Title: Taking Back The Crown
Summary: Draco Malfoy had never looked better and, he knew, the wizarding world couldn't stand it. He has regained his family names rightful standing in the wizard world, despite the fact most witches and wizards despise him for it. Draco doesn't care for their opinions; he only wants one man and, honestly, it's not his opinions he wants him for. Draco/Harry. Quite dark Draco. Two-shot.
Relationships/Pairings: Draco/Harry. Past Ginny/Harry.
Warnings: Rated M – usual warnings, slash, sex and swearing. Could be seen as slightly Weasley bashing. Quite a dark Draco… Dark for how I usually portray him post-war anyway, but I like a bit of evil Draco in my life. ;) top!Draco and bottom!Harry if that sort of thing matters to you.
Authors Note: Thanks to the success of my last Panic! at the Disco inspired fanfiction, and a request for more from Mrs. Driver I decided to write another... This time hiding two songs, a new and an old! Sorry it's not a sequel to the last, but, the song I chose to write to inspired this. I hope you all enjoy and, for those fans of Panic!ATD, good luck in spotting the lyrics! ;)
This will be uploaded in two halves, the second half is already in motion, and should be up by the end of the week! I really enjoyed writing this one so I hope you all enjoy reading. I welcome any reviews/comments good or constructive.
Taking Back The Crown
Draco Malfoy smirked. A long, slow drawn out expression which spread from his lips right to the outmost corners of his face. He took a glass from the nearest waitress who, in credit to her skills in hospitality, managed to contain her reaction to only a brief flicker of wide-eyed, slack-lipped surprise to cross her features – it was only a heartbeat of an expression and Draco highly doubted anyone else had seen it at all.
But he had, of course.
Because Draco Malfoy lived for moments like this. He thrived on them like he did air, food and water. Except such moments were so much more satisfying. He offered the witch a lazily charming wink, watched with pleasure as her cheeks heated up before she scuttled away.
He took a sip from the glass he had taken, the other hand smoothing down his finely spun, silken robes of the deepest onyx - they could not be mistaken for black, not with the way the shone under the parities lights - hemmed with the purest silver. He caught his reflection in one of the many mirrors which seemed to adorn the walls of parities such as this, although he didn't need to see himself to know that his platinum hair was perfectly styled; a little longer than it had been in Hogwarts, but nowhere near as long as his fathers. His features, despite a slight softening from his teen years, were still strong and powerful, with his high cheekbones framing his deep grey eyes. Which, of course, were complimented by the onyx and silver mixture of robes.
Draco knew that he had never looked better. He had never looked better and, what was more, the wizarding world couldn't stand it. He knew, for he had heard them say so under their breaths.
"When did he get all confident?" A stout, beady-eyed witch had whispered venomously under her breath as Draco passed. The words only made him lift his chin higher, his smirk grow deeper.
Those on the light side of the war hated him, naturally, for the mark on his arm. Despite Potter speaking for him at the trials, with enough force to grant him pardon from Azkaban, the majority of the wizarding world was still filled with hatred at the sound of his surname. Others; his father's former associates, his former school mates, former family allies, hated him for how successful he had become. Many of them had floundered and failed where he had flourished. After the war they had been vocal in their support for the newfound, glorious wizarding world. Their words, their money, their presence in the world had been treated with scorn at best and, at worst, downright social exile. Not Draco. With his father sentenced to Azkaban for life and his mother removing herself to the family estate in France he had become Master of Malfoy Manor and he had earned that title. He had bide his time, alert and ready for changes in the wizarding world he could exploit. Unlike his foolish former allies, his murmurs were nothing more than whispers in the ears of the right people, his money was a silent lining of the right pockets at the right time and, as the years after the war tumbled forward, the presence of the Malfoy name commanded the same respect it should always have done.
Of course, the hatred remained. Draco didn't dislike it; in fact he revelled in it. It gave him a power he knew how to wield. And, of course, he had no problem finding a lover. He sought out the young waiting witch again, allowing his grey eyes to flicker up and down her slender frame. Her reaction had been pleasing, but expected. She would do for the evening, Draco supposed, if no… alternative solutions could be found.
As if a master of legilimency – which he certainly wasn't, if what Professor Snape had told him was to be believed – Draco's alternative solution walked into the room.
Harry Potter was dressed impeccably, of course. The Ministry would not allow their Head Auror - the youngest Head of the Auror department ever, no less - to attend events looking anything less. Draco allowed himself a moment to feast upon the site; fine, tailored robes of the deepest burgundy lined his fit Auror's frame. His black, curly hair, as resistant to styling charms as ever, somehow provided the perfect frame for his facial features. His shoulders had broadened considerably and he had gained a few inches of height. Perhaps the newfound height came from the fact that, a few months ago, he'd managed to shrug the weight of the She-Weasel bint after 4 years of marriage.
Yes, it had been quite the scandal.
The She-Weasel had been caught cheating on Potter. Of course, The Prophet had a field day. Draco recalled the events with the satisfaction he always did; people turning their glares away from him in the streets to focus on the red-headed slut, watching as she tried to hold her head high as people spat at her feet, hurling abuse and actual curses in her path. How dare she, the wizarding world collectively asked, betray their Saviour? How dare she break his heart, they accused, after everything he had done for the world?
Even Draco had to admit he found it difficult to understand how she could face the world with the bravado that she did.
That was, of course, until events took a rather interesting turn.
"CHOSEN ONE CHOSE MEN: EX-WIFE REVEALS ALL." The Prophet had blared, the letters at least eight inches high above a picture of Potters troubled face. That was all that dominated the front page, with two pages inside dedicated to the tale the She-Weasel had told. A story of how, she had only turned to the Montrose Magpies chaser, Sean Fleek, after Harry had confessed his sexuality to her. They lived for some time, she claimed, as friends rather than lovers. Potter hadn't been ready for the scrutiny of the wizarding world's judgemental eye and she had agreed to keep his secret. What was more; she'd had Potters permission, of all things, to start shagging Fleek.
His permission.
Draco despised Potter for being so weak. How could he give wife, whether he loved her or not, permission to lie with another man just to hide his own secrets?
Secrets that, in Draco's opinion, needn't be secret at all. It turned out that Potter's fear of rejection from the wizarding world for his sexuality had come from some muggle aversion to gay relationships that, despite looking into, Draco couldn't really understand. Of course, as a Pureblood wizard he would be expected, ultimately, to find a wife to bear children and continue the family line. But what he did, and with whom, until that time came was of no significant concern.
It was then that a plan had begun to take root, quite deeply, in Draco's mind. He had already built back the Malfoy empire; he had restored power and wealth to the name, reinstated the value of his opinion whether people liked it or not. He had regained the fearsome standing his ancestors had once had.
But there was still one thing he hated, one weakness he despised, one chink in his cold, solid armour.
Potter.
He owed Potter. The admission was like acid on his tongue; Malfoy's did not owe debts. He had, at one time, been on the upper hand. He had saved Potter and his friends during the capture at the Manor in the height of the war. Potter had, of course, returned that life debt when he saved Draco from the flames in the Room of Hidden Things during the midst of the Battle of Hogwarts. Those life debts were equal, considered settled, as each cancelled out the other.
But then Potter had to go one further. He spoke for Draco and his mother at the Death Eater trials. He managed to free Narcissa completely, allowing her to flee to France, and reduce Draco's sentencing to the terms of a year's house arrest and two years of monitoring and limitations on his magic.
It wasn't a life debt, it was worse.
It was a matter of pride, of honour.
He had worked tirelessly to restore glory to his name yet it all his efforts were tainted by the man who had arrived at the party.
He would, however, take back the crown. He would take back his honour, his glory from Potter with the one skill he knew he was flawless with. He knew, of course, for he had been told many times.
He would own Potter. He looked, once again, back across to the man who had now taken a drink from the same witch who had offered one to Draco – who had treated him with the same reverence that every hero-worshipper did, if Potter's embarrassed smile and her blush could be trusted – and was now beginning to make his way through the circles of partygoers desperate to converse with the Chosen One.
He knew better than to approach, having watching Potter from a distance at several of these functions. He had already formulated his plan; now it was time to put it into action. He noted the direction in which Potter appeared to be moving and headed toward a group who were gathered in his upcoming path. He chose the group based on their members; Brian Woodcroft, a Ministry potions expert whom Draco had worked with through his business would be a conversationalist that Draco could tolerate until Potter reached them. The wizard, Eric Thorpe, who was an international ingredient importer for rare potions and witch, Thorpe's wife – Draco couldn't remember her name and had no reason to, she was insignificant – with him would be tolerable. Thorpe had supplied Draco several times; the scowl on his face as Draco approached told him that their arrangement was definitely business and not pleasure, but Draco didn't mind at all. Much better, he believed, to keep your associates at a distance.
"Woodcroft, Thorpe." He greeted, giving each wizard a small, swift bow as he approached. He didn't bother to offer Thorpe's wife the courtesy of his attentions, there was no need.
"Malfoy." Woodcroft replied, offering a bow of greeting in return. "How's business?"
"Very good, thank you. My latest advances in brewing with Armadillo Bile are coming along very pleasingly. In fact –" He paused, turning his attention to Thorpe who, until that point, he had completely frozen out of the conversation. "I'll need another shipment soon." It made sense to secure business where he could, of course. His father had always said the best business was done at parties. "As well as some Boomslang skin." Thorpe gave a sharp, short nod; he may not appreciate working with Malfoy but he wasn't a fool, he knew good money when he saw it.
"Boomslang skin?" Woodcroft interjected, one eyebrow raised. "Whatever are you mixing up, Malfoy?"
"That." Malfoy replied, turning his attention back to Woodcroft with a wink. "Would be telling. Once it is complete, however, you will be the first to know." Draco permitted himself to give another bow, this time a little lower, suggesting a higher level of respect. It was all an act, of course, but an act Draco played well. Woodcroft's eager smile told Draco all he needed to know; that Woodcroft believed he would be the first to hear of any advances Draco made. He wouldn't, of course, but the belief was necessary for Draco to pass under the eyes and ears of the Ministry undetected. He allowed his gaze to search out Potter again and noticed, with a flicker of annoyance, that he had now begun to circulate in the opposite direction.
"If you'll excuse me." He said, directing his farewell bow to Woodcroft only before turning away.
"How can you stand to discuss potioneering so candidly with him?" Thorpe hissed to Woodcroft as Draco began to walk away and the blonde smirked to himself. He had hardly planned to cause such a dispute between the pair but, of course, he revelled in any he did cause. With the thought fresh on his mind he noted the group directly next to the wizards Potter currently held court with and his smirk grew wider. Perfect.
"Good evening." He greeted as he slipped into the small circle, this time consisting of two wizards and their wives. Both were old, almost forgotten, Pureblood names who clung to the reputations of their names. The reputation was, after the war, all they had to take pride in. Neither family, the Fawley's nor the Shafiq's, had been on the side of dark but neither had they been openly on the side of the resistance. Draco knew that they were two of the families who had fallen prey to the post-war desperation to be seen supporting the 'right' people and had lost most of their money in badly timed investments which, thanks to the suspicion of the wizarding world at that time, had not paid off. Draco rewarded himself with another small smirk in the knowledge of the pride that he had never been so foolish. "Fawley, Shafiq." He nodded to each in turn, giving a deeper bow to both than he had to those in his previous conversation. It wasn't that he respected these more, in fact, it was rather the opposite. He kept his eyes high, fixing each wizard with a stare which could be considered mocking to those on the end of it.
"Malfoy." Shafiq snipped, his tone short and clipped, despite the warning elbow his wife placed in his ribs. Draco gave her an approving glance; Maria Shafiq, to her credit, was probably the only reason the entire family weren't in ruins.
"Malfoy." Fawley echoed, his voice filled with scorn that rivalled his associates. His wife, Draco noted, was clearly not as intelligent as Shafiq's and rather than interrupting her husband's snipe levelled Draco with a look of contempt to match his tone. Draco flashed his teeth at the pair, making sure his expression would appear – from a distance, at least – open and welcoming. His eyes, of course, told a different story. They glittered with contempt that opposed his smile, visible only to those it was meant for.
"Fantastic night, isn't it?" He offered, raising the glass he still held. He knew it wouldn't take long for Fawley to ignite, not if he pressed the right buttons. "Charitable events are always so… fulfilling." He emphasised the final word as he allowed his gaze to travel purposely over the dress robes the Fawley's wore; they had clearly been fine once upon a time. Now they were faded, no longer glittering with the wealth of the fabric as Draco's did, and slightly frayed at the hems, a clear side effect of one too many cleaning charms.
"Come to throw more of your dirty money around?" Fawley sneered, forgoing Draco's social niceties in ensure his expression appeared friendly or, at least, neutral. He could have rolled his eyes at their blatant lack of proper Pureblood education; despite his father's faults, he had been an excellent educator in the art of social disagreements.
"Why Fawley." Draco mock-gaped, ensuring his tone appeared sufficiently wounded. Of course, his eyes still shone with sarcasm, letting his opponent know that his tone was nothing more than a show for those around him. "I pride myself in giving to those in true need. Perhaps…" He paused, allowing his gaze to linger once again over their robes, allowing his lips to curl into a slow smirk.
"We indulge in no such charity. Especially with the likes of the Malfoy's." Fawley's wife spat, her eyes burning with anger at being insulted in such a way. Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw Potter approaching and had to stifle a laugh; truly, the Saviours timing couldn't have been any better.
"Why Prucella," he purred, purposely using her given name to stir more contempt "I'm shocked. I would have thought indulging in charity would be the top of your list. Especially when the Malfoy name has been able to make such a generous contribution." He lifted his gaze, feigning seeing Potter for the first time. "Oh, Mr Potter. We were just discussing the contributions we have made to tonight's worthy cause." He said, flashing the him a perfectly polite smile. "Mrs Fawley here was just about to explain to us why she sees no need to… What were your words, Madam? Oh yes…. indulge in such charity." He turned his gaze back to Fawley and his wife, his jaw aching with the effort it took to hold the smirk from breaking out across his perfectly schooled, absent features. He knew, of course, he was twisting the witch's words, but a pensive memory from the correct angle – one that didn't show Draco's disrespectful gaze to their clothing – would hold up the way he had retold events for Potter.
Prucella Fawley's face raged with a glorious mix between shame and fury; her cheeks were glowing as brightly as a Howler and her mouth gaped in a way that resembled a most unsightly fish for several moments before she recovered herself. "We meant our words in no such way, of course, Mr Potter." She floundered and Draco allowed himself to look away from her failing excuses for a moment to note, with delight, that the Shafiq's had silently left the conversation. Clearly they didn't want to associate their name with the mess the Fawley's were making for themselves.
Before Potter could jump in with his usual noble attitude, Malfoy nodded his head, fixing his features into an appropriately sympathetic expression. "Of course not, Mrs Fawley." He soothed his tone all for Potter's benefit. "I'm sure we can be expecting news of your donation in the course of tonight's events, can't we?"
Words had apparently failed the witch once again and this time Draco couldn't hold back his smirk. He subtly altered his position so his expression could not cross Potter's gaze and allowed the Fawley's to see the full extent of his merriment at their downfall; of course there would be no such donation. If rumours of their current financial status were to be believed, their vault in Gringott's was down to its last few sickles and their once glorious manor home was largely in ruin.
Mr Fawley stepped to take his wife's elbow in that moment. "Of course." He replied, clearly more well-versed in the social expectations of Pureblood culture. One would not simply admit their defeat. "If you will excuse us, I can see a colleague over by the drinks table." It was a feeble excuse and it made Malfoy's smirk all the wider. "Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy." He bid farewell, with nothing but respect in the deep bow he offered to Potter and, Draco noted with warmth, nothing but contempt in the short one he was offered. He ensured his features were appropriately neutral before he turned back to Potter, aware they were now the only two in the conversation.
"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Potter was the first to speak, his face full of suspicion. His green eyes were wide and cautious, his lip curled as if he longed to bite it. His gaze flickered after the Fawley's as if trying to read their minds for the dastardly tricks he longed to accuse Draco of. Honestly, for the youngest head Auror in the lifetime of the Ministry, he would surely win no prizes for concealment.
"You mean besides offering my financial aid to this brilliant cause?" He asked, looking around the grand hall they stood in with a wide-eyed look of wonder which suggested he could think of no other reason he could be there. He watched as Potter folded his arms, fixing Draco with a long, hard stare. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine; he had forgotten how it felt to be opposed like this, how Potter could stand and fight against him without preamble, how they could bring out the worst in each other.
It made him yearn all the more for the prize he coveted.
"Well, I'm wrecking this evening already and loving every minute of it." Draco drawled, purposely seeking out the Fawley's who had bundled themselves into a corner and were whispering furiously, each with a face to rival the famous Weasley hair. He chuckled darkly, turning his gaze back to Potter when he was sure he had watched them long enough for Potter to see them too. "I'm ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring and…"
"And?" Potter interrupted before Draco's dramatic pause could even gain momentum. He snarled with heat that could rival a dragon and Draco remembered all too well the reasons he had been so fond of opposing Potter at Hogwarts.
"I have spent years, Potter, rebuilding my families' name, my wealth, my power after the war." He knew he could talk straight with Potter. He had no reason to layer his charm, to spin tales, to offer the right words and affect the correct gestures. He relished in the openness, in the chance to be his true, cold self. "Yet there is something missing."
Potter prompted him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and, for a moment, Draco hesitated. He wanted more of an open retort from Potter, an anger he could spar too. His silence was unnerving, yet he had no choice yet to respond to it.
"My pride." He growled, lowering his voice so it would be heard by no one, so low that he knew even Potter would need to strain to hear it. "You took it from me when you spoke for my freedom. I'm here to take it back."
"And how, exactly, do you plan on doing that?" Potter asked, looking genuinely confused. He had from the moment Draco mentioned speaking for him. No doubt his Gryffindor morals of doing the right thing still guided him like a 'point me' charm.
Draco mulled over his response, letting the silence wash over them both. Potter clearly found the silence challenging as he blundered on in the way only a Gryffindor could. "I can't exactly take it back and, even if I could, I doubt you would exactly want me to. I mean, it could land you straight in Azakaban, what good would your pride do yo-"
"Of course I don't." Draco snapped, interrupting Potter's blathering before he could insult the importance of pride any more than he already had. Of course pride did people well; it had sustained his father until he had taken his last breaths in the stone walls of prison.
"Then what?" Potter asked incredulously.
"Tell me, Potter." Draco began, in a move which would appear to change the subject but was only bringing them closer to his ultimate goal. "Have you ever actually been fucked by a man?"