A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 11

A Drink For The Horror

Draco ran his thumb from the corner of his mouth to the centre of his lower lip. His eyes were a cloudy grey and his blonde hair was artfully disheveled over them. He leaned back in his chair, a calm smirk tweaking his features.

The Quick-Quotes Quill zoomed over the parchment to his right, scrawling so much information so quickly that Draco was amazed the parchment didn’t burst into flames from the friction.

He had long since finished his tea and was very comfortably aware that the half hour he had promised was soon to be at an end. The Quick-Quotes Quill and its owner also seemed aware of that fact. To make up for it, Skeeter was grilling Draco for as much information as he would give in such a short time. He was sure she set a new record for number of unrelated questions asked in the span of one minute.

“So, Draco, love,” she said quickly, switching the parchment beneath the quill. She had already done this no less than six times. He wondered idly if she was writing an article or a novel. “What about the rumours that you’ve been stepping out on your wife with another Quidditch heartthrob? A certain, Oliver Wood?”

Draco chuckled once, very quietly and brushed his hair aside to look at her more clearly. Her green-framed glasses had slipped to the edge of her nose as she leaned in conspiratorially. Draco licked his lips.

“Ridiculous,” he answered simply. There was a timbre to his voice that suggested that it was not so ridiculous and it was intentional. “He’s my Captain. Anyone who knows Oliver Wood could tell you that he would never do anything to jeopardize the game.” Draco sucked an invisible crumb off the tip of his middle finger. “I certainly think that an extramarital affair with me would fall under that heading. Besides,” he whispered bemusedly. “I’m sure no one wants to hear about that anyway. Who would want the image of Wood and I snogging in their heads?”

Draco was sure that, had the Quick-Quotes Quill had a heart and been living, his last words would have caused it a massive heart attack and died. He was mildly intrigued at the prospect that his comment had caused Skeeter that precise fate before she gave him a knowing smile and winked. He fought the urge to curl his lip.

“And as for the other rumours?” she inquired, clearly hoping for a similar response. Draco blinked and shrugged.

“You’ll have to enlighten me,” he told her. She shimmied to the end of her chair to get closer to him over the table.

“The ones that suggest that you are having an affair,” Skeeter began in an undertone. She wiggled her eyebrows for a moment before finishing the sentence. “With Harry Potter.”

Draco nearly lost it. He felt a very sudden, overwhelming urge to both burst out in hysterical laughter as well as kill Skeeter. He wasn’t sure which impulse was stronger and thought it best not to act on either. He couldn’t quite believe what he had heard. The press and public were coming up with new and more far-fetched rumours every day about his sexual escapades, but this was quite the most ridiculous.

“Where did you hear that?” Draco asked, matching the undertone Skeeter had used. He cocked one eyebrow and tried not to give anything away on his face.

“I have a source,” she replied mysteriously. “That informed me they witnessed Potter visit you in St Mungo’s. They said Potter kicked everyone else out of your room and then, half an hour later, he emerged looking quite unkempt.”

At this Draco did laugh. He couldn’t help it. It was not hysterical, however. It was genuine amusement. He shook his head.

“Potter’s visit was business only,” Draco replied simply. He bit back a remark assuring her that he took no pleasure from it. He couldn’t afford to seem any more disdainful to the saviour of the wizarding world. As it was half the public believed him to be ungrateful.

What do they know?

Skeeter looked mildly put out but Draco knew that she would find a way to twist it to make it seem as though there was something unsavoury going on there. Draco knew her too well.

“One more question,” she said, clearly panicked for time. Draco straightened himself, ready to leave. “There was a report that you had some kind of trouble with your broomstick before the match? Suggestions have been flying around that someone is trying to curse you, Draco. What do you have to say on the subject? Do you think someone has tampered with your broom? Perhaps the Ministry?”

Draco tensed slightly and got to his feet, forcing the calm smile back to his face. He straightened his slate grey robes as he did. Of course there was someone trying to curse him. There were several people, in fact, who were intent on seeing him fall from unimaginable heights and that was no metaphor. Surely some of those people were in the Ministry. He knew this; it wasn’t speculation. Still, he could never answer as he wanted to.

“There was simply a mistake in the delivery of my new broomstick,” he answered shortly, wondering silently why she had left such an important question to the end. “It was righted and I flew my new Firebolt 250 at last match. It flies beautifully.”

Skeeter got to her feet as well and tried to stop him. Her eyes glittered dangerously. The ground jerked beneath him.

“But is there a possibility that there’s something different about it?” she asked rapidly. Draco had had enough. “Perhaps you didn’t notice because you were only on it for a couple minutes.”

Draco forced himself not to glare.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my broom,” he said. He nodded to her and held out his hand. “Time’s up.”

“Oh, yes, alright,” Skeeter conceded, giving him her hand. He swallowed hard before pulling it gently to his mouth to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. Always best to remain on the good side of those who could most easily destroy you.

“Always a pleasure, Rita,” Draco said. Then he Disapparated back home.

+++++

Draco Malfoy,

I know why you cannot sleep at night. I know what haunts your eyes.

Do you remember what you did? Do you remember walking through dragging that poor boy through the halls of your Manor, of your despicable house of stolen wealth, to the altar of your shame? Do you remember handing him over to be slaughtered? Do you remember his name, his eyes, his face? Do you remember his soul?

He remembers yours. They all do. They remember you, Draco Malfoy. They hunger for you and I will give them what they want.

He never had a family, never got to grow old. You stole his life from him. You stole his life and brought another tainted soul into the world. You’re precious little son is nothing but the spawn of cowardice, the seed of greed and slime. A skullsucking child for a skullsucking coward.

Maybe I’ll make him meet his namesake. Maybe he’ll taste the venom of a scorpion’s embrace, the same way you’ll taste the sheer terror of a kiss. You deserve nothing else than to have your soul ripped from you, the way you tore souls from others.

Scorpius’ pretty little face, with his silver Malfoy eyes, will watch it happen.

Don’t worry. You’ll both get what you deserve.

-The Dementor’s Kiss

++++++

Water was safe. Water and air. The two safest elements. Earth and Fire be damned, Draco would live in the water and in the air.

Draco had insisted on the bath. He hated the upright, clinical, modern nature of a shower stall. He hated feeling like he was standing in the rain. He hated the way the act of bathing was reduced to a necessity, to a chore, in a shower. He wanted so soak and float and feel the water all around him.

The room was much larger than any regular toilet. It had to be to accommodate the bath Draco had commissioned. It was modeled after the pool-like basin in the Prefect’s Bathroom at Hogwarts. It was, of course, nowhere near as large, but it was sufficient. The floors were stone and polished. The taps were silver and the tub itself was large enough to fit several people, quite comfortably, fully submerged.

There were inscriptions in Latin all around the edges of the tub. Most of them were wards. More than showering upright, Draco hated to be disturbed while he was bathing. He took long, luxurious baths. It was his one true luxury. Which is why he had insisted on it.

All the galleons he made from his career, all of the attention he garnered, all of the fanfare, were never meant for him. He had once, when he was younger, hoped for the days when he would be showered with praise and love from adoring fans, the way he believed he deserved –the way Harry Potter was. But after the war, he had no desire for attention any longer. In fact, Draco wanted nothing more than to be forgotten by the masses. He wanted to be known to only those who were important to him, who cared for him. They were what mattered.

The job had taken him to fame and he did not actively push it away, though many could see that he did not appreciate it as he would once have. No, the money and fame were for his family. He needed to protect the lifestyle his father had provided him and his mother. He needed to keep them in comfort, away from those who might scorn them. He kept them safe, as they had tried to keep him safe.

The money was for his son. He wanted to give Scorpius every possible opportunity, every possible chance he could ever want. Without power, the only way to accomplish that was with money. So Draco made money for his son. He wanted Scorpius to have everything he ever might want or need. He wanted to ensure that Scorpius would have a fortune to inherit one day. He wanted to ensure that, no matter what else happened, his son would be provided for.

The thing Draco fought his hardest against, the thing he wanted most to protect Scorpius from what he, himself, had been forced to experience.

Draco had fought tooth and nail after the way. He had no money, no power, nothing. He had a slandered name, a tainted look and a branded arm. There was nothing that could help him. Those things would only ever hold him back.

He struggled for years before he was finally given a chance. The Catapults gave him a job when no one else would. He proved himself quickly and did what he needed to do.

The only thing Draco had for himself was this bath.

He allowed his body to float diagonally in the water, his head leaning back against a towel on the edge. There were bubbles and oils in the water to soothe his muscles and repair his damaged skin. There was a potion mixed with dittany as well to help the scars on his chest fade. He would have to reapply the bandages afterward, but he didn’t mind. All he cared about was the feel of the water moving over his body.

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut and he hummed as the jets sprang to life and began to assault his body with pressure. He shifted and fought against them, increasing their effect.

This was the most enjoyable part of the bath.

Draco slid one hand down his chest, tracing over the dips in his stomach until he reached his arousal. He moaned, his mouth closed, his long fingers wrapping around the base. He began to stroke himself slowly, allowing the pleasure to build steadily.

As he pumped himself steadily, his mind flitted to images of Oliver, but he quickly pushed them away, forcing them back into the depths of his mind. He found it much better to think of nothing at times like these. He had no false notions, no illusions about his relationships with anyone. He and Oliver were friends and it was vital that they stay that way.

Draco smiled as a blissful blackness swirled in his mind, allowing him to focus on the pleasure and nothing else. But soon another image materialized in his mind’s eye and it was much more disconcerting than his captain.

”You are having an affair with Harry Potter.”

Skeeter’s words echoed in his skull and suddenly he saw those burning green eyes before him. Dark hair and smooth, muscular arms over him. A hot, flat palm against his chest and then gentle, light fingertips tracing his scars.

No.

Draco groaned and his eyes snapped open but the image did not die away. He felt his orgasm spiraling upwards and ripping through him and fought the urge to cry out as he came to the image of not only Potter, but a very angry Potter.

Draco dropped his head back against the towel and let his body slacken in the water. He grimaced and groaned, wishing deeply that he could pretend that had never happened. Unfortunately, his body seemed to have quite enjoyed the experience.

Oh, fuck me.

Draco dragged himself out of the bath and began to towel himself off. He flicked his wand and the bath began to drain.

Grumbling something about how Potter had somehow managed to steal his final indulgence, Draco wrapped the towel around himself and walked out the door on the right, the one that led to his study. Only once he was out of the bath did he realize how much steam had accumulated. There was a heavy fog around him as he stepped towards the bookshelf.

Combing his fingers through his hair, Draco stared at the titles on the shelf in front of him, trying to decide on one.

“Malfoy.”

Draco started, nearly dropped his towel and spun around. His heart raced and, when his eyes fell on the owner of the voice, his face flushed slightly. He hoped he could pretend it was just a result of the abrupt shift in temperature.

Draco cursed himself.

Potter was sitting, rather smugly Draco noticed with disgust, in his armchair. He was once more wearing his Auror’s robes. He was also, Draco noted, letting his eyes rove lazily over Draco’s mostly naked form.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco snapped once he found himself again. He tightened the towel around his waist. “Why do you insist on reclaiming your hobby of stalking me? I thought we both decided that it would be a waste of both your time and mine. As you can clearly see, I am not up to any evil deeds, nor am I up for acting out any rumours you may have heard and gotten excited about. So, if you’ll kindly leave my home and stop staring at me.” Draco found himself rambling slightly before he realized that Potter’s eyes were trained steadily on his body.

Potter flushed very slightly before rolling his eyes. Draco frowned.

“I don’t know what rumours you’re talking about,” Potter responded offhandedly. “But don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. I was assessing the state of your wounds,” he explained lowly. “And checking to see if there were any new ones.”

Draco gaped momentarily before huffing haughtily and crossing his arms over his chest, effectively covering the most obvious wound. When he let go of the towel is shifted slightly and slung low over his hips. Potter’s eyes slid downward over his exposed flesh before quickly snapping back up.

“I don’t care,” Draco told him. He was still very much disturbed by his inexplicable response to his mind’s image of Potter. “Even if you’ve got nothing better to do than come check out the state of my body,” he drawled, carefully enunciating the last few words. “I certainly do have better things to do than let you.” Draco paused and glanced at the doorway. “How did you get in here anyway?”

Potter snorted momentarily before shifting in his chair and picking up the piece of parchment he had dropped when Draco had walked in.

“Special Auror powers,” he suggested humourlessly. He squinted for a moment. Draco glared and thrummed his fingers against his own arm.

“Right,” he shot sarcastically. “And I’m part Veela. Tell me how you got in.”

Potter cocked an eyebrow at the Veela comment but did not look up. He pressed a knuckle to his lips briefly.

“Your House-Elf let me in,” he offered. Draco’s eyebrows darted upward.

“Which one?” Draco pushed further. This time Potter looked up, a quizzical expression on his face.

“I didn’t stop to make introductions.” Potter was giving him a strange look and Draco’s frown deepened. “I’m not Hermione. Your Elf didn’t offer a name and I didn’t ask.”

“My House-Elves are under orders to only allow in immediate family members,” Draco informed him. Potter hesitated. Draco could tell from the way his eyes stopped dead in the middle of the parchment.

He pointed momentarily to his chest.

“Auror,” he reminded Draco. “Very convincing reason, even to a House-Elf under orders.”

Draco growled softly and rolled his eyes. He leaned back against the desk, refusing to sit and refusing to leave the room to get changed. He was not going to leave until Potter explained himself better.

“Well, it’s not very convincing to me,” Draco snapped. “So get out.”

Potter said nothing for a few moments. Instead, he took three calculated breaths and then set his jaw.

“I can’t,” he proclaimed. “I’m here for work.”

“Yes, and now you’ve adequately inspected my body for wounds,” Draco snarled. “So you have completed your lecherous duty and –”

“Not that case,” Potter interrupted, frustrated and clearly annoyed. “I’m here for this.” He held up the parchment he was holding as evidence.

It was only then that Draco recognized it. His eyes widened and his heart stopped, his breath caught in his chest. The room became insufferably cold and gravity seemed to have multiplied in an instant.

When he spoke his voice was a hoarse whisper, full of danger and rage.

“Where did you get that?”

Potter’s eyes narrowed in confusion as he held the letter. Draco was heaving and felt his head throb as Potter stared at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he responded gruffly. “It’s my case. I’m going to investigate it.”

Draco’s jaw tightened and he walked over, snatching the parchment roughly from Potter’s hands. He crushed the paper in his hand and pointed to the door.

“I don’t want your help, Potter.” Draco’s voice was deep and gravelly and sounded nothing like him. “Get out. Now.”

Potter finally got to his feet and stood only inches from Draco, offering a stony look to Draco’s burning one.

“This is serious, Malfoy,” Potter informed him. Draco nearly strangled him on the spot. His anger flared and the ground started to spin. “I can help you. You can’t just wait for this to go away.”

“I don’t need you, Potter!” Draco yelled. He was seeing red. He wanted to know how Potter got hold of the letter and what made him believe that Draco wasn’t taking threats against his life, against his son’s life, seriously. “I can take care of this on my own. I’ve been doing perfectly fine without you or your bloody Aurors so far. So stay out of it and get out of my house.”

Potter took a deep breath and then snatched the letter back from Draco before walking over to the doorway. He was breathing hard from the effort it clearly took him not to curse Draco. Draco was fighting just as hard.

“Too bad, Malfoy,” he shot quietly. “Because I’m going to take this case and I’m going to help you. Regardless of whether you want it or not. You’ve got my help and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can either fight me or work with me.” Potter glared at him and pulled out his wand. “But if you work with me it’ll go more smoothly. I’ll let you know when I find something.”

He Disapparated just as Draco threw one of his crystal tumblers at him. It crashed against the wall and he braced himself against the desk to stop himself from collapsing.

Twenty years too late with your help, Potter. I don’t need you anymore.

------
A/N: Sorry for the delay. Had an odd weekend. I'm pretty excited about the next two chapters though. The next three? Anyway. :D Hope you like this one. Reviews are love! Do you want some love? lol XD