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The Conservation of Fame	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 22392 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this story.

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Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Seventeen—Dating Draco Malfoy

            “And one, and two, and three…”

            Harry pried one eye open, and then turned his head and opened the other. He had to gape at what he was seeing, and frankly, he didn’t think one eye was going to do it the justice it deserved.

            Two small owls fluttered in the center of his bedroom, their wings spread and their talons clutching a pure white banner with shining red letters in the middle of it. Harry could make out his own name, in the largest letters of all, but not more without his glasses. He sat up and fumbled for them.

            Only then did he notice the third owl, drifting above the other two. Its beak opened and closed, and Draco’s voice came out of it, smaller than usual, but otherwise perfect as always, bright and sharp as a polished knife.

            The banner, once Harry got his glasses in place, said, Happy anniversary of your freedom, Harry. Harry had barely read that much when the owls began to sing, all of them in Draco’s voices, and eerily in tune with—something. Harry didn’t recognize the tune of the song, actually, though he knew that wouldn’t stop him from enjoying it.

            “You have your freedom, and you’re longing for more. But what are you going to do for an encore? You’ve controlled the minds of everyone in the wizarding world. And you say that your secret will never be unfurled…”

            There was more, but Harry lost the words of the song because he was laughing too hard to talk. He leaned back against his pillows and laughed for at least a minute after the owls had ended their song. He supposed it was rather close to the day four years ago when he and Hermione had worked the spell and no one had known who he was any longer. Trust Draco to notice that when he was sorting through those old newspaper clippings.

            The third owl landed on his arm while he was still wiping tears away from his eyes. Harry held it up in front of his eyes and smiled at it. “Tell your master that I enjoyed the performance,” he said.

            The owl, nearly as small as Pig, leaned forwards and gently nibbled the bridge of Harry’s nose. Then it took off and flew out the window, while the other owls ducked back through the door, still carrying the banner with them. It was looking rather ragged from the holes that their talons had made in the top.

            Harry shook his head, smiled, and cast a Tempus Charm. Around seven in the morning. He wondered if part of the reason Draco had sent the owls this early was to test Harry and see if he would object.

            Harry shrugged. Being woken out of sound sleep with a singing message, no matter how silly, was a little different from waking up to a Howler. He didn’t know how he was going to answer it yet, though, and spent some time thinking about that while he showered, got dressed, ate breakfast, and did some more weeding in the gardens.

            By the time that Perseus came to visit with an execrable sonnet from George in praise of Harry’s “cleverness,” Harry knew. He offered Perseus several tempting treats to carry a small package to Draco, and by the time that Perseus had finished hooting excitedly and devouring them, the ham sandwich with precisely the right amounts of tomato and mustard was ready. Harry wrapped it up carefully and attached it to Perseus’s leg.

            Perseus brought a note back near sunset. Thank you for the sandwich, Harry. And I expect to see you at the Manor tomorrow morning. I’m having breakfast in the gardens while the elves tend to them, and I would value your professional opinion.

            Harry shook his head over the note, and smiled.

*

            “Thank you for coming.”

            Only when he heard Draco’s voice did Harry realize how fearful Draco had been that he wouldn’t come today. Not that he would categorize it as fearful, of course. More like “properly guarded and careful when it came to his maniac of a lover.”

            “You’re welcome,” Harry said, and bounded down the last of the marble steps into the garden. It was beautiful out here, with nearby flowerbeds all organized around certain colors, so that red roses and carnations nodded on one side, and white roses and ghostly orchids of the kind Harry had bought in Diagon Alley on the other. Harry wondered for a moment what it meant that Draco had chosen white and red, and then dismissed it. Other than red being one of the colors of Gryffindor, he couldn’t think of any immediate significance.

            Draco rose from his seat at the end of a table between the flowerbeds and held out his hand. Harry came and took it, stroking the sides of Draco’s palm and grinning up at him before he bent his head to kiss the diamond ring Draco wore.

            “Wanker,” Draco whispered, but he was smiling.

            He wore robes that matched the white flowerbed on his left, Harry’s right, and there must have been a subtle touch of other color to them, too, because he looked as if he were simply a part of the bright gardens rather than washed-out. He guided Harry to a seat on the other side of the small round table, white and made of some shining metal that Harry hadn’t seen before, which wasn’t cold to the touch but so warm that he nearly leaped back up in surprise as he sat down.

            “Thank you,” Draco said again, and took his seat. Food began to appear on their plates: a salad that looked as if it were made of emeralds, apples that could have been living rubies, bread halves like broken diamonds, small bowls of butter and cheese that gleamed like gold or at least like lamplight. Draco toyed with a fork and stared at Harry. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

            Harry got up, stepped around the table, and put his hands on Draco’s. Draco blinked up at him and stopped toying with the fork.

            “You don’t need to be this nervous,” Harry said quietly. “I’m not going to attack you. I promise. I can swear an Unbreakable Vow or at least make a promise on my wand if that’s what you want, if that would help. I’m not going to get up and storm out of here in a rage.” He wondered a little that Draco could be so nervous when he was the one who had chosen to test the boundaries of their relationship by sending the singing owls to Harry, but he thought he understood after a moment’s more thought. The Manor was the site of their huge quarrel, and Draco had to suspect that Harry had bad memories when he walked through the doors. Memories from the war, even, which he hadn’t known when he first brought Harry here.

            “I don’t think you’ll walk away,” Draco said, and laid the fork down precisely beside the plate. “I wonder whether this is a good idea. You think you’re the only one who worries for his possessions and his home, Harry?”

            Oh. Harry blinked and sat down on his chair again, although he moved it close enough to continue holding Draco’s hands. He had thought Draco was over that sort of nervousness when he gave Harry the key to the wards, but perhaps he was making a gesture he hoped would be returned rather than anything else.

            “I can still promise that I won’t hurt anyone or anything,” he whispered, and smoothed his hands up and over Draco’s wrists. “And you really don’t have to be this nervous. It hurts me to see you that way, Draco.”

            Draco raised his eyebrows. “It does?”

            Harry nodded. “Uncertainty, confusion…they don’t look good on you. You were born to take command, as I’m sure your ancestors would agree.” He grinned at Draco and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

            Draco’s hands came up and seized control of the kiss, redirecting Harry’s mouth to his. Harry parted his lips, and moaned in approval when Draco crushed him close and nearly tipped salad off the plate onto his white robes. Draco kissed him until Harry felt he would melt like the butter, and then leaned back and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, watching him closely.

            “I didn’t think you would let me do that,” he murmured.

            Harry shook his head. “I understand why you want to do it, and I’m learning to trust you,” he said. “That’s a lot different from the people who broke into my house and tried to consume me.” He shuddered.

            “Are you afraid of them?” Draco murmured, letting Harry slip slowly through his fingers and back to his seat as if he thought that he would collapse if Draco let him go too fast. “Those fans of yours?”

            “Yes,” Harry said, and sat down and stretched, touching his lips with one finger and letting Draco see the smile that still lingered on his face. “They can come up, together, with more strategies for hurting me than I can come up with for preventing them.”

            Draco hummed under his breath, but said nothing about it for a moment, instead intent on serving Harry with forkfuls of food off his own plate. Harry closed his eyes in delight as he ate some of the salad. The lettuce broke between his teeth with crisp sounds like crunching snow, and the bits of onion and egg and tomato squeaked before exploding into sweetness or tartness, as appropriate. Wherever Draco got his tomatoes, they were even better than the ones that Harry bought and grew.

            Then he opened his eyes again, because he found that he didn’t like to go that long without looking at Draco.

            Draco, who was cutting up one of the apples to feed slices to both of them, looked up with a faint smile. “Is something wrong?”

            “No,” Harry said, and reached out and ran his hand down Draco’s solid arm, touching a muscle here, a ligament there, and then just pausing and digging his fingers into skin for the sheer pleasure of it.

            Draco let loose a fierce, pleasant rumble, eyes fixed on Harry’s face. “You shouldn’t do that again unless you want a repetition of what happened in the dining room the last time you were here,” he said.

            Harry smiled, to show that he appreciated Draco’s distinction between dining room and bedroom, and took his hand away. Then he lounged back in his chair and opened his mouth, curious to see what Draco would do.

            Draco smiled back and finished cutting up the apple, down to fussily peeling off the skin with the paring knife. Then he stood up and came around the side of the table. He pushed the apple slice into Harry’s mouth unhurriedly but inexorably, rather the way that Harry thought he would push his cock in.

            Harry accepted it with open lips and lapping tongue, the way that he would try to accept Draco’s cock, and veiled his eyes with his lashes so that he looked up at Draco between them as he ate. The apple was delicious, but the look on Draco’s face as he watched Harry eat it surpassed the taste entirely.

            “I don’t know that I can hold back,” Draco whispered, and leaned forwards to kiss him, letting his lips touch the corner of Harry’s mouth lightly, so lightly, as if he were afraid that he might damage something. Then he leaned back and watched him with narrowed eyes, his hands tight fists at his side.

            Harry blinked at him. What are you waiting for? he wanted to ask. Perhaps Draco was afraid that any passion Harry experienced would result in random bursts of magic and put his flowers in danger.

            Then he knew, and he smiled and reached out to take Draco’s hand with one of his, smoothing it until Draco’s fingers fell open helplessly. “I want it, too,” he said, and turned his head to the side, bowing it, so that he could lay his cheek in Draco’s palm and wait for what Draco would do next.

            Draco shoved him, promptly, and Harry fell across the table and felt something sticky clog up his hair, probably one of the cakes that he thought he had seen Draco’s house-elves bringing out of the corner of his eye. He laughed up at Draco, until Draco covered Harry with his body and kissed him until it was fall silent or choke on Draco’s tongue.

            Harry hummed and caressed Draco’s hair with one hand while Draco bit his mouth, his neck, his cheeks, and his chest, pulling Harry’s shirt down and almost ripping it to do it. Then Draco stood back and unbuckled his belt. Harry swallowed and opened his mouth, this time making sure that he perfectly mimicked the way he’d looked, or thought he’d looked, when he was waiting for Draco to feed him the slice of apple.

            Draco’s cock emerged long and shining, but painful-looking, and he stepped up and put his hand on Harry’s head as though to prevent him from withdrawing. He still rubbed himself across Harry’s lips several times, though, and avoided his darting tongue, before he gave a helpless-sounding grunt and pushed in.

            If he’s helpless, that makes two of us. Harry had never felt this way before, and he had a fleeting thought that some of it came from the way Draco held him down, and the sheer angle of his head relative to Draco’s groin.

            But more of it came from the pulsing goodness in him when Draco touched him, and his thoughts of the way Draco had touched him since he got here, and the key to the wards, and the way he had waited. This was Draco, not any of his past lovers under false pretenses. This was someone he could love.

            So he opened his mouth wider, and took in so much that Draco groaned and vibrated on his toes, trying not to trip over the table’s legs, and sucked. Harry paid close attention to the sucking, the way he never had before, shifting his head to the side and relaxing his jaw and making sure to leave his tongue unpredictably longer in certain places than others. He knew he was drooling, knew the saliva was running down from the corners of his mouth around Draco, and didn’t care.

            Draco got both hands into his hair and yanked on it. Harry draped his arms flat across the table and hung onto the sides in response, and so Draco managed to pull him further forwards but not so much that he choked.

            Draco stared at him with eyes that blazed molten excitement, and Harry stared back and gave a defiant little suck. That just made Draco push in, and down, and hold himself there while he came, a rustling moan shooting out of his mouth.

            Harry licked and sucked and swallowed, and reached down with one hand to touch his own groin, finish himself off. Draco’s hand got there first, though, stretching out flat in the air and rebounding Harry’s like somebody keeping him from reaching for another chocolate biscuit.

            “No,” he said quietly, in a tone of voice that Harry couldn’t really define, never having heard it before. “This much is mine, I believe.”

            Harry blinked at him. Then he let his hand fall to the side, and stared up at Draco, and licked his lips—as much to watch the way that Draco’s eyes followed his tongue as anything else—and smiled.

            “Yes,” he said. “It’s yours. I’m yours.”

            Draco’s mouth was promptly back on his, so devouring that it hurt. Harry didn’t care. It was more exciting this way. And he liked the feeling of knowing that he had given Draco something he wanted, and he even liked that he’d succeeded in saying that after shying away from it in the past because other people had tried to claim that they owned him.

            I can belong to other people if I fucking want to. I just choose who.

            Draco’s hand curled around him, and held him, and held him up, and roughly stroked him. Harry couldn’t last long enough for Draco to open his trousers, if he’d even been aiming for that. He came instead, and the rush and the brokenness of it were as exciting as the way that Draco curled his hand around him and then pressed his other hand flat against the spreading wet spot, as if he wanted to feel it all.

            And the whole time, Draco’s eyes blazed, watching him.

            He bent down after Harry had finished and kissed him wet and breathless, then tugged him off the table and laid him down on the ground. A flick of his wand had some of the more persistent nagging aches, like the one in Harry’s jaw, cleared up, and then Draco began taking off his shirt.

            “I’m not done with you,” he said, conversationally. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have tried to turn you into a stone statue. It would be boring not to have you made of flesh.”

            Harry laughed aloud and rolled over, hands reaching out, snatching. And Draco met him with his shirt still dangling around him, greed for greed and want for want, until they were rolling on the ground and there was a stone in the middle of Harry’s back and his legs ached from spreading them wide and he had a jammed finger from likewise gripping Draco’s legs and spreading them.

            If this is a typical date, both of us are going to be really fit before the year’s out.

            And then Harry didn’t care, because God, Draco could kiss.

*

            SP777: Harry might actually let Draco help him if he thought they could do it alone. But he thinks it’s just too big a task for both of them.

            And Draco will keep pushing and prodding on the spell, and he might start to change Harry’s mind, a bit.

            unneeded: Hee! You made me smile. I think honesty is the best virtue they can practice right now, you’re right.
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The Conservation of Fame