Author's Note: Hi everybody, sorry it took me so long to update. I'm
finally getting to the point I want to be at with this, and hopefully
updates will be coming faster. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, if it
wasn't for you guys, I would have quit. Non-con in this chapter. NOT
graphic, but it's there, so be warned.
There was a heavy weight holding him down, pressing him into the wooden floor.
Slowly the fog around him melted away, and Harry could see the large, dark haired man sitting on top of him, hitting him as his other hand tore at Harry's clothes. Vernon.
The man's eyes burned with fury and hatred and disgust, all overlaid with a dark pleasure. For a second, the expression rivaled that of Voldemort, and Harry could almost believe he was being attacked by the Dark Lord himself. Somehow the idea was comforting, or perhaps a better word was familiar.
Then sounds began to reach him, and the illusion was shattered. "Did you think you could talk to me like that, did you boy?! Well, you'll get what's yours, you'll get what's coming to you. Nobody cares about the little freak in the cupboard, you deserve every second of this!"
Harry bit his lip, bit through his lip to keep from making any sound as he struggled to get away.
Suddenly his arms were pinned down above him as Vernon ground his hips into Harry's. That was it, screw pride, Harry thought. He screamed, the sound full of rage. He fought, biting, kicking, anything to get away before Vernon's horrible betrayal could be acted out again.
Draco was woken by a furious scream, his first thought being, Another attack! He grabbed his wand and ran out of the room to see Harry thrashing on the couch whispering something over and over again, and when Draco got closer, he could hear the words.
"Not again, not again, not again." The sleeping boy's mantra was interrupted as he let out a low wail, sending shivers down the Slytherin's back.
He called quietly, "Harry." No reaction. "Harry," a bit louder this time. Still no response. Tentatively he reached out a hand to tap the Gryffindor, and jerked back, staring in shock at the tooth shaped indents that were filling with blood. He'd had enough. "Potter!" he yelled.
Harry's eyes flew open, breath coming in harsh pants as he gasped out, "Bathroom?"
Draco pointed, and Harry ran, barely making it before he threw up. He could taste the blood from his lip mixed with Draco's blood, could feel his uncle's hands on him. Memories flashed, of what had actually happened, and it was so much worse than any dream.
Draco walked in behind him, wondering what in the world he could have been dreaming that affected him so badly.
He grabbed a cloth and soaked it in cold water; the sound of Harry's retching filling him with horror and sympathy.
After wringing the cloth, he walked over to the sick boy, whose head was now resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet.
Kneeling behind him, Draco felt Harry tense, then slowly relax as the cloth was pressed gently against his forehead. "You want to talk about it?"
"You don't want to know," came the dark reply.
"What makes you so sure you know me?" Draco asked, a slight challenge in the words. He masked the annoyance, but it was there, annoyance that the Golden Boy didn't think he was strong enough to deal with something concerning Voldemort.
"I don't need to know you. No one wants to know this."
"Your friends, they don't know do they?"
"No," settling himself more comfortably against the other boy's chest, and then jerking forward as he realized what he was doing, Harry stood. Not meeting Draco's eyes, he added, "They don't need to know."
Draco stood too, and for the first time Harry noticed he was shirtless. "Sorry I woke you," he muttered. Part of him was disgusted with himself for even paying attention to the fact that the Slytherin was only half-clothed, much less appreciating the sight after the dream he'd just had. The rest of him was silently chanting, I'm dating Seamus and Draco doesn't like me.
"Don't worry about it. And Harry," he waited until Harry looked up. "Maybe they don't need to know, but maybe you need them to."
Harry's face went blank, a cool mask as he replied, "No. No one needs or wants to know. Not even me."
Sighing, Draco turned to leave, and Harry caught a glimpse of something on his shoulder. A dragon stood on his right shoulder blade, wings closed, an unmoving sentinel.
Draco opened the door to two very unhappy Snargons, who both flew in demanding to know whether their humans were all right.
Shh, shh, I'm fine, it was just a dream, Harry reassured them as they flew to inspect him.
Your lip, Miri said, coming closer.
Quentin, who'd moved to check Draco, hissed, Draco's hand.
We're both okay, I promise. Neither fire-lizard seemed completely sure, and Harry continued hissing soft assurances.
Draco was seriously wondering what god he'd pissed off to deserve this. He couldn't deal with Parseltongue, not with adrenaline still coursing through his body, not with Harry alone in his rooms. He turned to go, needing to leave before his arousal became apparent, wishing he could stay forever.
What's wrong with your hand? Harry hissed, confused when Draco didn't answer. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Draco turned, only to have something hissed at him by Harry. "I don't speak snake, Potter," he ground out. But this boy wasn't Potter, and Draco couldn't even think of him as such anymore. It was Harry standing before him, Harry who'd just been sick over a nightmare and was now trying to comfort the Snargons instead of demanding comfort himself, Harry who he wanted nothing more to kiss . . . Three days, Draco thought, slightly panicked. Three days was all it took for him to get close, and now I can't distance myself from him.
"Sorry, wasn't thinking," the dark haired boy apologized. "I was asking what happened to your hand."
Drained of any patience he'd had, his thoughts still racing, the blonde answered shortly, "You did." He then left the bathroom, lying across the couch where Harry had been sleeping, staring up at the dragons.
Harry followed him out, the Snargons flying behind him, as he walked to the Slytherin and grabbed his hand. "Let me see."
"Haven't you done enough damage for one night?" Draco asked, trying to snatch his hand back.
Not letting him, Harry said quietly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean – well, it wasn't you I was fighting, anyways. You need – no, never mind, I can do it." The Gryffindor ran a slow hand over the cuts.
Draco gritted his teeth, knowing Harry would mistake the darkening of his eyes for pain. For a seventeen year old, the Boy-Who-Lived was shockingly naïve.
"There, done." Harry told him, and Draco looked down at his hand. It wasn't fully healed, but close enough that no one would be able to tell there'd been a cut there moments ago.
"Where's your wand?" the blonde asked confusedly.
"In my robes," Harry answered, waiting for his words to sink in.
"But that's-you can-wandless magic?"
"No," Harry replied, wishing it was. If he'd had wandless magic, he could have stopped Vernon from . . .No, he told himself, don't think about it. It was the only way he'd survived this far.
"Well, I just saw you do magic without a wand. Generally, that's considered wandless magic," Draco informed him dryly.
"It's not. It's-I can heal without a wand. Fairly useless skill, when it comes down to it," He added bitterly. It certainly hadn't helped him any, except afterwards.
Draco should have been surprised at the tone, would have been a few days ago. It seemed to suit this Harry, though. Depressed, bitter, angry, alone. And still trying to protect others from everything. "What happened to you, Harry?"
"I already told you, you don't want to know." He said, green eyes emptied of all emotion.
"And I already said you don't know me, Potter." This time he didn't bother masking the annoyance, the words an obvious challenge, as was the use of his last name.
Being enemies for five and a half yeas had much more impact than being friends for three days, and Harry reacted instantly to the challenge in his former rival's voice. "You think you can handle it? You think you're so strong? Fine," he snapped. "My bloody fucking uncle raped me!"
Harry watched the horror, disgust, and pity playing across the Slytherin's face, and spat, "Deal with that, Malfoy."
Then he snatched his invisibility cloak from where it had been lying on the floor and stalked out, not giving the shocked boy a chance to respond.
The next morning, Draco woke on the couch, where he'd fallen asleep waiting for Harry to come back and tell him it had been a bad joke. He could tell he was up early, but he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, so with a sigh and a glance at his dragons, he went to get ready.
An hour later, fully awake and with five minutes to go until breakfast started, Draco walked back into the main room, and jumped when the door from the Slytherin common room opened with a bang. "Blaise don't-" he started to say as he turned, but stopped when he realized it wasn't Blaise.
Millicent Bulstrode stood in the doorway, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. "Draco Malfoy, all alone," Millicent jeered.
"What do you want, Bulstrode?" Draco asked wearily. The last thing he wanted right now was to deal with fanatical Death Eaters or their slow offspring.
"I want you to stay away from the fucking Gryffindor Golden Boy," she snarled the title disgustedly. "You see, Draco," she continued sweetly, "The Dark Lord doesn't want you, and nothing you could do would convince the Light to let you in." Dropping all pretense of sweetness, she finished, "So don't get in the way. No one will miss you if you're gone."
"Don't threaten me, Bulstrode," Draco warned, eyes glinting dangerously. "I know more of the Dark Arts than you could even dream, and I'd just love the chance to try them out on a live subject." He smiled darkly. "How about a demonstration." He cast three quick "Imperio" curses at them and smirked as he saw the results.
Millicent was crawling along the floor, where she then kissed the hem of his robes while Crabbe and Goyle, two of the most homophobic people Draco knew, were kissing each other. He sneered as Millicent crawled back into the Slytherin common room, to the laughter of everyone else who was awake.
"Finite Incantatum," he called merrily, and watched fury bloom across the girl's face. "Perhaps," he said conversationally, "you ought to stay out of my way." Then he closed the door in her face, turning to deal with Crabbe and Goyle. "Finite Incantatum." The two looked at each other in horror, and he had to fight to keep from laughing.
"Crabbe, Goyle." They turned to look at him, eyes burning with rage. As they made to lunge for him, he asked, "Do you really think that's the wisest move?" They froze, and his pleasant expression melted into anger. "You used to serve me, and all I ask of you now is to stay the hell away. Next time, it won't be as pleasant an Unforgivable." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and followed them through to the common room, and then to the Great Hall for breakfast.
Harry woke to Ron shaking him, asking worriedly, "Are you all right, mate?"
It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was in the common room . . . why wasn't he in the dorm-oh. "Fine, Ron," he sighed. The dried tear tracks on his face belied his words, but Ron didn't have a chance to question him as Quentin and Miri, who'd followed him back, woke up.
Immediately they flew to him, blocking his face from Ron's view as they hissed worriedly at him. He'd given as much of an explanation as he could to them last night, though Snargons didn't understand the concept of rape. What they did understand was that he'd been hurt by someone he'd trusted, and were even more fiercely protective now. Quentin, Miri, that's Ron, he would never hurt me, Harry assured them. Slowly they backed off, to reveal Ron looking even more worried.
"Harry, please, tell me what happened, and don't say nothing, because they weren't like this last night." Ron felt completely helpless. Harry was in some sort of pain, and he couldn't do anything because he didn't know what it was.
"It-it's not nothing, but it's not something that puts me in danger Ron, I swear. I-" Catching a glimpse of a clock, Harry swore. "I'll talk to you later, but I need to take a shower." Meeting his best friend's eyes, he said softly, "I'm okay, Ron, really." He ignored the voice telling him it was a lie.
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There was a heavy weight holding him down, pressing him into the wooden floor.
Slowly the fog around him melted away, and Harry could see the large, dark haired man sitting on top of him, hitting him as his other hand tore at Harry's clothes. Vernon.
The man's eyes burned with fury and hatred and disgust, all overlaid with a dark pleasure. For a second, the expression rivaled that of Voldemort, and Harry could almost believe he was being attacked by the Dark Lord himself. Somehow the idea was comforting, or perhaps a better word was familiar.
Then sounds began to reach him, and the illusion was shattered. "Did you think you could talk to me like that, did you boy?! Well, you'll get what's yours, you'll get what's coming to you. Nobody cares about the little freak in the cupboard, you deserve every second of this!"
Harry bit his lip, bit through his lip to keep from making any sound as he struggled to get away.
Suddenly his arms were pinned down above him as Vernon ground his hips into Harry's. That was it, screw pride, Harry thought. He screamed, the sound full of rage. He fought, biting, kicking, anything to get away before Vernon's horrible betrayal could be acted out again.
Draco was woken by a furious scream, his first thought being, Another attack! He grabbed his wand and ran out of the room to see Harry thrashing on the couch whispering something over and over again, and when Draco got closer, he could hear the words.
"Not again, not again, not again." The sleeping boy's mantra was interrupted as he let out a low wail, sending shivers down the Slytherin's back.
He called quietly, "Harry." No reaction. "Harry," a bit louder this time. Still no response. Tentatively he reached out a hand to tap the Gryffindor, and jerked back, staring in shock at the tooth shaped indents that were filling with blood. He'd had enough. "Potter!" he yelled.
Harry's eyes flew open, breath coming in harsh pants as he gasped out, "Bathroom?"
Draco pointed, and Harry ran, barely making it before he threw up. He could taste the blood from his lip mixed with Draco's blood, could feel his uncle's hands on him. Memories flashed, of what had actually happened, and it was so much worse than any dream.
Draco walked in behind him, wondering what in the world he could have been dreaming that affected him so badly.
He grabbed a cloth and soaked it in cold water; the sound of Harry's retching filling him with horror and sympathy.
After wringing the cloth, he walked over to the sick boy, whose head was now resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet.
Kneeling behind him, Draco felt Harry tense, then slowly relax as the cloth was pressed gently against his forehead. "You want to talk about it?"
"You don't want to know," came the dark reply.
"What makes you so sure you know me?" Draco asked, a slight challenge in the words. He masked the annoyance, but it was there, annoyance that the Golden Boy didn't think he was strong enough to deal with something concerning Voldemort.
"I don't need to know you. No one wants to know this."
"Your friends, they don't know do they?"
"No," settling himself more comfortably against the other boy's chest, and then jerking forward as he realized what he was doing, Harry stood. Not meeting Draco's eyes, he added, "They don't need to know."
Draco stood too, and for the first time Harry noticed he was shirtless. "Sorry I woke you," he muttered. Part of him was disgusted with himself for even paying attention to the fact that the Slytherin was only half-clothed, much less appreciating the sight after the dream he'd just had. The rest of him was silently chanting, I'm dating Seamus and Draco doesn't like me.
"Don't worry about it. And Harry," he waited until Harry looked up. "Maybe they don't need to know, but maybe you need them to."
Harry's face went blank, a cool mask as he replied, "No. No one needs or wants to know. Not even me."
Sighing, Draco turned to leave, and Harry caught a glimpse of something on his shoulder. A dragon stood on his right shoulder blade, wings closed, an unmoving sentinel.
Draco opened the door to two very unhappy Snargons, who both flew in demanding to know whether their humans were all right.
Shh, shh, I'm fine, it was just a dream, Harry reassured them as they flew to inspect him.
Your lip, Miri said, coming closer.
Quentin, who'd moved to check Draco, hissed, Draco's hand.
We're both okay, I promise. Neither fire-lizard seemed completely sure, and Harry continued hissing soft assurances.
Draco was seriously wondering what god he'd pissed off to deserve this. He couldn't deal with Parseltongue, not with adrenaline still coursing through his body, not with Harry alone in his rooms. He turned to go, needing to leave before his arousal became apparent, wishing he could stay forever.
What's wrong with your hand? Harry hissed, confused when Draco didn't answer. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Draco turned, only to have something hissed at him by Harry. "I don't speak snake, Potter," he ground out. But this boy wasn't Potter, and Draco couldn't even think of him as such anymore. It was Harry standing before him, Harry who'd just been sick over a nightmare and was now trying to comfort the Snargons instead of demanding comfort himself, Harry who he wanted nothing more to kiss . . . Three days, Draco thought, slightly panicked. Three days was all it took for him to get close, and now I can't distance myself from him.
"Sorry, wasn't thinking," the dark haired boy apologized. "I was asking what happened to your hand."
Drained of any patience he'd had, his thoughts still racing, the blonde answered shortly, "You did." He then left the bathroom, lying across the couch where Harry had been sleeping, staring up at the dragons.
Harry followed him out, the Snargons flying behind him, as he walked to the Slytherin and grabbed his hand. "Let me see."
"Haven't you done enough damage for one night?" Draco asked, trying to snatch his hand back.
Not letting him, Harry said quietly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean – well, it wasn't you I was fighting, anyways. You need – no, never mind, I can do it." The Gryffindor ran a slow hand over the cuts.
Draco gritted his teeth, knowing Harry would mistake the darkening of his eyes for pain. For a seventeen year old, the Boy-Who-Lived was shockingly naïve.
"There, done." Harry told him, and Draco looked down at his hand. It wasn't fully healed, but close enough that no one would be able to tell there'd been a cut there moments ago.
"Where's your wand?" the blonde asked confusedly.
"In my robes," Harry answered, waiting for his words to sink in.
"But that's-you can-wandless magic?"
"No," Harry replied, wishing it was. If he'd had wandless magic, he could have stopped Vernon from . . .No, he told himself, don't think about it. It was the only way he'd survived this far.
"Well, I just saw you do magic without a wand. Generally, that's considered wandless magic," Draco informed him dryly.
"It's not. It's-I can heal without a wand. Fairly useless skill, when it comes down to it," He added bitterly. It certainly hadn't helped him any, except afterwards.
Draco should have been surprised at the tone, would have been a few days ago. It seemed to suit this Harry, though. Depressed, bitter, angry, alone. And still trying to protect others from everything. "What happened to you, Harry?"
"I already told you, you don't want to know." He said, green eyes emptied of all emotion.
"And I already said you don't know me, Potter." This time he didn't bother masking the annoyance, the words an obvious challenge, as was the use of his last name.
Being enemies for five and a half yeas had much more impact than being friends for three days, and Harry reacted instantly to the challenge in his former rival's voice. "You think you can handle it? You think you're so strong? Fine," he snapped. "My bloody fucking uncle raped me!"
Harry watched the horror, disgust, and pity playing across the Slytherin's face, and spat, "Deal with that, Malfoy."
Then he snatched his invisibility cloak from where it had been lying on the floor and stalked out, not giving the shocked boy a chance to respond.
The next morning, Draco woke on the couch, where he'd fallen asleep waiting for Harry to come back and tell him it had been a bad joke. He could tell he was up early, but he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, so with a sigh and a glance at his dragons, he went to get ready.
An hour later, fully awake and with five minutes to go until breakfast started, Draco walked back into the main room, and jumped when the door from the Slytherin common room opened with a bang. "Blaise don't-" he started to say as he turned, but stopped when he realized it wasn't Blaise.
Millicent Bulstrode stood in the doorway, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. "Draco Malfoy, all alone," Millicent jeered.
"What do you want, Bulstrode?" Draco asked wearily. The last thing he wanted right now was to deal with fanatical Death Eaters or their slow offspring.
"I want you to stay away from the fucking Gryffindor Golden Boy," she snarled the title disgustedly. "You see, Draco," she continued sweetly, "The Dark Lord doesn't want you, and nothing you could do would convince the Light to let you in." Dropping all pretense of sweetness, she finished, "So don't get in the way. No one will miss you if you're gone."
"Don't threaten me, Bulstrode," Draco warned, eyes glinting dangerously. "I know more of the Dark Arts than you could even dream, and I'd just love the chance to try them out on a live subject." He smiled darkly. "How about a demonstration." He cast three quick "Imperio" curses at them and smirked as he saw the results.
Millicent was crawling along the floor, where she then kissed the hem of his robes while Crabbe and Goyle, two of the most homophobic people Draco knew, were kissing each other. He sneered as Millicent crawled back into the Slytherin common room, to the laughter of everyone else who was awake.
"Finite Incantatum," he called merrily, and watched fury bloom across the girl's face. "Perhaps," he said conversationally, "you ought to stay out of my way." Then he closed the door in her face, turning to deal with Crabbe and Goyle. "Finite Incantatum." The two looked at each other in horror, and he had to fight to keep from laughing.
"Crabbe, Goyle." They turned to look at him, eyes burning with rage. As they made to lunge for him, he asked, "Do you really think that's the wisest move?" They froze, and his pleasant expression melted into anger. "You used to serve me, and all I ask of you now is to stay the hell away. Next time, it won't be as pleasant an Unforgivable." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and followed them through to the common room, and then to the Great Hall for breakfast.
Harry woke to Ron shaking him, asking worriedly, "Are you all right, mate?"
It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was in the common room . . . why wasn't he in the dorm-oh. "Fine, Ron," he sighed. The dried tear tracks on his face belied his words, but Ron didn't have a chance to question him as Quentin and Miri, who'd followed him back, woke up.
Immediately they flew to him, blocking his face from Ron's view as they hissed worriedly at him. He'd given as much of an explanation as he could to them last night, though Snargons didn't understand the concept of rape. What they did understand was that he'd been hurt by someone he'd trusted, and were even more fiercely protective now. Quentin, Miri, that's Ron, he would never hurt me, Harry assured them. Slowly they backed off, to reveal Ron looking even more worried.
"Harry, please, tell me what happened, and don't say nothing, because they weren't like this last night." Ron felt completely helpless. Harry was in some sort of pain, and he couldn't do anything because he didn't know what it was.
"It-it's not nothing, but it's not something that puts me in danger Ron, I swear. I-" Catching a glimpse of a clock, Harry swore. "I'll talk to you later, but I need to take a shower." Meeting his best friend's eyes, he said softly, "I'm okay, Ron, really." He ignored the voice telling him it was a lie.
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