MEMORY VIAL 19: TORTURE AND TEMPTATION (YEAR 5)

"Draco?"

Pansy frowned from over the bed when Draco opened his eyes and unstuck his cheek from the cold, bare floor. He had just been dreaming he was with Harry in a small, cramped room, on a small, cramped bed, about to do the unspeakable.

A puddle of vomit lay underneath him for the third time this week, and he was cold and shivering. When Pansy rounded the bed and knelt attentively beside him, a violent spasm in his diaphragm made him turn his head away. He did not want Pansy seeing him like this, it was undignified, and he was unused to being vulnerable in front of anyone except his mother.

"Hold still. Let me check if you're alright."

"No." He cleared his throat. "You'll get it on you."

"Don't be silly! I care more about you than getting a little of your dinner on me, now come here."

Knowing better than to say no to the girl he planned to marry in less than a handful of years, Draco leaned against her while she pressed a cool hand to his forehead.

"You're burning up."

"I'm fine," he said, gritting his teeth against the horrible acid he felt sliding up his throat again. "Ugh… I've been getting sick like this for the past month, so I know it's nothing. It'll pass. I just really wish it hadn't happened while you were here."

"Speak for yourself. I consider it an honor."

Draco snorted. "An honor," he said, mockingly. But then he smiled at her appreciatively. "You've got a housewife's temperament."

"Isn't that what you want?" she said hopefully, to which Draco merely shrugged and glanced out the windows.

The only light in the room came from the bright white glow of the waxing moon. At the snapping of fingers, a tapered candle flared into life on the bedside table, and a fumbling noise in the far corner of the chamber caught their attention. Pansy gave a little shriek before clapping a hand over her mouth.

"It's alright," Draco said. "It's just a servant."

As the misshapen creature unfolded itself from the shadows, a squeaky, high-pitched voice pealed through the silence. "M-master! It happened again, didn't it? Um—uh… Don't worry, Krebble'll get the mistress right away!"

"Don't get her," Draco ordered in a rushed voice, but the little house-elf had been given his orders several weeks ago by Narcissa, and no matter how many times Draco tried to override his mother, Krebble would not listen.

A confused scampering of elf-feet gave way to a loud crack of Disapparation. Draco looked at Pansy with a sickly smile. "Krebble," he explained. "Like you, Mum doesn't like me getting sick like this, so she stationed him in my room for the entire summer. He stays hidden and minds his own business, so I just act like he's not there." Until something like this happened, of course.

"If he's getting your mum, then I should come back later," Pansy said fearfully, while rubbing gently at his shoulders. "I'm barely dressed," she glanced down at her green chemise, "and it looks like we…"

Draco's smile broadened at the deep red color that came over her. "If you only knew how much my parents would love to catch us in bed together… But you're right. Go on."

After kissing Draco on the cheek, Pansy tiptoed out of his bedchamber to the guest room down the hall that she always stayed in whenever she visited. Meanwhile, Draco remained where he was, afraid that any movement, or thought for that matter, would induce another fit of uncontrollable vomiting. He pressed his clammy forehead to his palm, turned away from the mess that he had made, then let his mind wander into dangerous territory again…

Harry Potter, he thought indulgently to himself. What I wouldn't give to be with you like in that dream…

Another wave of nausea hit him, but he tamped it down with a mighty effort and swallowed it back. He didn't want his mother to come rushing into the room only to find him bent double over like this and unable to recover.

What Draco could not tell Pansy was that Animus Thorne was the reason for him getting sick while he was sleeping. Mr. Thorne was testing a new potion on him. Technically, he wasn't sick at all, aside from the mental illness Mr. Thorne had diagnosed him with at the beginning of the summer. While his prognosis was apparently good, the potion in question was guaranteed to make him sick whenever he got lost in a fantasy about anyone of the same sex. It attacked him for inappropriate dreams and passing thoughts as well, which made it difficult for him to sleep through the night or let his mind relax.

"Aversion conditioning" was what Mr. Thorne called it, and it was inspired by Muggle psychology. But how the concoction was able tell the difference between Harry and Pansy, for example, he had no clue, but Professor Snape would likely know.

It was brilliant, really; the potion worked flawlessly, proving to Draco just how bent to the core he really was. The potion also helped during the mindwork sessions whenever Mr. Thorne encouraged Draco to fantasize about a boy and then, after emptying his stomach into a bucket, verbally disparage the dreamed-up fantasy as a threat to his own well-being.

Presently, there was a second loud cracking sound, followed by the swift scrabbling of Krebble's feet. The usual bucket had been fetched, along with a heap of snow-white towels, and for a moment Draco thought the stack of towels looked like Hedwig who had made an appearance twice over the summer so far—with no letters attached, of course, since she only meant to visit Oberon. But the towels reminded him of Harry, and his feelings for the boy surged to the surface, frothing in his stomach, burning up his throat, until they spewed out of his body into the bucket, which he pulled underneath his chin with shaking hands.

"Think of it as an exorcism," he remembered Mr. Thorne instructing him in his amicable voice. "When you're alone and getting sick, I mean. Imagine your attraction to boys being hurled out of your body, and your mind will hopefully come to align with that in due time."

"But exorcism is a Muggle thing," Draco had reminded the psychomancer warily. To say nothing of how backwards and stagnant Muggle practices like psychology and exorcism were, the latter was always associated with witch-hunts and hysteria, and any self-respecting wizard was familiar with that fact.

"I've spent years studying Muggle psychology, young Master Malfoy, and since we have perfected it, it has proven useful in my practice. If you treat it like an exorcism, your mind will at least learn to repress these unnatural urges after realizing how disgusting and unwelcome they are."

This kind of love is unwelcome, Draco had learned to tell himself habitually. Bent love is disgusting. My love is sick. My heart is sick.

But his heart ached the more he fought against it, and the pain was soothed only when he thought about the boy he had kissed and touched not too long ago…

Another heady wave of nausea hit him, but he managed to blank out his straying thoughts quickly enough.

Draco heard the crack of Narcissa Apparating into the room, and it shook him back into his senses. "Mummy," he whimpered automatically, wishing he could scream. "Mummy, it hurts. Please, make it stop."

"There, there, dear." Narcissa knelt beside him. She skimmed one hand over his back, while taking hold of his arm with the other in the way she always did whenever she wanted to hold him.

"Mummy, I'm sick," he croaked, tears streaming down his cheeks. But then he wiped at them furiously, willing the effeminate emotions into silence. "I keep getting sick and I can't help it. I'm sorry."

When Draco was lifted into her arms, Krebble got to work cleaning up the mess, using magic to vanish the vomit out of sight, and more magic to scour the floor of any undetected or missed spots. Krebble watched with sad, bulbous eyes as Narcissa held her son as if he were a toddler. His pajamas clung to his skin from the cold sweat of his fever, and his shoulders jerked as he tried to suppress the shame that he was feeling.

"I'm sorry, Mum. I really am."

Narcissa ruffled his hair as she watched the house-elf check under the bed for any missed splatters. "Draco," she said serenely, "listen carefully. I didn't ask Krebble to wake me up just so you could apologize for something you can't control. When your father first mentioned he was in touch with Animus about your condition, I knew you'd need support. I don't agree with Animus's methods, but your father has faith in him, and you can only do your best."

"You don't agree?" Draco said, half indignant. "But it's for my own good, isn't it? Mr. Thorne wants to help, and he thinks it's possible to cure me."

"I'm aware of what Animus thinks he can do, but that doesn't give him the right to torture you into compliance. You're losing weight."

"So what?" Draco said repressively, voice cracking through the next several syllables. "I'd rather be sick to my stomach like this, than sick in the head for the rest of my life."

"It could permanently scar you, do you understand that? If this goes on for too long—if it goes too far, you'll eventually end up in St. Mungo's."

Draco pondered that, burying his nose into her nightdress, feeling miserable, powerless, and thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"I'd rather be dead," Draco mumbled eventually, after considering the consequences of his treatment going too far, "than be anything like this. I'm no better than a Mudblood if I don't change." He squeezed his eyes shut when Narcissa's arms contracted around him, practically crushing the breath out of his lungs. "Mummy, I don't want to disappoint you."

"That's the thing, darling." She kissed the top of his head. "None of us doubt that you want to do the right thing. But being tortured for something you haven't even acted on—"

"I acted," Draco reminded her savagely. "I bloody acted, and you know it. Mr. Thorne told you. It made you cry."

"I overreacted," Narcissa said cautiously, "because it's all been such a shock. But the other boy is no longer in school now, isn't that right? And you haven't been in contact with him."

Draco went silent at that. For the past several weeks, he had allowed everyone to believe that was the case, and over the past few days, he had shrewdly worked out exactly why Professor Moody had suggested that "the other boy" would no longer be at school. If Moody had been a Death Eater undercover and was working for Voldemort—which Lucius had recently come to learn was the case—then that could only mean Barty Crouch Jr. had expected Harry to die during the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. Draco had believed Harry's story about being tortured by Voldemort when Harry had first mentioned it to him, but if there had been any doubt in Draco's mind, the last bit of it was gone.

Lucius had also recently informed Draco and Narcissa that Harry was likely facing expulsion due to his use of underage magic over the summer, so perhaps Draco would never see him again after all. He might even be sent to Azkaban if the offense was bad enough, although Lucius was sure it would not come to that.

If Dobby had remained at Malfoy Manor, Draco supposed he could have confided all his feelings about Harry to him and been commiserated with, possibly even advised. It was improper to talk to slaves about personal matters, but Dobby had proven to be a loyal friend when he had needed it.

Do house-elves even know what it's like to fall in love? Draco wondered. Or are those feelings too complex for them to understand?

He supposed that wanting to talk to Dobby in that capacity was a sure sign that he was losing his mind.

Even if I end up in St. Mungo's, I'll keep taking the potions Mr. Thorne gives me, he thought resolutely, then hoisted himself onto his feet, out of his mother's arms. Potter not wanting me anymore is my ticket out of this mess, so I ought to take advantage of it. Especially if he's been expelled.

Krebble, having finished his scrubbing, put away all the bewitched cleaning fixtures, and replaced the bedclothes, which were soaked through from Draco's fever. The house-elf wandered, bandy-legged, into Draco's wardrobe and set a pair of fresh pajamas on top of the mulberry silk pillow.

Approximately twenty minutes later, after Draco had cleaned himself up in the bathroom and Narcissa had gone back to sleep, Pansy crept into Draco's bedchamber still wearing her green lacey chemise. She crawled onto her side of the bed on hands and knees, then sprawled flat on her stomach next to Draco. Her feet swung in the air behind her, looking like dove's wings, her lips freshly painted into scarlet petals. "Are you all right?"

Draco did not answer. His eyes groped over the sheer fabric of her nightdress. He asked, "Did we…?"

"No." She smiled. "You fell asleep when we were about to, though."

"Oh." He couldn't decide whether to be happy or upset about that fact. "Sorry."

"It's alright. Your dad told us to stay out of each other's rooms anyway, but we never listen to him." She giggled girlishly, and Draco simpered as she wriggled her way closer. "If you're feeling better now, would you like to see them?"

"See what?"

"What you were wanting to feel up just a few hours ago, silly!"

Pansy sat up and, before he could say no, removed her chemise in one deft move. Draco stared at her, not knowing how to react. The tiny garment between her legs was the only thing that she had on, and she was gorgeous, but not the sort of gorgeous that he was interested in. The splash of silver moonlight from the window made her look like one of the statues in the garden with the way that she was posed. His heart pounded, but not with excitement. He felt stressed more than anything else, although he could appreciate how beautiful she looked.

"Well?" she prompted, sliding even closer next to him. "Don't be shy. Go ahead."

"Go ahead and what?"

"Touch them, obviously! Or are you scared?" She smiled pityingly at him.

"I'm not scared."

"Then prove it."

Draco swallowed reluctantly, then stretched out his hand. The last thing he wanted to do was feel her, but he did it anyway, knowing that he would have to at some point. He was surprised at how soft and plush she was. Her breast squished under his fingers in a way he did not like, and he much preferred how boys felt in comparison.

"I always wanted you to touch me like this," she whispered softly, running a hand over his in order to make him squeeze. "Ever since a couple of years ago, actually… when I first started growing them."

His throat went dry, and he avoided looking at her. Being with her like this wasn't terrible so far, but he did not like it. Everything was just too cushiony, and nothing felt right.

She wasn't a boy, and Draco got angry with himself.

The more she massaged him over herself, the more nervous he got. She guided his hand over her waist and down the fleshy softness of her thighs, and he smiled uneasily when she asked him if he liked it.

"I like it too," she said in a quiet voice that became softer and more tremulous the more he fondled her. "A lot, Draco… You can feel everything, if you want."

He supposed she would have driven any other boy out of his mind with lust, so Draco told himself to man up and feel lucky. This was what nature had intended for him, and eventually he would be able to get hard at the mere sight of someone like her and react like any normal boy.

Pansy twisted onto her back and tried to pull Draco over her. When she let go of him, he crawled on top, his heart thundering, determined to see this through.

Draco ran his hands over the slopes and curves of her body, willing himself to like it—telling himself that nothing was better than what she was giving him right now, and that this was exactly what he needed, what he really craved deep down, except that his mind was a bit confused.

His fingers ventured between her legs, and he petted gently at her panties until she blossomed into life. He stared intently at her, reminding himself: This is natural… This is what I want…

After a minute of this, she began to rub herself against him, and he felt her wetness bleeding through the fabric of her panties. He had no idea how to respond to this, and so he panicked.

"Put them in me," Pansy said, mistaking Draco's reaction for lust. "Put your fingers inside and move them…"

Draco did as he was told. He removed her panties first, then probed his way inside where everything felt hot and wet and…

Weird.

Pansy sinuated against his hand, and he watched her breasts heave in the moonlight—unnecessary pieces of flesh that did absolutely nothing to excite him.

"Move them like that… Yeah… I really like that."

Draco grimaced at the feeling of his hand being molested. He loved Pansy to an extent, like he loved either of his best friends, but he certainly would not have done this with either of them. The whole thing felt like a chore, something vile that he had to put up with and endure—but someone else had made Draco touch him just a couple of months ago, and Draco smiled at the memory.

"Right there," Harry had said, and Harry's smile had been so radiant when Draco had finally touched him. "See? It's still a bit hard. It's just kind of sensitive, so be careful…"

At the time, Draco had wanted to squeeze the life out of Harry's wilting cock until the other boy cried with pleasure or pain, he didn't care which. Even now, he was partly salivating at the memory of what Harry had pressured him into doing, and he wished they had done more…

A wave of sickness hit Draco then, but he blocked his thoughts out and did everything in his power to focus on the girl underneath him.

Pansy was moaning in a high-pitched frenzy now, her body squirming like a tortured fish. Her inner thighs were soaked from his attention, and he had no idea that a girl could get that wet when she was turned on. It was fascinating, functionally-speaking, but he wasn't moved by it at all and hoped she didn't expect him to get a hard-on.

After realizing he was being too mechanical with his actions, Draco kissed her cheek a few times and proceeded to finish her off, although he had no idea how he had managed it. The grip he felt around his fingers intensified, and he returned to the memory of Harry's cock twitching in his hands, until the awkward deed of getting his girlfriend off was done.

Pansy shoved her hips against his hand, and she moaned so noisily that it annoyed him. Before her convulsions stopped, however, Draco extracted his fingers from her vagina and scrambled off the bed in search of the empty bucket Krebble had left for him.

He waited to throw up, but apparently there was nothing left inside him to regurgitate. He smelled Pansy all over his hand, and while it was not nearly as pleasant as Mr. Thorne had said it would be, it wasn't the worst thing in the world either. Her smell did nothing to provoke him, not like the smell of Harry's skin, or the perfume Harry had worn, and the taste of Harry's mouth was maddening compared to anything Pansy had ever done for him.

Draco's stomach contracted painfully.

He wanted to have sex with a boy, but Mr. Thorne had shown him horrifying images of men performing it on each other—moving pictures of scat and blood and magical injuries that he couldn't get out of his mind.

But he would never hurt Harry, he didn't think. He would be gentle for the most part, and loving. He wouldn't cover him in filth or anything unpleasant, except perhaps rough him up a bit if Harry was willing to get bruised.

"Your hands are magic," Pansy announced at last, between gasps.

Draco grunted while clutching the bucket. He supposed that he was happy she was happy.

"You should let me use them more often. But… I bet your mouth would be even better."

Draco thought of Harry then, wondering what it would be like for them to use their mouths on each other instead of their hands, and he got so hard from imagining that forbidden act that it took him by surprise.

"Sorry," Draco muttered, then got to his feet. "I need the toilet. You should go back to your room and sleep. I don't feel well."

"Are you sure you're all right?" Pansy propped herself up on her elbows as Draco started towards the door while concealing his erection.

"Yeah. More than all right. Thanks for letting me do that."

Draco disappeared into the corridor, thankful that the house-elves minded his privacy even when he was on the verge of shagging his girlfriend a few years too soon. But maybe Mr. Thorne had told Lucius to allow some leniency during the treatment phase. Maybe his father was hoping something would happen, and it would at least prove something about his son that would set everyone's minds at ease. Maybe his parents were hoping for a sign… a breakthrough of some sort. But for some reason, the thought of that pissed Draco off.

Furious and hurt, Draco rushed into the bathroom and paced in a tight circle. He wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. Himself, even.

Draco hissed at his reflection in the mirror. "Why can't you be normal? You brown-nosing little faggot. She loves you! He doesn't. Get it together and quit dreaming." Resting his forehead against the mirror, Draco closed his eyes, then sighed. Eventually, he turned the taps on and then rinsed Pansy off his hands. He wanted to love her back but couldn't force it. He wanted to want her, and so it seemed like Harry wasn't the only thing that was unattainable for him.