The music throbbed and pounded around him.
As with young people everywhere, the youth of Wizarding London were no different. The need for a place of shadows and soft, velvety darkness, periodically broken by flashing lights, spots of colour, full of sounds, loud, pounding, crushing out all thought, taking control, the scent of sweat, alcohol and sex filling the air... youthful rebellion had always prided itself on its music.
And so, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, found himself dancing, eyes closed, moving to a beat that seemed to control him, not caring that he was alone in the crowd of heaving, sweating bodies, not caring that he was a faceless person, he merely enjoyed the moment of anonymity.
Hands slid down his shoulders, traced his back, lingering on his hips before moving across to his butt. Hot breath ghosted across his neck as a firm body pushed itself against his own, filling in the spaces between them. Lips on his ear as arms wound around his waist, pulling him closer, murmuring the words, "I want you. Now. Here."
Thrusting backwards into that firm body, surrendering himself to something more intoxicating than music, more powerful than darkness, who had more control over him than the beat.
He moaned as one of the arms around his waist slid lower, a confident hand running down the bulge in his trousers, lips moving away from his ear, kissing his neck, licking, tasting him. He leaned back into the one who held him, his fingers entwining with those of the hand that still held onto his waist, as he spoke in desperation words of want and desire that were lost with the sound of the music.
"I want to fuck you like an animal, my whole existence is flawed. You bring me closer to God."
He allowed himself to be led off the dance floor and into a corner of the club, the music throbbing and pulsating around him. He allowed himself to be shrouded by shadow and darkness, allowed the one who led him to unzip his trousers and slip his hand inside to grasp his hardness, moaned and shivered as he came, falling into the embrace of the one who so completely controlled him.
Lips met his, hot, moist, passionate. Fire and heat and lust and an overwhelming need for control, domination, and possession. Harry completely surrendered. Each lick of his tongue over the lips, mouth, teeth of Draco said the same thing.
Do as you will. /I am yours./You own me.
He made no protest as Draco led him into the bathroom, past several other couples mid coitus, propelled him into a vacant stall, and practically ripped off his trousers. Leaning over the toilet, gripping the cistern with both hands, Harry spread his legs and cried out as Draco entered him, hard, fast, without mercy. Each thrust reaffirming the truth of their relationship.
You are mine./I will take you as I choose to./I own you.
Staggering down Diagon Alley, arm in arm, pausing every now and then for a fiery, burning kiss, touching each other, tasting each other, whispering half formed words and phrases that might, perhaps, be mistaken for endearments, finally pushing open the door to Harry's apartment, pulling off clothes, kicking off shoes, toeing off socks, heading towards the promise of the bed in Harry's room.
Reaching for the light switch, only to have his hand pulled away, the word "don't," whispered in the dark. Acquiescing as always to the commands, demands, suggestions of the other, that blond will'o the wisp that utterly owned him.
Moving into the bedroom, allowing himself to be taken and taken yet again, trying to muffle his cries of release, of need, of want, trying desperately to ensure that the other residents of the apartment were not awoken by his lustful noise. Gripping sheets in trembling fists, sweat dripping off both of their bodies, dampening the sheets.
And as was always the case, when he was sated, when he had reaffirmed his ownership and domination over Harry, Draco left, silent as smoke, leaving Harry curled up in a foetal position on the bed, and wondering when - if - he would see Draco again.
This was how it always went. It was how they both knew it would always be.
Morning dawned, grey and drizzling, rain splattering on the window pane and Harry rolled himself off of his bed, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and moved, head bowed, to the closed door of his friend and room mate, Ron. He tapped on the door. No answer. Grumbling to himself, he opened the door to confront a scene of horror.
They lay, Ron and Hermione, arm in arm, covered in blood. Their limbs twisted grotesquely, their eyes wide, staring at him in mute supplication, begging his help, and asking him to avenge them. Great rents were in their bodies, showing bone and sinew and muscle and various internal organs. Strings of intestine draped on the floor and the hollow sound of blood dripping slowly filled the air like a pervasive drum beat.
Harry backed out of the room, stumbling as he back peddled into the sitting room area. He stumbled over the coffee table, and fell, landing heavily on his backside. With a whimper, he looked up at the wall and saw the words emblazoned in blood.
"Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light?"
With a howl, Harry Potter raced from his apartment and away from the horror in his home.