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Dragon Noir	By : agelessdrake Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1949 -:- 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
- 8
- 9
"Dream if you can a courtyard
An ocean of violets in bloom
Animals strike curious poses
They feel the heat
The heat between me and you."
~When Doves Cry, Prince

Chapter Eight~
The Malfoy Manor stood proud and dark near the foot of a mountain, seventeen kilometers from the Scottish highland town of Rothes, a smaller village in the Grampian Mountains. Draco had never much cared for Malfoy Manor, never much liked Scotland for that matter, but knew better than to say such, around his parents or the commoners; if would offend the commoners - which WAS fun to do on occasion - and probably get him punished by his father.
The one things he did love about Rothes and the Malfoy Manor were the horses. Even in the winter, in their shaggy coats, the horses were tall and majestic. Draco had always loved riding, even when he was a small child, and whenever he was home for the winter holidays, he would make a point of riding one of the village horses to the estate.
This year, as he entered the stables on the western side of the town, there was a pretty young woman, probably a year older than him or so, with long brown hair and big hazel eyes talking angrily with the man that owned the place. Both spoke with heavy accents, though hers was clearly not Scottish - more Swedish if anything, which seemed odd, for her coloring. But the man spared a nod to Draco, and called out the only stable hand, a small young man named Maccrea.
Maccrea had been one of the few Muggles Draco associated with without his mother or father telling him it was the 'proper' thing to do. He supposed that was because Maccrea and his mother both practiced wandless magic, of a sort; both were Wiccan, branching all the way back along his mother's family to when the Scotsmen were running about the moors and highlands in tartans with spears. The boy was tall, well build, his hands rough from working with horses and his hair short and shaggy, a dark red that was now beginning to manifest itself as a shadowing beard as well.
"Wha'll ya 'ave?" Maccrea asked, walking them away from the woman and the stable owner, still arguing, no doubt over the price of a horse. It was always hard to rent them out, since so many of them were actually owned by people in town, and were therefore used spastically during the winter. Draco let his eyes trail over the horses, before landing on one near the back.
"That one's new," he mused. Maccrea turned to follow his gesture, and smiled a little, puffing up.
"That's meh lass. 'er name's Brenna." They moved towards the stall, and the horse moved forward, poking her head out over the gate. She snorted slightly, and pushed Maccrea in the chest, before pinning Draco with big, intelligent brown eyes.
"She's lovely. How much to take her up -?"
"Uch. Ya shou' know by now, 's no charge fer ya, Draco." The blond shivered a little at the way Maccrea said his name, and let his eyes slip shut, he nodded. "Ah'll get 'er saddled up the'."
Draco moved out of the way, back towards the stable entrance. The woman was still standing there, still looking less than happy, but she passed him a surepticious glance that scaled slowly down his body, halted at his boots, and whispered back up, pausing twice: once and his waist, and once at his shoulders. Slowly, she strode over.
"You are Draco Malfoy?" Yes, he decided. The accent was clearly of some Scandinavian country. He nodded curtly to her, his gaze wandering over her shoulder to where Maccrea was cinching the saddle onto the mare. "Vould you mind. Mine English is... no good. The man, he does not understand me."
Draco surveyed her, and sneered a little.
"Get a bloody Swedish to English dictionary," he bit, and moved to step around her. But, as he moved, she grabbed his arm, tightly, holding him still. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she moved a little closer.
"You are vorse than these Muggles," she bit. His eyes widened, but before he could respond, Maccrea was calling for him, smiling a little, shrugging deep into his coat as he led the mare towards him.
"'ere ya are, Draco. Jus' make sure Ah get 'er back all well an' go'd," he stated with a smile. Draco nodded, mounted, and wheeled the horse gracefully out of the stable door.
He was well aware of the woman's eyes on his back, but pushed the sensation away, trying to enjoy the steady canter that the young black mare had instantly fallen into. It was a graceful pace, easy to sit and direct through; and she was a responsive horse, supple and lean and obviously well bred. Maccrea had done well, for his first real breeding year.
The ride was silent, except for his steaming breath and the pounding of the mare's hooves against the ground. Draco was thankful for it, the rythym giving him something to focus on as he made the winding trail up to the estate a pleasant one; his bags would be in his room when he arrived, brought up by the house-elves and no doubt a few commoners who were always happy to stay on the Malfoy family's good side.
When he arrived at the front gates and dismounted, one of the servants scurried over swiftly, taking the reigns and leading Brenna off to the stables with soothing little sounds. Draco smirked a little, and snuggled deep into his cloak as he strode towards the door.
There was no grand entrance. He slipped in and shut the doors quietly, standing in the foyer a moment to warm himself, before shucking his boots, gloves, hat, scarf and cloak in the closet on the right side of the door - everything would be magically dried and found on his bed by the late afternoon. Then, he slipped into house shoes, ran his fingers through his hair, and strode towards the palor, where no doubt his mother would be.
He was surprised to find that his aunt Bellatrix was there was well. Both woman looked up as he entered quietly. Narcissa stood and strode towards him, pecking him a kiss on the cheek which he unconsciously returned without a second thought.
"We had expected you to wander the village a little while, mon petit dragon," Narcissa murmured, stroking Draco's cheek gently. "You're flushed."
"I was cold, and I was riding faster than a normally do," he excused. "Is father in?" His mother and aunt exchanged a look, before Bellatrix smiled, slightly venomously.
"He's with my husband and a few others, dearest nephew. Come, sit with your aunt. Tell me how school is going so far." Narcissa's hands on his shoulder propelled him towards the lounge on which Bellatrix sat demurely.
Draco fell into place beside her, and told her of his grades, and his arguement - for that was how he described it, just a brief exchange of choice words - with Blaise Zabini. His mother cooed over that like a dove, as though it were something good and wholesome. He talked briefly of winning the Quiddich match against Ravenclaw, before he noticed that his aunt was staring not at him, but at his head.
He ran a hand over the top of his head, down the length of his hair, and it was than that Bellatrix turned a slight glare to Narcissa.
"Dearest sister, he's looks like a vagabond with his hair that long. Why don't you have him cut it." Narcissa puffed up a little, and took a sip of her tea, a tiny flush on her cheeks as she spoke.
"I've always had a fondness for long haired men. I think they look regal. Victorian -."
"Or like great poofs, like our COUSINS." Narcissa cringed slightly, and Draco was reminded of the one painting she had of her family - her and her sisters, their father and mother, uncle, his wife, and their two boys, Sirius and Regulus. Draco couldn't rightly remember, but he had a feeling that BOTH boys had their hair long in that picture.
"Regulus was a good, proper boy, sister mine." Draco almost missed the endearment, but when he caught it, he realized that his mother's temper had to be rising by that point. Bellatrix didn't seem to notice.
"Oh, he was. Until he got mixed up with Pettigrew and those loathesome other boys when he was at Hogwarts; only his brother seemed to notice that something was amiss, but he was too deep in sheets with that ruddy one - what was his name? Ludlow? Lubin?"
"It was 'Lupin', Bellatrix, and you will kindly refrain from being crude in front of my son," Narcissa uttered, dangerously sweet in her inflections. Draco was reminded of the note he'd received, of the supple, easy words at the beginning turning into barely civil, half-spat ranting at the end.
"I'm not crude," Bellatrix insisted, and took a sip of her own tea. "I'm honest."
"Brutally so," Narcissa muttered into her cup. Bellatrix scowled at her older sister, before sighing, and returning to her original avenue.
"You still should have him cut it. Or at least trim it back a bit."
"It's only to my chin," Draco began to interrupt, before Bellatrix pinned him with a withering glare. He curled under it, ducking his chin and folding his hands in his lap; he'd never much liked his aunt.
Just then, he heard several sets of feet descending from the study upstairs. Narcissa looked over at Draco, who had an expectant look on his face, and nodded, returning immediately to her sister and their conversation on the pros and cons of cutting his hair.
He stood at the base of the stairs and waited a long while, before his father and three other men turned the corner onto the landing and began to descend. The man on the far right, farthest from Draco, was his uncle Rodolphus, smoking a cigar and talking around it as he bit on the butt on. Between him and Draco's father was Antonin Dolohov, who Draco didn't know well, but recognized from the few times the Death Eaters had all come together at the Malfoy Manor. And last, closest to him on the left was his father Lucius, who also had a cigar clenched in his teeth, though he appeared not to be smoking it.
Dolohov's gaze suddenly fell on Draco, and he stood a little more erect. Rodolphus was the next to look over, and smiled, though his face was drawn and wane; he sped his rate down the stairs and clapped a hand on Draco's shoulder.
"Good to see you, m' boy. Good to see you. My, you've grown." He clapped Draco on the shoulder again, carefully looked over his shoulder at Lucius, before reaching into his robes and pulling out a small bottle. "Don't tell your father; early birthday present. You're gonna be a man soon."
"Thank you, Uncle Rodolphus," Draco whispered, staring at the bottle of firewhisky, before tucking it away into his own robes carefully. He knew he wouldn't drink it, but he couldn't bring himself to hand it back to the older man.
His uncle smiled again and strode past him into the lounge. Dolohov followed after a few short, quiet words with Lucius, leaving the two blonds alone at the stairs.
Lucius stared at Draco with dark blue-grey eyes, surveying him slowly. Eventually, Draco could stand the scrutiny no more, turning his gaze away and staring at the marble floors in a dismas attempt to erase the memories that plagued his mind at the very SIGHT of his father.
"What did he give you?" Lucius's voice was slow and silky, husked, telling that he was in fact smoking the cigar, and had probably had some brandy or cognac earlier in the day, or just a while before. Draco pulled out the firewhisky, and made to pass it to his father, who held up a hand. "Keep it. I surely don't want it. Besides, you can legal drink that in five days."
Draco tucked it away, and cursed when he noticed his hands were shaking. He folded them behind his back carefully, a less demure stance and more a 'may I go now' one. Lucius surveyed him again.
"Have you spoken to your mother since you arrived?"
"I was just in there when I heard you coming down."
"Do you have something to say to me then?" Draco thought about that, thought about all the things he possibly could say - all of which would find him out in the snow again - and finally shook his head. "Go up to your room and get ready for dinner. I won't have you attending in those robes that proclaim you in a room with Mudbloods within it's walls."
"Yes father." He began up the stairs, passing the other blond, when Lucius caught his arm. Draco almost struggled, but kept studiously still, drawn and taut like a bow string.
Lucius began to speak, before shutting his mouth, shaking his head, and letting Draco go. For a moment, the blond Seeker stood there, confounded, as his father strode away from the stairs, swinging his cane-wand a little, and struted into the lounge.
Draco swallowed, suddenly nervous, and rose up the stairs to his room.
~~~
The dinner had been stilted and a little harsh for Draco, and he was very glad to be gone of their familial company. However much he acted like he adored Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, he could never bring himself to meet their easy, degrading banter. As a child, it had been because he didn't understand. But as he grew, and learned what those words meant and how hurtful they could be, he'd realized the simple truth: his aunt and uncle were bigots.
The comment that had finally driven him from the table had been a fairly crude and mean joke that Rodolphus had once heard from a Muggle. Draco had been barely listening, but picked up the derogatory commentary, and asked to be excused from the table.
When he returned to his room, he'd spent an hour tearing it apart. Ripping the sheets from the bed, tearing the curtains down, emptying every nook and cranny until his anger was gone. Then, he had striped off his fine robes, and sat, sulking, atop his bare mattress, his arms wrapped around his knees.
He didn't answer when someone knocked on his door, and didn't look up from his knees when his mother opened them and stepped in, looking around at the desaster area that had once been her son's room.
"What have you done!?" she demanded harshly. Draco only looked away towards the floor where his navy blue drapes lay on the hard wood, pools of velvet the same shade as his father's eyes, as they had twinkled with mirth over the Muggle joke.
"Was Cousin Sirius really a poofter?" he finally asked, than cringed, realizing how crude it sounded; as though he'd been spending time around his aunt and uncle to an extreme, learning their terms and jokes and mean glares.
Narcissa nibbled her lip and moved gingerly towards the bed. She stooped, collected the duvet, wrapping it around Draco's shoulders gently, rubbing his shoulders. For a moment, she was silent, and Draco wondered if she would even deign him with an answer.
"Sirius was... Different, Draco. He had a tendency to... switch about. He played on both sides of the field, so to speak." Draco curled under the blanket a bit, hugging his knees a little tighter.
"He's dead," he stated next. Narcissa's hand stilled on his back, and she sighed slightly, pulling away from him.
"I know. Bellatrix and I were talking about that when you arrived." Draco turned a little, pinned his mother with a sharp glare.
"It was her, wasn't it? She was the one who killed him."
"Draco -." He shook his head and looked away; she sighed again. "Why the sudden interest, Draco? We never speak of him around the house, not even on the Black Estates. Why do you suddenly want to know all about him."
"Because he's part of my family!" Draco snapped, uncoiling and facing her, his eyes blazing. "He's part of who I am, however distantly!"
"Draco, that... THING... He was never part of you, never part of who you were. He left the Blacks and any link to you behind when he was sixteen for his damn ruddy whore of a boy, and that Potter child." The blond boy swallowed, and shrank away, curling under the blanket. "Now, mon petit -."
"Leave me alone," he bit, cutting off her French nickname for him. He'd never cared for it. Narcissa made an indignant sound, and a grab for his shoulder. "OUT!" he roared, and gesticulated harshly towards the door.
And so he lay now, in the midst of his ruined room, dreaming blissfully away, unaware of the door creaking open. Dimly, he felt the bed dip as a second weight was added, but he only groaned in his sleep.
The dream was a pleasant one, of Harry and the kisses and words that hadn't been said. At the time, they had been talking, spiraling in the wind over the pitch; Harry was smiling, laughing.
Draco felt a hand whisper through his hair and moaned slightly, murmuring nonsense as he shifted under the duvet, his only coverings. He felt that hand stroke slowly over his scalp, through his hair, straightening it and pulling in gently back.
He realized something was wrong with that, and was half awake by the time he heard the scissors open. But he couldn't flinch away; there was an elbow in his side. He gasped as the silver metal sliced through his collar-bone length flaxen locks, severing it to fall unevenly just below his cheek bones. His eyes flashed open in an instant, and he found himself looking into stormy blue-grey eyes that surveyed his features slowly, lustfully. Unconsciously, he swallowed, noting how painful his father's elbow was in his side.
"Daddy...?" he whispered. Lucius scowled, and slapped him hrad across the mouth, sending Draco sprawling to the side.
"You moan like a whore at the simplest touch in your sleep, Draco," Lucius stated in a heated snarl. "Perhaps I should try Oneiromancy, find out what drives those sounds."
"Father -."
"Little bitch." He slapped Draco again. The small blond could feel tears prick his eyes, feel the blond in his mouth from biting his tongue. "Someone's touched you; I told you they couldn't. Tell me your lesson, Draco."
"Please..."
"Don't beg, Draco Malfoy. Act like a man. Say your lesson."
"Nobody but my wife, mother and father will touch me. My wife will touch me in reverence. My mother will touch me in pride. My..." He stumbled over the last of the words that had been ingrained into him since he was six and his best friend had been forced from association with him. "My father will touch me as he deems fit. Because I am a Malfoy..."
"Finish your lesson, Draco," Lucius murmured, his voice almost soothing, whispered beside his ear. Draco nearly whimpered as his father slid into the bed behind him, molding against his back. The tears pickled his eyes, burning and clogging his nose painfully as he tried not to sniffle.
"Because I am a Malfoy, and even I am not worthy to touch myself."
~~~
Harry stayed up late, staring out the window towards the snow fields to the north. Around him, the other boys snored, blissfully unaware of their companion's insomnia.
He'd tried, desperately, to sleep. But every time his eyes slipped closed, all he could see was Malfoy, not as he'd seen him before he'd left for the train, and not the one he'd seen every day for the past six and a half years.
The one he saw painted across his eyelids when they slipped shut was broken and bloody, looking up at him with pitiful, dying, icy eyes that begged for a quicker death than the one he was receiving. Three times, it had happened since he'd tried to sleep; the first time, he'd died there, at his feet, with Harry just watching him, crying and small and pitiful and it hurt to see that; when Harry had refused to help verbally, the dying image had shrieked and screamed and cursed and coughed on blood; but when he tried to help, he'd died as well.
The cold sweat was still drying on his shoulders from that, and he swore he could taste the blood in his mouth, even if he knew it wasn't there. It was an unsettling thought to go with an unsettling image.
Harry remembered a conversation he'd had, briefly, with Parvati about the power of dreams. Everyone in the common room who was part of his year new about the dreams from Voldemort, though they didn't talk about them. Parvati had said that some dreams are messages from beyond the grave, and some were premonisions, while others were our subconscious menifesting itself, and still others were just that: dreams.
Since then, Harry had been trying to catigorize every dream he could remember. The ones with the golden line, he'd said those were a mix: both from beyond the grave and his subconscious.
These new dreams, which, he decided, weren't really dreams. He couldn't decide where they fitted. If they were premonisions, wouldn't there be other people there, around them, staring, laughing as they died or as Draco yelled at him. But they weren't just dreams, nor his subconscious, for he'd learned long ago that neither made much sense at all, and these, for some reason, did.
But it couldn't be that the dead were trying to talk to him through dreams, like Sirius did in the golden-line-dreams, where he had been showing up more and more regularly, never as his godfather, always as the almost elven, Celtic being he was, except when he was falling through the veil.
It all made Harry's head ache terribly, doing nothing to dull the babble that he was quickly learning to be those of thoughts and far off talking and, ever so softly, those of the dead.
Even though the blood red Clairaudient orb had stopped speaking and blocking the nightmares, it seemed to have imprinted onto him, letting him hear all those things. And the voices of the dead seemed exceptionally strong of late; too many nights he'd gone to sleep hearing his mother sing and hum, a thing he'd never heard before. Too many times he'd heard his father's laugh in the hallways or classrooms. And far too many times had he heard Cedric's easy timbre, especially when he was around Cho.
"God," Harry muttered, and leaned his head against the window. He placed his hand to it, feeling the frost and cold air make his palm slick and frigid. His eyes slipped closed, stinging with tears, and the image of a torn and broken Draco plagued him once more. "You better the fuck come back, Malfoy; I'll go bloody mad if I have to hear you too..."

TBC~
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Dragon Noir