Pure

Warning for underage sex and incest. This story will depict Draco Malfoy having sex with both Lucius and Narcissa, as well as Marcus Flint, starting from when Draco is 11. If this offends you, please stop reading now.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JK Rowling and various corporations. I'm just borrowing some Malfoys.

Title: Pure
Author: Gertrude Flint
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: The erotic education of Draco Malfoy, pure-blood.
Pairings: LM/DM, NM/DM, LM/NM, MF/DM
Warnings: Incest, chan.

Chapter Three: Unopened

Draco hurries down the dark corridors, feeling terribly pleased with himself.

One Galleon is all it's taken to send Filch to the trophy room tonight. Easy enough: he's watched Father slip a coin to an underling hundreds of times.

He's stayed out long enough to see stupid Potter and some other Gryffindors walking straight into his trap, and now he just needs to get back to the dungeons without running into any teachers. That's why he hasn't brought Goyle and Crabbe; they're useless at moving fast and silently.

He starts down a staircase, forgetting to jump over its trick step, which snaps at his heel; he dodges and says a really rude word, really quietly, and reminds himself to watch where he's going, rather than thinking of Flint... but the very next moment he's doing it again.

He can't help it.

He's been thinking of Flint all the time these past few days. It seems incredible that only two weeks ago they'd never met, for Draco is already sure Flint is the most wonderful boy in the world.

He's tall and strong and tough and funny, and knows heaps of clever jinxes: he showed one to Draco and Goyle and Crabbe the other day, aiming his wand at an unwary Hufflepuff girl, and they'd all run off laughing before any prefects or teachers could come along.

He's a true Slytherin, pure-blood and pure-born, and his family has a fine estate in Derbyshire, and even Snape rather likes him (as much as Snape likes anyone), and Flint admires Father so much that it makes Draco glow with pride to hear him talk of "Mr. Malfoy."

He has dark, deep-set eyes with long eyelashes, and full lips, and even his large teeth look good on him, somehow, in a way they wouldn't on anyone else: Draco figured this out in History of Magic while he spent the lesson scribbling M.F. all down the edge of his parchment, then had a moment of panic when he couldn't remember the charm to make letters disappear.

Even better, Flint knows everything about Quidditch -- every detail of Slytherin's most glorious games over the past few years. It was in the common room last night, while Flint told Quidditch stories to a whole group of younger students, that Draco managed to perch on the arm of the big leather couch and spend five whole thrilling minutes with his shoulder leaning against Flint's; and when he moved away, Flint looked at him again. One of those looks Flint has been giving him ever since Snape's meeting: as if he's thinking of all sorts of things he'd like to do to Draco... and Draco finds himself following Flint around for those looks now, even more than for their game of secret, fleeting touches.

And then, this very afternoon, Flint was named captain of the Slytherin team.

Draco hadn't expected to get close to him this evening -- surely Flint would be surrounded by Pucey and Higgs and the others? -- but when he hurried over to the Slytherin table after setting up Potter for their bogus duel, he'd found a seat saved for him at Flint's side. So then, all through dinner, even as he listened avidly to the Quidditch talk, hanging on every word, his knee had been pressed against Flint's, their feet touching... and finally Draco had taken a deep breath and dared to place his small hand on Flint's broad thigh. And Flint had knocked over his pumpkin juice. Then he'd given Draco another of those looks -- and their hands had met, for the briefest instant, under the table.

Draco is thinking of this, only of this, as he skips down the last marble steps into the Entrance Hall, swerves to his right -- and runs straight into the solid body of someone else, there in the doorway of the dungeons.

"Hey -- oh. It's you, Malfoy."

Flint. Flint, in night-robe and slippers, carrying a brown cloth sack over one shoulder. Draco feels a big silly grin spreading itself over his face and lingering despite his efforts to calm down and look dignified.

"And what are you doing out this late?" says Flint, mock-sternly. "Hmm, guess I'll have to report you now..."

Draco giggles. "You won't! You're not a prefect!"

"Cheeky brat. Come on," says Flint, grabbing Draco's hand, "back to the dormitory. Can't have the firsties running around at night --"

"What are you doing out here?"

"Oh, kitchen raid. Been sitting up with Pucey and the rest, planning our training, and we got hungry. What about you -- no, really, what is it? Not in trouble, are you?"

"No -- but Potter is! I've just sent Filch after him..."

Clinging happily to Flint's hand as they walk along the Slytherin corridors, Draco recounts the whole duel-in-the-trophy-room story. Flint is still laughing as they reach the hidden door to their common room -- but then, instead of saying the password, he stops and looks down, a curious expression on his face.

The dungeons are very silent at night, and very dark outside the ring of flickering light from a single torch on the wall. Draco stands there, suddenly voiceless, still holding Flint's hand, and realizes this is the first time they've been alone, without so much as a ghost to watch them.

Flint sets his sack of food down on the stone floor. His grasp on Draco's hand tightens, tugging lightly, until they stand very near, almost touching.

The darkness closes in around them, as if waiting for something.

"Well," Flint whispers, "don't you think I deserve a reward for not reporting you?"

"Oh -- what?" He can't think properly at all. "Oh, I had a Galleon, but I gave it to Filch..."

"You're too funny, Malfoy! No, I don't want a Galleon. What I want is... a kiss." And his other hand rises to Draco's face as he speaks, and a finger traces Draco's lower lip.

"Oh... But..." What is there to say, when he knows -- as Flint most certainly knows -- how forbidden this is for one of the pure-born who's not yet out, nor even opened. But they're all alone, and Flint is asking, and waiting -- and Draco does wants Flint to kiss him, more than anything.

"Just a kiss, that's all," says Flint. "Nothing really bad, is it? We're both pure, and you've had your first kisses, and you know I wouldn't want to steal anything from Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco tries to speak again, not knowing what he'll say, only hoping it won't sound stupid. "But... I'm not even opened yet..."

Flint's eyes glitter at that. "Oh, I like you unopened..." He moves closer still, so their bodies touch. "A kiss, Malfoy. Please?"

It's nothing really bad. No worse than touching. Only breaking one tiny rule. And it's Flint -- wonderful Flint, the boy who's ruled his thoughts and dreams for days, the Quidditch captain -- standing here and saying please. To him.

"All right." He breathes the words, his heart hammering.

Flint grins, and tilts Draco's chin up with one finger. "Here goes."

For a long moment, all Draco can think is that Flint's lips are much softer than they look. Then he realizes he'd been expecting something rougher, stronger -- but it seems not all men kiss like Father, for Flint takes his mouth slowly, tentatively, as if he can't quite believe this either. The kiss is a question, asked in the parting of their lips and the slide of their tongues against each other, and Draco anwers -- yes, and yes again -- by raising himself on his toes and clasping his hands behind Flint's neck, and kissing back like it's the first and last kiss in the world. And it goes on, and on, and Flint makes a low, urgent sound in his throat, pulling Draco even closer... and nothing at all exists beyond this circle of torchlight, beyond this one endless, forbidden kiss.

When they stop, finally, Draco s lis like he's been running for miles; as Flint's arms release him, he can't hold back a gasp of loss.

Flint hesitates, moving forward again, then shakes his head. "I -- I have to go, they'll be waiting for me..." Slowly, he bends to pick up the sack. "Or we could stay out here and..."

"No -- you're right, we should go back --" He's awkward now, and all at once the tumult of feelings inside him is scary rather than exciting. And the thought of what Father and Mother would say...

No. It was only one kiss. Now it's over. Draco shakes his head decisively and speaks the password to make the common room door open.

But when they part company on the way to their dormitories, Flint stops to open his sack and give Draco a bottle of butterbeer and a handful of peppermint humbugs. Then he looks at him, eyes wide and dark as when he recited the wizard's oath for Snape. "Thanks, Malfoy," he says, smiling. "That was amazing!"


* * * * * *


They hold out for three days before doing it again. Three days in which Draco does his homework, plays Exploding Snap with Goyle and Crabbe, fumes at Filch's failure to catch Potter, listens to Pansy's countdown ("Fourteen weeks!") and strokes himself to sleep every night thinking of Flint's tongue.

And from the looks Flint gives him when they touch each other, in passing -- more and more often now -- it seems Flint can't stop thinking about all this either.

It's Sunday afternoon when Draco hears his name called softly and glances down a side-corridor to see Flint beckoning from a doorway.

"Go on, I'll catch up later," he tells Goyle and Crabbe, pushing them away. They shrug, grunt, and walk on, not questioning him.

In a moment he's through the door -- which proves to lead into an old, seldom-used boys' bathroom -- and the next moment he's pinned against the wall, gazing up into Flint's face.

"You look like you've been up to all kinds of mischief again." Flint's palm brushes Draco's cheek. "Should I report you this time?"

"Oh no, please don't!" Draco begs, breathless with laughter and anticipation.

"And will you thank me again...?"

"Oh yes -- lots -- please --"

Flint kisses him then, and it's good again, so very good... To make it more comfortable, despite their difference in height, Flint picks him up so Draco's legs are wrapped around Flint's waist and his back is supported by the wall; Draco clutches at Flint's shoulders, opens his mouth, and sinks into the kiss until, an endless time later, they both simply run out of air and have to stop.

And as soon as they stop, there's another pang of guilt. "We're not supposed to... really... are we?" sighs Draco, his eyes still closed.

"No, we're not." Flint rests his forehead against Draco's. "Oh, I know what I should do -- if I want you --" His arms tighten for a moment. "I should wait, I should leave you alone... this year, next year -- till your first season, and then I should declare my preference for you to Father and Mother. And then, when we Visit your family... if my father is pleased with me that day, and willing to grant me a favor after he's enjoyed you himself... he may instruct me to take you. In a manner of his choosing. Observed by your parents and mine. All very proper..." Flint's tongue darts out to lick Draco's nose, twice, lightly. "And you should ask Mr. Malfoy for the same favor, when your family Visits us, and maybe it'll please him to watch us together that day and he'll say yes... or maybe not..."

Flint transfers his attention to Draco's right ear, nibbling a spot just underneath it that makes him squeak in surprise. "And later, I'll be married and my own master -- a few years before you -- so I'll be able to have eve every time I Visit your home with my wife. And later still, you'll be grown and married too, and we can start a decent liaison at last... How long? Ten years, you think? Twelve?"

"Um..." Draco tilts his head, making it easier for Flint to do whatever he's doing to that ear; it feels marvelous.

"I want you now," whispers Flint. "Not in ten years' time -- or two years, even -- but this year, this term. Now."

Draco opens his eyes, alarmed.

"I didn't mean it like --" Flint drops his gaze, embarrassed. "Damn, that came out all wrong, you'll think I'm mad -- No, of course I'm not saying 'let me inside you right now' -- of course Mr. Malfoy should open you, it's only right -- but you know, there's other things we might --"

Draco relaxes again. "I get it. We're not supposed to do anything, really, but you think it's all right to do some things... like kissing?"

"Kissing's good, yeah." Flint grins. "So... do you want to? After today?"

Draco leans forward and touches his lips to Flint's. "All right. Just this, though..."

Flint's face lights up as if the Quidditch Cup is won already; his next kiss is exuberant, teasing Draco's tongue, biting playfully at his lips.

And when they separate, he smooths back Draco's hair, murmuring, "If we're going to do it a lot, you'd better call me Marcus, right?"

"Marcus," says Draco, blissful. "Kiss me again?"

He does.

And again.


* * * * * *


They are careful now, very careful. They stop touching each other in public (well, almost) and stop sitting together at meals in the Great Hall. Draco tries not to talk about Flint (Marcus!) to the other first years, or not too often, at least.

Nearly every day, they find somewhere to meet and kiss.

That old, deserted bathroom; a shed behind the greenhouses; a store-room deep in the dungeons; an alcove on the fifth floor of the east wing. Five minutes, perhaps, or as long as half an hour.

Sometimes Marcus picks Draco up and holds him against the wall again; other times Draco sits on his lap, or perches on a window-ledge while Marcus stands in front of him and does all kinds of interesting things to his mouth, his face, his throat...

Draco carries those kisses through his days, through lessons and games, through the horror of learning that Potter is on the Gryffindor team -- when Draco would give anything to play for Slytherin with Marcus as captain -- and Marcus shares his outrage, especially over Potter's new broomstick. Marcus rides a Comet Two Sixty, like Draco's best broom at home, but now he says he'll owl his father at once to buy him a Nimbus.

And when they meet, true to his promise, Marcus doesn't try to do anything more: he never removes Draco's robes, never lets his caresses stray down to Draco's cock, never asks Draco to touch him more intimately.

And Draco, melting from the kisses, feels only relieved at first that no further demands are made... until, as they keep meeting -- two weeks, three -- he finds his curiosity growing as fast as his desire for more touches.

There seems to be no place for completion, for coming, among their fleeting encounters and hurried, breathless kisses in those weeks. It's more like stealing little fragments of each other, to take away and remember, and they can have no more than this: for stealing is exactly what they're doing, when they know their bodies are not their own -- they belong to their parents, entirely, from now until they are grown and trained.

All these decisions... how they are touched or taken, and when, and by whom... decisions not theirs to make. Not unless they steal them.

But Draco is hard when he walks away, every time, and his evening thoughts, rather than converging on December and his parents' bed, are now a jumble of heat and skin and Marcus. And if it's like this for him, when he's still unopened and can't even come properly yet -- what's it like for Marcus, he wonders, who's all grown-up with four seasons of Visiting behind him? No, he doesn't ask; he doesn't quite dare to ask.

Then, after an agonizingly long wait, Mr. Flint's owl brings his son a refusal: Marcus will not get a Nimbus Two Thousand until his results in Potions and Transfiguration improve.

Marcus is furious, and when he pulls Draco into an empty classroom that day, his kisses are fierce, all interspersed with muttered oaths about brooms.

He lifts Draco onto the teacher's desk, not releasing his mouth for a moment, and shoves him down so he's lying on his back, and Draco closes his eyes, and... oh, it's good. He finds he likes being kissed while lying down, likes it a lot -- and it's even better when he parts his legs and Marcus leans over him, pressing close so Draco feels surrounded by him in a new way that's deeply exciting. Before long he hears his own soft gasps blending into their kisses, and his hips seem to be moving of their own accord, pushing and pushing into the delicious weight of the body above him.

When the older boy tries to pull away, Draco's hands fly up to hold him. "No! Marcus, more --"

"What?" Marcus is breathing hard. He touches Draco's face, rests a fingertip against his lips. "Are you -- oh, how much more?"

"I don't know... Just more," says Draco. As no other words manage to struggle to the surface of his mind, he settles for wriggling his hips again and gives Marcus's finger a hopeful lick.

Marcus swallows hard. "Right. More. Um... not here." He sighs, looking around the room; then his face brightens. "Can you come and watch Quidditch training tomorrow?"


* * * * * *


Draco brings along Goyle, Crabbe, and the latest package he's received from Mother; the three of them make themselves comfortable halfway up the stands and have a fine time eating sweets and watching the Slytherin team fly. No one flies better than Marcus, of course, Nimbus or no Nimbus.

And when the training session is over, most of the players head off to the changing room, but Marcus lingers on the field and lets the three of them play with the Quidditch equipment and ask all the questions they want. Goyle and Crabbe seize the bats and whack the Bludgers at each other, roaring with laughter; Draco looks at the Snitch longingly, picking it up for a moment just to feel the flutter of wings. Oh, if only he could be on the team! Stupid Potter.

"Next year, right?" says Marcus quietly, his eyes making it clear that if it were up to him, it would be a certainty.

"Yeah, maybe..." Draco answers. It's not up to Marcus, and they both know it. It's up to Snape, and Mr. Flint, and Draco's father, and everybody else's fathers. The politics behind Slytherin team selection make the Ministry of Magic look simple.

Marcus nudges his shoulder. "Get rid of them," he whispers, nodding at Goyle and Crabbe. "Follow me in about ten minutes."

When Draco reaches the changing room, alone and already breathless, the door swings open before he touches it and Marcus has pulled him into an embrace almost before the door has time to close.

"Well, how do you like it?" he asks, laughing. "I have the key, and I know the locking charm here, and I've got the schedule and no one else will come in for two hours, at least..." He spins around, still holding Draco, and sets him down on top of the wooden crate with all the Quidditch things. "So, now I've got you quite alone, what shall I do with you?"

With Draco standing on the crate they are almost the same height, so it's easy to wind his arms around Marcus's neck and whisper in his ear: "You said... more... I want -- I can't, I wouldn't..." Help me, he tries to say, struggling for words, wanting so much -- but not if it turns his first night with Father and Mother into a lie.

"I know. More, but not -- oh," says Marcus, wonderful Marcus who understands what Draco can't say. "I'll be careful, I promise, now -- oh, now --"

They're kissing again. They're kissing, and Draco realizes how much restraint Marcus must have used every time before, because this time his hands show no restraint at all -- they seem to be touching all of Draco, all at once, stroking and fondling and petting until he trembles and clings. Marcus reaches into his robes, between his thighs, cupping his arse to draw him forward, closer still; and just as he's sure he can't stand up a moment longer, Marcus sinks down on the long bench nearby and pulls Draco into his lap.

Other kisses follow, and other things Marcus can do with his hands. And still, some unknown time later -- with his hair dishevelled, tie loose, robes slipping off his shoulders -- Draco breaks off a kiss to whisper, "More? More, like this?"

"Oh, much more...." Marcus trails his lips along Draco's neck. "Know what I think of at night?"

"Ohh... night?"

"Mmm-hmm... In bed... know what I think of to get myself off?"

Draco shakes his head, wide-eyed.

"You," says Marcus, husky-voiced, "you and your father. What your first time looks like, just thinking of it makes me hard, see --" He tugs Draco's hand down, places it on the bulge between his legs. "Yeah -- you on your back, lifting your legs for him --"

Touching Marcus -- and the thought of him doing that -- Draco wriggles in Marcus's lap, petting him teasingly through his trousers. "And then? What happens then? Tell me..."

"He fucks you," Marcus rasps. "He opens you -- first time -- I think of him getting on top of you, and his -- oh god, don't stop... That huge cock sliding inside your little hole, stretching it so much -- and it hurts, you're crying, but he keeps pushing and pushing, opening you, filling you up --"

He claims Draco's mouth again, fast, and Draco returns the kiss hungrily.

"Wish I could see it... god, I wish I could see your first time!"

"So do I," murmurs Draco, stroking the hardness under his hand.

Marcus raises his head, face flushed and eyes bright, yet his voice turns almost bashful. "You said -- more... and I... Draco, can I look at you? Please?"

"Look at -- Oh!" It takes a moment for him to realize what he's being asked to do. "You mean take off my --"

"Yes, oh please, let me see -- your cock, your arse, your..." His hand slithers down Draco's back, lower and lower. "Just want tok..ok... so next time, when I'm by myself, I can... Please?"

Draco stands up. "All right."

Slowly, he takes off his robes, then starts to unfasten his trousers. Marcus watches every move; Draco can feel himself blushing, and hurries to drop the trousers in a heap on the floor with his shoes. Soon he's standing there in nothing but his shirt and jumper -- his small, hard cock completely exposed. He doesn't know where to look.

"Brilliant!" says Marcus eagerly. "Over here, could you -- please?" He makes Draco get up on a bench, on all fours. "Oh, like that, yeah, that's great --"

Total silence for a moment, as Marcus stands behind him and Draco wonders how just being looked at can make him feel hot all over -- why kneeling half-naked in front of Marcus is so impossibly thrilling.

"Oh," says Marcus. "Oh, perfect -- you're perfect, all pale and smooth, and your little fuck-hole, unopened -- look at it, so small..." He gulps. "Draco... can I touch you? Please?"

"All right," Draco whispers. Touch, yes, touches on bare skin: that sounds good, sounds like exactly what the heat in him wants, the heat spreading through his stomach, his bottom, his cock... He wants to be touched. But he doesn't know how much he wants it until Marcus's hands on his thighs startle a moan out of him -- then another as they glide upwards to grasp his arse.

"Really, really unopened? Nothing at all's been inside here, has it? Not a cock, not a tongue?"

"No," Draco gasps, feeling someone else's hand there for the first time.

"Not even a finger?"

"No! Ohh..." Marcus is kneeling behind him now, stroking his opening, pressing against it ever so lightly. Draco twitches. "Oh, you mustn't, not inside!"

"I won't! Not inside -- but oh god, I've never touched anyone unopened before, I have to, please let me -- oh, think of Mr. Malfoy's cock in here, oh wow..." Marcus seems to run out of words, but his delicate, maddening touches don't stop for a moment. His other hand slips around Draco's hip to brush his cock.

Draco is panting, greedy now for that elusive more; he spreads his knees a little wider, hoping he won't fall off the bench, and pushes his arse higher.

"Can I -- can I kiss it? Can I, Draco? Oh please say yes, please, please..."

"Yes," he says, not hesitating at all; and the next sound he makes is a muffled squeak, for Marcus uses both hands to spread his cheeks, while his tongue --

Draco squirms and whimpers as Marcus kisses and licks him, alternating slow sweeps of his tongue with rapid circles around the hole he finds so fascinating, and it feels better than flying, better than anything. He's never even thought about being licked there, but now Marcus's eager wet mouth is making him tingle from head to toe -- especially his cock, harder than ever. He wants to touch himself, but fears he might fall on his face.

Then he realises that one of Marcus's hands is no longer on his arse, and twists his head around to look, and sees the older boy rubbing his own crotch as he kneels behind Draco.

"Marcus -- are you going to come?" he asks, too light-headed with sensation to bother being shy. "Can I watch?"

One glimpse of Marcus's face, mouth open in surprise -- then he's pulling at Draco's hip and fumbling with his own trousers all at once, saying urgently, breathlessly: "Here, turn over, lie down, yeah, like that --"

And Draco is on his back, knees drawn up, with his arse at the edge of the bench -- placing it right at the level of Marcus's cock. Another moment, and the slick head brushes against Draco's entrance.

"Oh god."

Draco raises his head to watch Marcus's fist move up and down. "Do you think about that too?" he asks, surprising himself with the heat in his own voice. "Not Father, but you... fucking me?"

"Yes -- ohh, yes!" Marcus bites his lip, his hand moves faster, his face screws up as if he's hurting -- and Draco stares, holding his breath, as Marcus's come shoots out all over his arse and between his legs.

Marcus slumps forward, gasping, between Draco's thighs. His stomach presses down and it's just like it was on the desk in the classroom; Draco makes a noise that's almost a whine, pushing up, trying to... needing to... Then Marcus looks at him, still breathing heavily -- and trails a hand through his own sticky come, and closes it around Draco's cock, and gives him what he wants so much -- leaning forward to kiss Draco hard as his cock quivers and jerks in Marcus's large fist, as the thrill rushes through his body to leave him bonelessly happy.

When they move, at last, Draco finds himself sitting on the floor, curled up against Marcus's broad chest.

"Wish I could come properly," he says, half-drifting. "Yours was great -- it went everywhere!"

Marcus bursts out laughing. "Oh, you will! And make sure you learn the charm to clean it up, before third year -- Snape's horridly particular about that." One of his hands rubs circles along Draco's naked hip; the other plays with his Slytherin tie. "Remind me to take all your clothes off... next time?"

It's a question, as if he thinks Draco might want to stop now.

But Draco doesn't.

************************************


A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for the comments: crawfoc99, Seva (fabulous repeat reviewer!), Annabel Lee (sorry about Dobby), and Ellen (the impatient one). I love you all and wish you lots and lots of nice things. :-)

Next chapter: More Marcus/Draco, an awfully disappointing Quidditch game, and letters from Narcissa.

Comments and criticism of any kind are very welcome.


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Updated A/N January 2006: I had to stop doing fandom stuff in mid-2004, for one reason or another, and trying to get back into it a year ago didn't work, but I'm trying again now. Catching up on reading some lovely hot fics, and starting to write again. I want to finish this WIP, I really do, it's been nagging at me for months and months!! I hate leaving things half-done.

So, I've just corrected a few mistakes here, and getting up the courage to write some more. Thanks for all the reviews, and hugs to anyone who hasn't given up on this fic yet.

GF