A/N: Somewhat inspired by an episode of Fullmetal Alchemist.

None of them satisfied him.

They were all flawless carbon copies; Polyjuiced to perfection. The hair, the skin, the eyes. If they were particularly good, Harry could almost forget that they weren't him.

Almost.

None of them were as poised; none possessed that nearly effeminate grace. None made love in quite the same way. And the voices -- Harry didn't let them speak. His beautiful lips parting to release such plebian tones was blasphemy.

He didn't know where Snape got the hairs and he didn't care to ask. He didn't want to hear Snape tell him that Draco's body was being defiled for his selfish pleasure. It Snape didn't tell him, though, he couldn't be held responsible. Flawed logic, he knew, but it kept him sane.

Snape had been loyal to the Dark Lord, and though Harry knew the man wouldn't actively work to overthrow him (Harry gave him everything he asked for in exchange for his skills, he wasn't about to give that up), he wasn't exactly leaping to do his bidding, either. He was a shrewd man; he knew how important he was, and he knew that Harry knew that he knew. Snape got the hairs and made the potion. Harry could trust no one else to that task. No one else could get the hairs or make the potion.

It was Pettigrew, however, who was in charge of the abduction of the victims. He was ordinary, forgettable, and because of his years spent as a rat in the seedier parts of London, was well suited to suck a task. Peter had no idea what they were used for, of course; he just went out every couple of days and brought back prisoners. Usually it was a whore or an orphan, one who wouldn't be missed. Not like it mattered -- male or female, eighty or eight, the Polyjuice took care of all that.

Harry didn't see the prisoners before they transformed, and he took great care to keep it that way. He took his playthings and used them 'til they broke; he had no desire for anything more. That's what he told himself, anyway. Another feeble attempt at holding on to his sanity.

Harry sighed. That had been particularly dissatisfying. He grimaced at the body slumped on the floor. Probably another orphan, he thought. He would have to have a talk with Pettigrew, he was getting lazy.

Harry kneeled down and ran his fingers through the platinum-blonde hair, tinged pink at one temple. No, he mused. No more orphans.

"Are you sure it's safe to go to the City, Leader? They say the Boy Who Lived is doing some sort of urban... purification of the streets. What if you get arrested?"

"Don't criticize, Greengrass. If he says he knows that he's doing, he knows what he's doing. Or do you think you know better?" spat Pansy.

"I never said I know what I'm doing," Draco said calmly. Pansy threw him an exasperated look. "It's okay. I do have a plan," he chuckled. The young girl didn't look relieved at her leader's easy nature. Draco was upset. He was trying, damn it, the little bint could at least pretend to be reassured. Draco clicked his tongue impatiently. "What are you supposed to be doing, Greengrass?"

The girl started at his curt tone. "Mr. Snape is here for you, Sir," she answered. Draco turned and strode quickly from the room as Pansy berated the young recruit for not being prompt with important information. The heavy door swung shut after him, mercifully cutting off Pansy's shrill voice.

"Severus, to what do I owe this honor?" Draco greeted the older man in a polite and interested, if slightly cool, tone.

"I'm sure you've heard what the Boy is up to lately?" Snape cut to the chase.

"The Urban-Renewal Act? Cleansing of the streets? Further browbeating of the masses?"

Snape gave him a tight smile. "I remember a time when you weren't so adverse to such a concept."

"That was before I was a part of them."

"Indeed." Snape picked a piece of imaginary lint from his cloak. "I hear you're planning a visit to the City?"

"I am."

"I suppose it's too much to hope for that you would share further details?"

"Why do you even ask me such a question, Severus?"

Snape sighed. "Well then."

The two stared at each other; Republic to Resistance, Godfather to Godson, enemy to enemy.

"A trade."

"The reason behind the Boy's sudden resentment of the common man," stated Draco.

"What you could possibly think to accomplish by visiting the City," answered Snape.

"No."

Snape sighed and looked at Draco with what could only be described as regret. Regret for Draco's unwillingness to comply or for something else entirely, Draco could not tell. "Well then," he said again, reaching forward to shake Draco's hand. At the last second, he jerked his hand up to the top of the younger boy's head and pulled out a number of silvery hairs.

"Fuck! What the bloody hell d'you--"

"Obliviate!"

Draco blinked, unconsciously scratching his head. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If you are not even inclined to have the good grace to pay attention--"

"Never mind! Merlin, I feel like I'm back in class."

Snape sighed; it was a common theme during these burdensome visits to the Malfoy boy. "High up in the Glorious Republic as I am," he said sarcastically, "I am not privy to all of the Boy's inner workings. All I know of the Act is that large teams of Aurors have been dispatched. All they've been doing so far is throw whores and other vagabonds into jail. What the long-term plans are, I do not know." With that, Snape turned and strode from the room, leaving Draco with much to think about.

Draco decided to walk to the City. It was only a few days away. That's what he told Pansy when she asked why in the blue blazes he would want to do a thing like that when he could just as bloody well Apperate. What he didn't tell her was that he wanted time to think of a plan. After his meeting with Severus he thought his old one needed some revision. Of course, he couldn't tell the woman that. She would have chained him to the ground if she knew he was walking into the heart of the enemy without so much as a vague concept of what needed to be done.

"Why are you even going?" she had asked. He couldn't give her an answer.

Now that he was in prison, Draco knew going into the City in order to be arrested was a bad plan. Stupid, reckless. He couldn't help but think it was something Harry would have done.

That thought gave Draco respite from his inner conflicts. Not even the most critical voice in his head could argue against that; and if it was something Harry would have done, Draco felt he owed it to him to find the courage in himself to see it through. And that's why Draco didn't feel quite as bad as he would have; sitting in this cell, starving with at least twenty other prisoners, some of which had been there over a week with no sign of being fed. Draco had only been there a day. Looking at them made Draco feel better about his own situation. In a guilty sort of way, of course.

"Hey," he said to the young, sickly-thin girl next to him.

"Hey what, pretty boy?"

Draco was momentarily bemused; no one had ever referred to him as 'pretty boy' before. He wondered if the girl was a whore. "Just trying to make conversation, is all," he replied.

"Yeah, well, didn't do a very good job at it, did you?"

After a few more minutes of relative silence, Draco couldn't take it anymore. "What's going to happen to us?" he asked, not directing it at the girl but rather at anyone who might have an idea. Apparently, quite a few of them did.

"The Republic's goin'a torture us; they tink we's Resistance spies--"

"No, we're just here because the Boy, may he live forever, doesn't want us dirtying up his streets--"

"Oh, shut your trap, you dumb sod! Think if he was so good, he'd leave us starvin' in here?"

Draco stopped listening. As if he'd find anything out from prison gossip. He stared blankly at the opposite wall where one of the inmates was busy scrawling The Dark Lord Lives, using something that definitely wasn't ink. Draco shook his head. Loonies, he thought. All of them. He always wondered why his father had hated commoners so much. Draco himself always thought they were amusing, but now he saw - they were loonies, the lot of them. Draco hoped they wouldn't kill him for food while he slept.

Rough hands shook him awake. Well, it was more of a pulling than a shaking, really. It seemed as though he was being pulled bodily from the cell, and his waking was a secondary consequence. He was dragged down a hallway, up some stairs, and into another room. He didn't have the strength to try and stand; being dragged was easier. The room he was now in was a vast improvement from his previous accommodations. A four-poster bed in the center of the room was draped in more red silk than you could shake a stick at. A large ornamental fireplace, carved ivory it looked like, stood empty. On a small mahogany desk sat a smoking goblet.

"Drink that," said the man who had dragged him from the cell.

"And if I don't?" Draco asked defiantly.

"The Boy'll kill you," he said gruffly and walked out. Draco heard the click of the lock.

He looked in the goblet, wondering what was in it. He had excelled in Potions class (admittedly, having a Master as a Godfather had helped a bit), but it had been years since Hogwarts, and he was rather out of practice. Banking on the fact that Harry would be rather surprised at seeing Draco sitting in his bedchamber after all these years, and not quite murderous, Draco let the potion sit and laid down on the bed. Down mattress, he thought vaguely. Nice.

Not ten minutes later the door opened again, admitting a face Draco could never forget. The scar, the blazing eyes, the exact same shade of green he remembered, the crook in his nose from where Draco had accidentally hit him with his foot the first time they made love. The blonde boy's heart leapt into his throat and he couldn't speak. Which was rather unfortunate, as it had been his only chance.

"Silencio! There, don't want you ruining the moment, now do we? Now get undressed."

Draco stared at him blankly. What the hell was going on??

Harry made a low, impatient noise in the back of his throat and Draco felt himself hardening. "Never mind, I'll do it myself." With a quick spell, his clothes seemed to turn to liquid, slithering off his body. It was a strangely arousing sensation. Harry raised an eyebrow. "It's nice you're so happy to see me," he said. "I don't get that much these days. Good to be appreciated." He pointed his wand at Draco, who was still on the bed. Grey ropes burst from the tip and tied him to the bed. Draco couldn't talk and couldn't move, and soon gave up trying. He was just too tired. Tired from lack of sleep, lack of food. Tired of life. He closed his eyes seconds before Harry slammed into him. Draco screamed, from shock, and mostly just from pain, but, of course, no sound came out. Harry wasn't using any lubrication. Added to the fact that Draco hadn't had sex in years, and Draco was in considerable pain. He bucked wildly, trying to lesson the impact, but it was too much. It was overwhelming. In his last moments of consciousness Draco remembered the man from the prison cell and his warning scrawled across the wall.

Draco finally understood. But strangely, he could think of no other way he'd rather die.

Harry smirked. That was one of the best he'd had in years. He knew the Urban-Renewal Act was a good idea.

Snape sighed as he carried out the body, momentarily cursing his skill with potions. No one else could get rid of the bodies because no one else but himself could know that the Boy Who Lived was illegally morphing prisoners and raping them. Accidentally bumping the desk, Snape managed to stop the goblet before it spilled. Frowning, he looked at the very full goblet sitting on the desk, then back at the very Malfoy body lying at his feet.

Well, at least he wouldn't have to take those horrid trips outside the city anymore.