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Worlds End In Whimpers	By : ChanceyDevine Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3321 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don`t own the Harry Potter fandom, JKR's original plot/story, characters, or anything else you recognize. I make no money from this, and never will, so sueing me would be fruitless.

Chapter List
- 1-Worlds End In Whimpers
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
Title: Worlds End In Whimpers [1/?]

Pair: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

Rating: R

Feedback: 'Tis food for the soul ~

A/N: Alrighty, so this marks my first ever foray into the world of fanfiction, and my first time writing in, well, a bit over a month. Hopefully it's up to snuff. I am, of course, rather nervous, so constructive criticism and similar things would be greatly appreciated. And, why yes - Harry's moods are swinging, let's just leave that up to the author to explain, yeah? ;]

A/N x2: Oh right, and as of now I don't have a beta. I'm not sure how those things work exactly, but I would probably benefit from having one methinks. So, ah, if anyone's interested, drop me a line? And be patient; I'm a fast learner, but this is uncharted territory more or less.

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Harry fairly staggered through the door, relying heavily on various surfaces and edges to keep him upright. Shadows danced like ghosts across the sparsely furnished entranceway, lights from the outside casting the otherwise dark hall into sepia tones and monochrome. Harry's breathing was heavy, the sound echoing maddeningly against bare walls. There was nothing here. This was no home. He felt no need for cheap mass-produced paintings, or potted plants, or - or photographs. Especially photographs.

Vaguely, Harry registered that the longer he stood there, in the doorway, delaying the inevitable, the harder it would be to remove the blood that was at that very moment seeping into and staining his hardwood floor. Casting a quick scourgify over his shoulder and onto the street, Harry effectively eliminated the crimson trail of his guilt - the only proof that he had been there that night, stumbling through the London slums. He was nothing if not thorough.

The thought set a small, twisted smile to curl his lips. That's one word for it.

Nodding, he took a moment to ensure that his legs could support him - his opponent had gotten in a good few hits before meeting his end, and Harry had no interest in staining the wall as well - before pushing off and walking, almost steadily, forward towards the doorway that led to the kitchen. One good thing about having no life, Harry thought, was the lack of clutter. Navigating his home was easy with any number of debilitating injuries, seeing as there were no obstacles, breathing or otherwise, to impede him, to question him. It was a bleak thought, but one that Harry clung to less and less these days; he found he no longer felt the need to explain himself, leastwise to himself.

The kitchen was just as bare as the entranceway, and Harry was able to make his way to the sink fairly easily, even without light. The slightly heeled soles of his black boots clicked noisily against the polished tiles, the sound satisfying something baser and primal inside of Harry. As he walked, he trailed his hand along the surface of the gray granite countertop, leaving a trail of bloody fingerprints and palm-smears, and not caring.

The sink was a large, basin-like affair, made of the finest steel - stain resistant. Harry turned the faucet, waiting until steam was billowing from the near-boiling water, before shoving his hands under. It burned, so hot it was cold, and the water soaked into the sleeves of Harry's jacket. So he shrugged it off, leaving it sprawled on the floor, then returning his hands to the spray. He washed himself thoroughly, shivering when the water began to cool against his feverish skin. He felt alive, like electricity was crawling through his skin, crackling and filling him with unequivocal power. It always felt this way afterward; he felt charged, wired, and he knew that sleep would not come easily in such a state. He needed to get out, to do something - he needed to take the edge off.

That same, twisted little smile warped his face - it was more of a sneer really, lips pulled back, revealing two rows of even, off-white teeth - and Harry knew exactly what sort of extra-curricular activity he would be partaking in that particular night.

It took a total of thirty-seven minutes for Harry to make all of the necessary preparations. He took a quick shower - more for his benefit than anything else, if he was going to have to be awake and in his own skin, he'd prefer not smelling like death and judgment -, picked out a new, slightly lighter coloured and less conspicuous jacket, and retrieved a small vial of Polyjoice Potion from his store. The vial was tucked safely into his left hand pocket, his wand in the right (he didn't dare to go anywhere without it, these days), and was halfway through the entranceway when he paused, his heart jolting in his chest. He felt dizzy, and had only a moment to ponder why before it struck him - how could he have been so foolish?

Harry returned to the kitchen and bent down over his discarded trenchcoat, riffling through its many pockets. He found what he was searching for within seconds - he never placed the thing in a place that he would be inclined to forget - and huffed a sigh of relief. The hand that wasn't holding his treasure carded through his damp hair, and he felt the object pulse. As if in response, his right side grew hot - Hostile, Harry thought - and the item in his hand pulsed thrice more, before falling still, and Harry tucked it into his left pocket, being careful not to jostle the Polyjuice - it certainly wouldn't do to waste.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Do you do Polyjuice?" Harry asked. It had taken minimal time for him to apparate to Rochdale, and even less to locate a suitable establishment to fill his specific needs. The place had looked innocuous enough from the outside: a plain, slate coloured building, at home nestled amongst the other abandoned and similarly unused apartments and factories in what used to be a bustling suburb. The inside was little more striking, and could have easily been mistaken for some form of hotel waiting room, were it not for the number of posters plastering the walls, featuring young men and women of various races and creeds stroking and caressing their nude bodies, proudly proclaiming the services they offered.

The woman behind the counter nodded curtly, snapping her gum obnoxiously. She stared up at Harry with artificially blown pupils - he supposed it was supposed to make her appear more attractive, when it only served to remind him of an Inferi, or a number of otherwise soulless beings.

"Good," Harry said, placing the previously agreed upon payment on the countertop, and slid it over to the hostess. She smiled and collected the money, taking a moment to do a quick count - through time-honed willpower Harry managed not to roll his eyes, his last impulse would be to try to stiff a brothel a few pounds. He certainly had the money to spare -, then pointed him down a narrow hallway that Harry was sure hadn't been there earlier.

"Right down there love, only door on the left," she said, her voice was a horrible mockney. Harry hoped she wasn't a working girl - he couldn't imagine getting aroused by that screech. Nonetheless, he thanked her quietly and strode confidently down the hall. If she had any idea that this Harry - the tall, imposing, dark man with a wild glint in his eye - was Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, she was a damned good actress, and never let on in the slightest. Likewise she didn't bat an eyelash when he. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, demanded a male consort. This wasn't the first time he'd partaken in this particular activity, after all, and certainly not the first time he had used a male. He figured that word spread fast - 'Harry Potter, Dumbledore's Favourite, visited a whorehouse? For a man?!' - and had become old hack. Money was money. Harry's pounds were just as good as any others.

Reaching the single door, Harry waited for a moment. It would take a while for the potion to set in, and he had no desire to enter in mid transformation, lest the illusion be ruined. However, his patience was not what it used to be - not that it had been much then - and he quickly lost it, rapping on the door with one large hand. The answering voice was soft and smooth, aristocratic. Harry was hard instantly.

"Come in," it called. And Harry did, now moving very slowly. It seemed to him that any sudden movement, any unaccounted noise would shatter the scene before him, so he closed the door tenderly, and breathed in deeply. It was impossible to tell what colour scheme the room truly was, as it stood the walls, carpet, furniture, was bathed in blue and silver, the only light being that of the full moon, hanging like a silver dollar in the inky sky. White curtains - at least, Harry assumed they were white - billowed dreamily in some phantom breeze, bringing with them a fresh, invigorating scent. It must've been charmed, Harry thought, because nothing in Rochdale smelled that clean.

Finally, after drinking in the rest of the room - which was impressive, Harry had to admit, albeit grudgingly - he finally allowed his eyes to wander to the main attraction - a large, Victorian style bed, and the figure situated upon it. Harry's companion had remained motionless during his visual exploration, and did not move still. In fact, that, coupled with the man's divine beauty, could have almost fooled Harry into believing him a statue, were the gentle rise and fall of his chest not such a giveaway.

With that same gentle slowness, Harry approached the bed, reached out a hand and traced a fine cheekbone. The pale skin felt so soft under his calloused and labour-roughened hands. That night's potion must have been brewed from a particularly fine hair, Harry thought, watching the light and shadow play across angular features and turn gold to silver.

Some might have found it out of character for Harry Potter to fantasize about his childhood rival-come-nemesis, but, when Harry looked down and was met with a pair of liquid silver eyes, he found that he didn't quite care. At first Ginny had been the source of his fantasies and subsequent Polyjuice potions, but it had felt ... off, dirty, to be defiling her in that way. It had made him nauseous, and he found he could no longer continue, but he was just as incapable of stopping - he had to find a new donour, but who? The answer was obvious, given some thought: who was vile, evil and emotionally repugnant - Harry's perfect match? Whom did Harry not only not mind defiling, but crave to? And, if Harry were being honest with himself, who was gorgeous and well and truly fuckable?

Draco Malfoy.

Acquiring his hair had been an easy enough task. After the war, Lucius and Narcissa were out of the picture, and the Malfoy Mansion was being treated as evidence, uninhabitable. The younger Malfoy had taken off to God knows where and Harry, holding quite a bit of sway at that point, had only to hint at needing something from the mansion before he was granted complete, unrestricted access. He had taken a hairbrush from Draco's room, and begun the brewing that very night. Of course, there was always the risk that he'd enter the room to find Lucius or Narcissa instead, given the fact that the Malfoys were notorious for sharing within the family. But it had yet to happen, and the need was so great and all-consuming that the risk seemed well worth it.

"Harry?" the non-Draco asked, breaking Harry from his reverie. He almost told the whore to shut his mouth, but stopped himself. Instead, he took a seat on the bed next to non-Draco, the plush bedding dipped under his weight, causing non-Draco to slide slightly toward him. When the blond was within reach, Harry wrapped an arm around his narrow shoulders, and non-Draco slid, snake-like onto Harry's lap. Non-Draco's long, slender legs were curled under his body, his arms wrapped around Harry's solid neck, as they sat, forehead to forehead.

There was something off in those silver eyes, something strange that Harry didn't feel like dissecting, so he flipped them around, non-Draco sinking into the bedding as Harry loomed over him, braced on his elbows and knees.

Then they kissed. It wasn't mind-blowing. It wasn't the best kiss Harry had ever had, and birds didn't begin to sing, nor did he feel his heart pick up and do a jig - but there was something. Not a spark, or a flame - but something. Non-Draco, it seemed, was not one to lay back and take it, and for that Harry was glad - he hated that, hated how it served as a reminder that this wasn't Draco. The whore's mouth tasted like saliva and tobacco, mirroring Harry's, and Harry growled, snagging a plump, lower lip between his teeth and tangling his hands in gold-silver hair. Non-Draco writhed under his larger body, arching and pulling and needing. Harry could feel his cock, hard against his stomach, every time non-Draco moved it dragged a wet trail across his abdomen.

Grinding down heavily, Harry earned his first sound - a moan, low and guttural, the kind that comes involuntarily from deep in one's throat - and he needed more. So he repeated the action, and sure enough he was rewarded with another moan, this time Harry swooped low and swallowed it, muffling the subsequent sounds of pleasure as he continued circling his hips, forcing non-Draco's bared erection to scrape roughly against Harry's still clothed groin - not that the whore was complaining.

Their tongues twisted and snaked around each other, a feigned battle for dominance. Harry knew that, when the chips were down, he would come out on top, but he was enjoying the challenge. Teeth clacked and hands wandered and Harry had almost forgotten to remove his glasses, but after some thought decided to keep them on. He didn't want to miss this. Non-Draco made the most exquisite expressions when in the throes of pleasure, in the depths of pain, and Harry pulled back a smidge, pleased when non-Draco gave a high whine and tried to follow his mouth, but dissolved into a full-out keen when Harry's rough hands found his nipples. The touch was harsh, inconsiderate, but non-Draco didn't seem to mind, he arched against Harry's fingers, gasping.

Casting a glance at the bedside clock, Harry decided it was time to get down to business - he had only an hour, after all.

In a single fluid movement he sat back onto his haunches then pulled first his jacket, then his t-shirt off. Non-Draco rose part-way with him, resting himself on his forearms, reaching forward to straighten out Harry's spectacles when they had gone askew. Vision clearing once again, Harry's gaze was met with one of stormy gray - still oddly discerning, as though gears were turning. It was making Harry uncomfortable, so he once again pressed non-Draco into the comforter, nestling his face in the creamy pale skin as he wiggled out of his boots first, then trousers. He wasn't wearing any boxers.

From this vantage point, he was surrounded by the smell of non-Draco, and oh Merlin the potion had even gotten that right. Even after all these years he smelled the same: like sun and vanilla soap.

Harry was already painfully hard and positioned conveniently between non-Draco's legs, so, like any hot-blooded man, wizard, or beast would, Harry entered the pliant body below him in one long thrust - however, unlike any hot-blooded man or beast, Harry muttered a quick lubrication spell before breaching, not so much for the whore's comfort than his own. Non-Draco moaned loudly for every inch that was embedded in him, until Harry was balls' deep, grunting out his own pleasure.

The whore was given little time to brace himself before Harry was pounding hard and fast into his spasming body, using the sheets and non-Draco's hair alternatively for leverage. For his part, non-Draco gave as good as he got, pushing back to meet each brutal thrust, placing breathy, open-mouthed kisses along Harry's neck and jawline as they moved in perfect synchronicity.

This Draco, Harry somehow found the presence of mind to think, looked especially beautiful when Harry nailed his prostate, and so Harry made it his business to do so on every inward thrust. Non-Draco's fingers were scrabbling about on his back and hips, desperate for purchase, as his legs kicked wildly, pelvis nailed to the mattress by Harry's powerful body, toes curling. With one hand, Harry swept up both of the whore's wrists, and held them up against the pillow, rendering him nearly immobile - helpless against Harry's onslaught.

Their eyes locked, and this - this was where things always went wrong.

This was the part where Harry released non-Draco's wrists, instead using that hand to wrap around non-Draco's cock, pumping in time with Harry's slowing thrusts. This was the part where Harry's free hand smoothed up the whore's flank, feeling his rapid breathing expand and contract that narrow ribcage, and trace ever-so-gently across non-Draco's sharp jawline, nuzzling into his neck and planting hot kisses against the juncture of neck and shoulder.

This was the part where Harry came, shuddering, deep within the whore's body, giving a few quick pulls to make sure non-Draco was brought off as well.

This was the part where no words were spoken, and Harry carefully removed himself from the well-used entrance, watching with some satisfaction as his own still-warm spend dripped from non-Draco's hole, pooling on the comforter. He got dressed without sparing the whore another glance, and left. He didn't look at the clock either, he didn't want to see how close he had come to breaking the illusion.

This time, however, words were spoken. One word: quiet and tentative from the direction of the bed: "Harry?" and Harry turned back to take one last look, his body half out of the door. The whore was sitting on his haunches, watching Harry with that same indescribable expression on his face. Harry turned away then, shutting the door behind him and exiting the establishment. The woman at the front's shift had ended, and in her place was a younger woman - a girl, really - and Harry felt a stirring of discomfort in his gut.

It wasn't until halfway up the stairs, safe in his own house - because it was certainly no home - that Harry realized the source of his unease. The whore, the non-Draco - he had known his name.

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A/N x3: Whew, and there was my first ever attempt at erotica too. Eheh, not all that hot, but it got the job done ... I'm gonna stop talking now.
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Worlds End In Whimpers