FIC: Misery acquaints a man with not-so-strange bedfellows [Draco/Harry]
Title: Misery acquaints a man with not-so-strange bedfellows
Author/Artist: nathalieweasley
Prompt: #89: Even weather this bad won’t stop the conflict. by carowren
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Word Count/Art Medium: 2070
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): *war themes, violence, mentions of rape, language, explicit sexual content, mild homophobia*
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to the mods for being so flexible with deadlines and to my girlfriend E for the beta. Title is adapted from the following quote: “Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.” - Trinculo, The Tempest by William Shakespeare. Inspired by In Pursuit of Happiness by darkravenwrote.
Summary: I don’t know what I am after here, whether I am hoping for some sort of escape or wanting to reaffirm my humanity.
Misery acquaints a man with not-so-strange bedfellows
“No session tonight?” Potter sits next to me at the door of the barn, twisting his fingers in the stale bits of hay. The rain has stilled for the evening, but the fog settles around us, cloaking the countryside in a sheet of grey. I’ve almost forgotten what the sky looks like without its burdensome extra layer.
I take a long pull on my fag before answering.
“No. Boot’s checking out a new site for meetings, and Shacklebolt is trying to chat with Washington.”
Potter hmms. He used to go to strategy sessions, but stopped after the first few months. Weasley or Terry Boot or Lyla, a brilliant, cunning witch I’m always surprised got sorted into Hufflepuff, would come up with some plan involving calculated risks. Potter would start ranting about his responsibility, attempting to alter the plan so he would be the only one in danger. I would end up shouting in his face about his imbecilic ideas, and the meetings would invariably end with us squabbling on the floor or exchanging abuse in the corridor we were forced into. Once we started fucking, the sex afterwards was fantastic, but Potter nor I had wanted to explain the value the meetings had on our sex life when Shacklebolt demanded Potter stop attending. Now, Potter gets pissed when I go off, and the resulting sex is just as fantastic with the added benefit of no narked commanders.
One last pull of nicotine, and I squish the fag into the earth next to me and stand. The wind whips around me, and I shiver and pull my coat closer.
“I’m going inside.”
Potter hmms again. But he joins me less than ten minutes later, his body, always unfathomably warm, crushing mine into the straw, fingers rough on my cock as he grinds against my thigh. My jacket, pitiful against the wind, is protective enough for the straw at my back; in his urgency to get his hand down my trousers, Potter hadn’t bothered to remove any of my clothing besides the necessary. Some nights, we take our time, running fingers over muscles and new scars. Other nights, we are quick, rough, needy. Like tonight.
I feel like we are the only two people in the world, the war, the barn, everything narrowing to only our movements over the straw. As if to keep me present, keep me aware, Potter digs his nails into my hip. His nails are rough and broken, and the pain prevents me from mentally flying away. I don’t know what I am after here, whether I am hoping for some sort of escape or wanting to reaffirm my humanity.
Potter’s hand - the one not on my cock - moves to my hairs and tugs. The pain is sharp in contrast to his mouth as he dips into my exposed throat and sucks, tongue and teeth moving over my neck. His thrusts grow faster and even more unsteady, hand moving roughly over me at the same pace. My hands are clenched in his sweat-drenched t-shirt, and it is all I can do to not faint from pure feeling. He bites down, hard, and comes. I feel rivulets of spunk running down my thighs. Somehow, he keeps wanking me, and I fall over the edge after another tug or two, his name ripping from my throat. My spunk joins his to puddle below us in the straw. Whether I wanted an escape or a reaffirmation, the end result is the same.
My eyes close. I can still feel his hand on my cock.
--
I take my morning tea outside. The sun is still touching the horizon, though it must be at least half ten. The air is peaceful, quiet, though the fog remains, as always. Potter walks up to stand next to me. He is holding two bacon butties and another mug. I take a butty with a nod of thanks. It’s delicious, of course. Potter can really fucking cook.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable. We stand there in the sunlight, crumbs dropping to the ground as we make our way through breakfast. The butties are a treat; I don’t know how Potter managed to scrounge up the bacon. It’s been at least a week since we had meat.
“We should be sleeping in the bed.” I tell Potter.
Potter snorts. “Because a heap of straw is oh so different from a heap of straw with blankets.” He rolls his eyes and then raises his glass at me. “Ta, Malfoy.”
I glare at him and raise my chin. “When one has control over a sole action amongst many…”
I don’t finish. His lips stop me. I would push him off, but Potter’s lips would tempt Merlin himself.
“You’re such a fucking snob, Malfoy.”
He kisses me again to prevent a response. I don’t mind.
--
When I’m not with Shacklebolt and Weasley and Boot and the rest of the Strategy Coordination Unit, I’m off getting dinners and going for drinks with other Death Eaters. The Dark Lord doesn’t call very frequently; there’s no need, he's won after all. So Weasley encourages me to be social and dig for information, though I doubt the fact it keeps me away from Potter bothers him much. The Death Eaters seem to not realise that the pubs serve shit tea and that the drinks are sub-par. They’re deluding themselves into thinking life is better now. I once did the same. Whenever I realise I’m hoping the Dark Lord will call for me because it will signal progress or an end to the fighting, I find Potter. It is much easier for my mind to accept calling out for him in the dark than calling out for the Dark Lord.
Tonight, I’m lucky, if you can call it that. We’ve been discussing the Death Eater meetings and strategizing for hours longer than the Death Eater meetings themselves, and the subsequent general meeting will easily double that. Typically Weasley’s in a shit mood - and, if he isn’t, I make some comment on his and Granger’s sex life - and his tense anger and frustration flows out in brilliant waves of tactics and plans that make my preliminary recommendations seem foolhardy. I’m no strategist, but I can make people talk. But tonight Weasley is not completely forlorn, and we’re making decent headway on an infiltration plan at the next Death Eater rally. Even the ever-present rain has let up some.
I should have known it was too good to be true.
Someone is pounding at the door. We change up the locations of our meetings, and, tonight, the SCU is discussing strategy in a beat up primary education classroom before a general meeting with the entire Rebellion. We’re all on our feet in an instant, Weasley at the front, his wand raised before him, a vicious snarl on his face. Boot’s already got a ward up. That boy is fast with a wand.
It seems as if everyone in the Rebellion pours in through the door, Potter and Granger leading the way. And there…
No wonder they interrupted; Charlie Weasley is there. He had been reported killed last year in a raid on the dragon reserves. Weasley is already leaping over desks, rushing at his brother. I step back, swallowing hard. What I wouldn’t give to have my mother here right now. As if he can read my mind, Potter steps close, wrapping a hand around my neck as if to steady me. Fuck’s sake, but it works.
The movement catches Charlie’s eye, and he looks up, face blackening as he sees me and Potter.
“What the fuck is he doing here?! Shit, Harry. I bet he licks your arse and you lose all control.”
Potter growls. Weasley looks ready to go off, protective of his queer mate, but I know better. I saw Charlie and Viktor Krum back in third year, bodies shaking with sweat and lust, and it hadn’t seemed like a one-off. Viktor had defected to the Dark Lord early in the war. I later found out from Rosier that he’d received a ransom note for his family from the Death Eaters and gave up the location of two Order safe houses. When he arrived at the drop, he’d found his dead parents hanging from the walls. He then had turned his wand on himself. Charlie’s not a particular fan of Death Eaters, former or no.
I rest my hand on Potter’s forearm, and he relaxes. The tension doesn’t exactly lower, but Charlie wrenches his head back around to his brother. Granger stands by them, shocked into speechlessness. Let’s hope it lasts.
Shacklebolt postpones the session for a few hours to let the brothers reunite. I drag Potter out of the room. I might as well commit the crime I was accused of, and Potter is delicious.
--
It’s fucking sleeting out, but Rodolphus doesn’t leave the house much, and Scabior says he’ll be out tonight for dinner with the lads. Scabior mentioned a potential “dessert” and fucking grinned at the word. I kept my face neutral. I would never participate, but I can’t let any condemnation of rape get back to the Dark Lord. Merlin forbid I find despicable practices despicable.
I stamp my boots at the entrance of the bar and make my way to the shadows. Lightning slashes overhead, followed immediately by the roar of thunder. I am in the middle of the storm.
Rodolphus isn’t at the bar as promised, and I glare at Scabior as I slide into the bench next to him. I look around, and next to several Death Eaters I haven’t met is Fenrir Greyback. He hasn’t been spotted for months. I use every inch of steel I possess and the blessed fact I see no trussed-up women to keep from reflecting my emotions on my face. The day I left the Death Eaters was the day Greyback licked a strip of saliva up my mother’s neck. I channel all my anger, hatred, and disgust into a false face of pleasantries and make it through the evening. Greyback remains at the bar once the others leave. After all this time, when the opportunity does present itself, it is too easy. I slip out of the bar before him and wait in the alley. He’ll need to pass by me to Apparate.
The sleet has completely soaked through me by the time he exits. Muffliato, Petrificus Totalus, Incarcerous. Potter really is rubbing off on me. I stare down at a monster and think I could kill him without a spell. I allow myself a single kick into the soft flesh of his belly before turning to a piece of newsprint plastered to the ground. Portus. I direct the newsprint to land on his face and watch as the Portkey transports him to a secure prison the SCU constructed. Any attempt to escape will result in a full memory wipe. I hope he doesn’t attempt to flee; there are number of us who have questions for him.
--
Potter knows somehow.
I don’t know if Shacklebolt has updated him when Fenrir came in or if he can just read it on my face, but he greets me at the door to the barn with a lingering, tender kiss that melts me all the way to my toes. He peels off my rain-soaked jacket, brushes damp strands of hair from my forehead, and proceeds to take me apart with his mouth. He spends what feels like hours worshiping my body, kissing my throat, my chest with all its scars, my legs, my thighs. At some point, I begin to cry. I try to pull away, to hide my face from his open gaze, but he grabs my face and kisses the tears. With one hand on my cheek, thumb rubbing softly across my cheekbone, lips still mapping out my eyes and nose and lips, he reaches between us and strokes me so very lightly. I feel more tears squeeze out of my eyes as he roams lower. Later, when he is pressing into me, filling me up, I think that being with him is not an escape or a reaffirmation. It is a reprieve from the world, a spot of sunlight amidst a sky intent on downpour, a flash of happiness to grab onto while I can. I listen to the rain pour down outside, look up into his eyes, and let myself go.
Author/Artist: nathalieweasley
Prompt: #89: Even weather this bad won’t stop the conflict. by carowren
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Word Count/Art Medium: 2070
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): *war themes, violence, mentions of rape, language, explicit sexual content, mild homophobia*
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to the mods for being so flexible with deadlines and to my girlfriend E for the beta. Title is adapted from the following quote: “Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.” - Trinculo, The Tempest by William Shakespeare. Inspired by In Pursuit of Happiness by darkravenwrote.
Summary: I don’t know what I am after here, whether I am hoping for some sort of escape or wanting to reaffirm my humanity.
Misery acquaints a man with not-so-strange bedfellows
“No session tonight?” Potter sits next to me at the door of the barn, twisting his fingers in the stale bits of hay. The rain has stilled for the evening, but the fog settles around us, cloaking the countryside in a sheet of grey. I’ve almost forgotten what the sky looks like without its burdensome extra layer.
I take a long pull on my fag before answering.
“No. Boot’s checking out a new site for meetings, and Shacklebolt is trying to chat with Washington.”
Potter hmms. He used to go to strategy sessions, but stopped after the first few months. Weasley or Terry Boot or Lyla, a brilliant, cunning witch I’m always surprised got sorted into Hufflepuff, would come up with some plan involving calculated risks. Potter would start ranting about his responsibility, attempting to alter the plan so he would be the only one in danger. I would end up shouting in his face about his imbecilic ideas, and the meetings would invariably end with us squabbling on the floor or exchanging abuse in the corridor we were forced into. Once we started fucking, the sex afterwards was fantastic, but Potter nor I had wanted to explain the value the meetings had on our sex life when Shacklebolt demanded Potter stop attending. Now, Potter gets pissed when I go off, and the resulting sex is just as fantastic with the added benefit of no narked commanders.
One last pull of nicotine, and I squish the fag into the earth next to me and stand. The wind whips around me, and I shiver and pull my coat closer.
“I’m going inside.”
Potter hmms again. But he joins me less than ten minutes later, his body, always unfathomably warm, crushing mine into the straw, fingers rough on my cock as he grinds against my thigh. My jacket, pitiful against the wind, is protective enough for the straw at my back; in his urgency to get his hand down my trousers, Potter hadn’t bothered to remove any of my clothing besides the necessary. Some nights, we take our time, running fingers over muscles and new scars. Other nights, we are quick, rough, needy. Like tonight.
I feel like we are the only two people in the world, the war, the barn, everything narrowing to only our movements over the straw. As if to keep me present, keep me aware, Potter digs his nails into my hip. His nails are rough and broken, and the pain prevents me from mentally flying away. I don’t know what I am after here, whether I am hoping for some sort of escape or wanting to reaffirm my humanity.
Potter’s hand - the one not on my cock - moves to my hairs and tugs. The pain is sharp in contrast to his mouth as he dips into my exposed throat and sucks, tongue and teeth moving over my neck. His thrusts grow faster and even more unsteady, hand moving roughly over me at the same pace. My hands are clenched in his sweat-drenched t-shirt, and it is all I can do to not faint from pure feeling. He bites down, hard, and comes. I feel rivulets of spunk running down my thighs. Somehow, he keeps wanking me, and I fall over the edge after another tug or two, his name ripping from my throat. My spunk joins his to puddle below us in the straw. Whether I wanted an escape or a reaffirmation, the end result is the same.
My eyes close. I can still feel his hand on my cock.
--
I take my morning tea outside. The sun is still touching the horizon, though it must be at least half ten. The air is peaceful, quiet, though the fog remains, as always. Potter walks up to stand next to me. He is holding two bacon butties and another mug. I take a butty with a nod of thanks. It’s delicious, of course. Potter can really fucking cook.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable. We stand there in the sunlight, crumbs dropping to the ground as we make our way through breakfast. The butties are a treat; I don’t know how Potter managed to scrounge up the bacon. It’s been at least a week since we had meat.
“We should be sleeping in the bed.” I tell Potter.
Potter snorts. “Because a heap of straw is oh so different from a heap of straw with blankets.” He rolls his eyes and then raises his glass at me. “Ta, Malfoy.”
I glare at him and raise my chin. “When one has control over a sole action amongst many…”
I don’t finish. His lips stop me. I would push him off, but Potter’s lips would tempt Merlin himself.
“You’re such a fucking snob, Malfoy.”
He kisses me again to prevent a response. I don’t mind.
--
When I’m not with Shacklebolt and Weasley and Boot and the rest of the Strategy Coordination Unit, I’m off getting dinners and going for drinks with other Death Eaters. The Dark Lord doesn’t call very frequently; there’s no need, he's won after all. So Weasley encourages me to be social and dig for information, though I doubt the fact it keeps me away from Potter bothers him much. The Death Eaters seem to not realise that the pubs serve shit tea and that the drinks are sub-par. They’re deluding themselves into thinking life is better now. I once did the same. Whenever I realise I’m hoping the Dark Lord will call for me because it will signal progress or an end to the fighting, I find Potter. It is much easier for my mind to accept calling out for him in the dark than calling out for the Dark Lord.
Tonight, I’m lucky, if you can call it that. We’ve been discussing the Death Eater meetings and strategizing for hours longer than the Death Eater meetings themselves, and the subsequent general meeting will easily double that. Typically Weasley’s in a shit mood - and, if he isn’t, I make some comment on his and Granger’s sex life - and his tense anger and frustration flows out in brilliant waves of tactics and plans that make my preliminary recommendations seem foolhardy. I’m no strategist, but I can make people talk. But tonight Weasley is not completely forlorn, and we’re making decent headway on an infiltration plan at the next Death Eater rally. Even the ever-present rain has let up some.
I should have known it was too good to be true.
Someone is pounding at the door. We change up the locations of our meetings, and, tonight, the SCU is discussing strategy in a beat up primary education classroom before a general meeting with the entire Rebellion. We’re all on our feet in an instant, Weasley at the front, his wand raised before him, a vicious snarl on his face. Boot’s already got a ward up. That boy is fast with a wand.
It seems as if everyone in the Rebellion pours in through the door, Potter and Granger leading the way. And there…
No wonder they interrupted; Charlie Weasley is there. He had been reported killed last year in a raid on the dragon reserves. Weasley is already leaping over desks, rushing at his brother. I step back, swallowing hard. What I wouldn’t give to have my mother here right now. As if he can read my mind, Potter steps close, wrapping a hand around my neck as if to steady me. Fuck’s sake, but it works.
The movement catches Charlie’s eye, and he looks up, face blackening as he sees me and Potter.
“What the fuck is he doing here?! Shit, Harry. I bet he licks your arse and you lose all control.”
Potter growls. Weasley looks ready to go off, protective of his queer mate, but I know better. I saw Charlie and Viktor Krum back in third year, bodies shaking with sweat and lust, and it hadn’t seemed like a one-off. Viktor had defected to the Dark Lord early in the war. I later found out from Rosier that he’d received a ransom note for his family from the Death Eaters and gave up the location of two Order safe houses. When he arrived at the drop, he’d found his dead parents hanging from the walls. He then had turned his wand on himself. Charlie’s not a particular fan of Death Eaters, former or no.
I rest my hand on Potter’s forearm, and he relaxes. The tension doesn’t exactly lower, but Charlie wrenches his head back around to his brother. Granger stands by them, shocked into speechlessness. Let’s hope it lasts.
Shacklebolt postpones the session for a few hours to let the brothers reunite. I drag Potter out of the room. I might as well commit the crime I was accused of, and Potter is delicious.
--
It’s fucking sleeting out, but Rodolphus doesn’t leave the house much, and Scabior says he’ll be out tonight for dinner with the lads. Scabior mentioned a potential “dessert” and fucking grinned at the word. I kept my face neutral. I would never participate, but I can’t let any condemnation of rape get back to the Dark Lord. Merlin forbid I find despicable practices despicable.
I stamp my boots at the entrance of the bar and make my way to the shadows. Lightning slashes overhead, followed immediately by the roar of thunder. I am in the middle of the storm.
Rodolphus isn’t at the bar as promised, and I glare at Scabior as I slide into the bench next to him. I look around, and next to several Death Eaters I haven’t met is Fenrir Greyback. He hasn’t been spotted for months. I use every inch of steel I possess and the blessed fact I see no trussed-up women to keep from reflecting my emotions on my face. The day I left the Death Eaters was the day Greyback licked a strip of saliva up my mother’s neck. I channel all my anger, hatred, and disgust into a false face of pleasantries and make it through the evening. Greyback remains at the bar once the others leave. After all this time, when the opportunity does present itself, it is too easy. I slip out of the bar before him and wait in the alley. He’ll need to pass by me to Apparate.
The sleet has completely soaked through me by the time he exits. Muffliato, Petrificus Totalus, Incarcerous. Potter really is rubbing off on me. I stare down at a monster and think I could kill him without a spell. I allow myself a single kick into the soft flesh of his belly before turning to a piece of newsprint plastered to the ground. Portus. I direct the newsprint to land on his face and watch as the Portkey transports him to a secure prison the SCU constructed. Any attempt to escape will result in a full memory wipe. I hope he doesn’t attempt to flee; there are number of us who have questions for him.
--
Potter knows somehow.
I don’t know if Shacklebolt has updated him when Fenrir came in or if he can just read it on my face, but he greets me at the door to the barn with a lingering, tender kiss that melts me all the way to my toes. He peels off my rain-soaked jacket, brushes damp strands of hair from my forehead, and proceeds to take me apart with his mouth. He spends what feels like hours worshiping my body, kissing my throat, my chest with all its scars, my legs, my thighs. At some point, I begin to cry. I try to pull away, to hide my face from his open gaze, but he grabs my face and kisses the tears. With one hand on my cheek, thumb rubbing softly across my cheekbone, lips still mapping out my eyes and nose and lips, he reaches between us and strokes me so very lightly. I feel more tears squeeze out of my eyes as he roams lower. Later, when he is pressing into me, filling me up, I think that being with him is not an escape or a reaffirmation. It is a reprieve from the world, a spot of sunlight amidst a sky intent on downpour, a flash of happiness to grab onto while I can. I listen to the rain pour down outside, look up into his eyes, and let myself go.