Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Magnetism	By : Queenie_Mab Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4594 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from Harry Potter, created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended

Chapter List
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A/N: Inspired by the manga/anime, Gravitation by Maki Murakami

Draco Malfoy stared blindly at his laptop. His latest novel lay open and unfinished with its release date mere months away. The house was dark save for the glowing screen of his laptop. He sat at the dining room table of his small bungalow at three o'clock in the morning, lighting another cigarette and re-reading the last line he had written.

Her thighs quivered in anticipation as he ran his fingers through her hair, nibbling lightly on her earlobe.

Crap, it was all crap, he'd much rather be writing homosexual romance, but the market for it wasn't as big and his mother would have a heart attack. Draco sighed and closed the document and put out his cigarette. He really needed to get laid, but the very idea of leaving the house and finding a decent partner made him shudder. He'd turned into a bit of a recluse since he'd retreated into the Muggle world, but he convinced himself that it was better for everyone if he just disappeared from the wizarding world. He shut the laptop. He'd try to write some more after sleeping.

Three hours later, the doorbell rang. Draco dragged himself into his pyjama bottoms and stumbled to the front door. He yanked it open and looked out into the blinding sunlight, squinting his eyes. It was his editor, Laura Barr, dressed in a sharp business suit, her long red curls hanging in ringlets about her face. "What do you want?" Draco demanded. "Can't you see I'm working on it?"

"Francis, I've brought the galley proofs for the first half of the novel for you to look over, but you have to finish the story. I'm worried about you. Do you have writer's block? Do you need me to get you an assistant?" she asked, worry lines marring her forehead and making her pretty young face look older.

"No!" Draco shouted through his groggy state. He walked into the kitchen to grab a beer and opened it, taking a long swig. "I don't need an assistant! Just give me one more week and I'll have the draft finished!" he said, coming back out to the dining room and meeting Laura where she stood at the end of the table.

"There's no need to shout," Laura said, folding her arms and tapping her long, red, painted nails against them. "Just get the story written."

Draco lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Laura's face. She stepped back, coughing. "Must you smoke those things in the house?" she asked, exasperated, shooing the smoke away with her hands.

"It's my house," said Draco. "I'll smoke where I please. If you don't mind buggering off, I'll get right on it and finish the novel, all right? Just leave the proofs on the table and I'll look them over once I've finished writing. Everything will turn out all right."

Laura set the sheaf of papers on the table and stepped away. "Very well, Francis. Just be sure you do what you say you'll do. I'll be in touch."

She left and Draco drained his beer and put out his cigarette, grinding it down into the tray as if he were viciously smashing a bug.

The image came unbidden into his mind: grinding bones and ripping meat, a pool of blood soaking the carpet, growing ever-larger around the cracked skull.

He shuddered and clasped his chest, feeling like his heart was squeezed and heavy. The panic in his body opened all his pores and he became diaphoretic, sweat pouring out of every pore, drenching his skin. His vision tunnelled and sparks began to swirl around the edges.

Draco fell to his knees, clutching at a chair for support and holding his chest as if to keep his heart from jumping out of it. It felt as if his empty stomach was tying itself up in knots and trying to force its way up his throat.

He coughed a few times, swallowing hard. He rose on shaky legs and managed to reach his bed before collapsing and passing out.

~*~

Harry Potter flew against the bitter wind of January, searching for the ever-elusive Snitch through the sleet. His face burned and his fingers froze through his gloves, glued to his broomstick.

The Falcons were ahead by seventy points. Harry had to find the Snitch and soon if he was ever to get out of that weather and back to the warmth of the Quidditch changing room and his half-read novel,Lover, by Francis McDougall.

He just couldn't get the major love scene out of his mind, and was distracted wondering how McDougall would pull all of the plot strings together at the end. Ever since he'd discovered one of McDougall's novels in the bathroom at Ginny's house, he couldn't get enough of them. He bought them all in their first edition and spent his free time reading and working on his secret passion: poetry.

It was by accident that he spotted the Snitch lazily circling the bottom of the Falcons' goal post. He made a wild dive, the Falcons' seeker hot on his tail, and he closed his hand around it, crushing the golden wings. He pulled up inches from the frozen ground, holding his fist aloft and listened to the cheering from the stands as he made his way back to Puddlemere's side of the field to be congratulated by his teammates.

During the post-game party at Keeper Oliver Wood's house, Harry hid in the guest bedroom, curled up in a chair by the window, reading one of the hottest scenes he'd ever read. Francis McDougall had a way with words that made him envious. He pulled out his half finished poem and scanned it, wondering what McDougall would think of it.

Oliver knocked on the door and Harry stuffed the parchment back in his pocket. He turned to look at Oliver standing in the painted white doorway, leaning against the jamb with his arms folded.

"Mate, you in here?" Oliver asked.

"Yeah, I was just reading," said Harry.

"Everybody's looking for you," said Oliver, coming into the room and taking a seat upon the bed with its floral duvet. "You really pulled off a great game today. I think we just might have a chance at the World Cup next year."

"Oliver, I'm not sure I'll be playing next year." Harry said, looking down at the book in his lap and thinking of writing poetry. "I kind of want to try my hand at something else."

"Like what?" Oliver asked, studying Harry's downcast face. "Don't tell me you're reading that romance crap again. Harry, that's a girl's book."

"Leave me alone, Oliver. I'll read what I want to read. Francis McDougall is a genius. He's got a new book coming out next month," Harry said excitedly, finally looking up to meet Wood's eye with a bright smile on his face.

"Harry, I don't care," Oliver said, shrugging his shoulders and standing up. "Just come out and do your duty to the team. You can read once the party's over."

"Fine," Harry said, stowing his book in his robes pocket. He sighed and rejoined the party.

As he mingled through the crowd, the love scene from his book kept coming back to him and he felt there was something just wrong about it. Many young witches kept approaching him, looking to date the famous Harry Potter, and Harry had had about enough of it. He weaselled his way through the group of girls and wound up standing alone at the drinks table. The more he thought about McDougall's book, the more he felt that the two male characters had more chemistry between them and would have made a better couple.

Shocked at the realisation that he would prefer a gay romance, Harry found the next girl that approached him and took her home, to prove to himself that he wasn't going poofy. Unfortunately for him, the Polyjuice the girl had worn wore off during their foreplay, and soon Harry had a mouthful of Zacharias Smith's tongue.

"Oomph!" Harry grunted, pushing Smith away. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Come on, Potter," Smith cajoled. "You were liking it just fine a minute ago."

"Yeah, that was before I knew it was you."

"Is it because I'm a guy?" Smith demanded. "I've seen the way you look at Wood. Don't deny it. I have Polyjuice and a couple of his hairs in my pocket. Ever think about exploring that forbidden fantasy of yours?"

"No, it's just… you're a good chaser and all, but I don't really like you like that. You're a bit of a prat."

"Harry, I've wanted you since we were in school," Smith said leaning forward again on the bed and covering Harry with his body. "Look at this; you're still hard. Just close your eyes and pretend I'm somebody else, or we could play seeker and keeper. Say the word and I'll turn into Oliver for you."

If only he would turn into Francis McDougall. Nobody knew what McDougall looked like. He was a very quiet novelist. Harry had scanned all sorts of literary journals, looking for interviews from him, but all that he found was that McDougall refused to give interviews.

He realised while his thoughts had been occupied by his hero novelist, Zacharias Smith had wasted no time divesting himself of his short skirt and poofy blouse. He stood at the foot of Harry's bed, stroking himself and teasing his nipples and Harry felt his cock twitch. Smith was really good-looking, but such a prat; he'd never thought of him in a sexual way before. He wasn't sure what sex with a bloke would be like, but as Smith looked at him with pupil-blown blue eyes, he realised that he really wanted to find out.

"All right, but only for tonight," Harry said, scarcely believing the words as they came out of his mouth.

Smith pounced and once more covered Harry with his body, pulling at his trousers and pants and freeing Harry's weeping erection. He closed his mouth around it and Harry wondered why he'd made such a fuss over Smith being a bloke. He felt incredible with his cock enclosed in Smith's hot, sucking mouth. When Smith began to toy with his entrance, Harry decided that yes, indeed, he was gay or at least bi.

He felt a bit guilty for altering Smith's memory of the night, but the last thing he needed was a gay scandal. He left Smith at his own house and walked the streets, in the early light of morning, moving towards Grimmauld Place, his nose in his book.

He decided that morning, after several shots of Ogden's Old, that he would look up his hero novelist. After all, Francis McDougall would be the celebrity in the Muggle world, and Harry wouldn't have to worry about his own fame getting in the way. He just felt a connection to McDougall that he couldn't deny.

After a shower, he fell to bed, dreaming dreams of faceless men, all carrying McDougall's name.

~*~

"Mother, how many times do I have to tell you, I'm not coming home. The wizarding world hates former Death Eaters. I have a respectable job here in the Muggle world."

"But really," said Narcissa from the kitchen fireplace. "A common novelist. I didn't raise you to associate with Muggles and their world."

"I know that, Mother," Draco said, rubbing his tired eyes. "Look, I've got a deadline, so I really must go."

"Did you hear that Puddlemere's looking for a new seeker?" Narcissa said hopefully. "It seems our Harry Potter has quit the position."

"Mother, I don't give a damn about Potter or Quidditch. I'm perfectly happy with my quiet life away from the golden boy and his fame. Please leave me alone about it."

"Very well, Draco. But I expect you for tea on Sunday. One day out of the week at home will not kill you. Minister Zabini will be attending."

"Yes, Mother. I'll be there," said Draco, a scowl plastered on his face. "I still can't believe Blaise spearheaded the Death Eater reform group. That's the only reason he was voted after Shacklebolt's assassination."

"We change with the times, Draco. I do wish you follow his example."

The doorbell rang. "I must go. There's the bell."

"Take care, Draco," said Narcissa sadly.

Draco left the kitchen to get the door. The only people who ever called were his editor and the postman.

"Here you are, Mr. McDougall," said Bert, the postman. "You've got a fair few this time."

"Thank you," said Draco. "I'll just have them."

Bert passed Draco a sack of letters.

"Do you have any post I can take for you?" Bert asked cheerfully.

"Not today, thank you," Draco said and closed the door in the poor man's face. He dumped the sack out in front of the fireplace in the lounge and one by one, fed the letters to the fire.

The last letter though, had no postmark, nor was it addressed. Draco opened it, wondering if his editor had sent it through. He read:

Dear, Mr. McDougall,

My name is Harry Potter, and I am a big fan of yours. I wanted to let you know that your last book, Lover, inspired me to write a poem. I would love to know what you think of it and I fondly look forward to your new book.

Yours faithfully,

Harry Potter

Potter the poet? Draco scoffed. It was ridiculous to think that Harry Potter was a reader of Muggle romance novels, but he recognised the untidy scrawl, and the tell-tale markings of quill upon parchment. Draco unfolded the enclosed poem and read it.

When love unfinished, vanished in a spark,

how can I trust this love that I have found?

I am left in wonderment to seek

the passing days that fall upon the ground.

The sun and moon and stars are swirled; I'm sick.

I feel as if I bleed—with thorns I'm crowned,

and naked left to wander blind and stark

in diamond sparkled blackness I am drowned.

The wheel in my heart which turns every stroke

of truth in all its splendour yet unwound,

but breeze and wind uncover dust—a speck

and I am lost, embraced without a sound.

Please take me by the hand and guide the streak

of lightning rush that pulses veins when struck.

So this is why Potter left Quidditch—to become a poet. Draco laughed, and moved to toss the poem in the fire, but drew it back at the last second. He would write back and tell Potter exactly what he thought of his writing.

Draco pulled out a pen and paper and wrote:

Dear, Mr. Harry Potter.

I thank you for your interest in my books. I received your poem and must tell you, you have zero talent. Put away your pen and go back to your day job.

Sincerely,

Francis McDougall
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Magnetism