"Harry, welcome." A poised Narcissa Malfoy smiled down at them from her place at the head of the grand marble steps leading up to her vast portico. "Draco, darling, do bring Harry in from the cold. A comfortable journey, I hope?"
It had been, and Harry was woefully unsurprised. He couldn't imagine the Malfoys travelling in anything less than maximum luxury and ease. First one of the school's Thestral-drawn carriages had driven them straight to the Hogwarts Express platform and they'd been popped bung into an empty compartment, then all the pumpkin pasties he could eat if he'd been at all peckish had been pressed upon him, then they were barreling off to King's Cross, a sleepy sequence marked by intermittent dozing and the view of Malfoy seated calmly opposite, swinging one crossed leg and scribbling away at notes and revising materials. Thence they were ushered to what Malfoy referred sedately as the 'Home Line', which appeared to be a quite similar train as the Express. Smaller engine, though, and if possible even more old-fashioned, and the carriages for that leg were achieved via Platform 2 5/8ths. The train itself was apparently owned at least in part by the Malfoys, as he'd been bowed into a huge private compartment by a white-gloved attendant wearing livery, and that capacious space complete with swish private dining table and quite elegant seating and all of it awash in acres of velvet. Red and gold velvet, too, which made his lips twitch uncontrollably. Gods, but the drapery tasselling alone! And then the swags and the smug carved cherubs lurking in the cornices and along the wainscoting, as if a Victorian-era genie had come along and vomitted up the furnishings! Harry quite thought there must've been an avid fancier of railroading in the Malfoy family once, decades ago—mayhap a century—to go that far over the top.
Nothing less than he'd expect, really. Malfoys were...intense, that was the word for them. One word for them. And the latest Malfoy sprat seemed to take it all for granted.
Yes, comfortable, Harry's journey. But…fraught, all the same. They'd barely spoken, excepting commonplaces over tea and some rather munificent roast beef sandwiches.
Harry hadn't been quite prepared for it, really. Any of it.
"Of course you, Harry, cannot Floo or Apparate, and broom journeys for that distance in this weather are not at all wise, " Headmistress had informed them summarily a week prior, having called them both to her office for a sudden tea-and-scheduling sortie. Headmistress McGonagall wasn't someone who tolerated loose ends, no, and they were on her agenda for the day, it seemed: one Malfoy and one Potter, to be tidied. "Accordingly, for your physical safety and the child's, we will be extending you two days extra leave, at either end of the regular holidays, set aside for a more conventional form of travel so as to avoid the crush of our other students departing. Mr Malfoy here will accompany you, naturally."
She had paused and affixed Harry with a very speaking look, one that dared him to make a fuss.
"If that is agreeable, of course?"
Harry had nodded, knowing he was under the steady gaze of Malfoy the entire time. He shivered reflexively, and couldn't help but be a little glad it was to a quiet affair, his visiting the Manor.
It was never mentioned it would also avoid the possibility of public comment, this bolting off a day ahead of all the rest, but Harry let that one strictly alone. It suited him and, from the way the taut lines of Malfoy's face eased briefly as McGonagall explained, it suited the ravaging twat as well.
...Speaking of 'ravaging twats'!
Merlin, but they were lurking there in the middle distance, the press, just awaiting a scoop. They both knew it, he and Malfoy, but they never mentioned it, not privately.
"Good, yes. Thank you." Malfoy actually smiled at McGonagall, in fact, and Harry smirked a little to himself—just before grabbing his expanding middle and grimacing horribly. It wasn't the old nausea that had plagued him earlier, though; it was the feeling of inhabiting a physical body which had been very well used and that quite recently!
Oi, but it wasn't as if Harry ever believed his poor body would get off scott-free! Not after the force majeure that was Draco Malfoy, driven. The hungry tosser. Harry quite felt as if he'd been devoured alive the night before and had only barely lived to tell the tale of it, come morning.
Except—not to McGonagall, obviously. Not tales to be told and no complaints, either. Or anyone else, ever—cheers.
He blushed beet-red under Malfoy's sudden sideways glance, so knowing, and took to studying his hands folded demurely upon his lap, purely out of self-defense. The last thing he wished for was to have the prat start carrying on over his 'condition' to McGonagall, currying favour by expressing his 'great concern'!
…Not that Malfoy wasn't concerned, because he was, clearly, but he didn't need speak of it either. Not to Harry's way of thinking. At this point, least said, soonest mended. They'd get it over with, muddle through it, and then Harry could quietly seek out a way of spending as little time with Malfoy as possible in the future.
"I do trust your regular assignments will be submitted as expected beforehand and, Mr Malfoy?" Headmistress subjected Draco to a carefully measured stare, as if she expected to hear excuses immediately. He bridled under it, his chin rising, but only tightened already bloodless lips at her. "And…you will choose and assign a substitute for your days of missed rounds? It would not do to allow the students free rein of the halls the night before a holiday—or the day after."
"Yes, of course," Malfoy replied politely, and Harry could care less about all these details. "I'll make sure to arrange for all eventualities, Headmistress."
Harry muffled a moan and attempted to resettle his bum comfortably upon the hard seat of the chair Headmistress had given him. He'd been a bit desperate, last night, and the wood wasn't kind to his bum, not at all, not with his hip joints twingeing and that feeling of fullness, ghostly and lingering between his buttocks. Malfoys did leave a lasting impression, didn't they. The buggers.
He sighed, hangdog and loudly, glancing over at the other two, to check if they'd noticed. If he could just be allowed to go…? But no. Malfoy leant closer in a flash; had a quick hand clamped down on Harry's one wrist, keeping him still. "I will be sure to," the git added, as if Harry hadn't obviously considered legging it altogether and leaving them to it, organizing his life.
"Don't rush off, Potter," he hissed for Harry's ears alone. "Be still. You don't want to strain yourself."
"Of course not!" Harry growled in response, but quietly, and shifted under the curl of cool fingertips digging into his skin, trying as a distraction to think over what he'd need pack up for a week spent at a bloody la-di-dah Manor house in the depths of the country in bloody mid-winter. All his Weasley jerseys, definitely. Especially the loudest of the orangey-red ones. And the ones with frayed sleeves, yes. Those, too.
His broom, not that he'd be allowed on it. Or anywhere near it, not with his luck. He was surprised Pomfrey hadn't confiscated the thing, actually. 'Course, if he managed to swing a leg over his broom, likely it would go out from under him and skitter away, leery of his padding. And his arse—his poor abused arse wouldn't take it. Er...abused? Maybe. Unsatisfied? No.
No—it was more they had been a bit desperate, both of them. Gasping for relief and hormone-based oblivion, and intent on getting it on as soon as they could possibly.
He'd wanted nothing more than to be brought off, last night, and he'd been. Was like Malfoy had been bent on a personal-best mission to make it happen, over and over. As if he, too, had been rocked on his pins and needed the solace of a simple, uncomplicated shag to get over the experience. How Harry did so hate being cornered! And especially by girls on missions!
Right, no. Harry scolded himself. He should forget all about what Parkinson had said to him and calmly consider the next thing on his plate; that was what? Oh, yes. Packing kit. For a week. With a posh git and his posher Mummy, was it?
Right, then. His best robes, he'd bring them along, though they were a bit too tight, nowadays. Not that it would matter in the least what he wore to dinner or didn't. He was hardly seeking to impress. But it was polite to attempt, at least, and Narcissa Malfoy had arranged for the Healer as well as the steady stream of infant items Madame Pomfrey insisted on parading before Harry's horrified eyes every fortnight, all of them flowing after into a spare room in the Infirmary for storage. As Harry wouldn't tolerate a single solitary one of them, not a bootie, not a rattle, not within twenty yards of his person. Yes, but, all the best, still; everything always all the best.
He rocked on an achy bottom; it was difficult to be still and quiet. Malfoy had been in him twice and wrung three good hard ejaculations from him whilst doing him with a vengeance; he was still parched from the experience. One rushed cuppa hadn't been nearly enough to soothe Harry's throat and he was bloody ravenous—stomach threatening to consume his liver.
And MacGonagall and the git were still at it, chatting away about that Prickwell arse and Malfoy's concerns over Parkinson.
Harry tuned it out, though he did spare a tiny bit of admiration to Malfoy, for coming right out with it and confronting McGonagall face-to-face. Prickwell was an intensely creepy sort and everyone had noticed it. Bit hard not to, what? And Malfoy was correct: the freak should be let go, for the safety of the students. Parkinson, specially.
Right-oh, then.
Yes, and he'd need a few of his books, for review. Potions, for one, as Slug's latest long-term assignment was a hellion and he persisted in viewing Harry as a savant, the silly old duffer. Then…spare parchment, quills—some references lifted from Restricted. Oh, er. There was that infamous Malfoy Library where he was headed, wasn't there? Well, maybe there'd be—
"Potter, psst!" Malfoy fidgeted beside him, his fingertips trembling almost imperceptibly. "You all right? Holding up?"
Harry ducked his chin irritably, gracing him with a little glare for even asking. He? He was fine, considering. But Malfoy looked pretty much horrible in the clear morning light pouring through the high-arched office windows. Harry wasn't convinced he'd slept at all, stupid tosser. Been quiet enough about it, yes, but it was difficult to ignore a wide-awake presence pressed up against one's side and pawing at him here and there, not for all those hours on end like that.
Not when he bore so many fresh marks of what burnt between them, unflagging.
"Oh. Hmm. Tea, lads? Food?" McGonagall offered at last, and Harry practically fell upon her neck with an excess of gratitude.
"Yes, thank you," Mafly replied sedately. "Much appreciated, Headmistress."
"Please!" Harry burst out and nearly lunged out of his seat to grapple the tray when it appeared, crockery still rattling faintly and cheery with the aroma of bacon butties, current scones and fresh tea.
He'd been half afraid since waking Malfoy would follow him down to the Hall and sit with him at his House table, and gods knew, that would be horrid. He stared at her hopefully, green eyes wide. Maybe she'd offer to excuse them directly and then Harry might avoid the humiliation of having Malfoy hover over him, an unassailable presence at his side now the other students knew of their connection?
He hadn't need have worried himself over it.
They hadn't needed, rather. They'd been fed, plied with hot beverage and ably debriefed, sent off straight to classes, and then the next week were deposited on Malfoy Manor's doorstep, with the chatelaine smiling down at them both—and all of it happening too soon for Harry's comfort.
Really, he wasn't prepared for it, this. Nothing could ready him mentally for being welcomed so warmly into a place that smelt still of blood in his head and reeked of purest evil.
Not that it really, really did, when it came down to it. Not at all. The whole massive pile was redolent of Christmas, clean as a whistle of any reminders of Harry's previous forced incarceration, and Narcissa Malfoy was everything a proper hostess should be—and more.
Slytherin, of course. Narcissa was a Slytherin. So..there was always a 'more' or an 'except', wasn't there? Harry, wary as he was, should've guessed it instantly.
"I am thinking." She smiled at him indulgently over yet more tea, to Harry's internal consternation. "I am convinced you'll want to be situated in Draco's rooms, Harry. Far more comfortable for you there than being shut away in the guest wing by yourself." She sipped and smiled, blandly ignoring Harry's convulsive swallow.
"Ngh!"
"My dearest son here will more than pleased, I'm certain."
Narcissa suddenly grinned at Harry, a startlingly gamine expression making a fleeting appearance across the planes of that beautiful Black face for an instant, and Harry went from gulping to gasping in reaction. This was a far cry from the stark-eyed woman he recalled from that one time with Voldemort and farther still from the subdued, dry-eyed serenity of his last real sight of Draco's mother, grimly clutching the weary person of Andromeda Tonks to her bosom. "To show you about the Manor."
The blue, blue eyes staring deep into Harry's stunned green ones went just a wee bit calculating, a gleam entering them that boded no good for anyone's peace of mind, 'specially not a pregnancy-impaired rather weary ex-Hero. He instinctively tensed where he sat, blinking fast, and set down his half-emptied cup with a loud clatter.
"Ye—?"
"It's a rather lovely place, really." Narcissa ignored that breach too, and revisited the weird friendly grin she'd sported. It gave Harry the shivers, it did. He placed a hand against his belly and leant back against the squabs of his overstuffed armchair. "Your new home away from home. As it is, Harry, the Manor. And will be, naturally."
And Draco? Draco twitched just much as Harry had when his mother swiveled a well-shaped, perfectly coiffed head to offer up a kindly smile to him, in turn.
"Won't you be glad of it, dearest? Harry should be introduced in small stages, I believe." A light laugh tinkled out of her as she gestured with her cup, ever so elegantly. "As there is so very much to it, I fear. Even I go astray at times. Hmm, darling." She hummed for a second, tapping a biscuit against the rim. "Perhaps you may begin with our latest efforts. Harry should enjoy that. A bit of the familiar, what we've arranged for you, Harry."
"Nnrk?"
They both jerked upright, Draco's spine nearly cracking with the force of it. Harry's lips parted but it was Draco who uttered the shocked snort.
"Very good, then." Narcissa's smile only gained more brilliance as she handily ignored that, too. She nodded decisively at them both, as if it was all settled. Apparently it was all settled, for that matter. "Well. Off you boys go, do enjoy yourselves wandering. Tweezle will be sure to call you for dinner."