Disclaimer: HP & Co. are the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling, Inc.
Warning: Extremely Adult Content (non-graphic).
READERS! I have a special, inspired Quote of the Day Challenge! See if you can identify the following, chapter-relevant quote! (Answer found at end of chapter.)
"I don't like it here. I'm tired of being afraid all the time. I've decided not to stay."
Now, on with the show:
Ch. 14: Day Six: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow
Potter's image flashed in his mind's eye.
Draco.
Consciousness rushed upon him suddenly and unnaturally, as though yanking him from a static sleep, an effect Draco groggily recognized of Enervate. The paralyzed ache in his torso, however, was new, so deep and dull as to be just barely bearable. He opened his eyes, but they couldn't focus on the blurred darkness; instead, he became aware of the sharp pain slicing at his wrists. Regrettably, he recognized this effect too – once the mind has blacked out, the chained iron cuffs dig into the flesh of the hands that now support the weight of the slumped body.
Draco struggled to his feet, straining his weak eyes in the chilly darkness. It felt like a dungeon, and part of the black. . . well, it reflected differently. And there was a pale globe – a head? . . . Father's head? Oh Merlin. . . (Wasn't he supposed to be in prison?)
"Draco," the voice barked out unmistakably. "You disappoint me."
Only when his vision cleared did he become aware of the throbbing tenderness that pillowed his face. He tried to speak, to say anything, but all his vocal cords could manage was a heavy groan. (No, Father had not gone to prison, where had he ever got that idea?)
"You. . . dared to plot against our Lord?" Father hissed, this blurred figure stepping closer. "You should have know you would get caught, you pathetic specimen of a pureblood. There is nothing you can do that he has not foreseen. You have disgraced the Malfoy name, and you will be punished. Our Lord is furious with you, and so am I."
Father swung swiftly and struck his walking stick across Draco's neck and check, causing him to cry out and stumble back against the stone wall. "H- how did you know?" he pushed his horse voice to rasp.
Father lunged towards him, slamming Draco's body against the wall, crushing his windpipe with his forearm. "I will be asking the questions around here. In fact, I have a few questions to ask you. You see, I know about what you did with Potter."
Draco mustered up a nasty sneer. "I've done a lot with Potter, how am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"
Father growled and lurched forward to greedily bite Draco's lips, eliciting a gasp when he pressed his hard body against his son's. Draco feebly tried to fight Father off in a way he hadn't done in years – if he was going to die anyway, he wasn't going to let that happen. "Get off me, you sick fuck," he gasped.
Father shoved him back, skull cracking against the wall again, then purposefully landed several powerful punches to his ribs and that awful, awful, dead part of his abdomen, where he figured the bomb either still was or had been. Father and Nott Sr. had cornered him at the driveway, fifteen minutes before the meeting, and that was all he remembered. They must have knocked him unconscious, but the fact remained that they had known. They had known that he was a threat, and they had known exactly how to neutralize that threat.
Hunched over his beaten torso and strained to raise his head. "Who. . . told you?" he croaked again.
Father glared at him hatefully. "You don't even deny it, do you boy? You were that Potter boy's whore, weren't you?"
Draco said nothing: there was nothing to say that wouldn't antagonize his father. He had let Potter fuck him, quite a few times, and there was no easy answer to why he had let the Boy-Who-Lived use him in a way he had hated when Father had done it. . . and when others had done it. Perhaps he had encouraged Potter because he was a whore, as Father said, or perhaps it was because of his own. . . perverted fantasies.
Draco's mind shunned that line of thought and he forced attention back on Father's spiteful words. ". . . And my, what an excellent whore you must have been, to keep Potter from sleeping soundly for the last five days. Now our Lord knows everything Potter knows."
For the first time since waking, Draco felt a stab of fear. The last five days? That was as long as. . . Potter had said he had been realm-hopping. Had that actually happened, or was it just some pain-induced hallucination? What, exactly, did Father know? "And what, exactly, do you know?" he sneered.
Father leaned his face close. "I know Potter is afraid that, if you die, he will never return to his timeline." He smiled maliciously as Draco closed his eyes in despair.
"So, of course, you're going to kill me," Draco managed to respond blandly, even as a small region of his brain realized that he knew significantly more about the Tempus Quareo than either Father or Potter. Perhaps Severus was the only other that could have realized the error in Father's plan.
Father glanced down at his pocket watch and didn't notice Draco's hidden revelation, continuing, "Of course. But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun in the mean time. I think we'll start with removing that muggle device from your body."
Draco's eyelids jerked open in sudden panic – he recognized Father's use of first-person plural as an indicator of imminent pain. Even if he hadn't, the merciless eyes and brandished wand were proof enough.
"Accio bomb," Father drew out his words firmly.
The last syllable fell from Father's lips, causing Draco's body to spasm and collapse as far down as his chained arms would allow. The consuming dull ache was searing his upper abdomen, tearing at flesh as it continued its pulsing efforts to pierce through the boneless space at the center of the lower ribcage.
"Oh, gods," Draco gritted piteously, arms straining against slicing cuffs in an attempt to wrap protectively around his agonized belly. Nausea forced him to arch his neck back and gag, as he was too weak to adjust his position. After a moment his muffled whimpers erupted into a chocked cry, and the bomb ripped through his skin to fly into Father's hand. "Ha!"
The large wound gushed dark blood in spurts as Draco's body was wracked with suffocating sobs. Father examined the warm, dripping device in his hand, frowning and disdainful; then he turned back towards his son, wand once again in his hand. "Glaciare."
Quickly, the pain in Draco's torso became cold and numb and the blood flow slowed to a small trickle. He body still trembled from the shock of the damage, but he managed to gradually ease his desperate gasping into shallow breaths. His eyes managed to focus again on the fierce figure, and his spite defied his crippled body.
"Father. . .," he rasped, blood burbling up slightly on his lip, and Father leaned closer to hear his words. "You drove me to him. He hated fucking me almost as much as you fucking hated me."
A soft, hysterical giggle escaped Draco's mouth and Father's face twisted in rage, and then came the solitary word. . . "Crucio!"
For an instant unbearable, agonizing pain seized him; then he was flung into unconsciousness.
! BREAK !
Harry was panicking. It was Sunday, so he was blessed not to have to conceal his agitation during class. Instead, he found himself pacing the rocky enclave at the Lake's shore – where his new understanding of Draco Malfoy had begun. Ron and Hermione hadn't been too difficult to escape after a rude welcome this morning.
Harry didn't give a fuck about etiquette. Something was horribly wrong, he could feel it. Malfoy's kamikaze mission had failed and Draco was is a horrible horrible pain. . . Harry could sense it on the periphery of his perception, and it was unbearable. He felt desperate and useless and frantic. What was happening to Malfoy? What would happen to him if Malfoy died in this timeline?
Oh, god, Malfoy. . .
On a whim he sat Indian style on the rocky ground, facing the Lake. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind like Snape had taught him; he allowed himself to still and calm, until outside sources of unrest became obvious. . .
Draco.
! BREAK !
Potter's image flashed though his mind's eye. Green eyes pleaded and a firm expression promised. . .
Again, he awoke abruptly and artificially, suddenly back in the world of pain. Instinct reacted with a rush of fear and panic, and his eyes flew open to make out Father before even being able to focus. The Malfoy patriarch had conjured an elegant wooden chair and sitting there stiffly, motionlessly, with his wand held casually on his knee.
"Draco." His voice was almost soothing, and calmed Draco despite all logic. "Here, drink this, it will help."
He reached into his robes and withdrew a vial of clear liquid. Draco hung lifelessly from his arm chains, knees on the cool stone floor: it was difficult to breathe, let alone resist when a firm hand cusped the back of his head and held him up to drink of the vial placed at his bruised lips. Just a taste –
It tasted like water, laced with a mild healing potion. Oh god, it tasted good!
He lapped at it greedily, and in seconds it was gone. He was left disappointed and unsatisfied, the agony all the worse for being more bearable. "Father," he moaned in pain.
Then Father was down on his knees too, very unMalfoyish; but he brought his body intimately against his son's, gathering some of the boy's weight in his arms and bringing their faces close. Draco felt warm air on his lips, warmth along his front, and a momentary respite; his eyes flutter shut and he sighed gently.
Father kissed him delicately, lovingly, and Draco really wanted to believe that what was happening was real, even though it wasn't. Father made love to him sometimes, more frequently when he younger, but Father had never loved him.
"Is this how Potter got into your pants?" Father whispered huskily.
Unbidden, the truth spilled form his lips, "No."
Father ran his tongue across Draco's cheek to his ear. "No? How, then, did it happen?"
"The other way," Draco's thoughts spoke aloud, in a manner that inspired him to a sudden a realization.
Father's grip tightened painfully on the back of Draco's head, yanking at sweat and blood matted locks. "What other way?" he demanded.
But Draco had recognized the affects of the Veritaserum, and he desperately strangled off the worls that tried to escape. Panic and fear swelled again, closing his throat and choking him. He tried to push Father off, but he was chained and too weak anyway, and Father clutched him firmly. Then, when the heaving stopped and he managed to breathe, the words finally slipped out with his defeated exhalation. "You know the other way, Father. Hard and merciless."
Father's fingers tightened around the back of his neck, then released him as Father drew suddenly away and sat back on his chair. "I knew you liked it," he continued after a moment, his tone arrogant and disdainful. "You've always enjoyed it, haven't you?"
Draco's eyes glazed over for a moment, in an act that he naturally substituted for tears, but he remained immobile. A frigid mechanical part of his brain was grappling with the question, and it provoked reactions from this temporarily pain-stunned emotions. Anger; at what that bastard had done from him, and taken from him. Rage; a genuine desire to kill and take bloody revenge. . . Hate; I HATE HIM. HATE HATE HATE.
His mind peeled away from that abyss of darkness and desperation.
Love. Draco had loved, and still loved, his father. How could he not? Father was the strong, powerful head of the family. Everyone respected him and he had everything. If he was inappropriately close at times, it was only to make up for his usually great distance – so that Draco coveted his attention. And Father had taken pains to pleasure him, however perversely, when he was younger. Even when he was older, when the gender games stopped and the pain games started: it got more fucked up, but there had still been some twisted pleasure. Almost as though he had relished the pain. It was undeniable, and he could almost feel the influence Father was probably magically projecting. This was the part of the truth that Father wanted to hear.
"Yes, I've always enjoyed it," he admitted emotionlessly, finding it impossible to sink any farther than total defeat.
Father's smirk held both disgust and malice, and a timeless element of Draco still couldn't understand how Father could be so cruel to him. Did He feel nothing for his only child? Draco felt so deeply, how could He not?
Then Father's wand was brandished again and Draco felt the shackles unlock from his wrists and ankles. He fell forward, barely managing to save his face from nose-diving into the stone. Movement renewed the punishing hurt that inhabited his body.
"Goyle!" Father barked sharply, causing Draco to shudder as he wrestled with controlling the pain. There was no denying that the situation would only get worse once Goyle entered the picture.
The dungeon door scraped open and Goyle Sr lumbered in. He paused for a moment, then moved towards Draco and grabbed his upper arm, just as Father gripped his other arm, and the two hauled him to his feet.
Father turned his head to look at him and shoothim a devil's smirk. "It's time. The Dark Lord wants a word with you."
Desolation was the only word for it. "Father. . . "
But his weak protest was ignored, and the two strong men promptly dragged him out of the door. Draco struggled to make his feet work, even as he was lugged down one hall, and then another, to Father's study. A familiar, sickening pit of dread swelled in his belly, superimposing itself over the numb wound, and he swallowed awkwardly as Father rapped upon the polished oak door.
He made a final effort to stand and pulled himself up in time to stumble into the study.
Where Voldemort sat angularly on Father's leather sofa, looking up unpleasantly from the fireplace. The back of another Death Eater could be made out watching out the window.
"Ahhh, Draco," the Dark Lord hissed dangerously, wasting no time.
Draco tried to hold himself up with some dignity, but he knew it was just for show. He had been tortured, and now he was going to die. What did he expect? He had betrayed his family's name and following; he had slept with Voldemort's personal enemy and had made a most ambitious assassination attempt. He had known it was extremely risky behavior, but so what? It's not risky behavior if nothing of worth is being jeopardized. An explosive and murderous end would have been ideal, but he would just have to settle for being executed with a 'Fuck You' on his lips.
Besides. if his gut was right, and his outrageous memory was genuine, then all the better: he could be a martyr and still live to fight another day. But he did not betray his thoughts, even under Voldemort's scrutiny – the monster seemed to be operating under the wishful assumption that killing him would somehow foil Potter's plans. And who knows, maybe it would; after all, the Quareo Tempus was unknown territory, and all Draco had to go on was rather convoluted temporal quantum theory.
The Lord of Horror soon grew angry at the younger Malfoy's baffling ability to elude his aggressing mind, quickly changing tactics and stabbing his wand at him. "Crucio!"
Draco was in no condition to fight off the agony that again seized his body: he immediately fell to the floor and cried out excruciatingly. After a moment, his experience of time became unfixed and the pain simply pulsed distantly through him, and his mind seemed to detach and float away, slowly flowing towards a haven, towards comfort and safety, and. . .
Potter. Potter, clear and alive and present. . .
Draco. Listen to me. Hold on. I'll come get you.
NO! Don't do that!
I have to! I can't let you die!
Yes, you can. I'll see you tomorrow.
There was silence. Draco's mind began to drift back, and the pain started seeping in from the horizon. At the frontier of consciousness, a voice replied –
Tomorrow then.Draco jerked alive, heaving bonelessly on the floor: the Unforgivable had been lifted, but there seemed to be very little left. Just a vague sense of regret. A wish to have made different choices and to have ended differently. Because Harry Potter was nothing if not Hope.
And in the end, that was enough.
"Avada Kadavra."
Death was bright green and abrupt, but otherwise painless.
! END OF CHAPTER !
PLEASE REVIEW. To those of curiosity, the opening quote is of ex-inmate Brooks (from Shawshank Redemption), commenting on life outside prison.
