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The Inheritance	By : Laurel Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4067 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
It
was ending. Harry could feel it, slipping through his fingers as he grasped at
it, invisible straws, liquid, molten and fierce and waiting to erupt. They
strode on eggshells around each other, hardly speaking. Draco disappeared
often. For days. Sex was brisk and business-like and
if Draco ever left a bill for his services on the nightstand, Harry wouldn�t
have been surprised.

The
bonding bracelets were still there, platinum charmed permanently into his
flesh, branding him as Draco Malfoy�s only for the rest of his existence. Once
in a rage, Draco had tried to pry them from his wrists, but then his own
bracelet had scarred his flesh, leaving vicious lines saying that some promises
were never to be broken. Harry had smirked in satisfaction before Draco had
thrown him onto the sheets and fucked him hard and viciously without preamble.
It seemed like the only time he could get any reaction from him, after that day
there had been no others so brutal or satisfying.

Now
Draco was standing over him, grabbing his pants from underneath Harry�s legs.
�I�m leaving.� He said.

Harry
frowned. �Where are you going?�

No
answer. Not even an acknowlegment.

�Dray?�

His
back stiffened. �Don�t. I�m going. Don�t say anything.�

Harry
panicked. �Ohmigod ohmigod! You�re not leaving me,
Malfoy! No, you�re not leaving me.� Draco was standing against the wall,
looking as if there was something very intriguing about the abstract design of
the carpet and walls. �You fucker! You
bleeding shagging inbred bastard! You can�t leave me!�

�I
can.� Draco�s voice was even. �And I am.�

Harry
stalked across the room quickly, and grabbed between Draco�s legs. It was a
last-ditch approach, he was sure, but he couldn�t�wouldn�t
let him get away.

�You�re
hard, Dray,� Harry murmured softly. �Gods, stay for tonight. I can make you
happy, you know I can.�

�That�s
because of this,� Draco held up one silver wrist. His tone was distant, tired.
�I haven�t felt anything for you in a long time, Harry,� he murmured softly. �Since I scratched your wrist. You know it�s true.�

�You�re
lying!� Harry growled, biting down on Draco�s neck. He slipped his hand under
his trousers and rolled Draco�s balls possessively in his hands. He looked up,
Draco�s lashes were down like dark curtains, and he was panting very heavily,
as if trying not to moan or give an inch. His back was rigid against the wall,
when Harry grabbed his cock and stroked him he could feel Draco�s legs against
his own stiffen harshly as he tried not to move, not to thrust into his hands.

�Why
are you doing this to me?� Harry cried, jerking his hand harshly up and down.
�What is it, Dray?� He took one hand and stroked Draco�s cheek. �Baby, don�t
leave. Whatever it is, it doesn�t matter. I promise you, I�ll make it better��

Draco
let out a hoarse laugh. �You can�t. I�ve hurt them both. I�m not staying�God,
Harry! Take your hand off my dick!�

�No,�
Harry screamed, clenching his fingers and finally Draco gave a low growl. �I�m
not letting you go.� He unzippered his pants and pulled Draco�s down harshly,
alinging their bodies. Draco had gone completely rigid, and his eyes were
closed. Harry frowned, but wrapped his arms around Draco, managing to pry him
far enough away from the wall. �Oh, gods,� Harry murmured, rutting against
Draco�s still slightly tense thigh, his hand finding Draco�s erection again. �I
love, oh gods, how much I love you.�

�Harry.
Don�t.� Draco�s voice was sullen, empty. He was finally giving little thrusting
movements against Harry�s hand. Feeling that Draco was finally reciprocating,
he cried out softly and came against the juncture where Draco�s proturding hip
bone met his once tense thigh.

He
sighed, happily, thick wetness coating his fingers and sliding in the space
between them, fingers wiped onto that abstract design wallpaper he had
tolerated for his lover. He would have rather Draco have come hard and deep
inside him, flooding his body with warmth, but that would happen later. Harry
relaxed against Draco, burying his head on the pale shoulder, relaxing in the
optimistic aftermath of getting what he wanted. Draco was shaking faintly and
Harry gripped him tighter.

�Shh,
it�s okay,� Harry murmured. �I know you hate to lose. But I won�t press you
about why you wanted to leave.�

Draco�s
eyes were empty. Devoid. Hollow. �I have to go,� he
said shakingly. �You shouldn�t have done that.�

Harry
was stunned into silence. Draco continued. �There�s a black box in the study,
it�s passworded. The charm to lift the password is pensare. When I leave, I want you to open it. Look through the
papers, and then lock it and set fire to the whole thing. You must not come
looking for me, Harry.�

�Draco,
I�� He felt lips, thin and warm, press his own.

�Harry
Potter,� he murmured. His nose touched Harry�s softly. �You won�t listen. I
know you won�t. My sweet, idiotic, na�ve Harry, all get-up and go go
Gryffindor. Four years. The best of my life.�

�Don�t
end them.� Harry�s voice was a desperate croak.

Draco
kissed his forehead softly. Strange, he never noticed before that Harry had a
widow�s peak. �I�m not leaving you. Okay?� Harry nodded numbly,
no longer aware of anything but that Draco had grabbed a suitcase. �Nothing to
do with you,� he mumbled. �Absolutely nothing.�

It
took three days to get Harry out of bed and to the study, and another day and a
quarter before he mustered up the courage to open the box. Letters.
Dozens of letters back and forth from Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy
to Draco Malfoy, her husband. He grabbed the latest one and opened the
ripped seal and began to read the parchment. It seemed Pansy had written in a
rush, her script was even worse than ever.

Draco�

I know you say Potter won�t
understand, but Godsdamn him to Hell! You know I loathe him, for Merlin�s sake.
I have no sympathy for his feelings.
Right now, Draco, I can�t say I care about you either. Libby is
suffering, the visions are killing her and if you don�t come and stay for once
I won�t know what to do with myself�the next lines were blurred by inky
teardrops.

You loved me once, Draco, and I know you say
you still do, but you chose Potter over me, and never gave us a chance. If I
cheated it was because I�m practical and I have my eyes open. I always knew you
were above me, in looks and rank and station and wealth, but Potter, Draco?
Potter for my old friend, the Roman warrior-skirt lifter?

I hope you�re laughing now and
remembering. Darling, we have so much history.
Your mother is unwell and at the point I am with Libby, I don�t know
what�s going to happen next. I need you, and I promise,
we can give this a go. It will work this time.

Be careful, Draco. With your heart. Harry Potter�s no saint.

Still your wife, Ant.

Below
it, Harry�s fingers caught a thick document. Final Will and Testament of Narcissa
Julietta Black Malfoy.

Harry
read through it dimly, catching sight of thick, garbled words. Narcissa Malfoy
had left money everywhere, it seemed: St. Mungo�s, Hogwarts, the Fund for War
Survivors, she even left a galleon to the Order of the Phoenix for �adopting my only child under
extreme suspicion.� Harry smiled, Draco�s bitter and
ironic wit obviously came from his mother. His deceased
mother, whom he had never even mentioned had died to Harry. He had never
mentioned Libby�s predictive abilities either.

Finally
he got to the family line. To her sisters, Narcissa left jewels, tokens, little
bits of money compaired to the galleons she had given elsewhere. To Pansy
Parkinson Malfoy she had left the Malfoy jewels in trust for Libby, a good sum
of money, and a collection of art works and scultpures. Also, Harry puzzeled,
she had left �in trust, the entire estate to Mrs. Malfoy, under the
understanding that all wealth, money, homes and privileges of the name and
titles shall be transferred to my granddaughter, Libertas Narcissa, upon her
reaching the age of twenty-one.�

Harry
ran through the document again. No mention of Draco. Finally, Harry reached the
end of the document. �To my son and only child Gaius, I leave none of my
earthly possessions, for reasons which he is well aware. Attached to his copy
of the will I have left further instructions.�

Harry
turned the document over twice, furiously. What had happened to make Narcissa
take everything away from Draco? The few times he had seen them together she
was loving, attentive, spoiling, a model mother. Of course these had been when
they were children, but still�certainly over the years Narcissa couldn�t have
changed her mind grately. Draco had named Libby for her.

Ignoring
the rest of the pleading letters from Pansy, Harry scrambled through the box,
searching for more explanations. Finally Harry�s fingers grasped a small,
wripped piece of paper. A shaking hand had written stiffly.

Draco�

I am not fond of your ideas of
deathbed confessions. Do not believe that I will ever approve of your bizarre
involvement with Mr. Potter, nor will I ever condone the fact that you have
deserted Pansy and your daughter because of this ill-concieved passion. I shall
not forgive you for your behaviour. I will die and you will live: as a traitor
to the memory of your family, and as a traitor to your own word.

You are nothing to me. I have no
sympathy for your foolishness.

How dare you.

--Narcissa Malfoy.

�In
a time neither too far nor too short, there lived a young girl with hair as
white as snow, and eyes dark like the birch tree.� Draco Malfoy began, his hand
idly stroking his daughter�s cheek as she looked up at him with her large brown
eyes.

�I�m
getting old for fairy stories?� She asked. Libby didn�t want to reach the point
where she was too old to have her father close by. Sometimes Mother would sniff
and frown when Father stayed with her, and she had a sinking fear that if she
wasn�t so unwell all the time, that Father�s visits would stop. Libby had a
vague feeling he no longer lived in the Manor, but she never left her quarters
to wander around the rest of the house, she might brush her arms or legs
against something. Here in the charmed room, she couldn�t feel anything at all.

�Nonsense,� Draco smiled. �You
can never be too old for fairy stories, Libertas. I still enjoy them, myself.�

Libby
snorted indecently at the idea, one of the bandaged mitts of her hands coming
to cover her face. It still seemed like a dream to her, someone else�s memory,
but they told her it wasn�t. That Mother had really come into her rooms, and that
Libby had really fainted near the fireplace, having tried to burn off her
hands. Sometimes, at night, when the potions Father had prepared had worn off,
Libby would scream voicelessly and wish she had succeeded.

�It�s
true. Everyone loves a good romance.�

�Father?�

�Yes,
Lib?�

�Have
you ever been in love?� Libby was blushing furiously.

Draco
nearly laughed. �Once or twice. Have you?�

�No,�
Libby laughed. Then she looked dismal. �No one will ever love me. I�m a freak. A Seer.�

�That�s
not true,� Draco frowned. �You�re from a long line of Seers. Obviously you�ll
find someone or our line would have ended long ago.� The Slytherin logic
worked, in a Malfoy way. Heartfelt renderings about how pretty Libby was or how
there was one person for every one wouldn�t have worked in her case. Libby
nodded, and gave her father a half smile.

�What
are your visions like?�

�Hunches,�
Draco said softly. �Just hunches about what might happen. You�re quite gifted,
being able to touch things and see their history. No one since Aunt Bartolomia
has been able to do that, and she died in the fifteenth century.�

�Oh.�
Libby stared off for a moment. �How is it�to feel things without touching
them?�

Draco
shrugged. �Like nothing. Like the smell of metal in the air, before a shower,
or the feeling you get just before someone floo calls. It�s just there. You
just know, really.�

Libby
sat up, one mitted hand on top of Draco�s. �See if you can feel something now?�

Smiling,
Draco closed his eyes. Nothing. Not that he was dissapointed,
mind you. It had been a while since he�d had a good vision. Psychic powers were
known to come and go, only the mad would like them to
be around constantly. They drained a wizard�s power. Then he felt it. A lurch, in the pit of his stomach. Harry. Harry was looking
for him in Knockturn Alley. Then darkness.

Draco
coughed. Loudly, rackingly.

Then
Pansy came in the room, her face flushed as if she had run a long distance. She
looked at Libby distastefully. �You�re keeping your father up with your silly
little games, Libertas! It�s nearly one in the morning!�

Draco
glared at Pansy, though through his coughing fit, he couldn�t maintain breath long enough to chew her out properly. His chest was
heaving and aching as Pansy glared at her daughter and dragged Draco from the
room before Libby could ask another damned question.

�Here,
Draco,� she sighed, handing him a vial which he tried to drink down in
intervals between his coughs. Still, a little ran down his white crisp shirt, a blood crimson against the fabric. Pansy shook her head.
�That won�t come off.�

In
a moment, the colour had returned to Draco�s face, and he looked at Pansy with
little warmth. �Don�t speak to Libertas that way, Ant.�

Pansy
stroked small, comforting circles into Draco�s back. �You can�t push yourself, remember what the mediwizards said, dear.�

�I
remember,� Draco said evenly. �Five years Pansy. I want to be sure that before
then she�s set up and well. At this rate she won�t last a term at Durmstrang.�

�At
this rate, you�ll only last a year!� Pansy cried, crushing a hankercheif to
Draco�s mouth to cover his weezing. �Whatever possessed you to tap into your
powers, you silly fool. Don�t bother speaking through the fit, yes I know you
did. Your eyes always look bluer afterwards.�

When
Draco finally stopped heaving, he looked up at Pansy. �I wanted to know.�

�Know
what?� Pansy looked very short of temper.

�Nothing.� Draco smiled softly. �Pansy, I don�t want to stay
here anymore.�

Pansy
nodded. �Fine. Where are we moving to?�

Draco
smiled openly. �Wherever you want, darling.� Pansy
returned the smile reluctantly. If they left soon, Harry would lose their
trail, at least momentarily. Draco smothered another cough. He was so tired, so
very tired. The illness crept over him like a heady drug, blocking out all
other feelings. He couldn�t be bothered to care that he was lying in bed, his
favourite shirt ruined.

A
hand, warm and pudgy caressed his cheek. Draco wondered vaguely where Harry�s
callouses had gone. Then the warm smell of vanilla and rich
tea. �Pansy?� He muttered, feeling her head on
his chest. She was so warm where he was frozen.

�Yes,
dear, it�s Pansy.� She stroked his chest softly. �It�s beats so fast, Draco.
It�s hard to imagine it�s ever going to give out.�

Draco
smiled. �I know. Pansy?�

�Mmm?�

�Have
you ever been in love?�

Pansy
laughed. �Once.�

�What
happened?� He was surely dying, one part of his brain said sharply, to even ask
this.

Pansy
shuffled against him. �We dated all through school. He was the first boy I
kissed, and he asked me to my first dance. I married him, and I�m lying on his
chest right now. We�ve a beautiful, troubled little girl and more galleons and
jewels than I can count. And he�s terribly gorgeous.�

Draco
gave a wheeze that could have been a laugh, with enough energy. Pansy sighed.
He had so little left now.

�Pansy?�

�Mmm?�

�I
wish,� he hesitated. �I wish I�d never known him.�

Pansy
gave a throaty laugh. �Looking for the easy way out of love,
just because it hurts a bit. Just like a Slytherin. Just like a Malfoy.�

Draco
would have protested, would have said something, but he was so very tired, and
Pansy�s words were warm and soft and utterly forgiving. He did love her, his
best friend, he thought, as her hands traveled down his back, anchoring on his
waist. She was good, in her own way. She pecked his cheek companionably.

�I
know you�ll regret this in the morning,� she said warmly.

Draco
smiled, his eyes closed. �Yes, definetly,� he managed before he couldn�t think
at all, and the searing pain of his bond bracelets tore at the skin of his
wrists once again before he lurched back, and Pansy shivered, knowing the
truth.

Harry stood in
front of an elegant restaurant, hesitating for a moment. Inside wizards were
sitting, drinking, in dress robes, tipping champange glasses and murmuring arch
words. It was a world he would never belong to, and Draco had been born into,
this life, he left it, and yet he had breathed it once, like oxygen. Harry
tensed, but walked forward. He was greeted, impassively, by the matre'd.

"Good
evening, Mr. Potter," he said neutrally. "You are aware that the
dining hall is for patrons of exclusive birth."

Harry
laughed lowly, the laugh of someone who was dangerously close to losing their
temper, or mind. "Are you telling me only purebloods can eat here?"

The
waiter inclined his head, "Unless you are invited
in with one of our patrons, you'll find we have careful magic which
keeps--" he sniffed faintly at Harry's moisture and ratty robes. "--undesirables out."

Harry
felt an arm touch his shoulder. He barely recognized the face. "Well, now,
Herald, who do we have here? Harry Potter."

"Indeed,
Mr. Flint," the matre'd sniffed. Marcus Flint! That was the face. Harry
immideatly recognised him now, the Slytherin Quidditch captain. He had
changed-- his face seemed tired, etched with lines, and he was significantly
heavier. But his eyes were still so unclear--Harry wondered if this too was
some pureblood trait, those cool, emotionless eyes, impossible to read.

"Well,
Harry Potter at the Golden Seat, how interesting." Flint gave a short laugh. "Come
along." Flint's
heavy hand was companionably on his backside, and Harry felt himself thrusted
toward the matre'd's little podium.

"Marcus
Flint and Harry Potter," he said coolly and the wizard sniffed again, but
wrote Harry's name in a ledger. Suddendly he felt himself thrusted forward, and he was standing next to a table in a quiet
corner.

"The
barrier," Flint
supplied. "It's like a portkey and a birth detector together. We're all
very proud of the santicity of our blood and all that."

"Oh,"
Harry said, unsure how to gauge Flint's
speech.

They
sat, and a little waitress with white hair appeared. She looked completely
nonplussed at Flint's
choice of a companion, but most likely it had spread though the restaurant as
soon as he entered.

"Anything
for you gentleman?" she drawled.

"Black
coffee and three Brocetshire Blints," Flint replied. "You, Potter?"

"Er--"
Harry had never eaten in a wizarding resaurant before, and he vaguely wondered
what they ate, how they behaved. In Hogwarts the food had been familiar and
sometimes intruging, but Draco had told him long ago that Dumbledore had
incorporated Muggle dishes to help the Mudbloods and half-breeds adjust. Here,
in the middle of a world dominated by pure magic, he felt oddly uncertain.

"I'll
have the same," he finally replied, hoping that the Blints were something
like the Muggle pastry they reminded him of.

They
were. Small berries were peppered into a folded, flowery pastry shell that
changed colors and tart flavours slightly within each bite. The changing taste made Harry nauseated at
first, but Flint
ate them with little reaction. Once he sniffed and said, "Ugh,
tormelberry," but that did not stop him from consuming the rest.

After
eating the three large pastries and the one Harry couldn't, Flint seemed inclined to talk. "Why are
you in Pureblood Town, anyway, Potter?" When he
sensed Potter's confusion, he barked. "This side of Knockturn, where
Parsel meets Loughing, it's all blood-restricted. Lucky you met me, most wizards here wouldn't have been so kind. Even
Herald was more polite than I give him credit for, but his mother was an Avery;
they were always social climbers."

Flint paused. Obviously
he was waiting for an answer to his question.

"I
was looking for the directions to Malfoy Manor," he said slowly.

Again,
Flint barked. "The Manor! You can't ask for directions to Malfoy
Manor as if it were Flourish and Blotts or the Willows! It's Unplottable, for
one, and for the other, there's no one there now anyway, unless you count
Narcissa Black's dead body. Everyone else cleared out after she died."

"What
about Draco?" Harry asked, hoping no emotion showed in his face.

Flint shrugged.
"Last I heard he was living with my cousin Pansy in Quentonshire, that's
near South London, you know, the invisible
countryside. Poor cousin Parkinson, in love with Draco
Malfoy. He's bound to go mad, if he hasn't already. It runs in the
Malfoys; madness that is," Flint
moved closer to Harry, as close as he could until the table struck his large
stomach. "That, and queers. I daresay the last
Malfoy's both."

Harry
looked at Flint
narrowly. "Draco's not crazy."

Marcus
Flint nodded. "I thought so. When you came here, I was pretty sure, but I thought
to myself, Harry Potter wouldn't be so obvious. But you are a Gyffindor, though
and through. Clear-cut. That sort of nonsense doesn't fly well around here, you
know. Queers and madness is one thing if you're a galleonaire more times that I
can count, but you, Harry Potter, are just a middle-class mix, just like all
the rest, for all your saving the wizarding world," Flint looked at Harry
narrowly.

"Now,
I had my laughs watching you try to eat Blints and press me for information
about the Malfoys, but you should be warned. Crazy, queer and as useless as
Draco Malfoy might be, he's still one of us. He's ours. And I,
and everyone else won't let you get in the way of what's supposed to pass. Draco�s
not supposed to get well. And you'd do well to go home and take up with your
wife, Weasley, or Granger."

"Is
that a threat?" Harry asked softly. His face looked very dangerous. But
again, Marcus Flint barked laughter.

"Would
I threaten Harry Potter? No, I'm not mad!" He stood up and leaned over
Harry's shoulder. "It's a friendly piece of advice. Pureblood family
business is very serious. And remember, no one will be as nice to you as I
have, if you get in the middle of this. Leave it alone."

Outside
in the street, Harry paused as if lightening had stuck above him. Draco�s ill. Then,
another shocked realisation. I
know where he is now.

Pansy
Parkinson Malfoy opened the door.

�Potter,�
she said evenly. �I was wondering how long it would take before you showed up
at my doorstep.�

�Where�s
Draco, Parkinson?� He growled.

Pansy
put her hands on her hips. She was wearing a gaudy red velvet cloak, opened to
her large bosom, where she was wearing a sparkling necklace and a tight corset.
Her body, once curvaceous and now slightly heavy-set, was on display as if she
were an expensive courtesan. Her heavily lined eyes arched at the question.
Obviously Pansy was on her way out.

�My
husband�s business is none of your concern.� She said, opening the door just
slightly so that she came out to the front step. �If he wanted you to know
where he was, he would have told you,� she said, in a kinder voice.

�Mother?�
said a small voice, and Harry caught a glimpse of long white hair. �Is that
Father? Is he back from hospital?�

�Up
to your room,� Pansy said sharply.

�Where
is he?� Harry asked again, more desperately. Pansy sighed.

�I
promised I would never tell you,� she said softly. �He�s dying Potter. He�s at
St. Sebastien�s in treatment.�
- 4
- 5
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The Inheritance