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Author: ThreeSidedOrchid
Pairing: Draco/Hagrid, with a side of unresolved Snape/Draco
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing." (Macbeth V.v.19-28).
Disclaimer:
The Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to JKR and Warner
Brothers, not me. I'm not making any money off of this - it is done
soley for love of the characters and fun.
October, 1998
“--and I am right, and you are right and all
is right as right can be!” Draco's voice sounds hollow, without the
trees to echo off as he leaves the path from Hogsmeade onto Hogwarts'
land proper. He pauses, dragging in a lungful of night air, chest
burning with it. Ahead lies Snape's tomb, its black marble nearly
invisible in the darkness, but it's there, lurking in the shadow of
Dumbledore's. He weaves towards them with half-drunken purpose.
Up
close the marble of Dumbledore's tomb is perfect, smooth and seamless.
By day, he knows, it's blinding white, just as he knows the exact
placement and depth of the inscription on Snape's; 'Dumbledore's man.'
“Fucking
Potter,” Draco slurs, less from drink and more from spite. “Fucking
Dumbledore.” Inebriated genius strikes, and Draco struggles his robes
open, yanking down his zipper to fish out his cock.
“Where was
I?” He considers, with a sigh of relief and a smile at the susurration
of urine against marble. “Ah, yes. And allll is right!” He bellows the
second half, voice cracking over the words.
“What do yeh think yer doin'?”
Startled,
Draco whips around, piss arcing out. Hagrid's eyes go wide at the
sight, and Draco imagines he can see red suffusing the half-giant's
cheeks.
“Oh no. Yeh won' defile the headmaster's grave, yeh little brat. I won' stand fer it!”
Draco
flinches as Hagrid strides forward, one meaty paw reaching out to grab
him by the shoulder and spin him towards the tomb. He finds himself
thrown up against stone, cold seeping into his hands and cock where they
press exposed against unyielding marble.
“Unhand me you overgrown--”
“Albus Dumbledore was a great man!” Hagrid booms, one hand coming down to smack against Draco's arse.
“Ow!
What the-- that hurt you--” Draco splutters, shocked and immediately
sore. Hagrid lands another swat, and Draco's insult dissolves to an
incoherent cry. Pain spreads quickly across his arse, up his back and
down his thighs.
Hollering, he struggles against the hand pinning
him down, but it does no good. The blows continue to land, loud despite
being muffled by his robes, trousers and pants. They seem to go on
forever, until all Draco feels is pain, until he cannot think beyond it
and has no choice but to close his eyes and surrender.
***
Warmed
by the rising sun, Draco curls up tighter in bed. Still half-dreaming,
his thoughts drift aimlessly. He sniffs, nose tickled by an unfamiliar
scent. Unable to place it, Draco opens his eyes a crack.
“Ugh,”
he groans, sitting up and pushing the threadbare blanket off quickly.
Disgust twists his features as he takes in the dilapidated hut.
Hagrid is stooped before the fire, back to Draco. “I don' suppose yer feelin' too sprightly this morning.”
“I'm fine,” Draco replies before he can think about it.
Hagrid
stands, turning, and Draco catches the flash of doubt in his black
eyes. The sight of his face brings back last night's memories in a rush
and Draco cringes in remembered pain. It's difficult to recall anything
afterward, but he has vague impressions of being carried.
“Here, drink tha'. It'll wake yeh up.”
“I'm
already more awake than I want to be,” Draco mumbles, but accepts the
proffered cup anyway. He sniffs at the tea, touching the worn, tin cup
as little as possible. Taking a cautious sip proves to be a mistake, and
Draco spits the heavy, dark brew back into the cup.
Sitting at the wood table that dominates the room, Hagrid looks at him.
“I'm sorry fer what I did las' nigh'.”
Draco pretends to sip at the tea, refusing to look over as Hagrid speaks.
“I
shouldn' have hit yeh like tha'. I'd had a few drinks myself, but that
don' make it right. I'll report myself, but I wanted teh say I'm sorry.”
“Don't
bother. McGonagall would never fire you, you know that,” he sneers.
But it's not true; Hagrid doesn't know that. Hagrid is stunningly
oblivious to his own, inexplicable power, a lesson Draco learned well
the previous year. And, the thought slithers in: it had not been
horrible. It had been – but here Draco's thought stops, unable to define
the clarity he'd felt, with only pain to focus on.
“No professor should hit a studen' like tha'. I'll--”
“Look.” Draco stands, setting the cup on the table. “This doesn't mean I like you or anything, but just let it go.”
Leaving
takes him past the pumpkin patch, and Draco's hands itch, remembering
the feel of rich earth. How often he had worked the little square of
land the previous year he isn't sure. Between the sneering disdain of
both the Carrows and McGonagall, he'd served enough detentions with
Hagrid to last a lifetime.
He'd grown used to them, though, the
detentions. Some weeks, toiling at whatever menial task the half-giant
had assigned him, listening to his awkward attempts at conversation, was
the only peace Draco found.
***
The
common room is never crowded; there aren't enough of them to fill the
space, not with a smaller batch of first years than usual and no one
else returning, like he did, to replace the disaster of the previous
year. Lingering in a corner of the room, Draco listens to the ebb and
flow of conversations. They leave the fire burning low all night, its
glow barely touching the rippling shadows of the lake windows. The light
plays tricks on him, turning the others' faces into demons one moment,
and the manic grins of jesters the next.
Still, he waits them
out, remaining seated until the last one has gone to bed. Draco stands,
moving closer to the fire and the gilt-framed portrait above it.
“Mr. Malfoy.”
“I wish you wouldn't call me that, sir.”
Snape's painted features soften with an ease the real ones never did.
“Draco, I'm--”
“I know what you are,” he answers, looking away. “You don't need to remind me.”
Portraits
can't sigh, but Draco is convinced he hears a soft exhalation. Turning,
he rests his back against the wall. The position offers him a view of
the whole room, ensuring no late-night wanderers will catch him
unawares. That it also spares him watching paint sliding over canvas in a
mimicry of life is a point Draco does not allow himself to think about.
“Mother keeps sending sweets.” It's idle chat, but Draco can't
bring himself to talk about the way the other students ignore him, or
the night, days ago now, when he felt, briefly, whole. Snape already
knows the first well enough. And the second... Draco hardly knows what
he could have to say about it.
***
February, 1997
He
arrives to find Snape facing the window, though there is nothing
visible beyond it except endless night. There's music playing low, a
lively song spinning out from an ancient gramophone.
“Sir? I've my report.”
“Marvelous,” Snape drawls. He doesn't turn.
Spying
the bottle and glass on the desk, Draco hesitates. In these
twice-weekly meetings, Snape is usually wholly attentive. Within reason,
when they are held at his demand.
“Shall I--”
Interrupting with a wave of his hand, Snape signals for Draco to get on with it.
Sitting
at the edge of a chair, Draco begins to talk. Who's back-talked to the
Carrows, who's helped them, what the thoughts in Slytherin are, whether
anyone from the other houses agree; every detail that might assist their
cause in any possible way, as required. His own uncertainties Draco
keeps to himself.
By the end, Draco's hands are trembling. He has
to keep giving the reports, must find something useful for their lord.
But Snape hasn't moved, hasn't given any indication that he is listening
at all.
Silence doesn't fall when he stops speaking. It is filled instead by the unfaltering music.
'--made him Headsman, for we said, "Who's next to be decapited, cannot cut off another's head, until he's cut his own off,-'
“What is that?” The words slip out before Draco can stop them.
“Morbid,” Snape replies, with the slightest tilt of his head.
'-And I am right, And you are right, And all is right-'
“Sounds a bit cheerful to be morbid.”
“As with so many things, you have to put it in context.”
“Are you drunk, sir?”
“Quite.”
“Oh. I'll just—” He moves to get up, but Snape's words stop him.
“It's
an Operetta. A kind of musical performance. Here.” Stepping over to the
gramophone, Snape lifts the needle and replaces it a moment later. It
takes him another try to locate the space between songs, before he
stands back and a new tune spills into the room.
'As some day it may happen that a victim must be found, I've got a little list--'
Under Snape's scrutiny, Draco listens carefully.
“It's funny!” he accuses, looking at Snape in surprise.
“Indeed.”
And Snape smiles that meager, bitter smile that is all the expression
of pleasure Draco has ever seen him give. Between it and the music,
Draco cannot help the return smile that spreads across his lips.
***
October, 1998
“Detention again?”
Stepping back from the hovel's door, Draco shrugs, knowing Hagrid will take it as agreement. He has done before.
“Well, I guess I can have yeh work with the Thestrals.”
He
tries not to look pleased as Hagrid leads him towards the paddock.
Winter is drifting in, and the sky has been an unrelenting gray for
days. Draco rather likes this time of year, when the heat of Summer is
gone and there is a sense of anticipation in the air, as if the earth
itself is trembling in expectation of the coming cold.
Unhooking
the pail of tools from the fence, he gives a dismissive nod to Hagrid
and steps into the enclosure. Tenebrus pushes her way between the others
to nuzzle insistently against his hand.
“All right girl,” Draco
answers quietly, taking up the curry comb and running it in gentle
circles down her neck. It's easy to lose himself in the task. Several
minutes go by before he gets the prickling sensation that he's not alone
and turns to find Hagrid leaning against the rails watching.
“What?” he snaps, pausing in his task as his fingers tighten around the brush.
“Yer good with 'em.”
“Well you don't have to sound so surprised about it. They're not so different from horses.”
“Groomed a lot of horses, have yeh?”
“Enough,”
Draco answers, starting up combing again when Tenebrus gives an
impatient snort. “Father never trusts elves to it – says they're too
high energy.” He also said that some interaction was needed to remind
beasts of who their masters were, but Draco doubts Hagrid would
appreciate that lesson.
“Hunh.”
Hagrid doesn't say
anything after that, and when Draco looks up again the half-giant is
gone. He takes his time with the grooming, working well past the usual
hour of detention until just before dinner.
***
“Why
did you set all my detentions with Hagrid?” Draco asks that night,
speaking low so that the pair of students snogging in the corner will
not hear him.
“You would have preferred one of the Carrows?”
“I would have preferred you.”
There's a pause before Snape's reply. “I would have had to hurt you.”
Draco closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Plenty of words rise up in answer, whole phrases ('maybe you should have,' 'I wouldn't have minded') but he cannot bring himself to say them.
***
March, 1997
“I prefer Madam Butterfly.
It is not the most technically beautiful, perhaps, but we cannot help
what speaks to us.” Pulling another record carefully from its sleeve,
Snape sets it on the gramophone.
They listen as a song fills the
room. The rich swell of the singer's voice seems to seep into Draco's
pores, to replace the very air in his breath. He looks at Snape, whose
eyes are not closed but do not seem to be focused on anything either.
Draco watches the light play across his features and wonders, not for
the first time, what the man is thinking.
He never knows what to expect at these unofficial lessons. One week Snape had played The Marriage of Figaro,
explaining the story to Draco along with the music. Another week, he
stayed nearly silent, mired in thought while a German opera played, so
heavy that Draco felt saddened by it without being able to understand a
word.
“My father would love this.”
“He would not,” Snape answers, looking up at Draco sharply.
“He--”
“It is Muggle.”
Closing his mouth, Draco looks at the gramophone incredulously. “But, this is beautiful.”
“Yes.” Sighing, Snape looks suddenly tired.
“How did you find it, sir?” he asks hesitantly.
“A very dear friend introduced me.”
He says no more, and Draco has learned better than to ask.
***
November, 1998
Draco
pauses to study his stitching. It's neater than his earlier work, most
of which is in the pile before him, not having held up a year. Picking
up the needle and thread, he sets to work mending the next sack.
It's
cold outside, snow layering the earth in white. But Hagrid's hut is
small enough that the fire and their body heat keep it warm. For long
stretches there is little sound save the crackle of the fire and the
delicate scrape of Hagrid's whittling. Draco glances over, wondering
again what it is Hagrid is carving. But, as before, the figure is hidden
in the man's palm.
“He named Tenebrus, yeh know.”
Looking back to his own work quickly, Draco finishes a stitch before replying. “What?”
“Professor Snape. He named Tenebrus.”
“Oh.”
“Said it meant 'dark'. Bit of a fancy name if yeh ask me.”
Draco's hands shake. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Jus' makin' conversation.”
“Well I don't want to talk about Snape. Why in Merlin's name would I?”
Hagrid looks at him, his calm regard reminding Draco absurdly of Snape's.
“Thought yeh liked the professor.”
“That doesn't mean I want to talk about him.” Draco stands, slapping his work down on the table.
“Yer jus' like he was, as a studen'. Neither one of yeh knowin' a thing about yerself.”
“My hour of detention is up,” He says coldly, turning to leave.
Flinging
open the door, Draco braces himself against the burst of winter air.
Prepared to step out into the dark, he's stopped at the door by Hagrid's
hand resting lightly against his shoulder. Draco's heart speeds, his
mind flashing to that night at the tombs. But this touch is so gentle
that he almost has to look, to see Hagrid's huge fingers against his
robe, to know that it is the same man.
“Malfoy – Draco – I didn' mean teh upset yeh.”
“Forget it.”
Hagrid's
fingers flex against his shoulder, but remain steadily in place. “Yeh
don' have to make – yeh don' have to come jus' when yeh have detention.
If yer wantin' teh visi'... yer welcome.”
Turning so fast he
almost stumbles over the threshold, Draco frees himself from Hagrid's
touch. But it leaves him facing the man, his shoulder growing cold as
the rest of him in the winter air.
“I can't--” imagine why you think I would, he means to say, but the words get frozen in his throat, and Draco leaves before he can humiliate himself further.
***
December, 1998
“Potter is trying to get you an Order of Merlin, posthumously.”
“A goal with little point beyond a balm to his own conscience.”
The
common room is brighter than usual tonight, thanks to the glow of a
Christmas tree set up in the corner. Still, Draco is able to just make
out the blue haze of protection charms that surround Snape's portrait.
“Why did you do it?”
“You know, now, the atrocities that can be committed in hatred--”
Draco
knows then that his question has been misunderstood, but does not
correct him as Snape is answering one he would never have dared asked.
One Snape never would have answered in life.
“But I do not know
if you understand the truth of how guilt can crush you, how regret worms
it way into you until you feel as dry and exposed as a log left to
rot.”
He does not say anything in reply, but Snape continues before he could anyway, his tone urgent.
“Draco, if you have regrets, however small, find some way to make peace with them.”
***
April, 1997
“--entirely too trite, but it has its moments.”
They
have come full circle, it seems. Draco recognizes the music as the same
from that first night. He finds himself nodding in agreement. True
enough that the songs are funny, but he much prefers the elegant beauty
of the other music they have listened to since.
“This one,” Snape says, standing so suddenly that Draco rises as well. “I believe you will like.”
Draco follows him to the gramophone. Changing the record, Snape sets the needle with delicate precision.
'The sun whose rays are all ablaze--'
There
is little they have listened to thus far in English and he finds
himself stepping closer automatically. 'I mean to rule the Earth as he
the sky,' affirms the singer. He has heard better singers, but something
in the song pulls at him, making him feel simultaneously free and
crushed.
They are close, Draco can feel their robes brushing as Snape moves to stand behind him.
Drawing
in a shuddering breath, Draco touches the gramophone stand for support,
unwilling to give himself away by grasping it. Tears threaten, welling
at the corners of his eyes. It takes all of his focus not to let them
fall.
Snape's hand comes to rest just next to his. His other
hand caresses Draco's hair, long fingers stroking through the delicate
strands.
Closing his eyes, Draco lets himself lean back, trusting
his weight against Snape's steady form. He can feel Snape's breath, hot
against his throat.
“Draco.” he says softly, in the soundless
pause between songs. Draco thinks he hears a hundred portraits,
collectively drawing in their nonexistent breath.
The first
notes of the next song begin, abruptly loud in the silent room, and
Draco finds himself stumbling as Snape steps away.
“It's past curfew,” he says, before Draco has fully regained his footing. “Go back to your dorm.”
Draco
stares at him, standing behind his desk across the room as if they had
not just been pressed together. “Please sir, I'd like to stay.”
“We cannot always get what we'd like,” Snape answers, not looking at him. “You're dismissed, Draco.”
***
December, 1998
“I didn't think ye'd be comin' here again.”
“You
said I was welcome.” He twists his hands together, trying to get them
warm. Winter has set in, and even his heaviest cloak is not enough to
keep it out.
“Tha's true.”
“Well then.”
“If yer
wantin' a chore,” Hagrid says, seating himself. “Ye'll have teh come
back. I'm all caught up for what can be done while it's dark out.”
“Actually, I, um. I brought you this.” Freeing the bottle from the inner pocket of his robes, he offers it.
“Ah, tha's right nice of yeh. Thanks.”
The
bottle, one of the finest whiskies available, looks tiny in Hagrid's
hand. Draco thinks, perhaps, he should have gone with quantity over
quality. He doesn't suppose Hagrid will make the connection to the
Hippogriff incident from all those years ago, but it is enough to ease
his own mind on the matter.
“I'll just be going then.”
“No need teh rush off. Stay an have a drink. It's only righ', seein' as how you brought it.”
“Um. All right.”
Hagrid
pours them both a healthy measure of the whisky, pushing Draco's glass
across the table. The cup rumbles against the wood, like the sound of
thunder before a storm. He expects Hagrid's company to be awkward,
without tasks to keep them occupied. But it is strangely comfortable.
“Do
you know,” Draco says, pouring his third and Hagrid's ninth glass some
time later. “Do you know what that bastard did?” He leans back in the
chair, loving the weightless feeling in his limbs, though neither of
them is truly drunk.
“Who?”
“Snape! Snape, the bastard.”
“He weren' a bastard – jus' misunderstood.”
“He was,” Draco insists. “He left me – He left me his fucking opera.”
“Wha'?”
“Opera! Music. Fat lot of good it does me.”
“Tha' were nice of him, teh leave yeh summat.”
He
looks up at Hagrid's words, ready to refute them, to explain how not
nice it was. In the tiny hut, Hagrid's great bulk looks at if he could
hold the whole place down, should it decide to try and blow away.
Thought derailed, Draco gets up, moving to stand before Hagrid.
“You
wouldn't leave me something so pointless, would you?” he queries, going
on before Hagrid can reply. “You'd leave me something useful.” Reaching
out, he touches Hagrid's chest.
“Draco, wha' d'yeh think yer doin'?” Hagrid's tone is wary, but he doesn't pull away.
“So solid,” Draco murmurs, feeling the warmth and bulk of Hagrid's
chest through his shirt. He leans forward, bringing his mouth close to
Hagrid's lips, his hand drifting lower.
“Don't you like me?”
“Yer very pretty, but I think--”
Draco
doesn't let him finish, crushing their mouths together instead. Hagrid
doesn't kiss back, not until Draco slides into his lap, long legs
stretched wide to straddle the half-giant. Then Hagrid's hands come up,
bracketing his head and holding him in place as he kisses Draco
fiercely.
They both taste of whisky, and Hagrid's beard scratches
against Draco's chin, down his neck. He moans softly in appreciation as
they separate.
“You should go,” Hagrid says regretfully.
“No! I won't.”
“I can't. Yer a student.” Moving slowly, Hagrid slides his hands down Draco's shoulders, around to rest against his back.
“Please,”
he says quietly, trying to recapture Hagrid's lips. “I won't tell
anyone... I'll apologize in the morning if you want, but please.”
“I'll hurt yeh.”
“You
won't. Well, you could spank me again-- or not.” Draco rushes to add,
seeing the look of horror bloom on Hagrid's face. “This is good. This is
perfect.”
“I don't want teh hurt yeh.” Hagrid says, fingers stroking lightly down his cheek.
He
looks at Hagrid, all kind, dark eyes and untamed beard. His chest feels
tight, afraid no answer he can give will be good enough. “Then don't.”
Draco
kisses him before Hagrid can object again. Unbuttoning Hagrid's shirt,
he curls his fingers into the dark hair beneath. Hagrid sighs, his
entire body seeming to swell and release beneath Draco with the breath.
“Yer
so soft,” Hagrid whispers, and presses whiskery, wet kisses to Draco's
throat. Calloused hands slip beneath Draco's jumper, pushing the fabric
up until he has no choice but to stop his own explorations and lift it
off.
“I'm not,” he answers, pushing Hagrid's shirt off so that they can press together, skin to skin.
They
kiss, touching each other carefully, for long minutes. He can feel the
slow throb of Hagrid's cock, pressing hard as his own between them.
Draco moves his hips, frotting against Hagrid gently. Hagrid's hands cup
his arse, so large they hold him entirely. Fuck, Draco mouths,
pushing back into Hagrid's hands. He wants their trousers off, to feel
Hagrid inside him – his cock if they could manage it, or just his
fingers. But he's afraid to get up, afraid Hagrid will stop them if he
does. Already Hagrid will not let him undo the length of rope that
serves as his belt, patient hands pushing Draco's away each time he
reaches for it.
There is no urgency, though their sighs and
kisses build to gasps and moans. If Draco had ever thought to imagine
it, he would have imagined Hagrid coming in a great roar. But when it
happens, Hagrid is nearly silent. His hold on Draco tightens, pulling
Draco to him. Kissing him deeply, his tongue fills Draco's mouth.
Trapped in his grasp, feeling Hagrid's groan rumbling through his chest,
Draco comes with a cry.
Curled together in the silent aftermath,
Hagrid runs his fingers over Draco's hair. It tickles a bit, but Draco
is disinclined to pull away. He doesn't even raise his head when Hagrid
stands, lifting him easily to move the few steps over to the bed. Laying
him down, Hagrid pulls Draco's shoes off, and then his own, before
lying down with him. Cocooned within his arms, feeling Hagrid's
breathing steady and deep as a great bellows, Draco sleeps.
End.
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