This one will be unpleasant, and is currently unfinished. New chapters will be added (to this post) whenever I get them written/typed. This is kind of a dark story, so be prepared.

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He dug his teeth in, tasting blood, drowning in the pained noises the body beneath him was making. He shoved thighs apart roughly, stretching them until the muscles screamed in protest. Smiling cruelly, he shoved into his partner- no preparation, no lube, nothing to ease the way. As the body whimpered beneath him, he licked a stripe across the bruised shoulders, tasting salt and fear, before setting up a punishing pace.

"Is this how you want it, you filthy whore?" He grunted out, slamming into the still body, so rough it made his thighs ache on impact.

The body, out of self-preservation, stayed silent. Needing more struggle, more resistance, he wrapped his hands around the pale neck, still bruised from his previous mistreatment. He squeezed tightly, strong fingers overlapping, the shallow gasps coming from his victim spurring him on, pushing him closer, until, as the life started to fade from those empty grey eyes, he came. Groaning, he bit his partner on the jaw, marking him, his hips thrusting roughly. With a pained spasm, the body came too, knowing the consequences of not finishing on command. With a luxurious stretch, he pushed off from the body, releasing its tortured throat. He gestured at his softening cock, still damp and shining with his own release.

"Suck it clean," he directed, forcing the body to its knees. Without a flinch or sound of protest, that talented tongue covered his cock, complacently doing as it had done so many times before. When he was satisfied his point had been made, he pulled it away with a fistful of hair. With a look of disinterest, he began inspecting his partner's wounds. His fingers pressed cruelly into the wounded flesh, pressing it into discoloration, begging for a reaction. The body at his mercy didn't respond, having learned long ago not to react to his teasing torments. Smart. He chuckled, though it wasn't a pretty sound. He ran his fingers over the blank face in mocked tenderness, then pressed his fingers roughly into the newest bite-mark he'd inflicted. The body flinched before it could stop itself, its expression travelling from pained to fearful to resigned.

"You should be thanking me," he demanded coldly, as his fist connected with those tired eyes. "Thank me. You needed it."

The broken voice whispered as instructed, "Thank you. I needed it. Thank you."

He tossed the body to the floor, turning his back. "Now get out. I've had enough of you." He didn't bother to watch as his 'lover' pulled on a threadbare cloak, the figure cowering and averting its eyes. There was no need to guard his back against something so broken, so hopeless. He allowed himself a chuckle as it limped out the door, not once looking back.

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Draco limped his way back to the dungeons, beaten and world-weary. His vision fogged and warped, leaving him leaning heavily on walls and banisters for support, his voice sounding faint and distant as he whispered the passcode to the dungeons. He slid through the common room, up the stairs, and had almost made it to his room when he fell heavily, landing roughly on the cold cobblestones. He lay there for a full twenty minutes before they found him.

"Draco?" Pansy asked softly, dropping to her knees beside him and reaching a hand towards his shoulder. He let out a small groan in answer, and she muffled a sob. "We'll help you," she promised, petting his back soothingly before slipping away to fetch Blaise. Between the two of them, they got him into his room and closed the door. Without comment, Blaise helped him stand, a silent support whilst Pansy removed his cloak and helped him into his pajamas. They laid him out on his bed, mindful of his pain, and Pansy bit her lip. "It's... really bad this time, love. Please… Are you sure we can't take you to Pomfrey, or McGonagall? Snape? Please?"

Draco shook his head tiredly. "It doesn't matter. Could you just... Will you hand me that jar?" He indicated a crème on his nightstand, the slight movements of the gesture making him hiss his agony. Pansy reached for it and unscrewed the lid, dabbing it on his cuts as she always did, her touch gentle and practiced.

"Can we at least cast some healing charms?" She pleaded, as she always did, and as always, he refused, saying, "I can only use Muggle things. He finds the irony fitting, you see."

Pansy choked out a sob when she saw his neck, paler than ever and marked with dark handprints. "One of these days he's going to kill you!" She whispered, smoothing her hands over his blonde locks the way his mother had as a child, in a way that promised to chase the nightmares away.

Draco looked up at her brokenly. "What can I do? He saved us all. I owe him."

Blaise handed him some aspirin, then a hand-held mirror, face serious with concerns. As Draco examined the damage- blacked eye, broken skin from biting, dark bruises everywhere- that he would cover with a glamour the next day, Blaise shook his head.

"We owe him nothing. He's become worse than the monster he conquered. You may have owed him once. Now, he just owns you."

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He walked down the hallway, people turning to greet him with respectful, if not very enthused, nods. That was alright- as long as they knew their place, he didn't care about their enthusiasm. He'd long since learned the lesson Voldemort preached- It's better to be feared than loved- making it his own practice, a final salute to his worthy opponent. He owned this place now, owned this world, and he would have respect where due.

Passing students in Muggle clothing- after the war, he had adjusted the dress code, the first of many things he'd changed- he entered the Great Hall. He did so just as Draco and his friends were leaving, and felt a burst of vindictive pleasure as they stepped aside for him to pass, eyes averted passively. His pleasure sparked again when, looking back, he saw Draco limping painfully, swatting his friends away when they offered support. He always tried his hardest to break his favorite toy, just as Draco's side of the war had once tried to break him.

It seemed only fitting that it was so.

Satisfied and self-righteous, he approached the Gryffindor table with confidence. The other students rushed to clear him a spot, brushing crumbs from his seat, which he sat in, exuding smug superiority. At once, the other Gryffindors began to offer him heaping trays of treacle tart- his favorite dish, now served at every meal- and a nervous-looking third year passed him a bottle of Butterbeer. He shot her a look of cool disgust, and she hastened to open it for him. He kept his gaze on her until she burst into frightened tears, terrified in the face of his disappointment.

As her friends led her away, sobbing, he looked around in satisfaction. He then dug into his meal, classmates hovering, waiting for him to need something, anything. He ate, filled with a sense of smugness.
Everything was different now.

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