emmagrant01 | FIC: Order of the Dragon (Prologue)

Title: Order of the Dragon: Prologue
Author: Emma Grant
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Summary: Several years after the defeat of Voldemort, Draco Malfoy hates his job and his life. But it's all about to change.
Word count: about 4000
Note: This started with a prompt for a holiday ficlet from

araythea, who requested "Harry/Draco, dirty bathroom sex during a holiday party". I was thinking about what to write for that, and the next thing I knew, I had a whole series of fics in a new universe planned out. :-P This is the prologue for what will be a series of relatively self-contained fics that will build on each other. I probably won't post another until after the holidays, but stay tuned! Thanks to

jedirita for looking over this for me and letting me chat about this universe over coffee!

~*~

Draco adjusted his dress robes, took another sip of champagne, and surveyed the scene. He hated these parties, but they were unavoidable. The Daily Prophet wanted all the big social events of the season covered, and he was one of the only wizards on staff who had the connections to get himself an invitation. The music was boring, the food uninspired, and the attendees entirely predictable. Draco sighed.

A slender witch strolled past him and did a double take when she saw him. She whirled around, her violet robes swirling. "Mr. Malfoy -- fancy seeing you here."

The smile that sprang to Draco's lips was perfectly charming -- and perfectly fake. "You look lovely this evening, Lavender. Has my photographer spotted you yet?"

Lavender's expression one of forced grace. "You want my photo, really? That's odd, considering that three months ago you wrote I had the fashion sense of an intoxicated baboon and shouldn't be allowed out in public."

Draco's smile tightened. "It really was a horrid dress that night, darling -- not like this one." What she was wearing this evening was no better, truth be told.

But then, Lavender was always an easy target. She had married into a wealthy Swedish pureblood family several years ago and now lived in London with her dim-witted husband, doing little with her life but spending his money and going to parties. Her taste in fashion had somehow remained remarkably middle class, as was exemplified by the garish dragon lily tucked into a twist of her dark hair, its color clashing with that of her gown.

"Bugger off, Malfoy," she spat, dropping all pretense of politeness. "You're lucky even to be at this party. Everyone knows you aren't a welcome guest." She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving a cloud of designer imposter perfume in her wake.

Draco slung back the rest of his drink as he watched her retreat, her hips swaying unnaturally in the too-high heels she was wearing. He smirked. With her money, she could afford an image consultant. Perhaps he should write that.

He found the photographer, a spotty young wizard named Charles, chatting up a blonde witch in the next room. Draco instructed him to get a shot of Lavender in an awkward pose and then headed for the bar, intent on refilling his drink. It was going to be a long night.

Ever since Rita Skeeter had been forced to retire, keeping tabs on the social scene had been part of Draco's duties. He hated it. He'd much rather be a welcome -- no, a coveted guest at these events than part of the press corps. It was a waste of his pedigree and breeding, not to mention his talent. But those things weren't important anymore, and besides -- a ruined family name and an incomplete education could only get one so far in the post-War world.

He moved into the main room, wondering what the hell he was going to write about for tomorrow's edition if they couldn't get a shot of Lavender. No one was outrageously dressed tonight. No one had got blotted and made fools of themselves. No one had started an argument about politics or made outrageous statements about the Ministry of Magic. Everyone was laughing and talking, smiling at each other over drinks and strolling from room to room, admiring the holiday decorations of the London home of the Minister for Magical Education and Welfare. Draco would probably have enjoyed the party had he not been working.

A noticeable increase in the buzz of conversation interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see that Harry Potter had arrived -- several hours late, as usual. Draco smirked: he might have something juicy for the morning edition after all. Potter had developed quite a reputation as a playboy of late, appearing at social functions with scantily-clad European models, drinking too much, and (in one infamous case) stripping naked and cavorting in the pool with half a dozen witches who had eagerly dived in after him. Draco had documented many of these scandalous events himself. He'd barely needed to embellish, so lewd Potter's behavior generally was.

Potter said something Draco couldn't quite hear, and the sycophants around him chortled. Potter grinned and raised his glass, and there was a shout of "Cheers!"

Draco had to struggle not to scowl. It wasn't fair. How that orphaned halfblood idiot had become the most eligible bachelor in the Wizarding World was beyond Draco's comprehension. Not that Draco was jealous, really. He wasn't interested in women, beautiful or not; nor did he desire to have his every move photographed and written about for public consumption and judgment. Potter didn't seem to mind the attention, though. One would think he courted it, in fact.

Potter's eyes caught his at that moment, and Draco felt his stomach twist inexplicably. Potter's grin widened, and he excused himself from the people around him and crossed the room, stopping before Draco with an amused expression on his face.

"Malfoy," he began, his fingers stroking the stem of his champagne glass. "Trolling for fashion victims? Or are you hoping someone will do something scandalous?"

Draco kept his face impassive, though he was irritated that Potter had just described his job fairly well. "Just hoping to be present when you get completely plastered and announce your engagement to Miranda. Or is it Claudia? I can't keep your girlfriends straight."

Potter grinned and looked back across the room at the stunning woman who'd come in on his arm. "Nadia," he said. "Or Natalie -- I can't keep them straight either."

"Does she need a name, really?" Draco asked. "All she needs is a pretty face and a pussy, after all."

Potter snorted and sipped his drink. "If you say so."

"I wouldn't know," Draco retorted. "It's not my thing, is it?"

Potter raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't react. "She's not very bright, of course. I do enjoy a bit of witty repartee now and then."

"Ooh, big word. Don't hurt yourself."

To Draco's surprise, Potter laughed. "Cheers, Malfoy. You're in fine form tonight."

Draco managed a smug smile, the first genuine expression he'd worn that evening. Odd that it should be because of Potter. "How sweet of you to notice. But I'm afraid you're not my type."

"That is unfortunate," Potter said with a wink. And with that, he walked back to the group across the room and rejoined the conversation.

Draco stood there for another minute, completely unsettled. Had Potter just come on to him? He couldn't have meant it -- it must have been a joke, or an attempt to set Draco off him. He shook his head and headed back to the bar.

He spent much of the next hour watching Potter from a distance, downing several more martinis and growing increasingly frustrated by the situation. He had given up on finding a scandalous story to write, having decided simply to print the photographs Charles had taken along with captions noting who was present. Still, the people at the party were wary and avoided him. They were ungrateful arseholes, most of them, whose social climbing had only been enhanced by his reporting -- so they ought to have shown a bit of gratitude. But after trying to strike up four different conversations and failing, Draco finally resigned himself to standing along the wall and watching everyone else have fun. He could leave, of course, but the drinks were free and this house was much warmer than his small flat.

And besides, Potter was quite entertaining. Draco watched him laugh and talk with nearly everyone there, moving smoothly between groups and conversations, always a drink in hand, always an attractive witch or two at his side hanging on his every word. Everyone loved him, and everyone wanted to be near him.

Including Draco, as much as he loathed to admit it. He'd never found the git particularly attractive, but he knew as well as any that one coveted most what one had little chance of getting. And something about Potter's grin was infectious. There was little trace of the awkwardness Draco remembered from school.

Potter looked up and saw Draco watching him, and his lips twisted into a smirk. Draco scowled and looked away.

He left the room and headed to the bar yet again, intent to take his mind off Potter. He was already resigned to having a wank over him later that night, so there was no need to make himself seem even more pathetic by continuing to watch him obsessively. He ordered a strong drink and downed it in one movement, then leaned back against the wall. To his alarm, his head began to swim. He couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had -- perhaps it was time to go after all. The last thing he needed was to make an arse of himself in front of this lot. He headed towards the toilet, trying to concentrate on walking a straight line, and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against it and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

The toilet flushed.

"Fuck… I'm sorry," Draco said, his eyes flying open again.

It was Potter -- of course -- standing there and zipping his fly, looking amused. "If you wanted to speak to me in private, you could have just asked."

Draco scowled. "It's considered a courtesy to lock the door of the toilet, you know."

Potter put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head, staring at Draco. "Maybe I like people barging in on me while I'm pissing."

"Like the kinky stuff, do you?" Draco felt his cheeks go a bit pink. Had he really just said that?

"Maybe," Potter replied, stepping forward. The expression on his face was odd, almost -- Draco swallowed -- predatory. "Or maybe I was hoping you'd follow me."

Draco stared at him, finding the way Potter moved in and out of focus quite annoying. "I didn't… what?"

Potter gave him an appraising look. "Are you drunk?"

"No," Draco replied, a bit too quickly. "Of course not. And I didn't follow you in here." He was painfully aware that he was slurring his words, but it couldn't be helped.

Potter leaned closer, so close that Draco could see the stubble on his chin. "You are drunk." He grinned.

"M'not. I've had a few drinks. Was gonna go home, actually."

Potter placed his hands on the door on either side of Draco's head, effectively trapping him against it. His eyes were very green from this close. Draco had never really noticed before. "Then go," Potter said.

"You're in my way," Draco replied, trying to tear his gaze away from Potter's.

"And you haven't tried to escape yet."

"I didn't know I was being held hostage," Draco retorted. His hair was falling in his eyes and he tried to reach up to brush it back. His hand hit Potter in the chest, though -- and quite against Draco's wishes it remained there, clutching the lapel of his dress robes.

Potter's eyes sparkled, and the next thing Draco knew, he was being kissed. Kissed, by a man he hated and who was, to the best of Draco's knowledge, completely straight. But Potter's tongue was in his mouth anyway, sliding hotly against his own, and his lips were strong and devouring him whole. Just when Draco had decided this was actually happening, Potter's lips moved to his neck, which was even better, and Draco found himself reeling in a confused alcoholic haze.

"But you… you're not…" he tried, but he couldn't seem to get the words out. "You don't like me," he managed at last.

Potter's hands were busy unfastening the clasps of Draco's robes, and his mouth was doing things to Draco's ear that no one had done in quite a while. "Of course I like you," Potter whispered, his cold hands working their way inside Draco's shirt. "I like you well enough to fuck you, at any rate."

"You don't…" Draco tried again, but one of Potter's hands was cupping his groin now. Draco groaned and let his head fall back against the door. Potter was stroking Draco's prick through his trousers while he sucked on his neck, and Draco found himself quite incapable of speaking.

This was a dream, he decided at last. Potter wasn't really pressing their bare cocks together and stroking them in one hand, or practically fucking Draco's mouth with his tongue, or pressing him against the door of the bathroom in someone else's house at an elegant party.

So if it was a dream, it didn't matter if Draco kissed him back, or if he thrust against him in time to the stroking. If was fine if he shed his trousers and turned to brace against the door, no big deal to feel Potter's cock press into him, slowly at first and then slamming him against the door frame over and over, so hard he had to grit his teeth. Potter's grunts in his ears were just how he imagined Potter would sound while fucking him, he thought, and the keening cry when Potter came, almost a hiss -- it was familiar. But then, it was a dream.

He hoped he wouldn't wake up when Potter pushed him against the sink and swallowed his cock, sucking it with an abandon Draco had rarely known in a lover. He saw Potter's dark head bobbing at his groin, lips stretched around his shaft, that scar of his pale against his sweaty forehead, and he wondered if he would wake up soon. He hoped not.

He closed his eyes. The universe tilted.

"You're too drunk to come, aren't you?" he heard.

He nodded, and then he was sitting on the floor, everything spinning around him. How had this happened? He didn't usually drink this much.

"Fucking hell," Potter said, a note of exasperation in his tone. "It figures that I finally get you cornered and… I doubt you'll even remember this." There was a rustle and then Draco was being pulled to his feet. "I'm going to apparate you home, and you'd better not puke."

The squashing sensation that followed tested Draco's stomach, but he didn't throw up. He didn't know where he was, or what he was doing. He couldn't open his eyes, and he didn't care.

~*~

He was awakened by the banter of the morning talk show hosts on the Wizard Wireless Network. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt as though they were glued shut.

And it's a cold morning, so don't forget to charm those socks and mittens! a woman's voice said in an annoyingly cheery tone.

You might want to try a defrosting spell on the broomstick too, a man's voice added.

Draco frowned. He didn't have a wireless. He sat up and looked around, and almost immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea came over him.

"Drink this," a voice said, holding out a steaming mug.

"It's just going to come straight back up," Draco grumbled.

"Trust me," was the reply.

Draco took the cup and managed to drink its contents, scrunching up his face as he did. It tasted horrible, but it didn't turn his stomach. In fact, he was starting to feel better already, thanks to--

He sat up in bed and stared at Potter, who was sitting next to him. He looked around and realized he wasn't in his own flat, but in a place he'd never been before.

"What the fuck happened?" he asked, suddenly aware that he seemed to have been sleeping in Potter's bed.

Potter raised an eyebrow. "You were quite thoroughly pissed, that's what. You started to make a bit of a scene at the party, so I thought I'd do you a favor."

"A favor, eh?" Draco asked, rubbing his forehead. There was still a twinge there, but nothing like it would have been. "Why'd you bring me here?"

"I've no idea where you live," Potter said, shrugging. "And I have a spare room."

"Ah," Draco replied, confused. He'd had the oddest dream. He looked up at Potter, a flush spreading over his cheeks. "Did we…?" He waved his hand at the rumpled bedding.

Potter's face was blank. "Sorry?"

Draco looked away. "Nothing, never mind. Thanks for bringing me here. I suppose I owe you one."

Potter's smile was calculated. "Well, since you brought it up, I was hoping for a favor in return."

Draco sighed. He should have expected as much. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

"I want you to include something in your column tomorrow," Potter said. "It's a message of sorts, and it should fit in with the sort of thing you usually write."

"You want me to--? I don't write personal ads!" Draco was unable to keep his annoyance at bay.

"It's not an ad," Potter replied. His voice was calm and his expression serious. Draco hadn't seen him look this way since… Well, not for quite a while. "It's a message for someone," Potter continued. "We can't communicate via owl anymore, and Muggle mobile phones don't work around large concentrations of magic."

Draco snorted. "You want me to send some sort of secret message to someone for you, in my column?"

"Yes."

"Have you gone completely mad?" Draco asked, not bothering to stop himself from smirking. "Fuck, Potter. Got yourself in a tight spot with a bookmaker, or something?"

Potter's smile remained fixed in place. "I'm just asking for a favor. If I give you the message, will you work it into your column?"

Draco stared back at him, wondering if Potter was having him on. This sort of seriousness was out of character for him, at least in the last few years. Potter must be in trouble -- it was the only thing that made sense. "All right, fine," Draco said. "And then we're even."

"Of course," Potter replied, but there was a hint of something in his voice that made Draco think he didn't mean it. Oddly, Draco found himself hoping he was right.

"Which way's the toilet?" he asked, yawning.

Potter pointed to a door across the room, and Draco pushed himself to his feet. He'd only made it halfway there before he realized he hadn't imagined everything he'd thought happened the night before. The twinge in his arse was unmistakable, as was the more graphic evidence on the toilet paper a few minutes later. He cringed and pressed a hand to his forehead.

He'd had sex with Potter -- no worse: he'd had sloppy, drunken, unprotected sex with Potter. He doubted a straight boy would know the protective spells, and fuck all, he'd been too drunk to cast them himself. He splashed cold water on his face and then glared at his reflection before emerging from the toilet again.

He found Potter in the spacious living room of the flat, a cup of tea in one hand and a copy of the Prophet in the other. He was sitting crosslegged on what looked to be a very expensive sofa.

Draco's anger faded for a moment as he looked around. The flat -- if something this size could rightly be called a flat -- was one of the nicest he'd been in. It was in a modern building, and from what he could see through the large windows, they were quite high off the ground. The room was well-furnished and decorated in a sleek modern style, something that did not fit with Draco's mental image of Potter, somehow.

He crossed to the window and stared out it. "Is that the Thames?" he sputtered.

Potter didn't look up from the paper. "Very good, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin."

"You're far wealthier than I've heard," Draco retorted, ignoring the jibe. He stared out at the view beyond the small terrace and felt a stab of jealousy. It should have been him with this fantastic carefree life and expensive penthouse flat. This was the life he'd been raised to lead, not that of an underpaid, overworked, token gay gossip columnist for a newspaper.

"Tea?" Potter asked.

Draco turned back to face him. "I'd rather have an explanation." When Potter stared blankly at him, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and glared. "We had sex last night."

Potter hesitated a moment. "So you do remember."

"I remember being quite intoxicated and you forcing yourself on me."

Potter's eyes narrowed. "I didn't force--"

"That would make a lovely headline wouldn't it? Prophet reporter raped by Harry Potter. I've been printing some nasty things about you lately, after all. Perhaps you wanted your revenge."

Potter was glaring at him now. "That is utter shit, Malfoy, and you know it."

"But will the readers know it? That's the question." Draco let his glare soften into a leer. "Your reputation, such as it is, would certainly be tarnished. People tolerate, even celebrate a bloke who fucks around -- but not if he fucks other men."

"What do you want?" Potter asked.

"I want to know who this message of yours is for and what it means."

Potter snorted. "Oh, that's all?"

Draco crossed to the sofa table where a tea service sat and poured himself a cup. "Under the circumstances, I don't think I'm asking much. There's no telling what sort of nasty diseases you've exposed me to, as much as you get around. It's not as if I'm blackmailing you."

"That's precisely what you're doing," Potter replied. "And I did cast protective spells, so you needn't worry."

Draco sat at the other end of the sofa and took a sip of tea. "How would you know the proper spells?"

Potter returned a smirk. "As you suggest, I do get around."

Draco took a gulp of tea in an attempt to hide his surprise. This was an interesting bit of news indeed. "Well, if you explain this cloak and dagger message to my satisfaction, your secret is safe with me."

Potter made a sound of exasperation. "I have no reason to trust you, Malfoy."

"Have it your way," Draco replied. "I should get going. I have an interesting little story to write, after all." He set his cup on the table and stood.

Potter groaned. "All right, fine. But… it isn't up to me to decide how much to tell you. I'll need a day or two to work it out, and in the meantime I'll need you to print that message."

Draco pursed his lips. "All right. I'll work it into tomorrow's column, and if you haven't come clean to me within two days, you'll find yourself on the front page in a rather unpleasant light."

Potter nodded and sighed, pressing a hand over his eyes. "I'll owl it you later today. When's your deadline?"

"Seven. You probably shouldn't use that snowy owl of yours."

Potter's face tightened. "Hedwig's dead."

Draco blinked. "Sorry." Potter didn't get up when Draco crossed to what seemed to be the front door. Draco paused with his hand on the knob and turned back around. "There's something else I'd like to know, though. Why did you have sex with me last night? You don't even like me."

"I'd been looking for a chance to get you alone," Potter replied. His voice sounded tired. "I saw you heading for the toilet and I apparated in. My plan was to seduce you, actually. Thought I was doing a bang-up job of it until you nearly passed out on the bathroom floor."

"Seduce me?" Draco repeated, incredulous.

Potter turned to face him. "I thought I could convince you to print the message if I cozied up to you. Apparating you here was plan B."

Draco felt a flash of irritation at the idea that Potter had been acting the night before, that he hadn't really found Draco irresistible. He swallowed down his annoyance and opened the door. "Two days, Potter."

There was no response. Draco stalked into the corridor and slammed the door behind him. He glared at his reflection in the mirrored walls of the descending lift, only realizing when he stepped out into the chilly December air that he had lost his cloak at some point in the last twelve hours. He shivered and headed down the street, looking for an alley from which he could apparate home.

What the fuck had he got himself into?

~*~

Happy Holidays, everyone!