Chapter Seven of 'The Same Species As Shakespeare'- Sweet Revenge Grows Harsh

[lomonaaeren]

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Chapter Seven—Sweet Revenge Grows Harsh

Draco heard the sound of his wards shattering as if they had been a series of alabaster figurines tipped to the floor at once. He might have frozen, confused about where he was—during the Battle of Malfoy Manor, there had been a row of figurines that smashed like that—if not for the stinging tickle of the wards up and down his ribs. They had been bound to him, because Draco liked the idea of an extra warning if he was asleep or at a distance from the office and didn’t hear them breaking.

For the first time, he tasted genuine fear. Bloodline wards were ancient and powerful, but all based on a common pattern. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that the imposter could find a way to break them, if he looked in the right books. But the wards on his office were unique. They should have let only Draco through or those people Draco give implicit permission by waving them in.

Where did he find the knowledge to break them? Who is he? What is he?

Potter’s arm curved around his waist, and the next moment they were falling to the floor of the office, rolling in circles accompanied by their dancing reflections in the blue tiles. Draco resisted the temptation to pull away and sit up, establishing his own dignity and separation from Potter. At the moment, doing that might ensure he didn’t survive.

Besides, Potter’s arm around his waist was endurable, and his weight and warmth and closeness far more pleasant than Draco had expected them to be. He felt a harsh shiver course through him, and he shook his head, half-winded and not understanding why.

“Wake up, Draco!”

Potter yelled the words right into his face, making his head jerk backwards. Draco started to snap back, but Potter shook him, hard, and Draco found his teeth clashing together instead. He almost bit his tongue. He struggled this time, wondering if Potter was in league with the imposter to kill him. It would be the kind of luck Draco would have.

Potter’s hands ground down, imprisoning his arms at his sides. Draco showed his teeth in a snarl. Whatever Potter’s strange preferences, he didn’t like being held prisoner, by an enemy or by a lover.

“I can hear him coming.”

The hissed words restored Draco’s composure, and reminded him of where he was and what he might need to survive in the next few minutes. He took a deep breath, released it little by little, and finally nodded.

“He’s radiating so much Dark magic it’s a wonder every Auror in ten miles isn’t on him,” Potter muttered in a distracted tone. Draco controlled the impulse to tell him to pay attention, that his life was at stake here. “But he might have cast some sort of spell to muffle it unless someone is as close to him as we are.” One of the hands clutching Draco’s shoulders gave it a gratifying stroke, as if in apology for the way Potter had manhandled him earlier. Then Potter’s head turned with the alert grace of a hunting wolf’s, and he focused on the far side of the room. “There. He’ll have to come in through there.”

“There” was Draco’s large glass window, which looked clear until one studied it with one’s head cocked to the side, in which case it reflected a myriad shades of blue. “No,” Draco protested. “Do you know much that cost?”

“I don’t, but I’ll bet he does,” Potter said. “He’s a more formidable opponent than I thought.” Abruptly he slewed his head around like one of the swans Father had kept for a while before he got peacocks and hissed at Draco from between clenched teeth. “And I won’t have you slowing me down whilst I try to save your life, you spoiled brat.”

Draco opened his mouth, but could say nothing; in the end he blinked meekly and shut it again. Potter was a different creature now, transformed, in control of the situation in a way Draco had never learned to be. His activities in the past few years had only endangered the fortunes of other people, not his own life.

Potter put a hand on the floor and began thumping the heel of his palm against the tile in a regular pattern. Draco wanted to shriek at him to be quiet, that perhaps his enemy would hear that, but he was sure his own voice would give them away even more effectively. He swallowed and kept silent, his fingers digging into his palms in a way that he was sure would leave marks later.

A dark figure swelled against the window; then a shoulder, or maybe a spell, collided with the glass. The window cracked down the middle and then into quarters, hardly leaving Draco time to mourn before it fell slowly, majestically, inwards and crumbled into much smaller shards on the office floor.

The imposter came through the window with a swiftness that made Draco wince.

But Potter was up and on his way to meet him already, and a moment later the confined office was filled with the leap and crackle of magic.

*

Lucius slammed shut the third book he’d looked through, and sighed in disgust. A puff of dust rose into his face, and he coughed. Draco had forbidden all the house-elves to come into the library after the war, as if he thought that the family’s honor could be reclaimed by letting no one who was not of the blood in among their secrets.

His ancestors had been thorough people. Lucius had found notations on stillborn children, including their sex and what their names would have been had they lived. His ancestors had included long family trees of those Malfoy daughters who had married into other families and borne children who could not properly be considered Malfoys. After all, they knew that someday the direct line might run out and the Manor would need a Malfoy in residence, even if it had to be someone who hadn’t borne the name from birth.

Lucius thought he could trust the records. And all the records insisted that Draco was the fourth in a line of only children. Lucius’s great-grandfather had had sisters, but one had died young and the other had married a man of the Deadsea line, widely rumored to be infertile; at any rate, she’d had no children. If other Malfoy relatives existed, they were so distant that they should have not been able to affect the bloodline wards one way or the other.

It was a mystery. And Lucius did not like mysteries unless he caused them.

A sharp knock on the door made him look up. It was unlike Draco to return this early to the house during a workday. And, of course, with Potter guarding him, he would probably feel more temptation to show off his skills in the office than ever.

“Lucius?”

Severus’s voice. Lucius frowned. He’s never tried to enter this room. Though Severus never talked about the war except to complain bitterly of how unfairly he had been treated afterwards, Lucius had long suspected that Severus had been tortured in the library of the old Manor.

“Enter,” Lucius said. The door glowed, and the protections Draco had set up died out in a fall of blue sparks. Severus stepped inside and shut the door at once, as if he thought someone might be lingering nearby to spy on them.

“What is it?” Lucius had never seen such a hunted look occupy Severus’s eyes. Of course, they hadn’t been together often during the course of the war.

“There was no break in the bloodline wards,” Severus said.

“If he was a Malfoy relative, of course there would not have been,” said Lucius. “And if he were not a relative, then he should not have been able to pass them in the first place.” He deliberately made his tone stuffy. Severus hated to be lectured.

“I mean,” said Severus, taking a step closer and moving like a prowling panther, “there is no break at all. It is as if he were a resident of the house who had been missing for years and then came home and persuaded the Manor to accept him again. The burst of magic that made his entrance noticeable to you was the house realigning itself to him.”

“As if he were Draco returning after a long journey,” Lucius said slowly. He felt the edge of an intuition twitch and stir at the corner of his mind, but when he went after it, it slid away again. He snarled in frustration.

“Yes,” said Severus.

“So he might come into the house again, this time without our noticing,” said Lucius, seizing the concrete worry.

“Yes.” Severus bared his teeth. “If Mr. Potter were not staying here, I could pour potions on the foundations that would notify us of any entrant at all. But I fear he will be visiting his friends at the Ministry often enough that it would be useless.”

“Draco goes in and out of the house often too,” Lucius said, rising to his feet. He was already tired of hearing about Severus’s grudge against Potter. “Use the potions, Severus. I’ll bear the inconvenience.”

“The potions I am thinking of using would also alert me.”

Lucius paused with a hand on the wall. “And you aren’t willing to bear a little inconvenience to keep Draco from being murdered?” He inflected his voice with a delicate trace of shock. “You are not the man I thought you were, Severus.”

Severus spun on his heel and departed without a word. Lucius was glad.

He was going to the room where he would be alone with the memorials of the wife he had never truly known, and a mind disordered by argument was inappropriate when he entered such a place.

*

Harry took and kept the offensive in the fight from the first moment the intruder came through the window. If he was driven back into the defensive, he could lose the battle because of his unfamiliarity with Draco’s office, and any stumble he made might give the imposter a chance to hit Draco.

That was unacceptable.

And so is your calling him Draco, snapped some obscure part of his mind in the moment before the rush of battle consumed him completely.

Curses flickered and snapped past Harry’s head like the firing of Muggle lasers. The imposter was good, whoever he was. But there was more to fighting than being good with curses, as Harry had learned time after time in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Leave yourself open to your opponent, and you might as well have sent them a signed invitation to your funeral. So the man’s curses broke against the Shield Charm Harry had raised before the window exploded, and in the meantime Harry marked him again and again and again with hexes and jinxes and curses that left shallow, bleeding cuts down his legs or snagged his ankles and made him trip or made his hand slip on his wand. Harry didn’t want to kill him. If this man wasn’t taken alive, then the Auror Office might never find out what he had wanted, or, worse, might never find out if he had accomplices waiting to take over his criminal act if he died.

A Cutting Curse tried to take his hand off at the wrist. Harry laughed breathlessly and spun to the side, pushing his back against the wall and aiming at the intruder’s kneecaps. He was beginning to get the measure of his enemy now, and he wasn’t so very good after all. He knew the flashy spells, but every moment he had devoted to studying those was one he hadn’t spent on defense or counters to the everyday spells Harry used that were causing him such trouble.

At least Harry knew the source of the powerful Dark magic that surrounded him now: a vial swinging at his waist that was filled with sloshing blue liquid. He’d impregnated the crystal with spells that would destroy anyone who crushed the vial or tried to take it from him, and the liquid itself bore several powerful enchantments. That made Harry think it was a Potions ingredient, rather than a potion itself. He would have to ask Snape what it might be, and hope the man would actually talk to him instead of snapping.

The man shouted with triumph, and Harry realized he’d fallen into the trap of contemplating the vial too closely. The latest spell had scored a smoking hole into the center of his palm, and Merlin, that hurt.

Harry tossed his wand, which was luckily unhurt, from his right hand to his left. Part of the standard training that all Aurors received now, on Kingsley’s suggestion, was in how to fight ambidextrously. He bit down on his lip, forcing a concentration as clear as the vial that let him ignore the pain and focus on the fight instead. The imposter was dodging towards him, mouth open in an idiot smile. That was another thing that separated him from the real Draco. He would never smile in such an uncontrolled fashion. Harry had a hard time imagining him uncontrolled for any reason.

Which, in a way, was a pity.

Concentrate! Harry snapped at himself, and then aimed his wand at the imposter’s mouth and thought a certain nonverbal spell that Ron had discovered last month when he mispronounced a standard incantation used to stop criminals from shouting obscenities.

The imposter’s lips snapped shut, and then skin began to grow over them, sealing his mouth and creeping towards his nose. A long, rattling moan escaped him. He jumped backwards, and Harry cast a spell that he hoped would cut the vial harmlessly from his belt.

A curtain of green fire rose around the man’s belt, though, and Harry swore as he felt it singe his eyebrows and eyelashes even from this distance. He hopped away and strengthened his Shield Charm, extending it down and to the sides. That way, it should at least partially protect Draco, too.

The green fire vanished. For a moment, the attacker stared, panting, at Harry. He already had his mouth back again, Harry noticed in disappointment. He did find ways around all the measures they took to combat him awfully quickly. It had made Hermione speculate before now that perhaps they were dealing with some kind of misguided genius, and Harry had almost agreed, except, well, why should a genius spend his days trying to imitate Draco Malfoy?

“That’s where the misguided part comes in,” Hermione had said, and had given Harry the tolerant look that said he needed to spend more time with a dictionary.

Harry took a single, threatening step forwards. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the faint smile he could feel lingering on his face as he thought about Hermione, but the imposter Apparated.

Harry didn’t think that should have been possible even with the broken remnants of the wards dangling around them, but he had grown used to the impossible when dealing with this man. He shook his head and turned back to Draco, who was still on the floor. Harry crouched down. His concern would be visible, but with any luck, Draco would think it was the sort of concern he always showed when dealing with someone he protected.

Of course, Draco was neither blind nor stupid, and he would probably remember the tense moment lingering between their mouths before the imposter interrupted as well as Harry would. Still, Harry made his voice as formal and polite as he could

“Are you all right?”

*

Draco kept his cheek pressed against the floor for long moments before he answered. It would do Potter some good to worry.

Besides, Draco was trying to determine the answer to that question for himself.

He had never seen Potter in the midst of battle before. He’d collected clippings of it, dreamed and brooded on the memories he had of Potter casting the Patronus or hexing him on the train or telling stories of how he defeated Voldemort, and imagined what it must look like. But images were nothing next to the reality.

Draco had felt his heart stop more than once as he watched Potter stamp and circle through the storm of light from the attacker’s wand, and not with fear. It was desire that coiled through his veins like wyvern venom and made him roll so that his groin was pressed firmly into the floor, hiding his erection from both of the other men in the room. When Potter finished the battle and came over to kneel and touch his shoulder, the brush of his fingers went through Draco like flame.

Though he still did not know the exact terms of his vengeance that would leave Potter bleeding and broken, Draco now knew better what he demanded, to live content. He had to have Potter in bed at least once. He had to have that great strength contained and writhing under him, uttering little broken cries as he gave way to passion at least as strong as that which consumed Draco now. Draco felt a moment of intense relief that Potter’s lovers had gone to the papers on several occasions and confessed what he liked in bed. That would let Draco have a much better idea of what worked in seducing him than if he were going into this blind.

“Are you all right?” Potter repeated, and now there was an alarmed edge to his voice.

Draco lay still a moment longer, letting his plans bubble and settle into one another like a potion in the final cooling stages. Then he rolled over, hooked an arm behind Potter’s head, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Potter grunted and flailed, but showed no interest in dragging himself away. Indeed, in a moment he was grumbling and pushing closer to Draco, his chin jabbing into Draco’s throat, his arms curving powerfully around Draco’s shoulders.

Draco pushed off from the floor, never breaking the sudden joining of their lips. Potter grunted again as his shoulders hit the tile. Draco straddled his hips and flicked his tongue again and again and again into Potter’s mouth, trying to imitate the darting kisses that his lover Penelope Armitage had said he liked.

Potter’s lips softened beneath his from the near-grimace they had been locked in, and Potter’s breath caught and rasped and rumbled, in what Draco thought would have been a groan had he managed to release it. Instead, his mouth was trapped under Draco’s, the sound trapped under Draco, the broad shoulders pinned by his hands, the long legs wrapping around him and welcoming him between them—

Draco sobbed aloud, glad a moment later that the sound was so muffled against Potter’s lips that no one else had a chance of recognizing it. He couldn’t keep his hands from descending and clinging, his mouth from planting a kiss on Potter’s cheek because it was there, or his knee from rubbing insistently against Potter’s cock. His head reeled and his world danced and his justifications collapsed around him like a pile of straw.

This was what he had wanted when he collected the remnants of Potter’s meanderings around London. This was what he needed. This was what he—

And then Draco slammed the door shut on the realization and tore his mouth away from Potter’s at the same time. He licked his lips and found himself meeting dazed eyes. Even after Potter had blinked several times, there was no sign that sense was returning to his face.

I have to remain in control, Draco reminded himself. This is my seduction, my revenge. I can certainly take what I want, but I can’t fall into the same trap I’ve prepared for Potter.

The notion sobered him. It was not a danger he had ever considered before. Why should he? Draco knew every thought that passed through Potter’s head, every sharp limitation placed on his soul. There were too many rough and unpolished edges to Potter to attract him. What made him worthy of conquering in the first place was his luck, and no more.

At least, Draco had thought so. It seemed he had a deeper fund of craving in him that the ministrations of his elegant, untarnished lovers over the last several years had not touched.

But he was already master of his emotions whilst Potter still struggled to recover from the kiss, and that made it possible for him to lower his eyes and murmur, “I’m sorry. Disgraceful of me, to forget myself like that. I suppose everyone does things like that sometimes, in the sheer excitement of being alive after a battle, but it’s not like a Malfoy to give way to common impulses.”

Potter blinked the darkness away from his eyes, and slowly nodded. However, he made no attempt to pull away from Draco. Instead, he stared into his face with a heated gaze, and murmured, “I think you ought to give way to common impulses more often, then.”

Draco flushed. It was an unnatural, controlled flush, of course. How could it be otherwise? His passions obeyed him, and not the other way around. “I’m glad you think so,” he said. “But still, you’re the Auror assigned to protect me, and I’m your client. We can’t do this again.” He rose to his feet, letting Potter see the shaking in his legs.

Potter stood and lent an arm to support him. Draco raised an eyebrow and stepped deliberately away. “I’m hardly some fainting damsel,” he said.

“Did I mean to imply that you were?” Potter had no sound of hurt in his voice from the rebuke, which was not what Draco had expected. He dropped his arm, but that was only to step closer, looking at Draco as though they were the same height and held the same importance in the world. His voice was low and thick and warm with the heat of mysterious things. “I saw you swaying and wanted to hold you up, that was all.”

“You think I’m weak.” Draco dashed a bit of lint from his shoulder and looked away.

“Nothing like!” Potter’s voice soared so sharply that Draco had to look back at him, and then he was caught as Potter stepped towards him and splayed his fingers in fan-like shapes on either side of his face. His eyes had the same shine they’d possessed when he was fighting the imposter. “I thought you might need support, the way anyone not used to battle might when he was caught in one. It was an extraordinary circumstance. That’s different from thinking you’re weak all the time and in ordinary circumstances. You understand?”

Draco nodded, hating the feeling that someone had gripped his head by the hair and was nodding it for him.

“Good.” Potter smiled at him, and then his voice dropped into a murmur even softer and more heated, though how that was physically possible Draco didn’t know. “As for what happened between us today, I agree it shouldn’t resume yet. This attack was serious, and I have to report to Kingsley about it and ask whether they’ve found any information on how he entered Palliser’s party.” Storm and not lust darkened his eyes this time. “But we can’t ignore what happened here, either. I’ll ask you to sleep with me when the case is solved. You can refuse me permanently then, if you like.” He winked. “Although I’m liable to wait a week and ask again.”

“Why?” Draco hated the way his voice sounded, too soft. On the other hand, it would probably convince Potter he was caught up in the farce of love Potter had no doubt imagined to excuse his actions.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” Potter said simply, as if that was enough explanation.

Triumph washed over Draco, heady and fragrant as a hothouse of violets and roses. Oh, yes, I have him. If he wants me, if it’s not simply desire that I awoke in him the last few days, I’ll be able to do as I like with him.

Life was so very sweet.

Chapter 8.

Comments

[lomonaaeren.livejournal.com]

Oh, yes, he is. Not about architecture or his father, but about the state of his own heart, there's no greater idiot alive.

And thanks. I promise, though, that the solution of the mystery is different from that finally given in IGYAWM.