The Compleat Disfigured Draco
For your reading (and continuing) pleasure.

Please do continuations in a separate post -- there can be multiple continuations, each with its own thread.

What's in the potion? What's Michael Corner up to? Where the hell is Harry?



Part One by shaggirl

Summer holiday has always been about nursing wounds for Draco; about recovering his pride and convincing himself that this year will be better. That Potter will notice him.

In that respect, this summer isn’t so very different.

“Draco, it’s time for your treatment.” The pretty healer carries in her tray of salves and potions. She does not look at him; a summer spent nursing his wounds, and she still hasn’t mastered burying the rigor of horror under her carefully blank expression.

Draco can’t convince himself this year will be any better, but he feels quite certain Potter will notice him.

* * *

Part Two by black_dog

The tiles are slippery, and Crabbe and Goyle are very careful as they wheel Malfoy to one end of the Prefect’s Bath. Draco’s head nods to the right, half his face crumpled and scarred. Withered arms dangle from his hollow chest. Voldemort does not like being importuned.

Naked, they ease Draco into the water and begin to sponge his upper body. He drools his thanks, one eye alert and intelligent. The perfumed soap Narcissa owls fills the humid room like an incense.

At the other end of the bath, Harry Potter wrinkles his nose, and discreetly watches Michael Corner undress.

* * *

Part Three by wayfairer

Draco has promised himself that he will not mope. The right side of his body feels the singe of the first curse all over again whenever he moves too sharply, but he refuses to feel sorry for himself. He has made his mistakes, and he has learned from them just like anyone else; and if his particular punishment for said mistake should be a little more extreme than that of the average 16-year-old, that, too, is a distinction in its way.

He has said that he will not mope. It is, granted, harder to resist the urge once Draco has acquired the knowledge that the world is a cold, merciless place where certain infantile scarred Gryffindors can’t stop ogling other boys for one second, not even to see Draco in his beautiful disfigurement.

There are advantages, however, that come with this new perspective.

For example, being in a wheelchair lends him the ideal height for taking Michael Corner’s cock into his mouth in dusty corridors, and exacting the perfect revenge.

* * *

Part Four by reenka

Malfoy was always ugly.

It was true, because Malfoy never changed. Even though Harry's stomach twisted to look at him this year; he got slightly nauseous being in the same room, but Harry knew immediately. He knew what Malfoy wanted, and he was never going to get it. Malfoy paraded his freakish body around like it was an object of worship; he never changed.

He was so obvious, but Harry just so happened not to give a flying fuck. He didn't.

A thousand things tore through his mind when he caught them at it. He flushed, clutching his stomach, which quaked with dry heaves, but he couldn't look away from Malfoy's obscene wet mouth, trailing wetly around that bloke's sad little prick like a thick-- red-- slug.

Malfoy made no noise, and his back was turned, but Harry saw quite enough.

The owl was simple: "I like you this way."

* * *

Part Five by michichu

"I like you this way."

The lines of dark ink shaky as if written with slightly trembling hand. The paper is creased, folded over and over again in different ways, crinkled where it was clutched in sweaty palm.

He really didn't mean to send it.

Or maybe he did.

There are so few things to be sure of, anymore.

One thing is that he cannot. possibly. look away. He can't look away in the hallways, in the dining hall, in the classrooms, even if it's always just this phantom lurking in the corner of his eye. Like watching accidents, it's just morbid fascination. That night, he couldn't look away from Malfoy's mouth, open and wet and yielding like some sort of hungry void, wondered for just a flash if it was hot velvet like an open wound.

It's absolutely nauseating, his stomach queases, spins like a carousel, up and down, round and round. He swallows bile. Wants to dry-heave.

Breathes heavily. Pant. Pant.

One thing is that he cannot stop his runaway train of thought. It's just morbid curiosity. He wonders what the skin of the disfigured feels like. He wonders if it's dry and strange and alien, or that if it's horribly soft, the way that new skin feels. He wonders if it would yield delicately under his fingers, and if he pressed too hard, would it burst like an overripe peach?

One thing is his hand, moving erratically under his clothes in time to his ever-increasing heartrate. Touching. Touching. Stroking.

Moreover, what does it taste like? Do overexposed nerve endings sizzle when licked? Does a grey eyeball on the tongue taste like a grape coated in early spring frost?

One thought leads to another and they break out like little rashes, and the more you scratch the worse it gets, until all the skin is red and raw and bleeding. His heart crashes against his ribcage.

Could you drink pain down?

Hot fluid like sweet fruit juice squishes between his fingers, trickles down the cracks in his palm.

He lies on his bed, staring at the shadows on his canopy. Breathes heavily. Inhale. Exhale.

In the dark, he curls up into a little ball with his nausea clutched to his chest for the night.

He tries very hard not to dream.

* * *

Part Six by shachi

Wrinkled, crushed, crumpled. Just like him. Draco stares at the withered parchment in his withered hand, eyes burning, but does not let it go.

Potter has seen him. Potter has noticed.

The next time he feels the gaze of the other boy burning into his back is when Michael Corner is arching back, crying out as he comes, but Draco doesn't hear him.

Instead, he turns his head to meet Potter's blank stare, one side of his ruined and semen-splattered mouth quirking up in the parody of a sneer.

Potter does not sneer back. Potter doesn't do much of anything. He looks at Draco as if he's looking through Draco, through Draco's corroded face and towards the spent cock of the boy behind him, who is too busy gasping out his orgasm to notice.

Potter turns and walks away.

The handwriting on the note he receives later, on a ripped piece of parchment he eventually realizes is his own, is not Malfoy's. But both the message and the sender are clear.

"Same to you."

This time the parchment falls to the floor. Harry doesn't care. He just doesn't.

* * *

Part Seven by ataniell93

Sometimes it's best to be discarded, Gregory thinks--but he hates Potter anyway. Better to be discarded, then still to be wreathed in Voldemort's curses. He hadn't wanted to write the note. Nothing good will ever come of this. But he can't say no, not to any of this, because he never could ever say no to Draco, and so this is all his fault. He could have stopped this, he could have made Draco see reason. It is all his fault, no matter how often Vince tells him it's not.

It amuses Gregory that Corner thinks he is stupid, because Corner's a pawn. A conduit, nothing more, for hatred and vitality--

and desperate, desperate love--

and he will be discarded too, when his time is done.

He doesn't believe for a second that Potter doesn't care.

* * *

Part Eight by mistful

Michael has noticed that Potter's in love with him. He's just biding his time.

Until then, there's always Draco - and who the hell else would have him now? - and no matter what works (or doesn't) Draco's good at giving head. He pretends he's still haughty and untouchable, sitting twisted with only his imbeciles for company, and he'll open his mouth anytime.

Michael worked it out. Ravenclaws have always been smart. And now he's got sex on tap, and once he gets tired of that there's Harry. He'll go up to Draco, bend down a long way to touch him on the wrist, just so when he straightens back up there'll be Harry watching, green sliding under his lashes as red rises up his cheeks.

So once Draco's become more grotesque than amusing, he goes for it with Potter. And it's good. It's wild.

And afterwards Potter runs his knuckles down Michael's spine, and says thoughtfully: "You know, you're not really my type."

Michael's left with the sinking feeling that he's left something out of his calculations.

* * *

Part Nine by malafede

Tasseomancy

Harry knew it was a matter of time before he was tempted to make jokes about Malfoy’s oozing new face. The tea leaves collected to form a half Mask, rippling restlessly in the moisture at the bottom of his cup, and Harry brought a hand to his heart, crying that Oh my God! Malfoy was going to kill him! It gained him horrified looks and horrified irrepressible giggles, and Trewlaney’s rhapsodising shock at his arrogant dismissal of the signs.

He didn’t know how Malfoy managed to get up the North Tower by himself, neither he knew how Malfoy knew he would be there. It had just been a matter of time, though, before he closed the door to Trewlaney’s classroom, his detention served, and Malfoy was there, his wheelchair still and turned to Harry. His one good eye stared unwaveringly from its crown of knotted blue veins, throbbing steadily in the three inches of Malfoy’s face that could be still called human. The rest was the mash of moist tissues Harry’d gotten used to, seeping down separate cuts in his eyebags and crossing in the middle of his cheek where the dead skin was wearing away. Harry didn’t wince. It hid Malfoy somehow.

He moved. The sky had turned thick with night beyond the windows carved in the Tower’s walls, and Harry surpassed them one after the other, paying no attention to the grey banks of clouds polluting the blue, or the distant howling of wind. It was very distant. His steps echoed in the archway that brought him to Malfoy, and he saw Malfoy’s eye widen when Harry’s walk broke in a run. He grabbed Malfoy’s chair without breaking his momentum, spinning him around until he was hurling them both breathlessly towards the stairway. The echo of Harry’s steps was defeaning now, yet it couldn't drown the screeching of Malfoy’s wheels.

He stopped with an effort, Malfoy hanging on the spiralling stairs and shadows soon eating them. He was panting, and his fingers twitched around the edges of the chair back. Malfoy’s own pants were wet-sounding.

“You’d be better off dead,” Harry noted with detached logic.

There was not much difference between Malfoy and a corpse, he thought, only to realise how wrong he was when Malfoy spun around in his confines between Harry’s body and the stairway and buried his bloodied raw nose in Harry’s groin.

* * *

Part Ten by ari_o

There at the top of the stairs, Harry balanced Draco's broken body whimsically on the edge of death, and let him nibble, suck and rub his disfigured face against Harry's exposed cock.

It felt like nothing describable. It felt like pleasure and pain all wrapped up in a neat package and tied with red bow that will surely explode if you tug on it. But who can resist opening a present?

Harry leaned on the arms of Draco's chair and his shoved deeper into Draco's wet crooked mouth, he lost his balance just as he came. He shot hot jets of sperm into the air, over the banister. The air felt cold after Draco's hot mouth fell away beneath him.

* * *

Part Eleven by dorrie6

There was something almost beautiful about it, something complete, as though Malfoy was a masterpiece that just hadn't been finished. The colors ran and played together, crimson, green and silver.

He didn't hear the crash at first. It came to him in pieces, drifting up from a past long distant. He followed the sound in slow motion, stumbling down the endless flight of stairs, closer and closer to the exquisite mass of flesh and twisted metal.

"I didn't mean it," he whispered, knowing that he had.

When he woke up, shaking, he wasn't as relieved as he might have expected.

* * *

Part Twelve by zionsstarfish

"Not like he can feel it, anyway," Ron had said that afternoon, when a clumsy arm had spattered half a cauldron of scalding liquid onto Malfoy's lap. Malfoy had reacted only when Pansy had started screaming, and even then, it had only been an eye flicker.

The words echoed in Harry's mind as he crept into the infirmary that night. He slipped his hand out from under his Invisibility cloak and drew up Malfoy's blanket, revealing withered legs from a summer of disuse.

He reached out towards the shiny, blistered skin. Not that Malfoy would be able to feel it, anyway.

* * *

Part Thirteen by tarie

Malfoy wasn’t able to feel it, but that was all right. Harry could feel it for the both of them.

His lids fluttered shut, darkness cloaking brilliant emeralds that reflected nothing of himself but saw everything he should not.

Fingertips ghosted over the shine-slick skin, the sickly warmth of Malfoy’s withered limbs lending heat to Harry’s cool flesh. What would it feel like, he wondered, were he to touch it?

A pause.

A dip of his head.

The curling of lips.

The gleaming of teeth in the moonlight.

The pink of tongue.

A lick of wasted flesh.

Divine. He tasted divine.

* * *

Part Fourteen by the_gentleman

It tasted divine, but it was... detatched, almost, thought Harry, it was like licking bacon, just rough and hard enough to give the tongue purchase. And there was Malfoy, all he represented, crippled and ruined. Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron triumphant, inhuman and wholly virile. If that was Voldemort, then Malfoy was his antitheses, a husk of a body like a lump of burnt, ashen coal. Harry could love something like this, something scarred, and helpless.

He brought his head down low again, down to the fallen, God-bereft man-thing, and licked again, and tasted the sour sweat.

* * *

Part Fifteen by lashananoin

He pushes back the rest of the blankets to gaze up the withered body.

Trembling fingers lightly trace runnels of scar tissue up the ruined torso, the twisted nub of a bisected nipple beckoning irresistibly.

Thumb and forefinger grasp the nub, pinching hard as though of their own accord.

A sharp intake of breath and one silver eye flies open.

Harry jerks his hand back under the invisibility cloak, but he knows it’s too late.

“Potter?” a ruined voice rasps through spittle-covered lips.

* * *

Part Sixteen by biichan

It's like something out of a midnight monster movie, his voice. A sandpaper sound a thousand times worse than of anything from Dudley's overheard programmes, because it belongs to Malfoy, who knows without knowing that Harry is here. Like any good monster.

The rasp of his voice makes Harry's cock twitch.

Malfoy leans forward from his chair, looming somehow. "I know you're there," he grates and then, somehow, he's pitching himself forward, out of the chair and then onto Harry out of sheer stubborn belief in his remaining senses, that he doesn't need to see Harry to know he is there.

Like any good monster.

* * *

Part Seventeen by muffinbutt

Harry catches him awkwardly, his fingertips slipping on the waxy, too-smooth skin of Draco's shattered hip. He groans, unable to stop himself from grinding into that hip jerkily, and as Draco places his gaping mouth hole over Harry's sweaty lips in either an attempt to devour or a grotesque approximation of a lover's caress, Harry writhes.

He tastes like death, like decay, and it's roiling out from him like maggots flee a disturbed corpse.

It's penetrating Harry.

His cock throbs, and he moves faster, staring right into that steady, silver eye.

* * *

Part Eighteen by delirieuse

Harry ran. He didn’t feel very heroic about it, but he ran. All the way back to the dormitory – though he wheezed and his lungs exploded in his chest. The whole way back he heard Draco’s wheelchair, as it came after him, squeaking, propelled by nothing. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be caught or not. He pulled the blankets over his head and sleep came eventually. After other things.

Harry woke up late, and ... attended to himself, trying not to think about shiny, blistered flesh; or oozing; or Draco's gash of a mouth. He arrived at breakfast late, when most of the food was gone, and there were only a few stragglers left, chewing disconsolately on cold rubbery toast.

So he missed most of the scene. Michael Corner had gone pink with rage. It wasn’t a very attractive colour. Several of his housemates were trying to wrestle him into submission.

“Why do they even let him stay here? He can’t even talk! It’s not like he can do magic, or even pass his exams!”

The Ravenclaw girl with her hair in plaits cast a silencing charm on Michael, and he still screaming, mouth opening and closing in impotent fury, as the two boys, prefect badges glinting on their chests, dragged him out of the hall.

And over on the Slytherin table was Goyle, patiently spoon feeding Draco his morning gruel. One silver eye flickered in Harry’s direction, and he felt stripped bare.

* * *

Part Nineteen by mirax_terrik

Harry just sat there, unable to move, fork halfway to his mouth and eggs jiggling on the end as his hand shook. Draco winked at him and the fork fell with a crash, startling Harry. When he looked up, Draco was gone.

But as he strained his ears he could've sworn that he heard the faint squeaksqueak of the wheelchair, echoing back torwards him, beckoning.

Almost as if he were in a trance, Harry found himself standing, abandoning his plate of splattered eggs and one lonely withered piece of bacon, and following the faintest of siren calls.

Unfortunately, Harry hadn't noticed that Michael Corner was heading straight towards him, fists clenched and mouth drawn tight with rage.

* * *

Part Twenty by ari_o

Harry was not hungry. He left the Great Hall and walked up to Michael Corner whose arms were pinned behind him by Terry Boot.

"He can still do magic, you know."

Corner spat in Harry's face as his mouth tore open in distorted spasms, his rage still silenced and impotent.

"You never understood. Did you?" Harry winked and went back into the great hall.

"Looks like a wonderful day for flying." Harry said as he passed by Draco and Goyle.

Harry stretched his healthy, working limbs and gobbled a bowl of porridge, all the while staring Draco down.

* * *

Part Twenty-One by ataniell93

Gregory set down the spoon. If the old myths of the Evil Eye had actually ever been true, Harry would have fallen over dead without a sound. But they weren't, and he didn't notice, and that was okay.

There is more than one way to fly, he mused, and remembered something he'd heard his grandmother whispering once to old Alysoun Crabbe, Vince's great among greats, who was said to be older than Dumbledore.

Belladonna and dreams and the fat of an unbaptised Muggle child and wasn't there datura too?

It had never bothered Alysoun or his grandmother that he had trouble reading, that the words and letters played hide and seek, reversing themselves and each other. Some things are too important ever to be written down. Or rather, too damning.

* * *

Part Twenty-Two by malachan

No sign of the snitch yet. Harry flew past Katie, who was practising passing with her fellow Gryffindor chasers, his eyes darting around the stadium.

Squeak. Squeak.

His stomach almost flew out of his mouth, and he had to grip the broom handle very hard to stop himself falling off - not an easy task when his hands were as wet as a swimmer's.

He looked to where the sound was coming from; Goyle was pushing a wheelchair, with what looked from this distance like a blond chicken nugget riding in it.

Squeak. Squeak.

Harry's hand went to his crotch. He was getting very uncomfortable in this position.

"Harry! There's the snitch! Grab the snitch, Harry!" yelled Katie.

Squeak. Squeak.

Harry's hand did not reach out and grab the snitch. There were far more important matters to attend to.

Squeak. Squeak.

* * *

Part Twenty-Three by geoviki

Harry found himself ducking through the corridor behind the Charms classroom in the vain hope of not being late for Divination again. He’d discovered in third year that this disused path, although far longer, actually took less time - another inexplicable benefit of the illogical castle he lived in.

It wasn’t until he heard that distinctive squeak squeak that he realized he wasn’t the only student who’d cottoned on to the shortcut.

Having just been subject to Flitwick for the past hour, it was natural that the idea would come to him so readily. He wondered why no one else had thought of it before now.

“Malfoy,” he said, all emotion stripped from his voice. The approaching noise stopped.

Harry walked towards the – what? he thought suddenly. Body? Shell? Corpse? He’d already drawn his wand, and that piercing eye was vacillating between Harry’s face and the threatening hand that held the wand.

“Not hiding, are you? Trying not to scare the ickle firsties?”

Malfoy remained stubbornly silent.

“Well, maybe I can help you out.” The words to the charm were out of his mouth before he could reflect on them.

The disfiguring scars, the oozing sores, the tortured flesh were all in an instant transformed by the glamour Harry cast over Malfoy. In its place was smooth young skin, pale soft hair, and a pair of dove-grey eyes looking up at him with unmasked shock.

He was not expecting the shock he felt in return. He was immediately sorry he’d been so impulsive, but spoke up loudly to hide his unease.

“Of course, my glamours last only a minute or so, but I bet a more powerful wizard could keep it up for a lot longer. I bet He’d do it for you if you begged him enough. After all, He’s the one who did this to you in the first place, wasn’t he?”

No reply.

“Or do you like it better now that your outside matches what’s inside?”

The glamour could only mask the visible - it had no effect on the tortured rasp of Malfoy’s voice when he finally spoke. “Finite incantatum.”


* * *

Part Twenty-Four by biichan

Finite incantatum.

His dreams that night were filled with grey-green fire and laughing Death Eaters, of carnival music as he rode the shoulders of Michael Corner, careening drunkenly around the room.

Malfoy was there: upright, whole, defiant--backed turned to Voldemort like a clockwork display of the apostles. He was fondling himself, lazily--his one grey eye, the only one that would be real, following Harry's path.

There was a sound like a shattered plate against the marble tile and suddenly Malfoy was engulfed in flames, red-green tongues carressing that white flesh that rose ever upward until, suddenly, they were gone as quick as they came, revealing the monstrous half-corpse that was more Malfoy than the pretty illusion had ever been and with a rush of white light--tinged with green, always with green--Harry came.

His pajamas were sticky with his own seed. Through the window he could see Malfoy hover against the moon, broomless.

* * *

Part Twenty-Five by black_dog

Broomless, Draco floated through the air above Hogwarts, a tiny figure among the great voids and crazy towers. He breathed easily, the weight of his head no longer compressing his twisted chest, knotted muscles and pressure sores banished for the moment. His limbs moved freely; not at his mind’s direction perhaps, but played by the wind like the strings of a Chinese harp.

As the moon set behind the Forbidden Forest, the checkerboard shadows broke his body into smaller wholenesses – here a foot and lower calf, still perfectly formed; there his left hand, the one that still worked. A patch of silver hair; the heavy sprawl of his cock.

Below him on the ground, feet planted like oaks, Crabbe and Goyle trembled and shook as they held the levitation spell for another minute, and another.

* * *

Part Twenty-Six by calixta9

There is always more than one way to skin a cat.

Snape stepped out of the doorway drilled straight through the bedrock beneath Hogwarts, his wand in one hand and a bottle carefully stoppered in the other. The liquid in the bottle was viscous, dark green and glowed with a slight phosporescence in the moonlight.

Muttering a quiet tone, his wand extended to the floating form of his erstwhile student and - he took over for Crabbe and Goyle lest a new accident befall the scion of Malfoy. He didn't speak, didn't flicker so much as an eyelash as ever so slowly, Draco came back to earth. The flask was shoved unceremoniously into Goyle's fingers. "Half in the morning, and half again at dinner," he said brusquely, the glint of his dark eyes unflinching on Draco's ruined face.

His robes swirled grandly as he turned and stalked away, back straight as a broomstick, blood trickling unnoticed down his arm to the hungry earth of Hogwarts.

* * *

Part Twenty-Seven by ataniell93

Gregory stared for a long time after the professor, wondering at the flask in his hand. Wondering what it was--at first he'd thought that Snape had read his mind, but you'd never put an ointment into a flask, and that was crazy anyway, teachers didn't do things like that, not even their own, not Snape.

"Don't stand there like a gorm," said Vince. "It's bloody cold out here. We've got to get him inside."

"Stop talking about me as though I can't hear you," Draco rasped harshly. "Goyle. One would think that had come from Mulciber, the way you keep staring at it."

"Sorry," said Vince, though he wasn't. "Aren't you cold?"

Draco laughed, rich and smoky. "Can't feel it," he said. "What do you think that is, anyway, Goyle?"

Gregory blinked. "A healing potion, I should imagine."

"Hmmph." Draco shrugged. "You don't think they've tried them all? Maybe he just wants to put me out of my misery."

The laughter was awful, like something choking to death. "That isn't funny!" Gregory snapped, tucking the flask carefully into an inner pocket of his robe, so that it didn't break.

Later, after Draco's breathing was slow and regular in the infirmary, Greg buried his face in the pillow.

"Boss never said he was joking," said Vince, and Greg forgot about sleeping for another few hours.