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Under the Manor	By : WillGirl Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13318 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I make no claims to Harry Potter, either books or movies, and all rights belong to JKR. No money or other recompense is being made from this story.

Chapter List
- 6
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- 8
Harry Potter was not, however, particularly good at silence. He had spent ten years avoiding being heard or noticed, and then he had met his fellow Gryffindors, and all the Weasleys. He was not, anymore, used to silence, and he did not bear it well, these days.

He glanced sideways at Malfoy and saw that though the man’s eyes were closed, the rhythm of his rising and falling chest was not quite the slow, regular motion of sleep; Harry could speak without waking him.

“So, where did you learn all that?” Harry asked.

“All what?” murmured Draco, barely paying attention. His eyes stayed closed.

“You said you knew more, now,” Harry said. “Like about the, er...aloe, and stuff. Where did you learn it?”

“Oh, from Blaise,” Draco replied distractedly. His eyes flickered open so that he could roll them in exasperation. “You wouldn’t believe the grief the bastard gave me when he told me where I’d gone wrong with you that first time.”

Harry sat up, eyes wide. “You told Blaise Zabini about—”

“Merlin, Potter, calm yourself,” Draco interrupted scornfully. “I didn’t tell him anything about you,” he said. “I told him what they’d forced me to do, I never mentioned who with.” The disgust was back on his face, and he was frowning in disbelief. “You honestly think I’d have told him that part?”

“Oh,” said Harry, relaxing slowly. “Sorry, I just...okay.”

“Overreacted?” Draco asked, rolling his eyes. “What a surprise...”

“I said I was sorry,” Harry muttered.

Draco snorted and they were silent for another long minute, until Harry spoke again:

“So, uh...you and Blaise...um...you’re...?”

“We’re what?” Draco asked disinterestedly.

“Has he...I mean...have the two of you...”

“Have we what?” Draco asked again, sounding very bored now.

“Well, have you two...you know...this?”

Draco glanced over, one eyebrow arched. “No,” he said flatly, “certainly not.” Then the smirk was back, that impossibly arrogant smirk that made Harry want to hit the other man. “Not that Blaise would object, mind you,” he said smugly. “He’s made that much clear for years.”

“Wait...Blaise Zabini...fancies you?”

Draco nodded, as if it were an everyday matter, to know that one of your closest friends was lusting after your body, and to discuss it with someone who was quite nearly an enemy. “Of course,” said Draco easily, “it’s hardly a secret.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He frowned and thought. “So, wait...you know he wants you, and you still told him about...you know...with another man?”

Draco shrugged, and the cold mask was back, but his eyes held the shadows that Harry recognized so well. “I thought it might help to talk about it with someone,” he said quietly, “and I knew Blaise wouldn’t...overreact. I mean, it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing I could talk about with Greg or—” He bit his lip and turned away.

“Ah,” said Harry, striving to sound calm and unaffected.

He hadn’t told anyone about what had happened between he and Draco down in the cellar all those years ago; had never even dared to hint at what had happened. He certainly would never be able to bring himself to tell Ron or Hermione, or especially Ginny. He hadn’t even discussed the logistics with Charlie Weasley, and Harry knew that Charlie was familiar with those. Of course, it wasn’t the basic logistics of sex with another man that had so thrown Harry, but rather his sick enjoyment of the unwilling violation, and that he could never have talked about with anyone.

Except, of course, for Draco, but Draco had been there. He already knew.

“So Zabini, um...he told you about, er, about how the, ah, you know, everything with the...”

“Yes, Potter,” Draco said, and snorted. “Merlin, you sound like a blushing teenager.”

“Shut-up,” Harry muttered, his pale cheeks flaming. It suddenly occurred to Harry that he was still naked and, for the first time, that fact embarrassed him. He edged slightly away from Draco, glad that the bed was so opulent and large. There was room for him to retreat without having to outright run away.

Harry winced, his movement making strained, savaged muscles ache. He smiled and sank back into the pillows, luxuriating in the dull, delightful agony. Harry squirmed a bit, relishing his soreness; relishing the lingering echo of Draco Malfoy deep inside.

Then he froze. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to relish that. His sick, twisted little...whatever it was; it wasn’t an attraction, certainly not, but whatever it was, it was supposed to be over.

Out of his system.

Done.

Harry groaned.

“Now what, Potter?” Draco asked, amusement warring tiredly with exasperation in his drawling tones.

“Nothing,” Harry muttered, and flung his arm over his eyes to shut out the sight of Draco Malfoy and his elegant bedroom. Draco gave a vague, noncommittal murmur, and Harry wondered if he was going to fall asleep and, if he did, what Harry would do about it. He couldn’t very well Apparate out through the Malfoys’ wards, and he wasn’t going to go wandering through the Manor on foot, looking for the exit. He couldn’t leave unless Draco let him, but if he fell asleep, would Harry have the will to wake him up? What if he was trapped here until morning? He couldn’t possibly risk staying here that long, but he couldn’t get out without Draco’s help...

There was movement on the other side of the bed but Harry resolutely ignored it. He wasn’t going to look; he wasn’t going to want.

Eventually Draco stilled, done with whatever it was he had been doing—that Harry had not looked at—and then something cool and hard bumped Harry’s hand.

“There you are, Potter.”

Harry looked up and saw a tall goblet being held near his face. He sat up gingerly—trying not to enjoy the way his body protested the movement; trying to ignore the delightful shiver of pain that trickled through him as he shifted on the bed—and took the glass.

“Er. Thanks,” he said.

Draco was wearing that silvery robe again, lounging calmly as he sipped at his own glass. He looked very cool, and comfortable, and definitely not naked.

Harry shifted awkwardly, wondering if it would look completely ridiculous if he used a pillow to cover his groin.

Draco snorted and grabbed Harry’s wand again. Harry scowled, but did not protest. Draco flicked the precious holly shaft and a door of one of the large wardrobes swung open at his wordless summons, a robe soaring across the room to join them on the bed.

Harry shrugged into it grudgingly, grumpy at being grateful. “Thanks,” he muttered, yanking the silky fabric up over his shoulders and cinching it tightly around his waist. It was a deep green that did not, exactly, match Harry’s eyes.

Harry wondered if all of Draco’s clothing came in Slytherin colors, or if he had chosen that robe particularly because he was amused at the idea of forcing a Gryffindor lion to wear green, and maybe also for the way it matched Harry’s eyes. Malfoy was, Harry knew, a bit ridiculous about aesthetics; it could have been no more than that...

But Harry had a feeling that Draco just liked making Harry Potter dress like a snake.

He sipped his drink just so that he would have something to do. It was a strong, heady beverage that burned like smoked honey and exotic spices on his tongue, and went down like smooth syrup. Harry drank some more.

“You should tell the Weaselette you like it rough,” Draco said suddenly, making Harry choke on his liquor.

“What?” he gasped.

“Oh, sorry,” said Draco, not sounding it. “I meant that girl whose name I’m not allowed to say—you should tell her. She might be willing.” He shrugged, with a slight, wicked smile playing over his thin lips. “I mean, she is a Weasley, they’re all a bit rough-and-tumble anyway...”

“Don’t you—don’t talk about Ginny!” Harry snarled. His face felt like it was on fire but Draco just smirked coolly.

“Sorry,” he drawled, which he so very clearly wasn’t.

Harry sank back down on the pillows sulkily, nursing his drink and not caring if he looked petulant. He wished, quite suddenly, that Draco was not lying between him and his wand.

“Still,” Draco drawled, “I suppose she wouldn’t be much help if it’s not just the intensity that appeals to you so much about what we were doing...”

Harry made a strangled noise.

“But she does have plenty of brothers,” Draco continued. “No doubt the Weasel himself would be able to help you out, and if not, there are plenty of others...”

“Go fuck yourself, Malfoy,” Harry growled, clambering off the wide bed.

“Really?” Draco asked innocently. “Is that who you want me to fuck?”

“Just shut-up,” Harry said, “just...shut-up.”

Malfoy snickered. Harry turned his back and yanked his clothes back on roughly. He left the silky green robe in a messy pile on the floor and grabbed his wand off the dresser, resolutely not looking at Draco even when when he came within an arm’s-reach of the other man.

Harry stomped away, only stopping grudgingly with his hand on the doorknob when Draco called to him to wait.

“What,” Harry growled, not turning around.

“I'll take you home, Potter, calm down. There’s no sense you wandering through the Manor like a lost kitten in a labyrinth, startling mother and father and causing who knows what kind of trouble...”

Draco slid into his slippers but didn’t bother to get dressed, just cinched the loose robe tighter around his skinny waist. Harry tried not to notice the way the moonlight fell on his hair, or the way the slinky fabric clung to his shoulders, but couldn’t quite manage it. He looked resolutely away.

Malfoy plucked his own wand out of the pocket of his neatly-folded clothes and walked over to Harry. He was smirking as he held out his arm—the left one this time, Harry noticed. Harry grasped it with ill-grace, refusing to meet Draco’s eyes, or dignify his smirk with speech.

Draco chuckled, they turned in the air, and heavy blackness pressed in on Harry from all sides. He tightened his grip around the smooth fabric under his fingers, and knew that it was only his imagination that he could feel the scars beneath. After a moment he could breathe again, and looked around to find himself on the front stoop of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

“How...how did you know where...”

“Came here once or twice as a child,” Draco replied. He smoothly disentangled himself from Harry’s arm without another word and then, with a hollow, echoing CRACK, he was suddenly gone.

Harry stood for a long moment alone in the night. The moonlight was harsh and bright on the cold street, and the wind so dead that not even the bushes whispered. He ran a hand through his messy hair, and sighed, and slowly he walked inside.
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Under the Manor