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bottom_dracoTitle: Seasons Change, And So Do We
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
calrissian18
Prompt: PROMPT # 21
Adapted from: The Myth of Persephone
Pairing: Voldemort/Draco
Word Count: ~6,000
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): *Possible Dubious Consent – Voldemort makes a deal for Draco, Minor Character Death, Language*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I’ve tweaked the myth a bit to make it sappier (sooo unlike me) and it’s not straight up Draco-as-Persephone, Voldemort-as-Hades but rather the myth interpreted through the Harry Potter-verse. I hope that’s all right…? HUGE shout-out toarte0135 for the amazing prompt – my excitement was literally off the charts when I lucked out and got it – and ‘ling for staying on my ass to get this done. Love you, bb!!!!
Summary: The Malfoy boy is sixteen when he burns the Mark into him. It’s almost more than he can bear; marking something his that isn’t quite.
He’s beautiful when Voldemort first lays eyes on him, but young. Too young to be spoilt by knowledgeable hands, too young for him to damage with his desires. He locks it behind a mask and if his eyes flicker to the boy more than they ought then his gaze is still violent enough that no one dares acknowledge it.
He waits.
The Malfoy boy is sixteen when he burns the Mark into him. It’s almost more than he can bear; marking something his that isn’t quite. Something that beckons to him like every temptation made form. Only a select few witness the hollow victory. The boy’s mother, his father, Bellatrix, Severus. His mother’s eyes hold so much behind them, but all that’s visible is a stark portrait of strength. He’s seen the same in the boy’s eyes in darker times. It stirs something in him, something much deeper than arousal. Bellatrix is gleeful and he wants to physically slap the expression from her pale features. This is not her moment. She owns no part of it. His fingers tighten on his wand.
Lucius is a hollow shell of himself, swallowing convulsively, looped in fear and disbelief until it’s over. Severus’ thoughts are a mystery to all but himself and Voldemort fights the urge to sneer at him. Everything burned out of him for an unrequited love. He can’t think of a man more pathetic than this. Knowing what has driven him through his lonely years, he cannot understand the sense of kinship he sometimes feels to him. They are nothing alike and yet there’s something in him that says being broken is enough. He cannot deny it is a quality they both have in spades.
The boy doesn’t cry, he doesn’t sob through his pain. Nor does he endure quietly. He screams. And screams. And screams until it’s done. He hasn’t realized he’s touching him with something beyond his wand until his knee hits the wood. He cradles the boy’s face in his hand while the other keeps grip on his wand. He touches him gently with one and digs with the other. Draco’s screams don’t lessen in the slightest. He doesn’t even notice Voldemort’s feather-light kneading, his weak attempt at comfort.
Severus does.
Severus bides his time. Information is power and Severus has always treated it as such, respected and feared it in his own right. He’s stealthy enough that Voldemort doesn’t realize the conversation is coming until he’s embroiled in it. Severus has expertly steered it from the most recent raids to individual followers to Draco. He takes a sip of his whisky, his eyes alight. “The boy might be susceptible to a deal.” The words are throwaways, careless, or so Severus would have him believe.
His wariness of the man – of a mind so effortlessly treacherous – increases. He hitches in his robes to show he’s heard even if he doesn’t intend to respond.
Severus leans forward and there’s no act of disinterest now. “He stays to keeps his family safe. You let them go and he would do whatever you asked of him.”
The idea of Draco bending to his will with no sign of the strings controlling him stutters the breath in his chest. He twists in his seat and, though he knows the hope is buried deep rather than showing on his face, he still worries that Severus can see it. His lip curls slightly. “Bellatrix couldn’t be dragged away by wild dogs.” It’s a stall. He knows Severus means the boy’s parents but he needs the time to consider his response to such a… compelling proposition.
Severus’ distaste is almost unnoticeable. “His nuclear family, My Lord.”
Voldemort watches as his fingers play along the fabric over his knee. “And what do you gain from telling me this?”
Severus’ mouth tightens. “His safety.” It’s the truth and it doesn’t seem to be one he’s pleased with. Voldemort understands. Caring for things only means you’ll break when they do. “If he’s yours, you will protect him.”
Voldemort smirks. “I almost thought you’d forgot you’d been named godfather to the boy.” Severus frowns and Voldemort’s gaze sharpens. “Does he know you care?”
Severus stiffens and his tone is biting. “Would it change anything if he did?”
Voldemort grins at that, a quick flash of teeth. “As duplicitous as ever, Severus, countering a question with a question.”
Severus doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t seem to know whether the reaction he’s gotten is proud or displeased. He leans away, the darkness beyond the firelight’s glow swallowing him whole.
Once the decision’s made, it’s impossible to ignore the boy. He wants to blanket him with his body heat, inhale him, treat him as if he’s already agreed, as if he’s already owned. He doesn’t mean to ambush the boy but he corners him before he’s thought better of it. It’s barely been an hour since he’s spoken with Severus and here he is, backing the boy into a wall on his way into the atrium. The boy stares up at him, his eyes wide and an all too innocent grey. “Draco,” and it’s impossible to excise the purr from his voice, “there’s something I would like to ask you if that’s all right?”
The boy swallows and his mouth hangs open, lost for an answer but an open invitation he can’t yet accept.
Voldemort holds up his hand before he loses the battle with himself and sways in to claim those pink lips. “After.” He catches Draco’s blank gaze with a sharp look of his own.
Draco straightens up with a weak nod and it’s enough for the moment.
The anticipation is still tingling through him as he turns to the two figures standing in the center of the room. Greyback’s got his hand, nails long enough to bite into skin, on the woman’s shoulder as she coughs at his feet. Blood slides down her cheek and it’s indication enough that she’s let it all go. Spoken until her voice was too hoarse and she couldn’t speak anymore.
She’s down on her knees, hunched over with one forearm bracing her on the dirty ground. Her hair is ragged and tangled and auburn in color. She’ll be dead in moments. Voldemort bends until he’s looking into her heart-shaped face. She has almond eyes and there’s fear crawling its way out of them and soon it will be all that’s left and that simply won’t do.
Voldemort speaks softly to her, too quiet to be overheard. “Your death will be quick, Margaret.” Honey-colored eyes blink at him, looking hypnotized by the words falling from his lips, not patronizing, not falsely praising, but stripped and raw and honest. He eases her into death, guides her into tranquil acceptance. “You were right to speak and you can calm yourself knowing it will end soon,” he goes on, “All of this will end soon.”
He waits until she’s nodding with him. He presses the tip of his wand to her temple and waits until she locks on to it, accepts it, and looks back at him. He smiles at her and she smiles right back.
Her body drops to the cold concrete with a soft whump.
Voldemort straightens and catches sight of Draco’s pale face. Were he a more patient man, he would wait until he’d charmed Draco somehow, made him more likely to acquiesce. He would at least put this off until a time when he hadn’t just killed a woman. As it is, he simply motions for Draco to follow and leads him into his father’s study.
Voldemort sinks into the seat the room is geared towards while Draco stands near the entrance, studying the mantle and its figurines as though they’re unknown to him. Voldemort watches him for longer than he ought, watches the surety of his posture, the purposefulness of his steps, all of it contradicting the trepidation on his face.
Beating around the bush has always been a foreign concept to him. He steeples his fingers and says carefully, “I want to make a deal with you.”
Draco’s careful movement jerks. He turns to face him but his gaze stays on his shoes. “What kind of deal?”
Voldemort tilts his head. He wants to push back the hair that has fallen over Draco’s right eye. “One that would ensure your parents’ safety.” Draco’s head wrenches up. “I’d let them go, Draco.” Severus is right. The boy would do anything for his family. Voldemort can see the ‘yes’ in his eyes won’t be dampened despite his terms.
“In exchange for what?” Draco’s tone is sharp, impatient, and it’s clear he only wants to know what will be expected of him so he can agree that much faster.
Voldemort can’t help his grin at the boy’s eagerness; he’s pacing now in pure anxiety. Voldemort licks his lips. “You.”
Draco’s hurried steps stutter and fall off completely. “You want…” he lets the moment drag on until it becomes obvious that Voldemort won’t be helping him complete the thought, “me?”
“Yes,” is the even response.
Draco swallows and he holds his body tense even as he moves to take the seat in front of Voldemort. He inhales deeply and squints. “In what way?”
Voldemort’s eyes flash. “In every way.”
Draco’s mouth parts and his breaths come quicker as the thought settles with him. It’s obvious this was never even in the realm of possibility for him.
It hits Voldemort like a Stinging Curse to the chest why. The boy has no idea how beautiful he is. How tempting. He’s arrogant to be sure, but not about this, not about his looks. He has no idea that the way his lower lip protrudes makes one think of dragging it down with their thumb, sucking it into their mouth, dotting it with their come. He’s classically beautiful and no other word describes him, encompasses the fragility of him or the awe he inspires. He must know it yet it’s so clear he doesn’t.
“What-What would you do with me?” He clears his throat over the stutter and Voldemort’s gaze softens at the break.
“Whatever you’d allow me.”
Draco’s brows perk up in surprise. “Allow?”
“I might be sadistic, but I’m not looking to harm you.” It’s true and he expects it as much as Draco did. His desires have never waded into the darker side of things when it comes to Draco. He’s never looked at him and wanted to splinter. He wants to protect, caress, worship.
Draco looks away. “Then you want—”
Voldemort’s smile shows teeth. “You’re not this obtuse, are you?”
Draco huffs out something that could be a laugh if it wasn’t so defeated. His fingers clench and unclench and he says, “My family’s safe. You promise me that?”
Voldemort’s swallow is dry and it scrapes down his throat. “It’s yours.”
“Then I’m—” His jaw tightens and he cuts off the response, the ‘yours’ he can’t bring himself to say. He fists his hands in his robes. “You have me.” He stands and Voldemort stands with him, already reaching out for him. Draco pushes Voldemort’s hand down unconsciously. “But I want to see them,” he says sharply. He waits until he’s sure he has Voldemort’s attention. He looks off to the side and bites his lip. “Four months,” he decides. “Four months from every year. Four months of freedom, real freedom.”
Voldemort knows he means that he isn’t to be followed, he isn’t to be watched, he wants four months away from all of this in exchange for eight spent in his arms. It’s the least of what Voldemort would give him. “Done.”
He moves slowly because he wants more than a body beneath him but this is not a fairytale or one of those horrible Muggle stories. If it was, he’s sure he’d be the villain of the piece. Men with such impressive body counts attached to their name rarely prove to be the protagonist. Draco hasn’t been harboring even so much as a tame interest for him, let alone hiding some similar affection. If anything, Draco’s harboring a bit of hatred and more than a little disgust.
So, slow.
He doesn’t even kiss Draco that first month. He asks that he not go back to Hogwarts for his seventh year and Draco agrees. Voldemort suspects it’s because he doesn’t think he has a choice, despite the fact that he’s specifically phrased it to show that he did. He doesn’t make a point of it because he’s gotten the answer he wanted. Draco mostly stays in his room. Moping, he supposes. At night he pads across the floor in his nightshirt, slips into bed, turns his back and falls asleep. They don’t speak but sometimes Voldemort wakes with his arm wrapped around Draco’s chest and his mouth pressed to the back of his neck.
Draco's neck and ears will pink up then and he will tense until his muscles seem like they’ll never unwind again. He never moves away, in fact he barely breathes until Voldemort’s hands leave him. It’s all he’s asked of him so far, that Draco sleep with him in the guest bedroom and Draco had nervously acquiesced, not looking him in the eye. During the days that Voldemort is there, Draco reads in the solarium, his bare feet curled into the scratchy, flowered upholstery of his chair and his silver hair looking more golden while his eyes swift through seemingly endless lines of text.
He assumes that’s what Draco does on the days he leaves as well but it’s something he can’t know. Well, he can. But he refuses to nose into Draco’s privacy any more than he already has.
Voldemort doesn’t press, doesn’t alter their relationship any further and, before long, Draco joins him for meals in the dining room and he makes no complaint when Voldemort pores over maps and parchments in the solarium with him. The tension that becomes Draco’s constant companion over the next few months slowly bleeds away as those first eight draw to a close and soon, on those mornings when he wakes to Voldemort’s arm locked around his middle, he does nothing more than glance at it, close his eyes and fall away into sleep all over again.
He thinks the fact that he and Draco have remained so distant will cushion the blow when he leaves. He could not be more wrong.
He spends four long months in a state of complete rigidity and not enough sleep. Life drains out of everything around him, death and bitterness following in his wake. Leaves fall from trees, drying and flaking, flowers wither and brown up and everyone seems to know better than to comment. Only Severus smirks at him when even the white oak behind the property starts to lose its foliage and the crisp winter can hardly be blamed for that.
Voldemort pretends not to notice.
Every thought or plan he’s ever had flies out of his head when he lays eyes on Draco again, standing outside the door with another inch to his name and an almost sheepish grin. Voldemort takes a single step forward – caution thrown to the wind, slides his hand into Draco’s hair, cradles the back of his head and kisses him hard on the mouth.
He’s so intent on the action that it takes him a long moment to register the fact that Draco is kissing him back. His lips slow and stumbling but pressing into him with the lightest of pressure.
The kissing continues but Draco shudders any time he presses for more. He cradles the joint of Draco’s jaw, noses his fingers into Draco’s hair, drags him forward onto his lips. The kiss is sweet and soft as it often is and, at the pressure of Voldemort’s fingertips, Draco’s mouth opens and Voldemort’s tongue sweeps in, calling out Draco’s. They’re lying in bed and Draco moves on top of him, eager to be in control of this as much as he is able and Voldemort lets him. Strong hands rest on his chest, lever up the body on top of him and Draco’s mouth fits perfectly over his own as they slide together.
Draco shifts down on him as he nudges further into his mouth and Voldemort moans, pressing up into Draco only to have him shy away. As he always does. His frustration is a living thing now, wild and snuffling and growling, but he keeps it carefully caged and hopes it doesn’t show on his face when he smoothes his thumb over Draco’s cheekbone to show his reticence is accepted.
Draco brushes his mouth over his thumb without pressure and slides away, rolling over to sleep.
Voldemort sighs and tries to will away his erection. If it becomes too much he will roll out of bed and fuck his fist in the bathroom, thinking only of Draco. As he will the next day and the next day and the next day.
It likely would have continued that way for years if it hadn’t been for Draco’s thirst for adventure, which had only increased since he’d become Voldemort’s ‘house-husband’ as he’s overheard him calling himself to the pug-nosed girl and the dark-skinned boy. Voldemort can only hope he’s not doing more than talking with either of them. Only after seeing them all together does it occur to him that he never specified exclusivity when it came to this deal. He hopes he’s intimidating enough that no one would think to touch Draco while he’s got hold of him.
It’s a shock when he pulls back with his wand, killing blow on his lips to see Draco’s grey eyes blinking at him as the man crumples between them, a welt on the crown of his head. Voldemort had thought he was at ho-at the manor and to know he could have so easily killed—lost his—is fucking with his head.
He waits until they’re in their bedroom to whirl on him, yank him close by his biceps, his pale fingers digging in too hard, and snarl, “You shouldn’t have been out there.”
Draco doesn’t back down. He hasn’t for ages now. He gets right back in his face and starts, “Blaise—”
Voldemort shakes him. He doesn’t care about the why. He only cares about… about… “You could have died!”
Something clicks for Draco and his whole face softens. He sighs out a small, “Oh.” He pushes down on one of Voldemort’s hands and both of them fall away. He expects Draco will step back from him but instead he leans in, his hands coming up to twist together around Voldemort’s shoulders. They smooth up his neck before long, curve over the dome of his skull while he assures, “I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m here.”
He trembles in Draco’s arms and his voice is almost shattered when he says, “I want—” and he interrupts himself with a groaned, “Draco,” before surging onto the boy’s lips. Draco accepts him instantly, eagerly, pulling him close. Voldemort treats him like a safe haven he’s finding refuge in and Draco acts as protector against Voldemort’s own horrifying thoughts.
When he pulls the robes from Draco’s shoulders, he expects to be pushed away, to be asked to slow down, he expects anything other than for Draco to press up against him with a moan and he realizes Draco will give him this. Today, now, Draco will let him have this. He doesn’t know why, what he’s done or how he’s deserved it but he’ll take what’s being offered.
He lets himself crumble to his knees, eases his hands onto Draco’s hips and curves his fingers over the jut of bone, he mouths against Draco’s stomach through his shirt and Draco holds him tenderly by the back of his neck. He glances up at Draco’s face and sees the permission written all over it. He pulls down trousers and pants and lets himself look. He’s even paler blond here and bigger than he ever could have expected. He’s half-hard and it warms something that’s been cold in his gut for so long.
“Sit back on the bed,” he tells Draco and it’s truncated and hoarse. Draco leans back obediently with his hands on the mattress, lowering himself down without breaking eye contact. He shuffles forward on his knees and he sees Draco’s eyes widen. He almost grins, what must he think – Voldemort on his knees for a teenager? He wonders if the boy will tell his friends.
Something in Draco’s gaze says this will remain between them. He’s always had too much compassion to be where he is.
He mouths against the base of Draco’s cock, presses a kiss there, skims his lips over the length of him. Draco’s hips jerk and his fingers clench in the sheets, press down hard there to control himself. Voldemort loves the softness of him, the responsiveness as he twitches in answer to his every touch. His chest is heaving as he spreads his legs wider. “Your shirt,” scrapes out of him and Draco stares at him before he registers the words.
He scrambles into action and grabs the hem of his shirt and hefts up. Voldemort smoothes his hand up his torso as its revealed, following just behind the track of the stitching. He’s thumbing a dusky nipple by the time Draco’s pulled it off completely and is staring down at him. Voldemort responds by leaning forward and engulfing the head of Draco’s cock in his mouth.
Draco groans and shifts forward, throwing back his head and arching his spine. He’s as beautiful in this as he is in everything else. There’s something angelic, godlike, mythical about the sharp edges of him, the curve of his shoulders and hips, the paleness of his skin. He doesn’t belong here and he sure as hell shouldn’t be touchable.
The soft insides of Draco’s thighs quiver as he impales himself on the thick line of his cock, Draco’s knees framing the balls of his shoulders. He shifts, looping Draco’s thigh over his forearm and the boy leans back further to compensate. Voldemort sucks hard before pulling away, exposing him to the chill. Draco makes a noise of distress that morphs into a whine of approval as Voldemort dips his head lower and licks a stripe from his arsehole up to the tip of his cock. Draco’s hips jerk towards him and his cock is fully hard now.
He presses his mouth to Draco’s hole, eats him out like he was born to it, loving the musky taste of him. Draco’s fingers clench and twist and pull at the sheet as he bucks into Voldemort’s face and he moves his palms to hold Draco’s hips down even as he revels in the reactions he’s wringing from him. He pushes Draco further back on the bed and Draco goes willingly.
He shoves off his own robes before he runs his tongue over the valleys in Draco’s abdomen, the hill of his nipple. Draco’s palm massages up his spine, presses deep into the vertebrae as it follows the bend in clear invitation. He slides his mouth over Draco’s and Draco parts his lips eagerly, tastes himself on Voldemort’s tongue. He slides his fingers down the heat of Draco’s dick, the heaviness of his sac until he’s pushing them inside, two at a time.
Draco’s thighs clench around his hips and his back bows as he presses back into him. “I want to—it will hurt like this. If you’re new to this.” He hates the way his tongue gets stuck on the words, garbles and chews them. It’s a way of asking without asking and he knows what he wants the answer to be even though he does want to fuck Draco like this. He’d rather take Draco on his hands and knees if it means he’ll be the first to do so.
Draco’s hand settles in the small of his back, pulls him in to his hips and it’s answer enough. Not the one that he wants but he’s hardly about to complain. He reiterates that to the jealousy that flashes through him like a hot brand. When he eases in to Draco, unhurried and careful as he bottoms out inside him, he’s surprised to find it’s more than worth the years of waiting.
The months without Draco after they’ve been intimate are the hardest he’s had to weather yet. He misses the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body, the rawness of his gaze, the heavy slope of his muscle. He sleeps fitfully without him, if at all, and he tracks the days gone by with the falling of the leaves. When Draco finally returns, all he wants is to pull the boy into his arms but he’s halfway out the door as it is. Gone after Grindelwald for the last of his secrets and he wants to ignore it, all of it, in favor of Draco but Draco’s smiling softly at him and saying, “Go.”
He returns to find Draco still fully clothed on their bed and fast asleep on top of the covers. Voldemort curls a hand under his cheek and the dark smudge of eyelashes blink open. Draco’s mouth curves into a crescent and he winds his hands around Voldemort’s neck, pulling him in, spreading his legs, welcoming him home with everything he has to offer.
He can’t stay. Much as he would like to lie next to Draco and watch the rise and fall of his chest as he snuffles into sleep, he still has work to do. He’s fixing the length of his sleeve as he closes the door to his rooms when he finds Severus waiting for him with pursed lips.
His eyes flick to the shut door and he says curiously, “He seemed… worried for you, My Lord.”
Voldemort’s gaze joins his while he tries to pretend he doesn’t flush at the idea that Draco might reciprocate even an ounce of what he has burning inside him like an inferno. It will be impossible when he leaves again, the fields will brown and the branches will go naked and the flowers will wilt and there will be nothing left alive until he breezes back in with the spring.
His eyes track Draco as he walks into the room and his skin heats up entirely against his will. It’s the end of his fourth season - as he calls them – without him and it has been just as long and cold as those that preceded it. He wishes he knew the moment Draco returned so he might never be caught in a room full of followers when he first lays eyes on him after months of waiting. He drowns his anticipation and eagerness in the pain of digging his nails into his palm and listens intently to the report being given. The drone of the voice is low and buzzes almost pleasantly on the tide of his subconscious mind. He’s not looking at Draco but, even so, he is hyperaware of his presence.
He’s grown even more since he’s been gone and Voldemort hates that he’s missed more of what’s become vital parts of him. Four months seems so insignificant but after each absence he comes back standing up a little straighter, a little more aware of himself, a little more beautiful. Draco flourishes when he’s away and if he weren’t such a monster he might never make him return. His nails dig in deeper at the thought. He keeps his gaze trained away from Draco for the rest of the meeting.
His red eyes don’t waver from Yaxley’s mouth until he’s finally opening his own to command, “Dismissed.”
Draco’s steps are long and graceful as they always are after he comes back from his mother, as though she’s done nothing for four months but harp on his posture and upbringing. Secretly he loves the air of confidence and sex Draco returns with. He wonders if he isn’t simply trying with all he has in him to find the good in Draco’s absence.
There is none.
Draco’s legs move over him, slip under the arms of his seat until their thighs are resting against one another’s and Draco is straddling his lap as though this is their standard. He tries to behave as if it is. Draco has never been so affectionate, even detached as it still is. His eyes are a splintered, frosted grey and his gaze is clinical.
“Pansy says.” He licks his lips. He knows Draco feels what the action does to him. Draco settles himself more firmly rather than arching back as he normally would. Voldemort tentatively brings his hands up to cup Draco’s hips. Though he knows he has him, has him in archaic ways, in forever ways, he is still cautious in every moment, as though the slightest misstep might cause Draco to slip from his fingers. Draco rests his hands heavily on his shoulders, lets them lay there without true purpose and leans into him with his full body. It’s, the word escapes him until he realizes his head is fuzzy with it: intoxicating. Draco picks up his aborted sentence again. “Pansy says nothing grows when I’m gone.” Voldemort’s fingers flex on strong hips — everything about Draco is strong and hard. He knows there must be softness underneath but he has never glimpsed it. That flutter of his fingers is the only sign of his embarrassment. If he kills things to appease the ache inside him when the one thing he has that is so alive leaves him, then it’s no one’s business but his own. “She says the moment I return, everything blossoms.” The fingers on his shoulders squeeze. “You blossom.”
He stares down at Draco’s sternum, it’s easier than facing the intensity in his gaze. He knows just as well as Draco does that Draco won’t get an answer. Draco leans into him, the black robes he’s in coming closer until the blackness is all that’s left. Draco’s hand leaves his shoulder and a careful finger tilts his chin up. Draco seals his mouth over his. The kiss is tender and if they were standing it would mirror one of their first perfectly, only with their positions reversed. He had been so careful with Draco then, so gentle with him. He becomes aware of his hands on Draco’s hips again, where they rest like he is made of glass, and he thinks not as much has changed as he sometimes imagines.
Draco pulls back and levels him with that same enigmatic intensity. The hand trails fingers down his neck in a precise pattern he can’t fathom to get back to their perch on his shoulder. He thinks that’s where they’ll rest but they curve down the slope of them and rest carefully on the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet. He thinks about how easy it would be for Draco to close his hands around his throat from here. He doesn’t think he’d fight him if he did. Not if he’d have to hurt Draco to stop him.
The fingers don’t shift around, don’t close, and Draco leans in again and rests his lips on the smoothness of his jaw. His mouth moves against it as he asks with a certain quietness, “You miss me?”
He answers before he can censor it. It bounds out of his mouth, shocked out of him with the breath he was holding, party to the flex of his fingers. “You doubted it?” If this Pansy girl, this nothing girl sees it then he knows he’s been more obvious in his pining than even he’s realized. Surely Draco can’t have missed it then?
Draco noses at his jaw, behind his ear and rests his mouth there. He’s quiet for so long, sitting on Voldemort’s lap until his legs go numb and leaning into him. His back arched in a half circle. Draco’s breath is starting to even out and Voldemort smoothes his hands from Draco’s hips up his back, resting them on either side of his vertebrae. It’s nice. Nicer than he ever thought he would get with Draco and certainly far beyond what he deserves when it comes to a boy – and he is, even now he is – he’s strong-armed into staying. His arms tighten involuntarily and he feels Draco’s mouth curve into a smile against his neck. That place will remember the feel of it until he’s well and truly gone, Draco’s smile spreading over his skin. Draco huffs out something like a laugh and says softly, nosing into sleep, “Sometimes I miss you too.”
He pulls Draco in close, flush against him because he gets the feeling that, in this moment, it’s more than allowed. He pretends Draco’s words don’t awaken some dark place inside him he’d thought long dead. He finds he has to do this more and more often.
Draco leaves him, over and over he leaves and grows and becomes, but as the seasons change and the winters pass colder and more barren and the more powerful he gets the farther that reach stretches, the focus shifts and it is less about Draco leaving and more about him returning. He always returns, just a little more comfortable in Voldemort’s presence, a little more affectionate, a little more himself and the trees explode into bloom and everything around them celebrates just as hard as he does. The months without him are torturous but their time together is better than even Voldemort could have fantasized when he first laid eyes on the sixteen-year-old boy that would later dig his claws in and not let go.
Seasons pass and time warps and changes and bends them, takes the novel and makes it familiar. Voldemort rubs his hand over the back of Draco’s neck as he leans his head forward. He presses his chest to Draco’s back and digs his thumb into a knot just under the boy’s shoulder blade. “You’ve taken to this,” he murmurs into his hairline and Draco snorts. “To being my—“ he stops himself, says, “right hand.” Draco turns to look at him. “You’ve a mind for strategy and a heart for compassion. You know when to grant clemency and when to make an example. You’re—” Draco stares at him, eyes wide and focused, and he loses his nerve, “so much more than I could have hoped for.” It’s true but not close to what he’s meant to say. It’s the best declaration of love he can manage though, as damaged as he is.
Draco smirks a little. “I was… purposeless without you.” He catches Voldemort’s hand and follows it to run his fingers up his arm. “You’ve given me something, too, in all this.” Voldemort stares at the fingers on his bicep. Draco wiggles them. “You want my hand,” he says.
He considers denying it – never quite sure it’s true even in his own head. “I want whatever you’ll give me,” he admits and that is true.
Draco tilts his head to the side, considering. “You love me.” It’s not a question but it’s said in mirror of one.
The air catches in his lungs and he doesn’t know whether to be glad Draco’s said it for him, or horrified that he’s revealed so much of himself. He doesn’t know how to answer him so he cycles back to an old favorite. “You doubted it?”
Draco smiles and he decides nostalgia was a good response, if not the right one. “I think I’d stay,” he says after drawing the silence out for a long moment. “Without anything else. I think I’d stay with you. You were right. I am good at being yours.” And that wasn’t the way he’d said it, wasn’t the way he’d meant it either, but Draco seems to know it, to be teasing him of all things. He smiles and there’s something dangerous and irresistible in it. “I wouldn’t give me the option though,” he says, darkly playful.
Severus interrupts them just as Draco’s hand is dipping down his back and pulls the boy away, off to strategize something or other and Voldemort scrubs a hand over his face once he’s gone, says to the room what he wishes daily wasn’t true, “I don’t think I could.”
Author:
calrissian18Prompt: PROMPT # 21
Adapted from: The Myth of Persephone
Pairing: Voldemort/Draco
Word Count: ~6,000
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): *Possible Dubious Consent – Voldemort makes a deal for Draco, Minor Character Death, Language*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I’ve tweaked the myth a bit to make it sappier (sooo unlike me) and it’s not straight up Draco-as-Persephone, Voldemort-as-Hades but rather the myth interpreted through the Harry Potter-verse. I hope that’s all right…? HUGE shout-out to
arte0135 for the amazing prompt – my excitement was literally off the charts when I lucked out and got it – and ‘ling for staying on my ass to get this done. Love you, bb!!!!Summary: The Malfoy boy is sixteen when he burns the Mark into him. It’s almost more than he can bear; marking something his that isn’t quite.
He’s beautiful when Voldemort first lays eyes on him, but young. Too young to be spoilt by knowledgeable hands, too young for him to damage with his desires. He locks it behind a mask and if his eyes flicker to the boy more than they ought then his gaze is still violent enough that no one dares acknowledge it.
He waits.
The Malfoy boy is sixteen when he burns the Mark into him. It’s almost more than he can bear; marking something his that isn’t quite. Something that beckons to him like every temptation made form. Only a select few witness the hollow victory. The boy’s mother, his father, Bellatrix, Severus. His mother’s eyes hold so much behind them, but all that’s visible is a stark portrait of strength. He’s seen the same in the boy’s eyes in darker times. It stirs something in him, something much deeper than arousal. Bellatrix is gleeful and he wants to physically slap the expression from her pale features. This is not her moment. She owns no part of it. His fingers tighten on his wand.
Lucius is a hollow shell of himself, swallowing convulsively, looped in fear and disbelief until it’s over. Severus’ thoughts are a mystery to all but himself and Voldemort fights the urge to sneer at him. Everything burned out of him for an unrequited love. He can’t think of a man more pathetic than this. Knowing what has driven him through his lonely years, he cannot understand the sense of kinship he sometimes feels to him. They are nothing alike and yet there’s something in him that says being broken is enough. He cannot deny it is a quality they both have in spades.
The boy doesn’t cry, he doesn’t sob through his pain. Nor does he endure quietly. He screams. And screams. And screams until it’s done. He hasn’t realized he’s touching him with something beyond his wand until his knee hits the wood. He cradles the boy’s face in his hand while the other keeps grip on his wand. He touches him gently with one and digs with the other. Draco’s screams don’t lessen in the slightest. He doesn’t even notice Voldemort’s feather-light kneading, his weak attempt at comfort.
Severus does.
Severus bides his time. Information is power and Severus has always treated it as such, respected and feared it in his own right. He’s stealthy enough that Voldemort doesn’t realize the conversation is coming until he’s embroiled in it. Severus has expertly steered it from the most recent raids to individual followers to Draco. He takes a sip of his whisky, his eyes alight. “The boy might be susceptible to a deal.” The words are throwaways, careless, or so Severus would have him believe.
His wariness of the man – of a mind so effortlessly treacherous – increases. He hitches in his robes to show he’s heard even if he doesn’t intend to respond.
Severus leans forward and there’s no act of disinterest now. “He stays to keeps his family safe. You let them go and he would do whatever you asked of him.”
The idea of Draco bending to his will with no sign of the strings controlling him stutters the breath in his chest. He twists in his seat and, though he knows the hope is buried deep rather than showing on his face, he still worries that Severus can see it. His lip curls slightly. “Bellatrix couldn’t be dragged away by wild dogs.” It’s a stall. He knows Severus means the boy’s parents but he needs the time to consider his response to such a… compelling proposition.
Severus’ distaste is almost unnoticeable. “His nuclear family, My Lord.”
Voldemort watches as his fingers play along the fabric over his knee. “And what do you gain from telling me this?”
Severus’ mouth tightens. “His safety.” It’s the truth and it doesn’t seem to be one he’s pleased with. Voldemort understands. Caring for things only means you’ll break when they do. “If he’s yours, you will protect him.”
Voldemort smirks. “I almost thought you’d forgot you’d been named godfather to the boy.” Severus frowns and Voldemort’s gaze sharpens. “Does he know you care?”
Severus stiffens and his tone is biting. “Would it change anything if he did?”
Voldemort grins at that, a quick flash of teeth. “As duplicitous as ever, Severus, countering a question with a question.”
Severus doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t seem to know whether the reaction he’s gotten is proud or displeased. He leans away, the darkness beyond the firelight’s glow swallowing him whole.
Once the decision’s made, it’s impossible to ignore the boy. He wants to blanket him with his body heat, inhale him, treat him as if he’s already agreed, as if he’s already owned. He doesn’t mean to ambush the boy but he corners him before he’s thought better of it. It’s barely been an hour since he’s spoken with Severus and here he is, backing the boy into a wall on his way into the atrium. The boy stares up at him, his eyes wide and an all too innocent grey. “Draco,” and it’s impossible to excise the purr from his voice, “there’s something I would like to ask you if that’s all right?”
The boy swallows and his mouth hangs open, lost for an answer but an open invitation he can’t yet accept.
Voldemort holds up his hand before he loses the battle with himself and sways in to claim those pink lips. “After.” He catches Draco’s blank gaze with a sharp look of his own.
Draco straightens up with a weak nod and it’s enough for the moment.
The anticipation is still tingling through him as he turns to the two figures standing in the center of the room. Greyback’s got his hand, nails long enough to bite into skin, on the woman’s shoulder as she coughs at his feet. Blood slides down her cheek and it’s indication enough that she’s let it all go. Spoken until her voice was too hoarse and she couldn’t speak anymore.
She’s down on her knees, hunched over with one forearm bracing her on the dirty ground. Her hair is ragged and tangled and auburn in color. She’ll be dead in moments. Voldemort bends until he’s looking into her heart-shaped face. She has almond eyes and there’s fear crawling its way out of them and soon it will be all that’s left and that simply won’t do.
Voldemort speaks softly to her, too quiet to be overheard. “Your death will be quick, Margaret.” Honey-colored eyes blink at him, looking hypnotized by the words falling from his lips, not patronizing, not falsely praising, but stripped and raw and honest. He eases her into death, guides her into tranquil acceptance. “You were right to speak and you can calm yourself knowing it will end soon,” he goes on, “All of this will end soon.”
He waits until she’s nodding with him. He presses the tip of his wand to her temple and waits until she locks on to it, accepts it, and looks back at him. He smiles at her and she smiles right back.
Her body drops to the cold concrete with a soft whump.
Voldemort straightens and catches sight of Draco’s pale face. Were he a more patient man, he would wait until he’d charmed Draco somehow, made him more likely to acquiesce. He would at least put this off until a time when he hadn’t just killed a woman. As it is, he simply motions for Draco to follow and leads him into his father’s study.
Voldemort sinks into the seat the room is geared towards while Draco stands near the entrance, studying the mantle and its figurines as though they’re unknown to him. Voldemort watches him for longer than he ought, watches the surety of his posture, the purposefulness of his steps, all of it contradicting the trepidation on his face.
Beating around the bush has always been a foreign concept to him. He steeples his fingers and says carefully, “I want to make a deal with you.”
Draco’s careful movement jerks. He turns to face him but his gaze stays on his shoes. “What kind of deal?”
Voldemort tilts his head. He wants to push back the hair that has fallen over Draco’s right eye. “One that would ensure your parents’ safety.” Draco’s head wrenches up. “I’d let them go, Draco.” Severus is right. The boy would do anything for his family. Voldemort can see the ‘yes’ in his eyes won’t be dampened despite his terms.
“In exchange for what?” Draco’s tone is sharp, impatient, and it’s clear he only wants to know what will be expected of him so he can agree that much faster.
Voldemort can’t help his grin at the boy’s eagerness; he’s pacing now in pure anxiety. Voldemort licks his lips. “You.”
Draco’s hurried steps stutter and fall off completely. “You want…” he lets the moment drag on until it becomes obvious that Voldemort won’t be helping him complete the thought, “me?”
“Yes,” is the even response.
Draco swallows and he holds his body tense even as he moves to take the seat in front of Voldemort. He inhales deeply and squints. “In what way?”
Voldemort’s eyes flash. “In every way.”
Draco’s mouth parts and his breaths come quicker as the thought settles with him. It’s obvious this was never even in the realm of possibility for him.
It hits Voldemort like a Stinging Curse to the chest why. The boy has no idea how beautiful he is. How tempting. He’s arrogant to be sure, but not about this, not about his looks. He has no idea that the way his lower lip protrudes makes one think of dragging it down with their thumb, sucking it into their mouth, dotting it with their come. He’s classically beautiful and no other word describes him, encompasses the fragility of him or the awe he inspires. He must know it yet it’s so clear he doesn’t.
“What-What would you do with me?” He clears his throat over the stutter and Voldemort’s gaze softens at the break.
“Whatever you’d allow me.”
Draco’s brows perk up in surprise. “Allow?”
“I might be sadistic, but I’m not looking to harm you.” It’s true and he expects it as much as Draco did. His desires have never waded into the darker side of things when it comes to Draco. He’s never looked at him and wanted to splinter. He wants to protect, caress, worship.
Draco looks away. “Then you want—”
Voldemort’s smile shows teeth. “You’re not this obtuse, are you?”
Draco huffs out something that could be a laugh if it wasn’t so defeated. His fingers clench and unclench and he says, “My family’s safe. You promise me that?”
Voldemort’s swallow is dry and it scrapes down his throat. “It’s yours.”
“Then I’m—” His jaw tightens and he cuts off the response, the ‘yours’ he can’t bring himself to say. He fists his hands in his robes. “You have me.” He stands and Voldemort stands with him, already reaching out for him. Draco pushes Voldemort’s hand down unconsciously. “But I want to see them,” he says sharply. He waits until he’s sure he has Voldemort’s attention. He looks off to the side and bites his lip. “Four months,” he decides. “Four months from every year. Four months of freedom, real freedom.”
Voldemort knows he means that he isn’t to be followed, he isn’t to be watched, he wants four months away from all of this in exchange for eight spent in his arms. It’s the least of what Voldemort would give him. “Done.”
He moves slowly because he wants more than a body beneath him but this is not a fairytale or one of those horrible Muggle stories. If it was, he’s sure he’d be the villain of the piece. Men with such impressive body counts attached to their name rarely prove to be the protagonist. Draco hasn’t been harboring even so much as a tame interest for him, let alone hiding some similar affection. If anything, Draco’s harboring a bit of hatred and more than a little disgust.
So, slow.
He doesn’t even kiss Draco that first month. He asks that he not go back to Hogwarts for his seventh year and Draco agrees. Voldemort suspects it’s because he doesn’t think he has a choice, despite the fact that he’s specifically phrased it to show that he did. He doesn’t make a point of it because he’s gotten the answer he wanted. Draco mostly stays in his room. Moping, he supposes. At night he pads across the floor in his nightshirt, slips into bed, turns his back and falls asleep. They don’t speak but sometimes Voldemort wakes with his arm wrapped around Draco’s chest and his mouth pressed to the back of his neck.
Draco's neck and ears will pink up then and he will tense until his muscles seem like they’ll never unwind again. He never moves away, in fact he barely breathes until Voldemort’s hands leave him. It’s all he’s asked of him so far, that Draco sleep with him in the guest bedroom and Draco had nervously acquiesced, not looking him in the eye. During the days that Voldemort is there, Draco reads in the solarium, his bare feet curled into the scratchy, flowered upholstery of his chair and his silver hair looking more golden while his eyes swift through seemingly endless lines of text.
He assumes that’s what Draco does on the days he leaves as well but it’s something he can’t know. Well, he can. But he refuses to nose into Draco’s privacy any more than he already has.
Voldemort doesn’t press, doesn’t alter their relationship any further and, before long, Draco joins him for meals in the dining room and he makes no complaint when Voldemort pores over maps and parchments in the solarium with him. The tension that becomes Draco’s constant companion over the next few months slowly bleeds away as those first eight draw to a close and soon, on those mornings when he wakes to Voldemort’s arm locked around his middle, he does nothing more than glance at it, close his eyes and fall away into sleep all over again.
He thinks the fact that he and Draco have remained so distant will cushion the blow when he leaves. He could not be more wrong.
He spends four long months in a state of complete rigidity and not enough sleep. Life drains out of everything around him, death and bitterness following in his wake. Leaves fall from trees, drying and flaking, flowers wither and brown up and everyone seems to know better than to comment. Only Severus smirks at him when even the white oak behind the property starts to lose its foliage and the crisp winter can hardly be blamed for that.
Voldemort pretends not to notice.
Every thought or plan he’s ever had flies out of his head when he lays eyes on Draco again, standing outside the door with another inch to his name and an almost sheepish grin. Voldemort takes a single step forward – caution thrown to the wind, slides his hand into Draco’s hair, cradles the back of his head and kisses him hard on the mouth.
He’s so intent on the action that it takes him a long moment to register the fact that Draco is kissing him back. His lips slow and stumbling but pressing into him with the lightest of pressure.
The kissing continues but Draco shudders any time he presses for more. He cradles the joint of Draco’s jaw, noses his fingers into Draco’s hair, drags him forward onto his lips. The kiss is sweet and soft as it often is and, at the pressure of Voldemort’s fingertips, Draco’s mouth opens and Voldemort’s tongue sweeps in, calling out Draco’s. They’re lying in bed and Draco moves on top of him, eager to be in control of this as much as he is able and Voldemort lets him. Strong hands rest on his chest, lever up the body on top of him and Draco’s mouth fits perfectly over his own as they slide together.
Draco shifts down on him as he nudges further into his mouth and Voldemort moans, pressing up into Draco only to have him shy away. As he always does. His frustration is a living thing now, wild and snuffling and growling, but he keeps it carefully caged and hopes it doesn’t show on his face when he smoothes his thumb over Draco’s cheekbone to show his reticence is accepted.
Draco brushes his mouth over his thumb without pressure and slides away, rolling over to sleep.
Voldemort sighs and tries to will away his erection. If it becomes too much he will roll out of bed and fuck his fist in the bathroom, thinking only of Draco. As he will the next day and the next day and the next day.
It likely would have continued that way for years if it hadn’t been for Draco’s thirst for adventure, which had only increased since he’d become Voldemort’s ‘house-husband’ as he’s overheard him calling himself to the pug-nosed girl and the dark-skinned boy. Voldemort can only hope he’s not doing more than talking with either of them. Only after seeing them all together does it occur to him that he never specified exclusivity when it came to this deal. He hopes he’s intimidating enough that no one would think to touch Draco while he’s got hold of him.
It’s a shock when he pulls back with his wand, killing blow on his lips to see Draco’s grey eyes blinking at him as the man crumples between them, a welt on the crown of his head. Voldemort had thought he was at ho-at the manor and to know he could have so easily killed—lost his—is fucking with his head.
He waits until they’re in their bedroom to whirl on him, yank him close by his biceps, his pale fingers digging in too hard, and snarl, “You shouldn’t have been out there.”
Draco doesn’t back down. He hasn’t for ages now. He gets right back in his face and starts, “Blaise—”
Voldemort shakes him. He doesn’t care about the why. He only cares about… about… “You could have died!”
Something clicks for Draco and his whole face softens. He sighs out a small, “Oh.” He pushes down on one of Voldemort’s hands and both of them fall away. He expects Draco will step back from him but instead he leans in, his hands coming up to twist together around Voldemort’s shoulders. They smooth up his neck before long, curve over the dome of his skull while he assures, “I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m here.”
He trembles in Draco’s arms and his voice is almost shattered when he says, “I want—” and he interrupts himself with a groaned, “Draco,” before surging onto the boy’s lips. Draco accepts him instantly, eagerly, pulling him close. Voldemort treats him like a safe haven he’s finding refuge in and Draco acts as protector against Voldemort’s own horrifying thoughts.
When he pulls the robes from Draco’s shoulders, he expects to be pushed away, to be asked to slow down, he expects anything other than for Draco to press up against him with a moan and he realizes Draco will give him this. Today, now, Draco will let him have this. He doesn’t know why, what he’s done or how he’s deserved it but he’ll take what’s being offered.
He lets himself crumble to his knees, eases his hands onto Draco’s hips and curves his fingers over the jut of bone, he mouths against Draco’s stomach through his shirt and Draco holds him tenderly by the back of his neck. He glances up at Draco’s face and sees the permission written all over it. He pulls down trousers and pants and lets himself look. He’s even paler blond here and bigger than he ever could have expected. He’s half-hard and it warms something that’s been cold in his gut for so long.
“Sit back on the bed,” he tells Draco and it’s truncated and hoarse. Draco leans back obediently with his hands on the mattress, lowering himself down without breaking eye contact. He shuffles forward on his knees and he sees Draco’s eyes widen. He almost grins, what must he think – Voldemort on his knees for a teenager? He wonders if the boy will tell his friends.
Something in Draco’s gaze says this will remain between them. He’s always had too much compassion to be where he is.
He mouths against the base of Draco’s cock, presses a kiss there, skims his lips over the length of him. Draco’s hips jerk and his fingers clench in the sheets, press down hard there to control himself. Voldemort loves the softness of him, the responsiveness as he twitches in answer to his every touch. His chest is heaving as he spreads his legs wider. “Your shirt,” scrapes out of him and Draco stares at him before he registers the words.
He scrambles into action and grabs the hem of his shirt and hefts up. Voldemort smoothes his hand up his torso as its revealed, following just behind the track of the stitching. He’s thumbing a dusky nipple by the time Draco’s pulled it off completely and is staring down at him. Voldemort responds by leaning forward and engulfing the head of Draco’s cock in his mouth.
Draco groans and shifts forward, throwing back his head and arching his spine. He’s as beautiful in this as he is in everything else. There’s something angelic, godlike, mythical about the sharp edges of him, the curve of his shoulders and hips, the paleness of his skin. He doesn’t belong here and he sure as hell shouldn’t be touchable.
The soft insides of Draco’s thighs quiver as he impales himself on the thick line of his cock, Draco’s knees framing the balls of his shoulders. He shifts, looping Draco’s thigh over his forearm and the boy leans back further to compensate. Voldemort sucks hard before pulling away, exposing him to the chill. Draco makes a noise of distress that morphs into a whine of approval as Voldemort dips his head lower and licks a stripe from his arsehole up to the tip of his cock. Draco’s hips jerk towards him and his cock is fully hard now.
He presses his mouth to Draco’s hole, eats him out like he was born to it, loving the musky taste of him. Draco’s fingers clench and twist and pull at the sheet as he bucks into Voldemort’s face and he moves his palms to hold Draco’s hips down even as he revels in the reactions he’s wringing from him. He pushes Draco further back on the bed and Draco goes willingly.
He shoves off his own robes before he runs his tongue over the valleys in Draco’s abdomen, the hill of his nipple. Draco’s palm massages up his spine, presses deep into the vertebrae as it follows the bend in clear invitation. He slides his mouth over Draco’s and Draco parts his lips eagerly, tastes himself on Voldemort’s tongue. He slides his fingers down the heat of Draco’s dick, the heaviness of his sac until he’s pushing them inside, two at a time.
Draco’s thighs clench around his hips and his back bows as he presses back into him. “I want to—it will hurt like this. If you’re new to this.” He hates the way his tongue gets stuck on the words, garbles and chews them. It’s a way of asking without asking and he knows what he wants the answer to be even though he does want to fuck Draco like this. He’d rather take Draco on his hands and knees if it means he’ll be the first to do so.
Draco’s hand settles in the small of his back, pulls him in to his hips and it’s answer enough. Not the one that he wants but he’s hardly about to complain. He reiterates that to the jealousy that flashes through him like a hot brand. When he eases in to Draco, unhurried and careful as he bottoms out inside him, he’s surprised to find it’s more than worth the years of waiting.
The months without Draco after they’ve been intimate are the hardest he’s had to weather yet. He misses the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body, the rawness of his gaze, the heavy slope of his muscle. He sleeps fitfully without him, if at all, and he tracks the days gone by with the falling of the leaves. When Draco finally returns, all he wants is to pull the boy into his arms but he’s halfway out the door as it is. Gone after Grindelwald for the last of his secrets and he wants to ignore it, all of it, in favor of Draco but Draco’s smiling softly at him and saying, “Go.”
He returns to find Draco still fully clothed on their bed and fast asleep on top of the covers. Voldemort curls a hand under his cheek and the dark smudge of eyelashes blink open. Draco’s mouth curves into a crescent and he winds his hands around Voldemort’s neck, pulling him in, spreading his legs, welcoming him home with everything he has to offer.
He can’t stay. Much as he would like to lie next to Draco and watch the rise and fall of his chest as he snuffles into sleep, he still has work to do. He’s fixing the length of his sleeve as he closes the door to his rooms when he finds Severus waiting for him with pursed lips.
His eyes flick to the shut door and he says curiously, “He seemed… worried for you, My Lord.”
Voldemort’s gaze joins his while he tries to pretend he doesn’t flush at the idea that Draco might reciprocate even an ounce of what he has burning inside him like an inferno. It will be impossible when he leaves again, the fields will brown and the branches will go naked and the flowers will wilt and there will be nothing left alive until he breezes back in with the spring.
His eyes track Draco as he walks into the room and his skin heats up entirely against his will. It’s the end of his fourth season - as he calls them – without him and it has been just as long and cold as those that preceded it. He wishes he knew the moment Draco returned so he might never be caught in a room full of followers when he first lays eyes on him after months of waiting. He drowns his anticipation and eagerness in the pain of digging his nails into his palm and listens intently to the report being given. The drone of the voice is low and buzzes almost pleasantly on the tide of his subconscious mind. He’s not looking at Draco but, even so, he is hyperaware of his presence.
He’s grown even more since he’s been gone and Voldemort hates that he’s missed more of what’s become vital parts of him. Four months seems so insignificant but after each absence he comes back standing up a little straighter, a little more aware of himself, a little more beautiful. Draco flourishes when he’s away and if he weren’t such a monster he might never make him return. His nails dig in deeper at the thought. He keeps his gaze trained away from Draco for the rest of the meeting.
His red eyes don’t waver from Yaxley’s mouth until he’s finally opening his own to command, “Dismissed.”
Draco’s steps are long and graceful as they always are after he comes back from his mother, as though she’s done nothing for four months but harp on his posture and upbringing. Secretly he loves the air of confidence and sex Draco returns with. He wonders if he isn’t simply trying with all he has in him to find the good in Draco’s absence.
There is none.
Draco’s legs move over him, slip under the arms of his seat until their thighs are resting against one another’s and Draco is straddling his lap as though this is their standard. He tries to behave as if it is. Draco has never been so affectionate, even detached as it still is. His eyes are a splintered, frosted grey and his gaze is clinical.
“Pansy says.” He licks his lips. He knows Draco feels what the action does to him. Draco settles himself more firmly rather than arching back as he normally would. Voldemort tentatively brings his hands up to cup Draco’s hips. Though he knows he has him, has him in archaic ways, in forever ways, he is still cautious in every moment, as though the slightest misstep might cause Draco to slip from his fingers. Draco rests his hands heavily on his shoulders, lets them lay there without true purpose and leans into him with his full body. It’s, the word escapes him until he realizes his head is fuzzy with it: intoxicating. Draco picks up his aborted sentence again. “Pansy says nothing grows when I’m gone.” Voldemort’s fingers flex on strong hips — everything about Draco is strong and hard. He knows there must be softness underneath but he has never glimpsed it. That flutter of his fingers is the only sign of his embarrassment. If he kills things to appease the ache inside him when the one thing he has that is so alive leaves him, then it’s no one’s business but his own. “She says the moment I return, everything blossoms.” The fingers on his shoulders squeeze. “You blossom.”
He stares down at Draco’s sternum, it’s easier than facing the intensity in his gaze. He knows just as well as Draco does that Draco won’t get an answer. Draco leans into him, the black robes he’s in coming closer until the blackness is all that’s left. Draco’s hand leaves his shoulder and a careful finger tilts his chin up. Draco seals his mouth over his. The kiss is tender and if they were standing it would mirror one of their first perfectly, only with their positions reversed. He had been so careful with Draco then, so gentle with him. He becomes aware of his hands on Draco’s hips again, where they rest like he is made of glass, and he thinks not as much has changed as he sometimes imagines.
Draco pulls back and levels him with that same enigmatic intensity. The hand trails fingers down his neck in a precise pattern he can’t fathom to get back to their perch on his shoulder. He thinks that’s where they’ll rest but they curve down the slope of them and rest carefully on the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet. He thinks about how easy it would be for Draco to close his hands around his throat from here. He doesn’t think he’d fight him if he did. Not if he’d have to hurt Draco to stop him.
The fingers don’t shift around, don’t close, and Draco leans in again and rests his lips on the smoothness of his jaw. His mouth moves against it as he asks with a certain quietness, “You miss me?”
He answers before he can censor it. It bounds out of his mouth, shocked out of him with the breath he was holding, party to the flex of his fingers. “You doubted it?” If this Pansy girl, this nothing girl sees it then he knows he’s been more obvious in his pining than even he’s realized. Surely Draco can’t have missed it then?
Draco noses at his jaw, behind his ear and rests his mouth there. He’s quiet for so long, sitting on Voldemort’s lap until his legs go numb and leaning into him. His back arched in a half circle. Draco’s breath is starting to even out and Voldemort smoothes his hands from Draco’s hips up his back, resting them on either side of his vertebrae. It’s nice. Nicer than he ever thought he would get with Draco and certainly far beyond what he deserves when it comes to a boy – and he is, even now he is – he’s strong-armed into staying. His arms tighten involuntarily and he feels Draco’s mouth curve into a smile against his neck. That place will remember the feel of it until he’s well and truly gone, Draco’s smile spreading over his skin. Draco huffs out something like a laugh and says softly, nosing into sleep, “Sometimes I miss you too.”
He pulls Draco in close, flush against him because he gets the feeling that, in this moment, it’s more than allowed. He pretends Draco’s words don’t awaken some dark place inside him he’d thought long dead. He finds he has to do this more and more often.
Draco leaves him, over and over he leaves and grows and becomes, but as the seasons change and the winters pass colder and more barren and the more powerful he gets the farther that reach stretches, the focus shifts and it is less about Draco leaving and more about him returning. He always returns, just a little more comfortable in Voldemort’s presence, a little more affectionate, a little more himself and the trees explode into bloom and everything around them celebrates just as hard as he does. The months without him are torturous but their time together is better than even Voldemort could have fantasized when he first laid eyes on the sixteen-year-old boy that would later dig his claws in and not let go.
Seasons pass and time warps and changes and bends them, takes the novel and makes it familiar. Voldemort rubs his hand over the back of Draco’s neck as he leans his head forward. He presses his chest to Draco’s back and digs his thumb into a knot just under the boy’s shoulder blade. “You’ve taken to this,” he murmurs into his hairline and Draco snorts. “To being my—“ he stops himself, says, “right hand.” Draco turns to look at him. “You’ve a mind for strategy and a heart for compassion. You know when to grant clemency and when to make an example. You’re—” Draco stares at him, eyes wide and focused, and he loses his nerve, “so much more than I could have hoped for.” It’s true but not close to what he’s meant to say. It’s the best declaration of love he can manage though, as damaged as he is.
Draco smirks a little. “I was… purposeless without you.” He catches Voldemort’s hand and follows it to run his fingers up his arm. “You’ve given me something, too, in all this.” Voldemort stares at the fingers on his bicep. Draco wiggles them. “You want my hand,” he says.
He considers denying it – never quite sure it’s true even in his own head. “I want whatever you’ll give me,” he admits and that is true.
Draco tilts his head to the side, considering. “You love me.” It’s not a question but it’s said in mirror of one.
The air catches in his lungs and he doesn’t know whether to be glad Draco’s said it for him, or horrified that he’s revealed so much of himself. He doesn’t know how to answer him so he cycles back to an old favorite. “You doubted it?”
Draco smiles and he decides nostalgia was a good response, if not the right one. “I think I’d stay,” he says after drawing the silence out for a long moment. “Without anything else. I think I’d stay with you. You were right. I am good at being yours.” And that wasn’t the way he’d said it, wasn’t the way he’d meant it either, but Draco seems to know it, to be teasing him of all things. He smiles and there’s something dangerous and irresistible in it. “I wouldn’t give me the option though,” he says, darkly playful.
Severus interrupts them just as Draco’s hand is dipping down his back and pulls the boy away, off to strategize something or other and Voldemort scrubs a hand over his face once he’s gone, says to the room what he wishes daily wasn’t true, “I don’t think I could.”
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