A Plague of Legends

Chapter Nine: Methods of Possession

Or, The King of Pentacles, Reversed

The Slytherin dungeons hold many secrets, dark shivering things that most of the school sidles away from with averted eyes. These passing pedestrians walk the dungeon's dank halls in a sightless stupor, secure in the empty protection that their rose-tinted blinders provide. But secrets do not simply cease to exist from lack of attention. That is not in their nature, and certainly not in those of Salazar Slytherin. No, these secrets lie still, waiting for those who are clever and observant enough to see them, waiting for someone to unlock their riddles. You see, Salazar Slytherin was a riddler, more than he was ever a schemer. How else, then, could he have unlocked the secrets of hisses and scaled whispers?

Draco longed for the Parseltongue ability, even after years of its obvious lack, even after Potter had sullied the gift by laying claim to it. But even without the ability of snake speak, Draco was endowed with another gift: cleverness. Riddles made his heart pound: more than hot sex in his mouth, more than flying, more than Potter groaning beneath him. Long before the Sorting, five years ago now, Draco had been drawn to the dark and musty depths of Hogwarts long before he ever wandered them, drawn to their rotting riddles. In his time at Hogwarts he had learned many of its secrets, much of its treachery.

In the dungeons, staircases are not the only things that move. Doors, walls, even rooms shift and turn, cavorting in the school's stone depths at the drop of a syllable, a hiss. It was never an incantation, always a word. Just one word, but so simple that only a rare few unravel the mystery. So simple.

It was just as simple to pin Potter to some wall and, teeth scraping against clammy flesh, mutter the secret to eavesdropping stones. The walls, you see, have better ears than any human could ever hope for. They wait for the words, bored by the stillness and pitch, anxious for freedom, however momentary. Permission granted, they shuffle and slide, always accepting as hot and sweaty bodies tumble into their depths. Then more sliding, hiding from sight and sound their new treasures, unwilling to share the view with others. And what a view: a landscape of gold struggling with black and the sun covering night, burning green stars with its white brilliance.

***

Draco liked to pretend that Potter's body was a map of uncharted land, each ridge of muscle and fold of flesh unclaimed territory waiting to be marked. He imagined that his lips were needles, embedding tattooed messages into the flesh beneath them. Their meaning? Draco Malfoy was here, a mantra that Draco intended to etch deep into Potter, through skin and muscle until the words were drilled into bone.

Each time they came together Draco moved methodically over Potter's skin, touching only the flesh that was already his. That and one new part. Every time he took a new piece with his lips, tongue, and fingers, he sent a little more of himself into Potter, his essence bleeding under his opponent's skin.

It was almost enough. Almost. The feel of his enemy trembling beneath the tips of his fingers, limbs askew and quivering as his tongue made whirlpools of once-firm skin. The shuddering gasps that Potter released, knees and hands clenched tight to Draco's head. The taste of Potter's body as he sweated out hatred. The darkness in his eyes after Draco was finished with him. All these and more were Draco's, yet even they did not outweigh the gravity of Potter's gaze.

Was Draco some kind of rare insect to be pinned, gossamer wings spread-eagled, eye dim in the light reflected by a deathly green looking-glass? Potter was stronger than he seemed. Draco had not expected much opposition, certainly not of the sort Potter was mounting.

However, it was a distraction from the daily tedium of his life. Potter, at least, did not treat him like some glass bauble, shattered and half-mended. Potter, at least, did not scheme circles around his position, his life. Potter, at least, did not lock him in a cage, all gleaming golden and set in a position of empty honor.

No, what Potter did was much, much worse.

***

Draco waited for Snape to finish with Potter, his presence puncturing the surrounding shadows. Luckily, the Mudblood and Weasel had been sent on ahead, the combination of oily threat and flashing green eyes thrusting them on their hurried way. The Weasel, red and enraged, had passed blindly by Draco, vision obscured by the hot steam floating up from his mouth. Granger, on the other hand- Granger had sent a scowl flying towards him before scurrying after her pet rodent. Draco felt a brief chill as he imagined the forms their spawn would take.

Snape seemed to be winding up to a climax, his voice thudding harsh and dull against his office door. Potter answered, sullen and curt. Hopefully Potter wasn't talking back at Snape; Draco didn't want to wait for the git forever. He wouldn't even have been there if not for Potter's deplorable behavior during Double Potions. Draco allowed himself a small smile. At least he hadn't been the only one to pay for Potter's inattentiveness; Potter's potion had actually managed to melt through metal, stone, wood, and Binns. Today had probably been the most interesting History of Magic lecture those second years had ever had. Weasley's face had achieved a most satisfying shade of purple.

The voices in Snape's office crescendoed, climaxing as the office door crashed open and Potter came steaming out. Snape's final shout, "And bring your toothbrush!" twisted Potter's lips into a rictus, clown-like and frightening. He stood outside Snape's office and clutched at his satchel, reflexively tightening his grip as the door behind him slammed shut.

Draco slipped up behind Potter and lightly wrapped his arms around the other boy's waist. He fitted his lips to the back of Potter's neck and whispered, "Where do you think you're going?"

Potter shivered at the contact, his voice issuing rough but firm, "I'm not in the mood, Malfoy."

Draco smiled into Potter's skin, breathing in the boy's musk scent.

"And what makes you think that I care? You should have thought about the consequences when you spent all of class staring at me. What in Mordred's name did you find so interesting?"

"You were. . . watching Snape."

"Potter. It was class. He was lecturing. I was paying attention to him and taking notes. You would be wise to follow my lead," a pause, then softly, "Jealous?"

It was an utterly inconceivable thought.

"No! No, I just don't understand what you see in him. Why do you like him?"

"He is a brilliant man."

"He's an insufferable git."

"One does not preclude the other."

Draco wished that he could see Potter's face. He was probably puffing out his cheeks like a toddler. Draco leaned forward and licked Potter's ear, tightening his arms around the other boy, forging chains with his firming touches.

"Malfoy, I'm really not in the mood! And we both have class next period!"

"Let me reiterate: I do not care. Simply because we are intimate does not mean that I am going to coddle you. I am taking advantage of you. Don't expect for me to form emotional attachments any time soon. And if you tell me that you have not cut one class in over five years here, I won't believe you." As Draco spoke he reached one hand down and gripped at Potter's crotch, slipping the other under robes and shirt to rub at a nipple. Potter hissed, straining and full. Draco squeezed.

"Come with me."

***

Potter sat perched on the edge of Draco's bed, his hands tracing the pattern enchanted into Draco's comforter. Draco double-checked the protections on the door.

"What's this, Malfoy?"

Draco turned from the door and regarded the other boy for a moment. Potter was staring fixedly at the blanket, his legs loose and skin tense as he watched the waves of Chaos crash against each other.

"That is the Malfoy family crest."

Potter blinked. "This?"

Draco huffed. He needn't sound so surprised.

"You needn't sound so surprised, Potter. What, did you think that we Malfoys do not have the ability to appreciate abstract art?"

Potter's fingers stilled, "No, it's just- I sort of figured you'd have dragons and swords as your family symbol, not the ocean."

The ocean. What a plebian appellation for the Chaos residing in their crest. Draco shrugged. It was not worth explaining to one without the eyes to see. "Our original coat of arms did run something along those lines, if I recall correctly. However, a thousand years ago one of my ancestors decided to change it. It has remained the same since."

Potter's widened eyes reflected distorted images of Draco back at him. "A thousand years? Your family is that old?"

Draco smirked, "Older, although our records are not very clear before then." Draco seated himself near Potter, the mass of his body sending ripples scattering across the bed.

"Enthralling as my quilt may be, how about we make your first visit to my room a memorable one, hmm? So, Potter, what shall it be today?"

Potter had to know what it would be; there was only one reason that Draco would ever have allowed Potter into his room. Even so, Draco delighted in making Potter blush.

"Does it matter? You're just going to do what you want, anyway."

Potter, on the other hand, seemed to delight in sulking.

"True, indeed."

Talking was overrated, anyway.

Clothing tossed to the floor, hands and lips busy on flesh, skin rubbing at skin, and all the while Potter stiff under Draco's ministrations, his eyes boring holes through Draco's skull. Those eyes, those damned eyes, forever fixed on Draco, peeling back skin and bone layer by layer until his soul was laid bare. Even now, his pants low and raw, muscles tense and waiting, Potter never stopped. Was it possible to rape the rapist?

Draco peeled away from Potter, his only gratification the low whine that the other boy emitted when Draco left him spit-slick and empty. If he hadn't known better, hadn't felt the evidence hard and swelling beneath him, hadn't been burned by those eyes, Draco would have thought Potter a statue or sex golem. Draco turned away from Potter, his head hanging low as he watched whorls of Chaos crest against his legs.

"Malfoy?"

Draco shuddered at Potter's tender concern. Did he seem to have fallen so low that even his enemy now felt pity for him? His enemy was a fool.

"Potter. Why don't you stop watching me? How can you continue to do so, even in situations where most other people would be clenching their eyes shut? What do you see?"

"I. . ."

"What is it that commands your submission to me, day in and day out? What do you see?" Draco turned and glared, locking eyes with Potter, trying to pour every bit of his rage and hatred into the space between them. Potter leaned forward, stopping only when his forehead was softly denting Draco's own. Draco was reminded of that day weeks ago, the day their game had begun, sealed with the lightest of kisses and spider legs.

"I see. . . I see hate, and anger, and lust, and resentment. And I see something else, something that I'm sure no one else but me sees." Potter's voice was soft. His breath smelled like pumpkin juice and garlic. Draco hated garlic.

"'Something else'? Something else that is just for you?"

Of all of the illogical, idiotic, utterly Gryffindor things to say.

"I don't love you, Potter."

"I never said I see love."

"You see something else."

"Something else."

"And you won't stop looking until you discover what it is?"

"Yes." Pumpkin and garlic seeped into Draco's lungs, poor substitutes for kisses.

"Then. . . will you tell me what that 'something else' is? When you find out?"

"Yes." Potter's eyes sparked.

The conversation was a broken whisper, its ends woven together by very the act of speaking. The resulting tapestry was no longer just Draco's. It was Potter's, his, and everything between them. It was a bond, some sudden and inexplicable connection that had been forged the moment Potter acknowledged Draco, perhaps even earlier. It was a weapon to be used.

Draco leaned forward and brushed his lips against Potter's jaw, pulling the other boy on top of him. He slid his hands up and down Potter's arms, smiled grimly at the shock scrolling across his victim's face. It was time to put a stop to Potter's objectivity, time to force his engagement. It was time Potter learned about self-mutilation. Draco arched up, rubbing his body against Potter's as he nipped at the Adam's apple bobbing nervously above him.

"Take me, Potter." Draco licked the sweat from Potter's throat. Potter jerked back, stared into Draco's eyes. Draco trailed his tongue along his lower lip, gloating at the way Potter's midnight gaze followed his every move.

"But you. . . I thought. . . you want me to. . ?"

Draco wrapped his legs around Potter's torso and forced their bodies flush. Nothing between them but their skin, breath, looks, and the lies that Draco was weaving.

He arched up and brushed his mouth against Potter's ear, murmuring, "There's more than one way to claim a person. Now do it."

As Draco progressed from emptiness to fullness, Potter's movements fumbling and unsure, he vaguely wondered if the other boy understood exactly who was possessing whom.

It was not the first time Draco had been fucked, and it would most certainly not be the last. Draco had had many virgins; it was, however, the first time a virgin had him. Potter's clumsiness, his innocent brutality, the stilted movements he made: Draco claimed all of these, transformed them into a twisted and passionate facsimile that he then gave back to Potter. And as Potter thrust into him, burying his lips in the hollow of Draco's throat, Draco gloried in the other boy's preoccupation. Now there were no looks, now there was nothing but the reality of this experience. Only the reality of Potter sinking more and more deeply into Draco, losing sight of his goals and himself in this frenzied dream.

Draco watched Potter bury himself, panting, unstrung, and waited for the other boy. Just a few more steps, strokes, a little bit more. And then it came: Potter tense and quivering, eyes once more locked with Draco's as he hovered over a bottomless pit. A sound that defied description, a low, lost whisper, "Draco," and it was over.

Draco shushed the other boy, whispered soft lies as he gathered Potter to him, his lips busy on Potter's face as he kissed away the tears, tongue scraping at the corners of Potter's lips. Never the mouth. That game was for another day. A flick of someone's wand (probably Draco's, seeing as nothing exploded), a whispered invitation and some insistent tugging, and the two boys lay tangled together, vine-like, beneath a silver and green canopy. Draco tucked his head under Potter's chin and pulled his comforter over them, covering their bodies and a smile in Chaos.

He had him.

***

Where was Harry? Ron kept peeking at the classroom door over his notes, searching for that familiar black mop of hair to appear. Of course, Snape was an evil, smarmy, slimy git, so maybe he was still yelling at Harry. But didn't Snape have class this period? Ron seemed to recall seeing second year Ravenclaws sometimes milling around the classroom door after Double Potions. Of course, they were Ravenclaws, so you could never tell, but. . . Maybe Snape had kept him just late enough that Harry didn't feel like he could go to class. Or maybe Snape had decided to make Harry start his detention early, even though Harry had class. He should have waited for Harry and ignored Snape's threats. He should have realized that Harry was not going to be fine, not if Snape was involved. Snape probably shot darts at a picture of Harry whenever he got stressed. Ron sighed. Why was Hermione poking him? He was paying attention to the lecture, it was just selective attention. And besides, it wasn't like the Professor was about to curse him or- Bloody Hell.

***

Where was Harry? Ron was lavishing so much attention on the classroom door Hermione feared he was attracting some of his own. If Ron didn't start paying attention to class soon he was going to become one of Professor Moody's famous targets. The professor liked to periodically zap people with minor hexes, screeching out, "Constant Vigilance!" at the top of his lungs. Only last week Ernie MacMillan had visited Madam Pomfrey after class, complaining of a vicious headache. No one had had the heart to tell him about the purple tentacles. Hermione muttered a low warning at Ron, then shoved him in the side when he didn't respond. Yes, she was worried about Harry; but unless Ron actually wanted to walk away from class with new appendages he was going to have to focus. Besides, Harry could take care of himself. Even if that slimy grave robber, Malfoy, was somehow involved with Harry's absence. What had that git been doing, skulking outside of Snape's office? It was almost like- oh, dear. Poor Ron.

***

Draco was probably off with that he-slut from Ravenclaw. Those two had been hot and cold ever since fifth year and an incident involving the Prefect's bath, a magical malfunction, chocolate rum bubble bath, and leather. How Draco had chortled afterwards, his laughter rich and sated. They had been smutting around ever since, gorging themselves on sex and conversation. For the life of her, Blaise could not understand what was so enthralling about Arithmansic Theory, but that was probably why Draco insisted on slumming it. As much as Blaise could offer in other areas, she was most definitely not the type to chat philosophy in a post-coital haze. It had to be him.

Lately Draco came to her with his hair wet and slick, a foreign musk always clinging to him like a disease. And while Draco had always played around, he did so selectively. Blaise could not remember him expressing interest over anyone new. Certainly not anyone male. The only boys outside of Slytherin that Draco even deigned to acknowledge (anyone inside Slytherin, and Draco might as well have sent Rita Skeeter a signed and notarized statement) were the Hero and the Whore. And if there was one thing Blaise was sure of, it was Draco's utter disdain for Gryffindor's resident golden boy.

***

Harry woke to the feeling of breath tickling his jaw. Curled against his chest, eyelashes casting shadows like the waning moon, was Draco Malfoy. Sleeping, Draco resembled nothing more than the porcelain dolls Aunt Marge used to give Dudley for his birthdays, long ago. Harry'd have to pick their broken shards out of the carpeting and his feet after Dudley's tantrums.

Draco. Malfoy. That was another change. Harry nuzzled Draco's hair, inhaling the scent of roses and sweat. They had done It. Finally. Harry had expected it to run like their usual encounters: Malfoy playing Harry's body, giving him no space or freedom, taking everything and leaving nothing behind. It almost had. Instead, this slumbering contradiction had given himself to Harry. Harry couldn't understand why, not even when locked in this endless moment of contemplation.

He traced the places he had stained Draco's body bloody, each patch of scarlet an idle daydream come to life. His marks were all over the boy. There- red drops coloring the ghostly throat and chest. There- rough and purpling fingerprints dotting pallid arms. Harry felt like he'd scarred the moon. Snow White, her whiteness now marred, lay shattered in shades of blood. Draco was probably red in other places, too. Harry felt his skin burn at the thought.

Draco -because it was more than just 'Malfoy' now, but it was also somehow less than 'Draco,' all the fault of today- had been so small under him, around him, inside him. Harry compared his own lanky, tight limbs to those tangled about him and found them lacking. Awkward, bony, and too big in all of the wrong places. Obviously waiting for the growth that Harry doubted would ever come. But somehow, in those last few moments, it had not mattered. Nothing had but the way Draco'd clasped at him, panting, and drawn him closer. The way that everything had disappeared from Draco's eyes, even that something else, to encompass only Harry. Shades of monochrome splintering to pieces, and Harry reflected in every shard. Was this, then, sex? Or was it Malfoy?

Who was Draco Malfoy? Harry stared down, willing Malfoy to open his eyes, if only momentarily. Each time he looked at the boy, talked with him, flew with him, tussled with him it was the same question and no answers. At least, no straightforward answers. No answers that he could understand. But then, would he be half so interested if it was a simple matter of yes or no? Would he ever even have noticed if that had been the case? Of course not.

So why? It was a question Harry had asked himself hundreds of times. He asked it as he watched Draco, eyes hungry and scared. Desire. Desire was an answer. It was not the right answer, but when Harry was feeling particularly in denial, it was one he used. That 'something else' was an answer, also incorrect. How Malfoy was his puzzle. Or perhaps the way Draco's lips felt wrapped around him, dirty and right. And the way Harry sometimes felt when he was near Malfoy, like he could sense the Slytherin's emotions. Those, too, were wrong. There was no one reason, because they were all right, perfect in their entirety. But if it were to come down to one moment, one crystallized second in time, it would have to be the moment when Malfoy, wrapped in green and silver, had flown laughing at him and plucked gold from the air.

The answer was the very why of Malfoy himself, that and Harry's own strange sense of determination. He would catch Draco Malfoy, just as Malfoy had caught that Snitch. Had he caught him today? Not yet, not yet. . .

Draco burrowed into the refuge of Harry's arms, whimpering at whatever night terror had followed him into daylight. Harry wanted to ask what dark fears stalked this fearless one, what horror it was that echoed gray and thick in Harry's own mind. He wanted to know what demons Malfoy harbored. Instead, Harry shook Draco awake, murmuring, "It's almost dinnertime. We should get up."

***

Draco surfaced from smoke and darkness to the light cast by green, green eyes. Choking a bit at the oily smog clinging to the back of his throat, he blinked unsteadily at the scarred apparition. Strangely enough, it resembled Potter. Why was he imagining Potter in his bed?

"Malfoy, we have to get up. It's nearly time for dinner, your dorm mates will be back soon. You need to let me out. Malfoy?"

Just a moment. Not even an imaginary Potter could be this gormless. Draco stretched against Potter, enjoying Potter's shaky breath. Ah, yes. They'd had sex. And Potter had not been half bad. He definitely had potential. Just as he now definitely belonged to Draco. Draco pressed closer to Potter, his Potter, lips and breath etching wet designs into flesh.

"Malfoy, we- I- have to go, now."

"Mmmhmm," Draco nudged Potters legs open, his fingers needy and grasping.

"Mal- Draco! Stop!" but Potter didn't sound like he wanted Draco to stop. He sounded like he wanted harder, hotter, inside and tight.

"We have," Draco took Potter's fingers into his mouth, watched Potter burn, "at least twenty minutes. It is more than enough time, if you think you are capable. Are you capable, Potter?" If he hadn't been before, he would be now. Just like if Potter were a fiddle, Draco's fingers were the bow and the tense air between them, strains of Vivaldi.

Draco suddenly found himself under Potter, his wandering hands pinned above his head, Potter's calluses rough against the pads of his fingers. Potter's breath was hot in his face, those green eyes carving holes through Draco's head.

"Yes."

"Then show me."

***

Draco laughed into his pudding. Potter was catching hell from the Mudblood over his absence. She'd probably imagined some gruesome torture that Potter had been forced to undergo. Draco did not doubt that he had played a prominent role in her conjectures. It was almost unfortunate that he had returned Potter unharmed to her. It was even more unfortunate that Potter seemed to be coming off lightly. If the Weasel had been present, Potter would have had a much harder time of it. It was perhaps the first (and undoubtedly last) time Draco had ever missed that repugnant rodent. Draco sucked the pudding off of his spoon, suddenly glad of Potter's constant scrutiny. It would only make everything that much easier. Draco licked at the spoon, enjoying the taste of warm metal against his tongue, savoring its bloody tang.

Draco was carefully licking his fingers clean when Blaise sat down beside him, "You look like you've caught the pox."

"Jealous, darling?"

"Hardly. I was just commenting on your complete lack of decency. You could at least button up your shirt. I don't think I have ever seen you looking so rumpled."

"I don't think I have ever been this debauched."

"He has never been so indiscreet before."

"That is because he had never fucked me before."

A long, stiff pause.

"You let him take you?"

"I seem to recall saying something to that effect, yes."

"Why?"

Draco turned away from his dinner and considered Blaise. She looked fragile and thin, the pulse at the base of her throat beating double-time, giving lie to her carefully hooded eyes. Queen of winter, queen of night, she sat cold and silent; dying from the thaw, dying from the look in Draco's eyes. The light that would never be hers, that should have been hers.

"Because he is mine."