Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 21
- 22
- 23
SUMMARY: Events surrounding the Delacour-Weasley wedding.

WARNINGS: dynamic D/s, RACK BDSM, mild exhibitionism, sapiophilia, drama, sap, sex magic (gratuitous sexual content as follows: a few blow jobs, fingering, rimming, first time anal-oral sex, a dash of erotic humiliation, first time anal, unprotected sex galore, service-top!Draco, submissive!Draco, Dominant!Harry, bottom!Harry, slutty!virgin!Harry)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 20k chapter, here. Important shit goeth down this episode: attention must be paid. I challenge my finesse, romanticism, wizardry of words. Mediocrity will not be tolerated. Who cares if it's just a fracking porno? It's my porno. I'll make it Pulitzer-worthy if I want.

CONSCIENCE:

ERÔMENOS

Leaving Draco alone in bed had been the hardest thing. He was just going downstairs to floo-call Hermione but that didn't really matter. It was the fact he had to drag his ass out of bed, put on pants and a shirt and force himself down an entire flight of stairs while Draco lay lonely and naked in their bed. He'd sat there at least ten minutes, holding the man in his arms, loving his warm breath and slow pulse as he dreamed. As if Harry could feel any worse, Draco's face had pulled into a pout the moment he rolled out of bed. Even Hermione yelling at him for floo-calling fifteen minutes late had no comparative effect. She was currently berating him for telling Draco about the Prophecy and he couldn't be arsed. It wasn't that he didn't care about his mission to defeat Voldemort—far from it! He just didn't need to be yelled at for his decisions. The last thing he needed was another lecture, more doubts thrown his way. He redoubled his efforts, tuning back in to Hermione's rant.

“...all I can say is thank God you didn't tell him any more than that!”

“Hermione,” Harry spoke up, “I told Draco everything. The prophecy, the Horcruxes, absolutely everything. We don't have secrets.”

Except for the tiny fact that you're shipping him off to Hogwarts—alone—for his own protection, shouted a voice at the back of his head. It was drowned out by a hundred other little voices reminding him that Draco was strong, a survivor, and could tolerate being alone. And he himself would have to head to Hogwarts at some point to consult with Professor McGonagall. Draco wouldn't really be alone. They'd always be together... somehow. He'd figure something out. Maybe he could arrange a floo into the Head Boy's chambers so they could at least sleep in the same bed each night.

Oops. Hermione was yelling at him again. He tried to focus but it just sounded like the same argument on a loop. Her points drifted in and out of focus, worn as thin as Harry's patience.

“You can't... Dumbledore said to only tell... He's not trustworthy... Why aren't you here with everyone else—your real friends? You see how he isolates you from us? That's not right, Harry, and you know it!”

“Hermione, just stop, okay?” Harry had a hand braced against the library fireplace as he leaned his face into the flames. His other hand fisted in his hair, yanking hard. He wasn't sure why—maybe to relieve pent-up stress? Or maybe because pulling his hair reminded him of Draco.

“Wha's goin' on?” said a commanding voice from behind him.

Surprised, Harry jumped about a foot in the air, his knees leaving the hearth all together and his head cracking hard against the mantlepiece. He swore loudly, pain blooming at the back of his skull. Touching his head gingerly, his fingers came back bloody.

Draco rushed over clad in nothing but Harry's dressing gown, his hair returned to platinum blonde. He produced his hawthorn wand from the robe's pocket. He dropped to his knees beside Harry, one hand bracing his broad shoulder as he fussed over blood-matted black hair, examining the wound. He quickly cleaned and healed it with a series of nonverbal spells.

“Harry?” Hermione's voice wheezed from the fire as though from very far away. “What's going on?!”

“I hit my head,” Harry said loudly, aiming his voice toward the green flames. He turned immediately to Draco and caught him up in a lingering kiss. With Draco kneeling almost behind him it was awkward but neither boy minded. Harry pulled back a fraction of an inch, Draco sleep-thickened lips still brushing his own.

“I hope I didn't wake you when I came down here,” Harry whispered, practically rubbing his face against Draco's.

“No,” he replied just as soft, catching Harry's lips once more before pressing their foreheads. His hand still held the back of Harry's now healed head, carding fingers through his incessantly messy hair. “I just... you weren't there an' I figured yeh'd floo before we saw them tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. Tomorrow was Bill and Fleur's wedding. He'd spent all of dinner drilling Draco about protocol, asking how he was supposed to act and what, if anything, he might be expected to do. Draco called him a bloody muggle and explained all about wizarding wedding customs. Now Harry felt mildly prepared instead of walking utterly blind. More than anything, he didn't want to do or say anything to embarrass Draco. The hardest part would be not touching him. It seemed like they were always touching, now.

Hermione called his name from the hearth. “Are you alright?”

With a sigh, Harry pulled away to put his face in the fire. Draco's thin hand trailed to the center of his back, massaging gently to help him keep his cool.

“I'm fine,” he told Hermione. She was sitting by the fire at the Burrow and he could make out Mrs. Weasley's homey kitchen behind her. “I cracked my head on the mantle but Draco healed it.”

“Oh,” Hermione huffed. “He's there, is he?”

“Yes, Hermione. He's here. He's always here,” Harry rolled his eyes. “You're gonna have to get used to it, 'cause he'll be there tomorrow.” And every damned day after that, Harry thought with a grin. Draco tugged on the back of his shirt. “Just a sec, 'Mione.”

Harry pulled his face from the fire, turning to Draco.

“What?”

“Wha's her problem?” Draco asked blandly. He'd tied the dressing gown very lazily, indeed. Most of his chest was exposed along with his legs all the way to his upper thighs, the sprinkling of scars and fine blonde hairs shimmering in the green fire light.

“Hermione and I are having an argument about the Horcruxes,” Harry said plainly, loud enough for Hermione to hear. There was a solid and disgruntled sniff from the fireplace. “She doesn't think you ought to know. Even though, if she was going to risk her life for something, I would have no problem with her informing Ron.”

“Tha's a very logical argument, sweetheart,” Draco replied, his comforting hand migrating to Harry's shoulder. “Ya seem ta have forgotten tha' yer friend is, in fact, a woman. Logic may not be applicable here. May I?” The blonde gestured to the fire. Hermione was undoubtedly livid on the other end but Harry scooted back so Draco could kneel in the hearth and address the irate woman.

“I acknowledge that yeh an' Harry 'ave been friends fer many years,” Draco said evenly, bending from the hip with his hands folded neatly in his lap despite the fact he wore nothing more than a dressing gown. “Years during which I was his enemy. I can very easily understand why ya would distrust me, as I harbor many similar sentiments toward ya, yer man, an' his family. An' yeh yerself are too smart not ter sell me out if it's in yer best interest. I respect tha' intelligence an' cunning. But this is not 'bout ya. It's not 'bout Weasley, myself or our colorful collective history. This is 'bout Harry. Ya trust him, or ya don't. Ya take him at his word, or ya don't. Ya believe in him with every fiber a' yer miserable bein', or ya don't. This is black or white. There is no middle ground; ya can't pick an' choose, only supportin' him when it is convenient ter ya. If tha's the kind a' friendship yeh offer in his time a' need, then I am glad he's learnin' a' this now an' not when it's too late.”

“Ya think on tha', Granger. Wonder Boy needs his rest. We'll see yeh at the ceremony.”

Draco ended the floo communication with a quick wave of his wand, not bothering with a proper goodbye. As it was, he barely had time to get his head out of the fire before it leaped back to orange, yellow and gold, the logs crackling with the sudden release of magic.

“Do you really think that?” Harry asked quietly, snaking an arm around Draco's waist, pulling the man back against his chest, heated from the fire. “You do realize you're expecting my friends to be bloody perfect?”

“Wonder Boy, I thought they were,” Draco said seriously. “I always thought ya had the most perfect little life; everythin' handed ter ya because a' who ya were. Yer perfect friends, yer perfect Quidditch game, yer perfect body an' even tha' perfect cock a' yers. But the truth a' the matter is—yer entitled ta perfection. Ya deserve nothin' less. An' ya know how upsettin' it is ta me when Gryffindor's Golden Boy doesn't get wha' he deserves.”

Harry snorted a laugh through his nose, holding Draco tight and nuzzling the back of his head.

“And do I deserve someone ballsy enough to stand up for me against Hermione Granger?”

“No, yeh don't,” Draco drawled quietly, mischief in his voice. “But consider tha' demonstration my petition ta chair the Potter Fan Club. I'll even sit beside tha' nasty little bloke with the camera. I suppose Weaslette has resigned as Secretary but I'm sure we'll find an eager replacement soon enough. But, as chairwizard, I do reserve certain rights ta yer person.”

“Such as?”

Draco's reply was to knock Harry onto his back, pulling his shirt off and yanking down his boxers in a series of swift, impatient motions. Shucking his dressing gown, he seized Harry between the legs, kissing powerful thighs even as the dark haired man attempted to clamp them shut in embarrassment. Draco cast two quick nonverbal spells, one lubricating the hand on Harry's equipment and the other... well, by the feel of it, Harry wouldn't need to visit the loo until morning. He squirmed at the upsetting sensation. Draco's mouth venturing closer and closer to a very unusual place didn't help his sudden case of the jitters.

“Draco, stop,” he complained, still trying to close his legs.

Draco did not stop. He set his wand aside to grip Harry's muscular legs, spreading them with a fearful combination of gravitational advantage and dead force.

“Why?” he asked playfully, his returned-to-blonde head delving lower. “Yeh like it.” He licked Harry very privately and green eyes slid closed in incapacitated, discomfited pleasure.

“If Hermione floo-calls back, she'll see us!” Harry groaned as his boyfriend's lips moved quite steadily, alarmingly southward.

“If Granger has the nerve ta floo-call after tha' epic tellin' off, she deserves whatever she gets.” Draco paused a moment, pensive eyes trained on Harry's pubic hair, his lips brushing Harry's perineum as he spoke. “Actually, no. She doesn't deserve ta see—tha's an honor quite beneath her.” He slid his hands to the backs of Harry's knees, pushing his legs up nearly to his chest. He urged Harry to hold his legs there, still licking and kissing brawny thighs, returning his lubed hand to stroke Harry's fast-growing erection.

“Yer so beautiful like this,” Draco whispered softly. “Exquisite... but strong, too. So strong,” he babbled, free hand exploring the musculature of Harry's back and hips. “From the inside out. No one else sees ya like I do, feels ya like I do. They don't have the right. No one else can do this ter ya. It's my right ta please ya. An' I take my right.”

He licked Harry's entrance and the man started to shake, grunting low and deep in his throat, dark head smacking hard against the wood floor. Harry was so tight. Draco could barely gain entrance, attempting to push his way in with a slick finger. He only made it in to the second knuckle before Harry's body clamped down hard and swift, spectacular muscles shaking, trying to force him out.

Harry wailed at the intrusion—still so unfamiliar, so invasive and wrong. It was humiliating to have another person's face down there, to be violated with lips, fingers and tongue. And yet he couldn't ignore that, on some level, it turned him on. He grunted, unable to ignore his conflicted feelings any more than his mounting arousal. Draco continued to palm his cock, massaging his thigh and then the side of his ass, encouraging him to relax into it. Harry could not relax.

When he exhaled, Draco penetrated him more forcefully. He growled and hissed as Draco's long finger moved inside him, working the muscles there like he worked the fabled knots of Harry's neck and back. He wanted it to feel good but his body clearly had other ideas. That sharp, stinging sensation along with the whole unnatural factor kept him squirming.

“Breathe,” Draco whispered breathily, lips moving against Harry's skin, his hole.

“Can't,” Harry panted.

“Shh,” Draco shushed him. “Yeh gotta relax, jus' let it happen.”

He rotated his finger and Harry jerked violently. Gods, it burned! How could Draco tell him to fucking relax when it felt like he was on fire from the inside out? Would he bleed... down there? Draco knew what he was doing, but....

“Gaaaah!” Harry's tailbone lifted off the floor as he scrambled to get away. Draco had inserted a second finger and had the nerve to spread them. He withdrew his lips to kiss and bite Harry's thigh, rotating his fingers viciously. Harry felt a third finger ply him and that was fucking it. He was putting his foot down.

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Hands on my cock. Use your tongue.”

“Yesss,” Draco hissed in agreement, removing his wet fingers so they could fly to Harry's cock. He worked Harry with both hands, sliding one loose fist and then another down his shaft—a move he'd learned from Harry their first time together. Draco was hell-bent on making him come and that was fine by Harry. It meant he wouldn't be expected to... fuck. Physically, he wanted to right then. Anything having to do with Draco's bits sounded bloody fantastic. Just the thought made his dick throb in the blonde's expert hands. But there would be no sex of that nature. At least not tonight. Draco standing up to Hermione had really impressed him and this raunchy display was certainly something... but deep down he sensed Draco wasn't committed, emotionally. He wouldn't go all the way until Draco went with him. This newborn intimacy they shared would have to be enough.

“Do it!” he insisted. Draco was stalling.

Draco let out a long, lusty sound before closing his mouth over Harry, driving the slick muscle of his tongue with as much force as a finger, perhaps more. Draco's tongue felt different; better, somehow. More intimate. The probing fingers had made him feel like a dead frog or a science project. Now, it was like Draco was kissing him. He started to tingle where Draco's mouth met his body, tingling inside and out.

Harry wailed and panted as Draco roughly and thoroughly tongued him, Draco's little moans of pleasure making it that much better. He couldn't help the filthy, squelching and guttural sounds that escaped as Draco worked him harder, tongue sliding and probing wildly, trying to absorb the taste of him. Soon he began to move unconsciously, rocking his hips against Draco's mouth, gasping in great, needy pulls that sucked his pouty lower lip into his mouth. He slid his feet to the floor, taking some of the tension from his legs. Hands freed, he gathered fists full of Draco's silky hair, twining thick strands around his fingers and giving a series of rough tugs. The blonde was rock hard and leaking precome onto the floor, hips working furtively against the air as he fucked his lover with his tongue. Okay, Harry thought. I can get used to this.

“Yes, Draco,” he growled. “Do it. Eat me. Fuckin' eat me!”

Draco sucked, pumping Harry's cock with a sharp articulation of the wrist that traveled the length of the shaft from base to tip, not neglecting an inch. The blonde lowered himself completely to his stomach, hissing into Harry when his own unattended cock met with cool, hard floor and his discarded dressing gown. He rutted helplessly against the fabric; short, nasal whines escaping him. Harry felt his entire body hum with Draco's noises, calling forth a gravel-like groan from his own throat.

He began to tense, first from his stomach but soon it shot through his groin all the way to his toes. He felt his body clench around Draco's tongue, trapping it. Draco let loose a choked wail, hips smacking the hard wood as he looked for friction anywhere he could get it. Harry pressed his feet onto Draco's smooth ass, pinning him to the floor even as he arched, pushing himself into that beautiful face that did such wicked, dirty things to him.

“You're gonna come with me,” Harry told him, not sure if the blonde was coherent enough to process speech but not particularly caring. He stroked Draco's ass with the arch of his foot. Relaxing as much as he could manage, he ground himself on Draco's tongue.

He grunted again and again from the very lowest part of his stomach, sounding like some kind of wild animal. He felt like a wild animal. He used his fists in Draco's silky hair to drag them flush together, twisting his hips and thighs to get as much contact as possible with Draco's sweet, unassailable tongue.

“Yes, Draco,” he mumbled. “Yesyesyesyesohyesssss....” He bellowed something unintelligible as he came fast and hard, spilling over Draco's hand and onto his chest. Draco rocked his tongue, working deep inside him, encouraging one last mighty shout before those moments ran out.

When he yelled a second time, Draco came. That sexy, choked-off grunting sound emanated from the man between his legs, vibrating every part of him from the inside out. Harry watched narrow hips buck against the floor, working for friction until Draco, too, was blissfully spent.

Harry used his hands in disarrayed blonde hair to invite his boyfriend up off the floor. Draco hauled himself on shaky arms, collapsing against Harry's chest with a trembling sigh.

“Wow,” he whispered weakly, a gentle hand idly stroking Harry's side. “I think I need a cigarette.”

“Er, me too,” Harry mumbled. He embedded both hands in Draco's disheveled, sweaty tresses, fingers locking together and pressing, cradling Draco against him.

“Yeh don't smoke,” Draco observed.

“I could,” Harry shrugged.

“Yer too perfect,” the blonde sighed after a moment.

“I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment.”

“Can't it be both?” Draco lifted his head to look at Harry, his eyes big and bright in the firelight. His hair and skin glowed gold, damp with sweat. The air smelled of him.

“May I kiss you?” Harry asked, not knowing why he was suddenly shy.

Draco rolled his eyes before removing his hand from Harry's side, sitting up between his legs. Draco extended his Marked arm out in the air, silently summoning his wand. Harry had never seen Draco do that before. The blonde first cast a silent Cleaning Charm on his hands, then another for their bodies. He gave a quick wand flick toward his face, then another. His mouth opened, jaw working as though there were an uncomfortable sensation suffusing his mouth. He swallowed dryly before tossing his wand aside. Propped up on an arm, he gazed down at Harry.

“Cute,” Harry muttered, reaching to drag Draco back down for a kiss. The blonde backed away from him, an affronted scowl crossing his handsome face.

“I mos' certainly am not,” he protested.

“You are,” Harry insisted, sitting up like a shot to capture Draco in his arms. He pressed their foreheads together, arms pinning Draco's to his sides so he couldn't get away. “You're adorable—I promise I won't tell anyone. But I would've kissed you without the Cleaning Charm.” To prove his point, he took Draco's mouth in a passionate kiss, drawing out the man's fantastic tongue and plying it with his own. Draco moaned softly, melting into Harry's embrace. His arms snuck around the other man's waist.

Harry pulled back from the kiss, just to see Draco with his eyes shut, leaning wantingly toward him, seeking his mouth.

“Did you really mean what you said before?” Harry asked quietly. Draco's eyes stayed closed as he continued to search for Harry, following the sound of his voice and then the warmth of his breath. Harry lowered himself back, forcing Draco to follow until the blonde was on top of him. At last, Draco's lips found their mark.

“Every fuckin' word,” he said firmly. “Yeh gonna kiss me or what?”

~ * ~

They'd woken up horribly late and the subsequent minutes had been a frenzied blur. Harry vaguely remembered standing mostly naked in the bathroom attempting to drink coffee and shave at the same time, Draco beside him with a straight razor to his own face. Infinitely more practiced, the blonde had finished first and downed the rest of Harry's coffee. Harry worked slowly and carefully, preserving the side burns Draco had created and not cutting himself once.

The next thing he knew, he and Draco stood in the bedroom, fully dressed and waiting for their portkey to activate. He needed to get his Apparition license, if only so people would stop treating him like a kid and sending portkeys every time he needed to travel. He was sure Draco could side-along him across the Channel. Draco could probably side-along him to China and back without breaking a sweat. Because Draco was amazing.

Harry looked the blonde over again. He'd seen a few old-fashioned wizards dressed this way—Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge—but Draco really pulled it off. He wore his tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and tie. The only thing decidedly wizard-like about his appearance was a long cape lined in pitch-black silk draped over his shoulders and secured with an ornate silver tie pin he'd found in the attic. The pin wasn't too fussy but at the same time the design was far too refined to have been Sirius' taste. The pin had probably belonged to Regulus or some other relative. With his glossy platinum hair and perfect, peaches-and-cream skin, Draco belonged on the pages of Witch Weekly as an advertisement for wizard's cologne or something.

Harry examined his own apparel. For the first time he was actually comfortable in dress robes. No bow tie to choke him—not even a full collar! The light-weight navy material formed a mandarin collar with a large notch at the front, exposing part of his throat and the fitted shirt beneath that contoured the collar, crisp white poking out to separate the dark colored robes from his light skin. Draco had given Harry's cuffs a little tug, saying the shirt should poke through there as well. The robes were more fitted in the torso and sleeves, tapering to a series of fully functional buttons at his wrists. He was supposed to undo the buttons and magically fold up his sleeves at the meal. Proper wizarding table manners were a big mystery, filled with gestures and spells Draco had rattled off from memory. Draco's suit jacket had the same type of workable buttons and he assured Harry that he and every other male guest would roll their sleeves at the appropriate moment and Harry wouldn't miss the cue. A pair of dark linen trousers kept him cool beneath the layers of fabric. He figured it would be warm in France and the ceremony was taking place outdoors but the linen was also a matter of comfort. A suit with no tie was about as dressed up as he liked to get. Draco had nailed the dress robe situation with startling accuracy. Harry couldn't be more grateful.

“Any minute na,” Draco muttered, adjusting his tie with one hand, his other glued to the portkey between them.

“You look great,” Harry said, taking Draco's free hand so he would stop fussing with his immaculate black tie. “Relax. It'll be fine.”

Draco fixed him with a pointed look and a blustery sigh that puffed his pale cheeks, giving Harry a momentary whiff of coffee, sugar and Draco.

“It's a wedding, Draco. Bill and Fleur's wedding—none of their guests would be rude enough to say anything about your being there. You're my date. We'll just keep in back and stay quiet, like we planned.”

Draco nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. No one will say anything to you, anyway, Draco thought bitterly. You're Harry Bleeding Potter. You can quack like a duck and they'll sing your praises. Me? I'll be stared at like a fucking freak show.

Harry sensed Draco's frustration. He closed the distance between them, linking their fingers and touching noses. “Baise-moi,” he whispered.

Draco nuzzled back with chortling a sigh. “I really don't think we have time, mon lapin.”

Harry caught Draco's lips in a chaste press. “No time for a kiss?”

Draco's eyes slid closed as he silently chuckled at his hopeless boyfriend. “Tha's not wha' yeh said.”

“I thought basier was 'kiss,'” Harry pouted.

“It is,” Draco tried hard not to let his laugh escalate. “But the command 'kiss me' is Embrasse-moi. Baise-moi means 'fuck me.'”

Harry blushed up to his ears. “That makes no sense, though,” he protested, face scrunched in embarrassment. The fact that they hadn't engaged in that particular act hung between them like a dangling holiday bauble—or like a crystal on a string, swinging to and fro, attempting to divine what would be. Draco had no idea how that particular act would work itself out. For the first time in his life, he was eager but not hedonistic, not clamoring for a sloppy finish line. Whatever he had with Harry Potter, it was good. And he wasn't about to fuck it up—metaphorically or literally.

“It's a language, not Arithmancy,” Draco offered in a comforting tone. “If it made sense, it wouldn't be as interestin'. Yeh'll get it eventually.”

“M'kay.” Harry guided Draco's hand to the side of his freshly shaven face, enjoying the coolness in contrast to the man's warm, firm body pressed to his own. “Embrasse-moi now and baise-moi later?”

“S'il te plaît,” Draco said before relenting to Harry's demanding lips. They swiftly captured his own.

The kiss transformed from the meeting of lips to the twisting of tongues, mouths opening hotly again and again, the portkey crammed between their skipping hearts. Harry knew they had to stop when the portkey activated, not knowing if it would drop them in a room full of unsuspecting people but fearing as much. This was the last opportunity he would have to kiss Draco, to touch him freely like this, for several hours and he'd be damned if he didn't take full advantage. It was all-together too soon when the portkey pulled them away.

The portkey delivered them to a beautiful, sunny courtyard where most of the wedding party milled about. Harry and Draco landed with a spectacular thud. Harry lost his footing and it was Draco's quick, sinewy arm slipping around his waist that kept him from falling flat on his face. He straightened, adjusting his glasses and giving the blonde a fond smile. Maybe he could trip again? Anything to have Draco touch him in that warm, familiar way. Draco smiled back with his storm colored eyes lightened by the sunlight.

Harry was engulfed by a rose-scented swath of gold taffeta and blonde curls, thin arms tangling gayly around his neck. He recognized Fleur's twelve year old sister, Gabriella, and swung her around as she shouted happily in French, his name the only sound recognizable to his ears. Then again, the only French he knew was the undoubtedly nasty things Draco said in bed. He'd begun to parrot, his efforts to pick up the language failing rather spectacularly. Gabriella's laugh and shouts brought a smile to his face, knowing full well that the handsome man beside him understood every word.

“It's great to see you too,” he offered, setting her right on her slippered feet. He immediately turned and introduced her to Draco, calling the man his “good friend.”

“Enchantée!” she offered brightly, extending her arm; instead of the traditional hand shake, Draco bowed, kissing her little gloved hand.

“Moi de même, Mademoiselle.”

Gabriella appeared immediately enamored with Draco—because he was a handsome, French-fluent Englishman or because he was The Boy Who Lived's date, Harry couldn't discern through the language barrier. She and Draco conversed a few minutes, giving Harry a chance to look around.

The castle at Chauvigny was an amazing sight; nearly the size of Hogwarts, Harry guessed from his vantage point of the terrace courtyard. Past many ornamental gardens and a meandering lake sat a small town, all in the same red clay roofing tiles and light stone. The castle towered behind him and below, the main courtyard still held a few arriving guests making their way to the gardens where the ceremony would be held. From the other side of the terrace, Ginny shot dirty scowls his and Draco's way.

“Should we head in?” Harry asked Gabriella when the foreign conversation took a pause. “I wouldn't want to be late.”

“Oh, no!” Gabriella said quickly, stepping between the men and taking each of their arms. “Fleur insists upon seeing her fellow Champion!”

“Ya musn't refuse the bride,” Draco rebuked playfully over the girl's head, shooting Harry a delicately raised eyebrow.

“Of course not,” Harry agreed, allowing himself to be led down a covered walkway with stone columns supporting high archways carved with images of peacocks, flowers and winged horses. Little fleurs-de-lis in gold paint appeared everywhere—on arches and walls, even carved into some of the stone pavers that led from the courtyard to the castle doors. Once inside, Gabriella led them to a nearby room with a spectacular view of the courtyard. Fleur, already in her flowing wedding gown and lace veil, stood close by the window watching her guests arrive. Apolline Delacour sat a few feet away before an ornate gold-gilt mirror, instructing a witch who was re-pinning her elaborate hairstyle. Fleur's appearance was pleasantly simple and pure compared to her mother—her dress a plain, glowing white, her face and hair soft beneath the layer of fine lace. She looked calm.

When she heard Gabriella enter, she turned. When she saw Harry and Draco, her dazzling smile was visible beneath the veil. She pushed it aside, stepping forward to kiss Harry on both cheeks. Apolline said something in French but Fleur ignored her.

“'Arry,” she said warmly, a hand resting on his upper arm. “I am so 'appy zat you are 'ere. And you, Mr. Malfoy.” She gave Draco an equally radiant smile.

“Merci beaucoup, Madame,” Draco said with a small bow, hand over his stomach. He followed with something in rapid French. It must have been a sincere compliment because Fleur reached out, touching his shoulder appreciatively. Madame Delacour turned in her chair, looking approvingly at Draco. Fleur signaled to Gabriella and the girl brought forward two white rose boutonnieres along with an overflowing bouquet. Fleur took the first flower and fixed it to Draco's lapel, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She took the second and turned to Harry, a bemused smile on her lips.

“I 'ad no idea you dressed so traditionally, 'Arry,” she said, her eyes taking in his new dress robes. Harry blushed, not sure if Fleur was calling him old fashioned or backwards. He thought these robes looked a great deal better than the silly things Mrs. Weasley had trussed him up in during fourth year. So what if he wasn't in vogue? He was himself—plain and comfortable.

“If I may?” Draco cut in, brows raised. When Fleur nodded, Draco drew his wand from his breast pocket. He held the flower to the right place on Harry's chest before shooting a quick Sticking Charm to hold it in place. Knowing Draco's Sticking Charms, the boutonniere would hold just fine. Fleur beamed her approval at them both, Gabriella trying to stuff the large rose bouquet into her sister's hands.

Madame Delacour rose from her chair, shooing the helping witch away. She picked up a pair of lace gloves before stepping to her daughter's side. Mr. Delacour arrived, smiling a bit sadly at his daughter. It was almost time.

“I really am 'appy you're 'ere,” Fleur said in a slightly choked voice, giving in and throwing her arms around Harry's neck. “It means so much... to all of us.” Harry patted her tiny corseted waist, fingers sliding over the satiny material.

She released him with a contented sigh, submitting to her mother and sister's ministrations. Harry and Draco backed out the door, both feeling keenly out of place.

- - -

They decided to sit on the groom's side only because Harry had known Bill longer. Rows and rows of white wooden chairs with white satin pads faced an arch woven entirely of white rosebuds and undoubtedly held together by magic. The guests sat beneath a gently sloping dome, supporting columns painted in mysterious pink and grey designs. The many chairs faced the rose arch and had a full view of the lovely manicured gardens beyond. Most of the guests had been seated already, chatting with friends nearby. Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the detailed carvings where grand, gold-encrusted arches joined each column. There was one of a griffin consuming the body of a seemingly dead child. There was another of a huge bird with a long beak, carrying off a child clutched in its talons. The details were morbid but also carried an air of the prophetic, ancient and mystical. Harry thought they must hold a deeper meaning.

Harry was so preoccupied with these strange details that he didn't notice the glances shot his companion's way. When the usher saw the white roses affixed to their robes, he'd escorted the men to the very front of the covered terrace. Empty seats were few and far between. These chairs near the front were the only open pair. With a tiny shrug, Draco gestured for Harry to go first. They had to climb over a half a dozen people, all of whom moved out of the way when they saw exactly who they were moving for. A few flinched when they laid eyes on the blonde trailing dutifully behind The Boy Who Lived.

It wasn't long before the Weasley boys appeared from the garden, all wearing matching black dress robes with white shirts and white silk bow ties. Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ron—and even Percy—took their places to the right of the rosebud arch. An official from the French Ministry stepped forward from behind a pillar, a red satin sash over one shoulder. His long white hair, beard and silver spectacles reminded Harry of Albus Dumbledore. Harry watched Bill receive a hug and a handshake from each of his beaming brothers. In the front row, Mrs. Weasley cried softly on her husband's shoulder. Bill smiled fondly at her. Harry read on his lips an “I love you, mum.”

Fleur's Veela grandmother was escorted down the aisle by a very tall wizard with dark brown hair and a trimmed beard. He wore the same style suit as Draco but with a short cape lined in red that ended just above his knees. His tie pin was hopelessly elaborate and held several sparkling jewels. Fleur's grandmother wore a dazzling necklace that must have weighed down her neck with the quantity of gems, let alone the quality. Harry could make out the vivid green emeralds and sparkling blue sapphires from across the room. Next came Apolline Delacour on the arm of a young man who could only be the bearded gentleman's son. The son was fairer than his father but just as tall, his appearance equally crisp and manicured. His handsome face looked pompous, almost bored. He offered Madame Delacour the smallest and most formal of smiles before taking up a seat beside his father.

Music started up from a little knot of witches and wizards stationed out in the garden, all seated in similar white chairs before a trickling fountain. The sound of their strings joined birdsong and the guests went quiet.

Gabriella was first down the aisle. Her smile lingered on Draco as she flounced by. Ginny was next and she paid no attention to either of the men. When she reached her place at the rose arch, she stared stoically forward. Gabriella nudged her, reminding her to smile. The next three witches Harry didn't recognize. They had probably been Fleur's classmates at Beaubatons. Everyone stood as Fleur and her father came down the aisle. Many in the crowd smiled or tried to get her attention but she had eyes only for Bill. Mr. Delacour kissed his daughter's lace-gloved hand before handing her off to her soon-to-be-husband.

The French official made a very nice speech about love triumphing over adversity. Harry thought it was a little on the long side but all the women in the audience were weepy as well as a few of the men. Harry watched Mr. Delacour dab at his eyes with a handkerchief, tears flowing freely down his wife's cheeks as she clutched her husband's free hand with both of hers. Draco sat, passive and patient, observing. His gaze seemed focused on the fountain. Harry realized Draco was watching the musicians with the violins, violas, cellos and bass. Harry reminded himself not to reach for Draco's hand, not to kiss his cheek, not to brush away the lock of pale blonde hair that had strayed into his eyes. Harry leaned the slightest bit, bumping his shoulder against Draco's.

“Do they kiss at the end of the ceremony?” he whispered.

“Why?” Draco's voice was so quiet, Harry barely heard him.

“I dunno... muggles do it,” Harry shrugged.

“Wizard marriages are 'bout joinin' blood lines an' producin' heirs,” Draco explained in a whisper, his head turned to Harry's ear so as not to disturb those sitting near them. “Affection isn't always a consideration. So I doubt they'll kiss.”

“Even though they love each other?”

Draco shrugged, his breath ghosting over Harry's neck. He wished they could stay that way, so close he could smell Draco's skin and practically taste him. But Draco leaned back against his chair a moment later, returning his attention to the ceremony.

Soon it came time for the vows. It was the first time Bill and Fleur would actually speak. Harry didn't fancy the cold formality of the ceremony. With a tradition based on the joining of blood lines rather than the joining of hearts, he didn't expect much less.

Bill spoke his vows first. Holding Fleur's gloved hands in his own, he recited.

“I will walk ahead, knowing you walk behind in my steps; for where I go you will follow, and where I stay you and our descendants shall stay. My people will be your people, my house your house, my word your law. I will know no other woman, no other bride and no other bond. Where you die, I will die and there we will be buried. For I am the body and you are my hand, ever at my side.”

Harry leaned to Draco's ear, long blonde strands tickling his lips as he whispered. He'd always love the feel of Draco's hair against his lips. “These vows are odd.”

Draco turned his head so that their cheeks pressed. It was the closest they'd been in perhaps forty five minutes. “They're the most traditional form. Na be quiet.” Draco's face pulled away but his leg pressed Harry's from hip to knee, a warm comfort. Harry mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key, making Draco roll his eyes and smile, mouthing, “yeah right.”

Fleur looked up at Bill, her hands nestled in his.

“Your word is my law; therefore, entreat me not to leave you, so that where you go I will go and where you stay, I and all our descendants shall stay. Your people will be my people, your house my house. I will know no other house, no other man and no other bond. Where you die, I will die and there we will be buried. For you are the body and I am your hand, ever at your side.”

Rings were produced and slipped onto fingers, Fleur removing her lace glove with a quivering hand. Bill smiled down at her all the while. Mrs. Weasley bawled happily from Mr. Weasley's shoulder.

“Witches and Wizards,” the official pronounced, “if you will please stand and raise your wands.” There was a shuffling as everyone dried their eyes, noses, and reached for their wands. Harry pulled his holly and phoenix feather from his sleeve, Draco his hawthorn and unicorn hair from the breast pocket of his muggle suit. The crowd stood, raising their wands into the air. Harry felt the air begin to hum like a string drawn taught to breaking point.

“By the authority invested in me by the Ministry of Magic of France and by the oath of these witnesses gathered, you are now wed.”

A great cheer went up. Everyone clapped and shouted. Smiling broadly, Bill drew back his wife's veil to reveal her own smiling face, tears still on her cheeks. And when they kissed, Harry found Draco's hand in his.

“Why is this taking so long?” Harry couldn't help but whine. Gabriella had asked them to stay behind when the rest of the guests proceeded to the reception hall, saying Fleur would like to have Harry and Draco in a few of the pictures. Harry could see many of the wedding party out in the garden, posing as several photographers worked to make the process as quick and painless as possible.

“No fuckin' idea,” Draco shrugged. They were the only ones left on the shady terrace where the ceremony had taken place. It was a pleasant day with a good breeze and—if he had eaten a single thing for breakfast, he would be happy to sit alone with Draco for the rest of the afternoon. As it was, his stomach was rumbling and they were both getting cranky.

Harry saw a blur of black at the corner of his vision. As soon as he turned his head, the spot disappeared. He twisted in his seat, draping a hand over the back and facing Draco. The blonde did the same, except facing him. Harry gazed over Draco's shoulder; a moment later, he spotted the fair and haughty well-dressed man who had escorted Fleur's mother down the aisle. The young man leaned against one of the columns, lanky arms folded across his chest, eyes trained on Draco.

Harry let his gaze slide to Draco as well. The blonde looked fixedly at him, his stormy eyes unguarded, reflecting the emerald green of Harry's own mixed with clouds and flecks of silver. Harry sighed.

“Think he's a Death Eater?” Harry asked.

“Not sure,” Draco replied, aware of the man staring at them from across the room and choosing not to acknowledge his presence. “I'm fairly sure his uncle is. I dunno about his father. Either way, he's certainly not sympathetic ta yer cause, Chosen One.”

“I wish he would bugger off,” Harry said harshly. His voice softened in an instant, going deep. “I want to kiss you so badly right now.”

“I know,” Draco said softly, his tender gaze unwavering. “Me, too.”

- - -

Once he and Draco made it to the lavish, wood-paneled reception hall, Fred and George immediately cornered him wanting to talk about new developments for the joke shop. After a few minutes of shop talk Draco excused himself to get a glass of wine. His offer to bring Harry something earned his backside two sets of raised ginger eyebrows.

“I take it things are going well?” Fred said, still staring after Draco, eyes lingering on the blonde's pert rear.

“Stop checking him out,” Harry snorted under his breath.

Fred shrugged. “Sorry, mate.”

“So have you talked our little brother outta skipping his last year at Hogwarts?” George asked, a change of subject for which Harry was grateful. He and Draco were private, off limits.

“I dunno,” Harry conceded. “I keep telling Hermione that the two of them should go back. Hogwarts would be a good base of operations. But neither of them are keen to listen to me at the moment. For obvious reasons.” He gestured after Draco with his chin, shooting the twins a pointed expression.

“Yeah, Ron's a prat,” Fred offered.

“He's just being pig-headed, s'all,” George agreed. “Nobody really cares about that kinda stuff these days. I mean, he doesn't mind about Charlie, now, does he?”

Charlie being gay, or bisexual or whatever was news to Harry. He didn't let it show.

“I think he's mad because of the whole 'Malfoy, former Death Eater, son of a Death Eater' issue,” Harry said. “Let's face it, Draco hasn't exactly been an angel the last six years.”

“Neither have we,” George observed with an honest smile.

“Everybody deserves a second chance,” said Fred agreeably. “And Malfoy's never done anything really terrible. I mean, killed anyone? Nope. Maimed anyone? Nope. And—if I may say so—he's shown excellent taste. Can't fault the man for that!”

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying not to blush. “It's good to know some of my friends can handle this like adults.”

“Whoa, now!” George admonished. “Don't let that get around!”

“Secret's safe with me, boys,” Harry reassured them. Clapping a convivial hand to George's shoulder, something across the room caught his eye. His blood pressure rose exponentially. He hadn't seen Draco's hackles up like that since... well, since the day Draco got tarted up as a girl and wound up punching him. Draco Malfoy was the master of keeping his cool these days, which only worried Harry more.

“Excuse me a second,” he muttered, stepping away. “I think someone's harassing my boyfriend.”

Draco stood by the refreshments area. Fountains of many different types of wine had been erected with magic. There were no actual fountain parts, just tiers of wine that spilled down in little waterfalls that hovered in mid air. Bunches of roses and other fragrant flowers had been spelled to float inside the fountains, untouched by wine and easily seen through the liquid. A few witches and wizards stepped up, conjuring a glass and dipping it in one of the streams to collect their beverage. It was beautiful as well as clever—like his boyfriend, who stood with his back straight and proud, French syllables hissing from his taut pink lips. The recipient of his ire was none other than the fair, haughty man who had been observing them outside.

Harry took a moment to inspect the stranger. His hair was somewhere between sandy and true blonde, his eyes sharp, intelligent and quite stunningly blue. Like Draco, he would look at home on the pages of Witch Weekly, perhaps in one of their infamous most handsome smile contests. As he stood now, Harry thought the man's expression sour and unpleasant despite his refined features; high cheekbones, defined brows and such did little to distract from an unpleasant temperament. And this man looked like a spoiled, foul excuse for a human being.

Whatever he'd said to Draco had both their tempers up. Harry could tell by the set of Draco's shoulders, the way he leaned his weight to one leg in a kind of standing swagger. He'd struck that pose a fair few times at Hogwarts, often right before lobbing an insult at some unsuspecting Gryffindor with the misfortune to be standing near Golden Boy Chosen One. Draco's voice was frustrated even in French, bordering on irate. He stood on one side of a fountain of rose wine, the pompous git on the other. They spoke through the streams.

Harry drew close to his boyfriend, placing a hand to his shoulder blade in what he prayed was a casual-enough manner.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Draco replied tightly, glaring at the other blonde through the pink fall.

Harry gave the tall man a nod of greeting. “Harry Potter,” he said evenly in introduction, not offering his hand to shake. They'd both get a wine-soaked sleeve if they did.

“Je sais vous,” the man replied, nodding in lieu of a handshake. His voice was deeper than Draco's, though not as deep as Harry's got in lust or anger. It was almost too deep, too rough for his posh and polished appearance. “Je suis Philippe Didier.”

“Enchanté,” Harry replied without thinking. When his brain shut down, the foreign word sounded oddly smooth on his tongue. He schooled his face in a Malfoy-like mask of indifference so the Frenchman wouldn't realize Harry was dying to launch forward and choke the life out of him with his bare fucking hands.

His one casual word had been enough to convince Didier that he spoke the language. The man announced a few sentences ringing with flip and arrogance. When Harry heard the name 'Malfoy' he let his brows shift. It wasn't a nod or a shake of the head but the slightest acknowledgment possible, as though Didier weren't worth his time. Under Harry's hand, Draco seethed. His pale face showed nothing.

“Je vais être honnêtte avec vous, Harry,” Didier shrugged offhandedly, tossing a hand out as though he were talking about the weather. “Il couinait comme un cochon qu'on emmène à l'abattoir. N'empêche, il vallait son pesant de gallions.”

Draco went absolutely rigid beneath Harry's hand. Draco took a steadying breath that inflated his chest to capacity, flaring his nostrils. He took a second and then a third. Then he was turning on his heel, storming off, cloak billowing out behind him and chin held impossibly high.

“Draco,” Harry called, about to walk after his blonde. He'd reached out to grab Draco's arm but he was a second too slow.

“Comment?” Didier asked.

“I can't understand you,” Harry said, speaking to Didier but watching Draco's retreating back. The Malfoy dragon flew through a door at the end of the grand hall, slamming it behind himself.

“Ah,” said Didier, voice dripping with contempt, “yoo don't speak French. Of course.” He practically rolled his blue eyes, suggesting The Boy Who Lived was uncultured and uncouth. It wasn't Harry's fault he'd grown up abused and ignored in a cupboard. Then again, growing up like Draco—abused and ignored in the lap of luxury—didn't sound a whole lot better.

“No, I don't,” Harry shot back. He tried to focus his swirling emotions into his words, giving them heat rather than volume. Everything came out in a hiss he hadn't at all intended. His syllables seethed with rage discernible even in snake tongue. “But let me tell you this: you'd best pray I never have reason to see your left arm. You'd best pray I never see you on the battlefield. Because I swear to you, you'll be the first man I kill.”

He heard voices all around, whispering. He registered Didier's stunned blue eyes and cringing face. When Harry glared at him, the wine glass Didier was holding gave a subtle pop before disintegrating into powder. Blush wine poured over the man's manicured hand as Harry swept off in a swirl of navy robes.

- - -

It turned out Draco had taken the old servants' entrance. He sprinted up the worn spiral stairs, not stopping until he reached the topmost landing. Out of breath, he braced against his knees and panted, his black cape pooling around him.

Of course Philippe was here! His father was Apolline Delacour's step-brother, making him and Fleur step-cousins. It would be rude for the Didier's not to attend. Why hadn't he prepared himself? He should have seen this coming.

He was on the eighth floor of the main castle tower. The whole place was under spells so the muggles would see it as mostly ruined. Witches and wizards appeared as the innocuous staples of abandoned ruins—birds, squirrels and other wild animals, perhaps a stray cat or dog. Little did the muggles know the castle was fully functional, hosting parties and political events for the elite of the magical community.

Draco leaned against the rough stone wall, gazing out the only window at the brilliantly pink and orange sky. It was like the sun didn't want to set and was holding out, fighting fate.

If he had been prepared, mentally, would seeing Philippe have been any different? Would he somehow be less affected? Probably not. He breathed slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. Those few flights of stairs had really undone him. He felt a lack of emotion—dry, dead. He didn't feel anything. Whatever humiliation and rage had heated his blood was vacuumed out when he ran from the reception like a fucking girl. He could never face any of those people again....

Footsteps on the stairs broke him from his thoughts. He swiped at his face to be sure there were no beads of sweat that might be mistaken for tears. Draco Malfoy didn't cry.

“Draco?” Harry called, mounting the seventh flight of stairs. He was getting worried. “Doll, are you up here?”

His answer was a mass of black fabric and fury hurtling down the stairs to land squarely in his arms. He fell back against the coarse stone wall, cradling Draco to him, breathing his sweet smell and stroking his back through the layers of suit, shirt and wizard's cloak.

“Don't call me stupid names,” the blonde muttered, arms thrown haphazardly around Harry's neck.

“Ta Gueule,” was Harry's reply.

Under any other circumstance Draco would have had a hundred blithe and pithy retorts at the tip of his sharp tongue. Today he simply obeyed, burrowing his face further into Harry's warm shoulder. Harry hoisted him upright, getting them to the top of the landing where they could stand evenly. He kept Draco tight in his arms, pressing the blonde into the wall. Harry kissed his neck, his ear, his soft cheek, a hand round his waist and the other buried in his glossy blonde hair.

“Now,” he whispered, their noses rubbing. “Tell me you're alright.”

“I am,” Draco agreed, swallowing against his dry mouth.

“I don't believe you,” Harry said quietly. “You suck at lying to me.”

“I do,” Draco agreed once more. Apparently he'd forgotten to put on his spine this morning.

“Do you wanna tell me what that fucker said?”

Unable to summon words past the lump in his throat, Draco meekly shook his head.

Harry's response was to catch Draco's lips with his own. The blonde responded almost reluctantly, his lips watery and weak, salty in place of their usual crisp sweetness.

“Draco,” Harry warned against those lips, voice maddeningly low. “Either you tell me what he said or I'm going back down there to make him tell me. Slowly and painfully. Do you want me to cause a scene and get carted off to Azkaban? Or do you want to tell me?”

Draco looked away, blinking furiously. Harry took his damp, clammy cheek in hand, bringing his silver gaze back where it belonged.

“Tell me, Draco.”

“He...” Draco felt himself choke back a sob. This really was his undoing, wasn't it? “He said I... squealed like a pig at the slaughter... when we... when he....”

Harry stroked his cheek with a thumb, looking into his eyes. “You don't.”

“Wha' would you know?!” Draco spat, trying to push Harry away. His arms were like gelatin and Harry was strong with anger. Draco felt the man's magic crackling along his skin wherever they touched, jumping between them in great colorful sparks. His escape failed miserably. He was crushed against the stone by Harry's hot, hard body. Glowing green eyes bored into him.

“I don't know anything,” Harry said boldly. “But neither does that prick. At least I can see how amazing you are.”

Harry's lips claimed his, fast and sharp, tongue licking and teeth biting like they'd die at sunset and this was their last moment together. Draco moaned rather loudly and gave in, kissing him back, giving as much as he was given. Their teeth clacked, tongues danced, groans mingled. Slowly, Harry's hand closed over his sensitive throat, pressing him against the castle wall until it was difficult to draw breath.

“You're mine, Draco,” he whispered darkly, his voice heavy. “Mine.”

“Yes.”

And Harry was on his knees, unfastening his belt.

“Yers.”

Harry was tugging at his trousers, freeing him, touching him.

“Always,” he expounded in a whisper of his own, out of his mind with the pleasure of Harry's mouth, those green eyes boring up into him. He couldn't look away for the life of him, couldn't wrench himself away from the sight of Harry bleeding Potter sucking his cock—gagging, really. He was going too deep and forgetting to breath. And it felt bloody fantastic every time that tight, sweet throat closed down on the head of his prick, enclosing him in suffocating wetness, pulsing tightness and heat.

“Harry,” he found himself moaning. “Harry.”

- - -

Dinner went off without a hitch. He and Draco sat side by side at one of four long tables set up to form a square in the large room. Tiny fae played games among the topiaries and flower arrangements decorating the space inside the tables like an indoor garden. Harry liked that everyone could see everyone—he could keep a close eye on Philippe Didier.

Harry had reached out to get Draco's chair when they'd returned to the hall. That had been his only flub for the evening. He'd conjured the proper glass for toasting, given the correct reply, and cast the spell to roll his sleeves at the proper time. Harry had watched as Arnett Didier cast the spell, rolling his shirt sleeves nearly to his elbows. Philippe's spell was weak, barely turning up the cuffs of his robes. Draco cast the spell at his right arm only, unfastening and rolling the left sleeve manually. He turned the cuff twice, very careful to keep the Dark Mark covered even though anyone who read The Daily Prophet knew that he was Marked. Harry understood that desire to lay low and avoid notice. Beneath the tablecloth, their knees touched.

Dinner was a grand affair with many small and delicate courses. Harry was a good sport and tried everything. A few of the dishes were just not his thing. He discovered he liked something called foi gras. Escavêche? Not so much. Just like Hogwarts, plates of food appeared by magic, disappearing at the end of each course. It wasn't long before the dancing began. The orchestra returned to play stately waltzes and minuets, Draco's foot tapping in time to a few songs. They watched as Bill led Fleur around the floor, soon joined by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fleur's grandmother and Arnett Didier, then Charlie and the Maid of Honor. Charlie kept the beautiful French witch laughing the entire time. She seemed quite taken with him. Harry realized she might be rather upset if she ever realized the red head's inclinations weren't bent her way.

Harry found himself wishing he could dance with Draco—not because he fancied dancing but because Draco did. And he was so good at it. Harry wanted people to see Draco for who he was, not what people assumed of him because of his father or his politics. Harry heaved a sigh, sipping the last of the red wine he'd had with dinner.

Gabriella Delacour approached them, a determined smile fixed on her face. Her blue eyes flitted between the two men like a moth in a wind storm. At the last possible second she settled on Harry.

“Would you care for a dance, 'Arry?” she asked, raising a simpering eyebrow. Harry hadn't been nearly so suave at twelve. Thankfully, Draco intervened immediately.

“You wouldn't want to dance with him, Mademoiselle,” Draco heaved a mock sigh. “He'll only step on your lovely feet. Might I have the honor?”

Draco was all courtliness, standing to offer the girl his hand with a formal bow. She smiled and tittered happily, lead away to the dance floor. Harry watched for a moment before going for a refill on his wine. Philippe Didier was no where near the fountains when he arrived; in fact, he didn't see Didier anywhere and that suited him just fine. The man had already made the very short list of people Harry could and would kill when given the chance. With his wine glass full, Harry strolled back to his and Draco's seats. Not wanting to sit just yet, he leaned against the back of his chair watching the dancers swirl around the floor to a quick waltz. Draco looked amazing, a brotherly smile on his handsome face as he twirled Gabriella around the way Bill had spun Fleur. The girl's laughter was infectious out on the floor.

“Yoo are not dancing,” said a lilting voice beside him. Harry turned to find Fleur Weasley, now without her demure veil, sipping a glass of champagne and looking at him fondly. She leaned forward, kissing both his cheeks. Like her sister, she smelled of sugar and roses.

“I don't dance—I step on people,” Harry shrugged, uninvested in the matter. “I'm sure you remember.”

“Yoo were 'ow old, zen? Fourteen?” Fleur gave a pleasant laugh, gesturing with her glass. “We are allowed to change in life.”

“You're right,” Harry said, sipping his wine. “Maybe, once all this is over with, I'll learn to dance. There are a lot of things I'd like to do when the war is over.”

Fleur followed his gaze out to the dance floor, observing her baby sister with Draco as he led her through a complex series of steps. She followed beautifully, her gold skirts swirling around her ankles as she moved under Draco's direction.

“Yoo are in love with him,” Fleur said, as though declaring that the sky was blue or there were gnargles in mistletoe. Harry inspected his shoes to keep from blushing.

“Am I that obvious?”

“It eez good ee feigns indifference with more skill than yoo, mon préféré,” Fleur replied, smiling broadly. “Yoo are ze 'appiest I 'ave ever seen, 'Arry. 'Ee must be good for yoo.”

“He is,” Harry agreed. “And I think he's happier now. That's all you can do—be happier together, right?”

“Yes,” Fleur said proudly, watching Bill waltz more slowly with his mother.

“I think you two will be happy for a very long time—forever,” Harry offered, not much good with sentimental conversations. Or with women, apparently. At least he had Draco now, taking 'women' off his very long list of things to worry about. “Quello che sarà, sarà,” Harry quoted.

Fleur's hand came to rest on his shoulder as she leaned very close. She whispered in his ear of a terrace that could be accessed from a nearby hallway. It was sure to be deserted and was not subject to the Apparition wards.

“Merci beaucoup,” he told her.

“De rien,” she replied. Her wink suggested she and Bill had already made use of the terrace's exclusivity—nay, planned it in advance. Harry downed his wine, waiting for Gabriella to finish amusing herself with his boyfriend so he could take the man home and make wild, impassioned love to him. Hopefully several times before dawn.

- - -

The second the big wooden door closed at his back, Harry drew his dragon into his arms, flooring the blonde with a powerful kiss. Harry threw him bodily against the door, the cool evening air on their skin as their mouths worked hungrily.

“Where are—?” the man managed between having his lips bitten and tongue sucked.

“Alone,” Harry growled, pressing his groin against Draco's. He felt Draco stir. He closed his lips over the delicate pulse at his neck, kissing, licking and biting his way to the shell of Draco's ear. He hovered behind said ear, searching out the sensitive nerves that made Draco weak in the knees.

“Oui,” Draco observed, one hand gathering a fist of Harry's robes at his waist. The other hand pulled at Harry's unruly hair in a way that made his insides purr. “M'épargner. Rescue me from pianos and twelve year old girls with crushes,” he mocked.

Harry kissed his strong jutting jaw, working steadily toward that arrogant mouth.

“Am I your hero?” he challenged, voice dark and heavy, lust building.

“Yer Wonder Boyfriend,” Draco drawled, shrugging as though it should be obvious. That scathing drawl was so sexy now.

“Say it,” Harry insisted. It came out as little more than a growl.

“Make me,” Draco challenged, eyes on fire.

Nose to nose, Harry lowered his hand to the front of Draco's trousers, cupping his growing arousal and palming it with fast, sure strokes. He caught Draco's bottom lip in his teeth, tugging ruthlessly until Draco let out a throaty moan that anyone could have heard through the heavy door. He kissed the very edge of Draco's disobedient mouth, watching as silver eyes slid closed in supplication, anticipation, desire.

“Yer my hero, Harry. Mon Dieu,” he spoke below a whisper, his face peaceful. “Let's go home.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. He wrapped his other arm around the blonde's shoulders, holding him tight to combat the jarring of Side-Along Apparition. The wards on Grimmauld Place had been adjusted so that either of them could Apparate in and out. Harry had convinced Professor McGonagall that he and Draco needed to be able to leave quickly in an emergency and she consented to alter her wards. Harry's excitement grew as he spoke. “Take me to our bed.”

“I like a man who knows wha' he wants,” Draco smirked. He grabbed Harry's arse, pushing their groins together and kissing him roughly before the compression of Apparition hit.

Two tall figures observed from the shadows.

“I told you,” the young man simpered in his native tongue, flicking an invisible spec of dust from the sleeve of his black wizard's robes. “Potter's taken Malfoy's boy as his plaything. They are... perhaps more attached than I realized.”

“To put it mildly,” the older man confirmed, rolling his eyes. “The Dark Lord would be very interested in this information. We should use it as another bargaining piece. I don't know how much longer we can keep this up.” His bearded chin sunk to his chest as he dug in his breast pocket, producing a small potion vial. He unstoppered it and drank, scowling at the taste.

“Do you think anyone's on to us, Uncle?” the younger asked quickly, blue eyes wide as his head swirled with possible complications.

“Not yet,” he replied. He cleared his throat. “We've been very careful. I've fooled my own mother... for now. We mustn't become too full of ourselves. The sooner we are in His good graces, the better off we will be.”

The young man smiled a wicked smile. “It shouldn't be long now.”

- - -

Harry felt a little dizzy when they landed. He wasn't sure if it was the distance of the Apparition or Draco's lips on his, kissing him against the swirling void of nothing. Apparently it was possible to grope someone while Apparating, too, because his hand was still planted firmly on the blonde's crotch. The last dregs of sunset came through the open curtains, giving enough light that he didn't have to fumble for the buttons of Draco's jacket. He pushed the garment off of lean shoulders, kicking away his leather dress shoes, their lips never leaving. Draco let his suit coat fall to the floor in a heap, pale hands shooting up to hold Harry's face, deepening their kiss by holding him still. Harry threw his glasses, yanking at Draco's black tie until the knot came free.

Then Harry remembered he was a wizard. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and gave it a powerful swish and flick. Buttons and catches released and fabric flew. Harry's robes zoomed across the room. He lifted his legs and his trousers slithered off. Caught unprepared, Draco hopped in unbalanced disorder, trying to get out of his trousers even as his shoes shot off his feet and into the closet. He teetered onto the bed, falling with a groan onto his face, white boxer briefs the last to fly off into the hamper. He gave a little hiss of pleasure, whether at being naked or being stripped by magic Harry wasn't sure. He didn't bother to find out, straddling Draco's prone body and biting the back of his neck with a vengeance. Draco jerked and moaned, voice tight in his throat. Harry forced the man to his back, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along his back and chest, every inch of skin his wanting mouth could reach. He looked down at Draco, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his silvery-green eyes.

“Draco,” he said, inching them further up the bed. Draco slid under him, teasing with little touches until he lay with his head nestled in downy white pillows. “I want you to fuck me.”

Pink lips parted and mute, Draco could only blink. His hair was a feathery blonde halo, framing his face and making him look like an angel again. “Yeh sure?” he choked.

“Yes,” Harry smiled, brushing Draco's lips with butterfly kisses. He was quite sure. “Baise-moi.”

“Comme tu veux,” Draco simpered, grinning.

“I like the sound of that.”

They were both screamingly hard when their bodies met again, rubbing furiously as each spelled out his intention in bold kisses. Harry pressed down, enjoying Draco's shivers and sighs, thrusts and mounting pressure, their cocks rubbing in an escalating grind they had all but perfected. Harry knew the exact instant Draco started to sweat—that burst of crispness he had once mistaken for cologne filled the air, the pungent bouquet of sweat and natural oils that the man's rose petal skin produced in spades. They should bottle Draco's scent and sell it to lonely witches at the apothecary. He was maddening! He didn't wear deodorant half the time. He just smelled the way he smelled, like Quidditch lawn and dry autumn leaves, the tiniest hint of tart crab apples, sweet lemons and an herb Harry suspected was sage. He could lick and kiss this man 'til they both came. Draco was about to. The blonde shook under him, gasping at the things Harry's mouth did to his pale skin, his slender, supple, kissable neck. Not so pale now: Draco was marked red and raw. Harry eased his weight back, pushing up onto his hands to relieve most of the pressure from their groins. Draco let out a petulant moan, trying to pull him back down.

“You're about to come,” Harry pointed out. He couldn't resist bowing his head, licking a droplet of sweat as it ran down Draco's smooth chest. It tasted of salt and sweet and him.

“Yesss,” Draco agreed, bucking his hips, grabbing at Harry's ass to force his hips to move, too. “Make me come. Please make me come,” the blonde begged. Harry kept his body raised. Their cocks barely touched, making Draco frantic.

“But I want you to fuck me,” Harry reminded him.

“Yesss,” Draco said readily, eyes black with the lust and arousal coursing through him. “I'll last longer if I come first.”

A rogue smile crossed Harry's face. “Why didn't you say so?”

Transferring his weight to one arm, he slid his free hand down Draco's compact, writhing body until he reached the man's cock. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing tightly to prevent him from coming as Harry lowered himself down once more. He gathered them both in his hand and—just the way Draco liked—he began thrusting into his hand, rocking his hips and encouraging Draco to do the same. Draco pushed at his ass, begging him to go faster, to thrust harder, to give more. It wasn't long until they both worked frantically. One of Draco's hands joined his, squeezing them together as the pressure built.

Draco's orgasm was sudden and explosive. His eyes shot open and he screamed at the top of his lungs, fingernails digging into Harry's ass cheek to leave little red half-moon shapes. Harry almost came when he realized Draco was screaming his name. He froze, listening. He let Draco's hard, masculine sound ring out in his ears, smelled Draco's skin, tasted Draco on his lips. And then he felt Draco kissing him softly; wet, messy and sated.

After a moment Draco pressed at his shoulder, urging Harry to roll to his side. The blonde curled against his chest. His mouth closed over a nearby caramel brown nipple, flicking it with his tongue. Harry gave an involuntary shudder. Draco made him feel sensitive, awake and alive like nothing else in the world. Draco insured both of his nipples had the same treatment, hardened to bright red lavished nubs before sliding down to take Harry's cock lazily into his mouth. He sucked at the head, helping draw out the pleasure. He bobbed lower on each pass, licking a hot path up the shaft before pulling off.

Harry was about to protest when Draco took one of his balls in that ungodly mouth, giving it the same leisurely, suckling worship. He moved to the other, summoning his wand with a tattooed arm.

“Do we have to use magic?” Harry croaked, only half coherent.

Draco looked up from his thighs. The expression on his pointed face said he'd rather not be interrupted as he was rather enjoying himself. He sighed heavily, concentrating on a decent answer through the haze of sex.

“I dunno how muggles do this part,” the blonde admitted, giving his wand a little flick but not casting any spells.

“Is it... necessary?”

Draco raised his eyebrows and nodded; large, serious silver eyes in stark contrast to his pink-flushed cheeks and red lips swollen from kissing.

“M'kay,” Harry said with a little nod of his own. He closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself. Draco's non-verbal spell still made him jerk. It was like a Scourgify to the intestines and it made him squirm until the sensation subsided, leaving him clean and empty. He looked down himself at Draco, unconsciously biting his lip.

“Gods, you look good,” Draco whispered, running a hand up his chest. He fondled the dark hair at Harry's stomach with reverent fingers, taking in the coarse feel and yielding skin beneath. Still lying on his side, Harry propped up an elbow, resting his head at a downward angle so he could watch Draco.

Silver eyes locked onto his, mouth agape and happily, hungrily staring. He licked his raw red lips. He focused on Harry's face even as he stroked, even as he kissed and then sucked cock, breath ghosting over Harry's stomach and making his innards flip.

“Mmm,” Harry cooed, a hand on Draco's head as the blonde took him deeper. Draco stayed true to his word, not using magic to alter his throat like he usually did. He couldn't take it nearly as deep but it felt just as good. Draco certainly tried. Harry felt his gag reflex a few times, the blonde pulling back each time to splutter and regain his breath. He blinked rapidly, eyes wet, before diving right back to it. He was nothing if not determined.

Just when Harry felt fit to burst from the slow, tight heat, Draco pulled off. He worked the base of Harry's shaft with his hand, knowing that so much as touching the head again would send him right over the edge. Harry had a knee up, giving Draco room to work. Now the blonde rolled, sliding face first between Harry's legs.

“Put yer hands behind yer head,” he urged, nuzzling just under Harry's balls. “Enjoy it.”

Harry smiled, closing his eyes and doing as Draco said. Draco's nimble body wormed between his legs, his lips moving further and further back. He put both pale hands on Harry's rear, massaging at first and then spreading gently. His fingers didn't move any closer; instead, he used his gorgeous mouth.

Harry was already close. One slow, hot lick to his entrance and he was leaking precome. He almost never did that—unless Draco teased him like this. Draco tapped with the back of his tongue, slightly harder each time until Harry relaxed into the pressure. It was easier now that he knew what to expect. It had been weird the first time because Draco was literally between his legs; except for contact in that very personal place, they'd hardly been touching at all. Now Draco was draped around him. They were just... wrapped up in each other. He kept a hand behind his head but slipped the down his back, reaching down to once again hold Draco's blonde head, pushing them closer. Draco took the hint, transitioning from licking to sucking. It wasn't long before he started slow, firm thrusts with his tongue, not yet breaching. He worked the muscles until Harry felt boneless and tingly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. When he opened his eyes he found that Draco was hard again, long pink cock on display between lean, creamy thighs.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, voice like gravel. He gripped Draco's hair in a strong fist, reveling in the fresh beads of sweat blooming over the man's scalp. “More.”

Draco obliged, flicking his tongue hard before pushing in. Harry felt a slight sting but that was all. He breathed through his nose and then it was over. He went back to the filthy pleasure of it. Draco hummed happily inside him, his cock jumping.

“Like it?” Harry asked with a deviant upturn to his slack, open mouth. Where had this sick, perverted streak come from? Draco swirled his tongue before withdrawing to answer. He rubbed his face in a tangle of dark body hair, inhaling deeply, sliding a spit-slicked finger over Harry's opening but going no further.

“Ya taste good,” Draco sighed before diving in for another wet lick just to prove his point.

“No way.” Harry couldn't help a certain amount of incredulity.

“I could do this all fuckin' day,” the blonde whispered against him. “I love it. Love the way ya taste.”

Draco slid right back again, making him gasp. Harry clenched, ripping a high, keening, impulsive wail from Draco's lungs. The sound shook him everywhere, down to his bones. The blonde scrambled, hands gripping tighter as he fought to get deeper, to taste more.

“Can...” Harry panted, a hand now fisted in unruly platinum locks and tugging mercilessly. His other hand ripped at his own hair with equal disregard. “Can you make me come from this?”

Harry felt Draco smile against him and then they were off, Draco plunging roughly as his hands kneaded Harry's arse, pulling cheeks apart. Harry pushed Draco's beautiful face in there, grinding, realizing he could to a certain extent sit back on Draco's face, trapping the blonde between his body and the mattress. His knees clamped down around Draco's torso, fulfilling the need to be as close as possible with every part of their bodies. A finger joined the mix, getting good and wet before joining Draco's tongue. Harry felt that familiar tightening in his gut. We writhed, riding the high.

“Close,” he warned. “Close, mon beau.”

Draco's finger snaked inside him, making him pulse and clench. A second finger actually made it better, spreading just enough that Draco could work his tongue back in between the two. Harry growled, deciding in that moment it would be pointless to touch himself now. He could feel his orgasm like a cliff edge under his toes. Why rush it? He was about to fall.

Draco's fingers found a spot that quite literally made him see stars. Mouth hanging open like a spacking idiot, white sparks danced in his vision before taking over, everything going white. His head swirled in a melted-sugar mess. He was vaguely aware of ejaculating all over himself and Draco. His entire body jerked wildly. It was a good thing the man had told him to put his hands behind his head—he couldn't feel his arms or legs, let alone control them. The arm behind him flailed, slapping Draco across the top of his white blonde head.

Draco laughed in him, sending jolts of fire up his spine to short out his brain. Everything went black for a second, though he wasn't aware of closing his eyes. He blinked furiously, his vision at last straightening out. The low light helped his eyes readjust. Little arcs of white lightning shot across his vision in the darkness.

Draco was licking come off his still twitching stomach, talented tongue cleaning the dark hair that decorated his abdomen—and he wasn't letting a drop go to waste. After he'd licked up every white splash, he put a hand to his chest, swiping at a puddle before bringing those fingers to his mouth, sucking all three at once with a fierceness to his eyes. Watching, Harry felt himself returning to hardness despite the fact that he'd quite literally shot his brains out seconds ago.

Draco looked pointedly at this straining new erection before his silvery eyes slid up to meet Harry's. He wore a lopsided smile on his perfect red lips. His left hand shot out, again summoning his wand. He cast a Cleaning Spell at his mouth, momentarily going cross-eyed from the scrubbing.

Harry tried not to laugh. Draco looked unbelievably, ridiculously, adorably silly with his eyes crossed, taking at least twelve years off his face. Harry had to wipe the grin off his own face before Draco saw and never crossed his eyes again for fear of looking juvenile. It looked so good on him.

“Please,” Harry spoke, his voice an odd rasp from more shouting than he'd realized. “No more magic, okay?”

The blonde didn't set his long hawthorn wand aside; instead, his face scrunched in consideration. “But... we need lube.”

“Er, alright then,” Harry agreed begrudgingly. Lubrication did sound horribly important just then. Especially with what he assumed was about to happen. Draco cast the spell at his hand twice, not satisfied with the initial amount conjured. After the second spell he tossed his wand all the way off the bed, turning back to Harry.

“Lie back,” he said softly.

Harry dropped the elbow he'd been leaning on, falling comfortably to his back. He closed his eyes, enjoying Draco's warm hand at his side and the warm press of the man's thighs as he knelt between Harry's legs.

“I know yeh don't like this,” he said bracingly, “but the only other way ta finish gettin' ready is with magic.”

“It's okay,” Harry said, keeping his eyes closed and focusing on the warmth of Draco's lithe body kneeling over him. “It doesn't bother me. It just... doesn't do anything for me, either.”

“Ahh,” Draco said after a second's hesitation, his voice shaky. Harry squinted and saw Draco coating his prick with the lubricant, stroking himself much longer than necessary as he scanned Harry's body with an appreciative smirk. Harry let his head fall back to the pillows. Draco picked up a spare pillow, tucking it under Harry's hips. A second later, Draco's hands were on his knees—one warm and the other wet, sliding his legs further apart, folding ups legs up accordion-style until his heels rested about a foot from his rear.

Draco's lips closed over his cock, sucking long and hard to distract him from the thin, damp hand that inched lower, stroking his perineum with a bony knuckle. It made Harry's head drop to the side, a muscle in his calf twitching. Oh, Draco knew what he was up to down there. The first finger went in just fine. The second wasn't a big deal, either. The third posed a bit of a problem. Harry took shallow breaths, breathing from his lungs instead of his stomach because that seemed to help reduce the sting. Draco's fingers swirled inside of him, spreading slowly, pushing in a steady, regular rhythm.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” What else was there to say? The man had three oiled fingers up his ass and was about to replace them with his impressive—no, massive cock. Harry felt Draco shift on the bed, inching himself closer, sidling into position.

Draco's fingers never left him; instead, he felt something much larger brush against that sensitive, forbidden place. Just that made him clench. Draco seemed to have expected that reaction. He waited patiently, not so much as wiggling his fingers until Harry's muscles subsided and he returned to his nose-breathing.

Draco pressed carefully, agonizingly forward, using his fingers as a sort of guide rail. Even with his fingers it was like inviting a cross-continental jet through a car tunnel. It was just the wrong damn size. The proportions were hopelessly off. Harry hissed through his teeth, trying to stay calm. His confidence shattered around the five second mark.

“Ow!” he whined, face screwed up. “That really hurts!”

Draco froze mid-push. “Ya wanted ta do this the muggle way,” he sighed. “I din't want yeh ta suffer.”

Harry nodded weakly: it had been his rubbish idea. He stuck to shallow breathing, hands laid passively on the bedsheets. He didn't want to grip them. Any tenseness would translate directly to that region of his body. Draco slid a fraction more before he began to retract his fingers, letting Harry adjust around the thickness he'd need to handle. He felt firm and solid, a battering ram compared to his gentle fingers.

“Almost,” Draco whispered. He leaned forward, hovering. Then his bony hips slid forward.

It stung. And then it burned worse than his lightning scar. It felt like he was being forced open, ripped in half, blown up from the inside out. He stared up at Draco, trying to keep the pain from his face, trying to breathe and maybe look happy. Air wheezed from his lungs, catching in his throat. Green eyes wide and blinking furiously, he forced himself to breathe lightly through the pain, willing it to subside. The pain was just as stubborn as either of them.

Above him, Draco's chin rolled to his chest as his eyes slid closed, his mouth hanging slack in soundless pleasure. His breathing decelerated, thin hands massaging Harry's hips, groping, feeling blindly. A vein at the side of his neck fluttered and pulsed beneath his sweat-covered skin. Kneeling there, he was so beautiful.

“Is that...?” Harry trailed off awkwardly, praying Draco knew what he was asking. Are we in?

“Good?” Draco supplied. Unable to speak another syllable, he licked his thick, kissable lips and nodded vehemently, eyes still screwed shut.

“I, er,” Harry stuttered. “All... in?”

Draco understood then. He shook his head, drawing cautious little breaths. He was being oh-so-very-careful not to move. “Not even close.”

Harry couldn't help flinching. Apparently when his face flinched, he flinched down there, too. He felt himself close like a vice around Draco. And Draco gave an answering throb inside that echoed through him, pushing at frazzled, over-sensitive nerves. It really felt like Draco would rip him in half if he went any further.

“How much... more?” Harry gasped when his breath returned. He hadn't been aware of holding it until his lungs started to ache. At least holding his breath kept him from clenching again.

Draco didn't respond—that didn't bode well; instead, he brought his hands to Harry's thighs, massaging calm, sweeping circles with practiced fingers.

“Here,” he whispered. “Let's try somethin'. Go on an' wrap yer legs 'round me.” And he lifted Harry's knee very slowly, hand sliding to his calf and guiding Harry to twine his leg around the blonde's waist. Harry linked his ankles at Draco's lower back. The blonde gave him time to adjust, not moving a centimeter inside him. “Better?”

Harry focused, taking time to really feel and assess. He opened his eyes with a verdict.

“Isn't any worse,” he shrugged. Draco hovered over him, leaning his weight down to an elbow to stroke Harry's cheek with his free hand. He tried to brush the discomfort and concern away with his fingertips.

“Good.” Draco made a trail of damp kisses up his neck, nipping at his jaw before settling a gentle kiss to each of his eyelids. “Na jus' ferget it.”

Harry almost gave a derisive snort. Forget that Draco was at least part way in him... down there? He didn't think that was possible to forget.

Draco's warm lips closed over his moving hot and slow, sucking at his lower lip before swiping with his thick, talented tongue. Harry's cock jumped. Draco deepened their kiss, his hand sneaking to the back of Harry's neck to tilt his face, gaining better access. Harry's tongue flew out, meeting Draco's in a familiar parry and retreat. Draco sucked and snapped his teeth, moaning softly. Harry let his arms drape over Draco's shoulders, stroking lean, sweat-slicked muscles. And then Draco's body was flexing powerfully under his hands. Harry realized they were finally in. The pain wasn't so bad when Draco kissed him.

Harry kissed back, biting at Draco's lips. Teeth clacked as each scrambled for control. Harry won, dragging Draco's perspiration-drenched body flush against him and kissing their brains out. He pressed his hips until Draco was sheathed in him to the hilt. Harry pulled at silky, sopping wet tresses and moaned, moaned long and loud and full to the very last ounce of his breath. When had this started to feel so good? Somewhere between the kissing and Draco on top of him—sweating deliciously and profusely, moving his hips in musical, refined, feather-light thrusts—everything had changed.

“You're using magic,” Harry accused between sharp, demanding kisses.

“No” Draco wheezed, breathless, eyes shut as he rocked tenderly. “No magic. Tha's jus' you.”

“Us,” Harry corrected, tightening his hold on Draco as their chests slid together, hips locked in a slow, delicious grind. Harry pushed into each articulation of Draco's body, feeling the tempered slide of him deep inside. He wanted more, so much more.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, face buried in his lover's neck. “Harry, Harry....”

Harry had always believed at the very back of his mind that Draco used magic on him, sexually. Now, as he writhed with Draco pushing into him, careful and shallow, edging them both closer and closer to oblivion, he realized all those sparks were just the chemistry between them; intense physical attraction—maybe a dash of hormones?—but the deep desire for true connection and perhaps even a trace of... no, not yet. It was too soon. He felt so foolish, mistaking passion for magic. It was enough to know this was all real.

He used his legs around Draco as leverage, meeting each neuritic slide with a challenging verve. Draco let out a high, nasal sound, biting down hard on Harry's neck, teeth raking.

“Draco,” Harry panted. “You... you....”

There were words trying to get out, beating wildly at the backs of his teeth, trying to escape with big heavy picks and sticks of dynamite. He bit his lips and thrust harder, swallowing the syllables down. You do this to me, Draco. I think I'm falling in love with you.

There. Maybe it was too soon, but he couldn't help thinking about how he felt. There was no reason to verbalize that kind of useless pap at a time like this.

“Tu es trop serré,” Draco managed in a constricted voice. His neck, face and shoulders were rosy from the effort of holding himself back. “Tight. So tight, baby. It's not supposed ta be this good the muggle way.”

“Mmm,” Harry replied. “We're just that good together.”

Draco rolled his hips, angling up in a way that made something inside him zing until he was dizzy. Harry groaned loudly, pressing his face to Draco's wet hair.

“There,” he said loudly. “There. More.”

Draco's hips moved in a strenuous, maddening drive that was sheer athleticism; powerful and achingly slow, rolling over and over against that spot. Harry reached for the blonde's ass. His arms not being quite as long, he could only touch that wonderful curve where high, round cheeks met his lower back. Harry pushed with his fingertips, urging Draco not to be so gentle with him. It felt fucking good.

“Harder,” he ordered, squeezing with his legs to work himself higher up Draco's shaft even as the blonde was on a back thrust. A high, whinnying sound escaped Draco's throat. Even with his weight distributed mostly on Harry, his supporting arms shook.

“Yeh asked fer it,” he muttered, menacing, rearing his hips back until Harry felt a press at his opening—the head of Draco's long cock pushing at his entrance as his lover withdrew. A second later, he slammed back with pure determination, rocking Harry's body a good few inches up the bed. Gravity and kinetic friction brought Harry bouncing back down his length, Draco's bollocks slapping his ass.

“Again,” Harry demanded. “Harder.”

On his elbows, Draco slid his forearms under Harry's back, crossing them and gripping Harry's broad shoulders, giving himself leverage to bear down without the raven haired object of his affection sliding away. It was like an embrace—the tightest, sweatiest, bestest embrace. Once again Draco pulled back, sliding all the way out this time, teasing in small circles with the head of his prick. He needed that second to breathe and collect himself before plunging into mind-bending tightness and heat. It was like nothing he'd ever imagined. This was fucking harder than he'd ever fucked in his life.

“Yes! Yes!” was Harry's encouraging response. “Faster!”

Draco launched again and again, driving down into the mattress, sinking teeth into Harry's neck to help hold him down. He sucked sweat from hot, spiced skin, feeling Harry's instinctual, insistent sounds thrumming in the throat beneath his mouth.

“Won't last,” Draco's voice was a tremble in his own ears, muffled by his teeth sunk well and deep in Harry's flesh. He was sliding, slipping, completely in and yet consumed. “Gonna come, baby.”

“No!” Harry said quite forcefully. “Not yet—too good!”

“Yesss, yesss, yesss,” Draco hissed his agreement between panting breath. His hips flew, driving with punishing force. “So close. 'Bout ta, 'bout ta....”

With a strength neither knew he possessed until that moment, Harry gripped Draco's sides with his knees and threw the blonde onto his back. He landed on top with a squelching thump, Draco's cock reburied in him. And Draco felt even bigger at this angle, getting that much deeper with gravity on his side, forcing Harry down his slick length.

Harry placed tentative hands to Draco's heaving chest, sitting up a bit and giving Draco some of his weight. He lifted his hips experimentally before lowering himself back down. Draco's silver eyes slid closed, head thrown back against the pillows, arching up helplessly into their mutual pleasure. Harry leaned forward, stealing a kiss before dropping back with a bit more gusto. Draco's prick was long, allowing him to build momentum as he dropped. That next slam drove the breath from Draco's lungs in a throaty wheeze. The blonde gasped beneath him, hands scrambling; one hand reached out to snag Harry's messy hair in a tight fist and the other found his hip, gripping fiercely to still his movements.

“Don't, mon ange,” he warned. “Yeh'll be so sore—”

“Don't... care,” Harry panted, a crazed smile taking over his face as he speared himself, landing with increasing speed and enthusiasm. “Feels... too damn good.”

“So good,” Draco agreed. He let his hand roam Harry's chest, touching hard nipples and flexing muscles, letting him do as he would. Draco gave up any delusions of control. There wasn't a doubt in his mind about who was fucking who here. He was getting thoroughly, fiendishly fucked. By Harry. His Harry.

Gods, the man moved as well on a cock as he did on a broomstick. He glistened, strong arms and chest positively rippling, rock hard thighs clamping down, pinning Draco to the bed. Harry was compact violence and ferocity, explosive; Draco knew to the marrow of his bones that he couldn't take much more of this wetness, this press and heat, this excruciating bliss that was making love to Harry. All Draco could do was pump Harry's thick sex trapped between them, hoping to get his gorgeous lover to come while he got his brains fucked out his cock. Draco had always felt in control with his dick in someone's ass—somehow, even with Draco buried in him, flying in and out from head to hilt, Harry was in charge. And it felt so good to be loved that way, loved so much and so fiercely that The Boy Who Lived To Be Straight would impale himself on just over twenty four centimeters of pureblood cock. Fucking glorious sight, too.

Harry actually batted his hand away, gripping him fiercely by the wrist and pinning him to the bed. The raven haired man quickly twined their fingers together, leaning close.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, thick lips brushing his. “Come with—”

Draco cut him off with an earth-shattering kiss. He gave a mighty upward thrust right to Harry's sweet spot and they were coming, Harry spilling across their chests and Draco losing it inside him—losing his mind, his body, everything that he was and ever could be. Eons poured from him like sweat from his skin, joining in this magnificent new universe. With his eyes shut tight, the only thing in his world was Harry. And that was the way it should be.

~ * ~

“You know,” Sylvestra announced, breathing out her cigarette smoke in a thick, inky cloud, “I think I may actually prefer the bent ones.”

“Why is that?” asked Lysandra. She lay sprawled across the blurry purple chaise they'd dragged out onto the Quidditch lawn. Constance stood a few feet away, staring out at the world with her jaw askew. The witch might start drooling soon.

“Double the fun,” Sylvestra shrugged. She fanned away the smoke to see her friend a little better. The stale, stormy pitch was in need of a breeze. “Granted, they've only eyes for each other, but this way I get to watch two men at once.”

“You didn't like the last pair,” Lysandra whined. “You never wanted to go and watch them.”

“The dog and that wolf? They weren't exactly strapping young things like these two.”

“They were fit enough,” Lysandra said in their defense. Those two had been a very loving, affectionate pair. She'd always enjoyed the show when the men forgot to close the bed hangings.

“I suppose there's something to be said for the exuberance of youth,” Sylvestra puffed on her cigarette—it never burned down. “I think Constance would agree.” She gestured to the witch standing a few yards away, nose pressed to the edge of the worlds.

“Constance, dear,” Lysandra called. “Come away and sit with me. They can't be ready for round four already.”

Constance shook her head of stylized blonde curls. “Not yet,” she sighed, up on her tip toes to peer at the two lovebirds in their nest. Their little mating calls had been heard throughout the house. The ladies had gathered up bits of furniture and dashed to the Quidditch landscape that hung above the bed. They never missed a show.

“Dearest, come quickly!” Constance called, signaling with her hand for her friends to join her at the divide. Her crackled face danced with emotion. “I believe my favorite is in tears!”

Lysandra heaved her bulk off the chaise, offering Sylvestra her plump, jeweled hand. They strolled to the place where the grassy field cut off, joining the excitable Constance. The boy with the delicate face and white blonde hair was Constance's favorite. Of course he would be—he was of her lineage, after all. He had some of her looks about him.

“You know,” Sylvestra observed, quite astounded, “I believe you're right.”

“Draco, you alright?” Harry asked past heavy lips. He squeezed Draco's hand in his, pulling back from the blonde's so they might speak properly.

Draco swallowed mightily and kept his eyes screwed shut with everything he was worth. He'd come so hard his eyes were watering. And his throat was still hoarse from screaming their first round. Harry's dead-tired weight on top of him was a welcome comfort.

“Yeah,” he choked out, voice oddly high. “Fine.”

“Are you...?” Harry couldn't or wouldn't finish the sentence.

Crying? It was implied. Perched on top, Harry examined his flushed face with naked care.

“No,” Draco scoffed. And then his treacherous body betrayed him with an unmistakably sniffle.

“It's okay if you are,” Harry offered. He placed a kiss to the tip of Draco's pointed nose before observing him again.

“I'm not,” Draco replied, some of the firmness back in his voice. He still sounded like a man who'd recently screamed his head off but at least he was back in the right register. “Really.”

Harry took up his left wrist, bringing Draco's hand with the Gaunt ring to his face. Harry nuzzled against that pale hand before bending to kiss the Dark Mark. When Draco's eyes shot open in shock, a single tear escaped. It rolled down his cheek in full view.

Harry rolled gingerly onto his side before pulling his boyfriend's sweaty head to his chest. Draco twined his arms around Wonder Boyfriend's waist, snuggling close before another stupid tear could be seen.

“I dunno why I'm fuckin'—” Draco interrupted himself with another pathetic sniffle. He decided to stop talking all together before he dug himself a deeper grave.

“You don't?” Harry smiled a bit sadly before burying his face in Draco's hair. They wreaked of sweat and sex and it was bloody fantastic. “You really don't?”

Unable to speak past the flood of childish emotion now pouring down his face, Draco shook his head. He tried to burrow further into Harry's chest, inhaling the salt of sweat along with that tangy something that always hung on Harry's skin no matter what. He just needed to stay like this until he stopped... doing whatever it was he was doing. Throwing a missish fit or something. Draco Malfoy didn't cry.

Harry breathed calmly, stroking his boyfriend's back while the man refused to acknowledge that he was, in fact, in tears. Of course Draco couldn't admit it. For the first time he had actually let go of himself and felt, genuinely made love to another human being. Of course he was crying. Harry didn't say a word. He held Draco to him, distributing kisses over his hair and trailing to his temple. Soon Draco sought his lips, catching him in a mushy, tear-flavored kiss. Harry's thumb swiped the dampness from his cheek before claiming Draco's mouth with teeth and tongue. Their bodies rolled together in familiar heat, hands roaming contours and angular planes as their mouths worked with increasing passion. When Draco's hand cupped Harry's ass to increase the pressure between them, the dark haired man flinched, sucking in air through clenched teeth.

“Gettin' sore?” Draco asked, his voice laced with concern.

Harry was a little shocked at how much it hurt now. Draco had warned him but this was pretty damn bad. It felt like his innards had been rearranged by a person who had only the vaguest impression of where said organs were supposed to go. He didn't really want to move from his side and Draco seemed to understand that.

Draco didn't think about summoning his wand from the floor; instead, he returned his hand to the healthy curve of his boyfriend's backside. He focused his entire self on Harry, staring into his emerald eyes, syncing their breathing, willing the hurt away with the voracity of his affection and guilt. Draco watched the pain and discomfort melt from Harry's bright green eyes. He felt a tightness in his chest dissipate, too.

“How'd you do that?” Harry asked quietly, now able to shift comfortably to his back.

“I've studied Endopathotic Theory,” the blonde shrugged. Never mind that was the first time in his life he'd had any success with it. His explanation wasn't enough for the legendary curiosity of The Boy Who Lived To Stick His Nose In Things.

“I've heard you mention it before. What is it?”

Draco made himself comfortable beside Harry, looking at the ceiling with an arm behind his head as he contemplated how to explain what was probably a very complex and involved magical theory. He snuck his other hand under Harry's neck, massaging firmly. Harry's eyes fell, a sigh leaving his pouty lips as Draco's fingers set to work.

“Did ya ever accidentally do magic as a child?” Draco felt Harry nod acutely against his hand, so he continued. “It's unusual but it happens. Kids sometimes release uncontrolled magic if they're scared or feel threatened. I never did but, when I was eight, Theo Nott blew a hole in his mother's conservatory wall when I snuck up on him. The theory says tha' certain emotional responses can trigger our magic without our realizin' it. What magic did ya do?”

“Little stuff, mostly,” Harry shrugged. “My Aunt Petunia cut my hair short and I hated it. The next morning, it had all grown back. And once, Dudley and his gang were chasing me; one minute I was trying to hide behind a dumpster and the next I was on the school roof.”

“Yeh Apparated?”

“I guess.”

“Na tha's rare,” Draco announced, eyebrows creeping up as he looked at the powerful wizard beside him in an entirely new light. “It looks like yer magic acts in self-preservation when yer afraid or threatened. The theory suggests tha' a wizard's ability fer wandless magic doesn't go away when we're trained ter use wands, jus' goes dormant. Supposedly tha' kind a' errant, wandless magic can be brought back an' controlled ter a certain extent. I've never been able ta get it ter work before. Guess it doesn't work fer everyone under duress.”

“So why do you think you could do it now?” Harry asked, yawning quietly at the end of his question. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it over them.

“If I had ta guess?” The blonde scratched the side of his head, further mussing his hair. Shagged senseless was a fantastically good look for him. “Maybe it only works when I feel... guilty.”

Harry gave a short laugh that rumbled around in his chest. Draco could probably count on one hand the number of times in his life he'd felt true guilt, let alone remorse... but he was slowly changing. Harry had to give Draco credit for evolving into a normal human being with actual feelings.

“You have no reason to feel guilty,” Harry offered with a sincere smile.

“Reason has nothin' ta do with it, mon ange,” Draco replied, a bit of flippancy poking through even as he yawned. He returned Harry's slow smile. “Ya feelin' better?”

Harry reached out, wiping the last undried tear from Draco's soft, creamy cheek. He felt more than better. This was perfect.

For The Curious: Translations of Didier's French

Je sais vous - I know you

Je vais être honnêtte avec vous, Harry. Il couinait comme un cochon qu'on emmène à l'abattoir. N'empêche, il vallait son pesant de gallions. - I'm going to be honest with you, Harry. He moaned like a pig at the slaughterhouse. But still, he was worth his weight in galleons.

Comment? - What?

For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French

M'épargner - Save me

Comme te veux - As you like

mon beau - my beautiful one

Tu es trop serré - You're too tight

mon ange - my ange

POST SCRIPT: I'm still waiting for my Pulitzer.
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Conscience