Love Under Siege

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Love Under Siege

Chapter III: Beginnings

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Late morning
Dueling Chamber, Malfoy Manor

"Fiur Cavus!"

"Repellere--Constric--"

"Relashio! Sectumsempra! Strangulare!"

The three offensive jets of red light were fired in quick succession. Draco conjured a brick wall to block the first two--it exploded in heavy chunks--and felt the searing heat of the third brush his shoulder.

His instructor allowed him no recovery time before aiming a nasty Stinging Hex at Draco. It hit him square in the chest and he fell to his knees, unable to restrain a pained cry.

"And this," his instructor told him, lifting the spell, "is when your opponent would end you with the killing blow."

Draco pulled himself up, gingerly touching his chest where the smarting aftereffects of the hex still flared. "Understood," he bit out.

As befitting his position as Head Auror, Gawain Robards boasted experience nonpareil in the field of combat dueling. The man was built like a bulldog, and had a personality to match. Although he worked for the Ministry, Draco's father had approved of him as a tutor because of his reputation for being less than squeamish in the use of Dark magic. Robards had learnt from the best of his time, and now he was passing the knowledge on to Draco.

Draco returned his wand to the holster strapped to his arm and feigned calm as Robards circled him like a vulture, criticizing his technique and progress for the day.

"--no bloody restraint whatsoever, still lashing out in temper and lagging in exhaustion, relying far too heavily on verbal spells--incantations are meant to be aids, not crutches!" he barked not two inches from Draco's ear. Then he grumbled, somewhat reluctantly, "Although I suppose you've improved some on conjuring corporeal shields."

It was the closest thing to praise as one would ever get out of the man.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see a dark-haired head bouncing excitedly in his seat from the sidelines. He suppressed a slanted grin before Robards could interpret it the wrong way.

"I'll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Malfoy. Six-thirty sharp. Good day."

Gawain Robards turned on his heel, smiled thinly at the elder Malfoys, who had been watching with Harry, and disappeared into the corridor.

Harry was at Draco's side almost instantly, looking him over for visible injuries. Draco indulged him, remembering the first time he had allowed the boy to watch one of his dueling lessons. Not ten minutes into the session, the boy had run over, kicked Robards hard in the shin, and planted himself firmly between Draco and his flabbergasted instructor.

It had taken several moments of explanation before Harry understood that Draco's training often looked rougher than it was, and that Robards was there to teach him, not kill him.

Draco smirked at the memory.

"Lucius, I will never understand why that man must be so rough with Draco," Narcissa complained, brushing her son's sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Surely, it cannot be the best way to teach young people."

Draco snickered; this was the telltale beginning of the Fire Draco's Tutor Campaign his mother embarked on every so often.

"Darling," his father said, with the forced patience that suggested he was walking on what was by now well-trodden grounds, "You and I both know Gawain Robards is the best of his league. I know the man is a bit rough around the edges--"

"Like a serrated knife," Draco put in under his breath.

"--but there is no one better to prepare Draco for situations he is bound to encounter in the future."

"Draco, dearie, go on to your room and take a nice hot bath," Narcissa patted Draco's hand before turning meaningfully to her husband. "Lucius, you and I will continue this outside."

Draco left the Dueling Chamber, smirking a bit at his father's pained expression. He hurried on to his chambers, looking forward to the by now customary massage that came along with soaking in his bath.

Harry was better than a house-elf in that regard...not that he'd ever let one of those filthy creatures near his naked body.

Draco looked over at the boy trailing behind him, and Harry caught his eyes and answered with a cheerful smile. Draco quickly turned away before he was tempted to respond in kind.

A week had passed since Draco had created Harry: a week of waking up to watchful green eyes, of heavenly massages, shower companions, and (though Harry remained clueless) candid strip shows.

Though Harry still spoke little, Draco was frequently surprised by the sheer volume and speed by which he was learning new words and expressions.

In most aspects, Harry resembled a young child--easily excited by new things, eager and curious, and closely attached to his guardian figure, Draco.

But then there were other times, when he thought Draco wasn't watching, when he'd slip into solemn contemplative moods, as though lost in memories he couldn't possibly possess. It was in these moments that Draco wondered what went on in the pseudo-mind of an artificial personality.

Because as stunningly lifelike as Harry seemed, Draco knew that every smile, every laugh, every expression of affection and concern and sentience was governed by the complex behavior charms that had been weaved together by a team of Ministry inventors.

But sometimes...Draco wished he could forget that.

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Harry liked his new home. True, its walls were made mostly of cold marble and strange whimpering little creatures called Dobbies scurried about in the corners, but it was much more interesting than the confined, warm darkness of his last home.

There was also Draco, who was sometimes a little mean and stared too hard when Harry took off his clothes to get in the bath, but Harry loved him regardless and liked that he was warm at night. Draco's mum and dad were very good people too, especially his mum, who liked to hand Harry warm biscuits in passing and reminded him of someone else with long red hair and green eyes like his.

Harry did not understand many things, like why Draco's hurts after fighting with Mister Robards disappeared when Harry touched them in the bath, or why Draco had once scolded him for touching his wand, but he sensed that sometimes Draco's heart was heavy with unspoken worries. He knew that despite his prickliness and fierce independence, Draco needed support and love, perhaps even more than most because he was so afraid to take it.

And Harry was happy to oblige.

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One week later...

"Hold still, or I'll yank this wretched hair right out of your scalp!"

Harry stopped bouncing on his heels and looked at Draco's scowling reflection in the mirror. In one hand, Draco held Harry's long, tangled mane of black hair while his other hand attacked the mess with a silver hairbrush that really was meant for more delicate operations.

"Sorry, Draco," he chirped, but really, he couldn't stop the excited tremors. And who could blame him?

Today, he would be venturing outside the manor for the very first time...alone with Draco. They were spending the afternoon at a place called Diagon Alley, where they would "fix that shameful bird's nest of hair," among other things.

A whole afternoon outside the manor with Draco.

Harry grinned broadly at that thought, even as Draco tugged rather painfully on a particularly stubborn snarl. With a sharp twang, the brush snapped at the handle. Draco grimaced, repaired it with a quick spell, and resumed his battle with renewed fervor.

Narcissa watched all this with an indulgent smile. "Draco, you needn't trouble yourself with this. The house-elves can tidy Harry up in no time."

"Mother, I assure you I know more about the grooming of one's hair than any house-elf." Draco sounded insulted at the suggestion. "And I shall not be seen accompanied by someone with hair like a street urchin's this afternoon."

"It's alright, Mrs. Malfoy," said Harry, with an air of placating tolerance. "I'm very happy that Draco cares so much for my well-being."

"Oh, Draco, isn't he just precious?" Narcissa cooed adoringly, while her son sputtered in denial.

"I do not--I am not--I most certainly care nothing for your well-being," he hissed. "This is a very simple matter of preserving my reputation by association."

Harry and Narcissa exchanged looks. Draco scowled.

It took another several minutes to work out the kinks, and then Narcissa braided the hair and tied it off with a green ribbon.

"I suppose that'll do," Draco groused.

Harry clapped his hands and ran over to the fireplace, reaching for the Floo powder. Draco grabbed the pot before Harry could knock it over in his excitement.

"Throw in the Floo powder, step in the fire, and speak clearly the words Diagon Alley," he instructed briskly, grabbing some of the green powder before handing the pot over to Harry.

Narcissa patted Harry's hair fondly. "Have fun, dear. Draco, do take care of him."

"Yes, Mother," said Draco, rolling his eyes as Harry hugged his mother in return. He turned to the fireplace. "I'll go first then. I'll be waiting at the other end."

Harry watched in fascination as Draco stepped into the green flames and disappeared. Stepping over eagerly, he threw in his own handful of powder, scrambled into the fire, and cried out, "Diagon Alley!"

The last thing he saw before green fire swallowed everything was Mrs. Malfoy's smiling face. Then the world went spinning, and he felt a strange sensation like flying through a tunnel at high speeds. He tucked in his arms and legs and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, he was spat out of the Floo and landed inelegantly in a heap on a hard floor.

"Very graceful, boy."

Harry looked up. Draco was standing not far away with not a hair out of place, looking as impeccably pristine as ever. He did not offer to help Harry up.

"That was brilliant," said Harry brightly. "Do all wizards travel like that? Do you ever get dizzy, Draco?"

Draco ignored his questions and stalked towards the back of the inn while Harry followed after him, giddy with excitement.

The pub was small, dimly light, and smelled faintly of pipe smoke and sweet butter. Over the doorway, a hand painted wooden sign swung, the words The Leaky Cauldron smoky under layers of grime and smoke.

The clients sat at little tables hunched over steaming mugs, dressed in dark robes. Some of them gave Draco respectful nods, a few tried to shake his hand, but most were content to watch the Malfoy heir silently or stare curiously at his unknown companion.

"You know a lot of people, Draco," Harry observed, when they had left the pub through the back door.

"They know of me. I hardly know any of them," Draco corrected haughtily. "As the only heir to the Malfoy bloodline, my presence does warrant proper respect."

Holding up his wand, he tapped the wall behind the pub and stood back as the bricks shifted and parted.

Having seen this all before, Draco turned instead to look at Harry and was gratified to see the green eyes impossibly wide in speechless wonder.

Draco had been to Diagon Alley more times than he could count...he could only imagine how strange and magnificent the busy wizarding street must look to Harry, who'd only ever seen the quiet interior of Malfoy Manor.

"Diagon Alley," his boy whispered, as though speaking the name aloud could give this sight permanence in his memory.

"Yes." And then, taking Harry's hand, Draco led him into the wizarding world.