Love Under Siege

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Love Under Siege

Chapter II: Learn My Name

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Morning

Draco's Room, Malfoy Manor

Green eyes.

Close--far too close for comfort--and staring at him.

And so morning at Malfoy Manor began with a strangled cry of surprise as Draco shot up from his bed and landed on the floor in an undignified heap of limbs and covers.

"Bloody hell--what in name of Slytherin--!" Draco swore and kicked at the bedspread tangled around his legs.

It was an unpleasant deviation from the lazy mornings he had indulged in since start of summer vacation, and it did little for Draco's temper.

Only then did Draco notice the cause of his rude awakening.

A pair of curious green eyes peered down at him over the edge of the bed. The face they belonged to sported an odd expression of open fascination and bewilderment at Draco's behavior.

Draco ceased his struggles at once, and memories of the previous night returned to him. "Oh," he said softly. "So you weren't a strange dream after all."

He stood up and leaned forward to study his creation. Now that it was awake and responsive, it was infinitely easier to regard it as a living creature rather than an object.

The boy was certainly a handsome thing, if a bit on the scrawny side, with an endearing coltish awkwardness like a fledgling bird that had not yet learned to fly. It was his eyes that drew Draco's attention, however, because they were a bright gemlike green unlike any Draco had ever seen before, human or otherwise.

He was also still quite naked.

Draco's eyes slid down the boy's body appraisingly. Not bad. Not bad at all. "Wimple's team sure knew what they were doing," he mumbled.

The boy said nothing, did nothing to cover himself. Instead, he cocked his head to the side like a curious dog and reached out with one hand for Draco's shoulder.

Draco raised an elegant eyebrow but did nothing, waiting to see what the boy wanted. He let himself be pulled forward but was surprised nonetheless when the boy simply wrapped his arms around his torso and settled against his chest.

Arms hanging stiffly at his sides, Draco looked down on the head of untidy black hair and wondered when --fate had decided to throw him a curveball.

The situation was unexpected and not a little unfamiliar. At seventeen, Draco had long outgrown physical affection from his parents, and Slytherins were hardly tolerant of such displays.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, decidedly uncomfortable at such an intimate gesture. "Get your grubby paws off my person at once."

As soon as he was released, Draco stepped back and brushed himself off as though he had touched something foul. "You'd do well to refrain from touching me without permission," he said imperiously. "You belong to me, not the other way around. Remember that."

The boy visibly wilted and looked so crestfallen that Draco almost regretted his harshness.

Almost.

"There will be rules around here. I'll not have you running about undisciplined. And have you no modesty?" he snapped, even as he raked his eyes over the boy's body in a manner that suggested he minded very little.

The boy did not answer, and Draco rolled his eyes. As appealing as the idea was, he could not have him go about naked. It was terribly uncivilized, and Mother would not approve.

He went over to his expansive wardrobe but even his smallest garment looked too large for his boy, and Draco was not about to subject his good clothes to shrinking charms.

"Dobby!"

There was a loud crack and the house-elf appeared, wringing his hands nervously. "Yes, Master Draco, sir?"

"Bring me some of my old clothes, from a year or two ago."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Dobby ventured a curious look over at the unfamiliar boy sitting on the bed.

"Before I have you shut your ears in the oven!"

With a petrified squeak, the house-elf scurried to do his bidding.

Bumbling house-elf. Draco sniffed contemptuously. He turned around to see his boy holding up a familiar-looking magazine. Even at this distance, Draco recognized the glossy cover and its risqué contents.

"No, no, no, don't--touch that!" Scowling, he snatched Wizard Inches from the boy's hands and shoved it in the bedside drawer. "Don't you go poking around my things, you hear?"

Once again, he was answered with silence. Draco frowned.

"Can't you speak?" He tapped the boy on the head thoughtfully. "Are you broken? Wimple had better not have sent me faulty merchandise."

He was startled when the boy spun on him, shaking his head vigorously and pleading with those strange, too-bright eyes.

"Erm...alright then."

At that moment, Dobby reappeared with his arms full of clothes.

"Is Master Draco be needing anything else?"

Draco dismissed him and began sifting through the sizeable pile. After several moments--Merlin, he'd never realized how many clothes he went through in a year--he came up with a fetching green silk shirt and black trousers.

"Let's see you try these first."

But it was clear from the blank look on the boy's face that he had no idea what to do with them.

"What, you can't dress yourself? Oh, for Merlin's sake--come here."

Draco grabbed his arms and stuffed them through the sleeves, then did the same with the trousers over a pair of old boxers.

The end product was something even Draco could look at with an approving eye. Dressed in Draco's own clothes, the boy looked like the type he wouldn't mind taking home for a night.

Then again, what's stopping me? He is mine, after all. Draco smiled. He would never tire of reminding himself of that.

Oblivious to Draco's thoughts, the boy swung his legs over the side of bed and stared at Draco. Not just looking at him, but rather, studying him as though trying to take every detail to memory. At his face, his hair, his shoulders and torso and legs, all with a reverence that suggested he'd discovered something terribly precious and Draco was it.

Was this the imprinting the book had described? Draco preened. If so, he was rather glad he'd taken heed and kept the boy near.

"The world at large should take a leaf out of your book," he remarked flippantly as he shrugged off his bed robes to change into something more suitable before breakfast.

The boy was just as nonchalant at seeing Draco undress as he had been about his own nakedness. Perhaps he really didn't have any sense of modesty--Wimple's team probably hadn't factored social decorum into their project.

In any case, Draco wasn't about let himself feel embarrassed in his own room. Nor did he have anything to be ashamed of, he thought smugly as he examined himself in the wardrobe mirror.

He put on a fresh set of blue robes and went into the adjoining bathroom for his morning rituals. When he was done--teeth brushed, hair combed, Malfoy smirk and stance in order--he called for the boy to follow before leaving for breakfast.

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"Draco, who is your friend? I wasn't aware anyone stayed last night."

Draco sat himself down across from his parents and pulled his boy into the seat next to him. "He's not my friend, Mother," he replied as he set knife to his fried eggs.

Lucius Malfoy set down the Daily Prophet and regarded the new face carefully, no doubt wondering why he didn't recognize him from the party. "Why don't you introduce us, then."

"Why, Father, don't you remember?" he drawled, holding up his goblet to conceal a sly grin. "This is Mister Wimple's Coming of Age gift to me."

He was treated to the rare sight of Lucius Malfoy openly surprised. Eyebrows raised and jaw ever so slightly slack, the Malfoy patriarch looked from the well-dressed black-haired boy to his smirking, self-satisfied son and forcibly recomposed himself.

"I see," he managed at last.

"Draco," Narcissa began hesitantly. "I wasn't aware you could create a...person."

Draco could see that his mother was questioning the wisdom of his choice. From the guarded look on Lucius's face, his father must feel the same.

"The choice was in the book like all the others," he said, a touch defensively. "It was a perfectly legitimate option."

Narcissa looked as if she meant to protest further, but her husband laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Let him be, Cissy."

Draco mentally sighed in relief as his mother paused and sat back. He sipped his pumpkin juice and looked over at his boy, who was kneeling in his chair and peering curiously at his mother.

Narcissa's face softened into a smile. "Have you got a name, dear?"

His boy returned her smile shyly but kept his silence.

"He can't speak, Mother, and I haven't named him yet."

"Oh." The silverware clinked in the silence. "...well, I'm sure you'll be a lovely companion for our Draco. He gets lonesome sometimes, away from his friends."

The boy beamed at this and reached for Draco's hand. Draco pointedly pulled his hand away and picked up a spoon.

"I expect you can handle this boy, Draco. He's your responsibility from now until the end of the trial period."

"Of course, Father."

Narcissa was busy spooning mash and baked beans in front of Draco's boy, who looked on with a sort of bright interest.

Draco watched this for a moment, amused. From the strangely eager look on his mother's face, it was clear she was delighted to have someone to coddle--something she could no longer do with Draco.

"He can't eat either, Mother." But even as the words left his mouth, his boy reached forward, scooped up a handful of mash with his bare fingers and crammed it into his mouth.

Narcissa looked triumphantly to her son.

"I assume you'll be the one to teach him social graces as well, son," Lucius drawled.

Draco scowled, but grabbed the boy's hand and wiped it off on a napkin. "One does not eat with one's bare hands," he hissed.

When all he received was a blank stare, he sighed and shoved a spoon in his hand.

His boy stared at the spoon as if he'd never seen one before, then fisted it and jabbed at a piece of bacon. Draco rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his meal.

The rest of breakfast passed like any other in the Malfoy household, with the exception of the extra face at the table.

Lucius complained of extra security at the Ministry ("They have mandatory identity checks now--can't even walk into my own office freely.") and Narcissa fussed over Draco's boy with suffocating enthusiasm. ("Draco, dear, you must take him to Diagon Alley to have his hair cut properly.")

Draco sat through it all, picking through his food and wondering if perhaps he had brought upon himself a greater responsibility than he could handle.

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Department of Mysteries

Level Nine, Ministry of Magic

Augustus Rookwood flicked through the pages of the heavy manila folder in his arms as he stood waiting in the moving lift.

The folder was permeated with powerful attention-repellent and secrecy spells, charmed to open only for Rookwood and a select few other Unspeakables. The information it contained regarding the Hall of Prophecies was something certain individuals would--and had--killed for.

His work as an Unspeakable was demanding, clandestine, and often dangerous, but it was an invaluable position for a servant of the Dark Lord. Rookwood did not know what his Lord sought in the Hall of Prophecies, but he knew better than to ask.

"Level Nine. Department of Mysteries."

The lift came to a stop, and Rookwood stepped out. He gave a curt nod to the pair of Aurors stationed in the corridor and showed them his identification.

They waved him on and Rookwood allowed himself a smirk once his back was turned. He did not know what had brought on the heightened security in his three-day absence, but even a full squadron of Aurors could not help when there was a spy working from within.

The world they were living in today was a dangerous one. Fifteen years ago on All Hallow's Eve, the Dark Lord had attacked the Potter family and for reasons still unknown, had been banished from his body and reduced to the meanest of spirits. None of the Potters had survived, but the Wizarding World had been temporarily delivered. Only two years ago, the Dark Lord had been reborn in a ritual of bone, flesh, and blood, and had gathered all his old followers.

Now, the Dark Lord was working from the shadows, silently infiltrating the Ministry by planting his Death Eaters in positions of power. When he finally revealed himself to the wizarding public--and this, he had promised, would be soon--the coup would be silent, swift, and efficient.

Of course, there were a few working to apprehend his Lord, most prominently, the old Muggle-lover Dumbledore and his colleague Nicholas Flamel. But the Ministry, headed by Cornelius Fudge and backed by the Daily Prophet, was all too willing to slander Dumbledore, discredit him--anything to deny the one thing they feared most: the return of Voldemort. The Ministry, in their ignorance, was serving the Dark Lord as efficiently as his Death Eaters.

Rookwood shifted the folder in his arms to open the single black door at the end of the corridor. Inside was a large, circular room with doors all around its walls.

One of these opened and a pallid man with a mournful face stepped out.

"Ah, Broderick!" Rookwood greeted with false cheer.

Broderick Bode turned and smiled thinly. "Augustus. You were missed."

"My apologies. I had a rather unfortunate stay in St. Mungo's," Rookwood lied smoothly.

"So I heard. Better hurry to your post; Croaker has been taking on your duties while you were gone."

Bode was about to leave, but Rookwood was not finished yet.

"Have you seen the Aurors outside?" he asked casually. "We haven't had them on this level since the end of the war."

Bode harrumphed. "We haven't had anything stolen from the Department of Mysteries since the war either."

Rookwood's smile faltered. He did not have to feign the surprise in his voice as he said, "Stolen? How could anyone possibly--"

"Oh, someone got past the wards, did a good job of covering their tracks too," Bode muttered gruffly. "Cresswell's on probation for it, and he says he never saw it happen."

Rookwood relaxed marginally. Richard Cresswell worked exclusively in the Ward of Souls and Spirits. Whatever his Lord was seeking in the Hall of Prophecies was still safe.

Bode shuffled past him, leaving Rookwood alone in his thoughts.

Very few would dare attempt a theft from the Department of Mysteries, and for it to happen so conveniently in his absence...certainly the thief could not be in service to the Dark Lord.

Augustus Rookwood frowned and gripped the folder in his hands tighter.

His Lord would have to be informed of this.

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Evening

Malfoy Manor

By nightfall at Malfoy Manor, Draco had almost gotten used to the black-haired boy toddling after him like a lost puppy. Though the boy did not speak, he was openly expressive in a way that conveyed more than words ever could. Through his moods, his expressions, his mannerisms, Draco could read him as easily as a book.

Presently, Draco was returning to his chambers after a grueling tutoring session in advanced dueling. His instructor was exacting and merciless, and his teaching technique typically consisted of barking expletives while demonstrating spells by beating the stuffing out of his pupils.

Thankfully, he only frequented the manor twice a week.

Draco was never in a very good mood after one of these lessons, but today his temper was mellowed somewhat by the presence of the boy walking along behind him.

Narcissa had pulled the boy away to join her for tea during the lesson, and now that he was back with Draco again, he did not seem to understand why the other boy was walking so stiffly and hissing profanities under his breath.

Draco led them to his bath, which one of the house-elves had already filled to the brim with scented water infused with herbs to soothe his sore body.

While the boy waited outside the door, he peeled off his sweat-sodden robes and nearly sighed in pleasure as he eased himself into the warm bathwater.

What he wouldn't give for a good massage...and suddenly, an idea occurred to Draco.

"Come here, boy!"

The door nudged open and the boy padded over, barefoot.

"Take off your clothes and get into the bath with me," Draco ordered, and then turned around for a good view as his boy complied.

Draco wasn't sure if he wanted to teach him the social graces of modesty--he rather enjoyed being able to watch unrestricted as his boy slid off his clothes to reveal miles of smooth skin.

There was still plenty of extra room after he climbed in--the bath was, after all, an obscenely luxurious affair larger than the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

The boy's face was aglow with delight as he wallowed in the enchanted water. Draco allowed him a moment to indulge in the buoyancy and fragrances before he pulled him away from playing in the scented bubbles.

"I want a back rub, and I want you to use this--" Draco reached for the ledge and chose a bottle of massage lotion from the array of shampoo and bath products. He squeezed a generous amount into the boy's palm and turned his back to him expectantly.

"Well? Get on with it," he prompted impatiently, when the anticipated back rub was not forthcoming. He looked over his shoulder to find his boy staring at the bruises at scrapes littering his body with something akin to horror.

He fingered one of them with tender caution, looking up at Draco questioningly. The older boy was almost touched by the concern in his eyes.

"It'll hurt less if you rub my back," he hinted meaningfully.

That did the trick. Draco let his eyes fall shut lazily as firm hands slicked with lotion pressed against his sore flesh, stroking and massaging in alternation. Pleasant heat warmed his skin and the aching and stinging of his body ebbed away.

Those gentle fingers chased away the tenseness in his muscles. Draco felt himself in a haze of pleasure, the rigors of his training forgotten and seemingly a thousand miles away. It was only when someone jostled his shoulder that he realized he'd fallen asleep.

"Damn, that was good," he mumbled blearily to the boy. "Where'd you learn that?"

The boy simply smiled at him and went back to playing with the foam bubbles. Draco let him be while he washed his own hair, before wading over to the boy to wash his as well.

"Mother was right," he said, fingering the mane of dark hair. "You do need a haircut."

By the time both of them had washed and rinsed off, it had been nearly an hour and Draco's fingers were starting to wrinkle.

As he was drying himself off, Draco was startled to notice all the bruises and cuts from his dueling lesson had disappeared. He touched the smooth, unmarred skin thoughtfully. His healing baths had never done that before.

His boy was leaning over to dry his long hair with a soft white towel, giving Draco a clear view of his rounded bum.

Heat rushed to Draco's crotch as a dozen wicked scenarios flew through his mind at the sight of this unintentionally suggestive pose.

Draco stalked over and rested a hand low on the boy's back. But when the boy stopped drying his hair and turned to face him uncertainly, Draco was suddenly brought low by wide, innocent green eyes.

His libido died very abruptly.

"Never mind," he grumbled. He couldn't well have his wicked way with those damnable eyes looking at him like a child's. Instead, he settled for a nice handful of ass before turning away.

The boy jumped and squawked in surprise. It was the first time Draco had heard his voice, so he glanced over his shoulder and smirked.

"Find your voice finally, did you?"

He picked out soft flannel nightrobes for both of them, then headed over to his bookshelf for something to read before bed.

"Draco."

Startled, Draco turned to see his boy watching him with a tentative, hopeful smile.

Words died on his tongue and for a moment he stood statue-like, wondering if his ears had deceived him. "Was that--did you...?"

His boy nodded shyly and a pleasant warmth filled Draco's chest.

"Yeah," he said at last. "My name is Draco." It pleased him that the boy's first word should be his name. "Say it again?"

"Draco." His boy said it slowly, hesitantly, as though it was something precious and worth savoring. "Draco Mal-foy."

Draco laughed and smoothed back his boy's damp tresses. "I wonder what else you can say." And then, after a sudden thought, "Have you got a name?"

The boy's smile brightened, and Draco was momentarily struck by the life it brought to his features. He nodded and gestured to himself.

"Harry."

Draco was silent for a minute, but when he finally held out a hand and spoke, it was with a tickling sense of déjà vu.

"Nice to meet you, then...Harry."