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Where Your Treasure Lies	By : Queenie_Mab Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3167 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from Harry Potter, created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Raincoast. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
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Gateway

Present Day (Late January 2015)

Harry opened his eyes, blinking blindly at the brightness that greeted him. He let his eyes fall closed again, wanting to hold onto the comfort of sleep for a moment longer. He was warm and sated, and felt better rested than he had in ages. He reached out his hand to find Draco, but came up short when he realised that the surface he was lying on was not his and Draco's bed at all.

He sat bolt upright a moment later and looked around, confused. The ground was made up of a substance Harry could not describe as being anything but half-formed, like clay that had been shaped but not detailed or cured. A bluish mist lingered all around him, very much like like the mist of memories in a Pensieve.

The longer he looked at the mist surrounding him, the more it appeared to solidify into the shapes of a place that was extremely familiar. Just as he climbed to his feet, a voice called his name.

"Harry!"

Harry looked up to find the unmistakable figure of Albus Dumbledore, dressed in midnight-blue robes adorned with silver stars, walking towards him wearing a sad smile.

"Sir?" Harry asked, his forehead wrinkling. "Where are we? What are you doing here?" Dumbledore fixed his blue eyes on Harry's. They twinkled, not with mischief as they had in the past, but with tears, and Harry realised where they must be. "Is this … Have I died?"

Dumbledore stepped closer and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "The girl survived, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly, though his voice sounded different than Harry remembered. "You saved her from the fire and died a hero as you were always meant to."

"But I didn’t mean to," Harry whispered, horrified. "Draco, he needs me … I promised …"

Let's do it again

Early Jan 2015

Harry held onto Draco’s hips, slick with sweat, while Draco rocked back and forth on Harry’s cock, setting a pace that was agonisingly slow, but reduced Harry nearly to tears as his anticipation mounted. Their eyes were locked on each other, Draco's blown wide and Harry lost inside them. Draco’s jaw was relaxed, and his breath came out in short huffs.

Harry had never experienced anything more arousing in his life than the sight of Draco taking control of their lovemaking. Draco didn’t do it often, but when the urge hit him, Harry had no issues whatsoever lying back and reaping the benefits.

Draco’s cheeks grew pink as he continued rocking, his pace quickening. Draco’s hands covered Harry’s where he gripped Draco’s hips. This was Harry’s favourite part, watching Draco bring himself over the edge without allowing a hand to touch his cock.

Harry felt Draco’s nails digging into the backs of his hands, Harry’s balls drawing tight while Draco’s body coaxed his orgasm from him, gripping and clenching, building him up and backing off, until Harry was so tightly wound he would come when commanded.

"Fuck," Harry panted. "I have to come …" But the look of ferocity Draco sent his way made Harry bite his bottom lip and hold his breath.

And then the sweet word came at last as Harry watched Draco fall apart, still locked at the eyes with Harry, a long drawn out exhalation: "Yesssss!"

Harry’s body responded immediately, his pleasure crashing over him along with the slick splash of Draco’s release on his chest. Draco bore down, his channel rippling tightly around Harry's cock as it pulled every last drop Harry had to give. Harry’s orgasm broke his voice as he was flooded with warmth, every last nerve ending waking up a new spark of pleasure across the surface of his skin, leaving him tingling with the aftershocks.

Draco leaned forwards, still connected, pressing himself against Harry’s chest, face nuzzling the crook of Harry’s neck. It was brilliant.

Harry's arms wrapped around Draco’s back, holding on for dear life while their racing heartbeats matched and slowed.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling sated. He inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of Draco’s herbal shampoo mixed with soap and perspiration. It was earthy and raw and absolutely perfect.

Harry pulled out, chuckling as Draco groaned his annoyance into Harry’s shoulder.

"I'm too knackered to move," Draco’s voice said, muffled. "It’s your turn to do the Cleaning Charm."

Harry smiled, his hands stroking Draco’s spine, moving warmly across the trembling back that was damp from exertion. Harry hummed contentedly, then tucked his chin and nudged at Draco’s face with his nose. "Kiss me," he said when Draco managed to turn his head upwards, utterly spent.

Their lips met, brushing lightly. Harry smiled into Draco’s mouth and tightened his grip around Draco’s waist.

As they drifted off to sleep, curled together in a warm tangle of limbs, Draco murmured against Harry's shoulder. "Want to stay like this forever."

Harry pulled Draco's arms around himself more securely. "We will. I promise."

~*~

Harry awoke to the smells of breakfast wafting through the open bedroom door. His stomach growled noisily.

He found Draco in the kitchen and stood behind him, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder while Draco chopped an onion, his hands settled on Draco’s waist. "It smells brilliant in here! What are we having?"

"Omelettes," Draco answered, bumping Harry in the stomach with his elbow. "Hands off, I’m holding a knife."

Harry grinned, taking a seat at the kitchen table. The two empty chairs to his right and left stood out at him, glaring reminders of their children’s absence.

He cleared his throat and picked up a new illustration Draco had left on the table. He must have drawn it that morning. It was a drawing of a beautiful country house and garden. Two little boys holding butterfly nets darted in and out from behind painted topiaries, trying to catch pixies.

When Draco brought breakfast to the table, Harry looked up again. Draco looked thoughtful.

"I love the illustration," Harry stopped, noticing Draco was not looking at the picture, but at Harry. "What’s on your mind?"

"I want to do it again," Draco said. He cut the omelette in two and put half on Harry’s plate. "I’ve been thinking about it for months now. The boys have been gone for four years."

Harry reached across the table, stalling Draco’s hand when he reached for his knife. "What do you want to do again? Write?" He waited for Draco to meet his eyes, feeling his heart swelling inside him. It had been far too long since Draco had been excited about anything.

Draco met his gaze with steady eyes. "You know, until we became fathers I thought I knew who I was and who I was meant to be. But then they came, and I realised everything I had thought about myself was nothing compared to who I was for them. Fathers, Harry. That is what we are. It’s who we are. Without the kids …" Draco’s eyes widened slightly, like he was trying not to lose control of his emotions. He squeezed Harry’s hand. "Are we still fathers when our children are dead?"

Harry sighed. He’d felt the same way at times, but hadn’t ever wanted to say it aloud for fear of bringing more misery to their carefully rebuilt life together.

"You want to have another baby?" Harry asked finally. Having said it out loud, it felt like a barrier had been lifted, like they could finally breathe clean air again.

"I would," Draco said. He pulled his hand out from under Harry’s. "Actually I’d like two — if we can find a woman willing to carry twins for us — one fathered by me and one by you."

Harry thought his heart would explode right out of his chest. He stood up, uncaring of the confused look Draco was giving him. He hauled Draco out of his chair and pushed him back against the dining room wall.

"Potter, breakfast is going to get cold," Draco said, but the smirk on his face told Harry he didn't really mind.

"Shut up. I need this right now." Harry stifled any protests Draco might have had by closing his mouth over Draco’s and pushing his knee between Draco’s thighs.

Denial

Present Day

"But I promised," Harry went on. "I can't do this, Dumbledore. Tell me how I can get back to him. I'm not ready, I can't …"

"Harry," Dumbledore said sadly. "Look." He pointed to a fountain in the centre of the station that hadn't been there previously, or if it had, it was only now visible to Harry.

Harry approached with tentative steps. "What is this?"

"Look into the basin. It is similar to how a Pensieve functions, but instead of showing you a memory, it shows you what is happening now on Earth."

Harry looked down, fearful of what he was about to see. There were his friends and family. They were gathered together in their finest robes, very much like they had been when Harry and Draco were married, but in this scene, the faces were bleak. There were tears of sorrow and grief where there had been joy before and following the path of the aisle towards the front of the chapel, the same place where he had stood with Draco to exchange their rings, stood a coffin.

It was closed.

Draco sat alone in the row at the front of the assembly. His shoulders were stooped forwards, his head bowed; he was dressed all in black, and Harry could tell from the limpness of Draco’s hair that it had not been washed in days.

"I have to go in," Harry said, unable to tear his eyes away from the terrible vision below him. Draco needed him.

"You can," Dumbledore said, "but there is no way you can make any changes to what is happening. You and the world below are made of different substances. While you may witness what occurs, you cannot touch it, very much like a memory in a Pensieve. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, focusing on the vision below him. He leaned over the surface of the fountain as it rippled with the same mist that covered everything in the place, like reality not yet formed.

Harry landed silently on the floor at the end of the aisle. He took steps forwards, marvelling at the fact that not only could he not make any noise, his feet weren't actually touching the ground as he didn't actually have feet. His spirit existed in a facsimile of what his body had been in life.

Harry passed the mourners, paying little heed to their voices, though when he drew close to Ron and Hermione, he did notice Ron holding his wife around her shoulders while Hermione wept into her hands, and even Ron had tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

Harry turned to where Draco was seated by himself. Draco clutched a plain black journal to his chest. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, though there were no tears. Instead he appeared hollow, as if he had left his body behind and was off doing other more interesting things. But then he shifted, and Harry knew that wasn't the case. Draco was still in there.

As Harry approached Draco, so did another figure, this one moving from Draco's other side. The man took a seat beside Draco and held one of Draco’s pale hands in his own: Blaise Zabini.

Harry felt suddenly hot. How dare Draco's ex-boyfriend try to move in on him at Harry's funeral! It was appalling, and yet, Draco shut his eyes tightly, leaking at the corners; his hand gripped Blaise's hand tightly, holding on to whatever strength was being offered, though he hadn't released the journal. Harry felt the difference between their existences keenly.

He remembered it from before, when he'd died the first time: coming back into his body had left him wondering if part of him hadn't stayed behind or meshed with his physical form.

But now, he had no choice. He couldn't return to this world: Dumbledore had told him.

He reached out to stroke Draco's cheek, but his hand went straight through Draco’s face and Draco didn't even flinch. Harry couldn't touch him at all.

Harry stepped backwards, his grief weighing him down. He looked to the ceiling and found himself being sucked up, as if by a vacuum, and was standing beside the fountain once more. Dumbledore was nearby solemnly humming to himself.

The Journal

October 2001

Harry sat down at his desk in the small dormitory room, and opened his new journal. He was halfway finished with writing his thesis to complete his Healer training and was determined to complete it before the year was out.

Half an hour into his study session, he paused, confused, as he stared down at the pages in front of him. Words had appeared beneath the notes he'd jotted down; they were written in somebody else's handwriting.

Who the fuck are you and how did you get into my novel?

Harry stared at the page, flashing back momentarily to the horcrux diary of Tom Riddle, a shiver running up his spine. And then more words appeared.

I’m waiting for an answer.

Harry closed the book and looked at the binding. It appeared to be a simple plain journal just like the others he'd always purchased from Flourish and Blotts.

He put his quill to the page and tried to write his name, but every time the nib came close, it veered off as if it and the paper were opposite ends of a magnet. Blowing his fringe out of his eyes, he tried again, without using his name, and was able to write.

This is my journal. I'm working on my thesis for Healer training. Who are you? How did you get into my notes?

He watched several inkblots form on the page and was sure the person on the other side was also having trouble writing his or her name.

Bugger. I can't write my name. I'm assuming you couldn't either. Your words just appeared in the middle of the journal I am writing a novel in. I've had this journal for three weeks and haven't had this happen before. Did you get hit with a spell recently?

Harry racked his brain for anything out of the ordinary that had happened recently. The only time the journal had been out of his sight since he'd bought it was when Hermione had accidentally knocked over a pile of his books when she visited him in St. Mungo's canteen to lend him another book.

I might have mixed up my books with an Unspeakable.

It was true enough. He'd have to contact Hermione to be sure.

Well I have no time for this. I suggest you stop writing in your journal and ask your Unspeakable about it as soon as possible. I have work to do.

Harry waited for several minutes to see if any more words would appear, before closing the book and starting over in a different journal. He'd talk to Hermione about this one when he returned the library book he'd borrowed.

A few hours later, Harry looked up from his work as the first journal had begun vibrating. He opened it to find new words written.

I'm bored. Tell me about yourself.

Harry couldn't help but grin. Whatever this journal was, it provided a welcome distraction to the long hours of study. It had been ages since he'd had a taste of adventure.

~*~

Two weeks later Harry returned from his training shift at St. Mungo's and fell into his nightly routine of getting ready for bed and talking with his pen pal. The journal was already announcing his friend had left a message when he took a seat at his desk, having just shed his Healer robes.

I’m drunk.

Harry grinned down at the page as he wrote his response.

What are you drinking? I’ll join you.

Firewhisky.

Harry could see the penmanship of the other person had diminished in quality.

I have a bottle of it too. I’ve been saving it for a night off. But there’s no time like the present.

Harry stood up and rummaged through the small cubicle that served as a wardrobe, extracting his bottle. He brought it back to his desk with him and conjured a glass.

There were more words waiting for him when he returned.

I get horny when I drink. What do you look like?

Grinning, Harry poured himself a glass of Firewhisky and settled in for what promised to be a lot of fun.

I’m short compared to most blokes.

Harry felt slightly nervous at the admission. The truth was that his fame made it hard enough to find a date with anybody who could see beyond his name, but without his name, he wondered how many people would even bother to give him the time of day. Still, this person didn’t really know him and seemed interested. They had discovered over the past couple of weeks that they had a lot in common, the most titillating of which was the fact that his friend was a bloke who had confided in Harry that he was gay. Harry had only recently come to terms with admitting to himself and his very closest friends that he considered himself bisexual.

So, short and has a cock. That’s not enough material to wank to. Come on, provide me with more details.

Harry’s eyes grew wide, though he couldn’t help himself from grinning stupidly.

You’re wanking to thoughts of me?

Who else am I going to have a wank thinking about? Oh, and I’d better not be wanking alone. Take your cock out, and have one off with me.

Harry poured himself another glass of Firewhisky, though he didn’t need it. The anonymous nature the journal provided made him quite comfortable with the idea of sharing a wank.

All right then. I have black hair and I wear glasses. What do you look like?

There was no immediate response, and Harry was starting to feel nervous. What if this guy had come to his senses and decided this was a bad idea after all? What if he didn’t like blokes with black hair or who wore glasses?

Finally words appeared on the page.

Sorry, I had to use the loo. I’m blond. My cock is long and thick. I’m not terribly tall, but I’m not short either. Are you fit? I like to stay in shape. I play Quidditch at the weekends.

Harry’s eyes were stuck on the words my cock is long and thick. His mouth went suddenly dry.

Yeah,

Harry wrote.

I like to play Quidditch too, though I haven’t had time for a game for a couple of months. I’ve been trying to write my thesis.

The words that followed made Harry snicker when he read them.

Shut up about studying. I’m trying to wank. What does your chest look like? Are you hairy all over or bare?

I have some body hair, but it’s not thick, just dark. My chest … I’m skinny. It’s filled out a bit, but I definitely don’t have tons of rippling muscles or anything. Tell me about your body. What would you do if you were here with me right now?

Harry pushed his jeans off, his cock jutting forwards through the slit in his boxers, then he pulled them off too, taking his cock in his left hand and stroking it lazily, waiting for the next words to appear.

Mmm … you sound hot. If I were there in person right now, I’d settle myself between your legs, with you sitting on the sofa, and I’d be on my knees in front of you, looking up into your eyes while I took your cock into my mouth and sucked it straight down to the root, unless you’re abnormally well endowed, not that I would complain. Then I’d hold on at the base and fit as much of your cock down my throat as I could. I’d let you grab me by my hair and fuck my mouth until you came, and then I’d swallow it. Unless you’re a kinky fuck. I could hold it in my mouth and climb into your lap and feed it back to you. Damn … getting close.

Harry’s eyes were glued to the page, his hand jerking his cock harder and faster the more he read, picturing it happening. The guy was close. He wanted more than anything to be the one to make him come. He slowed his own wanking and wrote a response.

Then I’d take some of my own come from your mouth and slick my fingers with it, and use them to loosen you up, just enough to fit my cock, still hard, but not as enormous as earlier, into your tight little hole. I’d hold onto your hips while you ride me, stroking yourself until you come all over my chest. Fuck. I’m coming.

And he was, all over his hand and legs, and of course he’d not thought to have a rag handy for cleanup. But it didn’t matter. He felt brilliant, and more still as he watched the next message appear.

If you fuck in real life anything like you talk, I think we need to meet.

Harry grinned, unable to keep from answering, even before trying to clean up the cooling spunk from his body.

Did you come? Crap I need to find a flannel. I’ve made a mess.

The response was immediate.

What do you think? Have you ever heard of a Siphoning Charm? I think you must have blown your brains along with your load. Same time tomorrow?

Grinning, Harry picked up his wand and performed the suggested Cleaning Spell.

I wouldn’t miss it. Good night.

~*~

Harry woke the next morning feeling relaxed. Sex with his pen pal seemed to offer the perfect outlet for all the stress he’d been building lately.

He rolled over and glanced at the clock on his bedside table, and then nearly fell out of bed, rushing to pack his satchel to make it to the canteen at St Mungo's before he missed Hermione.

He tossed the journal in as well at the last minute. It didn’t feel right not to carry it with him, but there was no way she'd be getting it back.

He got held up at the lifts, but finally made it to his table only ten minutes late.

"Honestly, Harry," Hermione said, looking up from a large tome she had open before her. "You could have spared a moment to shave this morning."

He grinned and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry I’m late. I was up late." He sat down opposite her, unable to keep the enormous grin from showing on his face as he located the book he’d borrowed and pulled it out.

Hermione took it, an eyebrow raised. "You look different. Happy. Has something happened?"

Harry shrugged. "Can’t I be happy?" He shifted in his chair, his cheeks growing warm.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Have you met somebody I will want to know about?" Her voice was playfully prodding.

A war waged in Harry's mind. He ought to tell Hermione about the journal, and find out what sort of magic he was dealing with in using it, but he didn't want her to take it away from him either. As if fate decided to intervene, the journal made its presence known right then by vibrating inside his cloak pocket.

He sheepishly drew it out and opened it, peering down at the new words.

I feel bloody brilliant this morning. Good luck with your lessons today. I'll talk to you tonight.

"Is that …?" Hermione held out her hand, the easy expression on her face replaced with confusion. "Harry, where did you get that journal?"

Resigned, Harry set the journal on the table, but didn't release it right away. "It was an accident," he explained. "I think I picked it up by mistake when you lent me the other book. I was going to return it, but then somebody started writing to me in it and … I've been writing back."

Hermione dropped her hand and sighed aloud. "Harry, are you in love with this person already?"

Harry looked at her like she'd grown another head. "What? Of course not. I don’t even know his name. Why would you even ask that?"

He drummed his fingers on his knee, waiting for her to answer. Knowing his luck, and the fact it had come from the Department of Mysteries, it was likely a book similar to the Mirror of Erised. It was probably entirely an illusion made to suck all of his energy and he’d be doomed to a life wasted by pining over a person that couldn’t exist.

"It’s a soul mate journal," Hermione answered, still looking serious. "If you’ve already fallen for whoever this person is, I can’t take it back. Basically, Harry, it’s a book that detects your magical signature, then it sends out a web of magic seeking to find the perfect match for you. Then it copies itself, disguising itself as a book the match will find and write in, and that’s what is being studied in the locked room. Don’t breathe a word to anybody that I’ve told you that much, but once the connection is established, I don’t know if there is a force that can break it."

Harry gaped at her, the book warm in his hands. He had a standing date for a repeat wank with the match the journal had found that night.

"You mean this bloke," he patted the journal’s back. "He’s my soul mate? Like for life? Like I won’t ever find a better match ever?"

Hermione bit her bottom lip nervously and nodded. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen. I —" she took a deep breath. "I’ll have to report my error to my supervisor and, and —"

"And?" Harry pressed.

"And they will likely get in contact with you, most likely without your knowledge, and they’ll study your experience … Look. I won’t do that to you. Please, Harry. Meet the person the journal has matched you with, and agree to destroy the journals. If the journals don’t exist any longer, they won’t be able to trace you and you can still have the benefit of finding your soul mate. Or, you could destroy the book and risk never meeting him. I’m sorry."

Harry didn’t quite see what was upsetting her so much. It seemed like a simple enough solution, though he would have to ask the bloke what he thought of the idea of meeting for real. Actually, the prospect had his heart racing.

"It’s all right, Hermione. I won’t tell anybody except him." He patted the book again, "We’ll destroy the books. It’ll all work out."

She jumped, looking down at her wristwatch in surprise. "Oh, I have to go!" she said. "I’m late. All right, you do what you think is best and I don’t know anything about it, understand? You didn’t get that book from me, you bought it at Flourish and Blotts."

"Right," Harry agreed. She jammed the enormous tome she’d been reading earlier with difficulty back into the depths of her small beaded bag.

Romeo

November 2001

Harry was a ball of nervous energy. His pen pal had taken the news about the soul mate journal rather well, all things considered, and they were going to meet at last.

He’d chosen the Leaky Cauldron as a meeting place, as it was a central location and the rooms upstairs afforded them privacy.

He looked at his reflection in the old brass mirror over the dresser, hoping the outfit he’d chosen would be to the other person’s liking. The jeans he’d bought earlier in the day clung to his arse in all the right places, though they fit him so well, it made him feel extremely aware of them.

A tapping sounded at the door, and Harry took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

Here goes nothing.

He opened the door and met the eyes of Draco Malfoy, watching his expression melt from eager anticipation to what could only be described as horror.

Malfoy recovered himself after a moment and stepped across the threshold, shutting the door behind him.

"Tell me this is somebody’s idea of a sick joke," Malfoy said through gritted teeth, his hand sweeping his blond fringe back from his eyes.

"Malfoy," Harry said, for lack of any other words. "Well, you are certainly tall and blond."

Harry was torn between wondering about the possibility the journals had been some sort of a prank from an enemy, or if they were genuine and the energy he felt passing between Malfoy and himself in that moment was a true soul bond.

Malfoy rubbed his left temple with his fingers as if attempting to stave off a headache. He fixed Harry with a cold glare. "What do you have to drink in this place? I propose we have a Firewhisky or ten and destroy these journals immediately. Then we can pretend the whole thing was simply the result of alcohol-induced insanity."

Harry picked up the bottle of Firewhisky he had brought to toast their meeting. He had hoped that when he broke the seal on the bottle that it would be to replay their first sexual encounter in person. Pushing back his disappointment, Harry cracked the wax and pulled out the stopper, sloshing a large amount of amber liquid into each of two glasses he’d set on the dresser. He handed one to Malfoy, who took it without comment, and drank it immediately.

Harry took a sip of the burning drink, then set his glass back down, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to stay casual. "Look. I know you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, but just hear me out. I explained earlier what these journals are and that they came from the Department of Mysteries. I’m just wondering if we’re writing off the possibility that there might be something to …"

"You must be joking," Malfoy interjected humourlessly. "Potter, don’t even finish that thought! You and me would never work." He slammed his glass down beside Harry’s and refilled it, not looking Harry’s way. "Merlin, save me from this nightmare," he swore under his breath, though Harry could hear every word, and it stung.

"You didn’t think it was that much of a joke earlier today," Harry bit back. He wasn’t going to play this fairly if Malfoy wasn’t. "You know, when we were wankingtogether."

Malfoy swallowed the rest of his drink again, his cheeks growing pink, though it was hard for Harry to tell if it was from embarrassment or alcohol.

"Don’t talk about it," Malfoy spat. "I don’t even! Fuck!"

Harry felt the colour rising in his face. "What? Am I that repulsive? Go on, tell it to me straight." His arms flew before he could think and he’d pushed Malfoy’s shoulders so Malfoy stumbled backwards a few steps. "Tell me exactly how freakish and awful I am. How much do I repulse you? I want to hear the truth. Is it me that you despise or my name? I’m the bloke in the journal, the Chosen One title is shit."

Malfoy glared back at Harry, eyes narrowed. "You don’t …" He stopped a moment; his right hand holding his empty glass brushed his left forearm, rubbing it as if scratching an itch. "This was a horrible idea." He pushed past Harry and set his glass back on the dresser, then left the room, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Harry lost it. Cursing his rotten luck, he kicked the door closed and finished his glass of Firewhisky in one go, savouring the burning in his throat like it was a punishment earned for being so foolish as to trust fate. He pulled the wretched journal from its hiding place under one of the pillows, flung himself face down on the bed and propped the book open. He conjured a self-inking quill and began to write.

My name is Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy is apparently my soul mate. Take that Romeo; who’s fortune’s fool now?

Coming Together

December 2001

Harry sat at his desk, his left hand absently yanking his hair while he struggled to get his thoughts to make sense on paper. He had a year to hand in his thesis and half of it was gone. The stress was gruelling.

Finally realising his brain was simply refusing to function another moment, Harry tossed his quill on the desk and sat up, stretching.

What he wouldn’t give to go back in time to the days before he knew it was Malfoy on the other end of his journal. He missed the easy banter they had had before discovering the truth about their identities.

The journal buzzed. Harry could hardly believe it. He’d been poking at Malfoy for the past month, jotting down odd thoughts he’d have throughout the day, though Malfoy never responded. Harry thought he’d likely destroyed his journal.

He flipped the cover open and stared down at the new words written below his last entry.

Have you ever thought about what it would be like to take Gillyweed and go down on a bloke underwater?

Potter, why the hell are you writing to me still? Give it up! I’m not interested in your perversions.

Harry grinned wickedly. Now that he had Malfoy’s attention, he had access to some entertainment at the very least.

Aww, come on, Draco. Don’t tell me you think blow jobs are perverted. I’ve got some Gillyweed if you’d like to give it a shot sometime.

Call me Malfoy. And that is hardly the point. I don’t find blow jobs perverted; I find your lack of finesse at seduction annoying as all hell.

Oh really? Do you think you could do it better?

Easily, Potter, but I won’t bother. I don’t like skinny speccy gits.

Oh. I think you just may be complaining too much. I happen to know you were quite fond of going on about how bloody brilliant my big fat cock would look slipping in and out of your glistening lips only last month. I have to admit, I haven't been able to get the image out of my head since then.

Are you seriously propositioning me, Potter? Me? We are enemies. We LOATHE each other. What part of ‘we won't work’ are you not getting? I think the last killing curse you survived killed off a few more brain cells than anyone anticipated.

You know what? I don't give a fuck about that right now. My balls are tight. I have no one close enough to seek relief with, well … except you. I don't really have any ambition or desire to go out and find a one-night stand. Do you know how hard it is to find a date when you are the Chosen One? I find the fact that you treat me less well than a commoner despite my name refreshing and actually … it makes me notice you. You know … I've always noticed you. Even back in school. You're bloody fit and hot and your hair shines and your arse fills your Quidditch trousers so well and rounded when you're on your broom. Fuck. I wanked to the image of your arse on a broom so many times. But I did hate you, so yes, you have that much right.

Oh thank you so very fucking much, Mr fucking Chosen One for taking the time to notice poor insignificant mortals like myself. And does this normally work, Potter? You spew your lines and then the people you say them to fall to their knees and offer to suck your cock or allow you to piss all over their face while they bask in your golden glow?

Merlin, Malfoy. You don't need to get so riled up, but actually, I kind of like you like this. Keep getting mad. It's turning me on. Mmm … Yeah … I can totally picture you Flooing over right now. You'd storm out of my fireplace and see me sitting in this chair: my cock is out; it's hard in my hand and your face explodes with anger. You rush across the room and pick me up by the neck of my robes and slam me into the wall, banging my head a few times for good measure.

Yes. I can see myself doing that. Then I'd smack your face with the back of my hand, taking care to knock the thick band of my ring against your eye socket so that it bruises. Then I'd pull your hair backwards so your neck is bent and you're forced to look at me. I'd pull until I saw tears spring to your eyes and you were begging me to let you go.

Oh fuck no ... I'd be begging you to let me come. You are fucking intense when you're angry. I wish I would have realised this years ago. I could have shut you up by kissing you rotten and forcing you into a bout of hate sex that you would be loath to admit you loved. Then we'd have kept doing it. Randomly running into each other at school and picking fights, dragging each other into alcoves and cupboards and shagging our brains out, marking and biting and cursing the whole time ... God that would have been hot. And think about all the danger we would have been in if anybody found out.

Potter. What are you trying to do? Seriously. Just tell me.

I want you, Draco Malfoy, to Floo over here right now. Don't say a fucking word, just bend over and let me worship your arse. I want to explore your body and claim it, and then I want you to get mad at me for not doing it right and then take my head in your hands and force me to do it your way, until you come in my face. I want you.

You're fucking insane.

Come over.

I don't know where you live.

It's 82, Charing Cross Road, room twelve.

Harry's head whipped to the right as the fireplace roared to life, and Draco came spinning out in a burst of green flames, ashes and soot raining over the floor below him. He looked livid. His eyes were alive with their fury and Harry felt his mouth go dry as he realised exactly how fucking hot it was to be caught with his trousers down and his cock out by Draco in person.

Draco didn't say anything. He took a moment to shed the leather gloves that were lining his hands, tossing them haphazardly aside, then shrugged off his travelling cloak. He let that fall as well. He wore a rich-looking dressing gown, and Harry couldn't help but notice the bulge in front, tenting the silk.

Harry swallowed hard as Draco approached, unsure of how this was going to play out. His fingers twitched as if they really wanted to be holding his wand in case Draco was going to try something evil, but then the suspense overtook him and he realised he hadn't stopped stroking his cock the entire time.

He watched Draco stalk towards him, and then he was grabbed by his hair on the back of his head and his head was pulled back, so his face was turned up towards Draco.

"Potter," Draco said coldly. "Why don't you put that fucking mouth of yours to doing something productive."

Draco's free hand opened his dressing gown revealing silk pyjama bottoms worn underneath, his cock jutting out through the sewn hole in the front.

Harry's eyes fixed on it. He stared, wetting his lips with his tongue, and then Draco kicked the feet of Harry's chair so it swung around and Draco stood directly in front of him, his erect cock an inch from Harry's nose.

"Suck," Draco commanded, forcing Harry's face downwards.

Harry opened his mouth without complaint and swallowed Draco's cock, relaxing his throat so he could take it all the way in.

It was more perfect than Harry could possibly have imagined. The scent of Draco's musk was thick in his nose, in his mouth, in his everything, and smelled of soap and a hint of something earthy with a sprig of mint. It was divine. Harry closed his eyes and moaned around the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head in time with the tugs on his hair, and he even took it when Draco seized him by the sides of his head and began to earnestly fuck his face.

It was so worth it for the sounds Draco couldn't help but make. Harry felt his pleasure building deep inside his core, touched as if by an invisible something flipping a switch inside him. His mouth salivated around the throbbing organ, and he was doing this with dripping sucks, chasing tendrils of saliva back up the veined underside with his tongue, hollowing his cheeks so Draco could plunder his throat without being obstructed.

This was what Harry was looking for. This is what Harry knew he'd have to have from this moment onwards.

And the sound of Draco's orgasm filled Harry even as his throat swallowed the load shooting down it. Draco stumbled, breathing heavily. When Harry looked up into Draco’s face, the grey eyes were wide and surprisingly free from their usual animosity. Harry wanted to look into those eyes forever. He wanted to fill those eyes with his reflection and never to have them see another person in this intimate an encounter ever again.

And then Harry's head was pulled off Draco's cock and he was flung backwards, the wooden chair bruising his shoulder blades. Surprised and slightly frightened, he was blown away when Draco straddled Harry’s lap instead of hitting him with his fist and Draco’s lips descended. Harry closed his eyes and kissed back with all of the pent-up feelings pouring out of him. The emptiness inside him was filling up with every emotion Draco poured into his side of the kiss and it was wet and perfect and tasted like come, but the fact that it was Draco's come made even that aspect that much sweeter.

Harry's hands moved down to circle Draco's back, resting on his bum and pulling him even closer so Harry's erection was brushing the silk of Draco's pyjama bottoms.

"Fuck," Harry said when he was allowed to finally draw breath.

Draco said nothing, but moved Harry's head to the side and claimed his mouth again.
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Where Your Treasure Lies