Summer 6/Part B

 

“Get up those stairs and pack your things.  We’re leaving in the hour.”

Draco stared, dumbfounded at his father, “I just got home a week ago.”

Lucius crossed his arms over his chest, his snakehead cane hanging from his left hand, “And now you are leaving again.  I’ve spoken with Dumbledore, a carriage will be taking you back to Hogwarts immediately.”

He couldn’t even begin to think straight.  He’d spent the entire train ride listening to Pansy prattle on about he-couldn’t-even-remember what and in the past week he’d been yanked around to every shop that his mother had ever deemed worthy.  However, the moment he’d finally gotten some time alone so that he could sit back and not think about kissing Harry, his father had told him that he was leaving again.

“What are you standing there for?  I said get upstairs and put your things together.  You’ll be staying at Hogwarts for the rest of the summer.”

Finally, he managed to get out the word that had been stuck in his throat.  “Why?”

Lucius grabbed his arm, ignoring his son’s protests, and began dragging him towards the marble staircase, “Because I am your father and I told you to.  If you don’t get moving now, I will be very disappointed.”

Draco paled slightly as he remembered himself.  He shouldn’t have talked back.  The offence of disappointing his father invariable led to a caning and if he were going to be forced to go back to Hogwarts so soon, he was not going to do it limping. With a quick, “yes, Father,” he turned and ran up the stairs to his room.

An hour later he was sitting in the carriage, trying to concentrate on the passing scenery, because every time he thought about kissing Harry, or touching Harry, or, hell, just Harry, he started to get hard and that wasn’t a good thing when his father was in the seat across from him with their knees less than two feet apart.

Why was he being sent back to Hogwarts already?  What had he done?  Had he done anything?  Was it to do with the Triwizard Tournament?  Was he being sent to spy on Harry or on Dumbledore?  His mind teemed with questions that he couldn’t bring himself to actually ask; partly, because he was afraid of the answers and partly because he was afraid it would piss off his father.  After nearly half an hour of riding in silence, however, he decided that facing his father’s wrath was preferable to the torture on not knowing.

“Father, why are you sending me to Hogwarts so soon?”

“Our Lord has returned.”

No hesitation, no uncertainty about whether he should tell his son something like that.  Our Lord.  Not ‘my Lord’ or ‘the Dark Lord,’ but ‘our Lord,’ meaning Draco’s lord as well as his father’s.  He remembered what Dumbledore had said at the feast.  He hadn’t thought it could be true, but he should have known.  The way Harry had looked when he’d appeared back on the field, like he was near death, should have been enough to tell him what had happened.  “At the Tournament?”

Lucius nodded, “Yes.  He’s still weak, but he gains strength with every day.  Soon, he will be his old self again and we can continue where we left off thirteen years ago.”

“Then why…”

“The Dark Lord will be anxious to meet you.”

He didn’t understand why, but he knew from the tight set of his father’s face that Lucius was trying to keep that from happening.  “I don’t understand…”

“Our Lord has plans for Potter.  Keep an eye on him.  Keep an eye on Dumbledore, as well.  Above all, keep your nose clean.”

It sounded like an excuse, more than an explanation.  His father had given him instructions like that before, but he’d been more specific, given him details and told him how to go about it. ‘Gain his trust.  He is a Gryffindor, yes, but above all he is a Potter.  Follow him, eat with him, talk to him, fly with him, just stay in his presence and when the time comes he will feel some loyalty towards you.  He will feel the need to protect you.’  Lucius Malfoy never trusted his son to do anything correctly unless the instructions were as detailed as possible, but Draco knew when he was being told to shut up, and he went back to looking out the window.

He’d known since he was very young that his father had been a Death Eater, it was something talked about with a moderate amount of pride; at least when he was alone with Draco, or in the company of like-minded ‘friends’.  Draco had also known that he would be expected to join their ranks some day, when the Dark Lord returned, but it had always felt like more of a fairy tale than a reality.  The Dark Lord was dead and- even though his father had said very clearly ‘the Dark Lord is not dead, he will rise again and the purebloods will be given the respect that they deserve’ – somehow he just hadn’t been able to get past the idea that the Dark Lord was dead and everyone knew that the dead couldn’t be brought back.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.  His father had said that the Dark Lord had returned.  Dumbledore had said it, too.  Harry hadn’t had to, it was written all over his face the night of the Third Task.   Those green eyes that were usually so bright had full of life and courage and tenacity had been dead, that was all Draco needed in the way of confirmation.

So, what was he going to do?  The Dark Lord would want to see him.  Did that mean he was expected to join now?  He was only a fifth year!  Surely a fifth year couldn’t be of any use to the Dark Lord.  He wasn’t fully trained; he hadn’t taken his OWLS, let alone his NEWTS, but would those things really matter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?  Draco couldn’t imagine that putting in a CV was required to join the Death Eaters.

God, he was going to join the Death Eaters.  His father would insist on it, wouldn’t he?  Maybe he was sending Draco away so that he wouldn’t get in the way.  Maybe there were going to be meetings at the house.  Or maybe his father didn’t want him to meet the Dark Lord. Maybe his father was… protecting him?

He glanced sidelong at the man and considered that possibility, but he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head round it.  It just didn’t sound like something his father would do.  At least, not where the Dark Lord was concerned.  His father absolutely worshipped him, wouldn’t he be proud that Lord Voldemort (he shuddered inwardly at the name) wanted Draco?

It was just too much to think about.  Looking out the window, Draco stared out the window, imagining he was lying on the Quidditch Field with Harry, putting shapes and names to the passing clouds.   It had been silly then and it was silly now, especially when he should be thinking about his father and the Dark Lord, or what he might feel for Harry, but somehow it was comforting and that was enough.

 

____________________

 

The carriage pulled up and Draco stepped out to Snape and Harry, waiting as always.  Harry was much more subdued than usual; he didn’t glare at Lucius and he didn’t run off at the first opportunity.  Instead, he stood there with his hands at his side, occasionally giving Draco half glances, but mostly looking at the floor.

His mind seemed to shift and he was back in the stands, watching Harry fly as he dodged the attacks of the angry dragon.  Every time Harry feinted at the last minute, every dive he took had sent Draco’s stomach plummeting and he’d been so angry and relieved afterward, after he knew that Harry was safe and that the task was over.  It was so stupid of him to enter the Tournament, to agree to participate.  What, did he have a death wish, because that was what it looked like?

Draco dragged himself from the memory as his father clapped a hand on his shoulder, saying something about… something, but Draco hadn’t been paying attention.  Damn, he was thinking about it again.  He wasn’t supposed to think about it.  Hadn’t he told himself that his goal that summer was to pretend nothing had happened and that he hadn’t been desperately upset for Harry’s safety during every task?

Snape nodded back at Lucius and Harry glanced up, catching Draco’s eye.  The other boy’s lip was slightly red where he’d been chewing on it and his eyes were misted over in confusion and uncertainty.  Well, Draco reasoned, at least he wasn’t alone, then.

Suddenly, his father turned and stepped back up into the carriage and Draco realised that he had missed the entire conversation.  He hoped that nothing had been said he should have been paying attention to; like hinted instructions, or some indication of how long he would be staying there, or if they would be in the dungeons or McGonagall’s tower this time.  His eyes widened and he dropped them to the ground.  Oh, please, let them be staying in the dungeon, he didn’t think he could handle lying in that close of a proximity with Harry after… not thinking about it!

A shoulder brushed his and he looked over to see Harry walking beside him as they followed Snape down.  Thank god, they were going to the dungeons, at least there he could force himself to one side of the bed and pretend that he couldn’t feel the heat of Harry sleeping next to him.

They came to an abrupt halt outside of Snape’s door and Draco found that he was caught so off guard, he nearly ran into the man.  Thank god Harry had put his hand on Draco’s arm or he might have.  He was suddenly very aware of the hand burning against his arm.  Sure, he had a shirt on, but he needed more, perhaps a winter cloak, not to feel the strange warmth that spread from those fingers up his arm and down into his groin.  Not thinking about it!

“Usually, Harry would be spending the next week with McGonagall and I would have that time to finish sorting things out from the school year.  However, circumstances being what they are,” he didn’t bother to elaborate, but then he didn’t need to, “you boys will be staying here for the entirety of the summer, or at least until one of the other Professor’s takes pity on me.”

He heard Harry mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘not bloody likely,’ but either Snape didn’t hear it, or pretended not to, because he continued on, unabated.  “For the next few days I expect complete silence.  If you feel the need to laugh or play, you shall do so elsewhere.  The school is very well protected as long as you stay within its walls.”  He glared at Harry pointedly.  “Have I made myself clear?”

Harry nodded, still not looking up and Draco forced himself to, as well, though he couldn’t say the last time he had seen Snape in such an ill temper, especially when one of his Slytherins was involved.  With a terse nod, he held open the door and Harry scrambled in under his arm, having to duck because he had managed to grow several more inches through the school year and now stood head to chest with Snape.

Draco remembered a comment Harry had once made while they were eating in the kitchens.  The dark haired boy had been eating nearly twice as much as Draco and when Draco had commented on this, Harry had shrugged, saying that he just hoped all the years of over-eating at Hogwarts would somehow make up for his years of malnourishment at the Dursleys’.  Draco hadn’t understood what it meant, then, but he thought he might now.

They went into the room and Draco saw the little moving dragon and the egg sitting on Harry’s desk.  His chest tightened as he remembered watching the water, waiting for Harry to resurface.  He’d seen Fleur come back, then Cedric, and then Krum, but where was Harry?  Was he in danger?   He’d silently cursed Dumbledore for putting his Harry in danger, hoping that his concern looked more like annoyed boredom. When had Harry become his?

Moving to the bed, he lay down on it and turned his back to Harry as the other boy sat own on the other side of him.  Harry lay on the bed stiffly next to an equally tense Draco, pretending to watch the ceiling.  He still couldn’t think of anything to say, he’d had the whole day to come up with something, but hadn’t even managed ‘hello’, because after the kind of kiss Draco had given him, ‘hello’ sounded a bit trite.

In truth, he wanted to kiss Draco back, he wanted to lie on the bed and have a very long, deep snog session that would set him on fire the way it had a few short weeks ago, and possibly answer a few very important questions for him about his feeling for a certain blonde Slytherin, but he couldn’t very well say that either.

“Draco.”

“Hm?”

“How was it at the Manor?”

Draco had a very vivid image of himself strangling Harry, but instead answered, “All right, I suppose.  Mother took me shopping.”

“Oh.”

Then it was silent again and Draco was left to wish Harry would say something.  He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he knew that he was absolutely terrified that Harry hadn’t enjoyed it, that he’d simply been caught off guard and now that he’d had the time to think about it he was disgusted.

“Draco.”

“Hm?”

“It’s really boring here without…” Harry hesitated

Draco held his breath.  “Without what?”

“…anything to do.”

He let the breath go and frowned at the ceiling.  This wasn’t going anywhere.

“Draco.”

“What, Harry?”

“I lied.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

“About what?”

“Never mind.”

Bugger.  Draco sat up and looked down at Harry, not bothering to disguise his annoyance, as it seemed a perfectly suitable emotion at the time.  “Harry.”

“What?”

“If you can’t string two words together at a time, then don’t bother trying.”

From the confused look on Harry’s face he was afraid he’d said something wrong, but the brows slowly unknit themselves and the frowning mouth turned slightly upwards in a smile.  “Don’t suppose I feel much like talking.”

Not that you have to.   Draco beat down the thought and concentrated on the boy next to him.  “Well, it was more than two words.”

Harry didn’t rise to the bait, just stared at him with that damnable smile, so Draco decided to ask, “What do you feel like doing?”

It felt like he’d said the magic word.  Or phrase, but he couldn’t quite put a clear thought together because Harry had put a hand on the back of his head and pulled him down into a kiss.  It was nothing like before.  Before Draco had been angry and it had been a way of expressing everything he thought he might feel, but couldn’t say.  This was warm and it spread through him like Butterbeer and made his toes tingle.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, lips pressing together, but he wished it were longer.  Of course, he was the one to pull back, still very unsure of himself and of Harry, who was sighing contentedly.  “That was… actually rather nice.  You’ve got a lot of practice?”

Of all the…  Draco threw himself onto his back with a huff.  Of course he didn’t have practice, he’d only ever kissed Pansy, and Harry had made it sound like he was some sort of… of kiss-tramp.  “What do you know, Potter.”

“Draco.”

“What?”

Harry ignored his snippy tone.  “Hermione said that when I disappeared at the tournament you said my name.   She said you jumped out of your seat and shouted ‘Harry’ and that Snape had to pull you back.  Ron saw it too.”

Draco blanched.  “The weasel saw that?”

“Don’t call him that and yes, although he’s convinced himself it was a sort of daytime nightmare, induced by the shock of my disappearing.  I had to tell Hermione the truth, though.”

Draco sat, staring at Harry in open horror, “You told that filthy…”

“So help me, Draco, if you finish that I will hang you upside down from the tower again.”  Draco narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything else.  “I didn’t tell her everything, I didn’t tell her that we toss each other off or anything.  I just told her that we’d been forced to spend time together every summer since we were nine.  She was very impressed that we hadn’t killed each other by now.”

“Not from lack of trying.”

There was that smile again.  “So, that out of the way, I suppose I just want to know what made you do that in front of everyone?  I mean, it’s just me.”

That was the problem.  Draco bit his bottom lip while he thought.  He didn’t know why he’d done it, other than the moment Harry was gone it had been like a big whole had opened up in the pit of his stomach and he’d wanted it back.   He’d wanted Harry back where he could see him.  He hadn’t even known he’d stood up until Snape was yanking him back down and it was all he could do to breath.  It didn’t even matter that his father was sitting beside him, staring down disapprovingly.

Timidly, he leaned down and put his lips to Harry’s.  He pushed his tongue against Harry’s teeth and the other boy opened his mouth willingly, without hesitation.  Draco couldn’t explain what he felt for Harry, he knew he felt something, he knew it wasn’t just friendship, but beyond that he was stumped.  So he decided it was probably best not to try and put it into words in case he cocked it up.

Harry’s disappearing hadn’t even been the worst part.  The worst part had come when he didn’t return and Draco had had to sit there for almost ten minutes waiting for something to happen and when something finally did happen he wished it hadn’t.  On either side of him, he heard two grown men inexplicably hiss in pain.  He’d looked first at his father, then at Snape.  Both had their hands over their forearms, eyes nearly squinched shut in pain and he knew what that meant.  He didn’t even know how he’d known, he just did.

Draco reached his hand down and worked it under Harry’s shirt, feeling the perfectly flat, smooth skin under his hand, relishing the deep moan reverberating in his mouth.

His father had gotten up and left and Snape had put a steadying hand on Draco’s shoulder.  All he’d wanted to do at that moment was vomit.  It had been absurd, but he hadn’t taken the time to analyse it then and he’d be damned if he was going to bother now.  He just knew that he had to get back to the castle.  They were just at the bottom of the stands when Harry had reappeared.  Draco hadn’t gotten a good look at him, there were too many people racing towards his fallen friend, but it was good enough, it was enough to know that Harry and Diggory were lying in the grass, not moving.

Harry’s fingers worked into Draco’s hair, sending sparks off in his head.  He moved his hand from its comfortable resting place on Harry’s warm hip, to nudge down his zip.

Snape hadn’t let him go to check on Harry, because others would have seen.  They’d managed to keep too many things secret for too long to fuck it up because Draco was worried about the Gryffindor Golden Boy, but Snape didn’t understand - it wasn’t just the Gryffindor Golden Boy lying there, it was Harry.

Harry arched off the bed when Draco touched the flesh of his penis and moved his legs in a desperate attempt to kick off the underwear and trousers bunched up just above his knees.  Draco couldn’t ever remember Harry moving so much, or being so pliant.  They had both been so stiff, this felt nothing like the mutual wanks they had shared over the years, this was different, but he couldn’t understand how it could be so different when it was the same thing.

When they’d finally gotten back to Snape’s quarters, Draco had run to bathroom and thrown up until he could taste acid in his mouth and then threw up some more.  It wasn’t until Snape had come in and given him a potion to quell his nausea that he’d been able to stop and just sit on the bathroom floor, shaking in exhaustion from the effort.

He moved his hand over Harry’s length, feeling the smooth flesh not so very different from his own for what felt like the first time.  The veins were pulsing against his fingers, imprinting themselves on his palm.  Harry’s hand reached down his trousers, grasping at him and he didn’t think he’d last long between that and the lips pressing against his.

When he’d heard Diggory was dead later than night he silently prayed for someone to tell him that Harry wasn’t, but the other Slytherins weren’t interested in Harry and they didn’t suppose that Draco would be, either.   So, he’d waited for them to go to sleep and then snuck in the infirmary and sat in a chair, watching Harry in his drug induced sleep, afraid that if he blinked the chest would stop moving rhythmically up and down.   He’d sat like that for over an hour, afraid to touch him, afraid that it wasn’t real, until he’d had to leave or risk getting caught.

All Draco could think about the next morning when he’d shoved Harry against the wall was that he wanted to make sure he was really there.  He hadn’t meant to kiss him, hadn’t meant to do anything but shout at him for being stupid enough to enter the tournament in the first place and he didn’t care if it wasn’t Harry’s fault because he was so angry at the mere thought that Harry might have been gone, and he’d kissed him, pouring all his anger and frustration into grinding the other boy against the wall with his body and mouth.

He’d never felt anything like the orgasm that coursed through him as he spilled over Harry’s hand, ruining his underpants, but he didn’t really care about those right now, silk be damned, because Harry was coming as well, and he could feel it in the way the shaft throbbed and Harry made little whimpering noises from his throat and the way the tongue against his went suddenly still and then frantic all at once.

He continued pumping until he felt it just beginning to go limp in hand.  Draco pressed his tongue into Harry’s mouth one more time and then fell over on the bed, panting heavily at the ceiling.

It was silent again.

 

-tbc-