wildestranger | Fic: Adventures in High Life 3/7 Harry/Draco R

Title: Adventures in High Life 3/7
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Words: 4011
Summary: Harry Potter, having insisted on cohabiting in the Malfoy Manor in the course of his Auror duties, make a nuisance of himself. Fortunately, Draco is too well bred to care.
Notes: Thanks to

kabeyk,

pre_raphaelite1 and

shaggydogstail for various betaing duties. Previous parts can be found here: Part One
and Part Two

All characters are over 18.

Two days later, Draco came to the conclusion that hiding from Potter had lost its appeal. Blaise had refused to leave the library to share his exile (or to sulk in Draco's room like a sullen schoolboy, as Blaise put it), and Narcissa kept sending him amused accounts of Potter's conversation, as if that wasn't precisely the thing Draco had hoped to avoid. Also, there was something undignified in being forced to skulk about one's own house, instead of strutting along with unabashed feet and manly confidence like his father before him. Not that Draco wanted to remind himself of his father, but there were times when the memory of Lucius's firm steps and the bold sound of his cane hitting the floor were appreciated.

His arrival at the breakfast table was welcomed with a barely raised eyebrow from Blaise and a serene smile from his mother, who passed him the morning paper. Draco settled in his seat, gave Potter a half a scowl, and glanced at the headlines.

And promptly wished he was still in hiding.

A LEAGUE OF INCEST OR SOMETHING WORSE?

Rumours abound as the Malfoy ménage-à-trois is joined by none other than Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and the Saviour of the Wizarding World. After our exposé of last Monday detailing the depraved sexual habits of Blaise Zabini and his incestuous affairs with both Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, The Daily Prophet is shocked to discover that this nest of debauchery has been penetrated by Potter, who has moved to Malfoy Manor and is said to be a "particular friend" of both young Malfoy and his mother. A source close to the family has spoken of jealous quarrels with Zabini, who feels his position among the Malfoys to be under threat, and of drunken orgies, lasting all night and involving unspeakable Muggle artefacts (See our account of Tiberius Malfoy's collection on p. 18), between all four.

But that is not all! Following Harry Potter's recent promotion to Head of Dark Artefacts Office, we fear that the seduction of Dark Arts might be too strong for this young Auror. Malfoy Manor is widely known to be brimming with illegal magical objects, which frequent raids by the Ministry of Magic have failed to remove (See our featured story on Corruption in the Workplace, and How To Detect It, p. 24). Can our hero resist the lure of Dark Magic as well as the enticement of lascivious Slytherins? Our Intrepid Reporter, writing from an undisclosed location in Wiltshire, will keep you informed.

Draco turned to his mother and smirked.

"Congratulations, Mother. I see you've been credited with yet another conquest. I hope your friends will be appropriately jealous."

Narcissa's smile showed only a slight hint of smugness.

"Don't be catty, darling. I'm sure your friends are equally jealous. Not every man can claim to have seduced Harry Potter."

At this juncture, Potter decided to respond with his favourite noise.

"Um."

Draco didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes. He opened his mouth to indulge in some appropriate mocking, but was caught by Blaise's dulcet tones as well as a warm thigh sliding smoothly next to his. Blaise's ability to distract and befuddle was usually enjoyable (if embarrassing), but Draco would have to have a word with him about disrupting his Potter-baiting.

"I'm afraid I must object to that, Narcissa. Surely the credit here is given to me for seducing both Potter and Draco."

Or he could just step on Blaise's toes. Hard. Instant gratification was always fun, even though Blaise refused to show any signs of discomfort beyond the ever-present raised eyebrow.

It wouldn't do to lose sight of the main object, though.

"Don't encroach, Blaise. I'm sure there's enough of Potter for us to share."

"Um."

Taking quiet joy in Potter's increasingly desperate noises, Draco continued:

"In any case, you can certainly not claim the credit of seducing me. As I recall it was the other way round."

"And that's what I've wanted you to think."

Draco refused to allow the slight widening of Blaise's smirk to infuriate him.

"Er."

No doubt tired of Potter's signs of confusion, Narcissa passed him the newspaper. Potter frowned as he read, but soon his eyes went wide and there was some delightful biting of lips and blushing. Draco watched avidly until he noticed Blaise watching him equally avidly and scowled.

"Um. How are they…who is this source close to the Malfoys?"

"A figment of Rita Skeeter's imagination, I would imagine," Narcissa said.

"I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of inaccurate reporting, Potter." Draco added. "Although I doubt you've been portrayed in such illustrious company before."

Narcissa gave him a look representing the mental equivalent of a kick in the shin, then turned to smile at Potter.

"Actually, Harry, I wouldn't worry about it. They produce these scandalous accounts every few months and nobody believes them. It's a sort of a family tradition. Who was it, Draco, who was accused of a similar thing?"

"Great great great great uncle George?"

"Something like that, yes."

Potter was still frowning. Draco took a gleeful bite of his croissant and smirked. Sadly, Potter didn't notice, but continued to speak.

"Still, some people will believe anything about me. I'm surprised there's been no howlers yet."

Draco shared a look with Narcissa and Blaise, incredulous at the idea of allowing Howlers in Malfoy Manor.

"We have a house-elf who shoots down all owls carrying Howlers that approach the house. Midgy, isn't it, Mother?"

"Pidgy, I think. The one with the unfortunate limp, you know, whom we caught in the Olive Room with that broken coffee table?"

"Oh yes." Draco shuddered. "I remember why he was assigned outside the house, now."

There was a disturbed gulp from Potter's side of the table, and Draco asked himself why he had stayed away when inspiring Potter to make strange noises was so much fun.

Unfortunately, his mother didn't seem to feel the same way. Something about hospitality and manners befitting a Malfoy, if he recalled correctly. Draco hid a yawn as Narcissa continued pretending to find interest in Potter's words.

"Anyway, Harry, how is your work going? You've gone through most of the public rooms now, haven't you?"

Potter stopped frowning at the paper and attempted a pleasant smile. Draco shivered in disgust at so much earnestness.

"Yeah, that's right. I was actually hoping to get started on the dungeons today."

"Oh? You should ask Draco to show you around first. It can be quite dangerous down there, and you'll need to beware of the housemaid traps."

"Housemaid traps?"

"From before we started employing house-elves. There was a cousin, wasn't there, who liked to go housemaid hunting and set up a whole series of traps to catch them. I was never quite sure what he did with them afterwards, though. They usually showed up for work a few days later."

"Is that Justinius Malfoy? Famous for brewing the Subite Libens potion?"

"That's the one. I didn't realise he was known outside the family, Blaise."

"Only among specialists."

The smirk on Blaise's face had achieved a new level of unsettling intimations, and Draco decided to break up the conversation before his mother made the mistake of asking what kind of specialists.

"So, Potter, dungeons?"

"Yeah, I mean yes, please. Lead the way."

There was something desperate in the way Potter scrambled off his chair and wiped his mouth on his napkin. Clearly a few days of exposure to Blaise had taught him to be wary.

"Um, will there be whips? In the dungeons, I mean?"

Or, considering Potter's hopeful tone, perhaps not.

: :

"And then, after Ron died, I was kind of useless for a few months, you know, couldn't make any plans and tried to get myself killed in battle. Then one day Remus sat me down and gave me a whole lecture about loss and sacrifice and how you still have to struggle on, and how even though it's unfair the whole of the war kind of rested on my shoulders, and so I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started paying attention again. And then…"

Draco wasn't sure how it had happened. He had asked one innocent question about Potter's previous experience with Distillation and Distribution spells (and that only to avoid further enquiry about the eternal dampness of the Scholar's Laboratorium; Draco felt no need to explain why his parents had chosen to replicate the conditions of Slytherin dungeons, replete with a swirling image of Professor Snape, for his summer course work), and Potter had taken this as a reason to tell Draco all about his time during the war. And how he had felt about it. And what he felt about it now, and really, where was a housemaid trap when you needed one? Draco tried surreptitiously to push Potter towards the eastern section of the labyrinth, where there was at least a missing stair if nothing else.

But Potter didn't even stumble, regardless of how many times Draco accidentally bumped into him, and suddenly he had had enough.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Potter, shut up! Why are you telling me this?"

The brief look of disappointment on Potter's face was not nearly enough compensation for an hour-long monologue on the internal politics of the Order of the Phoenix. The sight of Potter lying dead and bleeding at the bottom of the stairs would not be enough. Draco told himself to stop gritting his teeth.

"Well, I…I thought you'd like to know."

Potter's eyes were wide and there was a definite tilt, leaning towards a pout, on his lower lip. As if he were sincerely hurt from Draco's refusal to play best friends with him, and not even trying to hide it.

It was fortunate that Draco had developed a strict code of conduct for when Potter behaved in an inappropriate manner and tried to talk about his feelings, as he increasingly tended to do these days. That his plan included crushing said feelings was only a nice bonus.

"Why, in the name of Salazar Slytherin's wrinkled toenails, would you think that?"

Perhaps the last syllable shouldn't have resembled a distraught shriek quite that much. Draco blamed the acoustics.

And scowled, when he saw Potter's blank face turning into yet another coy smile.

"I just thought that since we are living together now you'd like to know a bit more about me. School was a long time ago, Draco. Isn't it time we got to know each other as adults?"

This was why he had hidden in his room for two days, Draco remembered. Potter drove him to grinding his teeth, and the following headaches were incurable even by Blaise's blowjobs. Not to mention that this insinuating tone, which Potter seemed to adopt every time they were alone together, was highly disconcerting.

As was the fact that Potter had suddenly moved a lot closer.

"Is that your riding crop?"

His voice was almost breathless, and Draco had to close his eyes and concentrate hard to get rid of the image that tone conjured up: Potter, naked and kneeling, his eyes wide and reverent as he begged to be punished and shown his place.

Until a sudden jerk forced his eyes open because Potter's hand was sliding along Draco's hip, unerringly finding the hold of the riding crop and pulling it from its sheath.

"Potter, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I've always been curious about these things. Muggles use them, of course, but I'd never seen one in a wizarding house before I came."

Draco could feel Potter's body, not quite touching him but still too close, exuding warmth in the cold air of the dungeons. And Potter's fingers, moving along the riding crop, noting every ridge and curve of the leather, brushing against the front of Draco's robes.

"Have you ever used this?"

Such a calmly curious tone, and Draco could have answered with equal calmness if the leathery end of the whip wasn't slithering down Draco's cheek, trailing along his Adam's apple, caressing his collarbone as Potter stepped closer and Draco held his breath.

"Would you liked to?"

Potter's mouth was at his ear, the words whispered close and low and it was too much. Potter wasn't supposed to be doing this or saying such things or using Draco's own riding crop against him. Pushing away, Draco stumbled to regain his balance until he remembered the missing stair and the long, long, fall that waited him at the bottom. Now I know what the housemaids felt was his last coherent thought.

: :

Draco woke up with a tongue in his mouth. Someone else's tongue, obviously, although his own was being uncharacteristically hospitable, inviting the stranger in and engaging in exciting games of hide and seek. There was a nip of teeth in the corner of his mouth, and Draco knew he was going to moan out loud before the sound was crushed against the other mouth.

Then he woke up, and the pain hit.

"Ow, fuck, fuck fuck fuck, what the hell?"

There were hands flapping about, touching his cheeks and trying to help him up, and Draco didn’t' have the energy to flap back at them because ow, fuck. His head hurt.

"You all right, Malfoy?"

Ah. And he hadn't even asked himself what would make his headache worse. Draco felt the universe owed him something for irony.

"What kind of a stupid question is that? Do I look all right? Did the sounds of gruesome pain and suffering somehow fail to convey how much not all right I am? Are you stupid or something? Ow!"

"Calm down! Let me just…look, you hurt your head pretty badly. Let me just…"

"Ow! Potter!"

"Sorry, sorry. There's a big lump but no blood, so at least the skin wasn't broken. Still, we should get you back upstairs. I'm crap at healing, and you'll need more light to do it properly anyway."

"Ow! Right, let's move then. A little light please, Potter!"

Getting up wasn't as difficult as Draco had expected, once he got past the swirling nausea and the horrible, horrible pain in his head. Leaning against the wall, he took a tentative step forward. Towards the sounds of Potter's voice.

"Ow! Malfoy!"

"Oh, sorry, was that your hand? I'll try not to step on it again, but it's a bit difficult when I can't see anything!"

"Right, sorry. There you go!"

"Not that bright, you idiot! Head wound here!"

"Sorry, is that better?"

"Yes, yes, that's fine. Now let's go before you do any more damage."

Slowly, with one hand keeping hold of the wall, Draco started to move up the corridor. Potter's hands kept flailing around his back, no doubt trying to be helpful but only succeeding in being annoying. Sadly, Draco didn't have the energy to smack him.

"Me? I'm the one who saved you from falling down the stairs!"

"Yes, well, I wouldn't have needed rescuing if you hadn't been committing inappropriate acts on my person with a riding crop!"

He'd have to replace the riding crop, now. Or at least redo the charms. Perhaps there was a nice curse he could use to keep Potter from fondling it.

"Oh shut up, Malfoy. How was I supposed to know you'd bolt like a distressed maiden?"

"What are you then, the ravishing rake? Been reading too many Venetia Bimbledook's gothic mysteries?"

"Um. Your library is awfully big. Zabini recommended them."

He'd also need to have a word with Blaise about his taste in literature and why it should not be inflicted on others.

"I see. And would that explain why you were molesting me when I was unconscious?"

"I wasn't molesting you! I was doing mouth to mouth!"

"Yes, I could see that!"

"No, you don't…It's a Muggle thing, for when you're unconscious. Supposed to help you breathe."

"Muggles do that for people who've hit their heads?"

"Um. Yes."

"Crazy people. Crazy, crazy people."

"Look, I was just trying to help!"

Despite the restless flapping going on, there was something very soothing about Potter's inane nattering. Especially when his voice did that wobbly thing. Too bad the horrible, horrible pain kept Draco from enjoying it too much.

"Shut up, Potter. You're making my head hurt."

"Sorry."

Huh. Apparently Potter was trying to be considerate. But between that, and being attacked with strange tongues and the horrible, horrible pain in his head, Draco decided he'd had enough. There was big bottle of St. Emilion that he'd been saving for a special occasion, and the three hours before the dinner gong would be just enough time to do it justice.

: :

In retrospect, getting shitfaced before a dinner where Professor Snape was to be a guest was a very, very stupid thing to do. In his defence, though, (and Draco had prepared a defence – he had no doubt he would be called upon to give it) it had been only an hour before the appointed time that Draco remembered the honour about to be bestowed on his table, and by that point it was far too late to stop drinking.

And after walking back to the breakfast room with Potter yapping at his heels, finding Blaise and his mother (still there three hours after appropriate breakfast time) engaged in yet another conversation about Philosophy in the Boudoir, and complaining extensively and futilely about his injury, Draco had felt the need for a comforting drink. Particularly as Narcissa had refused to coo over his head with any sort of maternal tenderness and Blaise, instead of offering a companionate blowjob, had insisted on asking impertinent questions about how the accident had taken place. After failing to find support among his friends and family, the lure of a happy bottle of red wine had been irresistible. Not that Draco had contemplated resisting in any way.

Still, the view that faced him from across the table was quite disconcerting. Draco's usually impeccable posture might have suffered slightly from the amount of alcohol he had drank in the course of the afternoon, and the resulting slouch, coupled with the imposing tilt of Professor Snape's head, had allowed Draco to observe the intricate insides of Snape's nose in far too much detail. Sadly, his mother had refused to pour him more wine to overcome the trauma.

And everybody was picking on him today.

"I mustn't forget to express my gratitude, Mr. Zabini, for taking Draco out of my hands all those years ago. It is difficult to conduct important research when there's a petulant teenager on one's sofa, whining about everything under the sky and distracting one's subordinates."

"It was my pleasure, Professor Snape. I was happy to do what I could to help with the war effort."

And Draco must have dosed off because the dry smooth voices had given away to something else, and suddenly there was a Gryffindor shouting at his table.

"What, like run away to Italy and leave everyone else to fight the war while you sit around on your arse all day, sipping cocktails and having pretty boys feed you grapes?"

Draco's eyes were closed but he knew Blaise was giving Potter a bland look, the one he used on people too stupid to deserve an explanation on how very wrong they were.

"I see you've given this a great deal of thought, Potter. What an excessive imagination you must have."

And Potter must have calmed down although Draco could still hear his voice every now and then, small and low and full of things he wasn't going to tell them about. Potter still knows we are the enemy, and the thought made him happy somehow. Then there was his mother, polite and cool and almost hiding the grave importance of the question.

"Whatever happened to that man Pettigrew? I don't believe he was ever found, was he?"

"I killed him."

Potter again, so very cold and deadly, not a schoolboy anymore, both adults now, aren't we, Draco?

"That was very good of you, Harry. He was a most distasteful little man."

There were hands all around him, sweaty soft hands that wouldn't stop moving, that kept getting into secret places under his clothes and he tried to get them off, to get away and he knew he shouldn't be touched like that, not by someone like that, but the man was everywhere and he had a thousand hands and Draco was so very tired…

Then Snape's harsh voice and the world spinning round him, and Draco knew he had been sick and someone had shouted at him, and then there was Blaise and sunlight too bright to see in, and a smooth voice saying "I see you're not dead yet, Malfoy."

"Such a charming young gentleman. He must come and visit some time."

Blaises' voice undulating, slow and lovely and occasionally precise, full of delight in itself and the world. Then a jarring word, and Draco knew he had to wake up again.

"…sure he would be happy to come, Beppo has always liked England. He still speaks fondly of your gardens, you know. And now that continental travel is safe again…"

"What are you talking about?"

They all turned to look at him, but Draco was too focused on remembering which word went where to care.

His mother smiled.

"I was just inviting Blaise's cousin Beppo to visit us next summer. You remember him, I trust? Such a pleasant young man."

Draco knew that they all knew (well, perhaps not Potter, but who cared about him anyway) how he felt about Cousin Beppo. There were still teethmarks on one of the dining room chairs in the Zabini house in Florence that testified how he felt about Cousin Beppo. That this was a cunning plot to make him pay attention (and to send him into towering rage) was not in doubt.

So naturally he had to disappoint them.

"Of course. Such a charming man. Would be delightful to see him again."

The unnatural silence that followed his words wasn't as soothing as he'd hoped. Perhaps it was time for bed.

"I see. And do you promise not to bite him this time?"

Honest curiosity among the dry, amused tones. Draco smiled, with teeth, and saw a corresponding curve on Blaise's lips.

"I promise not to bite him unless he asks me to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time for me to retire. Goodnight."

Pale faces illuminated by candlelight, moving into gracious smiles or sneering frowns, and one thoughtful look. Draco nodded once and turned to leave.

: :

The mirror in his room was charmed to show his reflection in the most flattering light; candles, moonlight, or the barest flicker of sun to fit a Malfoy skin. But there were blotches of unsightly red on his cheeks and as ever, it was a garish shade of pink; why the colour of one's face could not follow a regulated code of matched skin tones and good taste Draco would never understand. Blaise used to say it made him look like he'd just been to an orgy, and looking in the mirror Draco could not disagree – flushed cheeks, lips dark and swollen from biting, mouth open and breathless.

Draco watched as slow, drunken fingers opened the buttons on his robes, as his neckcloth fell open and crumpled on his shoulders. It was a habit from when he was young, taking off all items of clothing one by one, putting them away neatly and correctly while watching himself in the mirror.

There was comfort in still knowing who he was.

He knew there should be a connection between that and what Potter seemed to want these days, but he couldn't remember what that was. Something he was supposed to think about tomorrow. Something requiring much loud invective and checking of Blaise's library to make sure his hyperbole was correct.

And taunting Potter was never a bad idea, no matter how much it made his fingernails itch.

Part Four

Current Music: The Dixie Chicks: The Silent House

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

shaggydogstail.livejournal.com

You wicked little minx, you!

I am enjoying this, particularly this last part. The scandal-mongering article in the Prophet was very funny and a brilliant opening to the chapter. I like the way poor Draco is falling apart, particularly when he fell down the stairs like some swooning damsen. And the bit with the riding crop? Oh, yes. That sort of thing never gets old.

From:

disgraceful and distasteful and distilled

Fic: Adventures in High Life 3/7 Harry/Draco R

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