Chapter Twenty-Four: A Letter From Draco Malfoy

Harry crept stealthily out of the bed where he had been lying in the dark beside his sleeping cousin and retrieved the letter from Draco Malfoy. Not wanting to get caught red handed with a letter from another boy, Harry decided to sneak out of the bedroom and read it down in the kitchen. If Dobby or Kreacher woke up, he could easily lie to them about his reasons for sitting in the kitchen alone in the middle of the night, reading a letter.

As he walked by the wall where Sirius' mother's portrait had hung, terrorizing everyone who walked through the front door until he had vanquished her, Harry couldn't help but grin. He may not have a cure for the Muggle Virus, or a plan to fight the war, or a way to deal with Hermione or save the werewolves, but at least he had found a way to finally shut that naff old slag up.

Sirius seemed so much happier since Harry had Avada Kadavra'd her bigoted arse, and even before Sirius had convinced Lupin to move in that morning, Lupin had been coming round Number Twelve Grimmauld Place nearly every day since her portrait was gone, and he and Sirius were always off laughing in corners together and the two werewolf/dog men had even taken to making dinner a few nights a week and giving the House Elves those evenings off. Both men seemed happier than Harry had ever known them to be...

Hm...

Harry paused, raising an inquisitive eyebrow as the pieces of the puzzle started clicking into place.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Well, Sirius had to get over Harry's father eventually, and it made sense - him and Lupin.

"Good for you, Sirius." Harry whispered with a smile before continuing on into the dark kitchen to read the letter.

The dying embers of a magical fire glowed dimly as they crackled in the fireplace and Harry stopped briefly to warm his hands, which he had realized were trembling, though he didn't feel cold. Unconcerned, he sat at the kitchen table in Sirius' usual seat, which had a half empty bottle of fire whiskey and one empty and one almost full tumbler sat on the table next to it. He unconsciously toyed with a one of the surprisingly heavy glass tumblers as he opened the letter and began to read.

'Potter -

It was only a matter of time before you finally saw what had been staring you in the face ever since you first came to Hogwarts - Merlin knows I never tried to hide it from you and in fact, had been trying to show you the truth for years, if only you hadn't been too blind to see it.

But then, you never could see passed your own navel, could you, Potter?

While I'm glad that you claim to have finally seen the light, I hope you will understand why I'm not entirely sure that I can trust you, given your dubious history and the company you are known to keep. As such, I will have to test your loyalty, both to me and to the cause. Until such a time that I have devised a suitable test and you have either passed or failed it, I will not be telling my father about our communications.

Unless you give me reason to. Which I would highly advise against doing.

As to your poorly written World War II slash fiction (yes, Potter, I know about World War II, it is an area of Muggle history that is of particular interest to the cause and as such my father made sure that I was tutored in it at great length), I can assure you that I have no idea what you are babbling on about.

I have never pictured us in the trenches of some Muggle war, because proper, pure blood wizards are much too refined and intelligent to blow one another up with bombs or shoot one another with guns like those primitive Muggles do, and anyway, the wealthy and well connected never fight battles or go to war - magical or otherwise. But I guess you're still too nouveau riche to have "gotten the memo," as the Muggles say, though these are privileges I could teach you about once I'm sure that you are on the right side.

So no, I don't picture us at war or in the trenches, because that isn't where we belong, Potter.

I believe you are right when you say that we were meant for something magnificent - quite possibly something more magnificent than either one of us yet knows - so as a show of faith, being that we are, as you said, closer than friends or brothers, I will give you a warning.

As you should aware by now, the ministry has ordered the extermination of all werewolves. What you may not be aware of is that this was done as a means to achieve two ends. The first is to distract the wizarding world at large from the fact that the Muggle Virus is now spreading to and killing wizards, by scapegoating and targeting the already publicly feared and maligned werewolf population. The second is to capture a certain former Defence Against The Dark Arts professor so that information about you, your plans, and your location can be cruicio'd out of him before his...disposal.

Now, I don't think that's a very good idea, do you, Potter? No, I don't think you do. I think you would agree that you and I could come up with a better solution, without the "help" or interference of Dumbledore or my father. And that is why I am warning you: tell that dog of yours to keep the bloody wolf under control and out of sight unless you want them both to end up dead.

And of course, since I just scratched your back and saved that...not unpleasant arse of yours, I'm sure you will realize that it is advised that you do the same - tit for tat, Potter. Quid pro quo.

Speaking of quid pro quo, I suppose I owe you there, Potter, for I didn't tell you how I picture us together...but, you see, Potter, this is something I have so often imagined over the years that I wouldn't know where to begin or which nocturnal vision to choose...

Trust a half-blood Gryffindor to fantasize about getting dirty in some Muggle battlefield. As a Slytherin, I prefer the more elegant and refined battles of the mind, the wits and the senses. In battle, Gryffindors blunder and attempt to conquer while Slytherins calculate and ensnare from the sidelines. And while you may think yourself some teenage Casanova, who can win me over simply by batting your eye lashes at me and giving me a bit of the ol' how's your father in some filthy trench, you might consider me the Marquis de Sade - the one person who will always have the upper hand over you, like the most lovingly cruel boot on your neck.

You may think you are the one who is in control here, Potter, but let me assure you that no one could ever hurt you or love you more exquisitely than I can, for no one else could ever truly see you or understand you as I do. Because I know what you are, Potter. I know who you are. I know the darkest secrets that lurk in your mind, your deepest, most twisted desires - I know them because they are my own.

So picture battlefields, bungalows or beds of nails for all I care, as long as you picture yourself by my side, because whether we like it or not, we were built for each other, our parts in this grand scheme choreographed before our conception, in a tale as old as time, just as in Romeo and Juliet:

"My only love sprung from my only hate."

(Shakespeare was definitely a wizard disguised as a Muggle, don't you think so, Potter? I do.)

There is a plague on both our houses and we are the only ones who can cure it. The question is, is that truly what you want, Potter? Or are you just playing games? I want you to think about this very carefully, keeping in mind that by sending that...charming little owl, you unwittingly tipped me off as to your location. So, if you were to betray me, the ministry wouldn't have to hunt for Lupin - or you, for that matter - because I could have the death squad sent right to your door.

But I don't think I'm going to have to do that. I can see through you like a hand me down Weasley jumper and I reckon you meant what you said even more than you realize.

Besides, it's so much nicer to be on the right side, isn't it? You can summer with me at Malfoy Manor and finally experience the life of wealth and luxury you were born into but never got to enjoy the pleasures and privileges of...I can teach you the knowledge and skills you really need to get by in this world, instead of the utter hogwash they teach us at Hogwarts...

And when we do go back to Hogwarts, you will change houses to Slytherin, of course, I know the Sorting Hat originally wanted to place you there, so getting your house switched should be no problem. Ridiculous how even a bloody hat knew you better than you knew yourself, that's pretty sad, Potter. It's a good thing you have me to teach you who you are, who you could be, who you are meant to be.

I can just see it now, the evening after your first day as a proper Slytherin - we're walking down to the dungeons together with the rest of our house after the feast in the great hall. Hanging back from the crowd a bit, I reach out and grab you by your school tie, leading you down a dark, forgotten corridor away from our classmates.

Once we are safely out of sight, I shove you up against the cold, hard, stone wall, my mouth crushing yours with an almost unbearable urgency and need...one hand still pulling on your tie, tightening and then releasing, the other running through that frustratingly alluring mop of messy hair on your head before pushing it down...closer...closer...ever closer to the basilisk in my trousers that you sooo long for...

Then yanking you back up by your tie and tossing you aside like the Gryffindor trash you still have to prove yourself not to be.

Ha!

See? Two can play at that game, Potter.

Anyway, enjoy the blue balls and get back to me once you've made up your mind about which side you're on.

Yours,
Malfoy'

Harry suppressed a loud growl of frustration. He wished he could smash the nearly full tumbler he still held in his hand, but he didn't want to wake anyone, so instead he downed the lukewarm liquor, coughing as it burned it's way down his oesophagus, but Harry didn't care, he needed to feel something other than...whatever the hell this was. Then, folding the letter carefully and hiding it down his pajama bottoms, Harry went to find a door he could repeatedly slam into his dick.

Fuck, what had he gotten himself into now?

And why did it feel so fucking good?