InsaneJournal

HP Fic Repost: Winter Prince--short pieces, various pairings/ ratings

It's worst, of course, when all of them do it to him at once, standing in line as if he were a ride at Wizarding Disney. He's not even a convenience to them; he's just a roadside attraction. Draco Malfoy, free for the fucking. They've worked out an order, a rotation of sorts: Potter, Finnegan, Finch-Fletchley, Longbottom, Smith, Potter, Finnegan. Thomas hasn't been back since the second night, and Draco should be glad for that but he isn't. It's one less to rape him, which means nothing, weighed against the fact that Thomas was the voice of reason.

They did him at bladepoint, at first, a sword at his throat and the ones not holding swords ready with wands drawn. As he's gotten weaker, they've gotten laxer. Tonight Potter is in such a hurry there's not even time for them to get into position; Draco lies on his stomach and watches buttons pop off his uniform tunic and land on the steel floor of the cage. They clink like tiny metal raindrops and he palms one, thinking that later perhaps he'll swallow it and choke. A prisoner's logic, except that in Azkaban the prisoners don't get raped.

Potter thrusts against him, too excited even to get it in on the first try. Draco closes his eyes. There's nothing to look at anyway, only the pairs of shiny boots that make up his audience and the bars beyond them. Eventually Potter is in; it's not such a struggle as it was once, even without lubrication, because Draco's expanded. Sometimes he thinks that there's room inside him for the whole fucking world. Potter doesn't come as much as he used to, either. Perhaps he's worn it out. Draco's nanny had warned him about that. Small chance now he'll have to worry about it.

Change of plans—after Potter's done—after he collapses on Draco's back for a moment, taking away what's left of Draco's breath, they roll Draco over. Gently, with the toes of their shiny boots in what's left of his ribs. Draco has a crazy moment to wonder why officers in what is essentially an infantry unit need riding boots and crops. When he's on his back like the whore they've made him they drag him up into sitting position. The pain in his side is so bad he thinks for a moment he's punctured a lung, but if he had he'd be dying and he's very much alive. They prop him against the bars.

Smith wants to know how they'll keep him from biting down. It's Finnegan who suggests they jam a wand between his teeth. Longbottom is busy tying his wrists, as if he could use his ruined hand. He can't make a fist with it, much less use a wand. When they try it, it makes him gag. There's nothing to come up but water and the bits of moldy bread he ate six hours ago, and apparently his stomach lining. But he knows if he does throw up they'll skip a feeding, maybe two, and he swallows as hard as he can. Finnegan likes that; he tells Draco to keep practicing but he doesn't give him time to practice.

Draco closes his eyes when he sees the Blarney Stones coming toward him, but he doesn't try to fight them. He's tired of fighting. Finnegan is enormous, and he presses the wand back against the corners of Draco's mouth with every stroke. It's awkward and unpleasant but not, apparently, unsatisfying; Finnegan comes like a geyser and Draco can barely swallow a tenth of it. This time he does throw up, on himself but not on Finnegan. The others stare it him, disgusted, and through the tears in eyes Draco can see their erections wilting. Smith has his hand over his mouth, trying not to vomit. Longbottom is saying something about the smell.

Draco's father has been in Azkaban for three years, but Dementors only rape your mind and not your body. Draco's been a prisoner three weeks, although he thinks it has been only two. Potter suggests that they give him a shower, and one by one the dicks come out. It's funny, but this part of it doesn't even bother Draco anymore. Their piss is warm and golden against his eyelids and he turns his face away and lets it rain down on him. He prays that he'll die but he knows he won't. This isn't the kind of thing that kills you, and even if it did he would fight it. He doesn't particularly want to die from humiliation, drowned in a puddle on the floor of a cage.



Anyone who fell behind was left behind. That was how they did it in the Death Eaters; Draco had no reservations about introducing the custom to Dumbledore's Army. He had had enough of Potter's attitude to last him six lifetimes. When it became necessary for someone to cover their retreat, and Potter volunteered, Draco did not argue. More: he did not allow the others to argue. It was only much later that he remembered the damned prophecy; when he closed his eyes to apparate he did so thinking of Potter on his knees, with Aunt Bellatrix unmasked and looming over him.

It was too late for regrets then, though he could pretend: he sat on Ginny's bed and stroked her hair while she cried, and answered Thomas's questions. No, he did not think they'd kill him. No, he did not know what it meant for the war. Yes, it was possible that Bellatrix was mad enough to keep him for herself, and not surrender him to her lord. No, he did not know what she'd do to him.

But he could imagine; it would be like what they'd done to him. Only Bellatrix was a gifted Legilimens, and a sadist, and had particular reason to hate Potter. It would be worse. He could not keep himself from smiling, thinking of the sound bone made when it broke. If they lost the war, if he died for this, it would still be worth it.



Slytherins forgive, always: there is no sin that cannot be justified. Only, they never forget. Draco forgives Harry, in the end, because they have won the war and they are heroes, and because there is no justice to be had in the wizarding world. He learns to tolerate Harry's hands on his body, Harry's mouth on his. Eventually, he learns to like it.

He never forgets what Harry did to him, and he never forgets that Harry is mad, that the light in Harry's green eyes, the quickness of his tongue, the force of his magic-were Voldemort's once. But his father followed Voldemort to the death, and his mother was born to the starborn, star-crossed Blacks: Merope, Bellatrix, Sirius. Draco. Madness is his heritage.

And he learns to love the things that once he hated-not only madness but also blood and fear and submission and authority. It is not so very high a price to pay, for what he is become, in the black hole Voldemort and Dumbledore leave waiting to be filled. He still wears his uniform with the phoenix on the collar, and the black armband he adopted when Snape died, and some days he almost recognizes himself in the mirror. But then Harry smiles at him, and he feels himself smile back, and he isn't even pretending.