A Muggle bible camp for wayward boys, of all places. Snape was a sadistic fucker.
"More Godly work, less chatter," Father Sanderson called as he slithered through the room, his beady eyes detailing every movement. Recorded hymns played on a Muggle music contraption, the music tinny and hollow. "Remember, gentlemen, your souls are in crisis. You are here because the divine knew you were in need of serious spiritual guidance."
Draco looked over at the new boy. George something-or-other. He was gawking at everyone, his expression clearly saying, "You're having me on." Draco knew that look. He'd worn it for the first six months or so before realizing that Sanderson and his minions were quite serious about their "divine mission" to win the war between good and evil. Draco snorted at the irony that he'd wound up in a deranged Muggle version of Potter's tatty little Order. Draco's shoulders sagged a bit at the thought of home. He was never getting out of this place.
"Idle hands are tools of the devil, gentlemen," Sanderson said, giving a hard thump to new boy's head.
"More like house-elf work," Draco muttered under his breath as he gave the cross he was polishing a particularly vicious swipe with his cloth. If he ever saw Snape again, he'd shove that cross straight up his arsehole. Then let the old bugger smirk and say, "Who knows, Draco. Maybe you'll see the light."
"Careful there, Mr. Black. You want to be a blessed man, don't you? Not a wicked one."
Draco swung around, staring Sanderson down. His lips quirked as Sanderson took a step back. "But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law the blessed man meditates day and night," Draco said.
Sanderson went white as a sheet.
"Psalm One. Isn't that right, Father?"
"Yes, well carry on, then," Sanderson said, backing away, his hands covering his backside.
Draco sneered. Sanderson was a bloody tosser. In response to some minor infraction—honestly, it was only a small fire and that ramshackle shed wasn't serving any legitimate purpose—he'd once made Draco stay up all night reciting psalms until he had them memorized. He'd whipped Draco with a yew branch for every mistake. A well-placed non-verbal Transference Hex had Sanderson yelping as the yew branch struck one too many times. After dancing about like he'd been stung by a Blast-Ended Skrewt, he'd screamed that Draco was of the devil, throwing water at him from a little bottle as he ran from the small cabin.
He'd hated those goddamned psalms then. Surprising how useful they were now.
"Hurry, gentlemen. Mr. Cornish's baptism takes place at half three. I know all of you are looking forward to seeing God's great mercy once again."
There were a few murmurs of assent, the snickers well concealed after months of practice. Draco put down his cross and started folding up his polishing rag.
"Ah, Mr. Black, I was thinking that, given your exemplary week, you'd be rewarded by being allowed to stay behind and soak up extra grace from the divine. As a special bonus, we've got the Shaker Hymn Suite ready for you in the CD player. The Sunshine Sisters are quite a well-known group. I think you'll find that their voices will sing straight to your soul."
Sanderson—having failed to accomplish Draco's conversion in more traditional ways—thought music was the way to soothe his demonic beast. Draco's exaggerated smile caused his lips to curl back from his teeth. He leaned forward. "Thank you, Father. Though I'm disappointed that I'll miss the baptism. You know how much I enjoy them."
Sanderson's eyes went wide. He fingered the cross around his neck, pulling it in front of him like a shield. "Yes, well, I'm sure there will be others."
"Oh, I hope so," Draco said, his smile as malicious as he could make it.
Sanderson hurried away, gathering some of the other lads and lining them up like the good little apostles they were supposed to be.
Sanderson and his minions had given up on trying to baptize Draco. The water wouldn't touch him, no matter what the elders tried. Water Repelling Charms were brilliant.
The elders took a different approach after that, making Draco attend all of the baptisms in hopes that he would see how profoundly changed the boys were after being dunked in a pool of dodgy looking water. For some inane reason, they figured that he'd want that for himself. A non-verbal spell here, a flick of the wrist there, and suddenly going to baptisms wasn't nearly so boring.
Shame about that Ollie chap, though. At the time, it had been quite hysterical watching him panic when his body refused to go below the waterline. Especially when the elders had whipped out their little bottles of water and thrown the contents at the poor lad, only to have the water thrown back in their faces. Draco heard he'd gone mental. Another lamb lost.
For some reason unknown to Draco after the Ollie tragedy, he'd been quietly banned from attending baptisms.
"Now, Mr. Black, it goes without saying that you are to be on your best behavior while alone in God's most holy space," Sanderson-the-tosser said.
Draco rolled his eyes as he glanced around. The "chapel" was little more than a rustic cabin filed with religious relics and dusty pews. An overturned box and music stand stood at the back of the room, serving as the pulpit. While Draco had never been to a Muggle church, he rather guessed that the chapel was a poor imitation. He imagined that it was like being stuck in the Weasley's hovel as opposed to Malfoy Manor. He felt a twang of longing. How he missed his fae spun-cotton sheets.
Sanderson seized Draco's wrist and brought it to his face, forcing him to stare at his Transfigured wand, now a curious little woven bracelet emblazoned with the letters "WWJD." At the time, Severus had said that the bracelet was his means of redemption. Though he'd been sneering when he'd said it.
"Think about that," Sanderson said as he shook Draco's wrist and pointed to the bracelet. "Think about what He would do and allow the divine to enter you."
Sanderson dropped Draco's wrist and turned to gather more of the boys.
Charles Waychurch passed Draco as he made his way to the back of the line. Charles was a very special wayward boy in need of the deepest spiritual healing. Draco was only too happy to provide it to him. Nightly. Charles turned his head and winked, licking his lips in invitation for later.
"Oh yes, Father Sanderson," Draco said under his breath, watching the beautiful Waychurch saunter to his place. "I plan on allowing the divine to enter me as much as humanly possible, because I have seen God and he is the fucking Way."
There was something to be said for Muggles—at least Muggles like Charles Waychurch. The things he could do with his tongue and his cock were born of pure magic. Draco had asked him once if he'd seen owls flying about his house when he'd turned eleven. Charles looked at him funny, shook his head, and got back to giving the best fucking blowjob Draco had ever experienced.
Of course up until then, it had been the only blowjob Draco had experienced, but that was beside the point. The important thing was that Draco had gained an appreciation for all things Muggle. Especially if the Muggle in question was tall, had brilliant colored eyes, and I've-just-had-the-best-shag-of-my-life black hair. He seemed familiar in a way.
The boys filed out and headed towards the baptismal wading pool—a Muggle plastic thing with little pink fish printed on the sides.
Draco was alone with the Sunshine Sisters blithely twanging their way through Carry me to Cannan.
Draco sat down and slipped his hand in his trousers, muttering under his breath, "Keep singing all you like so long as you carry me to bliss."
He sighed as his cock—warm and heavy in his hand—surged to life. Moving his hand up and down, he fantasized about the things he and Charles would do later on. Draco didn't understand it exactly, but he could never quell the urge to masturbate while in the chapel. He didn't examine his desire to wank while the Sunshine Sisters sang from the depths of their souls about Jesus' love. Instead, he relaxed and imagined Charles taking off his clothes, leaving only his glasses and socks.
He'd just gotten to the part where Charles decided that Draco should fuck him instead when there was a crash in the anteroom of the cabin. "Fucking hell," Draco growled as he scrambled to do up his trousers and pretend he'd been sitting in pious contemplation.
"Bloody hell. D'you see that? That bloody door tried to bloody kill me. Why are we here again?" a whiny voice whispered.
"Shut it. You've been talking nonstop since we left the Order."
Draco frowned. He didn't recognize either voice. Definitely outsiders. He wondered if the two men were from one of those kooky Orders that liked to visit the camp from time to time, trying to coax the boys into Jesus trances and feed them odd tasting biscuits and juice. He'd had his share of that, thanks. Draco shuddered and ducked behind a high backed chair near the altar.
"But we don't even know who we're looking for."
"I know we don't know who we're looking for, but someone's been casting Water Repelling Charms, Transference Hexes, and special Glamour Charms. It could be Voldemort creating another Horcrux and hiding it amongst the Muggles."
Draco's eyes went wide. They were wizards—Light wizards from the sound of things. Draco looked around the room, trying to find a better place to hide when he was assaulted by the most incredible scent he'd ever experienced. He sniffed like a crup in heat and crawled out from behind the altar.
"Tell me again why we had to come alone, then?" the whiny voice said.
"I'm tired of people dying. All because of me."
Draco stiffened mid-sniff. He'd know that self-sacrificing, self-loathing, noble, needs-a-bloody-good-shag voice anywhere. Potter! Making the other voice Weasley's.
Oh, how Draco had dreamed of seeing Potter again. Throwing him against the wall. Leaning in, menacing. Holding the Golden Boy's hands above his head at the wrist and watching his adam's apple bob up and down. Potter would lick his lips and stare at Draco with eyes that said, "You've caught me. Finally." Draco had been waiting for this for a very long time. He stood and smoothed the creases from the front of his Muggle trousers.
"Oi! And who am I?" the Weasel asked as they entered the chapel proper, wands drawn.
"That would make you the expendable sidekick," Draco drawled as he sauntered down the center aisle, making as if he were lord of the manor receiving guests. The delectable smell became overwhelming, almost making Draco stumble. "Don't worry, Weasley. I'm sure your death will be noble but otherwise completely forgettable.
Weasley's mouth dropped open, making him look even more stupid that before. Potter's eyes blazed with fury, his cheeks coloring a dusky rose. Draco felt his nose twitch.
"Malfoy," Potter bit out, spittle flying from his mouth. "I should have known we'd come across you sooner or later. Hiding out, I see."
"Hardly. I was dumped here by Snape."
"Snape," Potter bit out with the same venomous spittle.
"Careful, Potter. You'll burst something if you keep doing that." Draco's eyes caught Weasley's odd stare. "What are you looking at?" he snapped.
"You're dressed like a Muggle."
"Just figured that out, have you?"
Weasley turned to Potter. "He's dressed like a Muggle. Maybe Snape was right."
"What are you two idiots talking about?"
"Your precious Snape's been sending little clues and notes. He's… he's helped us. Some. Very little. Alright, a lot," Potter said, grinding out each word.
"What's that got to do with me?"
Weasley shot an odd glance at Potter. He cleared his throat. "He said that you, er, had gone through some sort of Muggle conversion."
"I bloody well have not!"
"Well what's with the get-up and who's that Jesus chap?" Weasley asked, pointing to Draco's denims and his "Jesus Loves Me" tee shirt.
"This is my uniform, you dolt!"
"So this Jesus fellow, he loves you, does he? Is this some kind of shirtlifter camp, or something?" Weasley asked with a laugh.
Draco opened his mouth to say something appropriately scathing, but Potter beat him to it. All around them, crosses tipped over and the velvet Jesus paintings and string-art holy family abstracts rattled in their frames. The intoxicating fragrance in the air increased ten-fold. A lusty haze crept in at the corners of Draco's brain.
With startling clarity amongst the foggy haze, Draco realized the tantalizing smell was coming from Potter. And that he had brilliant colored eyes. And I've-just-had-the-best-shag-of-my-life hair, only glossier. Thicker. Softer.
So entranced was Draco, he almost missed what Potter said next.
"I told you, Ron, I will not tolerate such blatantly homophobic remarks. You're labeling again, and we know what labels can do, now don't we? Especially that one."
"But, Harry," Weasley whined. "I'm not labeling you. It's okay for you to… you know, but this is the ferret we're talking about."
Draco gasped, the enchanting spell of Potter's glossy, thick, soft hair; devastatingly delicious smell; and sexy magic broken momentarily. Potter was a shirtlifter, too. Draco's mouth went dry, imagining Potter biting his lip, staring at Draco with his wide, innocent, virgin eyes as Draco told him to undress and assume the position.
Draco stepped closer to Potter as he took a large sniff. He heard Potter gasp just as pinpricks of lust and magic danced across his skin. He'd bet his Transfigured wand that Potter had felt the pinpricks, too. It was like their magic—their very souls—were calling to each other.
"Er, Malfoy? You okay?" Potter asked, his wide, innocent, virgin eyes blinking with curiosity as his body leaned forward from the waist and his head canted to the side, bearing his neck.
Draco stumbled forward, wanting nothing more than to sink his teeth into that gorgeous, pale column of flesh.
"Malfoy," Potter called, his voice breathy.
Draco shook his head, pushing back the haze just a bit. "I'm fine, you speccy git. Now get me the hell out of this place." And take me to your bedroom so that I can do unspeakably filthy things to you while I sniff you all over and mark you.
Potter moved forward, a bright flush to his cheek. He was fishing something out of his pocket.
"What a second, Malfoy. How do we know this isn't just some sort of Death Eater training camp in disguise?" Weasley asked.
Potter seemed reluctant to agree, biting his lip with a slow nod. "We just need to be sure, Dra—er, Malfoy."
"It's not a stupid Death Eater camp. It's a Muggle bible camp for wayward boys," Draco said with a sneer.
"Bible? What's that? And who is this Jesus person. You never answered my question from before. Just what are you hiding, eh? You sure he's not a bloody shirtlifter?"
"Ron," Potter hissed, jabbing his elbow into Weasley's ribs.
"He's a Muggle prophet of sorts," Draco began. "Though he was really a wizard."
"I've never heard of Jesus," Weasley scoffed. "Can't be a wizard."
"He is, Weasley. How else do you explain his ability to Transfigure water into wine, or cast non-verbal, wandless Water Repelling Charms and a simultaneous Levitation Charm so that he could walk on water? What about the fact that he cast a Duplication Charm on a single loaf of bread and a dead fish, thus feeding thousands? His best bit of spell work, of course, was his brief but spectacular foray into Dark Magic when he used Necromancy to raise the dead."
"Blimey. He did all that? Where is he, then? I want to meet this Jesus chap."
"Can't. He's dead."
"Well how do you know he did all of that stuff?"
"The bible. His own personal Hogwarts: A History. The Muggles revere him. Well, at least some of them. They try and follow in his footsteps and live their lives the way he says they should by doing his bidding and rejecting others who don't believe as he did."
Weasley rubbed the back of his neck. "Sounds a bit controlling, if you ask me."
"You've no idea. He's not so welcoming to people who aren't like him, at least if you listen to the Muggles around this place."
Weasley's eyes turned cold. "He sounds an awful lot like Voldemort. Delusions of grandeur. Followers. Dark magic. Shunning others because of the way they are."
Weasley's gaze darted to Potter, but Potter didn't see him. Potter was staring at Draco. Licking his lips and blinking his wide, innocent, virgin eyes.
"Harry!" Ron shouted, shaking Potter's arm. "Didn't you hear? This Jesus fellow is a front for Voldemort."
Potter pulled his arm away. "Stop it, Ron," he said, never taking his eyes from Draco. "Jesus isn't Voldemort. He's the head of Muggle religion called Christianity. He's the son of God and people all over the world worship him, carry little figures of him around, and instigate wars in his name. Draco's been trapped here. Just like Snape said."
Potter took a step closer to Draco. Draco could feel his magic reaching out to Potter's. "You have been trapped here, haven't you Draco?"
Draco could only nod. In the background, the Sunshine Sisters began singing Amazing Grace.
Potter stepped closer and the rest of the world fell away. All Draco could see was Potter's ruby red lips and his wide, innocent, virgin eyes. All he could smell was vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and underlying notes of bergamot, Chinese lotus flower, and grass. All he could hear was the twin beats of their hearts and the Sunshine Sisters singing straight to his soul.
"I once was lost, but now I'm found," Draco whispered along with the Sunshine Sisters, his magic dancing with glee as Potter got closer and closer.
Potter's steps faltered. His impossibly wide eyes grew impossibly wider. "What did you just say?"
"The song. It's a line from the song. I was lost, but now I'm found. I… was. And now you're here." Draco took an exceedingly large sniff, lust zooming through him as Potter shuddered and flushed.
"He said… he said," Potter whispered.
Potter shook his head and licked his lips. "Nothing. Snape, though, he said… he said there was something special about you." Potter reached out. His fingers grazed Draco's cheek.
Draco's eyes fluttered shut and he inhaled sharply. "He said that?"
"Yeah. Said I needed to find you. Needed to stay open to possibilities. And that I needed to bathe with some sort of special soap that smells like vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and underlying notes of bergamot, Chinese lotus flower, and grass."
"I knew I smelled that somewhere," Draco murmured, realizing that somehow his arms had got around Potter's middle and that he'd insinuated his thigh between Potter's legs.
"I forgot, though."
"To bathe with the special soap."
"Oh. But I can still smell it—the vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and underlying notes of bergamot, Chinese lotus flower, and grass."
"Oh," Draco said with serious nod.
Potter's eyes went impossibly wider once again. "Oh!"
"That's right, Potter. You know what that 'oh' means," Draco whispered against Potter's silky flesh.
He heard Potter swallow and imagined his adam's apple bobbing up and down with a languid rhythm all its own.
He opened his eyes. Potter's gaze was half-lidded and sultry. His overlarge tee shirt had slipped from his shoulder, revealing a striking emerald green silk strap. "Potter, is that…"
Potter blushed even more. "Yeah. You like it?"
"Thought you might."
"What's say we get out of this place? Go back to the Order? I've got secrets to spill."
"I want you to spill them. All over me. In me. Everywhere, Draco," Potter said, his name slipping from Potter's pouty lips like a prayer.
Draco squeezed Potter's bum and pulled him closer. "I imagine there's even more you might be able to coax out of me. With the right kinds of torture and denial, of course."
"Yes. Right now. There's a room. Full of pillows. I'll Apparate us."
"What about Weasley?"
"He'll find his way," Potter said as he leaned in and brushed his lips against Draco's before Disapparating them just beyond the Hogwarts' wards.
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