Animus

I finally stop laughing and grab his arm. “Let’s go.”

He looks startled but doesn’t try to pull away. “Wait. I need time to pack. I need clothes...”

I look him up and down, his tight pants - definitely vinyl not leather - the mesh shirt, black scruffy boots...and I see his point, but I really don’t want to wait. I guess I don’t want to give him a chance to change his mind. I begin to walk, still holding onto his arm. He has no choice but to move with me.

“You won’t need clothes where you’re going,” I say.

“Potter, come on.”

I sigh, but I continue to walk, not even breaking my stride. “I’ll buy you some clothes, Malfoy. Right now I just want to get out of here.”

He doesn’t respond to this and we walk the remaining distance to my car in silence. When we reach it I let go of his arm and watch in satisfaction as he rubs it with a grimace. I hope I’ve bruised that as well.

I unlock the car and we both get in, I in the driver’s seat and he in the passenger’s. Then I grip the steering wheel and turn my head to look at him. He’s staring straight ahead and from what I can tell by his profile, he has absolutely no expression on his face whatsoever. I clear my throat loudly and he looks at me. He raises one eyebrow. “Yes?” he asks and in his voice I detect a mild amusement.

That will not do. I don’t want him amused by this situation. I cannot let him have the upper hand. Ever.

“I thought that we should discuss the terms of our arrangement,” I say, hoping that by reminding him that I’m essentially buying him, I can throw his equilibrium off.

His head dips just a little bit in that genteel manner of his. Pompous bastard; he acts is if he were having high tea with the queen. “By all means, Potter.”

I nod. “All right. First of all, don’t call me Potter. It just reminds me of the old days and makes me want to bash your face in.”

His famous composure falters at hearing my words. He looks surprised and maybe even a little bit afraid. I like to think it’s fear that I see in his eyes, but truly I can’t tell.

“What would you like me to call you then?” he asks after a brief silence. “And if you say ‘master’, I swear this deal is off.”

Fine, master is out then...although that would have been nice. “Harry will do fine.”

He nods his head just once to show that he’s accepted that term. “All right...Harry. What else?”

I take a deep breath and try to think of everything I want. It’s not like I was planning for this to happen, so I am not at all prepared. I start to say the first things that pop into my head. “For the entire month that you’re with me, you stay either in my house or on my grounds. You go nowhere without me and you do not communicate with anyone. Understand?”

“Fine.”

“I expect you to be at my beck and call. You’re not my slave and I won’t treat you as such, but you are my very own private prostitute. So, you will...ummm...service me...whenever I want, however I want. You get no say. Understood?”

He swallows as if he were swallowing a particularly bitter pill. Oh wait, that’s probably that nasty pride that he’s forcing down his throat. “Understood,” he says.

“Good,” I say. “I think that’s it. Anything else we can deal with as it comes.”

I begin to turn away from him when he asks, “When do I get paid?”

“What?”

“When do I get my money? Harry.”

I put the key in the ignition. “After the month is up. And don’t worry Malfoy, you’ll get it. I’m not a Slytherin. I won’t try to cheat you.”

He makes a small scoffing noise at that but says no more.

Good. Because I really cannot wait to get out of here.

Before I start the car though, I take another quick look at his face. There isn’t much light, the moon and the streetlamps only provide so much, but I can clearly see that he is still beautiful. Despite the life he’s living he is still beautiful. I had always thought it a great irony that someone that looked like an angel could be so hateful and cruel. And here we are two years later, and that irony is still present, still mocking me.

I turn away from him and his pale beauty and start the car.

The drive to my house is spent in complete silence. Not surprising considering the circumstances. Small talk just doesn’t fit a situation like this. I am forced to turn on the radio just to have something to listen to.

Finally we reach my home, a two story Tudor just at the outskirts of London. It’s nothing fancy really, but the eight rooms and two acres of land do afford me plenty of room and plenty of privacy.

I park the car in the garage and we enter the house. Draco follows me like a silent wraith as we walk through the kitchen and into the living area.

Once we’re in the living area, I stop and turn around to face him. He has stopped as well; his arms are folded across his stomach and he’s looking at me warily, as if he’s unsure of what I’m going to do. Which is funny really, because I’m unsure of what I’m going to do. I take a step towards him and reach out to him, still not quite sure what I intend to do when I touch him, when I notice that he’s wearing makeup. Not too much of it, but he is most certainly wearing eyeliner and mascara. And there’s also glitter in his gelled, spiky hair. All of this bothers me for some reason which I can’t fully fathom and I drop my hand and step away from him. “There’s a bathroom upstairs, third door on your right. Get in there and wash all that shit off your face and out of your hair.”

He looks at me as if he’s been insulted by my comment. “People like this ‘shit’ as you refer to it.”

“Well I don’t, so take it off.”

He rolls his eyes and shrugs and turns to go. I watch him walk up the stairs; that graceful catlike walk of his until I can no longer see him. I wait until I can hear the shower running before I move. Then I walk over to the bar in the corner of the room and pour a liberal amount of scotch into a glass. I drink it in two huge gulps, savoring the way the alcohol burns as it makes its way down my throat.

Then I surprise myself by taking the glass and throwing it against the wall. It shatters and I pound the top of the bar in anger and frustration. What was I thinking, bringing him here? Why did I ever think that this was a good idea? Here I am, trying to move on with my life, forget the past and look towards the future and I have just brought a very big part of my past into my house.

A very big, obnoxious, spoiled, heartless, part of my past into my life.

I don’t even bother with the glass this time. I just grab the bottle of scotch and put it to my lips and drink. I take one huge swallow...two...three until I am so hot that I am almost sweating. I put the bottle down and savor the way the alcohol is starting to make everything just a little more mellow.

And while it is a good feeling, it is not nearly enough. I pick up the bottle and begin to drink again.

By the time I hear Malfoy’s footfalls behind me, the bottle is almost completely empty.

I turn around to see him standing in the middle of the living room, dressed only in the towel that is wrapped around his waist. His hair is wet and it seems to glisten, but not from glitter this time. This is his very own luster.

I put the bottle down and move towards him; sway towards him actually. I believe I have managed to get myself quite pissed. He just stands there, looking at me, arms crossed over his stomach in the universal gesture of self-protection. He actually looks very small to me despite this. Very small and vulnerable. For a moment, I feel pity, am shocked to find it there and discard it as quickly as I can. This person never once showed me an ounce of pity, or mercy or empathy, so he does not deserve it now. I reach out to grab his arm, to haul him upstairs to my room when I see it. For the first time tonight, I see the bruise that colors the side of his face. “Where did that come from?” I ask, and what I’m really wondering is why didn’t I see that before?

He brings his hand up and touches his cheek, instantly knowing what I’m referring to. “I cover it with concealer, but it washed off in the shower.”

“Who did that to you?”

He looks away from me, like he can’t meet my eyes. I can see that the hand on his face is trembling, just a little. “One of my customers got...overzealous.” He all but whispers it.

I stare at the bruise, at the marring of perfection and I feel that small twinge of pity again. But the pity is quickly replaced by anger. Anger at myself for feeling sorry for him, anger at him for causing me to feel anything but hatred for him.

This time when I reach out my hand, it lands on his forearm and I begin to pull him. He, to his credit, does not struggle. I lead him up the stairs and into my room, then I push him away from me with undisguised violence.

“Take off the towel and get on the bed,” I order.

And he does. He lets the towel drop to the floor and he climbs on the bed, settles back against it, his arms at his sides.

And this is it. The moment has come.

Am I really going to do this? I’m not even hard. I’m angry and more than a little drunk, but I’m not even close to being sexually excited.

So what now?

‘Improvise, Harry,” I tell myself. ‘What would feel good right now?’

Good question. Easy enough answer. So I improvise. I take off my clothes and then I climb on the bed with him. Then I straddle his head and tell him to suck me. He opens his mouth and before I know it, I am being engulfed by him. I close my eyes and try not to think, try to just feel and before too long I am hard.

And now I’m riding it, I’m lost in the moment and I know I can’t wait much longer. I pull out of his mouth and move down his body til we are chest to chest, hip to hip. He opens his legs for me. How obliging.

It takes me a couple of tries to enter him, but I finally do, and when I do its swift and hard. I ignore his sharp intake of breath. I don’t care about his comfort. I don’t care about him. All I care about is this now...this need...this power.

I begin to move back and forth, in and out, building a rhythm. This should feel good, he’s tight and the scotch is blurring all the sharp edges of reality, but I can’t really let go. Especially after I make the mistake of looking into his eyes.

His eyes, so gray and deep, are looking into mine and I can see his loathing and disgust of me.

And suddenly I can’t look at those eyes anymore.

I pull out of him quickly and without warning. “I can’t do this...like this,” I manage to say.

“What do you want me...?” he begins to ask, but I cut him off.

“Turn over,” I say, surprised at how harsh and ragged my voice sounds.

He complies instantly, positioning himself so that his arms are above his head and his legs are wide open. My very own sacrifice. And I take my sacrifice. Once again I plunge inside of him, rocking back and forth in a brutal rhythm.

I did not turn on the lights when we came in, so the only illumination in the room is the moonlight that streams through the windows. I look down at his body beneath me and my breath is stolen from me. His skin is so pale in the moonlight that he’s almost luminescent. Otherworldly.

Fey.

Beautiful. He is truly beautiful.

I stare at his body, at his blond hair, now short against the nape of his neck, at the curve of his shoulder, his strong arms, his hands that are clenching and unclenching against the mattress.

And it is all very good, he feels good around me, he looks good underneath me, but it is not enough. It is not enough. And only when I lean forward and wrap my hand around his throat and squeeze slightly, only when my teeth break the tender skin of his shoulder, do I finally come.

It is muted by the alcohol, but it is still intense; the release.

Bittersweet release.

I roll away from him and lay on my side, trying to catch my breath, willing my heart to slow down. Draco does not move except to bring his legs together.

Now if this were a romance novel, I would wrap my arms around him tell him how much I love him after such a great shag. But this is no romance novel. This is life and he is Draco Malfoy and I can no longer stand to have him near me.

“Get out,” I say. Merlin, I still can’t catch my breath.

“What?” he asks as he finally rolls over.

“I said get out. There are two guest rooms across the hall. Find one for yourself although you can sleep in the damn kitchen for all I care. Just get the hell out of my room.”

I half expect him to pick up the towel and cover himself with it, but he doesn’t. He just stands up and begins to walk towards the door. “So you’re done with me for the night then? Am I dismissed?” he asks sarcastically.

I ignore him. Just go away Malfoy. Go away or I’ll kill you, agreement or no agreement.

“Fine. I won’t dirty up your room any longer,” he says, and with that, he is gone.

And just like that I am alone. Alone in the dark with nothing but my heartbeat and the quiet sounds of retching from across the hall to lull me to sleep.