The Hive Queen
Title: Hegemony
Author: waxrose
Summary: “Somehow, some way, he would have to ensure that Harry Potter survived long enough to kill the Dark Lord.”
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Length: 3450 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all JKR's. Oh God, I still can't believe I wrote this. Augh. *hides under a rock*
Notes: For sioniann, who has been wonderfully patient these past months. Also a very big THANK YOU to the best betas in the world, sor_bet and arcanefairy. You were magnificently helpful and giving of your time, and I really appreciate that.
Draco had realized long ago that, as much as he hated Mudbloods, he wasn't very keen on actually bloodying his hands or doing the dirty work. The fantasies he had deluded himself with in his younger days had usually involved his father ruffling his hair in a paternal fashion and saying “It's okay, son - you don't have to be a Death Eater.”
What Draco really craved was power, and yet a different sort of power than that of the Dark Lord. He wanted a power that didn’t include swarms of bleeding-heart martyrs forever throwing themselves in the path of his ambitions - creating secret, underground orders and such nonsense. Draco would become a politician. He would introduce laws that would reform the wizarding world - no more Mudbloods at Hogwarts! Tax exemptions for Pureblood families!
(Not, of course, that most of the families needed them - but they were greedy enough to want them anyway, and would, in turn, support Draco.)
And if he ever needed to put down any angry Mudbloods who didn't like his policies, well, there would always be a few cronies around who would take care of them.
Draco had no intentions of going over to Dumbledore and Potter's side, with their snivelling pro-Muggle rhetoric. However, he could definitely foresee a few problems following the possible victory of the Dark Lord. He was in this for himself, and he wanted power - power that the Dark Lord would be utterly unwilling to share.
Yes, an immortal, all-powerful, evil Dark Lord might hinder his plans to become the Minister of Magic. It was, then, he decided on hot July day while lounging on the expansive grounds of Malfoy Manor, a simple matter of playing both sides until he got what he wanted from them. He needed to take down the current Minister of Magic and replace him with a temporary incompetent. He needed to gain the trust and respect of Dumbledore's little army and - he shuddered, nearly choking on the acid pop that had been burning a hole in his tongue and filling his mouth with sharp cherry flavour and delicious, slow-growing pain - he would have to do the one thing that made him wonder if the summer sun had truly fried his brains.
Somehow, some way, he would have to ensure that Harry Potter survived long enough to kill the Dark Lord.
He forced himself to relax. It was possible that there was another way - Potter could fall off his broom and break his idiot neck at any time. Surely there was some other way to kill off an excruciatingly annoying Dark Lord.
Draco was cunning and ambitious - a typical Slytherin, his parents said fondly and often. He possessed a sharp, calculating intelligence and he knew how to use people's faults and weaknesses against them. Though the idea of a sixteen-year old schoolboy plotting to overthrow three of the most powerful people in the Wizarding World - the Minister of Magic, the Dark Lord, and Albus Dumbledore - seemed laughable to most, it actually was not all that far-fetched.
It would not be easy, but it was possible - excitingly possible. Draco began his preparations immediately.
---
"Got a proposition for you, Granger."
Hermione did not glance up from the stack of papers she was poring over on a table in the back corner of the library. "Dumbledore may trust you, Malfoy. That doesn't mean the rest of us are going to start kissing your feet."
"Don't play dumb," Draco sat casually on the table edge. "You have too much to gain to brush this off. You may see right through me, but that doesn't change the fact that what you see is a hell of a lot better than the alternative."
Her finger paused in the midst of tracing a sentence. “Why did you switch sides? You hate Muggleborns.”
"Of course I hate Mudbloods," he said calmly, "But I have no intention of killing anyone. I simply want to see the Wizarding world restored to it's former state - run by purebloods, that is. There is more than one way to accomplish that, and my preference doesn’t necessarily involved bloodshed. Less messy. Less work."
"You expect me to help you?" Hermione asked incredulously. "I ought to turn you over to Dumbledore right now!"
"By all means, Granger, do just that. I am personally in no danger. I have nothing to lose by going back - rather, I’ll gain by giving up crucial information about Dumbledore’s precious little secret society."
"What do you want, anyway?" Hermione asked, "To be the next Dark Lord?"
"Minister of Magic, actually."
Her expression was a mix of horror and amusement - mostly amusement. “I always knew you were insane, Malfoy.”
---
Joining the Muggle Studies class had been Granger’s idea. It was far from a stroke of genius, but it was much needed espionage.
Potter had dropped his Defense Against the Dark Arts option upon his return to school, choosing instead to take Muggle Studies. A private meeting with Dumbledore and McGonagall hadn’t yielded an answer, and Weasley and Granger seemed unable to break past the cold, hard walls that Potter had maintained since the new term had begun. Of course, Potter was unlikely to engage in any cozy heart-to-heart chats with Draco, but he was more likely to let something slip around him if provoked enough. Potter didn’t like him, much less trust him, making it completely impossible for him to believe that Draco might use such information for Potter’s own good.
Potter had been completely different since his return - no longer the smug, arrogant bastard who was practically joined at the hip with his friends. He was...subdued. Empty and cold. He didn’t speak unless someone made a point of speaking to him, and even then, his answers were nearly monosyllabic. He seemed, according to a fretful McGonagall, listless and disinterested.
And so Draco’s first mission as Dumbledore’s newest lackey was to infiltrate the Muggle Studies class and find out exactly why the Boy Who Lived had chosen to study the fascinating world of Muggles.
It had all gone well for the first few weeks. The work was dead easy, and Mendalsun doled out House points like candy - especially to the class's only Slytherin student, whom he seemed convinced he was on the point of converting to a life of sunshine, bunnies and Mudblood-loving. Slytherin was more than one hundred points ahead even before the first Quidditch match of the year was played, and life was looking up.
He hadn't counted on the old madman dragging the entire class out to the Forbidden Forest for a "Muggle-style camping trip" - or, at least as Muggle as one could get with unicorns peering shyly from the trees near the large, woodsy clearing that would serve as their campsite for the weekend.
He heaved the firewood over to the slowly growing pile near where his new "camping buddy" was attempting to erect a tent.
Oh yes, Mendalsun was dead. Very, very dead.
"Malfoy? Have you seen a long metal pole anywhere?" Green eyes glared suspiciously at him over a mess of white canvas and awkwardly assembled poles.
"You mean the one stuck up your arse?"
Potter's eyebrows furrowed in a manner, Draco noted with glee, not unlike that of his dear Mudblood girlfriend Granger. Interesting, that.
"Just get the rest of the firewood, Malfoy," Potter snapped, "Leave me the hell alone."
Draco raised a pale eyebrow. "Aren't we touchy," he murmured, massaging a sliver of wood from his finger. "Going to put me in a Full Body-Bind before we go to sleep, Potter?"
"Not a bad idea," Potter muttered darkly, searching frantically through the pile of canvas.
"My, my..." Draco murmured, fluttering his eyelashes. "I didn't know your tastes ran that way."
Potter's face flushed angrily. "Look, I don't know about you, but I have every intention of ignoring you and hoping that the next two days pass by very, very quickly," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "But I have nothing against hexing you should you choose to be a nuisance, Malfoy."
“I see no reason why I have to haul wood about while you ponce about doing nothing but putting together a tent,” Draco complained.
“Fine, Malfoy,” Harry spat, standing up. “If you’re too dainty to do menial labor then by all means, try and put up the tent. I’ll get the rest of the wood.”
Draco watched him go, wondering if perhaps McGonagall was missing something. Potter still acted normal around him.
---
"Come on, Granger. I can help your side, even if I don't want to be a part of it. You need my help more than I need yours."
She hesitated, and Draco leant forward, trying not to look eager. "Harry," she said, "is the only one who has any chance of defeating of Lord Voldemort."
"Isn't that a little arrogant?"
"It's a prophecy - that's what Dumbledore told Harry. That he's the only one with the power to defeat Voldemort. Tough luck, Malfoy," Hermione said triumphantly, "You can't get what you want without Harry."
"Rubbish."
"Sorry?"
"Granger, I'm surprised that you, of all people, put any stock in Divination. Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe this prophecy is wrong? We decide our own destinies, after all."
"Are you willing to bet the success of your plan on that?"
---
It was the uproarious laughter of his classmates, a despairing Professor Mendalsun and a very, very pissed-off Draco Malfoy that Harry found when he returned ten minutes later with the last armload of firewood.
Malfoy was standing in the middle of the campsite, everyone else at least ten feet from him. Mendalsun was wringing his hands and muttering under his breath about not being able to use magic, while Malfoy screamed at him.
“I DON’T CARE IF YOU WANT AN ‘AUTHENTIC MUGGLE EXPERIENCE!’” Draco was roaring at a very pale Mendalsun, “I SMELL LIKE A HIPPOGRIFF’S ARSE! IS THAT AUTHENTIC ENOUGH FOR YOU?”
Harry was about to ask what was going on when he stepped inside the perimeter of the wide circle around the very purple-faced Draco and the pale Muggle Studies professor. It then became apparent that the retreating color in Mendalsun’s cheeks wasn’t merely due to fear.
Malfoy had obviously had an encounter with a skunk.
“My dear boy,” Mendalsun squeaked, trying to step back from Draco, “Think of this as a positive learning challenge! Imagine how a Muggle would cope with this situation.”
“All right,” Draco said menacingly, folding his arms across his chest. “Tell me, then, Professor - how would a Mud - Muggle - handle this enlightening little situation?”
There was silence across the clearing. Three or four of the Muggleborn students in the class looked as though they were ready to burst from holding in their laughter. Harry sighed, plugged his nose and stepped closer.
“Mostly,” Harry offered, “They would take a bath.”
Draco sneered. “Potter,” he said patronizingly, “Twenty baths in Skower’s All-Purpose Cleaner wouldn’t get rid of this stink.”
“Not in water - in tomato juice.”
A Hufflepuff girl finally lost it and fell to the ground looking equal parts hysterical and terrified for her life as she let out small shrieks of uproarious giggles.
Draco looked at him carefully, “You’re serious?”
Harry nodded. Justin Finch-Fletchley was quivering fiercely with suppressed chuckles and Harry thought it might be a good idea to get Malfoy away - far away - before he decided to take his frustrations out on a few of the other students.
“And where,” Draco demanded, “Am I going to find enough tomato juice for this little Muggle vegetable bath?”
Mendalsun, color returning slightly to his face now that Malfoy had stepped closer to Harry, muttered something about ‘emergency supplies’ while attempting to wave his wand inconspicuously behind his back.
“Oh look!” he said, diving behind his tent, “A metal tub - and it’s already filled with tomato juice!”
Draco gritted his teeth. Any doubts he had ever had about his ability to kill were rapidly fading away.
---
"Ah," he said. "This may change things. I suppose I’ll simply have to kill him myself afterwards."
"No."
Not surprising. "I'll be blunt, Granger - Potter stands in the way of what I want. The wizarding world will want their beloved saviour to take the top job.”
"Don't hurt Harry," she said, "And I will help you. But should he die in any suspicious manner - you will never become Minister. Harry has never waxed poetic about his political ambitions - I doubt your little fantasy is in danger, Malfoy."
Draco silently weighed his options.
“If you can’t beat Harry on your own merit,” Hermione added, “Then you don’t deserve to be Minister, anyway.”
That did it. “Granger, you drive a hard bargain.”
---
The bath had been, if not simply the smelliest, slimiest event of his life, one of the most scarring. He emerged an hour later, pale hair stained red and tomato juice dripping like blood from his fingertips as he tied a towel around his waist and wiped the red juice from his skin with another towel.
Harry was setting up layers of blankets on the floor of their small tent when he arrived.
“No sleeping bags?”
Harry crawled around inside the tent, testing the blankets. “Didn’t bring enough, for some reason. I think Mendalsun wants us to experience ‘the consequences of not being fully prepared’. We should be warm enough - just be grateful he didn’t try this with the toilet paper supply.”
Malfoy snorted ungracefully. “I suppose so.” He rubbed his hair with the towel, drying it as best as he could manage before crawling into the tent.
Harry zipped the tent flap shut, “You’re lucky the tomato juice worked - you’d have been sleeping in a tree, otherwise.”
“Hmm,” Malfoy said, settling into the left corner of the tent and fluffing up a pillow. Harry was already changed into red-striped pyjama bottoms. “Won’t you freeze without a shirt, Potter?”
“Won’t you?” Harry looked pointedly at the thin towel wrapped around Draco’s waist.
Draco searched for his pyjamas, finally unearthing them from under the massive pile of blankets. He slipped on the silky green pants, tossing the shirt back underneath the pillow. “There,” he said. “Better?”
Harry ignored him, turning off the small, battery-powered torch at the foot of the tent and crawling underneath the blankets.
Shrugging, Draco followed, damp head resting against his pillow.
“Malfoy!”
“-what?”
“You’re taking up the whole bloody tent!” Harry hissed, “Move your arse!”
“Move it where?” He felt quite lazy and warmly content. Really, he had to remember to smuggle a few packages of that Muggle hot chocolate mix into his pack - he had gulped down two mugs that a sympathetic Hufflepuff had offered him - from a distance - while he had waited for Potter and Mendalsun to prepare the tomato juice bath.
“Anywhere where it’s not - “ Potter let out something like a gasp as Malfoy rolled back against him, arse brushing against the Gryffindor’s groin. Potter was hard and straining beneath his ridiculous red-striped pants. Draco suddenly felt wide awake, very aware of the warmth of Potter’s body against his and generally just very amused at this strange turn of events.
He felt like laughing - really, it was amusing how easily the universe seem to bend itself to his will.
“Well, well,” he drawled, turning to face Potter, leg slipping up slowly between Potter’s pyjama-clad thighs. Potter’s face was practically giving off heat in the midnight darkness - (‘From embarrassment or arousal?’ Malfoy wondered). “So that’s what you had in mind.”
Harry shivered. “Leave me the hell alone, Malfoy,” he said in a sharp whisper.
But there was no will behind those words. It was just a feeble attempt to deflect embarrassment and distance himself. He wanted this - Harry Potter wanted him, but he was too afraid to do anything about it. How sweetly naive. It was a wonder that the Sorting Hat hadn’t sent him to Hufflepuff - he was probably still a virgin, too.
Well, Potter could lie there like a blushing schoolgirl if he wanted to, but Draco was damned if he would pass up this opportunity.
He leaned forward and closed the space between them, capturing Harry’s lips in something that might be termed a kiss - but it was deeper, hungrier. Harry made a startled noise and then went stone still for a good ten seconds, not moving or responding as Draco enjoyed the hot friction of lip against lip, letting his fingertips brush down the side of the other boy’s throat.
But as Draco swept his tongue across Harry’s lower lip, Harry moaned, sounding feverish and desperate, like a caged animal who just caught a glimpse of the sky. Then Draco was almost thrown onto his back as Harry opened his mouth and returned his kiss with equal ferocity. Mouths opening to each other, hot tongues tasting and filling each other.
It was quick, desperate, and rough around the edges - an inelegant but much needed blur of tongues, teeth and hands. Hands stroking and sliding, clutching and slipping on sweat-slick skin.
Harry, after losing his initial uncertainty, was hungry and fierce, tongue tracing Draco’s collarbone as his hand pumped Draco’s cock, prompting breathy moans and half-sighs.
Warm and close and no words. Absolutely no words. They lay facing each other afterwards, neither really focusing on the other’s face, the cold September air drying the salty sweat beading on their skin.
“Why did you take this class?”It seemed useless to keep up any more pretenses. Harry had already given him everything else. “It hardly seems like the first choice for an aspiring Auror or saviour of the bloody wizarding world.”
Harry was silent, his face half-lit by the eerie illumination of the distant bonfire flickering against the front flap of the tent. For a moment, it seemed he wouldn’t answer - when he did speak, every word seemed to be cautiously weighed.
“I have Death Eaters ready to kill me as soon as they see me,” he said finally. “Voldemort is stronger than he used to be and I have no way of knowing whether I’ll live to my next birthday, never mind Auror training.”
“He can’t break through the Hogwarts wards yet.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Harry snapped. “I can feel him - he’s closer every day...stronger. One day, even Hogwarts won’t stop him. Nothing will stand between him and me then.”
“So you’re giving up?”
Harry paused.
“I don’t think they’ve given me any reasons to keep on fighting.”
“Haven’t you any reasons of your own?” Merlin. Harry bloody Potter seemed ready to lie down and die.
Harry wasn’t saying anything.
“I’m talking about the lives of your friends, you bastard. You think the Dark Lord will spare Weasley and Granger just because you’ve decided you’ve had enough?”
Harry flinched. “Shut up,” he whispered.
“No,” Draco could see that he was finally getting through to him, “You’re going to give up and let them die - you’ll abandon them to torture and death because you don’t care. You’ll let him strip every nerve from their bodies with fire and pain because you’re tired of this war.”
“I can’t beat him.”
“Oh?”
“I - it was just luck.” Harry seemed to withdraw into himself. “I couldn’t save anyone when it was important, Draco - only myself. What makes anyone think that I’ll be able to save the world?”
“You destroyed him once -”
“It was a fluke!”
“It wasn’t, and you know it.”
They were both silent and there was a curious look in Harry’s eyes - almost as if he knew what it was going to cost Draco to say what he was about to say next.
“You’re the only one who can do this, Harry.”
Something came alive for a fleeting second in Harry’s eyes. “What if I fail?” he whispered.
“I can’t say,” Draco said carefully. “But I will be there. The whole time.” Either beside you, or behind a mask, I will be there.
Harry rested his fingers against the small of Draco’s back. “That’s...good,” he breathed.
Harry trusted so easily.
At his point, it was hard to tell if that would be his downfall or his saving grace.
--
“Then you agree to my terms?”
“...what the hell. It’s a war, after all.”
They shook hands. Draco made a point of wiping his hand on his robe before standing up. “I’ll be in touch on the plans, Granger.”
“I still think you’re dangerous, Malfoy,” Hermione warned, “I’ll be watching you.”
“I don’t expect anything less,” He winked, turning to walk away, “This is only until the Dark Lord is dead. After that, all bets are off.”
“So what’s your plan, then?”
“Well, I recall reading the most fascinating article in The Quibbler last year...”
END
Cross-posted to harrydraco
Author: waxrose
Summary: “Somehow, some way, he would have to ensure that Harry Potter survived long enough to kill the Dark Lord.”
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Length: 3450 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all JKR's. Oh God, I still can't believe I wrote this. Augh. *hides under a rock*
Notes: For sioniann, who has been wonderfully patient these past months. Also a very big THANK YOU to the best betas in the world, sor_bet and arcanefairy. You were magnificently helpful and giving of your time, and I really appreciate that.
Draco had realized long ago that, as much as he hated Mudbloods, he wasn't very keen on actually bloodying his hands or doing the dirty work. The fantasies he had deluded himself with in his younger days had usually involved his father ruffling his hair in a paternal fashion and saying “It's okay, son - you don't have to be a Death Eater.”
What Draco really craved was power, and yet a different sort of power than that of the Dark Lord. He wanted a power that didn’t include swarms of bleeding-heart martyrs forever throwing themselves in the path of his ambitions - creating secret, underground orders and such nonsense. Draco would become a politician. He would introduce laws that would reform the wizarding world - no more Mudbloods at Hogwarts! Tax exemptions for Pureblood families!
(Not, of course, that most of the families needed them - but they were greedy enough to want them anyway, and would, in turn, support Draco.)
And if he ever needed to put down any angry Mudbloods who didn't like his policies, well, there would always be a few cronies around who would take care of them.
Draco had no intentions of going over to Dumbledore and Potter's side, with their snivelling pro-Muggle rhetoric. However, he could definitely foresee a few problems following the possible victory of the Dark Lord. He was in this for himself, and he wanted power - power that the Dark Lord would be utterly unwilling to share.
Yes, an immortal, all-powerful, evil Dark Lord might hinder his plans to become the Minister of Magic. It was, then, he decided on hot July day while lounging on the expansive grounds of Malfoy Manor, a simple matter of playing both sides until he got what he wanted from them. He needed to take down the current Minister of Magic and replace him with a temporary incompetent. He needed to gain the trust and respect of Dumbledore's little army and - he shuddered, nearly choking on the acid pop that had been burning a hole in his tongue and filling his mouth with sharp cherry flavour and delicious, slow-growing pain - he would have to do the one thing that made him wonder if the summer sun had truly fried his brains.
Somehow, some way, he would have to ensure that Harry Potter survived long enough to kill the Dark Lord.
He forced himself to relax. It was possible that there was another way - Potter could fall off his broom and break his idiot neck at any time. Surely there was some other way to kill off an excruciatingly annoying Dark Lord.
Draco was cunning and ambitious - a typical Slytherin, his parents said fondly and often. He possessed a sharp, calculating intelligence and he knew how to use people's faults and weaknesses against them. Though the idea of a sixteen-year old schoolboy plotting to overthrow three of the most powerful people in the Wizarding World - the Minister of Magic, the Dark Lord, and Albus Dumbledore - seemed laughable to most, it actually was not all that far-fetched.
It would not be easy, but it was possible - excitingly possible. Draco began his preparations immediately.
---
"Got a proposition for you, Granger."
Hermione did not glance up from the stack of papers she was poring over on a table in the back corner of the library. "Dumbledore may trust you, Malfoy. That doesn't mean the rest of us are going to start kissing your feet."
"Don't play dumb," Draco sat casually on the table edge. "You have too much to gain to brush this off. You may see right through me, but that doesn't change the fact that what you see is a hell of a lot better than the alternative."
Her finger paused in the midst of tracing a sentence. “Why did you switch sides? You hate Muggleborns.”
"Of course I hate Mudbloods," he said calmly, "But I have no intention of killing anyone. I simply want to see the Wizarding world restored to it's former state - run by purebloods, that is. There is more than one way to accomplish that, and my preference doesn’t necessarily involved bloodshed. Less messy. Less work."
"You expect me to help you?" Hermione asked incredulously. "I ought to turn you over to Dumbledore right now!"
"By all means, Granger, do just that. I am personally in no danger. I have nothing to lose by going back - rather, I’ll gain by giving up crucial information about Dumbledore’s precious little secret society."
"What do you want, anyway?" Hermione asked, "To be the next Dark Lord?"
"Minister of Magic, actually."
Her expression was a mix of horror and amusement - mostly amusement. “I always knew you were insane, Malfoy.”
---
Joining the Muggle Studies class had been Granger’s idea. It was far from a stroke of genius, but it was much needed espionage.
Potter had dropped his Defense Against the Dark Arts option upon his return to school, choosing instead to take Muggle Studies. A private meeting with Dumbledore and McGonagall hadn’t yielded an answer, and Weasley and Granger seemed unable to break past the cold, hard walls that Potter had maintained since the new term had begun. Of course, Potter was unlikely to engage in any cozy heart-to-heart chats with Draco, but he was more likely to let something slip around him if provoked enough. Potter didn’t like him, much less trust him, making it completely impossible for him to believe that Draco might use such information for Potter’s own good.
Potter had been completely different since his return - no longer the smug, arrogant bastard who was practically joined at the hip with his friends. He was...subdued. Empty and cold. He didn’t speak unless someone made a point of speaking to him, and even then, his answers were nearly monosyllabic. He seemed, according to a fretful McGonagall, listless and disinterested.
And so Draco’s first mission as Dumbledore’s newest lackey was to infiltrate the Muggle Studies class and find out exactly why the Boy Who Lived had chosen to study the fascinating world of Muggles.
It had all gone well for the first few weeks. The work was dead easy, and Mendalsun doled out House points like candy - especially to the class's only Slytherin student, whom he seemed convinced he was on the point of converting to a life of sunshine, bunnies and Mudblood-loving. Slytherin was more than one hundred points ahead even before the first Quidditch match of the year was played, and life was looking up.
He hadn't counted on the old madman dragging the entire class out to the Forbidden Forest for a "Muggle-style camping trip" - or, at least as Muggle as one could get with unicorns peering shyly from the trees near the large, woodsy clearing that would serve as their campsite for the weekend.
He heaved the firewood over to the slowly growing pile near where his new "camping buddy" was attempting to erect a tent.
Oh yes, Mendalsun was dead. Very, very dead.
"Malfoy? Have you seen a long metal pole anywhere?" Green eyes glared suspiciously at him over a mess of white canvas and awkwardly assembled poles.
"You mean the one stuck up your arse?"
Potter's eyebrows furrowed in a manner, Draco noted with glee, not unlike that of his dear Mudblood girlfriend Granger. Interesting, that.
"Just get the rest of the firewood, Malfoy," Potter snapped, "Leave me the hell alone."
Draco raised a pale eyebrow. "Aren't we touchy," he murmured, massaging a sliver of wood from his finger. "Going to put me in a Full Body-Bind before we go to sleep, Potter?"
"Not a bad idea," Potter muttered darkly, searching frantically through the pile of canvas.
"My, my..." Draco murmured, fluttering his eyelashes. "I didn't know your tastes ran that way."
Potter's face flushed angrily. "Look, I don't know about you, but I have every intention of ignoring you and hoping that the next two days pass by very, very quickly," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "But I have nothing against hexing you should you choose to be a nuisance, Malfoy."
“I see no reason why I have to haul wood about while you ponce about doing nothing but putting together a tent,” Draco complained.
“Fine, Malfoy,” Harry spat, standing up. “If you’re too dainty to do menial labor then by all means, try and put up the tent. I’ll get the rest of the wood.”
Draco watched him go, wondering if perhaps McGonagall was missing something. Potter still acted normal around him.
---
"Come on, Granger. I can help your side, even if I don't want to be a part of it. You need my help more than I need yours."
She hesitated, and Draco leant forward, trying not to look eager. "Harry," she said, "is the only one who has any chance of defeating of Lord Voldemort."
"Isn't that a little arrogant?"
"It's a prophecy - that's what Dumbledore told Harry. That he's the only one with the power to defeat Voldemort. Tough luck, Malfoy," Hermione said triumphantly, "You can't get what you want without Harry."
"Rubbish."
"Sorry?"
"Granger, I'm surprised that you, of all people, put any stock in Divination. Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe this prophecy is wrong? We decide our own destinies, after all."
"Are you willing to bet the success of your plan on that?"
---
It was the uproarious laughter of his classmates, a despairing Professor Mendalsun and a very, very pissed-off Draco Malfoy that Harry found when he returned ten minutes later with the last armload of firewood.
Malfoy was standing in the middle of the campsite, everyone else at least ten feet from him. Mendalsun was wringing his hands and muttering under his breath about not being able to use magic, while Malfoy screamed at him.
“I DON’T CARE IF YOU WANT AN ‘AUTHENTIC MUGGLE EXPERIENCE!’” Draco was roaring at a very pale Mendalsun, “I SMELL LIKE A HIPPOGRIFF’S ARSE! IS THAT AUTHENTIC ENOUGH FOR YOU?”
Harry was about to ask what was going on when he stepped inside the perimeter of the wide circle around the very purple-faced Draco and the pale Muggle Studies professor. It then became apparent that the retreating color in Mendalsun’s cheeks wasn’t merely due to fear.
Malfoy had obviously had an encounter with a skunk.
“My dear boy,” Mendalsun squeaked, trying to step back from Draco, “Think of this as a positive learning challenge! Imagine how a Muggle would cope with this situation.”
“All right,” Draco said menacingly, folding his arms across his chest. “Tell me, then, Professor - how would a Mud - Muggle - handle this enlightening little situation?”
There was silence across the clearing. Three or four of the Muggleborn students in the class looked as though they were ready to burst from holding in their laughter. Harry sighed, plugged his nose and stepped closer.
“Mostly,” Harry offered, “They would take a bath.”
Draco sneered. “Potter,” he said patronizingly, “Twenty baths in Skower’s All-Purpose Cleaner wouldn’t get rid of this stink.”
“Not in water - in tomato juice.”
A Hufflepuff girl finally lost it and fell to the ground looking equal parts hysterical and terrified for her life as she let out small shrieks of uproarious giggles.
Draco looked at him carefully, “You’re serious?”
Harry nodded. Justin Finch-Fletchley was quivering fiercely with suppressed chuckles and Harry thought it might be a good idea to get Malfoy away - far away - before he decided to take his frustrations out on a few of the other students.
“And where,” Draco demanded, “Am I going to find enough tomato juice for this little Muggle vegetable bath?”
Mendalsun, color returning slightly to his face now that Malfoy had stepped closer to Harry, muttered something about ‘emergency supplies’ while attempting to wave his wand inconspicuously behind his back.
“Oh look!” he said, diving behind his tent, “A metal tub - and it’s already filled with tomato juice!”
Draco gritted his teeth. Any doubts he had ever had about his ability to kill were rapidly fading away.
---
"Ah," he said. "This may change things. I suppose I’ll simply have to kill him myself afterwards."
"No."
Not surprising. "I'll be blunt, Granger - Potter stands in the way of what I want. The wizarding world will want their beloved saviour to take the top job.”
"Don't hurt Harry," she said, "And I will help you. But should he die in any suspicious manner - you will never become Minister. Harry has never waxed poetic about his political ambitions - I doubt your little fantasy is in danger, Malfoy."
Draco silently weighed his options.
“If you can’t beat Harry on your own merit,” Hermione added, “Then you don’t deserve to be Minister, anyway.”
That did it. “Granger, you drive a hard bargain.”
---
The bath had been, if not simply the smelliest, slimiest event of his life, one of the most scarring. He emerged an hour later, pale hair stained red and tomato juice dripping like blood from his fingertips as he tied a towel around his waist and wiped the red juice from his skin with another towel.
Harry was setting up layers of blankets on the floor of their small tent when he arrived.
“No sleeping bags?”
Harry crawled around inside the tent, testing the blankets. “Didn’t bring enough, for some reason. I think Mendalsun wants us to experience ‘the consequences of not being fully prepared’. We should be warm enough - just be grateful he didn’t try this with the toilet paper supply.”
Malfoy snorted ungracefully. “I suppose so.” He rubbed his hair with the towel, drying it as best as he could manage before crawling into the tent.
Harry zipped the tent flap shut, “You’re lucky the tomato juice worked - you’d have been sleeping in a tree, otherwise.”
“Hmm,” Malfoy said, settling into the left corner of the tent and fluffing up a pillow. Harry was already changed into red-striped pyjama bottoms. “Won’t you freeze without a shirt, Potter?”
“Won’t you?” Harry looked pointedly at the thin towel wrapped around Draco’s waist.
Draco searched for his pyjamas, finally unearthing them from under the massive pile of blankets. He slipped on the silky green pants, tossing the shirt back underneath the pillow. “There,” he said. “Better?”
Harry ignored him, turning off the small, battery-powered torch at the foot of the tent and crawling underneath the blankets.
Shrugging, Draco followed, damp head resting against his pillow.
“Malfoy!”
“-what?”
“You’re taking up the whole bloody tent!” Harry hissed, “Move your arse!”
“Move it where?” He felt quite lazy and warmly content. Really, he had to remember to smuggle a few packages of that Muggle hot chocolate mix into his pack - he had gulped down two mugs that a sympathetic Hufflepuff had offered him - from a distance - while he had waited for Potter and Mendalsun to prepare the tomato juice bath.
“Anywhere where it’s not - “ Potter let out something like a gasp as Malfoy rolled back against him, arse brushing against the Gryffindor’s groin. Potter was hard and straining beneath his ridiculous red-striped pants. Draco suddenly felt wide awake, very aware of the warmth of Potter’s body against his and generally just very amused at this strange turn of events.
He felt like laughing - really, it was amusing how easily the universe seem to bend itself to his will.
“Well, well,” he drawled, turning to face Potter, leg slipping up slowly between Potter’s pyjama-clad thighs. Potter’s face was practically giving off heat in the midnight darkness - (‘From embarrassment or arousal?’ Malfoy wondered). “So that’s what you had in mind.”
Harry shivered. “Leave me the hell alone, Malfoy,” he said in a sharp whisper.
But there was no will behind those words. It was just a feeble attempt to deflect embarrassment and distance himself. He wanted this - Harry Potter wanted him, but he was too afraid to do anything about it. How sweetly naive. It was a wonder that the Sorting Hat hadn’t sent him to Hufflepuff - he was probably still a virgin, too.
Well, Potter could lie there like a blushing schoolgirl if he wanted to, but Draco was damned if he would pass up this opportunity.
He leaned forward and closed the space between them, capturing Harry’s lips in something that might be termed a kiss - but it was deeper, hungrier. Harry made a startled noise and then went stone still for a good ten seconds, not moving or responding as Draco enjoyed the hot friction of lip against lip, letting his fingertips brush down the side of the other boy’s throat.
But as Draco swept his tongue across Harry’s lower lip, Harry moaned, sounding feverish and desperate, like a caged animal who just caught a glimpse of the sky. Then Draco was almost thrown onto his back as Harry opened his mouth and returned his kiss with equal ferocity. Mouths opening to each other, hot tongues tasting and filling each other.
It was quick, desperate, and rough around the edges - an inelegant but much needed blur of tongues, teeth and hands. Hands stroking and sliding, clutching and slipping on sweat-slick skin.
Harry, after losing his initial uncertainty, was hungry and fierce, tongue tracing Draco’s collarbone as his hand pumped Draco’s cock, prompting breathy moans and half-sighs.
Warm and close and no words. Absolutely no words. They lay facing each other afterwards, neither really focusing on the other’s face, the cold September air drying the salty sweat beading on their skin.
“Why did you take this class?”It seemed useless to keep up any more pretenses. Harry had already given him everything else. “It hardly seems like the first choice for an aspiring Auror or saviour of the bloody wizarding world.”
Harry was silent, his face half-lit by the eerie illumination of the distant bonfire flickering against the front flap of the tent. For a moment, it seemed he wouldn’t answer - when he did speak, every word seemed to be cautiously weighed.
“I have Death Eaters ready to kill me as soon as they see me,” he said finally. “Voldemort is stronger than he used to be and I have no way of knowing whether I’ll live to my next birthday, never mind Auror training.”
“He can’t break through the Hogwarts wards yet.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Harry snapped. “I can feel him - he’s closer every day...stronger. One day, even Hogwarts won’t stop him. Nothing will stand between him and me then.”
“So you’re giving up?”
Harry paused.
“I don’t think they’ve given me any reasons to keep on fighting.”
“Haven’t you any reasons of your own?” Merlin. Harry bloody Potter seemed ready to lie down and die.
Harry wasn’t saying anything.
“I’m talking about the lives of your friends, you bastard. You think the Dark Lord will spare Weasley and Granger just because you’ve decided you’ve had enough?”
Harry flinched. “Shut up,” he whispered.
“No,” Draco could see that he was finally getting through to him, “You’re going to give up and let them die - you’ll abandon them to torture and death because you don’t care. You’ll let him strip every nerve from their bodies with fire and pain because you’re tired of this war.”
“I can’t beat him.”
“Oh?”
“I - it was just luck.” Harry seemed to withdraw into himself. “I couldn’t save anyone when it was important, Draco - only myself. What makes anyone think that I’ll be able to save the world?”
“You destroyed him once -”
“It was a fluke!”
“It wasn’t, and you know it.”
They were both silent and there was a curious look in Harry’s eyes - almost as if he knew what it was going to cost Draco to say what he was about to say next.
“You’re the only one who can do this, Harry.”
Something came alive for a fleeting second in Harry’s eyes. “What if I fail?” he whispered.
“I can’t say,” Draco said carefully. “But I will be there. The whole time.” Either beside you, or behind a mask, I will be there.
Harry rested his fingers against the small of Draco’s back. “That’s...good,” he breathed.
Harry trusted so easily.
At his point, it was hard to tell if that would be his downfall or his saving grace.
--
“Then you agree to my terms?”
“...what the hell. It’s a war, after all.”
They shook hands. Draco made a point of wiping his hand on his robe before standing up. “I’ll be in touch on the plans, Granger.”
“I still think you’re dangerous, Malfoy,” Hermione warned, “I’ll be watching you.”
“I don’t expect anything less,” He winked, turning to walk away, “This is only until the Dark Lord is dead. After that, all bets are off.”
“So what’s your plan, then?”
“Well, I recall reading the most fascinating article in The Quibbler last year...”
END
Cross-posted to harrydraco