The Little Death

Warning: This is a Slash fic, which means that the main romantic pairing is homosexual, specifically between Harry and Draco.

This story will also feature the following possible 'squicks': marital infidelity, the discussion of impotence, a miscarriage, character deaths (not Harry, Draco or Ginny), allusions to past rape and torture (not featured 'on screen'), some heterosexual sex to illustrate a dying marriage.

If you find any of these matters offensive, you know where the back button is. If you are under 18, I would advise you do the same.

*

The Little Death

*

The French, too, remind us

how even in pleasure the body dies a little: la petite mort.

The furtive kiss on the earlobe, the flick of a tongue

at the base of the throat-- thin blade of a shudder that rises

to the heart and nicks it like a wound, that attaches

like a shadow. It takes so little to upset the mechanism

of everyday life, the rapid adjustment and tumbling of gears

from one set of teeth to another.

Trill and Mordant by Luisa A. Igloria (2005, Word Tech Editions.)

*

Prologue

May 2002

Draco listened rather irritably to the clatter of the Healer's heels on the linoleum floor. Here he was, lying on the bed in one of those god-awful bumless gowns, and she'd swanned off somewhere, leaving a cloud of perfume behind. She returned presently, her cheerful smile revealing lipsticked teeth, with a folder clutched to her breasts. She placed the folder on her desk, then turned to him.

"Can I get you to lie on your back, please? Legs bent, feet on the bed. I need to examine your testicles again," she said, as she stepped around the bed and arrived in the general area where his bum was protruding, naked for all the world to see, or at least for her to see; they were alone in the room.

Draco complied with her request, fiercely looking at the ceiling as the edge of the bed beneath his arse disappeared and the Healer stepped into the gap between his legs.

"So you've been seeing Eloise for a while now. Nearly a year. How's that going?"

The Healer had already asked this question, along with probing for details of his sexual and medical history and sticking things in his arse and cock. "I wouldn't be here if there wasn't a problem," Draco grunted; it was kind of hard to talk with someone's cold hands wrapped round his balls.

There was silence for a moment, then the Healer began to talk again. She seemed to need to fill the spaces, couldn't just let it be silent and humiliating. "Everything seems to be quite normal, no physical anomalies to be worried about." She waited for Draco to reply. When he didn't, she added, "No lingering signs of spell or physical damage to the rectum, everything in working order. Physically, you're healthy, extremely fit, though a little on the thin side."

Draco closed his eyes. This was what he had been dreading. "So what is it then? He bit me while..." he trailed off, trying not to remember.

The Healer had by now removed her hands and returned the bed to its normal state. She sat at her desk and motioned to Draco to do the same. He hopped off the bed, clutching at the gown as his arse briefly contacted cold vinyl where the mattress wasn't covered by sheets. The chair had a disposable paper wrapper on the seat, which crackled when he sat down. He shuddered, noticing how his arse felt kind of warm and slippery. Why couldn't she have spelled that muck away?

The Healer seemed to be watching him expectantly. Suddenly self conscious again, Draco rearranged the gown to cover his bits. "It must be the bites, right?" he asked.

The Healer said, "I don't think so. I think it's more likely the problem is psychosomatic-"

"I'm not doing this to myself," Draco replied impatiently. They'd already been over this. "There's a spell on me - I can feel it. It's not in my head. There's something physically there- sometimes- I don't know how to describe it. It's magic, something extra. It's from outside, it's not in my head."

The Healer smiled sympathetically. "It's natural to have this sort of response. You went through an extremely traumatising ordeal and it's to your credit that you are handling it so well-"

Draco snorted. "How else am I supposed to handle it?"

"Some people might say you're handling it a little too well. You've resumed work. Zealously, I might add. You've increased your fitness regime. Your relationship with your friends and co-workers is excellent. You're keeping the same hours, doing everything the same as before the kidnapping. The only problems you're encountering are sexual. That would suggest to me that-"

Draco started to interrupt but she cut him off, still smiling that pathetic pity smile. "You were raped and tortured for nearly a month. They used Unforgivables, they threatened to castrate you, they made you watch the others being tortured. You endured intense pain and mental attack. You went through things that I can't even imagine. If that had happened to me, I would be a nervous wreck- I'd be in pieces, yet you attest that you are fine. You report no fear of other men, no fear of being alone in the dark, no problems at all. It's as if you have pushed the trauma to one side and pretended that it happened to someone else. And therein lies the reason for the dysfunction you've reported. You may have made yourself believe that you're alright, but somewhere in your mind you have not dealt with the rape-"

A wave of anger had been coursing through Draco's mind, growing stronger and stronger with each metre of psychobabble. She had no fucking idea. No idea at all. He couldn't even put into words what he was feeling or make up any argument to the contrary. He simply stood up, very slowly, turned and bolted from the room. He was halfway down the corridor before he remembered he was still dressed in the stupid gown.

*

"From Aristotle, who said (in Latin translation), "Omne animalia post coitum triste" ("all animals feel sad after sex") to the various hygiene movements of the 19th century, people have told stories about masturbation. In the humour theory, it was believed that there was a finite amount of "vital essence" in the human body and that any orgasm was "le petite morte." However, it's all nonsense based solely upon natural blood pressure, respiration, and adrenal responses to the refractory phase. People are neither weakened nor strengthened by emissions of that sort."

From an explanation by Geogre, Wikipedia Reference Desk, 15:41, 17 January 2006

*

Chapter One

"I had two heart attacks, an abortion, did crack... while I was pregnant. Other than that, I'm fine."

Amélie Poulain (to her father, who is not paying attention), from the film Amélie (2001).

*

5 years later, February 10th 2007

Harry was floating in something thicker than air - water, he thought - and it was like being wrapped in warm, flowing strips of silk. A faint glow of light filtered down from far above, eerily lighting the greenish black waters. From the rocky ground beneath, great ribbons of swaying kelp reached for the distant surface. An invisible force pulled him down, dragging him slowly, ever closer to the bottom. Soon he was enveloped by the kelp, unable to see the surface or anything other than slimy brown.

Harry pushed his way through the vegetation, wildly kicking as tendrils wrapped around his legs. Bubbles of air escaped his mouth as he panicked, his air supply quickly replaced by thick water. He tried to kick to the surface, but the kelp held him down, only now it wasn't kelp, it was the white, waxy fingers of hundreds of corpses, dressed in tattered, rotting clothing, each staring with vacant eye sockets, their hair clouding around their faces. He recognised them all.

There was a smudge of red. Red hair, a blurry face...

Harry shuddered awake, realising, knowing, that it was just a dream. But the hands were still there.

The pale glow of Ginny's bedside lamp lit their cosy bedroom. He took in her face, blurry without his glasses, the cloud of red hair back-lit by the lamp. "You awake?" she murmured, her voice softened by sleep. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, slowly slipping down to his hip, clammy and warm.

"'M'trying to sleep," Harry muttered. He didn't want to talk. It was the third time this week he'd had that particular dream, which was a worry in itself because he seldom remembered what his dreams were about, let alone woke up in the middle of one. And this dream, well it was disturbing stuff. What kind of mind comes up with something like that?

Ginny's hand slithered lower, cupping the curve of his buttock then returning to his hip. Her fingertips lightly dappled the soft skin above his groin, moving ever downwards to sift through his pubes. Harry knew where this was heading and stopped her, just as her hand found its goal. It was bad enough he had had that dream, without getting randy over it too. "Not in the mood," he grunted, pulling away and curling himself up.

She followed him, pressing her satin encased breasts against his back, her nipples hard like rubber. "Why not? Come on, Harry," Ginny said. Her hand found his arse again, stroking the naked skin. It was rather odd, Harry thought, because he was sure he had boxers on when he'd climbed into bed.

"It's the middle of the night," Harry replied irritably. "I'm tired."

"Harry..." she trailed off. "At least look at me."

He rolled over and she seized her chance, proudly displaying a red satin chemise that probably had more stitches than fabric. It covered her breasts, then sort of slit open, revealing the pale skin of her abdomen, the thin red stripe of her pubic hair. She took his hand in hers, bringing it to rest on her breasts, then gliding it down over the curve of her waist and hip, finally pressing it to her groin. "I'm wet... I'm all hot and bothered," she whispered. "Wet for you..."

Ginny parted her thighs slightly, allowing him to feel her wet warmth. "Can't you feel it? Feel how wet I am..." She gave a slight moan and rolled her hips gently. "Yes, like that."

Harry felt a tingle of arousal as his prick grew harder, but he pushed it to one side, embarrassed and slightly angry. He knew the moment he got inside her he would wilt like that three-day-old celery she insisted on eating. It was humiliating. What kind of man couldn't keep it up? Savagely, he wondered if he should bring her off with his fingers or tell her to bugger off instead. "Gin-" he began.

"That's good... Yes... like that..." she whispered again. Then her voice returned sharper than ever. "What?"

"I-" What the hell was he supposed to say? "I-" Harry grew angrier. She knew what the problem was. Why did she keep forcing it? "I'm tired," he finished lamely.

For once Ginny didn't explode. She was trying to understand, he knew. "Can't we at least try?" she asked. "It's the right time of the month for me and everything."

Harry stilled his hand. He tried to pull away but she clung to him like a limpet. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. He was sick of apologising. He hated how she always played the 'ovulating' card when she wanted sex. Hated himself, hated her for continuing to beg for it, for making him want what he couldn't have.

"Oh." Ginny released him, her voice strangely deflated. Of course, he knew this wasn't the end of it. Now they'd have a screaming row like they always did, after which he'd storm out and go to Hogwarts and she'd tear up her new knickers and down a bottle of red wine.

"Oh," she repeated. Here it comes, Harry thought. It was like watching a balloon being filled to breaking point. The pressure would build up slowly, filling her completely until there was no room for anything else. Then she'd explode.

"What are you sorry for this time? Sorry you can't keep it up or sorry you don't find me attractive anymore?"

"I can't help it," Harry snapped.

Ginny grunted in frustration. "You can't help it? Well, there's certainly quite a few things you could do to help yourself! Like going to a Healer or taking the potions I got you. The problem is, you're not man enough to tell someone you've got a problem!"

"That's not fair! You know I saw a Healer!" That story had made Witch Weekly - 'A Hero's Struggle - Battling with the after-effects of Cruciatus'. He never did find out who leaked the story, but he was quite thankful that the full extent of his problems hadn't been revealed. The article only reported 'injuries to nerves' and 'fine motor difficulties'. Yet he couldn't risk that happening again, especially since his problem, small then, had gotten exponentially worse. He could just imagine the headlines - 'Potter's Prick Plays Up' or 'A Hero gone Soft' , maybe 'Ginevra gets a limp deal' or even 'Man who Lived's Meat Malfunctions'. He'd be a laughing stock.

"Yeah - five years ago," Ginny sneered. "It's bloody pathetic is what it is. If you really loved me you'd do it."

Harry clambered out of bed, taking most of the slippery satin sheets with him. As he spoke, he was plucking clothing from the floor at the foot of the bed and pulling it on frenetically. He decided he probably shouldn't wear the same jumper two days in a row and grabbed the first one he found in the drawers. "Why can't you stop pushing me?" he asked. "Why can't you stop coming on to me in the middle of the fucking night? You know I'm actually tired, I'd been marking Ravenclaw essays all bloody evening last night-"

"Oh yes, poor you, sitting on your arse all day everyday. Really tiring! I was up at five yesterday, jogged for two hours, had practise in the bloody cold because the Wasps' management is too hard up to finance heating charms for the stadium - for five bloody hours might I add, took a bludger to my back, another to my side because their Beaters are absolute crap... I'm tired too, but I'm trying to make this work! I want kids, alright? It's what we both want. A family... And the therapist reckons all you need is a bit of encouragement-"

"You told- a what?" Harry snapped. He felt angry enough to break something. "Therapist, what therapist?"

Ginny peeled back the covers quickly. Her voice was just as fast. "A muggle one. I've been seeing her for a while - under a pseudonym - so there's nothing to worry about for god's sake. You're James Smythe and I'm Ginny Smythe, short for Virginia. It's not going to get in the papers. Besides, the muggles have all sorts of crazy rules about telling people stuff. Client confidentiality." Ginny started to step toward him, her face a sympathetic blur. "So you see, there's nothing to worry about. Anyway, Joan - that's the therapist's name - she reckons it's just a case of nerves, and if we take it slowly, everything'll go properly." She gently stroked his cheek, her fingertips finally stilling on his cheekbone. A moment later, her lips brushed his like a whisper, then pulled away.

It was Harry's turn to say, "Oh." Such a simple sound belied his real thoughts.

'A case of nerves'. Nervous, yeah right.

'A case of nerves'. Yeah, nervous damage.

He knew his impotence wasn't a mental issue. The Healer had told him in so many words. For a while his fingers had been unable to stop shaking. Now they just worked, but they sort of felt numb too. Sometimes he didn't recognise when he had hurt himself. The movement of most of his joints caused a dull ache - arthritis, the Healer had said; it would only become worse. They saw arthritis in a lot of patients who had experienced cruciatus, though he was worse off because of the nervous damage he had suffered.

"So what d'you say? Why don't you come back to bed?" Ginny asked, stroking his back.

Why did she keep trying to push the issue? Why couldn't she just let it be? Harry shook his head. "I've got to go to work."

"It's three in the fucking morning! What the hell are you gonna do at three in the morning?" Ginny's voice rose a pitch. She broke away from him, gesturing wildly. "Stop avoiding me! Come on, let's fuck! Show me you're a man! Come on!"

"Damnit, NO!" Harry yelled. "Stop pressuring me! Just leave me alone! Just fuck the hell off! My prick won't work, why can't you just handle that? It's humiliating enough knowing that it happens without continually revisiting the problem!"

With that, he broke away from her, snagging an outer robe from the wardrobe as he left.

For a moment, Ginny stood listening to a silence decorated with the echo of Harry's voice. Then the tears began to fall. They were small droplets at first, leaving single shiny trails behind them, paving the way for bigger tears. Maybe there were just more tears falling; she neither knew nor cared. She climbed back into bed, wrapping herself tightly in the duvet, her sobs partially muffled by Harry's pillow. She had tried everything - potions, spells, fertility charms. She had tried to understand, tried to be encouraging. She had tried to look more attractive, blowing her bank account on expensive lingerie that Harry had hardly noticed. They wanted children, desperately, but she was beginning to realise that a child wouldn't solve their problems.

*

Ginny awoke to the sound of someone banging on the door. A glance at the clock told her it was just past eleven. "Shit," she swore. More loudly she said, "Coming, coming!" Even though she knew the person at the door couldn't hear her, it made Ginny feel better somehow. She scampered out of bed and picked up a satin dressing-gown, which she hastily tied over her skimpy chemise. After running a quick brush through her hair, Ginny rushed full tilt down the stairs and opened the door. She hoped it wasn't bible-bangers. Or a reporter.

"Oh," Ginny said, taking in the vibrant silk scarf and the otherwise plain dark dress wrapped around a curvy, slightly on the plump side, figure. "It's you. Hello."

"Good morning," Hermione Granger replied with a smile, as she pushed her way inside and into the kitchen. "You look like you had a rough night. Feeling okay?" She eyed Ginny sympathetically. She really did look like hell. Eyes red-rimmed and smudged with sleep, skin patchy and grey, her body gaunt and cheeks hollow. All the result of the severe dietary limitations and exhausting fitness regime the Wasps had imposed on her.

Ginny had to lose ten to fifteen kilograms from her already thin frame, in keeping with the contractual obligations she had signed on to when she joined the Wimbourne Wasps as a Seeker, two months ago. It was an incredible imposition to place in a contract, but as Ginny had said when she signed the contract, beggars couldn't be choosers. After two years as the star Chaser of the Wigtown Wanderers, followed by nearly six Chasing for the Falmouth Falcons, time and hundreds of injuries were taking their toll. She'd taken the Seeker position with the Wasps as a last resort. It was either that or retire. In Hermione's opinion, she should have chosen the latter.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Ginny said. She fetched a jug of pumpkin juice and two glasses, placing them on the table. "Just tired out. Practise took a lot out of me yesterday."

"Was it that gruelling?" Hermione asked. "I'm surprised. I thought the Wasps were ranked quite low on the Quidditch Tables." In fact, the Wasps were the lowest ranked team.

"That's the problem," Ginny replied irritably. She dropped into a chair opposite Hermione. "They're not exactly skilled players."

"Oh dear." Hermione quickly changed the subject, handing Ginny a handful of envelopes and papers. "I checked your owl depository on my way in."

"Being nosy, were you?" Ginny asked, without malice.

"Just trying to be helpful," Hermione said innocently. She fingered the fringe of her silk scarf, revealing a large tattoo on the back of her hand as she did so. Every time Ginny saw that evil tattoo, she wanted to squash it. It looked like a giant spider. Closer inspection would reveal a ministry insignia and a string of mostly senseless numbers and letters: 'WRN: #32455. B: 19/08/1979. DOB: 14/01/2002. Site: Neck. LE: 22/06/2006...' And, despite knowing it wasn't a spider, she still wanted to squash it.

"New scarf?" Ginny asked, as she began to separate the mail. Today's Quibbler suggested, 'A Ministry Cover-up - Jones testimony stifled', while The Daily Prophet blared, 'More Damning Testimony in the Jones Trial - Diggory was scared for his Life!' Neither of the articles held much interest for her, so she put them to one side. Underneath the papers was a pink envelope. She tore it open and angrily read the letter within.

Hermione, who had been nattering on about the scarf, followed by the Jones trial, looked up sharply as Ginny swore, "Bitch!"

Ginny screwed the paper into a ball and threw it toward the rubbish bin. When it missed, she followed it up with an Incendio. A bright purple flame flared for a minute, then it and the letter were gone.

"Another letter?" Hermione asked. She was worried. After the hours she had put into the spell, the system should have been foolproof. "Aren't the wards working? They're supposed to immediately divert or dispose of anything containing obscenities-"

"Yeah, well obviously it's not happening. That's the fourth one this week! Harry- bloody well swore that he'd fixed it-" Ginny's voice broke off as she splashed pumpkin juice into a glass. She poured Hermione one as well, overfilling it and staining the tablecloth.

Ginny continued, "I should probably have a look at the wards myself. It's the only way it's going to get fixed- Oh, those letters just make me so angry! 'Die Bitch' 'You're not worthy of Harry' 'Slut'! Gah!" She skulled down her drink, then slammed the glass on the table. "Harry's like a magnet for all those fucking nut jobs out there- You know, they send naked photos and pubic hair and cat hearts and all sorts of fucked up shit to him..." As she spoke, her voice became weaker and weaker, clouded and slightly wet, as if there was some fluid in her throat.

Then she screamed.

Hermione watched, frozen in absolute horror, as Ginny began to shake. First small tremors where her fingers all shuddered independently of one another, then larger muscle spasms in her arms and chest. The chair fell over, Ginny's head hitting the floor with a sound like a kicked football. Her entire body was convulsing now, her face oddly, painfully contorted, hands grasping at herself. And there was blood too. A bloody froth escaped her trembling lips while the whites of her eyes were black with blood.