Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Bella's Harem	By : Mamacita Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 28888 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
17: When Draco Met Marshall

Flitwick looked down at the Petrified Death Eater at his feet. It had been ridiculously simple to ambush Ted Nott and Harold Dunstan in their rooms at the Leaky Cauldron. For men whose wives had mysteriously disappeared just that day, who were supposed to be searching high and low for any trace of those wives, they were startlingly drunk when they accompanied each other upstairs in the wee hours, intending to go to sleep and have another try at finding the “old girls” the next day. It had been child’s play for Flitwick and Ginny in one room and Hooch and Molly in the other to Petrify both men.

“Really,” Flitwick said reproachfully to Nott Sr., “terribly careless of you, old chap. The world is a dangerous place, you know.” Nott glared up at him impotently, his eyes making promises of torturous revenge that he would never keep.

Molly tapped on the door. “Oh, good,” she said when Ginny opened it a crack to see who was there. “Can you believe they were both blotto? Ah well, all the better for us. Will you take him, Filius, if I get Mr Dunstan?” Flitwick nodded and Molly tiptoed back into the room next door and levitated Harold Dunstan into Nott’s room. Not a soul was around; no doors opened along the corridor.

“All ready, then?” Flitwick said. “To the Apparation point!” He and Molly each took hold of an arm of their respective prisoners and Disapparated without delay.

As the other team had done just a short time earlier, Flitwick and Molly Apparated at the far boundary of the Hogwarts grounds, on the edge of the Dark Forest. “Firenze!” Molly called softly. For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and miscellaneous rustlings of the creatures who crept, flew, and oozed through the forest this night.

Then Firenze and Magorian appeared out of the trees, so suddenly it was as if they had Apparated there. Firenze inspected the two Death Eaters. “These would be the husbands of the two women brought earlier?” he asked, and Molly nodded. “Excellent. We will take care of them for you.”

Nott’s eyes stared in horror, and Molly knew he wanted to cry out or strike back in some way; but her spellwork was as good as anyone’s, and she thought with complacency that he wasn’t in any danger of un-Petrifying any time soon. She turned her back on him as the centaurs began to move their levitated burdens back into the woods on the way to the part of the forest where the Acromantulas made their home. She felt that providing food for them was sort of her own personal thank-you to Aragog for having let Ron and Harry go free back in their second year, and an apology of sorts to his children for their meal having been snatched from under their noses by Arthur’s magical car. Sending them the Death Eaters had a certain symmetry to it that she found quite pleasing.

“Shall we join everyone back at Grimmauld Place?” Flitwick suggested. “When the papers arrive tomorrow we can see about our next set of disappearances.”

“Excellent, Filius, excellent. Right—see you there.” They Disapparated with tiny popping noises and reappeared on the front stairs of Grimmauld Place. “Quietly,” Molly cautioned. “Some of them are probably in bed by now.” They tiptoed into the house and found there was no need for silence after all. Apparently there was some kind of party going on in the kitchen. Molly and Filius headed that way and walked into the kitchen to find a very large tub of ice cream in the middle of the table and a very jolly group of people gathered around it with bowls and spoons.

Flitwick gasped. “Rocky road!” He waddled over to the table and Hooch drew up a chair beside her for him.

While a bowl was found and he was being helped to ice cream, McGonagall asked, “How did everything go?”

Flitwick and Molly assured her that the centaurs had taken care of the two Death Eaters with dispatch. Madam Pomfrey sat and listened quietly as Flitwick’s team compared notes on the evening’s activities and brought the others up to date. Eventually McGonagall noticed that Madam Pomfrey hadn’t said anything.

“Poppy,” she said slowly, “do you still feel as if we’re doing wrong, to be capturing these people and ridding the world of them? You haven’t said anything tonight; what do you think about all this?”

“I was just thinking,” said Madam Pomfrey, “about all the people in the war who had great damage done to them by Ted and Carrie Nott and the Dunstans. They were some of Voldemort’s fiercest fighters, and they had every intention of blasting their way through ranks of innocent people who wanted nothing more than to keep the lives they already had—merely because they wanted more. More power, more money, just more. And do you know, I don’t think I regret one thing I did today!” She smiled a bit sheepishly. “As a matter of fact, I can’t wait for the Prophet to arrive tomorrow morning. I feel like a different person. Goodness—I never knew I had such criminal tendencies!”

“Not criminal,” Hooch reminded her. “Just anti-Dark. If it’s criminal to be anti-Dark, well...then I say up the criminals!”

The rest lifted spoons full of ice cream and echoed, “Up the criminals!” and, laughing at themselves, set about demolishing the ice cream before it all melted.
The next day a group of harem slaves bounded into the pool after breakfast to resume their waterball tournament. Others disposed themselves around the main room or remained at the table talking or working on homework.

Draco wandered over to one of the windowseats and sat down sideways in it, leaning against the embrasure and staring out at the Black Lake as it wound between the hills and into the distance. In the old, wavy window glass he noticed the reflection of someone coming over and turned to see that it was Fred.

“Oi, Fer—er, Draco. Mind if I join you for a bit?” Fred asked. He hadn’t really intended to let the “Ferret” slip out; it was hard to break old habits.

“It’s a free country,” Draco said, then he caught Fred’s eye and they both laughed. Draco waited for Fred to say what he wanted, but he just sat there for a while watching the game, so Draco relaxed and returned to his perusal of the lake and mountains.

“So,” Fred said eventually, by way of a conversation starter, “fancy shagging your auntie, do you?”

Draco snorted. “Is that what you came over to talk about?” he asked.

“Naw. But speaking of, how was it when you were there with Harry? Did she treat you any better than the rest of us because you’re related?”

“Ha,” Draco said succinctly. “Maybe Harry was the one who came back with a flaming ass, but I’m the one she put to the Cruciatus.”

Fred gaped at him. “No. She did not! Cor.” He was silent for a moment. “Guess that doesn’t say much for our chances, if she’d do that to you, eh? She put it to both me and Ron at the same time the other night.”

“Really? Both at once?” Draco asked. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Apparently you can,” Fred said drily. “It seemed to work just fine. Although it might not have been as strong as usual, being diluted between the two of us, so to speak. I wouldn’t know; no one’s ever aimed an Unforgiveable at me before.”

“Nor me,” Draco said. “I can tell you I won’t be sorry if it’s the last time anyone does.” He looked at Fred. “What else did she have you do?”

“Why—making a scrapbook, are you?” Fred grinned.

Draco’s face colored slightly. “You needn’t say if you don’t want to,” he said stiffly. “I just—I thought if we—” He glanced at Fred and shrugged. “Never mind. It was stupid.”

Fred looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll tell you if you really want to know,” he said finally. “Misery shared is misery halved—something like that, right?”

“Well...yeah,” Draco said, half expecting Fred to make fun of him. But his face remained reassuringly serious. “You know, I’ve never really spent all that much time around her before. I mean, she’s my aunt and all, but my parents mainly only saw her when they were doing stuff with V—with Vol—” He winced. “I still can’t quite make myself say it.”

“No worries,” Fred said cheerfully. “So she’s not your favorite auntie, eh? No auntly packages containing socks and underwear under the tree at Christmas?”

Draco snorted—a habit his mother deplored but which he seemed to be doing more and more frequently of late. “Hardly. I’m not even sure she knows what Christmas is. I do remember one holiday when I went to stay with my Aunt Andromeda. She was trying her hand at being a writer. She lived on this huge pond that froze over in winter, and she took me skating on it.” He smiled at the memory. “I was a lousy skater—I expected to put a giant hole through the ice every time I fell—but she just kept pulling me after her. She could skate faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. Afterward she made me gingerbread and hot chocolate and taught me to play wizard chess.”

A little frown creased his forehead. “It never occurred to me before to wonder why my parents let me visit her that one time and then never again. I suppose it was because she married her Muggle soon afterward. Mother and Father couldn’t be seen associating with her after that, I imagine—and it probably wouldn’t have been safe for Aunt Andromeda and her husband, either.” He thought for a moment. “I think Bella was already married to Lestrange by then. I don’t really remember.”

“So—no great family loyalty there, is what you’re saying?” Fred asked casually.

Draco shook his head. “Not particularly. I think Mother and Father would avoid her if they could. She always stirs things up when she comes around. I mean, she’s Mother’s own sister, and even Mother says she doesn’t feel safe when she’s involved in anything with Bella. Unpredictable, I guess. You know.”

“As a matter of fact,” Fred said, “I saw a little example of that when Ron and I were with her the other day. Her unpredictability.”

“Just one example?” Draco exclaimed bitterly.

“No, Malfoy, listen. I still haven’t decided whether she was testing us or just wasn’t thinking about it. She has these manacles chained to the wall behind a tapestry in her rooms, over by the fireplace.” Draco looked at him. He remembered seeing the tapestry. “She had us chain her to the wall—mind you, the manacles are charmed to not let you loose until you’ve come, yeah?—and she didn’t have her wand. Well, I mean, she was naked, wasn’t she? Where would she put it, right?” Draco grinned appreciatively.

“So she wanted to be spanked and all, and we obliged her and made her come and everything...but it’s been bothering me ever since. We had her at our mercy, and we didn’t act on it.” Fred bent his head closer to Draco’s. “Did anything like that happen when you were with her?”

Draco shook his head. “I remember the tapestry, but I didn’t know there was anything behind it. She had Harry bent over this bench sort of affair while she was spanking him, not chained to the wall. And she wasn’t chained anywhere, ever, while we were with her. I mean, we were all in bed together, but I don’t know where her wand was at the time.” He looked pensive. “Hmm. You know, I really don’t know where it was. Probably nearby—but it’s something to think about.”

Fred said in a low voice, “I wonder if anyone would really be inclined to punish us if we did away with her? I know she told Harry you really have to mean it to use an Unforgiveable Curse on someone, but I think I could just about manage it if I had a wand. It’s tempting to think of.”

Draco made a noncommittal noise. “Well, I’d watch who you say that to,” he said, his voice equally soft. “The last thing we need is for you to be carted off for treason.” In an apparent change of subject, he asked, “By the way, did you ever learn any wandless magic? I mean, is there anything you can do wandlessly that really works?”

“Ah...well, not much really. George was better at that stuff than I am. I’ve only ever dabbled in it a bit, never really applied myself.” Fred grinned. “As Mum would say. Why do you ask?”

Draco shrugged. “Just wondering. We’re stuck here without our wands, and I bet you anything some people here—the adults especially—know some wandless magic. I’m just wondering how much, and what they can do.”

“Well, not much in here, anyway,” Fred reminded him. “The harem wards won’t let us use magic.” He stared at Draco in dawning awareness. “But that wouldn’t be a problem in—”

“—in Bella’s quarters,” Draco finished. He stared back.

“Perhaps if she were to be distracted a bit one night—”

“—some night when two of us are summoned together—”

“—someone might give it a try.”

“Nothing big.”

“Obviously, nothing big or she’d notice. Just something to see if we could make it work.”

Fred laughed. “You know, you’re not bad at that, Malfoy.”

“At what?”

“Twinspeak.” When Draco just looked puzzled, Fred said, “George and I used to finish each other’s sentences.” He gaze turned inward. “I never knew I could miss anyone so much. Some mornings I wake up and all day there’s this—this thing gnawing at me, and finally it hits me: it’s like there’s this big black hole where George used to be, and when it hits me all over again that he’s never coming back, I fall into the hole. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never get out.”

Draco watched him with sympathetic eyes. He had never had a sibling, let alone a twin, and couldn’t imagine feeling that close to someone. It was the most serious he had ever seen Fred, and he found that he wanted to do something to make him laugh again, give him a reason to cheer up. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

“It sounds like you need someone else to take his place.” As soon as he said it he realized how it sounded. Indeed, Fred turned a disbelieving look on him, and Draco paled. “Gods, Fred, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right at all. I know you can never replace your brother. I just meant—maybe...a friend. Maybe you need a friend.” He knew Lee Jordan had been killed in the battle; he’d been nearby when Fenrir Greyback had come screaming out of nowhere and attacked Lee from the rear, pounding him into the ground, ripping and tearing until there was nothing identifiable left; then looking round at Draco as if to say, Stay out of my way or you’re next.

“Maybe I do, at that. You offering?” Fred asked. He certainly would never have imagined being friends with Draco Malfoy; but that was before, and this was now.

Draco appeared to be having the same thought. “I suppose I am,” he said after a moment. “But I’m nothing like either one of them, you know. I don’t know that I’m all that much fun; I’ve never pulled a prank in my life. Well,” he amended, “at least none that the victims thought were funny.”

“Ah, yes, my child,” Fred said, adopting the dignified manner of an elderly teacher to his student. “But a willing spirit will take you far.” He broke character and added, “Besides, there’s not a lot of scope in here for pranks—and I don’t know if Dad and the others would—ah—appreciate stuff like that. But who knows; we probably won’t be here forever, right?”

“I certainly hope not,” Draco said with feeling. “I had plans for my life, I’ll have you know. Big plans.”

“Ooo, sounds exciting,” Fred said. “Tell me—I’m all ears.” Draco reached over and gave him a shove as Fred laughed at him.

As they sat in the windowseat laughing and chatting and getting reacquainted in a better way than before, Marshall glanced over now and then from where he sat grading history essays at the large table. Draco looked so comfortable with Fred, so interested in what he was saying. They were only a couple of years apart in age.

Not like me, Marshall thought. Old enough to be his father. Although he had to admit the difference between their ages had never mattered to him, nor had Draco appeared to consider it.

Marshall thought back to the first time he’d been summoned to Malfoy Manor. Lucius had decided Draco should learn to fence; it seemed one of the new professors at Hogwarts—that Lockhart idiot, as Marshall privately thought of him (driven to it by the nauseating raptures his wife and daughter went into every time they said the fellow’s name)—had suggested that the students form a Dueling Club at school, and Lucius had fond memories of a sword-dueling club that had existed when he was in school. (Apparently he either did not or chose not to notice that swords were a Muggle invention; Marshall thought it likely that Lucius rather enjoyed the sweeping motions of cape and foil. Much showier than dueling with wands, and Lucius always was the showy sort.

Marshall had arrived at eight o’clock in the evening, shortly before sunset, as instructed. A stout house-elf had met him at the Apparation point off to one side of the house and, puffing and muttering, indicated that Marshall should follow him. He led the way through several long corridors before leaving Marshall in a large room with benches along one side and no other furniture, instructing him to “wait ‘ere for the Master.”

Marshall was only there a few minutes when he heard voices and Lucius and a boy he supposed to be Draco entered. Lucius strode up to Marshall and said, “Abbot, yes?” At Marshall’s nod, Lucius said, “This is my son, Draco. He is thirteen, a third year at Hogwarts next year.”

“Ah!” Marshall exclaimed. “No doubt you know my daughter, Hannah—she’ll be entering her third year in September also.” He smiled warmly at the boy.

Draco glanced up at his father before answering. “I—yes, I know her. She’s in Hufflepuff,” he explained to Lucius.

“Hufflepuff. Ah yes.” Lucius squeezed out a wintry smile. “Of course.”

Marshall knew all about Lucius’ reputation as a Death Eater and an all-around arrogant bastard but it didn’t bother him a bit. He was here because Lucius had hired him to teach fencing to his son, not to pass inspection for membership in an exclusive club. He could afford to be amused by the man’s obvious disregard for anyone not from the almighty House of Slytherin. For Merlin’s sake, he’d been out of school for what—twelve years now? Talk about living in the past.

“As I said in my letter,” Lucius swept on, “I should like you to instruct Draco in the finer points of Muggle fencing. It was a noble art among the Muggle aristocracy at one time, and he needs some form of exercise other than Quidditch.” He said the word with his characteristic sneer, and Draco looked at the ground, his expression mutinous.

“It will be my pleasure,” Marshall said. “And do you desire instruction for yourself as well?”

“Me? Oh no, no,” Lucius said. “I’m afraid I’m far too busy for that. So—Tuesdays and Thursdays, then?” Marshall nodded. “Good. I shall see your fee is transferred into your account at Gringotts. Draco leaves for school on September first, so if you’re available I suppose you can continue right through the twenty-ninth of August.”

“Excellent.”

Lucius nodded curtly. “Be a good boy, Draco,” he said, and he walked out and closed the door.

Marshall set the long leather case he was carrying on one of the benches and snapped the catches open. As he removed the equipment he said cheerfully, “So you’re interested in fencing, eh?” Draco muttered an unintelligible reply, and Marshall turned to look at him. “More interested in Quidditch, I suppose.” That at least got Draco’s eyes off his feet. “It’s a great game, can’t argue with that. Which is your favorite team?”

“Puddlemere United.”

“Ah? Yes, they have quite a good record. Your Headmaster there at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, is a fan, I believe.” He noticed Draco eying the sabers. “Well, come on over and let’s have a look. You’ll need to know what all this stuff is and how to use it. Do you have your own equipment, or shall we use mine?”

Draco sighed and went to a cabinet against one wall. “Father bought me some things.” He opened the cabinet door and Marshall restrained a chuckle with difficulty. “Some things” turned out to be a complete fencing outfit in Draco’s size including two masks, and three or four different sabers. Marshall took one of them out and whistled. It was lovely, the blade long and thin and perfect. He whistled. “Looks like your dad knows a bit about fencing equipment,” he said. Draco shrugged.

“Well, why don’t we get suited up and we’ll go from there?” Marshall suggested. There followed an hour of instruction, during which he was pleased to see that as apathetic as he might have seemed at first, Draco was extremely intelligent and grew more interested as the lesson progressed.

At the end of the hour Marshall took off his mask. “Well done, Draco,” he said. “Now remember to practice your moves tomorrow, and on Thursday we’ll see what’s what. You move well, very light on your feet. And I must say you seem to take the sport seriously.” He stuck out his hand and grinned at the boy. “I’m pleased to have you for my student.”

Draco slowly reached out and his slim white hand was engulfed in Marshall’s large, warm, calloused one. “Thank you for teaching me, sir.”

“Oh, now, I don’t think we need to be as formal as all that,” Marshall said. “I think once you’ve had someone at swordpoint you’re entitled to be on a first-name basis, eh?” He pumped Draco’s hand once. “You can call me Marshall.” He went over to the bench to put his saber away.

Draco went over and stowed his own gear back in the cabinet, then lingered in the doorway. Marshall glanced up as he snapped the case closed. “There, I think that’s got it,” he said. “How would you like to walk me back to the Apparation point, Draco?”

The walk to the foyer of the grand house was considerably shorter than it had seemed going in, and Marshall commented to this effect. Draco grinned, and the sudden change from the bland, even surly expressions he’d worn so far that evening lit up his whole face.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s Bunty, one of our house-elves. He likes to take people the long way round; when he was younger he’d hurry ahead of them and turn a corner and leave them wandering the halls, trying to find where they were supposed to go. Sorry about that.”

“Tosh,” Marshall said airily. “I didn’t mind a bit. Always like to look around when I find myself in a new place, you know?”

They had come to the Apparation point, and he stepped onto the grassy area off the path. “Well—see you Tuesday, lad. Don’t forget to practice, now!” He turned in place and Disapparated.

Draco stood there for a moment just absorbing this new experience. It had actually been fun...and Marshall seemed to approve of him, which was something of a novelty. Lucius had given in to Draco’s begging him to buy Nimbus 2001s for the Slytherin Quidditch team this year, which had secured an unshakable place for Draco on the team even though he wasn’t as good a player as some of the others. Lucius had not, however, come to any of Slytherin’s matches that year to cheer his son on and see his investment put to good use, as he was too busy with other concerns.

So it was kind of nice, Draco thought, that he’d found a fellow Quidditch fan in Marshall. He usually dreaded summers because he was stuck at home with just his mother and father for company—and they weren’t all that much company. His father was usually off on some business or other for the Ministry or Voldemort and his mother had her gardens and her tea parties and shopping in Diagon Alley to occupy her.

Last summer he’d been so bored he’d actually asked if Crabbe and Goyle could come for a visit and maybe stay for a few days. Lucius had promised to think about it, but the hoped-for break in the monotony of the lonely summer had never materialized. Draco had come to notice that that happened a lot. “I’ll think about it” had, in his mind, come to mean “I’m too busy to bother about you; run along now”.

At the end of July Marshall told Draco he’d improved greatly and said laughingly, “Do you know, I think you might almost be a match for Hannah, my daughter. Now that would be interesting, wouldn’t it—to see how well you two compete against each other? She wasn’t really interested in fencing until this summer either, so the two of you are about on a par skill-wise.”

Draco said eagerly, “Really? Maybe she could come with you sometime and give me a match.”

Marshall looked at him from where he sat on the bench changing from his fencing shoes back into the soft leather boots he normally wore. “Well now, that’s an idea, isn’t it?”

“So you’ll ask her, then?”

“I’ll certainly think about it, my boy,” Marshall said as he tugged on his boots, not noticing the light in Draco’s eyes dim at the familiar words. “I will certainly think about it. See what she thinks, hey?” Draco, suddenly quiet, nodded and Marshall, thinking he was tired—they’d carried on rather later than usual since they’d been having such a good time—told Draco he’d see himself out and Draco should go to bed.

So when, two days later, Marshall showed up with Hannah in tow, Draco was understandably amazed—first, that Marshall had even remembered, and second that he’d taken Draco’s request seriously. The three of them had a wonderful time that evening, and Draco was so pleased that he developed rather kindly feelings for Hannah, to the extent that through all the rest of their Hogwarts years, although he was barely civil to her in front of other people, he never picked on her or allowed his friends to do so.

They were somewhat mystified as to the relation that existed between Hannah and Draco; but Draco’s temper turned sufficiently stormy when Pansy dared to joke, rather cattily because of her jealousy, that Draco actually liked a Hufflepuff that no such suggestions were made again. The other Slytherins merely assumed Draco’s father had, for some reason of his own, told Draco he had to be nice to her or something. That sort of thing, parents using their children as pawns in the endless contest to curry favor or win political advantages, happened all the time and was something every Slytherin understood.

Draco went back to Hogwarts at the start of third year the better for the experience, and for Marshall’s company, which over the course of two short months had come to mean a great deal to him. He could hardly wait for the Christmas holidays so he could resume his lessons, even if only for a couple of weeks.

The summer after Draco’s third year he saw hardly anything at all of Lucius. The Death Eaters were gathering in Albania, safely out of the British Aurors' reach, to discuss some big plan to bring Voldemort back the coming year, and he was alone for much of the time. As a result, he looked forward to Marshall’s visits with increasing eagerness.

One evening as Draco was walking Marshall back to the Apparation point through the star-studded darkness, accompanied by a chorus of about ten thousand tree frogs, he said wistfully, “Too bad you can’t come in the daytime. I could show you the lake.”

Marshall stopped walking and said, “Whatever gave you the idea that I can’t come in the daytime?”

“Er—well, I don’t know, really. It’s just—you’ve always come at eight o’clock, since the beginning. I thought you were probably busy during the daytime and only free in the evenings,” Draco said.

Marshall snorted. “Tosh! Busy? Not so’s you’d notice. Oh, I do a bit of research on my own, contribute an article to a journal now and again—but happily, I don’t have to work for my living, Draco, m’boy. Never have. Oh, I worked when I was younger, but I’m not the type for a desk job. And I’d rather have my family about me than teach at Hogwarts. No, I do as I please with my time. If you’d rather have your lessons during the day, that’s fine with me. Your father’s the one who specified the time; I was just doing as he asked.”

“Oh. Well, then...cool!” Draco said, unable to keep the pleasure out of his voice. “So on Thursday do you want to come after lunch, maybe? Like around one or so?”

“One it is. See you then, lad.” Marshall stepped into the Apparation area and winked at him, then spun and Disapparated.

Two days later Marshall, as good as his word, arrived promptly at one o’clock. They spent about an hour at fencing practice, then Draco suggested they go swimming in the lake to cool off.

“Ah...I'm afraid I didn’t come prepared to swim, Draco,” Marshall said. “No trunks.” He observed Draco’s disappointed look and thought for a moment. “Well, I was never any great shakes at conjuring,” he said finally, “but I see no reason not to try. Why don’t you get ready and I’ll meet you down at the lake in a few minutes?”

Draco agreed and ran up to his room to change. Marshall sighed. “Transfiguration,” he muttered. “It figures. Gods, I’ll probably end up in pink ruffles or a string bikini or something.” He marched down to the lake and, looking around to make sure no one was looking, took off his boots and pointed his wand at his trousers. He thought for a moment and then, cringing just a little, said, “Truncatus!” He jumped a little as his trouser legs rapidly rose to mid-thigh and stopped. He looked down. “Well, I’ll be—it actually worked!” he said. “Wonders never cease.” He stripped off his shirt and ambled into the shallow, warm water at the edge of the lake beside a small wooden dock, exclaiming as his tender feet made their way gingerly over the gravel that extended out a couple of feet until the sandy bottom started.

He heard running footsteps behind him and turned to see Draco pelting down the hillside toward the lake. He never slowed, just flung his towel down near the edge of the grass and continued running out onto the dock, from the end of which he executed an exuberant cannonball that carried him a good fifteen feet beyond the end of the dock. He came up sputtering and thrashed and splashed his way over to Marshall with a huge grin on his face.

“Well, you’re not afraid of the water, I’ll say that much for you,” Marshall said, amused. “But what’s that you’re doing, lad?”

“What do you mean?” Marshall illustrated, flailing his arms wildly, and Draco reddened. “Er...swimming?”

Marshall hooted. “Swimming, is it? You’re using up an awful lot of energy and not getting much out of it. Here, try this.” He dove beneath the surface and popped up again, sleek as a seal as he tossed the hair out of his eyes and floated back to Draco on his back. “Just lie down like this, on your back. It’s okay—no, you won’t sink. Just lie down, like you’re in your own bed, see? Keep your feet up so they don’t pull you down. That’s it...just let the water hold you up. Here, I’ll put my hand under your back. No, you won’t sink. There now, look—you’re floating!”

He trailed Draco around a bit in the shallows, then took his hand away. Draco looked over at him in alarm and immediately started to thrash and ruined a good float. He found that the water was only up to his belly if he stood up, so he was a little embarrassed at having panicked, and he let Marshall talk him into trying it again. Before long he was confident enough to float without Marshall’s hand supporting him; he was even paddling a little with his hands, although he hadn’t yet got the hang of full-arm strokes, which still caused him to sink. Finally Marshall towed him out into water over their heads so he himself could actually swim while still keeping an eye on Draco.

At length, refreshed and feeling pleasantly lazy, they emerged from the water. Draco went over to retrieve his towel, which turned out to be two towels. He had thoughtfully brought one for Marshall as well, remembering that he hadn’t come prepared to swim. They patted themselves dry and then stretched out on their towels to let the sun warm them. They talked of Quidditch for a bit and Draco said he thought it would be great if Marshall would like to play a little one-on-one on their homemade pitch sometime; then Draco fell silent and Marshall saw that he’d fallen asleep. Marshall himself, lulled by the sound of the water lapping against the dock and the rustle of the weeping willow leaves and the sun on his face and chest, soon fell into a comfortable doze.

When he woke up the sun was still hot. He sat up, propping a hand behind him and yawning widely. He glanced over at Draco, who was still sleeping soundly on his towel a couple of feet away. Draco slept on his back with the easy abandon of the young, one arm flung out to his side and his legs sprawled out comfortably.

He was also sporting a rather magnificent erection.

Gods! Marshall thought, startled. And he’s only fourteen? That—that is truly amazing! He knew he shouldn’t be ogling Draco—just a boy, really—and to his credit, he did try to look away. But Marshall had long had an keen eye for a well-built piece of male humanity, and he was quite unable to stop himself from staring. And because of that, of course the worst possible thing happened.

His own cock rose in appreciative salute.

He groaned. He really didn’t feel like getting all wet and cold again just so things would settle back down. He briefly considered retiring behind the weeping willow, but it wasn’t really big enough to shield him from view if Draco should wake up. And Marshall wasn’t a pervert...not exactly a pervert, no. He didn’t go around looking for opportunities to expose himself to young men. All right, boys. Who were not yet really young men as such, it was true, but—

Oh, honestly, he told himself. Just do something! He reluctantly got up and Draco, feeling Marshall’s shadow fall across him, woke up suddenly. Marshall dithered just that little bit too long, wondering if he should pretend his back had been turned and he hadn’t seen anything, and Draco caught him staring and looked down at the front of his swim trunks.

“Oh,” he said blankly. Then, “Oh!” His face flushed, and not from the sun. He looked around for his towel to cover up with, but of course he was lying on it.

Marshall went for the hearty, hail-fellow-well-met approach. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “That just happens sometimes if you lie out in the sun too long. I think it’s our weather, myself.” When Draco looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, Marshall stumbled on. “Yes, in these cold northern climes, we so seldom see the sun that when we get a nice hot day like this, we act just like flowers and point toward the sun, don’t you know. Ah...hmm. Yes. Well—”

Suddenly Draco chuckled. “It appears your ‘ah, hmm, yes, well’ was heading for the sun, too,” he said, gazing at the equally impressive tent in the front of Marshall’s trousers.

Marshall shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Yes, damnation, and I’m beginning to think when I shortened my trousers they shrank as well! They’re quite a bit tighter—” he tugged at the front, but they didn’t loosen noticeably— “than they were a while ago.” He shrugged ruefully and looked at Draco. “You know, lad,” he said slowly, “it’s rather a good thing your dad’s not here just now. Somehow I don’t think he’d approve of all this—” he indicated their twin predicaments with a wave— “if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Draco agreed. “Father doesn’t have much of a sense of humor about some things.” He got up and awkwardly shook the grass from his towel. “I suppose we should go back to the house. Maybe we can figure something out.”

Marshall picked up his discarded shirt and together they ambled slowly back up the lawns and through the rose garden, entering the house through the conservatory, which in the heat of the afternoon was quiet and heavily scented with soil and peat moss and the bright, bitter smell of green, growing things.

By the time they got there they found that their predicament had resolved itself; Marshall re-lengthened his trousers, very glad he had remembered the charm for that as they were one of his favorite pairs and he would have hated to lose them permanently to shorts. They preserved a comfortable silence as they walked to the Apparation point.

“Well, lad, it’s been a lovely day,” Marshall said. “You know, Draco—” He stopped as if considering his words.

“Yes?”

“Well, I was just thinking that perhaps, if you’ve no plans for tomorrow—”

“I haven’t,” Draco hastened to assure him.

“And my time, as you know, is my own. Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

“Would I!” Draco said fervently. “That is, if—if you’re sure,” he said. “But won’t you be doing things with Hannah?” He tried not to be jealous of the Hufflepuff. It wasn’t her fault that he wished Marshall could be his dad and spend more days like today with him.

“No, Hannah is staying with her cousins in Scotland for part of the summer. So—shall we say one o’clock again?” Marshall asked, and Draco nodded eagerly. “And I’ll bring a pair of trunks along,” Marshall added, hoisting up his leather case of fencing equipment. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Draco echoed.

Marshall looked at him fondly. The first time he’d come here he’d been half afraid Draco would prove to be just another rich, spoilt brat who didn’t really care anything about fencing and would much prefer to be left alone to pursue his own interests. It was a nice surprise to find that he was intelligent, thoughtful, and well spoken, and a bonus that they had found a common interest in Quidditch that had led to their present level of friendly relations. He looked forward to the next swimming lesson. Probably more than he should; he was afraid he was becoming far too attached to this boy who, he had to continually remind himself, was not his son. Although there was certainly something to be said for that fact.

He glanced down and saw how happy Draco looked, and suddenly Marshall found himself looking forward to the next day more than he’d expected to. He found he liked seeing that look on the boy’s face. It was a shame Draco's father didn’t pay more attention to him; he was completely bound up in his own business, unaware of this small moon that would be more than willing to orbit around the brilliance of his father’s sun if Lucius would only let him. Since he didn’t seem inclined to do so, however, Marshall saw no reason Draco should have to suffer from neglect.

He resolved to try very hard to keep his feelings on a fatherly level. The startling sight of Draco’s tented trunks this afternoon had somewhat eroded his good intentions, but he was determined to do nothing that would give Draco a disgust of him, nothing improper.

Not yet.

And when—if—he did something of the sort, it would be when Draco was older and only when—if—he seemed open to the idea. And who knew: by the time he was old enough for such things he might well be off on his own social rounds and no longer in need of a friend...a mentor...someone to show him how special he was.

As much as he might dance around the semantics of it all, Marshall knew what he really meant was a lover. He wanted to be Draco Malfoy’s lover. Gods, Lucius would kill him if he knew.

And so he was very careful, over the next few summers and Christmas breaks, to remain friendly but never overstep the bounds of propriety, although it was a near thing on one or two occasions. Nothing changed overnight; Lucius continued to be away on his business for the Dark Lord much of the time, and Narcissa, uncertain how to deal with this son who seemed to have suddenly turned into a man, involved herself less and less in his life, allowing Draco to find his own path.

And because of Marshall’s steady, regular presence, Draco gradually came to understand things that he hadn’t been ready to think about before. It occurred to him that with only a little change on his part, his path and Marshall’s could easily converge once he left Hogwarts and was on his own. The idea both scared and thrilled him.

He found the last year of school nearly impossible as thoughts of Marshall kept intruding on his school work and Voldemort’s demands, reluctantly relayed by Lucius, took up more of his time than he liked. He wished he could just be done with it all. Be free. Spend as much time as he liked with Marshall.

And yet they had never spoken of it, not in so many words; sometimes Draco wondered whether it was all in his imagination, whether he was building up a dream world in his own mind that could never really happen. Then he would see Marshall sitting in the Hufflepuff stands at a Quidditch match or run into him in Diagon Alley, usually somewhere too far away to even be able to exchange a single word. But they had eyes, didn’t they? And he knew that look on Marshall’s face; he suspected it resided on his own countenance more often than not lately.

One way or another, it was all coming to a head.

And then came the war, and everything went to hell.

And then Bella sentenced him to be a bed-slave in her harem, something he would never in a million years have imagined happening. It was awful, it was insane. To have his freedom ripped out from under him like that, and to be expected to service her—his aunt, for Merlin’s sake—on top of everything.

But as soon as he walked into the harem and saw Marshall, he knew it was going to be all right. He’d barely had a chance to say more than a quick hello since he’d arrived; it seemed like Arthur Weasley was always right there, nagging at Marshall to do some task or other and giving Draco that apologetic smile as he took Marshall off with him. It happened time after time, and it was really starting to annoy Draco.

And then it hit him: Arthur was trying to protect him from Marshall! When Draco finally realized this he almost laughed out loud. The next morning he asked to speak privately with Arthur and requested that Marshall be allowed to resume his attendant duties when Draco was summoned by Bella. Arthur was understandably reluctant, and if he was honest, Draco knew better than anyone that the head eunuch had good reason for his misgivings.

But the thought of having Marshall to himself, even in the scant privacy of the enema room, or the pool with all the other boys and eunuchs around, was too much to resist, and Draco shamelessly gave Arthur a glimpse of his feelings. And got what he wanted.

It had been a long road to get here, and they hadn't reached the end of it yet. But Draco felt worlds better knowing Marshall would be walking at least this bit of the road with him.
Marshall, as has been mentioned, was in a somewhat different frame of mind now as he watched Draco and Fred getting along better than anyone would have thought a Malfoy and a Weasley could. He sighed and looked back down at the essay he was marking but he couldn’t really concentrate. As fond as he was of Draco, he had to admit he couldn’t get the thought out of his head that he’d been a fool to think there could be anything between them. Draco belonged with someone like Fred or Harry, or just about anybody but a prematurely graying thirty-eight-year-old wizard with the hots for a nineteen-year-old boy.

Well, not exactly the hots, he thought. It was more than that. Or he would have liked it to be more. Now...he wasn’t sure. They were virtual prisoners in this place—surrounded by naked male bodies, attractive naked male bodies, which certainly wasn’t helping matters any (could he help it if he looked and appreciated?)—and who knew when or if they’d ever get out? As much as he wanted to stake his claim on Draco, he was feeling some doubts, and not just because of the threat of that damned death penalty.

He sighed again, and started when there was a sudden burst of hot breath on his ear and a voice that always gave him chills said softly, “Why the long face?” Marshall turned a little to see Draco hovering next to him.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. He glanced over at the windowseat, where Fred now sat alone, playing a hand of solitaire on the cushion Draco had vacated.

Draco followed his gaze as he sat down in the next chair. “What is it?” he asked. Marshall shook his head and fastened his eyes determinedly on the parchment in front of him. Draco, his chin in his hand, sat quietly and watched him for a minute. He looked over at Fred again with a puzzled expression, and then his eyes widened and shot back to Marshall, and Draco understood.

“I spoke with Arthur this morning,” he said casually.

“You did, did you?” Marshall affected supreme unconcern. “Good, good.”

Draco’s lips twitched but he firmly repressed the urge to laugh. “Don’t you want to know what it was about?”

“Oh—well, I’m sure you had your reasons,” Marshall said. He didn’t seem to be doing much reading, as his eyes were firmly fixed in one spot on the page. His grip on his quill threatened to snap it in two.

“It was about you,” Draco said. At that, Marshall looked up.

“Me?”

Draco nodded. “I asked him to let you go back to attendant duties—only for me, on nights when she summons me.”

“Y-you did?” Marshall hardly dared to hope. He wasn’t aware of breathing as he waited.

“Yes.” Now it was Draco’s turn to look uncertain. “Marshall...you know where we were just before the war started...I just can’t accept that this is the end of everything. Before there even was anything to really end. I—do you know what I’m saying?”

“I do indeed. Don’t look so worried, Draco. You know—I was sure you knew—I’m with you all the way on this.”

“Good. I thought so, but then we never really said...not in so many words.”

Marshall nodded. “I—er—I’ve had some doubts of my own, from time to time.” He glanced over at Fred on his windowseat, then slid his eyes back to Draco.

Draco smiled. “My father says doubts are a waste of time.” He leaned on the table and slid his arm over so it pressed against Marshall’s, wrist to elbow.

“Your father is a wise man,” Marshall murmured. He thought he was doing rather a good job of hiding the fact that he would have liked to leap out of his chair and dance for joy. He pushed back against Draco’s arm. “Thank you for speaking to Arthur. It would have been almost more than I could stand, I think, always having to watch someone else attend to you. At least we have that much now.”

“It’s quite a lot, considering,” Draco said.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Marshall squeezed Draco’s hand quickly and bent his head to the parchment again, humming softly under his breath.

Content.
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Bella's Harem