Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Volcanologist	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3351 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Volcanologist
- 2-Part Two
- 1
- 2
Title: Volcanologist
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, mentions of past Harry/others and Draco/others
Warnings: Angst, Dark magic, jealousy, obsession
Rating: R
Wordcount: This part 4200
Summary: Being treated by Unspeakable Malfoy for a curse that’s slowly turning him into stone, having Malfoy see into his mind with telepathic magic and seeing into Malfoy’s mind in return, shows Harry something he’s looked for a long time—and never imagined finding here.
Author’s Notes: An Advent fic for enamoril, who asked for Harry/Draco and gave me the following prompt: Auror Harry is brought to the Department of Mysteries, to lay naked on Unseen Malfoy's examination table. He is suffering from an ancient curse that resulted from a peculiar pumpkin being thrown at his face in battle, and now he's covered in black etched curse marks, unable to move and slowly turning to stone. Malfoy, with his qualifications of telepathic communication magic and experience with such artifacts, is elected to help him. Oh and Harry finds out really quickly from contact with Malfoy's mind that Malfoy is, 1. An arsehole still after all these years, with extra bitterness on top, and 2. Fairly obsessed with him, to the point that Harry knew that Malfoy enjoyed seeing him naked, and that only decency -that he didn't know Malfoy had- kept him from toying with his body as he examined him. Also I'd love it if Harry wasn't with Ginny, kids from the divorce/no kids optional, and if Draco and Harry would have mental conversations over some of Harry's scars. This will be a two-shot.
Volcanologist
            “Put him down there—yes, there, be careful, I don’t think you can break his arms but we don’t want to try it—”
            Harry lay there and listened as the Unspeakables rustled and clucked all around him like chickens in grey cloaks, partially because he had no choice. His feet were already stone, and the curse marks were climbing his legs, stiffening the skin. The Unspeakables had cast some spells they hoped would slow the progress of the curse. Unfortunately, that meant Harry had all his senses but was naked and essentially paralyzed.
            “When is Unspeakable Malfoy going to get here?”
            Harry wanted to close his eyes and grimace, but his eyes were held still, too. At least the Unspeakables had cast a spell that followed him around as a tiny raincloud, regularly shedding moisture on his eyeballs so they wouldn’t dry out.
            He wasn’t sure if he should be agitated or not that they so obviously knew how to deal with paralyzed people.
            “A few minutes. He has some research project that he needs to pack up first. Something about the telepathic mice not getting out.”
            “Of course he has that,” said the Unspeakable nearest Harry’s head, a woman named Marta Tromaine who had cast the raincloud. Harry was reassured that at least one of Malfoy’s colleagues seemed to share Harry’s opinion of him. “He always has things like that, you ought to listen to him go on why he can never come to any of the meetings with other Departments—”
            Harry got distracted as he felt another surge climbing his legs past his knees. The curse marks had stretched up, and Tromaine was distracted herself. She swore, and Harry heard her casting some spells he didn’t know on Harry’s legs.
            “Where is he?”
            “Here, Marta. Had I know how much you wanted me, I would have hurried some more.”
            Harry would have shuddered if he could. Malfoy’s voice sounded exactly the way it always had, as if someone had taken posh arrogance and Galleons and distilled them into a sound. Too bad Harry couldn’t close his eyes, either.
            Malfoy loomed over him briefly. Harry caught only a glimpse of blond hair and a pointy face before Tromaine’s raincloud functioned again and covered his eyes with a soft, blurry wet film. Harry struggled badly to blink. Nothing doing, though.
            “Good thinking with the cloud,” said Malfoy in a distant-sounding voice. “Time of curse? Vehicle of delivery?”
            “Enchanted pumpkin. An hour ago.”
            “Good thinking to get him this far, this fast.” Malfoy’s fingers skimmed down Harry’s hips, and Harry wanted to squirm. It was only in his feet that he’d utterly lost sensation, and he knew he shouldn’t wish he’d lost more, because that would mean the curse had succeeded in turning more of him to stone. “I recognize the curse marks. But I’ll need contact with his mind to start reversing it. Which means no one in here.”
            “I was hoping that you’d consent to letting Apprentice Zissleer stay. You know she wants to see how it’s done, and—”
            “Not this time. It’ll be a delicate operation, and the fewer people I have around disturbing me, the better.”
            The other Unspeakables sounded like they were leaving. Harry lay there and wondered what he would say if he could. Don’t leave me here with him? Even if he’s the only one who can save me?
            But they must have some reason for believing that Malfoy was actually competent, instead of likely to destroy him. Harry hoped that that belief was right, and he wasn’t a sacrifice to an Unspeakable’s sense of rightness to a colleague.
            “Harry Potter.”
            Harry wished his hair could still stand straight up, because that voice was creepy. Malfoy smoothed a hand over his shoulder, and that was creepy, too, because the curse-marks hadn’t crept that high. He ought to be looking at Harry’s legs and feet first. Harry didn’t even know if his feet were recoverable.
            He thought of the wooden leg Mad-Eye Moody had had, and once again he wanted to shudder.
            “If I had known that I would have the chance to treat you today, I would have woken up in a better mood this morning.”
            Does that mean he isn’t going to torture me? Harry had no idea. It might just mean that Malfoy thought he could get enough fame and prestige from treating Harry to make up for any aggravation.
            Malfoy moved back and did finally take a glance at his legs and ankles. Harry could see a shadow of blond hair out of the corner of his eye, but since the paralysis had left him flat on his back, his field of vision was mostly aimed at the ceiling.
            “Hmm.”
            Malfoy reached down and slid a hand along Harry’s legs, up to the knees and then back down. Once again Harry badly wanted to twitch. The touch was as creepy, in its own way, as the advancing curse-marks. Malfoy wasn’t carving up his skin, but he could, and Harry wouldn’t be able to prevent him.
            He was going to go home when this was done—Harry didn’t let himself consider at the moment that Malfoy might not be able to stop the curse and he would become a statue—and take a hot shower for every moment he had wanted to twitch or shudder or fend off someone’s touch.
            “Yes, I think I see what I need to do.”
            Malfoy moved away from the bed. Harry automatically tried to twist his head to see after him, and couldn’t. Plus, even if Malfoy had been standing right above him at the moment with his tools in hand, Tromaine’s raincloud chose that second to soak his eyes, so Harry wouldn’t have been able to see it well anyway.
            And then Malfoy came back and did stand right above him with his tools in hand. He had a blue stone dish balanced in the center of his palm. His voice was soft and whispery, moving in and out of the words and pauses of a chant Harry didn’t know. He laid down the bowl to the left of Harry’s head and strung a piece of cord from it over Harry’s face to something on the other side, on the right.
            Then he began to move around him, waving something that looked thicker like a wand. An athame? Harry almost hoped so. The wizards he and the other Aurors had been after, before one of them had thrown that bloody pumpkin at him and cursed him with this, had used one in their rituals. Maybe using one now could undo the curse.
            Malfoy’s voice built and built up, and suddenly he tossed the athame into the air so it arched over Harry’s face. Harry had the chance to check and make sure that, yes, it was one and at the same time scream internally and try to flinch and flinch hard. If that thing came down and stabbed out an eye…
            But it didn’t. It hung there, radiating a black seven-pointed star, and drew Harry’s gaze. He found himself thinking of the seven pieces of soul, seven Horcruxes, and whether this was some of the same magic that Voldemort had studied in order to make them.
            How ridiculous you are, Potter. What could combating a curse that’s turning your body to stone have to do with the soul?
            Harry wanted to give another tremendous start. Hadn’t the Unspeakables said something about telepathic magic…?
            They did. It’s one of my specialties. I need you to cooperate with me to turn back the curse, but at the same time, I can’t have you thrashing around and upsetting the cords I’ll need to place on your body. This paralysis combined with the telepathic magic is our best bet.
            Harry tried to calm down his racing thoughts and make what he thought next an actual response to Malfoy’s question, instead of just a stray question that Malfoy picked up and decided to respond to. How can I help you if I still have to lie here paralyzed?
            Because this is action done in the mind, of course.
            You still think I’m an idiot.
            No shit, Potter. You could have the softest and most pleasant life you imagined, and live for years off the gifts that the grateful British wizarding public gave you. But do you do that? No, of course not. You have to spend most of your time pursuing Dark wizards, and endangering your life, and getting yourself paralyzed.
            I never wanted the kind of life you’re talking about!
            I know, but that’s only because you’re an idiot.
            Harry wanted to argue back, but Malfoy moved a little, and drew another cord down from the floating athame across Harry’s body. Harry couldn’t feel where he put it. He hoped, desperately, that that meant Malfoy had attached it to his feet and not that some other part of his body had lost sensation.
            You could ask me. Yes, it’s attached to your big toe on your right foot. The person who created this curse had to enchant the pumpkin in the middle of a ritual design. I need to replicate that design on your body.
            There was a long moment when Harry listened to his stupid breathing, which was only going on enough to keep him alive and not enough to let him express his panic, and then Malfoy whispered to him, in a crooning tone that reminded Harry of the basilisk, Such a nice body.
            Harry wanted to whip his head around and stare at him, but of course he couldn’t. What do you mean? I—Malfoy, this is ridiculous.
            I agree. Malfoy’s voice snapped like a window being broken. If the world made sense, which means that if the world ordered itself to my specifications, then you would have noticed the bloody obvious staring you in the face and tried to date me during that last year we spent at Hogwarts. Instead of ignoring me and going for Weasley.
            Ginny and I have been divorced for a long time now, Harry said absently. And Malfoy, you can’t admire me.
            The mental laughter that cut through Harry’s head made him wince and want to hide. But you don’t get to tell me what to do, Potter. I won freedom from your strictures a long time ago, by entering the Unspeakables. And you have to put up, for now, with the knowledge that I’d like to see you get hard for me, and touch you when you couldn’t fight back.
            Harry’s strongest desire right now was to gape, and he could feel Malfoy’s amusement, like a winter wind whipping particles of ice in his face. In the meantime, he was stretching another cord across Harry’s body, this time from one frozen arm to the other, and now and then pausing to murmur more incantations in that windy language Harry didn’t know.
            You can stop the curse, Harry said at last.
            Not without your cooperation. Malfoy came to the head of the table and leaned over so that his eyes were locked on Harry’s. And to do that, you need to look into the deepest part of my brain and join me on the ritual board I have laid out there.
            Ritual…board?
            But a second later, with a flash like the athame and the sensation of passing through a doorway, Harry was in that place, and he could see why Malfoy had called it a board.
            It had alternating squares of color, like a chessboard, but these weren’t black and white. They were deep purple and green, instead. Harry blinked and looked around, and then froze in pure joy, because he could do that.
            So when you have the chance to move, you waste it on freezing? Potter, you’re an idiot.
            Harry ignored him, and ran his hands up and down his hips. He could move. He could blink and speak. He was alive.
            You might not be for much longer unless you pay attention to me.
            Harry looked up, with a sudden snapping sensation claiming his attention. Malfoy stood now on the other side of the board, on a purple square. He wore grey Unspeakable robes and studied Harry with devouring intensity.
            Harry looked down again, and something came to him consciously then that had been true all along, but easier to ignore until now. He was still naked. His face turned scarlet.
            You could have brought me here in clothes.
            Why should I do that, when I enjoy looking at you so much?
            Harry glared furiously. Malfoy gave him a bland smile that had sharp edges. It would only seem that way when coupled with Malfoy’s voice in your head, though, thought Harry.
            Your mother was Professor Snape’s downfall. His obsession. He told me once that he thought of her each time he went to sleep, almost twenty years after her death. And while you haven’t lasted as long for me, I understand what he meant. You’re always there, Potter. When I’m doing experiments. When I’m performing the monthly rituals that Unspeakables must do to look objectively at their mistakes. My greatest fault and folly is always you.
            I didn’t ask to be, was all Harry could think to say. And why would you care that much about me, anyway?
            For so many reasons.
            The reasons hit Harry like a winter storm in their turn. Wounded pride from Harry’s words on the train that first year. All the times Harry had defended Ron or Hermione against Malfoy’s taunts. The way Harry flew, and made winning Quidditch look so effortless, and defeated Malfoy time and again. The deeds, like slaying the basilisk, that Malfoy heard about second-hand, and which made him ache and sneak off to his bed to wank.
            Malfoy! You were bloody twelve.
            Thirteen, then. And some of us know what we want early on. Whether that increases our chances of getting it…
            Harry had to turn away from the worked pain on Malfoy’s face. What do we have to do to hold back the curse?
            Malfoy was silent for a moment, as if he was still waiting for Harry to pay attention to him. Harry was about to snap that he couldn’t do that, and then Malfoy’s voice came again.
            The purple squares of the board represent the curse trying to consume you. You probably didn’t notice, but the “black” runes appearing on you are actually deep purple. The green squares represent your life. Your eyes.
            Could something not be about my bloody eyes for once?
            Malfoy ignored that. You must move with me. From one side of the board to the other. You can think of it any way you want. Playing chess, or dancing, or fighting. But we must make all the purple squares green. He held out his hand.
            Harry huffed in an annoyed breath and held out his hand, too. It’ll have to be dancing. I can’t fight you now, no matter how obnoxious you are. And I was never any good at chess.
            Malfoy smiled at him and tossed his head back with an oddly joyous gesture. Fine. But that dance will be conducted my way.
            The board around them flickered, and Harry thought for a second he saw the cords that Malfoy had tied around his physical body. He opened his mouth, or his mind, to ask what was happening in the real world, whether the curse had succeeded in climbing his body further than his ankles or not.
            But Malfoy hit him with a question. Where did you come by the scar on the back of your hand?
            Harry grimaced as the question seemed to swirl around him, turning him in a slow clockwise direction. This was what Malfoy had meant by dancing, then. He was going to hit Harry with question after question, including ones that he probably didn’t want to answer, and Harry would have to move in the way they wanted him to move.
            But Harry wanted to be free and alive more than he wanted to preserve his secrets from Malfoy, so he answered. Umbridge making me write with a blood quill in her detentions. I believe you were aware of that at the time.
            He completed the slow turn, and saw one square turn green. Malfoy apparently still hovered beside him; it was suddenly hard to see him, although Harry could still move. He had gone transparent and shifty, a ghost with a glowing green center.
            Not that one. The one that stretches across the back of your knuckles on your left hand.
            Harry had to look down, because he honestly didn’t know what Malfoy was talking about. And even when he saw it—it was a faint white line, the sort of thing that only someone obsessive would notice, honestly—it took him long seconds to recall. Malfoy could presumably tell that Harry was actually struggling with the answer and not just holding back out of pure contrariness, because he was silent.
            My cousin Dudley scored me with a knife, Harry said at last. I think he had the knife from one of my friends. I never asked. And then someone came out of a house and saw us and yelled, so he didn’t get the chance to do anything else with it. It was one of the few times that Dudley had ever got in trouble, although of course Harry had suffered more when he went back to the Dursleys.
            And no one tried to stop him?
            Of course. I did.
            I meant someone outside you.
            Harry only shook his head. They were still slowly turning, Malfoy flickering in and out of reality around that steady green fire at the center of him, and Harry had no idea how fast things were moving in the outside world. No. Ask your next question.
            How is it that no one has ever noticed you were abused? Your stature. The way you move, sometimes. The way you came back skinny and pale from a summer at the Muggles’.
            Harry felt the impulse to deny it, but he held still. Something else was moving in him, something that had nothing to do with the dance that he and Malfoy were still, he supposed, performing to throw the curse off him.
            It was a soft uncurling of pleasure, as deep purple as the squares of the board beneath his feet—no, deeper. This was simple darkness. Dark, like Dark Arts.
            Harry was pleased that someone had asked.
            He ignored the strange emotion for now and answered, My friends knew. They saw some things that I wouldn’t have been able to lie to them about even if I’d wanted to. And Dumbledore apologized once for condemning me to ten dark and difficult years. He probably didn’t know everything about it, but he knew a lot.
            And nothing ever changed. No one ever tried to get you out of there!
            The snarl reverberated in Harry’s head. He also had the impression that it made them spin harder.
            He stretched in that unaccustomed, unexplained pleasure and answered. Dumbledore said it was the safest place for me—safest from Death Eaters. And my friends were only kids. What could they have done?
            Don’t give me that!
            Malfoy’s voice slammed into him like a javelin. Harry gasped and staggered. Malfoy immediately caught him up with—something, maybe arms made of green flame, which was all he looked like now—and held him steady. They began turning again, and Harry saw some more squares on the board turn green.
            I apologize. I didn’t mean to throw you off-balance.
            Harry luxuriated in the apology for a minute, too, before Malfoy continued, They went with you first year and helped you get the Philosopher’s Stone. Granger time-traveled with you and saved Buckbeak. They survived a battle with Death Eaters in our fifth year. I can see that they hunted Horcruxes with you.
            Harry felt a brief flash of panic. If Malfoy could see all that, things Harry knew he hadn’t known, then he could also see what Harry was feeling now, and guess—
            But Malfoy went on as though nothing had been said, or sensed, at least by him. Children who could do that could have done their part in saving you.
            Because I never asked for it.
            You damn well should have.
            This wasn’t like a javelin, this time, It was simple anger, and Harry held onto it, cradled it against him, and he knew why. He knew Malfoy would see that, too. He supposed that was payment enough for the fact that he’d learned of Malfoy’s obsession.
            Harry wanted someone to care about him. Just him, just the boy or the Auror or the man—Harry didn’t much care which of his selves they saw, since to some extent they were all him. But not the Chosen One. Not the hero.
            None of his past lovers had ever managed to do that, or at least not much. They’d cared, of course, but Harry’s own mythology blinded them at this point. There was no way to get behind that mythology and see the Hero as the Victim. Harry had wanted to have more than a give-and-take relationship with his lovers, or one where he had to do all the giving. Sometimes he wanted to lie back and take and take from someone who wanted nothing more than to give.
            And I have something I want to give you.
            Malfoy’s voice was everywhere around him, burning, stinging, lashing. Harry opened his eyes from the middle of a lightning storm and locked them with Malfoy’s.
            Malfoy came one step towards him. For a second, Harry panicked, thinking they’d broken the spiral of the dance.
            And then he saw that beneath their feet, all the squares of the board were green. He relaxed with an incredulous sigh.
            Yes, you did it. We did it.
            Malfoy came up to him then, and Harry felt the darting flicker of his fingers, the mind that sliced and sluiced around his, and he leaned in and kissed Malfoy and he felt as though he had slammed back through a doorway into his body—
            Finite Incantatem.
            Harry thought the spell was telepathic, but when he opened his eyes, he could still move his limbs. He sat up immediately and stared at his ankles. The runes were gone, and he had feet made of flesh again. He flexed them, sighing so hard that it hurt his nostrils.
            Something seized his chin and twisted his face around.
            “The first thing you should have looked at when you woke up is me,” Malfoy snarled, and kissed him hard enough to drive Harry’s lips into his teeth and make both of them ache.
            Harry leaned back, a little cry rising from him. He couldn’t understand all the emotions leaping in him, lava-like and exploding, and he suspected Malfoy didn’t, either, since they were no longer connected by the enforced telepathic bond of the magic. But it might not matter, as Malfoy dropped a knee on the bed and kissed Harry harder and harder.
            Someone knocked, far away. Malfoy sat up and turned around.
            “I have to tell them we succeeded and you’re alive, you’ll live,” Malfoy said, panting. He swirled his fairly long pale hair back behind him and gave Harry a look that pinned him to the bed and made his cock begin to stir. “But this continues tonight, do you understand?”
            Harry nodded hastily, rapidly, then stopped himself before he could look like an idiot or magical toy. Malfoy grinned hard at him once, and slipped away, after conjuring a blanket that he draped over Harry.
            Harry leaned back among the broken cords Malfoy had cast over him and closed his eyes. His lips felt dry, his mouth wet.
            And his groin hard.
            He listened to the distant murmur of Malfoy conversing with the other Unspeakables, and sighed out one, long hard sigh.
            This isn’t over yet.
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Volcanologist