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Title: Crossroad Blues
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror/Angst
Pairings: Draco/Harry
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Draco wasn’t expecting the demon to look like Potter and it threw him. This isn’t the deal he wanted to make.
Author's Notes: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_darkarts Horror Fest 2015, for the prompt: It's just, he never expected crossroads demons to look quite like that. It can also be found here on AO3.
“Malfoy.”
He spins around, scrambles away from the loose dirt in the middle of the road. He doesn’t know whether to reach for his wand or try and get rid of the evidence – to brush the earth off his hands and act like he has a right to be here.
Once, it would have been easy. Now, not so much, and not at all easy with Potter, who’s just standing there with his hands in his pockets like Draco is nothing – not even a threat.
Slowly, trying to be subtle, he wipes his hands on his trousers, grinding soil and fine gravel into the fabric and further into his skin. He takes a small step back, just enough to hide the disturbed ground with his foot, and tries not to think of the box he just buried there. He clears his throat.
“Potter,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
Potter grins. It’s not quite right. For a start, it’s a smile that he’s never, ever directed at Draco. It’s one that’s reserved for Weasley and Granger and – more and more, recently – towards the she-Weasley. But unlike those smiles, this one doesn’t meet his eyes, and Draco feels a shiver run down his spine. He knows the answer before it comes.
“You invited me,” the thing that looks like Potter says, ducking its head and appearing almost shy until Draco catches a glimpse of the red, red eyes peering out from under its lashes instead of green. “Weren’t you expecting me?”
Draco’s stomach clenches. He feels so overwhelmingly ill that he’s half-tempted to apparate away and forget the entire thing, but he knows that if he does then the thing will follow him. He swallows his bile, gathers his nerves, and chokes out a vague sort of answer.
“I didn’t expect a demon would look like… Like this.”
The demon shrugs, spreads its hands in an aimless gesture. “We aim to please,” it says. “Only the very best for our customers, you know.”
Up until the end, Draco thinks, and shoves the thought away before he really does back out.
This, all of this, isn’t impulsive. It’s been planned to the finest details. The time, the place; his exact demands written down on scraps of paper until he had them memorised. His father had always taught him to be very careful about the contracts he entered into and Draco has remembered that lesson very well. It’s a lesson that was reinforced after the Dark Mark was inscribed on his arm, and ever since his liberation – not that it’s much of one – he’s read the fine print on everything.
The demon, he suspects, knows it. It’s why it looks the way it does. It wants his heart and his mind to race and for him to forget everything he planned for.
He won’t.
It might be Potter’s body, but when the demon moves, it doesn’t move the way Potter does. There’s nothing of Potter’s inherent paranoia (too many people out to get him); the demon is smooth, suave. Its hips sway with every step and Draco can’t tear his gaze away.
He’s wanted – hell, he still wants - the real Potter to walk towards him like that for longer than he wants to admit. Long enough for him to sell his soul for it. Long enough to know that – without him paying such a price – it’ll never happen. His throat is dry when he swallows and he swears, just for a moment, that the ground where he buried that fucking box is hot as Hell beneath his feet.
Then the demon is pressed up against him, its hands on his hips and its thumbs sliding gently up beneath the fabric of his shirt; Draco can feel its heat and taste the sulphur on its breath, and he doesn’t think that he’s ever, ever hated anything as much as he does right now.
“Well?” the demon asks with Potter’s mouth and Potter’s voice and a wicked little smile curving over Potter’s lips.
“I want him,” Draco says. “Harry Potter. The man that you’re wearing.”
The demon smiles because it already knew – he knows it knew.
It knows about all the times he’s caught Potter smiling at the Weasley bint like a love-struck puppy; about how that expression aimed at that girl is like a knife to his heart because she’s not the only one who’s loved you since childhood. It knows that he lives for each smile or greeting as they pass in the corridors of the Ministry, no matter how bland or boring they are. It knows that Potter will be waiting for him to deliver paperwork when he arrives back, and that just like every time before it, Draco will barely be able to stop himself from shaking.
It was so much easier to hide, before, when he had his name and his money and the whole of Slytherin House to hide behind. Now he has only the fact that he lied to try and save Potter’s life – and that debt has been repaid.
“I want him to love me,” he says.
The demon hums like it’s heard it all before, and its smile falters just a little.
“You’re sure? Ten years of Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and Master of Death, and your soul to Hell for the rest of forever. That’s the deal you want to make?”
“Yes,” Draco says. It comes out in a rush, and his head is swimming because he could swear that he’s forgotten something.
The demon licks its lips. It makes them wet when they slide across Draco’s own to seal the deal, and a shudder runs down his spine at the thought that it’s a promise. And it’s Potter. And he lifts his hands to the demon’s hips and pulls him closer; so close that hip bones stab into his palms and the lengths of their bodies are tight together and – for a moment – the world narrows to the taste of sulphur in the demon’s mouth.
And when they break apart, Potter is blinking green eyes up at him. His lips are swollen and smiling, and his gaze cloudy with lust, and it’s then that he remembers.
This wasn’t what he meant to ask for.
“Draco?”
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror/Angst
Pairings: Draco/Harry
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Draco wasn’t expecting the demon to look like Potter and it threw him. This isn’t the deal he wanted to make.
Author's Notes: This was written for
hp_darkarts Horror Fest 2015, for the prompt: It's just, he never expected crossroads demons to look quite like that. It can also be found here on AO3.“Malfoy.”
He spins around, scrambles away from the loose dirt in the middle of the road. He doesn’t know whether to reach for his wand or try and get rid of the evidence – to brush the earth off his hands and act like he has a right to be here.
Once, it would have been easy. Now, not so much, and not at all easy with Potter, who’s just standing there with his hands in his pockets like Draco is nothing – not even a threat.
Slowly, trying to be subtle, he wipes his hands on his trousers, grinding soil and fine gravel into the fabric and further into his skin. He takes a small step back, just enough to hide the disturbed ground with his foot, and tries not to think of the box he just buried there. He clears his throat.
“Potter,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
Potter grins. It’s not quite right. For a start, it’s a smile that he’s never, ever directed at Draco. It’s one that’s reserved for Weasley and Granger and – more and more, recently – towards the she-Weasley. But unlike those smiles, this one doesn’t meet his eyes, and Draco feels a shiver run down his spine. He knows the answer before it comes.
“You invited me,” the thing that looks like Potter says, ducking its head and appearing almost shy until Draco catches a glimpse of the red, red eyes peering out from under its lashes instead of green. “Weren’t you expecting me?”
Draco’s stomach clenches. He feels so overwhelmingly ill that he’s half-tempted to apparate away and forget the entire thing, but he knows that if he does then the thing will follow him. He swallows his bile, gathers his nerves, and chokes out a vague sort of answer.
“I didn’t expect a demon would look like… Like this.”
The demon shrugs, spreads its hands in an aimless gesture. “We aim to please,” it says. “Only the very best for our customers, you know.”
Up until the end, Draco thinks, and shoves the thought away before he really does back out.
This, all of this, isn’t impulsive. It’s been planned to the finest details. The time, the place; his exact demands written down on scraps of paper until he had them memorised. His father had always taught him to be very careful about the contracts he entered into and Draco has remembered that lesson very well. It’s a lesson that was reinforced after the Dark Mark was inscribed on his arm, and ever since his liberation – not that it’s much of one – he’s read the fine print on everything.
The demon, he suspects, knows it. It’s why it looks the way it does. It wants his heart and his mind to race and for him to forget everything he planned for.
He won’t.
It might be Potter’s body, but when the demon moves, it doesn’t move the way Potter does. There’s nothing of Potter’s inherent paranoia (too many people out to get him); the demon is smooth, suave. Its hips sway with every step and Draco can’t tear his gaze away.
He’s wanted – hell, he still wants - the real Potter to walk towards him like that for longer than he wants to admit. Long enough for him to sell his soul for it. Long enough to know that – without him paying such a price – it’ll never happen. His throat is dry when he swallows and he swears, just for a moment, that the ground where he buried that fucking box is hot as Hell beneath his feet.
Then the demon is pressed up against him, its hands on his hips and its thumbs sliding gently up beneath the fabric of his shirt; Draco can feel its heat and taste the sulphur on its breath, and he doesn’t think that he’s ever, ever hated anything as much as he does right now.
“Well?” the demon asks with Potter’s mouth and Potter’s voice and a wicked little smile curving over Potter’s lips.
“I want him,” Draco says. “Harry Potter. The man that you’re wearing.”
The demon smiles because it already knew – he knows it knew.
It knows about all the times he’s caught Potter smiling at the Weasley bint like a love-struck puppy; about how that expression aimed at that girl is like a knife to his heart because she’s not the only one who’s loved you since childhood. It knows that he lives for each smile or greeting as they pass in the corridors of the Ministry, no matter how bland or boring they are. It knows that Potter will be waiting for him to deliver paperwork when he arrives back, and that just like every time before it, Draco will barely be able to stop himself from shaking.
It was so much easier to hide, before, when he had his name and his money and the whole of Slytherin House to hide behind. Now he has only the fact that he lied to try and save Potter’s life – and that debt has been repaid.
“I want him to love me,” he says.
The demon hums like it’s heard it all before, and its smile falters just a little.
“You’re sure? Ten years of Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and Master of Death, and your soul to Hell for the rest of forever. That’s the deal you want to make?”
“Yes,” Draco says. It comes out in a rush, and his head is swimming because he could swear that he’s forgotten something.
The demon licks its lips. It makes them wet when they slide across Draco’s own to seal the deal, and a shudder runs down his spine at the thought that it’s a promise. And it’s Potter. And he lifts his hands to the demon’s hips and pulls him closer; so close that hip bones stab into his palms and the lengths of their bodies are tight together and – for a moment – the world narrows to the taste of sulphur in the demon’s mouth.
And when they break apart, Potter is blinking green eyes up at him. His lips are swollen and smiling, and his gaze cloudy with lust, and it’s then that he remembers.
This wasn’t what he meant to ask for.
“Draco?”
