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Magnetism	By : Queenie_Mab Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4595 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from Harry Potter, created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended

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Harry read the letter again, sighing. His hero thought he had zero talent. He went to throw the letter in the fire in the parlour at 12 Grimmauld Place, but found he couldn't do it. He kept the letter, holding it to his face and sniffing. It had a spicy scent to it. McDougall's cologne perhaps? Harry carefully refolded his rejection, and ran to his room to slip it under his pillow.

Harry set his wards and walked to the Leaky. He ordered a bottle of Ogden's Old and settled into the back booth, where nobody would bother him. He pulled out a quill and parchment and began to write another poem. This time he would show McDougall that he did have talent. He scribbled a few lines, and then pulled out his dog-eared copy of Lover, and opened it to his favourite scene.

She held her pillow close and cried into it, pouring tears of bitterness and pain into the cloth, staining it with agony. She vowed never to love again as she drifted into a restless sleep.

Antony stood over her sleeping form and gazed down upon her. He got to his knees and woke her with a gentle kiss.

Harry looked up as Tom came past with his broom. "We're closing, Mr. Potter. Can I get you a room for the night?"

"No, thank you, Tom. I'll just be on my way," Harry said wearily.

He walked home in the heavy darkness of the early morning, and sat in the kitchen, nursing his bottle, and putting the last line to his poem. It was bleak, but Harry felt it expressed exactly what he felt that morning, and after receiving his letter of rejection. He penned another note to McDougall.

Mr. McDougall,

You are a very cruel man. I have enclosed another poem for you to rip up and spit upon, and I welcome you to it. I do have talent, but not as great as yours. I stand in awe of you and faithfully await your next novel.

Harry Potter

~*~

Draco opened his front door to sit on his porch and have a quiet cup of tea and a cigarette before he opened his novel again. Lying on the mat was another letter from Potter. He picked it up and carried it over to the porch swing to read it.

Potter always was thick in the head. Draco wondered what it would take to get him to bugger off. He unfolded the square parchment in the envelope and read Potter's most recent poem.

I stagger blindly with sleep filled eyes,

as my mediocrity is exposed

to all.

I'm cold in this dewy pasture.

My socks, wet through my shoes

and my breath is smoke.

Home lies uphill, a steep climb.

Hope is lost.

I do not feel.

The dandelions are closed up

hiding their petals from the frost.

I wish I was a dandelion.

The pain in my bones

deadens my steps.

I am walking clay.

It wasn't bad, Draco thought, but he wasn't about to let Potter know that. He finished his cigarette and swirled the dregs of his tea around his cup. Fucking Harry Potter. Would he never leave Draco alone?

Draco returned to his laptop and opened the file for his novel, which was due the following day. He was so close to finishing it, but every time he tried to write, stupid Potter's poem would come into his head and linger there, poisoning his happy ending. He had to do something about it, so he pulled out another piece of paper and wrote another letter.

Potter,

I don't know why you think I would care about your mediocre poetry. Stop writing to me. I'm a very busy person and I'm trying to finish my novel. You're ruining my muse with your awful talent.

Francis McDougall

He addressed the envelope and put a stamp on it, then returned to his laptop, feeling much better, and finished the novel, though Potter's words echoed in his head.

Laura Barr stopped by later that day to pick up the manuscript and invited herself for tea.

Draco scowled as he put the kettle on.

"What's this?" she asked, holding Harry's poem. "It's good. Are you thinking of taking up poetry?"

Draco turned around. "God, no. That's just some rubbish a fan sent me after I told him he had zero talent. He won't let up on me and it's driving me insane."

"Why do you say he has zero talent? We'd publish this. Has he sent you anything else?"

Draco grabbed the parchment from her and put it in his pocket. "No. And don't even think of asking me for his name. I will not share a publishing house with a speccy git like him."

"So you know him then?" Laura asked, lips curving into a smile.

"No!" Draco shouted, exasperated. "I went to school with him, that's all. He doesn't even know that it's me he's writing to. If he did, I doubt he'd be a fan of my work. It's all rubbish anyway."

"Francis, your work isn't rubbish. It's the only way you know how to express your tender side. It's like you have a split personality. I really wish you would agree to an interview or two. Your fans are dying to know what you look like. You're too reclusive. When was the last time you left the house?"

"Leave me alone, Laura. I don't do interviews. I visit my mother for tea every Sunday, not that it's any of your business."

"But where do you come up with all of your delicious love scenes? Do you ever have women over?"

"That's none of your concern and no, I'm not interested if you're offering. I need to get to sleep now, if you don't mind."

Laura sighed, and set her teacup down. She picked up the manuscript and got to her feet. "Well, thank you for meeting your deadline. Do you have any plans for your next novel?"

"Woman, give me a break. I'll contact you when I have an idea. Just make sure I get paid, and I'll see you next month." He escorted her to the door.

He had fitful dreams that day, all featuring Harry Potter in place of a damsel in distress.

~*~

Harry read through his letter, a wry smile on his face. He was at least getting a reaction out of his favourite writer and that was cause to celebrate.

"Harry," said Hermione at Sunday breakfast. "Don't you think you're becoming a bit obsessed with that novelist?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"I mean, he's all you talk about lately. I still can't believe you've given up Quidditch to write poetry."

"Leave it alone, Hermione. It's what I want to do," said Harry.

"Well it just seems like you can never settle in with a job. Look, if you're so upset with how this writer has been treating you, why don't you pay him a visit and have him tell it to your face? Maybe you'll learn how to take a hint then."

"That's a brilliant idea, Hermione. I'll get his address from his publishing company."

"Actually, I take it back. You shouldn't bother him any more."

"Too late, Hermione. I'm a man with a mission. I'm going to face him directly and challenge him to write a better poem than I can write."

"Oh, Harry. Your poetry is really good, but it's hardly publishable, and we're talking about a celebrated novelist. If he says your stuff is no good, you ought to work on it some more, get more practice, do a course or something."

Harry helped himself to some more bacon and eggs. "Nope. I'm going to look him up today."

"Don't forget," said Hermione. "You promised to help me out a couple of days next week."

"I remember. I've just gotta do this. I need to make him apologise, or at least recognise me."

Later that day, Harry stood in the small publishing house known as Duke, and rang the bell on the front desk.

Laura Barr was the only one in the office, as it was Sunday and she was editing the latest McDougall novel. "May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes," said Harry. "I'm Harry Potter, and am looking for Francis McDougall's address."

"I'm sorry," Laura said, "But Francis doesn't see people and I can't give you his address."

Harry tipped his wand out of his sleeve and whispered, "Legilimens". He saw Draco's small white bungalow in her mind, and got his bearings about him. It was in Wiltshire, not far from Malfoy Manor.

"Well, thank you anyway," he said and walked around to the building's alley and Disapparated.

He felt slightly guilty for invading her mind like he had, but needs must, and Harry needed to meet Francis McDougall. He had to confront him.

He reappeared outside of Malfoy Manor and began to walk, heart yammering in his chest with nerves. He finally came to find the small house, nestled in an overgrown garden. He walked up the stairs to the porch and rang the doorbell.

The door was open, but for the screen, and he heard a male voice call out: "I'm not home, go away!"

Harry rang the bell again, standing firm and readying his argument. He stood back as the screen was flung open and Draco Malfoy stood before him, dressed in black silk pyjama bottoms, smoking a cigarette, hair neatly tussled, looking fit to kill.

"Potter," he spat. "What are you doing at my house?"

"Malfoy?" Harry asked stupidly. "What are you doing here?"

Draco took a long drag on his cigarette and tapped the ash on the porch. "I live here, what's your excuse?"

"I'm looking for Francis McDougall," Harry said.

"You found me. Happy, are we?"

"You're Francis McDougall? You, the same you that hates me? Gah, and I actually sent you fan mail." Harry tore at his hair. "You've got to be kidding me. How did you become a Muggle romance novelist?"

"That's none of your concern, Potter. What I'd like to know, is how you can claim to call yourself a poet."

"I'll have you know that the Daily Prophet thinks well enough of my poetry," Harry said, nearly growling.

"Yeah, and I'm sure the fact that you're Harry Potter doesn't have anything to do with that success," Draco taunted.

Harry felt like killing something. How could he have been so stupid as to worship an anonymous romance novelist that turned out to be his boyhood nemesis? He huffed and puffed, face growing red the angrier he got.

Draco's smug expression melted away and he looked left to right, noticing that the old lady next door was watching them curiously. "Come on in, Potter. I don't need you making a scene on my front porch."

Harry felt strange going into Draco Malfoy's house. The day was not turning out at all like he expected.

Draco turned around and walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer, even though it was ten o'clock in the morning. He shut his laptop and sat down at his dining room table, while Harry stood fuming in the front hall.

Draco opened his beer and took a long draught, then reached for his Marlboros and lit up, pulling the ashtray towards himself.

Harry invited himself into the dining room and took the seat opposite Draco. Draco arched an eyebrow. "So, what do you want with me, Potter?" Draco asked, leaning back in his chair and scratching at the sparse trail of hair beneath his navel, drawing Harry's eyes. Draco flashed a grin when he caught Harry looking at him. "Don't tell me you're a poof, looking to screw a romance novelist?"

Harry flushed. "No, I'm not," he said defensively. "I came to issue you a writing challenge."

"Your writing's crap, Potter. A primary school student could write better poetry than yours."

"And I bet you can't," said Harry.

"That's nonsense. You're full of shit. I happen to have more pressing work to do and would appreciate it if you'd just bugger off."

"No!" Harry shouted. "I fell in love with your stupid books only to find that you're the one who wrote them. I'm pissed off and you told me I have zero talent. Well I'm here now and I'm going to prove you wrong."

Draco rubbed his temples and closed his eyes as if trying to stave off a headache. "Why do you have to be so bull-headed about everything? I'm telling you to get out of my house!"

"I won't!" Harry shrieked. "Not until you face my challenge! I think you're afraid that you'll lose."

"That's ridiculous, Potter. I'm a seasoned novelist and you're a stupid Quidditch player. Now get out of here. I have work to do."

Harry rose up from his chair and pointed his wand at Draco. "Do it, or I'll curse you. I've got Auror training to back me up, so don't even think that you'll be able to win a duel against me."

Draco stamped out his cigarette and rubbed his face with his hands, exasperated. "So, all I have to do is write a bloody poem and get it published? Put your wand away for Merlin's sake. You're standing in front of the window in a Muggle neighbourhood."

"Not until you say yes," said Harry angrily. He felt righteous about forcing Draco into a corner. He felt he'd been tricked and he needed vengeance against the man he'd hated for the majority of his life, posing as a Muggle.

"Fine, yes. I'll do it. Now put your wand away, before somebody sees you," Draco hissed. "People walk past here all the time."

Harry put his wand in the concealed holster he wore in his sleeve. "We write them now, right now, and then mail them off to The Times. The subject this week is art and nature. You use your real name, so you won't get an advantage. We'll see who can get their poem published, and then I'll leave you alone."

"Is that right?" Draco asked sardonically. "I say we make it a little more interesting. I'll wager one hundred Galleons that I'll be published and you won't."

"It's a deal," Harry said hotly. "Give me a pen and paper and let's get started."

"Fuck, I can't believe you're here, forcing me to do this." Draco said, rolling his eyes. He walked over to the built-in sideboard, where he kept his printer, and fetched a piece of paper and pen. He also reached up to the cupboard with bevelled glass panes and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Old and two glasses. He brought them to the table and set everything down. He passed Harry the pen and paper and poured two splashes into each glass.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, eyeing the alcohol. "It's not even noon."

"I'm drunk," said Draco. "You're not. We need to even the score. So we write these poems and take a shot every ten minutes until we're finished."

"Fine," said Harry. "If that's how you want to play it. I'll beat you no matter how drunk I get. My poetry is good and you're the one that's full of shit. I bet the only reason you said I have zero talent is because it was me writing."

An hour and six shots later, Harry's head was spinning, while Draco sat typing an outline for his new novel, having finished his poem half an hour earlier.

Draco poured himself another splash of whiskey and downed it in one. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked over at Harry. "Done yet? It's taking you long enough and it's time for another shot."

"No, no more," Harry said sickly. "I'm finished, finally. How the hell can you be so sober?"

"Obviously I can hold my alcohol better than you, Potter. Let's hear your poem and then I want you to bugger off."

"Why do you want to hear my poem?" Harry asked, head swimming. "I thought we'd just send them in and you'd read it when it gets published."

"Like you're really going to get published, Potter," Draco said. "We read them now, so that you can't magically draw yours back and change it once you've sobered up. It's to make sure you won't cheat."

"Only you would think of cheating like that," Harry slurred. "Fine. Let's hear your poem."

Draco sighed and read his poem.

"A spatter of white on the canvas of night,

the full moon pins it in place.

The trappings of flesh are gone in a flash,

leaving me spinning in space."

"What does that have to do with art?" Harry asked seriously, trying to clear his head by shaking it.

"Shut it, Potter. It's the night sky likened to a backdrop. If you can't see that, you're definitely no poet. Now it's your turn to impress me with your mediocrity."

"Captivating as the sea, your eyes drew me right in

and naked on a canvas raft, your brushstrokes drew my skin

but now you've gone, and I'm alone though I'll never lose my sight

left to drown upon the crag, you have become my light."

"Yes, it's rubbish," Draco said, pouring himself another drink. "It's depressing and it's making me think of your love life, the very thought of which makes me sick."

"Well thank you so much," said Harry, standing up. He swayed and caught himself on the arm of his chair.

"Well, it's been interesting. There's the door, Potter. I trust you can figure out how to use it."

Harry sat back down. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "I can't even remember what the three Ds are."

"Shit, I gave you the Firewhiskey with the tranquiliser in it. Damn. Still, you're not welcome here," said Draco. "You can go and sleep it off in the road for all I care."

"Too bad," said Harry, laying his head on the table. "You got me drunk; you're stuck with me."

Draco looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven-thirty. "You have two hours to sober up, Potter. And then I want you gone."

"Just need to sleep," Harry said, slurring his words. "I'll be fine once I sleep."

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, holding his head, frustrated.

"All right!" he said angrily. "I'll make up the sofa so you don't get any germs on it, but once you wake up, you're out of here!"

"Fine, s'good," Harry mumbled, pillowing his head with his arms on the table.

He watched Draco carefully cover his sofa with a sheet, tucking it in around the cushions in the lounge which was decorated with a motif of nude men. Harry noticed the firm arse, showing through Draco's pyjama bottoms, and the sculpted muscles of his back. If he wasn't Draco Malfoy, Harry thought he'd work on seducing him. He still couldn't believe Francis McDougall was actually Draco, but in his drunken haze, he found that he didn't care any more. He stumbled to the sofa after Draco had finished making it up, and fell upon it, falling asleep almost instantly despite the hour. He'd been awake since the day before, nervous about meeting McDougall.

When Harry awoke, he found Draco asleep in his chair, laptop still open. All was dark in the house, except for the glow of the screen on Draco's sleeping face. Harry got up off the sofa and tiptoed to the door. He opened it with a loud creak, which made Draco start in his sleep. Harry carefully left the house, pulling up on the doorknob as he closed the door behind him, to silence the creaking.

His head pounded and his eyeballs throbbed as he walked down the dirt road toward Malfoy Manor and its Apparation point. He shivered in the cool of the night air, having forgotten to retrieve his coat from Malfoy's house. He figured it would be more of a pain to go back and get it than was worth his time. He carefully turned on the spot, concentrating on his destination, and Disapparated.

He reappeared on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place to find that his wards were down and the light was on in the parlour. It had to be Hermione. Harry just knew it. She was the only one he'd told about his mission to meet his hero.

He opened the front door and stepped inside. "'Mione?" he called. She came out of the kitchen and ran over to him.

"Harry, where have you been? Do you realise it's one o'clock in the morning? I was just getting ready to wake Ron up to go looking for you."

"Give it a rest, Hermione. I'm tired and I don't feel like arguing any more today."

"So," Hermione asked, hands on her hips. "Did you find him?"

"Yes," said Harry. "And he was nothing but a big prat. I'm disappointed."

"Oh, Harry. I'm sorry to hear that," Hermione said comfortingly. "But you knew he might be, based on the letters he sent."

"Yeah, well, I doubt I'll be reading his books any longer. Would you mind buggering off? I'd like to sleep some more. My head is killing me."

"Why, what were you doing?" Hermione asked in her bossy tone.

"Drinking and writing and arguing," Harry answered. "Damn bastard spikes his whiskey with tranquilisers, I think I've slept most of the day."

"Well, I'll leave, now that I know you're safe."

"'Mione, you're not my mum. You don't have to worry about me all the time. It gets annoying."

"Excuse me for caring," said Hermione. "I'll show myself out."

Harry stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom and slipped out of his clothes. He climbed, naked, into bed, switched off the lamps with a quick Nox, and put his wand beneath his pillow. Sleep found him once again.

Draco thrust into him, hitting his pleasure spot over and over as Harry writhed beneath him, watching the pale face contort with ecstasy. He was harder than he'd ever been, and began to stroke himself in time with Draco's thrusts, sweating bullets as his bollocks drew up. He came spectacularly, in thick white ropes all over his chest and stomach and watched as Draco's mouth elongated into an 'O' and his grey eyes found Harry's as he came inside with a loud moan. He rode out his orgasm, blond hair, slick with sweat and plastered to the side of his face and forehead. Harry had never seen a sexier sight.

He woke up, the sheets sticking to his body with come, and he groaned and smacked himself in the head. Why the hell was he dreaming about Draco Malfoy and why was it such a bloody fantastic dream?

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