
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3100208.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Marcus_Flint/Draco_Malfoy, Fenrir_Greyback/Draco_Malfoy
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Marcus_Flint, Fenrir_Greyback
  Additional Tags:
      Forced_Crossdressing, Crossdressing, Violence, Rape, Fear_of_Death
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-03 Words: 4104
****** Werewolf or Troll ******
by iamisaac
Summary
     Malfoy thought he learned all about sex and fear in his early years
     at school. It doesn't take Greyback long to prove him wrong.
FIC: Werewolf or Troll NC17 Marcus/Draco, Fenrir/Draco
Title: Werewolf or Troll
Kink Showcased: Fear of Death
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Flint/Draco, Fenrir/Draco
Summary: Malfoy thought he learned all about sex and fear in his early years at
school. It doesn't take Greyback long to prove him wrong.
Warnings: violence, pain, cross-dressing, non-con, humiliation
Word Count: ~4200




A troll (or at least, a man with some suspicious hints of troll ancestry)
facing off against a werewolf. Draco looks at Marcus Flint and Fenrir Greyback
and wonders which he loathes most.

*

He is twelve. He is twelve and Marcus Flint is Slytherin Quidditch captain.
Flint rules, and the entire House knows it. Draco has bought his way onto the
Quidditch team, yes; but he knows that Flint has no mercy. One mistake, one
fatal mistake, and Draco'll be in trouble.

*

Lord Voldemort smiles.

“Fenrir Greyback, meet Draco Malfoy. Malfoy Junior – he is our dear Lucius's
son,” he adds to Fenrir, “- this is Fenrir Greyback. You will be working
together from now on. Working for me.”

“Yes, my Lord,” says Greyback, and Draco knows nothing better than to follow
his example.

“Yes, my Lord,” he says.

*

Potter. Potter again, orchestrating his downfall. Draco can feel his heart beat
in his throat as the defeated Slytherins return to the changing room. He
doesn't know what Flint will do, but he knows it won't be nice. Slytherins
don't do 'nice', not unless they've something to gain.

Draco has something to lose.

*

“One bite,” murmurs Greyback. “One bite and you'll be mine forever. Part of my
pack. How would you like that, little Malfoy?”

There's no answer to that. Fenrir knows precisely the effect his threat will
have.

“What do you want me to do?” asks Draco.

*

He's on his knees begging “Please, Flint, please, Marcus, no. I couldn't help
it, I swear.”

Flint yells at him. “You're playing to Potter's rules, you're playing for him.
What's he paying you?”

“No, no.” Draco is crying now, tears dripping down his face. He knows that it's
lethal to show weakness but he can't help himself. “It's not true, it's...”

“I'll deal with you later,” says Flint ominously, and Draco's heart beats
harder than ever.

*

“You do exactly what I say at the minute I say it. If I say jump, you jump. If
I say get down on the floor, you do it. If I say...” - Fenrir smiles, ominously
- “if I say suck my cock, that's exactly what you're going to be doing.”

Draco says nothing.

“Got it?” snarls Greyback, and Draco crushes his hands into fists so that he
won't see them shaking.

“Got it.”

“Good,” says Fenrir, and the smile is back, which does nothing to console Draco
at all.

*

He is called to Flint's bedroom. Yes, other seventh years share it, but they
know not to argue with Flint. If Flint wants to claim the dormitory, it is his
to claim. Draco climbs the stairs with dragging feet, knocks unwillingly on the
door.

“Come in.”

Draco comes, and looks with anxiety at Adrian Pucey, the Chaser for Slytherin.

“You can go now,” Flint says, jerking his head in the direction of the door.

“Okay, boss,” says Pucey.

Draco can think of nothing to say, not even when Pucey has left.

“See,” says Flint when they're alone, “I'm a nice guy. I don't want to hurt
you, Malfoy.”

*

“I don't want to hurt you, Malfoy.” Fenrir Greyback uses the same words as
Flint, but with a sneer on his face that shows he's not even pretending to mean
it.

Greyback would tear him into small pieces soon as look at him, if Lord
Voldemort didn't have different plans. Draco, forced into a situation he
loathes by the Dark Lord, can't help feeling the irony that Voldemort is the
only reason he still lives.

*

Flint's ideas of not hurting someone don't mesh with Draco's. Draco, pampered
heir of the Malfoys, has never found himself in a position of such subjection,
such humiliation. Flint hasn't physically injured Draco, it is true. Hasn't
even laid a finger on him. Draco has done this to himself, at Flint's
instruction.

“I'll call the others,” Flint says.

Draco gulps, nods, says nothing. Flint walks down the stone staircase. Draco
waits. One by one, the Slytherin Quidditch team walk up the stairs and enter
the room. Draco has bitten his lip so hard that he's drawn blood. They all stop
and look.

*

There's hurts that can be caused without killing. Greyback is an expert in
these. Draco can see in Greyback's eyes how much he despises those who are not
of his kind. Fenrir has never touched him in a sexual manner, but Draco has a
horrible image of the werewolf discussing with the Dark Lord just how far he
can go with the Malfoy boy. He can only pray that Lord Voldemort has set
limits. And even so, how much longer before Draco collapses under the mental,
the physical, assaults?

*

Montague laughs, looking at Draco. Terrence Higgs, whose place in the team
Draco has taken, turns away in disgust. Draco wishes they'd all done so when he
sees the expression on Peregrine Derrick's face. Derrick glances at Marcus, who
nods. Draco doesn't know, doesn't want to know, what that nod means. He
realises his blood is dribbling over his bottom lip.

“Very pretty.” Pucey has joined the Slytherin group, his comment sneering.

“I reckon so,” Derrick says, and it is worse because his words are not
sarcastic. “I reckon so.”

He walks towards Draco, runs a hand down the frills and bows that have
transformed Draco into a hideous parody of a girl. Draco can not control an
involuntary shudder, and Pucey laughs.

“A big girls' blouse in more ways than one.”

“Maybe,” acknowledges Derrick, “but still pretty.” He leans forward. “Give us a
kiss, darling,” he leers.

*

“I want you on your knees,” Fenrir says.

Draco is on his knees almost before the words are out. The first time, Greyback
decided that his obedience came too slowly; the savage beating which was
delivered in response left Draco barely able to see his own skin beneath the
blood and bruises. The more time he spends with Fenrir, the more he loathes him
– and the more he knows to do exactly what he's told. Greyback doesn't do
feelings; the only emotion he is interested in seeing in Draco is fear, abject
terror.

“I'm going to make you beg,” Greyback says, enunciating each word slowly.

Draco would beg now, except he doesn't know what Fenrir wants from him.

*

“You heard him,” Marcus says, leaning on the wall and looking down at Draco's
white face. Draco twitches, glances at Flint. “Play nicely, Miss Malfoy,” Flint
mocks. “Give the boy a kiss.”

He can't mean it. Please – surely Marcus doesn't mean it? But Derrick is
leaning in closer; Draco can feel his breath on his cheek. A hand under his
chin, and Draco is eye-to-eye with him. Derrick smiles, then leans deliberately
in and places a long, wet kiss on Draco's mouth.

“He needs practice,” Derrick says to Flint.

“He'll get it,” Flint says, and Draco tries to swallow the lump that feels as
if it is blocking his throat.

*

Draco keeps his eyes on the floor. He doesn't want to see the expression on
Greyback's face, doesn't want to see Greyback – not now, not ever. Fenrir moves
closer, so that Draco is staring at the scuffed black boots of the man.

“Our Lord” - and Draco hears the sneer in Greyback's voice and knows that he
counts no wizard, not even Voldemort, his Lord - “is displeased with the
progress being made. He's asked me to make his feelings known.”

Draco doesn't think he's ever been this terrified. Voldemort's probably the
only person who's kept him alive this long: if he's sanctioned Greyback's
violence... Draco shuts his eyes quickly against a shaming tear which drips
onto the floor. Fenrir's going to kill him, he knows it. But he'll do a good
many other things to him first.

*

By the time Flint allows him to take off the dress, Draco has been humiliated,
he thinks, in every possible way. He strips and makes for the bedroom door,
half-naked, when Marcus halts him.

“Malfoy!” Draco turns and looks at him, and Flint smiles nastily. “You didn't
think I'd finished with you yet, did you?”

*

“I've always wondered,” Fenrir says, “how much a puny human body can take
before it breaks.” He gives Draco a kick, almost in passing. “What would it
take, I ask myself, until he snapped; until there was nothing left? What would
it take, Malfoy?”

“I don't know.” Draco's voice is shaky, but he knows better than to say
nothing.

“And what,” Greyback adds musingly, “would you do to stop me testing it?”

Draco doesn't know the answer to that, either.

*

His father would kill Flint if he knew. But Draco won't tell him – can't. He's
too ashamed; he'll never be able to mention this to anyone. He wonders whether
Marcus knew that before he started. He crawls away, staying in the shower for
nearly an hour, scrubbing, scrubbing himself until patches of skin are red and
sore. Even then, he can't face the others. He hides until bedtime, puking every
time he thinks about what's happened. How is he ever going to hold his head up
again?

*

Draco stares around the room, looking desperately for some possible escape.

Greyback laughs. “What are you looking for, pretty boy? No one's going to help
you now. Poor little rich kid can't buy his way out of this one. Ever since
Daddy didn't do what he was supposed to, you've been living on borrowed time.
The Dark Lord gave you a chance to show what you were made of, and” - Fenrir
grins malevolently, and Draco looks hastily away from those sharp, dirty teeth
- “just like Daddy, you've not done the business. Our Lord doesn't like
failures. He's lost interest in you. Which means you're all mine.”

Draco realises he's been holding his breath the entire time Greyback's been
speaking. He takes a sudden gasp of air as Fenrir grabs his head and yanks his
chin up. He is helpless, unable to do anything but look at the werewolf, whose
own gaze is roving over his body with lascivious interest. The shudder he
gives, from fear as much as disgust, is equally unwilled.

“A pretty little toy,” Greyback mocks.

What are you going to do to me? Draco both wants and doesn't want to ask the
question; either way it is irrelevant since he doesn't dare open his mouth. He
is saved – for now – by Fenrir being summoned by Lord Voldemort. As the
werewolf leaves the room, his expression is almost a snarl.

Draco stays on his knees and prays for a swift death.

*

Flint holds it over him throughout the rest of his time at Hogwarts. The threat
– just the suggestion that word might get out, that everyone will know what
Draco's done – is enough to make Draco sick with fear, and Marcus knows it.

Then there is the dread that Flint might make him do it again; Flint plays on
that, too.

“A word, Malfoy;” and the rest of the Quidditch team file out, leaving Flint
and Draco alone.

Flint tears Draco's robes off (later that night, Draco will sit up for hours
trying to mend the rips) and pushes him back against the wall of the dressing
room, naked and terrified. Draco knows, for Marcus has made certain he knows
it, that Flint is stronger – far, far, stronger – than he is. He couldn't
prevent the older boy doing anything he wanted.

Marcus holds him there for a minute, maybe two, before letting go and stalking
out of the room. When he's gone, Draco collapses to the floor and cries.

*

Fenrir doesn't use magic: he doesn't need to. He uses strength and power; and
Draco is a twelve year old boy again, waiting to be assaulted, not knowing what
form the abuse might take. But Flint had limits, and as far as Draco can tell,
Greyback has none.

*

The day he leaves Hogwarts for good, Marcus corners Draco, twisting his arm up
behind his back and pushing him into an empty classroom.

“Leaving today, aren't I?” he says.

“Yes.” Draco tries not to allow the relief he feels creep into his voice.

“I've got nothing to lose by talking now. Can't throw me out, can they? I'm
already gone. So... do you want to persuade me to keep my mouth shut, or do you
want the whole school to know what you are?”

Draco imagines what it would be like for everyone to know what's been going on.
People looking at him and seeing that image in their heads; looking at him with
disgust, contempt, pity – or worse, demanding a repeat performance.

“See, Slytherins – they don't like fags.” Draco wonders how Marcus gets around
his own predilections in this area, but Marcus hasn't finished yet. “But you're
so much more than just a poof, aren't you? You're...”

“What do you want?” Draco can't bear to hear Flint say any more. The familiar
nausea creeps over him.

“I've told you before – I'm nice. I'm not asking much, just a little goodbye
gift, yeah?”

*

“Are you going to beg, Malfoy?”

“Yes.” Please, please, tell me what I'm begging for.

“You've been fucked before, haven't you? More than fucked.”

“It's a lie,” says Draco instinctively.

“Are you calling me a liar, pretty boy?” Fenrir asks.

“No!” But if he isn't, he's admitting... “Yes. No!” Fenrir can do worse than
Flint – far worse. Just agree with everything the werewolf says. Truth doesn't
matter compared with survival.

*

Marcus pushes Draco to the floor in front of him, unbuttoning his robes. His
cock springs free, and Draco, watching Flint look insinuatingly at his mouth,
knows exactly what is required of him. He opens his mouth wide to take in the
fat, heavy erection. Despising himself, he fellates the older boy with all the
skill he has, trying not to choke.

*

Greyback idly lifts Draco's hand from the floor and examines it. With equal
indifference, he pushes Draco's little finger back, and there is a crack as the
bone breaks.

Draco screams.

*

When the first picture arrives, Draco is not expecting it. Grateful that he
opened the letter in his own bedroom, he stares with sick horror at it as his
twelve-year-old self goes through a series of graphic, humiliating, acts. He
doesn't want to look, yet can't tear his eyes away.

Hearing his mother on the stairs, he burns it hastily with his wand, charring
the edge of the bedsheet as he does so. Narcissa scolds him gently for that,
and Draco apologises mechanically.

“You've got a note,” she says, picking something up from the floor and reading
it aloud. “ 'Would like to meet up and reminisce about old times. Sure you'll
agree. Marcus.' Wasn't he your Quidditch captain at school, darling?”

“Yes.”

The nightmare isn't over yet.

*

When Fenrir holds the next finger in his grasp, Draco knows what to expect –
which makes it worse. The werewolf pauses for a second, his eyes raking Draco's
face; making sure he knows what is coming. Draco is biting his lip, waiting for
the pain to hit; hoping that maybe, maybe, this time it won't.

When the finger breaks with a snap, it is almost a relief.

*

“Hello, Draco,” Marcus says genially. “What a pleasure to meet you again.”

Draco looks around the pub, making sure there is no one who knows him there.
“What do you want?”

“Aw, Miss Malfoy, you don't sound pleased to see me,” drawls Flint. “Careful.
You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?”

*

“Do you know how many bones there are in the human body, Malfoy?” Draco shakes
his head. “Two hundred and six. And I've broken just two – to start with. So,
you're going to be a good little boy for your master, aren't you?” Draco nods.
Once again Greyback grabs his hair, pulling it back until their eyes meet. “I
said,” he hisses, “aren't you?”

“Yes, Fenrir,” Draco whispers.

“That's better, Malfoy.” Then Fenrir speaks in a parody of Draco's voice.
“'Yes, Fenrir, no Fenrir, fuck me till I scream, Fenrir.' See,” he says, going
back to his ordinary tones, “you're not in the Dark Lord's favour at the
moment, but d'you know who is, Malfoy? I am. And our Lord, he doesn't much mind
what I do with a runt like you.” Fenrir pauses.

“Yes, Fenrir,” Draco parrots.

“You put yourself up to play with the big boys, Malfoy. And it's playtime right
now.”

*

“I don't want to.”

Draco can hardly believe that he's spoken the words aloud. Nor, it seems, can
Flint.

“What did you say?” Marcus leans across the table, over-shadowing Draco.

Draco gulps, but repeats himself. “I don't want to.”

Flint grins. “When I care whether you want to or not,” he says, “remind me to
tell you. Until then, Draco...”

*

Draco is holding the hand with two broken fingers protectively in his other.
Both hands are shaking. He doesn't dare look at Greyback. He doesn't dare not
look at Greyback.

“Strip.” Draco looks at Fenrir dumbly, not understanding. The werewolf slaps
his face with the back of his hand, making him lurch sideways. “Take off your
clothes.”

Draco hastens to obey, biting back a cry of pain as the robes pass over his
injured fingers. Greyback picks up the garments between finger and thumb,
examining them. Draco knows they are wet with his sweat, the result of
animalistic fear. He shivers miserably at Fenrir's feet.

“And people call me a beast,” Greyback says in disgust. “Look at you, kneeling
there like a skinned fucking rabbit, practically pissing yourself in terror.”

“Yes, Fenrir,” Draco says automatically.

“Scared already, pampered prince?” he demands. “Why, we've only just begun.”

*

So it starts again.

Flint never demands that of him, but Draco is aware of the lurking, menacing,
presence of the threat. When the new Hogwarts term starts, he begins to dread
Hogsmeade days, when Marcus will be waiting in a small room in the Hogs Head
for Draco to join him. He starts acting out in the days beforea trip, desperate
to be put in detention, but the teachers seem determined not to punish him – as
though they know that it's more punishment to be left alone... to be left to
Marcus.

*

Getting his mouth round Greyback's cock is not as difficult as surrounding
Flint's. The troll heritage Flint always denied clearly affected the size of
his apparatus as well as his brain. In a way, indeed, sucking off the werewolf
is an improvement on what went before: Draco is at any rate back on familiar
territory.

At least, he is until Fenrir takes his maltreated hand in his own, and breaks
the third finger as he thrusts into Draco's mouth. Clearly the squeal Malfoy
makes turns the werewolf on: his cock twitches and a stream of ejaculate pours
down Draco's throat. Draco is crying and choking, but now that he's had his
satisfaction, Greyback seems to have no more interest in him for the moment.

As a parting gesture, he kicks out at the boy. Draco barely notices.

*
Marcus has him on the floor. He has him in the bathroom. Often Draco goes back
to school with an arse so sore he can barely manage to sit down.

Most of all, Flint likes to have him on his back, knees pushed up against his
chest, mocking him for being such a girl, complimenting him on his pretty face,
his sweet, tender skin.

*

Draco has learned to get to his knees when he hears Fenrir outside the door.
His clothes have long since been taken from the room; only returned to him when
he and Greyback have a mission outside the Manor. When they get back, Draco's
robes are torn off him rapaciously whilst Greyback tells him time after time
how he likes to see the pale flesh of his victims. Listening to him describe in
graphic terms what he's done to humans before, both as a wolf and as a man,
Draco soaks up the pain and humiliation heaped upon him and knows he should be
grateful it's no worse. He might no longer feel human, but at least he's not a
werewolf.

Yet.

*
Becoming one of Umbridge's prefects gives Draco power, a feeling of being in
control. It's only surface deep, scratched through to the bone whenever he
meets Flint in Hogsmeade, but he likes it. When he joins the Death Eaters that
summer, it's in the expectation of feeling the power more strongly. And for a
while, it works.

*

Greyback has come back from a meeting with Voldemort incandescent with fury.
Draco, his eyes down, has the first hint of this when a swinging fist meets the
side of his head, knocking him from his knees to sprawling full length on the
floor. He is grabbed by the shoulders, Fenrir's fingers biting hard into his
skin, and dragged to his feet. Fenrir's snarling face is a bare inch from his
own.

“What have you said?” he hisses.

“I... don't know,” Draco stammers. “Please, Fenrir...”

Greyback lets go of him, and Draco slumps to the floor. “If I hear a whisper,
even a whisper that you've been complaining about me, you're going to wish you
were never born.”

Draco already wishes this regularly.


*
When the first note comes from Marcus in the beginning of Sixth year demanding
his presence at the next Hogsmeade weekend, Draco (smiling) sends an abrupt
refusal. The next note holds carefully veiled threats, and Draco thinks that
this might be a battle worth winning face to face. He meets Flint in the bar of
the Hogs Head, but instead of doing everything Marcus asks, Draco carefully
rolls up his left sleeve.

“I've got work to do, Marcus,” he says, meeting Flint's dark gaze coolly. “I'm
sure you wouldn't like me to disobey our Lord.”

Marcus scowls, his face more ugly than ever, and walks out.

*

“Our Lord,” Greyback says, his voice full of hatred, “feels that you need some
special attention. I'm not enough, it seems.”

Fenrir is more than enough. Draco doesn't say it. He says what he has been
taught always to say.

“Yes, Fenrir,” he says.

Fenrir is standing over him, his teeth bared. Draco wants to puke.

“You mean,” he snarls, “no, Fenrir.”

“Yes,” Draco says. “No.” Both, anything, please don't hurt me...

He might as well have said it all aloud. Greyback laughs, cruelly, but turns
away.

*
Draco is free of Flint. He enjoys it to start with, confirmed in his conviction
that joining Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters was the right way to find power and
independence. Then, as the pressure grows on him to complete his task – kill
Dumbledore – he begins to change his mind. Was all... was all this worth the
relief of escaping Marcus's unwanted attentions?

*
The one person he never thought to see again. The one person he hoped never to
see again. Draco looks up as Marcus Flint – half-troll, wholly Slytherin –
follows Fenrir into the room.

*
He fails to kill Dumbledore. Failure is never looked upon kindly by the Dark
Lord. He is summoned to meet him. Fearing fury, he meets something worse.

Lord Voldemort smiles.

“Fenrir Greyback, meet Draco Malfoy. Malfoy Junior – he is our dear Lucius's
son,” he adds to Fenrir, “ - this is Fenrir Greyback. You will be working
together from now on. Working for me.”

“Yes, my Lord,” says Greyback, and Draco knows nothing better than to follow
his example.

“Yes, my Lord,” he says.

Out of the frying pan into the fire.
*
And now, they're both standing over him. Draco doesn't know how Flint got in on
Lord Voldemort's plans – can't imagine how someone as stupid as Marcus was
allowed entrance to the inner sanctum. It doesn't matter, much. It's not as if
he's got anything left to lose. Both of these men have fucked him; more than
that, they've humiliated him in any and every way possible. They've made him
cry, they've made him beg, they've ripped his pride apart and made him puke it
all over the floor. And now it seems he's no more than a prize to be wrapped up
in ribbons and presented to whichever of them wins this face off.

He looks at them and hopes they both die. Or failing that, that he does.

Draco looks at Marcus Flint and Fenrir Greyback and hopes for death.
===============================================================================
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