hd_hols (hd_hols) wrote in hd_holidays,

Happy H/D Holidays, melusinahp! 1 of 2

Author: ellie_nor
Recipient: melusinahp
Title: No Exit - Part 1/2
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, implied Fenrir/Draco
Summary: When you’re trapped and there’s no way to escape, which instincts win out?
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: Bondage, dub con, implied non con (not Harry/Draco), Werewolf!Draco
Word Count: ~13,800
Author's Notes: With my apologies to Jean Paul Sartre and big thanks for T for the very thorough beta job. Featuring out-of-control!Harry and punished-by-being-made-a-Werewolf!Draco. Melusina, I tried to follow as much of your request as possible. I’m sorry that, despite all my efforts, there’s no knifeplay – but there is a knife. I hope you enjoy it. ♥

No Exit
Part 1

Harry lay on the damp stone floor, waiting. He’d lost track of how long he’d been in this cell, chained to the wall by his throat, his wrists tied in front of him. At first, he’d tried to wriggle his hands out of the ties, to unhook the chain from around his neck, but without success.

After that he had tried to keep track of the days. He would make a groove in the moss by his head with a chipped fingernail every time he woke up, but with only torchlight to go by, he had no idea whether those marks represented days or hours.

His only other way of marking the passage of time was by his stomach. Judging by how it was growling at him now, he was due to be fed shortly. He had no idea why they were keeping him alive, nor did he much care. Some masked Death Eater would open the door in an hour or so, just far enough to slide a tray towards him. Sometimes, they didn’t push it far enough and he couldn’t reach. He’d learned quickly that the best way to cope was to shut his eyes; otherwise, he would sit and stare at the food until another masked Death Eater came to take the full tray, unable to stop himself watching as they lifted it up and took it away. They always laughed when that happened, as they spelled away the contents of his bladder and bowels.

He’d close his eyes now, just in case.


Harry was woken by the sound of footsteps outside the cell. He must have drifted off. The door opened with a clang. Harry stayed still, his body slumped against the wall, but he opened his eyes slightly. Bellatrix Lestrange stood in the doorway, hands on hips, silhouetted in the brighter light from the passageway outside.

“Is ickle Harry Potter having his afternoon nap?”

Bellatrix cackled. Her cooing words and mad laughter echoed off the walls, chasing each other around the cell. The click of her boot-heels sounded through the cacophony as she walked towards him.

She bent down quite suddenly. Her hot breath warmed Harry’s ear.

“No time for sleep now, little boy.”

Harry felt his throat constrict as she pulled on the chain around his neck. At the same time, she grabbed a handful of his hair. Pain stabbed across his scalp as she yanked him to his feet and pushed him ahead of her towards the door.

“Time to go.”

Harry stood still for a moment. Go where? His mind was racing – could this be his chance to escape? Bellatrix stepped past him and through the door, yanking him behind her with the chain she still held.


Harry stumbled forward, fear and hope vying for attention in his mind. The only reason he could think of for being moved was if Voldemort had finally decided to kill him, but at least out of his cell he might have a chance to get away. He looked more closely at the ties around his wrists as Bellatrix dragged him behind her along passageway after grey passageway.

She pulled him roughly up a stone staircase, spiralling around and around, until they emerged into a corridor, wood panelling covering the walls between tall, mullioned windows. Harry was shocked to see daylight. Outside, everything was grey, rain falling in heavy sheets, but it was definitely day. Harry hadn’t expected that.

At the end of the corridor, Bellatrix opened a simple wooden door and Harry found himself in a kitchen garden, surrounded by greenery and flowers. Large raindrops were bouncing off the leaves; already they were soaking through Harry’s hair and jumper. Water was collecting on the chain around his neck, making the metal feel cold and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t waste attention on that. Now that he was outside, he had a chance to escape, if only he could distract Bellatrix for long enough.

“Where are we?”

“Shut up and keep moving.”

Bellatrix didn’t even turn around to answer him. She simply gave a sharp tug on the chain which jolted Harry forward and pinched the flesh under his Adam’s apple.

“Where are you taking me?”

Bellatrix made a half turn towards him and pointed her wand. He opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing came out. Sighing, he carried on following her through the rain.


Draco drifted into wakefulness, greeted by the soft sound of rain falling against the skylight. He kept his eyes tightly closed and let the freshness of it surround him. It took him far away from this tiny attic room, back to the wet spring days of his early childhood, playing hide-and-seek with Binky in the greenhouses, building dens in the grounds of the Manor from old sheets and sticks. The pitter-patter of raindrops was the same, the moist coolness of the air.

He had loved those days, when he always got what he wanted. If he was there now, he would sit himself down on the warm earth in the hot-house and get Binky to bring him a raspberry sorbet with hot chocolate sauce.

He drew the bed sheet around himself and curled up in his daydream. Reality would be back soon enough without rising to meet it.



The barked command roused Draco from his reverie. The room was dark, and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then nails scratched his shoulder as the sheet was tugged away, leaving him exposed under the moonlight shining through the skylight. Greyback leered above him, one eye and two sharp teeth bright against the shadows.

“I said, up! And get dressed, you’re taking a little trip.”

Draco started to comply, but not quickly enough. Greyback grabbed hold of him by his arm and leg and flung him from the bed. Draco curled in on himself as he landed, wincing as his hip hit the floor. He didn’t allow himself time to recover but quickly looked around for his clothes. Greyback didn’t like to be kept waiting.

He found them lying in a jumbled pile in one corner of the room. He scurried over and started to sort through them. Greyback didn’t allow him to wear clothes often. He stood up and began to pull on his briefs. The fabric felt strange so close against his skin.

“Stop there.”

Draco could feel the werewolf’s gaze burning into him. He was still bent over, his back to the room, halfway through putting on his underwear.

“Stand up and turn around.”

Draco left his pants where they were, partway up his thighs, and turned to face Greyback. He did his best not to show the tremor in his hands and knees.

Stripes of moonlight slanted across Greyback’s face through the skylight and some loose roof tiles. His eyes were shining and thick gobbets of drool ran down from each corner of his mouth, stretched wide in a feral grin.

“I’ve got a present to give you before you leave.”


Harry woke to find his head and body warmly covered and supported by something soft. He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbow, rubbing at his face where his glasses had been pressing into his nose. Looking around him, he saw a small room, clean, simply decorated in pale yellows, with a door to his right and a window to his left. Sunlight shone in through a gap in the curtains.

Oh yeah, that was right, he’d been moved. He flopped back down onto the pillow, thoroughly confused. He’d been so sure that Bellatrix was taking him to face Voldemort.

He shook his head, trying to remember how he’d got here. He’d been walking in the rain, Bellatrix dragging him along by the neck. He lifted his hand to his throat – the chain was gone.

What had happened then? He frowned. Either she’d cast a wordless Stupefy on him or he’d been Obliviated. Whatever the case, that wasn’t what mattered now. He needed to find a way out of here – preferably a wand as well, but getting away would make a good start.

He pushed back the covers and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He looked down at himself and saw that he was still wearing the clothes he’d had on when he’d been captured all those weeks ago: a baggy pair of jeans and an old black T-shirt. He even had his socks and trainers on still. He was glad of that – it was something familiar at least – but they were completely disgusting, stained green and grey from the stone cell in… wherever that had been.

Harry sniffed at himself and wrinkled his nose and lips. There was a rank odour coming off him, a combination of stale sweat and mildew. He desperately wanted to get out of those clothes and have a shower, but he gave a mental shrug and focused on the task at hand.

He walked around the bed he’d been lying on and up to the door. He rested his ear against the wood but could hear nothing on the other side. Either no-one was there, or the door was thicker than it looked, or whoever had put him in here had used a silencing spell. He needed his wand.

He rubbed his hands over the pockets of his jeans, then got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. Nothing. He pulled at the covers and shook them out. No wand appeared. He flung the sheets and blankets onto the floor in frustration. Not that he’d expected to find it, but he hated not having his wand; he felt helpless and vulnerable.

He took a couple of deep, harsh breaths and headed towards the door again. He stretched out his arm and turned the handle as slowly as he could. To his great surprise, it moved. He pulled gently, holding his breath. The door swung towards him, its hinges silent. He stood still, listening. There was still no sound from whatever lay beyond.

Harry tilted his head to look around the edge of the door. He was looking out at a large, square room. The floor was covered in a beige carpet. A large, brown sofa sat in the middle of the space and the walls were a pale cream colour. The room was brightly lit by what looked like sunlight, but there were no windows or lamps to be seen. Other than that, as far as Harry could tell, the room was completely empty. He stepped cautiously through the door and looked around him. The door he had come through was in the centre of the wall behind him, and identical doors stood in the middle of each of the other three walls.

A sudden movement from the middle of the room made Harry’s stomach lurch. He dropped to the ground and looked up, pinning his gaze on the sofa. He couldn’t see anything from where he was crouched on the floor. Could it have been his imagination? A mumbling sound came from the direction he was looking. The mumble was indistinct but sounded human. Harry began crawling towards the sofa on his hands and knees, keeping as low to the ground as he possibly could. The carpet rubbed uncomfortably against his hands and the dust dislodged by his movements made his nose prickle.

He was crouched below the arm of the sofa now. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and at the base of his throat. He crept to his right and looked up at whoever, or whatever, was occupying the sofa.

A bundle of sheets and blankets covered the seats. A hand was sticking out over the edge, relaxed fingers curling down towards the floor. The nails were quite long and one or two had splits and chips at the end, but they were clean. Harry looked up to where the head should be, but the person’s other hand was covering their face and the covers were pulled up so high they trailed over the top of the sofa’s other arm.

Was this his guard? Harry thought it unlikely. It could be anyone and… they might have a wand. They were sleeping peacefully now, but if he left them to explore what was behind the other doors, they might wake up and hex him. There was only one course of action Harry could see. He leaned back on his toes for a second, thigh muscles tensed, and leapt. He landed heavily on top of the person under the covers and grabbed both of their wrists, twisting awkwardly and ending up with his left elbow leaning on what he thought must be their head.

The body jumped slightly and tensed beneath him, then went limp.

“Who are you?”

Harry hissed into the covers, unwilling to let go his hold in order to pull them down. There was a movement beneath his left arm, as if the person was trying to turn their head, then they began to struggle.

“Stop that!” Harry raised his voice and pressed his own body flat against the other’s back, holding them still. “Just tell me who you are!”

The person went still again and started making snuffling noises. The reality of what Harry was doing started to sink in as the adrenaline began to ebb from his system.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’m hurting you.”

“You could at least get off my head and let me breathe.”

Even muffled as it was beneath the blanket and his own arm, there was something familiar about that voice. Harry thought for a moment, then lifted his elbow. He kept a tight grip around the wrist he had pinned to the sofa seat, but used his elbow and arm to push down the covers. It took several moments of struggling, but finally it was done. The blankets and sheet were collected in rumpled mess under his elbow, revealing a mess of fine, blond hair and a very pink cheek and ear.

“Oh, thank fuck for that.”


Harry’s adrenaline levels surged again. He felt as if his whole body was vibrating with rage. Before he knew what he was doing, he had let go of Malfoy’s wrists and started pummeling him through the covers with his fists.

“You fucking bastard! You fucking bastard! Fucking cunt, prick…”

Words failed Harry, but his fists carried on flying. A moment later, he found himself sprawled on the floor. Looking up, he saw Malfoy standing over him, face flushed, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, with the covers still wrapped around his legs.

“Will you fucking stop that? I don’t have a wand and I bet you don’t either, so we have to let everything heal by itself – like Muggles.” Malfoy said the word ‘Muggles’ as if it tasted bad. “I’ll do you a deal: you don’t hurt me and I won’t hurt you. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

Harry pushed himself up, hands pressed into the floor behind him, so surprised by the fact that Malfoy had been able to push him to the ground that he couldn’t think of anything to say. Malfoy made a snorting sound.

“I’ll take your silence as assent.”

Malfoy turned his back on Harry and disentangled himself from the covers, rearranging them on the sofa.

“Why are you sleeping out here? Haven’t you got a bed?”

Malfoy replied without turning around.

“None of your damn business, Potter. Now shut up, I’m going back to sleep.”

Malfoy lay back down on the sofa and pulled the covers over his head. Harry had a strong urge to pull them off again, to ask Malfoy about this place, how they’d got there, who had brought them, but the whole situation was so bizarre that Harry wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for answers yet.

He thought for a moment about having another go at beating Malfoy up, but he found he lacked the will to attack him in cold blood. Instead, he got to his feet and looked around the room again. He might as well see what was through those other doors. He chose the one behind the sofa, leaving Malfoy breathing softly behind him, alert for any sign of attack.

The door opened onto a spacious bathroom, floor and walls tiled in rich, warm marble. A window faced him over the bath; he hurried forward to look out of it, but its glass was opaque. Swearing under his breath, he took a step over to a cabinet attached to the wall to his left and opened it. It was well-stocked with cleaning potions for skin, hair, teeth – even clothes, which Harry was very glad to see – as well as toothbrushes, sponges and the like. Opposite the cabinet, visible in its mirrored door, was a metal rack full of clean, fluffy towels.

The idea of having a bath and getting his clothes clean right now sounded like heaven to Harry, except that he didn’t have any way of drying his clothes and he didn’t have any clean ones to change into. Swearing under his breath he took a cursory look around the rest of the bathroom – a shower, a toilet, a sink, a bidet. A bidet? Harry shook his head. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t have one of those.

As he looked at the toilet, he noticed for the first time how full his bladder was. He kicked the door shut (no lock, he noticed) and lifted up the toilet lid, then pulled down his trousers and pants, aimed his soft cock at the bowl and let go. Ah, sweet relief. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper piss, and by God it felt good.

He shook the last drops from the end of his cock and pulled his clothes up. When he turned to the door to leave though, he noticed something that filled him with a relief almost as great as that he’d felt taking a pee – dressing gowns. Two toweling robes hung from the back of the door, one red, one green. With a grin, Harry turned back to the bath, stripped off his clothes, got in and turned on the taps.

The water was gorgeously hot. His skin tingling, he let out a satisfied groan as the bath began to fill.


Draco had woken with a start, certain for a moment that he was back in Greyback’s attic room. He had made himself relax; it was better to seem compliant, he got hurt less that way. Then a voice had hissed through the covers and it definitely wasn’t Greyback’s. Thank God, it wasn’t Greyback.

Giddy in his relief, he began to turn his head to see who his assailant was. When he found that the weight against it prevented him moving, he wriggled around; whether he’d been trying to throw them off or simply trying to get a look at them he couldn’t say.

When whoever the person was pressed harder against him and shouted through the covers, two things happened at once: Draco recognised Harry Potter’s voice, and a scent of stale sweat filled his nostrils. His mouth filled with saliva. He found himself sniffing in short breaths, taking in as much of the smell as possible. When he realised what he was doing, he was mortified but couldn’t stop himself.

What was worse was that the scent sparked a burn of arousal in his belly – he was hit by a desperate urge to fight or to fuck, or preferably to do both at once. He only just stopped himself from growling. When Potter started hitting him, it relieved some of Draco’s tension. He came back to his senses, took control of himself and pushed Potter onto the floor.

He’d done well, he thought. What he’d said was true – it was stupid to give one another injuries when they had no way of repairing them – but Draco had been shaking with the desire to fight back with more than just a push. Seeing Potter sprawled on the floor had had its own satisfaction, of course.

When he’d lain down again, he hadn’t really gone back to sleep. He had clutched his arms under the covers, tense and trembling with suppressed instinct, listening to Potter clattering around in the bathroom. When he heard the bath taps running, followed by Potter’s moan, he flung the covers off and stormed into the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of Butterbeer out of the pantry and drank it, standing up and leaning against the table. God give him strength. How did… how did… he expect him to deal with this for almost three weeks?

He finished off the bottle and threw it into the bin. Ugh, disgusting, keeping rancid, rotting food around for days like Muggles. He pushed himself off the table and went into the pantry. Looking around the shelves, he sighed; nothing really appealed to his appetite. He lifted up a glass cover and picked half-heartedly at a treacle tart. He clunked the cover down again. Some chicken would do for now.

He took the whole plate of chicken legs with him to the battered old table in the middle of the kitchen. He suspected it had started its life in a Potions laboratory, judging by some of the stains and pits on its surface. He sat down on a worn wooden chair and picked up a leg, grimacing at the grease against his fingers, chewing the flesh mechanically. He repeated this until five of the legs were no more than bone and sinew, then began chewing on the bones as well.

He only realised what he was doing when Potter opened the door and strode into the room, hair dripping down his neck into a thick, red bathrobe. He let the bone he’d been chewing on drop to the plate with a clatter, feeling the blood rise in his cheeks as he surveyed the splintered mess he’d left there.

“So this is the kitchen?”

He ignored Potter and took the plate to the bin, pushing the bones into it with his fingertips. He put the plate back down on the table and washed his hands at the sink.

“Any food around?”

Draco sneered at Potter as he walked past him, half-empty plate of chicken legs in hand. He entered the pantry and put the chicken back on its shelf. The soft sound of Potter’s bare feet treading the quarry tiles towards him made him grit his teeth. Draco felt his nostrils flaring, trying to catch Potter’s scent on the air. He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the shelf, hard, struggling to keep control of himself.

“Wow, this is fantastic! Are there house-elves here or something?”

Potter was standing right behind him, his breath and the vibration of his voice making all the hairs on Draco’s spine stand up. Fuck it. He spun around, pushing Potter out of the way as he charged out into the kitchen and on into the central room.

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m trying to be civil!”

He ignored Potter’s shout, picked up the sheet and blankets from the sofa and crossed to his room. He slammed the door behind him and threw the bedding onto the floor, breathing heavily. He scowled at the bare bed. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!

Draco dropped onto his knees on the blankets and clutched at his head. Despair crept up his throat, emerging as a whimper. He couldn’t do this, he just couldn’t. He crumpled onto his side, pushing down a sob. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to control the trembling in his lower jaw.

When he finally managed to calm down, he stared at base of the wall, where the dark blue of the carpet met the paler blue of the skirting board, doing his best to ignore the sensation of dead weight pressing in on his chest. He was jolted from his misery by the sound of his door banging against the wall. Potter was standing there in his red toweling robe and probably nothing else, but Draco still felt fear when he saw the look on his face. Potter advanced towards him, hands clenched by his sides. His words were as carefully placed as his steps.

“You are going to tell me what is going on, and you are going to tell me now.”

Potter stood directly over Draco, and he couldn’t get Greyback’s voice out of his head, jeering at him for cowering on the floor. He pushed himself up on his hands.

“Fuck off, Potter, get the fuck out of my room.”

“No! Who says it’s your room? Who brought you here?”

“I.” Draco paused. He swallowed. This was Potter, Potter, but even so, it would be such a relief to share everything with him. Damn that fucking bastard.

He let his shoulders slump.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Tell me!”

Draco glared up at the boy standing above him.

“I mean, I can’t. He cast a spell on my voice. Even if I wanted to tell you – which I don’t – I couldn’t.”

Potter looked up at the ceiling and gave a shout. Without thinking, Draco shrank in on himself, swearing at himself under his breath when he realised what he was doing. He very deliberately straightened his back and scrambled up from the floor, standing to face Potter.

“Oh, shut up. Screaming about it isn’t going to help.”

Potter tilted his chin up in a gesture of defiance.

“Fuck off, it makes me feel better.”

Draco leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it, Potter? You.”

Potter’s eyebrows lifted.

“Ha! Says the most selfish, spoilt, toffee-nosed prat in Britain!”

They were nose to nose now. Draco crossed his arms, leaning back slightly, and looked down, examining his fingernails.

“It’s not my fault my parents looked after me properly, Potter.”

He immediately regretted his words, not because of Potter’s reaction, which he didn’t notice, but because of his own. An image of his mother had sprung unbidden to his mind. He shuddered and shut his eyes.

“Just leave me alone, Potter, please.”

His voice sounded as defeated as he felt. For three heart-beats there was silence, then, to his surprise, Potter said, “Alright,” and left, closing the door softly behind him.


Harry walked across to his room in a daze. That Malfoy had been cowering in a bundle on the floor when he burst into his room was disturbing enough, but the way he had just crumpled so suddenly in the middle of their argument… Harry shook his head. This whole situation was beyond him. He felt like he was dreaming, it was all so surreal.

He entered his own room and shut the door behind him. His damp clothes were dripping onto the floor by the window where he’d hung them over the curtain rail to dry after his bath. He’d been disappointed to find that this window, too, was glazed with opaque glass but not surprised. It didn’t open, either. Whoever had brought him here hadn’t intended him to know where he was.

Or, come to think of it, to leave. Not a single door he’d been through had led outside. The four doors off the central room led to the bathroom, the kitchen, his own room and Malfoy’s. There were definitely no doors in his own room or the bathroom, and the only doorway in the kitchen led to the pantry. Unless there were other doors here concealed by magic. If there were, he had no way of finding them.

He went up to his window, to see if he could open it. He couldn’t see any fastenings, or even hinges. He ran his fingers around the edge of the glass, but it seemed to be all one piece with the wood surrounding it. With a frustrated cry, he bashed his hand against the pane, but it just bounced off.

His shoulders slumped and he rested his forehead against the glass, letting himself get wet under his dripping clothes. Oh, well, at least he was better off than in that stone cell; at least here he knew when it was day and when it was night.


Harry spent the next two weeks avoiding Malfoy as much as possible. He would wake, bathe, eat and return to his room to brood. He had no idea how the food and the bathroom supplies were replenished – he’d seen no sign at all of a house-elf – but replenished they were. He’d tried calling on Dobby without success. He’d even called on Kreacher, but either the wretched little git had found a way to get around Harry’s ownership of him or house-elves couldn’t get in or out of wherever this was.

He was used to being bored by now. Boredom wasn’t his problem. No, his problem was resisting the ever-increasing urge to pick a fight with Malfoy. For the first week and a half Harry had been here, after that first day, they’d had an unspoken agreement of mutual avoidance. However, in the past few days it seemed that whenever he went to the kitchen or the bathroom, Malfoy was there, and more irritatingly he’d taken to saying ‘Good evening,’ or ‘Good morning.’

Harry usually gave a grudging nod and grunt, but every time he saw that pointy face and blond hair his mind was forced back to the top of the Astronomy Tower, to Dumbledore slumped against a wall, Snape’s look of hatred, Dumbledore’s body flying over the crenellations… It made him want to hit something – or someone – and the only someone around was Malfoy, and after all, it was his fucking fault Dumbledore was dead, wasn’t it? But then Harry would remember about not having his wand, and, as satisfying as it would be to break Malfoy’s nose or dislocate his shoulder, he didn’t want to have to live with the aftermath.

In his more honest moments, he admitted to himself that once he started fighting Malfoy, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. The image of Malfoy on his back on the floor with Harry straddling his hips, hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him, was one that made Harry’s pulse leap and his gorge rise at the same time. It was too much for him to deal with, so he had simply stopped his thoughts going in that direction. But with Malfoy there every time he emerged from his own annoyingly yellow room, Harry was finding it harder and harder to suppress his violent urges.

At present, he was lurking inside his door, steeling himself to go to the bathroom. It sounded safe enough out there. He opened his door a crack and peered around it. No Malfoy. Good. Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, Harry strode over to the bathroom. The door was shut. He put his ear up against it, just to make sure. Still no sound. Excellent. He opened the door and slipped inside.

To his dismay, he was faced with Malfoy, half-naked and damp from his shower, rubbing a towel backwards and forwards over his head. The towel around his hips left the whole of his chest and belly exposed, and Harry’s breath hitched at what he saw.

Malfoy’s skin was covered with marks of violence.

There were patches of yellow and faded purple, evidence of old bruises. Harry didn’t think that many could have been from his own fists. Then there were the scars. Malfoy’s chest looked like it had been used by some giant cat as a scratching post and on his left side was a barely-healed gash running in a curve from just below his ribs to just above his hip-bone. All Harry could do was stare.

At last, Malfoy lowered the towel from his head and noticed Harry standing there. He gave a little start and covered his chest with the towel in his hands.

“Bloody hell, Potter, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Harry tried to think of something to say, but his mind was a blank. Malfoy’s face pulled into its familiar sneer.

“Had a good gawp, have you?”

“I…” Harry gulped. “Those scars, Malfoy, they… where did they come from?”

Malfoy scowled.

“None of your fucking business.”

Malfoy enunciated the words precisely, as if he thought Harry would have trouble understanding them. Harry ignored him and lifted the towel away to have a better look at Malfoy’s left side. Malfoy immediately pulled away, his face darkening from pink to red.

“Fuck off, will you?”

Harry wasn’t listening. He was trying to remember where he’d seen a scar like that before. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his forehead.

“Physical plane to Potter. Will you kindly move out of the way so I can leave?”

Suddenly, the memory clicked into place in Harry’s mind.

“My God, Malfoy, that looks like a…” He looked up at Malfoy’s face. He could hardly get his voice out past the horror rising in his throat, and when it emerged it was barely more than a whisper. “It looks like a werewolf bite.”

Malfoy turned away from him and folded his arms. Harry stood there, dumbfounded. Then a horrific thought occurred to him. He grabbed Malfoy’s shoulder and pushed him round to face him again.

“Have you been turned into a werewolf, Malfoy?”

Malfoy tensed under his hand and looked like he was clenching his jaw. He was gazing determinedly at the floor. Harry raised his voice.

“Have you been turned into a werewolf?”

“That’s none of your business, Potter.”

Malfoy’s voice was low and controlled. He raised his arm to throw Harry’s hand off and pushed past him, leaving the bathroom and walking past the sofa, head down. Harry ran after him, turning in front of Malfoy to block his way. He stopped him with a hand on his chest. Malfoy tried to shake him off and get around him, but Harry gripped his upper arms. Malfoy stayed where he was, but looked off to the side, as if he was determined not to meet Harry’s gaze.

“It fucking well is my business, Malfoy! The full moon can’t be far off. When were you going to tell me?” Harry had an ugly thought. “Or were you not going to tell me? Was that the plan all along, to bring me here and rip me to shreds?” He was shaking with anger.

Malfoy finally looked at Harry, a look of shock in his eyes.

“No! Of course not! He wouldn’t be that cruel, not to me!”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears.

“Cruel to you? You selfish cunt!”

Harry balled his hands into fists and pulled his right arm back ready to punch, but before he’d made contact with Malfoy’s face, he found himself turning, falling, landing face-down on the carpet. Malfoy was wrenching his arm up behind his back, keeping Harry pressed to the floor with his body weight. Harry felt hot breath against his neck, teeth scraping over his skin. Goosebumps were rising all over his body and his heart was racing in his chest. Malfoy’s voice was rough and low against his ear.

“Yes, I’ve been turned, Potter, so don’t push me.”

Malfoy bit his neck again and Harry’s back arched with a shock of sensation that ran all the way down his spine and settled in his belly. Then suddenly the weight was gone.

He flexed his arm and rolled over to see the door to Malfoy’s room slamming shut. Feeling decidedly shaky, Harry rose to his feet, breathing heavily, and blinked a few times. Right. Okay. Bathroom. He walked back across the sitting room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and letting his weight fall against it.

He tried to ignore the arousal still surging through his body as he undressed. Once in the shower, though, he quickly lost the struggle, grasping his erect cock and wanking to the memory of Malfoy’s breath on his neck and ear, Malfoy’s body pressing him into the floor and his teeth scraping against Harry’s flesh.

After he came, Harry stood with his forehead pressed against the tiled wall, panting, and let the hot water wash over him.


Draco stood in his room and clutched the damp towel against his chest, then threw it to the floor. His heart was pounding against his ribs and up into his throat. Images were forcing themselves into his mind – Potter pressed into the floor, helpless, Potter naked and arching against him, Potter’s skin decorated with bruises.

Disgusted with himself but unable to stop, he pushed the second towel from his hips and wrapped his fingers around his prick. In his mind’s eye, he was riding Potter, fucking his arsehole; he was biting his shoulder, his back; he was scratching sharp fingernails down his chest until he felt hot liquid running down his fingers and over his wrists.

It was that last fantasy that did it, the imagined sensation of Potter’s blood running down his own wrists and splashing onto the carpet, pushing Draco into an orgasm so intense his legs buckled beneath him.

The prickle of disgust and nausea crawled under Draco’s skin as he lay on the floor, panting. He wanted to be sick, but all that came out of his mouth was a whining sob. He crawled across the floor and burrowed under the nest of blankets.

He found no comfort there.


Draco spent the whole of the rest of the day in his room, curled on the floor. He had lost his appetite – for food at least. Now it was dark outside and time to sleep, but he could not. What he really wanted was to make up a bed on the sofa again, as he had before Potter appeared here. He felt safe there, all entrances and exits in sight. But that would also mean seeing Potter and he didn’t think he could deal with that. In the end, he fell asleep where he was in the bundle of blankets that had been his bed for the past fortnight.

When he awoke, it felt like his stomach was trying to gnaw its way out of him. He did his best to ignore the sensation, but after half an hour of increasing discomfort he realised he’d have to go to the kitchen. Why couldn’t that bastard have left him his wand? Then he could just have opened his door and cast an Accio.

Draco sighed and stood up. He cast his eye over his clothes, piled on the end of the bed. Getting properly dressed felt like far too much trouble. Instead, he grabbed his robe and pulled it over his head. That would do; he’d be back here soon enough.

He opened his door a crack and peered into the room beyond. All clear. He hurried across to the kitchen, his bare feet noiseless on the carpet. The tiles were cold against the soles of his feet as he made the pantry. With relief, he scanned the shelves and pulled a large meat pie towards him. He ate it where he stood, crumbs and gravy smearing across his hand and his mouth. When he’d finished, he licked them clean.

Satisfied, he turned to leave, and stopped in his tracks. Potter was standing in the entrance to the pantry, hands loose by his sides, mouth slightly open.

“Where did you come from?”

Draco’s voice came out high and girlish and he scowled at himself. Potter blinked and gave a little shake, as if he’d been half asleep.

“Um, I must have been under the table when you came in.” Potter shrugged. “I dropped my fork.”


Draco could feel a blush rising on his face. Potter was walking towards him, his scent preceding him in a miasma of pheromones. Draco could feel his prick filling out, his heartbeat speeding up, his hands sweating. Fuck.

Draco had no idea what to do, so he stood there, dumbly watching Potter draw closer – and closer. Draco’s mouth was suddenly dry.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was almost shrill now, as Potter stood right in front of him, green eyes wide and unblinking. Potter suddenly brought up his right hand, fingers outstretched. Draco flinched, but the contact on his face was soft, almost caressing. He opened his mouth in surprise and Potter’s finger found Draco’s tongue.

“You missed a bit.”

Potter’s voice was husky and low, and suddenly he was closer than ever and Draco was sucking and nibbling at his finger and his thoughts were drowned in the scent of Potter’s hair, his own fingers uselessly clutching air at his sides.

There was a clanking, rustling sound that Draco barely registered, then Potter grabbed his right hand and pressed it against his hot, smooth prick. Draco gasped aloud as a hot coil of arousal unravelled in his groin and burned its way up to his throat. For a long moment he was immobile, standing there with his mouth wide open and his right hand curled around Potter’s hard-on.

Then he remembered to move. He and Potter struggled together with his robe until Potter’s hand was gripping Draco’s prick, then everything became a blur of hands and fingers and teeth, gripping and biting, pulling and squeezing and twisting. Potter was panting against his ear, the smell of sex was swamping Draco utterly; he had never felt so alive in his entire life.

Potter’s hand left Draco’s prick for a moment and Draco whimpered at the loss, but then it was back, slicker than before. Draco’s hips started moving of their own accord and he sped up the motion of his own hand on Potter. He was almost there, almost… He bit into a mouthful of Potter’s hair and came. Potter cried out into his ear and thrust his cock hard into Draco’s hand. All he could do was grip as Potter thrust three more times and came.

Draco lifted his hand to his mouth and greedily sucked Potter’s come from his fingers. When the shudder of aftershocks had subsided, he opened his eyes to see Potter staring at him. Draco pulled his hand away from his mouth and tried to step back.


Potter held him close and gave a half smile, then licked up Draco’s throat. Another shiver of pleasure went through Draco’s body and he closed his eyes.

“This doesn’t change anything you know, Potter.”

He sounded unconvincing even to himself. He opened his eyes as Potter shrugged.

“Didn’t expect it to. I just decided that if I’m going to die soon, I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

Draco fixed his gaze on the corner of Potter’s mouth.


Potter smirked.

“Very satisfied. How long ‘til we can do it again?”

Draco felt a prickle of shame travel up his neck and over his scalp. He sniffed.

“What makes you think I want to do that again?”

Potter actually had the audacity to laugh. Draco pushed him away, his whole face burning with anger.

“Fuck you!”

Potter only laughed louder. Draco stormed past him and out of the kitchen. As he reached his own door, Potter’s voice carried to him from the kitchen.

“Maybe later!”

Part Two
Tags: [fic], [long/chaptered fic], genre: war fic, rated: nc-17, round: summer 2007

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