not your typical annihilatrix (furiosity) wrote,
not your typical annihilatrix

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Fic: Interregnum - Chapter 31 [NC-17] [WiP]

Title: Interregnum [Chapter 31]
Author: furiosity
Rating: NC-17
Pairing[s]: Harry/Draco and others.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 4600 words
Summary: We never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough. [William Blake]
Beta: None.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.

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Interregnum - Chapter 31

Potter made a faint noise of half-hearted protest, but he didn't try to move away. Draco reached beneath his T-shirt, hooked his fingers into the belt loops of Potter's jeans, tugged. "Potter," he said, voice too hoarse but not deep enough. Potter's main weapon -- his loathsome righteous scorn worthy of Draco's father -- would be useless now, for Potter had walked into Draco's world on his own.

Draco dug his thumbs into Potter's thighs and remembered a sunny day in Berlin -- the day Potter had re-entered his life. He had wanted to do this since that day. Maybe things would have been different if he had done it then. Yeah, Potter would've had you committed. He likes it when you touch him, but he'll never touch you.

With sudden fury, Draco grabbed one of Potter's hands and pressed it tightly against his crotch. His cock had been hard for some time now. "Feel that?" Draco dropped Potter's hand and undid his jeans. "Time you found out what it really feels like." Draco pushed his pants down and threw Potter a challenging look. "Scared?"

Potter's eyes blazed. "You wish." As he seized hold of Draco's cock, Draco braced himself against the wall, gasping more in shock than in pleasure. A small part of him thumbed its nose at the ugly little Knockturn Alley chit Potter had been with last night. I'm the first man he's touched like this -- suck on that, you little whore. Potter's movements became more hesitant, and Draco almost growled in frustration. "This the best you can do?" asked Draco, a part of him yammering that he should stop baiting Potter, that Potter will push him away and lock him in a cage again.

"Fuck you," gasped Potter, tightening his hold on Draco's cock.

"Yeah, you're going to," breathed Draco, thrusting up into Potter's fist. Potter was too clumsy; his erratic, jerking hand wasn't doing much, but Draco made the requisite breathy sounds into Potter's ear, whimpering a little bit to encourage him. He was terrified that any minute now, Potter would realise he was only putting on a show, and he would surely hurt Draco for that if he didn't hurt him for everything else. Draco dragged his tongue up the side of Potter's neck and then bit down gently with a sigh. Potter moaned. Draco eased away from his grasp and stepped back, half-dragging Potter inside the bedroom, nearly tripping over his jeans in the process. But he realised he'd liked having Potter up against the wall like that, so instead of the bed, he opted for the wall next to it.

His hands shaking, his nerves so frayed he felt every ounce of the blood heavy in his veins, Draco unbuttoned Potter's jeans. They were so tight, pushing them down was like peeling skin. Draco took Potter's wand out of his back pocket and tossed it on the bedside cabinet. Potter's jagged breaths made Draco almost too excited to be useful, but finally the jeans and underpants slithered down Potter's legs. Draco stepped closer, out of the untidy heap of his own jeans. He wrapped his hand round both their cocks as best he could and stroked, using his own cock to create more friction for Potter. He leaned in and worried Potter's earlobe with his teeth until Potter began to moan and rut against him. "You must really hate me," he whispered, straightening. Potter whimpered, but his eyes flashed for a brief moment, his teeth baring for just as long. A few more seconds and Potter would push him away, Draco was sure of it.

"You do. That's good. Never fuck unless you feel something." Draco's own face flashed in his mind, distorted with a grimace of pain, his throat exposed beneath Potter's snarling mouth. "When you fuck me," he continued, relentless, though his mind was careening too fast, spinning out of control. "Fuck me like that, Potter." He squeezed their cocks together as tightly as he could. "Fuck me like you hate me."

Potter made a choking sound and bucked forwards, his cock jerking against Draco's, his come spilling over both of them, warm and thick. And Draco nearly lost it then, too, because Potter seemed to have surrendered to something greater than the both of them. Seeing that happen, feeling it, filled Draco with a sense of power not his own, so potent it shot up his spine, making him want to come, right now, all over Potter's face... He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed, and the pain brought him back. Potter staggered back against the wall, red-faced, hiding his eyes. It would have been cute if he weren't named Harry Potter.

"Clean us up," said Draco, and again he had an unwelcome vision pass before his mind's eye: Potter looking up, eyes ablaze, snarling who do you think you are? and drawing his wand out to fight. Draco clenched his teeth.

Wordlessly, Potter grabbed his wand from the bedside cabinet and then promptly dropped it. "Fuck," he said thickly and began to bend down to retrieve it, but Draco was quicker.

Potter's wand felt too light in his hand, but he'd be able to use it. He Vanished the come from both of them and then conjured a small -- smaller than normal, but it wasn't his own wand -- bottle of lube onto the bedside cabinet. He placed the wand next to it. Potter didn't seem to notice or care. Draco liked it like this; with Potter all half-baked, he could almost tolerate him. At the same time, he was wound tighter than the strings on Jake's guitar. One twist of Potter's fingers and he'd snap.

Potter still stood leaning against the wall as though his life depended on it. He was staring at Draco's cock with the sort of half-drunk look Draco associated with boys who liked sucking cock best of all, and wasn't that ironic? But at this point, Potter would probably faint dead away at the mere suggestion of him sucking anyone's cock, let alone Draco's. And Draco wanted Potter at least somewhat conscious. Rolling his eyes, Draco shoved him towards the bed, where Potter sat down, back to the headboard, and shut his eyes. Draco began to remove his shirt. It took longer than he'd thought. His fingers trembled, and his cock was almost painfully hard now, but he wasn't being paid to perform a strip tease, for crying out loud. It was only Potter. As Draco tossed his shirt aside, he noticed that Potter was doing a rather convincing impression of a blushing schoolgirl: he looked at Draco, glanced away, then dragged his gaze back as though unable to resist. "Wh-what are you doing?"

Draco stepped closer. "I said you were going to fuck me, didn't I?"


Harry's throat was dry. He'd looked at enough porn at this point to understand, in graphic detail, what this sort of fucking involved. Malfoy was talking about Harry's cock in a place, well, a place into which Harry really didn't want to think about putting his cock.

but would you do it with a woman

Malfoy straddled him and emptied half of the little bottle he'd conjured into his palm. Then he reached down between his legs, never taking his eyes off Harry. Harry looked away but immediately looked back, unable to fight his fascination. Malfoy was sticking his fingers up his arse and it looked like he was enjoying himself. For all Harry knew, this could have been a dream inspired by one of his magazines. But of course it was not a dream; even in his dreams, Harry was never a participant, only the watcher.

Malfoy wrapped his hand round Harry's cock, stroking hard. His other hand came up to rest on Harry's neck, stroking lightly. His fingers slid over the Auror brand then came back, worrying it, tracing its outline, but Harry couldn't mind, not when Malfoy's slick hand worked over his cock, so warm. Just like that, Harry was hard again, and Malfoy released his cock and straightened. Before Harry knew what was happening, Malfoy sank down onto his cock, slowly, biting his lower lip. The pressure was almost too much, but after years of almost nothing but his own hand, it felt better than Harry would have imagined, and the pleasant white haze uncoiling in his stomach made all his misgivings seem trivial.

Then Malfoy braced himself against Harry's legs and began to move, and the misgivings disappeared altogether, in one low gasp from Harry's parched mouth. The languorous way Malfoy fucked himself, the mocking way he smiled, the maddening way he rubbed circles into Harry's thighs with his thumbs all made Harry think he understood why cats played with their food. Malfoy was getting off on this alone; his cock would bump against Harry's stomach and every time it did, Malfoy would let out a breathy little gasp he tried to hide behind his easy smile. Then Malfoy was off him completely, settling back on the bed between Harry's legs and gazing at Harry's cock, shiny, in sharp contrast to his pale belly. Harry exhaled. "What--"

"Enough talk." Malfoy leaned back, legs spread, and beckoned.

Harry, still only half-coherent, went to him on sheer impulse, wanting nothing but to fuck him, now. His cock slid easily back inside Malfoy, who twined his arms round Harry's neck and pulled him down, so close Harry could smell the soap on his skin, so close their breaths mingled. He thought Malfoy wanted to kiss him, and the most terrifying thing was -- Harry wanted to kiss him, too. Malfoy's eyes acquired a glazed look Harry didn't like. "Like you hate me," he whispered, sending a cold blast through Harry's guts.

Malfoy's games had cost Harry his job, his reputation. Right here and now he didn't want to be a good person, didn't give a damn about being reasonable and taking responsibility and all that noble shit. He had Malfoy right where he wanted him. He could feel whatever he wanted to feel. "Yeah," he said. He hated Malfoy, loathed him, and yet wanted him more than he could remember wanting anything -- and that made him hate Malfoy even more. "I do hate you."

"So fuck me," Malfoy whispered, dragging his fingertips down Harry's chest and to his own cock.

Harry began to move, half-dazed, overcome by how easy it was to give in to this unnatural, horrifying intimacy between the two of them. Malfoy didn't just lie back and let Harry fuck him; he snapped up to meet Harry thrust for thrust, his eyes half-closed but brighter than ever. Never fuck unless you feel something. He tried to kiss Malfoy, but Malfoy wouldn't let Harry's mouth near his. And as Harry moved faster, sank deeper inside, Malfoy's breathing became more erratic, his eyes wilder, the clutch of his fingers on Harry's shoulders vicelike. "Malfoy, please," Harry moaned, leaning down once more. "Just once, just let me-- fuck!" His balls tightened, and he shuddered, but he pressed his face to Malfoy's neck and breathed deep. Not yet. Beneath him, Malfoy growled something incoherent and rocked upwards, and Harry sat back up.

Then Malfoy's cock was spurting in his hand, and Malfoy was arcing up against Harry, his face and chest flushed a deep, dark pink. He groaned low and deep in his throat, and Harry lost control. He threw his head back and came, eyes screwed shut so tightly he saw spots. He heard his own moans as though from a distance as the orgasm ripped through him, liquefying his insides and his spine until he could barely stay upright. It was more intense than anything he'd ever felt. Is it always like this? Is it supposed to be like this?

As Harry began to regain a sense of his surroundings, his heart pounded so hard in his head and chest that he felt disorientated and dizzy. He pulled out of Malfoy and hissed; the head of his cock was so sensitive that the air felt ten thousand times colder. Harry reached down with a sweat-sticky hand to cover it.

Suddenly, Malfoy shoved him violently backwards. "Get away from me!" he screeched. He was shaking, his panicked eyes roaming about the room as though looking for a way out.

Frightened, Harry reached for his shoulders. "Malfoy--"

"Don't fucking touch me!" Malfoy scrambled away from Harry and got to his feet. He looked pitiful like this, naked, skinny, his chest and stomach gleaming with come. Malfoy's eyes rolled back, and if Harry hadn't been right there to catch him, he would have hit his head on the bedside cabinet as he tumbled to the floor. Harry clutched Malfoy to himself, shivering, his heart still pounding. Had he hurt him? Done something wrong?

"Come on," he mumbled, brushing Malfoy's hair away from his face. "Malfoy." But Malfoy remained limp. Harry hauled him fully onto the bed and pressed two fingers to the base of his neck. The pulse was faint but steady. Shit as Harry was at healing magic, St Mungo's was his first thought, but he couldn't very well show up there with Malfoy in tow. People who were supposed to be dead and buried didn't usually need medical attention.

"Think," he told himself. "Who--"

Hermione. But that would require going to Diagon Alley in broad daylight, and Harry couldn't be seen. The Auror Office had summoned him for the removal of his brand, and Harry hadn't gone; it was only a matter of time before they started looking for him. He couldn't lose his Auror brand yet -- he needed access to the safe-houses. They couldn't come here; the house was still Unplottable. He couldn't take a risk by going to Diagon Alley. His Invisibility Cloak would be useless because of increased security at the Leaky Cauldron; no one could pass through the entrance without wearing a visitor bracelet. He could use the two-way to call Hermione here, but she might be followed, maybe captured to make him give himself up. Everyone knew who Harry's friends were. No, it would be too risky for Hermione.

Ginny. Ginny was a professional Quidditch player; they were all trained in Mediwizardry. Perhaps not to the extent of St Mungo's professionals, but it was his best chance. He opened his mouth to call Kreacher, then realised Malfoy was still naked. Harry doubted Kreacher would understand.

He wiped Malfoy's chest and stomach with his shirt and manhandled him into a set of spare robes from the wardrobe. Malfoy hadn't taken off his socks, which was all to the good. Harry got dressed quickly and hid Malfoy's clothes under the bed. "Kreacher!"

Crack. "Master Harry?"

"Malfoy isn't well."

The elf bowed. "Kreacher wishes he could ease young Master Malfoy's suffering, but Kreacher lacks the magical ability to manipulate the bodies of wizards."

"That's fine, I didn't want you to Heal him or anything. Just-- just watch him, okay? If he wakes up, don't let him leave."

"Kreacher will do as Master Harry asks."

"Thanks, Kreacher," Harry threw over his shoulder as he hurried out. Ginny and Eddie Carmichael were in the Camden safe-house. Just in case, Harry Apparated to a blind alley a few blocks away, where he pulled on his Invisibility Cloak and hurried towards the house.

The entrance hallway was quiet, but someone was moving around in the kitchen. "Ginny?" Harry called out.

She stuck her head out of the kitchen door, surprised. "Harry?" Then she took a tiny step back, which told Harry that she had, indeed, read the morning paper.

"I, uh. I need you to come with me," he said. "Malfoy's having some sort of fit and I have no idea how to help him."

"Malfoy? Harry, are you mad? Hermione called earlier -- they've got Hit Wizards looking for you; you shouldn't be walking around!"

"D'you think I've got a choice? Please, just come with me. I'll explain everything later."

After another moment's hesitation, Ginny stepped out of the kitchen. "All right."

Harry threw the Invisiblity Cloak over them both. Together, they passed through the safe-house doors, and for the first time in years, Harry's heart wasn't beating double-time at the unexpected proximity to Ginny. Still, he couldn't help but notice that she hadn't even told Carmichael she was leaving. He chased the thoughts away; now wasn't the time. He Apparated them to the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

"Second floor," he told Ginny, and followed her up the stairs. In the spare bedroom, Kreacher sat cross-legged atop the bedside cabinet, eyeing suspiciously the bottle of oil Malfoy had conjured earlier. Harry's face burned, but Ginny didn't seem to notice anything but Malfoy, who appeared to be asleep.

"Kreacher is glad to see Miss Ginevra again," croaked the elf.

"It's good to see you too, Kreacher," said Ginny, looking uncomfortable.

"Master Malfoy hasn't tried to leave," continued Kreacher, turning to Harry. "May Kreacher return to his duties?"

Harry sighed. "Yes, you may," he said. Kreacher vanished.

Ginny was already standing over Malfoy, holding her wand aloft near his midsection. A bluish mist enveloped Malfoy's body, gleaming softly in the afternoon sun. His pale face looked peaceful. As Harry watched, he felt some of his anger returning. It was as though Malfoy was putting spokes in Harry's wheel on purpose -- turning up at the worst moments, doing the most scandalous things, falling ill whenever Harry needed him hale and mobile. A sense of shame mingled with his anger then: he would never think like this if Malfoy were a friend. He'd be worried, not resentful. And he was worried, he realised with a start. Not just because Malfoy was the key to freeing Kingsley, either.

"I'm not a professional," said Ginny. "You know that."

Harry nodded impatiently. "How bad is he?"

"It looks like he's had a breakdown."

"A breakdown."

"Mental breakdown. Happens to Quidditch players quite a bit more than it does to other people, because of the pressure. We're taught to recognise early warning signs so that this," -- she gestured to Malfoy's prone form -- "doesn't happen. I tried a third-tier Cheering Charm; it should start working soon."

Malfoy certainly was a great candidate for a mental breakdown, thought Harry gloomily. He didn't think he'd be long in following Malfoy, actually, the rate things were going.

"Harry..." Ginny's voice was hesitant. "Uh. When I was checking him. It. Er."

"What?" asked Harry.

"Well, it looks like he's been, um. Buggered. Very recently."

Oh, fuck.

Ginny must not have noticed Harry's expression, for she pressed on. "D'you think he might've been raped, before you found him? Would explain a few things, at least. When exactly did you find him?"

How easy it would be to tell her that yes, that was perfectly possible. After all, Harry didn't know what Malfoy had got up to after his escape. But Malfoy would come to, and she'd find out then. Everyone would. Harry shook his head.

"It was consensual," he mumbled, looking away. His face felt so hot he was sure steam was going to come out of his ears any moment.

"Harry James Potter!" screeched Ginny, tugging on his arm and forcing him to face her. "He might be a git, but he's under your protection! How could you? How could you?"

Harry lifted his head, indignant. At least in this sense, he had nothing to be ashamed of. "He wanted it, Ginny. He-- We both did. And it really isn't any of your business."

"You're right, it isn't," said Ginny stiffly. "But it's not right. He's been through a terrible ordeal from what Hermione told me -- lost his parents and his boyfriend, got dragged to America, ran away, and he's been in hiding since then. It would drive anyone spare. He's not okay, Harry; he must not have been for ages. It's abusive--"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. Abusive? If anyone was abusive, it was Malfoy. "You don't understand--"

"Do you know if he'd even look at you twice if things were different?" demanded Ginny. "Maybe he wouldn't!"

Harry's insides twisted horribly. "Is that your personal or professional opinion?" he asked coldly.

Ginny flushed and looked away. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was unfair."

Malfoy moaned and opened his eyes. "Tell Mother I'll be right there," he said. He saw Harry, and his eyes widened. "You," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Out," said Ginny, and prodded Harry gently towards the door.

He went, his vision blurring. He probably needed new glasses. Out in the corridor, he sagged to the floor, propped himself against the wall, and closed his eyes. Malfoy's wand was still in a mud bank somewhere; he'd promised to bring it back. He would go and look for it. Then--

Ginny came out, looking grim. "I'm going to stay with him," she said. "He's lucid, but barely. I think I can bring him round."

"You don't have to," said Harry. "I'll take him to a safe-house--" He broke off, thinking of Sean and Jake. How would he explain this to them? How would they explain harbouring Malfoy to him?


"I think you've done enough," said Ginny quietly. "No offence."

Harry scowled. "It's not safe for you here, Ginny, you need to be in the safe-house. Don't you understand--"

"I disagree," said Ginny. "I think this is the last place anyone would ever look for me." Considering the circumstances of their breakup and the scandalous Daily Prophet article, she was sure of it. "Besides, Kreacher won't let anyone come in if you tell him not to."

"What about Carmichael?"

Ginny thought about Eddie, sitting very still at the safe-house kitchen table, telling her that the last few months had been a lie. That he had been instructed to court her, to become close to her, and at some point, the Death Eaters were going to force Harry into early retirement in exchange for Ginny's life.

He had fed her Dreamless Sleep Potion after they'd moved in together, claiming it was Sumatran tea. The night she'd woken up and seen him in the kitchen, he must not have added enough Potion, for it had been a dream that had woken her. Ginny had marvelled at it -- sleeping so well at Eddie's when most of the nights in her own bed and in Harry's had been filled with nightmares. Like a stupid little twelve-year-old, she'd thought it meant Eddie was special in a way no one else had been, that his very presence made the nightmares go away. It had been like her hero-worship of Harry all over again.

I do care about you, Eddie had said last night, not looking at her. And Ginny had had a vision of a future where she was married to Eddie, their sketchy beginnings behind them. Except she didn't think she would be able to put any of this behind her. None of it had been Eddie's fault; he had been used because he was an Unspeakable, and Ginny was just an afterthought. Why use the Imperius Curse on two people when you can use it on one? Ginny wasn't a forgiving sort of person, but there was nothing to forgive, only to forget. She didn't think she could -- or would -- do that.

But this was not the time to tell Harry about any of it. Volatile and restless as he seemed, he'd go and do something stupid. And it wasn't as though the Death Eaters needed Eddie or Ginny any more -- Harry had been sacked already. There was no need to tell him anything. Him or anyone else.

"Eddie will be all right," said Ginny. Her voice didn't shake at all.


Millicent had never been in Diagon Alley this late in the evening. Without the bustle of shoppers and the endless tinkling bells over shop doors, the place felt like a cemetery after a party. Millicent pulled her cowl further down and ambled on towards the Weasley joke shop. Neville had smuggled her out of Hogwarts only ten minutes earlier. He'd seemed regretful that he couldn't come with her, and Millicent wondered what had possessed someone with so much fight in him to choose a career in pruning Shrivelfigs.

She stopped in front of the joke shop with its darkened windows and Aren't you glad we're closed? sign. A giant advert for anti-Hit Wizard spray (Catching Them is Half the Fun!), splashed across both displays, making it difficult to see inside. Millicent cupped her hands around her face to block the streetlamp's glare and peered inside using a gap in the slogan. Nothing. All dark. Maybe they'd gone home already.

"You there," came a male voice from her left. "Are you trying to break in?"

Millicent looked over, careful to keep her face hidden. "No," she said. "Leave me alone."

"Pity," said the man, stepping into the light and revealing himself to be of the Weasley persuasion, as Patrick would have said if he were there. "I was hoping you'd set off the Intruder Charm so I could see if it works."

It was Ron Weasley -- the only one Millicent distinguished from the others, mostly because Draco had used a portrait of him for hex practice in fifth year. And where Ron Weasley was... "Is your girlfriend here?" she asked.

"What do you want with Hermione?" asked Ron, the cheerful tone vanishing. "Who are you?"

Millicent took a surreptitious glance around, stepped closer to the shop window, and eased the cowl onto her shoulders. "Millicent Vaisey."

"Oi! Why didn't you say so?"

"I just did," Millicent pointed out, irritated.

"Come on, then," said Ron, glowering. "It's round the back. Hurry up, the next patrol's in nine minutes."

Millicent followed him into the gap between two shops. A square of light shone on the cobblestones ahead, from a door open into some sort of workshop. Granger and George Weasley were inside, heads close together over a small object rather like a portable radio.

"Who was it, Ron?" asked George without looking up.

Millicent coughed. Granger did look up then, and her eyes rounded.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been?"

"Hogwarts," replied Millicent, somewhat thrown by the concern in Granger's expression. She wasn't used to friendly greetings from anyone, and that went double for Hermione Granger. "I'm pretty sure I know who Eva Kay is," she added to hide her discomfort.

"Who?" asked Granger, leaning forward. George and Ron just stared.

"I'll show you." Millicent dug in her bag and drew out the English-Icelandic/Icelandic-English dictionary. "Kay stands for Konungsdóttir, which is Icelandic," she said and opened the dictionary to the dog-eared page she'd showed Neville last night. "Look."

Konungsdóttir (n) - princess (alt. prinsessa)

"And here." Millicent proffered the list she had clutched during the escape from the Shrieking Shack. Of the fifteen names, only one came close: Eileen Prince.

Granger frowned, her brow creasing. Then she let out a tiny gasp.

"What?" asked Millicent. "Do you know who she is?"

"Y-yes," said Granger. "That's-- my goodness, it's Snape's mother."

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