It had not been a literal hammer, of course. Draco almost wished it had; it frightened him that the blow to his head had been a hallucination, an illusion created within himself by a lingering Imperius curse. Would he ever shake it off? Would he ever fully remember and be able to track down the one who had hurt him?
All around the dungeon of ...
(the Teacher)
All around his abuser's dungeon were woods. They had found a stream, and Harry had gone off to the nearest Muggle village and brought back soap. Draco, upon Harry's return, was already waiting in the water, unable to stand the feeling of shit crusting against his legs any longer. Harry, looking acutely embarrassed, had handed him the bar of soap, and Draco had cleaned himself. It felt so good not to be filthy.
(What are you talking about, you dirty whore? You like to be filthy. You like to be disgusting. You loathe purity, you little cocksucker, you little boytoy.)
Suddenly his eyes were tearing up. "Potter," he choked out.
Harry jumped a little. He was standing against a tree, not really looking at anything. The wind was ruffling his hair, as it always had on the quidditch field. Draco couldn't stop looking at his hands. Harry had big hands. Draco wanted them in his hair, against his ass, caressing his balls.
"What?" Harry said.
"I --" What had he been about to say? I want to fuck you? God forbid, I love you? "I am grateful. I mean -- thank you. Thank you for finding me."
"Please, don't. I wasn't looking for you. I didn't even know you were missing. I was looking for --" Harry stopped. We're both hiding something. "I can't tell you. Even though you were controlled by Voldemort, you're not a member of -- you're not someone I can trust."
"Not a member of the Order of the Phoenix? You-Know-Who already knows about the Order. Snape told me --"
Sudden, sweeping grayness. And then he was forcing himself down into the water, trying to drown himself. Harry was calling out, "What are you doing?" and Draco was diving further into the water, wishing he were wearing clothes that would drag him under.
Something splashed nearby, and then he was being pulled to surface. He was spluttering and coughing, and hands -- big hands -- were holding him around the stomach. Arms were encircling his waist, just a few inches higher than Draco wanted them to be. His ass was against Harry's crotch.
The water was not frigid -- it was early September, if Draco had been keeping track of time correctly over the course of his months in the dungeon. The water was cold enough that his balls had withered up against his stomach, but mostly comfortable. And so Draco was in no hurry to get out of the stream. In no hurry to be released from Harry's grip.
Harry's breath was against his shoulder, his neck. Draco was growing hard. He whispered, "Kiss me."
"What?"
Draco ground his ass against the crotch of Harry's jeans, and he felt a warm hardness. He moaned, his dick was throbbing with anticipation, he wanted Harry inside of him. "Please," he said.
Harry released him. Draco spun about to face Harry, whose eyes were flitting every which way. His hair was plastered against his forehead. Draco reached out and swept the hair out of the way. Harry quivered at his touch.
And since Harry would not kiss him, Draco kissed Harry.