The Seer's Flat
A Remix of Musamihi's In the Stream.
o=o
A Seer in love was a dangerous thing. Out of control, unpredictable and, at times, embarrassing. Every book Draco had ever read about Divination said so, even Vablatsky's famously infamous Unfogging the Future, which was tripe, anyway, and not worthy the attention of a true Seer. And Draco was not in love, either. This fling he was having with Harry Potter, was just that – a fling. Maybe he was Potter's true love but that did not mean Potter was his true love in return.
Ever since his spectacular break-down at his father's trial, Draco Malfoy had worked to control his gift. No spasmic trances, no fainting from sudden visions. He'd learned to keep his mind focused on reality and to never look into the fire for too long. Visions were work, and that meant dove entails or parchment burning in his bronze basin. Or, if a client had asked a question that required a proper trance, it meant the empty closet where Draco would close his mind and let his gift take him wherever it lead him.
Being a professional Seer – and proud of it, no matter his parents' disapproving silence – certainly did not mean staring at the polished hardwood floor for unaccounted minutes, no doubt with an expression on his face that Draco could only imagine was that of a smitten fool.
And yet, fleeting images would come to him at the most inopportune moments. His own pale fingers in Harry's hair, Harry's bony knee half-covered by the bedspread. The images felt like memories of what he had already experienced; they carried the undeniable sense of weight Draco had learned to associate with true visions. But were they really glimpses from the future? Were they not rather subconscious desires his lust-addled brain translated into visions. Like the more intimate images that would sneak up on him: Harry's head thrown back in lust against the blue pattern of the sofa, his lips red and glistening like wet strawberries. Harry's naked chest reflected in the bathroom mirror, the taste of shaving cream in Draco's own mouth as he was kissing Harry, kissing him with a hunger so fierce –
Much as he tried, Draco could not reign in those... imaginings. For that's what they were, imaginings. The result of three months of regular shagging and the warmer temperatures outside, with spring in the air. Beltane magic, hormones, the healthy sex drive of a wizard of his age. Nothing less, nothing more.
o=o
= The office =
The first client of the day arrived at nine o'clock sharp. A tall witch with brown hair and clad in fancy robes, unbuttoned so the flaps were falling open, revealing a Muggle skirt and blouse underneath. Nice long legs, Draco noticed, and where did that thought come from when he was a Seer, unreformably gay, and – supposedly – madly in love? The witch was pureblood, trying to pass as Muggle-loving to fit into the new times. Draco had her pecked as a Fawley at second glance, a few years older than him. Married a Selwyn, a good match for her, no heir yet, Father's voice supplied from somewhere in the back of Draco's mind. He wished he didn't remember these things.
It must have cost her to come to him, an ex-Death Eater from a family fallen from grace. And surely the silly article in the Prophet this morning had nothing to do with it, nothing at all. He and Potter never went out but some snoop must have seen them meeting (snogging) in the Ministry. Some snoop who promptly sold the story to Skeeter who had a field day with it in her page six gossip column. The less than subtle insinuations of Potter's deteriorating mental state had been the least of it. Not that Draco cared. Rita Skeeter had been to his office, and he'd Seen her future. Some things never left this room.
"How can I help you?" he asked, setting up the basin on the desk. He could guess at the nature of Mrs Selwyn's question. Something to do with the unborn child rounding her stomach. Probably – a guess born from experience – she wanted to know which Hogwarts house her prodigy would get Sorted.
"I'd like to know whether my child will be... you know... magical." She faltered, moving her hand towards the soft swell of her belly but not touching it.
Ah. A secret history of Squibs in the family. Perhaps her husband's, perhaps her own. Father did not know, or Draco would have heard. Interesting.
He moved his hand from the packet of parchment and instead took the slightly soggy bundle from the drawer. He'd bought it himself at the butcher shop in Knockturn earlier this morning (as house-elves would not touch anything used for Divination). But surely a Fawley would love the flash of it. Draco let the entrails slither from the glossy butcher paper into the basin.
The widening of Mrs Selwyn's eyes told him he had assumed correctly. He washed off the blood with a water stream from his wand, then sprinkled the mess with incense. Mrs Selwyn seemed almost eager when he asked her politely for a drop of blood for the questioning.
White smoke curled upward from the basin as he murmured a ritual incantation. Divination needed no spells or charms but his clients liked those touches of familiar magic. The vision came the moment he let his gaze soften. A male toddler who build a tower of red, green and blue blocks, higher than gravity and arithmancy allowed for but kept in place by the boy's magic alone. The floor around the child was an expanse of honey-coloured polished wood. A cold blue light was twisting into the smoky swirls, light streaming in from the north-facing window of the office. Harry was sprawled on the floor, his hair so wet it was clinging to his scalp like a cap. He was leaning back on his elbows, a grin on his face, his legs wide apart. An invitation to rid him of his soaking Auror uniform and free the bulge straining underneath the cloth.
A spike of desire rushed through Draco and he quickly snapped out of the trance. Salazar...
Mrs Selwyn was eyeing him carefully, trepidation written all over her tense body. Who knew for how long he'd stared through the smoke at the floor on the other side of the desk? She had to assume she was carrying a Squib under her heart.
Draco quickly assured her of the opposite and sent her away with a curt, "I'll send my bill." A smile was on Mrs Selwyn's face as she wrapped her robes around her belly and left with a step much lighter than when she had arrived.
Draco disposed of the entrails in the fire; he cleaned the basin with a few vicious spells. His wand was not shaking when he Levitated the heavy thing back beside the hearth. But from the corner of his eyes he watched the spot on the floor where Harry would lie some rainy day in the future, when he would take their cocks in his hand, when he would come on Harry's stomach.
o=o
= The overburdened coat hook =
Potter returned from the Ministry late Friday night.
He only stayed at Grimmauld Place during the week, the weekends they spent together in Draco's flat. Draco wasn't sure why that was. He liked the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black well enough, all that decrepit old-blood elegance. It didn't compare to the splendour of the Manor, of course, especially not since Potter had done some redecorating, with deplorably shallow middle-class tastes. But the Black library still smelled of magic centuries old, and Potter had left his bedroom virtually untouched, heavy velvet curtains infested with Doxies and Muggle pictures of motorbikes and naked women covering the walls. It was all very charming.
But reporters always loitered around Grimmauld Square, and Draco wouldn't even waste a thought on the flock of Potter fans, tromping up and down the street before number 12. It was ridiculous how much attention a git with a scar and bad hair could garner in the wizarding world. The last thing Draco needed was more rumours floating around and certainly not another picture in the Prophet of him and Harry snogging. It was bad for business. Seers were supposed to make headlines by delivering prophecies, not by shagging everyone's saviour.
When he felt the wards give and Potter enter the flat he walked the staircase up to the office. From the opened door Draco watched Potter cross the spacious room, a smile on his lips and a questioning look in his eyes. Potter walked past the spot on the floor before Draco's desk, innocuous in the candle light. No shagging on the office floor, then, not tonight. He should have know, for it had been broad daylight in that... vision. And Potter had been soaked.
"Weren't you supposed to bring dinner?" Draco said by way of greeting. He had to cross his arms before his chest to not pull Potter close to him right there, beside the fire-place.
Potter pointed with the right thumb towards his back. "I am cooking dinner tonight." Dark green leeks protruded from his backpack.
"You can cook?" Draco let a touch of incredulity enter his voice. But he knew Potter was daft with pans and pots. Draco had Seen him stand at the stove, muscled back covered only by his vest and cooking up a storm.
Potter laughed. "You'll be surprised."
He stood before Draco now, giving him that questioning look again. "Everything all right?"
Draco didn't trust his voice not to shake. He nodded and moved against the fire-place. The staircase was too narrow for two men, and Potter even slipped the backpack from his shoulders as he stepped down into the hallway. The backpack was bulkier than normally.
"Mrs Selwyn was here today."
Potter turned on the staircase, his backpack swinging in a wide arc with its unusual weight. "As a client?"
"Yes." Draco had found his voice again but now he was distracted by the coat hook. He'd thrown all his robes and coats on it, dozens of them, as there was no place in the closet. Against the mass of blacks and charcoal greys and dark forest greens Harry's hair shone blue in the candle light.
Potter put his backpack to the floor and started unbuttoning his own robes. He did so without a second thought, almost an unconscious movement as he went from silver button to silver button, releasing each from its hole. Draco had Seen this. He remembered distinctly, as if it had been him doing it, pushing round metal buttons through the stiffened cloth.
"We have been preparing Selwyn all week. For the big trial next Monday. He's the Ministry's evidence against the Death Eater cell in Edinburgh."
This had to be classified information. Potter should not tell him such things. And yet... Draco grabbed Potter's hands, made them stop fiddling with the buttons. Slowly, he slipped the next button from its hole. "She is pregnant," he said.
He felt Potter draw a quick sharp breath underneath his hands.
"Afraid the child will be a Squib," Draco continued.
"A Squib?" Potter's hands were on Draco's hips – and Draco had known this would happen. Potter was lightly squeezing Draco's buttocks and that, too, felt familiar. "But there's never been a Squib in..." He stopped as Draco slipped the robes off his shoulders
"Not on her side, either," Draco said.
"That is odd."
"It is."
The walls of the hallway seemed to lean in on them, they were standing so close. Draco felt Harry's knee slide against the inside of his leg. One small step forward, and Harry would be shoved into Draco's robes and his unruly hair would fall onto silk the colour of night. Draco had Seen it happen. For a moment he considered stepping back, disentangling himself from Harry's hold and proof to himself that these were just fantasies like everybody had them, not a Seer's visions at all.
But already his right foot stepped forward, he ground his erection into Harry's groin, he moved his arms around Harry, his lips found Harry's chin, his sweet, welcoming mouth. Draco groaned into the kiss. Harry was pressed into his robes. They smelled like home, like the Manor, expensive French polish and mother's perfume mixed together with the scent of old wood and stone. A sharp need was crashing through him, to have Harry all wrapped within him, robes and body and arms and mouth. Harry moaned, softly, urgently, and it was such a foreign sound, such a foreign taste, too, of fire and cheap black tea. Irresistible. One thrust, just one quick tease of Harry's tongue in his mouth, and Draco'd come, like a school-boy, in his pants.
o=o
= The parlour =
"Why did you just do that?" Potter was unloading foodstuffs from his pack – potatoes, sausages, carrots, bottled lager. His shirt and tie were lying on the sofa where they'd dropped them when they had tossed each other off.
"Do what?" Draco sat on the chair furthest from the stove. The ensemble of the four chintz-covered chairs had been valuable once, a century ago when oak had been en vogue. Mother had banned them from the parlours and salons in the Manor. Draco found them in the attic, the chintz worn, the wood chipped but perfectly comfortable.
"Kiss me like that."
The leek was in the sink, waiting to be washed and sliced. It was a safe bet that Potter'd be using the kitchen knife he'd just unpacked and not his wand. Draco raised the newspaper to hide his smile. "I've Seen it."
Potter turned, the knife flashing in his hand as he reached for a stalk of leek. "You're shitting me, right? You've not Seen us kiss in your dingy hallway."
"I did."
Potter chuckled as he moved back to the sink. "Seems like a waste of your talent."
Draco shrugged and continued to pretend to read the Prophet.
"Will the child be a Squib?" Potter did not turn around. He kept on slicing the leek on the wooden board he'd conjured from somewhere. Over the top of the paper Draco had a perfect view of Potter's slender, wiry arms and the pale skin of his neck.
"No."
Potter made a non-committal grunt. He was busy rummaging around in the cupboard. Finally he found a large pot that he placed on the stove. He did use his wand to light the fire and fill the pot with water. The sliced leek went in, and carrots and potatoes that Potter had diced when Draco wasn't looking.
"There's Squibs in the Borgin family." Draco hadn't meant to reveal this bit of prejudiced information Father had provided him with. But Potter had not asked for his help in all the months they had been shagging. Not once had he asked for a prophecy to assist the Aurors. Draco received regular calls from other departments but never Magical Law Enforcement. He suspected Robards, the Head Auror, did not trust him. And rightly so, considering the faded Mark on Draco's arm. But now Potter had told him about Selwyn. The Ministry's evidence...
Perhaps it had been a slip of tongue but Draco didn't think so. Potter was a slob, with no manners to speak of and prone to impulsive bursts of anger. But he never had let anything slip about his work. No, Potter wanted Draco to know about the upcoming trials.
Draco looked up from the paper to find Potter stare at him. It felt as if he'd Seen him like this, knife in one hand and the salt-shaker in the other, eyes so brightly green it took Draco's breath away. But he hadn't, had never even imagined Harry Potter would cook for him. Or that he would betray Pureblood secrets to the man who had sworn publicly to bring down the last of the Death Eaters before he'd turn twenty-one.
"Borgin... Tiberius Borgin is one of the accused," Potter said. A heavy iron pan was in his hand that Draco was quite certain he'd never seen in his cupboards.
As for Tiberius, Draco had suspected that much. The young Borgin was a few years older than him, top of his class at Durmstrang, one of Karkaroff's favourites. He had returned to Britain only recently. Father, who had always been full of admiration for Borgin's son, had not mentioned him once since the Dark Lord's demise.
"There've been rumours about the Selwyn marriage. Divorce was mentioned." It was the last bit of information Potter needed to draw his own conclusions. His key witness may well be telling the truth, even under Veritaserum. But Selwyn's truth most likely was out-dated. Or worse, it was manipulated into lies that guaranteed the Auror Office's case against the accused Death Eaters fell apart when presented to the Wizengamot. MLE would do better to corroborate Selwyn's testimony, rather than simply prepare him for the trials.
The spicy odour of rosemary, meat and olive oil filled the parlour. The sausages sizzled in the pan. Draco could practically hear Potter's thoughts turning and turning and finally falling into place. He got up and stood behind him, circling his waist and placing his hands on Harry's belly. He pressed his lips against the pale patch of skin of Harry's neck.
"That smells delicious," he murmured and wasn't certain whether he meant dinner or Harry or the heady mix of them.
Harry leaned against him and rubbed the back of his head against Draco's jaw. It was a quick gesture of affection, as precise and deliberate as the way Harry turned the sausages in the pan. "Would you..." he started, voice gone quiet and pensive.
"What?" Draco was hard again. He wondered whether Harry was up for another shag before dinner. He'd Seen himself give Harry a blow-job on the sofa, after all, and before they had been getting each other off with only fingers and hands and the heat of their bodies.
"Would you have kissed me in the hallway if you hadn't Seen it in a vision?"
Questioning fate, Harry was. As Draco had done numerous times during the last months. That kiss in the hallway, with Harry pressed into Draco's coats – it felt like something he would always want to do, whenever Harry passed the coat hook and Draco was around to shove him against the wall. But then, Draco had Seen it. And that meant he would never know for sure.
"Maybe," he said.
o=o
= The empty closet =
The closet was barely big enough for one man to sit on the floor, knees drawn close, and still Draco's toes touched the wall. Potter hardly seemed to notice it. Draco had told him – early on during one of their first nights spent together in the flat – that it was there where he went to slip into deep trances. Potter had given the closet door a wary glance, Auror-trained, speculative, as if he expected some bad guys to erupt from it. He never mentioned the closet after that. Perhaps, Potter was wary of Draco's prophecies. Or it was something else entirely, something to do with Potter hating small, confined, dusty places of any kind. Whatever the reason, they never kissed or touched or fucked anywhere near the closet, not against its door, not on the floor before it.
In Draco's visions, his flat had no closet. At its place all he could ever See was an impenetrable blue light.
o=o
=o=
Author's notes: Ever since I first read Musamihi's "In the Stream" I was intrigued by Draco's office-cum-flat in those terraced houses near the coffee house that serves those wonderful madeleines. I've drawn up several floor-plans of Draco's flat until I finally settled on one that unfortunately won't let me link to from here. You can find it in my Livejournal or on AO3. The snippets of Harry and Draco's relationship go with it.