Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Edits from the manuscript of ‘The Tales of Harry Potter 5’ - Snitches, Quills, and a Phoenix at Grimmauld Place

Chapter 19 - The Lion and the Serpent, written by Almorycus O. Fulcadi

Harry aggressively threw his sweat-soaked Quidditch T-shirt into the corner of the changing room. This couldn’t be true. He and George were going to cop all the trouble, whilst Malfoy would slip away without any consequences. Glancing down at his bare chest, he felt his nipples stiffen and stretch pink in the air at the thought of Malfoy. Fury surged within him, and he slammed his fist against the wall, frustration boiling over into angry tears.

It wasn’t fair. Malfoy had freaked out over the Slytherins’ loss in Quidditch, hurling insults at the entire team. When he mentioned Ron’s parents and Harry’s mother, things got out of hand and escalated into a physical fight until Umbridge had stepped in—But this wasn’t over; he refused to let Malfoy win.

Harry threw his towel over his shoulder and was already unzipping his trousers when the door swung open—The tall, lean figure and the platinum blond hair were unmistakable. Malfoy. Harry caught his breath at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he asked, taken aback.

Without answering, Malfoy stepped inside and let the door slam behind him.

“Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

Malfoy’s annoying Weasley is Our King badge blinked provocatively at Harry.

Harry huffed and turned to head towards the shower without waiting for an answer, but Malfoy grabbed him roughly by the arm with his beautiful, slender fingers.

“Potter!”

Harry turned angrily and pushed Malfoy away from him with all his strength. Malfoy staggered backwards against the wall, his face reflecting pure desire and arousal pure hatred. Then, Malfoy lunged forwards, grabbed Harry harshly by the shoulders, and forcefully shoved him back until Harry was slammed into the wall instead.

“Potter, I hate you!”

Fuming with anger, Malfoy pinned Harry even firmer against the wall, shoving his knee between Harry’s thighs as he pressed himself against Harry’s trembling body. Harry dug his fingernails into Draco’s upper arm, trying to push him away. A surprising wave of excitement shot through his loins at the thought that Draco would bear the marks of their struggle tomorrow, reminding him of Harry every time he looked at his bruised arm.

“And I hate you!” Harry snapped and wrinkled his nose as he smelled Malfoy’s salty, sweaty scent, which was incredibly intoxicating to him. “And you smell disgusting.”

Malfoy slowly slid his arms down Harry’s wonderfully muscular upper arms and grabbed his wrists. Still pressing his thighs and hips against Harry, he pulled Harry’s hands up and pinned them against the wall above his head.

“Malfoy, let me go! Now! I have to shower. Umbridge is waiting for me.”

Malfoy’s hot breath brushed against his tingling skin, sending a shiver down his spine. With all his might, he tried to break free from Malfoy’s grip.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s mouth crashed onto his. Malfoy sucked on Harry’s lip, prompting Harry to bite back, making him moan. Malfoy released Harry’s hands and riffled through his hair with one hand while running the other down Harry’s chest. Harry lowered his arms, gripping Malfoy’s jaw with one hand and sliding his other under Malfoy’s shirt, eager to feel more of his sweat-covered skin.

Malfoy licked Harry’s lips greedily one last time, then Malfoy let go of him.

“I don’t want to see your face anymore,” Harry shouted angrily and pushed Malfoy away.

Malfoy’s sparkling silver eyes pierced through him. “And I want to fuck you.”

The look of Malfoy’s eyes made Harry's blood boil with arousal rage.

With a noticeable bulge in his pants, Harry shoved him hard once more before stomping towards the shower, eager to find release.

“Oh, this is hilarious!”

Harry heard the giggle coming from the backyard the moment he entered Grimmauld Place. Letting out a deep, frustrated sigh, he remembered what day it was. His children—almost adults, he reminded himself—had barely talked about anything else for the past few days. Of course, it was the release date of the next volume of The Tales of Harry Potter.

Exhausted, Harry let his bag slide off his shoulders and fall to the floor, not bothering to put it away and ignoring the thought that this would likely lead to another lecture from Ginny about his untidiness.

A dull headache throbbed behind his temples. He already knew what the following days would be like. The initial days after the release of a new volume were always the most challenging. Harry was accustomed to public attention, though he thought he had a respite as the hype that accompanied being the one to finally defeat Voldemort had lessened somewhat—until the whole issue with the books began.

He grabbed a Butterbeer from the fridge—briefly considering a Firewhisky instead, but decided against it. At the age of forty-two, he could no longer afford to drink spirits on a Tuesday evening when he still had a full week’s work ahead of him.

Moreover, this week he would again be constantly surrounded by fans, all wanting his autograph on the latest issue, or urging him to pose with them as they held the book out for a photo. The fact that most of them, nowadays, were in their hormone-filled years of adolescence, screaming and lacking the sense to just give him some space, made the whole ordeal that much worse. He glanced at his Butterbeer, then at the fridge, reconsidering his decision to do the smart thing and opt out of drowning his dread in Firewhisky, but ultimately faced away, determined not to make everything worse with a hangover.

Bracing himself, he entered the garden and glanced around. Lily and James were lying next to each other on a large velvet picnic blanket, both on their stomachs, currently arguing over who was allowed to hold the newly purchased book. On a second blanket, Harry could see his son's boyfriend Scorpius sitting upright, holding another copy of The Tales of Harry Potter in one hand and reading aloud whilst gently stroking Albus’ head, which rested in his lap.

“There it was—the Snitch! Sparkling and glittering in the slowly setting evening sun. Determined, Harry clutched his broomstick and pushed it down. As fast as lightning and with his heart pounding like mad, he raced towards the shimmering winged ball—every fibre of his body tensed, his hand outstretched, completely certain that they would defeat the Slytherins in a matter of seconds,” Scorpius read to the group in his best theatrical voice.

Harry stepped closer and grabbed a chair, surprisingly relieved with the thought that the latest episode of the Potter Tales—as the fans called the series—didn’t seem as bad as the previous ones; not that he had ever actually read one. No, of course not—but his children never missed the opportunity to embarrass him by quoting the worst parts—as did his friends, overly eager fans, or random wizards or witches in the middle of Diagon Alley. He remembered with dread that one time during a family holiday at Brighton Beach, when a complete stranger had approached him, quoting an incredibly embarrassing passage, while Harry had fought a battle with a Muggle parasol, a battle he ultimately lost. The fact that Harry was wearing nothing but a pair of far too tight, bright orange Chudley Cannons swimming trunks—a gift from Ron which had earned them both a lengthy argument with Ginny—only deepened his wish for a tsunami to swallow him whole. This had been the lowest point of his Potter Tales experience.

“I was always sure that we would beat the Slytherins.” Being pleased with the fact that this book seemed to be better than the previous volumes, he took a confident sip of his Butterbeer as his children looked up from their books. Then with a playful grin, he added, “I’m very sorry to say that in front of you, Scorpius, but your dad was crap as a seeker.” Harry blinked at his son's boyfriend, making it clear it was just lighthearted teasing.

“Hello, Harry,” Scorpius laughed warmly. “No offense taken. We all know it was grandfather’s money, which got him onto the team.”

The others laughed and greeted their father as well. Harry was especially delighted to see James, who had already moved out the previous year but didn’t want to miss the chance to spend some fun time with his beloved siblings.

“Do you want me to read on?” Scorpius asked, and Harry—suddenly reminded of all the good times he had while playing Quidditch—nodded, eager to hear how he snatched the Snitch from under Draco Malfoy’s nose. “The chapter’s called The Lion and the Serpent. Well, let me see, where did I stop… Ah, here we go.”

Harry took a big sip of his Butterbeer, leaned comfortably against the backrest, and listened.

“Just when Harry was certain he would catch the Snitch, a tall, slender figure appeared before him on a Nimbus 2001—silhouetted against the backlight of the setting sun. The breathtaking sight made Harry tremble. Eyes like molten silver caught his gaze, and hair the colour of a shimmering full moon, which would have driven any werewolf wild, danced in the warm breeze. Harry’s heartbeat quickened as he reached out—but the Snitch was gone.”

Harry spluttered, Butterbeer spraying across his shirt. Everyone in the garden burst out laughing—everyone except Harry.

“Dad, you’re killing me,” Lily chuckled, wiping tears from her eyes. “You really failed to catch the Snitch because you got distracted by Mr Malfoy?”

“That never happened!” Harry exclaimed as he tried to wipe the spilled Butterbeer off his shirt with a handkerchief—determined not to embarrass himself by using his wand. “Plus, this book is total nonsense! How could I be distracted by the colours of someone’s eyes and hair when I was facing them against the backlight? I would have seen nothing but a black shadow—especially with the speed at which I was racing towards the ground. And why is it evening? We never played in the evenings. That book is absolutely unrealistic—and pathetic!”

He realised that his defensive speech was at risk of becoming embarrassing and pathetic as well, but he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “And I would never—never,” he shook his head vigorously, “use an awkward phrase like ‘molten silver’, or whatever that other stuff was. ‘A sparkling full moon that would have driven any werewolf crazy?’” Harry frowned at the wording. “If—and only if—I were ever to describe Malfoy’s appearance, I would simply say ‘he had grey eyes and blond hair’.”

The children chuckled.

“And why was he described as tall? And why is the broom emphasised? This book is so ridiculous. I just can’t understand why this nonsense sells so well.”

“It’s fun to read! That’s what people like,” James said. “Not like your boring autobiography. You only wrote that to kill rumours—and bored half of Britain doing it. People want stories—good stories! No one cares if you can see eyes against the backlight or not.”

“They should!” Harry interjected, unexpectedly feeling like a little child again.

“Reads like you had a crush on his dad,” James teased, pointing at Scorpius, which made everyone chuckle again.

“I have to admit that this is a little awkward for me.” Albus pushed himself out of Scorpius’ lap with his arms, looking at him lovingly. “But I understand entirely falling in love with a Malfoy.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Scorpius’ lips.

“Ugh, get a room,” Lily teased her brother, her voice filled with amusement. “Scorpius, can you please continue, or do you want me to read the next part?”

“Err—” Harry cleared his throat, trying to avoid hearing more of this absolute nonsense of so-called literature. “I’ll go inside and make us some food.” He stood up but paused again. “Is your mum already inside?”

“No, she said she’d be late at work, and that we should eat without her,” James replied.

Ginny was late at work. A familiar knot tightened in Harry’s stomach—late at work usually meant she was with Dean. Dean… She probably wouldn’t come home until late at night or even early in the morning. With a sigh, Harry turned and headed into the kitchen to prepare dinner.