𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

Part 13

1.

Potter plays the penitent. Draco can tell him to get to his knees, and he’ll do it. Draco can tell him to stay there, and he’ll do it. Draco can tell him to suck his cock, and Potter will do that too. His hands will try to touch Draco, but he’ll push Potter away every time. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” he snarls.

He’s more than willing to wank occasionally in the bathroom.

It is gratifying watching Potter suffer like this. It is gratifying to be able to push Potter away when he can feel Potter’s hard cock in the small of his back, and then to listen as Potter shuffles into the bathroom to pull his cock and moan his name and try to be quiet and pretend that he’s fine, but really he’s not.

Draco watches the children impartially. He wants things to be like the way they were before, but Potter has fucked everything up. Potter deserves to suffer. He never feels like smiling, except when the crack of light under the bathroom door shines and flickers as Potter moves on the other side, and the sounds of slapping and breathy moans filter out to Draco’s ears. But even then, it’s a forced smirk because inside he’s seething still. A little less each time Potter catches his eye and he looks crestfallen, or guilty or sad.

Neither of them speak of her. Draco reads the Daily Prophet sometimes, contrary to what Potter might think. He’s not enclosed. He knows what goes on in the world, and he knows the whore is nice and snug in ward in St. Mungo’s where the mad go. His fingertips still tingle sometimes with the aftershocks of the Obliviate.

“Thank you Aunt Bella,” he whispers. She was mad, and Draco didn’t like her always laughing at him, trying to pick his brains, but she taught him something useful in the end.

It is when Abraxas starts to give him looks that Draco realizes something needs to happen. He’s still mad, he’s still angry and he can still smell strange things on Potter’s skin in bed. He scourgifies the sheets, but the floral scent doesn’t leave and Draco ends up casting an Incendio in frustration.

Potter goes out and buys new sheets, but he doesn’t say anything.

His body seeks Potter’s out in sleep. His body misses the warm person in the spring, when the nights are still a little chilly. His body misses the warm person in the summer, even though it is far too hot. It’s been months since they have touched. Draco lies supine and stares at the dust motes in the air, listening to Potter snore. He could, if he wanted, reach out and take Potter’s hand and tuck it under the sheets, wrap it around his cock and he knows Potter would toss him off eagerly like that, but-

He doesn’t.

She is imprinted on his body.

Draco knows that Potter never promised him monogamy, and he didn’t do the same, but…the thought of her still eats him up inside. Potter is his. Potter was his. It’s all about control, about possession. Malfoy’s don’t share.

Except Abraxas is driving him mad.

He watches Draco all day out of the corner of his eyes, the ones that are a reflection of his own. He’ll catch Abraxas glaring out of the corner of his eyes, he’ll catch Abraxas staring at supper time, then glancing back down to his food with a furrowed brow.

“All right?” he asks.

“All right,” Abraxas mutters, but it’s as good a lie as Potter could ever tell Snape. Absolute rubbish.

One afternoon, perhaps it is in June or early July. It’s not Potter’s birthday yet and frankly, Draco could care less. Potter gave him birthday presents and there was cake and a tense “Happy Birthday” followed by a long look, but Draco stashed the boxes unwrapped in the closet under the stairs and he hasn’t looked at them since.