Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Night Flight	By : Massanie Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 77567 -:- Recommendations : 6 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me and I'm not making any money with this story

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
CHAPTER 3: Locked-In

CHAPTER NOTES:

Thank you very much for the help and the kind reviews, I really appreciated both.

For now, as that is maybe interesting for all of you:

1. Harry is not going to be all submissive, don't worry, I always try to keep everyone in character

2. Again, don't worry: Draco and Blaise are not going to be abusive or downright cruel. Doesn't mean they'll be all forthcoming and nice.

3. I don't intend any bashing. At all. Even though this chapter seems to contain some Weasley-bashing. But it is mostly written from our two Slytherins’ POV and therefore naturally somewhat derogatory in regards to the Weasleys. And if they seem too rash or too rude, then remember that they are worrying over Harry.

“I can’t believe they are making us do this.” Blaise muttered. “A Gryffindor. No the Gryffindor role model. I mean honestly!”

“You better believe it. Our parents already seem quite intent on making him a part of the family. I’m not sure though if they realise that no one will ever manage to groom Potter into something even remotely socially acceptable.” Draco said, his voice cold and hard in irritation.

Impatiently he pressed again on the button of the elevator that read “Fourth Floor: Spell Damage” in large letters, willing the damn thing to go faster. Snidely he wrinkled his nose.

“Really. Spell damage? Who the hell put a fledgeling on the Spell damage floor? This is so degrading.”

Without saying anything, Blaise leaned over to press a soft kiss to Draco’s shoulder, still clad in his dark green dress robes. Immediately Draco’s posture softened and he in turn laid his cheek against his lover’s forehead, rubbing tenderly against the soft skin, returning the affectionate gesture.

“Why must it always be Potter?” Draco murmured somewhat gloomily as Blaise straightened again.

“I thought you didn’t hate him any longer…”

“I don’t, not really. Doesn’t mean I like him, though. Self-centred, do-gooder Gryffindor brat! You should have seen his complacent smirk when he returned my wand to me.”

“Hmm. I did see it, Draco. I was there, remember? And to me it looked like that naïve you-were-an-asshole-I-was-an-asshole-and-let’s-just-forget-it grin.” With the way that Blaise flung out the words, one could think that was even worse in his opinion. It probably was.

“You know, I don’t think he is someone even capable of gloating; more than likely he was just trying his usual saviour-routine or trying to get you to like him like the rest of the world. Probably his next grand endeavour now that he has no Dark Lord to kill.”

“Mm-hmm,” Draco agreed just as the doors of the elevator opened to show a surprisingly full hallway, considering that it was one o’clock in the morning.

“Ah, and there are his loyal terriers.” He continued with a sneer, his eyes travelling over the lot of red-heads who all but looked like they had set up their camp on the fourth floor, sitting in various chairs, leaning against each other or sprawling and slouching on their seats. There were only four of them, however: the would-be Mrs Potter who would now always stay the would-be Mrs Potter (and really, that aspect of this current debacle almost had him smirk sardonically), who was currently sleeping on one of the benches standing on the side of the wide hallway. Next to her sat that mudblood Granger rubbing the Weaslette’s shoulder in silent comfort, her expression so troubled and tired it would have been painful to watch – if it wasn’t a mudblood, and if it wasn’t Granger.

They were framed on Granger’s side by the Weasel and on the other side by those nasty, prank-loving twins, all of which had been gazing into empty space with an expression Draco couldn’t quite pinpoint but they looked up as the two newcomers entered, and that weird look faded into a mixture of disgust and hate – Draco had never been really sure which of the two emotions might outweigh the other in regards to him, but he guessed it didn’t really matter anyway, even less so right now. How ironic that he and Blaise were here to safe Britain’s savior, the one and only this group of emotional children were always fussing over so much and all the read-heads did was…

“What are you doing here, Ferret?”

...picking a fight.

“Ron, stop it!” Granger said, obviously tired and frustrated, if the dark circles beneath her eyes were anything to go by. Next to her the Weaslette stirred, blinking owlishly at the two former Slytherins, before her expression blended smoothly into an unattractive look of irritation.

“I don’t think this is any of your business.” Blaise said, his chin raised haughtily, taking a somewhat twisted pleasure in the fact that they would be allowed into Potter’s hospital room while his friends obviously were not and were probably not even informed about anything going on, either. After all they were not related to their wonder-boy.

”What, Ferret? Need your lover to defend you now?” The Weasel sneered, foolishly ignoring his girlfriend, ogling Draco’s and Blaise’s elegant dress robes, probably in pure envy. ”Someone hexed your balls off? Didn’t think that you’d miss them, bloody ponce!”

Draco grabbed his fiancé’s arm as the olive-skinned man made a step towards the red-heads in a fit of rage.

“Some other time, Blaise.” He said, his voice loud and clear. “You have to understand how frustrating it must be, not getting anyone to share something of importance with but a filthy mudblood.” Even despite the enraged outcry of the three Weasley men who seemed about ready to attack them and the shouts of Granger and Weaslette to let it be, Draco smirked complacently. It was just so amusing that this respective insult never failed from having the desired effect.

Suddenly there was a succession of Silencio’s and one by one the Weasley’s lapsed into silence. At the side of the corridor stood a very red, very enraged Mrs Weasley and equally frowning Mr Weasley along with a pair of hospital workers, all having their wands drawn.

“Mr and Mrs Weasley!” The elder of the two healers exclaimed angrily, stressing every word he spoke. “We are in a hospital! Please keep your family from disturbing the peace and quiet of our patients or I will have to insist you leave.”

With that he lifted the silence spell with a quick movement of his wand and made his way over two the two newcomers who had watched the debacle with blatant satisfaction. All the while the Weasley matriarch began to give her children a truly awe-inspiring tongue-lashing, that much Draco had to concede.

The healer reached over to shake hands first with Blaise and then Draco, the slender fingers dry and wrinkled. “Mr Malfoy, Mr Zabini, thank you for coming. If you’d follow me, please…”

“Gladly, Healer…” Draco said, raising an eyebrow in question while they passed the group of red heads, who were still glaring daggers at them, well, at least the younger generation.

“Cowan, Mr Malfoy, Andrew Cowan. This is mediwizard McAuley who contacted your father.” He said, gesturing towards the scrawny young man at his side, with straggly, dirty-blond hair and a somewhat dour expression marring his already not very handsome features.

“I must admit that I am not yet convinced you will be able to help us, as I’ve been saying his transformation differs certainly from a usual Vykélari transformation…” at that he threw an indignant look at the younger mediwizard, clearly unimpressed that he had taken such liberties. McAuley’s jaw tensed visibly, but he wisely refrained from commenting his superior’s critic.

“Why don’t you let us be the judges of that, healer Cowan?” Blaise said as pleasantly as possible but still Draco heard the irritated undertone well enough. He wondered if the healer did. Probably not, he thought, as the man answered with an unconcerned hand wave.

“Yes, of course.” The Healer relented and lead them down the corridor, along rows of identical white doors until he stopped suddenly.

“Ah, here he is.” Cowan laid his hand on the door handle, but he hesitated and didn’t press it down; instead he looked back at the two young men with a nervous flicker to his eyes that had the two Slytherin’s pricking up their ears.

“We had to restrain him, his wings also. He wouldn’t stop beating with them and striking out whenever we tried to get closer and they are already very strong. We couldn’t tend to him otherwise…”

Draco narrowed his eyes, wondering why the healer was already trying to justify himself. But he found himself to be mostly surprised at the flaring anger in his chest, anger on Potter’s behalf.

He strangled that feeling viciously. Potter was merely a fellow Vykélari, a submissive one, who his instincts dictated him to protect, one who had saved his life, despite of being a pain in the ass otherwise. And that Cowan was wasting their time. That was all.

But was it only him or had Blaise tensed at his side?

He didn’t allow himself to glance over at his fiancé, though, or reach out for him. And though the vindictive voice in his head told him in a rather descriptive way what to do with the healer should he have mistreated a fellow Vykélari, even that Gryffindor prat, he found himself saying “I am sure everything you did was done with the best intentions. Now let us see what we can do for Mr Potter, shall we?”

Inclining his head, his lips drawn into a thin, tense line, healer Cowen pushed the door open and entered, closely followed by the mediwizard and then both Blaise and Draco.

Potter lay in the middle of the large room on his stomach, his upper body bare and shivering, and from his back, two enormous wings towered up over him. They shone like glittering emeralds in the brightly illuminated room, their feathers of varying shades of rich dark green that reflected the light just like the feathers of some birds do.

Where they had broken through his skin, dry blood was clinging to the soft green downs and contrasting darkly against his pale skin.

Both of them were tightly bound together, forcing them stiffly behind Potter’s back into an unnatural angle that must have been uncomfortable at first and then become rather painful with the passing of the hours. They were bent at the carpus so that they would not press against the ceiling and reached behind him up to the very end of the room, touching the wall nevertheless. Even the very tips of the huge wings were tightly bound together, fluttering agitatedly in an effort to break free that must have been exhausting.

Draco and Blaise both knew very well how tiring it was at first to use the new, untrained muscles. But Potter was still fighting on for who knew how long, just like the Gryffindor he was, never caving in or giving up, despite how hopeless his battles were proving to be.

“Merlin!” Blaise whispered beside him and Draco could only share that sentiment.

Potter’s legs and his arms were fixated to the bed with sturdy, thick leather straps. Where he had fought against them the hardest – at his ankles and his wrists – they had chafed the skin to an angry red, making Draco’s blood boil in rage: Vykélari had very sensitive tactile senses that Potter must have already regained at this point of the transformation; the high sensibility meaning a high density of nerves in the region and that meant that superficial injuries hurt like hell. A healer should know that, and they seemed untreated as of yet!

It were the small chirping sounds, the young man made, however, that was the final straw for both Draco and Blaise. It was no elaborate song, only disjointed, single notes that came instinctively to every Vykélari to use as a warning signal for others of their kind, saying ‘Danger, don’t come here!’ to everyone who cared to listen.

Not even when frightened and hurting like he was now was he calling for help, he was trying to keep others from falling into the trap he thought himself to be in. ‘Foolish Gryffindor’, Draco shook his head.

“Get out immediately!” he hissed, appalled for no reason he could think of, looking back and piercing both the old healer and the much younger mediwizard with a fiery, hateful glance that promised pain and torture. He didn’t care why he cared at the moment. He just did. And the sight of a creature meant for free, unbridled night flights, struggling with his bonds in fear and agony had made him furious beyond any sane thought.

“I don’t think so, no.” Cowan sniffed, unaware of what he was facing right then. ”I will certainly not leave you alone with my patient.”

A second later, Draco stood right in front of the other man, his silver eyes flashing and his teeth bared, lower and upper incisors unnaturally long and sharp. “Out!”

The man stumbled backwards.

“Mr Malfoy!” He squeaked, eyes wide and fearful. “I have to call the security if you…”

“Please do!” The Malfoy heir snarled, backing the other two men towards the door as he advanced predatorily on them. “But if you do, I promise I will take you to court for this and I will sue you for compensation so high that St Mungo’s will be ruined along with you once I’m finished! Do I make myself clear?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed the door and slammed it shut. The last thing he saw of the pair was how McAuley grasped the shoulders of healer Cowen and pulled him backwards to evade the wooden door. What a pity, he would have enjoyed the sound of Cowan’s breaking nose.

After hastily casting a locking charm, Draco turned around to see Blaise already standing next to Potter, one hand hovering over a lean, naked shoulder, not yet touching, only letting the spooked Gryffindor feel his magic, the magical signature of another Vykélari that would sooth him somewhat.

Slowly, still shivering with rage, Draco made his way over. “We have to cut him loose.”

“He really is one.” Blaise whispered, his voice sounding strangely strangled.

“I didn’t believe it. But he … he feels like one.”

Draco knew what his fiancé meant. Like a siren’s song that body called out to him as Potter’s magic instinctively reached out to call adult Vykélari to his side, to ground him, help him during the transition. The powerful waves of magic were ebbing away somewhat now that Blaise was letting him know he was close.

But still his body pulled him closer, almost magnetically, all pale, smooth, luxurious skin; the beautiful, colourful wings that screamed seductively of power and strength. The markings on his face were … nothing less than beautiful: a ribbon of a pale, unnamed colour covered his eyes and the ridge of his nose, ending just above his cheekbones on the lower side and just above his eyebrows on the upper side, softly blending into his unblemished skin. It would not be seen by a human, Draco knew, because it was of a light ultraviolet that only those species with an additional photoreceptor or a shifted spectral range would see. Like birds … or Vykélari.

He himself and Blaise didn’t have mask like this one but he found it beautiful and he instinctively knew that anyone with such bright markings would be a strong, a desirable mate. Closing his eyes for a moment, Draco tried to fight down his sudden arousal, breathing deeply. God, that was so not the time for that...

Now he knew why Blaise was standing behind Potter, to be able to evade that temptation... that bastard.

Once he felt calm enough, Draco opened his eyes again, taking in the deep emerald lines that drew an intricate pattern over the pale eye area, vanishing into the black hair line.

Draco had to shake his head dazedly. The raven-black, silky texture of his tousled hair was further upset by deep green feathers that stuck out almost in random directions but generally backwards. Even in this form the prat managed to have an untameable head of hair. It was unbelievable. But oddly enough it looked quite … just somehow in that very … not really weird but still incomprehensible … way … well, cute.

Draco blinked in disgust at himself but still couldn’t help but let his eyes roam freely over the half-naked form laid out in front of him, taking in the lines drawn in the same emerald colour as the markings on his face that trailed over his naked, pale sides in elegant, arcing curves; starting above his ribcage and running down his sides, along his slender waist, crossing themselves playfully to vanish … somewhere beneath the waistband of horribly washed-out jeans that he really shouldn’t think about.

At that very moment Draco was half-relieved, half-disappointed that Potter was still partly dressed, but he did curse that healer for binding Potter’s arms to his side and covering up most of those gorgeous markings.

“Oh god.” He groaned as silently as he was able to. Had that thought really come from his own mind?

Forcing himself to concentrate on the panicked, agonized look in those unseeing, teary emerald-green eyes and the small chirps Potter still continued to make, probably not even aware of it, Draco calmed. A bucket of ice water could not be as effective as the sounds of a frightened, hurting submissive.

“Help me cut away the bindings on his wings.” He said, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded.

Luckily, Blaise didn’t comment on it and from the way he panted heavily, Draco thought that his fiancé might be fighting with similar problems himself.

A few slashes of their wands later, the leather bindings fell to the floor. For a second those emerald wings fluttered helplessly in mid-air, before collapsing feebly in a heap sideways to the ground, a startled and pained outcry leaving the dark haired boy’s lips and Draco and Blaise both winced and looked at each other guiltily. They hadn’t thought about how painfully cramped up Potter’s wing muscles had to be after hours of having them bound in a very uncomfortable position.

“Sorry.” Blaise muttered uselessly as Potter was still unable to hear him, and laid his much darker hands on the pale back between the twitching wings, gently rubbing the sore muscles there.

Immediately the former Gryffindor startled and strained against his bonds in rising panic at the unexpected touch; his wings rose, beating mindlessly around him, hitting against the ceiling and the walls. Both Blaise and Draco barely managed to dodge the strong appendages, jumping back from Potter’s side to come to stand in front of him, at the headboard, where the emerald wings couldn’t reach them.

But the uncoordinated movements unbalanced the lightweight hospital bed to which Potter was still tied and almost immediately it started to tip over.

Cursing, Draco reached out with both hands to stabilize the bedstead while Blaise pressed forwards again, grasping one of the slim shoulders, and let his own magic touch the panicked creature in front of him once again, letting him know he was kindred.

That seemed to shock Potter into immobility quite effectively: his wings froze in mid-air, fluttering for some seconds before they fell to the ground, all strength drained from them.

Draco sighed in relief and let go of the bed frame, lying one of his hands on Potter’s cheek. Softly he let one finger trace the lower trim of that pale mask, letting sparks of his magic travel into the tear stained skin.

It only lasted for a few seconds, however, as Potter the prat started to strain against his bonds again half-heartedly and insisted on making those damned warning noises that made both Blaise and Draco feel uncomfortably chilled. Did the fool really want them to flee? Really, Gryffindor logic was so … unnatural. What happened to the good old survival instincts that made people accept help in desperate situations, not send their saviours away? Such so-called nobility was just plain stupid!

And damn it, that sound sent shivers down Draco’s spine…

“Will you shut it already!” He exclaimed tartly, angered that his own very well-performing instincts made him react like this and embarrassed that he had let himself get carried away so far as to bestow affectionate gestures on his school enemy. And the worst was that Blaise’s dark, warm eyes watched him with that damned understanding stare that pierced him right through.

“He can’t hear you, Dragon.” And then he curled his lips into that amused half-smile that Draco loved so much and damn, it, did he hate him sometimes.

“I know!” he hissed “But it’s driving me mad!”

And Blaise, the loveable bastard, only chuckled at him.

“Why don’t you cut away those ties and I direct his magic to restructure his sense of hearing, so that we can tell him to stop it, hmm?”

“You’re quite the bastard, you know that, don’t you?”

“Actually, my parents were married,” Blaise amended contemplatively while he moved to stand near Potter’s head. “But even if I were, I’d be all yours, and you, Draco, have agreed to be all mine just last week.” And with that he gripped his lover’s neck and pulled him close for a searing, deep kiss, his other hand still resting on a blissfully oblivious Potter’s shoulder, directing sparks of magic into it while pouring all the pent-up desperate hunger into the kiss.

It was Draco who broke away after some moments however, panting against the other’s lips. “That is what we agreed upon, isn’t it?” He whispered. ”What happens to that now?”

“No one can force us, Draco! We will take him to Italy and grant him protection from other Vykélari until he has some control over his new powers and that is that. We’ll see what happens from there. The only thing I envision with absolute certainty in my future is you, Draco. Everyone else is second.”

“Everyone else.” Draco repeated in a promise of his own, basking in the certainty that whatever happened, he would have Blaise at his side to deal with it, and Blaise would have him.

Then he stepped away and raised his wand to cut away those offending leather straps, his slender fingers gently pressing down on the limps he was freeing whenever Potter tried to move them, indicating him to stay silent, or else, of that he was sure, the beautiful idiot would manage to hurt himself further.

Blaise watched for a moment as Draco busied himself with Potter’s constrains and felt the young man freeze with surprise beneath his fingers. Really, had Potter still not realised that someone was there to help him?

But he should probably not judge him for that, these were somewhat extraordinary circumstances right now and Potter had only his tactile sense to guide him. He remembered that phase of his own transformation well, how irritating he had found it; but he had known what was happening with him and hadn’t been afraid. The Wizarding World’s saviour was probably entitled to some irrational fear and doubt at the moment.

Putting his idle contemplation of their somewhat trying situation aside for the moment, Blaise gently directed the Vykélari’s head into a straight line with his spine, which Potter allowed after his momentary resistance was soothed with another touch of Blaise’s magic. It was unfortunate that this position hid that beautiful mask of Potter’s, he thought with a deprecating frown, but he needed easy access to both of Potter’s ears.

For a moment he let his hands stroke through that silky thatch of dark emerald feathers and black hair, fascinated at how soft it was. He chuckled lowly in amusement, though, as Potter immediately tried to dislodge his hands skittishly and he cupped his ears instead to keep his head in position.

“Hush, Potter.” He murmured, not caring that Potter would never know. “You want to hear again, don’t you?”

With that he closed his eyes, feeling out the currents of Potter’s magic, pulling them closer to gather right beneath his hands. It was a heady feeling, downright addictive, all that power pulsing beneath his fingertips, waiting to be controlled.

A deceptive delusion, he knew that. A Vykélari’s magic tended to be self-willed almost, like a second subconsciousness, or maybe it was the Vykélari’s subconsciousness that took control of his magic once in a while – who knew? The only thing that mattered was that it would lash out if it thought its owner to be in danger, it would defend him viciously, and it would defend itself if someone tried to take control over it.

But it would allow him to guide it during the transformation and should Potter ever mate – not that he would have a say in the matter anyway – his mates would have a much easier time trying to tame that power.

He couldn’t say how much that thought displeased him.

“Shit!” he muttered, having momentarily lost his concentration and with it his hold over Potter’s magic. Draco looked up at him in his unique, intense way, so full of intimate knowledge he held on Blaise, but never over him.

Well, almost never. Never outside of Draco’s usual teasing would probably be more exact.

“Need some help?” the blonde smirked as he sliced away at last the bindings on Potter’s wrist and took them in his slender hands, careful to avoid the sore regions, to help the younger man into a sitting position. The former Gryffindor clutched at Draco’s hands, clinging to him as if he was his lifeline.

“Blaise, his hearing if you’d please…”

“His magic is not nearly as exhausted as they made it out to be.” Blaise said somewhat defensively, coming to stand behind Potter, between those emerald wings. Again, he took the pale face between his hands again, resuming his guidance on Potter’s magic. The younger man finally seemed to have accepted their presence as none-threatening and didn’t fight against Blaise’s hold, not even when Draco sneaked his arms around his torso tightly, trapping Potter’s arms between them.

“Okay, now, Blaise!”

And Blaise gave Potter’s wayward magic something to do, telling it to take his own auditory senses as a model to reform those of its owner. He felt that wave of power flood him like a tsunami, invading him inexorably and he wondered if his cousin who had guided his own transformation had felt like that: stripped bare before the magic of the young fledgeling that was Potter for Merlin’s sake! It was a strangely intimate feeling that he really wasn’t comfortable with.

Thankfully it lasted for only a moment, before Potter’s magic drew back into his body, beginning its complicated task. Then, as his auditory nerve began to reform, re-innervating his new sensors – a process that was not really painful, but itched – Potter began to struggle again, causing both Blaise and Draco to tighten their hold on him and not even the soothing sparkles of Draco’s magic managed to quiet him as he moaned in discomfort.

Minutes the three of them stayed like that until finally Potter went rigid in Draco’s arms, his unseeing eyes blinking in wonder. Then Draco watched those hated rose-petal lips open and letting escape a single chirp that seemed like it was about to erupt into a complex series of trills and high notes but was cut short when Potter shut his mouth, startled and shocked at the sound of his own voice.

“Yes, Potter.” Draco drawled. “Greet your syrinx.”

And just when Draco had finished his sentence, Potter broke free with another high-pitched tone, his eyes still wide and blind, and the back of his flaying hand connected with Draco’s jaw with an impressive thud.

CHAPTER END NOTES:

Just as an explanation: the syrinx is the vocal organ of birds. The actual sound is not produced by vocal cords as it is the case for mammals, but by the vibrations of the walls of the syrinx, the membrane tympaniformis. Its structure and position enable some birds to mimic human speech and/or produce more than one sound at a time … pretty impressive.

Reviews are always welcome and very much appreciated!
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Night Flight