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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.

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Chapter Five—Dancing on the Brink

            This time, when he opened his eyes in his office and saw the window before him, Harry knew he was in the midst of a dream. And he decided to ignore the images that formed outside the window, because he knew what they would be, and they had nothing to offer him in the way of escape.

            He turned his back to the window and searched through his office instead. The names on the top files were unfamiliar. Harry tensed. Had Robards replaced him with someone else already? More to the point, could he trust this room to be a faithful reflection of the reality?

            He reached out to grasp the nearest file, hoping it would be able to tell him what was going on if he read through it—

            The air shimmered and blazed in front of him, and the window manifested.

            Harry reached for his wand, and then remembered he was dreaming and stopped. What enemy, exactly, would he launch a curse at? He could try one, he reckoned, but there was no guarantee that it would touch Malfoy, and there was no one else he was interested in cursing at the moment.

            He turned his back again, and again the window appeared in front of him. Harry turned to face each point of the compass, and it happened each time.

            Harry sighed in disgust and folded his arms, considering. If there was a chance that he could learn more by examining the files in this office, he reckoned he wouldn’t be able to until he had looked out the window.

            So that was what he did. He braced himself for another sight of Fox Valley and Malfoy strolling along the street, though why Malfoy thought he would be converted by seeing that, Harry had no idea.

            But this time the window showed him a sunlit scene. Malfoy knelt beside a small hill, his head bowed. Harry raised his eyebrows. He wouldn’t have taken Malfoy for the prayerful type.

            The scene shifted as if in answer, so that Harry was looking at it from an angle and could see what Malfoy’s body had obscured before: a single white stone with an inscription on it, a name—Eliza Travit—and the line, She died defending her chosen lord.

            Malfoy murmured something Harry couldn’t hear and held up a pouch. From the way it swayed and clinked, Harry was sure it was full of Galleons. Malfoy cast a spell that lifted a chunk of the grass and earth from the grave mound and placed the bag of Galleons inside it. Another spell sealed the earth over the top of it.

            Malfoy rose to his feet. His face was sober. He traced one hand down the front of the grave, staring at nothing. Then he studied the inscription, and his mouth curved into a bitter, mocking smile.

            “If only that was true,” he whispered. “But you never chose me to be your lord, did you? I gave you the Mark, and from that point on you had no choice.”

            He hesitated, then shook his head and straightened up, as though he was worried about who might see him here, acting soft. “You should know that you did not die in vain,” he said harshly. “I secured the valley that we were trying to create, and the man who killed you suffered before he died.” He nodded to the patch of grass he had just placed back in the grave. “That pouch holds the money he was trying to cost us, as well as that which he most prized.” A different smile flicked across his lips. “After I cut that off, he begged me to kill him.”

            He clenched his fists in front of him, still staring at the grave. Harry watched as his nostrils fluttered and breaths broke from him as if he was resisting the temptation to shout.

            Then he said, “Good-bye, Eliza,” turned on one heel, and Apparated. Harry was gazing at the smooth surface of a blank window once more.

            And then he woke up, staring at his ceiling, although the dream blazed strongly enough in his mind that Harry suspected he wouldn’t forget it.

            What was all that about? Harry rolled over, running a hand through his hair. It dangled, shaggy, into the front of his eyes, and he wondered what Hermione would have to say about that, before remembering he hadn’t seen her in two years and she had no idea what was happening with him right now. As if I needed confirmation that Malfoy was a torturer and a slaver.

            But he suspected that he knew what Malfoy had meant to show him—which didn’t necessarily mean it was easy to shore up his defenses against it.

            He mourns the dead. He feels sorry for his slaves when they fall. He’ll sacrifice money for them, which I thought was his main interest besides power, and he’ll take revenge for them.

            Harry sat upright and began going through some of his morning stretches, while he kept his head bowed and tried to pour clear water over the muddy thoughts in his mind.

            So what? Normal people will do things like that, too. Normal people care more about the people they love than about money. And Eliza wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place, she wouldn’t have died, if not for Malfoy. He acknowledged his guilt himself.

            That last thought only made Harry more uncomfortable, though, because he hadn’t thought Malfoy could acknowledge guilt. He flipped himself over, linking his arms together behind his back and bringing them down towards his ankles. It was an exercise he practiced partially to keep himself limber and partially because one never knew when one might be bound in such a position.

            But he knew why that particular image had disconcerted him so much, and the realization came to the surface despite all the attempts he made to keep it down.

            That’s me.

            He had taken revenge for fallen Aurors, including Aurors who had been considered heroes rather than victims. He had buried bits of their killers’ bodies with them, though he had cut them off only after they were dead.

            But how often had he stood in front of a grave like that, mourning, contented with his vengeance, and yet knowing that nothing he did could bring anyone back, and that they might even be appalled by the means he chose to honor them? He had felt as alone as Malfoy looked.

            Harry shuddered all over and sat up, combing his fingers through his hair. Careful, Harry. That’s the road to sympathizing with Malfoy and falling in lust with him the way he wants you to do. It can’t end well.

            But considering what he had to do today, it was nothing. Harry closed his eyes and began breathing deeply to settle his stomach. He didn’t want to vomit all over Malfoy with disgust and ruin his deception.

*

            When Draco found himself in front of the moonlit windows, he walked over to them eagerly. He didn’t know if he would see another scene as erotic as last night’s, but he did like the feeling of knowing more about Potter.

            This time, the scene was also indoors, but a single room rather than a corridor. A large fireplace dominated the chamber, sprawling along the wall and shedding heat that Draco could almost feel. The flames were more than enough to permit him to see three plush chairs, a couch, and numerous small tables crowded together, although there were no other lights in the room.

            Potter was bound to one of the chairs, with ropes that ran over his arms, neck, chest, and legs. He was gagged, and his eyes glittered with fury as he struggled.

            That was all. There was no one standing next to him, torturing him, or laughing a maniacal laugh. The one door Draco could see was shut. The walls weren’t obliging enough to offer clues in the forms of signs, nameplates, or unusual material. Nothing existed except Potter and his bonds.

            In silent bafflement, and some disappointment that he wouldn’t get to wank, Draco watched Potter writhe. He reckoned he could get some idea of how Potter writhed in the bedroom from this if he really tried, but it wouldn’t be worth the imagination invested.

            Then Potter closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate, and the gag burst apart in a series of popping sparks. Draco jumped. He had never seen someone use wandless magic that precise without damage.

            And indeed, he saw when Potter lifted his head, there had been damage. The sparks had burned his lips and tongue. But still, Potter grinned madly and shook his head chidingly at the blacked remains of the gag on the floor.

            “Lesson one,” Potter whispered. “You shouldn’t have tried to bind me. No one should ever try to bind me.”

            The dream ended there, which left Draco more disappointed than before, because he would have liked to see how Potter escaped. But as he slowly sat up in bed, he thought he understood the point.

            Potter valued his freedom before all else. It was no wonder he hated the Mark on his arm so much, no wonder that he had seemed willing to die rather than yield when he was fighting Draco’s Marked ones.

            But that only led to another problem, Draco decided, lying in his warm bed and thinking how much warmer it would be with someone beside him. If he freed Potter, Potter would immediately turn on him. He wouldn’t be grateful for his freedom. He wouldn’t think it was a sign that Draco could change. He would believe he had intimidated Draco into doing it, and press the advantage as hard as he could.

            So Draco needed to come up with a strategy that would offer Potter some freedom while at the same time keeping him fascinated and intrigued.

            It took Draco approximately three minutes to do that once he recognized the need. He held out his arm, stroking the place where the Mark would have been if he had one, and smiled into the mirror.

            I really am too good.

*

            Harry had braced himself for what he had to do, but that couldn’t prevent him from gagging when he stepped into Malfoy’s office and saw the git facing the mirror that hung on the wall, staring at his reflection. He’s vain all the time, isn’t he? There’s no break, no gap.

            “Come here, Harry,” Malfoy said in a neutral voice, as if this wasn’t a command at all.

            Which was bollocks, because they both knew that Malfoy would drag Harry by his “leash” if he didn’t get the response he wanted. Harry grimaced and walked over to him, anyway. More than ever, he had to dance on the line between subtle rebellion and outright disobedience, and convince Malfoy that Malfoy was winning him over in spite of himself.

            “What is it?” he asked, as he stood next to Malfoy. Malfoy turned his head and gave him a small smile. It resembled the smile Malfoy had given in his dream. Harry stiffened his muscles against acknowledging that and restricted himself to a single raised eyebrow, silently urging Malfoy to get to the point.

            He had to do it, too. But as yet, he couldn’t force his hand to move as it would have to.

            “I’m going to teach you to draw magic out of the mirror,” Malfoy said. “To collect and use the power for yourself. Of course, I’ll set a few restrictions on the way that you can use it. But you should feel honored. There’s no other Marked one that I’ve let approach this.”

            Harry stared at him. This fit in so perfectly with his own plan that he couldn’t breathe, and he hadn’t even hadto touch Malfoy or pretend that he was falling for his seduction.

            What was going on?

            He understood a moment later, though, when Malfoy gave him an unsubtle look from the corner of his eye, which he probably thought was as subtle as Dumbledore’s battle-plans. This was another way to seduce Harry, to get him involved in the process of evil that Malfoy’s mirrors facilitated and make him betray himself. Those words about Harry feeling honored clinched it.

            And the hell of it was, Harry had no choice but to pretend he accepted that honor and go along with it. He would need the stored magic for his escape plan, and this was less risky than stealing it.

            Gritting his back teeth, far enough back that he hoped Malfoy wouldn’t be able to see a single sign of his reluctance, Harry lowered his eyes and murmured, “You honor me too much, don’t you think?”

            “No,” Malfoy said, his voice warm and very close to Harry’s ear. “I don’t think so at all.”

            His hand brushed Harry’s back, and he angled his arm so that it touched more of Harry—his shoulder, his neck. Harry knew his muscled body would be a few inches behind that, and Malfoy could—he wanted—

            What he wanted made Harry sick to think about. But once again, he had to dance on the line and go along with it as far as he could, as long as he could keep the knowledge of what Malfoy was really up to (enslaving and using him) in mind and not start thinking about understanding or pleasure or any of the other things that Malfoy wanted him to think about.

            Consciously, holding down the part of his soul that would rather have died than do this, Harry let himself lean back into Malfoy’s touch. He heard Malfoy’s choked, gasping breath, and he swallowed. But he continued to lean.

            Malfoy’s arm curved around his back. Harry bit his lip savagely, concentrating on the sting of pain so that he could resist the temptation to be sick, and then looked up through lowered lashes into Malfoy’s eyes.

            They blazed.

            Harry stared. He had expected to see triumph there, not desire. What Malfoy wanted was Harry’s surrender before anything else. He had told Harry that. The seduction games were part of his strategy. Why was he looking as if what he wanted more than anything was to fuck Harry?

            The moment stretched between them as they stood there, locked eye to eye, Malfoy’s arm tightening around Harry and pulling him slowly closer and closer, Harry’s body twitching with involuntary flinches while his flesh prickled with goosebumps.

            Harry broke first. He twisted back, his hands clenched at his sides, and stood free of Malfoy, though less than a foot away, shivering. He tried to tell himself that he had made the decision for a good reason. Malfoy would be suspicious if Harry yielded too fast. That was what Harry had told himself all along, as he tried to make Malfoy trust him while not losing his conscience to the git’s ploys.

            It could be that, said a voice in his head that sounded like Robards’s. Or it could be that your nerve failed.

            Harry bit down on his lip again and said to Malfoy, letting his voice waver as it wanted to, “Y-your offer is generous. I’ll take it.”

*

            Draco’s body was on fire.

            He had heard people say that before, and he had always laughed them off as hopeless exaggerators. He’d felt the bite of fire several times, mostly from defensive wards around books and homes, when he was hunting the secrets of mirror magic, and no merely sexual sensation could compare to it. The people who made the most ardent claims for their lovers would still run away from flames faster than they would leap into bed.

            But now, he knew what they meant.

            His throat ached as though he’d been breathing in smoke. His knees vibrated. His eyes might have gone without tears for a month. His hands, the bones in his hands, were made of fire below the skin. The fire could be quenched, but only if he could act, touch, taste, hold, fuck.

            He saw the same signs in Potter’s eyes, the way he subtly squirmed on his feet, the impressions his nails left in his palms, and the gentle interruption of his robes at his groin. Draco nearly whimpered. If he reached out, if he used the right mixture of force and cunning, he could have Potter, and ease the flames.

            But Potter was the one who had pulled free, and he had spoken about Draco’s offer rather than Draco’s bed. Draco had to remember that. Potter would still hesitate, still jump backwards if he pushed too fast. So he reined in his lust and spoke with the same neutral voice he’d used to give his command.

            “Very well,” he said, and couldn’t resist a slight tease as he stepped back up to the mirrors. “No qualms about the magic being drained from people who didn’t consent to it?”

            He had reason to be glad that he was looking at Potter and not at the mirror. Potter blinked, once. His eyebrows twitched, once.

            He hadn’t thought about that.

            Draco was returned to the edge of burning, impatient flame-riding in an instant. Potter had actually forgotten about his moral objections in the pursuit of lust. Disgust, hatred, his duty as an Auror, even longing for his precious freedom, had all been consumed in his fascination with Draco’s body.

            God, he could take Potter right here on the floor.

            Draco almost reached out, but Potter squinted his eyes shut, turned his head away, and said in a voice as thin as a shard of glass, “If you feel that way about it, maybe I should leave.”

            “I didn’t give you permission,” Draco snapped, and then could kick himself as Potter’s eyes snapped open and he gave Draco a normal glare again. He had been trying to make Potter forget that Draco held his Mark. Now, in a single moment, half his progress was undone and Potter returned to loathing.

            “May I have permission, Lord Malfoy?”

            It was the first time Potter had used the title that Draco demanded from his other Marked ones, and in an instant Draco knew he never wanted to hear it from Potter’s lips again. It wasn’t just the mocking tone he inflected it with, either. It sounded…

            It sounded wrong.

            “You can go when you call me by my name,” Draco said, and realized his voice sounded hoarse, and didn’t care. He was reacting on pure instinct at the moment, something he hadn’t done in years. He moved a step forwards, noting the sudden stillness along the edges of Potter’s face. He was readying himself to strike if he needed to.

            And Draco didn’t care.

            “I just did,” Potter said, his eyes shifting as if he didn’t know whether he should look at Draco or the door behind him. “Lord Malfoy.”

            “Not that,” Draco whispered. “Not that.” He couldn’t say more, but he had never thought Potter was stupid, simply refusing to exercise his intelligence. He would understand what Draco meant.

            A frown pinched Potter’s forehead. “Malfoy?”

            Had he been less desperate, Draco would have laughed. Perhaps he would have to revise his opinion of Potter’s intelligence.

            “My other name,” he said, and then had to shake his head when Potter continued staring at him. There was no way he could speak through the choking sensation in his throat. He reached out, his fingers splayed, having the absurd idea that he could somehow hurry out the word he needed to hear if he touched Potter.

            And then Potter said it.

            “Draco.”

            The choking sensation in Draco’s throat vanished. His hand dropped as he sagged with relief, and though it meant he lost the chance to feel Potter’s skin beneath his fingers again, he told himself that was a good thing. Potter would have been skittish if Draco touched him now, and Draco wanted to enjoy the same passionate trembling he had felt last time, rather than mere toleration.

            Or something even better, he thought, eyes locked on Potter’s, as the throb that had haunted his arm after the dreams, the throb where the Mark would have been if he’d borne one, started up again.

            Potter’s hand flew to his Mark, eyes widening. It was Draco’s first solid confirmation that Potter was having the same dreams that he was. High-flying, dizzy with desire, lustful and giddy, he took a risk.

            “My dreams of you are teaching me so much,” he whispered. “How much you love freedom, how powerful you are, how Dark you can be. Are the images you see of me teaching you about me?”

            Potter bristled all over, his eyes widening and his teeth parting in a hiss like a cat’s. “You ought to know, Malfoy,” he said, “since you’re the one sending them to me.”

            Hearing his last name from Potter’s lips was like a physical blow. Draco pressed nearer, lost to the sense of how foolish this was, only wanting an answer.

            Well, he wanted other things, too. But out of the ones that Potter was likely to give him right now, he only wanted an answer.

            “I’m not sending them,” he said. “Why would I want to give you the ability to spy on me, or feel what I’m feeling? I’m more powerful if I remain enigmatic. But I’m having them, and I can see you in my dreams, and that’s what I yearn for.” He and Potter were as near each other as they’d been when he was holding Potter. If Draco breathed deeply, their chests would touch. “What do you see?”

            Potter clenched his hands into fists. He said nothing for long moments, but Draco knew he was going to say something. He held his breath.

*

            Harry was trembling.

            This was the kind of opportunity he’d been waiting for. If Malfoy was ever near giving in and letting Harry take what he wanted, it was now. Harry could ask for power, and he thought it would be given.

            But if he went too far, he could lose himself.

            Harry didn’t underestimate the thick cord of lust that thrummed between them now. It could draw them together in a way that would bind him even after he had what he wanted. Go too far, and he might not want to flee by the time that a chance came along.

            But…

            Rebel now, and he could remain a slave forever, Malfoy’s plaything, tortured and not trusted enough for anything more.

            As he had done in the past when he killed a Dark wizard outside the confines of the law, Harry took a willing step into the darkness.

            He leaned in until his breath touched Malfoy’s chin and whispered, “I see you looking human. Mourning the dead. Admiring your work. I didn’t know you could do that.”

            Malfoy’s breath escaped in a moan that sounded almost anguished. He cupped Harry’s chin and leaned in.

            Harry held his own breath throughout the kiss, which was desperate and hurtful and frenzied. When Malfoy’s tongue asked for entrance to his mouth, Harry permitted it. And he concentrated on the mirror on the wall, through which Malfoy watched and drained his victims, rather than the salty, vaguely musky taste that flooded him when Malfoy’s tongue touched his.

            Malfoy released him and stood looking at him with bright eyes. Harry had never seduced someone exactly like this, but he knew instinctively what would be best.

            He gave Malfoy a slightly mocking smile, bowed, held his breath again to conceal any outward signs of excitement, and then walked towards the door.

            He could feel Malfoy staring at his back in disbelief, but he didn’t look around or slow down, and Malfoy didn’t call him back and demand that Harry ask for permission or call him by his given name.

            He’ll want to win me more than ever. But I’m going to win.

            I have to.

*

            Draco was on fire again, and this time his lungs burned, too, and his chest, and his motions felt thick and heavy with need, as though he were fighting through water. He locked his door and began to wank, but that barely eased the fire. Nothing would until he could fuck Potter, he thought.

            As he came, his mind was not on the pleasure, but on Potter’s unaffected, cool smile, and the way that he had been able to hold himself back form the kiss. Of course, Draco would end that very shortly and bring Potter to his bed.

            I have to.

*

            polka dot: Some Aurors would have, but Robards fed them a cover story. He’s the only one who knew where Harry went, and the one who received the single message Harry tried to send, since at the time he sent it Harry didn’t suspect him.

            Clau: It is very hard, especially now that Draco is thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

            k lave demo: Good to see you again!

            Harry’s guilt is probably a defense against his darkness, though he also is afraid that it may not be strong enough, since he keeps worrying about being attracted to/seduced by Draco.

            SP777: I haven’t seen that movie, no.

            I don’t often write about a Harry or Draco who are separated by more obstacles than exist in canon. If anything, I usually lessen them. I think that makes this story more tense.

            angelmuziq: Thanks! The main problem with writing a fic like the one you asked for, at least now, is that I don’t know how plausible it would be to make Harry go completely Dark. I find the justifications usually used in stories like that extremely weak.

            thrnbrooke: Thanks!

            Night the Storyteller: At the moment, no one but Draco knows how Harry is reacting to him. As far as Lisa and the rest realize, Harry is still in the stubborn denial stage, and they’re trying their best to convince him to yield.
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Wolf in the Making