Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Wolf in the Making	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8561 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Thanks again for all the reviews!

Chapter Four—The View Through a Window

            Harry paced around his room, his hands folded behind his back. He knew there was a frown on his face and that anyone who came into the room would probably think he was too serious, which meant he should stop pacing and act normal. Or act like someone Malfoy’s peacock act would seduce, anyway.

            But he was too worried, and he doubted that Malfoy was watching him through the observation lens right now.

            There were the compliments. He thought he could get used to them, especially because Malfoy didn’t give them often and he was probably going to leave before they, or rather his reaction to them, could reach a critical point.

            But he had dueled with Malfoy this afternoon, and then willingly touched him to help him up. And worse, he had been so relaxed by the adrenaline and the release of tension that he hadn’t felt guilty until several hours later.

            Harry clenched his fists. You’re on your own, he reminded himself harshly. No one from the Ministry will know where you are, thanks to Robards. No one is going to come and help you. Your best friends are half the world away. If you don’t keep yourself on track, if you don’t obey your own conscience, then how in the world are you going to resist and escape?

            He didn’t know. That was the terrifying thing—far more terrifying than any pain Malfoy could have inflicted on him. He might be weak enough to yield. He hadn’t thought he was, but he might be.

            He forced himself to stop pacing and sit down on the bed, though. He really would look suspicious if someone came to visit him, and Thalia, at least, would walk in without knocking.

            Or, worse, what if Malfoy observed him through the lens in a way that Harry couldn’t detect?

            It occurred to Harry that there was another mystery connected with the lens, a more minor one. Why hadn’t Malfoy drained Harry after he’d Marked him? Harry would have known what was going on, of course, and probably fought the lassitude that the magic-drained people in Fox Valley tended to sink into, but he didn’t know a way of stopping it. Then Malfoy would have had his power without the trouble of tricking and corralling and handling Harry.

            He probably wouldn’t have got his vengeance on Robards as easily, though, Harry told himself, and then dismissed the notion, because every other answer was subtly frightening.

            He didn’t know yet how he was going to fight the pull if Malfoy invited him to duel again, or otherwise watched him show off his magic and then watched him with honest admiration and no horror, or questions about where some of his spells had come from. But one thing was certain: he would need rest, no matter what course of action he decided on.

            Harry shut his eyes and began counting backwards from ninety-nine, a technique that often made him fall asleep. He would have to sleep as best he could, and deal with the problem in the morning.

*

            Draco opened his eyes and turned in a slow circle. He was in his office, but it looked different, thanks to the moonlight gliding through the open windows. How had that happened? He never enchanted his windows to give him such light from the full moon alone, and the way the valley walls stood, it couldn’t reach his office with such clarity naturally.

            Draco strode across the office to shut the windows, but paused when his hands touched the glass. It felt different than usual, softly warm against his palms, lulling. Draco blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t close his eyes and stand there, hands resting on the panes, like a drooling idiot. This was a trap, it had to be, and he would show his enemies that he was capable of escaping.

            Then he looked through the windows and saw what was actually outside them.

            A dark, twisting corridor, coexisting in the same moment and space as the brilliant moonlight, stretched across the sky into the distance. It faded at either end, making Draco sure it was a complicated illusion rather than a vision, but the two figures in it occupied most of his attention. One was a witch with a long black cloak and desperate eyes, who crouched against the wall and aimed her wand at the man who stalked her.

            That man was Potter.

            But Potter as Draco had never seen him, not even when he was battling Draco’s Marked ones for his precious freedom. His eyes were wide, so dark they looked insane, and his fingers clamped around his wand like the legs of a spider. He moved after the witch in a low crouch, and his gaze never wavered from her—although there was a subtle tension around his mouth that made Draco sure he could whip around in any direction if anyone tried to ambush him. He radiated commanding power in a way Draco had thought impossible, given the size of the aura around him when he was angry.

            That was, Draco had thought it couldn’t get any bigger. But it did, and long, spiky tendrils of magic brushed almost tenderly against the walls of the corridor. Potter was the center of them all, and the determined expression on his face made him look like a lion walking proud in the center of its mane.

            Draco half-closed his eyes. He knew what this was without asking: the way Potter looked when he was an Auror hunting criminals.

            But he didn’t look like an Auror. He looked like a Dark wizard who fit into this world himself, willing to kill or torture a rival who had stolen his secrets. He looked the way Draco had imagined himself to be from the time he was very young and lay awake in his bed at night, making up his dreams.

            It was no wonder Potter missed his freedom, Draco thought hazily as his erection strained against the buttons of his trousers. He could hardly do this kind of thing while he was under the Mark.

            And did Draco want him enslaved that way, when he wouldn’t look this way? Did he want to destroy this dark, feral-eyed wizard for the sake of someone who glared at him constantly and rode his Gryffindor conscience like an old, tired horse?

            I don’t, Draco answered himself honestly as he reached down and worked the button free. His erection pushed into his palm at once, and Draco arched his back and hissed. I want him to look at me with those eyes and then slink to my side and serve my pleasure willingly. No one could stop us if we fought together, that version of Potter and me as I am at my best.

            But how could that happen? If he freed Potter, Potter would only leave. And then he would report Draco’s existence to the Ministry, and Draco would have to fight for his own freedom in a way he had never counted on doing. Of course he would defend his power and his lands, but his strength lay in striking from the shadows and keeping the Ministry and the wizarding world ignorant of what he could do.

            I have to have Potter here, Draco thought as he wanked, watching while the scene beyond the windows exploded into a silent battle. The witch hurled curses made of snakes and spirals that Draco had to respect her for, and Potter countered with knives and shields and fires that made Draco’s mouth water and told him the inevitable outcome of the battle. If he walks away from me…

            The thought was intolerable. Draco bit his wrist as his hand moved faster.

            Potter struck at the witch so hard that she flew backwards, limbs flailing, and struck the wooden wall. In moments she was still, and Potter slipped closer to her, his lips skinned back to show all his teeth. Draco wondered if he was sane in that moment. He looked nothing like an ordinary wizard, the calm, celebrated Auror who would wave to the cameras when the Ministry needed a publicity piece.

            Potter’s spell had obviously snapped something in the witch’s spine. Potter stood over her with hard eyes and a small smile, watching as she writhed. Draco became aware of his own noisy pants, and would have been embarrassed, except he was too thrilled by the discovery that Potter was capable of hurting someone like this.

            Then Potter struck savagely downwards with his wand. The witch’s mouth opened, and green goo dribbled out as her head sagged to the side, her neck broken. Potter had killed her.

            Draco cried out and came.

            In the moment after his orgasm, as he stood there, trying to breathe, his voice escaping in soft, incredulous whimpers, Potter bent down and whispered something to the corpse. Draco was good enough at lip-reading to catch most of it, if not all.

            “That is for your crimes. You don’t deserve a trial.” A soft laugh. “You died resisting arrest.”

            The vision froze on Potter’s mocking smile, his lips parted and his teeth gleaming like a vampire’s, and then exploded in silent shards of light. Draco was left standing in front of the windows, his limp, spunk-covered cock in his hand, disbelief dancing behind his eyes in stars of light.

            And then he opened his eyes and awoke from his dream.

            His crotch was soaked, and on his left arm, the place where he would have carried his Mark if he had one, there was a gentle, tingling burn.

*

            Harry looked around, frowning. He had escaped Malfoy somehow; he had to have, because this place wasn’t in Fox Valley. It was his office, more crowded with case files and cabinets than he remembered it, but familiar.

            Harry half-relaxed. He didn’t understand—this could be a complicated illusion Malfoy was spinning for him—but that didn’t matter. It was still better than his room for right now, and maybe he could exploit the illusion somehow.

            He walked over to the large, enchanted window. He would shift it to one of his favorite scenes, either Hogwarts or a soft, moonlit lake at night.

            Instead, he found himself looking into Fox Valley.

            Harry drew his wand at once and flattened himself against the wall. His first thought was that Malfoy had given up on taming him and had simply put him into the middle of an illusion so he could provide a bit of amusement before he was killed. Perhaps Thalia would be hunting him, and with his senses covered by such a convincing glamour, Harry would be easy prey for a jaguar.

            But nothing happened for endless moments. Harry tried to remain on-guard anyway, but he knew he was relaxing. It was inevitable, as they had taught him in Auror training, to do that when there was no immediate threat.

            That didn’t keep him from hating it.

            Then someone moved on the floor of the valley, on the street that ran between the luxurious houses where Malfoy’s victims and Marked ones lived. Harry knew who it was at once, of course. Malfoy’s hair shone in the light of the calm moon overhead. He had his hands in his robe pockets and though Harry couldn’t see his face from this height, he was sure that it would wear an easy smirk.

            Why would he want me to see this? Harry shuffled to the side, trying to make sure that he wasn’t visible from the windows. He must know that I can’t hate him any more than I do already.

            But he continued to stand there and watch Malfoy walking along, now and then lifting his head as if he wanted to sniff at the air. Then he paused in the middle of the street and turned his head. Harry held his breath, hoping against hope that he would see either a private conversation between Malfoy and a Marked one that would give him a clue to freedom, or someone able to hurt Malfoy.

            Malfoy simply waited, though, and whatever had caught his attention wasn’t visible to Harry, no matter how much he stared. Then a slow, sliding gleam above the hills caught Harry’s attention.

            The sun was rising.

            Malfoy stood watching it come, reaching out with one hand as if he could capture some of the sunlight. Now and then he made a low murmuring noise in his throat, though how he could hear it from this distance, Harry didn’t know. Of course, he had already figured out by now that this illusion was anything but normal, so he shouldn’t worry about that; he should worry about other things instead.

            The sun rose higher and higher, revealing the white forms of the houses, the gleaming pools and fountains that Malfoy liked to stud the valley with, the ladders and sandy walking paths that hardly anyone used, and the small, shady tables and groves where “guests” sat to eat. It was a pretty place, Harry reckoned, if you knew absolutely nothing about what went on there. Once you knew the truth, you could never see Fox Valley as innocent again.

            But Malfoy had an innocent expression on his face as he stood there, staring up at the sunrise. He had dropped his hand now, and Harry couldn’t even accuse him of the possessive gesture he had made earlier. His eyes were shut, and he inhaled slowly and gently through his nostrils, as though he sensed a palpable difference between the air after dawn and the air before.

            Then he looked around with bright eyes, as though he was rejoicing in being in such a beautiful place at such a beautiful moment.

            Harry’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t ever seen Malfoy look like that. He hadn’t seen the fragile smile that made its way over his face a moment later.

            He didn’t want to see them.

            He thought he was the only one watching this vision, and that meant Malfoy didn’t have a reason to show off for anyone else. And Malfoy hadn’t once flinched or held his head stiffly or let his eyes flick up the way he would have if he knew Harry was observing him. Harry had grown used to the signs that his prey knew about a watcher; there had been a rash of betrayals in the Department last year before they caught the Auror who had turned traitor, and Harry had escaped injury only because he was so cautious.

            Malfoy looked human right now, normal, not wearing the smug smirk Harry had assumed endured even in his private hours. Why wouldn’t it? Malfoy was someone who laughed when he took their freedom away from other people. He was invested in creating this picture of himself as an evil bastard, even if he wasn’t, always.

            Harry had no reason to feel differently about him.

            And even if he did, so what? Why should this small scene affect him so powerfully? It was Malfoy behaving normally, the way he should do anyway.

            But it was like the compliments. Small things seemed to be affecting Harry much more powerfully than he ever would have imagined.

            He hated it.

            He stepped back, turning his head away from the windows, squeezing his eyes shut. He would refuse the vision. He was sure, now, that this wasn’t something Malfoy had created for his benefit. It was more likely a dream, and Harry had been trained to wake from dreams if he concentrated hard enough.

            And then he was awake, and gasping as he stared at the ceiling. He rolled slowly over, exploring his bed with wide-splayed fingers. Yes, there was his single pillow, and the tatty sheets he had told Malfoy would be more than enough.

            And there was a gentle hum of pleasure up and down his spine.

            Harry shuddered and lay still. He recognized that feeling, but he knew he hadn’t done anything to cause it himself. A quick check of his groin confirmed that he hadn’t come in his sleep.

            That left one possibility, although it hadn’t happened before and Harry didn’t know why it would have now.

            He was sensing Malfoy’s emotions through the Mark. He probably wanked a lot, most likely to his own image in the mirror. The remarkable thing, really, Harry thought as he tried to slow his breathing, was why he hadn’t experienced this before.

            Except that it would be stupid for Malfoy to let his Marked ones sense his emotions. None of the others had said it happened, either, when they were eloquently describing the punishments or luxuries Harry would earn if he fought or submitted to Malfoy. Why would it happen now?

            Harry shuddered again. He didn’t know. But one thing was certain, one thing that he fixed in the forefront of his mind and swore he would remember.

            He hated it.

*

            Draco tapped his fingers against his arm as he shut the book on mirror magic. No Mark burned there, of course, but the book had helped him understand why it had felt as though one might.

            He had used mirror magic as part of the spell that would create the Marks. Mirror magic had been kind to him, helping him create everything from the observation lenses to the magic-draining process that kept him sleek and powerful. It was no surprise that he should have more to learn about it, though, since it was a complicated and esoteric branch of magic.

            Officially, the Mark anchored a small mirror of his own emotions and will in the flesh of those he gave it to. (That was the reason for their shape, that of a fox, because it was a name Draco thought of himself by). His Marked ones reacted to his wishes, feeling pain or pleasure as he desired, hearing his thoughts, and obeying him with a little gentle “encouragement.” Draco hadn’t told anyone, even those who thought they understood him best, such as Lisa, about those little encouragements, the tiny suggestions that he could plant in their minds as they slept or were distracted. The faint caresses he brushed Potter with were cousins of the encouragements.

            But it didn’t work the other way around. His Marked ones couldn’t hear his thoughts unless Draco permitted it. They couldn’t feel his emotions. They couldn’t sense his direction or location.

            It had been sensible to do so. Draco couldn’t imagine why he would want someone to have that sort of power over him. It was quite enough to know that he could touch his servants when he wished to, without giving them the power to touch him.

            And so far, the Marks had worked exactly the way he had designed them for. Draco had never had any cause to wish he hadn’t Marked someone or think he had designed them wrongly.

            But he had never Marked someone he desired before, either. His own hand had satisfied him for most of the last few years, and when it couldn’t, he knew where to Apparate and hire the best and most discreet lovers magic could buy. A patron who could pay with enchanted objects was rare enough to ensure Draco the flattering attention he craved.

            Mirror magic centered, largely, on desire. Most of the time, Draco assumed that simply meant the longing for the things he wanted and the actions he wanted his Marked ones to complete.

            But the book had phrasing that could be understood in other ways, now. Specifically, it had said that the mirrors were more likely to become two-way when emotions were powerful on either side and more than one kind of desire existed in the creator of the Mark.

            Draco leaned against the back of his chair and meditated for a few moments on what he should do. It seemed obvious that allowing Potter a connection to his mind like this was stupid.

            On the other hand, seducing Potter through conventional methods—such as open interest and the equally open offer of luxuries—hadn’t worked, either. Perhaps he could try this until the time that it proved itself more dangerous than useful.

            Draco stood. He wouldn’t know for sure what the effect on Potter had been until he observed him, and his connection through Potter’s Mark said that he was at his morning exercises. Better to do this early.

*

            Harry leaped and spun, kicking at his shadow, killing particles of air. A steady rage had begun to burn in him that his exercises couldn’t diminish, no matter how well he worked his muscles, or how steadily he hurled himself into almost impossible maneuvers.

            He’d never experienced something like that intimate emotional sharing with Malfoy. Even in his encounters with lovers, he often held part of himself back, because he knew that most of the people who wanted to date him would be frightened of the Dark side of his magic, or didn’t want to be reminded how dangerous he was. Heroes were supposed to be glamorous in their ability to kill, not harmful.

            Even though I would never have been a hero in the first place without the ability to defeat Voldemort, Harry thought savagely as he flipped over four times in the air before he returned to the ground.

            But the point remained, and he remembered the leftover sensation of Malfoy’s wanking with unnatural clarity. Harry had hoped that focusing on his strain and his sweat would help clear away the memory.

            No such luck.

            He slammed his hands into the ground and knelt there, his eyes shut, listening to his own harsh breathing and feeling the grass crinkle beneath his gripping fingers. He longed at that moment for the atmosphere of his office, as he had visited it in dreams last night, with an intensity that left him almost sick.

            A strange feeling slowly infused him as he knelt there. It was—it was the way he felt when he was watching a Dark wizard who might have made a good Auror, Harry thought. He frowned and turned his head.

            Malfoy stood several feet away, arms folded, eyes fixed on him.

            There was no doubt that the strange emotion came from him, and a moment later, Harry identified it.

            Harry snarled and ran straight at him. He gave himself no time to consider it or talk himself out of it, and that meant Malfoy should have no warning, either.

            Every moment, he expected pain to bring him to his knees, but instead Malfoy whirled out and met him, hand-to-hand and arm-to-arm.

            Harry reeled back from the first blow, a flat hit against his chest that he hadn’t expected. He had believed Malfoy wouldn’t have the power to resist his charge. He sprang in again, aiming at Malfoy’s solar plexus this time.

            Malfoy defended himself calmly, his face slightly flushed but otherwise showing no sign of the contest. He wasn’t a trained fighter like Lisa, but he must have taken lessons from her. And he was good enough at it to hold Harry in place, or at best moving in circles, exchanging punches and kicks that Harry couldn’t work past.

            It came to Harry in a sudden hot epiphany that they were fighting as they had when they dueled with magic. He halted at once and stood there, watching as Malfoy’s arm traveled in at the level of his throat.

            Malfoy stopped the strike before it could connect, but that meant the side of his hand still rested against Harry’s neck. Harry stared back at him and tried to show his contempt so openly that even Malfoy couldn’t mistake it for lust.

            “It’s no fun when you don’t fight back,” Malfoy said softly, his breath barely stirring Harry’s hair.

            “I know,” Harry said, and sneered at him.

            “Why did you stop?” Malfoy asked, in the same tone. “I know that you need the exercise as well as I do.”

            Harry’s skin crawled. He had known Malfoy could sense things like that about him, of course, but it was newly infuriating in the wake of the revelation that he could sense things about Malfoy, too.

            He moved an abrupt step backwards. Malfoy dropped his hand and stood watching him. Harry hated that, too. Malfoy was studying Harry as if he really did want to understand him, not use him.

            “I’m your slave,” Harry told him. “Remember? You don’t have to care about what I think or feel.”

            Malfoy sighed gently. “You’re mine. That means your welfare is mine to care for. And you have more problems than any other Marked one I’ve taken, Harry. I want to help you. I want you to stop feeling ridiculous guilt.”

            Harry laughed. He was shaking, and the laughter didn’t sound sane, but that hadn’t troubled him when he hunted the Darkest wizards, and he refused to let it trouble him now. “What, so I can give in and follow you without a conscience? I don’t think so. Fuck off.” He turned to his shirt, which he had taken off when he began exercising.

            “There’s a large difference between a conscience and guilt that prevents you from acting at some times,” Malfoy said. He paused, and then added, “And not at others.”

            Harry whirled around. Malfoy watched him for a moment, gaze heavy with meaning Harry didn’t understand.

            Then he turned and walked away.

            Harry yanked his shirt over his head and decided that he would have to make his move soon. He needed Malfoy’s stored magic, and that meant stealing some of it if couldn’t convince Malfoy to give it to him.

            And I will do whatever I need to achieve my freedom. Even something I find disgusting.

            If I must.

*

            Draco strolled slowly back to his office, clucking his tongue against his teeth. He had tried several different emotions before Potter, caught up in a frankly magnificent display of physical prowess, had sensed and reacted to him. Lust and anger hadn’t been the key; nor had fear or anxiety.

            It was admiration, of all emotions, that disturbed Potter enough to make him storm over and confront Draco.

            Draco bared his teeth in what someone was welcome to take as a smile if they wished. I will do whatever I must to have Potter freely on my side.

            Even something…soft.

            If I must.

*

            Thrnbrooke: What idiot? Thalia or Robards?

            SP777: Harry thinks his paranoia is enough to keep him from falling for Draco…or he did. Now he’s having second thoughts.

            Yes, making up all the different spells and especially looking up Latin for the names of spells is difficult.

            andrea: Thanks!

            purple-er: What you suggest might happen, but keep in mind there are two more fics after this one.

            Clau: Not really. Draco has made far more mistakes about Harry than he believes, and when he realizes the difference between his assumptions and the reality, he will have to change. The problem now is that Harry has a lot more interest in keeping that difference hidden from Draco than the other way around.

            And the dreams have made Draco start thinking about Harry from other perspectives.

            mrequecky: Thanks for reviewing.

            Night the Storyteller: That’s what Draco has to ask himself. As for Harry, right now, if he slept with Draco, the only motivation he would allow himself to be conscious of is the one to get free.
- 3
- 4
- 5
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

Wolf in the Making