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
- 24
- 25
- 26
SUMMARY: Ron and Hermione come to Grimmauld Place for dinner—they get more than they bargained for. Harry tries his hand at comfort/make-up sex. He's getting better.

WARNINGS: drivel, drama, sexual content (spoilers include: R.A.C.K., sex magic, felatio, anal sex, Aggressive!Harry, Dom!Harry, top!Draco, emotional!Draco)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yet another Pulitzer-of-Porn moment to wrap things up. The sex scene was not in the original outline but I felt like I needed this—the story doesn't need it, but I need it. Harry and Draco could probably use it, too. I'll consider it a present, sans gift wrapping. Happy Christmas, every one!

CONSCIENCE:

CRASH

Harry was in the middle of retrieving his favorite white belt from a pile of clothes discarded on the parlor floor. Then he heard Draco's scream. He tore down the hall, holding his trousers up at the side with his belt half-threaded, fresh shirt unbuttoned and flapping. He burst through the kitchen door to find Draco by the stove, doubled over and screaming, pain-laced, dropping to his knees as he clutched at his arm.

“Draco!” Harry shouted, falling beside the man and throwing an arm over his hunched, shaking shoulders. “What's wrong? Did you burn yourself?”

Draco let out a wracking sob, slipping forward into Harry's arms. He squeezed Draco's shoulder, inviting that blonde head to his chest and ruffling his hair, fingers working his scalp in an effort to comfort. Harry did everything he could to sooth him, not knowing what on Earth was the matter.

“...Mark,” Draco gasped.

Comprehension dawned cold. Draco was grasping his left arm, after all. Of course it was the Dark Mark. What else would make Draco positively scream like that?

“Summons? Voldemort is calling you?”

Draco flinched but nodded against Harry's bare skin.

“Is it always this bad?” Harry asked, worried that the burning had yet to subside. It had been several agonizing seconds.

Draco shook his head “no,” his jaw tightening, air whistling through his gritted teeth at he struggled to master the pain.

“You... you're sure he's calling?” Harry pleaded, holding Draco tighter. It was kind of rare that Draco would allow this kind of thing—the cuddling, the naked display of emotion. And the emotion was very clearly fear.

“Yes,” Draco gasped, tucking his arm close and rocking through the searing discomfort. “Vehemently.”

“Maybe he's doing it on purpose,” Harry suggested. “He's could be doing it just to hurt you.”

Draco gave the tiniest of shrugs, body heaving as he struggled to breath in a normal rhythm.

“Warning,” he whispered. “Maybe. Dunno...hurts.” He stifled a rather pathetic sound with a fist to his mouth, biting down on his finger like a bit, the black stone of the Gaunt ring disappearing under perfect white teeth.

“He hasn't forgotten about you,” said Harry darkly. “And he wants you to know it.”

Draco sighed in confirmation, his breathing still uneasy but the pain was clearly lessening. He panted, keeping the hand to his mouth and his cheek pressed to Harry's skin still warmed from a very long shower.

“Can you feel where he is?” Harry asked suddenly.

Draco bit his finger, focusing his energy on the task Harry had set. After a moment he drew back, his silvery eyes wide.

“Besançon,” he said, sounding a little shocked that he had either pinpointed the location or the Dark Lord had given it to him.

“That's in France?”

“Switzerland,” Draco corrected, his eyes very far away. “Right on the border, though.”

“Maybe he wants you to know,” Harry offered. “The question would be why?”

“I... I'm...” Draco sucked in a breath that made his shoulders tremble and rattled sickeningly in his chest. “I'm not going. I'm not yer bloody spy.”

“I don't want you to go,” Harry said firmly, leaning close to brush his nose and lips through Draco's soft hair—satin tresses that still smelled so faintly of sweat and sex. “And I don't want you to be. I want you safe. Fighting that fucker is my job.”

Draco gave a snort at his arrogance, a sign that he was returning to normal. He sat himself up, removing the impromptu finger-bit from his mouth and then rubbing at the Mark. Harry brought that tattooed forearm to his lips, kissing it as though to banish the pain with the voracity of his soppy affection. Draco rolled his eyes, prizing his arm away.

“Yer friends will be here any minute,” he offered neutrally.

“I know,” Harry shrugged, not moving from the kitchen floor. “Are you okay, Draco?”

“Keep them outta the main parlor,” the blonde suggested, ignoring the question and not meeting his eyes. “It wreaks of sex. Not like Weasel King or the Encyclopedia Grangerica would recognize said stench.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. Yes, the searing discomfort was gone, replaced by snippy remarks and outright snark. Harry was almost glad to hear the near-insults dripping off Draco's tongue. It meant he was dealing with this and would be able to move on and act normally through their little dinner party.

A timer went off from the counter, making them both jump. Draco moved to get up from the floor.

“It's okay,” Harry offered, getting quickly to his feet. “Let me.” He smiled, picking up the oven mitts. Even parked on his rear, Draco managed a dignified huff as he snagged the mitts back. He rose fluidly to his feet, shouldering Harry away.

“I've got it, ya sentimental twat,” he mumbled, opening the oven door. He flapped a mitt at Harry before removing a casserole dish that was bubbling with something red and herb-scented. “They'll be here any minute. Go. Meet yer friends.”

- - -

“Oi!”

“Harry!”

“What's wrong with him? Don't tell me Malfoy's done him in.”

Harry's eyes fluttered open when a pair of thin hands seized his shoulders and began to shake him. Ron and Hermione's worried faces hovered overhead, lit by fire and dim lamp light. He realized he was lying sprawled on the uncomfortable sofa in the disused formal parlor. He must've dozed off waiting for them to come through the floo, so he couldn't have been down more than a minute or two. He beamed up at his friends.

“He hasn't killed me,” Harry said, sitting up but squeezing Hermione's panicked hand at his upper arm. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to finish doing up his trousers and set his shirt to rights. He looked presentable—if a bit mussed from his cat nap on the sofa. “Boy Who Lived and all that. Takes more than a feisty ex-Slytherin to knock me off.”

“I thought for sure you were dead,” Ron sighed, ruffling a hand through his ginger hair. “You always talk Parseltongue in your sleep but you were... well, quiet.”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, standing up and pushing a few wrinkles out of his shirt collar. “Draco says that's going away.” Thank goodness, because Draco was a light sleeper. Harry's hissing used to wake him in the middle of the night. He used to get hit, occasionally kicked; it depeneded on how deeply Draco had been asleep. But over the last week his sleep-hissing had been fading, though he still did it in the mornings.

Hermione made a little snort of surprise and Ron looked flummoxed but neither ventured to comment further. Ron looked a little flushed, even in the low light.

“Come on, you two,” Harry half-teased, half-begged. “He's trying. He's different. You'll see,” he insisted when they both looked skeptical—they looked at him like he'd lost the better part of his mind. He ignored them. “He made us dinner. He's a really good cook, actually. I was surprised, him being a pompous git and all.” That got an appreciative snort from Ron. “I mean, he cooks entirely with magic, of course, but he manages just fine.”

Harry looked between his two best friends, willing them to accept that this was happening, that this was okay and they should just go with it.

“Come on, you two,” he repeated, calm suffusing his voice. “He's in the kitchen.”

- - -

“This is just...” Hermione gushed, searching her extensive vocabulary for the proper words, “absolutely delicious, Malfoy. Thank you. Isn't it, Ron?”

Ron made a little gesture with his fork, his mouth full of stuffed chicken and ratatouille. They'd already worked their way through salads, leek and potato soup, a loaf of homemade bread and a bottle of white wine. Harry stood at the head of the table, uncorking a second dusty bottle brought up from the cellar. He nudged Draco with his hip while tugging at the stubborn old cork. And Draco looked up at him—smiling with his eyes, his face entirely blank. But Harry could see the emotion there. Draco might keep the feelings from his face through years of practice but Harry could see into him very clearly now. Draco was feeling pretty smug.

“Really!” Hermione continued. “You must have been cooking all day!”

“Slaved,” Draco confirmed with an over-acted sigh. Harry snorted, pulling the cork free and refilling everyone's glasses.

“That's not true,” Harry corrected, taking up his seat beside the blonde. “You sat here most of the afternoon, drinking tea and waving your wand.”

Hermione looked between the two men, her glass half-way to her lips. Ron shoveled more food into his mouth, eager to have an excuse not to join the conversation. Hermione's brown eyebrow quirked as she considered Malfoy in his pristine white shirt and slacks, tousled platinum hair and quiet but casual attitude. He hadn't said much all through dinner. At long last, she decided the man wasn't so much of a threat as she first thought. Or maybe it was the wine working.

“Well,” she postured grandly, causing Ron to look up. “It takes quite a bit of concentration and skill to wave your wand and drink tea at the same time.”

Hermione Granger standing up for Draco Malfoy? Ron choked on his eggplant.

Dinner wrapped up and Draco produced dessert—a pretty-looking quartet of crème brûlée he'd blow-torched with his wand so that the top layer of the custard blistered, giving off the caramel scent Harry had detected earlier in the afternoon. There were slices of baked apple and a bit of caramel drizzled over the top. Draco's flair for the dramatic translated well to food. Harry picked up a spoon and broke the sugary crust of his dessert with gusto. Ron had long given up the pretense that Malfoy had somehow poisoned the food, attacking his dish with equal enthusiasm.

“How are Bill and Fleur?” Harry asked. “I haven't heard from them since the wedding; then again, I suppose they're still on honeymoon.” Hermione and Ron exchanged worried looks. “Oh... what?” Harry set down his spoon. Looks like that were never good.

“Fleur's in hospital in Barbados,” Hermione explained. “I thought someone might've told you, Harry. She was Imperiused. Bill realized—he's a Curse Breaker for Gringotts,” she added for Draco's benefit, “so he noticed something was wrong as soon as the two of them were alone for a while. He managed to break the caster's hold on her but they're still keeping her for observation.”

“Any leads on who did it?” Harry asked.

“She doesn't remember anything,” Ron shrugged. He looked upset about the situation and Harry couldn't blame him.

“She and Bill are really shaken up,” Hermione went on, laying a sympathetic hand on Ron's arm almost unconsciously. “The whole family is.”

“Do you think maybe it has something to do with those cursed flowers you got at the wedding?” Ron asked, picking up his spoon again.

“I've been thinking the same thing,” Hermione agreed.

“There's a strong likelihood,” Harry nodded. His gaze slid to Draco a moment. The blonde's head was bowed slightly, eyes focused on his dessert and pointedly staying out of the exchange. “Other people had flowers from Fleur. Did anything happen with that?”

Hermione shook her head. “The Aurors office looked into it on the side. No one reported any attacks. Tonks and Shackelbolt were able to retrieve a few of the boutineers and corsages and had a look at them. It would appear that yours were the only ones with Dark magic placed on them.”

Harry didn't look away from Draco. The blonde was toying with his food, not really eating. Ron ate in earnest, though, stealing a bite from Hermione's dish when she wasn't paying attention. At least someone was enjoying the meal. Hermione looked between Harry and Draco, comprehension slowly dawning in her intelligent brown eyes.

“You... Harry, you have an idea who did it, don't you?” she realized aloud, quite familiar with that angry, determined expression now flooding Harry's features. Harry waited until Draco looked up at him, a significant look passing between them before he opened his mouth.

“I think we know,” Harry said firmly, his hard gaze settled firmly on Draco.

The man rolled his silvery eyes, here we go again clearly written on his pale, pointed face.

“What?! Am I wrong?” Harry pressed, setting down his spoon again and fixing his unabashed and undivided attention on his boyfriend. “If there ever was a more underhanded coward, I've yet to meet him! And that includes Peter Pettigrew,” he added for Hermione and Ron's benefit. Hermione's brows rose and Ron nearly choked on his food again.

“Even if it was Philippe,” Draco cautioned in a rather pained, impatient voice, “I'd say he's workin' with someone. He's a right impulsive con. He would've tried again by now. There must be someone holdin' him back—a more experienced Death Eater would be my guess. Besides, he hardly has the skill ta cast tha' kind a' Dark Charm. His strength was always Transfiguration.”

“How do you know all this?” Hermione asked.

“And who's Philippe?” Ron added.

“Harry, is he the French wizard you picked that fight with at Bill and Fleur's reception?” Hermione accused, leaning over her plate to incriminate Harry with her gaze. Draco's brows knit as he rounded on his boyfriend, a teasing glint in his light-colored eyes.

“Picking fights at weddings?” Draco scoffed in a lofty voice Harry knew to be entirely affected. “Tisk tisk, Chosen One. Here I was thinking I'd finally taught you some manners. Clearly—”

Harry cut the blonde off with a low growl. “You know what he said.”

“What'd he say?” Ron pried. He was summarily ignored.

“Yeh were at a wedding, fer fuck's sake!” Draco pleaded, knowing he wouldn't get anywhere but protesting on principle.

“I didn't exactly pick a fight. She's exaggerating.”

“Am I?” the witch said with a knowing waggle of her spoon in Harry's direction. He blushed.

“I didn't pick a fight, Hermione,” Harry asserted through his flushing cheeks. His eyes remained hard. “I may have had a few choice words for him... in Parseltongue—”

“I don't need yeh ta defend my honor,” Draco snapped.

“No,” Harry replied sweetly. “Just your hide, mon cher.”

The blonde looked back to his plate, some of the fire gone out of him but still breathing hard. Hermione and Ron exchanged a look before staring openly at Harry. The Boy Who Lived took a casual bite of dessert... from Draco's dish. Apparently he'd been practicing his dragon taming.

“So,” Hermione said to break the silence. “How do we know this 'Philippe' character?”

“Is he a friend of yours or something?” Ron accused Draco.

Draco's tousled platinum head shot up to glare at Ron but he very wisely kept his mouth clamped shut. How could he answer that? Was Philippe ever his friend? Lover? More like business partner. He looked askance to Harry. And Wonder Boyfriend came to his rescue yet again.

“Philippe Didier. He's Fleur's step-cousin,” Harry answered. “And his father is Arnett Didier, the financier. The Didiers did business with the Malfoys—so yes, Draco and Philippe knew each other. But they had a fight during the Triwizard and hadn't spoken since. The guy's a real prick. And we're pretty sure he's a Death Eater; apparently, he's dangerous and desperate enough to Imperius his own family to get to me. We're all staying away from him, got it?” he looked significantly around the table until everyone was nodding, Ron and Hermione's brown eyes approving and Draco's silvery ones... thankful.

Draco smiled at finding he liked being protected, having The Chosen One as a shield between him and a very harsh and dangerous world. Getting fucked silly by said shield was really quite the bonus.

- - -

Harry led Hermione and Ron into the formal parlor while Draco made tea. He could tell the pair wanted a private word with him. He just wanted to get it over with. Harry sat in one of the arm chairs by the fire while his friends took up roost on the uncomfortably formal sofa. Hermione folded her hands in her lap, a motherly expression on her face.

“Harry,” she said slowly, bracingly, “are you alright? You look ill.”

Ron nodded his agreement, eyes on the sooty hearth rug.

“I'm just tired,” Harry tried to reassure them. “It's been a really long day. You know, getting him packed up and stuff.” Neither one of them bought the lie so he started embellishing. “And we were practicing defensive spells earlier. The sitting room's a mess, which is why we're in here.”

“Mate, why're you lying to us?” Ron asked sadly, his shoulders slumped.

Harry's mouth dropped open.

“We've known you for six years, Harry,” Hermione said bracingly. “We know when you're keeping something from us.”

“So are you gonna tell us?” Ron questioned, his face pained. “Or are you gonna keep secrets?”

“Fine!” Harry sighed, exasperated. He slumped back against the thin chair cushion, hands flopping listlessly to the arm rests. “I'm bloody knackered because Draco's a randy sex fiend! We've fucked three times today and I know he's gonna jump me the second you guys leave.” He kept right on going, ignoring their horrified expressions. They never talked about their sex lives in this much detail. Ron would probably have nightmares but he'd bloody well asked for it. “I'm frustrated because I keep trying to talk to him about something serious, something that we need to discuss and he keeps shutting me out. It's what he does, though—he uses intimacy to avoid intimacy. It's driving me crazy but I don't know what to do and time is running out.”

Harry huffed, folding his arms across his chest. Ron's mouth was hanging open, his freckles stark against his skin and Hermione was blushing up to her hairline.

“Is this something you wanna talk about, then?” Harry pressed. “Or shall we move on to Horcruxes?”

Hermione reached over and closed Ron's mouth. He visibly swallowed, awkwardness etched in his long limbs. This was their opportunity to reciprocate, to behave like adults. He seemed to be asking that a lot, lately. It would only get worse in battle, though, so he figured he might as well get used to the feeling now.

“Let's talk about the Horcruxes,” Hermione said daintily, color still high in her cheeks. “I've been looking over those books from Headmistress McGonagall and they've been really helpful. And I'm afraid what Malfoy said about the Horcruxes was right. It would be easier to destroy them with either the Dark Arts or something from a Dark creature to avoid detection.”

“Like when I stabbed the diary with the basilisk tooth,” Harry provided.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. And they were off, Hermione pulling notes from her purse while Ron and Harry were dragged along, only understanding every fifth word but trying their best.

- - -

Soon Draco arrived with a tea tray. They were discussing Helga Hufflepuff's cup, a known Horcrux, and how to destroy it. Ideas flew, each spurting off whatever came to mind. Ron started when Draco entered, using a basic Hover Charm to float the tea service in front of him. Hermione's thin mouth, opened to speak another possibility, clamped shut.

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Harry drawled, slumping back in his chair. He angled his head at Draco to ignore his bloody friends and come in. “It's a cup. So why don't we fill it with something? Basilisk venom or... something. Slughorn got some Acromantula venom off of Aragog before Hagrid buried it last year.” Ron gave a little shudder at the mention of the giant spider. “I don't fancy sweet-talking him out of it, but at least it's an option. Or I could just use the Invisibility cloak and steal it from his office, providing he hasn't sold it already. But he's a collector of sorts. I doubt he'd part with it unless times were quite hard.” Hermione gaped. Harry made his conviction evident by his tone. “If push comes to shove, Hermione, I'm doing it. I'll steal from whoever I have to if it means getting the job done before another bride is Imperiused on her wedding day.”

Draco set about preparing himself a cup of tea, body angled so that only Harry could see his pale face. His expression was guarded but unmistakably proud. If nothing else, he adored Harry's delightfully Slytherin side when it poked through the Gryffindor mask. Maybe they both wore masks, in a way. Draco wiped his face of all emotion before turning to seat himself in the armchair across from Harry. The firelight made his hair almost gold and set amber flecks in his eyes. And the plain white dress shirt left him looking a bit like a marble statue with great topaz gems for eyes. He had to tear himself away to address Hermione again.

“Do you think it would work?” he asked, keeping any annoyance or frustration from his voice. “Because I'd rather use something from a creature to destroy them if it's possible. That fire spell is almost too strong. The third floor wash room looks like a bomb went off in there. I'm not casting that spell again if I don't have to.”

“It's a possibility,” Hermione mused, riffling through her notes. “Although I wonder how much poison we would need. One fang was enough for the diary. Something tells me we might have to fill the glass all the way to the brim for it to work. I...” she stopped and pulled out the bit of parchment she was looking for. “I saw a painting of the cup in the Hogwarts archives but you saw it up close in Dumbledore's pensive, right Harry? How big would you say it is?”

Harry thought a moment before holding out his hands, demonstrating an approximate height and width. Hermione scribbled on her parchment.

“And the bowl?” she asked. “How much liquid do you think it could hold?”

“Er,” Harry glanced around, picking up a tea cup. Ron was making cups for himself and Hermione, so there was one empty. He looked into it, thinking. “More than this, but not that much more. The cup only looks bigger because it has fancy handles on either side. They're done up with these scale-looking bits and a jewel on each. It has the same motif on the lower part of the cup, too. I dunno how deep it is, though. The basin could go into that bottom part or it might be solid.”

Hermione's head bobbed, her quill flying across the page. “And what about the engraving? Is it embossed or is the inside of the cup smooth?”

“I don't see how it could make that big a' difference,” Ron shrugged, placing Hermione's tea by her foot before curling up beside her on the sofa.

“We would need extra venom to fill the space,” she muttered. “The two proposed venoms are exceedingly rare and hard to come by. We'll need to account for every drop if this plan is going to work.”

“The cup is smooth on the inside,” Draco said suddenly, staring off into the fire. “The lower section is hollow. I'd say it would hold roughly ten fluid ounces. An' the engraving is of a badger with black stones fer eyes.”

Hermione and Ron looked askance to Harry, suspecting Draco had acquired these details through Legilimens while the Chosen One slept or some other such rot. Harry willed Draco to look at him, drawing strength and comfort from his familiar gaze.

“You're right.”

“How does he know that?” Ron stage-whispered, causing Draco to roll his eyes over a sip of hot tea.

“The cup you're describing was in my father's study at Malfoy Manor,” he said, pronouncing the words with a hint of his proper Malfoy voice.

“Are you sure?” Hermione prompted.

Draco shrugged, swallowing. He waved a dismissive hand in the witch's direction. “It was on top of father's liquor cabinet.”

Hermione's brows knit, perhaps pondering why such an important artifact would be kept so openly in Lucius Malfoy's study. Then again, Malfoy Manor was a Death Eater stronghold. There would be little need for it to be concealed amongst allies.

“What's tha' supposed to mean?” Ron grumbled.

Harry couldn't help a smile. “Means he'd bet his life on it.”

A funny, lip-biting smile quirked on Draco's face. He met Harry's gaze over his tea cup, not saying another word.

“Well, now we know where to find it,” Ron chortled happily.

“If it hasn't been moved already, which is unlikely,” Hermione cautioned. She turned to Draco. “Do you know where they might've taken it?”

Draco thought, tapping a long finger on the side of his cup. “Well, a group of Russian Death Eaters brought it in. An' they'd been bloodied to a pulp. From what I understood there were about ten of them: four actually arrived. The cup remained when they took their leave, so I can only imagine tha' the Manor was considered a safe place to keep the—Horcrux?” Harry nodded soberly. Draco chewed his cheek. “If it's still at Malfoy Manor, it'll be down in the family crypt. There's quite a bit of ancestral magic floatin' about down there. A Dark artifact would be well-preserved.”

“You didn't see it while you were down there?” Harry asked quietly. Those crypts would be the logical place to erect the Death Eaters' torture chambers.

Draco shook his head, blowing a lock of golden hair out of his eyes. “The tunnels go on fer miles—nearly to Stonehenge. There could be ten Horcruxes down there! It would take a team of men at least a week ter search the place. If the wards don't crush ya first.”

“That's comforting,” Ron said hollowly.

“At least we have a few ideas how to destroy it,” Hermione mused. “If only it were a little bit bigger, we could fit an Ashwinder egg in it and then surround it with the venom. Ashwinders aren't as rare, so an egg would be easier to get a hold of.”

“But would the fire be enough?” Harry thought out loud. “You didn't see that Norse spell, Hermione. It bloody well ripped the bathroom apart, even with the runes we had set up.”

“Maybe we can use an Ashwinder egg for something else,” Ron offered. “I bet Fred and George could get one for us. You wouldn't believe the things they find for the shop.” Hermione cut him off with a glare. The twins' use of questionable ingredients was a sore spot with Hermione—she saw the twins' success as ill-gotten and inappropriate praise for bad behavior. Good thing she had no idea Harry still contributed to the shop, financially. The twins were giving him great returns on his investments and he was helping out an excellent cause. There was no reason to let Hermione in on that little secret.

“Didn't you have an appointment with them, Harry?” Hermione asked, picking up her tea. “I heard George mention something at the Burrow. This Friday? You can ask them about acquiring a few eggs, just in case.”

“How're you meeting with a pair of Weasels on Friday?” Draco asked quietly. “Skiving class an' sneakin' outta Hogwarts with that damn cloak, I presume?”

Oh, Harry's insides were going decidedly wobbly, stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. It felt like his dinner had been replaced with layers of gelatin and tarmac, sliding around in a weighty, teetering mass of bad, bad, bad, screwed, fucking well and buggered, fuck, fuck.... Draco was looking at him over his tea cup, eyes sharp and boring into him like a shiny new set of Uncle Vernon's drills. He couldn't seem to speak let alone draw breath into his lungs, gasping or otherwise. Oh dear sweet merciful God, why couldn't he breath? Was this what dying felt like? Because he was a dead man, dead, dead, dead and fucked, fucked, fucked.

“Don't be daft, Malfoy,” Ron scoffed. “Harry's not going back to Hogwarts this year—it's just us three. You, me and Hermione.”

Harry watched Draco react; or rather, slowly shut down. His dirty blonde lashes blinked, catching the firelight. Gods, he was so ethereal and beautiful and about to get angrier than hell, enraged as a banshee in a windstorm, tempestuous as a blast-ended skrewt with a pair of knickers over its vision-end, more furious and raging than... than anything this miserable world had to offer, magical or otherwise. Harry was doomed—pitifully, achingly, grave-diggingly doomed. He'd rather face ten Voldemorts than one angry, hurt, betrayed Draco Malfoy. He was done for.

“Not goin'...” his lover parroted, quiet and deadpan, his silver and amber eyes set on the threadbare hearth rug as he contemplated what those two words really meant. “Not....”

Apparate, Harry thought suddenly. Where can I Apparate to and be safe? Viktor's place—or would that be too far? The Burrow?! No, Mrs. Weasley would send me right back to learn my lesson for lying to a person I supposedly care for whether she could give two drops of garden gnome blood for said person or not. Where was safe, neutral? Where...?

He was on his feet and so was Draco, wand in hand, flicking out a non-verbal spell with classic Malfoy grace. Harry felt his stomach lurch for the Apparition. His target was actually number four Privet Drive, specifically his old cupboard under the stairs, but no one had to know that. Uncle Vernon would find him tomorrow morning when he went looking for his golf clubs. Sure, the man would bellow and shout himself puce but that would be nothing compared to Draco's wrath. Draco wouldn't find him there. Draco would go to Hogwarts and maybe in a few weeks he'd be over it. Yeah, that was for the best....

Except he wasn't spinning, wasn't disappearing into that innard-squishing void. Draco was on his feet, wand pointed at him, glaring fucking daggers. An Anti-Apparition Jinx.

He was a dead Wonder Boy.

“Going somewhere, dearest?” Draco drawled in his Ice Prince of Slytherin voice. Sweet Merlin, it was ages since he'd used that tone with Harry. And “dearest?” He might as well have spat “Potter” for all the warmth that so-called endearment held.

“That's what you had to tell him?” Ron muttered, gobsmacked. “You're dead, mate.”

“I believe he is very much aware of that, Ronald,” Hermione mumbled behind a hand. “Hence the attempt to Apparate.” And he deserves whatever he gets for being a no-good, dirty, lying sack of shit was, of course, implied by her thin-lipped, narrow-eyed expression.

“You intended to inform me... when, exactly?” Draco continued as though the stunned couple on the sofa had not spoken at all. His wand was trained on Harry's chest. Harry put his empty hands up, begging for mercy or appeasement or something, anything but the royal and well-deserved tirade he was about to face.

“I—I tried,” he stuttered, ashamed at how young and weak his own voice sounded in his ears. He straightened his back but kept his hands up—in supplication, hoping against hope that Draco would hear him out in his state of shame. “You remember, before? The piano? I said it was important but you wouldn't let me finish.”

“You're blaming me?” Draco interrupted coldly. “Clearly it's my fault. I'm so impossible to speak with, to be honest with.”

“All you ever did was cut me off!” Harry protested, trying to keep any trace of accusation from his voice. “I wanted to be honest with you, Draco, really I did. I tried to tell you so many times....”

“Yet here we are,” he snipped, acerbic.

“I was afraid,” Harry admitted. Finally his voice was back to normal—maybe even a bit deeper, the way he talked to Draco when they were all alone, tucked in bed or tucked in each other's arms. He hoped the sound if nothing else would convey his sincerity. “Meet my inner Hufflepuff, I guess. I knew how much it would upset you so I just... kept putting it off. I was afraid of hurting your feelings.”

“I'd say mission accomplished, mate,” Ron mumbled. Draco's wand swiveled menacingly to level at the red head.

“One more word and it'll be your last, Weaselby,” he snapped before returning his attention to Harry. “Mission accomplished, Wonder Boy,” he repeated. “My fragile little feelings are smashed to bits. Good job. Fidelity, loyalty and honesty, huh? Gryffindors! I should've known better.”

“Draco, I—”

“No,” he hissed, flicking his wand over Harry in a very frightening gesture. “You never possessed the slightest inclination toward telling me. Harry Potter would've been a man about it. Harry Potter would've come right out and said it to my face. You hid behind your nice little words and your pathetic emotions, 'not wanting to hurt me' like a fucking coward. You didn't take me into consideration at all. This one was all about you, Chosen One. It was easier for you to lie, to string me along and then dump me off at Hogwarts like a helpless child instead of—oh, I don't know—treating me with an ounce of respect, as an equal. You took no care for my 'feelings,' such as they are. I was never really a factor, never really a human being, just a play thing for you to do with as you pleased. You were going to abandon me when I love—”

Draco cut himself off abruptly, throat tightening as he backed into his chair. The heavy, wing-backed armchair clattered to the floor with a thud as Draco continued to retreat, putting as much distance between himself and Harry as possible. His jaw was clenching, that familiar vein at the side of his neck fluttering like it did when they made love. Because that's what he meant each time he tried to slow down, to savor and enjoy the intimacy of the moment. That's what it meant every time he closed his eyes, speaking his lover's name in a choked voice barely above a whisper. Draco was in love with him. Draco loved him, too. How could he have been so blind?

Ron and Hermione were positively gaping at Draco. They still suffered under the misconception that Malfoys did not have feelings, or wants, or desires, or hearts to be broken. Evidence to the contrary stared them in the face, a rift in functional reality. The two were trying to piece their worlds back together as Harry scrambled to save his own from execution by fire.

Harry did the only thing he could think of. He moved forward. He wasn't going to run away from this fight, much as he loathed fighting with Draco. This had to happen but he could at least try to temper the man's rage. Harry advanced until the tip of Draco's wand touched his chest. And then he pressed forward, hawthorn digging into his skin as he physically forced Draco to back down. Too stubborn to step back, Draco's arm buckled, bending at the elbow. Harry used it as an opportunity to dive forward, to capture Draco's lips with his own.

The hand cracking across his cheek came entirely as a surprise... as did the sting of his skin being ripped open. Draco had backhanded him square across the face with his free hand, his left hand, the hand with the Gaunt family ring. The stone cut his cheek. And Draco was backing away, tugging at the ring and ignoring Harry completely.

“Draco, please,” he said evenly, stepping around the downed armchair to give chase across the room. The blonde whirled, chucking the ring at him with all his might. It was only due to Seeker reflexes that Harry was able to duck in time. The ring bounced off the wall, clattering to the floor and rolling under the formal chaise in the corner.

“No!” Draco insisted quite loudly, running a distracted hand through his hair as he continued to back away. “You lied to me. You've no right to speak to me, no right to fucking touch me.”

“You're right. I don't,” Harry replied. “I was selfish and wrong. I just wanted this bit of time to be perfect. For both of us. You know I hate it when we fight. We've wasted enough time that way. I knew if told you you would just get upset and pull away and believe me, that was the last thing I wanted—”

“So you thought it would be better to lie to me?” Draco snapped, incredulous, his eyes wide.

“Not better,” Harry shook his head.

“Easier, then,” Draco supplied. “You must think I'm real easy, Potter. Well here's a news flash: I don't have to put up with your shit. Fuck you, Potter. Your loss. I'm gone.”

He spun on his heel, making for the door. Harry only had a second to dash after him, grabbing the wand arm at his side. Draco whipped around, his hand prepared to strike yet again. This time Harry was ready for it. His fingers loose, Harry spun Draco's forearm, twirling it up, jamming his arm at his back and disabling him with mirrored grunts of exertion and pain. Harry pushed the partial dislocation until Draco was practically sagging to his knees; only then would he stop struggling.

“You don't have to put up with my shit, Draco,” Harry said quietly, “but you're not going anywhere.”

“Gonna beat me up if I leave you, Potter?” he spat, barely able to hold himself upright.

“No. I know that's what you're used to, though. People threatening you, intimidating you, making you fear for your life to get you to do what they want. Let me tell you: that's Voldemort, not me. But you'll still do as I say.”

“Oh?” Draco gasped, struggling to draw his breath. His teeth were chattering. Harry had really struck a nerve because Draco's teeth only chattered like that when he cried from the gut. Harry could feel how hard he was resisting, fighting not to break down. He was starting to shake. “How do you figure that, Saint Potter?”

“You said it yourself. You love me, Draco. And you remember the prophecy. That's my power, useless as it is. You'll do as I say because you love me. Merlin knows you don't obey when you're threatened or hurt or scared. But you'll damn well obey me. I have faith in you, Draco Malfoy. I know you'll do whatever I ask of you. And I wouldn't ask this of you if you weren't the most important thing in the world to me.”

By the end, he was whispering in Draco's ear as he hunched, shivering from head to toe. Ron and Hermione probably thought he was hurting Draco, threatening him. They wouldn't understand this.

“What do you say, Draco?” he whispered. “Am I your patron saint or what?”

Unable to summon his voice, Draco simply nodded against him.

“And what do you want?” Harry pressed with words, easing the stress on Draco's body. He wrapped his other arm around the man's chest, pulling him that much closer. For once, Draco didn't fight him at all.

“You,” he muttered. “You. I don't wanna be alone.”

“You'll never be alone,” Harry promised. “Ron and Hermione will be there most of the time. Plus all the other students and professors. And I'll be stopping by the castle all the time. There are things I need to do and you know that, but I'll never be far.”

“Tha's different,” Draco whined, casting a dirty glance at Ron and Hermione. Their eyes and noses peeked over the back of the sofa, watching the two men argue with bated breath. Hermione's knuckles were white as she gripped the carved wood, as though she expected more bloodshed and violence at any moment. “They have each other: I'll be alone. It's not fair.”

“I know,” Harry whispered into soft blonde hair, his chest flush with Draco's heaving back. “And I'm so sorry. I wouldn't ask this if it weren't important. Tell me what my other options are? I have to face Voldemort before he can get any more support; to do that, I need to destroy the Horcruxes and then develop a plan to lure him out. Do you want to come with me—to fight? Do you really think that's a good idea?”

At this, Draco actually collapsed with an anguished sob. He struggled to cover his reddening, screwed up face with his hand. Draco knew all too well that in the field of battle, he was a tremendous liability—they both had targets the size of Reading painted on their rear ends. It would make any Death Eater's day to do-in the spineless traitor Draco Malfoy. He belonged on the sidelines. He sobbed so hard that Harry could barely hold him upright. He stumbled with Draco's weight, tucking him close, releasing his arms in order to really embrace him.

“I don't wanna do this either.” Harry was surprised when his voice cracked. It only made Draco cry harder. Harry screwed his eyes shut. “It's so hard... but mon beau, mon ange,” he begged Draco to listen, “You have to know that Hogwarts is the only place you'll be safe. You know you're not safe with me.”

That last sentence made Draco's knees buckle. He went down like a sack of bricks. Harry made to scoop Draco up in his arms and did a fair job of it. He was no Rhett Butler and Draco was a poor Scarlett O'Hara, but it felt like one of the more romantic—if simultaneously heartbreaking—actions of his life. He sat swiftly on the nearby chaise, placing Draco tucked tight in his lap, tousled blonde head in the crook of his neck and just shaking. He looked up to see Ron and Hermione still watching him over the back of the sofa.

“Um, would you mind terribly?” he said in a voice that would carry. “I think we need a minute.”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, rising to his feet. “About ten minutes ago if you ask me.”

“We'll be in the kitchen when you're ready,” Hermione said passively, dragging Ron out by the front of his jumper. “Take your time.” The door closed quietly behind her, kicking up dust.

Harry sat for a long while, just breathing and waiting for Draco to calm down. He laid back and held his boyfriend close, stroking his back, his lengthening hair, his delicate face. He muttered nonsensical half-words, things to soothe, things to ease his tears and tremors. He remembered Draco crying in psychological pain in that trance-like state, the first time he'd attempted the Imperius Curse and gone too far. This was so much worse, perhaps because it was emotional pain. Or because Draco was completely awake, feeling it all. Draco seemed to devolve, losing coherent speech, losing his grace and airs, losing everything until he bawled openly. His childlike neediness was honest—a sincere worry and longing... and something Harry suspected was real, actual love. Or so he dared to hope. Everything was so fresh with Draco, so mysterious and new. He hoped this was love. He ached and prayed that it was.

Harry's shirt collar was soaked through with tears—it was Draco's fancy black dress shirt with stately black embroidery all along the collar and cuffs. It would have to be laundered now, a reason to hang on to it while Draco was away. They were like yin and yang, black and white, neither behaving as the world said they ought but still balanced, evened out by the other. Draco Malfoy was having a righteous cry over the injustice of the war and its effects while Harry Potter, his despicable, remorseful coward of a boyfriend, did everything within his power to comfort him.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whispered after a few minutes, Draco's wrenching sobs reducing to hiccups and lethargy. “It's bad enough that you're leaving tomorrow. I'm sorry I got you like this.”

“Gods,” Draco muttered wetly, sniffing. “I'm sorry I got myself like this! I tell ya not ter treat me like a kid an' here I end up in yer lap. I'm the very model of a functional adult.”

“It's okay,” Harry threaded a hand through silky blonde hair. “I recall being in your lap a few hours ago. This just makes us even.” He smiled. “And I'll only treat you like a kid when you want me to, okay?”

“Yeah,” Draco sighed against his chest. “I think I can live with that.”

After the last two weeks they'd spent together, his slender frame had found a way of fitting just perfectly against Harry's. There wasn't a shred of awkwardness or uncertainty left between their bodies. Draco—with his bony hips, long arms and head-to-toe-tingling lips—was Harry's perfect match. Even his bombast temperament kept Harry pleasantly on his toes. Where others might see only a spoiled brat, Harry found a sharp and discerning mind seeking a deeper understanding, comfort, compassion and above all, love.

“I don't think I wanna be without you,” Draco whispered, forlorn and yet fierce. His arms tightened around Harry, bony fingers gripping his shoulder and side, more painful in intensity than physicality.

“This isn't goodbye,” Harry countered with as much normality as he could muster. “I'll come for a visit in a few days. Professor McGonagall set up a way for me to floo into her office from the house, here. I'm working on getting a floo directly to your room but she's being rather stodgy about it. She'll come 'round, though. Faster if we work on her from both ends, eh?” Draco gave a little nod against the crook of Harry's neck.

“Sweetheart, look,” Harry jutted his chin to the nearby Black family tree. Draco propped himself up a little, turning his head to look where Harry pointed—at their names linked in silver on the dusty tapestry. “'Domestic Divination,' remember? Has it ever been wrong?”

“Not tha' I'm aware of,” Draco sighed. “But I'm a distant branch a' the original family. I could be misinformed. I could easily be wrong.” That was a huge admission for Draco. Harry took it as a testament to how out-of-sorts he was.

“I don't believe you, Draco,” Harry said plainly. He reached down to retrieve the Gaunt Family ring from where it had landed under their chair. He toyed with it, running fingers over the band as he stroked Draco's back with his other hand.

“Do you remember when I gave this to you?” Harry asked. Draco just nodded, wiping at the tears coursing down his face. His eyes and lips were a puffy, angry red. Just the forlorn cast of his features broke Harry's heart into a million sharp and thorny pieces. “You may think this is terribly dumb, but muggles have these things called Promise Rings. They give them on different occasions but it's supposed to represent a promise made. It's on your hand so you see it every day and remember to keep the promise, or remember that it's being kept by someone else.”

“Tha' is terribly dumb,” Draco muttered cheekily. “Right up there with wedding rings an' ugly skull-an'-snake tattoos. But... go on 'bout the stupid muggle thing.”

Harry couldn't help the half annoyed, half loving smirk spreading across his face as he went on. “When I gave you that ring, it was a kind of Promise Ring. I promised to protect you, no matter the cost, as long as you wore it. That promise is part of why we have to be apart for a while. Whenever I'm away and you look down at it, I want you to remember that I'm keeping my promise to you. Alright?”

“Easy enough,” Draco sighed, head buried in his neck once more as he gazed at the ring in Harry's hand.

“And I want you to make me a promise.” Draco only latched on tighter when Harry tried to pull apart to look at him. He was forced to turn his head and speak to the top of the man's head. Soft white-blonde locks tickled his nose and caught in his eyelashes. He loved it, wanted to breathe and bathe in the contented feelings Draco evoked in him. “I want you to promise never to take it off again.”

Draco gave a twitch of shame. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't a' thrown it at yeh. I didn't mean it. I really dinna mean it,” he babbled in a tear-soaked whisper.

“I know, love, I know.” He walked fingers up Draco's back to run them through his hair. Through his shoulder, he felt Draco's jaw begin to unclench as he really relaxed into Harry, really let go. “It's okay. Just don't take it off whatever you do, or let anyone take it from you.”

“I get it,” Draco snorted pleasantly. “I figured there was somethin' odd 'bout the ring. I mean, ya told me it had been a Horcrux but every time I put it on I get this stupid feeling. It's just... warm, peaceful. I didn't think Shield Charms acted tha' way.” His thin fingers found their way to Harry's hair at the other side of his head. Draco had a way of tangling his fingers in Harry's hair that made demons deep inside him purr. Draco was doing it now. “Can ya tell me wha' else ya did ta it?”

“That's the thing—I'm not sure,” Harry was lost to Draco's petting. He whinged. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing and I wasn't really thinking. Endopathotic magic, I guess. I had my wand on me but I don't recall using it. And I can't remember using an incantation, either. I have a few guesses but I need more information to be sure. I want you to keep an eye on it for me, let me know what it does.”

“Sure,” Draco nodded. “It already protected me once.”

Harry was able to pull away from Draco enough to fix him with a look.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“The day ya gave it ta me, when Rookwood came after me,” Draco explained. “He cast a non-verbal spell. It was Dark Arts but I've never come across it before so I couldn't tell ya wha' it was. Felt like it was gonna kill me, though. Made the Mark burn somethin' awful,” Draco blinked away the unpleasant memory. “I felt yer shield block at least some a' the spell. Tha's when I started ta suspect.”

“Why didn't you tell me right when it happened?” Harry stroked the back of Draco's head with the backs of his fingers, getting pleasantly tied up in his lengthening hair.

“Because I was confused. An' angry. I was just startin' ter feel attracted—an' still furious with ya fer being Scar Head The Great, Chosen One Du Jour, comin' ter my rescue all the bloody time. I didn't wanna trust yeh. And... maybe I thought yeh would see me as weak if I complained 'bout bein' hexed a little. So I jus' forgot about it.”

“That's fair,” Harry replied, the protective panic that had raced through him dispelled by Draco's explanation. He sat up a moment, pulling Draco's arm from under his shoulders. “Get over here,” he muttered, laying hold of Draco's hand. He slipped the Gaunt ring, with its heavy setting and dusty black stone, back onto Draco's finger—his index finger, because Harry was romantic but not suicidal. He suspected Draco wouldn't welcome an impromptu proposal and that wasn't what he was after, anyway. He wanted Draco safe, protected, and knowing he was loved. That was all that mattered. He reached up, stroking Draco's cheek and looking into his eyes, willing him to understand that everything would be okay.

He couldn't stop touching Draco's face. He traced his thumb over Draco's soft lips, wanting very much to kiss him senseless. Draco pressed a kiss to Harry's fingertip then sucked it into his hot and talented mouth. Harry moaned loudly.

“Ron and Hermione are still here,” he protested, eyes screwed shut in arousal.

Draco released Harry's thumb rather begrudgingly but not without one of those lasting, sensuous licks he was so God-be-damned good at.

“They've already had their free show. You know I charge after tha',” Draco joked. Harry was just glad the man's darkly perverted humor was returning. It meant he was going to be stubborn and shoulder this along with all their other problems. Harry wanted to kiss him for so many reasons, fortitude high on the list.

“Let's go show them we've made up,” Harry suggested, setting Draco on his feet before rising himself and pulling the blonde to the door by both his hands. “Then we'll say goodbye.”

“Then we can really make up,” Draco added. He cast a quick Episkey at Harry's cut cheek. The flesh wound healed over almost instantly. Good Gryffindor, Harry loved that adorably adoring glint in his stormy-sky-colored eyes.

- - -

Draco had already gone up to bed and so Harry faced off against Hermione with her hands on her hips, not quite glaring death and destruction at him but sincerely panicked. Seeing that he and Draco had made up was little consolation to her frazzled nerves. The firelight and the dust of the disused parlor made her bushy hair glow around her head.

“I know you have feelings here, Harry,” she cautioned, “but are you sure it's the brightest idea sending him to Hogwarts unattended?”

“What do you mean 'unattended?' You and Ron will be there and all the professors. And he's a grown man and not a child, contrary to popular theory. He doesn't need to be monitored. I trust him to behave.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look between them—a look that said Harry's brains were clearly addled.

“I'm not asking you to trust him,” Harry clarified. “I've never asked that. All I'm asking is for you to trust my judgment. Draco isn't his father. And he's not his aunt; he hasn't committed the level of atrocities they have. Sure, he's made some dumb calls in the past, but none of them were done out of malice; maybe a weird sense of righteousness and some very warped morals, but he's never wanted to kill anyone and that counts for something in my book. It counted for something with Dumbledore, too. But Draco's not his cousin, Tonks, either; he doesn't want to fight and we have no right to force him. He can be neutral if he wants... and I'll still protect his hide. I'll still be with him. It's not fair to lump someone with their family—or their house. You're ready to lump Draco with the Slytherins, Death Eaters, criminals and murders because they're his family? Then lump me with the Dursleys—because that's just as fair. I'm a Gryffindor and yet I've done some things I'm not proud of, some things that would turn other Gryffindors' stomachs.”

“Harry, everything you've done has been for the good of others!” Hermione pleaded. “You can't blame yourself for—”

“No, 'Mione, I've done some things I'm not proud of. Some childish and self-centered things. You dress it up as being 'for the sake of the world' but I can still see it. I've stuck my nose where it doesn't belong on countless occasions and needlessly risked the lives of everyone who cares about me. I'm not proud of the way I've conducted myself. My actions have been just as self-serving as Draco's, maybe more. I'm not gonna lie to myself and say they're not. I take advantage of being the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived—I do it to save lives but I also do it because it's easier than fighting fair, than stating my points and getting everyone to see the merit of the argument. I don't have time to play fair, though. I don't want to put the people I love in any more danger than they're willing to take... and that means having some secrets and doing more things I'm not proud of before this is through. Do you see that, Hermione?”

“I... I do,” she sighed, leaning against the mantle with a handful of floo powder. “I may not like it, but I do see what you mean. Like Malfoy said: sometimes we just need to let go of everything and trust in you implicitly. I wouldn't want face the things you're facing, Harry. No one would. But just... let us help, okay? Don't shut us out if you don't have to.” Ron stood behind her, quiet and nodding.

“Okay,” Harry agreed, the smallest smile twitching his lips at the sight of them both, ready to fight and—most importantly—trusting him again.

Hermione gave him a peck on the cheek. “We'll see you soon, yes?”

“Yes. As soon as I'm done with training, I'll come up to Hogwarts. We'll have a big planning meeting in Gryffindor Tower and everything. You bring the books, okay?” That made her smile before she nodded and disappeared into the green flames.

“You really...?” Ron muttered, still choked by disbelief. Harry shuffled him towards the floo.

“Yeah.”

“And he...?”

“Yeah.”

“Blimey,” Ron blew out a huge breath, his shoulders slumping. “And it's... he'll be okay?”

“He might kill me if I'm not upstairs in the next two minutes to pay my due fucking penance—but yeah. He'll be okay.”

“That's good, I guess.”

“Yes, Ron,” Harry sighed a little at his best mate's hesitancy to accept... anything about this relationship, even though it made him happy; it made him ache, but it made him happy. “With all his honesty enforcement, getting me to step on people's feelings and do what I have to do... well, he may make a Gryffindor out of me yet.”

“Mate, you're the one who pulled Godric Gryffindor's sword out of the Sorting Hat, not... not him,” Ron reminded him sullenly.

“I know that,” said Harry. “He just reminds me of who I am. In a really good way. I know it's messed up that I need a Malfoy to remind me who Harry Potter is but... well, you saw. It's really intense and crazy and something else—but we kinda balance each other out, too. Give and take. It's a good thing.”

Ron looked a little dubious as he reached for the floo powder.

“What, Ron?” Harry groaned. “I'm still me, so out with it.”

“Well... school,” the red head sighed heavily. “And Gryffindor.”

“It'll be fine,” Harry promised. “Malfoys can survive a nuclear holocaust with their dignity intact.” Ron's face scrunched up, not processing the muggle analogy. “They're like cockroaches or something. You can get 'em out of your house for a while but they're never really done for. He'll be fine. I'm not worried about it.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Ron smiled a little wryly. “It's Gryffindor I'm worried about.”

Harry burst out laughing.

“I'm serious!” Ron pouted good-naturedly. “A third of the school not coming back and Draco Malfoy the ruddy cockroach as our poster boy and leader? We're doomed, mate!”

Harry clapped his best friend on the shoulder, giving a quick squeeze of assurance before grinning up at him. He waited until he had Ron's gaze.

“Everything's gonna work out. I promise you, Ron. Maybe not in the way people think or expect. But it will work out. You just have to trust me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ron said, returning the confident smile. “I think I can manage that. Easiest thing I've ever done.”

“Glad to hear it, mate. I'll see you later.”

And, with a flash of green and the mention of home, Ron was gone.

- - -

Harry encountered Draco in the hall, Harry's dressing gown casually wrapped around his lean frame, making his way to the bathroom. His path was interrupted by a swift arm catching his midsection, propelling him to walk backwards with Harry down the hall.

“Wha?” the blonde protested. “Can I not take a shower? I smell like sex an' sweat—not exactly tempting.”

“Quite the opposite,” Harry offered in a low tone, steering Draco through their bedroom door and slamming it shut. Silver eyes at once went wide and darkened. Harry hooked a hand under the lazily knotted belt, pushing it aside to get to Draco. His skin was clammy, almost sticky with a dried mass of sweat. If you got close enough you could smell it on his skin—the byproduct of exertion mingled with lemons and herbs, Quidditch lawn and dry autumn leaves, perspiration and ejaculate muddled together in that musky, impossible something. He found himself reaching for it, mouth watering. He wanted to absorb the tang of their lovemaking into his tongue, keeping it forever there so that even food and drink tasted only of Draco, of rolling about and grunting, whispering, moaning. He wanted to remember this. Draco's scent was a gust of wind, flipping Harry's senses about like a cloak in the breeze. It took a moment before he regained his senses. He promptly pushed the blonde against the nearest wall, kissing him senseless.

Harry tasted sweet, like white wine and cream and slightly burnt sugar. He'd be content to kiss forever but Harry was being rather insistent tonight, tugging the robe from Draco's shoulders before slipping out of his own shirt, a hand constantly on Draco. The fevered contact was amazing. It was like Harry couldn't let go, couldn't stop touching. One calloused hand stroked Draco's growing length even as he shimmied out of his trousers and pants. He pressed their groins together, the heat melding them together like pieces of metal under a torch. Then they were falling toward the bed, tripping over each other's feet and discarded clothing.

Harry kept his wand in hand, nearly stabbing Draco in the thigh as they descended to the mattress rather gracelessly; indeed, they were a rutting, groaning heap. Harry's lips were greedy, tongue hot and forceful as he gave Draco his weight, grinding against him. His wand flicked, a barely perceptible fluttering against their thighs.

“Wait,” Draco whispered thickly.

“What?” Harry asked, flushed. His lips glistened in the dark, parted invitingly. Draco let his head fall to the mattress, summoning courage.

“I thought, since I'm leavin' tomorrow,” he let out a long breath. This had to come out confident, casual. He couldn't sound like he was begging. “Maybe... yeh'd wanta...?” The words leaving his tightening throat, he raised his brows. Harry got the message.

“To fuck you?” Wonder Boyfriend looked a little pale. Perhaps he was just stunned?

“Wha' do yeh say?”

“Er,” Harry sputtered. Definitely stunned. “Draco, I... I can't.”

Draco dug his heels into the mattress, sliding away across the bed.

“Wha' do ya mean, ya can't?” he shot a meaningful look down at his boyfriend's screaming erection. “Can't or won't?”

Harry only gave him a stern look, crawling after him.

“Ya pussy!” Draco went on. “Why won't you fuck me? Or don't ya wanta?”

“Of course I want to,” Harry said, pinning Draco to the bed with his stunningly heavy body, hands braced on the mattress above his shoulders to prevent his escape. “I just don't think it's a good idea.”

“I'm leavin',” Draco reminded him sternly. “Tomorrow. How could it possibly not be a good idea?”

“Draco, stop it,” Harry said forcefully. “I'm not arguing with you about this. I don't want you giving yourself to me just because we're going to be apart for a few days.”

“Givin' myself?” Draco spluttered, suppressing a haughty laugh. “It's hardly my first time, ya twat!”

“I know that,” Harry replied in a voice that shut him up in no uncertain terms. Harry was speaking and Draco would shut his mouth if he knew what was good for him. “It could be your first time or your thousandth—it's irrelevant. I know why you're insisting and I won't have it.” He barreled on before Draco could worm in an objection. “You don't just offer it without a reason, Draco. I know you too well. And while I appreciate the offer, really I do... I'm not ready.”

Draco's mouth hung open at the complete and utter girlishness tumbling from his boyfriend's lips.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head very slowly, side to side to side. “I thought I was in bed with Harry Potter. Yeh still have a cock, right?” And he peered down, just to make sure. Yes, that was a penis touching his own. And a delightfully thick, veiny one at that. Oh, why wouldn't Harry fuck him with it? Did he want it wrapped in a Gryffindor bow, delivered by that damn phoenix of Dumbledore's? They didn't have time for hesitation now. They had only a few short hours.

“Stop it, Draco,” Harry scolded. Still, he let his body down to tease with little brushes of hair and skin, his biceps standing out clearly in the dim light. Draco was tempted to lean up and lick the divot of that muscle, feel it twitch and shift under his tongue. “Maybe it doesn't mean much to you but it's important to me. It's a big fucking deal. And I'm not ready to have you trust me that way. Does that make sense?”

“Did Granger scramble yer personality before she left?” Draco snipped. “Or jus' substitute her own?”

“You're a right git sometimes,” Harry muttered. “It's a damn good thing I love you, to put up with you the way I do. I hope you know that. And if you could never mention Hermione when I'm hard, that would be great.” He bent down to deliver a kiss to Draco's cheek. Then he whispered, lips brushing skin, hot breath racing out. “I'm not gonna fuck you—yet. I'll keep it on the table, if that's alright, but you're gonna have to wait. Thing's are good the way they are. There's no need to rush.”

“Fine,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Yer being a complete muggle girl, by the way, but fine. Call me crazy. I jus' thought we were a two-way street: I throw a curse, yeh counter an' throw one back. I almost thought....”

“What?”

“I thought I'd be beggin' ter do a bit o' thrustin', not the other way 'round,” he slurred, unable to help his accent. Harry always made him talk like a country fool and he couldn't exactly explain why. It was one of those mysteries surrounding Harry—like how he could be Harry Bleeding Potter, Savior of the Fucking Universe in one instant and just Harry the next. Harry, his sweet, handsome, funny, sex-crazed lover. He was mind boggling, constantly rearranging and yet constant in who and what he is. For years, all Draco had seen was his aggressive, defensive side; The Boy Who Lived's tenderness remained slightly overwhelming. Or was it The Boy Who Loved?

“Are you disappointed?” said boy asked, face now buried in Draco's neck and delivering slow, wet kisses. He seemed to be smelling Draco's skin, inhaling powerfully, over and over again, purposeful, cataloging details as Draco himself often did. Harry was memorizing him, his smell, his feel.

“No,” Draco sighed. “Jus' surprised. I like the way things are but I'm greedy—ya know tha'. I want all of ya. But I'll give yeh time if tha's really wha' ya want. I canna believe yeh don't wanta do me inta the floorboards before I go—”

“Who said I wasn't doing you tonight?” Harry smiled, so devious a smirk he could have only learned it from Draco. The fire in his eyes spread out through their bodies as Draco was once again pinned to the bed by a wall of muscle, flesh and thick raven hair and impossibly sweet, breath-stealing weight. Harry cast his spells quickly and non-verbally before tossing his wand. The man was nothing if not a quick study. Hot, insistent hands roved his body, grabbing here and sliding there, touching every place that sent spikes of lust directly to his groin; the backs of his thighs, the swell of his arse and hips and the tender insides of his forearms all received lavish attention, bringing him to a level of arousal he rarely achieved on his own. Harry had learned his body perhaps too well. Harry had him mewling and bucking his hips within minutes, needing more press, more heat, just... more. Harry had learned to tease, giving him excitement bordering over-stimulation, inciting this impossible dance along the edge to perfection beyond belief. It wasn't magic—it just felt like it, the way Harry kept him hanging there, shaking with desire, out of his mind with it all.

“Harry,” he begged, squirming under the tongue working his chest. “Harry, please!”

Fingers tightened, teeth descending on flesh, slithering down Draco's body. Those thick fingers would leave bruises on his hips but he didn't care. Not when Harry was biting his thigh, fondling him, stroking his shaft and then... sucking him. His tongue swirled. Draco's eyes snapped open with a gasp, back arching clear off the bed. He watched Harry's cheeks hollow, pouty lips puckered as he employed his mouth quite dutifully. And Harry kept right on going, his throat relaxed by magic. Draco felt the back of that sweet heat as he slipped past it, down the rabbit hole, sucked as far as he could fit. His eyes closed as Harry hummed his satisfaction, dark hair soft under his hands.

“Yes, baby,” Draco gasped. “So good. Wanta fuck you, want, want,” he struggled to breathe, sliding in and out of that slippery wet heaven. “Fuck, fuck, wanta come in ya. Please, inside you, please!”

Harry murmured his ascent, pulling off quickly to squeeze a firm hand at the base of Draco's cock, keeping him on edge but not quite falling over. Harry moved to straddle his hips, forced to lean down because of the hand wrapping him, fingertips gently tugging at his scrotum to keep it loose and relax him. Harry knew that the first few thrusts were the most intense for him and was doing everything to prevent his orgasm while prolonging his pleasure. He was calculated but careful, loving, always putting Draco first.

He felt Harry's opening, slick and tight, pressing the head of his dick. That puckered little muscle was deceptively strong. And Draco knew its taste, its texture, every ridge and valley and bump tucked carefully away in his mind. His fingers knew, his cock knew. Harry was a little too tight, actually. He brushed against that hole, gathering a healthy amount of conjured lubricant but not quite gaining entrance. Harry's eyes were closed, shoulders slumped and relaxed. Did he not know the spell to prepare himself?

And then Harry released his weight, gravity forcing Draco into him. Breaching, he could feel the burn, see it written on Harry's face. The air was taut as Harry struggled to keep himself in check, to breathe through the pain. Little puffs of air left his nose, teeth clenched.

“Wait, wait,” Draco whispered, careful not to move a single centimeter and make it worse. “I can do the spell. Yeh don't have ta....” Suffer? Feel pain on my account? The Gryffindor was really rubbing off on him. “Relax, calm down. I could—”

“No,” Harry exhaled, pushing himself farther. He was already a good third of the way and a spell wouldn't help much at this point but he didn't know that. There wasn't much Draco could do but stroke Harry's thighs, keeping him calm. “We're doing this.”

Teeth squashing his bottom lip, Harry took Draco balls-deep in a rush. The heat was overwhelming, the press of Harry's body at once accepting and rejecting him, fighting him and working with him, wanting him more than anything.

“Oh, oh!” he groaned helplessly. “Too much! Not gonna last.”

“Then don't,” Harry said with an almost playful, offhanded shrug. His breath was quick and light, his chest rising and falling, hand braced over Draco's racing heart. The other took to the mattress, steadying himself. He locked his elbows to keep his arms from shaking. Smart man, that Harry Potter. He wasn't about to show weakness, even now. Maybe he was a little too proud mixed with stubborn and illogical. The result was nothing short of enchanting. And then Harry was moving, slowly at first. The lubricant was a God-send. It was still a raw kind of contact, intensely physical, achingly intimate, this knowledge of pain and pleasure that they shared.

Draco took a moment to really observe his lover—his screwed-shut eyes, the long column of his dry-swallowing throat, the contrast of his pale skin and black hair in the darkness of their bedroom. This was what he wanted to think of every time he heard Harry's name, this vision swimming before his eyes, strong arms flexed, legs like a stallion and creamy, touchable skin. He was passionate. He felt so deeply. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he moved his hips through the discomfort, the way his upper body rocked with his rhythm. It was all too much coming at him through the dark. He was so good, so perfect. Draco trailed fingers down his chest, loving the way he moved. His fingers closed around Harry's sex, the skin reddish purple and firm, so hard under his hand.

His first strong tug earned him an unconscious, unguarded smile. His second tug garnered a pair of sparkling green eyes opening wide. His third tug earned him a shocking slap to the face; his head whipped, neck popping. His head rang, his cheek burned.

“Don't you fucking dare,” Harry hissed, hovering over him. He had Draco's wrist in his hand, trapping it against the bed.

“But—”

“No,” Harry insisted. He twined their fingers together, gripping Draco's hand for everything he was worth. And Draco would have his fingers broken thirty six more times rather than let go. Harry's other hand came to his face, palm to the hollow of his cheek. He leaned close, fingertips brushing the blonde hairs at his temple almost reverently. “This is for you, Draco. So you'll know. You're always mine. Doesn't matter whose fucking who. You're mine and I'm yours.”

Draco could only nod in time to the rocking of their bodies. Harry's body was still resisting, clenching in wave after wave. The sensations were overwhelming. Draco felt his orgasm rising up like a fist in his gut. He wasn't going to last. He flexed his stomach taut until every muscle screamed. Muscles he didn't know he had were protesting from the strain of holding back what had to be. Harry pulsed with him, lips closing over his with a thick, pleasant groan.

Harry started to come. It came from his shoulders first, a sort of helpless hitching. His thighs clamped, rigid, unforgiving in their force. Then it was in his stomach, muscles somehow caving inward, tightening his body as he imploded, hot jets flying in the tiny space between them. Harry's muffled shout against his lips was what got him, of all things. He thought the reality-smashing tightness or perhaps the ungodly undulations would've done him in but it was Harry's voice, his guttural, grunting, masculine scream that tingled against his lips and set his heart on fucking fire. He lost it inside Harry, coming for ages and just shivering, shaking. He kissed back, repeating the sound back as best he could, a sort of dying trill that just went on, wordless. They really didn't need words. This was enough—more than enough. Everything. He really was in love.

- - -

Achy and sore, they Apparated in silence to the third floor master bath. It had a massive tub. They hobbled around, setting out towels and filling the tub. Once settled in, they washed and laid back together, Draco's back to Harry and all but perched in his lap, arms up and toying with the wet hair at the nape of his neck.

“May I say something base?” Draco asked, voice scraggly from screaming.

“It's me, dragon,” Harry said, voice like sandpaper but laced with love.

Draco snorted at the emergence of yet another pet name. Then he sighed. “Um, when yeh... in bed?” Shy, tentative. Harry nodded his encouragement. “It was... well, I don't really know wha' it was but I liked it. I've never liked tha' before.” Fancied the receiving end, that is. It was different to be the aggressor. That was normal for him. Wanting it back? Making the physical rage a two way street? That was new.

“Why did you like it? I mean, it couldn't have felt good. It hurt like crap when you smacked me before. And your face is swollen. I'm going to spell it right before we go to bed.”

“Well...” Draco splashed at the bath's milky surface. “It did feel good, in a way. Not physically, but... I guess, because it was you.” Harry not just asserting himself but exerting himself. The power, physical and magical, was still something of a wonder. And an aphrodisiac, apparently.

Harry smiled broadly. “That's how I felt the first time you had me.”

“Gods, tha's so sexy,” Draco shivered with new lust. “Say it again.”

“What? That you had me?”

“Yesssss,” Draco sighed, scooting and sliding down Harry's body to rest his head against the man's strong chest, listening to his steady heart beat.

“And one of these days I'll have you back,” Harry cooed to damp blonde tresses, his breath sweet and impossibly warm.

“I know. I'm jus' impatient.”

“I know. That's part of why I love you.”

“I...” Draco fought down a strange lump in his throat. This was the first time he'd ever said this—really wanted to say it. To anyone. Ever. Not even his parents. Not even Philippe. But this was Harry. Love wasn't a weakness to Harry; if anything, it was where he drew his strength. There was nothing left to be afraid of.

“I love you too.”

POST SCRIPT: Can't get enough Conscience? Burning question? Itching for a response to your flaming, blithe and pithy review? There's an App for that.

Sordid's official AFF Forum Post. Accept no imitations.

http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/28110-review-replies-discourse-conscience/
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