A Valentine's Day Massacre

BY : pittwitch
Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco
Dragon prints: 10551
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.


 



This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.



A Valentine’s Day Massacre



Chapter 1 ~* On The Platform *~



We stood on the platform that day, platform nine and three-quarters, watching our children James and Albus, head off to their own adventures at Hogwarts, far from our care, our protection, our influence and our sight: a bittersweet day, indeed.



Ron and Hermione stood right next to us, most assuredly feeling all of the same turmoil, fear, and pride as my wife and I suffered. James herded his younger brother onto the steps of the train, waved perfunctorily, and disappeared inside the gleaming red car.



As Ginny and I turned to leave after the train pulled out of the station, I saw him. Him — still immaculate looking, as though no horror had ever touched his life. His perfectly groomed platinum hair fell to his shoulders now. Expensive robes flowed over his still lean frame like black ice, almost as cold as the frostiness still harbored in his slate grey eyes. He focused on me, his vapid wife clinging to his arm like a man-purse. Utter contempt from those cold eyes washed over me. I shuddered as the small hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My vision tunneled to his thin lips; pale lips once more curled in utmost disdain — disdain for me and all that was mine. I saw the look, his look, just before he plastered his mask back in place, his publicly appropriate, bland mask. He nodded regally towards me and Ginny, coolly regarding our presence, recognizing our families' shared landmark event. I refused to acknowledge his tribute. I watched with guarded eyes as he whispered to his wife, who skittered away quickly. Ginny was talking animatedly with Hermione. Ron, as ever, stood protectively by my side.



“History repeats itself, eh, Potter?” the blond drawled, extending his hand in a mockery of our very first meeting.



“No, Draco,” I answered formally, compelling my hand to move forward to clasp his, feeling an ice-cold tingling rising the entire length of my appendage, settling as a so-cold-it-burns lump just beneath my heart. I couldn’t see Ron, but I felt his scowl just the same.



“No?” He arched one almost invisible eyebrow at me, his aquiline features such a blend of both of his pure-blood parents that I couldn’t discern whose features belonged to whom.



“Only those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it, Draco.” I heard my voice. I believed my words. I didn’t know if I had learned any of my own lessons, at least, not learned them well.



He pulled me close by my hand, smiling a wide smile, and whispered only for me to hear, “Have you learned?”



I ground my teeth to stem my shivering: shivering inspired by his voice and the warm breath ghosting against the shell of my ear. With one arm wrapped around him in a mocking, old school chum embrace, I allowed the frame of my glasses to dig painfully into his cheek before I hissed, “Have you?” as my own version of a sneer crossed my features, yet unschooled.



A puff of breath against my ear told me that he snorted, but he made no sound. He released me with that happy grin on his cultured face. “So nice to see you again, Harry.”



My name dripped from his lips. I heard venom. I saw saccharine sweet fakeness. I saw the cultured pearls his pale lips peeled back to reveal. I felt his contempt. Anger slipped through the serpentine tunnels of my veins; the edges of my vision tinted red. My fingers clenched into fists, tightly hidden in the pockets of my robes. I forgot, for those few tense moments, even to breathe.



“I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other now, Draco.” I matched his tone, his smile, his false persona. He smiled with a small hint of approval glinting in those glacial eyes.



“I hope so,” he voiced for all to hear. “Perhaps you have learned …” he whispered only for me as he brushed past me as if I were merely a fixture on the platform, not a living, breathing, person.



With a deep inhalation, I calmed the unreasonable anger, the fury, the rising bile of hatred, and the all-consuming rage as it slithered once more through my veins. I turned back towards my lovely wife and two best friends, none of who noticed my slip. I only hoped you had learned as well, Draco Malfoy. Protectively, I encircled Ginny’s waist. She leaned into me, casting a sad, but proud, smile up at me.



Weeks later, the sun streamed down onto the familiar Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. So many memories, both good and bad, floated on the surface of my consciousness. The red and gold of Gryffindor waved at us merrily from one side as we passed under the raised stands adorned with the green and silver of Slytherin. Inwardly, I tensed at the sight, unconsciously accepting another encounter with more things Slytherin from my past.



Suddenly, as if on cue from an unseen stage director, he stepped out of the shadows, his black cloak swirling. The filtered sunlight glinted off the silver head of the serpent on his cane. His wife clutched his other arm as his mother and father strolled deferentially behind him, allowing their son to lead them through the crowd.



This small gesture clearly marked Draco as the new head of the house of Malfoy. With smug satisfaction, I noticed that Lucius no longer feigned reliance on his once-decorative cane; his all-too-real reliance mandated now after his second stay in Azkaban. Money only bought so much clemency after the war. That thought made me smile. His freedom came only through me. Me. I spoke up for him in front of the Wizengamot after Narcissa came to me all those years ago, pleading for her ailing husband, to play her trump card, securing my favor on behalf of her family. After all, her bold-faced lie as I faked my own death on the floor of the Forbidden Forest set the rest of the danse macabre in motion that day. She slithered to my aid, so much like the Slytherin she truly was.



Oh, how the mighty had fallen, how far and how hard I alone knew for sure. I felt my face twist into the wry grin masking my superiority. Precious little Draco didn’t know why his father had been released. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, someday, the opportunity to enlighten him would present itself to me if I were patient — patient enough to wait for perfection.



We took our seats on opposite borders of the pitch that day, sorted into conflicting sides once again. My gaze easily fell onto the three platinum blond heads sitting closely together in the sea of black, green, and silver, prominent in their appearances as well as their name and family influence; well, perhaps not as influential as they once were. I smiled, happy in that knowledge; pleased that the arrogant prat who once tortured my daily existence, and his horrible father, sat in their privileged seats only by the redemption of my good graces. I alone needed to know that their very existence in this plane was my doing.



Gryffindor won. The crowd roared its approval. The families made their way from the box seats back to the ground as the students milled about the grounds, waiting for a quick, polite hello. The children all bounded over to us enthusiastically; hugs and kisses and close motherly inspections abounded.



All too soon, the youngsters scampered back towards the school, and the adults were left to stroll back to Hogsmeade and either the train or the Apparation point. We walked more slowly that day, willing the moment, the closeness with the children, to last just a little longer. An unwelcome voice broke my reverie.



“We meet again, Potter,” Draco’s voice dripped with snide disdain.



How can he be so arrogant even after his own Slytherin loss? I halted, and then turned to face him. “I expected as much, Draco.” I placed heavy emphasis on his first name — my familiar, unbidden use of his given name.



He glanced at my friends, my wife, and then completely ignored them to address only me. “At least the Quidditch match was early this year.”



Lucius stood slightly behind him with his hands folded elegantly over the head of his cane. Narcissa tucked one hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow, her facial expression soft yet her eyes hard, challenging me. Me — the person whose actions enabled her little family to be together. Her upper lip still curled as if she smelled something distasteful.



I supposed it was me. “Excuse me?” I didn’t understand the statement.



“We didn’t have to sit through a snow storm, Potter,” Draco haughtily explained with a barely disguised sneer. His arm ornament tittered, finally raising her eyes to meet mine.



I saw only the contempt I knew Draco felt radiating from her as well. I smiled my trademark boyish-best at the pure-blood, hoping to disarm him mentally. I watched his eyes narrow slightly before an approving sneer graced his face at last. I straightened my posture, tucking Ginny’s hand safely into my arm.



“Yes, at least we didn’t have to sit through a snow storm, Draco.”



“Halloween Ball?” he questioned my expected presence there without actually asking anything at all. That skill must have required years of practice.



 “Chaperone,” I countered.



“Me, too.” He glanced down at his wife. “But, only me.” She frowned, pouting.



“See you then.” I guided my wife away from him with a curt nod towards his parents and with forcibly unhurried steps, my arm once more protectively resting around her small waist.



 ~*~ A/N: This was originally written as a Valentine’s Day challenge response. It is complete. I plan to post each week until posting the final chapter on Valentine’s Day. I was inspired to bring it out, dust it off, and put the ending back to the way I originally had written it. I, due to a misunderstanding on my part, had left something too frighteningly ambiguous for the challenger.




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