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Tame the wind The seating at the Slytherin table in Malfoy's final year went thus: facing each other at the 'high' end of the long table were he and Pansy Parkinson, she pouring him the vinegary wine that was their dubious privilege for surviving seven years under the rule of bizarre academics, he occasionally deferring to her in conversation. During the evening meal she would slip off her shoes and run one stockinged foot up the back of his calf whilst Crabbe worked a dextrous meat-fist between her thighs. Blaise Zabini sat to Draco's left, leaning his jaw on one hand and lazily circling the rim of his empty glass with a long finger, half-lidded gaze fixated on Draco's mouth. To an insider - to most outsiders - these were the positions of power. Draco was the Slytherin poster boy; to many he was the pure embodiment of everything the Sorting Hat sang, and he was feared and revered for it. Mostly silently, for he'd taken to the habit of wearing Muggle-style clothes (and wasn't that odd?) with short sleeves, and everyone could see the geometric symbols blacked into his flesh. No one was quite certain what they were for, these marks, but 'Dumbledore hasn't said anything!' and 'It must be his Father, or a mark from You-Know-Who!' rattled in the corridors like spectres with chains, a metallic ring of the past. Pansy didn't know what the marks were for, but she differed in that it pleased her not to know. Her mother had promised her to Draco's father at her eighth birthday party, when the sun was lowering over the Malfoy estate in a fierce red mist and cake-crumbs littered her summer-dress. She didn't love Draco but he was beautiful, for a boy, like a knife or a sword was beautiful with straight edges and spiteful little cuts. They'd had sex, once, on the oriental rug in her dormitory after he'd rattled in under a haze of alcohol, and she tried to kiss him but he put his hand over her face. It had smelt of sex - not hers. That had been in fifth year, and their interactions since were perfunctory and formal, as befitted their tactic-born betrothal. They were the King and Queen of Slytherin for any student with a romantic outlook, which covered most of Hufflepuff and the Gryffindor girls. The boys of Gryffindor didn't look over to the far table unless they had to and then it was with eyes that spat fire and grunts of adolescent antagonism. The Ravenclaws, birds that watched with tilted heads and hoarded gossip like silver, thought Draco and Pansy were positively Arthurian and were always on the lookout for a possible Lancelot. When he was eventually discovered, not a Slytherin was surprised; snakes don't have eyelids and so see what goes on in the night, when birds are sleeping. When the meals were over and the students retired to the dungeons it was Blaise that followed Draco into the shadowed throat of his room, not the Slytherin 'Queen' (though there was a circle of thought that thought Draco was quite Queen enough). Seventh year Slytherins were few enough that they shared a room between two and so perhaps this wasn't occasion unto itself, unless they were a Malfoy and had secured their own room in fifth year. Draco's hair was a starburst in the twisted corridors where no torches were lit - they could have used a simple 'Lumos' to dispel the dark but then they would have had to face heavy-browed portraits and a suspect stain that pooled out from the caved-in room next door. It was better to walk in the darkness and tread on each other's heels, hands clutched around robes or arms or waists. Then they would stumble, or Blaise would push; impatiently shouldering Draco's back and propelling him to the nearest surface. The writing desk in particular was a favourite, a gift from the senior Malfoy. It was scored with marks that could be from the ivory quill propped officiously in an antique inkwell or could be from the scrape of fingernails grappling for hold as the body they were attached to was fucked repeatedly into the dark wood surface. For one so outwardly calm Blaise's hands were frantic beneath the cloak of the room, searching for bare skin and fawning on it with greedy fingers as he ground his hips into Draco's, tearing off the heavy school robes with a flourish. Their kisses were hungry, all teeth and tongue and snuffs of breath as they tried to consume each other in the kiln of lust; kiln because they were creating, here, with hands and mouths, some sort of magic that beat fists on the stone walls and wanted out. On the bed's silk sheets that spilled as smooth as lies, Blaise traced those infamous runes with his tongue, tickling the crux of Draco's elbow as Thurisaz and Nauthiz were invoked in a wet kiss. Tiwaz and Pertho glistened in the drying track of his progress around Draco's arm, where delicate green veins told a story in Parseltongue under pale skin. He grinned, cat with freshly-caught canary. "Getting that tattoo was the brightest thing you've ever done." Then a quick bite on Isa and, "Not that you have much to compare it with." Draco's eyes narrowed as he inspected the flush left by Blaise's teeth and their stares locked together like power&money, storms behind the shield of fine eyelashes. "Surely you can put your mouth to better use, Zabini, than to rabbit on about my bloody tattoo." It appeared he could. * Then, later; "And what was with the girl?" Draco was propped up on one elbow, sheets caressing his hips as he stared fixedly at Blaise's navel where a trail of fine hair led to his unbuttoned trousers. In their 'quick' sessions Blaise somehow always remained mostly clothed, as if the scaly fabric was part of his skin. His head hung off the far end of the bed and the only evidence Draco had of Blaise's face was his pale throat, the thin scratch of the day before still pink, and the occasional sliver of smoke. At his question, the smoke was exhaled in a cloudy huff. "What girl?" "The Ravenclaw that nearly orgasmed over the sight of us fighting." Draco's voice was flat. Blaise rolled his eyes and flicked the end of the cigarette sightlessly over his shoulder, straightening into a cross-legged position on the bed. His face was flushed with blood that seemed to film his eyes, angry and narrow. "What are you talking about, Malfoy? Is it the delusions again?" "Don't give me this shit! I'm talking about Miz. mudblood Seeker that you oozed all over, who fainted away at your God-like touch." Blaise tapped his teeth as if thinking, before letting out a bark of laughter and curving his lips in a sinful grin. "Oh, her. I'd forgotten." "Forgotten? It was yesterday, you amnesiac tosser!" A shrug. "What about her?" Then, raising his eyebrows as if it had just occurred to him, "You mean, did I fuck her?" Draco was wringing expensive silk into a creased mess, his white face coloured only by twin spots of rage on his cheekbones. His eyes, almost colourless in the day, were as dark as his anger. His voice was a hiss, the words ground out between clenched teeth. "Did you?" Assessing their positions, Blaise leaned forward slightly and pressed his mouth to Draco's closed lips, probing for entry with his tongue until the body beneath his gave in, pliant to his touch. As Draco began to reciprocate, to lead, Blaise sank his teeth into the boy's lower lip to reopen the cut there and drew quickly away with a pleased grin. Panting slightly Draco wiped a hand across his face and cursed colourfully, blood splashing onto his chest from his bowed head. He angled a glare at Blaise and the boy understood a little of the fear surrounding the Malfoy persona; there was ice there that could burn in its coldness. Then he turned away and slid off the bed, picking up his robe and making to leave before Draco's voice stopped him. "Well?" Utter disdain, a predator finding its prey too unworthy to even kill. "Draco, you are the stupidest bastard I've ever had the misfortune to meet. And I know Longbottom." The shadows seemed to be laughing. back |