InsaneJournal

HP Fic Repost: A Peace That Was Torn From the Morning, NC17, Draco/ Snape, Part 1/2
Summary: Sometimes doing the right thing is as simple as doing the only thing you can do. Noncon.




They sent Draco to Azkaban, on one of Dumbledore's unfathomable and possibly pointless errands. Snape, when Draco asked, only said that questioning the old man meant questioning the system, and that it was better not to think too much about either. And so he went, and sat by himself for several hours in someone else's office, in the administrative section of the building where his father had died. Even then, he might have behaved himself; it was not entirely unlikely. But the chair that they found for him was next to a filing cabinet that seemed very much to have a mind of its own.

One of the drawers refused to stay in place. Draco sat, propping his feet on the woman's desk, and watched as it opened and closed, opened and closed. It was crammed full of folders, and the label on the outside read simply, Deceased. It might have been full of files on deceased guards, or even deceased Dementors, but Draco knew that it wasn't. After the second time that they came in to tell him it would be a few more minutes, and thank him for his patience, Draco succumbed.

He waited, after the door closed, and caught the drawer and held it open. The files were organized alphabetically and he found and pried out Malfoy, Lucius. The cabinet protested sulkily, trying to catch his fingers, and then gave in ungracefully. He sat back down in his chair, clutching his prize, and wondered what he would say if he were caught. Though neither his name nor his father's old affiliation were secret, particularly among his former schoolmates, they had been for the most part forgiven. He had bought his acceptance into the Order with blood, and did not want to lose it.

There was no justifiable reason for setting a ward on the office door. He would have to go without, if he wanted to know what the file contained. Biting his lip, he opened the folder. The first page was a list of his father's crimes. Draco had been only fifteen when his father was arrested, and there had never been an indictment, much less a trial. This was the first time he had seen most of the accusations. There were more of them than he had ever imagined, most of them bureaucratic and obscure; these seemed to consist of bribery and embezzlement and usury and treason. His father had been nothing if not imaginative in both business and pleasure.

Both business and pleasure. Draco should not have been surprised. He knew what the Death Eaters were, and why they had to be stopped. He had never believed his father was innocent. But he could not reconcile the brutal charges with the man who had taught him to ride a broom. His father had done these things: Lucius Malfoy, who had taken him hunting when he was eight, and had not laughed when hounds killed and Draco cried. His father had used the Unforgivable Curses, not one time or a dozen, but times without number. His father had lectured him on respect for women, and never mentioned the rapes he'd committed.

Draco turned the page. His fingers did not tremble. He had been a spy, and now he was an officer; he had seen atrocities his father had not dreamed of. Lucius Malfoy had been a monster-a son could admit that, even if he could not stop himself from loving the man. But Lucius had been sane. Everything he had done had been done in cold blood, done for a purpose. His father was not Harry Potter.

He checked his watch. Five minutes passed, that felt like an eternity. The second page was a record of Lucius's admittance and a list of his possessions at the time. His wand, with which he had been buried; his watch, reclaimed for Draco by Snape; his wedding band, that Draco had kept for his mother. It was not very much, to remember a man by, but Draco had lost any desire to commemorate his father.

The next dozen pages were summaries of Lucius's interrogations, interspersed with notes on his father's health. Draco skimmed them, fascinated despite himself. Lucius had told wild, often contradictory lies in the beginning. Some of them were rather amusing. He had sworn that Voldemort's headquarters were in Alsace, Moscow, Taiwan, Muggle London; that he had been recruited to the Death Eaters as early as 1965 and as late as 1978. He had named names. Draco recognized five Death Eaters, three members of the Order, a cousin of his mother's, and the former Minister of Magic.

That had been in June, July, early August. By September Lucius had settled into a pattern of strict denial. At the end of October the interrogations became much more frequent, and there were notes about a secret the other captured Death Eaters insisted only Lucius knew. Something big, something that had changed the course of the first war. Whatever his secret had been, Lucius had kept it through November into December. In December he had fallen ill and they had decided to force the issue, though it was unclear from the notes what they had done.

The interrogation records ended abruptly on December 25. Draco could remember that Christmas. He'd spent it at Hogwarts, sulking because he was tired of being treated like a child. His mother had been abroad, raising money for Voldemort's cause; his friends had been at home, given one final reprieve before the war began.

The next page was a photograph, and mercifully still. The man lay on his back, his throat a bloody ruin, eyes staring emptily at the ceiling. That was the worst of it, that they had not even spared him that one small dignity, had not closed his eyes against the relentless glare of the florescent light. It took him a moment to recognize his father in that slack face with its cropped hair and body wrapped in rags. It had never occurred to him that his father had not died by magic, and now he wondered which Lucius would have preferred, which death was cleaner. Had his father been afraid? Had he fought?

Draco closed his eyes, the folder heavy in hands, and tried not to remember that he himself had begged for death, and told secrets he had not even been asked to reveal. How much worse had it been for his father? There was only one more page in the folder, and it was Lucius Malfoy's death certificate. Draco stared down at it, not really reading.

He had never cried for his father. Lucius Malfoy had died in a cell smaller than a horse's stall, on an island in the middle of the North Sea where the winds howled like murdered children. Draco had not cried for the man, and now he never would. But he was sorry his father was dead. He rubbed his eyes on his sleeve once, very quickly. It did not count as crying.

The death certificate contained all of the usual information. Age of death, forty-one; cause of death, murder (Snape, Severus-pardoned); date of death, 25 December 1995. Draco looked at it for a long time before he shoved it back into place. The drawer opened and closed itself with something very like satisfaction, and Draco, disregarding the fact that Azkaban was a non-smoking facility and that this was not his office, lit a cigarette.

He would have liked to pace: he was aware suddenly of the smallness of the room, of the lack of windows, of the sound of the sea. But movement made it worse. He had spent a month in a cage a quarter the size. He sat as still as he could, and did not think of Snape. It was not a particularly successful effort.

When the door opened he stood up much too quickly, and although his hands were empty something of his mood must have showed in his expression. The woman in the doorway took a step back, as if preparing for an attack. She held the envelope of Dumbledore's papers to her a chest, as if it would protect her. When Draco put out his hand for them she moved forward reluctantly, and he took them and left as quickly as he could. He was not quite having a full-blown panic attack, but he was grateful to come out of the dimness and feel the wind on his face.

He climbed into the boat and handed the ferryman a coin, and the wind blew up to fill the little ship's sails. He leaned on the rail, into the spray of salt water, and wondered what to do. For three years, since his father went to Azkaban, he had trusted only one man. It seemed so foolish now to have put his faith in a man he knew to be a traitor. Suddenly Snape was the enemy: his advice, his small kindnesses, called into question: the course of Draco's life charted by a captain who served his own end.

He was angry, and a little afraid, and very much disgusted with himself, and in the past it might have made him careless. But if he gained anything from his time as a spy he had gained discipline. He made his dozen Apparitions flawlessly, and ended outside Grimmauld Place unsplinched, Dumbledore's papers clenched forgotten in his hands. His teammates-minus Potter, who rarely fraternized-were sitting on the back step smoking. They called out to him as he passed, but he brushed by them without a word.

The big old house that was the Order's headquarters was blessedly quiet inside, despite the fact that nearly fifty people occupied it on a constant basis. Draco climbed from the first floor to the second and stood in the empty hallway, fighting for breath. "Do you think you are the only man in the world to have been raped?" Snape had asked him, and Draco had felt guilty to be so much trouble. He did not feel guilty any longer.

He dropped the papers in the appropriate basket on the desk in Dumbledore's office as he passed, and wrapped his fingers tighter around his wand, and steadied the sword at his hip. It would be embarrassing to be sick in the corridor, and far worse to do so in front of Snape. A part of him wanted nothing more than to pretend that nothing had happened. But he spent a great deal of time already, pretending not to know things that he did know. There were only so many lies a man could tell, even to himself.

The first door was Dumbledore's office. The second door was Charlie Weasley's. The third door was the infirmary. The fourth door was Snape's lab, and Draco squared his shoulders and opened it, and went in without knocking. Snape's back was to the door; he had no reason to be wary, here in his own place, among people he trusted. Draco stayed where he was, knowing that Snape, turning, would be half-blinded by the light from the door. He was not sure if he meant to fight or not, or even if it was a fight he could win.

He stood in the doorway, wordless, still, until Snape did turn. And, seeing the other man, he did want to fight. Those he trusted, those he loved, had betrayed him at every turn; he had been beaten and raped and starved and poisoned. The things he had done, he had not done because he was brave, or good: certainly he had not done them because he was wise. He had pledged his life to this man's cause, and learned it was for nothing. He could not kill Potter, and he dared not kill Dumbledore, but Snape might be within his power.

"Tell me again how my father died," he said, and Snape did not flinch.

"Voldemort killed him, when he learned you were a spy," he answered, and Draco could feel Snape's mind on the edges of his own. "We tried to protect him, Draco, I promise--. Whatever they told you, we tried to stop them."

"Did you? Did you do everything you could for him?" Draco demanded. His sword was in his hand, though he could not remember drawing it. "Did you make him beg before you killed him? Did you spit in his face? Did you promise him you'd keep his family safe?"

Snape reached for his wand and Draco knocked his hand aside with the flat of the blade. "Don't bother," he said. "I've seen you fight. I trained with you. I can beat you." Saying it, he knew it was true. All his life Snape had been bigger than he was, stronger, faster, better. But they stood eye to eye now, and if Snape was still a fraction heavier, Draco was years younger. And his reflexes were a heartbeat quicker, honed to perfection by his service in Dumbledore's Army, his months running missions at Potter's side.

Something flickered to life in Snape's eyes. It might have been rage, or only desperation. "What is it you think you know, Draco?" he asked, his voice like a knife. For a moment the pressure of Snape's mind against his went away, only to return redoubled. Draco was not Snape's equal as a Legilimens, but he did not need to be. He had nothing to hide, and he only needed to hold Snape off long enough to close. Snape was unarmed, his wand out of reach.

"I know that my father was a year dead when you came to me and asked me to spy," Draco answered. "I know that you know, because you killed him. The letters I wrote to him, that you had smuggled in--you must have found those amusing? Did you burn them or pass them around to the rest of the Order?"

Snape looked away. For a moment he was defenceless. Draco could have had him, with the blade in his hand or an Unforgivable Curse. But he wanted an answer as much as he wanted revenge. "'No one could have done more, Draco,' isn't that what you said to me? No one could have regretted the failure more."

"What do you want me to say, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape asked. He looked tired, but his defenses were back in place, and as strong as ever. "Do you want my head, or will an apology satisfy you? Do you want me to tell you that your father was dying anyway, or that I did my best to keep you out of it?"

"I wanted you to tell me it wasn't true," Draco said, and the words sounded strangely flat to his own ears. Had that been all he'd wanted? Plausable deniability?

"You should know by now that anything you can believe of us is probably true." The sneer on Snape's face was familiar. Draco had seen it directed at innumerable Gryffindors. It had never before been meant for him, and Draco found that the urge to wipe it away was a consuming one.

Snape was anticipating a magical attack; he was not prepared for Draco to drop his sword and wand and attempt to strangle him bare-handed. Draco's first lunge sent him reeling back into the lab bench, and a half a dozen beakers and vials crashed to the floor. Draco's right hand closed around his throat; if the fingers Potter had broken had healed straighter, it might have been enough to end Snape's life then and there.

But whatever Snape was, he was not a coward, and his time as a Death Eater and a double agent had taught him tricks Draco did not know existed. While Draco struggled to correct his grip, Snape surged upward, knocking his legs out from under him. Both men hit the floor rolling, and were instantly smeared with the remnants of Snape's potions ingredients and bloodied by shards of glass.

Draco, half on his side and half on top of Snape, was forced to relinquish his grip on the man's throat: his good hand tangled in Snape's thick, greasy hair, he narrowly avoided the loss of an eye: Snape's hand had closed on the jaggedly broken neck of a flask. Now he managed to slam Snape's head into the floor with considerable force. Snape did not quite go limp, but his eyes lost focus and his thrashing slowed.

Draco hit him twice, very hard, in the nose-which seemed to put an end to the other man's resistance-and let him go. His hand throbbed and his knuckles were already swelling; he would be lucky to be able to close his fist in a few hours time. He had been so angry with Snape to begin with, but now he felt sick and miserable. He had never been very good at violence. He would not have made much of a Death Eater. He turned his back on Snape and scooped up his wand and sword, leaving the other man there on the floor.

The distance-and the stairs--to his room seemed insurmountable, and Draco considered going down instead of up. He could sit in the garden with Ginny and Dean, and share whatever they were smoking, and pretend the afternoon had never happened. He was not sure which option was preferable. He began to go up, walking very slowly. His sheathed sword banged against his hip with every step, and his head ached. The first week after his capture he had found the narrow dark hallways and steep staircases of the Order's headquarters obscurely frightening. It had been Snape who had reassured him then, casting illumination charms that made the small space brighter than daylight.

He had not cried for his father; he would not cry because Snape had betrayed him. He heard footsteps coming up behind him and moved out of the way. He did not look up, because it was as close as he could come to invisibility without a spell. The man behind him checked, halted at Draco's side, and wrapped fingers around Draco's elbow.

"Malfoy?" Harry Potter asked. "Is something wrong?"

Draco bit back a snort and turned. "No," he said. "Nothing. I'm just tired, P-Harry. Time for my nap." He knew instantly it was a mistake.

"Nap?" Potter seemed to believe it was some kind of code. "I was thinking about taking a nap, too." His green eyes gleamed in the shadows of the stairwell. Draco swallowed, feeling like a cornered animal.

It came to him then that he did not have to be where he was. This was what Snape had wanted, yes, but he had been offered a choice and he had chosen to do it. He could have defected; the Malfoy name and the Malfoy fortune were very much at his disposal. He could have tried to join his father's side: Voldemort might have had him killed, but he might have welcomed him. He could have cut and run, or begged them to Obliviate him over and over, until he had forgotten the fact of Potter's existence. He was where he was because he had wanted to be there, and nothing could change that.

And so, "It's a nap you're after?" he asked, and smiled up at Potter as flirtatiously as he could. "So we'll go to our own rooms like good little boys?" Potter's fingers tightened around his arm, and for a moment he thought he'd misjudged the thing. But before he could do more than tense, Potter leaned in and kissed him with a mouth hard and hot as a branding iron.

Draco had no alternative but to close his eyes and kiss him back. Potter had been gentle with him, during the two weeks that their relationship that wasn't had developed. Potter had been patient, and Snape had provided Draco with appropriate aphrodisiacs when possible; it looked like both reprieves had come to an end. He leaned against the wall while Potter kissed him frantically and roughly, and tried his best to act enthusiastic.

It appeared to be enough. Potter slid his hands inside Draco's shirt and ground against his thigh and grunted and whimpered and came. Afterward he sagged, panting, against Draco's shoulder. Draco, torn between disgust and amusement, waited patiently and hoped Potter would not insist on reciprocation. There were more footsteps, this time from below, and Charlie Weasley's red head emerged from the gloom.

He was a Weasley; they were not over gifted with discretion or subtlety. His eyes, incredulous and angry, met Draco's over Potter's head. His face changed to match his hair and he turned away and began climbing again, much more quickly. Draco watched him go, wondering if he was as decent a man as he pretended to be. Most of his childhood heroes had proved to be anything but.

When Weasley was out of sight Draco gently shook Potter away. "Come on," he said, and his voice did not betray him. "Let's find somewhere more comfortable." Potter's room was closer; when they were inside he threw himself on the bed and rolled so that he could watch Draco undress.

Draco was tempted to use a spell to undo the rows of buttons on his uniform tunic-his hand was swollen and stiff, and he had a cut on one knuckle that must have been from Snape's teeth. But casual magic made Potter uncomfortable, and Draco wanted him in as pleasant a mood as possible. He had barely begun when Potter's eyes narrowed and he sat up. "What have you done to your hand?" he demanded.

Draco straightened the fingers and flexed them for him. "It wasn't anything," he answered. "I lost my temper." He was telling the truth, of course, but it was enough of an understatement that he almost smiled. Potter was not the joking type, but Snape would have enjoyed it. With the thought, of course, he lost any desire to smile. Potter got up and examined the little gash.

"This ought to be washed," he said critically. "I think there's some stuff in the bathroom." He did not ask why Draco's fingers were so crooked; Draco hoped it was because he felt guilty. The bathroom for the floor was just down the hall; Draco had used it before and was perfectly capable of cleaning his wound himself, but he trailed after Potter because it was easier than arguing.

When they were both inside, with the door closed-and what Charlie Weasley would have thought of that, Draco did not like to imagine-he sat on the edge of the marble bath and watched Potter rummage through the medicine cabinet. He was very tired, more from emotion than from exertion, and it was not unpleasant to be fussed over. There seemed to be a number of brown glass bottles, labeled in peeling paper, and still more white plastic bottles with caps even an unlocking charm could not open.

He held his hand under the warm water as he was told, and allowed Potter to pour a reddish brown liquid on it, and bandage it with something sticky. A healing spell would have been faster and more effective, but leaving the thing alone would have been adequate, too. Because he did not really trust Potter, he turned down the offer of pills as politely as he could. Potter frowned at him, but let it go unchallenged.

They went back to Potter's room, and this time Potter undid Draco's buttons a little too eagerly, so that half of them were lost in the process. Draco did not help much, but he did not try to slow things down either. It was easiest to pretend nothing was happening. Potter's strong, calloused fingers were a little too rough, his breathing a little too loud. They traced circles on Draco's skin and he held himself perfectly still, but he wanted nothing more than to twist away.

The fingers were replaced with lips. It should have been better-they had never done this to him, no one had ever done this to him-but Draco could feel his throat closing. It seemed, suddenly, that the room was smaller and darker than he remembered it. He closed his eyes and his heartbeat sounded in his ears, strong and steady as a drumbeat. This would not kill him. He was stronger than anyone imagined.

Potter's mouth closed on his flaccid penis. Draco stopped breathing all together for a moment. The door is not locked, he told himself, it is not locked and I have my wand within easy reach. He managed to swallow the lump in his throat and suck in air. Potter seemed to be losing patience, but Draco could not will himself hard. He stayed where he was, still and quiet, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream. He had not had an orgasm in six months-had not even had an erection without chemical assistance.

After another tense, futile moment, Potter got up. He washed from the basin and dressed without a word and went out, slamming the door behind him. Draco got up and put his trousers on, and rolled himself in Potter's duvet, and fell asleep immediately. He dreamed of his father and Snape, in the robes and masks of Death Eaters, holding down a girl who begged for mercy. He had to rape her, they told him, to prove himself to Voldemort. Her skin was like ice against the burning of the Mark on his arm, and he could summon no desire.

When he woke it was dark and Potter was sitting on the bed beside him. "My father," he began, before he'd thought.

Potter's mouth twisted. "Your father was a murderer," he hissed. "Your father watched while Voldemort killed my parents. Your father as good as killed my godfather."

Something in Draco broke. He had been so angry with Snape, earlier, and a part of him was still angry. "Your father captured my aunt Bellatrix in the first war, did you know that? She was pregnant, and your father and Sirius Black beat her until she lost the baby. They would have killed her, if she hadn't managed to escape." He said it because he knew how much it would hurt. Potter had done worse things, and seen worse done, but he persisted in believing that his father had been a candidate for sainthood. He waited, bracing himself, for the blow he knew he deserved, but it never came.

Potter turned away, fumbling in his pocket, and came up with a plastic bag with a few pills in it. "Take these and shut up," he said. He shook the pills into Draco's hand. They were small and white, stamped with a heart.

"What are they?" Draco demanded. Potter had given him Muggle drugs before, with varying results. They had held his nose to make him swallow, though by the end he would have taken them willingly, given the choice.

"They're to help with-you know," Potter answered. Draco looked at him, and at the pills. He had been told to keep Potter happy. Even if it made him sick, it was still better than the earlier attempt at sex. He swallowed the pills dry.

At first he did not think they had any effect at all. He lay, frozen, while Potter stripped off; he let the other man draw the covers back; he even undid the laces of his own trousers. The fingers of his good hand felt strangely swollen, and his mouth tasted of ashes, and he felt cold and hot at the same time. Potter's hands were between his legs, but he did not really mind, even when Potter dripped something thick and cool and liquid on him.

And then, all at once, the tension went out of him, and muscles he had not even known he had relaxed. "This stuff is wonderful, he tried to say, and was surprised when the words came out slurred. After that he shut his eyes, and let himself go. Something was happening to him, a feeling he had almost forgotten. Potter pushed himself inside, and it was not painful, or ugly, or even unwelcome; Draco's body simply opened around him as if it had been spelled. Perhaps it had.

There was a great deal of thrusting, and some moaning. Things slipped away from Draco, and he let them go. His climax, when it came, hit him like the tide going out, and washed his mind away. There was more after that, he was fairly certain, but the next time he was sure of when and where he was, it was morning. The room was full of mellow sunlight, so bright that it hurt Draco's eyes.

When he got up his legs barely held him; he felt shaky and slightly stoned. He was fairly sure that he was going to be late for Snape, and that there was something he should be remembering, something to do with Snape and his father. Potter was still asleep, breathing heavily, and so he dressed as quickly as he could in yesterday's clothing and went down to the lab without even stopping to splash water on his face.

The doorknob was turning in his hand when it hit him, and by then the door was open and he was face to face with Snape. The other man looked as ill as Draco felt. Both of his eyes were black, and his nose was very swollen indeed. "Mr. Malfoy," he said, and Draco knew he had finally done something Snape hadn't expected. "Can I help you with something?"

He was never sure what made him say it, but, "I'm here to work," he answered. "Am I late?"

Snape made a show of looking at his watch, no doubt to hide whatever emotion it was that flickered in his eyes. "Hardly at all." He stepped back to let Draco into the room. The glassware and ingredients had been cleared up, but the lab smelled faintly of potions gone wrong. Draco moved over to the lab bench and stood, waiting for instructions. His head felt as if it were filled with cotton. He had been so determined, the night before, to be done with Snape.

Now he wondered how he could have been so upset. What had Snape done to him? Only lie to him. There were worse things.

There was-"Draco?" Snape looked half-puzzled, half annoyed. "Are you deaf now?" he demanded.

Draco blinked at him. "What did you say?" he asked, involuntarily taking a step back. The apothecary's cabinet Snape used to store his less lethal ingredients was behind him; he leaned gratefully and ignored the protruding knobs. Snape closed in on him like a striking snake, and Draco tried frantically to shield his mind and draw his wand at the same time, and failed at both.

"Are you drunk?" Snape hissed. "Didn't you have the nerve to face me without something to stiffen your spine?" There was something in his face that Draco almost thought was hurt. And before he could reply, Snape's wand was out, and a brilliant white light blinded him. Draco did not really think Snape meant to kill him, but if he had been in better shape he would have fought purely on reflex. As it was, he barely had time to react before Snape was drawing back.

"You don't smell like alcohol," Snape said slowly. "But your pupils are as big as dinner plates." He was not really asking, of course. He knew. Draco could tell that he knew. "What is it?" he asked, the anger in his voice replaced by weariness. "What did he give you?"

Draco looked away. "I don't know--," he faltered. "It wasn't like that. I took it willingly, I wanted to."

"You little idiot." Snape reached for his wrist, felt with sure fingers for his pulse. "What were you thinking?"

Draco said, dully, "I wasn't thinking. Or I was thinking that once in a while, it would be nice not to have to think. I'm a tool, isn't that right? I should just let myself be used. Isn't that what a tool does-lie quiet in the hand of a master?"

"Is that really what you think?" Snape's voice was dispassionate, but his hands were gentle as he felt Draco's forehead. "It doesn't look like you've done yourself any real damage, but I'll need a blood sample to be sure."

Draco submitted quietly to the lancet, and this time he did think. Had it been the truth, what he'd said to Snape? He was a tool, true; but Potter was not his master. And he was only useful as long as he let himself be used, and that-that decision-was not a luxury a wand had, or a sword. "No," he decided. "It isn't what I think. What I'm doing-it's important, isn't it? Because of the prophecy?"

Snape was spinning the blood in the centrifuge, and did not turn. But, "it's important," he said. "Not because of the prophecy, or not exactly. But we know what it is we are asking of you, Draco, and we would not ask it if we did not think it had value. You have to decide whether or not you trust me. I can't blame you if you don't."

It hurt to think-but thinking of this would hurt no matter what. Snape had his reasons; Draco had to believe that. Otherwise it had all been for nothing. "I have to trust someone, though, don't I?" he asked. "And I'm choosing to trust you." Snape did turn then. "Do me a favor, and don't screw it up this time," Draco finished.