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Faded Enmity	By : WillGirl Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Draco/Neville Views: 6383 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I make no claims to Harry Potter, either books or movies, and all rights belong to JKR. No money or other recompense is being made from this story.

Chapter List
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Neville was halfway through peeling the potatoes—he liked doing things like that by hand, even though magic would have been faster; he felt the plants deserved the care—when there was a sudden, wet thud from the bathroom. He paused, listening hard: the shower was still running, a dull murmur in the background, but he couldn’t hear anything else. Neville frowned and put the knife down, wiped his hands clean—and then he heard it: a harsh, muffled sob.

Swearing under his breath, Neville stalked down the hall to the bathroom. The door was locked, but a sharp flick of his wand took care of that. He didn’t care about Malfoy’s privacy; he just wanted to make sure the other man wasn’t going to drown in his shower. He didn’t know how he’d be able to explain that, and it wasn’t the idea of falling under suspicion when an old enemy turned up dead in his flat that worried him. It was the idea of trying to explain to his friends why he’d felt the need to be nice to Draco Malfoy in the first place.

Neville glanced in and at first he couldn’t see Draco at all. He stepped into the room, frowning, and closed the door behind him out of habit to stop the warm, humid air from escaping. A closer look revealed long, shaking limbs curled in on themselves in the corner of the small tub. The shower was still running, making it look like Draco had brought his own private raincloud in to stream down on his pale head. With his loose clothes off, he looked even skinnier than he had in the alley. His skin was so pale it was nearly translucent and Neville fancied, for a moment, that he could actually see the bones trying to press through their frail sheath of paper-thin flesh.

Then he stopped, and it wasn’t the idea of a naked Draco Malfoy that stopped him; seven years in a dormitory with four other boys had shaken any notions of modesty from Neville Longbottom’s head, and he didn’t care enough about Draco’s feelings to worry about embarrassing the other man.

It was the thing on his arm that stopped Neville.

It had been years since Neville Longbottom had seen a Dark Mark, and the brands seemed to have faded significantly during that half-decade. It was a dull gray now, still harsh and plain against Draco’s pale arm, but probably if he had been tanned like a regular person, the thing wouldn’t even register at first glance as being what it was. On Draco, though, it stood out clearly, a dark shadow on his white skin, and it brought Neville staggering to a halt.

That was what they’d fought, that was what they’d died to stop. That thing on Malfoy’s arm, and the awful creature it meant he’d served. Neville’s face curled in disgust and he almost walked out, left the other man to his frenzied seizure, and if he drowned during it, so much the better.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Dark Mark, and as he stared, he looked closer. There were lines on Draco’s arm, deep gouges in his flesh, running through the Mark, which burned unbroken beneath them. Several of the lines were pale and old, scars long-healed, but some of them were fresher, newer. One of the gashes still had blood crusted on its edges, or a clotted scab at least, and a faint, brighter spot of red showed where the water from the shower had knocked some of the clot aside, letting fresh blood well up within the cut.

Neville looked closer, and saw the same sorts of gouges along Malfoy’s chest, although all of those were the white, shiny color of old scars. Now that he was studying him, he could even make out the faintest trace of a line on his face, almost invisible, but with the water pouring over him Neville could see it, because the rivulets turned just slightly when they met the gash.

Sectumsempra, Neville thought, and shivered. He had grown so used to George’s ear—or lack of it—over the years that he never really thought about that particular curse anymore, but now it roared up in front of him, bloody and unforgettable. He remembered the sight of a water- and blood-drenched Harry Potter sprinting through the common room, fear and desperation on his face; he remembered how pale Malfoy had been after that, how many days it had been before the Slytherin boy had stopped limping. He remembered actually laughing about it, joking about Malfoy’s just desserts; he remembered how it hadn’t been funny, anymore, when he’d seen George Weasley, and what he was missing.

Neville grimaced. He hated Dark Magic, and here was a man with evidence of that etched all over his body, from his scars to his Mark, convulsing in Neville’s shower. Because Neville had felt bad for him, felt bad for Draco Malfoy.

The sobs were high and shrill this time, and unintelligible through the running water. Malfoy flung himself around in helpless convulsions, twitching and pleading; this one seemed worse than the one in the alley, like that had been just a prelude to this, more violent fit. He looked like someone was holding their wand on him, drawing out a Cruciatus. Neville was familiar with the sight, and the sensations; he understood, now, why Malfoy suspected that his seizures were leftover effects of that curse.

Of course, Neville Longbottom was one of the few people in the wizarding world who really understood that the Cruciatus Curse was more than just temporary pain. He was one of the few people who really knew that it could have permanent effects, wounds that lingered well after the wand was raised and the pain lifted. Most people didn’t get that; they saw Cruciatus as something terrifying but temporary, and never knew that it didn’t always go away.

Oddly, it stirred no pity in Neville to watch Malfoy wracked with the ghost of the curse.

He bent down next to him anyway, catching a flailing arm and wrapping one hand around the back of Draco’s head, to keep him from cracking it open on the pale porcelain of the tub. Malfoy shrieked at the touch, trying to writhe away, but he was scrawny and weak and even if he hadn’t been gripped by convulsions he wouldn’t have been strong enough to escape Neville Longbottom’s grasp.

It ended the same way it had last time, with choked sobs, and shaking, and surprise.

Malfoy looked up at him and didn’t seem to know even who he was, let alone where they were, and why. Recognition came back slowly, shuddering, and he curled in on himself like he was still in pain. He turned his left arm inwards, hiding the Mark from view; it seemed an instinctive gesture rather than one made for Neville’s benefit, and he felt curiosity stir once more.

How had Draco gotten those slashes in his arm, those cuts along his Mark? Had he given them to himself, perhaps trying to cut it out of his flesh, to make it go away forever? Was that just so that he could walk freely, without people knowing what he had once been, or was it a deeper motivation that had compelled Malfoy to bleed himself, to gouge at the brand on his skin?

This time, Neville did not ask.

He helped Malfoy sit up, bracing the wet, shaking man against the back of the tub. “You all right?” he asked, knowing the asinine nature of the question and asking anyway, because there was nothing else to say.

Draco nodded, his lips pressed very tightly together so that they were little more than a pale line across his face, another scar. “Yes,” he gasped, “yes. Not usually—so close together—like that.”

Neville nodded. “Well...I’ll let you finish up, then,” he said, but made no move to stand.

Malfoy had his eyes closed and he was breathing heavily, making the scars on his thin chest rise and fall. Neville could count every single one of his ribs, could see the sharp bend of his collarbone, the way his hips nearly jutted through the skin. He was almost skeletal, pale and trembling and very, very helpless.

Draco Malfoy, the bane of Neville’s childhood, helpless before him.

Neville leaned down, no conscious thought at all in his head, and he kissed him.

Malfoy went utterly rigid, his breath catching in a sudden gasp. Neville pressed with his tongue and forced the thin lips open, prised the teeth apart. He thrust his tongue in, plundering Draco’s mouth insistently, roughly. He could feel the chapped skin of Draco’s lips move unwillingly against his own, and he moaned with a strange, unexpected pleasure.

Suddenly his hands were there, on either side of Malfoy’s thin face, pulling him up into the kiss, tugging his head sideways to give Neville a better angle. Draco’s face was wet and slick, water running down his cheeks like tears, and despite the warmth of the shower his flesh felt cold.

But his mouth—that was unexpectedly warm. Neville was surprised by that, surprised to find that the icy bastard had any warmth in him at all. He would have thought, if he’d ever stopped to think about it—and maybe he had, once or twice, although he never would have admitted that, even to himself—he would have thought that Malfoy would taste cold and empty, like snow and bitter derision, his mouth a frozen sneer. But on the inside, all of Malfoy’s ice was melted, and he sent a pulse of warmth thrumming through Neville’s veins.

Neville broke the kiss reluctantly when his lungs burned for air, and sat back on his heels, studying Malfoy speculatively.

Draco shrank away almost infinitesimally, then stopped, and the impenetrable mask was back. It couldn’t hide his eyes, though; those were wide and skittish, and dark shadows flickered across their grey surface like the steady progress of Dementors out for a lunch of souls. He was still trembling, his hands shaking so badly that they could not even curl into fists, although he seemed to be trying to make them.

His gaze flicked behind Neville, briefly, to his folded clothes; to, no doubt, his wand. But Neville was between Draco and his magic, and between him and the door, and the bright glance had been merely a second’s aberration; the blank, familiar wall of defeat sank down on the former Death Eater once more, and he lay still.

“So that’s what this was about,” Draco said, and his voice sounded impossibly tired. “I should have known.”

“What?” said Neville, who hadn’t been listening; who had been busy contemplating Malfoy, and unforeseen possibilities.

“Well, you can forget it,” Draco snapped. “I’m not so far gone as that, not yet.”

“What do you mean?” asked Neville automatically.

“Paying my enemies for my keep with—with that,” Draco said, his face twisting into a grimace that was not so much disgust as it was unwelcome inevitability; as if he knew the day was coming, and was putting it off for as long as he could. “Percy Weasley figured that out to his dismay last month; I don’t wonder that he didn’t pass the news along to the rest of you, but you should ask him how long it was before he was able to look at a wand without flinching,” Draco sneered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t put him off the idea for good.”

“What hasn’t?” said Neville, still trying to piece together what Draco was talking about.

“The curses he got instead of my charms,” said Malfoy coldly.

“Right,” said Neville, his distracted brain fixating on the last two words to the exclusion of the rest of the conversation. He leaned in for another kiss. Malfoy’s hands came up to fend him off but Neville caught the thin wrists and held them back, out of the way; he barely noticed Draco trying to free himself, his efforts were so pitiful. Neville captured Draco’s mouth with his own, forcing his way inside again, and that sudden current of warmth ran back through his limbs.

He pressed down, nearly climbing over the wall of the tub in his eagerness. Draco whimpered, but there was no where for him to go, not with the cool porcelain wall behind him. He scrabbled for purchase with his feet, trying to get enough leverage to throw Neville off of him, but the shower was still running, and the floor of the tub was too slick.

Neville pulled out of the kiss only when Draco’s shaking began to turn violent. The taller man sucked helplessly at the air, unable to do anything but lie limply where Neville left him, and try to catch his breath. Neville ran a hand down Draco’s skinny chest, lingering over the deep lines of scars. It occurred to Neville slowly that he was getting wet; that the shower was still running, streaming down on them both, and he sat back, pulling his upper half out of the tub.

He shook his head and water streamed from his damp blond hair, spattering the bathroom walls. He turned the shower off and looked back down at Draco, lying cringing in the cold, draining tub.

Neville grinned. “Come on,” he said, and held out a hand to Malfoy.

Draco shrank away, glaring at him as if he’d gone mad.

Neville’s grin grew wider; perhaps he had. He caught Draco’s wrist and hauled the slight, trembling, naked figure out the tub; Draco slipped on the wet floor and Neville caught him around the waist with a low chuckle. Draco tried to pull away but Neville ignored his efforts, half-dragging the feebly-struggling Death Eater across the hall to his bedroom.

Draco hit the bed with a yelp when Neville tossed him. He kicked the door shut behind him and started tugging at the buttons of his shirt, his belt; he kicked his shoes off as he crossed the room. Draco scrabbled backwards, shrinking against the headboard; he was saying something, but Neville was no longer listening to anything but the still-melodic tones of his raspy, pleading voice.

It wasn’t quite the musical drawl that Malfoy used to have; now it was rough and frail and tremulous, like rust gathered on a once-elegant sculpture. But beneath the rust the beauty was still there, and Neville delighted in the sounds that slipped from the other man as he crawled over the bed towards him.

Neville silenced the noises with a kiss and pulled Draco in close, feeling the pale, still-damp skin slide smoothly against his own nakedness. Somewhere between the door and the pillows he had lost the rest of his clothes; he couldn’t remember where or when or how, but it didn’t matter, because he was naked, and the wet and trembling form of Draco Malfoy was pressed against him.

Neville moved atop the other man, grinding him down into the soft mattress. Draco whimpered and Neville ran a tongue along the gashes in his chest, tasting each one. His hands had slid up Draco’s wrists, holding his arms wide and splayed against the bed; his right arm was smooth, but the left had deep stuttering gouges in it, like speed-bumps, all along the forearm.

Neville glanced sideways and then leaned over, licking and sucking on the scars, and on the marked skin beneath them. He ran his tongue around the curve of the snake and felt Draco flinch, like he had burned him. He planted a sucking, open-mouthed kiss on the skull, and Draco’s breath shuddered, as though in pain.

Neville returned to kissing his lips, running teeth and tongue lightly all over his face, his neck, the far-too-defined collarbone. He lipped at the faint scar on Draco’s cheek, the invisible line that Harry had left there years ago, with that accidental spell. Draco was speaking again, angry and pleading, but Neville ignored his words just as he ignored the weak, feeble thrashing of the body beneath him.

Well...that wasn’t strictly true. He wasn’t ignoring the thrashing; he was luxuriating in it, in the way Malfoy moved beneath him, the press of skin and muscle and groin against one another.

Heat stirred deep in Neville’s gut, and stiffened right below that, with a sudden rush of blood and pleasure. He thrust against Draco, grinding his erection against the other man’s slick body. Malfoy yelped, and somehow his white face went even paler. Neville smothered him in another long, plundering kiss, tasting deep.

When he pulled back Malfoy was panting raggedly, his limbs shaking, limp against the mattress. Neville lay above him, arms braced, looking down. His eyes glittered sharply and the grin on his face was that of a predator, a mongoose spotting a wounded snake, and sensing helplessness.

Neville’s body seemed to move of its own accord, his fingers moving down Malfoy’s torso, curling over his side, skating down the thin, nearly concave flesh of his stomach, and then lower, sliding past his flaccid genitals (and how was it that Malfoy was not even half as aroused as Neville was, by this intoxicating pleasure of movement and contact?) to the hole that lay below them, tight and puckered and closed. Neville worked a finger in slowly, grinning at the way Draco gasped and writhed in response.

The blood pulsed harder in Neville’s groin and he worked faster, pulling and stretching and tugging, until he could squeeze a second finger inside. Draco moaned, and the water on his face might have been tears. Neville leaned up to kiss him again, leaving his fingers where they were; it took a bit of stretching, Draco was taller than he was, but he managed, and Draco shuddered and gasped as Neville penetrated lips and ass alike.

Neville licked his way down Draco’s scarred chest and scissored his fingers, making the other man convulse beneath him with a cry. The fingers came out, then, and Draco gasped.

“Don’t worry,” Neville said comfortingly, “I’ll be right back.”

Draco whimpered.

Neville patted the thin, trembling man reassuringly on the thigh, and slipped off the bed.

He found his trousers crumpled on the floor, and fished his wand from their pockets. A flick of the wrist and a muttered “accio,” and Neville had what he wanted: a small pot with a smaller plant in it, whose fat leaves Neville plucked and opened. The leaf released a thick, sweet-smelling liquid into his palm, and Neville returned to the bed to administer the soothing balm to Draco’s scrawny arse.

He had to tug Draco back down to him; he had curled up against the headboard, as if nervous. Neville yanked him over by the ankle, laughing, and then spread his legs again. Malfoy yelped at the sudden, cold touch of liquid deep inside, and Neville chuckled again. “Now, isn’t that better?” he asked.

Draco didn’t nod, but he didn’t need to; Neville was no idiot, and just because he’d never done this sort of thing before, exactly, didn’t mean that he didn’t know how it was supposed to work.

He dropped the glistening leaf over the side of the bed and spread Draco wide beneath him. The repentant Death Eater struggled weakly, trying to throw the heavier, stronger man off of him, but Neville easily pinned his trembling limbs.

“Relax,” said Neville, “this should only hurt for a moment.”

He lined his desperately eager cock up with the slick, wet circle of Malfoy’s anus, and Draco shuddered. Neville grinned and thrust slowly forward, watching Draco shiver and writhe beneath him. The tight, strangling confines of the tunnel he was pressing his way in to made Neville gasp. He felt like he was being smothered, choked by the tight circle of Draco around him.

Neville groaned and thrust further, and Draco yelped, a little shocked cry of pain. He drew in a sobbing breath, like he was trying desperately hard to be silent, and it wasn’t quite working.

The way Malfoy rippled and stretched around him was nearly painful paradise. Neville dug in like Draco’s ass was a garden ready to be tilled, and his cock the spade, digging deep and sharp.

Draco writhed.

Neville groaned, his voice low and desperate and hungrier than he had ever heard himself before; he sounded positively wanton. He grabbed Draco by his thin, boney hips, and tugged the other man closer, stabbing deeper inside, the angle sharp and high.

Draco moaned, his face wet from the pale hair dripping into his eyes. It made it look almost as though he was crying, the way the drops of water pooled on his face. He had his eyes tightly closed and his teeth were bared and he was shuddering, as if fighting against the pain of another seizure.

Neville would distract him from that, though, and leaned in to force another kiss from the taller, slimmer man. He ran his hands up Draco’s emaciated ribs, and down his pale thighs, and in around his cock, gently squeezing and teasing the balls. He grasped Malfoy’s cock and pulsed his hands in time to his thrusts, and Draco whimpered.

Neville grinned at that helpless sound of longing, and moved one hand off of the thin shaft to dig into Draco’s hip, so that he could hold him steady while he thrust ever faster, ever harder. The muscles around his cock tensed and fluttered, tugging at him, pushing him away, then pulling him in even further.

His own eyes fluttered nearly closed and he could see Malfoy only through a faint haze of eyelashes and arousal. The other man lay splayed beneath him, trembling, his skeletal fingers fisted in the blankets, desperate for something to hang on to as Neville pounded away into his deliciously tight ass.

It was, Neville Longbottom decided distantly, with a small part of his mind that had stepped aside to observe, while wild desire and ecstasy swamped everything else, one of the most incredible things he had ever felt: fucking his old enemy, feeling him helpless and open beneath him, thrusting deep inside like he could purge all of Malfoy’s dark shadows with the brilliant lightness of his cock.

Neville laughed wildly. The world had gone completely insane, and he didn’t mind one bit.

That insanity came to a head with a breathtaking, mind-shattering explosion of pleasure. He drove through it, hot and shuddering, shooting the thick evidence of his passion deep into Draco’s straining core.

Neville collapsed at last, panting, his limbs trembling with the delightful sting of ebbing arousal. His cheek was pressed on the scarred, sweaty paleness of Draco’s chest, his legs against the other man’s thighs, and his spent cock was still buried deep inside. Neville sighed; this was the very definition of sated bliss.

He at last pulled away, with one last stolen kiss. Neville felt his heart slowing as he sat up, breathing hard, pulling himself back under control. He looked down and grinned at Draco.

The pale, thin stick of a man had curled in on himself, his back to Neville, which hid his own involuntary erection as well as the tears on his white face. The position did reveal the red-laced, thick smear of white, sticky cum dripping slowly down his legs. Neville glanced at that, and at the scrawny form of the man it was leaking out of, and a smug righteousness burned in his chest.

He chuckled and patted Draco on the shoulder, ignoring the way the other man flinched. “I guess you’ll have to try that shower a second time now, huh?” he asked jovially. Draco said nothing. “All right, how’s this: I’ll go wash up quick, and then it’ll be all yours while I make us something for dinner. How does that sound?”

Something very much like a sob slipped from Draco’s lips, but then the former Death Eater nodded slowly, as if finally surrendering at the end of one last, long battle.

Neville Longbottom grinned and walked away, whistling as he went. He felt good, and supremely unconcerned.

He was, after all, a war hero. If he wanted to whistle in victory, who would blame him?

So, lots of people have been leaving reviews (and thank you for that, by the way, I love them!) that have been asking about/for more. Unfortunately, this really is the end. I don't think there's anything left to tell, I'm sorry. If you do, by all means, feel free to use this as the launching point for a story of your own; I would frankly be honored, and just let me know and I'll gladly link to your continuation! I just, truly, can't think of anywhere else to take this story. I'm sorry, and thank you all so much for liking it so much. You really are awesome. -WG
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Faded Enmity