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Exequor	By : singtoangels Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2218 -:- 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
- 1-Exequor
- 1
Title: Exequor

Author: Sing to Angels

Rating: NC-17

Author�s Notes: Warnings for just about everything squicky you could imagine, but I try really hard to tone it down. Read at your own risk. This is no �And Just Plain Wrong�, but it�s a departure for me into strange waters with a strange writing style. I�ve agonised over this for ages and ages, so I decided to just suck it up and post the bloody thing. Credits for all poetry/quotes are at the end of the story.

Much, much, much thanks to Ursulakohl for the betaing and much back and forth work over the past couple of months. Thanks also go to my beloved Icarusancalion for trying to beta read this, but her computer was being evil. I love you both. ::kisses::
Mandatory Disclaimer: So not mine. Belongs to JK Rowling, lucky woman she is.

Ron

. . . my sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy . . .

Ron turned in his seat to look at the Slytherin table for the third time in almost as many minutes. He didn�t bother to disguise himself by glaring since . . . Hermione was bent over a scroll, scribbling down notes with her well-gnawed quill whilst Harry beat out a rhythm with his spoon on the table. Seamus was chatting up Lavender, and Dean took the opportunity to drop a Flobberworm in her soup since she was distracted . . . no one was looking at him anyway.

There was some part of Ron - a finger bone, or perhaps his very pure-blooded skin - that remembered something better than second-hand robes and the empty cupboard from when he was very small and everyone still lived at home.

No, Ron admitted, his skin had too many freckles, it only remembered the Burrow.

Things hadn�t been so bad until he made his little discovery in Charms the week before. Now it preyed on his mind, ate at him with the voracity of a wild Manticore.

�Dean, I�m going to hex you into next week!�

And he didn�t particularly like Draco Malfoy anymore now than he had then. In fact, Ron�s hatred had soared to new and fantastic heights over the last week as his own mind continued to betray him.

�Ew!� Pansy Parkinson shrieked, her voice bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall. �Get it off of me!�

Ron had began comparing himself to Draco - referring to him as just Malfoy seemed stupid now - with a unnatural curiosity he couldn�t begin to describe other than to say it was unnatural. Or perhaps . . . very natural.

Draco had a long, thin nose, though his wasn�t crooked in the middle like Ron�s was. Both of their bodies were too slender, and designed for an uncomfortable height.

�Harry, please stop tapping your spoon on the table. I can�t write this essay when the table keeps rattling.�

Ron couldn�t tell if Draco had knobbly knees under his trousers, too, or if his thighs were toned and lean. But Ron was aware of the familiar glint in his colourless eyes, and the way Draco�s skin mocked him every time the sun revealed its white, glaring perfection.

�Sorry. Um, maybe you should eat like everyone else is instead of doing coursework.�

So there were differences, but . . . Ron wondered, if he touched Draco, would it be like touching himself? Or if he put his hand down the front of Draco�s trousers, who would moan? Would they both go blind if Draco wanked him off?

Hermione�s brown eyes shimmered with anger. She seemed to be planning the death of the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Her.

Ron was weak, and he knew that Draco was, too. But perhaps two brittle-boned boys with not much soft flesh between them wouldn�t break if they kissed each other, pinched each other, because they�d be touching themselves.

You could get lost in a girl. They had wet, all-knowing eyes that made your stomach dance and funny curves in the wrong places. Ron needed to know where he was.

Tap, tap, tappity tap-tap.

Blood - blue and old and stagnant - ran through his and Draco�s veins. It had the same parts, the same pillow-shaped cells, the same magic. It was almost like being twins, and twins always . . .

Ron fingered his wand under the table and contemplated hexing Draco from across the room. It could only improve matters, really. Ron was older, he came first, it should be him riding the newest brooms and wearing the best clothes instead of the tatty ones he wore now.

�Harry, stop!� Ginny said crossly, half-standing to talk to Harry with her hands splayed on the table. �If Hermione won�t do something about that, then I will. Honestly, you�re worse than Ron!�

Ron kept his eyes on Ginny and wondered if she was the same as he, if she knew, if any of them did. But her eyes crinkled at the corners like Arthur�s, and her face and curves were round like their mother�s. All her pieces seemed to fit, but the jigsaw of Ron�s body wasn�t strictly Weasley.

Harry sighed and plunged down into his plate of mashed potatoes with a scowl.

Later, Ron would seek Draco out, perhaps fuse their mouths back together. Or maybe he would go even further; strip off his clothes and search his knees and elbows to see if they were gangly and sharp. Ron would put his fingers in Draco�s mouth to see if his teeth felt the same, his tongue. Draco�s neck bent and swayed like a thin, graceful reed in Ron�s mind when he pressed his thumb to it. He would . . .

Harry poked him in the side with his spoon and Ron flinched. Harry motioned with his eyebrows at the platters of pudding set out before them. The meal was almost over and after they left the Great Hall, Ron could finally run his hands through that straw-spun-into-gold on Draco�s head.

�You going to eat, Ron?� Harry asked. �Pudding�s here.�

Ron slowly forced a grin and grabbed a pie from the stack. He held it in his hand for a moment, admiring the scores on top where you could almost see the filling inside. Then he tried to eat it without noticing the crimson fruit oozing out from under the flesh-coloured crust.

Arthur

Quiet consummation have,

And renowned be thy grave.

Arthur sat next to Molly in the Gryffindor common room. He pretended to focus on what she was telling him, but he suspected that his eyes were blank so he turned his head slightly to the side and nodded when she made a particularly loud burst of sound. Her hands flickered and wove through the air at the edge of his vision as she gesticulated.

His mind was too full of Malfoy at present to pay attention to his sweet girl. She deserved his attention, but Lucius managed to worm his way into Arthur�s mind again and it made him ill. Lucius always was a bit too clever for Arthur�s tastes, and perhaps that�s why he�d done that . . . that horrible thing.

Arthur had grown up hating Malfoys because that�s what Weasleys did. Or maybe it wasn�t hate. No, Arthur truly didn�t hate many people, especially not because their blood was Dark-tainted. People couldn�t help what family they were born into any more than they could help the colour of their eyes or their . . . pale, blond hair.

But Lucius acted as if he knew everything when he honestly and truly knew nothing. He slinked around at the edge of a crowd with the grace of a predator. But Arthur knew better. Lucius was no predator. He was just a pinch-faced boy who had delighted in making poor Bilius squirm.

�Bili-wig Bili-wig. He doesn�t need a broom to fly. Pummel him good and he�s off like broom-wood to have a good cry.�

Arthur hadn�t known what was worse: that his brother�s magical reflex was to float when endangered, or the fact that Lucius was only a first year to his brother�s third.

�P-please, Arthur,� Bilius sobbed, hiccoughs punctuating his natural stutter. �Malfoy won�t leave me a-alone and I don�t—
I don�t—
I don�t know how to make him s-stop.�

But then had come the day when Bilius didn�t float, didn�t soar, but plummeted to the ground. Rumours of how it happened had spread quickly - most of them started by Lucius - and Arthur discovered then what the phrase �seeing red� really meant.

�Come see the amazing, flying Weasley! Look at him go!�

The poppy-red blood that made the snow steam under his brother�s head, the scarlet of his fluttering Gryffindor scarf, the haze in front of Arthur�s eyes as he�d tried to keep from screaming.

Bilius was dead. He couldn�t come back from where he had fallen and Arthur wasn�t sure how he was going to tell their parents about it. How he had failed to keep his over-sensitive brother safe from two Ravenclaw boys who wanted a lark.

He could still see his mum and dad, his older brother, the other mourners as they�d bent over the slight bundle of shroud that was almost invisible against the hard-packed snow. His mum had tried to conjure up flowers, but her wand hand shook too hard. Bilius didn�t have any flowers.

Afterwards, as Arthur roamed the cold, stone hallways at Hogwarts, he tried to turn a deaf ear to the gossip surrounding his brother�s death.

�I heard that that Weasley boy, you know, the one who died. Well, Malfoy told me the other day that he saw a Grim and that�s why he killed himself.�

In Arthur�s eyes, Lucius� hair was stained pink, his skin was pink, his colourless eyes were pink and pulsing with wicked thoughts, and his pretty pink mouth twisted without conscience. Lucius had been smug enough in his own sanctity that it was easy for Arthur to find him alone in a disused corridor.

And he ran, his robes a thundercloud roiling around him, until he caught Lucius up. Lucius turned toward the noise, his eyes wide and trembling. He�d seemed very delicate all of a sudden, frightened and child-like.

But Arthur still hooked his fist in Lucius� stomach; delighted in the rush of air that brushed his face as Lucius gasped. He shoved Lucius back into the wall and ignored the great cracking noise his skull made on the stones.

�I�ll be telling my father about this, Weasley!�

Lucius tried to straighten up and push him away, but Arthur held his bird-boned shoulders firmly and pinned his arms to his sides. He didn�t remember saying anything, but he must have, because Lucius whimpered and started to beg.

How had it happened? Why? Arthur had been fagged a few times himself by older Slytherins and Ravenclaws. But he�d promised himself never to do the same as they did, never to further the tradition. Because Gryffindors don�t. But he did.

Arthur remembered looking down at Lucius� gaunt little face, pressed into the stone floor. He�d ripped away standard black robes and black woolly trousers, skinned the pink underpants away with his own freckled pink hands to expose the pink backside.

�No! No! I�m sorry, I�m sorry. Let me go, Weasley. Please . . .�

Lucius had squirmed and rolled, his thin little fingers scrabbling for something to help him pull away. Arthur looked down at the writhing form under him, the unblemished skin and pale, perfect globes of childish backside before popping the buttons on his trousers and watching a few of the loose ones skittle over the stones.

�We have convened in this sacred grove to help Bilius Ignatius Weasley find his eternal rest.�

Bilius� face had been unblemished, too. He�d just looked so terribly surprised, as if he hadn�t expected to fall, hadn�t expected to die.

�Life is buried here, we heap earth upon it . . .�

Arthur wedged his cock between the quivering mounds of Lucius� bottom and shoved at the dry ring nestled inside. Lucius stilled, his body rigid, fingers curled into dainty claws. Arthur moved down sharply so he could feel that body against his pelvis, that little hole ripped open.

It was the first time Arthur could recall Lucius Malfoy screaming about anything.

Arthur gritted his teeth and smashed Lucius� face into the floor to make him stop. He pistoned his hips harder, slipped deeper into the blood-slicked opening. Poppy-red there, blossoming and welling up as if it had been waiting under the crust of snow all that time.

�Please, Weasley. I�m so sorry. God, I�m sorry.�

Somehow, Arthur didn�t know when, but the red mist faded and Malfoy was face-up under him, white and shivering, dark blood smeared on his mouth and trickling from his nose. Tears tracked down his pale cheeks.

�. . . and so we return him from whence he came.�

Arthur pushed himself up and left the boy behind, broken and staring at the ceiling with those hard, bitter eyes. He couldn�t do this, but he had. He had . . . beaten the little snot up. A quick one-two with his fists and knocked him down. Malfoy just wouldn�t leave Bilius alone. He kept taunting and mocking until . . . They could never prove anything, but Arthur knew. Malfoy deserved everything, the bastard.

Even if Malfoy hadn�t actually been there when Bilius fell. Even if he, Arthur, was more of a monster than Malfoy could ever be with all his childish heckling.

The common room had been quiet when he stumbled in, and dear, sweet Molly had been there, sniffling next to the fire. Her copper hair caught the light, and there was no snow, no blood, no pointed Malfoy faces. The parchment in her lap was covered in violent scrawls. There was a large X circled in red at the top. Arthur had composed himself and settled in beside her. He�d taken her soft, warm hand in his and pushed the last blurry hour away. Molly still looked up at him as if he were a hero instead of a villain.

�Don�t worry, Moll. Failing a Transfiguration exam isn�t the end of the world. You have top marks in Charms, that counts for something, doesn�t it, dear?�

Molly

Mad in persuit, and in possession so,

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme . . .

She would always remember his tongue.

It was cool, smooth, and so sharp. Just like him. As Molly stood there, watching her former lover degrade both her children and her husband, she couldn�t help but remember how that prodding tongue had felt as he skimmed it over the ridges of her ear. A shiver ran through her and Molly rubbed the backs of her sweaty arms. It was late August and the press of bodies inside Flourish and Blott�s made it stuffy and too warm.

�Dear me, what�s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don�t even pay you well for it?�

She remembered the spider touch of his hands on her breasts, tweaking her nipples to soft points. How he would dip his pointed tongue into the indentation of her belly before she pushed his head down where she wanted it.

� . . . and I thought your family could sink no lower—
�

He and Arthur were circling each other like two dogs growling over a bone. But Molly blocked that out for the sweet, deep moan that rose from Lucius� throat when she placed a line of kisses up and down his penis before pulling his foreskin down to wrap her lips around the tip and flick the slit on top with her tongue. Molly had seduced Lucius with promises of marital experience, and he hadn�t seemed disappointed. His eyes, when she�d looked up from between his thighs, were at half-mast and glistening from under his long, pale lashes.

�Get him, Dad!�

Books rained down from the shelves, the pages fluttering and cutting skin. She didn�t know where it had all come from, but Arthur and Lucius struggled in the middle of it. Molly was entranced by the sheen of sweat on their brows and the blood that trickled from their wounds. Still, she tried.

�No, Arthur, no!�

She was yelling at them to stop, even though she would have liked nothing better than to watch them all day long. Molly remembered how the sweat slicked Lucius� skin as she moved over him. How her breasts would wobble and quake as she played him like an instrument. Humming. Thrumming. Throbbing. Pulsing. His devilish mouth suckling the pebbled crowns of her breasts and vibrating her skin with his groans; the violent rock and rhythm of her pelvis crashing against his. Lucius delighted in the forbidden as much as she did.

�You taught me true cruelty, Arthur,� Lucius hissed under his breath, too low for the children to hear.

Arthur never knew that Molly had strayed from his nest a few times, but he suspected. It was that uncertainty on his part that added a delectable spice to the brawl. When she and Arthur finally made it home, she would send the children out to de-gnome the garden. Then, Molly decided, she would push Arthur down on the bed and the �ghoul in the attic� would bang some pipes.

�Break it up, there, gents,� Hagrid roared as he parted the crowd to get to Lucius and Arthur. �Break it up—
�

Lucius was bleeding profusely from a wound on his head. Arthur had smashed him with an encyclopaedia like some sort of Muggle barbarian. Why didn�t they use their wands? This was terribly embarrassing. Lucius� eyes flickered for a moment when he saw her standing there, but he didn�t acknowledge her. She was just another old doll he�d tossed in the bin along with rebellion and the other curiosities of youth. Lucius was a man now, almost forty, not a boy of twenty-four . . . but Molly supposed that one never outgrew fisticuffs.

�Here, girl —
take your book —
it�s the best your father can give you—
�

Hagrid cleared a path for them all to leave and Arthur grabbed her upper arm, ushering her past the crowds and the children followed behind. Molly afforded Lucius one last glance before turning back to chide her husband.

�A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in public . . . what Gilderoy Lockhart must�ve thought—
�

Now Lockhart was a man she wouldn�t mind digging her fingers into. He�d been on adventures, fought to the death with vampires and werewolves . . . what a man!

Molly regretted many things in her life, but the dark and dangerous Lucius Malfoy had never been one of them. Now today Molly had seen her daughter - her safe, pure Weasley daughter - stand up to Lucius� son and it thrilled something deep inside. Her association with Lucius had begun in much the same way, defending her husband against his snide remarks.

Molly studied Ginny�s flushed cheeks and the thin, angry line of her lips and smiled. Molly wondered if she would talk to her daughter about Lucius one day and find comprehension in those wide, brown eyes.

Draco

'Twas a child, that so did thrive

In grace, and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive

Which owned the Creature.

He sat in his kingdom, surveying his realm. For it was all his, really. No one else had the blood or the class to rule the student body.

But even though his house was ancient, pure, and descended from the famous Salazar Slytherin, the Sorting Hat didn�t know what it was doing. If it did, then surely it would have placed Ginny Weasley next to him, in the seat for his consort, instead of across the hall where he actually had to work to see her.

�Draco? Draco, I�m talking to you!� Pansy sniffed disdainfully and went back to picking at her plate. �Well, you don�t have to be so rude.�

Of course she didn�t know that he admired her cunning and skill with a wand, or her witty tongue. Or her strangely not vulgar hair as it flowed honey-copper over her straight shoulders and down her narrow back. Ginny called to him across bloodlines like a siren. She beckoned him without knowledge of what she did, the sound of her curses and hexes a song only Draco could hear.

He�d let her spear him on her tongue any time she wanted, any place she wanted.

A Flobberworm flew out of Lavender Brown�s mouth, soared across the Great Hall, and landed in Pansy�s hair.

Father would certainly object, but Draco felt certain that if he could just make the man see how clever and sly and un-Weasley she was, then he would give his blessing. Draco could see himself marrying this one. Her blood was pure, even if it was Weasley.

Pansy�s pale hands fluttered over her dark hair like mad moths during mating season. �Ew! Get it out, get it out!�

Yes, Father would have no problems. Especially if it meant that Pansy Parkinson wouldn�t be rooting her Niffler-snout through the Malfoy vaults. Ginny Weasley carried herself with grace, nobility . . . Potter was such a fool never to notice, but Draco was thankful that he didn�t.

�Are you going to eat that, Draco?� Vincent asked, his dull eyes almost glowing as they fell on a barely-nibbled bit of roast.

Draco sighed and pushed his plate over. He caught the male Weasley staring at him and wondered if he had something on his face. There was a terrible, eager look in his eyes, though, that made the hair on the back of Draco�s neck prickle. He couldn�t possibly know what Draco was thinking.

�Thanks, Draco.�

He chose to ignore the male in favour of the female. She stood suddenly and curved her body over the Gryffindor table, splayed her fine hands on either side of Potter�s plate. Ginny�s brows knitted together and Draco smiled as he waited for her to give Potter a well-deserved piece of her mind. That loud tapping of Potter�s was damned annoying and it interfered with his plotting.

Ron finally gave up on his mission to turn a glare into an archaic form of the killing curse, and Draco slipped down a bit in his seat. He shouldn�t have watched Ginny so closely, but he couldn�t help himself . . . Greg was picking his nose with his huge, blunt finger and Blaise was reading a book on Dark hexes surreptitiously under the table . . . there was certainly nothing here to hold his interest.

Draco kept himself occupied with fantasies of Ginny, even though he had difficulty picturing some of the more interesting parts of her body. It had to be better than his hand. He�d seen breasts before, though, and imagined hers to be like small mounds of speckled ice cream, melting just a bit around the edges.

Then he wondered what colour pants she wore under her robes. Maybe peach knickers, or pale green. He sincerely hoped that they weren�t some gaudy Gryffindor colour, but if so, well, he could certainly buy her new ones. She wasn�t the delicate lace type. How would she react if he sent her a boudoir set in gold and green? He narrowed his eyes and smiled thoughtfully. They could arrive at breakfast one morning by owl post. It would certainly cause a stir.

He rose from the table, his mind set on the task he�d made for himself. Greg and Vincent grabbed several pies and made to follow, but Draco waved them off.

�I�m just going back to the dorm. I need to get something.�

�Oh, uh, all right.�

Greg plopped back into his seat and Vincent shrugged before doing the same. They slapped the pies on their plate and proceeded to go through them with a systematic devotion to pastry that made Draco curl his lip in disgust.

Draco passed by the Gryffindor table and tried to catch Ginny�s eye with a swagger he was particularly fond of since it made his robes swirl out something wicked. Warmth welled in his groin when she casually looked him over as she was chatting with Granger, and sparks flew through his veins when her freckled lips quirked up on one side.

He decided that adoring someone was much like being tipsy, and he quite liked that feeling. If he could just find that bloody catalogue Pansy was always flipping through then the boudoir set would be shipped in the morning. It was probably under Greg�s mattress.

Draco took the most direct route back to the Slytherin dorms, which happened to be in a part of the castle that simply begged to be used for sordid affairs and trysts. He smirked when he heard the frantic tapping of shoes in the hall behind him and spun around, letting his robes flare in a suitably impressive dramatic fashion and his face fall into an expression that made girls melt. Well, it always made Pansy melt into a puddle of prissy pink robes at his feet.

He frowned. Sod it, wrong one.

�What do you want, Weasley?�

Ron Weasley stood there. His face was a sort of blank, menacing mask that made the hairs on the back of Draco�s neck prickle again.

�I�m not a Weasley,� he mumbled.

Ron looked down suddenly and scuffed his shoes on the floor. The annoying ssscrrrrape noise made Draco want to cover his ears. He didn�t have time for lunatic Weasleys, he had knickers to buy! Unfortunately, that also meant no time for clever retorts.

�Bugger off, whoever you are. I�m busy.�

Draco turned away and flicked some imaginary dust off his arm. What a sorry sod that Weasley was. At least there was some hope for their family, even if that hope was just a gir—

The wall was suddenly quite close, so close that he couldn�t actually see anything but a grey blur. His nose hurt, too. Weasley was going to ruin his plans! If he had to tell his father about another stupid thing that the Weasleys had done then all of his careful rehearsing would be dashed.

�I�m a Malfoy, too,� Ron whispered in his ear. �We�re just the same, you know.�

Draco�s eyes widened and he tried to push himself away from the wall. Weasley really was mad to think he could joke about the Malfoy name and get away with it.

�Let me go, you idiot! How dare you—
�

Crack went his nose into the wall again, only very hard this time. It didn�t just hurt, it really hurt. Draco sifted through his mind for anything he may have done recently to make Ron this angry. The only thing would be if he�d discovered how Draco had been flirting with his sister.

�I won�t look at your sister again, Weasley, I swear!� Draco lied. �Now let me go and we�ll forget this ever happened.�

Then Draco heard a sound that made his body tense. He�d heard it before when some random first-year had made too much of a nuisance of himself in the Slytherin common room. The older students had breathed heavily, just like Ron was doing behind him, but that wasn�t what made his skin shiver.

Draco heard the hasty scatter of trouser buttons falling on the floor.

Credited excerpts:

Ben Jonson - On My First Son

William Shakespeare - Cymbeline, IV, ii

William Shakespeare - Sonnet 129

Ben Jonson - Epitaph on Salomon Pavy: A Childe of Queene Elizabeth's Chapel

Yes, yes, I used Shakespeare: the over-quoted bard. Shoot me.
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Exequor