lomonaaeren (
lomonaaeren) wrote2010-10-26 06:32 pm
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Chapter Twelve of 'Nova Cupiditas'- His Own Personal Midnight
Chapter Eleven.
Title: Nova Cupiditas (12/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Attempted rape, issues of consent, violence, gore, sex, heavy angst, profanity. Ignores the epilogue.
Summary: Nova cupiditas—the curse that makes the victim desire someone they hate. There is no cure, and the consequences grow increasingly violent the more the desire is denied. And now someone has cursed Draco Malfoy to desire Harry Potter.
Author’s Notes: This is a very dark story. It will probably be between twelve and twenty chapters.
Chapter One.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Twelve—His Own Personal Midnight
Draco came awake staring in several different directions, snarling and clawing at the bubble that surrounded him.
“It’s all right, Draco. You’re safe.”
That calm, stolid voice came from just above his head, and Draco settled back with a small sigh, tilting his face up to look. Harry sat there, by the side of his bed, with his hand extended through a hole in the wards that surrounded Draco. It had probably been on his shoulder or his face, but with the way Draco had moved around, it had slid to his chest. Draco seized Harry’s wrist, rubbed his face against it, and sighed in relief.
“You’re all right. You’re safe.”
Draco hardly paid attention. He had felt trapped when he woke, yes, but now he didn’t, especially since he remembered the reasons for putting the bubble in place. He had grown snappish over having Weasley in the same room last night, and then in the same house. He had insisted on sitting right behind Harry, arms around his waist, his nose next to Harry’s ear. The thought of that behavior made him flush a little now, but it had seemed perfectly natural at the time. If Harry’s friends insisted on having access to him, then Draco could insist on the same thing, and he would make sure that neither of them could sneak in and fuck Harry when he wasn’t looking, because he would always be looking.
“You’re all right. You’re safe.”
Draco shook his head in irritation. “Say something else,” he snapped, looking up at Harry. The sight of those brilliant green eyes made his stomach turn over, and he reached up, but halted his free hand an inch short of the barriers. He was taking in more of his surroundings than he had been, he thought. That had to be a hopeful sign. “When you talk like that, I get the feeling that you don’t want to bother with me, that you’re only doing this because you have no choice.”
Harry blinked. He was lovely when he did that, Draco thought, entirely so. The way his eyelashes descended over his eyes and then flattened along his cheek could have taught a whole phalanx of artists about light and shadow. Then again, Harry was so beautiful that the artists would have had a hard time figuring out which of his features they would learn the most from. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s not true at all.”
“I know.” Draco licked his lips. The hunger was growing in him again, shoving against the skin of his stomach like a swallowed blade. “Open the bubble, please, Harry.”
“I’m sorry.” Harry shook his head, making his hair rustle with a sound that drove Draco mad. He had to touch it. “This is as much of me as I can give you right now. And I’ll have to send you to sleep if you hurt yourself.”
The thought nearly panicked Draco, not because of what would happen if he hurt himself but because he would miss seeing Harry then, and Harry might well walk out of the room and do something dangerous or upsetting. “No!” he said, and firmed his grip on Harry’s hand. “If you can’t do anything else—a calming spell? A Calming Draught?” Although everything would taste like ashes that wasn’t Harry’s skin, that was better than nothing.
Harry watched him with concern for a moment, which Draco was all for encouraging, and then nodded and cast a Summoning Charm. “Accio Calming Draught,” he called.
Draco closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Harry catching the vial and taking the cork out with his teeth. Then he said, “I’ll have to withdraw my hand so that I can take the vial and then put it through to you, Draco. Can you let me go?”
He didn’t sound condescending, to Draco’s amazement. But a moment later, he was scornful of himself for being surprised. Of course Harry would manage that, if anyone could. Harry knew how to treat people. Harry was the hero Draco had always thought he wasn’t, because he was heroic in ordinary ways.
He unclenched his fingers and let Harry retract his hand, though it could only happen because he promised himself something better when he had hold of Harry again. The potion came down, Draco swallowed the Calming Draught, and then he seized Harry’s hand hard enough that the vial dropped to the bed before he began to lick between Harry’s fingers.
Harry shuddered, but Draco didn’t stop. Every time his tongue swiped over the skin, he collected a new flavor and eased the hunger that gathered in his belly. Harry’s skin tasted of salt, of sharpness, of sweat, of earth, of dirt, of tiredness. Draco tasted them all, and separated the tastes, and wriggled in delight on the bed. It was the first time he remembered being really satisfied since he was cursed. He had come close when he tried to seduce Harry, but he had always had the impression that Harry wasn’t really willing to let Draco touch him like this.
He’s willing this time. Or at least he isn’t pulling his hand away.
But when Draco glanced up, Harry was just sitting there with a sort of tolerant expression, watching him the same way he might watch a cat rubbing itself against his knee. That hurt so much Draco stopped moving. “You’re not enjoying this,” he said.
“I can’t feel much of it, since I cast the Cold Water Curse on myself yesterday, and that lasts for seventy-two hours,” Harry answered calmly.
Draco settled back with a pout. He did feel a little better now that he’d taken the potion, less hungry and less frantic to break out of the bubble, but he faced the same obstacle that he always did: Harry wasn’t enjoying himself, and he seemed opposed to letting Draco persuade him into doing it. Draco locked his fingers with Harry’s again and sighed.
When he met Harry’s eyes this time, Harry was looking at him with acute distress, and Draco surged up fast enough to bump his head against the top of the bubble. He rubbed it, looking steadily at Harry. “Tell me who hurt you,” he said, “so I can hurt them.”
“I’m only hurt for you,” Harry said lowly. “Because you’ll wake up and suffer when you do, but like this, you’re suffering even more. It’s a choice between hoping that you can forgive me when you wake up, and seeing what you’ll have to forgive me for. Can you forgive me for seeing it? I hope so.”
Draco laughed. “You’re not making any sense,” he said. He was pleased to discover that he hadn’t been completely mistaken about Harry when they were both boys, that sometimes Harry was just as nonsensical as Draco had always thought he was. “I’ll forgive you anything, except perhaps staying away from me when I want to share myself with you.”
Harry bowed his head and sighed. “Never mind,” he said after a moment. “You can’t understand it, and it’s not fair to inflict things on you that you can’t understand.”
Draco snorted. “Try me.”
Harry peered at him, hesitated, opened his mouth, and might have said something really entertaining and really valuable, something that would pierce to the heart of him and let Draco understand why he held back and shivered when Draco wanted to offer him every happiness. But at that moment, the door opened and Granger came in.
*
“Harry, I think I’ve discovered something that might be interesting, if you’re serious about trying to cure him—”
Harry didn’t get to respond at first, because a windy sound was coming from Draco’s mouth. Harry stared and bent closer to the bubble, wondering if he was wheezing. Then he realized it was a low snarl, the kind an animal might make, and that Draco’s eyes were fixed on Hermione. He’d done that to Ron last night, too, insisting that Ron leave the lab after Harry had cast a few more spells and then asking every few minutes if Ron was really still in the house. Harry had been forced to lie and say Ron had left to go home and go to sleep.
“Mine,” Draco said, hauling on Harry’s arm hard enough that he staggered into the bubble of wards.
Hermione stood there with her hand over her mouth and her eyes so big with pity that Harry felt his skin twitch in irritation. She had no right to look at him like that, as if he was trying to tame a wild animal who wouldn’t be tamed. Harry shook his head and murmured, “You were saying?”
“She can’t stay,” Draco interrupted before Hermione could get a word in edgewise. “You’re mine, and she’s too close.”
Hermione did what Harry had been afraid she would: forgot Draco was under a curse and tried to treat him as if he was behaving this way of his own free will. She turned to him with her hands on her hips. “You can’t own people, Malfoy,” she began to lecture. “That’s why the system of owning house-elves doesn’t work.”
Harry shook his head furiously at her, and his expression must have communicated some of his exasperation, because she stopped talking with a blink. Draco, in the meantime, had started to look almost normal, the way he had when he was taunting Ron in the lab last night.
“You’ve never learned better, Granger,” he drawled. “You never will. You don’t understand that the house-elves love servitude.” Abruptly, his eyes snapped to the side, and the way they burned told Harry that his normal manner was only a thin mask over a much deeper and wider madness. “The way that Harry loves being mine.” His nails were digging scratches in the back of Harry’s hand now.
Hermione had recovered enough to snort. “Yes, he loves it so much that you have to keep him prisoner and hurt him, Malfoy.”
Draco released Harry, looking stricken. The next moment, his face crumpled and he reached out again. Harry let him clasp his wrist a second time. Draco closed his eyes and leaned on Harry’s arm as though it was holding him up in the middle of a shipwreck.
“Hermione,” Harry said, words low and emphatic so that Draco wouldn’t respond to them the way he would a cry of distress. “Stop it.”
“I don’t see how I’m going to tell you what I found, if you won’t leave him and he doesn’t want me here,” Hermione muttered, looking displeased.
“Write it down,” Harry suggested, with a glance at Draco. He had dropped off almost to sleep, or so his slow, deep breathing argued, but Harry knew the curse might assert itself again and wake Draco up at any time. “That way, I can look over it and think up questions to ask you. If I have to put him to sleep again, we’ll talk then.”
Hermione nodded and pulled two pieces of parchment out of a book she was carrying, which she started to recopy more neatly onto another piece of parchment. Harry turned his head to the side so that he could avoid the look in her eyes. She still thought there was nothing to be done and that he would lose Draco, and in the meantime, he was wasting time and effort on a case that would cause him heartbreak.
It didn’t matter what she thought, Harry told himself. Not as long as she would help him and refrain from arguing with Draco. He could use any information she gathered. He would use it. He would remember that his friends cared for him and were offering him the best advice they could, so he could fight the tendency to withdraw into a tiny little bubble with only Draco for company.
If the worst happened and he had to mercy-kill Draco, or if the time came when they really couldn’t do any more, then Harry had to maintain enough perspective to know it.
*
“That’s strange,” Harry said, leaning forwards so that he could peer at the drawing Hermione had made. His skin prickled, and he had to lick his lips to keep his mouth from overflowing. Stupid as it sounded to say it—which was why he didn’t say it—he was beginning to think that they had finally discovered a clue.
“What’s strange?” Hermione leaned forwards. Ron, behind her, put a supportive hand on her shoulder, though Harry thought he was the one who needed it more. Hermione reached up and squeezed his arm without looking at him. All her gaze and attention were for Harry, the way they had been since he left the room where Draco was sleeping.
“This drawing you made looks like part of the curse I spotted last night,” Harry said, and turned the notes around, tapping the long, wavy lines that coiled and doubled back on themselves, like the snake on Draco’s head. “Part of the spell’s signature. What kind of book did you find this in?”
“A long shot.” Hermione pursed her lips and shrugged. “It was in a book about Dark Arts spells that warp and twist the mind. The ones that are like the Imperius Curse but less effective or stronger, to the point that few people use them because they’ll reduce your victims to a gibbering wreck and be obvious.” Her voice was detached, the usual tone she used when discussing people who had done horrible things.
Harry nodded, and then lost himself in the accompanying notes. Hermione had talked about the history of Nova Cupiditas, the separate components that people had sometimes thought comprised it but had been unable to prove existed, and the fact that it had killed everyone it was cast on. That information was underlined twice, making absolutely sure that Harry couldn’t miss it. Harry still wasn’t inclined to pay attention to it until he had to. Draco didn’t need anyone else giving up on him.
The snake represented not one curse, but curses in general that twisted the mind. Harry felt his hands tighten on the parchment when he reached one particular line.
“What is it?” Hermione was more sensitive to those sorts of signals than Ron was, leaning forwards as if she could make him tell them what was in his mind with the sheer pressure of her stare.
Harry had to swallow twice before he could speak. “These mind-warping spells can be tangled with others, because of the way their signature flows. So they can easily combine and blend to form new curses. And they’re hard to disentangle.”
“I read that part when I came back,” Ron said. “It doesn’t say ‘hard.’ It says ‘impossible.’”
Harry ignored him and kept reading.
“Harry,” Hermione said. Her voice was polite but firm, one of those times when she would get angry if he tried to ignore her. She reached out and put her hand on his arm.
Harry leaned back. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he said. “I’ve explained how and why it’s impossible for me to abandon Draco, too. And you’ve agreed to help. You wouldn’t be wasting your time if you thought there really was no chance.”
Hermione bowed her head. Ron was the one who took over from her, slipping into place with a lack of effort that made Harry’s chest ache for a moment. His best friends could do this, because they really loved and trusted each other. But Harry didn’t have that kind of love and trust with anyone else. The curse gave him a glimpse of it, but it would be snatched away in the end, and Harry had to hope that it was snatched away, or he would be worse than the people who had cast the curse in the first place.
“Mate,” Ron said quietly. “We’re doing this because it’s important to you. Not because we feel sympathy for Malfoy, and not because we think you can succeed. And of course we want to protect you. Leave you alone with Malfoy, and I don’t think that would happen.”
Harry stood up and turned away instead of answering. What could he say? That he thought it was repugnant that Ron and Hermione couldn’t forgive Draco, which was true? That he understood why they couldn’t, which was also true? He was the one who had worked closely with Draco and understood him better now.
And it’s been two days.
Harry slowed down and took a breath that made his lungs ache. Two days—well, three—since Draco was cursed and he’d found out about it. That was enough time to go through multiple assaults and a near-rape and Draco bursting out of the warded circle, but Ron and Hermione hadn’t been through all of that.
No wonder they think I’m mental, changing my whole perspective on someone named Malfoy in just two days.
Harry turned back around, a little calmer, understanding their position, but still determined to defend his own. He would just do it with more consideration for the feelings of his best friends, that was all.
“Look,” he said. “I can’t give up. I won’t give up. If you try to protect me by hurting Draco, then yes, I’m going to object. But other than that, I won’t. If you feel that you can do something for both of us that doesn’t involve hurting him, I’m willing to listen.”
Ron and Hermione held one of those silent conversations Harry was in the mood to envy at the moment, glances shifting and flickering back and forth, hands rising and falling in what looked like aborted gestures. Harry leaned back against the table and breathed himself into calm. He also found himself listening for a cry from Draco’s bedroom.
The way that a parent would listen for a child. Not the way that one lover would listen for another.
Harry sighed. He would have to contend with this illusion of a relationship in his mind for a while, he thought. Well, as long as he kept reminding himself that it wasn’t real—as long as he was willing to remind himself of that—perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
Hermione finally turned around to face him and took up the position of spokesperson again. “I’ll do what I can with research, Harry. Ron will take over guarding. We’ll try to consult you before we make any hasty decisions. Will that work?”
Harry gave them a tired smile. “It will. Thanks.”
*
Draco came awake hurting all over. He reached up, and, without considering what he was doing, started to tear strips of skin from his face. He knew that would ease the desire, if he could just get some of the skin loose and eat it.
“Draco! No!”
The touch of those hands on his skin was like the quenching of thirst and hunger both at once by some miraculous potion. Draco rolled over and tried to kiss Harry, but there was a bubble in the way. He screamed in frustration, fury, fear, and desire, and dug his fingers back into his face. He knew he was close to his eyes. He didn’t care. Harry was out there, and he was in here.
“Damn it!” That was Harry’s voice, and Draco felt better, hearing it, but nothing would have felt good enough except Harry breathing into his face as he spoke the words. Draco heard frantic fumbling, a muttered chant, and then something about “nutrient potions” and “no, I can’t hold him down like this.”
“Somnus!”
Something dark and low in Draco’s belly shattered the sleeping charm. He wasn’t going to succumb to it. His eyes had focused now, and he saw Harry on the other side of a transparent wall. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. They were supposed to be together now, forever and always.
“Harry,” he called. He was lonely, and hungry, and had nothing to eat. He locked his hands into his hair and pulled some strands free, strands that he thought had blood on the ends. He sucked the blood. He was so hungry.
“Bloody fucking—” someone else said, and then Draco felt the smooth, round edge of a glass flask against his lips. He didn’t want it. He turned his head away. He wanted to suck blood, to eat flesh. It was a wild, raw hunger in him, and it could only be satisfied by something equally raw and wild in return, unless Harry was willing to kiss him.
Which Harry never would be. It grieved and hurt Draco, to realize that. He wondered if he wouldn’t rather die, given the knowledge that Harry would keep as carefully far apart from him as possible.
Then the bubble was gone, and Harry was with him, kneeling above him, leaning down to kiss him freely. Draco moaned in ecstasy and clutched at his shoulders. The burning died at once, his lucid mind began to rise to the surface, and he changed the grasping of his fingers on Harry’s shoulders to a gentle, caressing motion. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt Harry. He would make him scream in pleasure, and then Harry would want to stay with him, would willingly admit Draco’s love, would give him his love in return.
Harry’s mouth opened, and Draco got one wonderful taste of his tongue before he realized that something else was slipping into his mouth, too. The potion! Harry was giving him a sleeping potion of some sort through the kiss.
Draco sank down into sleep, confused and hungry.
And betrayed.
*
“Harry, you can’t go on like this.”
Harry shut his eyes and refused to look at Hermione. He knew that his mouth was swollen, his hair standing straight out from his head, and his shirt in tatters. He knew he would see the reflection of that in Hermione’s face, and, right now, he didn’t want to.
“I know,” he said abruptly. “But I think that the sleeping potion should keep him quiescent for a little while. I have to—I’ll go to Malfoy Manor and see if Narcissa has anything she’s found in the books that I can use.”
Hermione stretched out her hand, but then dropped it and nodded. She seemed to know that he needed to be away from Draco for right now, Harry thought, and gave her one smile before he fled to his bedroom to put on a different shirt.
He couldn’t…
He was running away from temptation and his own fierce humiliation as much as anything else.
He had depths of sickness that he’d never expected, to want to rape someone as much as he did.
Harry put on a new shirt without looking into the mirror and swiped ineffectually at his hair with a comb. Then he stepped out his front door, barely checking to make sure he had his wand with him before he turned away.
He would have to Apparate to Malfoy Manor, since he doubted they would have left a Floo connection open for him. Well, that was all right. It would still be somewhere he could go to be away from Draco and Draco’s hungry clutching hands and the urge to simply melt all over Draco and give in.
He was still hard. He still wanted to.
He walked to the end of the street, and the air shimmered as two Disillusionment Charms dropped at once. Harry whirled around. His wand came up, but more people were behind him, and the ones in front of him were experts, separating so fast that he couldn’t track both of them at once, firing curses that bound his legs and took his wand away and made him sprawl on the ground like a doll.
Harry yelled, but they had already silenced his voice. Someone scooped him up and clapped a sack over his head. Other people hissed something urgent and close, and then they were Apparating.
Harry didn’t get a chance to see faces, so he didn’t really know who they were. But he had suspicions anyway, beating in his head with the irrational strength of certainty.
These were the people who had taken and tortured Draco, who had cast Nova Cupiditas on him.
And now they had come for Harry.