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Bonded Consort	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 33021 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
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Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Four—Strangers
Harry groaned as he watched the owl fluttering through the window. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his mother’s entreaties or orders or whatever they were, and he didn’t want to keep M.H. from eating the owl. He had a sick ball python that the Squib owner was convinced would die soon, and he had brought her home so he could examine her in privacy. Even other Squibs were convinced Parseltongue was evil.
Give me the bird.
Harry shook his head without looking at him. “I can still see the pig.”
Buy me my own bird when I can eat again.
Harry snorted as he placed the tank with the python carefully on the edge of the table and then turned wearily to the owl. To his surprise, it wasn’t his mother’s familiar brown bird. This owl was much bigger and black, and it sat intelligently in the middle of the table well back from M.H.’s reach, watching him with huge golden eyes.
Harry frowned. Other than his mother, the only wizard who wrote to him regularly was Professor Dumbledore, and this wasn’t his owl, either. He shook his head. Well, maybe one of them had borrowed an owl from somewhere. He could still rip the letter up without reading it if it was his mother’s.
“Let me have the letter, please,” he said, holding out his hand.
To his surprise, the owl glided over and sat on his arm as if it thought that was what he wanted. It inspected him, twisting its head upside-down. Harry blinked. Maybe it had really meant to take the letter to someone else.
But in the end, the owl bowed its head and preened his hair gently while it held out its leg. Harry shook his head about the unpredictable behavior of owls in general as he opened the envelope.
The handwriting was unfamiliar. Harry swallowed. The thought that his parents or Dumbledore might have told someone else about him made his stomach grow a lump the size of the pig in M.H.’s.
Dear Harry Potter, said the flowing, elegant salutation.
I assume you know of me, but we won’t have met. My name is Draco Malfoy. I’m currently betrothed to your sister Dahlia—
Harry rolled his eyes and crushed the letter in his fist. So that was it. Malfoy just wanted to make sure that Harry wouldn’t come back to England for his wedding, either, or otherwise embarrass his bloody family by making it known that his brother-in-law was a Squib. Harry wondered why he had even bothered to write. Lily would have been able to tell him that they’d concealed Harry well.
Harry tossed the parchment to the floor. It wasn’t worth his effort to burn. Then he tried to shake the clingy owl off his arm.
The owl twisted its head and fixed him with a sharp look. Then it launched itself. Harry winced as the claws cut into his arm, but he had plenty of bandages on hand to tie up wounds inflicted by overenthusiastic patients. He turned to the bathroom.
Then he realized the owl hadn’t flown out the window. Instead, it swooped low over the floor, picked up the crumpled parchment, and brought it back to him, settling heavily on his shoulder this time. Harry tried to twitch it off. It made the ominous sound of something with sharp weapons near his temple and eyes and no compunction about using them.
Tell me what it says, M.H. said, and reared up so he could stare at the parchment. Or the owl. Harry thought he was probably more interested in getting close to the owl and seeing how wide he could open his jaws.
Harry rolled his eyes, but smoothed the parchment out. He wouldn’t get any peace until he did. He read aloud, knowing M.H. wouldn’t understand all the concepts, either, and would probably demand an explanation later.
“I’m currently betrothed to your sister Dahlia. However, I learned from your parents that my contract with originally with you. I don’t like your sister’s lack of personality and opinions, and would prefer to make you my bonded consort.”
Harry felt his voice dry up, and he stared at the parchment in utter shock. He’d known, because Lily had once explained it to him, what had happened to the betrothal contract with the Malfoys once he lost his magic, but he’d never thought…
He must not know I’m a Squib. That’s the only reason he would be writing.
M.H. reached higher, and the owl rustled, and Harry shook his head and continued reading, his voice a little shaky.
“I much prefer someone who has his own opinions, and someone who’s lived away from Britain and outside the pure-blood world will be very different from me. Other things your parents have told me about you make you sound like an ideal consort for me—the only one I could have and retain the Malfoy honor as well as avoid being married to someone who disgusts me, but also someone I could want for myself. I would like to visit you. I know you are in America and that would mean an International Portkey. I would arrange this. Please consent to see me. This would make a large change for you, as I would want to move back to Britain and present you as my consort to those who know the Malfoys. However, I would never expect you to interact with your family. Frankly, they don’t sound as if they’ve been much a family to you.
“To alleviate some of your concerns, I am a Dark wizard, and I have no concerns about either your magic or your Parseltongue.
“I await the return of Praetorian with your letter. Please do allow him to inspect you. He is one of those owls who has opinions about potential family consorts.
“Yours sincerely,
Draco Malfoy.”
Harry shook his head as he finished. No, he didn’t know Harry was a Squib. His reference to Harry’s magic proved it.
“You’ll just have to tell him that I don’t have magic,” he told Praetorian, when he turned to find the owl regarding him. “He’s laboring under a misapprehension somehow.” Harry didn’t know how that could have happened, when Malfoy must have spoken with his parents, but then again, there were such things as lies of omission.
Praetorian didn’t take the hint to get off Harry’s shoulder so Harry could write the return letter. He stayed there and hooted cheerfully while Harry carefully chose a sheet of notebook paper and a pen. He had to emphasize to Malfoy that he was dreaming an impossible dream.
Meanwhile, M.H. was wreathing a soft circle on the floor, the way he did when he was too distracted by food to form a coherent thought. What is a consort? Why does he call himself a Dark wizard? Why does he think you have ordinary magic? Tell me all these things.
Harry didn’t know how to explain what a consort was when he barely understood himself, but he tried to say things about mates and eggs in Parseltongue, and he talked about wars between different kinds of wizards—M.H. thought a war was basically all the wizards in the world trying to bite each other—and how Malfoy must be mistaken. At least M.H. finally calmed down enough to let Harry write the letter.
Hello Malfoy,
I know who you are. My parents have written me several letters about your betrothal to Dahlia. However, I don’t understand the rest of what you write. I don’t have magic. I’m a Squib. That must have been something you didn’t know. And don’t bother coming over here. No matter what kind of revenge you’re planning on your family, it isn’t going to be worth it.
As for your dislike of Dahlia, I’m the reason she’s that way. You’ll solve nothing by extending the hand of friendship to me.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter.
Put something in the letter about me, M.H. commanded haughtily, as his latest attempt to sneak up on Praetorian failed.
Harry rolled his eyes and added a postscript. It was true that M.H. couldn’t read and technically wouldn’t have any idea if Harry didn’t do as he asked, but on the other hand, he tended to smell lies.
P.S. I see that you’re aware of my Parseltongue. What you may not be aware of is that I make my living treating sick reptiles, since I can make even lizards understand me most of the time, and that I have a bushmaster named M.H. who keeps me company. I’m a much more unsuitable consort for you than you imagine.
Although Praetorian still made a little hissing noise when Harry held the letter out, which Harry assumed was disapproval of the notebook paper, at least he took it and flew off. Harry watched him go, one hand absently stroking the side of the tank with the sick python in it.
He knew he would have to be alone for the rest of his life because he couldn’t explain to Muggles or other Squibs about his magic, and it would hurt other wizards if Harry let his guard down or succumbed to the temptation to use it. And it stung like the bite of a rat snake to give up an opportunity with someone who seemed to want that from him.
Stop smelling melancholy.
Harry sighed and turned to the ball python. Malfoy only wanted that because he didn’t understand Harry’s situation, he reminded himself. He would back off once he knew Harry was a Squib.
“Hello, lovely one,” he told the ball python, aware that he only got away with the compliment because M.H. had already been called that once. “What makes you hurt?”
*
Draco felt his eyebrows rising higher and higher as he considered the “letter” that Praetorian had carried back to him. He understood the significance of the notebook paper and the letters that didn’t look as if they’d been made by a quill. Harry was declaring himself Muggle, or Squib.
Non-wizarding, anyway.
And don’t bother coming over here.
Well, I wanted someone stubborn. My prayer has been answered.
Draco gave a hoarse chuckle and leaned back against the chair he sat in, staring thoughtfully into space. So far, there had been no consequences to his Obliviating of the Potters. They had forgotten completely about the conversation, and went on sending him owls with plans for the wedding. Dahlia sent him letters, too, simpering prettily about the notion of having an early marriage. There were so many birds coming and going that no one had even noticed his Praetorian being gone for an unusually long time.
Draco turned and studied the other thing Praetorian had brought back, the thing Harry wouldn’t have realized he was giving.
Praetorian liked to preen people’s hair. Draco had first tried to train the habit, inappropriate for a Malfoy owl, out of him, and then realized how useful it could be, at least once he found the books on sympathetic magic in his ancestors’ collection.
There was a strand of half-curling black hair floating in a crystal ball of water on Draco’s bedside table now. With that, he didn’t need Apparition coordinates. He could hold the hair in his hand and will himself to the side of the owner if he used a powerful enough ritual.
Do I still want to, when I have such a flat refusal in hand?
After a moment, Draco nodded. Harry was still his best option, and he seemed to be refusing mostly because he thought Draco couldn’t possibly know the truth. When he realized that Draco had accepted his consort had some problem with his magic—
He can’t really be a Squib, not if he’s a Parselmouth. That’s an active magical talent.
--then he would possibly be more reasonable. It might take a while, Draco admitted to himself as he crossed his bedroom to the locked drawer in the table next to his bed. Draco would have to show Harry he was serious, and do some serious courting, not simply propose an alliance the way Harry might have seen his letter as doing.
But Draco had the weapons and the will to do that courting.
He unlocked the drawer by brushing one of Praetorian’s tail feathers, covered with his own blood, against the lock. It sprang open, and Draco took out the shimmering glass bonding bracelets and turned them around against the sunlight coming through the window.
Most pure-bloods considered glass a plebian material to make bonding bracelets out of, but Draco had had ancestors who preferred it. For one thing, blood could be added to the bracelets at the moment of either bonding or acceptance of the betrothal, and circulate inside the glass, shining and providing a powerful magical protection.
For another, the glass was set with small emeralds and chips of jade, and if it was true that his future consort had eyes the color of Lily Potter’s, then Draco couldn’t imagine a pair of bracelets that would complement him better.
Draco sighed a little and tucked the bracelets inside a heavily-enchanted piece of silk. That would keep them from banging against each other and taking any damage, as well as being hurt in any way by the long-distance Apparition Draco was about to take them on. Then he turned around and plucked the little black hair from the ball of water.
As Draco readied himself to perform the ritual that would take him to Harry’s side, he felt an undeniable tingle of excitement.
I know that he’ll be upset with me at first. But I have to do this. I have to show him that we might give each other so much more than merely an escape with honor and a way to fulfill the terms of the contract.
*
Someone is here.
Harry snapped his eyes open immediately at M.H.’s hiss. The only time he had ever heard the snake speak in something other than an order or a question was when a Muggle had broken into his flat over a year ago.
“So someone got into the flat without disrupting any of the locks or spells?” Harry whispered, sitting up and reaching for his glasses. He couldn’t cast protective spells himself, but he’d healed a wizard’s pet anaconda a year ago, and Mr. Moore had been grateful enough to put up some basic wards.
Yes.
Harry grimaced. That probably meant a member of his loving family was here to tell him, again, to stay away from the wedding. Or maybe they’d found out about Malfoy writing to him and would warn him off from contacting his future brother-in-law.
“Harry?”
The voice was unfamiliar. Harry blinked and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d heard his father’s voice, or Sirius’s. But then he shook his head. He thought he would still recognize them. And this was a male voice, so it couldn’t be Lily or Dahlia.
Not that Dahlia was supposed to have access to the kind of magic that would let her bypass locks and wards, anyway. But they let her do all sorts of things she wasn’t supposed to.
Harry closed his eyes when he felt the scar on his forehead writhe. He had to stop thinking like that, or he would reach out with Dark magic, Voldemort’s magic, and that would cause effects he could never predict or control.
Tell me I can eat him.
That meant M.H. didn’t recognize him, either. Harry frowned and trotted into the main room of the flat, flicking on the light. The man standing and staring at M.H. looked up and shielded his eyes a second later, in the manner Harry had seen before when a wizard wasn’t used to Muggle electricity.
And his hair was so pale, and his mien so haughty without even trying, and his cloak so well-cut and of such rich green cloth, that Harry knew who he was without being told. He glared. “What did I tell you? I don’t have magic!”
Malfoy lowered his hand, blinked a little more as if he wanted to make sure the light wouldn’t get brighter, and then gave Harry a charming smile. His hair was more gold than white, although it hadn’t looked like that at first, and he had a pale hawthorn wand that he slid into his pocket.
“I understand that you don’t have magic in the traditional sense—”
“I don’t have magic at all!” Harry folded his arms and glared at Malfoy.
“You have to have magic to be a Parselmouth, and I know the story your parents told me, about the Dark Lord’s magic supposedly suppressing your own and making you a Squib. I have to tell you, I don’t believe that one at all.”
Malfoy was staring at him hard, harder than Harry would have thought someone would use even to evaluate a potential spouse. A second later, Harry remembered he’d gone to bed without a shirt, and he flushed. Malfoy was looking at his chest.
He didn’t stammer at getting caught, though. He only gave Harry a slight smile and raised his eyes back to Harry’s face. “You’re quite the sight,” he whispered. “That’s not something they told me, either. At least, not willingly.”
Harry swallowed and told himself that he could do this, that he would not be dictated to and he wouldn’t be swayed by praise. Of course Malfoy would praise him. He had something to gain if Harry decided to bond with him.
He didn’t understand everything. Then Harry would have to make him understand.
“Do you see this?” he asked, lifting his fringe away from his scar.
“Yes.” Malfoy studied it and shrugged a little. “Should I be doing something other than looking at it?”
“It’s the sign of what happened when Voldemort came to our house,” Harry said, and noticed, to some surprise, that Malfoy didn’t flinch at the name. Harry had thought he would, since he’d been calling him “the Dark Lord” all along. “His magic got absorbed by mine somehow. It muted my magic. Now the only power I can use is his. It’s why I’m a Parselmouth when no Potter ever has been.”
“I knew that.”
“You did?”
“Of course. I considered it carefully before I decided to make you the offer of becoming my consort, Harry. And what your parents and you have told me so far only makes you more attractive to me.”
Harry snarled at him, and ignored the way the scar was moving on his forehead this time. If it would help scare off Malfoy, then he could use it. “You don’t understand! I can only get away with Parseltongue because it’s so instinctive and doesn’t take a lot of magic. The rest of the time, the power fights to get out of my control. It could harm someone the instant I succumb to temptation. I can’t use it. I can’t be your consort, because I don’t have magic. And I can’t use it, because then I would turn into him. I’d already done horrible things before I was old enough to understand what was happening and control it!”
Malfoy looked at him with the oddest expression Harry had ever seen. “So they’ve made you a living sacrifice to contain the Dark Lord’s magic, in case he returns? Is that what you have to do? Live and know you have magic and never use it?”
“I—that’s right,” Harry said, thrown. The tone wasn’t one he’d heard, either.
Malfoy gave him a tight smile and clenched his hand around something in his pocket. “Well, I think that version of events is wrong. I have some things here I hope will prove it to you. But in the meantime, can we sit down and have a cup of tea?” He wandered over to the kitchen doorway and turned to look back at Harry. “Are you coming?”
Harry stared at him. “It doesn’t matter to you that I have the Dark Lord’s power in my soul?”
“You don’t need to call him that. I can cope with his name.”
“You’re—you’re strange,” said Harry weakly, aware that M.H. had gone to sleep on the floor behind him instead of staying awake and begging to bite the intruder as he normally would have done. Not that that was necessarily a good sign. It only meant Malfoy was so weird that he was outside the bushmaster’s experience.
“And you’re my choice.” Malfoy swept his eyes over Harry once more. “Will you come and sit down so we can discuss it?”
In the end, Harry did, because his life had just become so surreal that he honestly couldn’t think of anything else to do.
*
Addiena Saffir: Harry does see them that way, but he hasn't gotten to the point of wishing revenge on the Potters yet.
phoenix-rob: Harry, at least, thinks he's the cause of it.
SP777: But Harry is a Squib. And the Malfoys do have laws about that kind of thing (family laws).
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Bonded Consort