Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Memento Vitae	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1581 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Memento Vitae
- 2-Part Two
- 1
- 2
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            Harry was starting to think this had been a mistake. At the very least, he and Malfoy had nothing to talk about.
            They sat on the bench in front of the tomb, swinging their legs. Harry had tried to stop swinging his for a while, but they always started again, a vague, nervous habit. Malfoy had decided to sit with his fingers wound together in his lap and his mouth half-open. It made Harry keep looking at him because he thought Malfoy was going to start talking any second.
            But he didn’t. And the moments dragged on.
            It’s not going to mean anything if I don’t seize it, Harry decided, and turned around to face Malfoy. Malfoy at once turned to sit in almost the same posture, and Harry smiled. At least he wasn’t the only one who was tired of just sitting here motionless.
            “Does it matter to you that Dumbledore didn’t actually save you?” Harry asked. “I mean, he tried, but it wasn’t enough.”
            Malfoy lowered his head and stared at his lap for a second. Harry watched him, and tried not to be impatient. Malfoy probably had good reasons for doing what he did. Merlin knew Harry wouldn’t have known how to respond to that question in Malfoy’s place.
            “He did more than anyone else did,” Malfoy whispered, and stopped abruptly. Harry just sat there, because he wasn’t sure what had made Malfoy stop like that, and then Malfoy went on, slowly. “I mean—Professor Snape tried. He did.”
            “He saved me,” Harry whispered. “He was the one who told me I had to walk out to the Forest and sacrifice myself. I never would have known otherwise.”
            Malfoy looked at him, eyes wild and a little haunted. “Sometimes I think he saved me, because he kept me from making more of an effort to kill Dumbledore. If I’d succeeded at that, I would have gone to Azkaban for the rest of my life. But he couldn’t keep me safe among the Death Eaters.”
            Harry nodded slowly. “Do you want to talk about that?”
            Malfoy turned to face forwards abruptly, as if the shine of the tomb comforted him. He bowed his head. “I don’t think I can,” he whispered. “I don’t think that I—” He stopped, shuddering.
            “It’s all right,” Harry said. “There are things I don’t want to talk about, either.” He faced a little away from Malfoy and spent some time looking at the vines crawling over Dumbledore’s tomb. They had small flowers on them now, he thought. Maybe morning glories?
            He would have got up and gone closer to examine them, but that would mean leaving Malfoy, and Harry didn’t want to do that. He sat still, and waited for Malfoy to say something if he liked, to take up the silent invitation Harry thought he was leaving open.
            Finally, Harry saw something out of the corner of his eye that he didn’t think had been there before. Malfoy’s hand lay on the bench, near him. Malfoy held it rigidly, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the seat.
            Harry could ignore the invitation the way Malfoy had apparently ignored his. And Harry a year ago would have done that. Tit for tat. He wasn’t going to force his company on someone who didn’t want it or appreciate it.
            But now, revenge seemed like a silly idea. Harry silently reached out and took Malfoy’s hand.
            Malfoy jerked, and Harry tensed. There was a difference between reaching out for someone who was just sitting there and reaching out for someone who had actually pulled away from him, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have the strength for the second one.
            But a moment later, Malfoy seemed to relax, all in a rush. He swayed a little. Harry thought he’d have to catch him, but Malfoy caught himself and peered at the tomb again. Harry turned with him.
            There was nothing new there, either. But Harry was relaxing himself bit by bit, as though someone had reached up and started to massage oil into his muscles.
            He didn’t have to pull away. He didn’t have to say anything. He just had to sit here, holding Malfoy’s hand, and it would be all right.
            It really was going to be all right.
*
            Draco debated silently with himself for a long time before he went to Dumbledore’s tomb that Sunday afternoon. He had told Potter he would be there. He didn’t want to break his word.
            On the other hand, last time, he had felt more than enough chaotic emotions to last him a month. Some of them had even been stirred up by what Draco knew Potter meant as a kind gesture, taking his hand.
            The fact that some of them had later calmed down because Potter was holding his hand was not the point.
            Draco no longer thought Potter would turn on him and mock him for being weak. But Draco had to live with the way that his own mind echoed condemnation at him for being weak. No matter what Potter offered, it might not be enough to silence that part of Draco.
            In the end, Draco wandered in the direction of the tomb as if on accident, so it would be easy to back away and go in a different direction if Potter wasn’t there. But Potter was, and not sitting in some silent communion with Dumbledore’s departed spirit, either. He sat with his back to the tomb and his gaze fixed on the path Draco would have to take if he passed near, in fact. His smile was bright.
            Draco nodded when he met Potter’s eyes, and walked a few steps nearer. It was a mild afternoon, although more grey than sunny. Some bird was singing its head off in the Forbidden Forest.
            “This is the quietest time I have, now,” Potter said.
            The tone was so conversational that Draco wandered what in the world was going on. But he tried to respond the same way. “Your Housemates are all noisy?”
            “They’re Gryffindors, of course they’re noisy,” Potter said, rolling his eyes comically and drawing a smile from Draco before Draco could help himself. “But it’s more than that. They keep trying to pull me into things and make me feel included, you know?”
            “Why is that a bad thing?” Draco could only imagine a world in which Slytherin House was that genuinely friendly towards him at any stage of his life.
            “Not bad.” Potter cocked his head at the tomb. “But it’s like this. None of them know about this. They would immediately think I was missing Dumbledore, and they would feel sorry for me and assume I needed to talk about it. Then they would assume they could make me feel better with more Quidditch and more Exploding Snap and more study sessions. You know?”
            Draco did. “You want to be left alone to think, sometimes.”
            “Yes. Without people immediately assuming I’ll be sorrowful.”
            Draco studied Potter sitting upright on the bench before the tomb, watching it with calm eyes. “I don’t think you are.”
            “Right now? No, not right now.”
            Potter’s voice was deep and slow, and Draco had the impression that Potter had somewhat gone away from him, vanishing into whatever state of mind he used when they sat here. Draco had no idea what that state of mind might be right now, and whether it would be conducive to Potter taking his hand or not. The only thing he knew for sure was that Potter didn’t mind company.
            He sat down on the bench, and Potter’s eyes flicked to him once, then went back to the tomb. Draco relaxed. It was nice to know that he could be accepted this way, and that Potter wouldn’t make a big deal of it.
            They sat there in silence, at least until Potter sighed and asked, “Do you ever get tired of being around your friends?”
            “The ones I have left?” Draco felt as if he was dragging the answer up from a deep, buried place, one filled with the humming peace of the afternoon. Were bees out and tending to the flowers? Draco felt as though they should be, if they weren’t. “No. But they don’t want to spend a lot of time with me.”
            Potter didn’t nod, didn’t do anything to show that he’d heard Draco, but he did reach out and catch Draco’s hand. He held it there, playing with his fingers.
            Draco closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized it, but he had only needed that to complete the afternoon. He sat there with his heart going mad in his chest and his body relaxed and breathing easily, and it really did feel as if there were bees out, because he had the taste of honey in his throat, too.
*
            Harry flopped down on the bench in front of the tomb and closed his eyes. He knew Malfoy would be here in a few minutes. That wasn’t a problem. The problem was…
            The problem was that he felt bitter and resentful and as if he wanted to be sick, and it was no one’s fault.
            “That was a good march out of the Great Hall you did, Potter. I barely had time to finish the last forkful before I followed.”
            Harry turned blindly towards Malfoy, but didn’t open his eyes. His hands balled into fists at his side and he bowed his head. When he opened his eyes again, Malfoy was sitting beside him on the bench, watching him a little warily.
            Harry smiled at him, ignoring the way it felt as if it was etched in acid across his face. “How did I know that you would be here?”
            “Because no one else is mad enough to follow you?” Malfoy shrugged, rolled his head a little, and sighed. “And because I wanted to know what Weasley could have said to you to make you storm off like that.”
            Harry swallowed. “Nothing.”
            “I saw his lips move.”
            “I mean, nothing that should have made me react like that.”
            “That doesn’t answer the question for me.”
            Harry finally sighed, and answered as honestly as he could. “He told me that he was taking Hermione to Hogsmeade tomorrow. That was all. Honestly all. And he wanted to know who I was going with.”
            “Ah. So he caused you jealousy and angst.”
            “Yeah,” Harry whispered. This time, he focused on the small vines that braided over Dumbledore’s tomb. Yes, they were morning glories, but some wild roses had joined them. Harry wondered if someone else was coming here and using magic to make them grow. They probably shouldn’t be open yet. “And not even because I want to date Hermione or something.”
            “I should hope not.”
            Malfoy’s voice was too quick, and Harry knew the way he turned his head was too quick, too. “What?”
            “I should hope that you’re not jealous over her, when that would only cause more angst with your best friend, and you’re suffering from enough of that already.”
            Harry smiled temperately and turned away. He felt a funny little aching in his chest that was helping to calm him down.
            “I’m jealous they have each other,” he told the tomb. “I’m jealous that they get to go with someone and I don’t.”
            “If it’s just a partner to Hogsmeade you want, then I have someone in mind for you.”
            Harry groaned and leaned forwards until his forehead touched his knees. “Don’t suggest a Slytherin girl, Malfoy. I can imagine how they would bare their teeth at me, and it’s not a smile.”
            “It’s a Slytherin. But not a girl.”
            Harry looked up quickly again. He felt as though he had a melting warmth in his chest when he met Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy turned away a second later.
            “You?” Harry whispered.
            “Don’t turn it into the gift of the century, Potter.” Malfoy was still laboring to make his voice sound cold. “I just want to go to Hogsmeade myself, and I don’t feel like watching my friends walk around with their arms over each other’s shoulders any more than you do.”
            Harry relaxed with a smile. “Then come with me.”
            Malfoy flushed a little, and Harry knew, without asking, that it mattered to him that Harry had been the one to actually make the offer.
            “I will,” he said, and then they sat side-by-side, in a moment filled with rose-scent, and Harry didn’t mind. No, he more than he didn’t mind.
*
            Draco snorted as he dropped bonelessly on the bench. This was where he went for comfort? He probably should have hidden in his room and hoped that no one who’d glimpsed what Potter had done in Hogsmeade would come after him to taunt him.
            “Malfoy?”
            It was Potter. Of course it was. Draco hid his head more tightly in his hands. “Go away,” he whispered.
            “I just want to know if you’re all right.”
            That was unexpected enough to make Draco finally drop his hands. “You—you kiss me in front of Honeydukes and then you ask if I’m all right?” he asked, his voice wavering up into something shrill that made him wince. But not enough to stop. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to do it!”
            “I didn’t tell you because I thought you might stop me if I did,” Potter said, and moved up beside him. Draco looked fixedly at the vine full of blue roses dangling down in front of the tomb door (he suspected Longbottom had arranged for the vine to bloom that way, but he didn’t know for sure). Then Potter spoiled Draco’s sulk by stepping in front of him. “And I wanted to kiss you at least once.”
            Draco stared at him. Potter stared back, and the strange sensation that it was the other day and Draco was listening to bees humming among the flowers came by.
            “I wanted to know what it was like to kiss you,” Potter whispered. “To make you feel as warm as you make me.”
            Draco bowed his head. Potter didn’t go away. Draco knew his own courage wouldn’t have held out so long, if he had been the one to kiss Potter in Hogsmeade.
            Then again, his own courage wouldn’t have let him kiss Potter in the first place.
            “Do you want to talk about it?” Potter asked, as he had about Draco’s time among the Death Eaters.
            “I want to—savor it.”
            Draco flushed. That wasn’t the right word. But before he could take it back and tell Potter that hadn’t been what he meant at all, he felt a callused hand sliding under his chin. He lifted his head to find Potter smiling at him from a short distance away.
            “That’s all right,” Potter whispered. “You can savor it, and in the meantime I can kiss you again.”
            This time, he waited long enough to learn whether Draco was going to object to the plan. And Draco had every intention of doing so. He had his mouth open and his indignation poised on the tip of his tongue.
            But he rather forgot about it when Potter sucked on his tongue. It wasn’t fair, Draco thought, somewhere in the hot liquid mass his mind had become, to do that.
*
            Harry turned around and smiled as he saw Draco coming towards him. It was the week before their NEWT exams, and Harry had invited Draco to study on the bench in front of Dumbledore’s tomb. The school had finally stopped screaming as loudly about their choice of each other, but Harry still didn’t want to risk trying to study in the library or some other place indoors.
            Draco dropped down next to him, and Harry kissed him on the cheek. Then he took out his Transfiguration book.
            Draco groaned. Harry glanced at him curiously. While Draco wasn’t as dedicated a student as Hermione, he still didn’t pretend to gag at the thought of studying the way Ron did.
            “I thought we weren’t going to really study,” Draco said, and folded his arms and pouted at him. “I thought you invited me here for something else.”
            “What would that be?” Harry kept his voice casual, while he felt his muscles bunch the way they only used to do on a broom.
            “It starts with a k.”
Harry laughed, charmed as always by Draco’s refusal to just say the word outright, and turned around. Draco was sitting beside him on the bench, biting his lip, his eyes eager with all the words he couldn’t say. Harry slid his hands around Draco’s cheeks, delighting even in the way his jaw worked, and the slopes of his facial bones, and the way his eyes shone.
            His jaw, for Merlin’s sake. I must—
            The realization was bright as a comet, but not as startling.
            I’m in love with him. I must be.
*
            Draco frowned at Harry, wondering why in the world he was hesitating. Did Draco have carrots in his teeth from lunch? Or perhaps his breath smelled awful.
            But Harry didn’t have that kind of expression on his face. If anything, Harry’s expression of ringing elation was one Draco would have expected to see from someone who—
            Draco lost his breath.
            Someone who’s in love with me.
            And there was no desolate echo from the bottom of Draco’s soul about how that was impossible, and he would have to let Harry down gently, because he wasn’t in love back. There was only something strong and sincere and rising to shine like the white wall of Dumbledore’s tomb.
            “I do love you,” Draco said, and only when he heard the strange echo in the air did he realize Harry had said it at exactly the same time.
            Draco blinked and shook his head. Then he asked, “Did that just happen?”
            “It did,” Harry whispered. His hands were still there, and his eyes, and his smile. Draco could verify that his breath didn’t smell bad, at least. “You know, Dumbledore told me once that death was the next great adventure.”
            “You think he was wrong?” Draco asked it for the sake of something to say, because with his mouth still dry and his heart still rebounding, he couldn’t pay much attention to the direction it seemed Harry suddenly wanted to take the conversation in.
            “I think I missed something he was implying. Life is a great adventure first.”
            And then Harry kissed him, and Draco kissed him back, and he felt as though he could leap off the bench and soar over the trees even though he was only sitting here and holding Harry’s wrist in his hand and Harry’s tongue in his mouth, and the blue roses hanging over the door of the tomb nodded in time with the chuckling breeze.
            The End.
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Memento Vitae