk, half stumble out of the broom shed, look at the enormous expanse between me and the castle, and groan.

This is going to be a long fucking night.

-

It takes me – I don’t know how fucking long it takes me to reach the castle – but I feel like fucking shit when I do.

Worse.

I stumble into the front entrance and pause – attempting to remember where the fuck the hospital wing is. I know I have to steal healing potions and creams, but I can’t fucking remember which ones. I can’t even remember what direction to go in.

I hesitate, trying to think. To concentrate. 

To remember.

Rub the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to force myself to think straight. I feel myself listing to the side and lean against the stone banister to the grand staircase. 

“Malfoy? What are you doing out this late past curfew?” A clear voice cuts through the silence of the castle, with just a touch of condescension.

You’ve got to be fucking shitting me.

I open my eyes and squint, turning my head in the direction of the Gryffindor prefects – none other than Swotty Granger and the Weasel. Kill me now, they’re holding hands.

“We’re going to have to write you up, Malfoy,” the Weasel adds, releasing his bushy-haired girlfriend’s hand so he can reach into his pocket and pull out a parchment – presumably some truancy report – his voice filled with glee.

I attempt to sneer in response, but can’t. Instead, it turns into a grimace, my face contorted with pain. I feel myself sliding down, as if into a hole in the floor, and then everything goes black.

-

I wake with a start. Unnaturally. As if I’ve been rennervated, only I can’t remember being stunned. I do, however, remember the stunned looks on the faces of Weasley and the Swot. They were almost as unwelcome as the two long and pinched faces looking down at me now – Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall.

My first instinct is to sit up. Get out of bed. Escape.

And I try – only to immediately discover I can’t. I’m much too weak and lightheaded. The matron puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me back down to a prone position. “Don’t try to move, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, fluffing my pillow just before my head is enveloped by it. “You’ve been through a lot,” she goes on. “Lost a lot of blood. You need to rest.”

I grimace and experimentally move my arm. Try to look down at my shoulder. It’s been properly bandaged, and…and it tingles. I can feel the tissue slowly restitching itself back together. I feel the same strange sensation in my leg. I lift it slightly. Carefully. 

“Don’t try to move,” Pomfrey repeats. “Just rest.”

The headmistress clears her throat. “Is he well enough to answer a few questions, Poppy?”

The matron looks up at Professor McGonagall, then back at me. She bites her lips a moment, then nods. “Just a few questions, Minerva. He really should rest.”

“Understood,” McGonagall replies, and a look passes between the two women. It’s not just understanding, it’s…a whole conversation’s worth of unspoken communication. I’m immediately convinced the two of them are fucking. That they’re in some long-term relationship they’ve kept secret and hidden—

“Mr. Malfoy,” the headmistress interrupts my bizarre theorising about her sex-life. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I try to shrug, but it hurts. “Got attacked,” I tell her.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, that is…evident,” she says primly, then bites her lips before trying again. “What attacked you, Mr. Malfoy? And where?”

I take a deep breath, considering how much I should reveal. Not everything.

Obviously.

Just enough to satisfy her. To answer her questions with as little information as possible. “In the broom shed,” I tell her, deciding to answer the second question first.

“What were you doing in the broom shed, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Putting away a broom,” I reply matter-of-factly. Decide to throw her a bone, adding, “I’d been flying.”

“Flying?” she exclaims. “At night?”

“You told me to avoid quidditch practice,” I remind her. “There’s always quidditch practice. This was the best way to avoid it.”

The headmistress bites her lips again and gives me a look…only this time she doesn’t so much look irritated as…slightly amused. Like she knows despite the fact I was breaking the rules, I was adhering to her directives.

“Indeed,” she finally responds vaguely. “And do you remember what attacked you in the broom shed Mr. Malfoy?”

It occurs to me she’s speaking rather kindly. Like maybe being half-eaten by a monster has softened her opinion of me. If only she knew how I’d been eaten, she might change her mind.

I shake my head. “I don’t know what it was,” I tell her, which is true. “I couldn’t see it very well,” I go on, which is a flat out lie. I saw the creature exceptionally well while it was rubbing its cock against me and licking my arse. “It had antlers,” I add. Just to give her something. I’m strangely unwilling to divulge too much information about the creature. Like I owe it some kind of strange or sick loyalty because despite the fact it keeps taking bites out of me, it hasn’t killed me and also made me come. 

Twice.

“Did it move on two feet or on all fours?” she asks.

“Two,” I reply. “Its feet were cloven.”

The headmistress looks up at Pomfrey, “Have you ever heard of such a thing in the forest, Poppy?”

The school matron shakes her head, her eyebrows raised. “Best to ask Rubeus,” she suggests absentmindedly while running a diagnostic spell on me, and tucking my blankets in. I’m inclined to remind her I’m not a child, but she’s getting the sheets so tight, making me feel so snug, I decide to let her.

“But if it lived in the forest, why has it only made its presence on school grounds known now?” McGonagall goes on. “It makes no sense, there are students out and about nightly,” she looks down at me here before continuing, “and professors as well.”

“Pomona is out foraging for items by the light of the moon rather often,” Pomfrey agrees. 

The headmistress frowns, her face lined with worry. “I’m not sure what this means for the students,” she says quietly to Pomfrey, seemingly having already forgotten one of those students is right in front of her. “If this creature is the same one that’s been attacking villagers…even the school’s grounds aren’t safe.”

The matron finishes fussing with my blankets and moves to stand next to McGonagall, running a hand up her arm reassuringly. “You’ll figure it out, Minerva. You always do,” she says. Then turns to me, adding, “Now sleep, Mr. Malfoy.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I immediately drift off into oblivion.

-

When I next wake it’s early morning.

I have to remind myself I’m in the hospital wing. That the creature attacked me again last night. That I willingly fucked it.

Very willingly.

And that afterwards I stumbled back to the school where I was found – bleeding half to death in the school’s entrance by Potter’s fucking prefect friends – and then fainted.

For fuck’s sake. 

I wonder if they told Potter.

What he thinks of me.

The headmistress clears her throat and I’m surprised to discover she is, once again, at my bedside watching me. 

I frown up at her.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she begins, “I wished to ask you one last question.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing as if by the light of day all her old doubts and suspicions about me have returned. 

They’re warranted, of course.

“How did you escape?”

I suck in a breath and hold it, considering her. Now this I can answer honestly. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “It just kinda ran off…” I reach up and scratch my chin thoughtfully. Notice that not only am I due for a shave, but my arm feels much better this morning, too. 

“It just…ran off?” she repeats.

“It ran off,” I confirm. Cock my head to the side, suggesting, “Maybe I didn’t taste good.”

“Hmmm, yes,” she replies vaguely, her lips pursed, still examining me carefully. 

It’s a plausible explanation. Most people – the headmistress included, I’m sure – think that as a Malfoy and a Death Eater, I’m rotten to the core. 

Surely I taste terrible.

“Very well,” she finally says. “We’ve alerted the Ministry of what happened last night. I expect they will want to question you…” she trails off and sighs. “In the meantime, Madam Pomfrey has determined you should stay in bed to convalesce. You are excused from classes today.” And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves me to my deep and very profound thoughts.

I can’t actually taste terrible, can I? 

If I did, why is everyone – and everything – so eager to lick my arse?

-

Despite the fact I’m supposed to be resting, I have an almost non-stop procession of visitors that prevent me from getting any actual fucking rest.

First up are Theo and Pansy. They’re not entirely unwelcome – which is to say, they at least seem relieved I’m alive.

Well, Theo does, anyway. Pansy just looks…like Pansy. 

They come after breakfast to fill me in on all the drama following the discovery of my empty bed this morning. Because apparently, people suddenly bother to care about Death Eater’s when they’re possibly dead, or there’s gossip to be had.

Fucking parasites.

Slughorn made a rare appearance in the common room and informed the members of Slytherin House what had happened – in vague terms – and asked it be kept quiet until a general announcement could be made by the headmistress. But it didn’t fucking matter. Because it seems Potter’s prefect buddies have big fucking mouths. Couldn’t wait to tell everyone that I’d stumbled into the school covered in blood. 

And that I’d fainted.

I can’t help wondering what Potter must think.

That I’m weak.

Pathetic.

Unworthy.

I am all of those things, of course. I just don’t like confirming it.

“And we’re on lockdown,” Theo adds.

“Lockdown?” I repeat. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means we can’t go outside,” Pansy bristles. “The grounds aren’t safe from whatever attacked you and ate all those villagers, so we are literally locked in the school.” She crosses her arms and gives me an accusatory glare. Like I let the creature through the Hogwarts wards and am somehow responsible.

I frown right back at her. Look at Theo for confirmation.

He runs a hand through his hair and nods. “The headmistress announced it at breakfast,” he says with a shrug. “All the doors have been sealed for our safety.”

“They’ve added caterwauling charms just in case,” Pansy adds, still looking like she blames me.

“Honestly, I think being stuck – trapped – inside the school is even worse than being eaten,” I sigh. “Where the fuck am I going to smoke?” I ask, already dying for a cigarette now I know there’s nowhere to have one. 

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Madam Pomfrey interjects as she comes out of her office. “It’s a dirty, filthy, disgusting muggle habit,” she tsks, pulling out her wand and running a series of diagnostics on me. “There,” she points. “There’s already evidence of tissue damage in your lungs.”

“Will it kill me?” I ask.

“It could. If you keep it up for a few decades? Absolutely,” she replies.

I suck my teeth. “That’s not fast enough,” I reply. 

I’m not joking. 

-

McGonagall shows up about mid-morning wearing a pinched expression. So, her usual face. But she’s got her hands clasped in front of her and is twisting her fingers, and I can’t help thinking she’s got something to tell me she doesn’t want to. Like she’s nervous.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she begins, and then pauses, looking contemplative. “I spoke with your mother,” she finally says and leaves it at that.

It’s all she has to say – she immediately has my attention. I sit up. Lean forward, waiting for more details. It…can’t have gone well.

She smooths out her robes and picks at lint that isn’t there, avoiding making eye contact with me. “She doesn’t seem entirely herself,” she says quietly, which is just about the most polite way I could imagine for saying ‘your mother is batshit crazy.’

“She hasn’t been for quite some time,” I reply. “What did she say?”

The headmistress looks at me, her brows drawn together. “She didn’t acknowledge anything I told her. About you or your attack. Instead she…” McGonagall shakes her head. “She spoke of snakes.” She looks up at me, a quizzical expression on her face.

I snort. Can’t fucking help myself.

Does no one fucking realise what my family went through these past few years?

“Nagini,” I enlighten the headmistress.

“Voldemort’s snake?”

“Try living with a giant man-eating snake – and let’s not forget the fucking lunatic with a half-snake face – for a few years and see what it does to you. Then, when you’re on the brink of escape – of never having to watch it devour another person in front of you or shed its fucking skin, or listen to that megalomaniac’s sadistic fucking voice again – you get sentenced to house arrest in that same fucking house.” I push my hair back off my face in irritation and continue, “The whole manor reeks of snake. She can’t escape it. It’s literally driving her mad.” I pause a moment and narrow my eyes. “And don’t get me started on everything else that happened in the manor that she had to live through – survive. Every encounter, every altercation, every violation…”

McGonagall’s eyes go wide at the implications. She looks shocked. Scandalised. 

Humbled. 

“I had no idea,” she admits, her voice small.

“Nobody does,” I tell her matter-of-factly. “Nobody cares.”

-

About an hour or so after lunch representatives from the Ministry show up to take a statement from me. There are two Aurors and someone from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

It’s…not a productive conversation.

They start off by implying that because I’m a Malfoy, a Death Eater, and lived with Voldemort that maybe I somehow produced or manifested the creature and set it on the innocent villagers of Hogsmeade as…revenge, or something…and then maybe lost control of it, and it attacked me. It is, they claim, the only plausible explanation for being the only survivor.

The notion is patently absurd. And I tell them so. I’m not nearly smart enough to pull anything like that off. I then proceed to give them even less information than I’d told the headmistress.

Motherfuckers.

I fucking hate the Ministry.

I hope they go out looking for the creature and it eats them.

-

It’s after dinner, and I’m trying to convince Madam Pomfrey I’m fine and should be released from her care. 

“But you’ve barely rested, Mr. Malfoy, you’ve had visitors all day.”

“Exactly. Nobody will visit or bother me in the dungeons,” I counter. “Everyone leaves me alone down there.”

Except Theo when he’s feeling randy and wants to fuck.

I don’t mention that. 

“I’m…not sure that will still be the case,” she tells me, her expression filled with…what is that? Sympathy? Pity?

“What do you mean?” 

She bites her lips while she fusses with the potion bottles on my nightstand. “Your attack has caused quite the sensation in the school. The entire student body is on lockdown…” she pauses and shakes her head. “They’re likely to ask questions. To want details. To—”

“Blame me?” I interrupt, my voice dripping with disdain. “Rather than, say, the school’s shit wards that were supposed to prevent anything murderous from getting through them?”

“Exactly,” an all too familiar – too welcome – voice chimes in. “Everyone loves a scapegoat.” My head jerks to the door just in time to see Potter enter.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” I ask warily, while drinking every single fucking inch of him in. It’s been over a day since I’ve had the chance to eye fuck him from across the room, and I might go so far as to say he was worth the wait.

His hair is growing out and sticking up in that stupid fucking way I just can’t help but want to run my fingers through, and his beard is about due for a trim. He’s got on a plain black t-shirt and jeans, and fuck me he looks positively heavenly in the golden light streaming in through the hospital ward’s windows. 

Or sinful.

I would go down on him this instant if I could. If he was willing. My mouth is watering just thinking of his big beautiful cock in it.

“I came to see how you’re doing,” he replies.

I blink stupidly. Having completely forgotten I’d asked him a question.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, lying. “I’m trying to convince Madam Pomfrey to let me sleep in my own bed tonight.” I turn back to the school matron and raise my eyebrows, waiting for her verdict.

Potter saunters over and stops just in front of me, looks me up and down, crosses his arms across his chest and declares, “You look like shit.” Confirming exactly how I feel. “But I can’t blame you for wanting to sleep in your own bed,” he continues, looking over at Pomfrey. “It’s much more restful.”

The matron bites her lips, assessing me. Nods. “Very well,” she finally concedes, because what? Fucking Harry Potter said the exact same fucking thing I just did?

Probably.

She collects a series of potion phials and bottles and places them in a sack. “Take these before you go to bed,” she instructs, placing them on the nightstand. “You’re free to go.”

“Great,” I reply, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Look around myself. Frown.

“What’s wrong?” Potter asks.

I’ve got no fucking clothes, that’s what’s wrong.

“What happened to my clothes?” I ask Pomfrey.

She tsks. “They were completely torn and bloodied, Mr. Malfoy.”

“And?”

“And I vanished them.”

I sigh. Look at Potter who’s clearly trying to suppress a smile as he comes to the same conclusion as me.

“It’s not fucking funny,” I hiss. Sliding out of bed in my hospital gown.

“It really is,” he laughs. And…I can’t help laughing too. Because the thing about Potter is…when he smiles? When he laughs? You can tell he’s truly, genuinely, happy. It lights up his whole fucking face, and is reflected in his eyes.

It’s contagious.

I want to be happy with him. To share that enjoyment, even if it’s at my own expense, which is…let’s be fucking honest, not at all in character for me.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” I mutter as my laughter dies down. The whole school is on lockdown, blames me for it, and now I’ve got to walk to the dungeons with my arse hanging out?

Fuck me.

Potter rubs a hand through his beard, over his mouth and chin, as if literally trying to wipe the smile off his face. “I think I can help,” he claims, pulling his book bag round to his thigh, rummaging through the front pocket. I watch in fascination, wondering exactly how he expects to help, when he pulls out a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt and hands them over to me.

I take the clothes – they’re shitty, but will absolutely fucking do in a pinch – look at them, the bag, and then at Potter. “First,” I start, “why do you carry around a spare set of clothes, and second…have you got an undetectable extension charm on that bag?” 

He scratches the back of his neck and grimaces. “Last year, when we were on the run, I got used to always being prepared to leave in an instant…” he trails off and raises his shoulders. “Old habits die hard, I guess. As for my bag,” he goes on, sliding it round his back so it’s behind him again, “Yes.”

“Aren’t those illegal?”

“Also, yes.”

“Who put it there?” I can’t help asking. Potter may have lots of power behind his magic, but he’s not a particularly smart or talented wizard. I know, because I recognise those same qualities – or lack thereof – in myself.

He looks down at his feet and kicks at an imaginary piece of something. “Hermione,” he finally tells me, ratting out his best friend. I feel a slight thrill at that fact. That he’s willing to confide in me.

“Figures,” I reply, placing his t-shirt on the bed and shaking out the jeans. 

“They’re not much,” he says quietly, jerking his chin towards his emergency clothes.

“On the contrary, Potter,” I start, bending down and sliding my feet into the legs before pulling them up under my hospital gown. “They’re perfect, thank you,” I finish, while somewhat awkwardly adjusting my cock so as not to get it caught in the zip, before very carefully pulling it up and buttoning them. 

They’re loose and hang low on my hips. 

I reach behind my head and tug at the string at the back of my gown, then pull it off my arms and toss it onto the bed. Pull up Potter’s jeans – they could do with a little transfiguration charm to make them smaller – and turn around in a circle, looking around myself.

“What’s wrong?” Potter asks.

“Looking for my wand,” I reply tightly, suddenly realising it might have been vanished along with my trousers. I go through the sheets on my bed and rummage through the items on the nightstand.

It’s not there.

It’s not fucking there.

I feel myself starting to panic. My heartbeat races and I feel hot. I can’t not have my fucking wand. Not when the whole bloody school already hates me and now has even more reason to do so. I’m expecting hexes and jinxes aplenty. Oh fuck. I’m going to end up back in the hospital wing getting boils drained, my teeth shrunk, and slugs removed from my stomach. “It’s not here,” I mutter, going through the sheets again, throwing them haphazardly. “It’s not here,” I repeat, backing up, preparing to turn my onslaught back to the nightstand, when I bump into Potter. He’s moved closer and is methodically looking through the contents on top of the nightstand and in it.

“There’s a fucking drawer?” I ask, feeling slightly calmer. Hopeful. Watching him intently.

“There is,” he replies, his voice steady. I notice he doesn’t tell me to calm down – because when the fuck has that ever worked when someone is panicking? Instead he’s just quietly helping. He bends over and looks into a narrow drawer, reaches in, pulls his hand back and—

“Thank fucking Slytherin,” I exhale, as he hands my wand to me.

“I’ve been sent here unconscious enough times to know Pomfrey always puts it somewhere safe…or…” he starts and trails off, his eyes travelling across my chest and arms. Tracing each and every one of the thick jagged scars crisscrossing my torso. 

The scars that he put there.

He takes in a shaky breath and looks up at my face. Looks me in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what would happen. How bad it would be…”

He looks genuinely pained. Sorrowful. His green eyes filled with regret and emotion. 

“Water under the bridge, Potter.” I try to keep my voice light. Nonchalant. But I honestly feel anything but. Because he’s still looking at me, and I would swear on my life it’s with something other than regret now.

I know that look.

I know it particularly well, in fact.

It’s desire.

I turn around, very intentionally before I do something stupid like kiss him – oh gods am I desperate to feel his lips against mine, to feel my skin chafed by his whiskers – take his t-shirt and pull it over my head. Push my hair back off my face and behind my ears, and look at him.

I don’t think he’s taken his eyes off me.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll walk you down to the dungeons?” he asks.

“I don’t need an escort,” I spit back.

“I’m not saying you do,” he replies smoothly. “But you’re on how many potions right now?”

I don’t actually know. Pomfrey’s been pouring them down my throat regularly, though. I shrug in response. Take the bag of bottles and phials the matron gave me.

“Exactly,” he goes on. “I’ve had a lot of experience with that, too.” He falls in step with me as I start towards the door. I must move too quickly because I feel the whole room shift. Reach out looking for something to steady myself, and find Potter right next me. I grab onto his shoulder, and he holds on to my arm reassuringly. “Her healing cocktails work fast, but can leave you a little lightheaded,” he tells me knowingly. 

I take a deep breath and nod. Wait a moment for the room to stop spinning. “Okay, yeah,” I finally say, tentatively releasing my grip on his shoulder. “Maybe I could use some company.”

He dips his chin and silently follows me all the way down to the dungeons.

Though he has to help me two more times when I lose my balance, he never once says ‘I told you so’ or makes fun of me.

Rather he’s just there. Steady. 

Supporting me.

-

I ignore everyone in the common room.

Their questions.

Head immediately to the dorm and change. Put on a pair of pyjamas, crawl into bed and draw the curtains. Pull Potter’s discarded clothes to my face and inhale.

They still smell like him.

-

The castle is crowded. The students agitated. I’m targeted at least two-to-three times a day – verbally, magically, and physically – in their attempts to blame someone for the situation they find themselves in.

It’s pure fucking hell.

I wish I was in Azkaban.

-

We’re in Defence Against the Dark Arts. All the desks and chairs have been pushed to the sides of the classroom to create space for us to learn – or practice – casting the Patronus charm. I’m not surprised to discover most everyone from the other houses already knows how to cast one. In fact, they’re all rather adept at it, because apparently Potter taught them back in fifth year when Umbridge refused to teach any actual defensive spells.

Fucking figures.

The remaining Slytherins – myself excepted – catch on quickly. Before you know it, there are dogs, horses, otters, rabbits, serpents, tigers and sharks running or…swimming…across the classroom.

I’m the only one who doesn’t have a happy enough memory to call upon.

“Honestly, Mr. Malfoy,” the professor chides, “there must be some moment you can draw upon that made you happy?” Her eyes very noticeably flick down to my left arm where the Dark Mark is visible. I track the movement and can’t help from scratching at it. Pulling my sleeve down over it.

“If you think getting branded with this was a happy time of my life,” I hiss, “you are sorely mistaken.” I reach into my pocket and pull out an elastic to tie my hair back into a messy bun. “I don’t have happy memories,” I tell her. “My life is a fucking nightmare, so spare me the feigned shock and moral superiority of someone who’s always had a choice in who and what they are.” I roughly push through the circle of desks and grab a chair, practically throwing it against the wall. Sit down roughly, crossing my arms. “I’ll sit this lesson out,” I inform her. Glaring at her. Daring her to contradict me.

“Very well,” she sighs. Definitely looking morally superior.

Fucking cunt.

“Mr. Potter, would you do us the honour of casting a Patronus?” she asks. 

“Sure,” he replies, jumping off the desk he was sitting on and coming to stand in the middle of the classroom. His posture confident and at ease. 

He looks fucking brilliant, of course. Beautiful.

He’s wearing a pair of tatty jeans, a white t-shirt and an open plaid shirt on top, his sleeves rolled, exposing his strong forearms. He reaches for his wand in his back pocket, pulls it out and twirls it around – I’d consider it ridiculous if it were anyone else doing it. But Potter? He can do anything and it looks good.

He takes a deep breath, points his wand, and forcefully exclaims, “Expecto Patronum!” A silvery wisp of magic shoots out of his wand tip and immediately begins to take shape. Everyone knows Potter’s Patronus is a stag, of course. But as it fully takes shape and prances about the classroom and its magnificent antlers form atop its head, I realise…

I’ve seen those antlers before.

I haven’t only seen them, I’ve held onto antlers with tines in that exact same fucking configuration. 

When the creature attacked me. 

When it ate me. 

When it – when Potter – fucked me.

I stand up abruptly, causing my chair to topple back and clatter to the floor. The whole class looks at me. Potter whips his head round, his eyes wide, and looks at me, too.

And he knows.

He knows I know.

And I…I can’t fucking be here.

I have to go.

I have to go now.

I shake my head. Unable to even speak, I’m so fucking overwhelmed with…what? Emotions? Shock? Anger?

Because I’m fucking livid.

Don’t think I’ve ever felt this outraged before.

This betrayed.

Chapter Text

I don’t ask permission to leave the classroom, I don’t say a fucking word. Because I don’t trust myself. Don’t know what I’ll say. Instead I storm out, violently pushing the door open and slamming it shut, then go…where? Where the fuck am I going?

I don’t know. 

I just need to get away.

Get away from him.

Because he’s been fucking with me all this time. 

Talking to me. Getting closer to me. Making me think…making me feel…hope. That maybe I stand a chance. That maybe my attraction isn’t all one-sided. That he feels the same pull towards me that I do towards him. All the while he’s stalking and attacking me. Fucking eating a piece of me then asking if I’m okay the next day? Like…what the fuck?

Strangely, the fact he’s eating other people – that Harry Potter is some kind of magical creature and is actually fucking eating people – doesn’t particularly bother me. I don’t care. Not really. He could eat the whole village of Hogsmeade and I wouldn’t bat an eye…but fucking with me? With my feelings? Because clearly he fucking knew I had them for him. Clearly he’s been…I don’t know…manipulating me, or something.

I stop abruptly and look around myself. Realise I've made my way down an abandoned corridor, which is mercifully empty.

Everyone else is in class.

I go to its end, climb over a pile of rubble and enter the very last door on the left. It’s an old classroom, except there are no desks or chairs, rather large tables or workstations. It looks almost like a potions lab, except there are strange diagrams covering the walls. Calculations. 

Did Hogwarts teach alchemy? 

I hear the echo of footsteps climbing over the rubble in the corridor. I spin around on my heel and face the door, waiting.

I know who it is.

It can only be one person.

Him.

Potter walks through the door, looking around himself with a frown. I pull myself up to my full height and prepare myself – for what, exactly, I don’t know. When his eyes land on me, though, when I see the hurt and worry in them, I lose all of my resolve.

All of my anger.

Because he looks like he’s in agony.

“What the actual fuck, Potter?” I spit out.

Okay, maybe not all of my anger. I’m still pissed off. Still confused.

He bites his lips. Shakes his head. Swallows. “I’m sorry, Malfoy,” he says, his voice deep. As if…as if he’s fighting back too many emotions. He looks completely miserable. Anguished. Takes a step towards me, and I back away. Bump into a workstation table.

“No,” I tell him. “Don’t.” 

“Let me explain—”

“Explain?” I interrupt. “Explain?” I repeat. “Please, Potter. Please explain to me why you stalked me. Why you repeatedly attacked me. Bit massive fucking chunks out of me and ate me…” I pause, breathing deeply. “Why you fucked me,” I finish, my voice cracking.

He takes a deep breath. Paces back and forth, running his hands through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “It’s hard,” he starts, looking at me for just a moment before stopping at the windowsill and turning his attention to the dirty window. The sun streaks in, lighting his face in golden-green light as it filters through the filth. “When I died,” he starts, then stops. Licks his lips. Starts over. “When Voldemort killed me…at the battle of Hogwarts, I went to the afterlife.” He screws up his face. “Or…or something like it. Maybe it was more of a purgatory. A waiting room. A train station.”

“A train station?” I ask sceptically.

He nods, still looking out the window. “Voldemort was there…but he was twisted and misshapen…looked more like he did that night at the cemetery when Cedric died. Before Wormtail performed the ceremony to bring him back. Dumbledore was there, too.”

“Because of course he was,” I sigh. That fucker was always somewhere pulling the strings. Treating everyone like his fucking puppets.

“I don’t fully remember what happened,” he goes on. “My memories are already all jumbled. But what I do know, with absolute certainty, is that when I came back? I wasn’t the same. I wasn’t right.” He takes another deep breath. Turns and leans against the wall, backlit by the window.

He’s almost glowing.

And as angry and confused as I am with him, I can’t help thinking I’ve never seen him look so lovely before in my life. So vulnerable.

“Do you know what a horcrux is?” he suddenly asks.

“A what?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t think so.” Runs his hands up and down his thighs, thinking. Looks up. “A horcrux is an object that contains a piece of your soul, and that can be used to bring you back to life. It requires splitting your soul to create it…” He sucks his teeth. “Voldemort intentionally split his soul into seven – creating six horcruxes which he placed into various objects he deemed important. A diary, a ring, a cup…that’s what I was doing seventh year. Finding and destroying them…” He trails off.

“What do you mean intentionally?” I ask, hanging on his every word. Leaning forward – towards him – despite myself.

Potter huffs and shakes his head. “He accidentally created one additional horcrux when he tried to kill me and it backfired.”

“You?” I ask, feeling…I don’t know what I feel. The implications of what Potter is telling me are…fucking staggering.

“Me,” he confirms, clasping his head in his hands. “You have to understand,” he continues, his voice muffled. “I lived my whole life with a piece of someone else’s soul inside of me. And when I came back…when Voldemort was truly dead…” He looks up at me, his face contorted in agony. “I couldn’t help feeling like a piece of me was missing. Like I’d been left with a gaping wound in my soul.” He pushes off the wall and begins pacing again. I watch him in silence. Allowing him to collect his thoughts. “I wanted to fill it,” he resumes, looking at me. Beseeching me. “I thought if I could get close enough to others. Be part of a family – something I’d always wanted – that that would heal the wound…but…” He sighs, looking utterly dejected.

“It didn’t?” I prompt him.

“It didn’t,” he confirms, stopping and looking at me. “It made it worse.”

“Maybe you chose the wrong family,” I say, unable to help myself. The fucking Weasley’s are not good enough for Potter. Not by a long shot. Not that I’d consider the Malfoy’s particularly worthy either, but…I’m a little biased in that regard.

He actually smiles. Just for a moment.

“I felt even more isolated than ever,” he admits. “The expectations everyone has of me,” he huffs, “are just too high.” He raises his hand, and starts counting on his fingers. “They expect me to finish Hogwarts, to become an auror, to marry Ginny, to start a family, to always put others over myself, to be happy, to be good. They’re calling me the ‘saviour of the wizarding world’ for fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head in exasperation. “And all I felt…all I wanted…was to fill the void inside myself. The emptiness.”

He runs his hands back and forth through his hair, making it even messier than usual. Returns to the windowsill, and looks out. “Something came over me once we got back to school…an insatiable hunger. An even greater, more desperate, need to just be close to someone else. Fucking Ginny – being inside her? Wasn’t enough. It wasn’t close enough. It didn’t satisfy the need. Didn’t fill the void. I can’t explain it, but I felt like I needed to consume her. That she needed to be inside me to be close enough…”

“Did you bite her?” 

He looks over his shoulder at me. “I wanted to. I desperately wanted to.” He sighs and looks back out the window. “But I didn’t want to hurt her…so I went outside to get some fresh air, hoping the feeling would pass. It didn’t.” His jaw flexes. “So I went and looked for someone else to consume and, hopefully, fill the void.”

“I don’t get it,” I admit, jumping back so I’m sitting on the workstation. “How did you turn into the creature?”

Potter shakes his head. “You don’t get it—”

“No, I don’t,” I interrupt. 

“The creature? That’s the real me. That’s who – what – I am. I don’t know how I change from one to the other, but it was taking everything in my power to just be Harry Potter…until you, that is.”

I suck in my breath.

“It was different with you,” he tells me. Walks towards me. “Everything was different with you.” He scratches the stubble on his neck. “At least it was that night after I caught a whiff of your scent…”

“You stalked me for a long time, Potter…”

“I did…but everything changed after that night—”

“What night?”

He comes right up to me. Stops just in front of me. “The night we talked in the courtyard and you touched yourself,” he tells me, leaning in. “I could smell your cum.”

“Is that why you showed yourself to me?” I ask, my heart thumping madly in my chest. 

“It is, yeah…” he says quietly. “I realised I’d never wanted anything more my whole life.” He pauses. Reaches up and behind my head, and pulls my hair out of its elastic. “I realised at that moment, how much I wanted to smell you up close. How much I wanted to taste you. To gorge myself on you. On how you make me feel.” 

He takes a strand of my hair and runs it through his fingers. I can barely fucking breathe. “But you bit me,” I choke out.

He nods. “Because that’s what I do,” he answers simply. “It’s who I am now.” He moves closer so he’s standing between my legs. Pushes my hair back and leans down, whispering into my ear, “And you fucked me just the same, Malfoy. You saw me for who I am – a monster – and fucked me just the same. You accepted me.”

I nod slightly as his lips brush against my earlobe. He pulls back, and I feel the scruff of his beard against my cheek, until his face is hovering just above my own, his breath hot against my lips. “I want to eat you whole,” he says into my mouth, then roughly grasps the back of my head and pulls me towards him. 

Our lips crash together. 

His are soft and pliant, and in stark contrast to his whiskers that scrape against my face. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck as his tongue pushes into my mouth. “I want to fill myself with you,” he moans. His hands sliding down my back to my arse, pulling my hips towards the edge of the table – towards him – until our chests are flush against one another and I can feel his erection against my own.

“You can do anything you want to me,” I whimper into his mouth, resolving in that very moment that I love him so much I would absolutely let him kill me. Devour and eat me whole. If it means I can be with him just this once. Feel him inside me before he guts and consumes my body.

“I want to touch you,” he says, pulling away and nipping at my chin. He slides his hands round my waist to my abdomen. “Without scratching or hurting you,” he adds, as he starts unbuttoning my shirt, working his way up. I look down and watch as he completes his task and pushes it off my arms. Takes my t-shirt by the hem, and says “lift.” I lift my arms and he pulls it over my head, leaving my hair a tangled mess. He smiles. Tosses my t-shirt aside and reaches up to tame it, smoothing it down before moving his hands down to my neck, caressing it. Rubbing his thumbs against my stubble before sliding his hands down to my shoulders, and begins tracing my scars down to my chest and abdomen.

“You’re like an angel, you know,” he tells me, and it’s all I can do to stop from laughing at the comparison. He sees my incredulous expression and frowns. “You didn’t grow up with the same religious tradition I did,” he explains, his hand gliding back up my chest. “My aunt and uncle…they were very religious. Very strict. Were convinced because I was a wizard that I was bad. Evil. That I needed to have the magic beaten out of me. That they needed to save me with the word of God…” His hand slides behind my neck and he pulls me in close. Kisses me gently. “In the Bible God used angels as his messengers…and for some reason I could never quite comprehend, they were always men, and always described – and depicted – as beautiful. Like you.”

I lick my lips. Watching him watch me. “I feel like maybe I’d be more of a fallen angel, if anything…” I say, cocking my head to the side.

“Agreed,” he whispers into my neck. He reaches down between us and starts rubbing my cock. “We can be fallen together,” he adds, grazing his teeth against my skin and moving his hands to my belt and unbuckling it. Unfastening my trousers. And Salazar fucking Slytherin, I can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe Harry Potter is finally touching me. Kissing me. Sucking on my neck. 

He opens my fly and tugs on my trousers. I reach down and brace myself on the table. Lift my arse so he can slide them – and my pants – all the way down to my ankles, and pull them off, along with my shoes. 

For some reason it strikes me that he leaves my socks on. That is, until he takes my shaft in his hand, and pumps it experimentally. “Oh fuck,” I breathe, feeling like I might blow my load right here and now. Close my eyes and try not to. 

“I want you to watch,” he tells me. “Open your eyes.”

I do.

Immediately.

I’d do anything he told me.

“Good,” he says absentmindedly, his focus returning to my cock. Stroking it. Circling his thumb around my glans and over the slit on my tip. “Does that feel good?” he asks. 

“Yes,” I breathe, watching how he moves his hand over me. How it flexes. How the muscles move in his forearm as his hand glides up and down over me.

He stops abruptly as a bead of precum emerges from my tip. Looks up at me, and I swear he growls. “I’ve been desperate to taste you again since that night in the shed,” he tells me, his voice lower than before. I watch with bated breath as he leans down over my cock and licks the tip of it. Groan at the sensation of his tongue on me. At how it traces the same path as his thumb just a few moments ago. Around my glans. Over my tip, rubbing the flat of it back and forth over my slit, as he licks my entire length from base to tip, tracing the vein on the underside of it.

“Oh fucking, fuck,” I moan. “Please,” I pant. “Please take me in your mouth.”

And he does.

He closes his mouth around my tip and moves it down my length, and bloody fucking hell, I don’t know if I can take it. I lift my legs and plant my feet on the edge of the table to brace myself as my whole body starts humming. Tingling. Vibrating from the sensation of Harry fucking Potter’s mouth on my cock, fulfilling one of my wildest dreams. He sucks and tugs on me with his mouth while fondling my scrotum with his hands before moving one of them down over my perineum and “Nnnggghhh…” I cry out as he circles my rim with his fingers.

He releases my cock, coming up for a breath. Licks up the sides of my shaft, cleaning up his spit and my precum. Traces his way back down along the vein, and to my scrotum. Repositions himself. Gets down on his knees, and then…oh fucking hell, he leans in, pulls my cheeks open and runs his tongue over my arsehole. 

I gasp, desperate to feel more. Desperate to come. I watch, transfixed, as Potter repeats exactly what he did in the broom shed. Licking my arse. “Fuck, Malfoy, you taste even better than I remembered,” he says. Backs away. He spits on his finger then returns it to my arse, circles it, then pushes in tentatively. “Is that okay?” he asks.

“It’s more than okay,” I choke out, thinking absentmindedly that if he doesn’t finish by actually eating me, I’ll have to teach him a lubrication charm. 

He nods and lowers his head. Takes me back in his mouth. I lie back on the table. Reach down, running my fingers through his thick black hair, before grabbing a fistful of it. Relish the sensation of his tongue against my length. Of his lips. The feel of his beard brushing against my inner thighs.

I’m in heaven.

Absolute fucking heaven.

Maybe I am an angel, after all.

“I’m going to come, Potter,” I warn him, breathing deeply, as my hips start pushing up – seeking more depth – every time his head bobs down.

He responds by inserting his entire finger into my arse.

And that does it.

My whole body tenses, my stomach muscles contract, my back arches and, “Nngghh…” I release into Potter’s mouth. He pauses his movements, his lips still circling my shaft, before slowly – carefully – backing away. A string of spit and cum connecting us together. 

He swallows. Licks his lips, then rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks at me with darkened eyes the same colour as the creature’s. I push myself back up into a sitting position, pull on his shirt until he’s standing, and wrap my legs around him. Move my hands up around his broad shoulders and tangle my fingers in his messy hair, kissing him greedily. Moan when I taste myself in his mouth. Cup his jaw, rubbing my thumbs through his beard. “I want you to crawl inside me,” I sigh into his mouth. “Utterly ruin me.”

He nods, his hands moving up my arms to my neck. “I want to destroy you,” he replies, one hand on my throat while the other twists in my hair, pulling my head back. Grazing my neck with his teeth. “Gorge myself on you ‘til there’s nothing left.”

“Then do it,” I tell him. “Don’t hold back with me. Be yourself.” 

“You’re sure?” He asks, the desperation in his voice palpable. 

“I’m sure,” I tell him, knowing I’ve never been more sure of anything my whole life as I feel his whiskers along my collarbone. Take a sharp breath as his teeth sink into my shoulder. Clench my jaw and hold on tightly – one hand grasping his hair, and the other his shoulder – as his teeth connect and he rips a piece out of me. Backs away, chewing, the look on his face…ecstasy.

I realise he hasn’t tasted flesh – hasn’t consumed it – since he attacked me in the broom shed. Since the school was put on lockdown. 

I watch in fascination as he chews and swallows. My blood dripping down his chin, mixing with his whiskers. He reaches up and caresses my cheek. Leans in and kisses me. Breathes into my mouth, “You taste so good, I’m not sure I can control myself…”

“Then don’t,” I tell him. “Devour me. Eat me. Rip me apart. Consume me inside and out…”

He breathes in sharply and nips at my lower lip. My chin. Down my neck. Returns to the bite in my shoulder and sucks on it, while wrapping his arms around me. Pulling me closer. His erection hard against me. “I want you in so many ways,” he whimpers into my neck as I wrap my arms around him and hold him against me.

“I’m yours,” I tell him. “I’ve always been yours. However you want – or need – me.”

He holds on to me tightly. Clinging to me. Slides his hands up my back and over my shoulders. Up my neck to my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “But what if I hurt you?” he asks. “I keep hurting you,” he adds, his voice desperate.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I assure him, leaning forward and kissing him hard. Trying to impress my sincerity upon him. He breaks away, and strokes my cheek with his thumb. Gazes into my eyes. Dips his chin.

“I want to feel you from the inside,” he tells me and I hear a sudden roaring in my ears and my whole body begins throbbing with anticipation. I don’t know if he wants to fuck me or tear me apart, but I want it either way. 

“I am so desperate to feel you inside me,” I gasp, pulling on his hair and kissing him again. 

Potter backs up and starts fumbling with his belt. Unbuttons and unzips his trousers, then hooks his thumbs inside his pants and pushes everything down. His cock doesn’t spring up – instead it slowly bounces free it’s so engorged and heavy with desire, a drip of precum connecting it to his pants. 

It is…the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. Large. Not as large as when he was in creature form, but still fucking impressive. I reach down between us and run my fingers along his length. He sucks in a breath as I circle his glans with my thumb, while stroking his shaft with my other hand.

Oh gods.

I’m holding Harry Potter’s cock in my hands. 

My own immediately gets hard again. I hook my leg around his thigh, pulling him closer. Guide his cock to mine and rub myself with his tip, spreading his leaking desire all over it. His hands grip my thighs tightly. Watching me.

“Let me,” he says, his voice cracking.

I look up at his face. See his desperation. Let go. Allow him to take over, holding our cocks parallel to one another, sliding his hand up and down experimentally. Pumping our foreskins in unison.

He breathes out raggedly and moves his hand faster. “It feels so good…you feel so good,” he pants, and continues to pump his hand until his hips start moving. He groans, licks his lips and stops. Releases my cock and backs away slightly, dragging his tip down over my perineum and over my arsehole.

His hands shake as he slides himself back and forth over me. Feeling my arse with his entire shaft before lining himself up.

“Stop,” I tell him.

Potter looks up abruptly, his eyes wide, like he can’t believe I’m denying him…well, anything. “It’s okay,” I assure him, running my hand up his neck into his hair. Grasping the back of his head. “We just need lube.”

“Oh…right,” he nods, and looks around himself, as if it might magically appear.

I lean forward and reach down to Potter’s trousers, bunched up around his lower thighs. Find his wand in his right back pocket, sit back up and point it between my legs, muttering “Waddiwasi” under my breath.

His head jerks back in surprise. “Is that not what people use to…I dunno, oil hinges, or some such?”

“What do you think we’re doing?” I ask, tossing his wand aside, raising my legs and planting my feet on the edge of the workstation again. Tilting my pelvis to ensure my arse is easily accessible. “Now fuck me, already. Destroy me. Own me.”

“I’m going to tear you apart,” he says, rubbing himself over my arse. 

I’m painfully aware I’m not loose enough for this, but more than willing to suffer for it later if it means being with Potter now. He takes a deep breath and lines himself up, nudging – forcing – his tip in, and then cries out as he pushes his cock into my arse for the first time.

It hurts like a motherfucker.

It also feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.

I breathe through the initial pain and focus on Potter’s face. The bliss. The ecstasy. “It…you…” he starts, grasping my hips as he slowly pulls back and then pushes in again. “You’re so fucking tight,” he gasps. “It feels…”

“How does it feel, Potter?” I relax my legs, letting my knees fall to the side. Move my hips to meet his pelvis and increase his depth. Reach up and brush his fringe out of his eyes.

He’s panting.

“It feels…” He starts again, then frowns. Shakes his head. “It feels right,” he finally concludes, and looks at me, a flash of vulnerability crossing his features before they harden, and he starts rolling his hips rhythmically. Slowly at first, then increasing the pace.

It does feel right.

This whole situation.

Us.

But especially Potter’s cock inside me. Mine, hard and bouncing back and forth between us as he mercilessly begins to pummel my arse.

“Oh fucking fuck,” he grunts, his grip on my hips getting tighter. His muscles strained. His fingers digging into my skin. We’re both panting. Grunting on each thrust. Now he’s loosened me up I can focus on how it feels. How good he feels inside me. His massive cock massaging my rectum and pushing against my prostate— 

“I’m going to—nngghh…” I don’t have time to finish. I hold on to Potter’s shoulders to brace myself, gasp, and climax. My emissions shoot out of my cock, leaving ropes of cum over my stomach and Potter’s shirt.

He looks down between us, his hips still rolling, then up at me. I curl my back and lean forward. Pull his face towards mine and kiss him passionately. Messily. Trying to impress upon him how desperately I need – want – him. 

In this and every way. 

Today and every day.

His muscles tense beneath my hands. His grip on my hips becomes painful. Sharp. Piercing.

He groans into my mouth. 

Growls.

His hips stutter, then he pushes in roughly, slamming his pelvis against my own. Pauses. He backs away from my lips, breathing deeply. Panting into my mouth. His grip agonising. He growls again and comes inside me. Releases me abruptly. Pulls himself out of my arse unceremoniously, his cum sliding out of me. Grasps the table on either side of me with clawed hands, leans forward and grimaces. Stretches his neck and looks towards the ceiling. 

Bellows as antlers grow out of his messy hair, and his face elongates. His glasses clatter to the table beside me. His lips curl back over sharp teeth. His beautiful mossy green eyes dim and sink into his head as his whole body becomes larger. Looming over me. His trousers and pants tear as his legs reform, he grows fur over his lower half and his feet become cloven.

I watch him carefully, still standing between my legs. Unable to help wondering if now is the moment he’s going to literally tear me apart.

He pushes me back roughly against the table. Leans over me, planting his snout in my neck. Snorts and covers me with spittle. Traces my collarbone with his long tongue until it reaches where he’d previously bit me – now seeming a very small human-sized bite. He licks it, then grazes my shoulder with his teeth.

“Whatever you need, Potter,” I breathe out. Reach up and stroke the side of his face with a shaking hand. Grasp the thick mane at the back of his head holding him at my shoulder. Tilt my head to the side. “I’m yours, Harry. Every part of me.”

He inhales sharply. Snorts and backs away. Looks at me for what feels a very long time while still leaning over me, lying helpless on the table. Like a meal. He reaches a clawed hand up and traces my cheek with it. His sharp claws scratching but not breaking my skin.

He’s trying to be gentle.

Leans back over and licks up the side of my face, from my chin to my temple, then looks up at the ceiling and bellows loudly. His body arching on top of me. Then he pushes off the table, away from me, and is gone. I hear his hooves against the flagstone floor for a moment, echoing down the corridor, and then…nothing.

I sit up, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. In my ears. My face, neck and shoulders wet with spit and blood. My hips bleeding from where Potter’s claws punctured me. His cum still oozing out of me.

-

I don’t care that we’re in lockdown, I need a fucking smoke. 

I get dressed shakily and make my way out of the classroom, climb over the rubble in the corridor and find an alcove with a window. Light a fag – setting off a series of alarms and caterwauling charms – and take a deep drag. Exhale slowly and close my eyes, feeling…knowing now more than ever that I would do – sacrifice – anything and everything for that man. 

My heart. My body.

My soul.

-

A few minutes later and I’m sitting in the headmistress’s office while she stares me down, a disappointed look on her face. “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Malfoy?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m addicted.” I shrug, unable to stop myself from smirking. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took me this long before I lit up.”

-

I skip lunch and afternoon classes. Take advantage of the empty dungeons and take a bath, before sitting and staring aimlessly out the common room windows at the Black Lake, replaying the day’s events in my head.

I can’t help wondering how much of Potter is in the creature. How much of it is in him, now.

-

By dinner time, I’m ravenous.

I head up to the Great Hall and quietly take a seat nearest the end of the Slytherin table and closest to the exit. Start piling food on my plate and inhaling it, all the while scanning the Gryffindor table for signs of Potter.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting.

For something to be different, maybe?

He arrives with his entourage and takes a seat. Seems decidedly sedate. Listless. Doesn’t seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention to his friend’s conversations. Picks at his food, mostly moving it around his plate.

I keep staring. Willing him to look in my direction. To look at me.

Is he not looking on purpose?

I should think a look is warranted. It was a pretty fucking momentous day, wasn’t it? Besides the fact Potter and I fucked – his first time with another bloke for Salazar’s sake – I learned he’s the creature. A fucking cannibal. And then to top it all off, I saw him transform. Is he not the slightest bit concerned to see how I’m doing? To check I’m not traumatised?

After what feels like an eternity – my plate is almost empty of my second serving – he finally looks up. Catches my eye. Clenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck straining. I hold his gaze, looking at him longingly.

Bloody fucking hell I want him so bad.

Would sell my soul to call him mine.

We stare at each other from across the Great Hall until his attention is pulled away. His cunt of a girlfriend nudges his shoulder, then slides her hand up his arm and behind his neck, forcing him to look at her.

I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so badly. Never wanted to Avada someone so wholeheartedly. It wouldn’t even be a question of wanting to do harm. 

I don’t just want to harm her – I want to fucking murder her.

Because I can’t fucking stand the thought of him going back up to Gryffindor Tower with her tonight. Of her lips on him. Her hands on him. Her legs spread open for him. Her fucking cunt wet for him.

No.

I’m greedy. 

I want him. All of him.

I want him to be wholly and unequivocally mine. No matter the cost.

I’ll do anything.

-

I can’t sleep.

My mind is racing.

And my heart? I don’t know if my heart is bursting or breaking, but I think it might feel the same, either way.

Not to mention my arse is fucking sore.

-

The Great Hall is in an uproar when I get down for breakfast.

I pause and look around, attempting to discern what’s going on. The Gryffindors are…divided. There’s a clear break in the table. A gap about four or five feet wide between each end. Everyone huddled and talking on either side. The Hufflepuffs look…sad? Depressed? I can’t fucking tell. I never pay them any attention, anyway, so to say I see a difference in their behaviour seems a stretch on my part. They’re all sad they got sorted into Hufflepuff as far as I’m concerned. As for Ravenclaw, they appear on edge. Stressed. Like they collectively failed a logic test and have discovered they’re not as smart as they think they are.

I take a deep breath and wander down the Slytherin table to find Pansy – my best bet for gossip – gesture to the Great Hall in general and ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You don’t know?” she asks, her tone incredulous and her eyebrows high. 

“I do not.”

Theo clears his throat and turns partially on the bench so he can see me. Watches me closely. His expression intent. Meanwhile Pansy licks her lips and stands up. Climbs over the bench to stand next to me conspiratorially. Takes my arm in her iron grip and says,“It’s just I’m surprised you don’t know.” 

I look at Theo in exasperation, before turning my attention back to Pansy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What should I know?” I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. What the bloody fuck is she on about? “Do you know?” I ask Theo, hoping he can tell me what the fuck her problem is.

She breaks out into a grin. Leans into me and whispers, “Potter broke up with the Weasel girl last night.”

It immediately feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room and I can’t breathe. “What?” I gasp, despite the fact I heard her perfectly well…it’s just…I can’t believe it. Can’t believe he did it. It is exactly what I’ve been wishing for – dreaming of – all year. I sit down on the bench next to Theo with a thump and lean my elbows on my knees. Cradle my head in my hands, attempting to breathe slowly. Attempting to calm my racing heart. My racing mind.

“The whole house is divided,” she goes on with obvious glee. She really is a terrible fucking gossip. 

“Did he say why?” I can’t help asking.

“That’s just the thing,” Theo interjects. “Nobody knows why.”

I close my eyes and focus on breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

“What about the other houses?” I ask. “What’s going on with them?”

“Them?” Pansy frowns and looks across the table towards the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as if she’s never seen them before. “Fuck if I know, are they behaving any differently?”

So, no obvious gossip there.

I bite my lips and sit up. Take a deep breath and spin round on the bench, lifting my feet over it and sitting properly at the table. Reach for a glass and pour myself some juice in the hopes it’ll make me feel better. Less lightheaded.

I’m hesitant to look across the hall towards the Gryffindors, but I do it anyway. See Potter and the Weasel are now standing on opposite sides of the house divide, leaning combatively toward one another, arguing. The Weasel appears outraged at his sister’s apparent rejection. And Potter? Well, he looks like he’s at the end of his rope. Completely fucking exasperated.

“I already told you, it’s not about Ginny, it’s me,” Potter says, his strong voice rising above the clamour.

“It can’t just be about you,” the Weasel insists. “My sister’s heart is broken. Don’t tell me this doesn’t affect her.”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t affect her,” Potter spits back. “I’m just saying she didn’t do anything. This break up is entirely on me. Ginny is great. She’s amazing. She should be with someone who can treat her right. Love her how she deserves.”

“So what, you suddenly don’t care about her?” 

“Of course I still care about her.”

“Then what’s the problem, Harry?”

“There is no problem, it’s just…aarrghhh…” He groans and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. Shakes his head. “Fuck it,” he finally exclaims. “You want to know why I broke up with her? I’ll show you why.” He stalks past the Weasel, his shoulder slamming into him, pushing him aside. Walks up to his sad looking ex-girlfriend, surrounded by supportive friends, and crouches down. Frowns at the others until they move back and give him the space he needs to speak to her, and only her.

He leans in and whispers in her ear. She backs up abruptly and looks at him. Her surprise evident. Her brows drawing together as she watches him stand up. His jaw is set and he has a determined look on his face as he strides across the Great Hall towards the Slytherin table.

I watch his approach with my heart in my throat. Because there’s no longer any doubt in my mind – I’m about to be implicated in one of Harry Potter’s ill-thought out schemes. He’s famous for them. For running head-first into situations without fucking thinking them through. Without considering the consequences. Without regard to—

“Malfoy, stand up,” Potter commands as he approaches, as if I’m some fucking minion he can order around.

I do it, of course. 

Immediately. 

I turn round on the bench – bumping into Theo – and rise to my feet, watching him in awe. Reverence. How can I not? He could be a commanding officer in an army, he speaks with such authority. Moves with such determination and purpose. 

He doesn’t say anything else. Just walks right up to me, grabs the front of my shirt with one hand and the back of my head with the other. Pulls me down, his lips crashing into mine. 

The Great Hall erupts.

I can’t be bothered to worry about it, because what Potter is doing here? It’s not just for show. It’s a real kiss. Filled with passion and desire and truth, and I cannot help but kiss him back. Wrap my arms around him and open my mouth to admit his tongue. Swallow his little groan of satisfaction.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” I mutter into his mouth.

He breaks off our kiss, looking at me as if I’m daft. “You’re only just figuring that out now?” he asks, his lips pulling up at the corners as his hand caresses my forearm before taking and clasping my hand.

I shrug, preparing to further insult him when the headmistress interrupts, her amplified voice accentuating the tightness in it. Her obvious stress. “Would all students please sit down immediately!” 

Potter looks undecided for a moment, attempting to determine if he should sit down immediately with me – at the Slytherin table – or go back and join the Gryffindors.

“Now,” McGonagall adds, and that decides him. He climbs over the bench and sits down at the Slytherin House table as if he owns the place, pulling me down with him. I exchange a rather pointed look with Theo, then watch the nervous activity at the head table as I properly seat myself between him and Potter. A thrill running through my body as the latter presses his thigh against mine.

“Something’s wrong,” I say.

“Something is definitely wrong,” Potter agrees, squeezing my hand. I can’t help feeling he already knows what it is. Is maybe the cause of it. 

“Silence!” the headmistress commands. 

It takes another moment or two, but the Great Hall quiets down and everyone looks to McGonagall, standing at the lectern, her hands clasped in front of her. She looks solemn. Like she has bad news.

Very bad news.

“I regret to inform you that our lockdown has failed,” she states. “The creature has found a way into the school.”

Eyes go wide. Students huddle and whispers abound.

I look at Potter. At the lack of expression or concern on his face. 

Professor McGonagall clears her throat, waiting until there’s silence before she continues. “Ernie Macmillan was found this morning in one of the tunnels connecting Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. He was…” she hesitates, her voice wavering. “It has been confirmed he was a victim of the creature that attacked Mr. Malfoy. That has been…eating the residents of Hogsmeade.” Her gaze passes over the four tables. “A search is ongoing to locate the whereabouts of two additional students from Ravenclaw House that have been reported missing. Luna Lovegood and Michael Corner.”

Silence abounds. 

No one says a word. No one moves as they absorb this new information. The reality that…the creature has access to the school.

“Until such time as we can determine how the creature has gained access to the school,” the headmistress goes on, “it will be necessary to send everyone home. Hogwarts is…not safe anymore. You are all to follow your prefects back to your houses and pack your trunks. The Hogwarts Express will be collecting you at noon.”

The student body stands up almost all at once, breaking out into frenzied – excited – conversations.

I let out a shaky breath and look at Potter sitting next to me. “Three?” I can’t help asking quietly. There’s much too much noise to worry about being overheard, anyway.

“I was hungry,” he replies nonchalantly, standing up and stretching. 

“Wasn’t Lovegood your friend?”

He grimaces slightly. “Yeah, but…” He rubs a hand over his mouth. Looks around to ensure we’re not overheard. “She could see things others couldn’t…” he tells me. “She knew I didn’t come back the same. She was…”

“A liability. I get it.” I stand up and hesitate. See McGonagall heading towards us. The sour expression on her face doing nothing to reassure me.

“Mr. Potter,” she starts, “if I may have a word with Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yeah, sure,” he nods to McGonagall, and then to me says, “I’ll catch up with you later?” 

Just as I’m about to respond in the affirmative, I see the headmistress shaking her head. “I’m afraid there will be no ‘later,’” she informs us. “You see, Mr. Malfoy is still on probation…”

Bloody fucking hell.

I should have fucking known that just when something good happens to me – when I finally have Potter by my side and he wants me just as much as I fucking want him, despite the fact he’s some cannibalistic monster and I just don’t fucking give a shit because I have him – that something will come along and fuck it all up. I feel the room start to spin. Lift my hands to my head and push on my forehead, as if trying to steady myself. Stumble back and attempt to sit down on the bench, but miss it, falling to the floor.

“Malfoy?” Potter cries out, reaching down to take my elbow and help me up. His voice sounds far away. Or maybe underwater. And though I can feel him holding me…it’s like I’m watching him trying to steady some other Draco Malfoy.

Not me.

Because why would I ever get what I want? Why would I ever get to keep it?

“Aurors will be along shortly to escort you to Azkaban,” McGonagall continues, “where you will serve the remainder of your sentence.” No sooner than she says it, I see two red-robed aurors making their way through the throngs of students.

“How the fuck are they already here?” Potter exclaims, which is exactly what I’m thinking.

The headmistress sighs, explaining, “They were here owing to the disappearances.” Which are technically Potter’s fault. But I digress. I look at him, speechless. I don’t even know what to think, let alone say.

“I’ll talk to the Wizengamot,” he assures me. “I’ll get you out again.”

“It won’t work this time, Potter,” I tell him despondently. Reaching up and running my fingers through his thick hair, trying to memorise the feeling of it. “It’s a conflict of interest now,” I point out, leaning down and kissing him. Storing each and every little nuance and sensation of his whiskers, his lips, and his tongue so I can recall them from my cell. “Do something for me?” I ask.

“Anything,” he replies, reaching up and pushing my hair back behind my ear. Grasping the back of my head as he looks deeply into my eyes. 

Fuck me. 

I’ve wanted him to look at me like this my whole fucking life. I commit to memory the mossy green of his eyes. The way they pick up the light. The different shades within them. The smudges on his glasses creating a slightly blurred effect.

It’s beautiful.

He’s beautiful.

A beautiful monster.

“Be careful,” I tell him seriously, leaning my forehead against his. Relishing the feel of his hand as it slides around my waist. “I expect you to be waiting for me when I get out.”

Chapter Text

I stand waiting impatiently. Watching the bartender flirt with two scantily clad women at the other end of the counter while he’s supposed to be pouring my pints.

Fucking muggle pub. I fucking hate this place. Not because it’s muggle…but because it’s a dirty cesspool of sticky floors and less-than-clean glasses that Harry insists adds to its charm. I’m not fucking sure what charm he’s talking about. I’m convinced we’re going to walk out of here with listeria or E. coli one day.

But.

It’s Harry’s birthday and he wanted to come, so I’m risking infection and putting up with his arsehole friends.

He’d better fucking appreciate it.

The bartender looks at me and dips his chin, at least acknowledging that he’s left me waiting. Finally pours two pints of Guinness and brings them over to me. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate, I got a little distracted.”

I look over at the women sipping their spritzers, giggling and looking altogether ridiculous. Look back at the bartender. “You could do better,” I tell him, sliding a note across the bar to cover the stout and tip, before taking the two pints and making my way back to our table.

“Thanks, Love,” Harry says as I place the glasses on the table, a hint of something in his voice. Levity?

I stop in my tracks. Look at him. “What did you just call me?”

The table bursts out laughing. “I told you,” Harry exclaims. “No terms of endearment under any circumstances.” 

“So what do you call him?” the swot asks.

“Draco,” Harry replies, squeezing my thigh affectionately as soon as I’ve sat down. “That’s it.” He gives me a look filled with appreciation. Desire. Penitence. I practically melt. Want nothing more than to drag him to the toilets and fuck him. And he knows it. He’s doing it on purpose. Knows I hate his friends laughing at my expense.

Well, I hate his friends full stop.

He knows that, too.

“I dunno, it seems a little sad,” Longbottom declares thoughtfully into his drink. “I can’t imagine not expressing how I feel about my partner.”

“We fucking know, Longbottom,” I reply. He started calling Pansy ‘his little flower’ even before they started dating. By the time I got out of Azkaban, she was completely fucking besotted with him. All because he gave her flowers and treated her like a delicate blossom, or some fucking nonsense.

Fortunately, Pansy managed to avoid tonight’s festivities. I’m not sure she’d have survived the location. Or that Longbottom would have survived taking her somewhere so fucking filthy.

“But there’s got to be some circumstance in which you’d consider using an affectionate nickname?” the swot persists.

“For an adult? No,” I shake my head adamantly. “Proper names only.”

“What about for a child, then?” the Weasel pipes in. 

It’s rare he addresses me directly – I think he hates me almost as much as I hate him. I narrow my eyes and take a sip of Guinness, considering. “Yeah, I guess that would be okay,” I finally agree.

Everyone looks at me in surprise.

“Did your parents never use any pet names for you – or with each other?” Harry asks, running his hand along my shoulder and rubbing my upper back.

“No,” I reply. “Not for me…never around me.”

“Well, I hardly ever call the children by their proper names,” the swot declares. “Nicknames, pet names…full proper names only when we’re somewhere formal or they’re about to do something they shouldn’t.”

“Speaking of the kids,” the Weasel interjects, looking at his watch. “We’ve got to get back soon to relieve the babysitter.”

“But it’s still early,” Harry exclaims in what’s bordering on a whinge.

“It’s a weeknight,” the swot reminds him. “Some of us have jobs.”

“I have a job,” Harry replies, sounding completely insulted. 

“‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’ doesn’t count,” I remind him with a smirk. He goes to reply, but I interrupt him, adding, “Nor does ‘Slayer of Voldemort,’”

He huffs, his breath making his fringe rise.

The swot stands up, saying, “Honestly, Harry, a week doesn’t go by without someone asking why you aren’t an auror. The DMLE would give you a job in an instant.” 

Harry sits up a little straighter. “Really?”

“Really,” she confirms, looking down at him indulgently. 

“Yeah,” the Weasel adds. “Even with your ex-con boyfriend.”

I scowl, preparing to respond, but stop when Harry squeezes my shoulder in warning. I keep my mouth shut but mentally Avada the fucker.

“It’s true,” she goes on. “You make people feel safe, and we could really use that right now, considering all these disappearances.” She shakes her head. “The department could definitely use you,” she concludes.

“Hogwarts, too,” Longbottom pipes up. “McGonagall would fall all over herself to give you the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts.” 

“It’s nice to know I have options,” Harry tells them, sliding his hand up my neck, rubbing it with his thumb. To anyone else it would seem an affectionate gesture, but I know better. It’s a warning.

To shut up.

I gulp the rest of my Guinness and look at him. “We should go, too,” I tell him. “I haven’t given you your present yet.”

“Oh fuck,” the Weasel moans. “It’s not what I think it is, is it?”

“I assure you, it’s not,” I reply, barely bothering to look at the arsehole. I really can’t stand him. Never warmed up to him. Besides, ever since Harry broke up with his cunt of a sister, he’s been weird about us. Weird about me. He eventually accepted the fact Harry is gay, but never that he wanted to be with me.

“I should go, too,” Longbottom declares. “I have a shrub that needs repotting by the light of dawn.” I give the herbology professor a scrutinising look. Attempt to do so from an unbiased perspective. He’s not bad looking. Quite fit from all the dirt and literal shit he shovels in the greenhouses…notwithstanding, I still don’t understand what Pansy sees in him. He’s so wholesome. So meek. And she is…not.

We collectively get up and start making our way towards the exit. Harry takes my hand, intertwining our fingers and giving me a little squeeze. I know what it means. He’s thanking me for putting up with his friends. For keeping my comments to myself.

Once out on the street we head towards the Leaky Cauldron, and from there the public apparition point on Diagon Alley. We get into queue — why the fuck are there so many people on a weeknight? — and the inevitable happens.

“Excuse me, are you Harry Potter?” a young woman asks.

Harry takes a deep breath and turns us both around – I’ve got to give him credit. He never tries to distance himself from me. Never tries to pretend we aren’t together. He owns it. Puts it in people’s faces. 

“I am,” he smiles in that charming and disarming way of his, and launches into a conversation with the girl and her group of friends.

It’s the reason people love him. 

I mean, besides the fact he killed Voldemort. He’s just so good with people. So at ease. So willing to drop everything he’s doing and have an actual – meaningful – interaction with them. But tonight something’s different. One girl peels off from the crowd and stands in front of me. Staring.

“You’re the Death Eater, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Whatever gave that away?” I reply snidely. It is summer, after all. I’m wearing short sleeves and my Dark Mark is on open display. It’s pretty fucking obvious.

She narrows her eyes. “How did you do it?” 

“Do what?” I sneer.

“How did someone so incredibly awful manage to convince Harry Potter to date him?” 

I feel myself tense. Suck my teeth and hiss, “Did you ever stop to think that maybe your hero isn’t so—”

Harry clears his throat loudly. Brings my hand – still clasped in his own – up to his mouth and kisses the back of it, saying, “He’s an acquired taste, that’s for sure. But I like someone who challenges me and keeps me on my toes.” He cocks his head and looks at me appraisingly. “It also doesn’t hurt that he’s particularly easy on the eyes,” he laughs, and just like that all the tension is gone. He signs a few autographs and the group moves off, chatting excitedly about their brush with fame.

“You’re really going to fucking owe me after tonight, you know that, right?” I glance at him from the side, no longer able to contain my irritation. 

“I do,” he replies, taking my other hand and pulling me in front of him. He looks up and kisses me gently, trailing his fingers up my arm. “I’ll spend my entire life repaying you,” he whispers into my mouth, then kisses me again. “Loving you.” Another kiss. “Worshipping you.” 

“Alright, alright,” I interrupt, backing away. “Let’s not get too carried away.”

“I do, you know. Worship you,” Harry insists, the look on his face…entirely sincere.

Fuck, I love him so fucking much.

“Why don’t we reserve such sentiments for after I give you your birthday present, eh?” I suggest. Tugging on his hand and steering him towards the apparition point. 

“Home?” he asks, preparing to side-along me.

“No,” I shake my head, sliding my hand in my pocket and touching my wand. “Malfoy Manor,” I declare, apparating us to just outside the manor’s gates.

“What are we doing here?” Harry asks, his hand tightening on mine. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. To take in the dark hulking skeletal mass of the manor’s charred remains silhouetted against the moonlight. I don’t come here often. Rather, I actively avoid it. 

Have done since I got out of Azkaban.

It was too late by then, anyway.

My mother had completely lost her mind. Lit the manor on fire, and burned herself with it. It is, for all intents and purposes, her burial ground, and I can’t fucking stand to be near it.

“We’re not going to the manor,” I tell Harry, tugging him through the gates and the heavy wards meant to keep, well, everyone out. “We’re going to the caretaker’s cottage,” I inform him, heading towards the forest beyond the formerly manicured grounds. Now they’re overgrown. Neglected.

“Draco, what kind of birthday present are you giving me?” he asks, the worry evident in his voice.

“Just wait,” I say. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

“I’d like to understand now,” he retorts, using the commanding voice everyone in the entire fucking wizarding world has learned to obey. 

Except me.

The only time I obey Harry – that voice – is when we’re fucking.

“Don’t want to ruin the surprise,” I insist, pulling him through the darkness. He sighs in exasperation, but follows in silence. 

It doesn’t take long to reach the cottage – it’s just beyond the treeline of the ground’s forests. There’s a faint light in the front window making it easy to spot. I walk up to the door and whisper a quick Alohomora. Push it open and hold it for Harry, watching him intently as he enters.

He hears it immediately. A low whimpering. Looks at me and asks, “What is that?” His tone – his face – alert.

“It’s your present,” I tell him simply, making my way towards the oil lamp on the windowsill and turning it up. Illuminating the small interior of the cottage and its simple furnishings. The man on the floor, gagged and trussed up like a pig. I walk over and nudge him with my foot, turning him over.

“I don’t understand,” Harry breathes. Watching the man carefully. Looking up at me in confusion.

“I thought we’d try something different,” I inform him matter-of-factly, walking to a small table and digging through the satchel I’d previously left there, finding a Pepper-Up potion. I turn and lean back, half sitting. “Instead of me coming along after the fact and cleaning up all of your messes…creating all of those…disappearances…” I pause and look at him meaningfully. “I figured I’d flip things around and clean-up beforehand.” I can’t stop grinning. “I present to you, your dinner. Happy birthday, Harry.”

Harry’s breath catches as he looks at the man on the floor, then up at me. “I don’t understand,” he breathes. 

“I Imperiused him to follow me and do whatever I told him,” I explain. “Which included telling me anyone and everyone who might notice he’d gone missing. I’ve already Confunded or Obliviated his friends and family. They won’t miss him for ages, if ever.”

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you did that, Draco…”

“I’d do anything for you, you know that,” I say simply.

“I do know,” he nods and closes the space between us, grabbing me by the back of my head and kissing me desperately. Passionately. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he breathes, then kisses me again, his other hand wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer.

“What makes you think you’re deserving of anything?” I sigh, dropping the potion on the table and running my hands through his hair, tugging at it. “How do you know I’m not your punishment?”

He pulls away at that and looks at me. His eyes bouncing back and forth between my own. “If you’re my punishment for being bad, Draco, then I don’t ever want to be good,” he declares, leaning back in and pulling my mouth to his.

“You’d better not,” I reply, kissing him hard, my hands cupping his jaw.

Harry reaches down and begins unfastening my belt. “Can I have a little appetiser before dinner?” he asks, sliding his hand into my trousers.

“Absolutely,” I reply, already feeling breathless. Already hard. “But first…” I push him away, my hand trailing down his chest. He looks at me, confused. “...we should give this tasty morsel a head start,” I explain. I pick up the Pepper-Up potion and push off the table. Move next to the man – Geoffrey was his name – and crouch down. I pull out his gag and grab a fistful of hair. “You’re going to drink this bottle,” I tell him. “It’ll give you energy.”

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” he whinges. “Please, let me go.”

“We’ll give you a chance,” I tell him. “A head start. The possibility of escape.”

“Of escaping what?” he cries out.

I lick my lips, enjoying this way too much.

“You see that man back there?” I ask, gesturing towards Harry. “He’s going to chase you down. Rip you apart, and eat you.” The man’s eyes go wide. “Unless you escape, of course. You’ll have to run really fast.”

“You’re not serious,” Geoffrey whimpers. “It’s not possible…”

“Oh I assure you, it’s quite possible. Now,” I go on, unstoppering the bottle. “Drink up.” I hold the bottle to Geoffrey’s mouth and force him to drink the potion. Untie his binds, and give him a moment to rub the feeling back into his limbs. For the potion to take effect. “Now then,” I say. “Run.”

He looks at me, his eyes wide.

“Run!” I repeat, and he bolts. Stands up and runs out the door and into the forest.

“Could he actually escape?” Harry asks, approaching me. Hunger in his eyes.

“Nah,” I shake my head. “He’d never get through the wards.”

“Then why…”

“To give him hope. To make him run faster. To make it more fun for you,” I say with a shrug.

“I still can’t believe you did this,” Harry says, pushing me back against the wall, his hand sliding back into my pants. Rubbing my cock. 

“It was your birthday,” I say simply as his hand reaches deeper, circling my rim.

“Yeah, but…I was expecting maybe quidditch tickets,” he whispers into my neck. “I never imagined…” He kisses just below my ear before muttering a lubrication charm and inserting his finger into my arse. Begins pumping it in and out.

“Ngh, don’t think this was just for you,” I tell him, holding on to his hair as he kisses and licks my neck. “This saves me a lot of trouble…nngghh…no need to figure out who your victims are…track down their families…friends…jobs…oh fuck, Harry, please tell me you’re going to properly fuck me…”

“You couldn’t stop me,” he replies, pulling his hand out of my trousers and roughly pushing them down. He grasps my hips and turns me around, pushing me roughly against the wall, pinning me from behind, kissing my neck and caressing my arse before he backs up and I hear the zip of his trousers. Feel his dripping cock against my buttock. Tracing my crack. Nudging — pushing — into my anus.

“Oh fuck, yes,” I breathe as Harry forces himself into me and begins rolling his hips. Pounding his pelvis against my arse. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been together. How often he fucks me. Every single time I’m grateful. In awe that Harry fucking Potter has chosen to debase himself with the likes of me. To bestow his affections on me. To share his deepest secrets with me. His deepest shame. His deepest weakness.

His breath catches behind me. Deepens. Becomes more laboured. 

He starts panting. 

His thrusts become desperate. Rough. His grip on my hips excruciating. His claws piercing my skin. Drawing blood.

He snorts into my neck, covering me with spittle. His glasses fall off, and clatter to the floor. I feel – sense – the shift in his height. As the angle of his cock changes and he can no longer penetrate me fully without ripping me in half.

The thought of him behind me in full creature form, his massive cock, those magnificent antlers, his powerful body, puts me over the edge. I brace myself against the wall, breathing deeply and come all over my leg.

“Harry,” I breathe. Desperate for him to finish on me. To finish me. I don’t care. 

He rubs his cock against me, all along my arse, back and forth. Bellows and then climaxes. His cum landing hot and sticky against my arse. The backs of my legs. 

I turn around and he pushes me against the wall. His clawed hand piercing my shoulder. His dark green eyes peering into my own. He leans down and drags his tongue up my neck. Over my chin. Across my mouth. 

I reach up and run my hand along his jawline. Over his chewed lips. “Go get him,” I breathe, and then he’s gone.

-

I take a deep breath. Pull out my wand and cast a few healing charms on myself, closing the wounds on my shoulder and hips.

I’ve gotten good at healing spells.

Researched the best charms and potions.

I’ve had to.

-

I walk outside and sit down on the bench just outside the cottage’s door, lean my head back, close my eyes and listen.

I hear the sounds of the forest at night. 

The wind blowing and rustling the leaves. The gurgling of a stream not too far off. The crickets and katydids. The odd yelp of a fox, and something else I can’t identify. And the screams of Geoffrey as Harry finds and eats him.

After a few minutes everything goes silent. The screams, as well as the sounds of the animals and insects. All that’s left are the sounds of the water and wind.

It’s peaceful.

Serene.

I sit and enjoy the relative silence. Only open my eyes when I hear footsteps. Attempt to discern the exact location they’re coming from. 

I’m close.

Harry emerges from the forest only a few feet from where I think he will. He looks otherworldly. His hard body angular and casting deep shadows in the moonlight. His face, chest and arms covered with blood.

I uncross my legs and stretch my arms along the back of the bench, waiting for him. Watching him. Appreciating him. Pull his glasses out of my pocket and hand them over once he’s close enough, asking, “How was he?”

“He was good,” he replies, licking his lips. Takes his glasses but doesn’t put them on. Instead, he bends over me, grabbing a fistful of my hair, pulling me up to his mouth, kissing me forcefully. Slides his hand to the back of my head while his tongue probes my mouth. Veers off and licks clean the blood he’s spread on my face. Licks along my jawline to just below my ear where he whispers seductively, “But nobody compares to you, Draco. Nobody tastes half as good.” His hands slide down my chest to my cock, and rubs. “How about dessert? Can I have just a little taste?” he asks.

My heart rate picks up. Begins pounding in my chest and in my ears. 

“You don’t have to ask,” I tell him breathlessly. Desperate to feel his teeth on my skin. To give this to him. Something only I can give.

My flesh.

My body.

Given to him freely.

With love.

“You’re so good to me,” he purrs, his teeth grazing against my neck. My collarbone. He sinks down to his knees and unfastens my trousers. I lift my arse, allowing him to pull them and my pants down to my ankles. He spreads my knees apart and leans in, licking along the crease of my groin. Trails his tongue – his teeth – along my upper thigh, while his fingers trace the length of my hardening cock.

I run my fingers through his thick hair and prepare myself. Steel myself for what’s to come. He kisses the soft skin of my inner thigh. Rubs his nose against it. Unforgivingly grasps my outer thighs, then groans with desire and bites into me. Forcing his teeth through my flesh before pulling away and sitting back on his heels. He closes his eyes and chews slowly, humming.

Moaning. 

Savouring my taste.

He only opens his eyes once he’s swallowed. Looks up at me through his eyelashes, squinting slightly – taking me in with his imperfect vision. “One more?” he asks, his hand travelling up and down my thigh. His thumb gently caressing my knee.

“You don’t have to ask,” I remind him, taking in a ragged breath. Watch him as he dips his chin and leans back over me. Takes my cock in his mouth and sucks. Drags his tongue along the length of it before moving back to my thigh and licking my wound. Enlarging it with another bite. 

I cry out in something between pain and pleasure as his hand glides back up to my cock. His thumb circles my glans and pushes against the tip of it. Rubbing the slit on it roughly. Once he’s finished chewing, he replaces his hand with his mouth. Moaning with need and desire. For me. For my cock. 

For my flesh.

He stops at two bites, though I know it takes an immense amount of control – of willpower – for him to do so. It always does. He always struggles. Between his love and desire for me, and his constant desperate need to consume my body. To tear it apart. Devour it.

Devour me.

I know it’ll happen one day. 

He’ll lose control – even just for a minute – and go too far. Take one bite too many. Too close to an artery. Damage an organ I can’t repair.

I’ve accepted it.

I expect it.

He’ll kill me one day.

I know he will.

But it’s the price I’m willing to pay to be with him now. The risk I’ve accepted by loving a monster.