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lomonaaeren ([personal profile] lomonaaeren) wrote2021-12-16 09:45 pm

[Solstitial Shorts]: Most Trusted, Harry/Gregory Goyle, NC-17

Title: Most Trusted
Pairing: Harry/Gregory Goyle
Content Notes: AU from fifth year onwards, Dark Lord Harry Potter, angst, torture, character death, gore, violence, references to animal harm, mixture of tenses (present tense in present time, past tense in flashbacks), references to child abuse and house-elf abuse
Rating: R



“Come here, Greg.”

Greg rolls over and stretches out to fill most of the bed for a moment, working out the pleasurable aches in his joints. Then he gets up and walks over to his Lord, who’s sitting before the fire in a tall chair.

It’s not a throne. Harry doesn’t keep one of those in his private quarters. He gets enough of that when he has to intimidate his Firebirds, he says.

No, this is just for the two of them. Greg sits down on the floor next to the chair, and Harry runs a slow hand over his forehead, tracing, for a second, the path of the curse that got fired at Greg this afternoon.

“You don’t hurt now.”

It’s a question for all that it’s a statement, and Greg knows better than not to answer it. He tilts his head back. “No, my lord.”

“Harry,” Harry corrects absently. But he understands that sometimes that’s hard for Greg. He touches his forehead once more, and then slides out of the chair and onto the floor beside Greg, curling up so that his head is in Greg’s lap.

Greg hardly dares to breathe as he touches his lord’s hair, the old faded lightning bolt scar, the curves of his cheeks. No one else gets to do this. No one else gets close enough to Lord Potter to even realize he has a vulnerable side.

But then, after all, there are reasons that Greg is his most trusted.

*

Gregory Goyle hated fifth year.

When Malfoy told them about Dolores Umbridge coming to the school, Greg was hopeful. He would get to beat up people and even curse them who weren’t just the people Malfoy told him and Vince to hit. He would get some power from becoming one of her people. He was looking forward to it.

But it all went to shit.

Malfoy was the only one who got any power, and he wasted it on strutting around and bragging. Oh, and taking points from Potter in the corridors. Normally, Greg would have been all for taking points from Potter, but hitting and curses were better. And Malfoy wasn’t allowing them to do that because he wanted to take points instead.

And he talked a lot about becoming a Death Eater.

Vince looked excited when Malfoy talked like that, but Greg wasn’t. Being powerful appealed to him. Being able to curse people appealed to him.

The Dark Lord terrified him.

His father had brought the Dark Lord over that summer, and Greg had got down on his knees and bowed his head and kissed the Dark Lord’s robes. But all he felt was fear, and later he had run away and vomited in the bathroom.

His father would beat him if he knew.

Greg began spending more and more time apart from Vince and Malfoy. He told people who asked that he was just studying for OWL’s. He knew he wouldn’t pass them, but they bought that excuse, and Vince and Malfoy—

Never once asked. Greg had expected that from Malfoy, but from Vince, it hurt.

He was up on the seventh floor, wandering, one night, when he saw Potter ahead of him. Greg scowled at his back. He’d have liked to fire a curse at him, but Malfoy would get upset at someone else harming Potter, and Greg didn’t want to deal with his shrieking.

Potter was striding ahead of him, and rounded a corner. Greg followed him, mostly out of boredom. There wasn’t anything around the corner, as far as he knew. Just another stretch of corridor and some kind of moth-eaten tapestry.

Then he came around it, and saw Potter pacing back and forth, head lowered, so intent that he hadn’t even noticed Greg.

Greg half-hid behind the tapestry and watched. Potter muttered something to himself, and a door appeared in the wall.

Greg could feel his mouth hanging open, but he didn’t care. Malfoy had never shown him or Vince anything half this brilliant.

Potter spun around to face him then. His eyes went dark with hatred when he saw Greg, and he started to lift his wand.

“What’s that?” Greg interrupted. Right then, he wanted to know about the room more than he wanted to duel Potter.

Potter stared closely at him. “Want to know so you can go tell Umbridge?”

“No, she thinks I’m stupid,” Greg said bitterly. She was right, but he hated it when people knowing he was stupid meant they wouldn’t talk to him. “I just want to know about secret passages and rooms and things like that.”

For some reason, Potter looked at him harder then. Greg looked back, a little nervous, not knowing what to expect. No one looked at him like that, except for his father when Greg had done something particularly stupid.

And then Potter did something completely unexpected. He reached out and opened the door and made a beckoning motion with one hand. “It’s a place to practice curses in. Come on, then.”

*

Greg lets his hand creep through Harry’s hair and down to his neck, cupping and stroking it. “Can I…?” he asks, letting his voice trail off. He doesn’t know if Harry will, and it feels a little presumptuous, when Harry has already pleased Greg so much tonight.

But on the other hand, Harry hasn’t let Greg please him yet, which Greg likes doing even more. And Harry is the sort of simple Lord that a simple man like Greg needs. If he doesn’t want Greg right now, he’ll say so and not leave him wondering.

Harry tilts his head back and blinks up at Greg. Then he laughs softly, under his breath. “You want to kneel before me?” he asks, and rests his hand on Greg’s side, over his bare ribs.

“Yes,” Greg says thickly. He likes it so much. He gets to do it so often, but not in the past week. Harry’s been too busy.

Harry smiles as he rolls back to his feet and sits down in the chair. “Come on, then,” he says, and spreads his legs, unselfconsciously naked. His cock is already rising.

Greg smiles in wonder as he crawls over to kneel at Harry’s feet. He’s the only one who can do this. No one else is allowed this close to Harry.

No one else ever will be.

*

Greg found Harry late on the night when there was some kind of enormous commotion about how Umbridge had been lured out of school and Harry had gone to the Ministry. They were supposed to practice curses tonight. Greg had waited in the seventh-floor corridor for as long as he could bear it, but then he’d gone in search of Harry, who had never been late before. He’d said that practicing curses with Greg was relaxing.

Harry was sitting on the steps of the Astronomy Tower, shaking, his head buried in his hands. Greg stopped, puzzled. He hadn’t thought he would ever see Harry crying. He didn’t know how to deal with crying people.

But then Harry lifted his head, and Greg realized he’d made a mistake. Harry was shaking with fury. His eyes were dry, but swollen, and he stared at Greg for a second as if he was a snake and Greg was prey.

“Harry,” Greg said uncertainly.

Harry seemed to snap out of it. He blinked for a moment, but then nodded. “Greg,” he said, without getting up. “I can’t practice curses right now. I need to focus on making them pay.”

“Who?” Greg sat down at the bottom of the stairs. This sounded like an interesting story.

And it all came tumbling out of Harry, the whole story about the Department of Mysteries and the Dark Lord and Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius Black. Greg listened with eyes that he could feel growing steadily wider. He was amazed Harry had survived. He was glad Harry had survived. He thought Harry was brilliant.

“And I know that you’ve probably been coming to me partially for protection from him,” Harry finished. He had stopped saying Voldemort around Greg, which Greg appreciated. “But I can’t protect you from him. I didn’t even manage to protect Sirius.”

Greg stared at Harry. Harry stared back, snarling like the Crup Father had tortured to death last year, and it finally hit Greg. He was stupid, but he got some things. Harry didn’t know how brilliant he seemed to Greg. He expected Greg to walk away from him.

“You survived a duel with him, Harry,” Greg said. “I don’t know anyone else except Dumbledore who’s done that, and he’s Dumbledore. You don’t crawl at the Dark Lord’s feet and kiss his robes. Even my father does that. Even Malfoy’s father does that. You’re different. I wish I was you.”

Harry stared at him and uttered a wild laugh. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re so brave. And strong. And you survive. And you’re angry instead of upset and sad when your godfather died.” Greg nodded, more sure than ever. “I wish I was you. Can I follow you around instead of Malfoy?”

Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Greg just waited, though. By now, he knew that Harry had good reasons for most of the things he did, even if some of those were reasons that he couldn’t tell Greg. He just waited, looking, and Harry finally whispered, “What would Malfoy say about that?”

“He barely pays any attention to me and Vince now,” Greg said, and Harry cocked his head. Greg hadn’t shown him this kind of bitterness before. But right now, he felt as though he could tell Harry anything. “And Vince chose him. They’re both going to become Death Eaters. I don’t want to be a Death Eater. Can I stay with you?”

“I—I don’t know how to…”

But Harry trailed off, and Greg could see that he was thinking about it. Greg waited quietly. He was good at that.

Then Harry looked him dead in the eye—which no one ever did—and nodded. “Yes. We’re going to make sure that you’re safe, Greg.”

Greg beamed back at him. All he could think right then was that Harry called him by his first name, which was more than Malfoy had ever done. And Greg trusted him a lot more, too. Somehow, Harry was going to solve this problem.

*

“Greg…Greg, please, right there…”

Harry’s beautiful as he throws back his head and moans. Greg carefully handles Harry’s cock with hand and tongue, working him until he’s sure that Harry is right on the verge of incoherence. Then he leans in and really sucks, making sure Harry goes down his throat as deep as words stick, most of the time.

Harry goes mad, losing his self-control. Green and black magic expands around him, catching a rug on fire and making two books leap up from the shelves and fly around the room, pages ruffling.

Greg smiles and closes his eyes, and sucks harder.

*

They rode back to King’s Cross Station on the train, Harry hiding from his friends and Greg hiding from Malfoy and Vince—although they hadn’t looked for him in days. Harry’s eyes met Greg’s across the compartment, and he smiled, and Greg smiled back.

He was the one who had told Harry that he could find out if he had inherited Sirius Black’s property by calling his house-elf. Greg had seen his father do that when a distant cousin with a house-elf died and left everything to him. Kreacher had responded, throwing a fit, but Harry had commanded him to prepare the house, tell no one, and meet them in London to Apparate them there. He’d told Greg the secret of the Fidelius Charm to make sure there was no problem with that, too.

Greg was shaking as they got off the train, partially from fear and partially from excitement.

Harry caught his eye and gestured with his head towards the back of the crowd. Greg nodded and hauled his trunk in that direction. He usually had a wait for his father to show up, anyway. He didn’t like coming too early, when Aurors and others who had fought on the opposite side of the war might be there.

I’m on the opposite side of the war now.

Greg didn’t grin, but it was a near thing.

Harry strolled towards the edge of the platform from the opposite direction. He’d avoided the Weasleys neatly, as far as Greg could see. Someone was waving frantically and shouting what might be Harry’s name behind him, but Harry could easily pretend he hadn’t heard them in the noise of the crowd.

“Kreacher,” Harry snarled, his voice soft. He had said something about the elf being involved in his godfather’s death, so Greg understood why Harry didn’t like him. He did hope that Harry didn’t anger him so badly the elf wouldn’t obey.

Kreacher appeared and snarled back.

“Take us to Grimmauld Place,” Harry said, and Kreacher grasped their hands and popped them away, an experience that Greg thought was better than Apparating. At the very least, it didn’t last as long.

They landed in a dim entrance hall. Harry ignored the portrait who began shrieking at them and turned to face Kreacher, his arms crossed.

“Protect the house against anyone except Greg and me who might try to enter,” he said flatly. “A layer of elf-woven wards under the Fidelius Charm, bound tight to the outer walls. Ward against other elves, too.” Greg had told Harry about the Goyle family elves who had sometimes been sent to get him in the past.

Kreacher stared at both of them. “Nasty half-blood master and nasty master’s nasty friend are defending against old bad Master’s friends?” he asked slowly.

“After you finish the wards, go half-drown yourself,” Greg snapped. “And never call Harry a nasty half-blood again.”

Harry blinked at him as Kreacher muttered something and popped away. “You have to be firm with house-elves,” Greg explained. He had forgotten that Harry wouldn’t have grown up with them.

“You didn’t have to tell him to punish himself.”

“He helped kill your godfather. Do you care?”

Harry’s smile, when it crept across his face, was a brilliant, terrifying thing.

“No. No, I reckon I don’t.”

*

Harry is near release now, from the way he’s thrashing his head against the back of his chair, his uninhibited cries filling the room. Greg watches in contentment as his magic scatters burning embers across the floor from the fireplace and lashes as a hot wind across Greg’s back.

And he bends to his task, determined to make his lord, his friend, his lover lose all control.

*

“Ron and Hermione are accusing me of betraying them.”

Greg looked up from the book in front of him that he was reading slowly. “Because you hid in here and didn’t go back to Hogwarts?”

Harry nodded, looking miserable. Greg couldn’t stand it. He didn’t used to care about Malfoy looking miserable, except that it meant he would probably order Greg and Vince to do something stupid. He had cared, a little, about Vince doing it, but it was obvious now that Vince hadn’t really cared about him.

Greg got up and walked over to sit down at the library table next to Harry. They had made good use of their nearly six months hiding behind the wards in Grimmauld Place (and occasionally venturing out under the influence of Polyjuice Potion, using hair they had sent Kreacher to steal from customers at the Leaky Cauldron). Once Kreacher had showed them the locket, they’d started researching it, and now they knew the Dark Lord had Horcruxes, and they’d have to destroy them.

But it had been hard on Harry, not to see his friends, not to be at Hogwarts. Greg had understood that.

Now, he just wanted to do something to take Harry’s pain away. Harry cared more about him than anyone ever had. Greg wanted to do something for him, too.

He sat there and thought about what would do it, while Harry stared down at Weasley’s letter and looked more and more miserable. In the end, he could think of nothing except what he had once seen one of the Slytherin Chasers do to calm down Marcus Flint after a game the team had lost.

He leaned across the table and kissed Harry.

Harry turned towards him, mouth opening in something that was probably surprise, and Greg kissed him harder. Harry made a short, sharp sound, and reached out and grabbed the back of Greg’s neck, and kissed him deeply.

Half the shelves in the library exploded.

Greg drew back, startled and fumbling for his wand, convinced that his father had found them. Harry cleared his throat. “Um. Sorry. I—I did that.”

“What?”

“I, er. My magic.” Harry looked embarrassed, which was not the reaction Greg would have had if he’d had magic as violent and brilliant as that. “When I thought about—when I sometimes—” He apparently couldn’t say the words, but he made a gesture near his groin that let Greg figure it out.

Greg grinned at him. “That’s amazing.”

“It is?”

Harry’s voice rose a little. Greg wondered for a moment if Harry was joking with him, but just like the house-elves, Harry was staring at him as if he didn’t understand this, which made it Greg’s job to explain it to him.

“Most accidental magic does things like send a dish skimming across the room, or change the color of someone’s hair,” Greg said, leaning forwards. “Magic like this, this violence—Harry, it’s pretty great if your magic’s first response is violence.”

“Not so great for the bookshelves, though,” Harry muttered, looking around. Kreacher had appeared and was repairing them, giving them dirty looks, which was as much as he did anymore. At least the elf-wards meant they could use their wands in the house without worrying about the Trace; he was good for that much, Greg thought.

“But if you could harness it and train it—get it under your control so that it worked wandlessly and over large areas and at any time—”

“What are you saying?”

“Harry, have you ever heard of warrior mages?”

*

Harry comes.

Greg swallows eagerly, considering it a privilege. To be this close to Harry, to feel the warmth of his skin and see the shine of his eyes.

Other people might not, but he does.

*

By the time Voldemort strode onto the battlefield, Harry had already destroyed at least half his Death Eaters.

Greg stood close behind Harry, the only one openly on his side, although some of the Death Eaters’ children had sworn to them. Not Vince. His body was lying, ripped and torn, at a distance from the rest of them, an exploded clot of blood and bone from Harry’s magic. Greg had looked at him once, and turned away.

He had chosen the wrong side.

Voldemort snarled at Harry, his voice slipping into Parseltongue, where Greg couldn’t follow. Harry replied, and Greg wondered if Harry was telling him about the Horcruxes. Once the locket had shown them what to look for, they were able to send Kreacher, who was sensitive to the kind of Dark magic a Horcrux had after long exposure to the locket, to every place they could think of that might have some connection to Voldemort. Kreacher had found one in Hogwarts, one in the Lestrange vault, one in a shack near the graveyard where Harry had been taken during Voldemort’s resurrection, and one in Voldemort’s snake when he was sent to spy on him.

And one in Harry.

That last one had been a huge shock, but Harry had promised Greg that the problem would be solved today, as they met on this bloodied battlefield not far from Hogsmeade. Voldemort had taken over the school in the last few months and installed Snape as Headmaster, but he would come when Harry called.

Harry stood facing him, unafraid. He hissed something that made Voldemort recoil and draw his white wand.

Greg trembled, but he was loyal to his lord, to the only person who had ever looked at him and seen real value. He stood firm.

Voldemort’s Killing Curse struck Harry straight in the forehead, and he fell over. The battlefield promptly went silent. The still-living Death Eaters didn’t look as if they had expected such an easy victory.

Voldemort took a slow step nearer, his face uncertain, as far as Greg could read his snake-like features. He stuck out one foot as if he would kick Harry in the side, and Greg tensed. Whether Harry was actually dead or not, Greg wasn’t about to let Voldemort touch him.

Then Harry sprang to his feet.

Greg felt as if a phoenix was singing inside him. Harry had told him and reassured him and shared theories with him about why Voldemort’s Killing Curse would strike only the Horcrux and Harry would be able to come back, but it wasn’t the kind of thing they could practice beforehand, of course.

But now Harry was here, and striding forwards to meet Voldemort like the warrior mage he was, his magic spinning out around him to form deadly blades from the air itself.

That was what it meant, to be a warrior mage. To use magic as a weapon, harness every expression of it to causing damage, and tame the explosions and disintegration to happen only when the mage willed them to.

Greg raised his wand and charged into battle behind Harry. Voldemort’s eyes were wide and panicked, and whether he knew that he was mortal or not, which he might since Kreacher had kidnapped the snake and Harry’s Fiendfyre had killed her, he was fighting Harry with desperation moves.

Greg thought he would have already Apparated, but they’d had Kreacher weave wards around the battlefield that would allow Apparition in but not out.

Useful things, house-elves, Greg thought smugly, and moved close enough to Harry to be bathed in the shower of blood as Harry directed his magic to reach out to Voldemort and burst his heart in his chest.

*

They lie together in the warmth of the aftermath, Harry’s hand stroking Greg’s head lazily. It would probably be a little more comfortable on the bed, Greg thinks thickly. But the rugs are thick and the fire warm, and they probably don’t actually have to move.

Harry finally mumbles, “‘Mazing.”

Greg smiles into his hair. No one else has ever meant to him what Harry has, and no one ever will. Everyone else probably assumes that Lord Potter has sophisticated taste, but no. Greg is simple. This is simple.

Greg knows they both thrive on it.

In the end, they do move back to the bed, and Harry curls up next to Greg with his hand over Greg’s beating heart. Greg knows Harry could tear it free at any second, if he wanted. He doesn’t want. He wants other things, and Greg is more than happy to give them to him.

“I love you,” Harry whispers fiercely into his ear. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He says things like that all the time, but it’s always nice to hear them again.

“I love you, Harry,” Greg says, and Harry gives him a sleepy smile before slipping away into darkness where Greg can’t follow.

But Greg can curl up around Harry’s body and guard him while he sleeps, and that is more than enough. This life is, too.

The End.