Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Nothing Like the Sun	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 35148 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
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Chapter Thirteen—Gratitude
“Something’s changed.”
Harry glanced up at Ron, but he didn’t really like the penetrating way Ron was looking at him, so he ducked his head again and focused on the paperwork in front of him. He had almost finished with yet another report on the Unspeakables and the artifacts they kept letting slip out of their fingers. If this went on, Harry thought the Ministry just might take the artifacts away from the Department of Mysteries and give them back to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the way that some of the Aurors had been urging for years.
“I mean it,” Ron said, apparently not liking that Harry was attending to his work for once. “You look happier. More relaxed. You look like you’re not going to crack and fly apart if someone glances at the scar on the back of your hand.”
“Of course I’m not.” Harry tilted his hand so that Ron could see it. He was wearing his glamour, as usual, and one of the backs of his hands looked very much like the other.
“Harry.”
Only Draco had the right to sound that disappointed in him, Harry thought. Ron and Hermione hadn’t much liked his glamours at first, but they’d been fine with them for the last year, until Draco had shown up. Harry leaned back in his chair, even propping his feet up on the desk so that he would look disheveled enough to content Ron, and stared at him. “What? Are you proposing that I should go around without them?”
“Yes.”
Harry paused, then said, “Well, that was blunt.”
“It is,” said Ron. “But so was your question. And you deserved a blunt response. You know that.” He folded his arms and did his best to stare Harry down, which didn’t work all that way. “Hell,” Ron said after a second. “You know that going without your glamours is what Malfoy would want you to do.”
Harry shrugged a little. “He hasn’t talked to me about it yet.” That was true. While Draco had touched Harry’s shoulder when he applied his glamours and narrowed his eyes at the way Harry kept his fringe long enough to hang over his forehead, he hadn’t said anything. Harry thought he would probably decide it was a problem, but in the meantime, Harry had a million other problems to deal with. His scars and his attitude about them had to be less important than the nightmares that still woke him up, and which he was seeing Bulstrode for.
“Huh.” Ron watched him in silence, then said, “They’re a badge of honor, you know.”
“Honor,” Harry said, and touched his forehead. “Really. To me, all this says is that Voldemort was insane enough to believe in a prophecy that made him kill my parents.”
“You survived,” Ron said quietly. “And I know it was your mother’s love and sacrifice, but you have to think about what the scar says to other people as well as what it says to you. You don’t have to be ashamed of it, because they don’t make you feel ashamed of it.”
Harry winced as his anger spiked and the paper on his desk leaped three feet into the air. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, quietly enough that Ron looked at him with wide eyes.
“Did you just…”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Wandless magic, born out of anger, because you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He came to his feet and stalked towards Ron, who watched him with his mouth open. It was hard for Harry to make himself stand still and fold his magic back inside himself. He couldn’t possibly turn it against his best friend. He would never forgive himself if he did that. “You don’t,” he whispered. “You don’t know what all of them did to me, even Ginny.”
Ron hesitated, watching Harry with his eyes narrowed, as if he suspected that Harry might lash out again, and then leaned forwards and rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Tell me.”
“Flinched from them,” Harry said. It was less effort to tell Ron than he’d thought it might be, probably because he’d told Draco first. “Told me they were ugly. Glanced at me, and glanced away. Told me they had to break up with me because of them. All that, and you can say that they’re a badge of honor, that it doesn’t matter.” He started to say something else and then, overwhelmed, shook his head and turned to sit down in his chair again.
“Ginny said all that?” Ron had followed him back and stood staring down.
“No,” Harry acknowledged dully, stretching his arms and settling himself back, out of the sharp hunched posture that would make his shoulders ache if he kept it. “She flinched. I think she did, anyway. Draco says that maybe I’m looking back on innocent behavior and making more of it than I should.”
“Yes, that has to be it,” Ron said firmly. “There’s no way that Ginny would do something like that.”
Harry picked up his quill and began to write again without answering. Maybe Ron only believed that of Ginny and not the rest of Harry’s lovers, but at the moment, it sounded close to all of them.
“Harry?” Ron was peering down into his face again.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Harry fixed his gaze on the unscarred back of his right hand, smooth and spotless, and felt his heart clench painfully. He might trust Draco to look beneath the surface and accept it, and his friends, but what he really wanted was for his hand to look the way it did under the glamour, unscarred and unscathed and normal. “Leave me alone,” he added, when Ron looked as if he might hover.
            Ron sighed and turned away. He kept watching Harry over his shoulder, as if he thought Harry might change his mind.
            Harry never looked up or flinched, and they hadn’t spoken for over an hour when Ron stood up to go home. He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder once more. Harry stared at him wearily, and Ron said, “I didn’t mean to sound like no one could have meant it, mate. From what you told me, Frank was a right arsehole.”
            Harry nodded. “I know.”
            Ron backed away, raising one hand. He knew the sound of a syllable that clanged like an iron door to shut him out, Harry thought, watching him, and he knew that pushing on it wouldn’t get him any further right now. “When you want to talk, I’m here.”
            Right now, that feels like never. Harry spun the quill between his fingers, and nodded again.
            “You’ll keep it in mind?” Ron was being a lot more persistent than he usually was when he tried to talk about something from Harry’s past. Maybe knowing that Draco was present in Harry’s life now gave him courage.
            “I’ll keep it in mind,” Harry said, and smiled at him enough to get him to go away. He was still a little troubled, and Harry knew that meant the conversation would probably be renewed tomorrow, but that didn’t matter much, as long as he managed to escape right now.
            He needed to work. Not much chance of a case coming along and presenting him with the opportunity to run and use his wand right now, but he could clean up the paperwork, and doing enough of that would at least present him with the illusion of accomplishment.
            He dived into the pile, and signed what he had to sign, and revised reports he had put off revising, and sorted papers into folders. He made smaller piles, and more precise ones, and then resolutely worked his way through them. He even voluntarily wrote an assessment of his own behavior during the past six months and how it had affected his cases, something the Auror Department wanted twice a year and which he always put off. It wasn’t pleasant to try to be objective and sometimes acknowledge that, yeah, he had been hasty or jumped to the wrong conclusions.
            His desk was close to clear when a shadow fell over him, and someone coughed.
            Harry started, and looked up. Draco stood over him, staring at him with such a direct gaze that Harry wiped at his face. His first thought was that he must have a glob of spittle next to his mouth or food stuck between his teeth, but Draco’s gaze was heavier than that. He waited until he had Harry’s full attention, and then glanced at his watch.
            And, like a wave breaking, the promise he had made to come over to the Manor for dinner tonight hit Harry.
            “Oh, shit,” Harry said, and sat back, meeting Draco’s eyes. “I got involved in work and forgot.”
            Draco only nodded, eyes flicking up to his forehead as if the answer would be found in his oldest scar. “Something tipped the balance, didn’t it?” he asked. “I know that Millicent’s been asking you to think about what troubles you for a few minutes at a time, and then put it away. But you’ve said how much you hate doing that, and you’ve been shaky all week. This time, something tilted it too far.”
            Harry winced hard enough to make his back hit the chair. “It was a little argument I had with Ron,” he said, and stood up, shaking his head. “I’m really sorry, Draco. Is there anything I can do to make it up?” He was babbling, he realized, when he saw the way Draco stared at him. He didn’t know if he would have realized it on his own. He touched his forehead and found the cold sweat there.
            “I’m not going to leave because of this,” Draco said, softly and clearly.
            Harry shot him a long look. “I never said that you were.”
            “But you were thinking it.” Draco’s eyes went to his forehead again, this time as if he could tell how Harry was feeling by the state of the lightning bolt scar. “You were thinking that I was so upset and devastated by you forgetting to come to the Manor that this might be the thing that scared me away for good.”
            “I don’t think I would ever think about you as scared again,” Harry muttered, remembering Draco’s pale face on top of the Astronomy Tower. This situation was a long way from that.
            Draco shook his head. “I was using it metaphorically.” He paused, studied Harry for a second, and said, “Come on.” He took Harry’s hand, reached out and firmly took away the piece of paper Harry had been about to bring with him, and put it back on top of one of the piles. Harry caught himself opening his mouth to object that that wasn’t the right pile, and forced his mouth shut instead, firmly.
            Draco is right. I do have to get away from here.
            “That’s better,” Draco said, and Harry started, realizing that he’d come up to stand next to Draco, nearly leaning on his shoulder.
            Harry snorted softly. He doubted Draco would appreciate it if he said something about only weakness making him do this. Indeed, Draco looked softened and pleased for the first time since he’d come up to Harry at his desk, as if Harry’s weakness was a good thing.
            So Harry went with him, and the paperwork on his desk sat to tend to itself until morning came.
*
            I’m not going to ask.
            Draco had made that decision almost as soon as he saw Harry’s white face and wild, staring eyes, and it had been a good one. Harry had relaxed the moment they were inside the Manor door. He had eaten most of his dinner, although Draco didn’t think he had really noticed what it was. Well, good. That way, the house-elves could feed Harry the thick beef broth and bread they thought was the only thing fit for such pale humans, and Harry wouldn’t object to it or think he was being treated like he was fragile.
            That pissed him off, Draco had noted. Even though Harry was fragile, and probably in more ways than he had allowed Draco to glimpse so far.
            One of those ways had undoubtedly happened today. Whatever the “little argument” with Weasley had been about, it struck deep. Draco had been afraid that Harry would collapse in front of him. He had certainly looked at Draco as if he would turn away from Harry, should he collapse, and leave him lying on the floor.
            Draco understood the roots of that doubt too well to take offense to it. Well, much offense. He did still want to know what had caused the argument, wanted to be trusted fully with what had put Harry into such a vulnerable state.
            But he was selfish enough to want Harry to show some greater sign of trust. If he reached out and explained it to Draco of his own free will, that would be a gift. A gift that Draco wanted, and had no intention of spoiling by asking Harry too much at first.
            So he kept silent or talked about other things throughout dinner, and when they moved to the couch in the drawing room that Harry seemed to favor, the same one where Draco had first seen Harry remove his shirt. Then Harry did fall silent and give Draco an encouraging look, but when he made no attempt to fill the silence with words, Draco began to talk about his Animagus potion instead.
            Harry immediately sat up with his eyes all bright for battle. Draco licked his lips in spite of himself. Not many of his lovers could ever have seen Harry like this, he thought. There was no way they would have let him go if they had.
            “I thought of another reason why that bloody potion won’t work,” Harry told him.
            “Did you?” Draco asked, and concealed his smile by lifting his glass to his lips.
            Harry nodded savagely. “You know that no one knows ahead of time what their Animagus form is? It has to come from the wizard’s soul and magical core. It takes on touches of their personality—that’s why Pettigrew could be a rat—but not the touches that they think it will. If my father had known Pettigrew was going to be a rat, he would probably have thought he was, I don’t know, sneaky or clever or something.”
            Draco refrained from pointing out that Wormtail had been those things, at least some of the time. “I know that,” he murmured back, pleasantly, refusing to lower his glass very far. Harry had put his down to make big, sweeping gestures with his hands. At least Draco had house-elves, in case the glass got knocked to the carpet. “But what does it have to do with my potion? My potion is meant to shorten the training process, not show someone what their animal will be ahead of time.”
            Harry stabbed a finger at him. “But what will happen if someone takes the potion first, without any training at all? They’ll be aiming at a form they don’t know, probably don’t even anticipate, given how strangely the Animagus forms usually turn out. What’s going to happen when they wake up in a body that they don’t know, with strange instincts clamoring at the back of their brains?”
            “I would hope no one would be enough of an idiot to do that,” Draco began.
            “But you don’t know. Maybe they could. If they got hold of the potion and the only thing they knew about it was that it would shorten the training process…”
            “And someone could take too much Dreamless Sleep Potion without checking the dose and end up in a magical coma that would result in them dying of thirst, if no one found them in time,” Draco snapped back. “I can’t be responsible for all the stupid uses that people will put my potions to, Potter. I can only be sure that they’re not poisonous, do what they’re supposed to do, and go out with the proper instructions.”
            Harry grinned at him. “I question your decision-making process and I’m back to being Potter, huh?”
            Draco scowled. “No, you act like the purely Gryffindor prat that I knew in school and you’re back to being Potter.”
            Harry hesitated for a second, took a quick breath, and then said, “What if I don’t want to be Potter right now?”
            “You can praise my potions.” Draco put down his glass and tried to arrange himself in a pose that would show he was open to having Harry heap praise on him.
            Harry laughed and said, “That’s not what I meant.” He hesitated again. Draco waited, curious. Was this where Harry told him about the stupid argument that he had with Weasley? But Draco couldn’t imagine what connection the argument could possibly have to calling Harry by his last name.
            “I meant,” Harry said, “that I don’t want to be what we were to each other at school. Not for a moment, right now, not for a second. I want to be the Harry that’s learning to love and trust you.”
            Draco swallowed a bit. “Just because I called you by your last name doesn’t mean we’re going away from that.”
            “I know.” Harry rose and began pacing slowly back and forth in front of the couch. The slowness kept Draco from interrupting. Harry was working himself up to something, that was clear. “But I want to—to show you that I trust you.”
            “You do that every day,” Draco whispered. No, he didn’t want to interrupt, but he wanted Harry to hear him.
            Harry glanced at him with a melting expression, and then took a deep breath and said, “But not enough. I want—I want to—” He sighed, tapped his wand against his hand, and said, “Oh, hell,” as a glamour that Draco had forgotten Harry was wearing melted.
            Draco now had a fair notion of what the argument with Weasley had been about. But he ignored the impulse to ask, instead watching as Harry removed the glamours and then began to strip, his gaze on the floor as though he had to avoid meeting Draco’s eyes until he was completely naked.
            Draco had no objection to Harry being completely naked. He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. That would keep him from either reaching out to touch before he was welcome or interrupting in some other way.
            Harry still didn’t look up. He kicked his trousers away so that he stood there in his pants only. It had taken more courage for him to shed the glamours than the clothes, Draco thought, eyeing his back. He hadn’t realized that Harry wore so many glamours under his clothes. Draco reckoned it was a second kind of insurance in case he ever ran into Muggles who saw him naked or got stripped by enemies.
            Then Harry turned around and folded his hands behind his head. Draco could have wished it was because he was relaxed and lounging, content to show his body off to Draco and not care what he thought, but he was afraid it came about because Harry was feeling helpless. This was the position a helpless prisoner would take when he had no choice, in front of the Aurors or the Death Eaters.
            Draco tried to put that out of his head, and look his fill, do a kind of gazing that would justify the risk Harry had taken, the trust he put in him. He could feel his mouth getting dry as he looked, his hand clenching next to him on the arm of the couch. God knew what Harry thought he was feeling right at the moment, but for the most part, it was simply overwhelming lust, without even an action to focus it on.
            Harry’s body was heavily scarred. There was that. Parts of it were pale in a way that showed he never got out in the sun the way he should. Parts of it were pale in a different way, the white mess of never-healed scars. He was thin, although Draco supposed one could say slender. He had ribs that were too prominent, wrists that were almost knobby, the way he had once described them to Draco, and shoulders that could have been broader, especially given all the burdens he’d had to bear over the years.
            But it was Harry. And the thought that no one had seen him this naked in at least a year made Draco’s mouth twitch and water.
            In between the scars, his skin shone with the glow of health. The scars themselves were the badges of survival and honor, Draco thought. They meant Harry was alive and the person or beast he had got them from wasn’t. He had survived accidents. He had survived Dark wizards targeting him personally. He had survived torture, and kidnapping attempts, and concentrated rituals meant to murder him and drain his soul, if a quarter of the stories in the Prophet were true. It would be strange if he wasn’t scathed and marked by that, laid over and mapped by the experiences of his life.
            Draco tried to imagine the person who would find that ugly. They would have to be as shallow as Frank or as Draco had always secretly believed Weasley’s sister to be. They would have to think it would be better if Harry was dead instead of alive to look at and touch.
            “Is it that bad?”
            Draco started and looked up. He’d been so caught up in examining the scars that he hadn’t paid attention to Harry’s expression in a while, and he soon saw, by the way Harry’s eyes had squirmed shut, that he should have.
            He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, putting aside the rules he had chosen for himself so far, going on instinct. He strode up to Harry and waited there, until Harry let the suspense get the better of him and his eyes pop open.
            “It’s that beautiful,” Draco whispered, and bent down to kiss him. This wasn’t a lesson; this was kissing with intent. If Harry would let him go further, then he would. If not, then he would back off, but right now, he couldn’t do that. He let his hand curl around Harry’s ribs, and groaned in appreciation.
            It was lust and trust and confidence and greedy, possessive gloating. Everyone else was too stupid to see what sort of prize they were letting escape them. I am not.
*
            Harry gasped as he felt Draco’s tongue in his mouth, deeper than it had gone before, but harder when he heard Draco’s words. Really allowed himself to hear them, with his skin and his eyes and the hair that Draco’s hand was clutching and crushing.
            He shuddered and dropped his hands from behind his head, where he didn’t even consciously remember putting them. Hesitantly, he raised his hands and closed them around Draco’s wrists. Draco didn’t seem to notice. He was so involved in the kiss, chasing Harry’s tongue back into his mouth and touching the insides of Harry’s cheeks with quick, light taps as if he wanted to feel any scars there as well.
            He thinks I’m beautiful even with the scars.
            And with those words, Harry slammed back into his body. He had been floating outside it, in some prison of fear and coldness, while he waited for the rejection he had thought was coming. He had forced himself to think that he trusted Draco, and it wouldn’t be bad. He knew that Draco would never hurt him like Frank.
            But it would still happen. The point of this was to show Draco that Harry trusted him, not convince him that Harry was beautiful. How in the world could anyone believe that?
            But Draco—
            Draco was there, with his fingers and his tongue and his admiring eyes and the thick tone in his voice, and Harry was back in his skin again, squirming as Draco’s tongue sought his, gasping as Draco pulled back to stroke the back of his neck and let his hand rest over the scar that the locket had burned on his chest.
            “I want to suck you,” Draco whispered. “And I want to be naked while I do it.”
            Harry just stared at him, mind whirling so hard and fast that Draco’s request didn’t make much sense. Why would he want to do that? How would it benefit him? And why did the words make Harry’s skin flame?
            “If you’re naked, I should do something for you,” he mumbled. His tongue was thick in his mouth, maybe from all the kissing. It couldn’t compare with the fuzz in his mind, though, and his certainty that something was wrong, but not what that thing was or how he could counteract it.
            “I want to do this,” Draco said, kissing him again, so strong and insistent that Harry let his head fall back and yielded to the far-from-silent pressure. Draco wasn’t talking in words right now, but he was talking, with the faint scrape of his nails against Harry’s hardened skin and his clothes swishing around him as he reached down with one hand. Harry thought he was trying to keep a grip on Harry and get a hold on his own shirt to pull it off at the same time.
            Harry took a deep breath and gave in. It would be okay, wouldn’t it? He trusted Draco.
            Granted, this was more than he had thought would happen. His body squirmed, his skin shuddering and his cock twitching, and Draco did nothing more than glance down with a slight, shining smile. Not one that anyone could mistake for mockery, no matter how determined you were to do it—and Harry had to acknowledge that, in the past, he’d been pretty determined.
            “All right,” he whispered, and Draco kissed him hard enough to knock him backwards. Draco caught and supported him, one hand curving around his skull as though to cushion Harry from collision with a hard wall, and then he turned around, whirled around, dropping Harry onto the couch he’d risen from.
“I’m going to make this so good for you,” Draco whispered, his throat throbbing and his eyes lit with hunger as with the radiance from stars. “You don’t have any idea.” And he began to fling his shirt off over his head.
Harry sat on his hands this time. It kept his legs spread, and kept him from reaching for Draco as more and more of that shining pale skin came out from under his clothes. Draco had said that he wanted to suck Harry.
Harry wanted to do something in return, with an ache as deep as bloodlust. That was the way it was supposed to happen. People didn’t do things for him, just for him. He gave them his mouth, or sometimes—more than a year ago, before he’d given up on having a partner—they made love together.
But he hurt them then. He remembered what had happened the last time Frank gave him a blowjob, and shuddered.
            It took more trust and more courage and more determination than he had known he could have, to sit there and watch Draco disrobing and know that Draco was going to do something for him and Harry had to just sit back and enjoy it. But he sat there, and his reward—
            His reward was Draco.
*
            Draco took his time turning around, so that Harry got to have the full enjoyment of the view. By his dropped jaw, he was enjoying it, if not perhaps in the way that Draco had thought he would. There was more stunned amazement in his eyes, less pure appreciation.
            But Draco could live with that, too. He resisted the impulse to strike a pose. Harry might think he was mocking him.
            Instead, he watched as Harry’s eyes traveled slowly over his chest from heart to collarbone, and then snapped back up to his face. His breathing was low and fast, as though he wanted to run from a threat. But he sat on his hands, and although his arms kept twitching, his legs didn’t.
            Draco cocked his head and moved closer. Harry finally took one hand out and extended it. Draco looked at it, not sure what Harry wanted.
            “Can I—can I touch you? Please?”
            Of course. Harry had probably pounded it into his own head that he shouldn’t try to touch anyone, in case he hurt them. Draco hoped to overcome that stupidity, too, but now wasn’t the time to do it. Instead, he just nodded and whispered back, “Please,” in a voice as hoarse as Harry’s.
            He came to a stop about a foot away, and Harry reached out and caressed him. It was a fleeting touch, so shy that Draco might have thought he was dealing with a virgin instead of the most experienced person he knew. But Harry was virginal in the realm of having lovers who actually cared about him, Draco thought.
            And there was nothing wrong with the way he touched Draco. His hand fluttered, then flattened. Of course it was above Draco’s heart. Draco smiled and closed his eyes. He took hold of Harry’s hand and guided it in a slow caress, showing him the way he liked it.
            “You’re so hard,” Harry breathed.
            Draco looked again. This time, Harry was staring at his erection, and the longing was palpable. Draco half-shook his head. You would never have thought that Harry had had him in his mouth already.
            “Can’t I please suck you?” Harry whispered, looking back at his face.
            “Next time,” Draco said, because it was the only way he could both gratify Harry and his own desire to teach Harry he deserved pleasure without having to return it. “In the meantime, sit still and enjoy.” And he slid to his knees between Harry’s legs and eyed Harry’s own erection.
            It was perfectly normal, dark red, straining upwards so that it pointed at Harry’s face. Draco hadn’t expected it to be spectacular, but he did want to show Harry that it wasn’t so strange that someone would feel disgust when looking at it. He reached out and smoothed his fingers gently up and down Harry’s cock, delighting in the way Harry shut his eyes slowly and then all at once, his breathing becoming timed to Draco’s strokes up and down.
            “You’re so hard,” Draco said back, and bowed his head. He noticed Harry tense his hips back into the couch, as though he had changed his mind about being sucked, so Draco paused and looked at him.
            “I j-just—” Harry swallowed. “The last time Veronica tried to suck me, she said I nearly broke her teeth, I thrust so hard. I was just trying to keep you safe.”
            “I’ll let you know if I’m uncomfortable,” Draco said firmly. He wondered if any of Harry’s lovers had ever tried to phrase things in anything less than the most unfortunate way possible. Or had they thought that Harry should just be able to take the bluntness somehow, that the Chosen One didn’t have human feelings? Maybe they just thought that he was a great deal more experienced than he was with them. “In the meantime, relax. This isn’t going to be much fun for either of us if you can’t.”
            As Draco had thought would happen, Harry relaxed at the suggestion that not doing so would affect Draco’s pleasure. He slid back on the couch and let his legs fall open to an obscene width that made Draco’s erection jerk again, and then shut his eyes. Draco smiled as he opened his mouth. He suspected they wouldn’t stay closed for long.
            And they didn’t. Harry gasped as though he was dying when Draco fastened his mouth around the head of his cock and sucked loud and hard. His hips jerked once, but Draco had expected that and pulled his head back far enough to ride the motion. And then he slid his mouth down again, making sure it was tight, making sure that his tongue was in the right place and his lips covered his teeth.
            Harry was stutter-breathing, one hand reaching out to the side and groping at nothing in particular. Draco caught the hand and brought it down to Harry’s groin. He slid one finger into his mouth alongside Harry.
            Harry really hadn’t had that done before, it seemed. He nearly poked the back of Draco’s throat with how he arched, but Draco rode that, too, and twined his tongue comfortingly around the finger, not letting it go. He didn’t know how Harry’s other lovers had done this, other than reluctantly and angrily, but he would keep Harry in the moment. Harry’s body inside his, not drawing away.
            And as he settled into sucking, he had to admit that he’d never seen that amount of sheer admiration shining down at him from a pair of lover’s eyes before.
*
            He really wants to do this. He really does.
            Harry had got used to being the only enthusiastic one using his mouth. Even when a Muggle would offer to give him a blowjob in return, they always grimaced and glanced away—with the corners of their faces, not the centers. They didn’t like it. They thought it was dirty. But they were always perfectly willing to enjoy what he could offer.
            The way Veronica had been, after he got good at it.
            Rage woke in Harry that he’d thought buried. He certainly couldn’t afford to rage at any of his lovers, not when it would mean turning them further off and having them get furious at him and reject him all the more. But now, thinking of how they didn’t mind “degrading” him but hated “degrading” themselves, it reminded him of what the Dursleys had done to him, what the people at Hogwarts had done to him when they believed him mad. They could do any bloody thing to him they liked, but he still had to obey them or defend them from Voldemort. Because God forbid that they have to do anything for themselves.
            His lovers had all complained that he hurt them by ignoring what they liked. But they hadn’t cared about what he liked.
            The rage blended oddly with the pleasure from Draco’s mouth, and Harry gasped as the twinned, twined emotions climbed inside him, shimmering to the surface, making him feel as though he stood in a desert in the middle of summer. He reached out and gripped Draco’s hair, trying to halt him and stop the sucking. Harry didn’t know what might happen with his accidental magic. It had made the paper on his desk jump this afternoon, when he was angry at Ron. If he hurt Draco, that would be the end—
            But Draco swatted his hand away, or at least the free one reaching for his hair, and sucked harder on the finger of the one he already had captured. Then he pressed hard on the fingers outside his mouth.
            He was urging Harry’s hand back to play with his balls.
            Harry gasped again, and did it. The rage had vanished into the overwhelming heat within him. His skin was flushed, and his cock was hard, and inside someone for the first time in ages. He found himself thrusting, uncoordinated and quick, not caring about anything except easing the burning.
            Draco pulled back and looked at him.
            The rage and the pleasure both turned into their opposites, shame and pain as dark and cold as Nagini. Harry slid sideways along the couch, and then tried to stand. He would have babbled apologies, but there was no way that he could apologize for making Draco gag, maybe even coming close to breaking his jaw—
            “No,” Draco said.
            The voice was quiet and deep enough that Harry found himself freezing. He didn’t move, didn’t go anywhere else, because Draco didn’t want him to do that. Harry sat still instead, and Draco caught his gaze and nodded.
            “I flinched because I did gag,” said Draco. “That doesn’t mean that you’re a horrible person. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to still do it.” He reached out and smoothed his hands down Harry’s hips, as if seeking for the buttons he could press that would make Harry sit back. “Will you let me continue?”
            “I should be asking you that,” Harry muttered even as he settled into place again. He was shaking in reaction. Draco didn’t want him to go away. He wanted to suck Harry.
            Harry knew it wasn’t a time for tears, but he wanted to weep. He really did.
            Draco met Harry’s eyes and smiled. His thumbs were rubbing over and over again on the curve of Harry’s hipbones, and he nodded at the floor, or maybe Harry’s groin. “Are you ready?”
            Harry swallowed. He’d softened a little, which was probably what Draco was asking about, but he thought that was understandable, when he’d just relived one of his worst nightmares. “Do your worst,” he said, and clasped his hands behind his head again, to be sure, even as he arched his legs forwards and offered himself to Draco.
            Draco smiled at him, eyes shining, and bent his head again. Harry found that he was holding his breath, and let it out. Being that tense would just hurt the experience, he knew.
            “Relax,” Draco breathed, and turned the word into a puff of warm air across the head of his cock. Harry swallowed again and shifted, but Draco touched his chest, and Harry quieted. “That’s right. I want to know what you do when you really lose control.”
            “Hurt people,” Harry whispered back.
            Draco’s eyes sharpened, but he said, “We’re not going to discuss that today. Sometime soon, but not today. Let me love you.”
            Harry shut his eyes this time so the tears wouldn’t explode, and nodded. When Draco took him into his mouth again, it was the best he had ever felt.
            No matter what, even if they ended up breaking up, Draco wouldn’t go out of his way to be horrible. And that was what it had been, with Frank and the others. They hadn’t just broken up with him. They hadn’t just expressed their feelings. They had tried to do it in the worst way possible.
            The rage would have risen, but the pleasure was there, with the gentle, worshipful way Draco’s mouth moved, and giving in to it was impossible. Harry let his head droop, and tried to forget about what was wrong with him, that he would be reacting with rage to the best he had ever felt, and let go.
*
            Harry Potter was beautiful when he released himself.
            And impatient, Draco had to admit as he moved his head slowly back and forth, and sometimes hurtful. He’d thought that one thrust would take out a tooth. But it wasn’t the end of the world for Draco, and he’d thought he’d managed to come up with enough reassurances that it wasn’t the end of the world for Harry, either.
            Draco took liquid delight in the way he reduced Harry to a moaning mess: gentle swirls of his tongue, then fast laps, then a long suck that made Harry’s hips tremble but not rise, and taking as much of his cock in as he could. Harry whimpered throughout it. His mouth was open, gasping for air, and he didn’t have the moisture on his tongue to make more noises than that, Draco thought, or the air in his lungs. He was groping his way towards orgasm, instead of speeding towards it the way most of Draco’s other lovers had.
            Maybe it was so long that he’d had an orgasm not given by his own hand that he had forgotten how they felt. Draco did his best to show him, urging him on, licking and gentling him with little gulps and murmurings, and finally Harry did take a breath that went into his chest and showed no sign of ending.
            Draco relaxed his jaw, because he knew what he wanted to do, and nothing was going to keep him from doing it.
            Harry came, in soft, mild pulses that seemed to hesitate and apologize for doing it at all. Draco swallowed, greedily, ignoring the pressure of pain on his knees and the burn in his throat as it made its way down. This was what he had wanted, for Harry to give him everything he had, and he made sure that Harry had no doubt that he wanted to be there, on his knees for him, the way that Harry had been on his knees for so many people in the past.
            Harry’s eyes shuddered open. He stared down, and Draco wondered for a second if it had been too much after all, if Harry was going to mumble and blush and turn his shoulder.
            But instead, he reached down and coiled a few strands of Draco’s hair around his finger, and puffed out, “Let me do something for you. Please.”
            Draco considered it. Then he rose to his feet, and guided his cock into Harry’s hand.
            Harry’s hand moved back and forth with far less assurance than his mouth, and he kept looking up at Draco’s face to see if he was doing it right. Draco smiled at him and nodded encouragement. In truth, the power, the pleasure, of having made Harry come was doing more for him at the moment than Harry’s feeble little touches.
            But that didn’t matter. That was still more than enough to bring the tide flooding Draco, and he was ready. He came with a groan of his own, louder than any sound Harry had made during the whole time Draco was sucking him, and sank back to his knees. Harry leaned against him, not embracing him but letting his chin rest on Draco’s head.
            “You did it.” Harry sounded awed.
            “Came with your help?” Draco smiled but didn’t laugh, knowing Harry might take it the wrong way. “Or swallowed your come?” He knew that Harry would be blushing; he could swear that he’d felt Harry’s skin grow hotter against his. “I suppose that you might think both of those are miracles.” He managed to lift his arm and reach up, dragging Harry’s head down until he could see his face.
            Harry had his eyes closed, his expression locked in lines of tight concentration. It wasn’t the result Draco would have wished for so soon after they’d had sex—mutual sex—for the first time, but it seemed to be something Harry needed to do. He fell silent and waited, caressing Harry’s earlobe and watching the way that Harry shivered without looking like he was aware of it.
*
            Harry shook, and it wasn’t Draco’s touch, or not all Draco’s touch, that caused it.
            Draco had given him so much. It made Harry want to give, want to reach out and hand Draco everything he wanted, go and buy him presents and shower him with them, kiss him and whisper to him and hand over all the Galleons in his vault. There was no word and no end for what he wanted to hand over to Draco.
            I can think of one thing that would please him more than all my Galleons.
            And so Harry said, eyes still shut, “I had a fight with Ron over my glamours. He said that I should drop them and wear my scars openly. He said they were badges of honor. I got angry at him and he left. That was why I was—thinking so hard about the paperwork that I missed our dinner.”
            Draco was silent for a second. Then he touched the back of Harry’s neck and said, voice solemn and deep, “Thank you, Harry.”
            No more than that.
            A second later, Harry realized why, with a relief that was painful and searing.
            That’s all he needs to say.
            He reached out and took Draco’s hand. They sat there, Draco kneeling and Harry leaning over him, for a long time.
*
            Meechypoo64: Thank you! Draco pushes further in this chapter, but it’s not exactly that Harry doesn’t want him to; it’s more that he doesn’t trust himself with other people.
            delia cerrano: Yes. And Harry sees that even more in the next chapter, which will hopefully be along in a more reasonable amount of time.
            Anon: Thank you!
            Taboosofreality: Thanks! Hopefully you meant the internal pace, as the outer pace has been a source of annoyance to me recently.
            80sSexKitten: Thank you! I think the intimacy between Harry and Draco might be the deepest in this story that I’ve ever done.
            Sealpotter: Hopefully not unfinished for much longer!
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Nothing Like the Sun