Chapter Text
Draco is used to his so-called friends being idiots. They embarrass him in some way nearly every day. From their utter inability to answer a single question correctly in class to the way they shovel food in their faces like they are pigs at a trough, Crabbe and Goyle are the epitome of slovenly.
Still, their very presence makes first-years turn and scatter off in a different direction. So they're at least good for something.
However, this usefulness is fairly limited. And Draco knows for a fact that they are especially rubbish during Potions.
"It says you need to stir clockwise, not counterclockwise, you sack of flobberworms," Draco spits at Crabbe as they work on today's brew. He likes to do well in this class and this buffoon is doing a fine job mucking it up for him.
"Please do take into consideration," Snape drawls at the class of Slytherins and Gryffindors, "the particular importance of brewing this potion correctly. A failed contraceptive potion can have very serious unintended consequences. Like some of yourselves."
A series of snickers travel around the room from both groups of students. A handful of people don't laugh. A few even turn bright red.
Draco stores the memory of their faces in his mind for later use. Blackmail, perhaps? He'll have to see.
One person who doesn't laugh is Granger. But then, she's too focused on her own potion to notice anything else. Weaselbee could've been dancing naked in front of her and she'd still be the same swot as ever.
What did she need this potion for, anyway? The very thought of Granger purposely dosing herself before slipping into a broom cupboard nearly makes him ill.
Draco chops up a carefully-measured pile of aloe vera and shakes his head. He'll need to be well-versed in this potion soon enough. He's already decided to commit the brewing instructions to memory, should the need arise. He is, after all, fifteen. And some of the girls in his year are, decidedly, not cows.
He has a vague plan in his mind to sow his wild oats, so to speak, before Father picks his bride-to-be and he's saddled with societal duties like fundraising and producing an heir. It's the one thing that keeps him going at a place like this, thinking of all the warm, tight cunts his cock is going to feel before he finishes school.
Just thinking of it at this moment makes his trousers tight.
But no matter. He's got to perfect this brew first. He can't have any mistakes running about because of his lack of oversight. No, best to be prepared.
When his thoughts become more focused, he realises a bit too late that Crabbe has already added the aloe vera to the cauldron.
"You absolute wanker!" Draco shouts as the potion begins to smoke. He pushes his housemate aside in a vain attempt to salvage their potion. "You have to let it simmer for ten minutes before you add that or else—"
BANG!
The cauldron explodes with Draco right in front of it. The force knocks him to the floor and its scalding contents splash all across his torso and legs. The pain is excruciating. Each nerve ending feels icy hot, and Draco hears a scream escape his lips that is inhuman.
Draco can't remember much after that. Just someone yelling for a student to get Madam Pomfrey. Snape crouched over him muttering something. He remembers feeling a cool wave wash over him.
Just before his eyes close and darkness drifts over him, he thinks he sees Granger's face blurred nearby. She almost looks concerned.
Fucking swot.
~*~*~*~
When he wakes up surrounded by soft sheets, Draco can't remember how he moved from the dungeons. He's clearly in the Hospital Wing. The familiar antiseptic smell of the place fills his nostrils.
"Ah, Mr. Malfoy. Good to see you're awake."
Madam Pomfrey bustles past the privacy curtains that have been placed around his bed. She casts a couple spells and reads the results scribbled onto a nearby floating parchment by a self-writing quill.
"Hmm," she mutters as the quill moves further down the page. "And how are you feeling?"
Draco takes stock of his body. Everything seems to be in working order. He has no lingering pain or even stiffness.
"I feel fine. What time is it?"
His brain is finally registering that the windows are not filled with sunlight or even the soft grey colour of a typically cloudy day in Scotland.
"It's just past suppertime, Mr. Malfoy. I've had a house-elf bring you up a tray under a stasis charm. You can eat once we're done talking."
There's something in the way Madam Pomfrey says that last word that has him on edge.
What could they possibly need to talk about? He got burned. He's fine now. It's not like he's some stupid Muggle who would need months to recover from something as simple as a burn.
The matron summons a chair and sits beside Draco's bed. Does she seem nervous? It doesn't sit right with him. He only knows her to be straightforward and quite unsympathetic.
"Mr. Malfoy, about your potions accident earlier…" Madam Pomfrey clears her throat. "While your more obvious physical reactions to the incorrectly brewed potion have been eliminated, there appears to be a lingering effect."
Draco sits up straight in his bed as a strange feeling grabs hold of his stomach.
"The contraceptive potion, if brewed correctly, performs one main function, and should not cause any problems, should it be spilled. Your brew, however—"
"You mean, Crabbe's brew," Draco interrupts with a scowl. "He's the one who can't brew worth shit."
"Language, Mr. Malfoy." Madam Pomfrey meets his disgruntled face with raised eyebrows. "As I was saying, that particular brew was made incorrectly to the point of causing some unfortunate side effects."
"How unfortunate are we talking about?" Draco furrows his brow, the pit in his stomach increasing.
"According to the scans I've done, the balance of your endocrine system has fundamentally shifted."
"My… what?"
"It's unclear what the long-term will look like, Mr. Malfoy. But it appears as though for now, the change in hormones has made sexual functions difficult, if not impossible for you."
The words wash over him like an ice-cold tidal wave.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" He blinks. Perhaps he heard wrong. Misunderstood.
"Impotence, Mr. Malfoy. The incorrectly brewed potion seems to have caused impotence."
As if this change of wording is supposed to make him feel better.
No, instead, he just feels numb.
When Madam Pomfrey leaves, he picks at his dinner. It all tastes like sand in his mouth.
After, when he's quite sure he's alone, he removes his blankets and pyjamas to get a good look at himself.
Visually, at least, nothing looks out of place. The skin on his stomach and legs is a bit pinker than normal, probably due to its newness. But everything else looks normal. The same wiry blond hair between his legs. The same cock he's hoping to get wet as soon as possible.
Cautiously, experimentally, he reaches down and tugs.
Normally, just a few strokes is enough to start on the path toward the inevitable. Not long after that, he usually works himself into a frenzy and spills into his hand. It's routine for him. Nothing special.
But this time is different. Minutes pass in growing frustration as his arousal mounts, but instead of delightfully enticing him toward a goal, it's painful. The feeling building inside is like fire.
And to add insult to injury, his cock remains flaccid as ever.
Fuck.
After nearly fifteen minutes, Draco gives up, a cry of irritation clawing its way up his throat. He turns on his side and tries unsuccessfully to sleep.
~*~*~*~
The rest of the year is shit after that.
Everything is shit.
Classes are awful. Even the subjects he enjoyed before now feel completely useless.
People feel useless as well.
Food has no taste.
He'd rather just stay in his four poster all day and wreck everything in sight. He's already smashed up everything breakable in the dormitory he shares with the other fifth year boys. Blaise and Theo recently resorted to hiding their favourite possessions in magically locked compartments within their trunks so that Draco, in a frustrated rage, wouldn't destroy more.
Draco feels pent up all the time. Like he's teetering on the edge of something, but he can never quite land one way or another. He tries many times over the course of the next few weeks to resolve this tension in his body. Out of habit, he reaches down to grip himself in moments when he finds himself alone. But each time, all he feels is more frustration. More anger. More pain.
So he lets go, watches in vain as his cock remains lifeless as ever.
Fucking useless.
He cuts off Crabbe and Goyle. They deserve it, the wankers.
Then he cuts off all girls. Pansy, who used to simper constantly around him, now gives him the cold shoulder. It's probably for the best, though. Every time he looks a little too long at her arse, he's met with that same, horrific tension. And recently, it's been whenever he's looked at any girl's arse.
He grips his desk in pain when Hannah Abbott bends over during Charms.
He grimaces at breakfast in the Great Hall when he spots Padma Patil eating a banana.
He doubles over when one of the buttons on Granger's shirt pops open in Herbology, revealing blue lace.
It's the last one in particular that does him in. Draco somehow makes it through the remaining ten minutes of class without punching anyone or smashing any potted plants. But the moment they are dismissed, he tears out of Greenhouse Five, away from his classmates and across the grounds until he can't hear or see another soul.
"FUCK!" he screams into the open air. Nearby, a flock of birds alights from a tree, seemingly startled. "Fucking Merlin!" He picks up a small rock and chucks it into the Forbidden Forest. He picks up sticks and leaves and anything he can grab and throws them. All the while, the pain is excruciating and unending, ripping through his lower half like fire.
By the time the pain subsides, his energy is spent. He collapses in a heap on the ground and leans against the base of an old, knotted tree.
Of all the people in this place to get him into such a state, why does it have to be Granger? Sure, thinking about catching her alone, late at the library had been a guilty fantasy of his for a brief stint of time last year. But that was back when he could make himself come by looking at a shampoo bottle.
"Draco?"
His head snaps up. Theo is striding toward him, concern etched on his face.
"Go away, Theo," Draco snaps, practically baring his teeth at his friend.
Theo holds up his hands in defense. "I'm just checking on you, mate. You took off pretty fast after Herbology. Thought something might be wrong."
Draco could say something. He could be honest with his friend.
But the very thought of someone else knowing that he is doomed to have a limp cock for the rest of his life makes him want to kick something. So that isn't an option.
"Just leave me alone."
Theo sighs. "Are you sure? I mean, did something happen with you and Granger? You looked like you wanted to kill her."
"Leave it, Theo."
"Unless you're covering something up." Theo gasps and Draco looks up. His friend looks as though he's made some sort of bold discovery. "You want to shag Granger, don't you?"
"Fuck off. I have no interest in Granger."
"Interesting choice, mate. Can't say I get it, but hey, she's got tits, doesn't she?"
For some reason, this angers Draco more than it should. He can't quite pinpoint why, but once again, he's standing in the swirling fog of pent-up frustration that he hasn't been able to shake for months.
He draws his wand and fires a jinx. It lands by his friend's feet and scorches the grass.
"What the fu—!"
"Go away, Theo, or I swear I won't miss next time."
Draco doesn't recognise his own voice. Hell, he doesn't recognise most of himself.
Theo concedes and disappears back across the grounds with a sneer he usually reserves for Gryffindors.
When he's out of sight, Draco groans into his hands. He's still frustrated. Still angry. His whole body is encompassed by a never-ending dull throb.
Is this going to be the rest of his fucking life? Not being able to go near women because it hurts too much? Always being on edge, ready to snap at the slightest thing?
He needs a distraction. Something to take his mind off the unfairness of it all.
That distraction comes, at first, in the form of the Inquisitorial Squad. He's drafted in early Spring for the task, and he takes out all his anger on younger students. He writes them up left and right, catching them with skiving snackboxes in the corridors or for gathering without approval. The power and responsibility proves to be a decent enough distraction. At least he's only left alone with his dismal thoughts at night.
But then the school year ends with Father in jail and the family name disgraced and he can't see a light at the end of the tunnel.
He needs another distraction. Something to keep him busy. Give him power.
Within a month of coming home he's got a Dark Mark on his forearm and a task to complete.
It's perfect. The perfect distraction. Terrible and all-consuming, it eats away at all his time and brainspace, leaving him with no energy left at the end of the day to even think about girls or his limp cock.
Through it all, he feels himself becoming far crueler, pushing away anyone who might have previously given a hippogriff's arse about him. He isn't sure if it's the pressure building from lack of release or the poisonous mark on his arm seeping deeper into his skin, but his smiles become sneers and his laughter goes silent.
There is only the task.
Then there is war.
He fails at both.
And when the dust finally settles across the shattered remains of the thousand year-old castle, Draco finds that he, too, is a shattered man.
It is only when the world is quiet once more that Draco begins to feel a great, gaping hole in his life. In the weeks following the war, he hears nothing except talk of returning to normalcy. The Daily Prophet is filled with messages about finding hope for the future.
It's cruel, he thinks as he is released from his holding cell in the bowels of the Ministry, that the world around him is striving for dreams and finding love. He returns home to Malfoy Manor, now scarred and hollow. Father is locked away. Mother has fled. It's just him, alone with his thoughts night and day.
The Wizengamot think they've done some great service by setting him free. But all they've done, really, is sentence him to a lifetime of awareness. At least in Azkaban, he'd be barmy within a short amount of time. Starved of company and the outside world, he'd probably forget about his cock entirely.
He tries going on dates on and off for a couple years, but he's so deep in his own head that no girl ever wants to go out a second time. Nor does he have any interest in them. Not really, anyway. That's what he tells himself.
Blaise and Theo stop by the Manor on occasion. They've all got birds they're seeing—well, for Theo it's birds and blokes. But their cocks seem busy. They mention recent dates often enough that it drives Draco more than a bit mad to listen to their stories about this girl's tits and that bloke's arse. If they wonder why Draco never chimes in, they don't say anything.
Draco doesn't tell them about his predicament. They don't need to know. Let them think whatever they will. It won't make any difference on his part.
He'll still feel pangs of emptiness whenever he's out in public. Which isn't often any more. But when he makes himself go outside to Diagon Alley or to Quidditch matches, he's constantly faced with reminders that because of that one, stupid potions accident, there are things that will always feel worthless.
Couples on dates.
They'll probably go and shag later, he often thinks as he passes by.
Oddly enough, he finds himself staring at the couples with prams as well.
They had to shag to make that sprog, he thinks. I'll never have one, then.
He'd never given the prospect much thought when he was younger. It was something people do. Something he is supposed to do one day. Produce an heir. Keep the Malfoy line going. But it all seemed so distant. Now that the possibility has been taken away entirely… Draco isn't sure what to think any more.
It's this thought that leads him to a series of potions masters. Letter after letter is sent to the farthest reaches of the world, to people who might be able to pinpoint what's wrong with him and tell him a cure.
Most letters go unanswered. The few that do come back offer little hope.
And so slowly, bit by bit, the future grows dimmer and dimmer. He goes out less, sticks closer to home. It's safer there. He won't have to see all the things he can't have.
But sometimes when he's truly desperate, he still does stupid things.
Stupid things like fire calling Blaise, asking about escort services. Draco knows his friend has dabbled in all kinds of exploits, the paid kind not excluded. He's been pacing all day. His skin itches and he feels as though if he doesn't have some sort of release, he'll punch a hole through the wall.
Thankfully, Blaise doesn't ask too many questions. He recommends a woman he's seen a couple of times. Serena. According to Blaise, she's erotic and dominant.
And given that he has no experience to speak of, this sounds… appealing.
He sends an owl. His appointment is confirmed shortly for the next day.
Draco showers. He shaves. He prays to whatever gods are listening that his cock defies the odds and comes to life. When he's dressed up nicer than he's been in months, he resumes pacing. The itching feeling in his skin is back.
It only gets worse when Serena arrives. She's even more gorgeous than Blaise described—long legs topped with a gorgeous arse, generous curves on her chest and dark hair that falls across her shoulders in waves. He's never wanted something so much in his life as he wants her right now.
That's the first telltale sign that this is a horrible idea.
Draco should know that he's doomed from the moment she hangs on his arm to Apparate to dinner. Just the overly-floral scent of her is making him nauseous. The itching in his skin only increases as they arrive at the French restaurant and are seated. She does her job well, leaning over the table to expose ample cleavage. Under the table, she runs her foot up his calf. The sensation is electric. Draco can feel his own excitement and arousal mounting.
Alongside that feeling, dread also builds, but Draco pushes it down.
This has to work.
He's suffered so much in the years following the accident. He deserves this. He does. Something has to work out in his favour. It has to.
By the time their food arrives, he feels as though the whole of his skin is stretched too thin, pulled too taut against his frame. The sensation borders on pain, but he endures it.
Serena bats her eyelashes as he foots the bill.
His abdomen is starting to tighten. He grins and bears it.
They arrive back at the Manor and Serena asks in a coy tone if he might show her to his bedroom.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Draco realises that he should probably inform this woman of his problems so she knows what to expect. That's the right thing to do, isn't it? But his brain is covered in a thick fog and he isn't thinking clearly.
So he leads her upstairs, watches as she removes layer after layer of clothing until she's left in some lacy black lingerie. Then she undresses him, undoes button after button until he's naked underneath her.
She teases him with her mouth, pressing her lips and tongue across his body, and in doing so, she paints his body in a river of fire.
Even as the pent-up frustration mounts higher and the pain of arousal grows stronger, Draco finds that the light of hope within him is still flickering like a candle inside of him. He knows what the experts say. All those potions masters and healers tell him time and again that his condition is likely irreversible. That the effects of the potion have sunk so deep into his body that it would be impossible to have a normal, healthy sex life.
But this woman is an expert. A professional. She'll find a way. He has the same sort of determination in his gut that he used to feel before Quidditch matches.
This is going to work. It has to.
Draco leans back against his pillows and gives into the sensation of her mouth and hands getting closer and closer to where he needs them the most. The sense of urgency in his body increases and he bucks up toward her. And when she takes him into her mouth, all hot and wet, he can't tell whether he's in heaven or hell.
The muscles in his abdomen tighten past the point of recognition and he cries out, but not in the way he hopes. No, his damn cock is just as limp as ever. Even after a few minutes of work on Serena's end, the thing hasn't twitched once. It's just laid there, useless and heavy against his thigh.
"Something wrong?" Serena asks after a while, propping herself up on her elbows. Her voice is dripping with honey, smooth and a little raspy. It's the kind of way he used to fantasize that women would talk to him when he was an adolescent. She pouts a little as she looks down at his flaccid cock, and the subtle turn of her lips makes Draco's cheeks flame. "I don't usually have this much trouble."
Draco coughs. "Oh, sorry. I'm, erm, distracted."
It's a stupid excuse, but she offers a way to bring his focus back. And how can he say no to that?
With practised ease, she strips for him, revealing truly enormous breasts and the very first pussy he's ever seen.
It's breathtaking and completely overwhelming. There's just… so much there. He's seen them in dirty photographs of course. PlayWizard and other such publications he'd stuffed under his mattress as an adolescent. But photographs don't do justice to what he sees now.
As enthralled and delighted as he is, though, his cock remains as uninterested as ever.
It's only now that Serena starts to show real concern. Her brows furrow, and Draco swears he sees distaste brewing in the turn of her lips. Her eyes travel to his groin, and judging by the way she draws back slightly, one eyebrow cocked, she doesn't like what she sees. She's confused, at least. That much is obvious.
"What's going on?"
Suspicion lines the tone of her voice, and already, Draco's feelings of certainty are slipping through his fingers.
"Oh, er, it's—"
"A young bloke like you can't get it up?" She scoffs. "If you have some sort of medical condition or special requirements, you needed to let me know up front. Didn't you know?"
Draco feels his cheeks heat, and even though he's been naked this whole time, he suddenly feels far more so. Vulnerability creeps up his body in waves and he wants nothing more than to bury himself under the blankets in his bed and never emerge.
Instead, he shakes his head, face still burning. "N-no. I didn't. I don't—"
Who is this person he's become, weak and stuttering? What's happened to the confident, snarky Draco Malfoy? Has he vanished into thin air, leaving this empty shell behind?
"Look." Serena huffs, sitting up with her hands on her hips. "I can try with my mouth. See if that works for you."
This should be the hottest thing he's ever heard, but now he can't ignore the pity in her voice. She pities him. Fucking pities him, Draco Malfoy.
It would be one thing for her to pity him for his choices during the war or the fact that he'll never see his father outside of prison again. But she doesn't pity him for those things. She pities him because his cock isn't normal. He isn't normal.
He's broken, and the fact that she's pointing something he fucking knows… It kills him a little. It ignites something in him, that pent-up anger that's been bubbling under his skin for a while now.
The itching returns. His pulse races. He clenches the sheets in his fists and he's moments away from an outburst he'll regret.
"Get out," he grits between his teeth. "Now. This is done."
Serena lingers for a moment, her knit brows furrowing further.
She isn't getting it, and Draco feels a flare in his temper. It burns through him, erupting from his mouth in a heavy roar. "Get out!" he growls. "Get the fuck out!" In blind anger, he reaches for his wand and blasts a hole in the wall of his bedroom. The spell shoots right past her head, making her scream and duck.
He doesn't have to tell Serena again. She pulls on her dress, summons her bag, and storms toward the Floo, but not before informing him that he'll receive a notice within twenty-four hours of his official blacklisting from any more escort services.
Whatever. That suits him just fine.
The silence that follows is deafening. It permeates every inch of his bedroom. Of this whole damn manor.
He is alone.
All alone.
Any hope that's left in him has drained away, and all he's left with is the pang of utter despair.
Draco crawls beneath the sheets of his bed and cries.