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nnyHere's my submission for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
merry_smutmas, which was written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
themostepotente. Many *many* thanks are due to isiscolo, who read this and gave constructive feedback even though this *really* isn't her kind of thing, and to autumnchestnut who helped with the added sex.
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: R
Warnings: Bloodplay
He wasn’t entirely sure when it was that suicide had become a possibility. It had always been there in an abstract sense, of course, but it was always something that you heard about, something at a distance. Malfoys didn’t run away from their problems. And he was his father’s son.
Sometime in his seventh year, it became possible, even likely. There was nothing in particular that triggered it, at least not that he could see, but somehow everything had led him to this point, that point, the point of the knife gently tracing his vein. Beautiful workmanship, of course. A snake coiled around the handle watched him with obsidian eyes; it had been a present from his father when he was thirteen. He’d always hated it.
He heard a sound at the door, the rattle of a doorknob then a harshly sucked in breath. He’d thought he’d warded it; perhaps the castle was working against him.
"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?"
He smiled a little, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, pressing down with the knife until the spider-crawl of a thin trickle of blood made its way down his wrist.
"What’s it to you, Potter?"
"Nothing, particularly," his voice was diffident, "only…"
He had expected accusations, mocking, some sort of outrage, and the mild response surprised him enough that he opened his eyes, the knife falling away from his wrist; only for an instant, but an instant was all that Potter needed.
"Expelliarmus!"
The knife flew directly into the waiting hand, and Draco found himself disappointed, having hoped that it would cut him. But it rested in Potter’s grasp as if it had been made for him, and Potter looked at it with something that wasn’t quite a smile curling his lip.
That was how it started.
* * *
Potter hovers at the Gryffindor end of the pitch, a grin on his face as he scans for the Golden Snitch. This is just a formality- their offensive line-up is possibly the strongest they’ve had since Harry joined the team, and the match has already gone for two hours, Gryffindor leading Slytherin two hundred and ten points to forty. Two seekers, both captains, keep an eye on the pitch but seem to spend more time watching each other. The dark haired boy has a smile on his face, and the blonde is chewing his lip.
* * *
There is a long scar down the inside of his forearm, silvery against the white skin. He remembers how good it felt, the bite of the knife, the warmth of the blood; he remembers how the panic on Potter’s face had seemed unimportant and distant, how everything had faded around him and he’d remembered his first flight…
He’d woken in the hospital wing, Dumbledore’s idiotic smile looking a little more strained than usual, and Snape glaring at him from behind the headmaster’s back.
Long talks had followed. The headmaster had asked him if he wanted to talk, and he had sneered and not said a word. They had sat there for an entire afternoon, exchanging no words, but at the end Dumbledore had patted him on the back and smiled almost paternally at him, and he had been infuriated. He’d wanted to grab the man by the front of his robes and tell him how he’d ended up in the hospital wing, seen how long his smile would last as he found out the truth about Potter.
Madame Pomfrey had talked to him about depression, and about escape routes, and about how she was always ready to talk. He didn’t even bother to correct her, just looked sad, nodded, and told her he would talk to Professor Snape if he ever had any problems again. It was worth it for the expression on her face.
Snape’s talk was probably the most honest of the three. He told Draco that there was a knack to being a Slytherin, and it was a simple one: Don’t Get Caught.
"Your time is your own, Mr Malfoy. What you choose to do with it is your decision, and I neither want to know nor particularly care. If you are brought to me again, however- if you are caught- I will be dealing with you severely. Do you understand?"
He nodded stiffly, and stood to walk out of the room until Snape caught him by the arm, rolling up the sleeve of his school robes to look at the still-livid mark on his left arm.
"So like Lucius…"
That had almost made him stop. Until he realised that this had been Snape’s intention. So he merely became more discreet and noticed the satisfaction in the Potion master’s eyes when no more marks appeared.
Potter hadn’t wasted any time. While Draco had been otherwise engaged, he had been practising healing charms until he was more than proficient, no longer even leaving a scar. The white lines that scarred the tops of his legs, the way he ever after avoided the skin of Draco’s left forearm was an apology of sorts. If you knew him as well as Draco did.
* * *
A few more goals for Slytherin, and the game is almost interesting again. The two seekers have already lost the snitch once, Potter blocking and seeming to infuriate his Slytherin counterpart. Malfoy’s flying is less graceful now; faster and harsher, more careless. Perhaps his anger is what prevents him from seeing the bludger beaten directly into his path.
* * *
He had always told himself that it wouldn’t matter who was holding the knife. That it wasn’t Potter he was dependent on, but the rush of adrenaline; the pure jolt of life that only seemed to come when you were risking it in some way. The clean cuts (cold, sharp, a thin silver sliver of pain, feeling so like the tool, so like the feeling in his stomach when Potter looked at him from across the room and he could tell they were thinking the same thing…) the feel of warm blood from a dozen tiny cuts. Or the sluggish flow from one of the carefully traced spirals that decorated his chest temporarily and he wished Potter would let him keep…
Potter never let him scar.
And, later, he wouldn’t let Potter keep the marks left by his mouth, the finger shaped bruises against the pale skin of his hip. He wouldn’t allow reminders of what they had done together in the darkness of his room, eager mouths and inexperienced hands, learning how to balance on the edge of pain where everything was that bit clearer. Falling asleep separately and waking together, curled into each other, anchored.
* * *
There was blood on the white pillowcase, next to Harry’s face. He wasn’t sure entirely which of the cuts was still fresh enough to bleed- it seemed like forever ago that Harry had laid aside his knife and forced him onto his back, licking his chest and lifting his head to reveal a bloodstained grin. He had moved his head closer, licking along Draco’s jaw (the smell of the salt, the copper tang made him bite his lip and later the mirror reflected rusty red streaks against his pale skin…) and then he had whispered in Draco’s ear.
"I want you to fuck me."
It wasn’t a request.
He wasn’t gentle- this wasn’t a relationship. Being careful would have been an admission of something- and the fact that he concentrated so hard, had to force himself to be harsh was an admission too, but one that only he could see. He relished every wince, because it showed he was doing his job.
He pushed two fingers into Harry, nothing but his own blood to make the passage easier- the other boy arched his back and swore loudly, biting through his lip; Draco leaned down to taste Potter’s blood. Even in this, they tasted different.
Potter tensed as he forced his way inside, bucked under him as he moved, screamed as he came.
His cuts were healed before he left, and Potter just smirked as Draco swore.
* * *
The bludger missed the Slytherin captain by inches, smashing into the handle of his broom and shattering the wood, driving a splinter along his arm and cutting it deeply. He didn’t make a sound as it happened, and that was much talked of in the weeks following- it was his left forearm; was he marked? Did it somehow protect the bearer from pain where it branded? They forgot, perhaps, that the arm was bare of any mark save a silvery scar under the cut and the pouring blood.
Potter got to him before Madame Pomfrey reached the pitch and performed a very competent healing spell, quite the most advanced of its kind she’d ever seen from a student. She complimented his work, and he smiled faintly.
"Couldn’t let him scar, could I?"
merry_smutmas, which was written for themostepotente. Many *many* thanks are due to isiscolo, who read this and gave constructive feedback even though this *really* isn't her kind of thing, and to autumnchestnut who helped with the added sex.Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: R
Warnings: Bloodplay
He wasn’t entirely sure when it was that suicide had become a possibility. It had always been there in an abstract sense, of course, but it was always something that you heard about, something at a distance. Malfoys didn’t run away from their problems. And he was his father’s son.
Sometime in his seventh year, it became possible, even likely. There was nothing in particular that triggered it, at least not that he could see, but somehow everything had led him to this point, that point, the point of the knife gently tracing his vein. Beautiful workmanship, of course. A snake coiled around the handle watched him with obsidian eyes; it had been a present from his father when he was thirteen. He’d always hated it.
He heard a sound at the door, the rattle of a doorknob then a harshly sucked in breath. He’d thought he’d warded it; perhaps the castle was working against him.
"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?"
He smiled a little, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, pressing down with the knife until the spider-crawl of a thin trickle of blood made its way down his wrist.
"What’s it to you, Potter?"
"Nothing, particularly," his voice was diffident, "only…"
He had expected accusations, mocking, some sort of outrage, and the mild response surprised him enough that he opened his eyes, the knife falling away from his wrist; only for an instant, but an instant was all that Potter needed.
"Expelliarmus!"
The knife flew directly into the waiting hand, and Draco found himself disappointed, having hoped that it would cut him. But it rested in Potter’s grasp as if it had been made for him, and Potter looked at it with something that wasn’t quite a smile curling his lip.
That was how it started.
* * *
Potter hovers at the Gryffindor end of the pitch, a grin on his face as he scans for the Golden Snitch. This is just a formality- their offensive line-up is possibly the strongest they’ve had since Harry joined the team, and the match has already gone for two hours, Gryffindor leading Slytherin two hundred and ten points to forty. Two seekers, both captains, keep an eye on the pitch but seem to spend more time watching each other. The dark haired boy has a smile on his face, and the blonde is chewing his lip.
* * *
There is a long scar down the inside of his forearm, silvery against the white skin. He remembers how good it felt, the bite of the knife, the warmth of the blood; he remembers how the panic on Potter’s face had seemed unimportant and distant, how everything had faded around him and he’d remembered his first flight…
He’d woken in the hospital wing, Dumbledore’s idiotic smile looking a little more strained than usual, and Snape glaring at him from behind the headmaster’s back.
Long talks had followed. The headmaster had asked him if he wanted to talk, and he had sneered and not said a word. They had sat there for an entire afternoon, exchanging no words, but at the end Dumbledore had patted him on the back and smiled almost paternally at him, and he had been infuriated. He’d wanted to grab the man by the front of his robes and tell him how he’d ended up in the hospital wing, seen how long his smile would last as he found out the truth about Potter.
Madame Pomfrey had talked to him about depression, and about escape routes, and about how she was always ready to talk. He didn’t even bother to correct her, just looked sad, nodded, and told her he would talk to Professor Snape if he ever had any problems again. It was worth it for the expression on her face.
Snape’s talk was probably the most honest of the three. He told Draco that there was a knack to being a Slytherin, and it was a simple one: Don’t Get Caught.
"Your time is your own, Mr Malfoy. What you choose to do with it is your decision, and I neither want to know nor particularly care. If you are brought to me again, however- if you are caught- I will be dealing with you severely. Do you understand?"
He nodded stiffly, and stood to walk out of the room until Snape caught him by the arm, rolling up the sleeve of his school robes to look at the still-livid mark on his left arm.
"So like Lucius…"
That had almost made him stop. Until he realised that this had been Snape’s intention. So he merely became more discreet and noticed the satisfaction in the Potion master’s eyes when no more marks appeared.
Potter hadn’t wasted any time. While Draco had been otherwise engaged, he had been practising healing charms until he was more than proficient, no longer even leaving a scar. The white lines that scarred the tops of his legs, the way he ever after avoided the skin of Draco’s left forearm was an apology of sorts. If you knew him as well as Draco did.
* * *
A few more goals for Slytherin, and the game is almost interesting again. The two seekers have already lost the snitch once, Potter blocking and seeming to infuriate his Slytherin counterpart. Malfoy’s flying is less graceful now; faster and harsher, more careless. Perhaps his anger is what prevents him from seeing the bludger beaten directly into his path.
* * *
He had always told himself that it wouldn’t matter who was holding the knife. That it wasn’t Potter he was dependent on, but the rush of adrenaline; the pure jolt of life that only seemed to come when you were risking it in some way. The clean cuts (cold, sharp, a thin silver sliver of pain, feeling so like the tool, so like the feeling in his stomach when Potter looked at him from across the room and he could tell they were thinking the same thing…) the feel of warm blood from a dozen tiny cuts. Or the sluggish flow from one of the carefully traced spirals that decorated his chest temporarily and he wished Potter would let him keep…
Potter never let him scar.
And, later, he wouldn’t let Potter keep the marks left by his mouth, the finger shaped bruises against the pale skin of his hip. He wouldn’t allow reminders of what they had done together in the darkness of his room, eager mouths and inexperienced hands, learning how to balance on the edge of pain where everything was that bit clearer. Falling asleep separately and waking together, curled into each other, anchored.
* * *
There was blood on the white pillowcase, next to Harry’s face. He wasn’t sure entirely which of the cuts was still fresh enough to bleed- it seemed like forever ago that Harry had laid aside his knife and forced him onto his back, licking his chest and lifting his head to reveal a bloodstained grin. He had moved his head closer, licking along Draco’s jaw (the smell of the salt, the copper tang made him bite his lip and later the mirror reflected rusty red streaks against his pale skin…) and then he had whispered in Draco’s ear.
"I want you to fuck me."
It wasn’t a request.
He wasn’t gentle- this wasn’t a relationship. Being careful would have been an admission of something- and the fact that he concentrated so hard, had to force himself to be harsh was an admission too, but one that only he could see. He relished every wince, because it showed he was doing his job.
He pushed two fingers into Harry, nothing but his own blood to make the passage easier- the other boy arched his back and swore loudly, biting through his lip; Draco leaned down to taste Potter’s blood. Even in this, they tasted different.
Potter tensed as he forced his way inside, bucked under him as he moved, screamed as he came.
His cuts were healed before he left, and Potter just smirked as Draco swore.
* * *
The bludger missed the Slytherin captain by inches, smashing into the handle of his broom and shattering the wood, driving a splinter along his arm and cutting it deeply. He didn’t make a sound as it happened, and that was much talked of in the weeks following- it was his left forearm; was he marked? Did it somehow protect the bearer from pain where it branded? They forgot, perhaps, that the arm was bare of any mark save a silvery scar under the cut and the pouring blood.
Potter got to him before Madame Pomfrey reached the pitch and performed a very competent healing spell, quite the most advanced of its kind she’d ever seen from a student. She complimented his work, and he smiled faintly.
"Couldn’t let him scar, could I?"
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no subject
Date: 2004-01-15 09:18 pm (UTC)He nodded stiffly, and stood to walk out of the room until Snape caught him by the arm, rolling up the sleeve of his school robes to look at the still-livid mark on his left arm.
"So like Lucius…"
wow. Gave me a whole new spin on H/D, and a deep look into Draco's Character.
*hugs*
~J~