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
- 22
- 23
- 24
SUMMARY: Scar Head The Great has a knack for saying stupid, sappy things that make Draco speechless. Cue the big ones. Mundane events hide deeper, far more sinister goings-on. Death Eater-shaped storm clouds on the horizon.

WARNINGS: vulgar and sexual language, Dark Arts, drivel in spades, Hermione being a prude (In other words: nothing new.)

DISCLAIMERS: Obviously, I don't own Coca Cola.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

A General Thought About Saying "I Love You:"

Assuming you've been dating someone regularly (aka meeting them once a week to do brunch, concerts, dinner & a movie, etc.), the most appropriate window for Those Three Little Words is the three-to-five month mark.

This chapter presents an unusual situation in that not only have the boys known each other for six years and been living together for three months, but they've also been shagging several times daily the last two-ish weeks, hardly leaving one another's sight during that time. This—when combined with the love-starved, wounded baby bird that is Scar Head The Great—would yield a rapid return on the Three Little Words front.

There's also the solid catalyst that they are, in fact, seventeen. Enough said.

CONSCIENCE:

ROSES

“Please?!” Draco whined.

Harry shook his head.

“But... please?!” the blonde stomped his foot in a petulant show, hands fisted at his sides hard enough that his knuckles stood out and the tips of his long fingers reddened.

“Draco, I said no,” Harry replied gently.

“I'll wear the stupid disguise,” the blonde offered, head cocked to the side and chin jutting forward in his sincerity. “No one's going to kill me at a muggle produce market. Please, Harry! Please.”

He'd already decided to let Draco join him on his grocery errand; at this point, he was just enjoying the begging. Draco wouldn't behave this way in front of another living soul—his Malfoy pride would strike him dead before he could feel the poison of embarrassment reach his veins. But he pouted, whined, bitched and moaned like this for Harry. He was willing to make an absolute bloody fool out of himself to get his way. And Harry couldn't get enough of it.

Draco stepped close, resting his cool, thin hands on Harry's broad chest.

“Please, baby,” he pronounced, eyes forlorn, “I need to get out. I've been cooped up fer two days. I need air!”

“Even London air?” Harry raised his eyebrows slightly. He also extended his arms, taking Draco's waist and inviting him closer.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I'll do whatever yeh say.”

Harry swallowed. Draco really must be stir-crazy to make a promise like that.

“You're cute,” Harry said. His boyfriend was giving him puppy eyes and oh-so-vaguely pouty lips.

“Am not,” he sniffed, looking away. He couldn't seem to get the begging gleam out of his eyes, though.

“Are too,” Harry said, leaning his forehead against Draco's and brushing his nose against that pointy one. “And I won't tell anyone. They wouldn't believe me anyway,” he chuckled, planting a kiss to the end of Draco's nose. It was loving, tender and adorable—and Draco hated it. This afternoon he endured it passively, he was that dead set on getting outside today. Harry thought it looked like rain.

“Okay. Go upstairs and fix your hair. Make it good,” he joked. “If you're recognized and get yourself killed, I'll... I'll abandon my heroic quest to destroy Voldemort and take up Necromancy. And do you really want that on your conscience?”

“No,” Draco replied slowly, his eyes brightening because Harry was letting him out of their Number Twelve cage. He'd half expected a retort along the lines of “Silly Scar Head! Malfoy's don't have consciences!” What he got was a rapid joy suffusing Draco's perfect face.

“Gimme five minutes, okay?”

And he tore up the stairs, inelegant as a five year old. 'Spastic' was a good word for the way he nearly lost his footing on the hall carpet. Harry smiled after him like a fool in love.

It wasn't until they'd Apparated to into a nearby alley and walked all the way to the market that Harry realized something was “off” about Draco's appearance. Sure, his hair was once again dirt brown and there were glasses hiding his silvery eyes. And he wore a grey blazer because it really did look like rain—he'd turned his pointy nose up at Harry's offer of an old nylon jacket.

“Wait,” Harry said, pausing in the produce section by a display of apples. He dragged Draco to a stop by way of several fingers inserted in the back pocket of his denims. “These look awful familiar.” He tugged at the jeans. Draco didn't turn but looked over his shoulder, black-framed glasses sliding down his nose.

“They're yers,” Draco replied, not a hint of concern on his face that he'd been caught nicking his boyfriend's things. As it was, the denims could be called “low slung” at best, dripping off his narrow hips. The curve of his ass helped hold them up. Harry tried not to stare at those round cheeks he knew so well without a stitch of clothing on them—he could practically taste Draco against his lips from memory. He tried to be mad. He really tried.

“But I bought you all those clothes...” Harry shook his head, pursing his lips, green eyes wide. Even the unforgiving fluorescent lighting didn't dull their color. If anything, the low quality light made them brighter.

“Ya know yeh like it, Potter.” And Draco bit the very side of his bottom lip, sending the pink meat of his mouth careening off to one side. Puckered lopsidedly and one dark brow quirked just-so, it was a mighty struggle not to kiss him senseless. Harry settled for a light swat to the ass. Draco had the gall to look affronted.

“Get going, Malfoy,” Harry shot back, jutting his chin to show the direction. “Left at the dairy case.”

Draco quickly found he couldn't navigate the tall, narrow aisles, claiming they were identical. He didn't notice the numbers conveniently suspended from the ceiling. Unlike Hogwarts, there was a merciful lack of moving staircases, trick steps and walls that disguised themselves as doors for a day. Harry found the market a welcome place to navigate by comparison. Draco followed two steps behind, swinging the plastic shopping basket in his hand as he went.

“So wha' exactly are we gettin'?” Draco asked, peering over Harry's trench coat-clad shoulder. Harry was scanning the meat display. They'd bothered to escape Azkaban: they should at least treat themselves, right? He examined a few packages of lamb before picking one with a nice amount of fat. If he'd learned one thing cooking for the Dursleys it was that a bit of fat was bad for you but great for flavor. He and Draco were bound to exercise it off one way or another.

“You like spicy food,” Harry answered, placing the lamb in their basket. “So I thought I'd have a go at making curry. Ever had it?” Draco shook his head, following Harry down a dry goods aisle. “Good! You won't know if I bullocks it up, then.” That got him an exhaled snort of laughter.

Harry scanned the shelves, looking for premixed curry powders. He didn't have the first idea what spices went into making curry, just that there were a lot of them. He crossed his fingers for something that mentioned lamb. The first few boxes he picked up weren't quite right and he set each back. Draco started tapping his toe.

“Stop being a shit,” Harry mumbled, eyes flicking along the top shelves.

“Ya like tha' I'm a shit,” Draco articulated in a whisper, suddenly very close at Harry's back. Warm lips brushed the shell of his ear. An elderly woman further down the aisle shot them a dirty look.

“Yes,” agreed Harry, flushing. “Just not right now.”

He spotted a sauce that looked promising and stretched a hand up. The stubborn box remained just out of reach, even on the tips of his toes. God damn being short—it wasn't such a big deal for a wizard but, as a muggle, it made certain things difficult.

“Here, poilu,” Draco offered. He took a little half-running step at the shelf, jumping to grab the box and pull it down. He gave Harry a light, playful smile when handing over the package, the sides of his eyes crinkling and apples of his cheeks perking up to make that special smile that Harry suspected was just for him. He smiled readily back, a sigh bouncing around in his chest, begging for release. The man made him goopy with a twitch of his lips or that emotional softening of his piercing grey eyes. Draco bent, breaking their all-too-short interlude to retrieve the basket from the checkered linoleum floor. Harry read through the parts of the box printed in English and decided it would do. He would need coconut milk and something called ginger paste. Venturing further down the spice aisle produced a garlic and ginger paste which he deemed close enough. He handed it to Draco, watching the man place the glass jar carefully in the basket. He'd arranged their purchases so that nothing touched, like volatile potion ingredients instead of the makings of curry. Harry suppressed a chuckle as he gathered coconut milk and a bag of basmati rice.

Searching for a last little treat led them down the junk food aisle. Draco slipped an arm around Harry's waist and pointed with his chin.

“Why do I recognize those?” he asked in an undertone.

“Crisps?” Harry shrugged. “Ron eats them. They're supposed to be really bad for you. Did you wanna get some?”

Draco's pretty face crinkled as he physically shied away from the display of crisp packages in loud colors. “I think I'll pass,” he said with conviction. Bad for him and Ron's favorite? He'd probably rather die. His arm stayed around Harry as they walked down the aisle, slowed by foot traffic. Draco seemed aware of the occasional odd look they received; apparently, he didn't care. If anything, he pulled Harry a little closer. They were bumping hips when Harry stopped in front of the big bottles of fizzy soda. He didn't drink it all that often—it was always off-limits at the Dursleys, being one of Dudley's favorites. It was syrupy and sweet, so Draco was bound to like it.

Harry stared up at a bottle of the name-brand stuff. The bottles were kept in a sort of rack that allowed them to slide down aided by gravity; unfortunately, it was clear that neither he nor Draco was going to be tall enough to reach them.

Harry let out a “harrumph.” The store was crawling with muggles, so hawthorn or holly aid was right out. They could try jumping again. He watched that idea spread across Draco's pale face. He waited until a woman pushed her cart past before setting down the basket and giving it a try. No luck. But Harry did catch a hint of something separating his creamy expanse of stomach from borrowed denims—something decidedly plaid. That something was a pair of Harry's boxers.

His mouth may have hung open a little. He got a light, effervescent feeling in his fingertips, a tingling that made him want to reach out and touch. His chest got tight. He was very aware of the muscles in his own neck as he swallowed, watching Draco struggle to no avail. He was almost sad when Draco gave up.

Harry had an idea; he didn't give Draco time to protest, only to react. He took to a knee and brought Draco's thigh down on his shoulder, lifting the man up. Draco's instinct was to drop a hand to Harry's other shoulder, bracing to distribute his weight as he rose in the air. Draco was heavier than he looked, being mostly muscle, but Harry knew his weight by now. Still, his leg shook at the strain of straightening under the sudden burden. It didn't take long for Draco to grab the soda bottle and squeeze his shoulder, signaling Harry to put him down before anyone discovered Draco Malfoy accepting assistance without vehement complaints and much rolling of eyes. Harry let Draco slide down his front, landing with his curvy arse firmly planted against Harry's crotch, hands wrapping his angular hips.

Harry followed Draco's gaze down to the end of the aisle. A girl about their age was looking at them, smiling at Draco. Her smile spread into a full grin when she spotted Harry. Did she think they were... cute? Her grin said she did. Harry discovered Draco smiling back. The girl was really quite striking, with long brown hair cascading down her back and a generous set of bristols filling out her short floral dress. Yes, she was grinning at the both of them. It made Harry uncomfortable. He picked up their basket, got an arm around Draco's waist and started steering his boyfriend away.

Draco's head of dark hair swiveled, raising what could only be a coquettish eyebrow at Harry before looking behind him, sending the expression that girl's way. Then, with Harry's arm still around him, Draco actually winked at her.

Harry moved his hand from Draco's side to his back pocket, inserting his entire hand and giving a good, possessive squeeze. “Cut it out,” he hissed.

“Okay,” Draco whined, as though Harry were nothing but a spoilsport raining on his inappropriately flirtatious parade. “Yer the jealous type. I guess threesomes are off the menu.”

“They most certainly are!” Harry snapped without thinking. He lowered his voice considerably. “What—do you wanna fuck that girl?” He may have felt anxious, perhaps threatened, but he came across as nothing short of angry.

Draco had the good sense to rearrange his expression into an uneasy one. He leaned close.

“Not as much as I wanna fuck you the second we get home,” he whispered in Harry's ear, pulling back afterwords to gauge the dark haired man's reaction.

Harry worked to keep his face neutral, steering Draco to the check-out queue by the hand glued to his rear. “Good answer,” he growled.

Draco almost looked nervous, leaning in again to pose his next question. “Yeh'll be expectin' monogamy, then?” He said “monogamy” like it was the black death and Harry was asking him to run off and catch it.

Harry couldn't help it when his hand tightened on the shopping basket. His hand on Draco barely moved but he would have liked to pinch rather bruising. He didn't want a sharp pain to distract Draco from his rising ire or the severity of his tone.

“Fidelity... goes hand in hand with honesty and loyalty,” Harry observed through clenched teeth. “You'll find we do a lot of those three in Gryffindor.”

“I see,” Draco laid a hand to the smalls of Harry's back, moving with him when the line surged forward. He rested the big soda bottle against his bony hip, leaning into Harry so they could continue speaking privately. “An' if I should... 'slip' from the tower of virtue? Then what?” His eyes were unreadable but his pretty-boy face worked its way to lip-biting, rapid-blinking, gaze-avoiding insecurity.

“I would be disappointed,” Harry said, voice deceptively soft while his words went hard as granite. “I might go so far as to say 'betrayed.' A dash of violent rage could enter the mix—especially if it's a leap rather than a fall. Will staying in the tower be a problem, dear?” The pet name was almost an accusation.

“Tha's a prison I can agree to,” Draco said quietly, bowing his temporarily brunet head. Darkened hair fell behind his lenses, into his silvery eyes slightly magnified by the frames. “It's not really a problem. I just need—”

“Boundaries,” Harry finished for him. “Very clear and unwavering ones. Am I right?”

“Spot on.” Draco bumped Harry lightly with his hip. Harry wouldn't look his way as the line crept forward. “I haven't upset yeh, have I?”

“No,” Harry sighed, shaking his head at the checkered pattern on the floor. “I just thought we were past this sort of thing.”

“We... never talked 'bout it,” Draco offered. “Na we have, right? An' we're past it.”

Harry nodded, placing their items on the belt and offering a weak smile to the cashier. Draco hovered behind him, slipping Harry's wallet out of his pocket and handing it to him. He was trying to be helpful—his very tiny way of saying he was committed, involved, participating in the relationship. Harry realized this might very well be the first time sexual exclusivity was requested of a Malfoy. But it was a requirement for Harry Potter. The thought of anyone else so much as touching Draco made his blood boil. He tried not to grind his teeth. As it was, he swiped his credit card with much more force than was necessary.

Draco stood there, thin hands stuffed in his pockets, feet shuffling and looking at the floor. Harry sighed, bagging the groceries himself. Draco opened his mouth, a hand shooting out of his pocket to rest between Harry's shoulder blades. After a second he pulled away, returning the comforting hand to his pocket. He looked like he wanted to say something as they walked toward the exit, Harry carrying the two plastic bags in one hand. When it became apparent that he couldn't get the words out Harry stopped. They stood in a little plexiglass enclosure between two sets of sliding doors, muggles passing them on either side. Draco looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Harry faced him, feeling his brow draw down in a stern expression.

“Draco,” he said slowly. “It goes both ways, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not gonna screw around or cheat on you,” he reassured. “I'm serious. I want you. Is that so hard for you to understand?”

Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. He took a step to the side, then another, then turned, walking slowly outside. Harry followed two paces behind, belting his coat against a damp breeze. Draco stood under the shop's awning, silver eyes watching as the first of many fat rain drops began pelting down. Thin hands turned his collar up against what would clearly be an onslaught.

Harry stepped up beside him, flipping his own collar. He removed his glasses and stowed them in a breast pocket. Glasses didn't do any good when you couldn't see out of them.

“This is the part where you say something back,” Harry chided. “I'm sure you remember this from school, yes? It's called an argument.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Draco snapped. “Very clever, Harry.”

The sound of his name on Draco's lips, free of malice and misunderstanding, still made his heart slam against his chest like it was roped to a stampeding Thestral. He wasn't sure what to say to make Draco feel better. The man's drastically different lifestyle made Harry feel quaint, talking about things like virginity and monogamy as though they mattered a great deal. Would Draco care if he was unfaithful? Would it break his heart, like it would Harry's? Would he get angry, scream, throw things? Or would he not even be bothered?

Draco ran the flat of one hand over his mousy hair, pale fingers starting at the back of his neck and sweeping all the way to his temple. He gave Harry a sideways look, the edge of his glasses interrupting his gaze.

“Do ya like this?” he asked.

“Do I like fighting with you?” Harry huffed. “I thought we covered that! I hate fighting with you. It's the last thing I want—”

“I meant my hair,” Draco said evenly, eyes on the river of water building in the street. Cars drove by, splashing through great puddles. It was turning into quite the downpour.

“Oh.”

“Maybe I'll stay a brunet,” he said, noncommittal. He ruffled the hair at the top of his head, rearranging the way his bangs draped into his eyes. Harry grabbed his thin wrist, turning Draco to face him.

“Don't,” Harry said, pulling off those thick, preppy glasses and sliding them into Draco's blazer pocket; immediately, the darkness of the frames left his eyes, replaced by blue flecks from the thread of his blazer. Harry brought his hand back to Draco's face, pushing glossy strands away from his eyes. He drew near enough to whisper over the blaring of car horns and the pummel of thunder. “I like you as a blonde... normal. I mean, I fancy you any way you look! But it doesn't matter. I want you to be yourself. Because I like you for who you are. Actually,” he took a deep breath, holding that silvery gaze. The longer he stared, the more green Draco's eyes became. So perfect. “I love you.”

Draco looked Confunded—maybe even Imperiused, the way his jaw hung slack and his eyes went oddly wide, like he was staring at a four headed Grindylow and didn't know quite what to make of it. His lips parted but he wasn't breathing. Harry broke the silence before it could get any worse.

“You don't have to say anything. I just... I wanted you to know where I stand. I won't say it again if it makes you uncomfortable,” he offered.

Draco cut him off with lips, hot and fast against his own. He pressed hard, arms winding around Harry's waist and tugging him close. It didn't tell him anything about how Draco felt, if he was happy or displeased or couldn't give two straws, but at least it was something. The fact that he hadn't run screaming was a step in the right direction. Maybe the way he kissed was enough, sucking at Harry's lips, breath coming in sharp, staccato pulls, tongue begging for entrance. Maybe that sweep of tongue said it all—that he may not understand it or necessarily like it, but he would accept this if it meant that nothing had to change. And Gods were they good together, just the way they were.

Draco's body met his in a familiar melding of lips, chests, groin and thighs. It was becoming second nature to hold and be held this way. They found one another in their sleep, always waking up twined together in a hard, sweaty, wet dream-grinding pile. Draco's thigh was tucked between his even now, their bodies quickly reacting to stimulation that was becoming as regular as meals. His boyfriend was hard against his thigh, lips working his with unrestrained desire. The smallest mewling moan escaped his chest.

Harry knew that noise. It meant Draco was happy. Harry tightened his fingers in Draco's silky hair, gripping the back of his neck and deepening their kiss, taking Draco's mouth with the same passion, the same need.

The unmistakable sounds of cat calling echoed across the street over the driving rain. Harry opened his eyes to catch sight of several teens standing under umbrellas. One of them was the girl in the floral dress. She stood next to a tall man with a scraggly goatee. He held a large umbrella in one hand and a six pack of ale with the other. The rest of the little crowd held similar bundles of alcohol and junk food. They looked like local college students, judging by the lewd message tshirts and baggy jeans most of the men wore.

“Oi! Get a room!” One man shouted. His friends guffawed their agreement.

“Yeah!” added the man with the goatee. “What're you, fifteen?” The girl in the floral dress smacked his stomach with the back of her hand, silencing him. The rest of their group continued to glare.

Harry desperately wanted to flip them the bird. Draco beat him to the punch and his come back dripped with class. He smiled serenely across the street, lacing a hand in Harry's thick hair. Draco pulled—hard—until Harry's messy black head was forced all the way back, throat exposed.

“Jealous?” he drawled, each syllable so clearly uttered by Draco Malfoy, once and always the fucking Prince of Slytherin. And his lips closed over Harry's, harsh and demanding. The girl gave a loud cheer of approval but it barely registered in Harry's lust-addled mind. His crotch jumped involuntarily as his lips were punished, mouth despoiled. His mind was stripped. It was Draco who came up for air first.

“Sorry,” he whispered against Harry's swollen lips. “I jus'....”

“Got carried away?” Harry chuckled. “It's fine by me.”

Since when had he become such a sexual deviant? They were barely legal—and that was kind of raunchy in and of itself! For the first time in his life Harry was enjoying himself, his own body, without hesitation. And then there was Draco—his enthusiasm, his excitement pulsing a steady rhythm through his denims. It was clear that Draco fancied him right back, fancied him for who and what he was at his core, at his most base; sweaty, awkward and stubborn to a fault. Even his body hair, which had always proved a constant embarrassment in his past, seemed to do nothing but turn Draco on. One morning a few days ago, they'd been curled up together in bed. Draco clearly thought Harry was still asleep because he'd buried his face in Harry's armpit, breathed deep and started touching himself. Draco's slender hands had caressed them both. He'd moaned softly, grinding himself against Harry, inhaling his natural scent. Harry pretty much quit deodorant after that.

Draco was looking at him as the teens trudged down the street. His eyes slid closed, nose nuzzling Harry in that way he thought the man hated. Maybe not?

“Can we get a taxi?” he asked, breathing the scent of the rain and of London.

“Of course,” Harry smiled.

Harry had to tell the driver number thirteen Grimmauld Place because, as far as muggles could see, number twelve didn't exist. He paid the fare. Stepping out onto the curb with Draco, they made a dash for the stoop of number twelve. Half way up the stairs, Harry felt a wand at his throat.

“How do you know this address?” demanded a woman's voice. She sounded angry enough to kill. It took Harry a second to filter out the menace and recognize her voice.

“Tonks!” he sighed. “It's Harry and Draco.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out her watery, Disillusioned form. Draco had spun around on the top step, brandishing his wand. His shoulders didn't relax when Harry identified the body behind the wand as a friendly one.

“Prove it,” she growled. “Both of you.”

Draco thought a moment, not dropping his wand. “I've been sorted into Gryffindor,” he said with a shrug.

“Remus taught me the Patronus Charm my third year,” Harry provided. “He kept feeding me chocolate and telling me I was as stubborn as my father.”

Tonks seemed to accept these statements as proof of their identity. She lowered her wand only slightly.

“Now you,” Draco insisted from the landing, giving his wand a swish toward the semi-invisible Tonks.

“No,” she said sternly. “I don't answer to sneaking hooligans. I came for my guard shift and you two were nowhere to be found. What were you thinking, running off like that?! You Know Who has Death Eaters, Inferi, Werewolves, Dementors, Giants and Vampires, even! You could've been killed!”

Draco reached a hand out to Harry, inviting him up to the landing. Harry handed over the shopping bag, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. They both ignored the irate Auror.

“What if Death Eaters trailed you back to the house, hmm?” she posed, even angrier for being brushed off with adolescent nonchalance and detachment. “What if they discovered your location?”

“That's what we have the Fidelus Charm for,” Harry muttered, working his house key into the bolt. “They can't touch us here.”

“Harry!” Tonks insisted, reaching out for his shoulder. Harry shrugged her off, working at the second lock. “You can't be running off like that! You're too important to the Order!”

Unlocking the door, Harry shoved Draco inside—out of the rain before he caught a cold—and then rounded on Tonks. “I'm not a weapon!” He announced loudly. “I won't be kept safe, locked up in some dusty gun cabinet until I'm needed! And I refuse to be loaded with everyone's hopes and shot at Voldemort. I appreciate your concern but I'm an adult and I make my own decisions.”

With that said he stomped inside, slamming the door in her face.

Draco watched Harry peel off his soaked trench coat, dropping it to the floor in a sopping heap. He was getting more and more like Draco, leaving his things lying about for Kreacher to pick up after him. With a flick of his wand, Draco dried their hair and clothes.

“From now on,” he posed seriously, “we Apparate in, we Apparate out. Yes?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry nodded curtly. He picked up their grocery bags, about to head for the kitchen.

“Did ya want help?” Draco offered, wand still in hand.

“Er,” Harry stumbled for words, shifting the bags in his hands. “I'm... in a bad mood. The Order and stuff,” he shrugged. “I think I wanna be alone for a bit. Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” Draco smiled gently, stripping off his blazer and flipping it over the banister. He started up the rickety staircase. “I feel like a nap. Wake me later?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco was not going upstairs to take a nap. “Nap” was code for going to bed to have a nice long wank and Harry should join him. They'd been tonguing in the back of the taxi—if Harry was still half-hard, Draco was too. And the man never let an erection go to waste. Ever.

“Don't you start without me,” Harry warned, mock-stern, holding up a warning finger.

Draco continued up the stairs, laughing softly, peeling off his shirt as he went.

- - -

The rice was taking forever to cook. Harry stood by the stove, stirring slowly, the aroma of spice-rubbed lamb already leaking out of the oven and permeating the house. He heard Draco enter the kitchen; when he chanced a look at his boyfriend, all he saw was a perfect, naked torso and very flushed cheeks.

“You couldn't wait?” Harry fake-sneered. “I'm busy making you a nice dinner and you're getting off without me? Better make it up to me.”

“Harry...” Draco said, his meaning indiscernible through a practiced, even tone.

“Oh, come on,” Harry rolled his eyes, stirring the rice. “Get over here an' blow me.”

No response.

“What?” Harry couldn't resist egging the man on a bit. “You haven't sucked me off since your morning coffee. You must be dying for a quickie.”

“I'm gagging.” The way Draco said it made him turn around. There was something about the sound of his voice... fear. He was afraid of something. Swirling white scars stood out on his chest, punctuated by flecks of old burns and yellowing bruises shaped like Harry's fingers and mouth. And in his hands were the two white rose boutonnieres from Bill and Fleur's wedding. Harry looked from the flowers cradled in Draco's hands back to his pale, drawn face.

“What's wrong?”

“Ya didn't... put a Stasis Spell on these without tellin' me, did ya?” he asked very quietly. The way he held the roses was very odd, like he didn't want to be touching them but had no other choice. He could have levitated them.

“I don't even know the incantation,” Harry sighed. “What's the problem, Draco? Talk to me.”

Draco walked to the sideboard and carefully placed the flowers on the silver tray Harry sometimes used to bring Draco breakfast in bed. He then extended his hawthorn wand, silently summoning two glass domes from the disused parlor. The contraptions reminded Harry of something you'd see in an old fashioned museum—big bells made of glass that could be clamped over dusty models or taxidermy birds. Draco put one over each of the flowers, clamping them down with a Vacuuming Charm. He backed away, wary, seating himself at the kitchen table. Slowly, he reached back until his hand found Harry's.

“Those flowers should've wilted,” he said quietly, as deadly calm as he'd been when giving testimony before the Order. “I found trace magic on 'em but I couldn't tell wha' it was. I thought... yeh'd preserved 'em or somethin'. Bein' sentimental. But when I was... ya know,” he shrugged.

“Because you couldn't be good and wait for me,” Harry said under his breath, trying to lighten the mood. Draco only squeezed his hand tighter.

“Stop,” he commanded. “I realized wha' else would stop them from wilting,” he turned to Harry and his eyes were dark with true fear. His hand gave the tiniest tremor. “I looked down, saw the Mark... an' I remembered: Drengr Leita. It's a form of Dark Magic invented by Norse warlocks ter find comrades across large battlefields. It's wha' the Dark Mark is based on.”

“You think those flowers are... what, exactly?” Harry spluttered. “Transmitting our location to someone?”

“No,” Draco shook his head. “I think they're tryin'. The Fidelus Charm prevents knowledge a' this location bein' passed by anyone but the Secret Keeper. I think the magic is trapped, keepin' the flowers alive. If I were plantin' a spyin' device on The Chosen One, I'd want it ta behave as normally as possible. I'm sure these flowers are spelled to decay after signaling their dróttinn. We could take 'em outside an' test tha' theory—”

“Except that would give away our location and we'd be instantly attacked,” Harry sighed, stirring the rice with his free hand. Suddenly he wasn't so hungry.

“Exactly. We need ta isolate 'em, no magical influence of any kind, 'til I can get an owl ta Headmistress McGonagall. Viktor might know somethin'; o' course, the best person would be Professor Snape. He knows more 'bout these older forms than anyone else.”

“Fat chance getting a hold of him,” Harry snorted. Snape, no longer a Hogwarts professor, claimed to still be on the Order's side; yet they hardly ever heard from him and his information was relatively useless these days. Harry harbored his doubts: Snape hadn't even tried to save Draco from a week of torture. “Besides, we need to figure out every person who touched these things—from the florist right down to the wedding guests. Because someone on that list can't be trusted.”

~ * ~

Hermione's bushy head materialized in the green flames. Harry leaned against Draco as he looked into the fire.

“Where have you been?!” Hermione demanded without preamble. “I've been floo-calling you for three days! And Kreacher said you were out!”

Draco answered for him. A casual shrug tilted his angular shoulders, an arm tucked around Harry's waist where Hermione couldn't see.

“We were probably fuckin'.”

They might've been having sex. Or Harry might've been out, arranging his last surprise for Draco before he returned to Hogwarts in a few short days. Hermione's mouth fell open.

“Wha'?” Draco looked askance at Harry, pulling an innocent face.

“Gryffindors... don't really talk like that,” Harry explained.

Draco gave Harry a slow, warm smile. “They can learn.”

Hermione couldn't decide which of the two to direct her dirty look at. Her head snapped between them, attempting to divide her venom.

“Hermione,” Harry cautioned, “don't.”

“Don't what?” she asked. Harry could practically hear her hands on her hips. She pursed her lips like Professor McGonagall, hair wild around her agitated face.

Harry sighed heavily, leaning into Draco again. “Don't act like he's blowing the 'Chosen' out of me.”

The blonde beside him dissolved in cackles, falling back and holding his stomach as he hooted and squealed. Tears pricked at his pretty grey eyes. For Hermione's sake, Harry ignored him—even though it was adorable. More than anything, he liked seeing Draco happy and at ease.

“He's actually been really helpful,” Harry added over his boyfriend's wild laughter.

Hermione's tone was testy at best. “I'm sure,” she sniffed, turning up her nose.

“Not like that,” Harry asserted. “He's the one who realized there was something wrong with those flowers. McGonagall told you, right?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “And I agree with her. You need to destroy them immediately.”

“Um, that was actually Draco's idea, too,” Harry corrected, knowing it would only incense Hermione more. He couldn't help it, though. “The downside is that they were created through a form of the Dark Arts. It's going to take a Dark spell to destroy them.”

“I don't see why—” Hermione began.

“Of course yeh don't,” Draco interrupted. “Ya know nothin' 'bout the Dark Arts. I do. An' I've been workin' with Harry on a spell tha' should do the trick.”

“We turned the third floor shower into a containment field,” Harry explained, “and I've been practicing. I think we're gonna try it this afternoon.”

Hermione glared at them. She clearly didn't approve of Harry practicing the Dark Arts, even if it was to save his own skin. She disapproved even more of Draco serving as his instructor. But Headmistress McGonagall had said in no unclear terms that those roses were to be destroyed as quickly, carefully and discretely as possible. Draco promised that using the Dark Arts to get rid of them would prevent their maker from detecting the destruction. He added that the same applied to Horcruxes. Harry redoubled his efforts to master the archaic burning spell Draco had dug up from the Black family library.

Hermione began drilling them with questions about the nature and origins of the spell on the roses as well as the fire spell Harry had spent hours upon hours practicing. Once she and Draco got started, Harry didn't understand a word that passed between them. All he knew was that the magical fire consumed not only physical objects but the magic within them. Draco had practiced, too, casting simple Dark spells on bits of paper and then attempting the fire spell. Even his best efforts weren't as successful as Harry's, so it was decided The Chosen One would be the one to do the spell when it came time. Harry had to be somewhat proud of himself. Draco had been touted as a talented Dark Wizard from the age of seven. Like Quidditch, this was another thing Harry could take from him and be better at. Instead of being bitter, Draco seemed almost proud of Harry's capabilities.

Harry got up, excusing himself from the academic discussion with a squeeze to Draco's shoulder.

“Just where do you think you're going, mister?” Hermione snapped.

“Bathroom,” Harry supplied, trying not to roll his eyes. “Draco knows more about this, anyway. I'll be right back.”

The door to the little library room closed behind him with a sigh of dust. No matter how much it was cleaned, number twelve Grimmauld Place seemed to want to be dirty. After adjusting the carpets, upholstery and wallpaper of the most commonly used rooms, Harry and Draco simply gave up, letting the house be.

“Now tha' we're alone,” Draco said, leaning conspiratorially toward Granger's face in the fire. He gathered his wits, stomach, and steel balls. He needed every ounce of courage he possessed. “I have a favor ta ask ya.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione spluttered.

“Yes,” Draco sighed. “Much as it pains me... I don't want ta Apparate out a' here unguarded. Yeh remember tha' jacket I wanted? The leather one?” Hermione nodded guardedly. “Well, it's cold in Scotland.”

Draco waved his wand, summoning a slip of parchment and a small bag of galleons from a drawer of the nearby desk he'd adopted as a hiding spot. Harry never used this room except to floo-call. The blonde handed the gold and parchment into the fire, forcing the muggle-born witch to accept them by pushing rather rudely at her face.

“Why should I do you any favors, Malfoy?”

Draco's face was cold as stone. “Read the measurements, Granger.”

Hermione's face shifted as she glanced at the paper. Her eyes widened comically.

“It's for Harry,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Draco confirmed, folding his slender hands in his lap. He fixed Granger with a solid look, willing her compliance with hard eyes. “A surprise. Think yeh can manage?”

“Sure,” she said slowly, processing that Draco Malfoy was buying his boyfriend, Harry Potter, a present. A surprise present. If they were any other couple—if Draco Malfoy were any other wizard—she would say it was sweet. Unfortunately, this was Draco Malfoy, Death Eater son of a Death Eater, liar, cheat, and all-around scoundrel. Her mind went right to the worst. “Where did this gold come from?”

“Not like it's any a' yer business,” Draco sniffed, “but it's mine. From the Ministry. It's real, Granger. Will ya do this?”

“I already said I would,” she snapped.

“When?”

“I'll get it today if it'll get you off my back!” she scowled. Draco couldn't fight his Malfoy smirk.

- - -

Concentrate. Focus. Let everything else go....

Harry centered himself, letting his vision narrow to the two glass domes inside the shower. Draco finished tracing chalk runes that would reinforce the old glass partition against the impact of Dark magic. He tossed the chalk into the sink as he approached, stopping at Harry's side. He gave his handiwork a little nod. Everything was ready.

“Get behind me,” Harry mumbled. The blonde was a distraction—and Harry needed every ounce of his conviction if this was going to work. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Draco tucked his wand in his back pocket and stepped behind him. Draco knew better than to touch; instead, he crouched, watching around Harry's shoulder.

Harry let his focus draw to a point, his breath slowing. Draco had worked with him to perfect every aspect of his casting. The Dark Arts were so different from regular magic. Just the amount of concentration and focus required was enough to leave him breathless and in need of a nap. This particular spell was archaic, requiring a level of concentration that bordered on trance-like. The pronunciation was key: the spell sounded nasal and raspy, əp-ter in-dh. He'd spoken the syllables a hundred times in his mind until they became a sort of chant. He let it develop from the center of his mind, building, becoming more that the foreign sounds, more than himself. Harry pulled his breaths slow and deep, letting everything else but his determination fade away. A hot wind rose up, tugging at his clothes and mussing his hair. He harnessed it, pushing it into the spell on the tip of his tongue, at the tip of his wand. He pushed it out.

“Eptir Eldr.”

A swirling blue and white mass erupted from his wand, hurtling for the roses. It spit and hissed like fire, folding in on itself to become one blinding point of light as it hit the domes.

Draco slapped a hand to a nearby chalk rune, slamming the shower partition closed to contain the Dark fire. Harry felt winded, more exhausted than if he'd just run a marathon. He put a hand to the counter, leaning all his weight as he panted, doubled over and weak.

The fireball looked like it was doing its job.

There was a sudden impact to the air, like being too close to a rocket launch. The world bent, wobbling at the center. A second later, glass and tile was spraying everywhere. Harry leapt back, throwing himself and Draco to the floor. He landed on top of the blonde, knife-like shards of glass shooting past and all around them. Neither had a chance to throw out a shield. Bits of tile and grout flew, powdery remnants of plaster walls bursting in the air like clouds bearing a dangerous storm.

“Harry!” Draco shouted beneath him, struggling to get free of his determined human shield.

The bathroom mirror cracked into jagged, deadly pieces that were swept by insatiable magic winds. A section of glass caught Harry across his back, slicing through his tshirt and skin. Blood spattered across the floor and wall as the chunk of glass kept right on moving, cutting up to his shoulder before being swept away in the gale. It was all over in a matter of seconds, the last bits of debris clattering to the floor in sad little tinkles compared to the monstrous explosion of moments before.

“That wasn't so bad,” Harry offered, nuzzling the side of Draco's head with his face. Little ricochet bits of glass, tile and plaster fell from his dark hair as he moved.

“Yer hurt!” Draco exclaimed, working his hands free of Harry's weight.

“I'm fine,” he muttered. He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at Draco. Quite a bit of his blood had landed in white blonde hair, the splatter misting across his milky cheek like dark freckles. Harry smiled. He licked the pad of his thumb before lightly wiping the blood from Draco's face.

Draco reared up, kissing him hard on the mouth as pale hands roamed his back, squeezing the long wound shut as best he could. Harry hissed in pain.

“Yer such an idiot,” Draco mumbled against his lips.

The flow of magic was unmistakable. It raced up his spine, settling in his skin as the bleeding gash worked itself closed. It prickled, almost uncomfortably so. A part of it felt a little too warm; like tea drunk too soon, it left a stinging deep in his muscles instead of on the tip of his tongue. But the rest felt like Draco, like his wet kisses and frazzled breath blowing out again and again over Harry's cheek. He let the magic run through him, let Draco kiss him feverishly. And he returned it with everything he had.

Draco's fingers stroked up and down his back, insuring that every inch of him had been healed. Hands slipped through the rip in his ruined tshirt, needing to feel skin on skin to know for sure. Draco had healed him Endopathically. Again.

Harry gave Draco's lips one last easy, sensual suck before pulling back enough to speak.

“Okay,” he said, voice sounding like gravel in his own ears. “Tell me how that made you feel guilty.”

Draco's silver eyes went from lusty to begrudgingly dark. “I hate you,” he seethed.

“Yeah,” Harry snorted back skeptically, raising his eyebrows. “That's a whole lotta 'hate' filling your cock right now.”

“I really hate you,” Draco drawled, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Wait! I get it, now,” Harry preened, flippant. “You get off to me saving you.”

“Yer gonna regret tha', Wonder Boy.”

And, without warning, he Apparated them to bed.

- - -

Fully aware of his shirtless state and the chosen blood still spattered through his platinum hair, Draco wrenched open the front door. If the bitch didn't stop it with the overzealous door bell ringing she'd wake Harry. And she did not want to face Draco if Wonder Boyfriend was woken prematurely. Draco still had to finish the Blood Replenishing Potion brewing in the kitchen and pour it down sleeping beauty's throat.

“Granger,” he sneered. The witch wore some undoubtedly muggle summer dress in bright orange. It really wasn't her color.

“Malfoy,” she said back, toeing the line of civility. Then her brown eyes took him in, widening perceptibly as she processed his state of undress and mild bloodiness. He signaled her in with an imperial wave of his hand, shutting the door behind her. “You look awful,” she announced.

“Why thank you,” Draco drawled, heavy on the sarcasm. “I take it tha's...” he gestured to a large white shopping bag in her hands.

“Where's Harry?” she asked quickly, handing over the bag.

“Indisposed.”

“Really, Malfoy.” She attempted to use her stern expression on him—he could have laughed. That had no effect on him. He was a Malfoy, for fuck's sake. “Where's Harry?”

Draco shrugged, casual. “I tied him to the bed.”

Granger looked positively mortified.

“We had a little accident taking care of those cursed roses,” Draco elaborated, not that the woman deserved to know. Draco assumed she'd bugger off more easily if she were in possession of a few facts. “He's fine; it was really nothing, just a couple of scratches. He didn't wanta rest but I made him—slipped a mild Sleeping Drought in his Coke. Tha' muggle drink's so syrupy yeh could mix it half with bubotuber puss an' not know the difference. Satisfied?”

She mouthed wordlessly at him, not sure she wanted to take his word given the amount of blood in his hair. Unbeknownst to Draco, several trails of it ran down his neck. He'd washed his hands thoroughly before preparing the Blood Replenishing Potion, saving just a few drops of Harry's blood to tailor the brew, making it more effective.

“Well, you know where the floo is,” Draco said crisply. He headed for the kitchen, shopping bag in hand. Granger stared at the scars on his retreating back. “Good evening, Granger.”

- - -

Harry was just waking up when Draco entered their bedroom. His green eyes were closed but Draco could tell by the hissing sounds the man made in his sleep. He set down the tray with tea and Blood Replenishing Potion, placing the gift box out of sight on the floor before crawling into bed to examine his patient.

First he brushed dark hair from Harry's forehead, feeling his temperature. He was a little furnace when he slept, so the heat wasn't unusual. Draco leaned down, pressing his lips to the lightning bolt scar that sat just off-center from unearthly green eyes and a slightly bent-up nose. He'd been the cause of at least one break. Was that something to be proud of? He set those thoughts aside, moving on to check his boyfriend's pulse and heartbeat. Everything seemed normal. He settled a hand on Harry's cheek, waiting for his eyes to open. Sleepy, Harry nested a scruffy jaw in his waiting palm, breathing deep before his eyelids began to flutter.

Draco leaned forward, a very sick part he wouldn't admit to wanting to be the first thing Harry saw when he woke. Sure enough, green eyes focused to the sight of his own. Harry smiled, dragging him down for a sleep-strength hug.

“Feeling better, I take it?” Draco asked, enjoying the closeness despite himself.

“I was fine,” Harry shrugged, hands getting rather pervy in their post-nap explorations. “You're the one who wanted me to rest.”

“True,” Draco admitted. Harry gave his ass a squeeze and he pulled away, warning in his eyes. Harry pouted. “Lemme go. I have a surprise fer yeh.”

“Blood Replenishing Potion is hardly a surprise, love,” Harry joked, sitting up and stretching. “I'd know that smell anywhere.”

“No,” Draco snorted, leaning head-first off the side of the bed. Harry undoubtedly had a great view of his denim-clad arse. The man was probably licking his chops. Draco gave his bum a little shimmy, just to be sure he had Harry's undivided attention. He emerged with the large gift box. “Here.”

“What's this for?” Harry questioned, settling the box on the bed. His calloused fingers undid the green bow Draco had conjured. A boyish smile crossed his face when a moment later, the ribbon evaporated in his hand. He'd never seen enchanted wrappings before?

“Because...” Draco searched for a good reason. Unable to find one, he looked away. “I jus' wanted to. Open it.”

Harry lifted the lid and pushed aside the tissue. Draco had examined the jacket closely, checking for weak threads or defects before arranging it carefully in the gift box. One sleeve sat up by the lapel, showing off a set of zippers and silver buckles that allowed the garment to be tightened, contouring the forearm and tapering to the wrist. It would be perfect for flying. The wide, asymmetrical collar would bring your eye right to Harry's broad shoulders and dark hair, the silver fastenings setting off his eyes. It was a great jacket; a sort of roughness to the material, a ruggedness and simplicity that reminded him endlessly of Harry. It would look right on no other man.

“Do ya like it?” Draco asked.

“It's really... perfect. Thank you,” Harry replied, lifting the jacket out of the box to examine it more closely. The metal parts clinked and clanked, muffled a bit by the supple black leather. Shirtless, Harry threw it over his shoulders. “How did you...?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I asked Granger ta pick it up fer me,” Draco shrugged. Harry's eyes bored into him, spooning the rest of the truth out of him as though his mind were made of melon. “I used my Ministry gold.”

“You didn't have to do that,” Harry chided, tugging the zipper up half way. It fit like a glove. A very terribly sexy glove. Draco's resolve not to jump his recently injured boyfriend was quickly fading. The man looked good.

“If yer gonna kill the Dark Lord fer me, yeh'd best look good doin' it,” he mumbled, mouth inexplicably filling with drool.

“Baby, you really shouldn't have.” Harry reached a hand to Draco's shoulders, pulling him forward for a hug that smelled of spice and new leather, warmth and Harry. “But thank you.”

From Harry's shoulder, Draco growled. “Call me 'baby' again an' I'll hex tha' gorgeous dick off.”

“But, you've called me that—”

“Wonder Boy, I've been in ya. I'll call ya wha' I like.” Draco pulled back to fix Harry with a stern look. “Fuck me—hard—an' yeh can call me whatever stupid sodding gibberish ya please.”

Since when had he wanted Wonder Boyfriend to top him? The leather was clearly going to his head, making him think crazy thoughts.

“I'm taking that as a challenge,” Harry said, wrestling him down onto the bed and groping every naked part he could reach.

“Good,” Draco sniffed: only Draco Malfoy could pull off haughty while being manhandled. “It was intended as such.”

For The Curious: Translations of Old Norse

Drengir - fellow, warrior

Leita - seek, search for, find, go, attack

dróttinn - leader, master of the horde

Eptir - to obtain, according to

Eldr - fire
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