Tw: hint of non-con towards a minor, violence

[Friday 23rd May]

The following Friday, Ron plods down to Draco's bedroom at the usual time just after curfew.

"Wow," Draco says as he opens the door to Ron wearing their new dungarees as promised, worn over a mustard sweater. "You look great."

"Thank you," Ron smiles, hugging Draco at the door. Leaning into his grey T-shirt, they catch a new scent lingering to him. "You smell different."

"New aftershave," says Draco, pulling them into the room and shutting the door.

"Are you trying to impress someone?"

"Oh, yes," he says dryly. "I'm a ladies man, what can I say?"

"Of course you are," Ron says, sniffing the pleasant aroma again. They lean right up to Draco until their lips are almost touching. Draco gives them what could be described as an elongated peck on the lips, barely moving his arms from his sides just like he's been doing ever since the incident four weeks ago.

Ron has been going along with it, appreciating his extra care and gentleness with him even though it's borne out of shame and guilt, but today it just irritates him. He's had enough of being treated like an expensive vase, one knock away from shattering.

"How was your day?" Draco asks, gingerly stroking Ron's hair and watching their unreadable expression.

"Will you just fucking snog me?" Ron suddenly demands. "No more of this soft bullshit, I'm not a china doll." They grab Draco's hands and places them underneath their shirt. Draco's mouth opens in surprise, and they surpress the lunge onto Ron right then and there.

"What about..." he starts.

"What about what?" says Ron. "Draco, as long as you don't give me a bloody hand job, literally do what you want to me. Stop being a pussy. Grow a pair of bollocks, man up, and kiss your boyfriend properly."

Draco's hands rest hesitantly where Ron placed them, staring at their face filled with exasperated humour. Ron steps forward, waiting for him to take control. "Push me against the wall or something, tell me all the things you want to do to me, fuck me with my clothes on. I'm sick of kissing nicely."

Draco smirks and pushes Ron's back against the door. "Fine," he says, leaning in until their noses are touching. "If you insist."

It's Ron who first kisses Draco, but it only takes a few seconds for Draco to kiss him back with more much force. Their tongues run past each other, lips colliding with desperate need only furthered by the weeks of neglect.

Ron arches his back against the door as Draco grinds his hips onto theirs. It feels like pure heaven, their bodies finally back together, Ron getting the butterflies in their chest that they've craved for the last few weeks. Draco releases some quiet noises, and Ron can't help himself either, both falling into rhythm with each other.

Draco's hands scramble to undo his shirt's buttons.

"You taste so good," he murmurs, not breaking eye contact with a very red Ron as he flings his shirt on the floor. Ron stares down at his chest, feeling himself get ever hotter as Draco caresses the nape of their neck.

"Nice... body," Ron says, then gives an awkward giggle as Draco laughs at them.

"Glad you like it," he says, bringing Ron's thigh up to straddle his waist with his hand. "Want to kiss nicely yet?"

"Not a chance."

"Slut."

"Says you," Ron scoffs.

"What do you mean says me?"

"You haven't taken your hands off my arse."

"I'm not the one begging to be fucked against the door."

"When was I begging?"

"'Fuck me with my clothes on'," Draco quotes with a smug grin. "It was you who said that, right, or was there another insufferable ginger in my room five minutes ago?"

"Prick."

"I'm not complaining," Draco says, a surge of warmth running through him. "It's hot when you beg for me to do stuff."

"I'm not begging you for anything," Ron says indignantly.

"If that's the case-" Draco brings his hands back and inches away as if he's about to walk away.

"Draco," Ron whines, pulling him back and wrapping their arms around his shoulders. "Kiss me again or I'll stamp on your foot."

"Is that a please?"

"Fuck off, just kiss me."

Draco grins and puts his lips back onto theirs, breathing into a long few minutes of breathless making out.

Ron interrupts sometime later, tapping their hand on his chest.

Draco untangles himself from them. "Yeah?"

"Can we stop now?" they say, trying to slow their breathing back to normal.

"Yeah, sure," says Draco, tucking their hair behind their ears, Ron's flushed but happy face telling him he didn't cross any lines.

"Thanks," Ron says just before they sit back down. Draco's eyes flick to them curiously.

"Thanks for what?"

"For that," they smile nervously. "I know you've been trying to be careful with me or whatever lately, so thanks for kissing me like normal."

"Whatever you want, Ron," Draco says, going along with the narrative that his lack of sexual engagement with Ron is due to over-cautiousness rather than the more likely reason of Slughorn messing with his sex drive.

"So how did the match go last week?" Draco asks, remembering the disastrous Quidditch tournement and how grumpy the Slytherins have been all week as a result of their humiliating loss.

"You saw how it went," Ron says smugly. "We won by a bloody country mile."

"Yeah, all right," scoffs Draco. "There's no need to gloat."

"I'm not gloating," Ron chuckles, doing a victory lap around the back of the sofa.

Draco rolls his eyes, tackling them onto the sofa as they come back around. "You still manage to be cute however infuriatingly fucking smug you are."

"Not my fault the Slytherin team is shite," Ron grins, letting out a shriek as Draco lightly pummels their stomach.

"If I was on the team I'd beat your ass so easily," says Draco once he's successfully wedged Ron under him.

"Re-join the team then," Ron says, wriggling playfully.

"No, I've got to at least give you a chance."

"Piss off," Ron snorts. "You're not that good."

Draco presses his hands on the sides of Ron's head, still sitting firmly on top of them. "Yes I am," he says. "You're like my little bitch here, I could literally crush you."

"Fucking crush me then," Ron mutters, feeling their face heat up. "And I'm not your bitch."

"You're so unbelievably hot when you blush," Draco grins, leaning down.

Ron reminds himself to breathe. There's just enough give for them to free their arm from underneath Draco's leg. He brings it around the back of Draco's neck before he has the chance to react and pushes his lips down onto theirs.

"Get off, I have a present for you," says Ron after a minute of making out while feeling himself slowly lose circulation in his toes.

"Bbe-" Draco cuts himself off with a short snort-laugh.

"What?" Ron grins, amused, as Draco sniggers to himself while rolling off them.

"I was about to say beg for it but fucking hell, I couldn't bring myself to say it," Draco chokes out, doubling over at Ron's horrified face.

"You're such a freak," Ron laughs. "What's it with you and begging?" Draco releases a high-pitched wheeze which sets them off both completely.

"Beg for it." Draco slaps his knee, red in the face as he tries to calm down. "Jesus fucking Christ," he says breathlessly as he wipes his eyes. "I come up with the weirdest shit, don't I?"

"If you'd have said that I would've actually thrown up into your mouth," Ron snorts.

"Sorry, I've ruined the mood," chuckles Draco. "I was trying to be-"

"You were trying to fucking seduce me because I'm a weak little bottom and you're a sexy flirtatious top, is that what it was trying to be?" Ron asks, laughing at Draco hiding his face in his hands with embarrassment.

"Yeah, no, it didn't exactly go to plan," says Draco, trying to regain some composure. "That's one step down from getting you to wear a dog collar and making you bark, so watch your back."

"I hope the fuck you're joking."

Draco returns their deadpan expression for a second before they both burst into new reams of laughter.

Ron pulls out a long red tube from their pocket, tucking their knees under them on the sofa. "Look what I brought," he says, tearing open the wrapping paper. "I made these in charms, they're mint chocolate, your favourite."

The mellow orange from the lamp warms the edges of Ron's face and illuminates their excited smile as they hold out a small chocolate ball. Draco feels an inexplicable flutter of adoration as his breath catches in his throat.

"Do you not want it?" says Ron who looks at Draco watching them silently, lips slightly parted.

"Are you blushing?" they say incredulously; Draco never blushes.

"No," says Draco defensively, coming to his senses and grabbing the chocolate from Ron's hands.

"You are," grins Ron. "What is it, what have I done?"

Draco swallows back a smile and crunches on the chocolate to delay answering the question.

"You're so pretty," he says through mouthfuls, glancing away.

"What?"

Draco swallows the chocolate. "I fucking said you're pretty. That's all."

Ron's confusion transforms into an elated grin. "Aw, Draco."

"Fuck off with your soppy gay shit," says Draco as Ron smiles wider.

"What's gotten into you?" Ron says, prodding his stomach as they flop into his arms. "All that 'I could crush you' shit. You're pure fluff inside."

"I blame you for being so fucking perfect." Draco caresses their cheek. Ron looks up right into his wide pupils, not daring to blink, the brimming liquid holding all their hopes and desires.

"Don't," murmurs Draco. "Don't look at me like that or I'm going to lose my shit." His body folds around Ron, who can't begin to formulate a response, and he holds them.

Ron doesn't move for minutes. They lie contentedly on Draco's chest with his hand ruffling though their hair.

"If I can't use the dog collar, can we at least play a game of chess?" Draco mutters.

"You're fucking joking."

"Why would I be joking?" Draco can't keep a straight face for long, snickering at Ron's suspicious face. He gets the chessboard down from the bookshelf.

"You and your bloody chess. This counts as blackmail by the way," Ron grumbles, glancing at the clock. "Draco, it's midnight for God's sake. I've got Quidditch practice to get up for at six."

"Yeah and what's one chess game going to do to you?" He sets the board down and takes out the pieces.

"Is this you trying to sabotage the Gryffindor team?"

"Absolutely," Draco says, sitting down opposite Ron and laying out the pieces correctly. "Are you actually tired? Because I was going to show you a new opening, but we can leave it for Friday."

"Go on, show me it," sighs Ron. "Might as well."

"Okay, so this is called scholar's mate," says Draco. "White has mate in four from pawn to e4. It's one of the most well-known opening attacks."

"Okay," says Ron, scanning the board as Draco plays the first move. "So how am I supposed to stop you from mating me?"

"Try first and if you can't, I'll show you how."

"All right."

Draco delivers checkmate in four moves. He resets the board and shows Ron the possible defences, then they play out another full game.

"I've got to go now," says Ron once Draco topples his King. The clock reads forty minutes past midnight.

"You don't want to stay over?"

"No, I can't because of the Quidditch practice thing, they'll come and get me from the dorm."

"All right," Draco says, hugging them tightly. "I'll see you next week then."

"Yeah, see you Friday."

"I'm going to think of a dog-related pun for your name," he grins as he sees Ron to the door.

"If you do I'm breaking up with you."

Draco laughs. "What if it's a really clever and good pun?"

"Then I'll throw up in your mouth then breath up with you," Ron says half-jokingly. "Don't you dare think of one."

"You should practice your barking." He wheezes loudly at Ron's face of utter disgust.

"I can't tell if you're joking anymore and it's scaring me."

Draco blows them a kiss which Ron mimes catching, then swiftly switches it to a middle finger. "Fuck you."

"Love you too."

They exchange a short kiss.

"Night, Draco."

"Nighty-night. Good luck with your training tomorrow."

"Cheers."

Draco smiles as he listens to Ron giggle to themselves as they walk down the stairs outside his room. He closes the door and hops into bed.

Draco follows his father down Knockturn Alley late into Saturday night on the last day of May. He presumes they're heading to Borgin and Burkes, the antiquarian shop they've been trying to set up some sort of tunnel to Hogwarts in. Lucius has a stride in his step and keeps muttering about 'a big day'. Draco watches him warily, unsure whether to interpret his uplifted mood as a good thing, but his gut says not.

They enter the grimy shop, and to Draco's surprise, there's a small crowd of people there, of Death Eaters he sees as he looks closer.

"What's going on?" he mutters to his father, who ignores him and keeps walking forward, chin up. Draco edges closer, suspicious. They round the corner and Draco sees possibly the last person he wanted to see standing in the middle of the room: Lord Voldemort.

"Welcome, Lucius, Draco," ve grins maliciously, spreading veir arms.

They both bow their heads and mumble, "my Lord."

"Have you told him about what's going on, Lucius?"

"No, my Lord."

"Excellent, a surpirse."

Draco glances around the room of hooded figures. No one he remotely recognises.

"Draco Malfoy, you are going to become one of us," says Voldemort, savouring every syllable. "You are going to become a Death Eater."

Draco forgets to breathe for a second.

"What an honour, my Lord," he gulps, hoping his dread will be interpreted as amazed surprise. He knows exactly what this means: Voldemort is going to brandish him with the Dark Mark.

The ugly upturning of Voldemort's mouth could be said to be a smile, but Lucius has witnessed it all too many times before. Ve reveres turning another to veir cause, permanently and irreversibly. Especially one so young, with so much life ahead to dedicate to vem.

"Roll up your sleeve, Draco," orders Voldemort. Draco does as he's told, hardly daring to breathe. The bruises and marks left on his arm from Slughorn being exposed are the least of his worries.

Voldemort presses his wand onto the skin of his inner lower arm, starting to mutter a curse, a spell, a mantra of some sort. Draco doesn't know what it does exactly, but it burns. The onlookers watch silently, Lucius in delighted relief.

Painstakingly slowly, an intricate skull forms on his forearm with a serpent breaking through the mouth, the unmistakable mark of a Death Eater. It sends searing pains up Draco's arms, but he quells the urge to pull away.

"We welcome you, Draco Malfoy, as the youngest Death Eater to live," Voldemort booms, holding up his arm for the room to see. Draco's vision blacks out, but he bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself not to faint. Not now. He gazes emptily onto the crowd of faceless Death Eaters, their black hoods merging into each other.

There is no coming back from this.

Lucius and Draco walk silently out of the shop and back down the dark cobbled street. Draco lets silent tears roll down his cheeks, the sharp aching in his arm distracting him from facing that whatever just happened is anything more than a fever dream.

They reach the path leading back to Hogwarts. Lucius stops to look across at his son. On seeing his distraught expression, he puts an arm on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, son."

Draco doesn't look Lucius in the eye. He says nothing and starts to walk away up the winding path to Hogwarts.

"Draco, wait," Lucius calls.

Draco turns around, his tear-stained eyes filled with fury.

"I had no choice," Lucius says.

"About what?"

"You becoming a Death Eater. I know you're not- you weren't ready- but I needed to do something," Lucius says, stumbling over his words. "To appease the Dark Lord. Or he- ve- would've..." He tails off. "You know as well as I do what ve would've done."

"So you decided to offer me up to join veir psychopathic cult as a solution?" Draco says, flinging his arms up. "Great one, Dad, you really solved that one well."

"Don't use that tone with me," Lucius frowns, indignant at his apology being met with sarcasm. "I tried to change their mind- veir mind, about the whole thing but ve had his sights set on it."

"You were the one who offered me up in the first place," Draco almost shouts. "Don't act like this was some scheme masterminded by Voldemort when you were the one behind it all. It was you, Dad. You were the one to suggest this. Or did you forget that I was there when you said 'I have an idea, let my son take my place because I failed you so badly'? Because I was sat right next to you listening to you bullshit my life away."

"Don't use that language."

"I'm stuck with this fucking mark recognised by every single fucking person in the wizarding world as the sign of a killer. I am stuck with it for the rest of my fucking life because of you and you're more worried about me saying 'bullshit'?" Draco yells. "I'm as good as Voldemort's slave now until either ve kills me or I die bending my back over to get on veir good side like you, all thanks to you."

"It doesn't have to be like that."

"How else can it be like, Dad?" says Draco, the anger drained from his voice leaving raw desperation. "You know what the Dark Lord's like, how can it be anything else?"

"I know you're upset-"

"Yeah, I am upset. You've ruined my life," Draco interrupts. "This is going to ruin my entire life, and don't tell me that I'm being dramatic, because it is. I'm probably going to turn out like you, giving up my only child to get back in with the most fucked up person alive. That's if I don't die in three years."

"I'll make sure you don't come to any harm," Lucius says.

"You've just fucking-" Draco splutters incredulously, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the Mark. "You've done this. You've signed me up. Voldemort owns me now. You've done all the harm already."

"I was scared," Lucius admits, a moment later. "I was scared for my life."

"We're all scared," Draco snarls. "I'm seventeen, I should be falling in love and getting drunk with my friends and sneaking out and doing stupid shit like that. But no, I've been signed off to be a Death Eater by my own bloody father."

"You can cut the attitude and the self-pity," Lucius snaps. "At least we're both alive. I wouldn't be here today if you didn't get that Mark."

"Well, that's all right then, at least we're both fucking breathing," Draco spits, turning and striding down the path.

"You'd better wash that mouth out, young man. I don't know what has gotten into you, " Lucius calls after him desperately, his control slipping as Draco doesn't turn his head; his plan won't work if his son refuses to cooperate. "You're still going to do what the Dark Lord wishes, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Dad," Draco shouts over his shoulder. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Lucius watches him storm away. He tries to brush over his son's horrendous attitude along with the niggling feeling of guilt and sighs with relief; he has another chance to please Voldemort. One last opportunity. As long as Draco doesn't mess anything up, his life could be back on its tracks.

Draco sits at the back of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom staring at the test Snape handed out fifty-five minutes ago. He's not completed a single question. He's not even started one. How is he supposed to care about any of this superficial filler when his life is being controlled by a murderous, tyrannical dictator? He can sit in school and piss off Potter and do work and talk to Blaise and Daphne but the moment the lights are off and there's silence and he's alone does he remember his true position. He's a spy, an infiltrator, an enemy.

The bell rings five minutes later. Snape comes to collect the papers. Draco doesn't bother moving as the rest of the class files out, knowing Snape would see his blank sheet and keep him behind anyway.

"What's going on?" Snape asks, standing at his desk to file the papers. He noticed Draco's vacant look two minutes into the lesson but thought it best to wait until the lesson had finished to talk to him.

"I heard something went on on Saturday," he says. "No one told me what was planned. All I picked up was some sort of meeting with the Dark Lord, and I'm assuming you went."

"Yes," sighs Draco. "I went."

"So what happened?"

The door creaks open and a rosy-cheeked first year peaks their head around.

"Give me a minute," Snape calls.

The door shuts.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"I'll show you" Draco mutters. Snape puts down the papers and takes a step closer, intrigued.

Draco takes off his blazer and rolls up his shirt's right sleeve. The large, tattooed skull etched covering his entire forearm looks even more startling against his pale skin under the fluorescent classroom lights.

Snape's face contorts with horror, then dismay. "Oh, Christ," he exclaims. "Draco."

"Yeah," Draco says, rolling his sleeve back down, empty voice. "I'm a Death Eater now."

"I had no idea this was planned," Snape says, turning to look out the window. "Who authorised it?"

"My father," Draco says. The word sticks in his throat.

"Lucius?"

"Yeah. He wanted to save his own skin," he explains. "And the easiest way to do that was through me, I guess."

"But..." Snape frowns in shock.

The door swings open again.

"Oh, sorry, Professor," says another first year.

"I said get out," Snape yells.

Their head immediately disappears.

"Sorry," Snape shakes his head. "Look, I have a lesson now but I need to speak to you about this later. Come back here after school?"

Draco swallows, remembering the turn of events that usually occur on Monday after school.

"Can I come at lunch instead?"

"Yes, whenever," Snape says, pinching his forehead. "This is- I mean I'm guessing you didn't want this, obviously. No. Well, this is ridiculous. For starters, you're far too young. And, no offense, but I don't know what your father was thinking quite honestly."

"Me neither," Draco says flatly. He slings his bag over his shoulder. "See you at lunch."

"Yes, see you at lunch."

He puts one foot in front of another and gets as far as the courtyard before collapsing onto one of the benches. Professor Sprout won't care about him skipping her class. She'll have to not because Draco isn't going. He sits on the bench and stares at the grass, feeling the wind hit his face and a heated itch from his right forearm. The worst part is that he knows exactly what his father was thinking.

"Have a seat," Snape says. Draco sits in his usual desk at the beginning of lunchtime. He instinctively scratches his right forearm but stops as he sees Snape staring.

"How does it feel?" he says.

"I hate it."

Snape can't think of anything to say that could console him; it's a permanent mark of everything he despises being involved with.

"Can ve summon me with this?" asks Draco.

Snape shakes his head. "That's all just rumours," he says. "It's just a mark, it can't do anything."

"I've seen it move," says Draco. "On my father's arm. It starts moving when Vol- the Dark Lord wants to summon people."

"That's true," Snape says. "But it's just a signal. It doesn't possess any physical power. It works because half the Death Eaters are scared witless of vem."

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes?" asks Snape.

Draco hesitates, working up the courage to spit it out.

"Voldemort wants me to kill Dumbledore."

Snape's face twists in horror. "What?"

Draco finds comfort in Snape's equally shocked reaction.

"When?" asks Snape, pulling his robe across his body.

"Like, sometime near the end of this month. I don't know exactly, ve didn't give a date."

"Why the hell does ve want you to kill him?" Snape says. "Why can't ve get me or Horace to do it? You're seventeen for Christ's sake. This is going to be the turning point in the war. Why on earth are you being made to do it?"

Draco lets out a long breath of air. "I'm veir new favourite, I guess."

"This is absurd," Snape states. "You're being brainwashed. First the Dark Mark, then this. It's utterly ridiculous."

Draco shrugs and keeps fiddling with a loose string on his robes.

"So are you going to do it?" asks Snape.

"Do what?"

"Kill Dumbledore?"

Draco nods slowly. "Yes," he says. "I have to."

"Okay," Snape says. The silence brings reality crashing around them both.

"Do you want a tissue?"

Draco looks up. He's been absent-mindedly sniffing since second period. It must've been from sitting outside.

"Sorry," Draco says. "Hay fever."

"Professor Sprout has some antihistamines if you want," Snape suggests.

"I don't think she wants to see me," Draco says, taking a tissue from Snape. "I skipped her lesson this morning."

Snape crosses his arms. "Why?"

"Everyone's going to hate me in a month," Draco says. "Might as well ease them into it."

"That's no way to look at things," says Snape. "You never know, the Dark Lord change veir mind."

"Ve won't though."

"You can't be certain of that. Now come on, we've missed lunch, let's go and see if there's anything left."

Draco doesn't move and Snape can tell by his exhausted face that lunch is the last thing on his mind. They sit together in silence for the remaining forty minutes. The familiar scent of wood and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the way the light shines through the stained windows comforts Draco.

Snape sitting at the desk eating something from his draw and looking over dusty books makes Draco feel safe. Relaxed silence, calming company, predictability. It feels nice to sit with no expectations.

The bell goes.

"Thank you, Professor Snape," Draco says, propping a hand on the table to hoist himself up.

"I haven't done anything," Snape says in reply, watching Draco stagger to the door. "You know where I am if you want to..." Draco looks back but he doesn't finish the sentence. He nods then leaves, pressing the door shut behind him.

[Later that day]

The remainder of the day drags suffocatingly slowly, but before he knows it he's sat in Slughorn's classroom pretending to be doing work. Admitting everything aloud to Snape makes the harsh reality sink in for Draco. Voldemort wants him to kill Dumbledore. To kill another human in cold blood. Somehow in the next month he'll have to find a way to dredge up the courage to do it. Voldemort won't take no for an answer.

"Will you shut up?" comes Slughorn's harsh voice.

"Sorry," Draco says. He stops snivelling and wipes his runny nose with the back of his sleeve instead, keeping his eyes firmly on the floor.

The bell for the end of the school day went ten minutes ago and Draco has been standing silently in the middle of Slughorn's classroom since then. His head hurts, his nose won't stop running and a spot behind his kneecaps is beginning to ache. Slughorn hasn't looked at him once. He was starting to think he'd forgotten about him.

"Ok," Slughorn says another minute later. He tucks some paper into the draw under his desk and stands up. "Take off your shirt," he orders, his eyes gleaming. "I want to see it."

"See what?"

"Don't mess me around, Draco," Slughorn says, stepping closer. "I know what happened on the weekend."

Draco sighs to himself. Of course he found out. He takes his blazer off for the second time today then starts rolling up his sleeve.

"Are you fucking deaf?" Slughorn snaps, making him flinch. "I said take it off."

Draco feels that familiar floating feeling as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, the only thing grounding him being pure humiliation.

His arm is swollen, red raw, and the large skull and serpent head covers his whole inner lower arm.

"What a beauty," whispers Slughorn, stroking the inflamed skin.

Draco sucks through his teeth, the light touch from Slughorn irritating the inflamed skin and making him shudder.

"Am I hurting you?" Slughorn mocks, not taking his hand off Draco's arm. He suddenly grabs it with force, driving his fingernails into the Mark and pulling Draco not an inch from his face. He gasps in pain and staggers forward, forced to look straight into Slughorn's eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" he whispers furiously.

"It only happened on Saturday," Draco winces, black spots appearing in his vision. "I didn't know it was going to happen."

"Don't bullshit me."

"I promise I didn't know, or I would've told you."

"You're a lying bastard," Slughorn spits. "Why wasn't this run through me?"

"It was my father's decision," Draco pleads. "I didn't know, no one knew." He can feel dents starting to imprint into his skin.

"You better not be lying to me."

"I'm not, I swear," he reiterates, gritting his teeth from the throbbing pain. "No one told me anything."

"Fine." Slughorn releases his arm. "Don't even think about hiding anything from me in the future."

"I'm sorry, Professor," Draco says, fixating his eyes back on the floor.

"Shut your pathetic mouth."

Draco keeps his mouth shut and gradually backs away.

"Where do you think you're going?" Slughorn says as Draco makes his way to the door after rebuttoning his shirt. He spins back around.

"I thought..."

"I haven't dismissed you," Slughorn says. "Now come here get on your knees like a good boy."

The words are a punch to the gut. Draco doesn't move, disgust rolling around his stomach, embarrassment, then fear. He has no choice; he goes back and gets on his knees like a good boy.