Come Hither

Chapter 12

Come-Hither

Young Draco is due in only a few...

A dark mahogany door to the left, adorned with intricate carvings, opens slowly.

Behold the stunning age of allurement.

Young Malfoy slinks into the inviting room, completely rid of all that was unnatural, absolutely naked. Harry's glittering red eyes decadently soak up the beauty standing completely unrepentant in its glory.

Draco closes the door and slowly pads over to the bed.

This image is flirting dangerously to kill the last vestige of his resolve. Sssss... It is beyond delicious.

Draco's smooth skin gleams in the light of the orange fire as he comes closer and closer, his bare feet silent on the wood-panelled floor. He reaches the bed and climbs onto it slowly. He sits on his haunches in the middle of it and bows his head.

"My Lord."

Harry smiles at the beautiful boy. "Young Malfoy. You were quite entertaining last night, so I was compelled to make another appointment."

Whether this is derisive or not, Draco doesn't react. What had been entertaining? His screaming and crying as he raped him?

Silence ensues in which Harry takes a moment to again marvel at the boy, still in awe of the effortless provocativeness of Draco's body: his long fingers, his pretty face; his pert nose, silver eyes; his long, blond hair; his small, slender hips; his thighs, his legs, his delicately petite feet, the upturned instep of it.

Draco keeps quiet, keeps still as though knowing that those eyes are greedily taking in all of his naked form and he dares not to hinder them.

In the vast quiet, a hungry voice hissed, "Dance for me, Draco."

Draco's head snaps up. "My Lord?"

Harry holds those uncertain grey eyes with his own red slits. "I said dance, boy." A soft hiss, just teetering on the brink of control.

Draco stares into those scarlet slits for a moment, clearly taken aback by the alien order, and as he gazes bemusedly into them, he realizes he knows who lies behind those terrifying, red slits. He knows that behind those, lie a startling, natural green - Harry Potter. Perhaps it is better to serve Potter, a human, than to serve a perverted snake. Draco slowly rises off the bed, his eyes fastened upon Harry's slits.

The boy looks uncertain as he stands there. Yes, perhaps a little motivation. Harry reaches for his wand; the boy's eyes grow wide in fear. Harry points it at an armoire in the far depths of the room, and a rectangular contraption floats into the light of the fire. Harry levitates the object onto the adjacent dressing table, an indulgent grin on his face, and sets it on top of the surface.

He turns to the boy. "There, Draco, now you can dance." He taps his wand, and slow, graceful, soothing music whispers through the air of the room.

Draco turns back floored, grey eyes to Harry.

Harry smiles - it was a lipless, thin, depthless line across his flat face.

Draco closes his eyes and swallows.

It starts at his hips. The music kisses over his thighs and up his body, and he obeys and sways into its caress. Listen to the music, follow the music, move with the music. His whole body sways in the beginning of a sinuous dance, as elegant as a lynx.

Harry can't help a lustful growl from issuing from his mouth at what he sees. This is life! He keeps silent, his shaking hands tightly clenched on the sheets in a futile attempt at self-restraint, something he has never before mastered.

The boy's arms move and start roaming all over his alabaster pale skin. The head is thrown back and long, silver-blond hair hangs splayed in the air. The hips sway and move gracefully like a feline as long fingers slide over chest, stomach, hips and thighs. His head then comes up and fixes into his own. The boy slowly moves forward, slowly descends to the bed, and crawls over to him.

Harry is beside himself.

"My Lord." Such a sweetly innocent tenor.

This proves to be the last he can handle. One hand slowly and strongly grips on one delicate wrist, and he gives a low hiss so saturated with lust, it comes out as a dismal stutter.

"Draco..."

Soon they ride the waves of pleasure.

Then, amongst his ragged panting and mewls, Malfoy feels the air adopt a different stillness, a different kind of silence. The music had stopped. Even the cackling sound of the burning fire in the hearth seemed to have been smothered by an unknown force.

Feeling a horrid trepidation rising in him, despite being in a euphoric, bittersweet fog of sensation, he brings his head up and looks straight into the silent, still slits of Voldemort. He stops moving.

By the sheer fury behind Voldemort's shriek, Draco was catapulted off the bed and into the air in an arc of flailing naked limbs and blond hair, before he smacked into the tall wardrobe and landed onto the floor painfully.

Voldemort rose from the bed. "What is this?" he yelled at the prostrate body on the floor. "Do you wish to defy me, Young Malfoy? You feel brave enough to entertain your own indulgence! Do you think this was for your own pleasure? Answer me!"

Draco painfully sat up from the floor and clasped his hands together in deference. "No, my Lord! I never meant to defy you!"

"Lies!" Voldemort shrieked. "All lies! Enjoying yourself, weren't you, Draco? The pretty whore you truly are!"

Draco cried, "No, my Lord, I- I--"

"Silence!"

The fire went out.

"You mock my punishment - mock I, Lord Voldemort!"

The terrifying name echoed in the darkness as Draco sobbed, looking up into the only source of illumination in the room - Voldemort's blazing, crimson slits. "No, my Lord, I didn't--"

"Crucio!"

***

"Harry!"

Harry woke up screaming and thrashing in his bed. "Draco! No, no, Draco!"

"Harry! Wake up, it's only a dream!"

Harry's eyes flew open, and tortured, emerald marbles turned to worried chestnuts.

"Ron! He--I--He.... Draco - Malfoy..."

Ron put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulders. "Harry, it's okay. It's okay, mate."

Harry closed his eyes in horror. No, this can't be happening again. He drew in haggard breaths as he wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand whilst shaking his head dolefully. Releasing a pained sigh, he stared into the nothingness in front of him, his emerald eyes sombre and reeling.

"I came to tell you Sirius is downstairs in the fire. Twelve o'clock, remember?"

Harry looked up, only slightly surprised, slightly perturbed by anything else. Yes, he remembered Sirius' owl in the morning. His breath was still catchy and he was still shaking.

"Do you want to go to Dumbledore to tell him about your dream?" Ron asked uncertainly.

Harry buried his face in his hands and shook his head. "I don't know," came his muffled voice, as he made vague, defeated gestures with his hands. He remained motionless for a moment, absolutely overwhelmed with dread and horror. Then he slowly looked up to Ron through his fringe. "Tell Sirius I'll be down in a few."

He heard footsteps going away from him and then the door clicked shut.

Harry wanted to cry, to scream for all he was worth. He threw off his sheets. His worst fear was realized: his sheets were wet, and he knew the exact moment when he had climaxed: when Draco slowly threw his head back in that breathy moan, his long, pale, divine neck extended. That image, so profoundly enthralling, so inherently decimating to anyone's rightful senses, had undone him. It was too beautiful a moment, too beautiful a sight. Apparently, Draco had also discovered that special place in his arse about which Seamus had told him.

Harry buried his head in his hands again dismally.

The words of the very person in his dream came back to him; 'Maybe I'm no bloody different from Voldemort; maybe I'm just as twisted'; perhaps he was just as desperately enthralled with the merciless allure of Draco Malfoy.