Submission and Dominance

Submission and Dominance

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"Do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?...for every man must have somewhere to turn." - Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

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Submission. It was the only thing Harry had known, trampled beneath the footsteps of so many others, the inescapable bubble that grew tighter, smaller, the more he struggled. Oppression was the order of the day. Let's punch him, Dudley, or let's pretend he doesn't exist. Better yet, why don't we toss him in the cupboard and see how he feels? It can be a science experiment, the effect of aggressive bullying on young boys. Maybe it'll win the Nobel Prize. Everyone, laugh! It's Harry Stuck-In-The-Cupboard! Teehee, haha!

Then Hogwarts. Free to an extent, he supposed, but now trapped, locked, by the thin sliver of raised skin on his forehead. Hi, my name is Harry Potter, but no, he would never shake hands with anyone and ask how do you do because his scar did it for him, strutting, strutting about the castle, proclaiming I'm-Harry-Potter-how-do-you-do even as he vainly told it to just shut up already.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, the one powerless to define himself as that task fell to his gossiping schoolmates, the outlandish Prophet. The irony never failed to elicit the most terrible laughter from him.

//

Domination. It was his future, opening up before him like a flower in the dawn, whispering, beckoning him to step forward into the daylight. Harry Potter, they screamed, hero of the wizarding world! As they grieved for their losses, they cheered for the black-haired boy that had so many times already stood between You-Know-Who and his ultimate victory, that had defeated him at last and rescued them all from totalitarianism of the worst sort.

But after the parades and parties had ended and normality restored, Harry threw away the presents and the letters of thanks, feeding them to the fire that burned within him. And he came to realize that nothing had changed. They still pointed to his head and gasped in awe. They still printed twisted tales in the paper and accepted them as truth. Poster Boy Potter, the marketing phenomenon. Lord Potter On High, the one you should strive to be.

He had known since the beginning, long before he had heard of any prophecy. Through the troubles of exams and girls, Quidditch and Slytherins, it was the one constant in his life: the vision of standing before Voldemort, of Voldemort stand before him, their wands at the ready, each seeing the great abyss gazing back in the other's eyes. The vision was gone now, passed into the cemeteries of history; there was nothing to replace it but a momentary glory, a flash of light, and what remained was an existence of knowing, knowing that the apex of one's life had been reached.

//

The dementors have long since disappeared, dissolving away with their master, but Azkaban retains the same ineffable chills, the dreary hopelessness forever imbued into its name muttered into the night. Its new guards are perhaps capable of less damage but they are intimidating all the same. They give him funny looks when he says he wants to pay a visit to the maximum-security area of the prison. They allow him passage nonetheless (for who would want to refuse a request from the Chosen One?).

Against the dirtied walls, his matted blond hair is distinct, and when he looks up to find out to whom those approaching footsteps belong, he is wearing the supercilious smirk Harry knows so well. After an endless stream of adulation from more or less everyone, seeing Malfoy's signature manifestation of displeasure is almost a relief.

"I suppose you really are the 'Chosen One,' then, Potter," he sneers.

"Yes, maybe I am," Harry replies, glaring back, "but since you are in prison and have no way of getting out, I'd suggest you shut your mouth. Now, you there - " He gestures towards the guard, who is standing off to the side " - could you please unlock this cell?"

The guard scowls. "Mr. Potter, that'd be a clear transgression of our rules, and...and the cell of this man! Why, he was - "

"I know, responsible for instigating the death of Albus Dumbledore," Harry interrupts quietly, "and directly responsible for the deaths of many others. I won't deny that he's a dangerous criminal, sir, but I know what I'm doing. Please unlock this cell and then leave us alone. I'll call for you when I'm through with him."

Giving Harry one last skeptical glance, the guard waves his wand at the gate of Malfoy's cell, it rattles open, and he strides away. Malfoy's face bears the same skepticism. He doesn't shrink as his archrival bears down upon him. "So, going to avenge those deaths?" he asks softly.

"Passed my mind, I'll admit, but not unless I have to."

"Then what do you want with me?"
"All I ask is that you remain silent. If I hear a single word out of you...well, I've got a wand, don't I? If it took care of Voldemort - " He smiles as Malfoy flinches " - it'll take care of you as well, I think."

Harry steps into the dank cell and magicks the gate shut. The quiet is replaced by the cadence of breaking waves against the island. Suddenly, he realizes how close and cramped the prisoners' living conditions are. The tiny room seems too small to hold two fully-grown men and the crackling enmity flying between them. Clearing his throat, Harry tells Malfoy to lie down on his back and not to move. He does as he is told, being, after all, defenseless.

Azkaban has emaciated the sleek face, but the silver eyes look the way they did when Harry first saw them, haughtily bored, staring back at him in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. He tries to read them now, these shallow pools of gray, and wonders about the strange reversal of roles. Draco Malfoy, the last of his family line, doomed to waste away his life between the impenetrable walls of prison. Harry Potter, the symbol of the new beginning, guaranteed the highest seat in the wizarding pantheon.

When he brings the sole of his shoe smashing down on Malfoy's face, he aims for a little lower than the eyes, grunting maliciously as the lily-white skin is overrun with blood. "That's for sixth year," Harry says.

Malfoy, prostrate at his feet, grins. "My finest moment, won't you agree?"

"Roll over, you sodding bastard."

And Harry kicks him and kicks him again, the soft flesh of pureblood stomach so delicious against his iron foot and heart. It is wrong, he knows, to smile at Malfoy's groans and the cringing of his body, but oh God, how good, how satisfying to unload his burden on a man he despises greatly. This is dominance, his fingers gripped firmly about the reins, not merely passing by the summit of the mountain but staying there, and he so wants to dominate, to pulse with the power rushing through his veins, to have it infused into his essence until he is blind with it. He wants to know, what does that feel like? When one man stands above all other men and looks down on those insignificants, does that one man feel the surge of limitless bliss that Harry feels now, now that Malfoy's blood has draped the walls and floor in sadistic blossoms?

Malfoy says nothing and simply slumps over when Harry at last backs away and calls the guard. He can almost hear the words, though, mocking and jeering: Fucking hell, Potter. You'd've made some kind of Death Eater.