Knotting
Harry needed a sock.
Not just any sock, however, he needed Malfoy's sock.
Hermione, though still weepy with guilt, had taken on a fierce, almost frightening determination in finding the counter-enchantment to the curse. She had gathered every book in the library in relation to house elves and bonding spells, which happened to be a staggering amount, stacked in wobbling piles in a corner of the common room that she had staked out as her territory. Her little leather-bound notebook had turned into her constant companion, mumbling at it and frowning as if it had answered her incorrectly. She kept it clutched protectively to her chest, snapping, at Ron especially, whenever anyone tried to read it.
Harry had thought it was odd, but decided that it would probably be that little book and Hermione's almost morbid volition, that would free him from Malfoy's reign.
However he began to hate when it apparently gave Hermione her latest plan to try and break the bond tying him to Malfoy.
"Well, it's worth a try, Harry. It's the traditional way to banish a family's house elf." she told him, scowling at her book before nodding and giving Harry a sharp look, obviously ready quash any resistance.
Harry did glare for several seconds, but in the end mustered up all the patience and bravery he needed to tromp up to the Slytherin table at lunch where only Crabbe and Goyle lingered with Malfoy, sitting beside him dutifully like trained dogs while their master finished his Charms homework.
Harry hated to think that, though unwillingly, he was likely more loyal to Malfoy now than the pair of hulking bodyguards. Malfoy was truly, terribly, his Master.
It didn't help that the curse was thrumming with heat now as he approached Malfoy, eyes insolently locked with those cold grey ones that looked upon him and saw a slave, nothing but a chained and tamed beast. He wanted to prove that he was more than that but when the threads, the imprisoning chains tangled within him were pricking at his spine, intent on making him bow, he didn't see how he could aside from doggedly glaring and reminding himself of Malfoy's general foulness.
Malfoy's cronies flexed intimidating when Harry stepped up to them and Malfoy simply smirked, raising a pale brow. Harry knew he probably had half a mind to command him to bow and grovel without delay in the Great Hall, but only restrained himself for Dumbledore was seated at the Head Table, likely watching with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes, Potter?" Malfoy asked, "Pray tell, whatever could the Golden Boy require of slimy old me?"
The curse constricted around his vocal cords, trying to squeeze the answer out of him, but he just scowled, biting his lower lip, part of him trying to draw blood as punishment, part of him trying to stay silent.
Malfoy grinned wickedly and watched, drawing out Harry's torment with relish. And all he could do was glare, like the caged lion he'd been reduced to, Malfoy the smirking sadistic ringmaster watching him starve, performing circus tricks while trying to maintain what pride had left. The prat at last grew bored and dismissed his twin walls of bulky muscle with the wave of a hand. Harry marveled at the fact that Malfoy could end his life now with the wave of a hand and a few simple words just as he commanded the entirety of Slytherin.
"Speak, Potter," Malfoy demanded and Harry finally released his abused lip.
"Hermione wants you to come to the courtyard with an article of clothing." He reported, wincing when he bit back the word sir tacked on the end of the sentence. He was glad the curse had at least spared him from speaking like a true house elf, his grammar garbled and groveling.
Malfoy looked him over with dry interest and nodded, huffing as if it was some great bother to meet them in the courtyard with a sock.
"I suppose it makes sense, though I doubt her scheme will work," he rolled his eyes, "You'd think The Know It All would plan ahead and create a counter-curse before testing the bloody thing. I thought she was smarter than that."
He smirked as he gathered his things, watching Harry as one would watch a wild animal, smugly pacing behind iron bars, wearing his freedom like a badge of honor. "Though I was spot on with you, sacrificing your noble self to save a lowly house elf, bravery comes hand in hand with stupidity it seems."
Harry stormed away, Malfoy's words ringing in his ears like rattled prison bars. He had been incredibly stupid to end up in this mess, but it was going to take all his courage to get through it without murdering Malfoy or himself for that matter.
Or giving in to the curse, bowing and basking under the cruel rule of Draco Malfoy; which was going to take a lot of Gryffindor determination to avoid, indeed.
So it was half an hour later Harry and Hermione stood in the courtyard, waiting for a Malfoy that should have been there fifteen minutes earlier, shivering in the blustery wind. Harry was cursing under his breath, debating what he'd have to do to himself if he were to hex Malfoy, and Hermione was muttering Merlin only knows what to that notebook, scratching in notes only to scribble them out minutes later as she paced, unaffected by the chilling wind blowing her hair and pages about.
Malfoy strolled in awhile later, face carrying an air of boredom that made Harry not care what the curse did to him as long as he could get a single swing at that pale, pointy face.
"About time!" Harry snapped, rounding on him with balled fists and murderous intent, only held back by a tiny twitch of the curse and Hermione's stern gaze burning his back. He was sure if it were Ron waiting with him for nearly an hour; it wouldn't be Harry to throw the first punch at Malfoy.
"Is it?" Malfoy yawned, "I dozed off, sorry."
The amusement glimmering in his grey eyes like icicles sparkling in winter sunlight told Harry he wasn't sorry at all.
"Malfoy, did you bring it?" Hermione asked with a patience that must have been reserved for Ron when he was at his most unreasonable.
"Oh right," he pulled something out of his pocket in a smooth movement and pressed it into Harry's hand, "There you are Potter; I denounce you as a Malfoy house elf."
Harry knew it wasn't a sock, or a glove, or even a jumper. It was silken and smooth, warm from Malfoy's body heat and horrifyingly familiar in shape.
It was Malfoy's pants Harry held in his hand, in the middle of a courtyard.
They were the same mint green silk as his dressing gown had been, making him suspect they were part of a set. Harry was fairly confident that if he were to look, he'd find Malfoy's initials sewn into them. Hermione had turned slightly pink, but shot the Slytherin a disgusted look as he burst into laughter from the absurdity of it all, a clear, ringing sound that reminded Harry of jangling keys and slammed cupboard doors.
Harry didn't feel free. He didn't find it funny, he felt just as bound and suffocated as he did when he was sleeping in the musty cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley's.
And he felt angry.
He did something stupid, something he knew would come to haunt and hurt him later just like the curse itself, but he did it, because in that one moment he wanted to be free, do something that defied Malfoy, defied Dumbledore, even defied his sanity for a split second.
In that split second, he punched Malfoy in the face.
His fist snapped forward and connected to Malfoy's laughing face with a satisfying crack that echoed through the courtyard, thrumming through the curse like frayed piano wire screaming under tension.
And it hurt, his knuckles aching, but that was nothing compared to the guilt, blood soaked, thick and dark, smothering him, a noose around his neck that demanded punishment, atonement in agony and blood for what he'd done.
Spots, crimson and somehow appealing, burst in his vision along with Malfoy, who had staggered back, clutching his face and staring at Harry with incredulous grey eyes.
How could Harry have done that? His master—Master was hurt because of Harry, Harry surely must have disobeyed some order—Harry surely deserved punishment.
But no, Malfoy had deserved to be punched, he needed to be reminded that Harry was not a plaything; he was not a real house elf awaiting his order with a smile. Malfoy was a foul, haughty git that needed to learn his place, and that was certainly not lording over Harry on a gilded throne with the curse brandished in his hand like a whip, a scepter giving him the right to make Harry miserable.
In the end, it was the blood that did it. It was lightly smudged over Malfoy lip, barely there but terribly red, staining his eyes and making them water. He felt stupid, standing here in the courtyard with a pair of silk green pants in his hand, near sniveling like Dobby. Perhaps he was more like a house elf than he'd originally thought.
It was like tears the apology spilt from his lips, though it tasted like blood, bitter and false, thick with insincerity and the fabricated pain singing through the curse, but he fought it, trying to bite it back with the reason he hit Malfoy.
"I'm sorry, M-Master, I-I d-d-didn't—no, you—Mal-Ma—fuck!"
He bit through his bottom lip, the pain spiking sanity through the curse and blood didn't seem so awful now that it was pouring down his chin. Malfoy was still staring at him, his grey eyes flickering with nervousness, obviously judging Harry mad again, and looking for an escape. Hermione was already scolding him shrilly, and the ever-simmering anger was turned to her. He sympathized inwardly with Ron for a moment before all the rage turned ice cold when a black figure stalked into the leaf-littered courtyard, the vision of doom and the promise of long, cold detentions in his billowing robes and cold eyes glittering malignantly.
"Just what is going on here Potter? Mr. Malfoy?" Snape hissed, efficiently silencing Hermione's sputtering with a single poisonous glance.
"Potter hit me!" Malfoy promptly accused, offering a blood caked finger in proof.
Snape raised an eyebrow looking at Harry, who's chin still dribbled with a torrent of blood rather than the weak trickle of Malfoy's that had already been stemmed. Harry swore he saw a hint of a smile on Snape's lips as he conveniently overlooked his injury and simply said,
"Detention, Potter. This coupled with the detentions your already serving for your, ah, unfortunate mishap with Miss Granger's botched spell makes the future possibilities for free time look quite bleak indeed."
Harry nearly bit his lip again, catching himself just as he realized he'd likely have to make a trip to the hospital wing before the next class. Malfoy had nothing but a minor split lip, nothing compared to the hole stinging through Harry's own.
"I expect to see the pair of you in my classroom promptly after dinner." He said, making Harry remember that he was still being punished for getting himself into the mess that was more torment than any amount of detentions. "Miss Granger, you'll be serving with Professor McGonagall."
Even Malfoy was glaring as the Potions master swept away, apparently cross he was serving detention at all let alone with the teacher that avoided giving him any sort of punishment.
"Well then Harry, did it work?" Hermione asked, frowning at her notebook again as if nothing had ever happened. "Did the clothes severe the connection?"
"No," Harry spat, wiping the blood from his chin, "I told you it wouldn't work."
Hermione grunted, but admitted nothing, scribbling yet again. Malfoy watched him contemptuously as he cleaned his face of the blood, shifting warily as if waiting another attack.
"Perhaps it must be the head of the House of Malfoy, rather than just me, the heir." Malfoy said and Hermione's attention snapped to him, Harry could practically hear the wheels turning violently in her head.
"Yes, why don't we go and tell you Death Eater Daddy about this curse that makes the Chosen One obey him, shall we? Why don't we just sever my head and serve it on the good china for old Snake Face?" Harry growled scathingly, watching Malfoy's pale face flush pink high on his cheeks, eyes darkening like a storm about to break out into chaos.
"Take it back, Potter, you take it back and admit you know nothing about me, you bastard." He whispered, and Harry knew that some part of Malfoy must know exactly what those words did to him for an awful smile stretched his lips.
The curse demanded an answer, vibrating with urgency, but Harry thought quickly, grappling with his own words as he bit them out.
"I take it back, M-Malfoy, but I know some things about you. You're spoiled rotten, cruel, and cold. I know that you have nothing but your name, and you care for nothing but that and yourself."
Malfoy took three swift steps forward and for a moment, Harry thought that he'd be struck in retaliation, but Malfoy only took the smothering proximity as he had before in the library, slender fingers digging short nails into his jaw, tilting his head to the side as he used his few inches of height to his advantage, looming over Harry.
"You know nothing about me Potter, and you never will." He breathed into his ear, and Harry found his body heat stifling, his breath far too sweet, it made him think of warm winter evenings before a roaring fire, coupled with Malfoy's December sky eyes. Nights shared with another, filled with gentle caresses like how Malfoy's fingers were—
No. That wasn't what he should be thinking, that wasn't what the curse should be thinking. It was like someone else's thoughts, tailored to fit Harry, were invading his mind, thoughts that likely belonged to one of Malfoy's simpering, skirt-swishing admirers.
He knew he shouldn't feel jealous either, especially of those slutty, pure-blood girls.
"Potter, are you listening?"
"Yes, Master." He replied automatically, face possibly flushing further, Malfoy still lingering at his ear, white-blonde hair tickling his nose and invading his senses with the smell of—mint?
"Good, Potter. Now there's something I'd like you to do for me. Will you do it for me, Potter?" he hissed, a smirk surely on his lips.
"Yes, Master." Harry answered helplessly, the praise singing like the hot burst of fireworks.
"Now listen carefully, Potter."
~o0o~
Draco couldn't bring himself to care that he had detention; he didn't even mind that Granger had ordered him to come with Potter after said detention to the library for some new manner of experiment against the curse.
Though she insisted that it wasn't a curse it was merely an enchantment gone wrong Draco could see that this was a curse to Potter, the thing making him obey Draco was a crippling disease. Why else would Potter flush as if with fever, all weak-kneed and glazed eyes, staring at him so close…?
Perhaps he'd been wrong to get so near to Potter just to order him, the action haunted him more than the punch Potter had given him, which was forgotten but for the persistent sting of his lip where it'd split. Potter himself had bit clean through his lip with that habit of his that annoyed Draco more than the ruffling of his untidy hair, along with the copper smell of blood Potter's raven locks smelled like clean air and fresh laundry, better than any cologne he'd ever had the pleasure of whiffing—
It was certainly haunting him, as any order he gave his new slave, and order he gave when he was close enough to kiss the Gryffindor anyway.
But Draco distracted himself with thoughts of what Potter must be going through now, his true punishment, not for the punch but rather for his assumptions. Those careless words writhed in him like a sack full of Flobberworms making him feel disgusted and furious. How dare Potter pretend to know anything about him? He didn't know what Draco cared about, and it was far, far more than his name.
Titles of any sort had lost their splendor after he'd been permanently labeled with the mark on his arm.
Maybe he was cold and cruel, more than a little spoiled even, but that gave Potter no right to speak about his father, his father who was suffering in his own home with that—that monster.
"Fuck!"
Ah, there was Potter now.
He'd heard the rumors churning during Charms and was satisfied to find Potter hadn't yet found a clever loophole to avoid his latest order. Draco had thought it fitting after discovering that the Golden Boy actually swore! He then thought; why not exploit that fact in a very public fashion?
"Ron, just shut the fuck up."
He stalked carefully behind a flock of Ravenclaws as he watched the familiar group of the Weasel, Mudblood, and Potter trudge through the crowd. The Mudblood was immersed in that book of hers and the Weasel looked harassed, ears scarlet and face frowning, then there was Potter ducked between them, a hand clamped over his mouth and eyes fixed forward, ignoring the murmurs about him.
He grinned and patiently waited.
The Weaslette came bouncing up and wriggled herself within their ranks, beaming and tossing her hair, looking as happy as Draco felt at that moment.
"Hey there, Harry," she smiled, "How are you? I heard from Seamus that you were acting funny lately."
Draco thought he was the only one who heard it as the rest of the students were too distracted by what followed.
The sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh silenced the corridor and froze it mid-step, every eye directed to where Harry Potter stood in front of Ginny Weasley with an angry red slap mark on his face.
She huffed into the silence, but the mutters broke out again as she stormed away, hair swinging like flickering flames amongst the black of the school robes. The Weasel and Potter were whispering furiously to each other, the Mudblood holding the ginger back as he hissed at Potter, who was spluttering and holding his cheek.
Potter had called his best friend's sister a slut.
And Draco couldn't stop laughing.
He was vaguely aware that the Weasel was glaring at him now as he leaned on the wall, and that Potter was actually striding through the thinning throng toward him. Draco's laughter died when he found himself backed into an alcove nearby, cornered by a livid Harry Potter.
"Fucking bastard," Potter growled and Draco found himself smiling again. Potter swearing seemed to mar his goody-goody image and shape him into something else, something dangerous and wild, and something Draco found he liked far too much.
Now he really was afraid, backed into this corner while students passed just inches away. He was afraid of his own thoughts while Potter was just inches away, less then inches away, he still smelled like blood though his lips was healed, looking new and more plump than ever, waiting to be bitten or sucked or—
"My, my, Potter, what do you have to say for yourself after offending young Miss Weasley? Accurate, perhaps, but it was still rather tactless to state such a truth in front of her brother." Draco purred, nearly against those lips, watching Potter flush and strain against the curse.
"Bloody prat, you—you're going to pay—you shirt lifting rapist."
Draco blinked. True, he'd worded his command to loosen Potter's tongue and spice up his every sentence with a few words no one would say in front of their grandmother, but this was…odd, to say the very least.
But interesting nonetheless.
"Is that what you think I am along with being a spoiled brat, Potter? Maybe you've one part right, but I'd have to be in your place, shoving you into a corner, to find out the other bit."
That certainly scared him off, he leapt backwards and Draco could laugh again, his breath fluttery and short, but he laughed, and kept laughing until he was sure it was as forced as Potter's obedience.
~o0o~
Draco hovered in front of the Potions classroom door, half dreading the detention he was about to receive and half excited. Severus knew about the curse, though he obviously wouldn't be one to righteously take the Gryffindor's victim's side and ruin all Draco's fun, it was likely indeed, Draco could get away with all manner of mischief right under his guardian's nose, but it was Potter himself he was dreading.
There'd been a threat heavy in Potter's voice before Draco had scared him off, and he knew that he wasn't going to get away with this last order scot-free, in fact he was lucky to have survived this long without the Weasel hexing him or McGonagall giving him more detention. Yet it wasn't the danger of Potter and his Gryffindors that had shaken him, it was still just Potter.
Potter the homophobe.
It wasn't as if his sexual orientation was some scandalous secret anyway, indeed it was common among pure-bloods, though their fate was never as easy, especially when you were a Slytherin. Draco knew full well he was destined to marry some pure-blood girl that he didn't love, eventually fall into a friendship with, and have affairs on the weekends, just as his parents did. Though he appreciated the male form more, he knew he had his place which was, eventually, fathering an heir to the Malfoy name.
He really hated names.
He really hated Potter's name.
He liked the Weasley's for a moment however, because Potter was tromping up to him, the mark on his cheek renewed and practically glowing.
"The Weaslette isn't so forgiving, hm? It probably didn't help that you're still saying naughty things." He drawled, arching a brow and wondering what those green eyes saw when he looked at Draco now.
"Sod off, bloody wanker." Potter retorted, not looking at all, finding interest in a potion stain splattered across the wall that Draco knew Longbottom had caused.
So he just waited, feeling vindictive as he went through the long, long mental list he'd composed just for Potter and his lovely little curse. When the door swung open and revealed a glowering Potions master, all of those orders paled when Draco realized what was about to happen, when Severus spoke, and looked at Potter.
"What is that your saying, Mr. Potter? I'm sure you can share your thoughts with more than just the floor."
Potter had been growling blasphemies at the stain as if trying to frighten it away, most of which involving Draco, blunt objects, and Unforgivables. Draco waited with bated breath. Did Severus already know what he'd done to Potter?
"Nothing, you greasy tosser."
Severus raised an eyebrow, murder sparking in his eyes.
A surprise then, he didn't know at all.
Potter had squirmed under one of Draco's godfather's most terrifying looks, the piercing sort that seemed to snake through you with bladed edges, the same sort he'd given Draco that first night as he begged for death.
He shook his head to clear it before that glare was turned to him while he dawdled in the doorway, Potter already having taken his seat, beginning to scrub at what was likely a blunder from the infamous Neville Longbottom. Rather than being given a task such as manual labor, Draco was given lines. What he was to write or how many nonexistent sentences were not given, however.
Draco took this as Severus' code for 'go to sleep for all I care'.
And although he didn't show it, he cared a lot.
Potter was still grumbling as he worked at an unmoving blob of some congealed potion at the seat beside him and Draco watched, chin in his hands as he listened with half an ear to Potter's oaths and profanities.
Within a half-conscious half hour he found that Potter favored the word 'fuck' and never said anything against women, save for the Mudblood, but that was mild in nature and largely directed at her 'bloody little notebook with all the fucking answers that do nothing but condemn me'.
"You know, you never asked me to lift my last order from you, Potter." Draco yawned, watching as Potter tensed and glanced to the front of the classroom where the Potions master was not, having disappeared into his office the moment detention started, a single raised brow directing Draco to harass Potter for the both of them.
"And why the fuck would you do that when you seem to be fucking enjoying it so bloody much?" the Gryffindor growled and Draco thought for a moment he'd been found out, Potter had pillaged his mind and found the thoughts he'd buried, the small, hot, off-hand thoughts that found his naughty language as pleasing as talented hands down his spine.
No, that was mad. The thoughts themselves were mad besides, but to think Potter was a Legilimens was just stupid.
"I'd do it if you asked me nicely, you'll have to say please and all that tripe, of course." He said sweetly.
Potter glowered at him from under his fringe, but said neither profanity nor plea. Silence stretched between them, only broken by the scrape of the brush Severus had given Potter and the scratch of Draco's quill as he mindlessly doodled.
"I bet you've never said please once in your fucking life, Malfoy." Potter finally scoffed and Draco blinked into awareness, looking down at his paper to find he'd drawn Neville Longbottom drowning in a cauldron. He smirked.
"What makes you say that, Potter?" he muttered, voice slurred with sleep. It'd been more than an hour since they'd been in the drafty dungeons.
"You get anything you fucking want; I've mentioned you're fucking spoiled, haven't I?" Potter was looking at him with an insolent smirk that belonged to a Slytherin.
He was sure he knew exactly how to wipe it away.
He leaned over, the motion he'd only used twice like a reflex as his fingers found Potter's defiant chin, melting it to slack-jawed shock as he brushed against the feather-light touch of Potter's bedraggled hair.
"Please," he whispered, "Now it's your turn, Potter. Be a good elf and bow and beg."
Potter jerked backwards, babbling, his eyes screwed shut and brow furrowed and beginning to sweat as he fought the order, his hands clutching to nothing as his own back seemed to fight against him, the curse binding him to obedience. For once Draco watched without regret as Potter visibly itched to hurt himself. He deserved to be punished for putting these thoughts into Draco's head, thoughts that seemed to smolder as he savored the scent that lingered, the scent of Potter.
With a final cry of protest against himself, Potter bowed and he begged, for what, Draco wasn't even sure of, but it was music to his ears, mixed apologies, Potter's new favorite word, and Draco's new favorite word.
Master.
He reached a hand into Potter's shaking head, entangling it into his untidy hair and jerking him mercilessly upward, facing those brilliantly green eyes, his own watering with mirth.
"Alright, Potter," he chuckled, "I forgive you. You're a very good elf, don't worry. You serve your master well in fact; you're your master's favorite."
Potter's eyes suddenly grew impossibly wide and he wrenched out of Draco grasp and flew out the classroom door.
Draco sat, bemused, his hand still warm from Potter's hair and the floor still stain with the blood Potter had left behind from biting his lip again.
~o0o~
A/N~ Sorry for the wait! Happy New Year!
Thanks for reading, please review!