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Tomorrow is dead to me	By : Prototype_UP77 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3028 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 9
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and I do not own Harry Potter. This is a fanfiction, no profit has been made with writing and publishing - it's all just for fun.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 2
- 3
- 4
Before Harry Potter had tied him to a chair in his own decrepit kitchen, it would never have occurred to Draco that such behavior, remarkable in its ruthlessness, was at all realistic for the boy who had saved their world.
The thought that perhaps this was not Potter at all forced its way up from the depths of a memory he had been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to suppress. Filled with a dark foreboding, he searched the previous conversation for a clue, for anything that might disprove his apprehension. Only his reaction to the accusation of acting like Lucius Malfoy fit Potter's pattern. Everything else seemed to belong to an entirely different person. To mock Draco, perhaps as an act of reckoning, he conceded to him, but to attack when the opponent had closed his eyes, was unarmed and thus defenseless? Never in a million years.
With his eyes narrowed to slits, Potter slowly approached. There was no hesitation in his movements, no question, not the slightest uncertainty. The longer hair had fallen into his face, half hiding the provocative smirk of his pink lips.
It was a posture he had seen all too often in the common room of his house. Demonstrative superiority. What was a daily exercise in Slytherin surroundings seemed simply unnatural on a person who had shone so reliably in the past that he would do so forever in Draco's mind.
Worse. It perverted everything Draco found so repulsive about Potter into the opposite.
He sat down on the table in front of Draco in an emphatically nonchalant manner, propping his elbows on his thighs as he continued to keep his gaze fixed on him. "Well, Malfoy. Why don't you just get started? We've got forever, but I can't imagine you're particularly comfortable. That my satisfaction might loosen your bonds, I'm sure you suspect. You must have experience with situations like this, right?"
The smile on his face turned too dark to convince Draco of the friendly pitch he had adopted - if he disregarded the fact that this rhetorical ploy was, of course, completely transparent, so obvious that Draco had to stifle a laugh. This bumbling approach, probably intended to make him feel he wasn't being blackmailed in the first place and was choosing to cooperate on his own, diluted his fear.
But it wasn't enough to make him believe that the one perched in front of him, not taking his eyes off him, was actually Potter. It was no secret that the Savior was not much of a talker. Faking something like that didn't require a lot from practiced intelligence gatherers.
"Oh, of course," Draco replied, allowing that sarcastic undertone that had forced itself onto his tongue to show. "I suppose if I don't get myself sorted out for the next ... say, fifty minutes, you will have to go to the bathroom for a minute. Or maybe you'll do it right here. There are plenty of options, after all, especially for someone like you."
With his heart thumping wildly in excitement, Draco searched Potter's face for the only reaction that seemed appropriate. He looked into the bright eyes, exploring his forehead and the corners of his mouth for some sign of confusion, but to his alarm, Potter's expression hardened before he turned his head away and eluded Draco's scrutiny.
If this were really Potter, he wouldn't have understood instantly that you were talking about Polyjuice Potion.
"Who sent you? Was it my father? Does he think I'm going to fall for this cheap trick?" cried Draco, trying to jerk free of the shackles. But magical restraints always adjusted, and so they drew tighter, clamping uncomfortably around his skin.
Potter slid off the tabletop and trotted slowly to the center of the room.
"What's he paying you? I'll get you five times that if you'll release me and tell me who hired you!"
Fear gradually reared as a solid lump in Draco's throat. Potter himself, changed as he seemed, would never have allowed himself to be bribed, but secretly he had to admit to himself that being at his mercy would not have been the worst development.
"Please," Potter blabbed, laughing humorlessly but still keeping his back turned to Draco. "Do you really think anyone would act on your father's behalf these days?"
The recognition sent an icy chill down Draco's spine. The way he strung together the snottily uttered words, in Potter's appearance at that - how could it have taken him so long to see through that unspeakable costume?
"Zabini," Draco hissed, suppressing the urge to spit. Disgusted, he noted the wince from Potter's body. "After all you've done, you dare ambush me here and tie me up? You dare to go around breaking into other people's houses disguised in Potter's flesh? And what is the point of all this? After all, you've already ... convinced me to do you favors - haven't I long since proven that I'm reliable in that regard?"
After all the exertion of today, the fight against his parents, his headlong escape, the terror of this damned place and this dishonest confrontation, his muscles began to quiver. What at first looked to Draco like the inevitable consequences of fatigue, flared in his heart as anger. For this act, Zabini would rot in Azkaban - Draco would make sure he never left the prison again!
Zabini turned and eyed Draco with a cool stare that burned like a sneer on his skin from Potter's normally warm eyes. "What on earth is there to stop me? I can come in and out of your houses as I please."
Grumbling with anger, Draco resisted the temptation to tug at his bonds so that they would cut into his arm; although physical bruises could be a great support if he ever got out of here and pressed charges against Zabini (finally, finally, finally he had him), he wasn't going to let that asshole hurt him again.
Except that from now on, you'll never have me in your hands again, you fucking freak. As long as I'm disinherited, you can't blackmail me with the Malfoys' reputation anymore!
"So what do you want from me now, Zabini? Since you've already come all this way to trap me, perhaps you'd like to get to the point soon?" taunted Draco, biting his tongue to keep from spitting out the profanities that were building sorely in his throat.
Potter's hands clenched in the hem of the ugly cloak before he glanced straight at him. His face was devoid of emotion, but Draco was sure that the smooth facade would nearly burst with tension if he could only look closer.
"I'd like to delve into what brought us together back then, Malfoy," Zabini said coldly, parting Potter's lips into a cruel smile.
Hoping that Zabini had cracked an agonizing joke, Draco waited for him to continue speaking, but he merely crossed his arms in front of his chest, allowing an uncomfortable ball of excitement and nausea to grow in Draco's stomach.
This was unexpected.
Zabini had no way of knowing that Draco was no longer susceptible to blackmail, so he obviously wanted to tighten the pressure and have a little fun in the process. So if Draco said no, he would suspect that he had lost his leverage. Stupid Zabini was not, so it was only a stone's throw to the thought that he might soon face arrest. What would the wizarding world do if they learned that someone had misused their savior's body - and his official post as an apprentice at the Auror Headquarters - to gain a personal advantage? That such an offense would not be treated as a minor crime was evident from the friendship between Potter and the minister alone.
So what would Zabini do to prevent that? With no leverage, there was only one thing to do, and Draco's heart began to pound. When he considered what Zabini's undignified mother had done to her husbands, it no longer seemed so far-fetched that the son would also be capable of murder if he saw his comfortable life threatened. Despite the peril in which he was hovering, his thoughts became clear. He had to swallow his pride to lull Zabini to safety. Bound and without his wand, it was his only chance.
With deliberate effort, Draco screwed up his face. "I hope you choke on your own tongue, Zabini!" he groaned.
Really, a first-rate spectacle.
"Now was that a yes or a no?" sneered Zabini darkly. Potter's voice boomed in Draco's ears, and he hoped that this distortion could be erased from his memory, lest it overshadow the last sentence the real Potter had addressed to him a perceived eternity ago.
"What choice do I have?" hissed Draco, convulsing. Briefly, the idea of agreeing and then, when Zabini loosened his bonds, grabbing his wand and cursing him into another dimension, brushed him.
A tempting idea, but very risky. If something went wrong, he would merely provoke Zabini to fight back. No, if he wanted to get out of here in one piece, he had to play along until Zabini left. It would only cost him his dignity.
"Then recreate the situation exactly as it was, Malfoy. Feel free to do so." Looking at Draco's devastated expression, he chuckled, then moved closer again.
Something about the words struck Draco as strange. As Zabini stood waiting beside the table, he pondered what exactly it was, but the physical proximity made it hard for him to concentrate. "I'm going to need my arms for this, Zabini," Draco whispered, shuddering as his gaze dripped down Potter's face and froze on the hands that rested on the tabletop.
Potter's fingers, contrary to his otherwise uncouth appearance, were finely cut, slender, and somehow soft. Draco knew them well. He had often watched them in his dreams, idly stroking the slender chest, but he had forbidden himself to remember whenever his mind lingered on it. But now that he had realized what he was about to do - what did it matter to resurrect the image at this point?
He was going to betray himself anyway; he was going to let himself be defiled again voluntarily and in full possession of his mental powers, so it wouldn't hurt to indulge in this moment - always with the hope in the back of his mind that he would be finished quickly enough so that the Polyjuice Potion wouldn't forfeit its effectiveness. For nothing in the world would he want to do it with Zabini himself.
Zabini raised his wand, and Draco followed the fingertips on the matte dark wood as they swished through the air, loosening his bonds. Once, he'd watched them bead sweat into goosebumps on pale skin as green eyes stared provocatively at him, and that brief moment of his well-buried past alone made a gasp prickle in his throat.
As the clasp around his arms loosened, releasing the flow of blood, his thoughts fluttered on in an unwelcome direction. Amazing how well he copied Potter's wand.
Draco bit his lip and rose onto unsteady trembling legs, looking for anything inviting in Zabini's posture, anything prompting, as he had when they met three years before, but he merely sat there, waiting for what Draco would do.
As he staggered against him, Draco was finally able to shake off the knowledge that it was merely Zabini, merely an adversary demanding the unthinkable of him. His heated face met Potter's skin, his dry lips found the same rosy soft lips he had cursed so many times before. It was Potter's upper body that he pushed back with his own.
Draco could almost imagine that this was reality; that his counterpart was who he claimed to be, that he wanted him so badly that he would cheat, lie, act, and blackmail for it. And indeed, as if on top of everything else Zabini was trying to use his desire against him, he was performing entirely differently than Draco remembered. Although he should accept it gratefully, because it would make the show easier for him without question, he could not suppress the thought that the strange coincidences seemed to be accumulating.
Without breaking the one-sided stormy kiss, he pressed Potter into an embrace before letting his hands travel down the length of his back.
Potter shuddered, and for a split second Draco thought that he finally had succeeded in stirring the desire that he had eventually been blackmailed for. Encouraged, he dropped down and ran his hands over Potter's firm buttocks so that he could rub his throbbing groin up against him. When he suddenly tightened his grip, Zabini did something completely out of character: he moaned loudly and began to return the kiss.
It was a sound Draco would never want to forget. Rough in excitement, goosebump-inducing; the kind that simultaneously brought one to the brink of climax and urged one to cast a binding spell to never be without it again - even if it cost him his soul.
But it didn't fit into this situation.
With a regret that resonated bitterly in his gut, Draco yanked his head back and took a step away. He caught Potter's red-kissed lips, his rapt gaze behind the fogged lenses of his glasses, the visible rise and fall of his slender chest beneath the cloak, the color of which on any body but this one would be tantamount to an optical castration of the viewer. Only slowly did the thoughts return, bringing doubts that tormented him.
Zabini would never have given in like this. He was a puppet master, using his hands to thread his counterpart into a stuffy, dull listlessness, making them dance in an outrageous way that cost the victim not only all dignity, but also all his secrets.
As Potter shook his head, as if to awaken from a daze, a clock chimed somewhere in the depths of the house. The sound was the same one he had heard after Potter had burst into the kitchen.
Instead of transforming into Zabini, Potter nervously tugged his glasses off his gradually reddening nose and began frantically cleaning them on the hem of his sleeve. The sight of this familiar gesture alone sent a jolt to his stomach - and then Potter opened his mouth.
"Did you... ever thought of pressing charges against Zabini?" he muttered, glancing away to the side. "Coercion is a crime, Malfoy, just like blackmail."
Draco stared at him, and despite the fact that Potter, with a little gumption, would now come up with his biggest secret all by himself, all he could think of was that he had returned his kiss.
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Tomorrow is dead to me