Author: Tarie
Rating: R
Length: 2,400 words.
Scenario: I promise to talk dirty to you (yes, in Parseltongue, too.) Summary: Draco blinks and stares up at him, squinting at the dim halo of light around Potter's head. Prat. What sort of magic that is, Draco doesn't know. No doubt Dumbledore taught it to him before - before - because Potter is Perfect and Potter is Special and Potter Potter Potter Sod Off. Draco finds himself imprisoned, Harry serves as guard and protector, and not everything is as it seems.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe belong to JKR. Not me.
Notes: Title comes from the Bob Dylan song of the same name. Thank you to
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
furiosity for the beta and brilliance in general. ♥I Shall Be Released
[.one]
Draco's first thought upon waking is that he has been blinded. Darkness is all around him - black and thick and heavy and confusing.
Slowly he rises to his feet and puts a hand out cautiously in front of him. The ground is uneven, though, and he stumbles, his hand latching onto something firm and cold.
Iron bars.
Draco's second thought upon waking is much clearer. He is imprisoned, just like his father is.
Was.
Father, dead. Mother grieving and loathing him. Snape--
The inky darkness gives way to red, bright and flaming and fierce, before his eyes. Snape. Draco's jaw sets and he reaches for the wand he knows will not be there.
Perhaps it is Snape who is holding him here. Draco doesn't know. He doesn't hear anything other than the steadiness of his own breath and he can't see anything other than blackness and he just doesn't know.
[.two]
Dementors are cruel, so much crueller than Draco thought they could be. They glide past the bars of his cell, back and forth, siphoning any little bits of hope or happiness they can from him. This isn�t much of a difficult task for them; Draco hasn't much hope or happiness to spare.
He has been here - where is here? - for two days or two months and he has not seen light in all this time. He has not felt much in all this time, either. Sensation is dulled and it could be from a lack of it altogether or a refusal to allow the Dementors to take his everything.
They rarely stop at his cell because he tucks into himself. He waits.
It is safer to wait. Smarter to wait. Bide your time, Draco.
Bide.
Impulsiveness and anger only draw the Dementors to him and then they feed as though his mind is a trough, full of slopstopfeelwant and they gorge.
No one is coming for him.
Likely no one even knows he is here.
Bide.
[.three]
Day becomes Night and Night becomes Day and Draco no longer has a sense of time. He sleeps when he is tired and he is tired often.
He dreams of long, spindly, cold fingers creeping through bars to curl round his head and suck out his memories and essence. He dreams of eyes, red and slanted and commanding. He dreams of a sprawling home and portraits and family traditions that are no more.
He dreams of nothing and everything in between.
[.four]
On day five or fifty, the sound of bones crunching wakes him. The sound is gone as fast as it came, but Draco cannot sleep.
Hours later his hand closes over a small, mangled bit of fur.
The rat's form is ridiculously limp and Draco has no recollection of crushing it.
[.five]
Draco is not alone.
He cannot see but he can feel that he is not.
Tiny hairs stand on the back of his neck and breath is heated as it puffs against his ear.
He stiffens and catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
The Dementor stops in front of his cell, the breath warm no longer and gone, starkness settling in the pit of his belly, and Draco knows he has let down his guard. He has become untucked and attracted their attention. Draco screams.
Screams.
[.six]
His throat is raw and he would do anything for water. Lips chapped and splitting and tongue dry and useless in his mouth.
He cannot sleep, not after what was Done to him. Him. He. Who is he, anymore? Who is he and who has seen fit to see him in this hell?
It doesn't matter.
No one is coming for him.
To bide is to hope and hope is a curse, an affliction from which he no longer suffers.
[.seven]
Something cool and slippery, silky runs over his ankle and Draco sits up with a start. He scrambles to a stand and raises his fists and prays to no god but a ghost that he will not have to use them. Don't know how don't have strength don't have don't have don't have--
"Here."
The voice is rough from disuse but soft and caring and Draco does not know whether to laugh or cry or keep his fists raised.
He tries to speak but forgets how and reaches out one hand instead.
"Drink," the voice says again as Draco's fingers curl around something. A cup.
So Draco drinks and does not care if the voice belongs to friend or foe.
Bide.
[.eight]
At first Draco thinks he is dreaming the light. The longer he can see the pin-pricks of light through his lids, the more he suspects he is not.
He does not open his eyes right away. He bides. He bides and listens and becomes aware of the sounds of someone else's breathing in his cell.
Friend or foe?
Draco doesn't know.
Gifter of water and giver of light and Draco doesn't care if Father himself rose from the grave to provide.
Eyes open.
His voice doesn't work, not right away. So when he thinks 'Potter?' and Potter nods, Draco sees spots looming large before his eyes - bright everything is bright - and winces. He winces and then he lunges, using the hands that clenched unknowingly into fists to break ugly specs and punch that weak Gryffindor jaw he has always hated so.
Potter curses. The light goes out. And Draco sinks into blackness.
[.nine]
"You're thin." Potter's voice is low and wavering.
Draco blinks and stares up at him, squinting at the dim halo of light around Potter's head. Prat. What sort of magic that is, Draco doesn't know. No doubt Dumbledore taught it to him before - before - because Potter is Perfect and Potter is Special and Potter Potter Potter Sod Off.
Hate.
Bide.
"Go away, Potter." Draco holds his arms close to his chest and presses his back against wet, musty-smelling stones.
"I won't," Potter says stubbornly, dropping to his knees before Draco. "You need help and I'm--"
No.
Once he came to Potter for help. Once. Potter tried but Potter failed and now Father was Dead Mother was No Longer His and it is Potter's fault Draco is here. He knows it is. He can feel it in his bones. In his skin. Under his skin. Yes, there. Under there.
"I don't- I don't need your help," Draco says, swallowing hard against a lump in his throat.
Don't need don't want don't lie.
"Liar," Potter says automatically, reaching out to take hold of his hands.
[.ten]
Draco is a liar, just as much as Potter is the Saviour of the Wizarding World.
He lies and Potter saves and their fingers entwine to find the balance between untruths and unsung heroics and Draco feels sick with need and weakness and lack of control.
Potter does this to him because that is what Potter does and Draco despises him for it, almost as much as he despises himself. What he's become. What he is. What they are.
[.eleven]
"I'm an Animagus," Potter announces.
It isn't a surprise.
"Animal, Potter?" Draco is sure the answer will be lion stupid Gryffindor beast or hippogriff stupid mad creature or even horse stupid boring thing. He can't be more surprised when Potter ducks his head and mumbles, "snake" into his chest.
The Serpent and the Slytherin sit in the cell and Draco wonders if Potter has taken to killing rats for sport.
He wonders but he does not ask. They have their little secrets and their skeletons and Draco likes believing he is the only killer in this tiny space.
[.twelve]
Potter is better at detecting the presence of the Dementors than Draco is. He morphs into a snake and slithers away while Draco tucks into himself, and returns when the Dementors have moved on.
Draco asks Potter why he hasn't got him out of this place yet and Potter always says that the time isn't right. He runs calloused thumbs over the scars whose stories Draco won't tell his cheeks and tells Draco to stay strong. To be strong.
Most times Draco nods but on day seventeen or seventy, something inside him stretches taut like an elastic band. Anger washes over him and he shoves Potter's hands away. Potter looks at him in the pale light and Draco can see that he is hurt and confused but he doesn't care.
[.thirteen]
There is a hand on his arm and nails are digging into his flesh.
"You promised me," Potter chokes, staring hard at spot on Draco's arm.
Draco does not have time for this.
"I don't make promises," he snaps, yanking his arm away.
"You do."
"I did. Did. There's a difference."
"Not to me." Potter whispers, his finger tracing along the s-curves of the serpent on Draco's forearm, up and into the skull of the Dark Mark. His touch is light but it burns Draco's skin. Light touching Dark. Good touching Evil. Saviour touching the Unsaveable.
"Stop." There is a prickling behind his eyes and months - years - of need and want of comfort and drive and jealousy and of being lost and of being finally found push forward and Draco is crying.
He is crying and he hates it and he hates Potter and he hates everything.
[.fourteen]
Potter strokes his hair while he cries and makes Draco promises he can't possibly keep. He promises to help Draco get rid of the mark. He promises to help Draco find his mother. He promises that everything will be all right. He promises he promises he promises.
While Draco takes a handful of Potter's shirt and blows his nose, Potter promises that things will get better.
That promise tears something deep inside and Draco becomes angry and tired and frustrated. "Stop it, Potter. Just stop."
Potter sucks in a breath and looks at him with wide eyes and a frown.
Draco grits his teeth. "No more promises. You can't keep any of these."
"I can," Potter protests. "I will.�
And before Draco can retort, Potter has slithered away and a Dementor bears down on him.
Then there is screaming.
[.fifteen]
"I'll promise you anything you like."
Potter's voice calls from across the way. He is in a cell of his own and Draco isn't sure if he was captured or if he is merely sitting in there to give Draco space.
Distance isn't something that Draco has ever really appreciated, and today he appreciates it far less than usual.
Draco scowls and then he laughs, the sound tapering off as he remembers. They might come again. No laughter no hope nothing give them nothing.
"Promise to support a real Quidditch team instead of those horrid Cannons," Draco says. Quidditch. Do they even play Quidditch anymore? He doesn't have the faintest idea.
"I promise to support a real Quidditch team instead of those horrid Cannons," Potter says promptly. "Now you promise something."
"Potter."
"Fine. I'll promise another thing."
The iron bars are cool to the touch and Draco curls his fingers around them, settling his head between two as best he can. He squints in the darkness and can just make out Potter's form. "Go on, then."
"I promise to clear things up. You know what I'm talking about."
Draco wets his lower lip and closes his eyes. "Yes," he says softly. "I do."
"And...." Potter's voice trails off. Then, in the next moment, he says in a rush, "I promise to talk that way to you."
"What way?" Draco asks, lifting his head and wishing like hell he could see Potter's face instead of a dark blob.
"You know," Potter says.
Draco knows. Draco nearly had forgot, but he still does know. Not since before. Before before before fault and Marks and cells.
"In Parseltongue," Potter adds.
"Come here."
[.sixteen]
Potter studies the Mark on his arm and asks "why," but Draco doesn't answer. Potter doesn't know what he had to do to make up for not killing Dumbledore. Potter wouldn't want to know. Draco doesn't want to know himself but the memory is embedded so deeply inside his mind that he doubts he would ever be able to pull it out to store in a Pensieve. It's rooted there for good. For bad. Forever.
Draco doesn't answer but he does touch Potter. His fingers run over the jaw he hit days or months or years ago in that cell and just the feel of Potter's skin under his gives him cause to stand up that much straighter and lean in that much closer.
Drawn. Pulled. Lured.
Necessity.
Their mouths hover close to one another and Draco's breath rolls off Potter's lips back against his own. He breathes Potter's scent in and feels the strong line of chin and jaw and bone and then. And then.
Breathing in and out together and touch and taste and Potter is kneeling, running his hands over the Mark and hissing. Potter is hissing and Draco has no idea what he's saying but it's hypnotic and soothing and sensual all at once and Draco feels.
Sibilant sounds spill forth from Potter's lips and Draco is spiralling, forever spiralling and hotheatwetlickyes there.
He lets out a whine-breath-sigh and Potter is hissing and Draco's hips are rising as those calloused fingers wrap round him and stroke so slowly it ought to be an Unforgivable.
Draco gasps and Potter strokes faster and there is--
Potter is tonguing the Dark Mark on Draco's arm and there is a surge of power from one - both - of them and Draco knows he has been biding his time for this moment this perfection this feeling.
His body becomes rigid for a split second before he explodes all over Potter's hand. Then Potter is standing and his glasses dig into Draco's face as mouth meets mouth and Draco knows who he is and what he is and why this is all Potter's fault.
Potter came for him at last and has got him out of this place. He has, even if they haven't left yet, he has. The time is finally right and the biding will cease.
Draco shall be released and it's Potter's fault and it's time.
Time.
If to Bide is to Hope, then Time is to Believe and Draco Believes.
