Education

Useless.

That was the word that echoed in his head, while he was being dragged from the horse carriage. Harry Potter, the infamous Boy Who Lived. The boy who couldn't even save himself and got captured by the Death Eaters instead.

They threw him in the dungeons, which was cold and wet and reeking. The stone floor and walls were slick with blood and mould, the gleaming red eyes of the gargoyles guarding the entrance providing the only illumination. When he tried to stand he heard the rusty magicked iron chains clacking behind him, pulling him down with their weight alone. At nights - or what he presumed to be night in a place devoid of sunlight - he shivered in his skin, naked to the bone, the goosebumps on his skin rising. Once in a while a Death Eater would come to splash glorious clean water on his face, while he tried as hard as he could to have a drink. Dignity was no longer a part of him; it was a privilege that had been stolen away. And time had ceased to have any meaning; every second was spent trying to fend death away.

Then one day, his small universe changed again. The entrance to the dungeon was unlocked, and he was thrust unceremoniously outside. It was near dusk at that time, but his eyes had adjusted to perpetual darkness and even the dim light blinded him totally. He shut his eyes and winced, but gritted his teeth lest he made any noise.

Which was how Draco Malfoy found him, his face clenched in an expression of pain, lying sprawled on the ground in front of him. Thin, very thin, his cheekbones sharp and defined, every rib outlined starkly. His once-flawless skin, now ridden with scabs and scratches, drawn tightly across his frame.

***

"Take off your glasses," he ordered.

Harry sat dumbly on an antique chair, his eyes surveying with plain disbelief at the splendor and richness of the bedroom. A canopy bed, richly carved, stood at one end. An ornately decorated bookcase at the other. The whole room was covered with a thick Persian rug, and green-and-silver curtains framed the windows.

Harry was stinking, and his clothes were barely more than rags. He represented a wild animal, uncivilized and savagely suspicious of every single thing. He was jumpy, his warnings jumbling into nothing but snarls every time Draco tried to go near him.

"Take off your glasses," Draco said again, and this time Harry focused his attention warily on him. There was no spark of recognition in those green eyes, but Draco knew the loss was only temporary. Soon Harry would remember.

Harry took off the already-broken glasses, and dropped them by his side. Draco smiled to himself.

"Good boy," he said smoothly, and in a quick instance crossed the room to haul Harry up. Harry snarled and tried to push him away, but Draco held his wrists tightly.

He practically had to pull Harry into the bathroom, but Harry was so thin that it did not require much effort. To his credit, Harry put up an impressive fight, struggling and spitting, while trying valiantly to wrench himself away.

Draco grabbed the back of Harry's head and pushed it into the water. Harry half-screamed, a raw sound that tore at his throat. Straddling him, Draco pulled his head back from the water and put his face very close to Harry's ear. "I know you can understand me," he hissed. "Stop fighting me or I will drown you. Believe me, I will."

Harry went very still.

***

A hostage. That was Harry. As long as he was being kept alive, the Aurors would hesitate before launching any mass massacre, for fear of hurting him in the process. Draco was assigned to watch him and keep him alive, even though he knew no one would be surprised if Harry died suddenly.

During the course of the next few days Draco brought the old Harry Potter back to life. He washed Harry's wounds and injuries and charmed away the scars and the marks. He dressed Harry in the finest clothes and gave him a haircut that accentuated his jaw line just so. It covered his lightning bolt scar when it fell over his eyes, so that one could convince himself that this worldly, good-looking stranger was just someone who looked like the old, stuttering and diffident Harry Potter. Harry Potter was just a boy. This Harry was a man, stylish and cosmopolitan.

He conditioned Harry too, just as a master would train his dog. Fight me, resist me, and you will die. Be obedient, and you shall be rewarded. When Harry was strong enough to remember, he hated him with a passion that Draco saw in his eyes every time they were together. But he obeyed Draco's every command. Never wear your glasses again. Check. Never look me in the eye unless I told you to. Check. Never question my intentions. Check. You have no right. You have no say. You are my slave. Check.

Oh, but there was times when Harry refused. And those were the times when Draco forced himself on him. And though he saw the glint of unwillingness, the disgust, and the shame in Harry's eyes, Harry never run away. The fear of dying, or perhaps being passed over to a harsher master like Lord Voldemort, kept him frozen.

But given enough time, the faint and undefined line between pain and pleasure would fade, and with Harry and Draco, it did. Until Harry no longer loathe the sight of Draco, until his body react fiercely whenever Draco ran his tongue over his bare skin. Until the bed no longer seem like a prison, but a game.

In some sick place in his heart, Harry lived for the games they played. He pretended to fight, but in his mind he learnt the exact places where Draco would tremble if he touched them, learnt the best way to get Draco aroused. Biting down on Draco's hand when he tried to quiet him down. And he disobeyed the rules Draco set more often, daring to meet his eyes, daring to question his ways. It was thrilling to see Draco's eyes narrow, thrilling to know what was going to happen later on.

It gave him a rush, knowing that he had trained Draco how to react just as he had trained Harry.

***

And the first time Harry seduced Draco?

It was bitterly cold that night, and Draco had just returned from a battle with the Aurors. He was bleeding from a wound in his chest, and had taken off his shirt to try to staunch the bleeding.

"Help me get the bandages, you fuckwit," he snarled at Harry. His face was smeared with blood from the shirt. Against his fair skin and blonde hair, the blood looked severe.

But Harry only cocked his head, smiling. He stepped forward, stopping just inches away from that once-hateful face.

No, that pale face was always hateful. But now Harry was wiser. There was a difference between love and lust, and the attraction between them was a primal one. He wanted Draco, plain and simple. Wanted to cause him pain too, make him wince, make him sweat. But he did not love him.

"This is not the time, Potter," Draco said in a low tone. Dangerous.

Harry bent his face towards Draco's, and kissed him long and hard. Tasted the coppery taste of Draco's blood, and winced when Draco bit him on the tongue. Their blood mingled, and Harry continued his exploration down that familiar plane of his neck, to the hollow in his throat. Draco pushed him away harshly, breathing hard, and now that his shirt was dirtied with Draco's blood, he unbuttoned it slowly, watching Draco all the while.

"Why are you doing this?" Draco asked finally.

"I could ask you the same thing," Harry said. "But I won't." And in a flash he had pinned Draco's hands to the wall, using the weight of his body to keep Draco there. He could feel Draco's skin against his, and a throbbing ache burnt through his veins. Harry kissed him again, even though this time his actions had a desperate tinge to it; pressing his lips against Draco's so hard it was less of a kiss than anything else. He could smell the lingering stench of ashes and cigars on Draco's skin; the cologne scent already fading. Beneath his body Draco was all angular juts and sinewy bone - Draco was frightfully thin, even though he had a strength born from years of enduring. Harry released one hand and slid it down Draco's stomach, felt the muscles there gave way and tighten again from the contact, and down, fingering the waistband of his trousers. His hand went lower, and a small sound representing a gasp escaped from Draco's throat.

With one hand he forced Draco to turn, facing the wall. He ran his fingers up Draco's naked back almost roughly. Fingered the scar that ran down his spine, marring the otherwise pale expanse of skin. He saw the veins that pressed against Draco's skin. Draco would be easy to mark, that he was sure.

"Why choose me?" Harry asked. A question that had played over and over in his head, ever since he regained his wits. Many times in the night he had acted out this dialogue between them, asking an imaginary Draco, over and over again. And each time he never supplied the answer.

This wasn't the way Harry imagined their talk would take place, both of them half-naked, with a reversal of roles.

"I wanted to ruin you," Draco said aloud to the wall. "Humiliate you. Make you wish that you weren't alive anymore."

Harry paused, and then he smiled. Putting his face near Draco's ear, much like the time Draco forced Harry's head into the water, he said, "You were wrong, you know. You are going to be the one ashamed."

"Then maybe you should stop."

"Oh, but I won't," Harry laughed savagely, mocking him.

And you don't want me to stop.

***

And then, just as sudden as it first began, the war was over. Albus Dumbledore defeated Lord Voldemort, and Aurors started a crackdown on Death Eaters everywhere, capturing every single one. The luckier ones ran away, but most weren't. Their families were made to sign a magical contract that forbid them from practicing any form of magic, and the alliances of the Dark Lord themselves were thrown into Azkaban. Some were lucky - they escaped life imprisonment by pretending to be sorry. It worked decades ago, during the first War, when Harry had not yet been born. And it worked again. Compassion was the Ministry's weakness.

They rescued Harry from the Malfoy Manor, where he was given a hero's welcome back in Britain. And Draco was stripped of his name and possessions, thrown into a forgotten cell in Azkaban.

The first person to see Harry was Hermione Granger, and she thrown herself into his arms as soon as he got off the train, sobbing hysterically. He caught snatches of sentences. "Waiting - thought you were dead - Two years - worried - "

"Are you all right?" asked Ron, who was hovering anxiously nearby. He was taller than Harry remembered, his red hair reduced to a buzz cut. In the train station was Mrs Weasley and the rest of the gang - Ginny, Fred, George, Percy, Dean, Jordan, and even Cho. Now as Harry stared across to his crush, she smiled very shyly and nodded her head at him, as if to say hello.

But he only saw Draco's face, and the old-world grandeur of the manor in his mind. Jolted back to earth, he looked at Ron and smiled.

"No," he said. "No, I'm not going to be all right."

A few days later he was back in Hogwarts, in Dumbledore's office, trying to convince him to pull some strings at the Ministry. He explained, almost detachedly, that the only person who could make Draco realize the errors of his way was he himself. That Harry was the only non-Death Eater Draco listened to. Harry saw in Dumbledore's eyes that he suspected their bond was much more than friendship, but he didn't give a damn. Let him suspect. Harry was tired of living up to his expectations. He was just someone who survived when Lord Voldemort cursed him. Maybe the subject of a prophecy that did not fulfill itself in the end. But not a hero, nobody special.

"I can show Draco how wrong he is to follow in his father's footsteps," Harry said. "We all know that a Malfoy is a strong ally. With his wealth and power we can find even the wiliest of the Death Eaters still at large."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair heavily. "And how do you plan to do it?" he asked. There was no need for an official word of confirmation - Harry knew he would help him.

And Harry smiled, a vicious, cruel smile that belonged more to Draco than him. "Education, sir," he said, arching his fingers into a steeple. "I'll show Draco the way.

"Just leave him to me. I'll have him on his knees in no time."