Dizzy

Dizzy

Prologue

Draco Malfoy sat, eyes fixated on the buzzing specimen of sex in his living room, with the paper in front of his pale face. Christian, his latest conquest of duplicity - for he hadn’t a monogamous bone in his lovely, wicked body - stuffed bacon and eggs into his mouth and cackled over the Muggle newspaper’s Sunday funnies.

“Hey, Dray, get this one.” He schooled his features into gravity. “Knock, knock,” he began. Draco sliced the newspaper section he was holding into a neat fold and flung it at the table, where it fluttered next to his coffee cup.

“I can’t remember how it ends, but your mother’s a whore.” Christian glowered at him, trying to replicate the clever glare he’d gotten so much from Draco, and failed dismally. “Oh, honestly. If you’re going to trill me with such obtuse humor, at least let me get my jive in.”

Christian pouted, looking every bit like the metaphorical sign of ignorant adoration his name stood for, and let his fork clatter to his plate. He snapped on the waistband of his boxers and walked over to Draco’s perch on the couch. Christian bent at the waist and hovered over him, placing his sweaty palms on his naked lower thighs. His lashes bent appealingly towards his cheeks, and his voiced lowered several octaves when he spoke next.

“What’re you doing?”

Draco stared at him.

“I was reading the Arts and Leisure section of the paper, before you decided to play standup.” He whetted his dry lower lip with his moist upper one. “Why?”

“I’m hurt.” Clearly, he wasn’t, but banter like this had been known to rile Christian’s sensitivity, in the past. “I was going to do some low-grade insinuating, Dray, and lead things back towards the bedroom.” He winked one brown eye.

“My name isn’t Dray, firstly,” he said, flat voiced, “and we’ve just woken up from a night of strenuous bedroom activity.”

Christian laughed.

“I just love the way you talk,” he said, slipping over the armrest of the couch to cuddle up to Draco’s side, looking like an adoring puppy.

“Yes, I’d gathered that,” Draco said humorlessly, “by the way you cooed and giggled that you loved to be talked to when we fucked.”

“Ooh,” Christian flounced, “you don’t have to say it like that, Dray.”

“Would you stop calling me that, for the hundredth time?” Draco irritably pushed Christian away from him and stood from the couch, stretching like a sated cat. Christian’s eyes followed him winsomely, hungrily, and he reached with one petite finger to draw a line from the skin of Draco’s hips down to the curve of his ass. Draco’s posture stiffened.

“Enough.”

“But-”

“I said enough.” He spun on Christian when the hand didn’t recede, his mouth in a dour line of trespass and his fist firmly gripping the offending finger. Christian’s eyes widened, and he felt himself flung back where his head knocked against the semi padded top of the couch. He tried to yank his hand away, stuttering out a protestation.

“Draco...please, I...please...”

Malfoy stared down at him, lips curling into a predatory smirk.

“Remember your place, Christian.”

He meant it as a threat. Christian was in the ‘lowly’ ranks of the Death Eaters - a common lackey who tailed along and was never used on an important mission. Christian was under the pretense that Draco might help him improve his rank, but Draco had no similar idea in his head. In fact, as soon as Christian became completely intolerable and boring, he planned to have him expelled from the Death Eaters and given a rather strong Memory Potion.

“Sorry,” Christian muttered again, holding his wrist softly as soon as Draco released it. “It won’t happen again.”

Draco made no comment, and moved over to the window to wait for his scheduled morning mail. He’d been on a system of sorts, because that was how he functioned best, and demanded that all non crucial mail be owled to him every morning at eight o clock exactly. That way, he could read it over coffee or even put it off with decent time to spare.

The clock chimed eight, and on its cue, mail poured from the slot he had underneath the window. Bending, Draco took it up efficiently, flipping through. He stopped at an official Ministry Sealed letter.

“Would you look here,” he said, flipping it over. “I’ve been summoned.” He smirked. “’Please bear in mind that this request is not optional. Signed, H.J. Potter, Order of Merlin; First Class, N.A.A.’” He laughed to himself, deep and ominous. “Will you look at that.”

“What’s N.A.A. stand for?”

“National Association of Aurors.” He looked up from the letter finally. “It looks like I have to cancel my tennis match with Greg.”