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A Valentine's Day Massacre	By : pittwitch Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 11108 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Chapter 7

~* Cinderella Must Get to the Ball *~

I woke the next morning to Ginny gently combing her fingers through my hair.

“I thought you were staying with Neville?” she asked curiously.

My heart skipped three beats, and I bought time with a yawn and a stretch.

“I wanted to check on you.” I grinned at her as I sat up, pulling her into my lap. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very.” Ginny smiled at me, the hint of blue in her lips of great concern to me.

“Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?” I played with her hair now. She rested her head against my shoulder.

“I could eat.” My own ability to carry on as normal stunned me.

Just a few short hours before, I submitted to the most intense, excruciating gratification I had ever experienced. Yet, I watched myself as if through a fog; my body carried on as if on autopilot, the perfect hero-husband to the perfect adoring wife. The next few days flowed together seamlessly, yet the night of the Yule Ball remained fresh in the darker recesses of my mind.

Three days later, as I sat at my desk, rereading the list of gifts Ginny had created for our children, an eagle owl landed on the windowsill and tapped at the pane. I looked at the three names across the top of the scroll: James, Albus, Lily and each of the three items listed underneath the name before I returned my attention to the demanding messenger bird. With a flick of my wand, the sash rose, followed by the window, and the bird propelled itself forward to land on the convenient roost on the corner of my desk. Its beady little eyes scrutinized the mass of scrolls and parchments strewn across its surface. It offered me its leg with the scroll attached with a silver ribbon, a pretentious stylized ‘M’ pressed into the green wax. I snapped the wax, and unfurled the parchment. Dead center, in dark ebony ink, seeped against pristine ivory, was one word scrawled in purposeful letters: Lunch. No signature graced the bottom edge, no niceties like a friendly greeting, nothing but one word, a command even, not a request. I ground my teeth together, dipped my quill in my own ink, and scratched only one word underneath his: No. I watched the haughty bird take flight then left to finish my holiday shopping.

Three days later, Ginny, Lily, and I stood on platform nine and three-quarters once more to retrieve the boys. Our happy reunion was marred for me only by the chilling presence of two Malfoy men waiting for the newest heir. That bastard Draco didn’t even bother to turn his head and nod in my direction. He stood still, a perfect carbon copy of his father, as a third copy sauntered up to them happily. Neither Draco nor Lucius bothered to embrace Scorpius; they simply flanked him and made their exit. I half-listened as all of the assembled children chattered merrily to their mothers, their excitement of the holidays mingling with the joy of being home, even if they themselves didn’t recognize their own joy.

“I need a new gown, Mum.” Rose’s voice pierced my daydreaming.

I heard Hermione murmur noncommittally.

“A new gown for what, Rose-red?” I turned to look at my niece, her nickname falling out of my heart.

“The New Year’s Eve Ball at Scorpius’ house.” She looked at me as if I had grown a second nose or something, as if it were perfectly obvious.

Certainly, if I had been paying any true attention to their yammering, I would have known.

“Ah, I see,” I, too, murmured noncommittally, my eyes on Hermione, who reflected my own doubts back at me.

“It’s going to be glorious, Uncle Harry,” Rose raved, thrilled over her own visions of grandeur.

“I’m sure.” I smiled at her, then shepherded the whole brood out of the station, with no backward glances.

Three days later, we all gathered around the table at the Burrow, stacks of presents under the Christmas tree, and a feast spread before us. We held hands, bowed our heads, and remembered each of the people who wouldn’t be joining us for any more holidays. George’s merry, mischievous twinkle sobered to a blue haze. We sat with our heads bowed respectfully in a maudlin memorial silence for only a few minutes before Molly started passing platters. The joyful clink and tinkling of utensils against plates and voices all talking over each other raised all our spirits.

Three days following that, with a wistful expression on his face, James entered my study, sliding into the dark leather chair next to my desk where his mother usually sat when she wanted to talk to me.

“Dad, Scorpius isn’t going to invite us to the Ball, is he?” His voice was sober, calm, and so much like my own.

“I don’t think so, James. I don’t think he can,” I answered him truthfully, pushing my glasses back up my nose.

“Rose is going to be so upset.”

“Most likely.” I watched his reaction.

James stared at me, then nodded. “I’ll take care of her, Dad.”

“We all will.”

He smiled at me sadly and eased out of my office. I sat and stared at the door, disheartened for my children, for my family, for those who still hadn’t learned. A sharp rap against the glass woke me. That same stupid eagle owl sat on my windowsill glaring at me. I let the damn thing in, hoping for Rose’s sake that the fucking thing bore an invitation. Oh, and it did, just not one for her – only for me. I Apparated to the guest house at Malfoy Manor, one wand in my hand, another clenched tightly in my fist buried deep in my pocket. A little green house-elf met me in the foyer, asking for my cloak.

“In here, Potter,” Draco called out from the dining room.

Warily, I entered to find him sitting at the table, which was already set, reading over a rather long parchment. His upper lip curled in the faintest hint of a smile. “Have a seat.” He didn’t even look up at me.

“No, thank you, Malfoy,” I snarled, fingers clenching tighter around the comfort of my wand.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, setting the parchment aside. “But you do know it is rude to eat while standing.” He cast his eyes at me to catch my reaction, a very condescending sneer on his face.

I snorted, releasing my back-up wand and easing my hand from my pocket. “What do you want?”

“Lunch. I thought that was obvious.” He motioned to the chair next to him. “Really, Potter, sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

“Good, you prat,” I snarled, and for some unfathomable reason, I sheathed my wand.

“Prat? Now why am I a prat?” He finally turned to look me full in the eye. His normally masked eyes glittered gleefully.

“The Ball – Scorpius – Rose? Ring any bells for you?” I used all of my reserves not to shout at him.

“OH! That. I thought maybe you were talking about the last time we graced this table.” He smiled at me as he alluded to that night, to what he did to me, what I allowed him to do. The light in his usually deadened eyes told me that he was baiting me.

I struggled mightily not to rise out of my murky waters and snap at the bait; I was not a prize fish, after all.

“There was no grace in that,” I answered dully, trying not to feel.

“Hmmm…” He tipped his chair back from the table, leaning one elbow on the top in a deliberate display of vulgar manners, and purred at me, “I think there was grace.”

“You would.” My disloyal body settled in the chair. What the hell?

Casually, he reached for his knife and fork; he was so polished, even in the most mundane of movements. He cut into the chicken breast on his plate, lifting the succulent white meat portion to his lips.

Mesmerized in horrid fascination once more, I stared at his fingers as they propelled the gleaming fork to his lips; fuck, I wanted to feel those lips once more. I wanted those lips stretched around me, not some bloody fork. I wanted him to eat me, not lunch, and I could scarcely believe I had just admitted that to myself. I licked my own lips just as he deigned to glance at me once more.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry, Harry?”

I stuttered; of all the bloody stupid things to do, I stuttered. “N-n-n-o.”

A near feral gleam glowed from those gray eyes then.

He leaned ever closer, practically whispering his next words, “Oh, I think you are.” He sprang to his feet, spinning my chair to face him. He trapped me there with his hands on both sides of the curled wooden arms. He bent forward so much that his hair fell across his face, brushing my cheek. I swore our noses touched.

“I’m not hungry, Malfoy,” I vainly attempted to protest. My voice sounded strange even to my own ears: husky, needy, lower pitched than usual.

He attacked me then, clamping my wrists to the arms of the chair, plundering my lips even as I tried to turn away, to fight, to speak. He bit my lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck off, Draco!” I screamed into his face, millimeters from mine.

“Make me.”

My jaw fell slack. He pounced once again, kissing me soundly, his tongue sliding over my abused lip, gathering the leaking blood, sharing my taste with me. The metallic flavor in both our mouths covered the faint hint of wine from his tongue.

“Well, Potter?” He broke away, but not far.

“Well, what, Malfoy?” I panted back.

“Are you going to make me?” he drawled, still holding my hands tightly to the chair. He straddled my knees, pushing them together, then sat on my lap, pushed his bottom lip out in a pout, and purred, “C’mon, Harry. Let me be your puppy.”

“Eat me, Draco,” I retorted vehemently.

Fucking Merlin on ice skates, he would have taken that seriously. He smirked as he glided off my lap to his knees, parting mine to settle between them. His eyes were alight with a fire I had never seen before then. He unbuttoned my pants, sliding the zip down with a very slow drag, nearly pausing after each little click of the teeth. He watched my eyes the entire time.

Damn, damn, damn. I was already rock-hard and leaking.

Reverently, he lifted my sacs over the material, then began nibbling softly with guarded teeth, and so much tongue, a flickering, moist, tantalizing tongue as a complement to those teeth, eating me – my entire length, my shaft, the vein, the ridge around my flange, my head – all of me. His fingers kneaded softly in just the right place. When he reached the very tip of me, he tore his eyes from mine and plunged his entire mouth over me, impaling himself. I arched off the velvet cushion of the chair as end of my cock struck the back of his throat. I think I screamed. I unloaded in his throat, my entire being thrumming with pleasure as I pumped into him. He pulled off my flagging cock, still smiling. He watched me as he made a show of licking his lips.

Hurriedly, I tucked my important bits away, zipping, and buttoning my pants as my face flamed red. I broke away from his unabashed gaze, utterly amazed at my lack of struggle once more.

He resettled in his own chair, picked up two dark green vellum envelopes and handed them to me. In flowing silver ink, they each read in turn, Mr. and Mrs. Ronald B. Weasley and Family and Mr. and Mrs. Harry J. Potter and Family.

“There. Now, was that so difficult?” he mocked me as he continued eating his lunch, watching me from the corner of his eye as if this were some new test of my mettle.

I didn’t deign to answer, simply laid down the invitations, picked up the linen napkin, spread it over my lap, and began to eat as well.

“Formal dress, Potter,” he commented casually between bites.

“Of course, Malfoy,” I answered smoothly, dining on the food he had offered me as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened between us.

“You’re learning, Potter. You’re learning.”
- 6
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- 8
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A Valentine's Day Massacre