Title: Interregnum [Chapter 22]
Pairing[s]: Harry/Draco and others.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 2900 words
Summary: Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? [William Blake]
Beta: None really, but evilsource looked some of it over.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
Interregnum - Chapter 22
"No," said Harry. His mouth had gone dry. "I haven't lost anything."
Malfoy walked to his bedside cabinet and bent down to pull out the top drawer. "So why are you here?" He extracted a pair of pants from the drawer, sat down on the bed, and opened the towel.
Harry looked away quickly. "We're going to investigate a lead tonight, and you're coming with us." It was almost true, too. Malfoy didn't need to know about any other reasons Harry might've had for being here.
"Oh, I see. You've done something useful for a change," drawled Malfoy. Harry heard him walk to the wardrobe on the other side of the bed. "But it wasn't even you, was it?" continued Malfoy. "It's your charming -- ah -- partner doing all the work."
"Whatever, Malfoy," said Harry, looking up to see a set of robes slide down Malfoy's torso. Malfoy's head emerged after a moment, even more dishevelled than before. "If it were up to me, you wouldn't be joining us, but we don't have anyone else who's as familiar with Death Eaters as you are."
Malfoy smoothed his hair back with both hands, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you arrest me for that, too?"
Harry said nothing. His mind had chosen this moment to fixate upon the barely-there trail of blond hair running down from Malfoy's navel. Did Malfoy have the photograph? Did he know?
"Is that it, Potter?"
Harry scowled at him. "Yeah." He had wanted to walk away of his own accord, but it looked like Malfoy was going to kick him out, and there wasn't a damned thing Harry could do about it without looking completely daft.
"Well, since you're here, I'd like to know something."
Harry felt a chill. He's going to ask me about the photograph. "What?"
"Is there any special reason you chose to bring nineteen different flavours of lube from my flat, but no shaving cream?"
Lube? As in... oh, Christ. His face burned. He had barely looked at what he'd shoved into Malfoy's shirt-turned-sack at his Berlin flat. He only remembered noting that Malfoy had more vials and bottles than Ginny. "I didn't have time to read the damned labels, all right?" he snapped. Now that Malfoy mentioned it, Harry realised that his face was clean-shaven for the first time in weeks. "But it's good to see you've decided to rejoin the world of the living. You really were stinking up the place, you know."
"Oh, I am ever so sorry for the inconvenience." Malfoy was using his customary lazy drawl, but his eyes were hard. "It's not every day I lose everyone important to me. Not that you'd know anything about that."
"Right, because the Death Eaters didn't kill my parents or anything," Harry bit back. He felt ashamed for having been so rude, but he was helpless against this new anger that roiled in him, urging him to say or do anything to wound Malfoy. And if he closed his eyes, he'd see Malfoy's eyes fluttering shut above a mouthful of cock. Harry blamed Malfoy for that. He hated him for it.
"The Death Eaters didn't, actually. The Dark Lord did, and you've done for him, haven't you? I think you enjoy being a martyr so much that you forget people you don't like can have feelings, too."
"At least your parents are still alive," said Harry. Just who was Malfoy to pass judgement? The rage he'd been trying to suppress boiled over. "As for your little boyfriend, he's better off dead if it means not putting up with your sanctimonious bullshit."
With slow deliberation, he turned around and stalked out of Malfoy's bedroom. A part of him was aghast at what he'd just said, but the rest of him thrummed with seething rage. It confused him to be so angry at Malfoy when he didn't deserve it, and that pissed him off even more. He nearly stumbled over the slightly raised threshold in his bedroom doorway, but righted himself quickly. There was a loud bang behind him, and Harry flew through the air as an invisible force twisted him round and pushed him into an armchair -- a twin to the one in Malfoy's room -- with a thud. Malfoy walked into his room, eyes glittering, his wand raised. Thick ropes fastened Harry's upper body to the chair's back.
"Sanctimonious?" said Malfoy, his voice wavering. "Let's talk about that, shall we?" He raised his left hand and held up a square of parchment. From this distance, Harry couldn't make out the details, but he knew it well enough. The missing photograph.
Malfoy flicked his wrist, and the photo spun like a Fanged Frisbee as it sailed toward Harry, landing a few feet away from the chair.
Millicent studied the entrance to the block of flats for the umpteenth time. "I dunno," she said, also for the umpteenth time. She and Patrick sat on a bench next to a friendly little park. It was a quintessentially Muggle neighbourhood; Millicent had trouble believing that any Death Eater could have lived here for two months, let alone nearly twenty years. "We could just go in."
Patrick, who had been amusing himself by reading aloud from the English-Icelandic/Icelandic-English dictionary, looked over at her. "Or we could sit here until we grow old and our teeth fall out of our skulls. You know what would be funny? If those pigeons decided our teeth were bread and came over to--"
"Oi," said Millicent. "Our teeth haven't fallen out yet."
"At this rate..." said Patrick, and gestured vaguely with his dictionary. "I say we go in. We've swept the place. It's clear. There's no one inside. What could happen?"
"Maybe she's got Muggle enchantments. Burger alarms, I think they're called."
"Burglar, not burger."
"Whatever. Dead meat, either way."
Patrick sighed. "We have to make up our minds."
Millicent's heart lurched a bit at that. Patrick's mind had been made up since before they even got here. It was touching that he didn't consider it fully made up until she agreed. Thinking back over the assignments they'd done together made her realise he always did this; she had just never noticed it. It was a silly reason to pooh-pooh her misgivings, but she rose from the bench all the same. "Let's go."
Patrick handed her the dictionary with a ceremonious bow, and they set off towards the building entrance. The lift let them out into a gloomy corridor lined with identical off-white doors. They'd been here twice already, checking for traps, and the way to Number 317 was familiar. Alohomora.
The door marked 317 swung inwards. For a few moments, Millicent and Patrick stood in the corridor, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. No alarms went off. No ghouls or Inferi leaped out to attack them. The sun shone through the slats upon the windows opposite, forming tremulous bars on the floor of a perfectly ordinary kitchen. The place had obviously been deserted for the whole five or so years since Eva Kay had left for England -- dust carpeted every surface. They would have to put it back when they were done. She might have been cocky enough to think no one would find the place -- or perhaps just hadn't wanted any Muggle accidentally setting off an Intruder Charm and causing a headache for the Icelandic wizarding population -- but that didn't mean Patrick and Millicent could afford to be careless.
Patrick was already inside the wardrobe, inspecting moth-eaten furs with the look of a connoisseur. She turned back to the kitchen, and then the door banged open again. Shit.
"Well, well, well," said a new voice behind her. In English? Yes, in English. Interesting. "Turn around. Hands where I can see 'em. Move."
Slowly, Millicent raised her hands, wand and all, and turned around to face not another wand, but the muzzle of an impressively large semiautomatic weapon. She took care to keep a straight face as Patrick stepped out from the wardrobe behind their visitor, looking furious.
"Accio rifle. Stupefy," he said matter-of-factly. The man's weapon flew towards Patrick's outstretched hand. The man thudded to the floor with a look of genuine surprise.
Millicent flicked her wand at the weapon to tie its barrel into a knot. "I hate these things," she remarked. "Way too dangerous."
Draco kept his wand trained on Potter as he approached the chair. "Go on, Potter," he half-whispered. "Tell me why you took it from my flat. You don't want to hear any of my sanctimonious bullshit, so let's talk about yours."
Potter said nothing. He had turned his face away from the photograph after it had fallen, and now he appeared to be studying something beyond the window. Too bad the curtains were drawn. Potter wore the same jeans that once made Draco do a double-take at the Berlin Quidditch stadium, and that memory helped Draco's anger drop to a low simmer.
"Believe it or not, I understand," said Draco, using his wand-tip to brush Potter's fringe away from his glasses. Potter shrank back, but still he did not look up. "I understand why you're so angry. You think it's my fault you've developed some... unusual tastes. Don't you."
Potter scowled but made no reply. Draco touched his wand to his glasses, and they disappeared, re-materialising atop the bedside cabinet. Potter blinked a few times, but still his sullen gaze remained on the curtains.
"You're supposed to be the best of them?" asked Draco, scornful. He remembered being vaguely impressed when Potter had chivvied him, half-dazed and in shock, through ports and borders. He had felt perfectly safe for the first time since he'd seen Blaise collapse in his doorway. He remembered thinking that perhaps Potter had grown into a man after all. But here he sat like a boy caught with his hand down his pants, and just as articulate. "Britain's finest, aren't you just?"
"I don't know why I took the photograph," said Potter quietly. "But you're making a big mistake."
"Oh no," said Draco, and his temper flared again at Potter's matter-of-fact tone. "I'm only getting started."
A spell forced Potter's legs apart, another spell binding his shins to the armchair's legs. Diffindo. The jeans split open in the front.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Potter demanded, his eyes wide. "You could've sliced me in half, you psychopath--"
"Relax, Potter," said Draco. The underpants needed to go, as did the rest of Potter's clothes. "I've had lots of practice with the Severing Charm." Diffindo. Potter's T-shirt now hung down in two perfect halves, exposing a chest as pale as Draco's, with skin probably just as soft. Draco's wand twirled as it shredded Potter's clothes into ribbons, and soon the floor around the chair was blue and white. Potter seemed to have lost the ability to speak.
For a few moments, Draco simply stood admiring his handiwork. The trouble was that Potter sans clothes was an even more appealing sight than Potter in those jeans, may they rest in peace. Draco's attention was riveted upon Potter's cock, hanging off a bit from the edge of the chair. Draco had felt it stiffen against him once, in the nightclub the night Blaise-- no. He would not think about that.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" asked Potter, but Draco was barely listening. Staring at Potter's cock was making his mouth water. It was really indecent, how indiscriminating he could be when it came to cock -- this was, after all, Harry Potter's cock. A dangerous toy. Draco knelt, bracing himself against Potter's spread legs.
"Shut up," said Draco and shot a spell at Potter's throat, to keep him from speaking without silencing him completely. He was going to make noises soon, and Draco wanted to listen to those. "You've been having wet dreams about this for weeks now, and I'd like you to stop pulling my fucking pigtails over it. Shut up and take it like a man."
He lifted Potter's cock with one hand and drew it into his mouth, sucking gently. Potter tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere for him to move. Heat pooled in Draco's lower abdomen as he worked his tongue over the head, but he wouldn't touch himself, not this time. Potter made a strangled noise, and his cock began to stiffen rapidly in Draco's mouth, until Draco had to pull back a bit to avoid choking on it. Then he pulled all the way back, letting Potter's cock spring free. Draco looked up. Potter was trying to speak, but all he could manage was "ah", "hee oooh hee", "ahhhee", "eh hee oh".
"Sorry," said Draco, "I don't speak Gobbledegook." He gripped the base of Potter's cock and guided it into his mouth again, this time keeping his eyes on Potter's face. Potter's eyes were full of anguish behind a baleful glare, and Draco could practically see the battle between Potter's needs and his ideas about propriety. This was the most exhilarating part of debasing straight boys: watching them struggle like this. That this was Harry Potter made it all the more special. Draco closed his eyes and went down deeper, and that made Potter moan again, moan and shudder upwards. Draco loosened his grip and let his thumb trail down over Potter's balls. Potter's breathing stuttered, and Draco pulled away, releasing him completely.
"Still want me to stop?" he asked, addressing Potter's cock, which rose wet and dusky pink, a sharp contrast to his pale belly. Potter moaned something incoherent, and Draco decided to take that as a "no, don't stop." He moved closer again, and Potter thrust up, eager, wanting, but Draco didn't take him in. He bent down and flattened his tongue against Potter's balls, licked all the way up, and pulled back again. "Maybe I should stop," he said, deliberately not looking at Potter. "This is a bit unfair, isn't it. You're all tied up and speechless. For all I know, you aren't enjoying this at all." He gripped Potter's cock with both hands, holding it steady. "But maybe I don't care if you are."
He pulled the head into his mouth and sucked at it lightly, swiping his tongue across it, wet and bitter. He could almost taste Potter's come in the back of his throat, and it jolted him to realise how much he wanted it. How much he wanted Potter's eyes to turn glassy, for his mouth to open, slack and helpless, and for Potter to moan Draco's name. That old hatred seethed like hunger in the pit of his belly, heightening his arousal, making him want to strip off, to sit in Potter's lap and come all over him. Draco worked his tongue over the head lazily for a few moments, and then began to suck again, opening his mouth just enough to fit it in. He let his teeth scrape gently against it several times, not enough to hurt but just enough to frighten, and then let go again. Potter let out something close to a sob, and Draco lifted his wand off the floor to take the Speechless Charm off Potter's throat.
He straightened up and brushed Potter's sweat-damp hair from his forehead, gently. His fingers trembled as he traced them down Potter's cheek and leaned forwards, pressing his mouth to Potter's, slow, careful, sliding his tongue over Potter's parted lips. He kissed the side of Potter's jaw and moved lower, etching patterns into Potter's neck with his tongue, his fingers digging into Potter's thighs with barely contained savagery. He wrapped his right hand round Potter's cock and squeezed it, then began to jerk Potter off, sure and steady. Potter moaned and thrust up into Draco's fist. Draco smiled and licked Potter's earlobe, drawing forth another helpless little moan.
"P-put it in your mouth," gasped Potter. "Want you to--"
"Boys?" Downstairs. Someone was downstairs. Fuck.
"Biggs," whispered Potter, his eyes frantic. "Berkeley."
Draco wondered who Berkeley was supposed to be, but didn't ask. He took his wand and rose to his feet, trying not to stare longingly at Potter's cock. He had walked in here bent on teaching Potter a lesson, but now all he wanted was to make Potter come. No wonder Theodore always insisted poofs were fickle, thought Draco gloomily.
"I could leave you like this," he said to Potter. "For him to find you." What a sight he was, bound, naked, his clothes a heap of tattered fabric around him. Potter's eyes narrowed, and that helped Draco find his feet again. Not sex. Just a lesson. "But I won't," finished Draco. "You owe me one, Potter."
He released the bonds that held Potter and Disapparated to his bedroom.