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Spoils of War	By : ladyofarundel Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 4663 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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
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Part II

Disclaimer and such in Prologue. Pairings now include SS/HP/DM/LM, but not necessarily all at once or in that order.

A/ N: Damn, sorry this took so long, but Draco was being a touch uncooperative. So, um, this is where the fic starts getting weird(er)…Draco is a touch mad…as for *why*, you'll have to wait a bit to find out. Since this is Draco 3rd Person POV, I tried to be atle tle creative with the grammar, etc, to reflect Draco's, um, unique mental state, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Any mixture of pronouns ("it" instead of "he" mainly) are intentional.

A/N 2: For the first bit I got an image stuck in my brain of Ophelia!Draco—the words muttered and sung by Draco in the very first snippet are bits by Ophelia in Shakespeare's hamlet. The Narcissus and Lily meanings are the real meanings; Petunia, by the way, meant "anger and resentment." Seems JKR did her research. On the other hand, Poppy is "imagination and dreaminess" and Myrtle is "love, mirth, and joy"—hmm. Yay, irony!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco fidgeted with the glistening bottles, phials, and jars, slender fingers lovingly running along the curves and angles of thick glass until they all sat in a perfect little row. He picked up a slender blue bottle, pressing his nose to the glass, murmuring memorized words and tunes under his breath as he made his inspection.

"There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace a' Sundays!"

He admired their neat labels written out in his precise script, admired how the torchlight glittered across their cool surfaces.

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts."

He cared for little from his former life but he still loved the art of potions, how the power of life and death rested in the smoking concoctions made by his hands. He had loved potions, too, but Draco didn't like to think about him because that was from Before, before Father saved him from skulls and snakes and men with crimson or twinkling blue eyes.

"You may wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died."

Father died? No, Draco died, the dragon born into an Angel, Daddy's angel, pale and beautiful and perfect. Father always told him so.

Mother died and became nothing, mother who read him stories and plays when he was young. A squat purple jar in his hand, full of asphodel.

"They say 'a made a good end—For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy."

The jar shattered into a thousand violet fragments on the smooth stone floor, oh how he had hated Narcissa's singing voice! Wanted to curl up with his fingers shoved in his ears. How he had hated Narcissa, who didn't understand, who thought she could come between them! How he hated Narcissus!

Narcissus, that's for egotism.

Lilies, Draco liked lilies. Lilies were for majesty and purity. Pure white lilies with emerald green leaves.

Or was it eyes? Or did he like the leaves and not the lilies? No matter.

An absent flick of his wand and the jar and its contents were neatly restored and replaced in the row.

Satisfied with the way the six goblets, already brimming with draughts concocted by his own hand, were arranged, Draco swept past the impromptu potions lab and glided over to the deep four-poster dominating the room.

"And will he not come again, and will he not come again? No, no he is dead, go to they death-bed, he never will come again."

Idly he circled the bed, trailing the tip of his wand along the crisp, pressed covers. He considered the bed a moment and turned down the duvet and peeled back the top sheets, old things that would not be missed if forever stained with blood. Father would like that, how well Draco had prepared.

"They bore him barefaced on the bier, hey nonny, nonny, hey nonny,"

The wand tip traced unintelligible patterns along the bedclothes until, bored with that game, Draco leapt on the bed and crawled to the center. He lay on his back, gold-silver hair splayed across the pillow, and he imagined it was black, was it long now or still infuriatingly short and disheveled? He pretended to be inside the other's skin, imagined he was him laying there, imagined how the room would smell to his outsider's nose. Would he like it? Would he like the lush crimson of the draperies—dyed so just for him—sigh contentedly over the cooling charm on the sheets and the Angel that would hover on the edges of his vision?

"And in his grave rained many a tear—Fare you well, my dove!"

He closed his eyes and shivered deliciously as he traced his wand ever so slowly up his thigh, higher along his side, chest now, across his slender stretched throat, imagining the warmth of healing spells against torn, bloodied skin.

"To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine."

He licked his lips, could almost feel the pulse of the warm blood spilling from hashed veins.

"Then up he rose and donned his clo'es, And dupp'd the chamber-door, Let in the maid, that out a maid—"

He trailed the wand on upwards, tracing his sharp chin and slender cheek, higher and higher to his forehead where he traced a zigzag across unmarred ivory skin.

"—that out a maid, Never departed more."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco was standing next to the turned-down bed when at long last Father returned. Robes and long luxurious hair flowed behind him, but what interested Draco most was the small black bundle nestled in Father's arms.

"Voldemort is dead."

He was nearly bursting with excitement but without another word moved to help Father laid his precious load on the bed. It was Christmas as Father peeled away the layers of wrapping and at long last revealed the wonderful thing inside. Draco watched all this from the foot of the bed, watching the layers magic away while he patiently clutched a goblet in his wand hand.

At long last there he was, convulsing and so beautiful painted in crimson to match the bed curtains. Draco had to grasp a poster for support as he silently watched the blood slick the strong hands caressing the torn cheek, magical restraints preventing the present from maiming himself further as the seizures ran their course, wrenching more pretty blood to paint Father's hands.

Such a thoughtful boy!

Father looked up to him and nodded Draco to step closer. With reluctance he pressed the potion that would stop the bleeding into Father's hands and stepped to the other side of the bed, a tear slipping down his cheek as he began to wash away the pretty blood, only barely resisting the urge to replace the washcloth with his tongue.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Little One had been hurt far worse than Draco had expected, which was far better than he had hoped.

Father gave the present the title Little One, but the name was for Father's use alone. The name pleased Draco, for Little One perfectly described little Harry, who had always seemed years too small and always was the One. Not that he had expected Father's name to be anything less than perfect. "Little One' pleased him, for if it was little than he was Father's big boy, Father had said so. Angel Draco was all grown up and Little One was not.

To the Angel, Little One was just Harry, not Potter. Potter was a lifetime ago. The petite broken boy who still, three months later, never stirred from his deep sleep was only Harry. Sweet Harry, so sweet and pale and small and pure. But to himself he called the sweet boy Little One, just like Father did, for in his head he pretended he was the Master and that Little One was his and his alone to do with as he pleased.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The door to the master bedroom opened and light from the hall spilled across the bed, rousing Draco from his doze. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching as Father untied the sash of his dressing gown and crossed the space to the bed. Rich green silk parted and hung off Father's beautiful frame, silk so good against his skin as Father took to the bed and straddled his thighs, silk pooling over and about them as Father kissed his Angel awake.

Father stretched himself over him, settling his body between his thighs, nose nuzzled against the crook of his neck, powerful shaft hard and pressed against Angel's smaller but equally hard prick. He shivered and closed his eyes as Father kissed and licked his way up the line of his throat, tongue tracing the shell of his ear.

"My beautiful Angel," Father whispered to him, "So beautiful, so perfect." Hands caressed his chest and unlike Little One, who had at last begun to wake but could not yet stand to be touched, he did not scream and thrash in pain because Father had saved him from the crimson eyes.

"Father—"

Father murmured against his ear as he pressed their groins together.

"I am quite pleased with you, Angel," Dracoo lazily opened his eyes, arching his hips to meet with Father's and tangling his fingers in the silk of Father's parted robes. "Little One's fever has broken at last, I believe he will begin returning to us now. All because of you, Angel, and your pretty potions. You serve me so well."

"Yes, Father, only you."

He turned his head and their lips met, Father hungry and devouring.

"That's right, Angel, good boy." He felt Father's laughter against his lips as he tried to move to touch Father, but his wrists were suddenly pinned against the bed. "Always so eager to please me, Angel. You have done so well that I have decided to reward you."

Father once more plundered his mouth, tongue sliding deep against his own, before pulling back and licking his way down Angel's throat, chest, and stomach. His eyes widened and cock leapt as Father slid lower still, oh gods, Father hardly ever, was he really going to—?

Yes, he was! Father whispered something against his thigh and Angel found his wrists pinned together above his head by invisible bonds. Father's hands now free, he felt them slide down his body until one pressed gently against his already straining hips and the other took hold of him by the root.

Father's hot mouth enveloped his straining flesh, foregoing the usual teasing attention he knew Father himself liked, perhaps sensing how excited and close to completion he already was. Draco closed his eyes, moaning as Father sucked his cock, tonguing his length and squeezing his balls in his tight fist. Oh gods, Father was sucking him, Father loved him, he did, he did, he did!

For a moment he imagined it was Little One's mouth bobbing up and down his prick rather than Father's, and that he was brutally fucking that sweet pure mouth raw rather than Father devouring him whole. He then pretended he was Father and that Little One was him, and that was so much better, Little One pinned helpless against the sheets as he teased him and suckled him to death. Father-Draco would make Little One beg him. Little One would beg him so prettily, he could tell—he would beg him, hips thrusting into Draco's mouth just as Draco's did now. A finger slid deep inside him and touched him just there and once more it was Father licking him, telling him to come, humming around the Angel's dripping cock.

"Daddy!"

Draco's back arched off the bed as he climaxed deep down Father's throat.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TBC"
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Spoils of War