'A Means To An End' (Harry, H/Hr, H/D, R)
A spin-off of Gryffindor No. 1, focusing on the second generation. Apologies to circe_tigana, anniesj, and casirafics in advance - this is merely yet another offering of my adoration. The idea came to me while napping on the train today. Strange times indeed. No beta. Just a rush 'o thoughts.
A Means To An End
by ignited
Harry, Harry/Hermione, Harry/Draco. Hard R indeed. Also, AU-y. It's best to read Gryffindor No. 1 to understand this.
The thing is, Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Even then, as the thought cuts through his mind like a knife when he’s going at it -- Hermione gives a whimper, then quiets, knows he doesn’t want any of that right now -- it seems weak. You’re born into it, supposed to just know, but even when they’re putting your tie on and pushing you forward, you can’t figure it out until the blade goes in someone's gut. Then you stare and realize you're the one holding that bit of metal.
And it's not like he doesn't want it. Y'know, pushing forward, all that. The alleys and the clubs, all that lot, they're familiar, they're fucking his if he wants it. Harry figures the wizarding world's got too many rules, too much time wasted on things written in ink and blood. This, that, do your work, don't be mean to strangers, oh, it's that boy. The one who went up face to face with You-Know-Who and lived.
A laugh, really, considerin' he was barely thinking straight. Little runt after all, showed those tykes a few lessons when he'd laugh and fucking Crucio them right off their rockers and prams. Great fun, that. Best teacher in the world, Sirius.
Sirius, draped in the Black of his own empire, just calling orders, doing this, doing that. Not like Harry doesn't like him -- he does really, feels a kinship, same disregard for rules, so on and so forth. If there's anything old Pads taught him it was to use whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever he want, and so like Granger underneath him, he does.
It's an idle thought, but a truthful one when he comes -- a means to an end.
So he's throwing her off and letting her sulk, those pretty legs this way and that like a doll. She fixes the strap of her flimsy little scrap of a nightgown, leaning forward.
“You aren’t well,” she says, and she wipes her mouth, rubs it clean. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
It’s direct, this tone, but he doesn’t flinch when he turns over in the bed, spread eagle before her.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What do you care?”
“Keep your mind clear. We don’t need you going and offing yourself like Shacklebolt. What a nuisance,” she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. This trait -- faux concern for the production line, keep those boys at it, if only to bring the money in -- is something Harry likes, and makes her bearable.
She’ll have lip if he goes off the deep end or doesn’t do the job right -- happens more than once, y’know, getting carried away and all -- but she’ll clean up the mess and give him a rude gesture as a sign of greeting.
Tame, that, but she’s much worse. Far much worse.
“You talk too much,” Harry says simply, and stands, not bothering to cover himself, leaving the room.
Here’s the court, laid out.
You’ve got Granger doin’ the business, prick teaser that she is showing up like a fucking secretary -- really, a laugh, considerin’ she’d just as much dig that fucking heel into someone’s forehead -- and she’s awfully good at giving threats. For so much as forgetting to buy her a gift after a ‘business trip’ -- three witches, pre-arranged, sod the mission and lay out their bodies like a painting -- after that, she’d nearly torn his balls off.
Amongst other things.
Then there’s Weasley, tall and gangly as he is, his hands always moving. Flexing fingers, a fist, foldin’ his arms. Restless, he is, ‘cause he’s got better things to do than to stand around. Man works with his hands, and it shows -- cuts and bruises, the slight depression in the palm as he grips his wand.
Harry notices these things, for he’s at the right hand.
It is like a painting, a fucking chart of lineage or something, given the way it’s set up. He’s there, glass of red wine in a hand (none of that poncy spritzer rubbish) and he’s liking the cut of his suit. Really liking it -- a man should always have a good suit. It’s another rule of the house of Black as he sees it. Downside is the cleaning, runs up a pricey bill, but hell, cleaning them out afterwards is all the more fun.
“‘Mione,” he says to annoy her, and he stands near her seat, lets those fingers work across her shoulder, softest touch. “What’ve we got today?”
She’s already glaring, before breaking into a smile, the same process she had when he broke both of Krum’s kneecaps for daring to mispronounce her name once. “The Dragon’s coming to the den for a visit.”
See, he thinks of den first, and opium -- which is rather nice stuff, all stirring and good -- before locking in on the second one. Dragon. Malfoy.
“I don’t want to see him.”
“Well, it’s not up to you, is it?” she responds, the slightest nod of her head. It’s a reflex, the way he turns around immediately, and there, there is Sirius, grinning. Grinning like mad, ‘cause he probably is fucking mad after all, clapping a hand on his shoulder and gesturing him to the table.
Oh, and there’s that: the room.
It’s not that sort of lavish brocade you’d find in Versailles or some other joint, but it’s pretty close in theory. Every king’s got his court and the Black court’s all dark colors, wood, stone. Sirius has it laid out just so -- looks like a Muggle board room for those men in suits, talking about stocks and investments. Harmless enough, if you wouldn’t look at the suits of armor or the racks of spears and swords at opposite sides of the room. Oh, sure, they’re decoration. Lovely, aren’t they, and would you mind me running you through with one?
Sirius gestures to Harry to sit, but he doesn’t want him to. Not really, he’d much prefer Harry stand on the right of him, Weasley on the left. It’s cordial, the gesturing. Harry likes that bit.
The doors swing open, and Dragon -- to hell with that, his name's Draco, that's all -- comes in.
Draco in his fancy suit and robes, and his cane. He doesn't need one; he merely likes to show off. If he only knew half of the story of why his father needed that cane. Draco probably knows it, but he doesn't know it up close and visceral, like Sirius tells it. Lovely times.
There’s business to be talked about, funny, since Draco didn’t call it business when they were at it. Prostitution ring at Hogwarts -- oh, if the Prophet had ever printed that headline. What a laugh. Children being children. Harmless games and blowjobs, Galleons and Sickles by the dozen.
Ah, the mind of a child.
They talk and talk and... Well, you know the rest. Sirius loves to hear himself talk. Even then, it’s not much, but Harry does not like talking. Talking gets in the way of things, messes up the order, and he has far more things to do, thank you very much.
At least he’s got his night planned out, given slight nod to Draco.
Or at least, had it planned out, what with the two blokes late on their dues being dragged in once Draco leaves, intact. Weasley nearly crows, the bloody idiot, making a fist and moving forward. But Harry, see, Harry is mindful of his manners.
He takes a final sip of his wine before moving his hand to the inside of his suit jacket and pulling out his wand.
Two AKs, and lunch. Business as usual.
There’s nothing orderly about Draco for the night. Come to think of it, there’s nothing orderly about his flat in the aftermath. Harry’s got himself a set of issues as far as any one of those Muggle psychologists are concerned: parents gone, godfather’s lost his mind and perhaps his prowess in bed (more than likely his sanity, given the bloke kept cackling while they went at it), as well as the hypocritical tendencies he has for hating society’s rules yet living his life by many.
At least, that’s what Granger told him quite frankly when she fucked him up the ass with a strap-on last week.
Draco’s better with him. Sure, he talks too often, little cunt that he is, but at least he gets it, more often than not. It’s a laugh how he does -- he’ll go off about those superficial things he craves, and then he’ll give a comment or an insult, his own code for agreement.
Downside is, he’s too much for materials. Not that a nice suit, nice car, nice steady lay isn’t bad, but clogging your head with that constant desire will just leave you a poorer bastard in the end. As far as Harry is concerned, only thing he needs is his wand. He’ll go starkers without a bloody suit and blast some bloke’s head off if he has to.
It’s a strange thought, but the blood spray in his mind is very comforting.
When Draco’s off snortin’ coke in the bathroom (“Messy, but it gets the job done. Unlike you,” came the schoolyard reply), Harry twirls his wand in his hand idly.
He’ll kill Draco one day, if only to get off on it. Right now he wants another fuck, as he’ll be Apparating to Hogsmeade, filthy shithole as it is, on assignment in the morning.
Crucios on order do make him rather horny, come to think about it.
So he’ll twirl his wand as he does, merely nod and revel inwardly at the destruction it causes. But Draco’ll be dead and long since food for the earth when he does one of his other clear objectives.
Getting rid of Sirius.
If there was one thing Harry knew, it was to be careful of family. A dead Bella and a shell of Regulus Black’s corpse were excellent evidence to the theory. Sirius said as much when he heard of Regulus’s death. He’d only wished he’d done it himself, “the poor bastard.”
But, things come and go, and as much as Harry is grateful for his godfather -- “taught him everything he knows, and he better well remember that, don’t you Harry?” -- he really does need to be free of him.
After all, it’s in his rules.
A means to an end.
“You’ve got a stupid look about you,” Draco points out when he leans against the doorframe, breathing erratically. The sneer dissolves into a grin, slick fingers pushing away strands of white blonde hair.
Yeah, I do, Malfoy, Harry thinks, while blasting some empty wine glasses on the dresser a few meters away. Just for fun, wand waving, to hear them break and shatter in pieces like snowflakes. It’s clear then, what he wants, the plans, and what events Harry Potter will define the rest of his life by.
It’s called victory, you idiot.
END
A Means To An End
by ignited
Harry, Harry/Hermione, Harry/Draco. Hard R indeed. Also, AU-y. It's best to read Gryffindor No. 1 to understand this.
The thing is, Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Even then, as the thought cuts through his mind like a knife when he’s going at it -- Hermione gives a whimper, then quiets, knows he doesn’t want any of that right now -- it seems weak. You’re born into it, supposed to just know, but even when they’re putting your tie on and pushing you forward, you can’t figure it out until the blade goes in someone's gut. Then you stare and realize you're the one holding that bit of metal.
And it's not like he doesn't want it. Y'know, pushing forward, all that. The alleys and the clubs, all that lot, they're familiar, they're fucking his if he wants it. Harry figures the wizarding world's got too many rules, too much time wasted on things written in ink and blood. This, that, do your work, don't be mean to strangers, oh, it's that boy. The one who went up face to face with You-Know-Who and lived.
A laugh, really, considerin' he was barely thinking straight. Little runt after all, showed those tykes a few lessons when he'd laugh and fucking Crucio them right off their rockers and prams. Great fun, that. Best teacher in the world, Sirius.
Sirius, draped in the Black of his own empire, just calling orders, doing this, doing that. Not like Harry doesn't like him -- he does really, feels a kinship, same disregard for rules, so on and so forth. If there's anything old Pads taught him it was to use whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever he want, and so like Granger underneath him, he does.
It's an idle thought, but a truthful one when he comes -- a means to an end.
So he's throwing her off and letting her sulk, those pretty legs this way and that like a doll. She fixes the strap of her flimsy little scrap of a nightgown, leaning forward.
“You aren’t well,” she says, and she wipes her mouth, rubs it clean. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
It’s direct, this tone, but he doesn’t flinch when he turns over in the bed, spread eagle before her.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What do you care?”
“Keep your mind clear. We don’t need you going and offing yourself like Shacklebolt. What a nuisance,” she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. This trait -- faux concern for the production line, keep those boys at it, if only to bring the money in -- is something Harry likes, and makes her bearable.
She’ll have lip if he goes off the deep end or doesn’t do the job right -- happens more than once, y’know, getting carried away and all -- but she’ll clean up the mess and give him a rude gesture as a sign of greeting.
Tame, that, but she’s much worse. Far much worse.
“You talk too much,” Harry says simply, and stands, not bothering to cover himself, leaving the room.
Here’s the court, laid out.
You’ve got Granger doin’ the business, prick teaser that she is showing up like a fucking secretary -- really, a laugh, considerin’ she’d just as much dig that fucking heel into someone’s forehead -- and she’s awfully good at giving threats. For so much as forgetting to buy her a gift after a ‘business trip’ -- three witches, pre-arranged, sod the mission and lay out their bodies like a painting -- after that, she’d nearly torn his balls off.
Amongst other things.
Then there’s Weasley, tall and gangly as he is, his hands always moving. Flexing fingers, a fist, foldin’ his arms. Restless, he is, ‘cause he’s got better things to do than to stand around. Man works with his hands, and it shows -- cuts and bruises, the slight depression in the palm as he grips his wand.
Harry notices these things, for he’s at the right hand.
It is like a painting, a fucking chart of lineage or something, given the way it’s set up. He’s there, glass of red wine in a hand (none of that poncy spritzer rubbish) and he’s liking the cut of his suit. Really liking it -- a man should always have a good suit. It’s another rule of the house of Black as he sees it. Downside is the cleaning, runs up a pricey bill, but hell, cleaning them out afterwards is all the more fun.
“‘Mione,” he says to annoy her, and he stands near her seat, lets those fingers work across her shoulder, softest touch. “What’ve we got today?”
She’s already glaring, before breaking into a smile, the same process she had when he broke both of Krum’s kneecaps for daring to mispronounce her name once. “The Dragon’s coming to the den for a visit.”
See, he thinks of den first, and opium -- which is rather nice stuff, all stirring and good -- before locking in on the second one. Dragon. Malfoy.
“I don’t want to see him.”
“Well, it’s not up to you, is it?” she responds, the slightest nod of her head. It’s a reflex, the way he turns around immediately, and there, there is Sirius, grinning. Grinning like mad, ‘cause he probably is fucking mad after all, clapping a hand on his shoulder and gesturing him to the table.
Oh, and there’s that: the room.
It’s not that sort of lavish brocade you’d find in Versailles or some other joint, but it’s pretty close in theory. Every king’s got his court and the Black court’s all dark colors, wood, stone. Sirius has it laid out just so -- looks like a Muggle board room for those men in suits, talking about stocks and investments. Harmless enough, if you wouldn’t look at the suits of armor or the racks of spears and swords at opposite sides of the room. Oh, sure, they’re decoration. Lovely, aren’t they, and would you mind me running you through with one?
Sirius gestures to Harry to sit, but he doesn’t want him to. Not really, he’d much prefer Harry stand on the right of him, Weasley on the left. It’s cordial, the gesturing. Harry likes that bit.
The doors swing open, and Dragon -- to hell with that, his name's Draco, that's all -- comes in.
Draco in his fancy suit and robes, and his cane. He doesn't need one; he merely likes to show off. If he only knew half of the story of why his father needed that cane. Draco probably knows it, but he doesn't know it up close and visceral, like Sirius tells it. Lovely times.
There’s business to be talked about, funny, since Draco didn’t call it business when they were at it. Prostitution ring at Hogwarts -- oh, if the Prophet had ever printed that headline. What a laugh. Children being children. Harmless games and blowjobs, Galleons and Sickles by the dozen.
Ah, the mind of a child.
They talk and talk and... Well, you know the rest. Sirius loves to hear himself talk. Even then, it’s not much, but Harry does not like talking. Talking gets in the way of things, messes up the order, and he has far more things to do, thank you very much.
At least he’s got his night planned out, given slight nod to Draco.
Or at least, had it planned out, what with the two blokes late on their dues being dragged in once Draco leaves, intact. Weasley nearly crows, the bloody idiot, making a fist and moving forward. But Harry, see, Harry is mindful of his manners.
He takes a final sip of his wine before moving his hand to the inside of his suit jacket and pulling out his wand.
Two AKs, and lunch. Business as usual.
There’s nothing orderly about Draco for the night. Come to think of it, there’s nothing orderly about his flat in the aftermath. Harry’s got himself a set of issues as far as any one of those Muggle psychologists are concerned: parents gone, godfather’s lost his mind and perhaps his prowess in bed (more than likely his sanity, given the bloke kept cackling while they went at it), as well as the hypocritical tendencies he has for hating society’s rules yet living his life by many.
At least, that’s what Granger told him quite frankly when she fucked him up the ass with a strap-on last week.
Draco’s better with him. Sure, he talks too often, little cunt that he is, but at least he gets it, more often than not. It’s a laugh how he does -- he’ll go off about those superficial things he craves, and then he’ll give a comment or an insult, his own code for agreement.
Downside is, he’s too much for materials. Not that a nice suit, nice car, nice steady lay isn’t bad, but clogging your head with that constant desire will just leave you a poorer bastard in the end. As far as Harry is concerned, only thing he needs is his wand. He’ll go starkers without a bloody suit and blast some bloke’s head off if he has to.
It’s a strange thought, but the blood spray in his mind is very comforting.
When Draco’s off snortin’ coke in the bathroom (“Messy, but it gets the job done. Unlike you,” came the schoolyard reply), Harry twirls his wand in his hand idly.
He’ll kill Draco one day, if only to get off on it. Right now he wants another fuck, as he’ll be Apparating to Hogsmeade, filthy shithole as it is, on assignment in the morning.
Crucios on order do make him rather horny, come to think about it.
So he’ll twirl his wand as he does, merely nod and revel inwardly at the destruction it causes. But Draco’ll be dead and long since food for the earth when he does one of his other clear objectives.
Getting rid of Sirius.
If there was one thing Harry knew, it was to be careful of family. A dead Bella and a shell of Regulus Black’s corpse were excellent evidence to the theory. Sirius said as much when he heard of Regulus’s death. He’d only wished he’d done it himself, “the poor bastard.”
But, things come and go, and as much as Harry is grateful for his godfather -- “taught him everything he knows, and he better well remember that, don’t you Harry?” -- he really does need to be free of him.
After all, it’s in his rules.
A means to an end.
“You’ve got a stupid look about you,” Draco points out when he leans against the doorframe, breathing erratically. The sneer dissolves into a grin, slick fingers pushing away strands of white blonde hair.
Yeah, I do, Malfoy, Harry thinks, while blasting some empty wine glasses on the dresser a few meters away. Just for fun, wand waving, to hear them break and shatter in pieces like snowflakes. It’s clear then, what he wants, the plans, and what events Harry Potter will define the rest of his life by.
It’s called victory, you idiot.
END