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hpkinkfestTitle: The Last Temptation of Draco Malfoy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
potteresque_ire
Prompt Number: #99 submitted bylavillanueva
Kink Showcased: Chastity Devices
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had been bonded for five years. But Knockturn Alley still beckoned Draco, its Darkness as irresistible, as irrepressible as the lust in his blood; his weakness compelled him to seek extraordinary measures to ensure his fidelity.
Warnings: Dub-con, Interspecies Erotica (Human/Snake), Cock & Ball Torture, Orgasm Denial, Rimming, Felching, Snowballing, Flogging, Infidelity. Slight Religious Overtone.
Word Count: ~13,500
Author's Notes: So much ♥ for my co-betas,marguerite_26 and vaysh11, and also to romaine24 and jamie2109 for their invaluable input, able guiding hands and warm shoulders to cry on. I hope I did your prompt justice, lavillanueva! Writing this has been quite a fun and intense ride. :)
The Last Temptation of Draco Malfoy
I. CASTITAS
Power corrupts.
If this were true, then purity necessitates…
A prod, a small bite, light as a pinprick, sank into the shaft of his cock.
Castitas. Chastity.
Draco Malfoy clawed his fingers against the armrest. Under the smooth silk of his robe, the rough scales of serpents slithered against his skin, languid as the putrid scent hanging low, damp and heavy in the quarters. Sweat and spit had caked the hair caught between his fingers, hair that was once finer and more silver than his own. Draco yanked it with a twist of the wrist.
“Enough.”
A muffled groan replaced the slick noises of kissing and lapping. Soft lips tore away, forced to abandon their worship of Draco’s Dark Mark and before Draco could set eyes upon them, faded into a shadow under the dim torchlight. Saliva gleamed on Draco’s forearm and he wiped it dry on the threadbare damask of the armrest, wondering how many—and who—had done the same before him.
On his knees in front of the chair, the whore’s touch dived downward on his body at the sight, to where his cloak tented above his full erection. “Please.” The veil fluttered, the plea breathless as hands massaged his need. The aged fabric of his Invisibility Cloak, more insubstantial than finest silk, traced the long, slender length that lay beneath, its translucence showcasing the red driven there by lust.
By Draco.
“More,” the whore begged again, as he leaned forward with his head bowed.
Liquid fire, toxic and heavy like mercury, thickened the vein punctured by the bite. Its trail of lava turned Draco’s blood into vapor. His cock swelled as he felt hands caressing his ankles and his boots removed by a lightness akin to a breeze; the fang pierced deeper as a slick, hot tongue pressed on his toes and licked them, one after another.
Another piercing, this time near the crown of Draco’s cock. Tendrils of cold seeped in, embracing, smothering the lust boiling in his vessels to asphyxiation. They further stoked his arousal, a reminder that Draco’s time was as limited as his restraint. He had to leave, before the thrill of seduction turned into a beast that would gnaw him alive, before the gratifying fullness between his thighs would suffocate against the guardians of his purity. He had to save himself before the clash of fire and ice would become a frozen hellfire from which he had no escape.
He shot to his feet.
Malfoys no longer belonged to Knockturn Alley. A brothel was no place for any respectable man, never mind one who had another for a bedmate.
Thou shalt not commit adultery. Drinking in the sight, smell and taste of stray flesh even if Draco would never take him, this—
—untouched-by-war, innocent and beautiful near-replica of himself clutching against his own legs, delicate hands like jade splayed on the dark silk of Draco’s robe.
“I’ll do anything,” the whore whispered, the sheer Invisibility Cloak slipping off his shoulders to reveal skin anointed with a sheen of sweat—like a nimbus, otherworldly and far removed from the light Draco had grown accustomed to. The young man’s bare feet could thaw snow, as they had when they had led Draco to this place, his hair and his sparse clothing flowing and shining in the wind. Beauty like this should only belong to an angel. “Be the Saviour of our race. Of all men’s blood, only yours can blend with mine,” he repeated the words that had stopped Draco at the intersection of Diagon and Knockturn Alley, as his arms wrapped tightly around Draco’s thighs. “So pure, so …”
The voice faded as the whore latched himself onto Draco’s hipbone, biting, sucking, stealing attention away from the snare closing in around Draco’s cock. His flesh burned with fervour despite his clothed state: from the pliant lips that Obliviated the pain they would bring, from the heat and moisture from every breath that promised release, from the seductive licks and nips that nibbled away what remained of his thoughts.
His virtues.
Draco’s fingers once again found themselves clawing the tangled hair, his vision lost in the span of supple back muscles, the swell of buttocks peering from the cloak pooled on the wooden floor. But the mouth, the source of temptation, remained out of sight, not even when the kisses traced the edge of his pelvis towards his inner thighs.
The young man tore away then and sniffed, catching the whiff of what was hidden under his robe. It smelled of power, Draco imagined—power far beyond the leftover magic from the doodles of a dead madman.
The arms encircling Draco closed like a vice. The angelic face buried itself in the folds on Draco’s crotch and inhaled before kisses—ravenous to the point of sinister, like a vulture’s on its prey—rained upon his arousal. Moans too low to be human echoed between the walls like distant howls of wolves, as the lips traced the coils of constraint around Draco’s cock.
This would be the moment to draw his wand, spell the man unconscious and make his exit.
The hold on Draco’s legs loosened. The whore sank lower on his knees and swung his freed hand backward towards his own buttocks, raised high, ready and yearning for possession.
Leave, Draco. Leave.
Slender fingers, coated with oil that had come from nowhere, curled and vanished between the arse cheeks. Knees spread further apart against the floor to reveal the tight, pink hole, the fountain of pleasure seemingly unknown to no man before Draco; to make way for his imminent corruption.
The debauchery. The inevitable sin.
Draco could go. Except…
Except Draco was pinned on the spot—by nothing but his own feet, certainly, but he was still trapped.
There was no way to escape. He could not venture back into Knockturn Alley before sunset. Apparition into and out of whorehouses was out of question; a plethora of curses would tear him apart. The Floo would only lead him deeper into the belly of this underworld. Travelling on foot meant he would risk getting noticed this time around.
And he should not leave when this tramp before him could be yet another Dark Creature—like the many who had lured him into Knockturn before, who had schemed to steal Light away from him—or him away from the Light. He should neither fear nor cross it, should not reveal any suspicion of its identity but play along.
He should not dismiss his strength to battle the Darkness around or within him; should not doubt his guardians of Castitas—the twelve serpents he had trusted with his flesh—would fend him against his sins.
He should not…
He should not…
He should not go. He should stay.
He had no choice but to stay. And should he fall for the temptations again, he would find forgiveness…
The blush on the face that finally looked up at Draco was so intense that it seemed to have bled through the blue irises, painting the pupils a dark red.
Deep as wells, like holes that could bore—
“More,” the whore said again between hitched breaths, more demanding this time before a kiss landed right above the slit on Draco’s cock, the only place left unguarded, unrestrained by his serpents. A violent jerk of Draco’s hips instigated a shy smile and the man retreated then, still on his knees, until his back pressed against the side of a bare mattress spotted with potions and spoilt body fluids. He seemed to glide onto the bed with a mere fluid arch of his back and there he came to lie, his legs spread wide, his face hidden in the crook between one of his shoulders and a raised arm.
A debauched angel—beautiful, demure and defenseless, except for the cock jutting out between the thighs, its flesh a raging scarlet and fierce with protruding veins.
The two serpents around Draco’s waist set into motion, as the seven wound around his cock had already done so by infusing venom into his flesh. Draco tore open his robe and approached the willing body, heedless of the serpents about to invade him, their forked tongues leaving a wet trail down the tail of his spine and into the dark, damp cleft below, smelling, tasting for Draco’s own fountain of pleasure, the source of his power—
He was his own master and he would prove it. A spell later, the whore’s cloak on the floor twisted and writhed to form a whip, its leather tougher and its silver more brilliant than the scales of the snakes. Its power would be seen in each welt it would make, in every line of blood it would paint on the flawless skin.
If power corrupts, then purity necessitates an absolute lack of power.
~*~
Welts from the whip soon marked the pale flesh, the old mattress beneath them daubed with fresh blots of scarlet. Pupils, their red hue intensifying with lust, had corroded the light blue irises around them.
Between the close walls, the most pathetic and filthiest of words reverberated, dregs of the once sweet and innocent voice, when the cock in Draco’s mouth pulsed and spilled.
It wilted quickly against his tongue. Draco moved forward to straddle the chest, but not before dragging his teeth along the shaft. The body beneath him writhed and Draco straightened his back; he rode the flesh undulating with pain. He spread his thighs to lend more space to his own cock, engorged in its serpentine cage but remained dry at the slit. The whore’s eyes, half-lidded with pleasure or suffering or both, widened at the sight; quick breaths whistled like the wind stealing its way in through the door cracks.
Draco spat out the cum—a greyish, caustic slime. He chided “cunt” through clenched teeth and slapped the sullied face before him. Blood gushed out from the nose, matching the hue of the eyes.
Cupping the face with his hands, Draco admired his handiwork.
All was within reach—the power to own, to rule over whatever he desired. The serpents holding him back were no match to who he would be, who he already was. They had fallen into a stupor, inebriated with the power swelling inside him with his every act to humiliate. The two on his waist had failed to push inside him; their bodies dangled like worms against his arse, their heads bobbing against the back of his thighs.
Pathetic.
Draco smirked. He pushed the whore back onto the bed, pressed his palm against the cum and blood and smeared the grey and red all over the face. His reward was a contorted look, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Clutching the necks of both snakes with his other fist, Draco reached back, coated the heads of the snakes with the filth on his hand. Then, using the same concoction, he breached and stretched himself.
The serpents stirred, their sleep disturbed by the blood—the stink—of the weak. Basking in his own reflection, a halo in the red eyes, Draco leaned back, spread his knees wide and shoved the triangular heads against the rim of his hole. They slipped inside, the serpents remembering for a moment where they belonged. Draco rammed them against his prostrate.
He groaned. Their torpid lengths, limp and covered with slime, buckled against the force. He pulled the bodies out and shoved them in deeper. Again. And again.
At the sight of each thrust, the whore let out a whimper. His cock stirred beneath Draco, his broken voice croaking a renewed prayer—words that droned on like dying winds against twilight, words that Draco could not care to comprehend.
But one more piece of torn flesh pulling gasps for air, gathered by a string of leather like spring flowers, and the snakes would shed from Draco’s body, useless parasites that they were. His cock would be unsheathed—
—and this poor excuse of a whore lying limp before him would then be Draco’s to devour, to gouge deep in the core with his hard cock and fill.
He Summoned his whip.
A sharp hiss sliced into his ears. The man beneath Draco was morphing. His face cleared, the slime receding as if being blown away by a storm, the thick liquid rippling and spraying onto the mattress. Dark pupils pulled back to bore holes in the eyes and the elusive mouth took its shape to resemble … a void. A sigh from the darkness, and the room was an inferno; the heat pushed Draco sideways against the mattress and invaded the space between his abdomen and thighs, seemingly keen on cremating the serpents alive.
Draco would have allowed it. The Power would be his—and his alone. With it, he could take all who had wronged him by force. He could reclaim what he had lost, could then seal every mouth that had spoken of his past. He could uphold the sanctity of his blood and smite those who dared to tarnish it.
He could play Saviour, rather than surviving and submitting under the shadow of one.
His leg, hooked against the neck of the whore, was an unspoken invitation. Burn. Set me free. The void closed in, ready to incinerate the snare…
Greed saved Draco from the abyss. Rather than waiting for Draco to sow life in him, the whore—a Wraith in disguise, an observation that Draco’s mind had yet to acknowledge—had spotted a prize. A token, perhaps, of once having owned if just a speck of magic from the most revered wizard under his spell. The indiscernible mouth pressed against Draco’s Dark Mark once more, more solid, more soothing as it proceeded towards his hand and erased every scar, every blemish beneath the kisses. It licked and fellated Draco’s digits one by one, until it reached the simple gold band on his ring finger—
The suction strengthened. Draco cried as the force built like a hurricane. His flesh pulled and folded against the ring, which refused to yield—not even when Draco howled in pain and attempted to remove it by instinct.
His flesh tore. White bone glowed, silver against the ring. The serpents woke from their trance.
At that moment, Draco Malfoy recovered his Light.
~*~
The flat was dark when Draco stumbled into the fireplace. He waved his wand. A few lamps shattered but one that managed to light up. The clasps on his robe remained mostly unfastened; still, he opted for splitting the garment into two and tearing it off. The tremor in his hands was beyond control.
The closest bed was in the guest room, unmade and strewn with yet to be folded laundry. Draco shoved the jeans and shirts onto the floor and collapsed upon it, his legs flying apart until his knees slammed against his chest. The stink on his skin was a memory of the filth from Knockturn, its smears of red a reminder of its brutality. Fresh blood was running down his fingers that were digging and clawing into his thighs and buttocks, but the pain could do little to alleviate the assault from within.
He would sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for release.
Even the scent of the bed’s frequent occupant did nothing to pacify the serpents. The pair of long bodies slithered inside Draco, the scales grazing his inner walls smooth enough to dive deep but rough enough for their every movement to be felt. His muscles clenched. The creatures ventured in further. The exposed tails of the snakes, each flanking one side of Draco’s waist, had straightened and stretched to the limit of their lengths. Intertwined to form a braid below his navel when inert, only the tips of their tails remained in contact as the serpents’ heads burrowed deep into Draco’s arse. They yanked apart yet another pair of silver snakes knotted in place near their junction but oriented themselves downward, their heads resting in the curls on Draco’s pubic hair. Their almost inconspicuous, forked tongues anchored them in place with their tight coil around Draco’s balls.
“Stop! Please!” Draco shouted as the serpents instigated another assault on his prostate. His hips thrust on its own volition, the white sheet beneath him a rumpled, sweat-soaked ball in his fists. Silence answered, followed by yet another attack as the serpents inside him writhed, their heads stretching to trace the noise. Liquid copper smeared his lips as Draco turned and twisted to seek relief, biting back his pleas to be allowed to come. His every cell would soon burst under the unyielding pressure inside him, his cock would soon be strangled by the seven smaller serpents looped around his swollen shaft, blood-filled from the venom they had injected into the tissue.
The twelve living guardians of his Castitas had acquired a fine taste for power. They craved it and sought after it, as had their breeder, Abraxas Malfoy. Back in the brothel, the whore had bestowed power upon Draco by worshipping the Dark Mark; the smaller serpents had fallen for the temptation first, sinking their fangs inside Draco. The larger ones had laid claim to him later, in his hole and around his balls.
They would remain as faithful guardians until a greater power presented itself, until it lured them away with its flesh. Its blood.
A plain cotton brief lay beside Draco. Draco stuffed it into his mouth.
Penance. He had once again succumbed to the ultimate aphrodisiac, proven itself time and time again irresistible for a Malfoy.
~*~
Draco’s note had been simple. I’ve sinned, it had confessed in a barely legible scrawl.
Less than fifteen minutes later, a familiar crack of Apparition could be heard in the living room.
When Harry appeared outside the guest room, snow still clinging onto his Auror uniform, the thick wool scarf and boots, he already had the white porcelain basin and candles in his hands.
He had expected nothing less from Draco.
Nothing more.
The spectacles came off as Harry crossed the threshold. That had been Draco’s request—not so that Harry would not see clearly the wretched state of his husband, but so that Draco would not risk catching a glimpse of himself in their reflection.
With his legs spread wide and his hips pumping; with his fingers grabbing, yanking the writhing serpents on his cock, trying to pull them off or seek purchase of his own flesh underneath; with his face smeared with tears, drool leaking from his stuffed mouth and lips quivering in an undecipherable chant, “I’m sorry. Please, Harry. Please let me come.”
The candles lit and arranged themselves on the bedside table as Harry placed the basin on the bed. The leather on his glove was frigid as he wiped away Draco’s tears and pulled the pants out of Draco’s mouth.
Draco said nothing. There was nothing left for him to say. For them to say.
Harry barely winced as a cut appeared along his jawline under the tip of his wand. He lifted his hand to press against the wound, the leather soaking up and darkening with the blood, as he crawled on the bed and knelt in the V between Draco’s thighs.
From his lips, the gentle hisses of Parseltongue voiced his request. He reached out, and with his fingertips drew a circle around the crown of Draco’s cock.
The smell of blood—within it, Harry’s life, his magic—roused the creatures into a frenzy. The seven serpents anchored to his cock withdrew their fangs. The sting at the lesions they left behind along Draco’s shaft were alight with emptiness. They raised their heads and stretched in what appeared to be a dance as their silvery bodies spiralled down the shaft.
The stimulation was too much to bear. Draco thrashed about, his cries changing into hoarse groans as his voice gave way.
Harry rose to his knees and leaned forward to hold Draco down, his robe a lush red pool between their bodies. His hand remained still against Draco’s cock; one after the other, the serpents slithered onto his fingers, lured by the blood smeared upon the leather, its power feeding their addiction.
Harry’s Parseltongue turned even softer, more seductive. I promise them the same things, he had once told Draco—promises of what he had not said. And—dunno why—they always believe me.
A silent Aguamenti had filled the porcelain basin before him with water. Scarlet bloomed like desert flowers when Harry dipped his soiled hand in it. The snakes swam away to pursue the red swirls diffusing before their eyes.
His vision trained upon the serpents, Harry’s hands brushed against the rest of the Castitas, inspecting its state by touch. With his fingertips he kneaded the barely contacting tails of the two serpents on Draco’s abdomen.
“They’ve gone really deep inside you.” Remnants of Parseltongue remained in Harry’s voice, the threat and want in their undertone drawing out every end syllable. He turned his head abruptly, his line of vision swept past Draco and struck the candles on the bedside table, the golden flames soothing men and beasts alike with their scent of asphodal and valerian leaves.
He would look away as long as he could, to avoid seeing Draco’s exposed cock, erect and now starting to leak with its bonds removed, the pain alleviated but the lust renewed.
“Should I take them out first—” his hands trailed the snake’s lengths to cup Draco’s arse “—or the venom?” He tilted his chin a breath’s distance towards Draco as he waited for an answer.
Only to Draco the answer would matter.
For Harry, he would either have Draco’s cock wilt to limp flesh between his lips as he sucked away the poison from what should have pleasured him alone. Or he would bask momentarily in the illusion that his bond mate was hard for him—when in effect the erection was fuelled by the serpents’ attack on Draco’s prostate—then retreat so Draco could satisfy himself with his own touch.
The first choice was an insult; the second, a humiliation.
On his knees between Draco’s legs once more, Harry had his gloved fingers wrapped around the cock before him when Draco finally found the words amongst the moans escaping him, noises that were like salt in Harry’s wounds. “Snakes first.”
Harry’s eyes met Draco’s the first time after he had entered the room. The stark crimson of the Head Auror uniform should have hardened the heart of every man who had the honour to don it. But Harry…
Draco pulled his legs as far as he could, folding himself in half to offer Harry a clear view of where the serpents had found their way into him.
“Please.”
Silence. The air in the room grew heavier, its scent of metals stronger than before. Draco could not see—did Harry draw more blood from the cut or did he inflict another wound on his face? The leathered hands on Draco’s arse were there to heal, as they caressed him to comfort. The fingers would soon find their way to his hole, where they would linger until the serpents catch a whiff of the blood and follow it into the light—
But the hands travelled higher up his body instead, to midway along Draco’s thighs where they stopped to hold Draco still.
His vision limited to the ceiling, Draco traced the faint shadow of himself joined to Harry, who was bending over—
Draco froze. No! He shook his head as his mind shouted. Yet his hips, fuelled by desires, betrayed him, lifting to meet the warm, hastened breaths descending like fluttering wings from above. He knew what Harry would try to do. The serpents had gone too deep inside him; Harry’s mouth could bring more blood into their proximity by…
But Harry did not deserve this—bear the fruits of sins that were not his own.
Draco choked when Harry’s tongue dipped into the crease between his buttocks, traced its path to the opening where it hesitated for an instant, before pressing in for a broad, firm swipe. Draco’s mind screamed Don’t over and over when Harry’s lips landed on his rim, when they took in the filth and acerbity of the Wraith on Draco’s skin. The kisses persisted as the serpents departed, as they slid against the tongue that had stretched Draco’s hole wide and ventured in itself, Harry’s blood offered on its tip. The kisses carried on, forceful and passionate, until the serpents had retreated to become no more than a silver plait on Draco’s waist.
The springs in the mattress wailed as Harry sat up on the heels of his boots. He stared past Draco and wiped his mouth, his leather glove soaking in his blood once more. Moisture had welled up in his eyes and his face was pale as parchment, but he said nothing and instead shoved Draco against the mattress once more, pushed his legs apart and lowered his clad body upon Draco.
Acquiescence was all that Draco could offer—Harry had willed himself to finish what needed to be done as quickly as possible. There was nothing else Harry wanted that Draco could give; not when they were on the same bed, when Harry massaged and fellated his cock; not when his rapid pulse thundered against Draco’s skin, when his full crotch rubbed against the mattress, giving away of the urgency of Harry’s own need.
One by one, Harry located the fang wounds with the sensitive nerves of his tongue. One by one, he sucked out the venom and sealed the opening close with a kiss.
And every time Harry spat out the poison, every time his lips wrapped around Draco’s cock and pulled, he cast away a fragment of Draco’s sin—and with it, the source of his power. It deserted him, despite Harry’s every wish to hold on to it, his hand frantically fisting Draco’s softening cock, his tongue desperately reaching for the crown retreating under then foreskin.
There were certain deaths that even a Saviour could not save. And all that remained with Harry in the end was a weak—impotent—Draco Malfoy.
~*~
The serpents, all twelve of them, had fallen into a slumber, sated by Harry’s blood in the water. Once the two serpents had exited Draco, the remaining three—the two whose tongues formed a cock ring around his balls and the one that had served to attach this ring to the back of the belt—took little effort to remove. Harry’s hands had returned to serve Draco, rubbing healing potions on his abused scrotum, lathering soothing balm on his tender flesh. The gloves had remained, their once beautiful dragonhide tarnished by a multitude of stains. The rough seams caught between Harry’s and Draco’s skin now and then, too soft to hurt, too hard to ignore.
Even harder for Draco to ignore was Harry’s face, half-concealed by the dark fringes and still flush with arousal. His red robe was gathered at the front, hiding, no doubt, a bulge underneath the trousers.
The smaller snakes nestled in the ring drawn by the longest ones among them. Harry made no more than a ripple in the water when he stood and Levitated the basin onto the bedside table, seemingly worried about disturbing their sleep.
One of the candles had gone out. Harry picked up another and attempted to restore light on its wick.
“It’s gone,” Draco said, leaning against the headboard and nursing the glass of water Harry had given him.
The charred wick took its last breath of life—a glowing ember at its tip—before it twisted and fell, leaving a void in the wax. With a tight grasp, Harry snapped off the top third of the candle. A flame soon glowed on the fresh white thread.
Draco reached out and cupped the bulge between Harry’s thighs. “This isn’t.” He kneaded the swell beneath with his fingers. He could bring Harry off with his hands and his lips, if Harry would let him.
He refused to think of it as payment.
“It will. Soon,” Harry replied and stepped sideways; only the folds of his robe remained in Draco’s hand. Chewing his lower lip, he gazed at Draco. “What was it?”
What, not who. The truth was Draco’s only defence. “It was a Wraith.”
“A Wraith,” Harry repeated, turning to stare at the serpents again. “A Wraith.” He nodded, seemingly dazed with contemplation before breaking into chuckles that sounded worse than sobs. “You mean those Dementors’ cousins who suck not souls but life? They make people feel good, don’t they, let victims live their fantasies before preying on them…” He trailed off, his tone more fitting for reading dictionaries aloud or reciting the ingredients for a potion—it was as flat, as distant as that.
Rage, like hope, was prone to expire.
“I—“ Draco began.
Harry held-up his hand and stopped him.
True, Harry had no need to listen any more. The story never changed. A Dark creature would find Draco, drawn by his fair appearance and purity of blood, perhaps, or by the mistakes in his past, the name of his spouse, any combinations of these. At the intersection between day and night, between Diagon and Knockturn Alley, it would lure him with a Glamour showing him a weakness, readily employed by a Malfoy’s perpetual thirst for power. This Glamour had been many things: from a foolhardy challenger, eager to prove himself worthier of survival and love in the post war world, to a lost sheep, innocent and fearful, from whom Draco was the chosen Saviour. Once Draco had made his detour into the Dark alley, the creature would seduce him and test the magic of the chastity belt—which Draco had requested Harry to put on him—to its very limit.
A limit Draco’s desires would one day surpass. If the coma of the serpents had fallen into just hours before were any clue, that day was not far away.
No restraints were indissoluble unless they came from within.
Harry sighed. His face softened, his lips curved with a touch of smile that spelled finality—a silent farewell to something broken beyond repair, maybe, or something he must let go. “I know who I’m bonded with.”
Harry had said too many of these cryptic messages lately.
Draco had no interest in deciphering them. If he only had the courage—not to inquire, but to accept the answers…
Fireworks were not meant to last. Harry dug out his spectacles from his pocket, before leaning down to press a chaste kiss on Draco’s forehead.
“Neville’s ill. I reckon I should cover the stakeout for him.” He turned, ready to leave, but his feet seemed to have other ideas. He studied Draco for another moment through his glasses; his soiled gloves finally came off then, and Harry balled them in one hand while his other ruffled Draco’s hair—the same way he had after they had shared their first release together, Draco still looking impeccable save for the rumpled fabric caught between their bodies, a sticky mess of silk and cum and spent erections.
A hint of the cold outside lingered on Harry’s fingertips. “Go to bed. Don’t wait up.”
~*~
Sleep was elusive that night. Saturday came and went amidst strange dreams—Draco was wrestling the Wraith and Harry, in a cemetery infested with snakes. When he emerged from the fight, triumphant but alone, the fireplace of his living room greeted him.
He woke with a start and a hardness between his legs; the latter he quelled in the shower. He pumped his cock until he came, kept on until the skin on his shaft and balls was raw and red. As he leaned back against the tiles, beads of water licking away his exhaustion as a curve on his groin signaled the beginning of yet another arousal, he knew one thing was for certain.
Harry had not returned home.
~*~
Panic set in just before noon on Sunday, when Draco received an owl from Longbottom.
The stake out had ended twenty-four hours ago.
Payback. That was the first word that flashed through Draco’s mind. Harry had orchestrated a house arrest in retribution to his infidelity. Draco had never ventured beyond his flat without his safeguard, not since the night before their bonding ceremony when Harry had first coaxed the serpents to settle upon his flesh.
It was too easy for him to stray.
Wizards of dubious backgrounds frequented his Apothecary at the other end of Diagon Alley. One Confundus or Imperio from them, one bait—
No, Draco’s memory was playing tricks on him.
Harry had not mentioned trust. He had said something else.
He had said: I know who I’ll be bonding with.
Except he had not known Draco at all.
Harry had not known that Draco would cease to desire the new master of his Castitas from that day on. In the years that had followed, the only time Draco had been aroused enough to penetrate Harry had required Harry to be little more than a breathing corpse, stripped of power and humanity: his wand and clothes Banished, Harry had lain immobilized on their bed, his arms bound to his back with Incarcerous and his mouth gagged by a bridle. Draco had not come afterwards; his cock had wilted at the sight of Harry’s groin—of the crown still sheathed entirely by its foreskin, of the shaft stiffened only by the Petrificus Totalus it’d been cursed with.
Harry had not known that Draco would never escape Knockturn Alley, that not only would Draco frequent there—the brothels and potion dens along the side streets, the tombless graveyards where Dark Creatures fed and thrived—he would also take Knockturn home with him. The saccharine scent of poisons lingered on their bed, ashes of death and Dark magic stained the sheets. Rather than clearing them, which required magic so strong that only he could provide, Harry had exiled himself to the guest room. Their intimate moments were reduced to the times when Harry would come by to check on a recovering Draco, when he’d thought Draco had fallen asleep, exhausted by yet another assault from the serpents. He would watch Draco and sometimes, he would hold Draco’s hands in his own and pray, asking for the strength to honor Draco’s past and face his flaws, to forgive, to hope, to keep faith, to love.
Every memory of Draco’s sins therefore remained—in their house, in their hearts; they accumulated, just like the cuts Harry had made along his jaw to feed the serpents—like his lightning scar, Harry had said, the scabs were proofs of small victories against evil.
These same proofs had disfigured Harry more that the scarlet bolt on his forehead.
Would Harry have given Draco his all, if he had known that five years later, with him missing for more than a day after an Auror mission, Draco would go to check on the serpents first before running outside—to the Ministry, maybe, or the Burrow, or Grimmauld Place—to search for Harry?
The candles had expired, drowned in their own frozen tears. The snakes continued to sleep in peace, still sated in Harry’s blood.
A corner of an envelope caught Draco’s eye. He pulled it out from below the basin.
Who had put it there? A house-elf friend of Harry’s, perhaps, while Draco had slept the day before?
The envelope flapped and a crisp chime sounded. A silver band, a circular braid of serpents much like the ones in the basin, had rolled out of the opening and fallen against the table.
Draco picked it up and closed his fingers around it. The metal was cold like winter.
The letter inside was little more than a torn bit of parchment, written in Harry’s wild script.
Bastard. The letter shook in Draco’s hands. He wanted to tear it into a million pieces, burn it down to ashes in a Fiendfyre. It crumpled in his clenched fist, smearing blue on his fingers—
The ink on the letter was black. Blue was the shade of the Muggle ballpoints Harry preferred. Draco smoothed the paper and found an extra line at the back, almost illegible, as though the writer had penned it as a last thought.
~*~
Remains of the mirrors and picture frames Draco had destroyed in the past hour were sprinkled throughout the flat. Like snow—the shards were as white, as powdery. As pure and fragile.
They lay broken not because Harry had walked out on him, not because images of the Wraith and other Dark Creatures, all wanton and vulnerable, had taken advantage of his unguarded state, had raided his mind and flooded his cock with blood.
He had broken all that he could break in the house because no matter how hard he had tried, his gold band refused to separate from his ring finger.
(Continue to Part 2)
Author:
potteresque_irePrompt Number: #99 submitted by
lavillanuevaKink Showcased: Chastity Devices
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had been bonded for five years. But Knockturn Alley still beckoned Draco, its Darkness as irresistible, as irrepressible as the lust in his blood; his weakness compelled him to seek extraordinary measures to ensure his fidelity.
Warnings: Dub-con, Interspecies Erotica (Human/Snake), Cock & Ball Torture, Orgasm Denial, Rimming, Felching, Snowballing, Flogging, Infidelity. Slight Religious Overtone.
Word Count: ~13,500
Author's Notes: So much ♥ for my co-betas,
marguerite_26 and vaysh11, and also to romaine24 and jamie2109 for their invaluable input, able guiding hands and warm shoulders to cry on. I hope I did your prompt justice, lavillanueva! Writing this has been quite a fun and intense ride. :)Power corrupts.
If this were true, then purity necessitates…
A prod, a small bite, light as a pinprick, sank into the shaft of his cock.
Castitas. Chastity.
Draco Malfoy clawed his fingers against the armrest. Under the smooth silk of his robe, the rough scales of serpents slithered against his skin, languid as the putrid scent hanging low, damp and heavy in the quarters. Sweat and spit had caked the hair caught between his fingers, hair that was once finer and more silver than his own. Draco yanked it with a twist of the wrist.
“Enough.”
A muffled groan replaced the slick noises of kissing and lapping. Soft lips tore away, forced to abandon their worship of Draco’s Dark Mark and before Draco could set eyes upon them, faded into a shadow under the dim torchlight. Saliva gleamed on Draco’s forearm and he wiped it dry on the threadbare damask of the armrest, wondering how many—and who—had done the same before him.
On his knees in front of the chair, the whore’s touch dived downward on his body at the sight, to where his cloak tented above his full erection. “Please.” The veil fluttered, the plea breathless as hands massaged his need. The aged fabric of his Invisibility Cloak, more insubstantial than finest silk, traced the long, slender length that lay beneath, its translucence showcasing the red driven there by lust.
By Draco.
“More,” the whore begged again, as he leaned forward with his head bowed.
Liquid fire, toxic and heavy like mercury, thickened the vein punctured by the bite. Its trail of lava turned Draco’s blood into vapor. His cock swelled as he felt hands caressing his ankles and his boots removed by a lightness akin to a breeze; the fang pierced deeper as a slick, hot tongue pressed on his toes and licked them, one after another.
Another piercing, this time near the crown of Draco’s cock. Tendrils of cold seeped in, embracing, smothering the lust boiling in his vessels to asphyxiation. They further stoked his arousal, a reminder that Draco’s time was as limited as his restraint. He had to leave, before the thrill of seduction turned into a beast that would gnaw him alive, before the gratifying fullness between his thighs would suffocate against the guardians of his purity. He had to save himself before the clash of fire and ice would become a frozen hellfire from which he had no escape.
He shot to his feet.
Malfoys no longer belonged to Knockturn Alley. A brothel was no place for any respectable man, never mind one who had another for a bedmate.
Thou shalt not commit adultery. Drinking in the sight, smell and taste of stray flesh even if Draco would never take him, this—
—untouched-by-war, innocent and beautiful near-replica of himself clutching against his own legs, delicate hands like jade splayed on the dark silk of Draco’s robe.
“I’ll do anything,” the whore whispered, the sheer Invisibility Cloak slipping off his shoulders to reveal skin anointed with a sheen of sweat—like a nimbus, otherworldly and far removed from the light Draco had grown accustomed to. The young man’s bare feet could thaw snow, as they had when they had led Draco to this place, his hair and his sparse clothing flowing and shining in the wind. Beauty like this should only belong to an angel. “Be the Saviour of our race. Of all men’s blood, only yours can blend with mine,” he repeated the words that had stopped Draco at the intersection of Diagon and Knockturn Alley, as his arms wrapped tightly around Draco’s thighs. “So pure, so …”
The voice faded as the whore latched himself onto Draco’s hipbone, biting, sucking, stealing attention away from the snare closing in around Draco’s cock. His flesh burned with fervour despite his clothed state: from the pliant lips that Obliviated the pain they would bring, from the heat and moisture from every breath that promised release, from the seductive licks and nips that nibbled away what remained of his thoughts.
His virtues.
Draco’s fingers once again found themselves clawing the tangled hair, his vision lost in the span of supple back muscles, the swell of buttocks peering from the cloak pooled on the wooden floor. But the mouth, the source of temptation, remained out of sight, not even when the kisses traced the edge of his pelvis towards his inner thighs.
The young man tore away then and sniffed, catching the whiff of what was hidden under his robe. It smelled of power, Draco imagined—power far beyond the leftover magic from the doodles of a dead madman.
The arms encircling Draco closed like a vice. The angelic face buried itself in the folds on Draco’s crotch and inhaled before kisses—ravenous to the point of sinister, like a vulture’s on its prey—rained upon his arousal. Moans too low to be human echoed between the walls like distant howls of wolves, as the lips traced the coils of constraint around Draco’s cock.
This would be the moment to draw his wand, spell the man unconscious and make his exit.
The hold on Draco’s legs loosened. The whore sank lower on his knees and swung his freed hand backward towards his own buttocks, raised high, ready and yearning for possession.
Leave, Draco. Leave.
Slender fingers, coated with oil that had come from nowhere, curled and vanished between the arse cheeks. Knees spread further apart against the floor to reveal the tight, pink hole, the fountain of pleasure seemingly unknown to no man before Draco; to make way for his imminent corruption.
The debauchery. The inevitable sin.
Draco could go. Except…
Except Draco was pinned on the spot—by nothing but his own feet, certainly, but he was still trapped.
There was no way to escape. He could not venture back into Knockturn Alley before sunset. Apparition into and out of whorehouses was out of question; a plethora of curses would tear him apart. The Floo would only lead him deeper into the belly of this underworld. Travelling on foot meant he would risk getting noticed this time around.
And he should not leave when this tramp before him could be yet another Dark Creature—like the many who had lured him into Knockturn before, who had schemed to steal Light away from him—or him away from the Light. He should neither fear nor cross it, should not reveal any suspicion of its identity but play along.
He should not dismiss his strength to battle the Darkness around or within him; should not doubt his guardians of Castitas—the twelve serpents he had trusted with his flesh—would fend him against his sins.
He should not…
He should not…
He should not go. He should stay.
He had no choice but to stay. And should he fall for the temptations again, he would find forgiveness…
The blush on the face that finally looked up at Draco was so intense that it seemed to have bled through the blue irises, painting the pupils a dark red.
Deep as wells, like holes that could bore—
“More,” the whore said again between hitched breaths, more demanding this time before a kiss landed right above the slit on Draco’s cock, the only place left unguarded, unrestrained by his serpents. A violent jerk of Draco’s hips instigated a shy smile and the man retreated then, still on his knees, until his back pressed against the side of a bare mattress spotted with potions and spoilt body fluids. He seemed to glide onto the bed with a mere fluid arch of his back and there he came to lie, his legs spread wide, his face hidden in the crook between one of his shoulders and a raised arm.
A debauched angel—beautiful, demure and defenseless, except for the cock jutting out between the thighs, its flesh a raging scarlet and fierce with protruding veins.
The two serpents around Draco’s waist set into motion, as the seven wound around his cock had already done so by infusing venom into his flesh. Draco tore open his robe and approached the willing body, heedless of the serpents about to invade him, their forked tongues leaving a wet trail down the tail of his spine and into the dark, damp cleft below, smelling, tasting for Draco’s own fountain of pleasure, the source of his power—
He was his own master and he would prove it. A spell later, the whore’s cloak on the floor twisted and writhed to form a whip, its leather tougher and its silver more brilliant than the scales of the snakes. Its power would be seen in each welt it would make, in every line of blood it would paint on the flawless skin.
If power corrupts, then purity necessitates an absolute lack of power.
Welts from the whip soon marked the pale flesh, the old mattress beneath them daubed with fresh blots of scarlet. Pupils, their red hue intensifying with lust, had corroded the light blue irises around them.
Between the close walls, the most pathetic and filthiest of words reverberated, dregs of the once sweet and innocent voice, when the cock in Draco’s mouth pulsed and spilled.
It wilted quickly against his tongue. Draco moved forward to straddle the chest, but not before dragging his teeth along the shaft. The body beneath him writhed and Draco straightened his back; he rode the flesh undulating with pain. He spread his thighs to lend more space to his own cock, engorged in its serpentine cage but remained dry at the slit. The whore’s eyes, half-lidded with pleasure or suffering or both, widened at the sight; quick breaths whistled like the wind stealing its way in through the door cracks.
Draco spat out the cum—a greyish, caustic slime. He chided “cunt” through clenched teeth and slapped the sullied face before him. Blood gushed out from the nose, matching the hue of the eyes.
Cupping the face with his hands, Draco admired his handiwork.
All was within reach—the power to own, to rule over whatever he desired. The serpents holding him back were no match to who he would be, who he already was. They had fallen into a stupor, inebriated with the power swelling inside him with his every act to humiliate. The two on his waist had failed to push inside him; their bodies dangled like worms against his arse, their heads bobbing against the back of his thighs.
Pathetic.
Draco smirked. He pushed the whore back onto the bed, pressed his palm against the cum and blood and smeared the grey and red all over the face. His reward was a contorted look, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Clutching the necks of both snakes with his other fist, Draco reached back, coated the heads of the snakes with the filth on his hand. Then, using the same concoction, he breached and stretched himself.
The serpents stirred, their sleep disturbed by the blood—the stink—of the weak. Basking in his own reflection, a halo in the red eyes, Draco leaned back, spread his knees wide and shoved the triangular heads against the rim of his hole. They slipped inside, the serpents remembering for a moment where they belonged. Draco rammed them against his prostrate.
He groaned. Their torpid lengths, limp and covered with slime, buckled against the force. He pulled the bodies out and shoved them in deeper. Again. And again.
At the sight of each thrust, the whore let out a whimper. His cock stirred beneath Draco, his broken voice croaking a renewed prayer—words that droned on like dying winds against twilight, words that Draco could not care to comprehend.
But one more piece of torn flesh pulling gasps for air, gathered by a string of leather like spring flowers, and the snakes would shed from Draco’s body, useless parasites that they were. His cock would be unsheathed—
—and this poor excuse of a whore lying limp before him would then be Draco’s to devour, to gouge deep in the core with his hard cock and fill.
He Summoned his whip.
A sharp hiss sliced into his ears. The man beneath Draco was morphing. His face cleared, the slime receding as if being blown away by a storm, the thick liquid rippling and spraying onto the mattress. Dark pupils pulled back to bore holes in the eyes and the elusive mouth took its shape to resemble … a void. A sigh from the darkness, and the room was an inferno; the heat pushed Draco sideways against the mattress and invaded the space between his abdomen and thighs, seemingly keen on cremating the serpents alive.
Draco would have allowed it. The Power would be his—and his alone. With it, he could take all who had wronged him by force. He could reclaim what he had lost, could then seal every mouth that had spoken of his past. He could uphold the sanctity of his blood and smite those who dared to tarnish it.
He could play Saviour, rather than surviving and submitting under the shadow of one.
His leg, hooked against the neck of the whore, was an unspoken invitation. Burn. Set me free. The void closed in, ready to incinerate the snare…
Greed saved Draco from the abyss. Rather than waiting for Draco to sow life in him, the whore—a Wraith in disguise, an observation that Draco’s mind had yet to acknowledge—had spotted a prize. A token, perhaps, of once having owned if just a speck of magic from the most revered wizard under his spell. The indiscernible mouth pressed against Draco’s Dark Mark once more, more solid, more soothing as it proceeded towards his hand and erased every scar, every blemish beneath the kisses. It licked and fellated Draco’s digits one by one, until it reached the simple gold band on his ring finger—
The suction strengthened. Draco cried as the force built like a hurricane. His flesh pulled and folded against the ring, which refused to yield—not even when Draco howled in pain and attempted to remove it by instinct.
His flesh tore. White bone glowed, silver against the ring. The serpents woke from their trance.
At that moment, Draco Malfoy recovered his Light.
The flat was dark when Draco stumbled into the fireplace. He waved his wand. A few lamps shattered but one that managed to light up. The clasps on his robe remained mostly unfastened; still, he opted for splitting the garment into two and tearing it off. The tremor in his hands was beyond control.
The closest bed was in the guest room, unmade and strewn with yet to be folded laundry. Draco shoved the jeans and shirts onto the floor and collapsed upon it, his legs flying apart until his knees slammed against his chest. The stink on his skin was a memory of the filth from Knockturn, its smears of red a reminder of its brutality. Fresh blood was running down his fingers that were digging and clawing into his thighs and buttocks, but the pain could do little to alleviate the assault from within.
He would sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for release.
Even the scent of the bed’s frequent occupant did nothing to pacify the serpents. The pair of long bodies slithered inside Draco, the scales grazing his inner walls smooth enough to dive deep but rough enough for their every movement to be felt. His muscles clenched. The creatures ventured in further. The exposed tails of the snakes, each flanking one side of Draco’s waist, had straightened and stretched to the limit of their lengths. Intertwined to form a braid below his navel when inert, only the tips of their tails remained in contact as the serpents’ heads burrowed deep into Draco’s arse. They yanked apart yet another pair of silver snakes knotted in place near their junction but oriented themselves downward, their heads resting in the curls on Draco’s pubic hair. Their almost inconspicuous, forked tongues anchored them in place with their tight coil around Draco’s balls.
“Stop! Please!” Draco shouted as the serpents instigated another assault on his prostate. His hips thrust on its own volition, the white sheet beneath him a rumpled, sweat-soaked ball in his fists. Silence answered, followed by yet another attack as the serpents inside him writhed, their heads stretching to trace the noise. Liquid copper smeared his lips as Draco turned and twisted to seek relief, biting back his pleas to be allowed to come. His every cell would soon burst under the unyielding pressure inside him, his cock would soon be strangled by the seven smaller serpents looped around his swollen shaft, blood-filled from the venom they had injected into the tissue.
The twelve living guardians of his Castitas had acquired a fine taste for power. They craved it and sought after it, as had their breeder, Abraxas Malfoy. Back in the brothel, the whore had bestowed power upon Draco by worshipping the Dark Mark; the smaller serpents had fallen for the temptation first, sinking their fangs inside Draco. The larger ones had laid claim to him later, in his hole and around his balls.
They would remain as faithful guardians until a greater power presented itself, until it lured them away with its flesh. Its blood.
A plain cotton brief lay beside Draco. Draco stuffed it into his mouth.
Penance. He had once again succumbed to the ultimate aphrodisiac, proven itself time and time again irresistible for a Malfoy.
Draco’s note had been simple. I’ve sinned, it had confessed in a barely legible scrawl.
Less than fifteen minutes later, a familiar crack of Apparition could be heard in the living room.
When Harry appeared outside the guest room, snow still clinging onto his Auror uniform, the thick wool scarf and boots, he already had the white porcelain basin and candles in his hands.
He had expected nothing less from Draco.
Nothing more.
The spectacles came off as Harry crossed the threshold. That had been Draco’s request—not so that Harry would not see clearly the wretched state of his husband, but so that Draco would not risk catching a glimpse of himself in their reflection.
With his legs spread wide and his hips pumping; with his fingers grabbing, yanking the writhing serpents on his cock, trying to pull them off or seek purchase of his own flesh underneath; with his face smeared with tears, drool leaking from his stuffed mouth and lips quivering in an undecipherable chant, “I’m sorry. Please, Harry. Please let me come.”
The candles lit and arranged themselves on the bedside table as Harry placed the basin on the bed. The leather on his glove was frigid as he wiped away Draco’s tears and pulled the pants out of Draco’s mouth.
Draco said nothing. There was nothing left for him to say. For them to say.
Harry barely winced as a cut appeared along his jawline under the tip of his wand. He lifted his hand to press against the wound, the leather soaking up and darkening with the blood, as he crawled on the bed and knelt in the V between Draco’s thighs.
From his lips, the gentle hisses of Parseltongue voiced his request. He reached out, and with his fingertips drew a circle around the crown of Draco’s cock.
The smell of blood—within it, Harry’s life, his magic—roused the creatures into a frenzy. The seven serpents anchored to his cock withdrew their fangs. The sting at the lesions they left behind along Draco’s shaft were alight with emptiness. They raised their heads and stretched in what appeared to be a dance as their silvery bodies spiralled down the shaft.
The stimulation was too much to bear. Draco thrashed about, his cries changing into hoarse groans as his voice gave way.
Harry rose to his knees and leaned forward to hold Draco down, his robe a lush red pool between their bodies. His hand remained still against Draco’s cock; one after the other, the serpents slithered onto his fingers, lured by the blood smeared upon the leather, its power feeding their addiction.
Harry’s Parseltongue turned even softer, more seductive. I promise them the same things, he had once told Draco—promises of what he had not said. And—dunno why—they always believe me.
A silent Aguamenti had filled the porcelain basin before him with water. Scarlet bloomed like desert flowers when Harry dipped his soiled hand in it. The snakes swam away to pursue the red swirls diffusing before their eyes.
His vision trained upon the serpents, Harry’s hands brushed against the rest of the Castitas, inspecting its state by touch. With his fingertips he kneaded the barely contacting tails of the two serpents on Draco’s abdomen.
“They’ve gone really deep inside you.” Remnants of Parseltongue remained in Harry’s voice, the threat and want in their undertone drawing out every end syllable. He turned his head abruptly, his line of vision swept past Draco and struck the candles on the bedside table, the golden flames soothing men and beasts alike with their scent of asphodal and valerian leaves.
He would look away as long as he could, to avoid seeing Draco’s exposed cock, erect and now starting to leak with its bonds removed, the pain alleviated but the lust renewed.
“Should I take them out first—” his hands trailed the snake’s lengths to cup Draco’s arse “—or the venom?” He tilted his chin a breath’s distance towards Draco as he waited for an answer.
Only to Draco the answer would matter.
For Harry, he would either have Draco’s cock wilt to limp flesh between his lips as he sucked away the poison from what should have pleasured him alone. Or he would bask momentarily in the illusion that his bond mate was hard for him—when in effect the erection was fuelled by the serpents’ attack on Draco’s prostate—then retreat so Draco could satisfy himself with his own touch.
The first choice was an insult; the second, a humiliation.
On his knees between Draco’s legs once more, Harry had his gloved fingers wrapped around the cock before him when Draco finally found the words amongst the moans escaping him, noises that were like salt in Harry’s wounds. “Snakes first.”
Harry’s eyes met Draco’s the first time after he had entered the room. The stark crimson of the Head Auror uniform should have hardened the heart of every man who had the honour to don it. But Harry…
Draco pulled his legs as far as he could, folding himself in half to offer Harry a clear view of where the serpents had found their way into him.
“Please.”
Silence. The air in the room grew heavier, its scent of metals stronger than before. Draco could not see—did Harry draw more blood from the cut or did he inflict another wound on his face? The leathered hands on Draco’s arse were there to heal, as they caressed him to comfort. The fingers would soon find their way to his hole, where they would linger until the serpents catch a whiff of the blood and follow it into the light—
But the hands travelled higher up his body instead, to midway along Draco’s thighs where they stopped to hold Draco still.
His vision limited to the ceiling, Draco traced the faint shadow of himself joined to Harry, who was bending over—
Draco froze. No! He shook his head as his mind shouted. Yet his hips, fuelled by desires, betrayed him, lifting to meet the warm, hastened breaths descending like fluttering wings from above. He knew what Harry would try to do. The serpents had gone too deep inside him; Harry’s mouth could bring more blood into their proximity by…
But Harry did not deserve this—bear the fruits of sins that were not his own.
Draco choked when Harry’s tongue dipped into the crease between his buttocks, traced its path to the opening where it hesitated for an instant, before pressing in for a broad, firm swipe. Draco’s mind screamed Don’t over and over when Harry’s lips landed on his rim, when they took in the filth and acerbity of the Wraith on Draco’s skin. The kisses persisted as the serpents departed, as they slid against the tongue that had stretched Draco’s hole wide and ventured in itself, Harry’s blood offered on its tip. The kisses carried on, forceful and passionate, until the serpents had retreated to become no more than a silver plait on Draco’s waist.
The springs in the mattress wailed as Harry sat up on the heels of his boots. He stared past Draco and wiped his mouth, his leather glove soaking in his blood once more. Moisture had welled up in his eyes and his face was pale as parchment, but he said nothing and instead shoved Draco against the mattress once more, pushed his legs apart and lowered his clad body upon Draco.
Acquiescence was all that Draco could offer—Harry had willed himself to finish what needed to be done as quickly as possible. There was nothing else Harry wanted that Draco could give; not when they were on the same bed, when Harry massaged and fellated his cock; not when his rapid pulse thundered against Draco’s skin, when his full crotch rubbed against the mattress, giving away of the urgency of Harry’s own need.
One by one, Harry located the fang wounds with the sensitive nerves of his tongue. One by one, he sucked out the venom and sealed the opening close with a kiss.
And every time Harry spat out the poison, every time his lips wrapped around Draco’s cock and pulled, he cast away a fragment of Draco’s sin—and with it, the source of his power. It deserted him, despite Harry’s every wish to hold on to it, his hand frantically fisting Draco’s softening cock, his tongue desperately reaching for the crown retreating under then foreskin.
There were certain deaths that even a Saviour could not save. And all that remained with Harry in the end was a weak—impotent—Draco Malfoy.
The serpents, all twelve of them, had fallen into a slumber, sated by Harry’s blood in the water. Once the two serpents had exited Draco, the remaining three—the two whose tongues formed a cock ring around his balls and the one that had served to attach this ring to the back of the belt—took little effort to remove. Harry’s hands had returned to serve Draco, rubbing healing potions on his abused scrotum, lathering soothing balm on his tender flesh. The gloves had remained, their once beautiful dragonhide tarnished by a multitude of stains. The rough seams caught between Harry’s and Draco’s skin now and then, too soft to hurt, too hard to ignore.
Even harder for Draco to ignore was Harry’s face, half-concealed by the dark fringes and still flush with arousal. His red robe was gathered at the front, hiding, no doubt, a bulge underneath the trousers.
The smaller snakes nestled in the ring drawn by the longest ones among them. Harry made no more than a ripple in the water when he stood and Levitated the basin onto the bedside table, seemingly worried about disturbing their sleep.
One of the candles had gone out. Harry picked up another and attempted to restore light on its wick.
“It’s gone,” Draco said, leaning against the headboard and nursing the glass of water Harry had given him.
The charred wick took its last breath of life—a glowing ember at its tip—before it twisted and fell, leaving a void in the wax. With a tight grasp, Harry snapped off the top third of the candle. A flame soon glowed on the fresh white thread.
Draco reached out and cupped the bulge between Harry’s thighs. “This isn’t.” He kneaded the swell beneath with his fingers. He could bring Harry off with his hands and his lips, if Harry would let him.
He refused to think of it as payment.
“It will. Soon,” Harry replied and stepped sideways; only the folds of his robe remained in Draco’s hand. Chewing his lower lip, he gazed at Draco. “What was it?”
What, not who. The truth was Draco’s only defence. “It was a Wraith.”
“A Wraith,” Harry repeated, turning to stare at the serpents again. “A Wraith.” He nodded, seemingly dazed with contemplation before breaking into chuckles that sounded worse than sobs. “You mean those Dementors’ cousins who suck not souls but life? They make people feel good, don’t they, let victims live their fantasies before preying on them…” He trailed off, his tone more fitting for reading dictionaries aloud or reciting the ingredients for a potion—it was as flat, as distant as that.
Rage, like hope, was prone to expire.
“I—“ Draco began.
Harry held-up his hand and stopped him.
True, Harry had no need to listen any more. The story never changed. A Dark creature would find Draco, drawn by his fair appearance and purity of blood, perhaps, or by the mistakes in his past, the name of his spouse, any combinations of these. At the intersection between day and night, between Diagon and Knockturn Alley, it would lure him with a Glamour showing him a weakness, readily employed by a Malfoy’s perpetual thirst for power. This Glamour had been many things: from a foolhardy challenger, eager to prove himself worthier of survival and love in the post war world, to a lost sheep, innocent and fearful, from whom Draco was the chosen Saviour. Once Draco had made his detour into the Dark alley, the creature would seduce him and test the magic of the chastity belt—which Draco had requested Harry to put on him—to its very limit.
A limit Draco’s desires would one day surpass. If the coma of the serpents had fallen into just hours before were any clue, that day was not far away.
No restraints were indissoluble unless they came from within.
Harry sighed. His face softened, his lips curved with a touch of smile that spelled finality—a silent farewell to something broken beyond repair, maybe, or something he must let go. “I know who I’m bonded with.”
Harry had said too many of these cryptic messages lately.
Draco had no interest in deciphering them. If he only had the courage—not to inquire, but to accept the answers…
Fireworks were not meant to last. Harry dug out his spectacles from his pocket, before leaning down to press a chaste kiss on Draco’s forehead.
“Neville’s ill. I reckon I should cover the stakeout for him.” He turned, ready to leave, but his feet seemed to have other ideas. He studied Draco for another moment through his glasses; his soiled gloves finally came off then, and Harry balled them in one hand while his other ruffled Draco’s hair—the same way he had after they had shared their first release together, Draco still looking impeccable save for the rumpled fabric caught between their bodies, a sticky mess of silk and cum and spent erections.
A hint of the cold outside lingered on Harry’s fingertips. “Go to bed. Don’t wait up.”
Sleep was elusive that night. Saturday came and went amidst strange dreams—Draco was wrestling the Wraith and Harry, in a cemetery infested with snakes. When he emerged from the fight, triumphant but alone, the fireplace of his living room greeted him.
He woke with a start and a hardness between his legs; the latter he quelled in the shower. He pumped his cock until he came, kept on until the skin on his shaft and balls was raw and red. As he leaned back against the tiles, beads of water licking away his exhaustion as a curve on his groin signaled the beginning of yet another arousal, he knew one thing was for certain.
Harry had not returned home.
Panic set in just before noon on Sunday, when Draco received an owl from Longbottom.
The stake out had ended twenty-four hours ago.
Payback. That was the first word that flashed through Draco’s mind. Harry had orchestrated a house arrest in retribution to his infidelity. Draco had never ventured beyond his flat without his safeguard, not since the night before their bonding ceremony when Harry had first coaxed the serpents to settle upon his flesh.
It was too easy for him to stray.
Wizards of dubious backgrounds frequented his Apothecary at the other end of Diagon Alley. One Confundus or Imperio from them, one bait—
He wasn't honest with Harry in the beginning.
“You own this,” Draco said, dropping his robe beside the specimens chest in which the serpents lay. “You own me.”
Harry frowned and stared, trying to see through Draco’s motivations. Draco basked in the intensity of the gaze, rapt in nothing and no one but himself.
After a few glances at the silver case and the serpents within, Petrified and cast in blooded amber, the touch of a smile lit Harry’s face, which then split into a grin. “Of course I own you, Malfoy.”
“Well, my Light and Saviour—“ Draco slid an arm around Harry’s bare torso, his other hand snaking towards the erections caught between them. Harry groaned and his hand flew to bat Draco’s away, only to take its place, yank down the zip of his jeans and fist them both with fast, sure strokes.
“—I may fool around with some future Dark Lords,” Draco continued, faking his most arrogant drawl between laughs and gasps of pleasure. “You want me to sully your virgin arse after that?”
He would have dropped the subject had Harry not tensed and blushed. Such innocence, so little self-control. During their months of courtship, they had snogged and frotted, offered each another blowjobs and handjobs but had yet to go any further; Harry had already displayed every trait of a formidable lover—open, fierce and insatiable behind the easy façade, a sensual creature under the casual shirt and jeans.
Draco had attributed Harry’s eagerness to prior experience. He had not thought of them as signs of anticipation.
The chastity belt became non-negotiable. It took several days for Harry to realize that Draco’s fears of temptations were real, that Knockturn Alley—its Darkness and the power that lay within—still recognized Malfoy's blood and called Draco’s name. He learned that Draco’s heart swelled and his pulses ran when he passed by the alley every sunset, that his senses heightened and caught fire from the gleam of eyes watching him in the dark—eyes whose owner Draco could never see, but their heat never ceased to find its way into him and pooled inside his belly.
Harry obliged to Draco’s request afterwards—confident, perhaps, that Draco’s neurosis would subside with time. "But I trust you", he said for the last time that evening, a small serpent already dangling from his finger, moments before he switched to Parseltongue.
No, Draco’s memory was playing tricks on him.
Harry had not mentioned trust. He had said something else.
He had said: I know who I’ll be bonding with.
Except he had not known Draco at all.
Harry had not known that Draco would cease to desire the new master of his Castitas from that day on. In the years that had followed, the only time Draco had been aroused enough to penetrate Harry had required Harry to be little more than a breathing corpse, stripped of power and humanity: his wand and clothes Banished, Harry had lain immobilized on their bed, his arms bound to his back with Incarcerous and his mouth gagged by a bridle. Draco had not come afterwards; his cock had wilted at the sight of Harry’s groin—of the crown still sheathed entirely by its foreskin, of the shaft stiffened only by the Petrificus Totalus it’d been cursed with.
Harry had not known that Draco would never escape Knockturn Alley, that not only would Draco frequent there—the brothels and potion dens along the side streets, the tombless graveyards where Dark Creatures fed and thrived—he would also take Knockturn home with him. The saccharine scent of poisons lingered on their bed, ashes of death and Dark magic stained the sheets. Rather than clearing them, which required magic so strong that only he could provide, Harry had exiled himself to the guest room. Their intimate moments were reduced to the times when Harry would come by to check on a recovering Draco, when he’d thought Draco had fallen asleep, exhausted by yet another assault from the serpents. He would watch Draco and sometimes, he would hold Draco’s hands in his own and pray, asking for the strength to honor Draco’s past and face his flaws, to forgive, to hope, to keep faith, to love.
Every memory of Draco’s sins therefore remained—in their house, in their hearts; they accumulated, just like the cuts Harry had made along his jaw to feed the serpents—like his lightning scar, Harry had said, the scabs were proofs of small victories against evil.
These same proofs had disfigured Harry more that the scarlet bolt on his forehead.
Would Harry have given Draco his all, if he had known that five years later, with him missing for more than a day after an Auror mission, Draco would go to check on the serpents first before running outside—to the Ministry, maybe, or the Burrow, or Grimmauld Place—to search for Harry?
The candles had expired, drowned in their own frozen tears. The snakes continued to sleep in peace, still sated in Harry’s blood.
A corner of an envelope caught Draco’s eye. He pulled it out from below the basin.
Who had put it there? A house-elf friend of Harry’s, perhaps, while Draco had slept the day before?
The envelope flapped and a crisp chime sounded. A silver band, a circular braid of serpents much like the ones in the basin, had rolled out of the opening and fallen against the table.
Draco picked it up and closed his fingers around it. The metal was cold like winter.
The letter inside was little more than a torn bit of parchment, written in Harry’s wild script.
Draco,
You once told me to own the snakes was to own you. I don’t want to own anyone, much less anything that’s eating us away. If this band is what it means and all it means to you, please pass it on to somebody else.
I can’t do this anymore.
Harry
Bastard. The letter shook in Draco’s hands. He wanted to tear it into a million pieces, burn it down to ashes in a Fiendfyre. It crumpled in his clenched fist, smearing blue on his fingers—
The ink on the letter was black. Blue was the shade of the Muggle ballpoints Harry preferred. Draco smoothed the paper and found an extra line at the back, almost illegible, as though the writer had penned it as a last thought.
You don’t own me. You have me because I’ve given myself to you.
Remains of the mirrors and picture frames Draco had destroyed in the past hour were sprinkled throughout the flat. Like snow—the shards were as white, as powdery. As pure and fragile.
They lay broken not because Harry had walked out on him, not because images of the Wraith and other Dark Creatures, all wanton and vulnerable, had taken advantage of his unguarded state, had raided his mind and flooded his cock with blood.
He had broken all that he could break in the house because no matter how hard he had tried, his gold band refused to separate from his ring finger.
(Continue to Part 2)
