Harry Potter - the H/D Deirdriu/Noisiu fic
the HP Deirdriu/Noisiu fic
notes: based on the welsh? story of Deirdriu and Noisiu. if i'm spelling their names right. whoops. also: i changed the ending. and other stuff. a lot. Ha.
*
The Malfoys were having a lovely dinner party in honor of their soon-to-be child. It was the first child they’d ever had, and Lady Malfoy knew it would be their last. Women from her Veela clan could only bear one child, after all. Lady Malfoy was just sitting down at the lavish table when a loud knock sounded at the door. Everyone turned to see who it could be. All the invited guests were there, King Voldemort among them. Soon enough, a dotty looking woman with frizzy blonde hair and oversized spectacles drifted in beside one of the servants.
“Ah, Madam Trelawney. How good of you to drop by.” Royal Advisor Dumbledore stood up, white beard dangling onto his empty plate. “Surely you’ve all heard of Seer Trelawney. I asked her to come by to see about your child.”
“How kind of you,” Lord Malfoy said, standing as well. “Please, sit down.” He motioned for another chair to be brought in.
Trelawney ignored it in favor of laying her hands on Lady Malfoy’s stomach. “Ah, I see,” she intoned with a shaking voice.
“Yes?” breathed Lady Malfoy.
“I see…death. This boy’s unsurpassable beauty will bring much pain and suffering.” She removed her hands and blinked owlishly at the shocked and horrified faces surrounding her. In a much wispier, absentminded voice, she said, “What? What did I say?”
Lady Malfoy burst into tears.
“We would do well to kill the child before this prophecy comes to pass,” Dumbledore voiced solemnly.
“No!” Lord Malfoy slammed his fists upon the table. “It is our only child!”
“I agree,” King Voldemort said. “Such beauty is not to be destroyed.” He smiled lecherously. “The boy shall be raised in seclusion in my palace. When he comes of age he shall become my Consort. That way, there’s no chance of the prophecy coming to pass, and my line and the Malfoys will be irrevocably joined. What say you to that?”
Lord Malfoy looked uneasily at his wife. Slowly, a smirk split his face. “Consort to the King? I’ll raise my glass to that.”
There was scattered applause around the table as Lord Malfoy’s glass clinked with the King’s. “Don’t look so glum, Dumbledore,” King Voldemort said. “I’ve got this prophecy under control.”
And so it seemed, for when the child was born only a Veela midwife and the Malfoys laid eyes on it. The boy was unusually beautiful for a baby, with eyes the color of a fleeing storm and baby fine hair the color of corn silk. The child was even tempered and solemn beyond his years, however, and rarely seen to laugh. Raised entirely by a select few tutors, a nanny, and by his parents, who visited as often as possible, the young Malfoy-Draco (so named by his mother)-had only known two men in his life: his father and the king.
“Why don’t I know anyone else my age?” he asked a tutor one day. “Surely there must be others.”
The tutor stared wistfully at the beautiful young man before heaving a great sigh. “You know you’re to be Consort to King Voldemort soon-you’re almost of age.”
“But why must he hide me away?”
“For your protection.” She paced a gentle hand on the young lord’s shoulder. “Now, why the sudden questions about people your own age, eh?”
Draco seemed to consider his words carefully. “Keep a secret?” he finally asked. At his tutor’s nod, he said, “I saw something yesterday-something beautiful. I dropped a gift from the king-a golden band-in a grassy field. Before I could retrieve, though, it a raven swooped down and carried it away. The colors, the gold and green and black, were so beautiful…I want to marry a man with those colors.”
He was so lost in the memory it was a moment before he noticed his tutor shaking him. “You mustn’t say such things!” she whispered. “You will marry King Voldemort.”
That very night Draco made plans to run away. A week later, he did. Soon, however, he found himself quite lost. He spent the night in a rickety barn, and resolved to ask the first person he saw directions to the Malfoy lands.
But the first person he saw was perfection: a warrior sparring alone in a field, shirt around his waist and blade singing in his strong hands. Golden skin pulled taut across rippling muscles. Ebony curls held back in a leather thong stuck to his face and the nape of his neck. And when Draco called out to him, he was struck dumb by the most piercing green eyes he had ever seen.
“Marry me,” he said when the stranger came to the fence.
“I cannot,” the stranger said, staring intently at Draco’s face. “You’re surely the most beautiful man in the kingdom-Draco Malfoy, King Voldemort’s Consort.”
“I am, but I am yours. Marry me.”
“No, I cannot.” The beautiful stranger took a step back.
Draco frowned. “You leave me no choice.” Reaching out quick as a snake, he grabbed the stranger's face and held it still. “You will be mine,” he bit out, and began singing a Veela song.
The stranger’s face went slack. He reached a golden hand up and cupped Draco’s cheek.
“Marry me, love,” Draco whispered.
His answer was a kiss.
*
“We have to leave,” Harry said, for that was the stranger’s name. And leave they did, to the forests of Hogwarts, the neighboring country to Voldemort’s. It was none too soon, for the king’s warriors soon discovered the truth of Draco’s disappearance. A price was put upon poor Harry’s head, and a reward for Draco’s return.
Meanwhile, in Hogwarts, Harry and his band of men lived with Draco, their wives, and children in the forest. Among them were Ron the Red, so named for his hair and fiery temper; Seamus Strong Arm, a man who could talk even a giant down from the foulest of moods; Dean of the Quick Hand, an artist and archer-he could draw a perfect likeness of your face and then hit it eight hundred feet away; Ron’s brothers Fred and George, legendary pranksters with the promise of Death in the clubs that they wielded.
Draco soon found joy in living with this strange band of men, but his greatest happiness was with Harry. And though he had never lived in poorer conditions, he had never been happier, and so grew all the more beautiful.
Harry and Draco had lived in the forest scarcely a year before the king of Hogwarts heard of a great beauty that dwelt in his forests. Soon enough, spies discovered Draco and reported his whereabouts to the king. Uncaring that Draco was already in love and wanting such beauty for himself, the king resolved to kill Harry and take his lover for himself.
Harry’s men were not oblivious, however, and caught wind of the ambitious king’s plan. “We must flee again,” Harry said sadly. “We cannot fight so many men.” The only place they could go was Voldemort’s country, so with trepidation they snuck back to their homeland.
Voldemort was waiting for them. Hundreds died that day before Harry’s band of men fell. Even then, it took all of Voldemort’s greatest warriors from sunup to beyond sundown. The women they kept, the children they sold. At last only Harry was left.
Voldemort killed Harry himself.
Draco had no choice but to become the king’s Consort. From that day on, he never smiled and he never laughed. When Voldemort tried to engage him in conversation, he spoke only of two things: his love for Harry and his hatred of Voldemort. All the luxury Voldemort gave him paled in comparison to Draco’s time in the forest. The company of his parents was no longer comforting. Draco longed for death.
After a year of watching Draco pine, King Voldemort was angry. Draco’s beauty gave him pleasure, but every word from his mouth gave him pain. “Fine!” he exploded one night after dinner. “If you love him so much, you can join him!” And withdrawing a dagger, he plunged it into the pillow of Draco’s bed.
Draco considered the dagger a moment. Then he began to sing.
Voldemort’s face went slack.
Draco withdrew the knife and buried it deep in the king’s heart. Once sure he was dead, Draco left his chambers and wandered the palace halls. At long last he came to the highest tower. He climbed onto the ledge and jumped.