Warning: Non-con. Let me repeat that so that this sentence is longer than the rest of the header and thus stands out: Non-con.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 1800 words
Summary: Draco Malfoy's a right bastard. News at eleven.
Note: Written back in October (November? I forget.) for a contest in hogsmeade_elite. The prompt was to write about the Unforgivable Curses. First place winner.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
Before casting the Imperius Curse unaided for the first time, Draco had never understood why it was one of the Unforgivables. He could understand why death and pain were unforgivable, but there were plenty of methods that bent or counteracted a person's will without meaning a one-way ticket on the Azkaban Express.
Love potions, for one. They were as insidious as the Imperius Curse and as temporary. Why weren't they outlawed? Draco had no compunctions about using the Imperius Curse. It did not hurt. It did not kill. It was no better or worse than a love potion.
Aunt Bella had taught him the trick for casting Imperius so that it was not felt by the target.
"Don't try to invade their mind," Aunt Bella had said. "They'll know it and remember it. A memory charm strong enough to block that sort of memory would make every Obliviator in the country shudder where they sat, that's how resonant it is."
Draco had sat quietly, waiting for her to go on. His heart thudded loudly against his ribcage.
"It's like fishing. If you hook them first, they can't throw it off. Your victim does not know he's under your control because he is asleep when you pull the line." Aunt Bella had giggled at that. "He wakes up when you have need of him, but then goes back to sleep with no recollection of having served you. I worked out this little trick whilst in Azkaban. I've tried it on Rodolphus; he's so much more pleasant when biddable. The Dark Lord shall be impressed."
Rosmerta had been easy. Draco hadn't even bothered with Aunt Bella's little trick. He'd taken an illegal Portkey to Hogsmeade a week before school started and cast the curse. Rosmerta didn't even try to fight it. She was so eager to please. The customer was always right, after all.
But as Draco stood over the immobilised form of Potter in the Slytherin compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express, he knew he could not risk it. It was rumoured that Potter was strong enough to throw off the Imperius Curse, and Draco was not about to give Potter a reason to send him to Azkaban. Potter did not see Draco's wand pointed at him, did not hear the nonverbal incantation.
He was Draco's from the very first night of their sixth year.
Draco called Potter on the second night, one hour after midnight. Wake up, Potter. Rise and shine, half-blood scum.
A knot of confusion exploded in Draco's mind, and he panicked. What if Potter could throw the curse off even in his sleep? But no. The confusion abated, replaced by an eerie calm. Draco could feel Potter's consciousness floating somewhere out of reach, ready to serve.
Meet me on the fifth floor, empty classroom just after Gregory the Smarmy's statue.
Ten minutes, and Potter was there, standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, hair rumpled and eyes out of focus. He was not wearing his glasses.
Draco grinned. "Say, 'I cheat at Quidditch. I'm an awful Seeker really.'"
"I cheat at Quidditch. I'm an awful Seeker really."
"Say, 'My name is Harry Potter and I have a tiny dick'."
"My name is Harry Potter and I have a tiny dick," repeated Potter with utter obedience.
"Show it to me," commanded Draco. "Your dick."
Potter pushed down his pyjama bottoms. Draco hopped off the desk and stepped closer. "Why, aren't you a crafty little liar, Potter?"
"Yes," said Potter quickly. "I am a crafty little liar."
"Pull up your pants. You look ridiculous."
Potter complied. A smile played across his lips, as though he were having a wonderful dream.
"Go back to bed," said Draco. "Obliviate."
Oh, he could get used to this.
Potter shuffled his feet, arms hanging slack by his sides.
"Not like that." Potter stopped. "Haven't you ever danced?"
"I've danced with Parvati," said Potter.
"Have you seen girls dance?"
"Dance like a girl would. Move your hips, not your feet."
Potter began moving his hips from side to side, looking like the world's most ridiculous wooden doll.
"No, you idiot. Rotate your hips. Yeah, like that. Put your hands on your hips now. Bend your knees. Yes."
Draco watched, laughing quietly, as Potter danced for him. If only he could photograph this and send it to the Daily Prophet. Oh, yes, that would be a real side-splitter. Harry Potter, dancing in the dark wearing only his pyjamas.
"Take off your pyjama top. Don't stop dancing." Genius. Harry Potter stripping. It would've made headlines for weeks. Too bad. "Do the same with your bottoms. Don't trip, now."
It was thrilling to humiliate Potter, but most of the pleasure was lost because Potter had no idea he was being humiliated. He still scowled at Draco in the school's corridors, marching between Weasley and Granger. If they only knew what you do for me every night. If you only knew.
It was like having his own house-elf. His very own house-Potter.
"On your knees. Bark like a dog."
"Good doggy. Do you want a treat?"
Draco walked over to him and began to lift up his robes. "Here's your treat, doggy, but you may not bite it."
Draco could not look at Potter in Potions the next day. Just couldn't. He also couldn't wait for nightfall.
It became a habit, an addiction. He didn't bother with making Potter dance or say unflattering things about himself. He wanted to question Potter, find out what he knew about Draco's mission, but he could never stop himself from enjoying what Potter had to offer.
Offer? You're making him do this.
Draco's mission was going very badly, and he needed an outlet. This was perfect. It kept the edge off his tension; it gave him a few moments of raw bliss every night before he slept. And Potter was getting so very good at enjoying his doggy treat.
Still, Draco was failing in his task, and his days felt longer. Desperation began to set in, and soon even Potter became only a momentary distraction. Snape was sniffing around. That traitor who had usurped Father's position. How dare he demand that Draco reveal his plans?
Besides Potter, his only outlet was Myrtle, and she, at least, did not think him ridiculous or childish for letting his frustration out in the only way that had worked since childhood. Crying had always made his parents come running to him. This time, that was not possible, but it still made him feel better. After that and giving Potter his nightly treat, he felt confident again; confident enough to go one more day.
When Potter showed up in Myrtle's bathroom, Draco was unable to contain his fury. Potter, his dog, was standing there watching Draco's humiliating display of emotion and Draco could not do anything without ending up in Azkaban. He had very nearly used a different Unforgivable Curse that day, though he stopped just short of finishing the incantation.
But Potter had cursed him first, a Dark curse Draco hadn't even heard about.
Oh, what a dangerous game he played.
Draco pulled his robes off and beckoned. Potter approached, docile as a housecat. Draco took Potter's hand and guided it to the scars crisscrossing his midsection. "Feel those?"
"Yes," said Potter.
"You caused them. Apologise."
"Apologise to each one."
Draco was only half-surprised at the excitement he felt as Potter traced each tiny scar with his fingers, murmuring apology after apology. He could hardly wait for Potter to be done. "Good boy. Want your treat?"
Three nights of this, and Draco caught himself wishing -- hoping -- that Potter was pretending to be affected by the Imperius Curse. He wished Potter meant every word, every touch.
When he overheard Pansy telling Daphne about Potter dating the Weasley girl, Draco broke his best quill in half.
It amused him to think that Ginny Weasley had no idea where Potter's mouth has been before her, but it was a hollow pleasure.
He got to his knees with Potter this time. Potter gave his usual soppy, slavish smile.
"Kiss me," said Draco, his voice rough.
Potter leaned forward and pressed his lips to Draco's, just so.
"Do it like you mean it," growled Draco, jealousy and fury writhing like fiery snakes in the pit of his belly. Lips became tongue, and Draco wasn't sure how long the kiss lasted. He just knew he was out of breath and they were almost out of time for the night. He never let it go on longer than a half hour at a time, in case Potter was missed.
The next night, Draco broke the kiss after a few minutes. "I could do anything I like to you," he whispered. "I could... violate you."
"Yes," agreed Potter, nodding eagerly.
"Or I could let you do it to me. Would you like that?"
"Yes," said Potter, still smiling.
"No," said Draco. He felt cold. The only reason Potter was saying these things was that Draco wanted to hear the answers he got. Potter could not lie to him, but he also could not fail to please him. Such was the nature of the Imperius Curse. The victim's will became an extension of the caster's; nothing more.
At last, Draco understood why Imperius was Unforgivable whilst love potions were not. A love potion could not be used to break a spirit. Love potions tricked the mind into a belief, gently, never permanently. The Imperius Curse let the caster establish complete control, utterly robbing a person of their will.
He could have done it. He could have made Potter a mindless, slavering dog for the rest of his life. But if he tried to control Potter overtly, he'd be found out within hours. And he was falling too hard to go on using Potter for a plaything. He was falling for Potter because Potter pleased him unquestioningly, and Draco could never dislike anyone who pleased him. That Potter would kill him before he pleased him under normal circumstances didn't seem to make a difference in how Draco felt.
He had more important things to do. Much more important. His parents' lives depended on his success.
That night, Draco walked Potter to the Gryffindor common room and ended the curse after a quick retroactive memory charm. Potter would never know, and neither would anyone else. It would forever be Draco's private triumph, whatever the outcome of the war.
Unforgivable, oh yes, so very unforgivable. And unforgettable.