Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Prompt Set: 50.1 H/D
Prompt:100 Quills #38 “Knots”
Word Count: 1374
Summary: Voldemort’s final curse leaves Harry at Draco’s mercy.
Warnings: Bondage, corporal punishment.
This was the very first fic I wrote for a fest or challenge. I signed up when 100 Quills was still fairly new and I was, I think, the second participant to get through my entire prompt set! It took over six months to write them all. It started with this short, kinky, and sweet one:
by Ravenna C. Tan
Harry heard the creak of the rope, felt the bite of the fiber into his wrist as Draco yanked the knots tight. Draco’s anger was evident in his brusque movements, his stiff gait as he circled the whipping post, checking that all was in readiness. Harry knew he should say something about the rope being too tight, but watching Draco stalk to the far side of the dungeon, his hair shining gold in the torchlight, his throat constricted. Sometimes Draco was so beautiful it hurt. Even when he was angry. Maybe especially when he was angry.
Now wasn’t the time to apologize, anyway, not with the clock ticking toward time for the ritual. Harry felt a drop of nervous sweat drip from his hair onto his bare back. No matter how many times they did this, the feeling of apprehension would mount. It had been, what, six times now?
He calmed his nerves by thinking it through. Voldemort had been vanquished on midsummer’s eve, so then came Lammas, the Equinox, Halloween, winter solstice, Candlemas… that was five. So this one would be the sixth time that he and Draco had performed the countercurse.
His eyes jerked open as he felt the light touch of leather on the inside of his thigh, then Draco’s breath on his neck. He expected Draco to ask if he was ready, but instead of speaking, Draco ran his leather-covered hand up Harry’s thigh and grabbed hold of his bare bottom.
I’m sorry I stayed out too late with Ron and Seamus, Harry thought. I should have owled. We shouldn’t have drunk so much. I couldn’t Apparate…
He gasped as Draco slid his hand between Harry’s legs, tracing from the crack of his ass to where his balls hung. Harry shuddered under the strange mix of love and anger and anticipation he could feel in Draco’s touch.
One thing he did not sense was reluctance. This was not like the first time they had performed the countercurse, when Draco’s hesitance to really lay it on had nearly caused the spell to fail. That time Harry’s wounds from the final battle had barely healed.
This time nothing gave Draco pause, and Harry swallowed the lump that formed in his throat as he realized Draco seemed almost eager to dish out the beating. Harry felt the cool dungeon air on his skin as Draco stepped away from him, then. He heard the swish of the riding crop through the air as Draco flicked it experimentally. New sweat prickled on Harry’s skin as he recalled what the crop felt like, its unique burn. They’d tested it just a week ago while trying to find something painful enough to meet the spell’s requirements but that Harry could stand and which would leave minimal damage or scars.
Harry jumped again at the sensation of something touching his shoulder. It traced a long thin line from shoulder to shoulder–Draco tracing designs on his skin with the loop of leather on the crop’s tip.
“It… it isn’t time yet,” Harry said, hating how shaky and fearful his voice came out.
“I know,” Draco said. “But there’s nothing in the spell that says I have to wait until the curse manifests to start, is there?”
Harry gripped the ropes in his fingers. Was Draco about to beat him just because he was angry, just because he could? The tip of the crop continued to trace, then stopped. He heard the swish in the air and tensed for the blow, trying to guess where it would land.
But nothing came other than Draco’s laugh.
Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself against the post. The post itself was made of ash, the same wood as Draco’s wand, while the bonds were a special weave of dragonhemp, treated magically so that Harry could not break free. Voldemort’s final curse had this far proved unbreakable, and eight times a year it would rise up in Harry, giving him the power of the Dark Lord. The curse could not be removed, but it could be beaten back, literally, by the rite known as Sacrificum.
The torches flared, the signal that midnight had arrived. Harry’s scar burned and he pressed it against the blond wood.
This time the sound of the crop cutting the air was no ruse. The long, black implement made a cracking sound as it caught him across the buttocks, leaving a red welt in a horizontal slash on Harry’s pale skin. Harry held his breath, fighting the pain. Angry or not, Draco could not have hit him that hard, though, as the pain in his head seemed much greater than the pain on his skin.
The next blow landed an inch away from the first, a little lower on Harry’s ass. This one caused Harry to buck his hips forward, pressing his body length against the pole. It burned like fucking hell, in fact. Harry tried to twist his head around to look Draco in the eye, but Draco sank a gloved hand into his hair then, immobilizing his head against the wood.
The third stripe came at the tender place where Harry’s buttocks met the top of his thighs, and he cried out. The torches flared again and then half of them went out.
“You think that scares me?” Draco said. “I’m not afraid of the dark. And I’m in control here.” Holding Harry’s head had brought him a step closer, and he changed the angle of this stroke to cut diagonally across the stripes he had already made.
“I’m going to kill you,” Harry said, though he knew it wasn’t his own voice.
“You always say that,” Draco replied, as he lay on another blow, this one making Harry’s back arch and tears come to his eyes. “You don’t scare me.”
And Draco began to whip him earnestly, letting only a second or two fall between blows. Harry screamed as Draco’s magic and Voldemort’s battled inside his skin. And as Voldemort’s power was beaten back, and Harry’s mind returned to him, he was glad, not for the first time, that he had a Slytherin for a lover. He couldn’t imagine having some squad of Aurors do this to him every holiday. As the crop fell again and again on his skin, as his screams turned to sobs.
And it was his own voice that spoke next, squeezing out the words between blows. “Draco, I’m so sorry…” It wasn’t Seamus’ fault for bringing them that excellent whiskey. It wasn’t Ron’s fault for keeping Harry so late on the night before the ritual. The ritual and the reason for it was a closely guarded secret. It was Harry’s fault, and he was sorry and a fool and although he hadn’t meant to leave Draco alone all evening, hadn’t meant to screw up Draco’s plans for some romantic time together, but regardless of what he had meant to do, he realized, he had to pay for what he had done. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”
The pain turned to ecstasy as Draco whipped him even harder. “I love you, too,” he said, after five more for good measure.
By that time, Harry hung limp from the ropes, his legs no longer holding him up. Harry could hear nothing then but his own breathing, his own heartbeat, as Draco’s arm came to support him from behind. He winced as Draco’s robe scratched roughly against the fresh welts, but he felt himself lifted until the weight was off his arms. Then he heard Draco’s voice–Diffindo!–and the ropes fell away, and the two wizards fell together to the floor.
Draco’s arms clutched him tight, and then there was a disorienting jerk–Draco Apparated them to the bedroom. Harry hissed as Draco lay him onto the silk coverlet on the bed, first with pain as some of the welts were bloody and stung, then with pleasure as Draco ran his bare hand down Harry’s unmarked torso. “Draco…”
“Shut up,” Draco said, jamming his tongue into Harry’s mouth as he climbed on top of him. “I’m not done forgiving you, yet.”