Strange Love

Chapter 1: Revenge

Two long tapered fingers encircled a small blackberry, squeezing the mottled flesh indulgently. The fruit had to be perfect, or Draco would not eat it. Two pale eyes surveyed the berry. He studied it carefully; it passed the test. Draco drew the blackberry to his mouth, ready to place it upon his plush tongue, when he noticed an odd discoloration near the bottom of the fruit. He frowned in frustration and set the berry aside. He repeated the process several times until he came across a berry that passed the test--a perfect clot of deep purples, not too firm or too soft, no bruises. He allowed the berry to rest on his tongue for a few seconds, enjoying the feel of the glossy skin in anticipation, then biting down and unleashing the warm, sticky flesh. Draco enjoyed the impeccable berry as it stained his lips deep burgundy. He swirled his tongue over the sweetly flavored lips, ridding them of any remaining juice.

With the setting of the sun in the evening sky of summer, he arose from his wicker seat in the shade of a willow tree and dragged his indolent limbs inside.

It was the long summer nights that he dreaded; the mansion had become a very lonely abode. Draco had had the place to himself for the past year and a half. He had inherited his parents' mansion at the time of their deaths. It was well worth the cost--Draco had become weary of his father's friendship turned obsession with The Dark Lord, and his mother's constant maternal nosiness. They'd been slain a year and a half ago, when Draco was only 19 years of age.

He was smug, being left with a ridiculous amount of Galleons and an elegant mansion. Father's will was left entirely to his son.
The money proved useful at this time in the Magical community. The economy was in recession, Gringott's was near empty, and old time businesses were closing left and right. Honeydukes boarded up its windows last week, Madam Malkin closed her branch in Paris, tomorrow Ollivander could even be gone. Most wizards were either dead or starving because of unemployment. Voldemort had put most of the magical community in complete disarray. Those who joined him lived with just enough, those who fought him usually perished. The only other options were to settle in a damn good hiding spot or run for cover under Albus Dumbledore's rickety old shoulder.

At first, Draco had been excited at Voldemort's prolonged return during his fifth year of schooling. His father had joined the ranks, allowing Draco to tag along on a minor excursion if he'd been a good boy. However, that had been four or five years ago, and he was growing quite tired of the same old Muggle torture and futile battle between Dumbledore and The Dark Lord. Voldemort was aiming for world domination, but he was held back by Dumbledore, and Dumbledore wanted to purge of the Death Eaters; it seemed as though a stalemate would always be the result of all duels and battles.

It wasn't that Draco sympathized with Muggles and Dumbledore's gang, but there was a point in his life when he became sick of seeing the same few curses used illicitly on hundreds and thousands of people, people with whom he would rather not bother. Even when he was using the Cruciatus Curse on a filthy Mudblood, Draco did not get as much of an adrenaline rush than when he did when this activity was new to him. It wasn't mysterious or cruel anymore, it was just a routine. No different than having a bitter coffee in the morning, or conjuring up some gaudy whore for entertainment.

It was like a trend. Maybe, he decided, that isn't what he wanted make with his life. Muggle torture never really got him anywhere, except deeper and deeper into Voldemort's keen, watchful eye. That was not where he wanted to be. Sometimes he wondered why he was a Voldemort supporter. His father's influence? He gagged at the thought. It was, perhaps, jealousy of the old master, that provided for such support. Draco dreaded in the back of his mind that he idolized the Dark Lord. What power, what magnificence, how bewitching it must have been to fool so many idiots into a near religious worship.

The wealthy young man shook his head as he reminded himself that he was merely a flunky as well, just like his father had been. Nobody feared the name "Draco Malfoy"; it was simply associated with the Dark Arts. Son of the late Lucius, and a rather lonely wanker with too many Galleons to manage.

He couldn't very well break free from Voldemort's circle. He had no interest in those who consorted with the non-Dark side, but he didn't want to follow the Dark Lord all over Britain, and he didn't want to be a victim. He felt as if he belonged nowhere. He was accepted with honor by his fellow Death Eaters, he didn't have much of an interest in them. They weren't his friends, they were simply fighting against the same people as he, for the same forgotten reasons. That didn't mean they were on his side. Draco was not sure he had any real friends. They prance around at my feet. Their eyes only see my Gringott's account... It might have been nice to have a genuine conversation for the first time in a while with someone other than his house elf.

So began another endless summer night, where Draco was left alone in his mansion to think. He wandered up a long marble staircase, down a dingy corridor adorned with portraits of several of the deceased Malfoys and tarnished candelabras, burning with eternal flames. He opened a heavy wooden door on to what was his bedroom: a large, lofty room with an oversize bed on one wall, settled between two identical night stands. His bed was covered in white cotton pillows and blankets he'd had made for him somewhere in the Orient. He would have liked an enchanting mistress, a veela, perhaps, to lie there, awaiting his presence in nothing but a small black nightgown trimmed with delicate lace, but his bed lay bare as always. As if a good shag would make him forget...

There was a small clock hung above a bedpost. Its hands were pointed at "Time to make tea", but Draco felt like tea couldn't solve his problems and he'd rather drift away into the world of unconsciousness. He unclothed himself and slipped into dark green boxers. He sunk into his welcoming bed and let his heavy eyelids close themselves. After forty-five minutes of wriggling about in a damp perspiration, he had fallen asleep.

Draco slept until noon the next morning; it had been a night of restless sleep. In two hours, he was meant to meet up with Adrian Pucey. Death Eater affairs. The Dark Lord had wanted them to dispose of Mr. and Mrs. Dean Thomas. Voldemort suggested that Mr., an Unspeakable, had discovered the identities and whereabouts of several Death Eaters in an investigation of some sort. It was a small killing duty, albeit, an enjoyable one. Draco remembered Dean from Hogwarts--he was a Muggle loving fool... what was it, soccer? Yes, he was keen on that stupid Muggle game. It was just another excuse for Draco to watch himself dish out another perfect Avada Kedavra.

Within minutes, a small house elf scampered in and brought Draco a silver platter piled with belgian waffles and blackberry sauce. Draco ignored the meal and dressed himself in sweeping robes of black cloth. He looked at himself in an antique jeweled mirror inside of his expansive closet. His reflection looked back at him glumly.

"Draco, you would look so much nicer with an expression on your face."

He took his revenge by chucking a black dragonhide loafer at it. He cursed at the sound of glass shattering, wishing at once that he hadn't let the need for revenge get the better of him. That mirror had been a family heirloom...

He sauntered down the eerie corridor, down the cold marble staircase, and outside into his large backyard. It was his favorite place of the house. The sun was high in the sky, washing over a simple garden full of exotic plants of green and white, and reflecting off his brand new "disappearing edge" pool. He liked the pool's effect: no matter how far towards the horizon he swam, he never reached the edge of the pool. It went on forever, although one could plainly see that the massive backyard it was sitting in came to an end.

Adrian Pucey came at precisely two in the afternoon by way of Floo Powder. Draco warned him not to Apparate--his great grandfather who had lived in the mansion previously had put a charm on the house so nobody could Apparate to the house from the outside world. Adrian smiled and nodded when he emerged into Draco's formal living room. "Draco, how are you?"

"Very well thanks, and you?" was Draco's automatic answer. Of course I'm not very well, do I look it?

"I'm just fine indeed. Well, then, shall we go? Thomas lives way over on the other side of the country, we've got a long way to travel..."

"Yes."

In the blink of an eye, Draco and Adrian disappeared from the room and reappeared in the the coat closet near the front door of Dean Thomas' house. As always before the time of a killing curse, Draco could almost smell the victorious scent of death. There was nothing like rotting flesh lying on the ground for days and days until someone discovered it in horror... nothing compared to wide open eyes, sunken into a motionless skull, staring a frozen gaze... Maybe it was simply the smell of the musty closet full of cloaks and wrinkled hats.

*

"Muggle torture, just like good old Lucius. That's real a surprise, isn't it?" a low voice murmured. Two silhouettes were shadowed in a small room covered in floor to ceiling with shining dark wooden panels. The second person spoke.

"The apple does not fall far from the tree, as they say. I've always suspected Draco Malfoy of associating with You-Know-Who," the speaker mumbled, twitching nervously. The second figure in the dark room lashed at him in a hoarse voice.

"No you haven't. I remember when you and Lucius Malfoy used to be very close."

"Oh..." the voice trembled. "Yes, well, that was some years ago, as you recall." He paused. "There is only one of us in this room who bears the Dark Mark, and it is not I, may I remind you."

"It seems, we all make mistakes, Cornelius."

Cornelius sat for a moment, thinking. "So, then, if Draco Malfoy has been suspected of--"

"It has been proven, Cornelius."

"Yes, proven, of Muggle torture--"

"He has used Avada Kedavra thirty-six times, and the Cruciatus Curse ninety-eight times in the past two years. I have every victim listed here." The man handed over a long piece of parchment covered with names of dead and injured wizards and Muggles. Cornelius accepted the parchment reluctantly. He was hoping for some miracle, that this couldn't be true. He wanted to believe that a descendant from a pure wizarding family was innocent. It seemed as if he wanted to protect the last living Malfoy, but he couldn't gather up the courage.

"All right, Severus. Thank you. I will try to have an Auror after him in no later than tomorrow. Have a safe trip back home, all right? It can be very dangerous if you do not hurry."

"Get Potter on this case if you can. He is best for the job. A strong Auror..."

"Er--"

Severus was gone from the room before Cornelius finished speaking, leaving in sick disgust.

Cornelius remained motionless in the dark office. Why was Severus Snape so eager to have an Auror come after Draco Malfoy? Had he not been friends with the young man? Was it a set up? Severus couldn't be trusted with that past of his. And why did he have such a look of disdain on his face when he had handed him proof of Draco's crimes? It was possible that neither of them would have like to see Draco in Azkaban. Why had he suggested Potter? He was the best Auror around, and among strongest wizards fighting against You-Know-Who next to a rapidly aging Albus Dumbledore. Why would he specifically suggest Potter? Cornelius Fudge was bemused.

It was inexplicably difficult to try and carry on duties as the Minister of Magic while You-Know-Who was on a five year rampage and the Ministry of Magic was nearly disbanded. Fudge simply was unable to handle the responsibility, try as he might.

*

Three in the afternoon. By this time, Adrian Pucey and Draco Malfoy had returned home, leaving Dean limp on the floor, his skull severely injured; he had hit a glass table after the curse killed him, and his wife in even worse condition. It was a clean kill; Voldemort would be content. The pair of Death Eaters were unaware that Seamus Finnigan was coming over for the weekend to spend some time with his old buddy. Pity--when he arrived, he shut his eyes and strung his hands through his short hair and began cursing and hitting walls with his fist. He recognized the handiwork; it was not at all uncommon these days to walk in on a friend's house and find he or she a victim of the Avada Kedavra curse. He'd seen it all over the Daily Prophet, every day for the past few years, but never had anyone so close to him been killed. It hit him hard, like a knife driving through his spine.

That night, Harry Potter ran into Seamus in the Leaky Cauldron. Seamus looked terrible; his face was plastered with fake apathy and he had most obviously had too much to drink.

"All right, Seamus?" he asked, trying to sound a bit cheerful.

"No... oh, shit, Harry, they got Dean and his wife today..." Harry's face fell. "Avada Kedavra. Death Eaters, of course. They haven't found out who it was yet." Seamus let his head drop against the table with a heavy thud. Harry's drink, which had been sitting quietly on the table top, nearly spilled.

"I'm sorry, Seamus. I know you two were very close..." Harry wondered why he hadn't heard about Dean's death. Generally, news traveled quickly to the Aurors...

"We were best friends, all through school, and then afterwards, like you and Ron. Imagine them killing Ron, Harry, that's what it's like. I can't live in a time like this. It'll be anyone next, the Death Eaters will kill anyone, Harry..."

Harry felt awkward. He knew what it felt like to lose someone, but he didn't know what to say. The one thing he despised of his profession was the hatred that burned through his thoughts, eating up any words of comfort he had to offer. Life wasn't about revenge or comfort or even friendship; it seemed like people could only look out for themselves now and pray that Voldemort didn't raid their homes.

Deep in thought, Harry did not notice Cornelius Fudge enter the Leaky Cauldron. He was dressed in the usual loud green suit; the same thing he had been wearing as long as Harry could remember.

"Ah, Harry, fancy seeing you here," he boasted, trying to make it seem as if he "accidentally" found Harry.

"Hello." Fudge approached. "I'm actually here on business. You see, the, er, Ministry is in need of someone fit to catch a Dark wizard that is particularly threatening at this time. So I turn to you, you are one of the best Aurors; are you not? You are familiar with the man, I believe. Mr. Draco Malfoy," he stated clearly.

Harry nodded. Of course, of course that swine was recognized as a Dark wizard, just like his father, who had been convicted of Muggle torture, imprisoned in Azkaban, released on account of good behavior, and killed a year and a half ago; murderer never found (though Harry suspected anyone who could have murdered the Malfoy's wasn't too bad a person). He couldn't help feeling a tiny bit happy--Draco Malfoy knew what it was like to be an orphan, oh, the poor little dear... Harry almost smirked.

"Yes, I know him from Hogwarts. What about his whereabouts?"

"That's the thing, he isn't even in hiding or with You-Know-Who. Malfoy had been operating from his own manor house, but, we do not know where it is located. The mansion is heavily enchanted and hidden from view."

Harry listened less than intently as Cornelius Fudge droned on about facts that he was already aware of--it was commonly known that the Malfoys were synonymous Death Eaters or Dark wizards, and that their lavish mansion was well hidden. Some people had inspected it and its contents in the past, but the investigators that had not found anything suspicious in the Malfoy mansion, had they had all conveniently been found dead recently (courtesy of the late Lucius, no doubt). Harry fabricated methods to which he might be able to map a charmed structure.

"And when he is caught, I shall bring him to Azkaban?" he questioned askance. He didn't think Azkaban was appropriate for anyone (it might have been Dumbledore's influence). Some of the dementors had joined Voldemort's side and released several Death Eaters from imprisonment, and proceeded to join the escapees on the Dark side. It was quite a catastrophe; a lot of wizards ended up in St. Mungo's, the unlucky bunch who had been kissed.

"Yes, yes, bring him to Azkaban," Fudge answered, nodding nervously. Fudge still had faith in the dementors for some reason; perhaps it was because they were filthy, macabre creatures, in spite of their spontaneous disloyalty.

Harry nodded. He lifted himself from his seat and walked out of the Leaky Cauldron.

"See you, Harry!" wailed an old, admiring witch on his way out the door.

Seamus had stayed in his spot, making a mental note of everything Fudge had said. It might have been nice to be an Auror, he thought. Every bone in his body dripped with revenge. He wanted to justify the death of his friend.

Harry returned to a small flat in London where he had been living for the past few weeks. He sunk into an oversized dragonhide couch. Cornelius Fudge was such an imbecile sometimes. A bit of a con man, it seemed. He had once been fond of the Malfoy family. Harry was surprised he had not vacated position of the Minister of Magic yet. He was certainly having a lot trouble, but who could blame him?

Harry made himself a strong cup of black coffee. Draco Malfoy... this one intrigued him. When he made the decision to become an Auror at the age of eighteen, he had been a little skeptical. He wanted more than anything to play Quidditch, but that would have been so selfish of him. He chose his occupation because he had a strange idea in his head that he could stop Dark wizards from murdering. That concept was less petty than playing a silly sport (he hit himself for trying to convince his conscience to think Quidditch was just a silly sport) while Voldemort was on a rampage. He had been angry that he wasn't a selfish bastard and he chose what was right, not what he wanted. It didn't matter--Quidditch was called off just this year because of the war with Voldemort. But now Harry was delighted to be an Auror; a vile feeling coursed through his veins.

He found it strange... he enjoyed that foul feeling. It would be lovely going after Malfoy and watching his malicious, pale face scrunch up in horror as Harry caught up with him. Harry could see it: he would break into his house late at night... his wand would explode with painful curses, Malfoy would be begging for mercy... but Harry wouldn't stop. It was his kind that killed Harry's parents, it was his kind that killed innocent people like Dean. And Harry would continue to curse him; the Imperius Curse would be effective. He'd force Malfoy to bend his own limbs in impossible positions, his knees would fold backwards, his neck would snap itself, he'd fall to the ground in pain. And then he'd perform the Cruciatus Curse... Malfoy would cry in agony...

No! He didn't want to use any Unforgivable Curses, what was he thinking? He didn't want to do anything stupid because of an old schoolboy grudge against Malfoy. He sipped his coffee, even though he plainly disliked it. He downed it trying to ignore its bitter taste. It was hot and burned his throat as he swallowed it, but he drank anyway rather than waiting for it to cool off. Think, Harry, he told himself. You've got to track this bastard down...

*

"Did he agree?"

"Yes, Severus. You were correct. Harry is a good one for this job. I'm just worried that it might be something personal, I hear that Harry and Draco loathed each other back in their days at Hogwarts."

"Yes, Cornelius, I teach there, I know that," spat Snape, who looked rather annoyed by the jittery man in a green pinstripe suit.

"Speaking of personal... Anyway... You and old Lucius used to be friends, didn't you?" Cornelius Fudge asked.

"Friends. I met him when we were Dea-- er, never mind," Snape mumbled.

"Must have been rough when he was killed, especially because no one ever found out who did it." Cornelius shifted around in his seat. He hated these meetings with Snape; Snape made him feel uncomfortable. But he knew a great deal about who was who in the Dark world, so Fudge put up with him. Snape passed on interesting information--he was always able to give Fudge an update on Dumbledore and his pursuits (Fudge had stopped speaking personally to Dumbledore since he usually made a damn fool of himself). Of course, he had to pay Snape off. Nobody worked for free these days. Galleons were hard to come by.

"No, they never found who killed Lucius and Narcissa." Snape sank deep into his velvet armchair and rested his head in his hands. It had been so long since he had last seen Lucius. Nevertheless, he could remember the man in fine detail. Lucius always wore robes of pure black--they were never faded. His thin blond hair made him look almost gray, and he had always smelled of rich cigar smoke. Snape almost dozed off for minute, he was so tired, and thinking of Lucius was so nice... reminded him of the old times...

*

... "Severus, I'm here on business. I thought I'd drop by. How long has it been since I saw you last?" A young Lucius smiled warmly.

"Almost a month. Do come in, do come in," Severus motioned Lucius into his classroom and led him back to the room of his private stock. He gathered up a few ghastly looking objects from a table and allowed Lucius to sit casually on top of it.

"I've missed you, Severus," Lucius glanced around the room, intrigued. "How long before your next Potions class arrives?"

"Double Potions... Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw... we've got a half of an hour." Lucius nodded, listening deftly to Snape speak. "Nobody will come in here, this is clearly off limits to my students. We're safe."

"Oh, Severus. This is romantic. Me and you... in a storeroom of potions ingredients?" Lucius chuckled, tossing his head back gaily.

"I'd take you to the bedroom, but don't you think someone would be suspicious?"

Lucius nodded once more. "Right. Suspicious. Correctly so, mmm? We're not supposed to by at it in the middle of Hogwarts."

Severus was about to speak, but Lucius was too quick for him. He couldn't wait any longer, it had nearly been a month since he had been able to visit Severus. Severus felt Lucius's familiar lips interlock with his, warm and moist. He slipped his tongue inside Lucius's mouth as if he were satisfying a prolonged starvation. Lucius's wet tongue flickered inside his mouth, a pair of thick hands wrapped around his waist and slid gracefully down his thighs. He took a moment to gaze into Lucius's plain gray eyes--they always came to life when he and Severus were together. Severus took a last glance into those eyes before closing his own heavy lids, letting Lucius consume him. An alabaster hand slipped through Severus's robes, undoing several ties and buttons before they slid to the ground in a heap. With his other hand, Lucius toyed with one nipple, whilst surveying Severus's lean body in satisfaction. He watched the nipple pucker up and ventured through a long kiss. Lucius drew his mouth lower down Severus's neck, encircling his tongue over the other nipple. Severus felt his muscles tighten up. Lucius ran his hands down Severus's body ravenously, kneeling down as he massaged Severus's taut body. He spread Severus's legs and found himself eye level with a rigid erection. He grasped it with the pads of his fingers... then his mouth... blowing softly... hot... like fire... Severus arched his back... Lucius was so good at this...

*

"Severus? Severus...?" Fudge waved his hand about, trying to catch Snape's attention.

"Er, excuse me, Cornelius, just thinking about, er..." Snape's twisted lips curved in anger. He remembered the few times he had slept with Lucius. They had been among the happiest moments of his life. Lucius was the kind of person he had wanted; he was the ideal--wealthy, intelligent, striking, fierce, though perhaps a bit of a compulsive liar. And there was always his insipid little excuse of a wife, whom Snape had been convinced was only married to Lucius for two reasons: Lucius wanted a son to boast the family name, and Lucius wanted to cover up any suspicions of ongoing affairs with other wizards. The former reason was, perhaps, fatal.

Fudge noticed Snape's eyes flicker, as if he were getting riled up about something. It must have been the controversy of Lucius's murder. After all, it was odd to find a Death Eater mysteriously murdered--usually someone wanted to take credit for dragging in a Voldemort follower. This was different, though. Severus knew very well who had killed Lucius, but he wasn't about to tell anyone. It might raise some questions. The only thing Severus could do now was avenge the death of his longtime friend, and he had everything right where he wanted it. He was going to have the murderer destroyed.

*

A large eagle owl swooped into Harry's open window, dropping down a letter and leaving promptly. Harry wondered who it could be from. He did not keep in touch with anyone who owned an eagle owl. He picked up the letter, feeling the crisp cream colored paper between his thumb and index finger. He turned it over. It was addressed to him and written in very neat handwriting; the writer had been meticulous. Harry slid his finger though the sticky part of the envelope and pulled a folded up piece of paper out of it. He unfolded and began to read to himself.

Harry,
How are things on the side of good? It's such a shame about Quidditch; I know both you and I would have enjoyed playing professionally.

He paused, running a string of faces through his head...

Do you enjoy being an Auror? Speaking of which, I hear you are after me. That is fabulous, Harry. I am most excited. I await your arrival. Consider this letter an invitation. What would you say to a Wizard's Duel? If you defeat me, I'll allow you to arrest me, take me to Azkaban, whatever you wish. If I win, you shall return to my mansion with me where you will be imprisoned. One on one, a fair game. I will be waiting in Knockturn Alley, seven meters west of the apothecary on July 20th, midnight. The duel will be held at my humble abode, I'm sure you will love to see it, if you are able to live long enough for a complete tour. Take care.
Sincerely yours,
Draco Malfoy

Harry reread the letter. His first instinct was that Malfoy had something planned. A fair game? Who was he trying to fool? Malfoy never played a fair game. But he had second thoughts. If Malfoy was planning on dueling Harry at the mansion, Harry would learn where it was located, obviously. There was no way he'd be defeated by Malfoy, dueling was a forte of his. Perhaps he would go. He needed to settle things with Malfoy once and for all. There had always been rivalry between those two, and Harry would enjoy seeing Draco imprisoned after many years of crime.

Then it dawned on Harry that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. Yes, it was an invitation to a duel, but, as Malfoy obviously did not realize, it was an invitation of his defeat. This would be fun, thought Harry. He put Draco's sarcastic letter aside, making the discussion of meeting Draco on the day he requested the duel. He would, perchance, tell someone of his plan, incase something were to happen to him.

Harry wondered over a cup of green tea if he was making a stupid mistake. He almost wanted to confer with Hermione and Ron, like back in the days of Hogwarts, but he didn't want to bother them. He knew better than that; Ron had proposed to Hermione not long ago and wedding plans were in the making--which meant they were quite preoccupied. Harry was to be their best man...

*

The twentieth came around. Harry contemplated how he should go about his rendezvous with Malfoy. He wore robes of black (blended in best with the night air), layered with his Invisibility cloak. He tucked his wand into an inner pocket of his robes and stood at the foot of his door. He wondered vaguely if he should ask someone to be his second, but who was available? He was still very unsure and very without a plan--which made him uncomfortable--he felt better with a concise order of planned events to follow. Oh well, he'd think of something...

A second later, he was gone.