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He got into the room slowly, trying not to make much sound with his footsteps. The only source of light through the darkness was a lit candle settled on a round wooden table to his right. Beside it, a rectangular one, the shapes of the objects on top of it illuminated by the flame, their silhouettes looking larger and more menacing on the wall behind it.
He knew he did it on purpose, to achieve that exact effect. It was clever of him. Draco knew he wasn’t the best at classes' spellwork, but he was definitely good at that. A shiver went down his spine at that thought.
Draco turned to the wall, opposed to the tables, and started to undress. Button by button guided outside their holes, exposing his skin to the biting December cold. He didn’t complain, though, would never -- it was not his place. Not there, anyway.
Tie off, he toed his shoes away - his mother would have a fit if she knew, but he just couldn’t be bothered - and took off his socks, faintly noticing the sound of the rain hitting the windows. Next went his belt and pants, the soft muffling the clank of the metallic accessory falling to the floor.
At last, Draco got rid of his underwear. That was always the most nerve-wracking part: turning, completely naked, to the figure partially hidden in the darkness, watching him like a hungry werewolf ready to devour his flesh.
He had to take a breath and remind himself that he asked for it every time. He was the one who asked for it.
The man straightened his posture, keeping it relaxed. Draco could feel his eyes like tongues all over his naked skin, even though he didn’t look at him directly. Instead, he watched the floor, his shoes, anything. Eye contact wasn’t permitted unless he said it out loud, and Draco had already done enough bad things for a lifetime.
“On your knees.” The firm voice gave nothing away.
Draco fell to his knees immediately, the stone floor unforgiving of his complacency. As it should be.
He knew the other boy detested that habit of his - hurting himself without his permission. That wasn’t part of the deal. The whole deal was, actually, that he’d hurt Draco so he wouldn’t hurt himself, because, unlike Draco, he knew when to stop. But sometimes he couldn’t help himself, the urge to punish his body for his misdeeds too strong to be contained.
He tsked. “I did not allow for that.”
Draco kept his eyes down. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Something made a sound, rubber and leather against wood. Then, steps approached Draco.
A hand touched the back of his neck firmly, cupping it. Entirely too loose, if you asked him. If somebody deserved a good choking, it was him.
“How many?”
The Slytherin shook his head. “I don’t care.”
Another few steps as the other boy rounded him again, stopping in front of Draco.
He lowered himself and grabbed Draco by the chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Tell me.”
The blond pulled a shuddering breath. He did not want to think about any of it, anxiety and guilt and something ugly curling around his heart painfully, making it hard to breathe. He hesitated.
“I’m not giving you what you need if you don’t speak.” He said after a few beats. “You know the deal.”
Draco nodded. He did know the deal. That didn’t make the process any easier, though.
“Alecto… he had me torture two little girls. Magda Finley and Nimue Holland.” He said, the whole scene coming to life behind his eyes. How the two little girls had their long hair braided, probably from braiding one another before class. They all walked around with their hairs tied, now, to avoid being grabbed by them.
A heavy hand on his shoulder grounded him. He released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“What else?”
Tears filled his eyes. He wasn’t allowed to wipe them, but he tried to repress them. He didn’t deserve the relief and he knew it.
“Alissa and Agatha.” He shut his eyes hard. “Both fourth years. I saw them… I saw…” He couldn’t say it, a sob breaking through his lips.
The other boy nodded, expression somber. “And the two Barton boys.”
Draco nodded. His face was probably already a mess of snot and tears. “I had to freeze their bodies, put them on the lake. So their family won’t have a proper funeral.” He pulled air through his lips, the only sound other than water falling against glass. “They expect the lake creatures to eat them. Then they’ll hang whatever’s left of them on the entrance to Hogsmeade.” It was too much, spiraling around him, into him, the horror and the pain, the fear and the nightmare. His whole life was a nightmare. “ Please. Please, kill me, please, please-”
“Stop that.” Was the harsh answer. “Pull yourself together. We are not done yet.”
Another shuddering breath and Draco was able to stop sobbing, even though his breath was still harsh and stuttered. Only when he had somewhat of a hold over his composure, the other boy spoke again.
“You also didn’t eat your porridge the other day.” He started again. It always made Draco feel ridiculous, but those were the rules, he knew. He had to do as he said. There was no one else willing to do this for him, to take him like that, not right then. Not when he got Death Eaters inside Hogwarts, not when his father helped bring back Voldemort and then offered his only son to be marked like cattle by a madman.
Pull yourself together , Lucius would say. Lucius could go fuck himself on Voldermort’s tiny dick.
“ Listen to me .” It was enough to snap him out of his mind. “You didn’t fight two curses thrown at you this week.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Malfoy.”
The surname use hurt . His shoulders rose in tension.
“Is your mother still at the mansion?” The voice was quieter. Almost breaking character.
“Bellatrix won’t let her leave alone for anything. Says it’s dangerous, even if I’m with her.” His chuckle was bitter, self-derisive. Merlin, he hated the cow. “I think she knows.”
“If she knew, you’d both be dead.” The voice corrected. “What did she tell you this week?”
“Not much.” He admitted. “The code only said he’s gathering the werewolves, but you probably already know it from Lupin.”
A beat passed. “And the mansion?”
“No new additions. Just Ollivander and Griphook.” Draco reported. “Dobby was instructed to tell Potter that, but he doesn’t know by who.”
“And the wards?”
“My mother keyed him back. Nobody knows.”
A hum as the hand slid from his shoulders to his back.
“I think twenty will do.”
“Fourty.” Draco breathed quickly, desperation bursting from his chest.
The boy hesitated. They hadn’t gone past fifty. Fourty was still fine, especially because he knew how to dose the force of the blows. For all else, they had dittany to spare inside that room.
“Thirty five.” He decided. “Take your position. You know what to do.”
Draco nodded and stood up, walking towards the bed that he couldn’t really see, but knew was there. Once his knees bumped the mattress, Draco let himself fall forward on his stomach from his waist up, legs falling to the side of the furniture, knees almost hitting the floor.
“Hands over your head.”
He promptly obeyed.
And waited.
The first lash had him crying out loudly. He never wanted him to keep it down, to keep it low, and there was no reason to. The room left no sound out, no sound in. Still, Draco felt like he could hear the screams coming from the outside.
There was always someone screaming, these days. It was almost a relief when it was himself.
Five lashes had tears falling from him, thinking of all the crying faces he stared at during the week. His Cruciatus hitting the first-year, making her scream in pain and her friend scream in horror. Alecto breathing down his neck, taunting him, yelling for him to do it like a man. His own screams when the man pulled him aside to teach him how to do it properly, leaving him disoriented and in pain.
Ten lashes in and it was some older Slytherins, people who were beside him his whole time at Hogwarts, people he never thought would be capable of such horrors, pushing a girl against a wall after curfew, ignoring her cries for help. Draco had stood there, frozen, unable to do anything but hiding, before Ginny Weasley walked in and fought the boys, hexing them all to hell.
Fifteen and Draco finally started sobbing, remembering the Barton brothers’ faces. They were so young , so fucking innocent. They did nothing wrong, nothing but being born with magic within a family that had none. They were Lady Magic’s miracles, he could see it now. A shame it was too late.
Draco lost count of the lashes, the rhythm making his mind take off. He floated there, beyond hope and pain, beyond suffering and pleasure. Everything was washed out of his body. For a tiny eternity of time, the guilt couldn’t reach him.
That was the deal.
___________________________________________________________________
He came back to it drowsy, someone’s hands spreading dittany to his back.
“Dn’t nee it.” He tried to speak, but it came out too slurred.
“I decide if you need it.” The Gryffindor said, voice firm. But Draco knew it was a façade. He knew Neville’s hands always shook while he tried to undo the damage that Draco did to himself. None of it was easy for any of them, which was why Draco was so incredibly grateful.
“No blood.” He insisted, letting his head fall back on the pillow. Everything was so weightless. He felt so fucking wonderful. Like laying on clouds. Like being a cloud.
“There doesn’t need to be any blood.” He answered, swatting Draco’s unmarked ass in retaliation when Draco wiggled it, trying to move. “You know the rules.”
“Yes, sir.” He ironized, voice muffled.
Another slap made him yelp. Draco finally stopped fighting it, letting the Longbottom heir apply the slimy pomade to his back, almost drifting off.
He sighed happily when Neville slipped on the bed beside him, already shirtless. They didn’t always do that, but it was always nice. Skin contact was one of the things both of them needed these days, the comfort of holding another human being next to them, enjoying their warmth.
Draco knew Neville deserved better than him, but. He was going to enjoy having him like this while he didn’t find that person.
He held Neville just as strongly as the boy did, to reassure him that it was OK.
Neville found him whilst he had been considering just jumping from the Astronomy Tower, and a punch later had him kneeling at his feet, asking for death. Longbottom had been a bundle of tension in his need to take care and protect everyone, but the task was like holding water with his fingers; Draco was forced to keep it together for his mother, but all he wanted was to let go.
In the end, it wasn’t that long until they figured out what they needed. Longbottom didn’t even take advantage of Draco’s privileged position for information: that had been all Draco’s idea, eager to help whatever way he could to put an end to that dystopia.
That he needed it, craved the pain, didn’t mean Neville didn’t drop too, sometimes. So Draco held him close, firmly, just like Neville held him together with their weekly sessions.
What they had wasn’t exactly sexual - not yet. That didn’t stop Draco from hoping. The nudity had been a need of his, to be bare and vulnerable - made it easier for him to reach that place of relief. But he had caught Longbottom looking. It was hard to think of sex in times like that, but he wouldn’t fight the connection if it happened.
“The Dobby thing will help, you know.” He said.
Draco hummed in response, clinging to his warm torso, letting it put heat back together on his own clammy skin.
“And the Barton boys… that wasn’t your fault.”
“Stop.”
“No. You need to hear this.” Longbottom’s voice failed him, like not even he believed what he was saying. Like it was too much for him to utter those lies. “You know the rules.”
Draco groaned. “Fuck the rules.”
“Draco…”
“No. No, Neville, I can’t.” He shook his head, pushing him away. “This guilt is mine.”
“They have your mother.”
“I believed it too.” He took a deep breath in. “I believed in the Dark Lord’s view for the world.”
“You were a child .”
“So were you!”
“That’s different.”
“ How? ” He could feel his eyes get wet again, bliss all gone from his body. “How is it different?”
“I always knew my parents were against Voldemort.” Fuck but the name still had him wincing. “They went insane because they refused to comply. Your dad, though, allied with him. He aligned himself and his family with Voldermort’s plans and values.” Neville shook his head. “I would have believed it too, if I had been raised like you.” Big hands cupped Draco’s face. “Every son wants their father to love him.”
Draco sniffed, the traitor droplets falling from his eyes to his cheeks. “Yeah. Great way of showing it, he had, offering his son up as a minion to be punished for his failures.”
Neville’s eyes weren’t pitying, at least. They were warm and empathetic, but never pitying; another reason why Draco was so fucking grateful for him.
“It’s not your fault.”
“How do you know, though?” He hated how his voice sounded so small. “How do you know I’m not just playing you? Giving you bad intel?”
Neville shrugged and sat with his back against the headboard. “I don’t. But you also don’t know if I’m not going to just kill you every time you put yourself naked and unarmed at my feet.”
Draco huffed to hide his flush. “You’re a Gryffindor.” He pulled the covers over his shivering body, taking care not to dislodge the fabric from Neville’s lap. “You wouldn’t kill anybody.”
The boy’s face took a faraway look. “You’d be surprised.”
A few moments passed in silence. A rift of wind came from in between the glasses of the window as it shook with the force of the wind, snuffing the candle out.
Hands came behind Draco’s body, pulling him towards a warm chest once again. Draco wanted to fight it, but… not really. He knew he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve a lot of things - like being alive , probably. But it was warm, it was nice, and he was so damn tired .
After settling beside each other, legs tangled and bodies so close it was hard to tell them apart, Draco shut his eyes, focusing on the steady heartbeat thumping underneath his ear.
“You gotta eat your porridge.”
Draco huffed a laugh at the absurdity. “ Circe, Longbottom, what’s your obsession with feeding me?”
He yelped as fingers pinched his waist. “You’ll eat your porridge tomorrow.” Another pinch, “with honey and wild berries.”
“Longbottom!”
“I’m serious.” Despite the affirmation, Neville’s voice had softened. “You’ll eat it all.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t make me add a glass of juice!”
The Slytherin rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
He felt, more than he heard, the sharp inhale that his playful words had caused. Despite their constant play, it still came as a surprise.
“Good boy.” Came his reply.
It had Draco melting inside, torn between crying from the pain of never being praised by the man from whom he wanted it more than anything, and the relief of being good to someone -- especially someone who wasn’t a megalomaniac self-proclaimed Dark Lord who couldn’t care less if Draco was alive or dead, as long as he was useful.
There, with Neville, he didn’t need to be useful. He just needed to be alive. That, alone, seemed to be good enough for the Gryffindor, at least for now. And that was all he needed to want to be good, so good , his heart didn’t fit properly inside his chest with need.
It was all he could do not to fall apart; and he saw, too, how it helped Neville forgive himself for not being able to save everyone, that he was able to keep at least one person from crumbling to the ground.
Maybe one day they would be able to properly do good to the world, to have a hand at ending that reign of terror that Draco’s father helped raise.
For now, however, he was content with being Neville’s good boy once a week.