Title: Tuus Hostis Occulti
Pairings: Harry/Draco as main pairing – written from both of their POV's interchanging throughout. Other pairs - mentioned Ron/Hermione, and more generally cannon couples.
Blurb: Draco and Harry have been dating for almost four years. They've had their ups and downs, but everything changes when one of the many threats to their safety comes horrifyingly true… But with each letter signed Tuus Hostis Occulti – your hidden enemy – is the threat everything it seems?
Rating/Warnings: M for all the reasons fanfiction suggests – strong language and sexual content and implied/discussed Mpreg. Also some pretty dark themes – kidnap, torture, some potential (hinted, very abstract) thoughts of suicide. This story will feature lots of flashbacks, written in italics, to provide a background to Harry and Draco's relationship. The story will also switch P.O.V's frequently, showing the story from both Harry and Draco's perspectives.
Author's note: After focusing on "emerging" relationship stories where Draco and Harry get together I wanted to try something a little different. I have the story entirely mapped out, but not yet written, so I wouldn't like to estimate a length! Enjoy and, please, review!
Tuus Hostis Occulti
Chapter One
Draco Malfoy awoke very slowly. He blinked out of habit, as he always did when he awoke to adjust himself to the early morning light. However he soon became all too aware that there was no light for him to adjust to. He was dazed and there was a dull, slightly throbbing pain at his temples, as if he had just awoken from a sleep so deep, so long that it had given him a headache rather than relieved it.
Or he had awoken from a magically induced slumber.
He blinked again, although it gave him no advantage, and looked around the room he was in. He might not have much hope of sight, but his other senses were still perfectly intact. It was cold, that much he could feel, and as he realised it a shiver ran deep down his bones. He reached out to the wall he was slumped against and felt a cool, hard stone beneath his fingertips. The stone was slightly damp and – yes, when he took a deep breath in, the wet, stale smell of damp assaulted his nostrils. He listened intently yet nothing but silence and the sound of his own breathing stretched before him. No doubt the silence was magically induced by his captors.
Yes, captors.
For now that his dazed, sleep addled mind had been given chance to awake as his body had, memories of that morning came flooding back to him. It had been around six thirty when he arrived at his potions store a little way outside of Diagon Alley - Lepping Lane, to be precise – ready to try his hand in his laboratory before the store opened for business that morning. Early, he knew, but necessary. But that had been when the world turned upside down; he forced his mind to remember although he remembered nothing more than a black hood sweeping over his eyes as he apparated on the front step of his business, taking away the light that he had, until right now, taken for granted.
He pulled himself into a sitting position and allowed his head to roll back against the damp, cold stone wall behind him. He drew his legs up against his body, wrapping his arms around his knees and stared into the darkness. Action, he told himself, would keep his mind occupied. He may not be able to see his captors in the dark, dank dungeon they had him imprisoned in, but who knew what kind of surveillance spells they had watching him. He did not want to appear weak in the face of an enemy.
So far his available senses – smell, touch, and hearing – had told him he must be in a dungeon cell. No other place he had ever inhabited had been as cold, as imposing, as hope defying, as a dungeon. As he thought that, the reason why he knew just what a dungeon was like came back to him and he shuddered involuntary; being a prisoner in his own home, in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, caged by his crazy Aunt Bellatrix for failing one of the Dark Lord's orders was not a memory that it would be healthy for him to revisit right now.
Action, he reminded himself, and pulled himself to his feet. He may not be able to see the dungeon, but he could pace it, and get an idea of the size of the room he was contained in. As he stood his head grazed the ceiling, meaning he had to bend just a little at the knees to be able to stand. It took him around a stride and a half to cross lengthwise – although he could easily cross it with just one step he had taken to making his strides smaller to give himself the illusion of more space – and as for the width he could touch each opposing wall with each of his palms.
Cosy, he thought to himself, the sneer which coated his lips set as an outward display of defiance to whoever may be watching, masking the fear inside.
Because, of course, Malfoy's don't get scared, Draco reminded himself.
Forgetting himself for a moment he attempted to straighten up to relieve the cramp in his bended knees and banged his head against the stone above. Bringing a hand up to rub the lump he must have created and, closing his eyes with the sharp sting of pain that overcame him, he sank back down to his resting position against the wall. His thoughts wandered for a moment and time Draco thought of what Harry would say if he could see him now. He'd smirk, of course, then making some cutting comment about Draco's pride in his height no longer serving him well (he was, naturally, a good half a foot taller than Harry, a fact he frequently exploited).
Then his heart ached.
Of course Harry wouldn't say that. Not in this situation. Harry would most likely be angry with him for ignoring his repeated warnings about his safety. Draco often found it ironic that it was his strength and independence that Harry had admitted attracted him to him in the first place; however, when the attraction grew to love, so did Harry's feelings of protection.
If Harry could see him now…
He allowed his feelings; guilt and grief, loneliness and fear, to wash over him for a few seconds. Then Draco set his face in a determined, grim line and pushed all thoughts of Harry away. He refused to give his captors the enjoyment of seeing his emotions.
Because, of course, Malfoy's don't do emotions of any kind, Draco reminded himself.
Harry sat and stared into the third cup of tea he'd been provided with by Hermione. He wrapped his hands around the china, trying to hide the way his arms shook with frustration. What was he doing here? Why was he wasting time? Every inch of his body longed to be out, tracking down Draco and the bastards who had taken him before testing out several interesting spells he had taught himself from Dark Arts books Draco had brought with him from the Manor to the small house they know shared that, at the time, Harry told himself he was learning purely for emergencies.
Well, if Draco getting kidnapped didn't constitute as an emergency, Harry didn't know what did.
Rage erupted within him as he thought of kidnapping crossed his mind and, in an unbidden burst of raw, wandless magic, the mug he held cracked into a thousand splintering pieces of china which flew through the air of Ron and Hermione's kitchen. Hot liquid spilled from the cup, instantly scalding his palms.
"Fuck!" He swore as the tea burnt into his skin.
Hermione, thankfully, was ready. With the first flick of her wand she cleared the table of both split tea and broken china and with the second she conjured a healing salve to coat Harry's hands.
"My mum always used to say tea makes things better. I guess that isn't the case with you." Hermione tried lightly as she applied the salve to the now flaming red patches of skin on Harry's hands. Harry bit his tongue to hold in a hiss of pain as the cool salve coated his burning skin as his cheeks began to burn for a different reason.
"Sorry.." He muttered shame faced, thinking of the first cup (which went the same way as the third) and the second cup (thankfully and skilfully vanished by Hermione as she spotted a flicker of anger in Harry's eyes) of tea he had been provided with and failed to drink.
He allowed the salve to do its work, already feeling the skin begin to blister over on its way to extremely quickened healing. He'd already seen the benefit of the salve Hermione conjured following his first accident but, given the circumstances, wasn't in the mood to appear impressed.
"It might not work as well this time, given it's only just healed the first burns.." Hermione explained her voice quiet and words spoken as if very carefully chosen as she saw Harry looking down at his hands. "I'm sure Ron won't be long."
"Yeah.." Was all Harry could say, finding the sight of his now painfully blistering hands much preferable to the look of pity Hermione was no doubt offering him.
The friends sat in silence after that and Hermione made no move to replace the tea for a fourth time. Harry stared at the clock on the kitchen wall which ticked with each passing second as if taunting Harry for every second he was wasting.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Ti-
Just as Harry was about to leave, to return home and seek hot-headed, desperate revenge when the fireplace whooshed into life and green flickering flames spat his best friend out into the kitchen.
"Rose? Is she OK? What's wrong?" Ron burst out the second he was stepped out of the grate and into the kitchen. His face, already lined with worry, paled all the more when he saw Harry sitting at his kitchen table. "Harry? I thought you were ill? Is she that bad?" Ron's face was as white as chalk now and Hermione rose from her seat, putting her hand on her husband's arm and shaking her head.
"Rose is fine; it's not her, its Harry. We just needed some way to get you out of the office without looking suspicious." She soothed, her hand gently rubbing Ron's forearm in a calming gesture. Ron deflated the look of relief in his eyes obvious for just a moment before they sharped once again and his gaze darted to Harry.
"You're not ill. Robard's said you were ill." He commented. It wasn't an accusation of lying to or misleading him, it wasn't filled with anger or pain. It was a sharp, directed comment, designed to – without question – give Harry the invitation to spill out his problems.
"That will be what Robard's believes, yes." Harry spoke for the first time, pulling a piece of parchment out of his robe pocket and handing it to Ron. The parchment was already starting to wear at the edges – Harry had read it himself several times before he had apparated to Hermione's side and she herself had read it just as many times since he had arrived.
Not that it mattered, anyway. Ron and Hermione were the only ones he trusted with this and, once Ron had seen the words scribbled on the page, Harry knew he wouldn't need the letter again. The words, by now, were already imprinted on his mind forever.
Potter,
We have succeeded where others before us have failed.
We have him.
Your employers are, as you read this, receiving an owl that declares you as contagiously sick and in need of at least two weeks leave. You will not, under any circumstances, tell them or anyone of this letter if you wish to see him again.
You will, in due course, receive instruction.
We are always watching, Potter, and we have no problem in breaking a bone or two if we see you have disobeyed us.
Remember, Potter.
We have him.
Tuus Hostis Occulti
The signature of the letter had been the focus of his and Hermione's work that afternoon. Hermione had quickly worked out the Latin origins of the word and, after burying her head in a worn, leather bound book "Latin pro tironibus", she had informed him in nothing more than a whisper that the letter was signed "your hidden enemy". The memory of the signature ran a shiver down Harry's spine, of rage and fear and emotions he couldn't place. He had already checked it with a tracking charm – the parchment had been heavily warded against and gave Harry nothing. He had undertaken a handwriting charm – again, the parchment showed nothing, the writer had gone to great lengths to conceal his or her identity. Hermione herself had repeated the charms, as well as various others, and found nothing.
Their enemy, it appeared, was as they claimed – hidden.
The opening words swam in Harry's mind "We have succeeded where others before us have failed. We have him." Those had been the words that had stopped Harry's heart. He had received, in the years after the war, countless threats. They had all been similar; strongly warded, warning him not to use his powers as an Auror to hunt them, filled with vicious words. They had all threatened against the place they could hurt most of all – his heart – and this time, someone had succeeded.
Someone – that, for Harry, was the most vital part. "We have succeeded where others before us have failed." His brain repeated. Every day that he closed a case at work, every time a former Death Eater was caught and sent to Azkaban, every time that a new, aspiring 'Dark Lord' attempted to rise and was squashed, Harry wondered if those were the ones sending the threats, if his life would be peaceful.
If any of the prisoners behind bars had been behind the threats before, another had taken their place.
Ron was ashen faced as he lifted his gaze from the parchment and sought out Harry's eyes. Harry stared back, into the pale blue eyes which blazed with a mixture of emotions; concern for his best friend, anger over what had happened and an obvious, burning desire to do something.
"Fuck." He said.
"Ronald!" Hermione scolded.
"Fuck." Harry repeated.
Hermione, wisely, said nothing.
Draco stared up at the ceiling of his cell; rather, he stared blankly up into the darkness where, just above him, he knew was a hard, cold stone ceiling. He forced his eyes to bore into the emptiness, whilst forbidding the feeling of dark isolation to overtake him. He would, to his captors, feel defiant.
Draco wasn't sure why he kept referring to captors in the plural but he reasoned that whoever it was would be unlikely to be operating alone. Harry, naturally, had many enemies. A side effect of being the Chosen One or the Almighty Saviour or whatever nickname fit in most coherently with whatever drivel it was that the Daily Prophet were trying to sell that day.
A fond memory at odds with his dismal surroundings enters Draco's mind and, willingly, he allows it to take over. He smiles as he remembers, allowing the reminiscence to take him far, far away.
"Our Almighty Saviour once again proves himself as the deserving of his place in our hearts. At last night's charity gala for war heroes – of which, Mr Potter is of course the greatest – he proclaimed he would double last year's record breaking donation; that record, of course, being held by the Saviour himself. This reporter is honestly amazed by the continued dedication and honour the Chosen One brings to our wizard-"
"Stop Draco!" Harry protested, swinging a pillow from beneath his head and promptly using it to beat his lover around the head. Draco laughed, the high, taunting pitch he used to read the Daily Prophet's latest article aloud to Harry in bed broken. Draco's laughed only seemed to infuriate Harry further and he brought a second pillow to join the first, fisting one in each hand as he smacked his target repeatedly.
"Dear Merlin, what would the Prophet say?" Draco mock-squealed, his laughter stifled enough to affect an overly outraged tone. "I can just see the headlines now – Chosen One, He-Who-Must-Be-Worshiped, sentenced to life in Azkaban for beating lover to death with a pillow." Draco's teasing is punctuated by peals of laughter as he reaches the end of his taunt, amused by his own attempts at being insulting. Harry can't help but laugh with him and, for a moment, the pillows still in his hands.
"Me? Azkaban? Never." Now it's Harrys turn to adopt a tone of mock scandalisation, rising onto his knees on the bed as he drops one pillow, placing a splayed palm over his chest as if shocked Draco were referring to him. "I would simply explain that my boyfriend refused to worship me for the Saviour that I am. They would, of course, completely understand."
Draco laughs along with him; he loves it when Harry is in a mood like this, where he can find light of the celebrity that plagues him. He knows now that Harry doesn't crave the fame as Draco once thought he did but, in fact, despises it. Draco feels happy that he can be the one to make Harry forget the discomfort his frequenting of the Daily Prophet's front page brings.
"I refuse to worship you?" He asked, lowering his voice into a deliberately seductive tone. "Now, now, we can't have that, can we?" He almost purrs as he speaks, edging toward Harry slowly. Harry remains on his knees in the centre of their bed as if frozen – although Draco knows he isn't, he can see the flicker of arousal pass through his lovers eyes. "In fact we should fix that, right away."
Those are the last words he speaks before he raises his palms, pushing Harry back against the pillows. His touch is only light but his boyfriend falls willingly, dropping back against the plush bedcovers Draco insisted they buy when he first moved in. But Draco has no time to think of bed covers now.
Now he has something much more satisfying to focus his attention on.
He drags his fingers down Harry's chest, scraping his nails against the defined muscles that lay taught under his skin, feeling the slight tickle of Harry's chest hair tease his fingers before the continue, down, down, down to the waistband of his partners boxers. At this point he looks up, finding a pair of sparkling emerald eyes, heated with arousal, staring down into his.
"Tell me, Potter, what worship do you require?"
Draco pulled himself from the memory, the thought of Harry and their bed keeping him warm in the cold of his cell.
