Seductivo

Title: Seductivo
Author: ClarySage
Rating: varies, for now NC-17
Pairings: gred/forge draco/harry, and vice versa as well
Warnings: AU, twincest, boys with boys
Disclaimer: Are they yours? cause they\'re not mine.
Feedback: Why cointenly!

Seductivo – part three
By Cs


Draco was in a bit of a quandary, he also thought that quandary was a really strange word, but that it did happen to perfectly describe his state of mind for the moment. On the one hand, the twins were Gryffindors and Weasleys - but on the other hand; they were devious, cutthroat, charming, and redheaded.

They also seemed apart from everyone else, separated by their own unique relationship, a clan unto themselves – and now they were inviting Draco to join their private club formerly for two…

It was tempting to join, sign up, become a member and gather at regular meetings. If anything, it would give him something to do in-between torturing Harry and playing god. The twins certainly weren’t like Crabbe and Goyle, they’d never knuckle under, they actually had minds of their own, and being friends with them might not necessarily be a bad thing. Certainly having them on his side would be a good thing, an excellent thing. Not to mention, how Harry would react would be priceless.

He damned himself for even thinking of the Muggle-loving-do-gooder. Yet, his thoughts *always* seemed to come back to Harry in one-way or another. Whether it was regarding the next evil thing he could do to make Harry’s life miserable, or contemplating the sheer richness of his colouring: all that black hair, the bright green eyes, the tender red of his mouth, and the soft, sun-drenched expanses of skin.

Draco rolled his eyes; it was annoying that he couldn’t even seem to hate Harry properly. The twins were right - he was feminine, well, in this regard. Even when he was busily detesting Harry Potter, he was admiring him as well. It was an odd mixture of love and hate, like and loathe. He knew there just had to be more to Harry than met the eye. No one could be that…good.

“Argh,” he muttered softly, rolling over and crushing his pillow with his face. It wasn’t fair. If he had what Harry was so easily given, he’d take it to the max. Tout it for all it was worth, flaunt it. Instead, he was stuck with idiots for friends, and conversations that made him grit his teeth in frustration on a daily basis.

He rolled onto his back again, staring blankly up at the dark canopy over his bed. The twins might be able to help him. Or at the very least entertain him - they definitely weren’t boring. In fact, they were rather interesting, almost fascinating - like studying some strange creature that could talk - the Wild Weasley Beast. He chuckled, stifling it with his hand.

Ah hell, his father would kill him.

That was another thing he hated, his absolute terror of his father. Just once, he’d like to do something to really piss off the bastard. He wouldn’t really kill his only son, Draco was almost sure of it. Who knew? Maybe if he did something to really anger him, it would lessen the confining hold, show that he – Draco, was more than capable of taking care of his own life.

Lineage wasn’t everything, the Weasley line itself proved that. Purebloods every one of them, equal to Draco himself in that respect, and yet looked down upon by his father and peers. Maybe that kind of muck didn’t really matter, maybe none of it mattered. Maybe, only *he* mattered.

If this was the case - as Draco reassured himself that it was – then he might as well go for it, and say ‘yes’ to the twins. It might be fun, but it would have to be on his terms. No one stepped all over him, except for his father, and occasionally his mother. “Ugh,” he murmured, squinching his eyes at the thought. “They will not tread on me!” he whispered passionately to the canopy. Though whether he meant the twins or his parents, the canopy was unable to tell.




The twins were also lying in bed, chatting amicably together about the evening. Fred sprawled with his head firmly tucked against George’s, their best thinking pose. Whenever they would lie like this together, they almost didn’t even feel the need to talk, practically picking up one another’s thoughts. Sometimes they felt as if they were connected more firmly than others, everyone knew magical identical twins occasionally had a few extra skills. It was almost as good as being the seventh son of a seventh son.

“I think he’ll go for it,” Fred whispered confidently, “though, he does seem to have a thing for Harry.”

“Decidedly so, but that can’t be helped. Hell, we have a thing for Harry, Ron has a thing for Harry, I think even Percy might, and I know mum does.”

“She fawns all over him whenever he visits,”

“It’s almost disturbing,”

“It is disturbing,”

“You’re disturbing,” George said with a laugh.

“Well, what do you expect from disturbing thoughts like these?”

“Bah, onto our plans,”

“Plans plural,”

“Plans numerable,”

“Too many plans to count?”

“Last I noticed we had exactly forty-seven plans,”

“And this one would be?” George asked, turning to eye his twin.

“Phase two of plan one,” Fred responded immediately.

“How ever do you keep them all straight?”

“Who said there was anything straight about them?”

“Ha!” George snorted, squirming in place and absently slapping Fred’s arm.

“Phase two?” Fred asked, calming his brother down and pinning him leisurely beside himself once more.

They panted for a moment, eyeing the drawn curtains about the bed. Not a sound stirred beyond the dark material, and the twins relaxed back against the pillows. George buried his head beneath Fred’s arm, squirming his leg around a hip.

“Phase two, we’ll confront him in daylight hours, whether he’s got his goons beside him or not,”

“Ah yes, forcing him to realize we mean business,”

“And that we refuse to wait for an answer,”

“It’ll be fantastic,”

“Afterwards, perhaps we can draw him away for some celebratory smooching,” George whispered delightedly.

“Smooching?” Fred asked.

“Snogging?”

“Whatever,”

“I wouldn’t mind a kiss or two,” George said wistfully, closing his eyes and sighing heavily.

Fred gazed at him in silence for a minute, and then leaned close, tentatively brushing his lips across George’s, “How’s that?” he asked after a little breathless moment.

“Nice, though, a bit like kissing myself,”

“Ha,” Fred said with an exhale against his twin’s neck, “Well it would be, wouldn’t it?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want another,”

“Oh,” Fred grinned in the dark, leaning down again. This time he experimentally tasted a corner of George’s mouth, not very surprised when he tasted nothing at all. Why would he? They ate the same things, drank the same things, used the same teeth cleaning products. They were as good as the same person.

“Masturbation,” George mumbled against his mouth, lips twisting into a grin.

“Mind reader,”

“Duh,”

Fred slipped his hand down the body beside him, finding that it was exactly like his own. He knew the feeling of his own hand. Knew exactly what his twin felt and thought. Each curve and twitch was a precise duplicate, each little breath and pant indecipherable from his. He was about to ask for a mutual relocation of hands, when George’s hand moved before the asking, tracing the same path over Fred’s body as was being traced over his own. They each grasped the other’s erection through flannel pajamas at the same moment, and stopped for an eternity, perhaps wondering if they should stop all together.

“We should take off our clothes,” George whispered, his breath catching a bit.

“Yeah,” Fred agreed, though instead they both merely yanked down their pajama bottoms, eager to explore this strangely familiar ground. They would have said something at that moment about great minds thinking alike, but their mouths became busy, sounds other than muted moans incapable of escaping.

It was strangely like masturbation, and strangely not. Or more like, masturbation, in that everything was just right, but there was the added benefit of having someone else doing it. They found they knew exactly where everything was, and more importantly, how to touch it just so.

The only thing that really surprised them was that they hadn’t thought of doing it before.



A few days passed, much as days tend to do. The Quidditch match was over, Ravenclaw won, though Ron kept hounding everyone with his views on why Hufflepuff should’ve taken it home. But nobody listened, least of all the twins. They were busy with their own plans and designs. It seemed as if Draco were avoiding them.

“Or in hiding,” Fred confided later that afternoon as they sat with their flaming heads bent together.

“I didn’t even see him at the game,”

“Well, since we can’t seem to get him to come to us, I suppose we’ll just have to go to him,”

“Slytherin dorm?” George asked in surprise.

“No, that’s just too risky, but the dining hall…”

“That might be risky too,”

“More risky than the dorm?”

“Good point, dining hall it is,”

After an hour of intense planning - during which there was only one brief intermission for a slap and tickle session - the twins finally cemented their plans and headed down to dinner. What awaited their eyes however, was not what they expected in the least.

The very center of their currently scheming minds was standing on the Slytherin house table, wand pointed across the way, scowl firmly in place. From what George could see, he also seemed to be wearing a mashed potato hat.

Fred tugged on his brother’s sleeve, directing his attention across the way and towards the Gryffindor table, where as sure as butterscotch was yellow, Harry stood covered in what looked to be a sticky mass of candied yams. He too was scowling intensely, wand wagging dangerously in Draco’s direction.

Just as the twins managed to take in the scene and reevaluate their plans - the wand-slingers each took a step forward and yelled. The entire hall went silent as everything turned a strange smoky red, a few shrieks erupted from the girls and the more squeamish boys, and then Dumbledore was chanting and waving his wand, clearing the room of the acrid smoke.

For a long moment, silence once more descended on the great room, as each person in turn seemed to take stock of the situation. George turned to look at Fred, biting back a yelp at the bright orange face that in turn looked back and let out a yelp of its own.

The silence that had been held burst into the frenzied sound of a mob of witches and wizards suddenly realizing they all looked remarkably like a pumpkin patch.




Headmaster Dumbledore, head of the many houses of Hogwarts and known to have a strange sense of humor, was not amused. For a change, he was actually quite livid, or in the case of this particular crux, he was orange with rage.

When it came to the many spells that it was possible to cast and mess up, Dumbledore knew nearly all the remedies, and often found, that even if he personally did not know a solution, one of the other professors usually did. But this time, as he faced the two orange-colored boys opposite himself, there was no ready solution at hand. For the moment it seemed, nearly the entire school would have to remain pumpkin shaded.

Dumbledore himself had not escaped unscathed, his own face a bright and cheerful orange - which kept making him hum something suspiciously like “oompa loompa,” under his breath. After a few minutes of humming and casting mild looks at the two miscreants in his office, Dumbledore leaned comfortably back in his chair, steepled his fingers and stared.

The two boys fidgeted, unused to this sort of look from the normally mild mannered Headmaster. Draco’s hair was still plastered down against his head with a lovely mousse of mashed potatoes, his orange face clashing horribly with it. Harry sat beside him equally clothed in a sticky mass of candied yams, though strangely his eyes seemed to go well with the ginger colouring of his skin. Both boys were trying to look as innocent as possible in the orange face of justice that was staring them down over the edge of the large wooden desk.

At last, the old and gentle man known as Headmaster Dumbledore – gave the boys a rather serious look and said, “I have come to a decision,” he held up a hand to forestall any words of fake virtue.

“There comes a time in the life of a student, or students as the case may be, when something must be done about certain behavior in order to assure the safety and well-being of *all* of Hogwart’s students. I have been patient with your antics, the punishments you have received less than severe.”

Dumbledore sighed heavily, looking deeply troubled. “But when my students are jeopardized by this behavior, when my entire school is caught in the aftermath – I’m afraid something serious must be done.”

By this time in the speech, both boys were rather worried, casting one another glances as if all at once to say “this is your fault!” and “no it’s not, it’s yours!”

Though truthfully it was both of their faults, and thankfully, Dumbledore was highly aware of that fact. Before, he’d always tried to choose one or the other of these particular boys to take the blame for their many fights. But after the fiasco of dinner, and now faced with a school full of carrot coloured faces, Dumbledore the wise knew he’d have to do something new, something that had never been tried before, something outstanding. “I’ve got it!” the gray-bearded Headmaster cried, snapping his fingers and giving a tiny hop in his chair.

Then, as if realizing he’d done that in front of students, he sat stiffly, and eyed the boys. “It’s time for a new way of dealing with you two. For the rest of the school year you will both be sequestered within the Hollow Tower, at the edge of the school building. It is a tower fashioned after a muggle myth of a woman with great and long hair. It has no exit other than by magic.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed as if begging to deny everything, while Draco merely looked on as if none of it mattered at all.

“You will remain together, with no other company than one another. Meals will be taken at a small table set aside for you in the main dining hall. No friends may speak with you. No activities other than Quidditch may be done outside of your tower. There will be no communication with any other students. Your class work and studies will also be in the tower.” Dumbledore’s impressive eyebrows rose and moved together as if starting a waltz. “That’s all, you are free to go and start packing, I expect you to be moved in by bedtime,” he paused, giving Draco a significant look, “and if you should feel the need to complain to your parents or guardians, then by all means feel free to leave the school. However, don’t bother coming back.”

Draco and Harry jumped slightly in their chairs, as if Dumbledore’s final words had been more than mere words, as if instead, they’d been the sound of a large heavy door - slamming shut.