Devil's Snare

Title: Devil's Snare

Rating: R

Word Count: 831

009: Shapes

Paring: Harry/Draco

Summary: Harry is told to bring Draco to the light side of the war at any cost. Post-HBP, HPDM!D/s, dubious consent, Post-Hogwarts, war!fic.

Disclaimer: Unoriginal characters and situations belong to JKRowling. No copyright infringement is intended.

Table of Contents found at http://www.livejournal.com/users/mahoganyhandle/9713.html

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I appreciate all of the feedback. I meant to update sooner, but I've been sick again. I'll try to be more consistent with updating, especially since I'm working on part 023/100 now.

~

Harry took the Floo to Malfoy Manor. He and Malfoy had made arrangements the day before to have dinner together at his house, and Harry was running a little late.

The parlor into which he emerged was light and airy, richly decorated with artwork by the finest wizarding painters throughout history. A maid was sitting on a chaise there, and she rose and greeted Harry with a bow before directing him to Malfoy's study. The sound of laughter accosted him from within and Harry felt like an invader.

Malfoy sat in a massive leather chair with his daughter, Belladonna, curled up in his lap. Across the room a stage had been erected and an entire chorus line of handcrafted wooden puppets danced across it, singing a jolly little ditty. Belladonna's laughter tinkled like a bell, chiming harmoniously with Malfoy's deeper, silkier tenor.

"Daddy," Belladonna said. "Who's that, Daddy?"

Malfoy glanced in the direction she pointed, which was to Harry who stood back by the door, wary of going inside. The cheer left Malfoy's expression at first sight of Harry.

"It's not polite to point, darling. He's Harry Potter, Daddy's friend. Remember I told you that he was coming to call?"

"Oh, yes!" She squirmed out of Malfoy's grasp and ran over to Harry's side and gave a curtsey. "Hello, Mr. Potter. I'm Belladonna. How do you do?"

Harry bowed back at her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Belladonna. Please call me 'Harry.'" She giggled and smiled at him prettily.

They took dinner in a small, informal dining room. The atmosphere was light and cheerful. Malfoy, in this sense, seemed alien to Harry. His kind, indulgent, loving manner; his brilliant smile that seemed to make him glow; his genuine joy – all were strange.

Harry especially could not reconcile the image of Malfoy with his daughter to the one Harry glimpsed only hours later, when they retired to Malfoy's darkened bedroom.

"You have to leave before my daughter wakes up," Malfoy said as he tugged at Harry's belt buckle. "She comes in here every morning."

Harry stilled Malfoy's hands. Malfoy looked up at him, baffled. "We don't have to do this now."

"Why wait? This is what you want from me, isn't it?" Long, nimble fingers unfastened the buttons on Harry's shirt.

"I don't want anything from you, Malfoy. This is Dumbledore's idea."

"Dumbledore's dead. Anyway, I hardly think he was dying to get in my pants. Something about the old perverted headmaster image doesn't quite fit with the Dumbledore I knew. I can't really put my finger on it, mind."

Adrenaline coursed through Harry when Malfoy spoke of Dumbledore in such a way, and it rekindled a flame of hatred that Harry had thought long settled. Grabbing Malfoy by the shoulders, Harry shoved Malfoy back against the wall, relishing the sound of Malfoy's head smacking back. Harry wanted to do more, much more. He wanted to hurt, to twist, to make malleable and vulnerable the icy, hard man in his arms.

"Do not maltreat his memory in my presence again," Harry warned, seething in his anger. "And believe me: Dumbledore would have been merciful to you only as long as you were cooperative. This was his idea. You gave it to him when you were trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet. He knew every bit of progress that you made, and he knew what it meant, better than you did. Don't think he wouldn't have forced you into a partnership with him. Where do you think I got the idea in the first place?"

Malfoy pouted, unable to meet Harry's gaze. Instead he focused on the jagged scar that crossed Harry's neck, a parting gift from Bellatrix Lestrange in a duel a few years back. Harry shook him until he looked up at Harry through his fringe. He surged against Harry, aligning their bodies into a mesh of symmetry, all angles and muscle and desire. Locked in a tight embrace, they maneuvered to the bed.

It was as Malfoy lay beneath him, clutching him closer, head thrown back against the pillows, hair curtained in a halo around him, that Harry saw it, out of the corner of his eye. Something lingered in the shadows of the room, a dense shapeless form from which power undulated, permeating the room. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed it before.

In his distraction, he faltered, destroying the rhythm of their writhing together, hand slipping down Malfoy's hot cock. Malfoy noticed Harry's preoccupation and grinned, then pouted playfully, then squeezed, tearing a breathy moan from Harry's gut. Malfoy was so tight, so hot, so fucking beautiful when he pouted like that, lip quivering just a bit. Harry leaned forward and kissed the pout into a bruise, hand snaking between them to caress the sensitive skin at the junction of Malfoy's leg and torso, and Malfoy keened into Harry's mouth. It sounded like nirvana. It chased all thoughts of shapes in the shadows from Harry's mind.

~

Hmm. I've got a question. Who do you think is the dom in this relationship (based solely on what I've written, not what I've said)? I'm trying to see if I've made it too dubious.