Disclaimer: I own naught.
Warnings: Slash, of the extreme and incestuous variety. Series compatible; ignores epilogue and any actions of Harry after the death of Voldemort.
Pairings: Established Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, eventual Marcus Flint/Harry Potter/Severus Snape; Established Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy, eventual Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy/Tom Riddle Flint.
A Note: Snape will be referred to the name of the visage he is currently in; Samael Prince=Severus Snape, and vice versa.
Review responses are at the end of the chapter.
Morsus
By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom
Chapter Two:
Rose
Year: 2008
Ten Years Missing
Der Jüngling steigt den Berg mit Qual
Die Aussicht ist ihm sehr egal
Hat das Röslein nur im Sinn
Bringt es seiner Liebsten hin
'Rosenrot', Rammstein
(O.o)
Dobby, in the guise of the butler Donald, obediently opened the front door of his Master's home, politely inquiring on the identity of the tall, thin woman with bright red lips and huge brown hair. She smiled widely at him and lifted her briefcase, flashing Dobby a set of lengthy faux red nails that curled around at the end and his wide green eyes kept flashing back to. "My name is Monica Styf," she informed him, "I am here from England Social Services."
Marcus turned the corner and his steel eyes narrowed dangerously. Marcus shoved Dobby aside, telling him to go help Harry with the kid, and overwhelmed the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you want?"
Monica smiled winningly at him; Marcus bared his teeth in response. Filthy female, thinking she could win him over with pretty looks and exposed cleavage? She had another thing coming if she thought that. She didn't even have good legs. Disgusting Muggle. "I am here on request of"—she pulled out a paper from her briefcase and held it up so she could read it—"Mayor of Townshend, Miles Templeton, who has been informed there is a child living in this house who is not registered in any school, at the hospital, or even fact that such child exists."
Marcus grunted. "We don't have a kid, lady. You can leave now."
Her brows met and her clear forehead wrinkled as she scrunched up her nose. "Sir, you just told your...butler? to go assist another man with a child."
Marcus snorted and shook his head, soft hair moving softly about his face. "Kid, lady, not child. Got a kid goat. That musta been what your Mayor thought was a child."
Monica attempted a few more attempts to gain entrance into the house but she couldn't outmaneuver a Slytherin, and as she stalked down the front walk, Marcus pleasingly slammed the door behind her, listening to the boom rattle throughout their house. Stupid Muggles, thinking they could meddle in the affairs of wizards; Marcus's train of thought ran into a wall as he felt Harry wrap soft arms around his waist and rest his chin on Marcus's chest. He looked down at the younger man and gently ran his hand over Harry's beautiful face.
"What did she want, love?"
Marcus grunted. "Nothing to worry your pretty little head about," he informed Harry, picked the other man up, and shoved him against the wall, lips to lips and ragged hands to hot skin. Dobby frowned slightly as he herded Tom past his fathers, tennis ball-size eyes blinking slowly as he thought, That woman wasn't who she said she was. Something wrong is happening. He vowed to tell his Masters just what he thought could be happening; it was just wise to wait until they were done with one another, however. Never a good idea to interfere when Master Marcus was claiming Master Harry, Dobby recollected ruefully, and with a snap of long fingers, he placed a small lunch on the table for Master Tommy and himself.
With another snap of his fingers, he put a silencing charm around his two Masters. No need for their noises to interrupt his and Master Tommy's meal, Dobby reflected, and happily thanked Master Tommy for handing him a filled plate.
(O.o)
Outside, Monica Styf hissed as her brother swooped down from the trees to hand over her broomstick. She thanked him and as they pushed off, under heavy Concealment Charms, she leaned over and told him of what had happened, "Potter's there with Flint, the troll bastard." His eyes widened dramatically and she quickly shook her head. "I don't care what Malfoy told us to find, I'm not telling him that."
Her brother chuckled darkly but nodded. "Let the lazy bastard find that one out for hisself."
She smirked as they went ever higher, swirling up near the clouds and, for a long moment, she felt as if she could dance across the surface of the moon, ride a centaur, converse with the creatures of the sea... "All we'll tell him is that there's a chance he has a kid."
He nodded slowly. "Sounds good to me."
(O.o)
Year: 2007
Nine Years Missing
Lucius smoothed back his son's hair as the boy trembled wetly against him, one strong arm wrapped around his son's small waist and the other searching for his wand amongst the mess he had somehow made of his desk. Draco hummed against him, his lips connected with strands of saliva and semen, and Lucius pushed his son back down onto the desk, back flat against the wood.
Draco was nearly entirely undressed, pants hanging off one delicious ankle and his shirt capturing his wrists, while Lucius had simply pulled himself out of his trousers, one of his son's favorite ways. His searching hand finally found his wand as he pulled out of his son, who gave a small sob of loss, and Lucius sent a cleaning spell at his son before gently hand-dressing him.
Draco curled against his father's wide chest, mind blank as one hand absently ran up and down his father's wide ribs. He glanced down and tucked his father back in his pants before looking up and meeting his father's low grey gaze. He was well aware why they had begun doing this—he was a replacement for his mother, plain and simple—and while his father had long told him that he now was more than that, it still didn't feel like it. Shrugging mentally, he pushed that thought away and mindlessly followed his father out of his office and to the sitting room Samael was waiting in, staring pensively into a softly burning fire.
He settled himself at his father's feet, absently leaning the side of his head against his father's knee as one of those strong hands gently pet his hair, and watched Samael as he pondered...whatever Samael Prince pondered; Draco imagined it was a thousand new potions, or a spell to make the stars that sparkled in his father's eyes reality, or a curse to create. Draco smiled softly and tilted his head back to direct the look at his father, who gently caressed his temples with one long finger. Lucius Malfoy nodded sternly and then lifted his gaze, clearing his throat softly to garner their friend's attention.
Samael turned his head and met Lucius's grey gaze, not at all startled by their appearance. Formal pureblood propriety dictated that the purer of the conversationalists begin; and so Samael waited. Finally, Lucius deemed his patience worthy of his attention and queried politely, "You have found a loophole?"
Samael nodded lowly and leaned back comfortably in the armchair, crossing his right leg over his left and clasping his hands on top of his flat stomach, eyes staring into empty space. "By Ministry of Magic Soul Bond Law, instated in 1606 by Salazar Slytherin, any relationship is not allowed to be...tabooed, for lack of a better word, if a Governor accepts them for a bond." He dismissively waved a hand. "That is the essence of the Law, however; all you need to know. I will have it sent over to your office later."
Lucius smirked thankfully at his friend, twisting a few strands of the soft blond hair between his fingers as he thought. "And if the Governor does not approve?" he asked mildly, not meeting his friend's gaze.
Samael's grey-black eyes snapped to Lucius's face, the thin mouth below them frowning lightly. "The Law does not specify. However, I see no reason why a Governor would deny your...relationship." He looked pointedly at Draco, who smiled lazily at him, and then back up at Lucius, who was nodding slowly.
There were a few minutes of comfortable silence before Lucius frowned softly and tossed the question out into the room, "Do you believe we should find Harry Potter, Samael?" His grey eyes were kept emotionless as they watched his friend's face react, however subtly.
Samael nodded. "Yes. Harry Potter has been missing for far too long."
(O.o)
Two months later, Lucius's fists clenched violently as a Governor slowly shook his head, respectfully telling he and his son that their bond could not be completed, as they needed another partner for the magic to work properly. As the Governor watched them, he was sadly reminded of another couple, one who had come to him five years prior for a marriage and a bonding; he breathed another sigh of regret for the heartache the men had suffered at being told just what he had told this couple. Harry Potter and Marcus Flint... The Governor shook his head softly, remembering the furious widening of steel grey eyes and the possessive arms wrapped around a thin chest as he had informed them of their missing partner, of the liquidation of emerald eyes as he tilted his head back to peer desperately into the eyes of his lover. If he had ever regretted that bonding magic needed all partners to be complete, it had been in the moment when Harry Potter had caught his arm in his small hand and whispered if he would still marry them and Marcus Flint's furious demands for a marriage.
Of course he had married them; no human could resist that pleading gaze or those furious grey eyes.
The Governor shook his head of the past and looked sternly at the two blond men standing in front of them, their witness standing in a pool of shadows and watching nervously. He did not see the obvious relation between them or the exact same hue of their eyes; instead, all he saw were the soft touches and understanding looks passed between them. "You can still be married, if you like," he offered understandingly, but the elder and taller of the two shook his head determinedly, clenching a hand down on his younger partner's shoulder.
"Not now, then," Lucius Malfoy informed the Governor. "When we have our final partner, we will return to be bonded." Lord Malfoy nodded to him and stalked out of the small room, his son and family friend shadowing behind him.
The Governor sighed sadly and retook the seat at his desk, staring at the piles of marriage and bonding requests that he had to complete and either accept or deny. There were days when he truly hated his job.
(O.o)
Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing
Two-and-half Hours Found
Marcus landed squarely on his feet as he jumped from the upper level of the hayloft, running his hand through his hair, dislodging hay as he turned to look at his son's face. Tom was going to Hogwarts in less than a month, and Marcus wondered if the boy was looking forward to it; he had certainly heard enough tales from both of his fathers about their exploits there. All Marcus hoped was that Tom would be placed in Slytherin. Having a Gryffindor son...Marcus shook his head at the thought and lifted up a bale of hay in each arm, grunting to tell his son to follow him.
Tom walked leisurely behind his father, waving his hand to open the hay gates for the eight horses that poked their heads through, eagerly waiting for their afternoon meal. His dad had told him that there were wards up around their property so that the Ministry of Magic could not detect underage magic. His dad had then grinned at his father and then proceeded to tell them of the time during the summer before his fifth year at Hogwarts, when he had protected his cousin—his father's eyes had narrowed dangerously and his arms had tightened even more than their usual grasp around his dad, who had barely even noticed that he couldn't really breathe—from Dementors, and then Tom had begged to know what those were; in retrospect, it was probably better to stay in the dark about creatures that sucked out souls.
Marcus threw the corresponding number of flakes in each stall, Tom flicking his hand to close and latch each hay gate behind him. When his dad fed the horses, he just flipped a hand lazily at the bales of hay and each one separated into the correct number of flakes and floated into the correct stall. His dad had grown slightly lazy the older he got, Tom reflected ruefully with a small grin, but his dad would never pass up the chance to fly around with his father.
While Tom wasn't expected, per se, to join one of the Quidditch teams, both of his parents had dropped hints that it would be nice to have another Quidditch player in the house. While Tom knew that his dad had once held vague desires for his son to join Gryffindor, Tom was well aware that his entire existence had been groomed for a life in Slytherin: lengthy—for his father—lessons on proper pureblood decorum and behavior, proper Slytherin manners and the particular wards he should put around his bed and personal things, how he should act to the elder Slytherins and when he was older, how he should act around the younger Slytherins, and what his attitude was supposed to be towards his Head of House, or how he was supposed to react when a Gryffindor mocked him for who his parents were or what types of questions he was, as a proper Slytherin, allowed to answer in class and the proper Slytherin way to react to half-bloods and Muggle-borns, although Tom had been raised to believe that they were all equal. The list went on, and Tom had eagerly listened, but the entire culmination of his father's lecture had been that he should just act like the typical Slytherin—cold and cruel and calculating—and respect his damn elders. And pay attention in History of Magic and not answer any bloody questions in Charms, for Mordred's sake.
His father tossed the last few flakes into the final stall and then opened the door, gently slipping inside to glance over their lame Belgian mare, aptly named Daisy for her soft demeanor and gentle brown eyes. Harry had his suspicions that she was foundering but the only animal medical scans that they had been able to find—neither of Tom's parents were very good at researching, Tom had found out—hadn't shown anything. Then again, she was a horse; it would be more than a damn miracle if they never had a lame horse. Marcus murmured softly to her—the only times that Tom ever saw his father gentle were around the horses or when he was holding his dad—and softly ran his hands down her sweat-wrapped leg. After a few moments of prodding, Marcus straightened with a nod; he gently pet down Daisy's soft neck and then left the stall, Tom waving a hand to softly shut the door, and watched his father stalk down the wide center hallway, probably back to his dad.
Tom sighed softly—one day, he promised himself, he would find love like that of his parents'—and turned to go look at the three horses grazing happily out in the small pasture, the three horses that they didn't have to feed. He heard his father's gruff words in his mind, Nothin' kills a horse faster 'n grass, and his dad's giggling response, and fondly shook his head. Only his parents...
(O.o)
Marcus grumbled under his breath as he strode past the entrance of the sitting room, glancing to see that his lover was still ensconced in the chair—he was—and absently stripping off his shirt and throwing it in the general direction of the stairs; Dobby would find it soon enough and do whatever with dirty clothes that house elves did. He scowled at the empty kitchen, lowly calling Dobby to bring him just bloody something to eat. He nodded to do something with his hands. Their plow horse, Daisy, had been lame for a few months, and while they could do the work with magic, Marcus liked seeing the soft look in Harry's eyes when he saw the Belgian complacently working the fields. He'd do damn near anything to make Harry happy.
Dobby reappeared with a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on a plain white plate; Marcus grunted, pleased, when the house elf placed the food in front of him. While the meal was what he would have usually fed Tom, in the middle of damn winter, after the boy had been playing outside, it was one of Marcus's favorite meals and he tucked in, eyes not following his hands as he ate and loudly slurped the soup, hunched over the bowl like the troll he had thought himself to be for years; Harry could make something think they were a damn god if he put his mind to it. After a few minutes of eating, Marcus looked over to look at Dobby's nervous fidgeting.
"What?" he ground out, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich.
Dobby slipped onto the bench across from Marcus and the Slytherin had to clench his jaw to keep from ordering the house elf to get off; Harry liked to think that Dobby was one of the family and wouldn't let anyone treat him disrespectfully. Marcus made sure to follow that rule; the one time he hadn't, Harry had ignored him for two hours before he had caved and apologized to the damn house elf. Marcus hadn't realized just how much he depended on the younger man until he didn't have him anymore. Dobby squirmed in his seat and then squeaked, "What does the Misters Malfoys wants with Masters?"
Marcus grunted and ripped off another chunk of the sandwich. He swallowed thickly before responding lowly, "Dunno. Figure they want Harry to go back."
Dobby eeped and looked nervously around, wringing his hands. Marcus one-handedly lifted up the bowl of tomato soup and gulped some down. He dropped the bowl and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Dobby replied, that damn voice still irritatingly high, "But Master Marcus won't let thems takes his Master Harry aways, will he?"
"'Course not," Marcus told him with an almost amused grunt. Let someone take Harry from him? Not even over his dead body. He'd fight past his dying breath to keep Harry with him. He was a Slytherin; Slytherins were bloody possessive of what was theirs. Damnit, now he was all edgy; Marcus shoved the last bit of sandwich in his mouth and stood up, ignoring Dobby's teary thanks, simply pushing the house elf away and rubbing at his face with his hands as he swallowed the sandwich, making his lumbering way to Harry.
The man Harry had told him who was really Snape was on his hands and knees, digging under the couch for his wand; Marcus glanced down and saw it at his feet. He squatted down and picked up the wand; straightening up again and twirling the wand between his fingers, he made his way to Harry and picked the smaller man up by the back of his neck. Marcus dropped himself into his seat and placed Harry in his lap, wrapping one arm around his husband and still twirling the wand between the fingers of his other hand. The two Malfoys snickered softly as Marcus watched the thin body of Samael Prince squirm; he frowned softly as something unrecognizable flared through him and he shifted Harry closer to push the feeling away.
Harry leaned his head against Marcus's shoulder, holding the man's left hand in both of his, idly examining his palm as he waited for something to happen. Mordred, he loved these hands. Strong enough to hold him together after shattering him so delicately...Harry shivered internally at the thought. He, as well, felt that unrecognizable feeling swarm him as he watched Samael wriggle slightly, but pushed it away to focus on Marcus, who was more important to him than anyone, even his son, which was slightly unsurprising, as Tom technically wasn't his or Marcus's by blood. By love and all that really mattered, yes, but not by blood.
Samael finally sat up with a huff of irritation, eyes immediately landing on the wand dangling in Marcus's wide hand. Those grey-black eyes narrowed as Samael pushed to his feet, sidling closer. Harry, who was by then staring thoughtlessly at the ceiling, didn't even look over to Samael as he told him, "I wouldn't try to take it. He'll give it back to you when he's ready."
Marcus sneered and dropped his head to pull in the scent of Harry's hair, pressing a soft kiss to that mat of soft hair, uncaring if anyone saw him—Harry was his, it was good for others to be reminded of that—and Samael paused, glancing between Harry and Marcus; slowly, the man nodded and retook his seat directly across from them. Marcus handed Harry the wand and it disappeared into the locked and warded chest at the foot of their bed. He would give it back to Samael when Marcus was ready.
Tom sauntered into the room, Harry's eyes finally moving from the ceiling as he frowned at the bare chest of his son. "Go put on a shirt, Thomas." Tom paused, glancing at the bare chest of his father—who only went shirted when they had company his father considered polite over or when they were feeding or out in public—and then nodding, retreating from the room.
Lucius slowly raised an eyebrow as Marcus clamped his right hand to the thin stomach of his husband, glaring mildly at the empty tumbler of whisky on the coffee table in front of them. "You never did tell the tale of how...Thomas Riddle came to be your son," he reminded Harry, who frowned slightly and shifted his weight softly on his husband's lap, moving into a more comfortable position. He threaded his fingers through Marcus's as he slowly responded, trying not to say anything that Marcus didn't already know.
"As you well know, I defeated Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts." He ignored the soft flinch that the two Malfoys and Samael gave at the dead man's name and curled into the slightly rougher embrace of his husband. "When he was dead, I was drawn into the dying gasps of his mind," he informed the three Slytherins, not looking at any of them, "and I saw a baby with red eyes crying under a chair. I...couldn't just...leave it there, so I pulled off my dueling robes and wrapped the baby in them. The moment I had the babe in my arms, Voldemort"—the three Slytherins flinched again—"died. I left Hogwarts that day for the final time, my son in my arms." Harry smiled at the boy who then entered the room, throwing himself on the empty cushion on the couch and looking curiously at the occupants of the room. "I named him after the man that had died for him. Thomas Marvolo Riddle, and after our marriage"—Harry smiled softly up at his husband, whose lips curled back from his large teeth in response—"his name was legally changed to Thomas Riddle Flint. My beautiful son," Harry whispered, eyes falling on Tom's handsome and young face with a soft and caring smile.
Marcus grunted, all attention in the room going immediately to him; he glared softly at the three imposters in his house. He'd have the still-don't-understand-why-you-took-my-last-name conversation with Harry later; no need to have private family talks in front of men he didn't even trust. He leaned his head down and pressed his nose to the crease where Harry's neck sloped to meet his shoulder, and bared his teeth against Harry's soft skin, eyes fluttering shut.
Tom kept glancing at the two attractive men sitting on the couch with him, mysteriously drawn to their cold grey eyes and white-blond hair, the pale, pointed features and the aristocratic and superior air they exuded. The younger of the two, blond hair slicked back—Tom's father had told him that once he began at Hogwarts, he would have to start slicking his hair back as well—and barely glamoured red claiming marks dancing over his neck, looked back at Tom and raised a smooth blond eyebrow, those lips twisting in amusement. The elder of the two Malfoys—Tom had heard a hundred stories about them, from both fathers—slowly turned his head and lifted an identical eyebrow at him, his snake-headed cane lying crossways on his knees. Tom swallowed when he saw it and dragged his eyes back to look at his parents; his dad's amused emerald eyes flickered between him and their blond guests and Tom couldn't see his father's face, as it was buried in his dad's neck.
"How's Daisy, Thomas?" his dad queried, his green eyes still dangerously amused; Tom remembered from stories of the Weasley twins that they had a huge impact on Harry's years at Hogwarts, and wondered just how much that made his father regret marrying a Gryffindor. Probably not at all; his parents were so wrapped up in one another that nothing could tear them apart.
Tom shrugged elegantly. "Leg's still sweat-wrapped, but it didn't look as swollen. Oh, and Patrick threw a shoe, I'll call Dustin later."
His dad's brow furrowed. "Which shoe? This is the third time in as many months; I'll tell Greg that he needs overreach boots." Marcus's teeth separated slightly and bit down on Harry's skin; Harry's eyes burned and he unobtrusively leaned his head to the side to allow his husband more access.
Tom nodded slightly, not even registering what his father was doing; he had walked in on so many near-sex situations and had been deterred from even more by Dobby that all they did was to make him wonder if all parents were as in love and as determined to show it as his parents were. He doubted it; when he was allowed to go to town, he didn't see the other parents holding hands and teasing one another—instead, he saw furious faces and harsh arguments, insults and mocking phrases only said to hurt. His father had always told him that his dad was special, and after seeing so many sullen children watching as their parents nearly physically fought in the middle of the grocery store, Tom was ready to believe it; what he didn't tell his father, though, was that he thought his dad was so special because of his father. They completed one another.
Tom had only seen his parents fight once: his father hadn't been polite to Dobby and his dad had just ignored the massive man until he apologized. Tom barely remembered it, except for the lost look on his father's face when his dad didn't even look at him as his father asked him when he was leaving next for a transportation job, and the near tears in his father's eyes as he wandered, lost, around the house, touching things but not recognizing them. Tom had glanced up from one of his books and sternly told his father—any other time telling his father what to do would have resulted in a furious look and punishment, but as his father was so lost, he didn't even register that his son was telling him to do something—to go apologize. His father had nodded to him and wandered out of the sitting room; ten minutes later, he heard his dad's soft squeak as his father pressed him up against a wall and ravished him senseless. Dobby had appeared in the sitting room and put up a silencing charm around the room; later, by the look of his dad, Tom had been grateful.
He looked up and met his dad's gaze, frowning slightly. "Off fore," and his dad nodded slowly, eyes flickering over to the black haired man. Tom glanced around worriedly as something buzzed loudly and Dobby appeared with his dad's cell phone in his hand.
"Call for Master Harry!" the house elf announced, and Harry took the cell phone, flipped it open and pressed it to his ear, wriggling out of Marcus's arms and stepping out of the sitting room, Dobby on his heels.
"Flint Transport," he told the phone, as if it was wondering who he was, and their three guests threw each other mildly confused looks. Marcus leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Harry had always been the one to handle any contact with their customers, while Marcus usually transported whatever their job was for that time, sometimes taking Tom with him and sometimes not.
A few minutes later, Harry stepped back into the sitting room and looked at Marcus. "Dobby," and the house elf danced around him. "Take our guests to their guest rooms. Thomas, go to bed at nine. Marcus..."
The tall Slytherin stood up and followed Harry upstairs, a door slamming shut behind them. Lucius and Samael glanced at one another as they followed the bouncing house elf up the stairs, past the room magically sealed shut and the door painted black, Draco following closely behind his father as he looked around the house and then the room that he and his father were placed in. It was no Malfoy Manor, but it would have to do.
(O.o)
Year: 2003
Five Years Missing
Harry curled up on Marcus's lap as Dobby placed the birthday cake in front of their son. Outside, the wind screamed as the snow whipped against the windows; they had tightly locked up the house and the barn right before the blizzard began. Tom grinned excitedly up at his fathers and then squeezed his red eyes shut to make a wish. Marcus grumbled slightly—he still didn't understand this Muggle tradition—and leaned his head forward, biting the side of his husband's neck lightly. It was one of his favorite manners of touching his beautiful little husband.
Tom blew out the five candles and Dobby danced around them; he looked up at his parents, seeing his dad's soft smile and his father's warm grey eyes. Dobby quickly cut the cake and handed out the slices—Harry happily took one, but Marcus shook his head; he only liked sugar when he licked it from Harry's quivering skin. Tom crowed with delight and quickly ate the slice of cake, Marcus's eyebrows going up when he saw how nearly half the cake was smeared on his son's face, but shrugged at the thought and went back to molesting his husband.
Harry froze, cocking his head to the side and nearly hitting Marcus in the face with his skull. Marcus grunted in anger but lifted his head, running a large hand up Harry's ribs and made a soft, curious sound when Harry tried to escape his grasp. Harry disengaged himself from Marcus's arms and turned around, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "Something's wrong," he told his husband, and Marcus pushed obediently to his feet, following his beau to the back door of their cottage.
"What's it?" Marcus grunted, tugging on a shirt and then holding a thin jacket out to his Harry. When Harry didn't take it, only moving desperately to the door, Marcus rolled his eyes and dropped the jacket on the floor, following his husband through the door and out into the whipping wind.
Merlin's fucking hat, it was cold. Marcus grunted and Harry flicked a heating charm over his husband, throwing his smaller body through the accumulated drifts of snow. After a few moments of amusedly watching his adorable husband trying to battle his way through the snow, Marcus smirked and reached out a large hand, grabbing Harry by the back of his neck and yanking his beau back into his arms. Harry slumped immediately against him and Marcus wrapped his arms around Harry, one hand cupping his husband's bum. He pushed through the snow and came up on the huge sliding doors to the barn, and Harry glanced at them; the left door slid open just enough for Marcus to slip through, clenching Harry to his chest as not to hurt the younger man. He set Harry down on the warm concrete and yanked the door shut, turning around to see his Harry running down to Melody's stall. She was just under eleven months pregnant and the vet had told them that she would give birth within the week.
Marcus grunted softly and followed Harry. Of course Melody had to give bloody birth when they could barely get to her and there was no damn way a vet could come out here if anything went wrong. Harry shoved open the gate and Marcus stepped up next to him just in time to see Melody's perfect foal begin to fight its way out from the thin, protective casing surrounding it. One of Harry's small hands found Marcus's and the bigger of the two squeezed his beau's hand as comfortingly as he dared; Harry tilted his head up and smiled.
Five minutes later, Melody surged to her feet and started nipping at the copper colored foal to have it stand up. Marcus narrowed his eyes and mumbled, "It's a colt."
Harry nodded, leaning heavily on his husband as the colt attempted, for the first time in his life, to use muscles and stand on soft white hooves. "I'd say we let Tom name him..."
"But he'd name him Candy or Fruitcake," Marcus finished with a wry smirk. He picked Harry up in his arms and spun the younger man around, reveling in the bright laughter that radiated from his beau. He pulled Harry up against him and breathed hotly into Harry's beautiful ear, "I say we name him Amor."
Harry's head tilted slightly to the side. "Why?"
Marcus bit down slightly on Harry's shoulder. "Because I love you," he told his husband, and pulled his head back to search those liquid green eyes, watching them soften and Harry's bright nod and the kiss to Marcus's lips in desperate thanks.
"I love you as well, my beautiful Marcus," Harry responded, and lifted his head as the six other horses in the barn neighed in welcome to the colt, their Amor. Marcus's grey eyes flicked from searching Harry's face to see the copper-colored colt pushing to his feet, his dam running her tongue over his coat to dry him off. Harry's entire body softened and he leaned fully into his husband's embrace. "I love you. So much."
Marcus pressed a kiss to Harry's neck, watching the dam and foal interact. In a few minutes, they would have to start cleaning out the stall, take the placenta and bury it outside, and make shopping lists for more foal supplements, but for right now, all they had to do was watch as new life adjusted itself to the world and fall in love all over again.
(O.o)
Year: 2007
Nine Years Missing
Lucius tapped the tip of a quill against the blank piece of parchment on the desk in front of him, staring pensively into the fire off to his right, Draco curled up asleep in front of it. So far, the only names that he could think of to properly find Harry Potter were Alecto and Amycus Carrow, the brother and sister team of the Death Eaters. Lucius had put aside enough money to bribe a dozen people to have them released from Azkaban a week ago, when he and Samael had begun outlining the plan to find Harry Potter. They were recovering under magically-induced comas in the Malfoy Dungeons; Lucius wasn't going to release them until Samael had found a suitable Dark bonding spell to bind the siblings to him. He could not have Amycus killing Harry Potter.
Having the Carrow siblings under his control would be a beautiful thing, Lucius absently reflected as he twirled the quill through his strong fingers. He couldn't stop the memories...Snape killing Dumbledore and nearly having the Dark Lord destroy Draco in punishment...Draco standing at his dying mother's bedside and wrapping her hands in his own, promising that he would do everything possible to keep his father safe...Lucius, handing his wand to the Dark Lord only after Narcissa told him to with her touch...watching his son break into a thousand pieces after watching Severus Snape kill the only person that had ever offered him sanctuary from the Dark Lord...
Lucius pursed his lips as Samael stepped into his office, stepping to the bookcase and running the tips of his fingers over the titles as his eyes scanned the spines. "What are you looking for, Samael?" he queried pleasantly, expecting an answer along the lines of 'bonding spells'.
Samael didn't even look at him as he muttered, "book on Dark potions. There's a potion named Crudus Armarium, or Bleeding Chest; if given to an unbonded witch or wizard, it bonds them—magically only, and one-sided—to the first person to touch them." Samael nodded and pulled out a thick book aptly called Dark Potions; Lucius rolled his eyes as his friend tucked the book under his arm and stalked back out of the room, brow furrowed as he watched his feet.
Draco sat up and yawned prettily, stretching his arms over his head and Lucius watching as his son's left sleeve slipped down to reveal the faded Dark Mark. He frowned at it and mentally reminded himself to have Samael research removal of the Dark Mark; he didn't like his son's pale skin marked by anything other than bruises.
(O.o)
Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing
Three Hours Found
Samael sat in his room, staring mindlessly at his empty hands. Well, he thought with a sneer, nice going, Prince. You bloody found Potter, and look, he's married. What luck. To motherfucking Marcus Flint, one of the, well, duller Slytherins—other than Crabbe and Goyle, but that was a given—that Snape had ever the displeasure to teach. Well, no, that wasn't right. Flint hadn't been stupid, per se, but he hadn't applied himself, and he had been one of the few Slytherins that Snape had ever taught that it had been difficult not to take points from his own House.
Flint had just been a lazy bastard, on everything except the Quidditch field, in which he supremely applied himself. And what the hell, he had found Potter before they had? Lucius had used the Carrows—the most ruthless and sadistic, other than Bellatrix, Death Eaters under the Dark Lord's hand—to find Potter; how could Flint have beaten them and then warped Potter into his bed? Samael's fists clenched and his grey-black eyes squeezed violently shut. It had been a dull, insipid wish to think that Potter—Harry Potter, of all people, the boy Snape had been so cruel to in his years at school in an attempt to hide his fiendishly awful attraction to the son of his childhood nemesis and friend—hadn't met someone; yet, Fate had decided to mock him with Marcus Flint.
He had felt something wriggle through the hand clenched about his throat when Flint had pressed him up against the wall, something indescribable and painful, something that slammed into place and ripped his heart out of rank at the same time. One thin fist unclenched and the tips of his fingers ghosted softly over the handprint-shaped bruise rapidly appearing on his thin neck; he could call his house elf and have her bring a potion to rid him of the bruise, but Samael found himself against the option, for only the reason that the bruise felt like a collar and a collar made him feel like he belonged, something that he had searched for, for so long, that he couldn't remember a time in which he wasn't aching inside. He couldn't remember a time in which he couldn't look at his face in the mirror for fear of seeing what his students saw: a monster, the personification of the devil, a man so evil that he could not love. Snape had easily heard the whispers passed from student to student in his classroom, walking down the halls, as they ate their meals in the Great Hall: I heard Snape is so Dark that if he loves someone, they die...I heard that he's only the Potions Professor because Dumbledore is scared of him and didn't want to set him on the unsuspecting public...I heard that...I know...
Merlin, he hated children.
Samael leaned his head back against the high-backed chair, and fell asleep, one hand gently resting against his neck and the other tucked about his stomach, as if to trick his mind that someone was sleeping with him.
(O.o)
Marcus bit down on his husband's neck, drawing blood, at the same time his hips drove forward and he released himself into his beau's trembling body, coating his Harry's walls with semen. Harry let out a trembling cry and came as well, spurting all over their touching stomachs, and sagged back onto the bed, Marcus resting as gently as he could on top of him, moving his blood-stained lips in a hot, wet track to his beau's lips. It still shocked Marcus that he was so lucky, that he had Harry Potter as his own, as to do whatever he wished with, as everything he wanted. He had been raised to believe that he would be married off to some unsuspecting Slytherin bint, have the required one male child, and then ignore her until they both died; that's how his parents had lived. It was how he had expected to live; then, one day, he had decided that the bint his parents had chosen for him wasn't good enough, and, grabbing his wand, a cloak, and one of his father's bags that held the Gringotts key to Marcus's personal vault and anything he could shove in it, he just walked out of Flint Manor.
Two months later, he had found himself in the small Muggle town of Townshend, watching as a little boy with bright red eyes held the hand of a beautiful young man with a scar on his forehead that looked suspiciously like a lightning bolt and the brightest green eyes Marcus had ever seen. He rented a hotel room and stayed for another month, asking around about the young man and his son, and at the end of the month, appeared to talk to Harry Potter on the man's own land. It was still a shock to him that Harry hadn't just cursed him right then and there, but miracles happened and Marcus hadn't argued. He rarely argued, and when he did, it was only when physical force didn't work and Harry wasn't there to back him up magically; so, on the verge of bloody never, actually. Marcus wasn't very smart—his parents had drilled that into him ever since he could talk—but he figured that he could connect facts pretty easily. He was smart enough for Harry, and that's what mattered.
Harry giggled up at him and Marcus grunted under his breath, rolling off the younger man and pulling Harry into his arms, still inside his younger lover. It was Harry's favorite way of sleeping, and in the morning, Marcus could wake Harry up by pounding into him. Worked out well for both of them. Harry leaned his chin up and Marcus obediently dropped a kiss onto those beautiful waiting lips, and kept his gaze on his husband's face as Harry quickly dropped off into sleep.
"I love you," Marcus whispered gruffly, as soon as he knew Harry was asleep, just as he did every night, and smiled softly as Harry curled into his chest with a contented sigh. He tried to say it as often as it occurred to Marcus that he should tell Harry that he loved him, but it didn't happen very often, so he had long ago made it habit to tell Harry every night. Better than not at all, he figured; after all, Harry knew he loved him. If his beau didn't, then Harry was a lot stupider than Marcus gave him credit for. He pressed a barely bloody kiss to Harry's scar and after glancing at the door to make sure it was closed—it was—and flicking the first wand his got his hand on to make sure the wards were still up, to keep the most precious thing in his life safe, he placed the wand on the nightstand, lifted his hips slightly to push his soft cock slightly higher into Harry's pliant body, and quickly fell off the cliff into sleep.
(O.o)
Tom glanced up at the clock above the sink in the kitchen and wondered what he was supposed to do until nine; he had just under an hour until Dobby would lock him in his room. It wasn't punishment; it was just how his dad had told him kids were put to bed. Dobby would unlock his door at sunrise and Tom had to meet one of his parents out at the barn to help them feed the horses. He usually met his dad in the morning and his father at night; his dad usually joked how his father was a lazy bastard who couldn't get up in the morning to save his life. Tom, who never knew how to reply to that, would only smile slightly and push another few bales of hay down from the loft. He loved his parents dearly, but, sometimes, they were weird as hell.
He would go out to the barn and hang out with Amor, their only stallion. He had been born on his fifth birthday six years ago; his father had once told him that they hadn't allowed him to name the beautiful copper horse because of a fruitcake, which hadn't made any sense, but Tom had just nodded and watched the love fill his father's eyes as he looked at the magnificent beast, his dad standing on the other side of the arena, gently talking to the huge horse. Tom stepped outside, absently flicking a soft warming charm at himself, and gently closed the back door behind him.
He knew his parents loved him. Why did he feel so weird, then? Why did he feel as if there was a pit of darkness and steeped misery hiding under a floorboard right in front of him, and if he took just one wrong step, he would fall in it and never be able to claw his way out? Why did he feel that the only possible way to stop himself from falling into that nameless pit was to get to know the obviously involved Malfoys? Why did he want to hurt people? And who the hell was the Dark Lord Voldemort and why did the name sound so painfully familiar?
And why did he already have a wand when he'd never gone to Diagon Alley?
(O.o)
End Chapter Two
Morsus: Latin for pain.
The boy climbs the mountain in torment
He doesn't really care about the view
Only the little rose is on his mind
He brings it to his sweetheart
'Rosenrot', Rammstein
Review Response:
ShadowLore: Thank you! I completely agree about the lack of MF/HP stories. It's definitely an underrated pairing. I've got some good ideas (I think, anyway) about adding SS into the relationship and I figure it's probably going to be a lot different from how traditional (not that I'd know, but...yeah) ménage de trios's work; SS is going to go through a ton of angst, fyi. Thanks again!
