Title: Hegemony
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Implied Draco/Harry
Summary: Harry wanted this. He did. He had to.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Spoilers: Up to and including book 6.

Challenge word:
soporific sop-uh-RIF-ik; soh-puh-, adjective:
1. Causing sleep; tending to cause sleep.
2. Of, relating to, or characterized by sleepiness or lethargy.
Noun:
A medicine, drug, plant, or other agent that has the quality of inducing sleep; a narcotic.

They held his mouth open to get the ugly, oily potion down his throat; Harry tried to spit it out, but Goyle's huge, fat hammer-hands slammed his jaw shut and slapped over his lips so he couldn't, he just couldn't: all he could do was scream behind his teeth and struggle against the leather bonds cutting into his wrists and ankles, and hope for help—a miracle—and then Draco was pointing his wand at him and saying swallow before I make you swallow, and so he did, because Harry was just too bruised and beat-up and aching to fight him any more in this.

The murky sludge was thick—bitter and black and slimy, and Harry bet Snape was the one to make it, the bloody two-timing bastard; it went down like squirming wet eels past Harry's esophagus and into his empty stomach.

It was good Harry hadn't eaten; this would have brought everything back up—left the sharp burn of bile in his mouth—and they only would have made him do it again. Oh, God, it was disgusting.

Goyle removed his hands and Harry's stomach roiled as he dry-heaved, sucking in air and choking on the remembered taste: a filthy sourness.

"Can you see me? Can you hear me?" asked Draco after Harry had stopped thrashing and panting and trying to be sick all over himself, and Harry wanted to say, "Yes, yes, of course I do, you pathetic little snot—of course I do," except things did seem a little fuzzy around the edges, now that he thought about it, and noises were as slow as the slugs slithering out of Ron's mouth in second-year, and far off, unimportant; he felt things through a soporific haze, where everything was dizzy and distant and his eyelids weighed a million pounds in his head.

"…yessss…" answered Harry, having to concentrate; the word dragged and slurred without him meaning it to. He should be worried about this, he knew, in a small, detached part of himself that could still think rationally now that the potion was kicking in. He really should be worried.

He wasn't. All he was interested in was the way his own voice rolled the word out until it became a hiss, meaningless; he only knew the way his body was relaxing into the rough wood of the table; could only wonder how his eyes had suddenly become complicated, insurmountable weights.

"How do you feel?"

"…tired…"

Harry's head lolled limply. He didn't want to talk anymore; Malfoy should leave him alone and let him rest.

A mean poke at his side made Harry's eyelids flutter.

"Don't fall asleep, Potter. We're not done with you yet."

Harry wanted to melt through the gaps and cracks in the table and sleep. Why wouldn't Malfoy just leave him alone? Surely they could talk another time.

"Imperio," said Malfoy.

Something foreign was settling inside of him. Something strange. It felt nice, though; Harry couldn't be bothered to resist it. He was so tired. They could do whatever they wanted; Harry didn't care.

"Bark like a dog," said Malfoy.

Something in Harry's mind was telling him not to—telling him he shouldn't, telling him to keep control—but it was a very small something, and very far away: buried under Harry's crumbled inhibitions and the twang of vile aftertaste on his tongue, and Harry was quite suddenly seized by the vicious and irresistible urge to bark, to howl and grumble and yap and yowl, like it was something he was born to do and he'd only just now remembered.

Harry barked like a dog.

For a brief instant, Harry dreamily thought Draco's face had crumpled when he'd obeyed; the other boy had looked pained. The expression was gone in a blink; Harry might have just imagined it.

"Shut up," said Malfoy.

Harry shut up. It was time to be quiet. Harry liked being quiet.

"Tell me you're a slut," said Malfoy.

"I'm a slut," said Harry. He was, he was, he had to say it or he'd explode. He wanted to say it. He did.

"Tell me you want my cock inside you. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me you're a fucking whore," said Malfoy.

"I want your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me. I'm a fucking whore," said Harry.

"Say it like you mean it, Potter!"

"I want your cock inside me! I want you to fuck me! I'm a fucking whore!"

Harry wanted to say it, he did. He wanted to say it, had to say it before it busted out from behind his teeth, breaking them into jagged halves. It was true, Harry knew it was true; he wanted to say it. He had to.

"Beg me for it. Beg me."

Harry begged. Harry groveled. Harry wanted this, he had to.

"Shut up," said Malfoy.

Harry shut up. It was time to be quiet. Harry liked being quiet.

"It worked," said Draco flatly to his goons.

"The potion worked. Potter can be put under Imperius, now. Inform our Lord."

Harry wanted this. He did. He had to.