Fic: Fire on Babylon (Draco/Various)
Title: Fire on Babylon
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: I am the last, and now, the only. The omega and the alpha.
Pairings: Draco/Hermione, Draco/Ron, Draco/Ginny, Draco/Luna
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Not mine at all.
Feedback: Always welcome and more appreciated than you know.
Notes: For the hp_literotica quotation challenge. My quote was: Genius is of no country.--Charles Churchill. Thanks to mousapelli for the handholding and the beta.
Word count: 3,970
Date: July 6, 2005
~*~
Fire on Babylon
ix.
Draco stares at the smoldering crater where Hogwarts once stood and thinks, I did this. The laughter rises in his blood like the smoke rises from the ruins, curling into question marks to which he has no answers, to which no answers now exist. He bites his lip to hold the laughter in, but lets go when the salt-copper tang of blood floods his mouth.
His laugh is loud and wild in the empty silence, and he finally understands.
I am the last, he thinks, and now, the only. The omega and the alpha. He feels no pride, no joy, only relief that it is over.
Voldemort is gone. Draco neither knows nor cares whether Potter, or anyone else, has survived. He turns and walks away, still laughing softly as the sun rises over the lake.
*
viii.
It's easy enough to find them, he'd just never bothered to go before. He sends Crabbe and Goyle back to the Slytherin common room and follows Nott and Zabini up to the seventh floor. They are the only Slytherins who attend, even though everyone knows about the DA now. Draco knows Potter thinks they're his spies, but they're not. Zabini has always gone his own way, and Nott is...inscrutable at the best of times and downright enigmatic at the worst. Draco sometimes hates him for the way nothing ever seems to touch him.
Potter and Longbottom are up at the front of the room, waving their wands around as if they actually know what they're doing, and everybody is looking at them, so Draco goes unnoticed until he says, "I know how to defeat the Dark Lord."
"Oh yeah," Potter says, without missing a beat, "having you on his side means we'll definitely kick his arse."
Draco's hands clench into fists (later he will find blood beneath his fingernails and little crescent moons cut into his palms). "I'm serious."
Potter snorts. "Get out, Malfoy. Nobody wants you here."
"I think you should listen to him," Luna says. She cocks her head and twirls her hair around her wand, but Potter doesn't dismiss her out of hand.
"Luna--"
"She's right," the Weasley bint says, and her brother goes scarlet. Granger puts a hand on his arm, and he turns away, muttering.
"It's bad enough I have to look at your ugly face every day at meals," Potter snarls. "What makes you think I want you around the rest of the time?"
Draco is furious, but for once he curbs his tongue, listening to the soft voice in the back of his head that sounds like his mother. Subtlety, she insists every time he sees her, and in her occasional letters as well. Restraint. Learn from our mistakes. He has no wish to end up dead, mad, or disinherited, so he tries.
"It's not a question of want, it's a question of need."
"Need?" Potter asks. "What could we possibly need you for?"
"I can get you close to You Know Who," he says, "and you can help me get my revenge."
He explains only as much as he thinks they need to know, but the discovery of their shared hatred for his aunt leads Potter and Longbottom to hear him out, and grudgingly accept at least some of what he says as true. He can almost taste revenge -- success -- when he sees the fury in Potter's eyes at the mention of her name.
In the end, it is desperation that leads them to listen to him, and desperation that allows the plan they hatch to succeed.
*
vii.
It isn't as if he'd had a choice. That's the only thing consoling Draco as he patrols the corridors with Granger. He can hardly be blamed that Dumbledore has insisted on inter-house cooperation amongst prefects. And it certainly isn't his fault that Snape for some reason has chosen to overlook Granger's less sterling qualities (and there are so many, Draco thinks, beginning with her parentage and continuing on through her know-it-all attitude and her damned hair, which she doesn't have the decency to tie back so it doesn't get in his face when they're walking side by side, and that's just to start with) and forced them to patrol together.
The only silver lining he can find is that she seems as put out as he is about it. Since he knows it's not because she knows she's inferior, he can't quite bring himself to approve of her distaste.
They walk the corridors silently, and none of the snogging couples or curfew-breakers argues when they lose points and are sent back to their dormitories, having been the recipient of a lecture from Granger or the sharper side of Draco's tongue.
Draco has even been somewhat successful in curbing Peeves's antics with the judicious use of the Bloody Baron's name, but it's Peeves who has the last laugh.
He locks them into a supply closet one night, late, and none of the fifty-seven varieties of unlocking spells Granger has tried has worked, and his own small store of them has been exhausted.
There is barely enough room for one person in there, with the mops and the pails and the bottles of Mrs. Skower's Stain Remover. He sinks down to the small patch of floor available and draws his knees up. Granger barely has room to stand, and he can't help but notice the flare of her hips and curve of her arse when she bends to look more closely at the lock, her skirt rising up to bare the pale, smooth skin of her thighs.
He is horrified to feel the familiar stir of heat in his belly, the tightening in his groin. No, he thinks. Not Granger.
But it's far too easy to tumble her into his lap with a foot placed just so in the small space they're forced to share, and it's done before he has the chance to make himself not do it.
Her annoying hair is softer to the touch than it looks, and it smells faintly of roses and now, of dust.
"Very funny," she snaps, trying to lever herself off him, but he grabs her hips and holds her down. "What are you--"
He thrusts up against her and smirks. "Haven't you ever thought about..."
"Oh, honestly, Malfoy. No. I haven't." Her breath catches on the last word as his hand slides up her thigh, fingers slipping along the damp cotton of her knickers.
"No? Brave and noble Gryffndors don't lie," he answers, pushing aside the fabric to stroke along hot, wet flesh. "And I think you're lying."
"I'm n-not," she stutters, grabbing his shoulders, ostensibly to help herself up, but her body presses down against his hand. "I've really never thought about it before." She gasps as he brushes his thumb over her clitoris.
"But you are thinking about it -- about me -- now."
She looks down, away. "I--"
Another quick movement with his thumb, and she nearly moans. "Tell the truth now, Granger," he whispers, delighted, "or I won't do that again."
"Yes, okay? Yes," she says, letting her head fall forward, covering them both in the cloud of her hair.
It's easy enough to get his trousers undone, to push up into the slick, wet heat of her, thumb still circling slowly. She keeps her face pressed to his shoulder as she rides him, her breath warm and her teeth sharp against his neck. She whimpers and curses, and her body tenses as she strains toward her release. It builds within him as well, and he keeps his eyes closed, lets himself sink into the rising swell of pleasure. Her body clenches around him, and his body echoes with that wild pulse as he comes deep inside her.
She is still shaking when she climbs off him, pushing the heavy, sweaty mass of her hair off her face. He tucks himself away lazily after a quick cleaning spell, and is trying to find the brainpower to say something cutting when the door swings open to reveal Potter and Weasley.
They grope and paw at her, and wrap their arms around her to escort her from his vile presence. He wants to laugh, wants to tell them how eager she was after that first hesitation, but he has a feeling Weasley, at least, knows.
He can still smell her on his skin and hands, and he wonders, as he heads back to his room, if even a dozen showers will remove the taint.
*
vi.
Draco isn't expecting to walk out of the shower and into Weasley's fist.
He should have known Weasley would find out. Girls talk, and it's not like Draco has made a secret of his activities, even though he is sometimes appalled at his lack of taste and discretion. The worst part is, he can't seem to help himself; he's come to believe something more than simple teenage hormones is at work.
"Keep your filthy fucking hands off my sister!"
"Filthy? I'm not the blood traitor here," Draco snarls. He slams Weasley back into the lockers and they scuffle, shoving and thrusting against each other until Draco is dizzy from pain and lack of air.
He thinks he's doing well, considering Weasley is taller and heavier, though his towel fell off sometime during their grappling and he is achingly hard, with no way to hide it.
Weasley pins him to the cold tile of the locker room floor, both of them panting and sweating, and Draco thrusts up to free himself and meets an answering hardness.
He laughs, breathless and edged with hysteria. "Your sister... likes it ... rough ...too," he wheezes, and Weasley growls, replying with the quick snap of his hips. "I reckon you want me to fuck you instead," Draco says, bucking up in response, seeking delicious, necessary friction.
Weasley leans down and shuts him up with a kiss, tongue thrusting aggressively. He tastes blood from his split lip, but neither of them cares enough to be gentle. Weasley manages to get his flies open and then they are skin to skin, hot and hard, so different from the slick-soft give of a girl.
Weasley likes to bite, and Draco returns the favor, each kiss a clash of tongues and lips and teeth, each snap and roll of their hips a statement of defiance. Weasley loses the rhythm, hips jerking wildly as he comes, spattering Draco's belly and thighs with thick, white fluid. He reaches between them, his big freckled hand stroking Draco forcefully, unmercifully, until Draco comes as well, his vision going white around the edges from the sheer force of his orgasm.
They stare at each other for a moment -- Weasley's nose is swollen and he will have many bruises (not all of them easily explained by the fight) in a few hours.
"Fuck with me if you like," he says, his voice a low rasp, and Draco thinks he likes very much, "but stay away from my sister."
Draco laughs. "Why?" he asks. "Maybe I like having you both."
Weasley rises and spells himself clean. "You're disgusting," he says, walking away.
Sore and yet satisfied, Draco drags himself back into the showers, still laughing.
*
v.
The Weasley bint is all swinging hips and fiery hair, full pink lips and lickable freckles. Draco finds himself watching her, the sweet curve of her breasts as she approaches and of her arse as she walks away.
He knows this one will be more complicated, more difficult than the others, but he's confident now, in ways he wasn't before, and he knows girls respond to that self-assurance.
He catches her after Quidditch practice one day, her skin pink and her chest heaving from exertion. She always stays behind afterward -- she and Potter tossing Quaffles at her witless brother while he flails about, pretending to be a keeper. But today Granger appears on the scene early to screech at them about something or other, and the two boys rush inside after her, leaving Ginny to follow slowly in their wake.
"Weasley," he says, stepping out from the shadows as she reaches the broom shed.
She looks him over and raises an eyebrow. "Malfoy." The fact that she speaks at all is a reminder of how his status has changed this year. Losing a parent brings with it a cachet that nearly rivals Potter's; even though Draco has not let slip how it happened, some people seem to *know*.
He is not surprised the Weasley chit is one of them.
He steps closer, inhaling the scent of girlsweat, fresh-cut grass and baby powder, heat coiling in his belly like a snake. He remembers the rumors about her from his second year, and other rumors of more recent vintage, and wonders if Potter has had her yet, and if he spoke Parseltongue when he did.
The idea is bizarrely exciting and Draco tries to push it from his mind as he reaches out a hand to stroke her cheek. Her skin is even softer than it looks, and he can hear the hitch in her breathing as he touches her. She doesn't back away, just curls her lip in something that looks like recognition, or possibly disdain.
"I've heard about you," she says, echoing his thoughts.
Instead of the witty response he's sure he has at the tip of his tongue, he wraps his hand around the nape of her neck, tangling in the sweaty mess of dark red hair, and kisses her. It is hard and wet and without finesse, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he's rather disgusted by the whole thing -- not only because she's a Weasley and a blood traitor, but at his own lack of grace. She seems to like it rough, though; she drops her broom and her gloves and shoves him back against the shed, her tongue thrusting into his mouth and her hands rising to grab at his hair. He is breathless, as much from the impact of his back against the wall as from the ferocity of her kiss, and pain edges the desire rushing through him.
He shoves back, swinging them around so she is the one against the wall, and takes her mouth again, not softening at all. She doesn't flinch -- in fact, she seems to revel in it, using her teeth to nip at his lower lip, his jaw, his ear as her hand cups his erection and squeezes. He gasps, hands tightening in her hair, and when he pulls back to look at her, she's grinning like some modern Boadicca, armed for war.
His concentration shatters when her small, warm hand wraps around him, and he yanks clumsily at her jeans, aching to sink himself into the tight, wet heat of her body. She laughs, wild and sweet and only slightly mocking, and he finds himself grinning back as he slides his fingers inside her knickers.
She growls in frustration when her jeans get stuck around her knees, but he remembers some small measure of grace and grabs his wand, murmuring, "Evanesco," baring her from the waist down to his appreciative eyes.
She pushes his trousers down and climbs him like a tree, her legs around his hips. That's the only invitation he needs. She is wet and hot as he surges into her, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking as much as she is taken. It's obvious she knows how to do this, making it difficult for him to remember anything but the slick velvet heat of her surrounding him, the taste of her skin salty, fresh and green on his lips. She works her hand between them to touch herself as they thrust, and soon she's clenching around him, pulling him deeper as she shudders her release, head thrown back to expose the long, sleek curve of her throat.
He follows her over the edge, the world disappearing under waves of pleasure as his hips buck wildly against hers.
When he pulls away, she lowers her legs unsteadily and sinks to the ground, sweatier and more breathless than even Quidditch practice had left her. She's stunning in her disarray, and as he saunters away, his satisfaction is mingled with pride that he put that glow on her face. It ameliorates the distaste he feels later, when he realizes what he's done.
*
iv.
Luna shines like a moth in the dim light of the library, hair pale and eyes wide as she settles next to him. Crabbe and Goyle look confused, but he doesn't have them drive her away. She could be a useful spy -- she's friends with Potter, after all -- and he's learning to think before he speaks.
He keeps his eyes on his book, making her wait, and is startled by the soft lilt of her voice when she speaks.
"There's madness in your blood," she says, and he jerks his head up to stare at her.
"What did you say?"
"You have ink on your cheek," she says, not blinking under his most impressive sneer. She reaches out and brushes his cheek with her thumb. She's trembling as she touches him, and she moistens her lips, pink tongue peeking between well-shaped lips.
"Oh," he says, off-balance, as the thumb, warm and tasting of ink, slips over his lips. She leans forward and brushes his mouth with hers, and then flutters away, wearing his kiss on her lips.
He is never able to explain why he follows her through the crowded corridors, but the sudden need humming in his blood overcomes any objections his mind might have. He pushes her into a curtained alcove on the third floor, away from prying eyes. The dust is thick and it makes him sneeze, and her hair smells of watermelon, sickly sweet and cloying, but he doesn't really care. He kisses her this time, and there is nothing gentle about it. He's surprised at her fierce response, a focus in her he'd never expected, if he'd ever given the matter a moment's thought, which he hadn't.
He doesn't waste time on preliminaries. Though he's never done it before (no one but Pansy knows the truth, but after this it won't matter), he isn't nervous at all. He lays Luna down on the dusty seat and covers her body with his. She doesn't fight him, and in fact twines an arm around his neck to pull him closer, other hand already working at his zip. He shoves her flimsy skirt up over her hips, pulls her knickers down, and thrusts inside her, ignoring the resistance her body offers, the way she gasps and bites her lip when he pushes through it.
She is snug and slick around him, and he doesn't last long, spilling himself inside her, hips thrusting wildly. He collapses on top of her, and she strokes his hair, a dreamy smile on her ink-stained lips.
Later, when he looks in the mirror, he will see his own lips marked the same way, his face and neck dappled with faint smudges of ink, possession. Luna was here.
*
iii.
The summer rolls by, too slowly and too quickly, as they await the news from Azkaban. His father's escape makes the front page of The Daily Prophet, but his death by assailant or assailants unknown is buried on page eight, with the news of Agnes Thwillhopper's promotion to Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs, and Milhouse Trafford's third engagement, this time to heiress Absynthia Zonko.
It does, however, merit visits from both his Aunt Bellatrix, who cries crocodile tears with his mother, and Professor Snape, whom his mother regards with barely veiled distaste.
"The Dark Lord was angry," Snape says. "Lucius had displeased him, and was punished."
Draco stays still as stone during the conversation, unsure if they've forgotten his presence or were ignoring it, but at this he cannot keep silent.
"That's insane," he says.
"No," Snape replies flatly. "That is how being a Death Eater works." Snape shoves up his sleeve and thrusts his arm out. Draco can see the faint black outline of a Dark Mark marring his pasty flesh, and shudders. "If you choose this existence for yourself, you ought to go in with your eyes open. Your aunt was sent to kill your father, and she did it without question."
Draco glances at his mother, who has gone deathly pale, the grey of her eyes the only color in her face. Her hands clench the arms of her chair and Draco is surprised the wood hasn't splintered beneath them.
She nods once, and Draco will never be sure if she's condoning her sister's actions or giving him tacit permission to avenge his father's death.
He chooses to believe the latter.
*
ii.
He doesn't recognize the woman at first, with her deep-set eyes and heavy black hair. He can see she was beautiful once, but all that's left is madness, like a bacchante who's seen the face of her god before his time.
She laughs and strokes the curve of his cheek with long, elegant fingers that remind him of the white spiders that live in the attic.
"My, how you've grown," she says in a throaty voice that sets his blood alight.
His mother is less pleased at the woman's presence; he can tell by the tightness around her lips, the way her nostrils flare.
"Give your Aunt Bellatrix a kiss." She leans close; she's slightly taller than he is, though he's had another growth spurt recently. Her breath smells of anise and her skin of white asphodel, and Draco shivers at the touch of her cool, dry lips to his cheek.
The wine flows freely that night, and Draco doesn't question because he's usually not allowed more than one glass, and while he doesn't much care for the taste, the color is dark and mesmerizing in the flickering candlelight.
After dinner, he asks what her plans are and she pins him with a stare, eyes cold as frost on a grey November morning.
"You are the sole remaining heir," she tells him, "and you must live up to the family name."
"A Malfoy never--" he begins, having learned this lesson at his father's knee, but Aunt Bellatrix cuts him off with a laugh as cold as steel against his spine.
"Malfoy? Oh, no, my dear. No. You're a Black, and you will continue the line."
He looks to his mother, who smiles tightly and says nothing more than, "Drink your wine, Draco. It will help you sleep."
That night he dreams of faceless bodies, red-lipped mouths and pink-tipped breasts and slick, tight heat consuming him. He wakes breathless and sticky and aching for something he cannot define.
Aunt Bellatrix is gone in the morning, and his mother is dull-eyed and snappish. She continues to allow him wine with dinner, though, so he doesn't push her.
*
i.
His mother is weeping when he arrives, eyes bloodshot and face bone white. He imagines she's been weeping for days, waiting for his return. He knows his duty, comforts her, his hand upon her hair, spun-silk gold, so like his own.
The house-elves set a feast for him, but the sumptuous food is ashes in his mouth and will be as long as his father is in Azkaban. But his mother never speaks of him, and Draco knows better than to ask. He lets her cling before he goes up to bed, wishing he were still small enough to curl up in her lap and cry himself. He doesn't though, not even when he's alone in bed and he knows no one can hear.
He dreams of fire and blood and the end of the world. He sees Hogwarts shaken to its foundations, and he knows he has dreamed true.
end
***
Additional note: title comes from Sinead O'Connor.
***
Feedback of all stripes is most welcome.
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: I am the last, and now, the only. The omega and the alpha.
Pairings: Draco/Hermione, Draco/Ron, Draco/Ginny, Draco/Luna
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Not mine at all.
Feedback: Always welcome and more appreciated than you know.
Notes: For the hp_literotica quotation challenge. My quote was: Genius is of no country.--Charles Churchill. Thanks to mousapelli for the handholding and the beta.
Word count: 3,970
Date: July 6, 2005
~*~
Fire on Babylon
ix.
Draco stares at the smoldering crater where Hogwarts once stood and thinks, I did this. The laughter rises in his blood like the smoke rises from the ruins, curling into question marks to which he has no answers, to which no answers now exist. He bites his lip to hold the laughter in, but lets go when the salt-copper tang of blood floods his mouth.
His laugh is loud and wild in the empty silence, and he finally understands.
I am the last, he thinks, and now, the only. The omega and the alpha. He feels no pride, no joy, only relief that it is over.
Voldemort is gone. Draco neither knows nor cares whether Potter, or anyone else, has survived. He turns and walks away, still laughing softly as the sun rises over the lake.
*
viii.
It's easy enough to find them, he'd just never bothered to go before. He sends Crabbe and Goyle back to the Slytherin common room and follows Nott and Zabini up to the seventh floor. They are the only Slytherins who attend, even though everyone knows about the DA now. Draco knows Potter thinks they're his spies, but they're not. Zabini has always gone his own way, and Nott is...inscrutable at the best of times and downright enigmatic at the worst. Draco sometimes hates him for the way nothing ever seems to touch him.
Potter and Longbottom are up at the front of the room, waving their wands around as if they actually know what they're doing, and everybody is looking at them, so Draco goes unnoticed until he says, "I know how to defeat the Dark Lord."
"Oh yeah," Potter says, without missing a beat, "having you on his side means we'll definitely kick his arse."
Draco's hands clench into fists (later he will find blood beneath his fingernails and little crescent moons cut into his palms). "I'm serious."
Potter snorts. "Get out, Malfoy. Nobody wants you here."
"I think you should listen to him," Luna says. She cocks her head and twirls her hair around her wand, but Potter doesn't dismiss her out of hand.
"Luna--"
"She's right," the Weasley bint says, and her brother goes scarlet. Granger puts a hand on his arm, and he turns away, muttering.
"It's bad enough I have to look at your ugly face every day at meals," Potter snarls. "What makes you think I want you around the rest of the time?"
Draco is furious, but for once he curbs his tongue, listening to the soft voice in the back of his head that sounds like his mother. Subtlety, she insists every time he sees her, and in her occasional letters as well. Restraint. Learn from our mistakes. He has no wish to end up dead, mad, or disinherited, so he tries.
"It's not a question of want, it's a question of need."
"Need?" Potter asks. "What could we possibly need you for?"
"I can get you close to You Know Who," he says, "and you can help me get my revenge."
He explains only as much as he thinks they need to know, but the discovery of their shared hatred for his aunt leads Potter and Longbottom to hear him out, and grudgingly accept at least some of what he says as true. He can almost taste revenge -- success -- when he sees the fury in Potter's eyes at the mention of her name.
In the end, it is desperation that leads them to listen to him, and desperation that allows the plan they hatch to succeed.
*
vii.
It isn't as if he'd had a choice. That's the only thing consoling Draco as he patrols the corridors with Granger. He can hardly be blamed that Dumbledore has insisted on inter-house cooperation amongst prefects. And it certainly isn't his fault that Snape for some reason has chosen to overlook Granger's less sterling qualities (and there are so many, Draco thinks, beginning with her parentage and continuing on through her know-it-all attitude and her damned hair, which she doesn't have the decency to tie back so it doesn't get in his face when they're walking side by side, and that's just to start with) and forced them to patrol together.
The only silver lining he can find is that she seems as put out as he is about it. Since he knows it's not because she knows she's inferior, he can't quite bring himself to approve of her distaste.
They walk the corridors silently, and none of the snogging couples or curfew-breakers argues when they lose points and are sent back to their dormitories, having been the recipient of a lecture from Granger or the sharper side of Draco's tongue.
Draco has even been somewhat successful in curbing Peeves's antics with the judicious use of the Bloody Baron's name, but it's Peeves who has the last laugh.
He locks them into a supply closet one night, late, and none of the fifty-seven varieties of unlocking spells Granger has tried has worked, and his own small store of them has been exhausted.
There is barely enough room for one person in there, with the mops and the pails and the bottles of Mrs. Skower's Stain Remover. He sinks down to the small patch of floor available and draws his knees up. Granger barely has room to stand, and he can't help but notice the flare of her hips and curve of her arse when she bends to look more closely at the lock, her skirt rising up to bare the pale, smooth skin of her thighs.
He is horrified to feel the familiar stir of heat in his belly, the tightening in his groin. No, he thinks. Not Granger.
But it's far too easy to tumble her into his lap with a foot placed just so in the small space they're forced to share, and it's done before he has the chance to make himself not do it.
Her annoying hair is softer to the touch than it looks, and it smells faintly of roses and now, of dust.
"Very funny," she snaps, trying to lever herself off him, but he grabs her hips and holds her down. "What are you--"
He thrusts up against her and smirks. "Haven't you ever thought about..."
"Oh, honestly, Malfoy. No. I haven't." Her breath catches on the last word as his hand slides up her thigh, fingers slipping along the damp cotton of her knickers.
"No? Brave and noble Gryffndors don't lie," he answers, pushing aside the fabric to stroke along hot, wet flesh. "And I think you're lying."
"I'm n-not," she stutters, grabbing his shoulders, ostensibly to help herself up, but her body presses down against his hand. "I've really never thought about it before." She gasps as he brushes his thumb over her clitoris.
"But you are thinking about it -- about me -- now."
She looks down, away. "I--"
Another quick movement with his thumb, and she nearly moans. "Tell the truth now, Granger," he whispers, delighted, "or I won't do that again."
"Yes, okay? Yes," she says, letting her head fall forward, covering them both in the cloud of her hair.
It's easy enough to get his trousers undone, to push up into the slick, wet heat of her, thumb still circling slowly. She keeps her face pressed to his shoulder as she rides him, her breath warm and her teeth sharp against his neck. She whimpers and curses, and her body tenses as she strains toward her release. It builds within him as well, and he keeps his eyes closed, lets himself sink into the rising swell of pleasure. Her body clenches around him, and his body echoes with that wild pulse as he comes deep inside her.
She is still shaking when she climbs off him, pushing the heavy, sweaty mass of her hair off her face. He tucks himself away lazily after a quick cleaning spell, and is trying to find the brainpower to say something cutting when the door swings open to reveal Potter and Weasley.
They grope and paw at her, and wrap their arms around her to escort her from his vile presence. He wants to laugh, wants to tell them how eager she was after that first hesitation, but he has a feeling Weasley, at least, knows.
He can still smell her on his skin and hands, and he wonders, as he heads back to his room, if even a dozen showers will remove the taint.
*
vi.
Draco isn't expecting to walk out of the shower and into Weasley's fist.
He should have known Weasley would find out. Girls talk, and it's not like Draco has made a secret of his activities, even though he is sometimes appalled at his lack of taste and discretion. The worst part is, he can't seem to help himself; he's come to believe something more than simple teenage hormones is at work.
"Keep your filthy fucking hands off my sister!"
"Filthy? I'm not the blood traitor here," Draco snarls. He slams Weasley back into the lockers and they scuffle, shoving and thrusting against each other until Draco is dizzy from pain and lack of air.
He thinks he's doing well, considering Weasley is taller and heavier, though his towel fell off sometime during their grappling and he is achingly hard, with no way to hide it.
Weasley pins him to the cold tile of the locker room floor, both of them panting and sweating, and Draco thrusts up to free himself and meets an answering hardness.
He laughs, breathless and edged with hysteria. "Your sister... likes it ... rough ...too," he wheezes, and Weasley growls, replying with the quick snap of his hips. "I reckon you want me to fuck you instead," Draco says, bucking up in response, seeking delicious, necessary friction.
Weasley leans down and shuts him up with a kiss, tongue thrusting aggressively. He tastes blood from his split lip, but neither of them cares enough to be gentle. Weasley manages to get his flies open and then they are skin to skin, hot and hard, so different from the slick-soft give of a girl.
Weasley likes to bite, and Draco returns the favor, each kiss a clash of tongues and lips and teeth, each snap and roll of their hips a statement of defiance. Weasley loses the rhythm, hips jerking wildly as he comes, spattering Draco's belly and thighs with thick, white fluid. He reaches between them, his big freckled hand stroking Draco forcefully, unmercifully, until Draco comes as well, his vision going white around the edges from the sheer force of his orgasm.
They stare at each other for a moment -- Weasley's nose is swollen and he will have many bruises (not all of them easily explained by the fight) in a few hours.
"Fuck with me if you like," he says, his voice a low rasp, and Draco thinks he likes very much, "but stay away from my sister."
Draco laughs. "Why?" he asks. "Maybe I like having you both."
Weasley rises and spells himself clean. "You're disgusting," he says, walking away.
Sore and yet satisfied, Draco drags himself back into the showers, still laughing.
*
v.
The Weasley bint is all swinging hips and fiery hair, full pink lips and lickable freckles. Draco finds himself watching her, the sweet curve of her breasts as she approaches and of her arse as she walks away.
He knows this one will be more complicated, more difficult than the others, but he's confident now, in ways he wasn't before, and he knows girls respond to that self-assurance.
He catches her after Quidditch practice one day, her skin pink and her chest heaving from exertion. She always stays behind afterward -- she and Potter tossing Quaffles at her witless brother while he flails about, pretending to be a keeper. But today Granger appears on the scene early to screech at them about something or other, and the two boys rush inside after her, leaving Ginny to follow slowly in their wake.
"Weasley," he says, stepping out from the shadows as she reaches the broom shed.
She looks him over and raises an eyebrow. "Malfoy." The fact that she speaks at all is a reminder of how his status has changed this year. Losing a parent brings with it a cachet that nearly rivals Potter's; even though Draco has not let slip how it happened, some people seem to *know*.
He is not surprised the Weasley chit is one of them.
He steps closer, inhaling the scent of girlsweat, fresh-cut grass and baby powder, heat coiling in his belly like a snake. He remembers the rumors about her from his second year, and other rumors of more recent vintage, and wonders if Potter has had her yet, and if he spoke Parseltongue when he did.
The idea is bizarrely exciting and Draco tries to push it from his mind as he reaches out a hand to stroke her cheek. Her skin is even softer than it looks, and he can hear the hitch in her breathing as he touches her. She doesn't back away, just curls her lip in something that looks like recognition, or possibly disdain.
"I've heard about you," she says, echoing his thoughts.
Instead of the witty response he's sure he has at the tip of his tongue, he wraps his hand around the nape of her neck, tangling in the sweaty mess of dark red hair, and kisses her. It is hard and wet and without finesse, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he's rather disgusted by the whole thing -- not only because she's a Weasley and a blood traitor, but at his own lack of grace. She seems to like it rough, though; she drops her broom and her gloves and shoves him back against the shed, her tongue thrusting into his mouth and her hands rising to grab at his hair. He is breathless, as much from the impact of his back against the wall as from the ferocity of her kiss, and pain edges the desire rushing through him.
He shoves back, swinging them around so she is the one against the wall, and takes her mouth again, not softening at all. She doesn't flinch -- in fact, she seems to revel in it, using her teeth to nip at his lower lip, his jaw, his ear as her hand cups his erection and squeezes. He gasps, hands tightening in her hair, and when he pulls back to look at her, she's grinning like some modern Boadicca, armed for war.
His concentration shatters when her small, warm hand wraps around him, and he yanks clumsily at her jeans, aching to sink himself into the tight, wet heat of her body. She laughs, wild and sweet and only slightly mocking, and he finds himself grinning back as he slides his fingers inside her knickers.
She growls in frustration when her jeans get stuck around her knees, but he remembers some small measure of grace and grabs his wand, murmuring, "Evanesco," baring her from the waist down to his appreciative eyes.
She pushes his trousers down and climbs him like a tree, her legs around his hips. That's the only invitation he needs. She is wet and hot as he surges into her, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking as much as she is taken. It's obvious she knows how to do this, making it difficult for him to remember anything but the slick velvet heat of her surrounding him, the taste of her skin salty, fresh and green on his lips. She works her hand between them to touch herself as they thrust, and soon she's clenching around him, pulling him deeper as she shudders her release, head thrown back to expose the long, sleek curve of her throat.
He follows her over the edge, the world disappearing under waves of pleasure as his hips buck wildly against hers.
When he pulls away, she lowers her legs unsteadily and sinks to the ground, sweatier and more breathless than even Quidditch practice had left her. She's stunning in her disarray, and as he saunters away, his satisfaction is mingled with pride that he put that glow on her face. It ameliorates the distaste he feels later, when he realizes what he's done.
*
iv.
Luna shines like a moth in the dim light of the library, hair pale and eyes wide as she settles next to him. Crabbe and Goyle look confused, but he doesn't have them drive her away. She could be a useful spy -- she's friends with Potter, after all -- and he's learning to think before he speaks.
He keeps his eyes on his book, making her wait, and is startled by the soft lilt of her voice when she speaks.
"There's madness in your blood," she says, and he jerks his head up to stare at her.
"What did you say?"
"You have ink on your cheek," she says, not blinking under his most impressive sneer. She reaches out and brushes his cheek with her thumb. She's trembling as she touches him, and she moistens her lips, pink tongue peeking between well-shaped lips.
"Oh," he says, off-balance, as the thumb, warm and tasting of ink, slips over his lips. She leans forward and brushes his mouth with hers, and then flutters away, wearing his kiss on her lips.
He is never able to explain why he follows her through the crowded corridors, but the sudden need humming in his blood overcomes any objections his mind might have. He pushes her into a curtained alcove on the third floor, away from prying eyes. The dust is thick and it makes him sneeze, and her hair smells of watermelon, sickly sweet and cloying, but he doesn't really care. He kisses her this time, and there is nothing gentle about it. He's surprised at her fierce response, a focus in her he'd never expected, if he'd ever given the matter a moment's thought, which he hadn't.
He doesn't waste time on preliminaries. Though he's never done it before (no one but Pansy knows the truth, but after this it won't matter), he isn't nervous at all. He lays Luna down on the dusty seat and covers her body with his. She doesn't fight him, and in fact twines an arm around his neck to pull him closer, other hand already working at his zip. He shoves her flimsy skirt up over her hips, pulls her knickers down, and thrusts inside her, ignoring the resistance her body offers, the way she gasps and bites her lip when he pushes through it.
She is snug and slick around him, and he doesn't last long, spilling himself inside her, hips thrusting wildly. He collapses on top of her, and she strokes his hair, a dreamy smile on her ink-stained lips.
Later, when he looks in the mirror, he will see his own lips marked the same way, his face and neck dappled with faint smudges of ink, possession. Luna was here.
*
iii.
The summer rolls by, too slowly and too quickly, as they await the news from Azkaban. His father's escape makes the front page of The Daily Prophet, but his death by assailant or assailants unknown is buried on page eight, with the news of Agnes Thwillhopper's promotion to Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs, and Milhouse Trafford's third engagement, this time to heiress Absynthia Zonko.
It does, however, merit visits from both his Aunt Bellatrix, who cries crocodile tears with his mother, and Professor Snape, whom his mother regards with barely veiled distaste.
"The Dark Lord was angry," Snape says. "Lucius had displeased him, and was punished."
Draco stays still as stone during the conversation, unsure if they've forgotten his presence or were ignoring it, but at this he cannot keep silent.
"That's insane," he says.
"No," Snape replies flatly. "That is how being a Death Eater works." Snape shoves up his sleeve and thrusts his arm out. Draco can see the faint black outline of a Dark Mark marring his pasty flesh, and shudders. "If you choose this existence for yourself, you ought to go in with your eyes open. Your aunt was sent to kill your father, and she did it without question."
Draco glances at his mother, who has gone deathly pale, the grey of her eyes the only color in her face. Her hands clench the arms of her chair and Draco is surprised the wood hasn't splintered beneath them.
She nods once, and Draco will never be sure if she's condoning her sister's actions or giving him tacit permission to avenge his father's death.
He chooses to believe the latter.
*
ii.
He doesn't recognize the woman at first, with her deep-set eyes and heavy black hair. He can see she was beautiful once, but all that's left is madness, like a bacchante who's seen the face of her god before his time.
She laughs and strokes the curve of his cheek with long, elegant fingers that remind him of the white spiders that live in the attic.
"My, how you've grown," she says in a throaty voice that sets his blood alight.
His mother is less pleased at the woman's presence; he can tell by the tightness around her lips, the way her nostrils flare.
"Give your Aunt Bellatrix a kiss." She leans close; she's slightly taller than he is, though he's had another growth spurt recently. Her breath smells of anise and her skin of white asphodel, and Draco shivers at the touch of her cool, dry lips to his cheek.
The wine flows freely that night, and Draco doesn't question because he's usually not allowed more than one glass, and while he doesn't much care for the taste, the color is dark and mesmerizing in the flickering candlelight.
After dinner, he asks what her plans are and she pins him with a stare, eyes cold as frost on a grey November morning.
"You are the sole remaining heir," she tells him, "and you must live up to the family name."
"A Malfoy never--" he begins, having learned this lesson at his father's knee, but Aunt Bellatrix cuts him off with a laugh as cold as steel against his spine.
"Malfoy? Oh, no, my dear. No. You're a Black, and you will continue the line."
He looks to his mother, who smiles tightly and says nothing more than, "Drink your wine, Draco. It will help you sleep."
That night he dreams of faceless bodies, red-lipped mouths and pink-tipped breasts and slick, tight heat consuming him. He wakes breathless and sticky and aching for something he cannot define.
Aunt Bellatrix is gone in the morning, and his mother is dull-eyed and snappish. She continues to allow him wine with dinner, though, so he doesn't push her.
*
i.
His mother is weeping when he arrives, eyes bloodshot and face bone white. He imagines she's been weeping for days, waiting for his return. He knows his duty, comforts her, his hand upon her hair, spun-silk gold, so like his own.
The house-elves set a feast for him, but the sumptuous food is ashes in his mouth and will be as long as his father is in Azkaban. But his mother never speaks of him, and Draco knows better than to ask. He lets her cling before he goes up to bed, wishing he were still small enough to curl up in her lap and cry himself. He doesn't though, not even when he's alone in bed and he knows no one can hear.
He dreams of fire and blood and the end of the world. He sees Hogwarts shaken to its foundations, and he knows he has dreamed true.
end
***
Additional note: title comes from Sinead O'Connor.
***
Feedback of all stripes is most welcome.