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The Same Species As Shakespeare	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16108 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 17
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- 19
Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Eighteen�These
Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

�� Harry woke
alone.

�� He opened
his eyes slowly, wincing from the unexpected stab of a beam of moonlight
straight into his face. Then he turned his head from side to side, and found the
grass beside him empty, the grass beneath his feet empty, and the chairs at the
table empty. His hands were still bound above his head.

�� Harry
half-shut his eyes again and forced himself not to react with the panic and
loneliness that wanted to surge through his veins. He was a trained Auror, and
he had been in worse situations than this. Besides, he had not forgotten the
way the magic had brought him what he wanted last night (or early this morning;
he had lost all track of time with the motionless moon and stars overhead). He
concentrated, and a shower of silver dust fell on his bonds and weakened them,
letting him sit up.

�� His wrists
tingled fiercely, and for long moments Harry concentrated on rubbing them and
didn�t think about anything else. Then he stood with a small shake of his head
and staggered back towards the table. His limbs were stiff as they always were
when he spent the night on the ground. He�d been asleep for some hours then, at
least. He knew that much.

�� And then he
smiled as he remembered that he could solve one problem, at least. He pressed
his palms flat against his knees and willed magic into them. The aches in his
muscles flowed out and into the ground like water. Harry tilted his head back
with a sigh and clasped his hands above his neck, stretching them and flexing
his fingers. He could feel the last of the pain leave him.

�� The pain in
his body, at least.

�� Had Draco
abandoned him here? Why? Looking about, Harry could see no sign of him or the Clearstar
broom, and any depression his body might have made at rest in the grass was
long gone. Harry reached out, and a flagon of fresh water appeared on the table
to his desire and his hand. He sipped, slowly, whilst he considered what had
happened.

�� Draco could
have left for no common reason. On the other hand, considering the isolation of
this place from the rest of the wizarding world, Harry doubted he could have
received word from his father. And leaving Harry�who was his bodyguard�behind made
no sense if he�d been attacked by the imposter. Neither did not leaving word
make sense.

�� So the best
guess was that he�d been frightened by something that had happened during the
lovemaking last night. Harry emptied the flagon and nodded with some
determination, then sat down in front of a slice of thick white cheese that had
appeared in the middle of the table. The phoenix song was rising again, though
more subdued than he had heard it last night.

�� And that
left the question of what that thing had been�a question Harry didn�t think he
could answer yet�and how he was going to leave.

�� The phoenix
song adopted an urgent tone, quivering in his ears like a harpstring, and a
swift glow of purple light formed around him. Harry smiled slowly, holding back
the emotions that wanted to crash over him with the sheer pressure of his own
mind, and spread his arms out, cocking them like a bird�s wings.

�� In moments
he had risen from the ground and hovered above the table, the magic obeying his
unspoken wish that he not go higher for now.

�� Did Draco know about this? That he didn�t
need a broom to come here?

�� Harry
doubted it. Otherwise, he surely would have brought Harry down this way, to
impress him the more and enslave him with�what? What did Draco imagine Harry
needed that he had not already given to him?

�� For a
moment, the image of what might have been stained Harry�s mind. He pictured himself
and Draco swooping down hand in hand, their gazes touching as much as their
fingers, their eyes then returning to the island below. Yes, Draco would have
brought him that way, if he�d had any notion of it.

�� But he
hadn�t.

�� Harry rose
higher and higher, his body swaying slightly, his lonely gaze now taking in the
island, the table, the chairs, the inlet of moonlit water around the table, the
peace in which he and Draco had dined. Yes, this was a wondrous place, and he
never would have known it existed if not for Draco. He wondered if he could
understand Draco a little better if he thought of his soul as contained in the
beauty here. Had he borrowed from it, or from his understanding of it, to shape
the beauty that was his houses?

�� But such
thoughts could not push back the emotions for long. Harry thought of Draco�s
potential, of the choices he could make, and of what might have happened if he
had come to such an important crossroads alone.

�� He could
not think on it. The implications were too large, too demanding.

�� He rose
further into the air, magic and warm wind alike caressing him, and a silvery
tear opened in the sky ahead of him, taking him where he wanted to go.

*

�� Draco
leaned back and closed his eyes. In front of him stood a post owl, carefully
nibbling on the piece of bread he had offered it from his own plate, and beside
it lay a rustling paper that he feared as much as he had feared the letter from
the first patron who hired him as an architect.

�� Bitterness
twisted within him, and he could not even say whom it was directed against.
That was the first time that had
happened, too, in many years.

�� But he had
made the only decision he could have, and the shock of doing so would pass in
time.

�� Draco rose
and opened his eyes. He wanted to visit his room beneath the Manor, the one
that contained the relics of Potter and had taught him what Potter would look like
in defeat. He would soon have the chance to compare the expression on the face
of the portrait to the expression on the face of the real one.

*

�� Harry
appeared outside the door of his flat and spent a moment leaning against it
before he removed its wards. His back prickled and emotions rasped up and down
his throat like waves of tears that could not be shed. His mind reeled towards
comprehending what Draco might have
done, the enormity and the breadth of it, and then turned away again,
shuddering.

�� For a
moment his hand dug into the door, and then Harry drew it carefully back before
he could gather splinters under his nails. He really had no proof. Draco might, after all, have heard something
from his father or Snape, and Harry knew he cared for Snape if not for Lucius.
Harry could manipulate the magic of that place, but he was not a pure-blood,
and there might still be hidden channels of communication in it that required knowledge
as well as will to use.

�� Until he
knew why Draco had left, he would not think the worse.

�� But on the
other hand, he could not bring himself to go back to Malfoy Manor. Not yet. Ron
was there, and he could serve as a guard to Draco, and, for that matter, to
anyone else in the house if someone had happened. He was not as good with
spells as Harry, but that would matter little against someone as skilled with
magic as the imposter was. And he would protect the Malfoys or Snape until he
died, no matter how much he might hate them. Harry knew Ron�s heart and how he�d
grown in the past few years. Revenge was no longer as important to him as
protecting the innocent.

�� He stepped
towards the perch he kept for visiting owls and noticed there was already one
there, plucking scraps of meat with a Preserving Charm on them out of the bowl
at the end of the perch and bolting them. Harry reached out a hand. It
trembled. He drew it back and breathed carefully until he could pick up the
folded bundle the owl had brought him without dreaming that it contained news
of Draco�s death.

�� But it was
not a letter. It was the Daily Prophet,
which Harry had not read in some weeks, thanks to their preoccupation with
talking about Penelope and the sordid facts she�d carried from their shared bed
to Rita Skeeter�s eager ears. Harry wondered for a moment why the owl had
delivered it now. Sometimes, in the past, he�d taken the paper again when he
could be reasonably certain that people had lost interest in the scandal, but
he couldn�t remember leaving those orders this time.

�� And then he
saw the headline, and he stood very still. For a moment, a whirlwind of black
and red devoured his vision, but it passed, and he saw the headline again, and
the picture beneath it, pale and sharp-featured and fair.

BOY HERO �A GENTLE, TREMBLING
FLOWER� IN BED:

Draco Malfoy Reveals All

�� Harry
looked again at the photograph. It showed Draco tossing back his head and
laughing, his head framed against a square, sunlit window. It must have been
taken this morning, Harry thought; this was the evening edition of the Prophet, now that he thought to check.
Draco had left him on the grass and gone straight to�yes, Skeeter�s byline was
on the article.

�� Harry
closed his eyes. The whirlwind had not come to him again, but now he swayed on
his feet as if he�d skipped two meals. The water he�d drunk earlier threatened
his throat and mouth in a molten, bitter mass for a moment. Then he staggered
forwards and put his back to the wall, fingers putting dents in the page as he
read.

�� It was with considerable pleasure that I sat
down with Draco Malfoy this morning. This supremely talented architect,
survivor of the war against You-Know-Who, and half-orphan, following the tragic
loss of his beloved mother and his father�s retreat from the world, now has
another distinction, one that he�s eager to explain and exploit.

�� I never really expected to lie down with
Harry Potter,� he told me, drinking a delicate white wine that filled the room
with sweetness. �I certainly never expected to lie down with him underneath
me.�

�� Then he prefers the submissive posture?�
This was a detail I have pursued for long and patient years, as my dear readers
will know, but in vain. His first lover would speak only coyly, and his lovers
willing to be truthful since then have mostly been women.

�� Prefers it?� Mr. Malfoy laughed and put
down his glass. I was glad to see him in such fine spirits. He deserves it,
after everything he has survived. �It�s necessary to him. I bound his hands,
and he moaned. Then he thrashed when I started removing his clothes.� He leaned
forwards, and I knew I was about to be the recipient of a great confidence, as
I was just a few moments later. �You should have seen his eyes. Eyelids
trembling, neck strained back, hair tousled around his head�but the most
unforgivable thing was his eyes. I could see passion and desire and fear
rushing through them, and I truly believe he would have wet himself if I walked
away then. Who knew the Chosen One was a gentle, trembling flower in bed?� He
shook his head in wonder and reached for his wineglass again.

�� Harry
licked his lips. His throat was so dry, and there was a heavy, dark buzzing in
his ears. He relaxed the grip of his fingers, which threatened to tear the
paper before he could read the article fully, and continued. He couldn�t have
looked away if Draco had walked through the door at that moment, apologizing.

�� Unforgivable? That seems an odd word to use.�

�� Mr. Malfoy snorted and again set the
wineglass down. I would have thought him nervous, but I could imagine what work
those hands had had, to coax and settle a nervous hero, and I could not blame
him. �Of course it is, but Harry Potter is an odd person. A hero�and I have to
admit that he played the part as well as anyone could have.� An unusual
bitterness twisted beneath the surface of his voice, but I believe I can reveal
its source to my loyal friends. He was thinking of his mentor, Severus Snape,
who was a hero during the war by some accounts that might be trusted, but has
never been honored for it as he deserves, in spite of my arguments to the
contrary. �But underneath, he�s so soft. So easily breakable. And he never seems to realize that baring that
weakness could get him in trouble. He has to guard himself, given his
celebrity. But he doesn�t.� He snorted and then gave me a lascivious grin. �Look
at the way he tumbled into bed with me.�

�� Brightness.
The haze Harry was seeing the article�s words through was as bright as the sun.

�� Would you care to give me some details of what
Harry Potter�s like in bed, other than gentle and trembling and willing to have
his hands bound?�

�� He likes to have the skin behind his ear
bitten.� Mr. Malfoy winked at me. �Of course, I don�t know if anyone else will
ever get close enough to him to try that after he sees this article, so let�s
see what else I can tell you.�

�� I hastened to reassure him that of course
Mr. Potter would have to understand and become reconciled with him. The natural
curiosity of the public about its heroes� sex lives has to be taken into
account.

�� Mr. Malfoy chuckled softly and toyed with
the stem of the wineglass. I feel sorry for everyone who has not seen him as I
saw him in that moment, gazing moodily out the window in my office. There is
something indefinable about those eyes, silver as mist on a February morning,
and his hair shines quite nicely, too.

�� He also likes being endangered, as well as
bound,� Mr. Malfoy said then. �He let me close to him when he had to have some
suspicion of me because of our legendary rivalry in school. He let me do things
that could have caused him pain, even if they didn�t. It appears that he�s just
panting to roll over and let someone else take control.� He paused and pinned
me with a bright gaze. �Imagine what might happen among Britain�s criminals if they
know that they only have to threaten him, instead of the innocents he goes mad with protecting, and he�ll melt
like ice to their touch.�

�� Harry
blinked. There was something light and wet on his cheek, and he lifted a hand
to touch it, but that caused the side of the paper to dip, and he couldn�t read
the words on the level anymore. He had to pick it up again, and let the wet
thing trickle down his cheek unnoticed.

�� I murmured that it was certainly very
shocking, and what else could he tell us about the way the Chosen One liked it
in bed?

�� Rough,� said Mr. Malfoy. He licked his
lips, and I could only envy the pleasures he was reliving. �For all that he
also appreciates gentleness, and you�d need a little of it to melt him. I was
pounding him so hard that our skin squeaked, and still he kept tossing his head
and gasping and begging me for more.� He paused thoughtfully. �He might, for
that matter, melt if you pushed him into the wall, whether or not you�d
threatened him beforehand.�

�� I laughed. �That�s certainly a delightful
thing to imagine. I don�t think there�s a wizard or witch in Britain who hasn�t
dreamed about shagging our hero.�

�� Mr. Malfoy�s tryst with Mr. Potter must have
been wonderful indeed, because for a moment I caught a glimpse of an emotion I
would have called jealousy on anyone less gracious in his eyes. But he shook
his head, and it was gone in the next instant. I am confident it could not have
been real. Mr. Malfoy is freely sharing information about Mr. Potter�s favors
with the world, after all, instead of keeping them in the privacy of his head
or their bed.

�� He likes to be touched on the spine,� said
Mr. Malfoy. �On the shoulders. On the stomach. His breathing would deepen and
quicken when I merely brushed him there. For that matter, he would inhale
sharply when I touched the back of his hand.� He flashed a smile, bright and
malicious and utterly charming. �Can�t you imagine what must have happened to
cause him to be that touch-starved? I�ve heard his Muggle guardians didn�t
treat him well. And he must bear the marks of those scars on his soul.� He
uttered a wistful little sigh. �If I had been able to touch it and mark it in
the same way, then I would have counted myself well-satisfied.�

�� And more than this he revealed, much more.
But, my dear readers, you must wait until tomorrow to read the rest of it. A
lady never tells all at once!

�� Harry
folded the paper and laid it down�or tried. He�d moved away from the table in
the entrance without realizing it, and so the Prophet dropped limply to the floor. Harry breathed noisily through
his mouth for a moment, looking out the window at the gathering light of
sunset. He felt emotions battering at him, tearing at the walls he�d built up
against the realization that Malfoy was anything other than what he seemed,
what Harry had wanted him to be.

�� Ron was right. He did have revenge in mind,
and obviously, this was his way of taking it.

�� Harry
laughed wildly for a moment, until he clapped a hand over his mouth. He bit the
center of his palm, savagely, several times, and began to struggle against the selfishness
that wanted to drown him.

�� He couldn�t
just feel what had happened to him, horrible though it was to realize that the
scandal would be dragged across the front pages for days and days. He had to feel
what had made Malfoy do this, what had made him disobey and deny the potential
Harry sensed so deeply embedded in him.

�� The wave of
emotions broke upon him, and Harry realized it was pity for Malfoy, an ocean�s
worth of it.

�� He was trying to destroy me. He put too much
effort into this for it to be a simple revenge plot, and he was too obviously
pleased that I was infatuated with him. So, yes, he probably hoped I would
crumple to the floor and sob my heart out, then lock my bedroom door and refuse
to come out for months. He probably hoped I would never love again, or
something equally as nonsensical and melodramatic.

�� Harry began
to smile. He had the feeling that the smile would look rather distended if he
confronted it in a mirror, but he had no mirror in front of him right now, and
the thought tearing through him was desperately sorrowful, desperately pitying,
desperately proud.

�� He doesn�t know me very well, does he?

�� Harry
lifted his wand in the air and cast the spell that would summon one of the many
available post owls in London. Then he turned to find the things he needed.

�� Ink.
Parchment. A quill.

�� Words.

*

�� You�ll be
having company soon,� Draco told the portrait of Harry that hung in the center
of his relics room, and drained the glass of wine he held. �I imagine that he�ll
send me a Howler for my betrayal, as he sees it, and I�ll save that with all
the rest. The final mark of his broken heart.� He paused thoughtfully. �Or
maybe not the last. I might take a few photographs of him trailing about the
city with his head bowed and put those in here to join you.�

�� The portrait
lashed him with a look of loathing that would have made Draco afraid, if he
were one of those superstitious fools who believed painted people could leave
their frames and enter the real world. The painted Potter bowed his head and wrapped
his hands around his eyes and mouth.

�� You�ll
see,� Draco said. �It�ll be glorious. You�ll see.�

�� He set his
wineglass down abruptly and stood to pace about the room. Harry�s Howler was
taking far too long. Surely he could not have spent that much time asleep in
Avalon.

�� Draco
stopped pacing and drew a deep breath. He didn�t like the way he was reacting.
He didn�t like the hollow sound in his words when he spoke to the portrait, as
if he were trying to convince himself. Even the interview he had given to
Skeeter sounded less pleasant in his memory than it had been when he gave it.

�� But he
could not question his revenge. He had made the only possible choice he could.
He could not sacrifice himself, all of himself, for anyone, let alone Potter.

�� Then the
soft swish of an owl�s wings announced a visitor. Draco raised his head,
grinning, and trying to ignore the uncomfortable edges that the smile carved
his mouth into. He had relaxed the wards enough that owl post could find him
here in this room, just for the afternoon. It was not as though the bird would
report anything to anyone.

�� The
envelope it carried was plain, though, without a trace of the red color and
smoking trail that a Howler would leave. Draco raised an eyebrow as the owl
dropped the letter over his head and he caught it handily. Perhaps Harry had
sent him a broken-hearted missive telling him he understood and begging Draco to
take him back. That would be even better.

�� Draco
nearly tore the single sheet of parchment inside in his haste to get the letter
open. He paused and forced himself to count to fifty�though he cheated, and did
it by fives�before he began to read.

�� Draco:

�� You thought that this would destroy me? How
stupid of you. I�ve had lovers go to the papers before, and I�ve always
survived it. Not only is your revenge pathetic, it�s not even original.

�� I have to thank you, though, for breaking
your hold on me the one way you could: through disappointing me. You haven�t
betrayed me, not really. You�ve betrayed all that�s best in you, your own
compassion and honor and pride and dignity. And having done that, you have
nothing left. You might imagine you�ll go on to a new phase of your life now, one
where I don�t trouble you, but in reality you�ll always be doubling back and
licking your revenge and whining like a lapdog sucking an old nappy.

�� I�m wounded, but I�ll heal. You�re
hollowed-out, and you won�t. Everything you gave me was given unwillingly,
making the best of a bad bargain. Everything I showed you was a gift.

�� I�m sorry for you, Draco, really. It must
hurt to know that you�ve thrown away the best thing in your life. With all that�s
befallen me, I�ve never done that.

�� Harry Potter (I still am that, with all that
you did to make me yours).

�� And the
world changed for Draco as inevitably and suddenly as though the walls of his
room had fallen in on his head.

*

�� MewMew2:
Thank you! Sorry this update was a little slower.

�� Thrnbrooke:
This was Draco�s plan.

�� linagabriev:
It�s sensible to be worried about Draco, because Draco is stupid when it comes to himself and his emotions. But the events of
this chapter, I think, have forced his unconscious motives into his conscious
mind, and now they�re staring him in the face.

�� Harry�s
explanation for the imposter gets a little twist soon.

�� And yes,
Draco is psycho in the scary way, but maybe now you can start to have a little
vicarious revenge.

�� FallenAngel1129:
You never know, with Draco.
- 17
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- 19
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The Same Species As Shakespeare