Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960
Please note: this chapter contains "diverse" sexual situations according to the story's rating.
oooOooo
August 5, 2009
Even as a bearded hermit in his exile, Draco has proven the name of Malfoy inescapably linked with decadence.
There is only one bed; but it is situated on the sixth floor of the lighthouse. At least ten feet wide and ten feet long it doesn't take up room—it is the room. The view of the islands is magnificent: scattered crags and cliffs frame flecks of grey, green, brown. The sea (that I always heard but never saw through the window-hole high in the wall of my cell) is enormous.
And the sky is immense.
On low ledges under the windows, thick white candles circle the bed. From the ladder leading to the topmost floor, where the beacon is housed, white valances of mosquito nets drift to form the bed-head.
When I saw it first, revulsion rose in me. I was about to scoff at this pleasure-dome Draco created, to scorn his hedonism, his sybaritic abandon (here, at the end of the world), when I saw his face.
When I saw him (here, in this bed), night upon moonlit, candlelit night.
Alone.
I experienced a strange sense of kinship with him then. Many nights in many years I, too, lay in a large, lonely bed, yearning for green eyes long dead and gone.
What sets us apart is his treasure of green eyes closing against the onslaught of orgasm.
What sets us apart is his burden of green eyes closing against a flood of blood.
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Lily never belonged to me; neither in life, nor in death.
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…last night I watched you, as you lay down. Rail-thin, with nothing but brown stubble on a knobby head, you're a stick-figure-drawing of the witch you were. Adrift in the sea of Draco's sheets and Draco's blankets, you floated away from me. While your whisperings washed over me in waves (Professor Babbling, Katie Bell, Regulus Black, Sirius Black, Amelia Bones, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Lavender Brown…), I, too, withdrew, and was gone before you reached Cho Chang.
I went to bed in our small white house, in the bedroom above the back-garden with its grassy lawn and apple trees. I donned the sage-green nightshirt you bought for me, (now soft from many nights of sex, and many days of sunshine—billowing freshly laundered in the breeze). I spooned your full figure and buried my face in your spicy curls.
Sighing, you reached for me. Soon your nightgown joined my shirt on the ground. After years of marriage, I know your skin, your flesh, your depths as my own. When we moaned and moved as one, sensations swelled, ripened to lust. Pain and pleasure mingled, and I stilled within you, ready to burst—
and I shoved into you, hard, into your tight, hot cunt, held your hands, cradled your brittle body, inhaled your sweat, sour from years of prison-dirt—
and the most fucking-sweet pressure on my prostate pushed me, propelled me, threw me forwards—
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We cannot stay here.
Tomorrow Draco will take us to Hogsmeade.
oooOooo
A/N: Many thanks to Ayerf and Mia Madwyn for beta-reading.