Wow. I don't get all the fuss about plagiarism. I mean, it's just fanfiction. And fanfiction is pastiche. We're all stealing from JKR anyway and plenty of people love to play spot the quote.

Hello? Get a life. You're all just jealous.

Anyway, it reminded me that I have this fic I've been meaning to post. It's Draco/Pettigrew. Hope you like it!

(Also, I want to thank bnfshavemorefun for taking down her own Draco/Pettrigrew fic, which she wrote directly after reading this one.)


Title: A Hell of a Season
Pairing: Draco/Pettigrew
Disclaimer: Inspiration for the Graphorn goes to a fic called "After the Flood" … alas, I no longer remember who wrote it.



Draco is on his way to the parlor when he sees Snape and Wormtail arguing with each other by the fireplace. The flames flare orange and high and there is something lying on the floor between them. It is purple and lumpy and not particularly enchanting to look at. Draco is not surprised to see it; monsters have been crawling up into the house at Spinner's End from the alleyway beside it almost every day since Snape took him into hiding.

Draco slows down as he gets close enough to hear their argument. Wormtail seems to think the creature should be killed and eaten, Snape wants to incinerate it immediately.

"But I'm hungry," Wormtail whines, prodding the lump with a silver finger. Reflexively, it twitches and extends a tentacle. All the monsters have tentacles. The Ministry appears to be obsessed with them. Most of the Auror corps are perverse crossbreeds -- hippogriff werewolves, vampire satyrs, unicorn basilisks with spider legs -- and they all have tentacles, sometimes several sets. Draco thinks it's because Scrimgoeur has been reading too much Muggle hentai. "It's obviously edible."

Snape crosses his arms over his chest. "Then what is it?"

"It's a...it's...it's a part-Graphorn, crossed with a Lobalug and a bit of sea serpent, maybe some trout."

"You just pulled that out of your arse, Wormtail, and you know it."

"So what if I did?" Wormtail seems to be losing his patience. "I'm tired of biscuits for tea. Weasley would have fed me better than --"

He breaks off, seeing Draco.

Draco gives both a weak smile.

"Off for a wank?" Wormtail says, too brightly.

"Yes," says Draco.

"Good lad," says Wormtail. "Good, good lad."

Draco walks away, uncomfortably aware of Wormtail's eyes on his arse. Pleading, hopeful, frantic eyes. Not the eyes of an adult looking at a child. The desperate eyes of a hungry Animagus, looking for easy fuck.

Draco worries that he is looking in the right place.

***

The kitchen is Draco's. Snape had decided, weeks (months?) ago that he should be helping with the Dark Lord's potions, and had put up a list of aphrodisiacs to work on; there are empty vials everywhere and jars with different colored ingredients and instructions of the types to brew and even boxes of dildos to practice with.

Draco has no idea what to do with all these things, so he ignores them. Mostly he sits around drawing stick figures on sheets of blank parchment. Himself and Harry Potter, represented by a lightning bolt and blood spurting out of various flesh wounds. A stick figure of himself stepping on stick figure Pettigrew. Although it is hard to draw Wormtail as a stick figure. He is fat and unwashed and has a bad smell that wafts out when Draco passes him, and the pointy body and round stick figure head just doesn't look like him.

Draco is not exactly sure why he is stuck at Spinner's End, but there it is. He is, after all, worthless to the Cause and he was supposed to kill Dumbledore. He couldn't do it and his current inability to do anything else is perfectly understandable to everyone but himself. They can only imagine that he is wanking himself sore in the loo, while everyone else is doing something amazing and Really Big that will bring a two-ton anvil down on Potter's head.

Of course Draco has no idea why he can't do something useful and has said as much, multiple times, but everyone ignores this. "You keep on wanking, Draco," they say. "It's good for morale." Draco often points out that he isn't entirely hopeless --- he nearly took down Katie Bell and Weasley, he brought the Death Eaters into the school, he had Dumbledore at his mercy. Meanwhile, Spinner's End is boxed in by Muggles, countless houses deep on each side. Voldemort never Summons any of them, but it isn't safe to leave and so they have never left. Sheets of green fire burst from Snape's wand to shoot down any owl whenever Draco tries to get a message in or out.

Draco sits at the top of the stairway and watches Snape and Wormtail sometimes, and wonders idly what would happen if he wandered down there and tried to escape through the Floo. If he still had his wand he might try it -- he'd probably manage to Stupefy at least one of them -- but his wand vanished on the first day he arrived at Spinner's End. Snape claims he has no idea where it's gone.

After that, Draco had burned all his old Potions notes in Snape's favorite cauldron.

Draco also wonders sometimes what would happen if he went down to the parlor and simply asked Snape to fuck him. That he has absolutely no idea what else to do and no desire to deal with Pettigrew leering at him and muttering about how "Voldemort's lucky to get that tasty arse." He is only sixteen and he has never been any sort of genius. In fact, he privately suspects that he isn't actually even all that bright. His skills are sulking and being passable at Quidditch and not killing Dumbledore and none of them are coming in at all handy at the moment. Especially the not killing Dumbledore part. Sometimes he wonders if Dumbledore really is dead, and perhaps it is Draco who has been blasted off the Astronomy Tower into this endless twilit stasis, this cluttered house with its boarded-up windows and dead stale air and rattraps in the corners and twitchy looks from Wormtail -- this is Hell.

***

The door of the kitchen shuts behind him and Draco takes a deep breath, readying himself for another day of drawing stick figures on bits of parchment and trying to not go insane. He takes a few steps into the room and realizes as his eyes adjust to the lesser light that he is not alone in here.

Wormtail is standing at the far end of the room, in front of the icebox, gazing at the Goblin Cakes within.

Draco stands for a moment and just stares at him. Everyone always comes in while Draco is in the kitchen. They are hopeful of interrupting him in the middle of "testing" one of his potions.

Draco knows that there is no chance of this happening. This, however, does not excuse Wormtail's intrusion into his private space. On top of which, it is strictly against Snape's rules to eat between meals.

Draco strides across the room towards Wormtail. Wormtail is leaning into the icebox, grinning cheerfully, as if he hadn't eaten the rest of the Graphorn just hours before. "Ooh, that pumpkin juice is ready to turn," he says. "Best to drink it up now, I think. And perhaps one of those pasties --"

Draco slams the door to the icebox shut. "What the fuck are you doing, Wormtail? You know the rules about meals."

Wormtail narrows his eyes to slits. "Just thinking about a snack," he says.

"Perhaps you should bugger off until lunchtime," says Draco. This, actually, is something he has long wondered about. Why does Wormtail do whatever Snape tells him? Draco knows only a very little -- something about Snape and the Marauders, Wormtail having betrayed the Potters -- but he does not know how, or why.

"Why don't you join me," says Wormtail evenly, "for a little nibble?"

Draco blinks at him. "What?"

Wormtail chuckles, low in his throat, and leans back against the wall. He is wearing, rather defiantly, Muggle clothing: an old undershirt that is yellowing under the arms, a pair of jeans that ride low on his hips to expose the hairy crack of his arse. "It's you I want," he says. "That's what I'm here for. Go on and give me a wank. It's not as if you have anything better."

Wormtail's right, of course. Draco bites his lip, and winces -- biting his lip has become a nervous habit lately, he's practically chewed a ragged hole into the soft tissue, and he's been consciously trying to stop. "Why are you still here, Wormtail?" he demands. "At Spinner's End, I mean."

Wormtail runs a hand through the greasy strands of grey hair that lie limply against his scalp. He shrugs. "Snape hates me," he says. "Everyone knows that."

"Yeah, but why?"

"I ate all the dried Potions ingredients," says Wormtail. "He wanted to Polyjuice me into Oliver Wood." He curls his lip at Draco, jams his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He looks flaccid, heavy and wet like a garden slug -- something Hagrid might use to feed the Blast-Ended Skrewts. Draco can see the sweat beading on his cheeks and gathering between his flabby man-breasts.

"What is it with you and jeans falling off your arse?" says Draco. "Is this some way of spitting at Snape? Sartorial revenge on for making you stay here?"

"I'm touched you've been noticing my trousers," Wormtail says.

"I have no opinion on them," Draco says quickly.

"I didn't ask you if you did." Wormtail leans against the wall next to the window, back against the stones, thrusting his hips forward. His shifty eyes dart about in the room, raking the untouched cauldrons, the undisturbed stacks of parchment. "It's wonderful that you've been getting so much done in here, Malfoy," he said. "Especially with the Dark Lord asking for that lube, and all."

Draco fidgets. "I'm working on stuff."

Wormtail laughs derisively. "You're probably just sitting around drawing stick figures."

Draco feels himself flush.

Wormtail grins. "You are, aren't you? I knew it."

Draco chews his lip, again, winces and tastes blood. Damn it.

"Just admit it, Malfoy," Wormtail says. "You don't know what to do."

"And I suppose you do?"

Wormtail laughs softly. "Nobody's expecting anything from me," he says. "I'm just here to do the housework."

"Well," says Draco, but his voice is a thin thread, "at least you're suffering."

"Not as much as you are," says Wormtail. "But you seem to be making yourself suffer on purpose. Otherwise you'd be letting me stick my weenie into your tight little bottom."

Draco blinks. But he knows perfectly well what Wormtail is talking about. The ennui hanging over Spinner's End has destroyed, to some extent, the inhibitions of its inhabitants. People clinging together in the ashes would be the poetic way to put it -- mostly everyone just seems to be having sad, desperate, needs-to-learn-a-better-Silencing-Charm wanks. In the loo, in the hallways, in the broom closets, in the no-longer-used library. Draco has walked in on his fair share of onanistic events. He has learned little from this except Snape scowls when Draco splatters him with projectile vomit.

"I don't think that's really much of a solution," says Draco, and immediately hates the way he sounds. He sounds like an enormous dork, the kind of person who would spend days drawing stick figure pictures while Wormtail is putting an old pedarast like Slughorn to shame.

Wormtail lifts his shoulders in a shrug. The action separates his shirt from the waistband of his jeans, showing a strip of pasty white belly. A faint shiver runs across the back of Draco's neck. Draco blinks in shock -- it has been so long since he's felt anything, anything at all, that this tiny shudder, this tightening in the pit of his gut, is like one of Snape's wanks erupting all over his face. He gasps, looks up at Wormtail, wide-eyed. "Do that again," he says.

Now it's Wormtail's turn to look confused. "Do what?"

"This," says Draco, and shrugs.

Looking at Draco as if he suspects he might be insane, Wormtail shrugs again.

Draco kisses him.

Wormtail's hesitates for a moment, but only for a moment, and only, it seems, because his stomach is growling. Then he lunges for him, mouth fierce and seeking, and their tongues mash together with a sound reminiscent to Draco of a wet bath sponge slapping against Dumbledore's saggy balls. Draco's hardly ever kissed anyone before but he's fairly sure this isn't exactly the way to do it right. Surely it should all be a bit more neat and orderly than this: Wormtail's mouth open over his own, deep grunts coming from his throat, Draco's mouth full of slimy wet tongue and the taste of Graphorn and rat bait. Wormtail's fingers knotted in his hair, jerking his head forward half-painfully, their lower lips rubbing together, a damp syncopated symphony of lips and teeth and tongue. Warmth gutters up from the pit of Draco's stomach and spreads through his chest and he feels the beginning of a tightening in his veins and a hot, burning ache that makes him dizzy.

He pushes Wormtail away. "Wait."

"Wait?" Wormtail looks incredulous. "For what?"

"We shouldn't do this here," says Draco.

"Gee," said Wormtail. "You think Snape will let us use his room?"

"Fuck you, Pettigrew," says Draco with a dull, strengthless annoyance.

Wormtail leans his head back against the wall and looks at Draco from beneath his heavy lashless eyelids. "If you say it," he says, "then mean it."

"I mean everything I say," says Draco.

"Right," says Wormtail. "So let me ask you. Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Well," says Draco. "Yes, obviously."

Wormtail looks shocked.

Draco expels a sigh. "You were right about what you said. Everyone else is wanking up a storm, and I guess it keeps them sane. And I'm too tired to hate you anymore. What's the point, anyway? It doesn't matter much when soon enough we'll be playing cum-on-a-cracker to break the boredom."

"Cum-on-a-cracker is not that tasty," Wormtail points out helpfully. "Scones would be better. Crackers, not so much."

"I assume you speak from experience," says Draco, slightly breathlessly. Wormtail's hands are back on him now, sliding along the narrow hipbones, inching up the bottom of his t-shirt. His fingers are soft against the taut skin of Draco's stomach and the damp rhythmless scrabbling of Wormtail's fingernails against his ribs is oddly pleasant.

"You're so thin," Wormtail observes.

"Not you," Draco says. "Have you thought about a gastric bypass?"

"Don't try to be funny," says Wormtail. The silver hand is finding out oddly disturbing things about Draco's skin, the pulses under it, the sensitive spaces between his ribs. It pinches Draco's nipples, and Draco shudders. "Being funny was Padfoot's job."

"You know, I never heard the Marauders were all that funny," Draco says absently. "Mostly they were just mean."

In response, Wormtail puts his mouth against Draco's neck. Draco tenses for a moment, not sure what to expect, anticipating some kind of wolfish biting, especially after that talk about his old gang. But Wormtail just slobbers his wet lips against Draco's throat, his hands stroking up and down Draco's torso as if he were steadying a glass of lager. His fingers find the waistband of Draco's trousers and shove forward, heavy and cold.

Draco winces, his smile hidden against Wormtail's hair. He raises his own hands and puts them on Wormtail, his fingers finding the man out through the short distance compressed between them. Wormtail feels the way Draco thought he would feel. He has looked at Wormtail enough times over the past months and perhaps this was always in the back of his head somewhere, this contact that seems to shape the other man's body under his hands. Greasy hair, spotty skin, droopy shoulders, a thick layer of fat over a pudgy torso, and Wormtail makes an incredulous gurgling noise in his throat as Draco finds the buckle on his belt, undoes it, and goes for the zipper on his jeans. No button-flies for Pettigrew. Draco slides his hand inside slowly, there's not a lot of room to work with, his arm is trapped between their two bodies and Wormtail doesn't seem interested in giving him any extra room. He's making funny little noises under his breath as Draco's fingers waltz their way into his underwear. Draco finds Wormtail's cock and wraps his hand around it, waiting, and Wormtail sucks his own lower lip into his mouth, a line of drool sliding down his chin, and he's tensed up and not moving as if he's terrified that if he does move, Draco will stop.

Draco is not interested in stopping. He hasn't felt nearly this alive in ages, the spicy smell of potions ingredients replaced by Wormtail's scent of sweat and unwashed clothing. Wormtail's cock in his hand feels nothing like his own, it's something entirely different, hard like his silver hand under Draco's exploring fingers. Wormtail makes an incoherent sound, a whimper, and Draco moves his hand down and then up, one slow steady stroke. Wormtail buckles forward into him, hands splayed on Draco's shoulders, and Draco kisses him hard, their mouths wet and hot together and underneath Wormtail's bitter taste of tea and Graphorn flesh is an underlying sourness, a stale flatulent taste, and Draco recollects how old Wormtail is, how young Draco is in return, and his hand is still in the other man's pants, about to start stroking up and down the taut length of Wormtail's cock, and then Wormtail goes rigid and gasping against him, fingers digging into Draco's shoulders as he comes all over Draco's hand.

Draco pulls back. "Okay," he says. "I guess you haven't actually been fucking anyone, either."

Wormtail stares at him, his hands still on Draco's shoulder, and then he goes even puffier - Wormtail's version of blushing, Draco supposes, a bloodless rush of edema to the face. "You're just mad because you fucking enjoyed that," he hisses.

"No," says Draco. "I'm mad because you came all over my hand." He raises the hand in question, and wipes it off on Wormtail's shirt. "And I was expecting a little more stamina out of you, Pettigrew," he drawls, "I'm disappointed."

Wormtail pushes him away, hard, and starts yanking his trousers and underwear back up, his fingers shaking on the buckle. "I was going to suck your cock," he says. "But now I guess I won't bother."

"I was going to not let you," says Draco. "Now I guess I don't have bother doing that, either."

"Rot in hell," Wormtail says, with which pronouncement he trudges over to the door, and slams his way out of the library.

Draco wonders if Snape will ask Wormtail about the slime all over his shirt. He hopes Wormtail has enough sense to say that it squirted out when he finished the Graphorn. At least it will give them something to talk about over dinner.


[Well, that's all I have, but I can add more if you like it - I write *really* fast!]