Disclaimer: Characters, settings, themes, etc. from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I make no profit from the writing or sharing of this story.
DRACO
Draco was bred for darkness, but every day he sits in it, wallows in its waste and regrets having even a taste of it.
Here—in this room—he can forget. He doesn't have to remember the death on his hands or the stains on his soul.
No—here, he gets to fly.
Harry mentioned this place, this practice, in one of his ramblings before—well, before—and he was intrigued enough to look it up, seek it out. Here Draco never chooses. That's part of the beauty in it.
He sits in the dark for an hour, letting his mind wander. It always strays too far—so far he can't reel it in—and that's when he steps forward. The rough hands on his neck are shocking, but he likes the way they compress him, make him something less than he feels he should be.
They start easy. His biceps are bound in a cage, then wrapped around behind his back. A similar bit of knotwork forms on his calves and he shivers against the rope before fluttering his eyes at the man he never sees.
When he's maneuvered to his belly, arms and legs brought up behind him, he feels his weight sink painfully into his joints.
Then comes nothing. There's no tingling at the loss of sensation or hardening of his cock. Instead, Draco feels only a loss of pressure, of choice.
He doesn't know how long he spins in that room. He doesn't know how long the tear streaks up his forehead until it spills to the floor.
What he knows is when he's released, the marks in his skin stay. He doesn't spell them away or take potions for the ache he'll feel later.
What he knows is that walking back through that door means feeling the pressure and—some days—he'd rather freefall in the darkness.