𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐇/𝐃/𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐄 2008

Songlines (5/7)

"I don't get you!" Harry roared as Neville and Luna stormed out via the floo, and Draco glowered from the kitchen counter. Kreacher had learned in little time to avoid the masters when Harry yelled. "You never fight with them, not since you explained that the end of fifth year was like having someone prove there were no crumple-horned snorkacks – prove, not just disbelieve. You related it to her, and she understood and gave you a chance. And Neville, seeing that, did too. And you three have gotten along better than you with any of my other friends, save Hermione. It's been months! Months!"

He waved his arms in the air, forgetting about the tea in his mug, which spilled on the ground. Draco ignored it – too busy being ashamed. But he had no right to speak until Harry asked him to after punishment. That was part of the rules, so that he entirely understood what he was being punished for. Harry made him keep to those rules. And they had to be rules – guidelines did not work with Draco. He still hated having to whip him, but it wasn't a matter of choice on his side. He had to enforce the rules.

"I get it with Ron, sometimes, especially as you see him so much at training, though we're supposed to split into smaller groups of four to work intensively for the next three month unit. And I'll understand if you don't want Ron, but we'll talk about that later. Anyway, Ron provokes you, so I can understand that you sometimes lose your self-control with him, but Neville? He did not mean to insult your mother. It was a comment about Bellatrix, who he has every right to hate. And Draco, I just...I don't get it. You're getting better. We see your friends almost as often as mine. You learned! I thought we had gotten better than that!" Harry yelled. He could not help but vent his entire frustration. He was not good with words, but Draco always seemed to pick up the essentials when he rambled.

"Let's go upstairs," Harry growled, "I'm not whipping you down here." His feet stormed angrily up to their bedroom, ignoring the redecorations since Draco moved in. It looked much better with his small touches, but he was so angry that he hated them.

He passed Mrs. Black's portrait (no one had been able to remove that, just as with Sirius's room), and she shrieked at him, but Harry was in no mood to be humored, "I saved your bloody family! They'd all be dead or rotting if it weren't for me, and there's no way I would have lost to Voldemort, so shut your painted trap!"

"How dare you talk – "

"Blah blah blah," Harry ignored her. She always sided with Draco no matter what, and that pissed him off. Draco wasn't always right. He wasn't either, but that was not the point at hand.

They entered the master bedroom, where their beds were pressed together but still separate beds. Harry could not even look at Draco and see that body and be able to do what he had to do. It hurt him to do it. Why couldn't Draco see that?

"Take off your shirt and brace yourself against the bed," Harry ordered, finding a cat o' nine tails, the original British type that had three braids each split into three. There were no knots or metal to draw blood, but the horrible offense required him to use something harsher than a regular whip.

"Twenty lashes," Harry stated, "Count them." His mind fell away during the whipping, reacting only after each number was stated so that he did not have to think about it himself. It took a different kind of strength to hurt someone willingly submitting to the pain despite not enjoying it than to destroy a murderer. He had cried the entire first month, though he denied it to Draco. Pain, such pain – if Harry had not seen its direct effects, he never could have continued after the first three days. He still could not believe Draco was the top Auror student with how sore his body was outside of class. But Draco had, apparently, been used to playing Quidditch in that form and winning most his games. It cheapened his Quidditch victories, but Draco told him that the fact should not make them less valuable.