Animus

 

Animus (Part 7)

Malfoy sleeps most of the first day away. I find myself checking on him frequently, making sure that he is sleeping and that he hasn’t somehow died on me. I’m paranoid as hell, standing over him, listening to his breathing and checking his forehead for a temperature. I am reminded of Aunt Petunia and the way she used to treat Dudley when he was sick.

Then I try really hard to ignore the fact that I picked up anything from that old bitch.

The few times that Draco is awake, he refuses food, saying he’s not hungry. I don’t push, although I’m tempted to. That would be acting far too much like my dear old aunt. Other than my offering to feed him and his refusals, the only time we truly interact is when I help him to the bathroom. Even then, no more than two words pass between us.

The second day is better. I bring soup and sandwiches. He eats. I don’t have to help him walk to the bathroom this time. He makes it on his own, although he walks with the speed and agility of an 80-year-old man.

By the end of this day, I can clearly see the evidence of Hermione’s healing power. Draco’s bruises are the sickly yellow color that they would normally be after three weeks of natural healing, and cuts that might have required stitches in the Muggle world are well on their way to becoming nearly invisible scars. 

Hermione did a wonderful job; just as I knew she would.  

During these two nights, I lie in my bed and stare up at the ceiling as I try to conjure up images of what happened; of what I did to Malfoy. Yet, no matter how hard I try, all I see are jumbled flashes that make absolutely no sense. It’s like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle and only having three good pieces to work with - it is useless and infinitely frustrating.

On the morning of the third day, I crawl out of bed and make the decision not to go in to work.

I quickly write up some excuse about not feeling well and owl it over to the Ministry. That being done, I decide to take a quick shower in hopes that it will help me wake up. Under the warm water, I reach for the soap, yet my hand refuses to close around it. I look down and see that my knuckles and fingers are swollen to almost twice their size. They throb incessantly, which is good, it’s what I wanted when I told Hermione not to heal me. Despite the pain, or maybe because of it, I force myself to wrap my fingers around the soap and begin to lather.

After the shower, I manage to get myself dressed with my damaged hands and head downstairs for some toast and coffee.

As I nibble at the toast - not hungry but needing something in my system - I look over at the clock. It’s late enough that I should go see if Draco is awake and if he needs anything.

I leave the remnants of the toast and coffee on the table and walk back upstairs to stand outside his closed door. Trembling slightly, I remember how I raced into this room just three days ago, not knowing whether the person on the other side was alive or dead. I remember how frightened I was thinking that I had done something unforgivable. With sheer force of will, I push these thoughts back into the recesses of my brain. It’s the only way I’ll ever get myself inside the room. Otherwise, I’ll stand here all day and drown in those memories. I knock quickly and open the door to step inside, automatically searching the bed for him.

But the bed is empty.

Surprised, my eyes scan the room, finding him an instant later. He is standing at the window, his back to me. He is fully dressed in jeans and a jumper, yet he is rubbing his arms as if he were very cold.

I clear my throat to ensure that I will have a voice. “You should be in bed,” I say.

He turns his head and gives me a quick sideways glance before turning back toward the window. “Yeah, well, I’m not.”

I take a step forward. “Well, you should be, shouldn’t you? I mean you’re not well yet . . . Hermione said two or three days and it’s only the beginning of the third and . . . ” It’s at this point that I realize that I’m babbling. I let my sentence die an awkward death, hoping I didn’t sound too stupid.

He finally turns to face me and in his eyes I see a look of dark amusement. They are dancing with it, and it makes his face look very alive . . . and also a little dangerous. “It’s almost funny to hear you be so concerned about my well-being . . . especially considering you’re the one who put me in that bed.”  

Well, his sarcasm is definitely on the mend. I take a moment to choose my next words. A very large part of me is tempted to say something cutting, simply because that’s the way I always talk to him. But another smaller part of me knows what the right thing to say is. So I find myself speaking words that I never thought I would say to this man. “Draco, I am so sorry,” I say softly.

He snorts. “Oh, but why? You’ve probably been wanting to do that for years. You should be ecstatic that you finally got your opportunity.”

I shake my head. “Well, yes, but . . . no . . . I mean . . . what I did was wrong. You didn’t deserve that.”

He continues as if I hadn’t said a word, spitting his words out with malice. “I mean, it’s not like getting beaten up by a customer is foreign to me. I just never really expected you to do it. The golden boy. The defender of all.” He opens his arms wide as if to encompass the whole world. “Except for whores from his past apparently.”

“Draco . . . ”

“What?” he cries as his arms drop to his sides. His voice is no longer laced with malice. It’s anguish I hear in it now.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”

Whatever spark of anger had been building inside of him seems to vanish, gone so suddenly it’s as if I had imagined it was ever there. He sighs and walks over to the side of the bed, all but collapsing on it. He begins to rub the back of his neck as if it aches. “I don’t either,” he says softly.

Now that we’re both in agreement that neither of us knows what the bloody hell to say to each other, silence envelops us once more. Far from feeling suffocating however, it feels almost right, as if it belongs there. For once I don’t feel the need to say something . . . anything just to break it. And yet eventually I am the first one to break it. Because there is something that I need to know. And if I don’t ask it now, I may never do it.

“Draco?” I venture, as I also walk to the bed and take a seat on it, being careful to keep distance between us.

He continues to rub his neck. He doesn’t even look at me when he answers. “Yes?”

All right, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath and let the words spill out. “Will you tell me what happened that night? Tell me what I did?”

Now he looks at me, his eyes both incredulous and amused at the same time. “You still don’t remember?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t really remember anything.”

His next question takes me by surprise. “Do you want to?” he asks.

And for a moment I’m not sure how to answer that. Do I? Isn’t ignorance bliss? Yes, perhaps it is sometimes, but not now. Now it’s torture. “I need to know what happened,” I state firmly.

He stares at me, long and hard enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I have to force myself to meet his silver gaze, but I do it.

“No,” he says finally.

I heard wrong. I know I did. “What?”

“I won’t tell you. If you want to know so badly, brew a memory potion and remember it. I’m not going to do it for you.”

“But . . . ”

“Telling it wouldn’t do it justice. You want to know what you did? You see it for yourself.”

I’m about to try to argue when I realize that he’s right. To make him relive it by telling me would be cruel. “Yeah, all right. That’s what I’ll do,” I say. To be honest, I think I knew all along that this was how it had to be, I just didn’t want to face it.

He stands up hastily. “I need some fresh air. I’ll be in the back garden.”

I reach out and grab his arm as he walks past me. Although I’m quite gentle, he visibly flinches. I let my hand drop onto my lap.

“I need to ask you one more thing. Before I do this. I need to know . . . will you be staying?”

He looks at me like I’ve just asked the world’s most idiotic question. “Why wouldn’t I be? The month isn’t up.”

I had so expected the answer to be no, that he’d be packing his meager belongings any second now, that I am struck speechless. “I thought . . . because of what I did . . . ”

Now he looks away from me. “No, Harry. I need that money, and you know that. Besides, I told you you weren’t the first.” He shrugs. “It seems to be an occupational hazard.”

Although he’s not looking at me, I can feel shame radiating from him in waves. It manages to be both scorching and glacial in its intensity. And here I go again, feeling badly for him and feeling badly because I am partly responsible for this shame.

I’m about to apologize to him again when he does something completely unexpected. He leans down very close to me and puts his mouth against my ear. His whispered words are hot and tinged with a seductive darkness. I can feel his fingers trailing fire down my arm. “Let me ask you a question, Harry. Your guilt has you calling me by my first name. Will it stop you from fucking me?”

He pulls away and I’m left to stare at him in dumfounded silence. He apparently takes this silence as a no. His eyes narrow to mere slits. “I didn’t think so. That’s what I’m here for after all,” he says coldly before turning and leaving the room.

I watch him leave, too confused to do anything but stare at the doorway. What just happened here? What was that? And was he right? I cast my memory back and try to remember when I started calling him Draco instead of Malfoy. But the memory of that is slippery and it hides from me.

I shake my head to try to clear it and focus on what I have to do. I have to make a memory potion. And I have to do it now before I lose my nerve. I’ll think about the rest of this after I conjure up the memory of that night.

I go downstairs to the library and rifle through stacks of parchment until I find the one containing the instructions for making the potion. I’m glad to see that it isn’t difficult although it is a bit time consuming.

It takes me a full hour to make it, but at the end of those 60 minutes, I am triumphantly holding a cup of it in my hand. And Snape said I was no good at this stuff.

I bring the cup close to my face and peer at it. It is a dark, violent green color that can not possibly exist in nature.

Wonderful. That means it’s going to taste like shit. Wrinkling my nose, I bravely take a huge gulp of it. Then I take another for good measure. It does taste like shit.

I walk over to the sofa in the living room and sit down on it gingerly, then say, “September 17. Third perspective.”

Then I wait nervously for it to begin.

It doesn’t take long and when it happens, it’s a bit like growing a third eye. I still see the room that I’m in and all my surroundings, but I’m simultaneously seeing another time and place.

I see myself sitting in the dark, quiet corner of the pub.

 

It’s actually a bit like watching a film unfold, fascinating really, and I turn all my attention to that third eye. I see myself stand up and stumble out the doorway, deftly avoiding the bartender’s gaze.

I see myself drunkenly lurch to my car, unlock it and get in. I see the drive back home, in full living color; it is a miracle that I made it back alive, or without hurting anyone else. I see myself park the car and get out of it. My movements are jerky, fast. I seem angry.

As the memory continues to develop, I see that I can’t find my keys, so I use my wand and whisper ‘Alohamora’, to get inside the house. I see myself walking around the house, swaying as I go. And then that third eye’s perspective widens and I see that I am in the living room and that Draco is curled up on the sofa, reading the same book from the other day.

I hold my breath as I realize that this is it.

“You’re back,” he says without looking up.

The me that’s in this morbid film spits out his name.

Draco puts the book down and turns. He looks curious but wary, as if he senses something is not right.

“Get over here,” I say.

“You’re drunk,” Draco says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, you’re right. Now get the fuck over here.”

He stands up slowly. “What do you want, Harry?”

I stumble forward a few steps, clutching furniture so as not to fall. “The only thing I’d ever want from you, you whore.”

He stiffens and I can hear his sharp intake of breath. “This isn’t a good idea, Harry. You’re drunk . . . you’re . . . ”

“I know that, Malfoy. Now come over here!” Even as I’m yelling this, I’m moving closer to him. He does not move at all.

He shakes his head. “Harry . . . ”

I’m close enough to him now that I reach out and grab his arm to pull him roughly toward me. “What the fuck am I paying you for, Malfoy? Huh? Come on.” I start to pull at his clothing in an attempt to get it off. A few of his buttons snap and fall to the ground.

He’s not really resisting me, but he is stiff as a board, his body not giving an inch. I begin to kiss his neck . . . the hollow of his throat. No, not kissing. What looks like kissing is actually me pushing my teeth into his pale skin.

He puts his arms on my shoulders as if to push me away, but he doesn’t. He just keeps them there and tilts his head back with a small groan.

And I, I am a tempest of activity, clutching and grabbing and biting as if I can’t get enough, as if I’m starving for him. I yank his head to the side, fasten my mouth to his shoulder and rake my nails down his side. I am brutal, hard . . . Gods, I am so cruel.

Then I do something that I haven’t done the entire time he’s been in this house. I hold his head steady with my hands and kiss him furiously on the mouth. After several seconds pass, I pull away from him and hoarsely say, “Your trousers, get them off.”

He drops his hands from my shoulders and does as I say, stepping of them cleanly. His face is unreadable, but the lines of his body are taut with tension. He could not possibly be any more stiff. He is like a statue that I am forcing to move through sheer physical force.

I don’t bother with taking off my own trousers, I simply unzip them and pull myself out. I am only half-hard. I reach for him again, but this time we lose balance and we fall. He falls backward, I forward, and I land on top of him.

I don’t give us any time to recover from the fall. “Now,” I whisper hoarsely. He opens his legs and I push forward. But something is not happening the way it should. I pull away a bit. On my face I see a look of frustration.

Draco sighs. “Harry . . . ”

I push forward again. “Can’t . . . ” I mumble. Then, “Open wider.”

He does. The look of frustration on my face is slowly turning into one of anger.

“What the fuck?” I say. “Why can’t I . . . ” I look down at him, my face now furious. “Get me ready. Do what I fucking pay you for.”

With swift, economical movements, he positions himself so that he is under my groin and he takes me into his mouth. No questions, no protests. He just does it. After a few minutes of him working on me, I pull myself out of his mouth and reposition myself so that I am back at his entrance.

I push forward again, and apparently it works this time, for soon after my hips begin to rock back and forth.

“This is all you’re good for, Malfoy. All you’ve ever been good for,” I whisper as I thrust into him.

But it doesn’t last long, and soon I’m pulling away from him again. “Fuck, why can’t I . . . ”

“Harry, just get off. It’s not gonna happen,” Draco says as he tries to push himself up onto his elbows.

“Fuck you!” I shout as I backhand him across the mouth. “It is going to happen. That’s why you’re here!”

His head slams back hard against the floor and he brings his hand up to the spot that I just hit. He looks stunned.

Then he looks angry. Placing both hands on my chest he pushes me. “Get off of me!” he shouts.

Unprepared for this, I fall over. He begins to stand up, but I’m fast, even in this drunken state. I catch his arm and bring him back down, then grab his hair and slam his head into the floor. He groans and tries to roll away, but I am on top of him again.

“Make it work!” I yell.

“You’re sick, Potter!” he yells back.

“Fuck you. This is your fault. This is all your fucking fault!”

And then I’m hitting him, hard, over and over again. He manages to get his arm up, hitting me on the side of the face twice and hard enough to tip me over. Then he gets up.

But I follow.

I grab him and we tussle for a little while, neither one of us gaining the advantage over the other.

Then I manage to push him hard, and he falls backward, hitting the edge of the coffee table and knocking it over. The vase on top of it goes flying, and when it lands, it splinters into a trillion pieces.

Draco is lying on his side, his hand on his head, fingers intertwined with his hair. He pulls his hand away slowly and looks at it. There is blood on his fingertips.

I give him only a few seconds to rest before I’m on him again. This time I kick him hard in the side; two, three times. And all the while I keep telling him that this is his fault, that it’s all his fault, though God only knows what I’m really blaming him for.

He does try to fight back, but it’s really no use. I don’t know if the hit that he took on the head is to blame or if maybe I’m really that much faster and stronger. Maybe it’s because I’ve got what is obviously unquenchable rage on my side. Whatever the reason, the fight soon dissolves into a beating where I’m just pounding him mercilessly.

And the entire time words like, ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ fall easily from my lips.

Finally, he stops moving, stops trying to even defend himself.

Then I stop and push myself up, swaying dangerously once I’m vertical. Somehow I manage not to fall back down.

“What the fuck are you good for, then?” I hiss as I veer away from him.

I tuck myself back in my trousers and head for the stairs. I stumble over my feet, nearly fall, but catch myself on the bannister. I make it all the way to my own room without any further incident, then I flop down on the bed.

And here the film comes to an abrupt halt as the third eye closes.

I blink heavily and try to focus on the here and now, but I can’t quite manage it. I am still seeing those pictures in my mind. Images that will probably follow me into death. But the images are not all that’s disturbing. In fact they are nothing compared to the feelings that accompany them.

Because I know now what I was feeling as I was doing those things. I felt angry and frustrated and bitter. And when I started to beat Draco . . . I felt nothing but pure pleasure.

This last thought causes me to drop onto the floor. I land heavily on my hands and knees, staring at the ground beneath me.

I open my mouth and what escapes is a sound of anguish so severe, so horrible that it doesn’t even sound human.

And as the sound continues to pour from my mouth, one word resonates over and over in my head.

Monster.

Monster.

Monster.

I am a monster.

Just as I thought. Thought...fuck...just as I knew.

I knew.

I stare down at my hands, at my still healing flesh, and I feel such a wave of disgust that I begin to retch.

Oh Merlin, this hurts. This hurts so badly. This knowledge. Knowing. It hurts. I shake my head brutally and somehow manage to replace the accusing litany in my mind with another thought.

A bright, shining thought.

The liquor.

The liquor will make me forget. I’ll just take it and lock myself in my room and drink it up there. I won’t hurt anybody if I’m locked away.

I won’t.

I push myself up from the ground and stumble to the bar, my hand reaching for the nearest bottle. I don’t care what it is, as long as it erases things. As I wrap my fingers around its precious neck, I hear the sound of footsteps.

I don’t bother to turn. I know who it is.

Draco.

Draco is here.

I grip the bottle just a little tighter.