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
- 30
- 31
- 32
SUMMARY: Swing low, and carry this poor boy home. The Savior returns.

WARNINGS: sexual content, wanking, sexual fantasies, erotic asphyxia (breath play), kissing & squishy stuff

CONSCIENCE:

THE CHARIOT

They were all down in the Great Hall, every last one of them, eating lunch. And here he was, the lecherous pervert, lasciviously naked in bed and having a good wank.

He did this every day. He went to breakfast and dinner but never lunch. It became known about Hogwarts that Draco Malfoy spent the hour in his quarters, presumably having his afternoon meal sent up while attending to important prefect or Head Boy business. No one knew he spent the entire lunch hour and most of his free period thereafter tossing off. He did it during classes, too, excusing himself to the loo at the most boring part of the lecture only to go at himself in the nearest bathroom stall. He especially liked the loo on the third floor. For some reason the partitions were high and the toilets set lower to the ground. It made his prick look bigger, grasped in his furiously pumping hand, red and veined and ready to blow. Then again, just about anything made his prick look huge. He knew he was longer than the average bloke and proportionately thicker. He had to be careful because of it. Oh, he'd learned. He couldn't allow himself to get a hard-on in public; it would only tent his robes half way up his stomach, his prick sneaking up under his belt to leave a tell-tale dribble of precome on his shirt. It had happened during a Defense Against The Dark Arts practical second year. With a random boner and a rapidly spreading wet spot at the navel of his white shirt, he couldn't pull Vince and Greg in front of his person fast enough. Shielded from the class by a wall of hulking flesh, he spelled his shirt dry before slapping himself hard across the face. When that only exacerbated the problem, he quickly requested to use the loo.

After that he began to masturbate regularly—perhaps a bit more than was necessary, but he was better safe than sorry in this tender predicament. His family's reputation had been on the line as much as his own. Twice a day seemed to stop the random erections but that hadn't prevented his teenaged mind from staring out the window and fantasizing during a particularly boring lecture. It was dangerous, toeing the line between tingling, very present arousal and all-out ready and rearing to fuck. He'd learned to time his request to use the loo, hardness still concealable under his robes as he strode quickly down the hall. Only locked in the safety of the W.C., the stall sealed by multiple spells, would he allow the lust to take over. And when he finally let go, all that pent up lust would go coursing through him, blood pounding in his veins and ringing in his ears, his piece swollen and nearly the length of his forearm by the time he freed it from the sweaty confines of his too-tight trousers. Being of a slighter stature had its advantages; his prick looked bloody enormous, dangling thick and heavy more than half way down his pale thigh or held up past his navel. Glimpsing Draco half-hard in the steamy Quidditch showers, Warrington had dubbed him “a bloody tripod.” Draco made a point of avoiding the burly man after that, not wanting to become his next twinkling meal.

He couldn't count the number of times he'd beaten off in a bathroom stall or, on occasional whim, the Prefects Bathroom. That was how he met Moaning Myrtle. The dead witch thought him something of a show, twisting his nipples through his thin school shirt and fondling his bollocks at two in the afternoon, licking his lips and grunting as he came, painting the walls with his seed. Eventually she got brave, hovering so that his stream would fly right through her nacreous head. She never actually opened her mouth to take his load but it was certainly implied. He was one of the better looking blokes in school he was soon informed, certainly the best of the fair-faced and aristocratically bred. Women who liked silent-types with rugged, manly looks had Diggory to drool over. Those who preferred dark and handsome had Blaise to adore. Roger Davies covered the desire for clean-cut, academic and prudish; leaving him, Draco Malfoy of Slytherin, as the ideal dirty rake. He was the essence of seduction, temptation, forbidden carnal pleasure, Myrtle would coo as he stroked himself. He was sex personified. Rotten fantasies followed him like nifflers on a Gringotts deposit. All the girls talked about him, he learned, the combination of his sociopolitical power and unforgiving, sometimes harsh personality proved a potent aphrodisiac to inexperienced and impressionable young females. Before the slew of skirts Father paraded before him he'd had Myrtle drooling over his prick with little moans and helpless, wanting sighs. He'd perfected his simpering, half-lidded looks in the midst of his own passion, deep feral grunts and thick-lipped desire that would make any pussy wet. He could conjure lust from man or woman with only a look just as he could summon his own arousal in a matter of seconds. He was always ready. He often fancied that—had he not been born into one of the most respected and feared magical families in England, allowing him the luxury of avoiding an occupation or employment all together—he might have been a very successful pornographic star.

Even in fucking or getting fucked for a living, Harry would always be his competition. On or off the pitch, it was always a contest between the two of them—only now the stakes were much different, sexually charged. Instead of losing house points it was losing your load. Tense and awkward detentions were replaced by those foreign, softer moments after they'd both lost their minds; quiet minutes spent lying in one another's arms, bodies tangled, not needing to do or say or be anything. They didn't even need the occasional “get off my arm.” They just knew, now, knew one another's bodies better than their own. And Gods was it bloody fantastic. Even the best wank of his life didn't compare to those lazy hand jobs from Harry, calloused fingers stroking him off, sliding up and down his shaft in practiced, tantalizing pulls. He had a way of plying the foreskin that was... like the way he kissed, steady and hot and sensual. It built like a fire under his hands, creeping outward to destroy everything in its path to shattering, shuddering orgasm. He was utterly present, completely in the moment and devoted to every gasp, shudder and groan he elicited. Harry sent fizzing whizbees sprinting up his spine.

He was lost to the memories, now; the slickness of Harry's hot mouth, the tightness of his strong, powerful body, warm and wanting, greedily taking him again and again. Always wanting deeper, demanding it. And how good would Harry would feel doing the same to him, fucking him, in him, fitted and fucked and so impossibly full? He wanted it, he realized, slicked fingers moving unconsciously to his entrance and plying that puckered little hole. It seemed impossible that Harry would fit and yet he wanted him to try anyway, to be spitted and split in half by that impossibly fat cock. His fingers weren't enough. They weren't what he wanted.

“Harry,” he moaned, face buried in the man's shirt spread out on the pillow beneath his head. He liked to smell Harry when he did this. He kept a few of the most potent garments for this very purpose, only pulling them from the trunk in the afternoons in order to preserve their distinct aroma. This one was a favorite, the blue plaid material worn deliciously soft by time and undoubted fondness for its color. The very fibers wreaked of Harry. He'd sunk into the essence, been absorbed so completely and utterly that Draco suspected this particular shirt would always smell like Harry, even fresh from the wash. Still, he wasn't ready to test the theory.

He felt magic sparking around him, twirling the arms of the old shirt around the back of his head and neck, engulfing him in it's pleasing softness. He wasn't about to complain. His magic rarely functioned independently—but he seemed to want this enough. He took a deep breath and then held it, held Harry in his lungs, tasted Harry on his tongue as his body writhed, bucking wildly into one hand as he fucked himself on the other. His mouth worked soundlessly, air too scarce to be wasted on words.

The way that Harry wanted him, tangibly—he wanted to be that way for Harry, to demonstrate just how badly he wanted it, wanted him, wanted to be full of him and filled by him. Claimed. Maybe then Harry would fuck him, if he could see. If he could feel this need—his body rocking, hole so greedy, all raw and tight the way Harry liked it. Pumping hard, his fingers flew, stretching, demanding, daring to see how much he could take. It was punishing but he wanted it, wanted to be thoroughly, fiendishly fucked—fucked until he tasted cock, screamed Chosen dick. Harry, he whispered in his mind, the darkness closing in. Harry. Harry.

The shirt slid from his neck at the last second and he came, gulping great wracking gasps of air as he shot his brains out his dick. All he could smell was Harry, all he could taste with every pitiful breath was Harry. Even the shirt sleeves trailing down his back felt like familiar calloused fingers, knuckles grazing his spine, soothing him even as he shook, emptying himself across the mattress. He was left panting, flushed as red as his pillows and skin positively tingling, fingers and toes numb and refusing to respond to mental direction. Then again, the only instructions he cared to give were “get out of my ass.” Gods, Harry made a randy, salacious pervert out of him. Mere thoughts of Harry reduced him to this. Or maybe this had been within him all this time and Harry had only unlocked it. That had to be it, he thought, extremities at last responding to orders screeched through phasing nerve endings.

He tucked his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms in a childish curl of spine, calves landing in a cooling, sticky puddle. And he groaned, throat surprisingly hoarse. He missed Harry, that other equally warm and sated body he liked cuddling up to. He burrowed his face in his distastefully knobbly knees. Harry was always heavy and warm after sex, all lax, loosened muscle made slippery with sweat and languid from exertion. He rarely said anything unless Draco initiated some form of conversation—and sometimes it was only “shut off the light, ya cunt,” which always resulted in a low, obedient grunt. He wanted to turn off the lights and have a nap with Harry, letting the world melt away for a while so it was only the two of them together in this bed, in this toasty, peaceful nook between worlds. Only the two of them, together....

- - -

Oh, the clanging of the bell. It rung as ten mighty bells, rebounding off the hard surfaces of his shower. Draco flinched, mind still muzzy from his nap. He rinsed the last remains of soap from his body before stepping out and drying himself with a spell. The shower faucet shut off automatically. He combed through his hair with only his fingers before drying it, too, with the same spell as his now chilly, talcum-powdered body. He curled his toes in the fluffy ivory carpet before giving in to the whim of Summoning his school clothes. The washroom was deliciously warm and he couldn't tolerate the thought of setting bare feet to the cold stone floor between his small sitting area and opulent bed.

He wormed into fresh pants, trousers, shirt, and socks. His silk necktie and robes would be the same. Harry only had one summer weight school cloak, after all. Draco was vigilant not to stain it with any stray food or ink in case the house elves couldn't have it out by morning. He re-secured today's rose, I promise to get you stupid drunk more often. Maybe we'll go dancing, behind his Head Boy's badge. Dressed and coiffed, he made his way to the main corridor.

It was still a fair while until he could arrive to assist Professor Flitwick or even just warm up at the old rehearsal piano that was in constant need of tuning. Honestly, exactly where did tuition galleons go these days? They were hiring centaurs and last years graduating class, for fuck's sake, so it certainly wasn't payroll eating away the budget. He was amusing himself with possibilities when he spotted a student up ahead. He quieted his steps, approaching the person from behind.

The person was a girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen by her stature. She had glossy auburn hair and an admirable figure for a girl her age. Draco, ever the gentleman, cleared his throat to alert the tiny woman to his presence. He wouldn't leave leeway to be accused of leering at a young girl in a deserted corridor.

She spun, shock suffusing her round face as she set eyes on him. She had very watery blue eyes and they'd gone quite wide. Hufflepuff, Draco noted to his slight dismay. This wouldn't be his witty repartee of the day; still, the chit was most likely doing something outside school rules to have a look like that upon her face at being discovered. Even Draco Malfoy wasn't that frightening fresh from the shower and feeling pleasantly well-shagged.

“Your name?” he asked neutrally, hitching his bag as it slid down his shoulder.

The girl looked too frightened to respond. She was absolutely twitching. Draco stepped closer. She was only a wisp of a thing, very well bred, rouge daintily applied to her porcelain cheeks and her head barely reaching the middle of his chest. Yes, this was a pureblooded China doll, alright.

“Where is it you are supposed to be, child?” he drawled, all but tapping his foot in impatience. “Out with it.”

“D-divination,” she spoke in a quaking whisper. Her pupils were contracting as she leaned back into her heels, leaned quite desperately away from him. Draco snorted.

“Why register fer the bloody class if yeh only intended to sluff?” he criticized, head cocked to the side as he stared down his long, pointed nose at the girl. “Better not to waste everyone's time. It's early enough in the term ta drop the class—which I recommend ya do, as ya appear ter have little passion fer the subject. But as Head Boy I am obligated ta escort ya ter yer class.” Draco's lucky day.

When the girl began to protest, he cut her off with a sharp bark of a laugh.

“Is yer name Harry Potter? No?” he sneered. “Then the rules apply to you. Get goin'.”

And he marched the girl toward Trelawney's tower, hand laid imperiously to her shoulder to prevent her escape. He forced her to walk ahead of him, mostly so she couldn't see his face about to break out in hysterical fits of inappropriate laughter. This girl was really afraid of him! If only she knew the hand on her shoulder was attached to a Dark Mark-ed arm. If only she knew that arm was attached to a man who, up until a few weeks ago, was stuffing The Chosen One on a regular basis. The girl would've fainted, no doubt about it. If Draco so much as said “boo” she would've keeled right over. They reached the Divination classroom in short order. He climbed the swaying rope ladder first, not wanting there to be any untoward comments about the Head Boy looking up the robes of this pretty young thing. He felt her mount the ladder a few rungs before he reached the top, shoving the trap door open with a most audible, weighty thunk.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Trelawney spoke as soon as she spotted his white-blonde head emerging from the screw-ball entrance to her little bat cave. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Merely returning an errant student, Professor,” Draco replied, righting his robes before offering his hand to the girl scuttling up the ladder. He lifted her easily from the last two rungs, setting her on her feet with two swift hands at her waist. Looking about now, the rest of the class looked much older than this girl. Draco quickly amended his estimate of her age to fourteen or fifteen. She was uncommonly petite just as he was uncommonly well endowed. His lunch hour activities prevented that little daydream from going anywhere.

“Thank you for escorting Miss Madley,” Trelawney mewled, gesturing the girl to an open seat. But the chit was unmoving, frozen to the spot. And Draco understood why.

This was Laura Madley, the Hufflepuff chit half of Hogwarts suspected him of cavorting with between his thousand thread count sheets? Oh, wasn't this dandy? He made an effort not to look at the girl stone-still with fear beside him.

“I assure you, Professor, it was nothing,” Draco replied politely, edging steadily toward the trap door that led out of the room. “I was merely out for a stole during my free period and happened upon a little truancy. Happy to say such offenses occur quite infrequently, of course.” He moved his stern gaze around the room until every student's face registered that Draco Malfoy had this period free and was delighted—nay, tickled bloody pink to catch them skiving off class, no matter how rubbish the subject they chose not to attend.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Trelawney spoke before he could completely turn away. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to join us? I find we have an odd number for our tarot readings this afternoon. It would be a great help to me, of course.”

Damn and blast! Trapped. If he insisted on leaving he would look like an ass, having already stated he had this period free.

“Of course, Professor,” Draco found himself replying in agreeable tones. The woman directed him to a seat across from the Hufflepuff girl, depositing a deck of tarot cards in his pale hands. The professor was about to turn away in a flurry of shawls and smug when Draco spoke again.

“Might I trouble you for a cup of tea, Ma'am?” he asked, indicating the tea service beside her high-backed armchair by the fire.

“Oh!” she started, color suffusing her cheeks. “Yes. Do help yourself, Malfoy.”

With a flick of his wand, Draco transfigured a quill from his pocket into a teacup and saucer. He levitated the china to the side table bearing the tea pot and accoutrements, sending off the magical instructions for how he liked his tea. He refrained from levitating any sugary biscuits onto his saucer.

Madley provided him with directions for the tarot cards, her voice horribly meek. He could hardly hear her over the din of the other fourth years scattered around the stuffy room.

Draco did as he was instructed, shuffling the cards with his mind clear and devoid of all thought for what felt an appropriate length of time before splitting the deck into three piles, going from left to right with his left hand as prescribed. When he was finished, Draco took a testing sip from the cuppa that had floated to his side. He found it heavily spiked with sherry, much to his pleasure.

The girl surveyed the three piles, eventually selecting the center one and setting the other two aside. She quickly laid the cards in a standard Celtic Cross formation. Two cards at the center, one crossed over the other, one card each to the north, south, east, and west, and lastly a line of four cards marching upward to the right of the cross. She sat, observing the cards and mindlessly chewing her lip, for a good five minuted before Draco interrupted.

“Go on, then,” he gestured to the spread of cards in mild annoyance. “Tell me what it means. I never followed the subject.”

Madley bowed her head over the textbook, searching for the first definition.

“The card representing you is the High Priestess,” she read out, “who sits between the pillars of Boaz and Jocham as the guardian of sacred and occult knowledge. It means that you are at an advantage to see the larger picture and possess a clear view of reality. As the High Priestess, you hold great power and can adeptly identify potential in others. You struggle with your separation from the active world because, while you are patient, aware and full of knowledge, you are trapped in your temple for your own protection.” Madley quirked a questioning eye over the text, as though to say it was an awfully intimate card—a feminine card, too. The thought was written on her face as she read on. “The High Priestess is the face of the secretive late Gemini and represents the ideal female, a precarious balance of light and darkness, fertility and mystery.”

“Brilliant,” Draco muttered.

“You're a Gemini, then?”

Draco nodded. He was a Gemini by one bloody day. “And the cross?” he pointed to the card laid sideways over the High Priestess and her flowing blue robe. “Three of swords. That's supposed to identify my question?”

“Or a problem you face,” she agreed, flipping to the textbook page that detailed cards of that suit. “It says the three of swords signifies emotional pain, loneliness or betrayal. It can also signify isolation from a loved one in times of great need. The number three is significant because three cards of the Major Arcana appear in your reading. The appearance of only two suits—swords and wands—suggests great contention. Swords represent danger and a pressing need, while wands signify social interactions or the state of the many,” she recited. “So perhaps your personal danger is more severe than that of others because of your social position. You may also be in contention with your environment, having wands at your front and swords at your back,” she gestured to the lay of the suits in relation to Draco's stupid, girly card.

“Tell me about it,” he muttered darkly.

“Position three signifies a waning influence. That card is the nine of wands, representing stamina, stubbornness and self-preservation. The figure is wounded but not beaten, suggesting a lengthy battle. Because this influence is fading, it suggests that your fight is drawing to its conclusion.”

Draco wasn't sure that was a good omen. But he didn't believe in this bollocks, so why should it matter? Divination was a lot of smoke, mirrors and frantic arm waving which rarely resulted in any relevant truth. The fact that these cards made some small amount of sense was merely his intelligent and overactive mind reading into it, applying significance to random events. Sooner or later there would be something off and the eerie similarities would shatter in the face of common sense. He pointed to the card in position four.

“So this one's a journey,” he postured, “leaving home, perhaps under duress. Yes?” It was fairly obvious. The card depicted a cloaked person huddled in a traveling gondola, six swords propped up in the bow.

“The text says it can also mean survival, dealing with the effects of a traumatic event, or recovering from an illness or injury,” Madley chewed her lip in thought. “Maybe it has something to do with your being resorted into Gryffindor—the figure's cloak is red and gold.”

“Or my sudden switching of sides in the war,” Draco said firmly. “Let's not be coy, girl. I'll not stand for dancing about the subject.”

She blushed anxiously and nodded, darting back behind her raised textbook. A part of him felt a twinge of guilt for being too forward with the shaky Hufflepuff but the rest of his rational mind shouted that the whole house was a jelly-kneed mess and could do with a dose of Skele-Grow for their spines.

“Well, position five is a coming influence,” she muttered, flipping back to the page detailing swords. “The Knight of Swords. The presence of other cards of that suit suggest this is a person in your life rather than an idea. And because your cross card is the three of swords, this man is probably someone close to you.” She peeked at him over the book.

“On with it,” Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. Madley blinked, waving a thin cloud of incense away from her heart-shaped face as an excuse not to meet his agitated gaze.

“The Knight of Swords is a rash wizard who tends to charge into situations thoughtlessly based on the firm belief that he is always right. He is frank, honest and outspoken—and has great difficulty holding his tongue in the face of injustice. He is fiercely protective, demanding at times and boarders on domineering. He can be stubborn and narrow-minded. He is often blindsided by nuance or the emotions of those around him. In his high-handedness, he often sets aside his feelings or those of others. He is loyal, brave, hard-working and honest. The Knight of Swords is fearless; a protector of the innocent and champion of those most in need.”

“Ten points to Hufflepuff if you'll tell me who that is,” Draco offered in a snotty tone, leaning back against the poufy pillows and fixing the girl with a critical eye. Ever the Hufflepuff, she chose to say nothing.

“Arithmancy suggests that position six, a future event, is a turning point,” the girl pointed between the cards, avoiding his generous offer of house points for rightly naming Harry Potter a hot-headed prick.

“Glad to know you're taking a few worth-while subjects,” Draco observed, taking another draw on his tea. “What's the numerical form presented here?”

“A Classic Acute Progression: the Priestess is Key Two, followed by three of swords and four of wands. This suggests the event is culminating; also, violently upsetting on a social level because of it's proximity to swords in the spread. But the four of wands is a celebration, so that doesn't make much sense.” She dove into her book to seek out further description of the card which depicted four witches dancing on the grounds of a castle, their wands raised with arches of silk and flowers shooting between the glowing tips. “Yes, the four of wands is a happy surprise or celebration. It can also be a reward or right of passage. Your graduation?” she offered. “Or maybe it means you do so well on your N.E.W.T.s that everyone is jealous. You are Head Boy.”

Professor Trelawney came to hover over the table, adding her two sense—or lack there-of.

“The absence of pentacles points away from academic pursuits,” she lectured. “Wands are a social suit. More likely events would be a promotion, marriage, birth of a child or other significant milestone.”

“His birthday, then?” Madley postured. “Or an anniversary?”

“Maybe my father will drop dead and I'll inherit the Manor,” Draco said caustically, barely containing an eye-roll by brushing his hair over his eyes at the last minute.

“That may be so, Mr. Malfoy,” Trelawney mused. “Events guided by the fire suit are typically public, but the four of wands is a joyous event. I'm not sure a funeral would be the most appropriate interpretation. Your graduation is a far more likely direction, or perhaps a professional opportunity. The contention with swords is notable, so there may be some mixed feelings at this upcoming soiree.” The postal professor gestured for the girl to continue with her reading.

“Position seven is the questioner's personal position, often depicting a fear or internal struggle. In this case it's...” Madley balked. The card depicted a wizard lying face-down on a deserted beach, run through with ten swords to the back and quite clearly dead if the pool of blood beneath him was anything to go by. “Ten of swords. This card appears when things can't get any worse. Often representing hopelessness or violence, the ten of swords is an omen of great darkness before the dawn. The figure can represent a victim or martyr, suggesting that great sacrifice may be called for in order to bring about change.” It was a nastily accurate image of his fears—himself dead, Harry dead. Maybe there was something to this Divination business. Or maybe the heavily herbed smoke was getting to him. A little kush wouldn't hurt right about now.

“Position eight is an external view, often showing how friends or family view the questioner's path. In your case, the card is the ten of wands, the numerical significance suggesting a strong correlation to your own fears. The ten of wands is...” she consulted the text, “overextending one's energy or resources. Or taking on the burdens of others. It suggests an uphill struggle in which everything must be done the hard way. It also offers that, with persistence, the task may be completed.”

Draco nodded, his eyes already fixed on the next card.

“Position eight is an external view, often showing how friends or family view the questioner's path. In your case, the card is the ten of wands, the numerical significance suggesting a strong correlation to your own fears. The ten of wands is...” she consulted the text, “overextending one's energy or resources. Or taking on the burdens of others. It suggests an uphill struggle in which everything must be done the hard way. It also offers that, with persistence, the task may be completed.”

Draco nodded, his eyes already fixed on the next card.

“Position nine is considered a culminating event,” Madley read out, “but can also be interpreted as an unexpected factor, an additional point for the questioner to consider, a personal demon or a truth not yet realized. The card is key thirteen of the major arcana, which means—”

“Say it, girl,” Draco spat. “Name the bloody card.”

She gulped, looking askance to Professor Trelawney across the smoky room.

“Death,” Madley spoke timidly. “Which doesn't always mean that someone dies... I think.” She dove back into her book. “Here,” her face brightened. “The Death Card represents an unavoidable change, concluding unfinished business or putting the past behind you. It signifies a transition, moving from the known to the unknown. Death can signify the questioner being in the path of sweeping change or caught in the inescapable. The weapons represent suffering, purification and redemption; the waterfall, absolution.”

Madley's auburn head popped up over the book. Her watery blue eyes were now fixed avidly on Draco.

“Do you know what it means?” she asked him.

“It means I'm going to die,” Draco sighed, “which is awfully funny. He always said he'd send me back to The Dark Lord in a Hufflepuff girl's uniform if I misbehaved. Poetic justice, really. Brava, fates.”

Trelawney shook her head, tutting at him.

“You will change, Mr. Malfoy,” the professor announced with much shawled arm waving. “Death, does not always mean an end to life—only to life as we know it. But he,” she continued in a hoarse whisper, stroking a jeweled hand over the danger-dashing Knight of Swords. “He will die. That is how it has always been. You, Draco Malfoy, live to emerge the victor. This is how it has been ordained, the way it was set down seventeen years ago. Your final card is The Chariot: victory. He is master and controller of his realm, single-minded and the source of all power.”

“You sound awfully sure. Here's to hoping you're wrong.” Draco toasted her with his cuppa, draining it before rising to take his leave.

“And the Knight of Swords?” Madley asked of him, pale blue eyes impossibly wide. “You said you know who he is.”

“A friend who saved my life,” Draco exhaled heavily. “Apparently, I will be unable to return the favor.”

The professor laid a frail hand to his retreating shoulder. She started violently as though a shock had run through her. Draco turned to find her with bony fingers pressed to her open mouth. She then scrambled, taking his left hand in both of hers.

“Stay... stay clear of him,” she gasped. “Stay away. For your own sake, Malfoy.”

Draco coolly regarded her hands clasping his, Harry's black-stoned ring glinting up at him between her gaudy jewels. She seemed to notice the ring on his finger, the power surrounding it. She avoided touching it as she slowly withdrew her shaking hands, wrapping arms around herself and nervously twining fingers in her shawl. She seemed to back away from him as though in fright. Draco couldn't place it, though. His stance and expression hadn't changed. Perhaps the bat saw something in her head that put her off him. He'd always heard she suffered from visions, like Harry. But he'd never witnessed Harry having a vision and so had nothing to compare it to. As it was he stood tall, addressing his reply only to her despite every eye in the room being trained unwaveringly upon him.

“I think it's too late for that, Professor,” he said almost glumly. With a parting, jaunty wave—her eyes following the path of the ring on his finger rather than the movement of his hand—he took to the trap door and sweet, clear-aired freedom.

~ * ~

Morning owls were so tremendously late, Draco began to suspect they weren't coming at all. He'd finished off his tea, poached eggs and toast and was wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin when it struck him. The ring on his hand was warming in a very pleasant way. No owls, McGonagall absent from the head table, ring warm—something bad had happened. Harry was alright because he was right outside the castle. Draco could actually feel him. He didn't stop to question how he knew this at the marrow of his bones. He only dismissed himself from the Gryffindor table with all his normal airs and disinterest, making for the Entrance Hall and then wrenching open the massive front door.

He stepped out onto the landing. It was a stunning morning, crisp autumn air and a smattering of crackly leaves across the grounds, birds chirping wildly, the Forbidden Forest sporting a blooming riot of orange, yellows and gold. It was that sort of fall day that sticks in the back of your throat after you retreat indoors. It smelled like fall and the distinct magic of Hogwarts.

A figure was walking up the lane—a figure he would know upside down and backwards, strung up by his heels with his eyes shut tight. It was Harry, dark leather jacket outlining his form and morning sunlight glinting off his mess of black hair. He'd spelled the lenses of his glasses darker against the sun, suggesting he'd walked from Hogsmeade. There was a sort of canvas sack slung over his shoulder. It didn't appear to hold much, though, as it mostly slumped flat against his side, bouncing now and again against his rear as he walked steadily up the lane, his shaded gaze on Draco.

What was the proper reaction in a situation like this, the correct salutation? Did he wave? Should he call out? Was he even capable of speech at present? He settled for standing stock still on the landing, the natural light quickly warming his pale skin. After dropping N.E.W.T. Herbology, his only excuse to venture out of doors was Quidditch. It was nice just to loiter in the sun a moment. Standing as he was, he felt like the lord of the manor welcoming a last-minute guest. In a way, Hogwarts was now his more than it was Harry's—which was a shame, because Hogwarts had always belonged to Harry Potter in a special way. He'd been Dumbledore's favorite, all the professors doted on him even as he did his best to stir up trouble and stick his nose in things; well, that was how Draco always saw it. Now he realized it was more that trouble hounded Harry like a pack of angry weres desperate for his flesh. The professors more than anything were taking pity on Harry, knowing the trauma he would undoubtedly endure each school year. Draco had been a part of that trauma, an agitator to Harry's often delicate predicament. At least now he was a part of the solution, part of keeping Harry alive rather than wishing him dead. Now that he knew Harry, it was as logical as breathing.

Harry was mounting the steps now. He didn't look well. His hair was unwashed, denims and shirt rumpled as though he'd slept in them... or hadn't slept at all, Draco revised. His skin was sallow, bluish circles evident under his eyes even with his spectacles darkened. He'd been patched up and fed after a battle but the stress hung around him like a cloak.

Draco held out his arm as Harry drew near. A dark haired mess fell into his waiting arms, slammed into his chest and knocking the wind from his lungs, clutching at him and breathing his hair, his robes, his skin, impossibly strong arms closing around his torso like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey. Draco was lifted off the ground in a bone-cracking hug. His ribs creaked. And he squeezed back just as hard, one hand taking up a fist of dark, disorderly hair and the other pressing the smalls of Harry's back, bringing them impossibly close. They hung there for many minutes, breathing without words. They were like animals, absorbing thoughts and status solely by smell and body language, energy fields playing off one another, giving and taking until everything was had out.

Arm still about Harry's waist, Draco ushered him into the Entrance Hall. Thankfully there were no stragglers stumbling down to breakfast and they had a moment to duck through the castle door unnoticed.

Over there, Harry indicated with a jut of his stubble-shadowed chin. “There” was a supply closet Draco permitted himself to be shoved roughly into, Harry slamming the door behind them and setting all manner of Locking, Silencing and Concealing Charms on it. He lifted his glasses onto his head, giving Draco the first real view of his eyes.

Even in the dark, it was clear. There had been a great and terrible battle. His handsome face was lined, weary, eyes red from orchestration of forces, nasty shocks and utter lack of sleep. He took Draco into his arms again, sighing as he leaned back, leather-clad shoulders making contact with the stone wall behind him. Filch's supply of mops and brooms didn't pay them any mind as Draco pulled close, burying his face just behind Harry's ear.

“It was bad,” Draco surmised, keeping his voice low.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed. His warm, rough hands snuck easily into Draco's robes, freeing the clasps one by one before exhausted fingers took to walking up and down his sides, palm gliding over the familiar wool of his Gryffindor sweater vest. Draco leaned closer, one hand supporting himself against the wall and the other measuring the rise and fall of Harry's chest beneath the layers of leather, cotton and silken lining. He unzipped the jacket, needing to get closer. “The worst is over, though. The Minister let me out of our bunker this morning.”

“The Minister?!” Draco's voice escalated in shock.

“Mind if I explain later?” Harry pronounced thickly. His eyes were already closed. “I promised I'd see McGonagall and then I really need to sleep.”

“Sure, sure,” Draco muttered. “Her password is Pogrebin. Mine's martes zibellina.”

“Thanks.”

There followed a solid two minutes of silence. Harry's chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, his forehead and nose buried in the crook of Draco's neck, lips brushing the knot of Draco's silk tie as he slumped further and further down the wall.

“Harry, you can't fall asleep here,” Draco said at last, prodding the man's chest.

“Not sleeping,” he muttered, breath hot against Draco's neck.

“Then wha' do yeh call this?”

Harry sighed before scraping his cheek along Draco's, pressing the sides of their faces together so as to whisper in his ear.

“Being alive,” he offered. “Just keep breathing, huh? I've seen a few too many corpses. People I—”

“Save it, Wonder Boy,” Draco drawled before silencing him with a kiss.

Harry responded eagerly, lips opening hotly, sucking at him with teeth and heat. The simple act of kissing appeared to be the very thing he needed, an affirmation of life. Draco felt something come to life in Harry's trousers, pressing heavily against his hip.

“Wanna fuck you,” Draco panted.

“Yesss,” Harry hissed his reply, nipping at Draco's lips before kissing up his jaw, tasting shaving potion and chamomile lotion. “Gods, yes,” he added in Draco's ear. He ground his hips, a hand slipping down to Draco's tailbone and holding him in place, pressing that much closer. Draco couldn't stifle a moan as Harry tongued and bit the shell of his ear.

“It's been too long,” he muttered. The blood was rushing to his crotch so fast it was making him dizzy. Harry grunted his agreement, yanking Draco's shirt tails from his trousers. Belt and then zipper fell pray to Harry's quick hands. He was gasping, throat going dry with his mouth open helplessly.

The world went blank when Harry touched him.

“I missed you,” came the husky voice in his ear. “I missed you like this.”

Hands were everywhere—palming his shaft, fondling him, stroking up and down his chest with his shirt, jumper and tie ridden up to his armpits—or were they lips? He couldn't tell. It felt too good. He was sure if he opened his eyes he'd be back in bed up in Gryffindor Tower and this feeling would be nothing but a fantasy. These were phantom hands caressing his skin, imaginary lips and the memory of intoxicating temperature and scent.

But there was a very real hand fisted in his hair, jerking his head back mercilessly, and a thick, wet tongue ministering to his throat. It was Harry. This was real. Embarrassingly, his knees gave out. Harry was quick to slam him against the opposite wall, cracking his head. The stone was dreadfully cold against his damp skin but he couldn't be arsed. Harry was working at his own trousers one-handed, answering every moan and feral, keening sound.

“I need you,” he hissed achingly, gathering their sexes together in a calloused hand. They both gasped—gasped for the friction and the heat, the passion and unrestrained, animal need. It was tangible, rushing between them, surging between fingers and skin and lips so demanding and rich, full, begging.

“Harry...” was all Draco could manage, tense from the deepest part of his gut. He shook, all but trembling in the other man's arms, losing his mind under the intensity of it all.

“I love you.”

“Harry,” he choked. “I lov—” But they were coming, together. He felt Harry against him, nearly lifted off his feet by the force of his orgasm, shouldering Draco into the wall. For a second it was as though gravity didn't exist. No longer bound to the earth, they floated together, emptying balls and mind and heart, purging back what belonged to the earth and what belonged to the other. They bled out until the world fell away, leaving nothing but the two of them.

“I love you, too,” Draco mumbled against a sweaty temple pressed to his lips.

“Wait,” Harry still sounded foggy. “You understood me?”

“Um... yeah?” he murmured, lips like lead and brain unresponsive.

“But... I was speaking Parseltongue,” Harry tried to pull back but couldn't. His legs were as weak as Draco's and so he was forced to lean, returning his weight to his lover's chest. Despite the difficulty breathing, Draco found himself not minding in the least.

“Mmhmm,” he half-groaned.

“You're not a Parselmouth, though.”

Draco gave his now disheveled white-blonde head a very small shake, barely moving. Warm, rough fingers stroked the back of his neck and it felt so nice, so calming, so indescribably peaceful. He didn't feel much like talking, just being. He wasn't coming down from his high just yet, thank you.

“But you've understood me before?”

A grunt of ascent.

“Since when?” Harry pressed. With a sticky hand to the wall, he forced himself upright to give Draco a look. The little ring of emerald green around his engorged pupils blazed with that stupid, Wonder Boy glint. He was being curious again, looking for puzzle pieces only he could understand. Draco let out a sigh, considering.

“Well,” he blinked, looking away, “the first time we were together. When yer little friends walked in an' ya blew out the windows.”

“Shit,” Harry cursed, then chuckled. “I think you blew the windows by proxy, if you wanna get technical. Why didn't you tell me then?”

Draco fixed him with an amused and exasperated look dampened only by the fact that his trousers were around his knees. “Would yeh have said half the things yeh did if ya knew I could understand?” Harry shook his head slowly. “It was like havin' a secret window inta yer head. I wasn't gonna give that up.”

“So why tell me now?”

“I jus'... wanted yeh ta know. Yeh'll still talk ter me tha' way?”

“You bet your sweet arse I will,” Harry hissed happily, squeezing said body part roughly. A rogue grin suffused his face, mirth flying directly to his eyes.

“Good,” Draco sighed. “Ya know, somethin' else happened tha' day.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Draco parroted teasingly, then turned quiet. “Tha's the day I fell in love with you. I didn't know it then but, lookin' back, I should've. First time I ever enjoyed givin' head.”

“Really?” Harry laughed. “That's how you knew?”

“I'm not wildly gay, contrary to popular belief,” Draco enunciated properly to communicate how impossibly thick Harry was being. “I never liked it before you. Hated it, actually. Then along you came—”

“Pun intended,” Harry snorted.

“Yes,” Draco gave the appropriate rolling of eyes and heaving sigh. “Then there was you an' I liked it very much. Even thought 'bout... well, never mind.”

“Tell me in French,” Harry offered, nuzzling Draco's cheek. “I won't understand. And you'll feel better. Trust me—it worked for me with Parseltongue.”

“Alright.” So he let loose, knowing Harry wouldn't understand. “I imagined taking it in the ass—that thick cock of yours buried in me. I probably would squeal like a dying pig for that, honestly. I haven't been on the receiving end of anal since I was fourteen and Merlin knows I never fancied it but... something tells me that, with you, it would be amazing. Would probably feel like being fisted but amazing just the same.”

“I didn't catch a word,” Harry laughed, breath hot down his shirt collar. “Feel better?”

Draco cocked his head, really considering. He couldn't help the smile that curled his lips against Harry's sweat-matted, dirty hair. “Surprisingly, yes.”

- - -

Draco bolted from N.E.W.T. Transfiguration directly to his room. It wasn't unusual for him to retreat upstairs after his morning classes but today he made no show of disguising his haste. People got out of his way—people always got out of his way but today he tore through the halls, practically sprinting up the last two flights of stairs. He barely remembered to jump the trick step in the side passage. At least Peeves had buggered off, making his journey a relatively quiet one.

He wasn't thinking when he threw open the door to his rooms as he always did—with a tremendous, soul-satisfyingly loud bang. So he flinched upon seeing the dark figure curled up in a mound of eiderdown on his bed, clothing discarded in a clear path and the heavy chocolate draperies drawn. A few fragrant logs burned in the fire, suffusing the air like incense with their pleasant, natural smell. He shed his robe, tossing it and his school bag over the back of the sofa on his way to the bed. He kicked Harry's trainers aside before either of them tripped and broke their necks.

Harry was sleeping soundly, an empty potion vial on the nightstand. Draco sniffed it: Dreamless Sleep Potion, probably from Headmistress McGonagall and brewed by Professor Slughorn. The Headmistress and Granger had more in common than they knew. Both were, apparently, constantly slipping potions to Harry. They were worse than the women fawning over Wonder Boy since fourth year. This time, Draco thought it fair to assume Harry wanted the potion on some level. He couldn't imagine McGonagall accompanying Harry to the Head Boy's chambers and pouring the potion down his golden throat.

Draco smiled despite himself, perching on the edge of the bed. He reached out, touching the side of Harry's face with quickly warming fingers. Harry's skin was softened in sleep, his features relaxed without the frightful images that so often plagued his rest. Draco found himself tracing those familiar lines around the man's eyes, the strong shape of his nose, the dark stubble decorating his cheeks, the cleft of his chin and the full, thick curve of his lips. Harry leaned into his touch, curling torso and knees to surround Draco even in dreamless bliss. When he stirred a little, Draco brushed the fringe of inky black hair from his forehead, tracing the white line of his lightning bolt scar.

He skipped lunch entirely, just holding Harry while he slept. It was entirely too soon when he had to rise and refasten his robes for Prefect's rounds. He was tempted to call in a favor—presuming he had any owed him—but ultimately it would reflect poorly on him if he shirked his duties. And, for some reason, he didn't want all of Hogwarts knowing Harry was back yet. He didn't like leaving Harry alone while he slept but it was better than arousing suspicion by asking someone to cover for him.

He was checking the fall of his robes in the mirror when he noticed something out of place. There was something on top of the piano. He went to examine it more closely.

A gift from Harry, the git. It was a book of sheet music entitled “The Beatles: The Complete Collection.” Only Harry would think to give Draco Malfoy something so utterly muggle. Because only Harry Potter could get away with it.

He placed a final kiss to Harry's puffy, sleep-warmed lips before stepping out the door.

He was met immediately by Granger. The witch was ducking out of her quarters with several library books tucked under her arm. She spotted Draco setting extra Security Charms on his door and raised an knowing eyebrow. She approached to within a meter, books balanced on her hip as she regarded him closely.

“Harry's in there, isn't he?” she posed rather bluntly.

“Yes.” Why deny it? Harry would seek out his friends when he woke.

“I had no idea he was planning a visit,” she said neutrally. Draco resisted the urge to hex her for prying.

“It wasn't planned. There was an attack. He needed to speak with McGonagall,” Draco explained.

“Oh my God, Harry was fighting?” Granger paled considerably, leaving two bright spots of pink high on her cheeks. Draco noticed she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, like the Weasel had over his entire face. Thankfully the girl's weren't as pronounced. “Is he alright?”

“Fine. He's just fine,” Draco quelled. He took a step forward, forcing her back. “But sleep-deprived. He needs to rest. Heading to the library?” he changed the subject abruptly, indicating her extra books.

“Oh! Um, yes. I was,” she mumbled. “I wanted to drop these off before Arithmancy.”

“I'll take them,” Draco deadpanned, holding out a pale hand for the books. Granger seemed reluctant to hand them over. “I have my rounds this afternoon, which will put me nearer the library. We can't have the Head Girl arriving late to class.”

“Well, I...” Granger fumbled for words. When she could produce no logical reason to refuse his offer, she was forced to hand over the stack of books. Draco took them, slipping the texts into his satchel. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

“Please, don't mention it,” he said with a mock courtly bow. He hoped the witch wouldn't but, if she did, who in their right minds would believe her? His healthy smirk at that thought lasted through to N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes.

For The Curious: Latin

Martes zibellina is the Latin name for sable, the cute little marmot populating much of the mountainous regions of Russia. Their pelts are sought after because their fur is soft no matter what direction it is stroked. It's the perfect password for Draco because, like the sable, he is luxurious, sought-after, and equally pleasant both ways.

POST SCRIPT: On Erotic Asphyxia

For a while now, I've been setting up Draco's preference for erotic asphyxia (Breath Control). We've seen him hold his breath while giving a blow job, hold his breath to hold himself off from coming, hold his breath while he's coming, and many other permutations. This is the first instance where we see him practicing Breath Control alone and I felt the need to butt in for just a moment and flail my arms about for the public good.

Depriving the brain of oxygen is dangerous—there is no medically safe way to go about it. You are risking damage to the brain, heart and blood vessels every time, regardless. If anything, it is even more unsafe to practice erotic asphyxia alone; statistically, your chances for accidental death are greatly reduced with another person in the room. Here, Draco has his magic to rescue him (it's a debatable rescue, as his magic got him into the situation to begin with). If we could all be so lucky. Medical studies show that depriving the brain of oxygen has no effect on staving off orgasm; the effect many people describe is merely placebo. Years ago, asphyxia was tested in the treatment of Erectile Disfunction and Premature Ejaculation, which is where the rumors snowballed.

People have died from this. Don't try everything you read about on the internet. There is a specific reason I have found this fetish in Draco and all will be revealed in time.
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