The Brunch
Shortly after Draco’s announcement--followed by a hurried assurance that Narcissa was the best, nay, only, way to Lucius’ cold dead heart--he found himself hovering as Harry distributed goodbye hugs to a grim Ron and a steely Hermione.
The air, thick with anger and fear, did not lighten when they were gone.
Harry stared at him, and Draco stared right back. He’d felt so lost these weeks, and he’d done so many things that were alien to him, especially in the last few days. Stood up to Tom. Questioned right and wrong. Researched a business venture of his own volition. Fucked Potter.
All of that was new and terrifying. But staring at Harry Potter was a pleasantly familiar occupation.
That was, till Harry opened his mouth and, sighing weightily, undertook to speak.
“My friends,” he said ponderously, “are telling me you and I should Talk.”
Well, that wouldn’t do. But Draco had a new way to avoid a Talk with Potter, and so far it had been effective. Time to put it to a further test.
So Draco took a step toward Potter, leaning down just enough to telegraph his intent without invading Potter’s personal space.
“Do you want to Talk, Harry?”
“No,” said Harry, swaying toward Draco and looking relieved, “I really don’t.”
“What do you want right now?” Draco asked him.
Harry swallowed. “I want to forget again.”
He was looking up at Draco, eyes so pleading, so green. It was every one of Draco’s mean-spirited adolescent wank fantasies come to life--the need in that gaze, the ease with which he could turn Harry away.
Except that things were irrevocably changed, because this was real, and Draco didn’t want to deny Harry anything. He wasn’t sure he was capable of it any more. So he gave in to Harry’s desires, and his own, cupping Harry’s face in his hand and stroking the cheekbone with his thumb.
“You want me to take care of you, baby?” Harry whimpered and nodded. “You’ll be good for me?” Another nod. “Good.” Draco wove his fingers into Harry’s curls at the back of his head and pulled the taut. “I’ve got you, baby.”
And, oh! Harry was at his mercy. Draco could do whatever he liked. He could tie Harry down and fuck him hard until he was so hoarse from screaming that no sound came out when he opened his mouth to beg. Or he could stand here and kiss him softly for hours, then leave him aching without permission to do a thing about it.
Heady thoughts. But what Draco was in the mood for didn’t involve such savagery or such patience. Right now, he needed control.
His gaze lingered on Harry’s trembling lip, but when he leaned in he went straight for his neck, sucking and biting at the first spot he found as Harry squirmed. Drawing away, he was pleased to see a red mark there, possibly dark enough to bruise.
“There we go, pet. You like that? Like having my mark on you?” Harry nodded, and Draco nipped at his neck sharply. “Answer me, love.”
“Yes,” Harry managed, tipping his head back to bare more of his skin.
“Good boy.” Draco unbuttoned a few of the buttons on Harry’s shirt, lightly stroking the skin there. But they were still in the entranceway of Harry’s flat, and that wouldn’t do.
“Show me your bedroom, love?” he demanded of Harry.
“Yes,” said Harry again, and Draco wrapped a hand around his wrist as Harry led him down a stunted hall.
“Fuck,” said Draco when he saw the room, “if I’d known you were sleeping in this wet dream of a bed every night, I’d’ve locked us both in here weeks ago.”
Harry whined.
“You like that idea?” Draco asked. “Being held in here under me while I take you apart, hour after hour, stopping only to eat and sleep?”
“Hnng,” was about as verbal as Harry seemed able to manage.
“Indeed,” said Draco. “Stay still, now. I’m going to undress you.”
Harry said nothing, but nodded again, so Draco fell to it, continuing to unbutton Harry’s shirt--and if he was a little rough with the mass-produced monstrosity of a garment, maybe loosening one or two of those buttons, maybe popping a seam as he untucked the shirt from Harry’s trousers--well, who was there to notice it or to blame him? Anyway, he was happy enough to buy a replacement.
Christ, he thought to himself as he got to work on those trousers, look at him. To put this body in anything that costs under two hundred pounds is a crime. Yes, Harry was a criminal, Draco told himself as he knelt to untie Harry’s shoes. So gentle, so pliant he was as Draco pulled off his socks and brought his trousers down, leaving Harry in his shorts, which were poly blend.
To hide his fashionista's disgust with the whole situation, he leaned in to nibble at Harry’s hip as he slowly pulled the pants down. Not till he felt Harry step out of them entirely did he risk a glance at Harry’s bobbing cock, and then, once that had distracted him thoroughly from all sartorial musings, Harry’s face. Parted lips, glazed eyes. Harry was down. Deep. Almost too deep for the circumstances.
Was this just natural for Harry? Had Tom done this to him? Or was it stress? Or maybe...maybe this was just how he reacted to Draco? What a thought that was. Probably all of the above, Draco admitted to himself as he got to his feet.
“Harry, love,” he said, stroking Harry’s cheek, “you with me?” Harry nodded. “All right then. Color?” Harry blinked. “Harry, I need a color or we can’t go on.”
“Oh,” said Harry quietly. He cleared his throat a little, then said, more certainly, “green.”
“You sure?”
A little smirk surfaced. “Yes, Draco, I’m sure. I’m just having a really good time with you. Promise.”
“All right.” Draco grinned. “On the bed, then, cheeky.”
“Yes sir,” said Harry, still mischievous. He climbed onto the bed and stayed on his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder. “How do you want me?”
“On your back,” Draco purred. “Just relax, love.”
Harry rolled over with alacrity, his smile fading into an expression of distant contentment. Draco realized with something of a headrush that he was watching Harry drop again. Without even being touched. Fuck, that was hot.
Draco went to the side of the bed, letting one hand drift up to stroke Harry’s hair while the other squeezed his hip, thumb pressing into the red spot where his teeth had just been.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, low and steady. “I’m going to play with you all I want, and you’re going to stay still. I’m not going to restrain you. You’re just going to stay still for me because you’re so good, because you want to please me, right, pet?”
“Right,” said Harry breathlessly.
“Good. Hands together, over your head. There’s a love. Feet apart. That’s right. Stay there.”
Instead of diving right in this time, Draco stepped back, surveying his progress so far.
Oh yes. This would do. But now what? Attack, or make Harry wait?
Well, Draco wasn’t one for self-denial, even if he did occasionally partake in it to spite others. But this wasn’t Tom. This was Harry, his sweet, earnest, reckless, beloved nemesis, and Draco didn’t want to spite him.
So he started nibbling. Trailing fingers over sensitive skin, up Harry’s sides, lightly through his armpit hair, listening to the breathy little sounds he made. So soft, so quiet Harry was for Draco, normally all roaring fire but now just...gentle as a candle flame. The feeling was overwhelming, and Draco suppressed his sudden urge to sob by biting down hard on Harry’s collarbone.
Harry mewled, and they were both lost, adrift in a universe an inch to the left of their home. They let the heady air take them, leaving behind the scurf of sewers and wretched corners, the grime of decades between worn bricks, overtaking rooftops stained with centuries’ soot. They found a place, in that clear air, where darkness could not reach them; nor could they reach anything but each other.
But they did not talk about it.
***
Narcissa’s knock was, as always, punctual: Draco had invited her to join him for brunch at 11:00, and she arrived at precisely 11:08. More than five minutes but fewer than ten minutes late, just as she had taught him.
But, polite as the time of her arrival was, the manner of it was distinctly out of character. She accepted his embrace in greeting, but pressed a finger to her lips to shush him and said nothing herself. Responding to his furrowed brow with an impatient look, she took a rectangular black device out of her coat pocket and began pointing it around the room, brushing past him to walk the perimeter. When she pointed the device at the kitchen counter, it beeped, and Narcissa bent under it, swiftly removing a button-sized black device.
She dropped it on the ground and crushed it under the heel of her bespoke shoe.
“Honestly, Draco,” she scolded. “I leave you unsupervised for a matter of weeks and you forget all your lessons in corporate espionage? How long has your little domicile been bugged?”
Draco swallowed. “I honestly can’t say.”
Narcissa tutted. “Think.”
“Well. Depends on the suspect...but then, I don’t have many visitors.”
“My dear,” said Narcissa drily, “this doesn’t strike me as Mr. Potter’s modus operandi.”
Draco knew better than to deny what his mother had obviously (and correctly) concluded to be true. He couldn’t lie to her, even if he wished to.
Anyway, it had obviously been Tom, who had suddenly found a reason to visit Draco’s flat this week, when he’d never been willing to set foot in it before. Draco had thought, for a foolish moment--even as he’d pushed Tom away, beginning to see him for what he was--that this had indicated some desire to see Draco, some need to preserve their friendship, some lingering possessiveness at the very least. But no. Tom had only come here so he could monitor Draco. Because Draco couldn’t be trusted.
He felt an absurd urge to cry. It was stupid. It was ridiculous, because of course Draco was no longer trustworthy when it came to Tom. He knew now that Tom hurt people--brave, stubborn, good people like Harry, and helpless children like the ones he was--Jesus fucking Christ--experimenting on for profit. Whether for delight or utility, Tom hurt people as a matter of course, and Draco knew that now.
But that didn’t mean he was immune to being hurt.
“A few days,” he informed his mother at last. “Couldn’t be more than a week, unless it was a break-in.”
Narcissa knew her son. She saw his wounded expression. She approached and wrapped him in her arms.
“Betrayal is never easy to swallow,” she said softly, “even when it is anticipated.”
“True,” Draco agreed. He leaned into the hug for just a moment, soaking up the comfort of his mother’s bluebell perfume, before stiffening his upper lip and stepping away.
“Something to drink?” she requested, lightening the mood with her signature tact.
“Of course.” Draco went to the bar and mixed a French 75 for each of them, handing Narcissa a flute when he was done. She tipped it toward him, and he raised his in an answering toast.
“You have piqued my curiosity,” Narcissa admitted after a few quiet sips. “What urgent matter brings me here? You needn’t wait for an international incident to call your mother, you know.”
Draco frowned apologetically; he knew his mother was teasing him, but he couldn’t quite find the humor in it at the moment.
“I’ve made an alarming discovery as to the nature of a certain Malfoy Corp pursuit. It is, in brief, a questionable partnership with Death Eater Pharmaceuticals.”
“In brief,” Narcissa echoed, taking another sip of her drink. “And if you were to pontificate?”
So Draco told her the whole story. Except for the sex, of course. But he knew his mother; she was clever enough to infer all that and factor it into her calculations.
When Draco was finished, Narcissa paused to reflect.
“What did I tell you about that boy?” she demanded at length.
“Nothing unfounded, I’m sure,” Draco conceded. “But, I hope, nothing you feel an urgent need to repeat.”
“Oh, Draco,” said Narcissa, eyes sad. “No doubt you feel yourself excessively aware of the mistakes you made there. I do not wish to chastise you or to overburden you with guilt. You are an adult, and a rather sensitive young man at that.” Draco winced, but Narcissa merely shook her head, dismissing that conversation for another day.
“I do, however,” she continued, “need to say a few words on the matter. Not as a punishment or a condemnation, but to ensure that you and I understand each other.”
“I see,” Draco replied, though the curious tilt of his head and the crease between his manicured brows implied that he, in fact, did not see. Narcissa’s wan smile acknowledged both his words and the truth.
“You and I are very similar,” she told him. “I know, little dragon, what it is to love comfort. Yet--and perhaps this is a contradiction at the heart of both our characters--I also know what it is to love a ruthless man.” She paused, eyes focused on the shimmer of sunlight that caught the rim of her champagne glass. “That,” she added at last, “is not always comfortable.”
Draco felt ill. He shook his head, but could not clear the burning pain that was starting to creep under his skin. There was something deeply unsettling about trying to place his father and Tom in the same category.
“Do not overtax yourself with the comparison,” Narcissa said wryly, guessing his concern. “My point is only that these quandaries do crop up, and when they do, we must be prepared to find our own limits.” She eyed him speculatively. “I suspect, my dear, that your threshold for this sort of transgression is far lower than my own.”
Draco swallowed. “Perhaps,” he said. “But will you help me?”
“Of course. Even your father won’t stand for the exploitation of children--not, at least, when I am there to bring it to his attention.”
That made Draco crack a smile. “No,” he agreed, “I expect he won’t.”
“We understand each other,” said Narcissa with a simple confidence born of a lifelong conspiracy. Well, lifelong for Draco at least.
“So it seems.”
“Give me three days,” said Narcissa. “I think that will be enough time for the necessity of our endeavour to sink in with your father.”
“Of course. I think I can stall the circling lions that long.”
“My dear,” Narcissa sighed, “do try to drop these schoolboy prejudices. How long do you plan to make your choices on the basis of Dumbledore’s ill-advised personality test?”
“As long as I am a snake in the lions’ den,” Draco replied.
“Yes,” said Narcissa. “That is not a den I expected you would explore.”
“Mother!” said Draco, mock-scandalized, “Are you fishing for gossip?”
“Son!” she echoed, “Is it working?”
Draco laughed. “I supposed it is. We’ve never had secrets between us, have we, Mother?”
“No,” she agreed.
“Well then.” Draco sighed. “Harry Potter.”
“Quite,” said Narcissa with amusement.
“If you’re only going to mock me, I have Pansy for that.”
Narcissa merely smiled and waved a hand for him to continue.
“You know our relationship--mine and Harry’s--has always been...fraught. Especially in recent years. I don’t suppose I mentioned his history with Tom?”
Narcissa raised her eyebrows, but didn’t comment.
“Right,” Draco admitted, “I do tend to mention Tom when I don’t mean to. Or--did tend. And, when they were--well. I didn’t see, at the time, did I?” He looked down and added, “Harry says Tom was doing it to me. Too. Both of us. Manipulating. Handling us.”
“It’s not so shameful,” Narcissa assured him gently. “Everyone falls prey to such behavior at one time or another. Despite our wisest resolutions, we cannot help but trust others.”
“Doesn’t help,” Draco observed bitterly. “I feel weak. I feel used. And I have been. So has Harry.” He paused, thinking that over. “Of course, when it’s Harry, I don’t feel any embarrassment on his behalf. Only anger.”
“Only anger?” Narcissa prompted. Draco looked at her helplessly.
“As respects Tom,” he clarified.
“Well.” Narcissa sipped her drink. “That is something. But then, that waif has always been good for you.”
Draco gaped. “He what?”
“He wakes you up,” said Narcissa. “Brings you to reality; keeps you--what do they call it? Grounded. Lucius doesn’t have the ability to do so, and I never had the heart.” After a pause, she added, “Perhaps we have both failed you in that.”
“Oh,” said Draco drily. “So now all of a sudden this ‘reality’ the middle classes tout has become a desirable state. Really, Mother, you must warn me about these things.”
“Too precious,” Narcissa tutted. “You’re better than this, Draco.”
“Prove it.”
“I needn’t,” said Narcissa with a smile. “You’ll prove it to me yourself.”
Making a noise of disgust, Draco demanded, “Are you expressing faith in my moral character, Mother? Before the cocktail hour?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Draco,” she replied. “It seems I am failing in my old age.”
“You aren’t old enough to excuse sentiment,” Draco argued. “You’ve only been thirty-nine a few years, you know.”
“There’s my son,” said Narcissa approvingly.
***
Draco didn’t hear anything from Harry over the next few days. Amid tense requests for updates on the progress of their plan, Granger was kind enough to assure him that Harry was all right, just throwing himself into his work as a distraction. She even went so far as to say it was “nothing personal.”
Draco pondered this. He’d always assumed that Potter’s little side projects in school--exposing corrupt professors, challenging ‘unfair’ school rules, campaigning for better benefits for the janitorial staff--had been animated entirely by Granger’s stubborn competence. It was, however, entirely possible that Harry’s top-heavy sense of justice and his tendency toward obsession had contributed just as much. Though Draco would persist in believing that Weasley, at least, had just been riding Granger’s coat-tails. That man was such a follower, he could toady for England.
Still. As one of Harry’s most enduring obsessions, Draco didn’t like being supplanted. He needed, at least, to know Harry still had him in mind. Since he wasn’t getting replies to any of his attempts to start banal conversations, he decided to play dirty, as was his wont.
Draco
Please answer me, baby. I just need to know that you’re all right.
To this, Draco received an almost immediate response.
Scarhead
no pet names you tosser
i’m at work
Draco
And when are you finished with work?
Scarhead
honestly? idk. there’s a lot going on here
Draco
Well, you have to eat.
Scarhead
been eating at my desk
no time
Draco
May I suggest you make time? Before you collapse.
Scarhead
ur as bad as ron
but ur sweet
i promise it isn’t you
i want to see you
but i have to be here for this
Draco
I’m suggesting a meal, not a month at a villa in France
…
Though, that is also on the table.
Scarhead
lol
justice first. then dinner.
“Nothing personal,” Draco sighed to himself as he dropped his phone on the glass coffee table and collapsed onto his stylishly hostile sofa.
Felt a bit personal to him.