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Saved	By : squirrelchaser Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2029 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

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The
Malfoy estate was unlike anything Harry had ever
seen. He�d been invited to all the swanky parties by the Duchess of this and
the Minister of Magic, sure, but this was bigger. The outside, the inside,
seemed white, pristine, and unblemished. Like Draco�s
skin.

This
was what Draco took for normal; it was what he was used to, and it made Harry
want to kick him for his immunity to extravagance.

Their
footsteps seemed overly loud as they walked into the front hall. The whole
house was waiting, silent.

�Father
was in Azkaban,� Draco said unnecessarily.

Harry
hadn�t forgotten the lines on the Daily Prophet, at the bottom of the front
page: �Lucius Malfoy, dead
at 44.� The short article went on to say he�d committed suicide in his cell.

�Where�s
your mum?�

�She�s
dead,� Draco said flatly.

Life
was cruel and ironic; now Draco was an orphan. Harry had to smile into his
hand.

It
was odd being in Draco Malfoy�s home. Harry could see
ghosts of his childhood: the pictures on the walls, the keepsakes, and
knickknacks that remained in his bedroom.

The
first night, Draco lay asleep but Harry slid out of bed and padded out into the
hall. The walls seemed to whisper, and the secrets of generations of Dark
Wizards curled invisibly through the halls.

He
crept into the master bedroom, knowing full well he had no right to be there.
The bed was framed by long white curtains and draped with a deep blue
bedspread.

There
was a series of pictures of Draco, gauging his growth throughout the years,
lined up in his Mother�s powder room. He had been a smiling, chubby baby; his
eyes had been light blue when he was very young. His features lost their
roundness around the age of six, and had fully sharpened into what Harry had
come to recognize at Hogwarts at the age of eight. The sneer started when he
was about seven.

The
dresser held an array of crystal bottles, and a heavy, silver backed hair brush
with long, pale strands of hair that was exactly the same shade as Draco�s.

His
mother had been beautiful if not vain, Harry thought, as he held his wand up to
the pictures that sat next to the brush. Draco had gotten his nose and eyes
from his father, the dark lashes and eyebrows from his mother. His lips looked
like his mother�s, too. The sneer had been from both of them.

The
stairs were wide and slick marble, with a long carpet down the center. The
house was cavernous when cloaked in the darkness, almost lonely when Draco was
not there to guide him.

Harry
crept to the dining room, lighting the lamps with a flick of his wand so that
it seemed bright as day. Before him was a vast table, easily seating twelve,
the perimeter edged with plush, elegant looking chairs. Above the table was
twinkling chandelier.

�Goblin
made,� said a voice behind him.

Startled,
Harry whirled.

It
was Draco, of course, leaning on a pillar, his normally sleek hair disheveled.

�I
couldn�t sleep,� said Harry.

�Obviously. I thought maybe you�d gotten lost on your
way back to bed.� Draco brushed past Harry and perched on the edge of the
table. �Kiss me,� he said.

Harry
did so.

Draco
laid back, dapples of light from the chandelier above illuminating his face.
�Kiss me again.�

Maybe
it was because it was late at night that his senses were heightened, maybe it
was all the observing and looking he had done earlier. Harry started to hear
and feel everything.

The
table was cool and hard under his knees as he paced forward on all fours like a
cat, bearing down on his prey which lay back meekly, eager to be hunted and
ravaged.

There
was the squeak of sweaty skin against burnished table top, Draco�s
palm and splayed fingers leaving damp streaks which dissipated almost
immediately. The way his spine curved as he arched up, slowly, cat like,
curling to Harry�s own body vertebrae by vertebrae. Draco�s
skin, pale, glowing, and ethereal against the deep, rich brown mahogany wood,
laced with red and golden undertones. The high pitched gasp when he first
penetrated, the way Draco�s dark eyebrows knitted and
his forehead creased as he hung his head back in pleasure.

It
was things that must have always been there before; Harry had just never
noticed. He�d never cared enough about the person below him to notice, until he
saw Draco, and he was entranced.

�What
do you like?� he whispered. He watched carefully, learned quickly to see how he
could make Draco make that sound again.

They
lay on the cool, smooth surface of the table, staring up at the chandelier.

�So
now that you have everything, what are you going to do?� Harry asked.

�Try
and forget that I have it,� Draco replied. �Let�s leave tomorrow.�

Harry
had never been to Paris, but he�d heard about the snobbery. He
assumed Draco would fit right in.

The
Portkey delivered them at the doors of an enormous
black marble and glass building, edged at the corners with gold. The Muggles on
the street seemed to walk right by it, jostling them on as they pushed past on
the street.

�Um,
can we do this? Can you do this?� Harry said nervously as they made their way
through enormous, glass and gold revolving doors into the lobby way. On the
other hand, maybe that was a stupid question. He was a Malfoy.
They probably owned the sodding hotel.

Draco
jabbered quickly away in French to one of the bell boys who came scurrying
forward, pulling out a couple Sickles and dropping them into his palm. He
turned to Harry, looking amused.

�Why not?�

�Well,
uh,� Harry was about to say they didn�t belong, but really, it was just he that
felt he didn�t belong.

Gesturing
widely around the lobby, Draco guided Harry to a set of elevators. �It�s mine.
At least, half of the top floor is mine.�

There
was no one else on the elevators but them. Harry stood facing the heavy gold
framed mirror on one side, staring into it just so that it reflected back and
forth between mirror directly behind him. He looked
lost in a never ending hallway.

�It�s
the only all wizarding hotel in Europe,� Draco told him, hands in his pockets as
he stared at the ceiling. �Father helped finance it. Here we are,�

The
elevator doors slid open into a suite; it must have been a private elevator.
The carpet was so thick Harry felt as if he sunk in to his ankles. Everything
was green, gold, and cherry wood.

The
trunks had mysteriously arrived before they had. Draco flicked his wand,
flopping down on the sofa, and the contents began to fly out and into drawers.

�Hungry?�
He asked lazily. �We could order in, or go out and see what there is.�

Lunch
was in a Muggle caf� a few blocks away from the
hotel. Harry was surprised Draco had chosen it; it seemed too simple and quaint
for Draco Malfoy�s eloquent tastes.

�So��
Harry peeled a layer off his croissant, and rolled it between his fingers.
�What have you been doing this past year?�

At
least there was no need to tell Draco about his
year. The Daily Prophet made sure the entire world knew.

�Please
stop playing with your food,� Draco said mildly. �This past year?� he repeated,
taking a gulp of exceedingly strong coffee, and leaning back in the spindly
black chair. �I�ve been finding myself.�

The
answer was determinedly evasive.

�And it led you to my doorstep.�

Draco
smiled. �Yes.�

�Why?�

�Many reasons. You�re the one thing I could never have.�

Harry
scowled. �I hate you; you�re an ass.�

The
smile grew broader. �I know.�

�So
now that you have me what will you do?�

Draco
shrugged. �Live. Watch you live. We both need it. Neither of us have done it
yet, really.�

For
a moment, Harry opened his mouth to say that he lived; he�d killed Voldemort, what more could there be? Then he realized he
didn�t know what was going to come after that, and it scared him.

For
some people their age, �living� meant �drinking,� and �nightlife.� For Draco,
and by extension Harry, it meant seeing the Louvre,
the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame.

�I�d
never seen all of this,� Draco said as they walked quietly through the Cimeti�re du P�re-Lachaise.
�Father didn�t like the whole Muggleness of it all.
He didn�t want me to be immersed in their culture.�

�I
never pinned you to be one for art and stuff.�

�I
love Oscar Wilde�s work.� Draco stopped at a grave, and ran one finger over the
stone. �Grief and loss makes you look at things differently.�

Harry
didn�t want to say he�d never read any of Wilde�s work. Instead he tried to
picture Draco grieving, really crying. He�d seen him cry once, but that was
right before he tried to curse him and they ended up destroying a bathroom. It
was hard to imagine Draco thinking deeply about anyone except himself.

�People
change, Harry,� Draco said quietly, stepping back onto the stone path. �Some for better, others for worse.�

They
wandered back to the hotel and sat at the bar in the hotel restaurant, Harry
with a half empty dry martini in front of him, and Draco with an untouched
glass of cognac. A man in a business suit and pinstriped cloak sat a few stools
down from them, twirling an empty glass in front of him. His shoulders were
hunched, and there were bags under his eyes, but his hair was parted severely
and slicked back, shiny under the overhead lamps.

The
bartender asked if he wanted a refill, but he shook his head.

�That�s
my greatest fear,� Draco said in a low voice, with a nod to the man.

�What
is?�

�Being successful and alone forever.�

�Maybe
he�s not alone,� said Harry.

�Maybe
he is,� Draco countered.

Harry
was right.

A
little girl in a frilly white dress came in clutching her mother�s hand, her
young face lighting up, a smile revealing two missing front teeth.

�Daddy!�
she cried.

Tiredness
fled. The man stood, scooping up his daughter who shrieked with laughter as he
twirled on the spot. His wife came demurely forward, kissing her husband as he
perched the little girl on one hip.

�Ew, Daddy,� she giggled.

�Ooh,
you�re getting to big to pick up. And it�s way past your bedtime,� he said,
chucking her under the chin. From their accents, they were American. �But you
and Mommy have had a long trip.�

�Come
on, let�s go,� Draco said to Harry, dropping a handful of coins on the table top.

Something
had changed in Draco; Harry could feel him shrinking away into himself.

�Harry?�
Draco gasped, as they stumbled out of the elevator toward the bedroom, Harry
suckling at pristine white skin.

He
mumbled something unintelligible back as he opened another shirt button,
pausing to let Draco scramble backwards onto the bed. He could guess at what
Draco was going to talk about, and he didn�t want to think or hear about it; it
hurt. Peeling off his shirt and throwing it aside, Harry sprung onto the bed crouching
over Draco and dropping little kisses along his jaw and neck.

Draco
gave up, and then there were only the sounds of damp skin moving on damp skin
and bed sheets.

�Harry,�
Draco said again, with more finality, as they lay curled to each other,
satiated.

�Yeah?�

�If
you had to pick, which would you want: boys or girls?�

Harry
had never thought of having kids at all, and he said so.

�Not
ever?�

He
shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, trying not to reveal that he hadn�t given a
thought or a damn about his future. �I never had parents. I wouldn�t know what
to do.�

�I
had parents and I wouldn�t know what to do. But I still want them.�

The
next Portkey delivered them on a beach, the sand so
white it was blinding under the high afternoon sun. Harry looked to his right,
to his left; there was nothing but impossibly clear blue water frothing up on
the sand as far as he could see.

A
short stretch in front of them, past a banking of sea oats, was a large,
sprawling wooden beach house.

There
was a jingling sound as Draco fumbled with his key chain, searching for the
right one, then a scraping sound as he fitted it into the lock.

The
house was quiet, peaceful, patiently waiting for them. There were soft,
overstuffed lounge chairs, light blue shag rugs scattered over brightly
polished wood floors, and delicate, elegant sea shells. The bedroom all was
cream colored carpet, with a massive bed piled high with lacy, snow white
pillows and enormous windows that looked over the ocean.

�Mother
decorated,� Draco said, as his trunk floated down to rest at the foot of the
bed.

�It
looks nice,� Harry said.

That
night it stormed, black ocean boiling angrily as
lightning cracked the sky; the whole house seemed to shake in its brave stance
against the wind and rain.

Harry
and Draco curled under the sheets, watching the storm, and completely
untouchable. Draco lay against Harry, the top of his head under his chin.

�So
how�s Pansy?�

�Parkinson?�
Draco said mildly. �I don�t know; we haven�t spoken in years. How is Ginny?�

�I
wouldn�t know,� Harry said dryly. �Has there been anyone else?�

�There
was no one to begin with.�

The
answer was so blunt, so painfully honest it made Harry squirm, feeling as if he
had to say: �There�s been lots of others��

�Naturally.�

�You
don�t mind?�

�Couldn�t change it if I did. You still had nothing, everyone thought you
had everything; I had nothing, when it looked like everything. We had nothing
to loose. You couldn�t hate me anymore than you did already.�

That
much was true.

Harry
rubbed his cheek against the top of Draco�s head. �I
still hate you.�

�I
know. Of course.�

By
the morning the storm had calmed, leaving the sand stirred and messy, a mix of
shells, branches, and creatures thrown from their homes.

�I
don�t like sharks,� Harry informed Draco as he waded into the water.

�They
probably don�t like you either,� Draco told him, rolling up his pant legs a
little higher. �Too prickly, and you don�t taste good.�

�That�s
not what you thought last night,� Harry said. �What is this place anyway?�

Draco
smiled. �It�s mine, including the water you�re
standing in.�

There
was sex in Draco�s water, on the beach, in the sand. Draco�s skin and hair were nearly the same color of the
sugar sand, except when the dying rays of the sun fell over him he glowed.

Instead
of walking back to the beach house they wandered down the narrow road which ran
parallel to the beach, barefoot, holding hands. An old couple passing by saw
them and looked scandalized.

Draco�s hand was long and slender in his own. Harry laced their
fingers and lifted the sleeve of Draco�s shirt: the
skin was smooth and pale and perfect.

�Touch
it,� he said, knowing what Harry was looking for.

Sight
was deceptive. In his flesh there was the hard, smooth outline of a skull and a
snake, the scar tissue hard and palpable just under the surface.

�Why,
um�why aren�t you in Azkaban?�

�The
Dark Mark faded when Voldemort died,� Draco squinted
into the sun. �So no one could say for sure I was a Death Eater. No deaths to
pin on me.�

�But
what about Dumbledore�?�

�Snape took the fall for me. He�s in Azkaban now. We never
came here often,� Draco said, chewing his nails and looking out on the ocean. �Too many Muggles.�

The
villa in Italy was in an all wizarding
village so Draco knew his way around it a little better, but mostly they stayed
on his property.

Harry
had returned from the market, carrying the makings of dinner, and was searching
the villa for Draco, who would do most of the actual cooking. He peered out the
kitchen window and caught sight of him in the back of the enormous garden,
which was bursting with vibrant flowers and eloquent curling vines.

Draco
had his wand out as he levitated a large white object, placing it here, then
there, then picking it up again and letting it hover while he thought.

Harry
had never been one for gardens; mostly when he saw flowers he also saw Aunt
Petunia�s bony face over them, snarling that that they would be trampled if he
moved an inch forward. Dutifully, he made his way down the narrow stone path,
which encircled a small lily pond.

�What�re
you doing?�

A
life size marble statue of Madonna and Child hovered at the edge of the pond.

�It
came just today; Father wouldn�t have tolerated it. What do you think?� Draco
said breathlessly. �Among the water lilies or,� he moved the statue over to the
edge of the path, �In the front of the gardenias?�

Harry
didn�t care where it went, but he wondered what Draco was doing with a
religious figure. Had they not been in the garden Harry would have thought
there was to be some sort of sacrilegious act; perhaps Draco planned on putting
it in his bathroom and hanging towels on it. At the very least it was because �
and only because � they were in Catholic Italy, because the statue was
expensive, and because Malfoys could and liked to
acquire expensive items.

�Er,�

�Or,�
Draco said softly, face becoming distant. �Among the roses.
Mother�s favorite.�

The
statue settled gently down under an archway woven with red roses.

�I
like it there. It�s in memory of her.�

Harry
wasn�t sure if Draco meant the Virgin or his mother.

Draco
stood with one hand in his pocket, wand held loosely in the other at his side.
His eyes were soft and sad.

�Her
name was Narcissa,� he said softly. �But she loved me
more than herself. That�s why she died.�

Harry
wasn�t sure what to say. He was staring at the Virgin�s face, which looked so
tender and virtuous it made him want to pray, but then he realized he didn�t
know how. He wondered if Draco did.

�Come
on,� he said at length. �Let�s have dinner.�

There
was wine, food, and rough, drunken sex. There was sober, gentle sex, as the
wind blew the gauzy white curtains so that they licked over Harry�s bare back
as he thrust into Draco, who wailed in Italian. Harry hadn�t known Draco could
even speak Italian. He wanted to hate him for it, but found that he couldn�t.

�I
feel like this is a dream. Let�s stay here forever,� Harry whispered as they
lay entangled in bed sheets, Draco�s head on his
chest as they stared out over the vineyard.

�We
can, if you want,� Draco said.

Harry
had never felt so warm and alive, as if he were one of the plants in the
vineyard behind winery, invigorated and nourished by the constant stream of
sunlight. The smells were richer, the colors brighter. He was amused to see the
faintest dusting of freckles form across the bridge of Draco�s nose, marring his flawless complexion.

It
was too good to be true. It was surreal.

�Just
so you know,� Draco said, after a month long stay. �The last Portkey expires tomorrow, and we�ll have a much bigger hell
of a time getting back into England than we will getting
out of it. Harry,� he said softly when Harry looked back out at the lush
greenery wistfully. �We can always come back.�

Harry
just nodded.

The
sky in England seemed greyer than ever when they returned,
the food tasted blander, the days were longer and
boring. Harry�s spite returned, a poison that curdled
his relationship with any human being he�d ever encountered. He could feel it
rushing through his fingers like the white sand from the beach, his
relationship with Draco, and he wanted to catch and hold it to his heart, but
didn�t know how.

They
were sitting on the back steps of Harry�s flat eating sandwiches when Draco
said,

�So
I �spose you want to go back? Paris? St. Lucia? Italy?�

�I
hate you, you know,� Harry said out of habit, but he didn�t mean it anymore.

�I
know,� Draco replied, out of habit. �So just pick. When do you want to leave?
You don�t seem happy here.�

�I�m
not happy anymore at all.�

It
was the biggest lie he�d ever told. The last few months he�d spent with Draco
were the happiest of his life. But for Harry �I hate you� was so much easier
than �I love you.�

Draco
paused.

There
was the silence, which felt so desperate and awkward. It never occurred to him
that Draco felt silence was just another part of conversation, and to fill it
he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

�I
mean, I really hate you.� Harry wished he could curse himself as soon as the
words were out of his mouth, but he didn�t know how to take them back.

It
was here, standing in front of him. This was everything he knew he was missing.
The debt the world owed him had been repaid, the
revenge against Draco he�d lusted after had been achieved many times over. He
knew Draco had changed; he knew he was the one who was wrong, bitter, alone,
and it was his own fault.

Looking
at him very seriously, Draco put down his sandwich. �If, Potter, you tell me
you don�t love me, I�ll go. If you tell me you never want to see my face again,
I�ll go.�

But
his own malevolence at himself was bubbling in Harry, so thick and hot he thought
he�d vomit liquid fire.

The
words came from a deep, dark place Harry didn�t know he even had; from the
bitterness that had stewed ever since he�d killed Voldemort,
when he�d accomplished the greatest thing he�d ever do at the ripe old age of
sixteen.

�Alright,
how�s this: you�re nothing to me. Why would you be? You came into my house,
into my bed. I don�t hate you. I don�t love you. I just don�t care.�

If
Draco had cried, raged, pulled out his wand and cursed him, Harry would have
felt better. He wished Draco would have fought back, screamed at him that he
hurt him, broken his heart. Harry had heard it all
before from crying females, as a bra strap slid down one shoulder and black
eyeliner ran in rivers through fast melting foundation, but before he hadn�t
cared.

Instead,
Draco went very quiet, the light in his grey eyes went
out. For a full minute he sat in silence, and Harry thought he�d get to see
Draco Malfoy cry.

But
he didn�t. He didn�t say anything as he picked up his trunk, still unpacked, in
one hand � not levitating it with his wand � and walked quietly to the door.

I
didn�t mean it, Harry wanted to cry out after the
receding head and shoulders. Come back, Draco, I didn�t mean it! You�re fine,
no, you�re perfect. The world loved me, Boy Hero. Now I�m a man and no one
does, except for you, but I can�t let go. I don�t even know what I�m holding so
desperately onto, but it�s sinking and I�m drowning, too stupid to even take
hold of your hand when you offer it.

Help
me. Save me.

The
words wouldn�t come, and his front door shut with a click.

You
can�t. I have to.

Harry�s
throat closed and he felt like he couldn�t breathe.

I
can�t.

Even
in death, maybe Voldemort had won after all.

The End
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