Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Endurance	By : WinterRaven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 29171 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of Harry Potter universe. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 6-Six
- 7-Seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-Nine
- 10-Ten
- 11-Eleven
- 12-Twelve
- 13-Thirteen
- 14-Fourteen
- 15-Fifteen
- 16-Sixteen
- 17-Seventeen
- 18-Eighteen
- 19-Nineteen
- 20-Twenty
- 21-Twenty-One
- 22-Twenty-Two
- 23-Twenty-Three
- 24-Twenty-Four
- 25-Twenty-Five
- 26-Twenty-Six
- 27-Twenty-Seven
- 28-Twenty-Eight
- 29-Twenty-Nine
- 30-Thirty
- 31-Thirty-One
- 32-Thirty-Two
- 33-Thirty-Three
- 34-Thirty-Four
- 35-Thirty-Five
- 36-Thirty-Six
- 37-Thirty-Seven
- 38-Thirty-Eight
- 31
- 32
- 33
Author’s Note: It’s been a while since I posted so I decided to re-read some past chapters. I was very unhappy with my original post of Thirty-Two. I re-wrote it and added much more. Will be posting the next chapter asap. Hope you all enjoy the edits and thanks to my reviewers last time around.

Thirty-Two

There was space around him. It seemed to Harry to be a large, infinite room, no windows and no walls, whitewashed in dense light, bright and stinging. He tried to remember how he got there—Did he walk? Apparate? Was he simply always there?

No matter which way he turned, no matter how many steps forward or backwards or sideways he took, the space did not seem to change. So he looked down at himself, examined his hands, pale in the light, his clothing, black and tranquil. He examined the silence. Was this peace? Was this happy solitude? An escape?

And at that thought, Elisha suddenly appeared next to him. She was robed in the same black garb as he, her face glowing in the strange light around them. She was looking ahead, her eyes not meeting Harry’s, as if seeing something Harry could not. Harry watched her quietly, greedily roaming her face, her jaw line, trying to find any resemblance to her mother, to their mother.

Sister.

“We’re together again,” Harry whispered, his gaze not leaving her.

She still looked ahead, nodding. Her hands hung limply by her side, as if tired, worn down.

“I miss you, sister,” Harry said, the emotion pouring from him into her.

Elisha slowly turned her head to face Harry and her eyes were flowing with tears, her eyes black like the richest onyx, shining. She put her thin hand out to Harry’s, her palm waiting for his to clasp on, to connect. His fingers were inching toward hers…then she spoke.

“Whatever happens,” she murmured, the tears running freely now, “don’t let go of my hand.”

And almost as soon as the last syllable spilled from her mouth, Harry awoke. He sat up in his bed, his breathing quick and ragged, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of his bedroom in Grimmauld Place, his ears picking up the soft sounds of Draco snoozing beside him, his blood thrumming in his body, pulsing, reminding him of what was reality and what wasn’t. That wasn’t reality, that dream, but merely his wishes, his greatest unconscious desires—to see Elisha, to have her back, to touch her, hold her. But it was even more than that—he wanted to be in a void free of all responsibilities.

Harry’s heart rate thumped harder at the thought—the fact that Elisha was gone, the fact that there was work to be done in her absense, work that she had left to him, work that he had to complete since he was a baby, since he was attacked by Voldemort all those years ago… He glanced down at his lover, Draco’s hair framing his face in the soft glow of the rising sun. Draco’s eyes, shut tight, dreaming, Harry hoped a peaceful and lovely dream, something that would not haunt him or torment him. With a long sigh, Harry stood from the bed, did it slowly so Draco would not notice the change even in sleep, did it so that he could gain some much needed privacy. He left their bedroom quietly and walked down the empty hallway of Grimmauld Place, the house sleepy in the wee hours of the early morning. Harry doubted very much that anyone was awake, but he couldn’t know for certain. It had been a little over a week since Elisha’s funeral and Harry’s reaction was to hole himself away in his tiny room. He camped out in his space on the second floor, refusing to speak to Ron or Hermione or Lupin or even Snape. He had seen no one but Draco, had spoke to no one but his lover, held his lover, tried to melt his sadness away. He needed time to accept his situation, accept it fully, irrevocably. He needed time to think, to process, to plan.

But no master plan came to him. No final solution of how to deal with Voldemort, with how to secure his victory. Harry knew, somewhere deep down, that Dumbledore and Snape could give him advice, give him answers to so many of his questions but he knew their words could not solve the ache within him, the nagging feeling that told him he was very much alone in all of this. That no one could quite understand his predicament, and the one person who did understand—Elisha—was now gone.

Harry made his way down to the basement kitchen with a deep sigh, opening the door so its rusted hinges squeaked like mice in the stillness of the house. He was expecting to see no one but gasped at a hunched figure at the dining table, a figure clad in all black, his lank hair falling about his thin face, unusually rough with stubble.

Harry and Snape stared at each other for a long moment, Snape’s obsidian eyes glowing eerily in the dim firelight. The two had not interacted since Elisha’s death. Snape looked unwell, harassed, sickly white. Harry’s lips were parted as though hoping to say something but nothing came forth.

Snape spoke first.

“What brings you here this early?”

Harry could only shrug, unsure of what to say. Snape sighed, wiped the tiredness from his eyes and that’s when Harry noticed the man had been reading something from a newspaper, The Daily Prophet. There were stacks of old papers on the long dining table, a small pile in the corner, but the one Snape held before him was newer, cleaner looking. The man glanced down from the paper back to Harry and frowned slightly.

“Can I sit?” Harry whispered; his voice was hoarse and dry.

Snape nodded and gestured for a place opposite him. Harry moved slowly before settling awkwardly near Snape—he could not remember this high level of tension, so thick and suffocating. It was true that they had left off in a bad place, in an argument, perhaps mistrust, but Harry felt suddenly weary at attempting to carry it on, at continuing to berate Snape for not telling him about Elisha and Lily and their connection.

He had to move on too and the boy was becoming just as worn down as the man, eroded from the inside out—he couldn’t imagine or understand how Snape was dealing with this, how he was alive and breathing and functioning and reading when all Harry wanted to do was act out violently, find some way to release the explosive unhappiness trapped within him, the unhappiness no one could seem to cure. Silence remained for a long time between them, disjointed thoughts coursing through Harry’s brain; neither looked at the other and Harry thought he would have collapsed from it all, but he forced himself to speak.

“I’m sorry, Snape,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He forced himself to look into those eyes, so like Elisha’s, those surprised, big eyes. “I’m sorry about getting angry at you, and yelling at you—”

“You had every right to,” Snape responded softly.

Harry shook his head, his shaggy, unkept hair flying about him.

“No,” the boy said sadly, the guilt taking over, “No, I really didn’t. I was only thinking of myself. I didn’t think for one moment how difficult this all must have been for you.”

Snape did not respond. His face was frighteningly impassive, stony.

“I just…” Harry sighed, unsure why he was continuing. “I don’t want the memory of you and my mother together. I know I asked for it… I thought I needed it but I don’t know what it will do for me if I see it.”

“You said it would help you forgive me,” Snape whispered, leaning forward now; his lips barely moved. Harry had the terrible impression Snape was holding back tears, a yell. Harry’s breath stopped in his throat and he gulped at the pleading, vulnerable look Snape gave him, a look Harry knew precious few people were privy to.

“At the time I thought that,” Harry said slowly, “I…it won’t help—I mean, I don’t need it. I don’t need to forgive you. You…you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Snape looked away.

“You sound like Elisha.”

“Do I?” Harry whispered, his heart thrumming again.

Snape nodded glumly.

“You two are so very much alike in your forgiving natures,” Snape said, almost to himself. He was staring off into the far distance, where a low fire was crackling in the hearth, completely lost in contemplation. “You get that from your mother.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He gaped at Snape, confused and filled to the brim with too many conflicting emotions—distraught, anger, frustration, love. All Harry wanted to do was break the silence, cut the tension, find some way to return to normal—to return to how he and Snape used to be, trusting, caring, open.

He wanted to say something about his mother—he wanted to ask Snape what she was like, what her laugh sounded like, how she hugged, if she knew how to cook or play an instrument but none of it came out. Instead, Harry sighed and cleared his throat.

“Er…what’s in the papers?” the boy asked awkwardly, attempting to bring the conversation somewhere else.

Snape paused for a long moment and stared at Harry curiously.

“You haven’t been reading the headlines?” the man asked quietly, his eyes glinting. And Harry saw a flash of concern.

“No,” Harry whispered, his eyes darting to the paper near Snape’s thin hands. “Should I have been?”

Snape sighed.

“A lot has happened in the past few days.”

“Meaning?” Harry asked.

“A full out war has begun.”

Harry nearly choked on the air coming into his lungs.

“What?” he sputtered, feeling as though he had been dropped in a hole somewhere, left alone to fend for himself.

Snape looked away from him.

“I think the Dark Lord took Elisha’s betrayal as the signal to begin attacks on the wizarding world—”

“How come no one told me?” Harry gasped, still reeling from shock.

Snape looked back at him.

“Dumbledore didn’t want to burden you—”

“Burden me?” Harry spat, the snarl escaping him before he could help it. “I’m not a baby! This is my fault!”

“Really, now?” Snape snapped, leaning forward on the table, inching closer to Harry. “Remind me how you caused all of this?”

“I—he caught me—I mean—”

Snape watched Harry struggle to speak with a dark look blooming over him. He sat back and crossed his arms and Harry eventually fell silent, taken aback by the sudden anger radiating from the man before him.

“What the fuck,” Harry whispered, feeling rage rise in him at Snape’s coldness, his cool, cruel almost jeering look. The look was mocking, cutting and Harry felt incredible, boiling anger bursting within him. “Don’t judge me like that! You have no idea what the fuck I’m going through—”

But Harry had barely finished his words.

He gave a yelp of surprise as Snape leapt over the table with stunning agility, grabbing Harry’s ragged robes with his hands. Harry gasped as Snape forced him backward into a nearby wall, their bodies a blur as Snape pushed him. They were pressed chest to chest, body to body. Harry felt the wind knocked from him as he was slammed against something hard and painful but he did not struggle. Snape was staring down at him with tears in his eyes, his shaking hands gripping Harry’s robes so tightly the boy thought he would faint.

Snape looked demented, confused, overcome with violence and Harry felt his blood turn cold at the sight of Snape crying so close to him, his eyes red and overflowing.

“This isn’t about you,” Snape gasped through a sob. “You don’t know what I lost!”

Harry said nothing, but tried to master his breathing. Snape’s eyes were boring into Harry’s with such intensity the boy thought he would snap in two.

“We both lost someone important,” Harry whispered, snaking his hands to Snape’s, unsuccessfully attempting to pry Snape’s vice-like grip. But he did not let go—his fingers held on to Snape’s, trying to communicate some sense of understanding. “You lost your daughter and I lost my sister.”

“I lost so much more,” Snape whimpered—the sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced in those past few days, scared him more than watching Elisha walk to her death, more than thinking he himself would die. To see Snape like this, broken and vulnerable tore at Harry—Snape, always so controlled and collected, now rendered to nothing more than a mess of emotions, a slave to his instincts, to his fears and wants. And Snape slumped over him as though suddenly weakened, his shaggy breath now by Harry’s neck.

“It’s going to be okay,” Harry whispered, trying desperately to make eye contact with Snape.

Snape gave a harsh laugh by Harry’s ear and Harry stiffened at the cruelty in his mirth.

“You can be such a stupid little boy sometimes,” the man snarled, his voice shaking. He slammed Harry back into the wall with brute force; Harry felt his breath leave him again. “Your ignorance astounds me. It’s not going to get better. It never will.”

Harry chose to remain silent—he understood what was happening too well to fight back. He had experienced this pain himself. Snape was breaking before him and the boy knew he had to let the man’s anger and confusion and depression run its course. He knew Snape—like him—had been bottling everything up that past week, probably hadn’t cried or shown any emotion after the funeral.

But it could not be contained anymore. They were out of control. He knew that to allow Snape’s turmoil to surface would be the only way to help the man. That was the least he could do, considering Snape had saved his life that summer, had slowly but surely helped him mend.

And they were staring at each other again, Snape’s eyes roaming in Harry’s, as if trying to find something long lost, something forgotten and once loved. And something seemed to click in Snape’s eyes, a realization, an understanding…

“You look so much like your mother,” Snape whispered suddenly, his lips too close to Harry’s mouth and Harry felt Snape’s hot breath on him. His heart hammered wildly, noting just how pressed together he and Snape were. “So beautiful.”

Snape seemed to be battling with himself, a fire and pain deep in his eyes that Harry had never noticed before and Harry felt the tension building in his ribs, his heart, begging to be released.

Was Snape about to do what he thought, kiss him?

The man’s lips were getting closer and Harry was gasping, the sound ragged and afraid. His thoughts were flying—he knew Snape wasn’t in his right mind, knew that the man was so traumatized by what had happened to Elisha that it was no surprise to Harry that he was acting out like this. But Harry didn’t know what he would do if Snape leaned in any closer, sealed the tiny gap between them.

A part of him wanted this—in a dirty, perverse, horrifying way he wanted to kiss Snape back, feel the man’s tongue over his, be had by someone older, experienced, to be utterly possessed and taken in a way that Draco couldn’t provide…he had found Snape attractive after all. Harry imagined Snape taking him over the table, fast and vicious and violent, pinning him down with his strong hands as he pounded in and out of his needy channel, whispering sensual things in his ear, controlling him in the most erotic of ways…

“You’re beautiful too,” Harry whispered back and Snape groaned slightly. Harry’s heart exploded in his chest at the needy sound.

He gripped Snape’s hands impossibly tighter and both slicked against each other, Harry’s whole body shaking. Snape gave a soft moan against Harry’s neck and his strong leg was pressing in between Harry’s. The boy felt his arousal growing before he could stop himself. He barely understood what was happening anymore.

He thrust against Snape, the motion involuntary, instinctual. His hardness flared tight in his pants and Harry wanted to feel Snape’s, search for it with his hands. The man pinned him harder against the wall, his grip desperate and Snape began kissing his neck, slowly, languidly as if he were trying to return to a past moment, a lost encounter. Each kiss, each fluttering contact sent jabs of pleasure to Harry’s groin.

They pulled apart briefly and he and Snape were gasping against each other, both of them conflicted. Their lips were only a centimeter apart—should they close the space? Just give in to whatever this madness and need was? Harry closed his eyes suddenly and a bigger part of him remembered Draco, his lover slumbering some feet upstairs, his lover, so supportive, sweet, kind, caring. But not just a lover. No, something more.

And that’s when Harry realized it, the honest truth hitting him strong and sharp.

Draco was so much more—his partner.

Harry opened his eyes and shook his head without realizing it, moving his lips away from Snape’s so the man looked at him confused and hurt.

“I can’t,” Harry murmured. “I…we shouldn’t.”

No, he would not do this. It would be too easy, too simple and Harry knew deep in his heart that he loved Draco too much, with every fiber and pore in his being, loved him so much he was willing to die for him, risk everything for him, not ruin it on a vulnerable, broken moment with Snape…

And the man was frozen over the boy, the two staring at each other, Harry pleading silently for Snape to relinquish him, Snape burning to lose himself in the boy before him, to forget everything for a little while. Yes, it would be so easy, so simple.

“It’s going to be okay but we shouldn’t do this,” Harry said. “I love Draco and you love Lucius,” the boy continued, unsure of what else to say. “Remember, Snape? You love Lucius.”

Harry’s face was still away from Snape’s, his mouth turned to the left so Snape could not kiss him. Snape’s black eyes studied him for a moment before pulling back just a fraction of an inch. Harry exhaled in relief when Snape seemed to realize what he had just said, just done, and the boy thought he felt Snape soften, his grip slacken slightly…

But then—

“Severus!” someone yelled from the doorway—the voice was shocked, appalled. Snape did not release Harry fully but both their eyes snapped to the source, meeting Lupin’s wide gaze but Lupin was not alone. He stood with a stunned Dumbledore, the old man dressed in an ironically cheerful purple robes. Lupin looked to just have awoken, his hair ruffled and still in his nightthings but he was alert, his wand pointed in Snape’s direction. “Get the hell off him.”

“Professor it’s okay—” Harry started, trying to diffuse the situation but Lupin ignored him entirely, his eyes on fire.

“I said get off,” the man snarled, advancing toward Snape.

Harry felt the grip on his robes go away and Snape’s hands fell to his sides, listless. He seemed to be blinking himself back to reality, looking back and forth between Harry’s frozen form and Lupin’s enraged one like a lost child.

“I’m sorry,” Snape whispered to Harry before Lupin grabbed a hold of the man and pushed him hard. Snape stumbled and fell to the ground with a dull thud.

“No!” Harry yelled but Lupin ignored him and the boy shrieked when Lupin’s fist made contact with Snape’s face. Snape’s head snapped to the side like a rag doll; he let Lupin punch him again before Harry grabbed the man’s hand, stopping him from hitting Snape once more.

“Stop it!” Harry screamed and Lupin’s efforts to shake him off died quickly.

Lupin turned around to look Harry directly in the eye, his hazel gaze burning.

“What the hell was that?” Lupin asked Harry, both of them ignoring Snape’s limp, horrified figure on the ground. Lupin was trembling from head to foot in disgust. “What the hell?”

“He’s not well,” Harry whispered urgently, his grip on Lupin’s arm tightening desperately. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Lupin snarled and forced Harry to let him go. The room was silent.

“Get up Severus,” Lupin said in a rare, commanding voice. “Get up and explain yourself. I certainly hope I mistook what I just saw.”

“You didn’t,” came Snape’s hollow response and Harry felt anger flare up in him again.

Lupin opened his mouth to say something, his wand pointed at Snape’s corpse-like figure but Harry pushed the professor he respected, venerated, elicting a gasp from both Lupin and Snape. Lupin tripped over himself at Harry’s force and lowered his wand.

“Back off,” was all Harry said, his voice more dangerous than he realized.

“Wise words Harry,” came Dumbledore’s voice and all three pairs of eyes rushed to the source.

Dumbledore had moved from the doorway and was standing startling close to them all, his wand pulled and ready to be used. His white hair was flashing in the near darkness of the basement kitchen and his eyes were not twinkling, but glinting, holding within them notes of coldness, perhaps anger.

“I suggest we all take a seat and have a proper discussion,” Dumbledore continued, as though a physical altercation were not on the verge of occurring. Dumbledore cleared his throat when nobody moved and twitched his wand slightly. “I should specify myself,” said the old man, “That was an order.”

And Harry felt his legs moving of their own accord, completely independent of his brain’s commands. He felt cold and sick and disgusted with himself as he took a seat at the furthest end of the dining table, watching dully as Snape moved—zombie-like—to the other end. Lupin sat directly in the middle, his teeth bared, wolf-like and enraged. Dumbledore stood at the head of the table, his blue eyes locked on Snape. Harry felt a jolt deep in the pit of his stomach that made him feel nauseous—Snape looked on the verge of madness, of horror, clearly aware of what had just transpired between him and Harry, clearly guilt ridden and confused.

“Explain Severus.”

But Snape’s mouth open and closed uselessly. Lupin rolled his eyes and the anger brewing in Harry came to the surface again.

“He’s obviously not well!” Harry snarled, wanting nothing more than to lean over and smack Lupin across the face. How come he did not understand? But then how could he understand? Harry thought suddenly. Lupin didn’t comprehend the gravity of Elisha’s loss. She had been nothing more to him than another student, another person, another girl. And Harry felt illogical disgust toward Lupin, as though it were his fault that he wasn’t so upset about Elisha.

“Be that as it may—” Dumbledore started, his eyes still on Snape’s limp, dejected form, but Harry cut him off, standing up so quickly the table almost shifted.

“No,” Harry said, his voice ringing strong and clear. “What happened right now is between Snape and myself. No one else. We should be talking about Voldemort. How we’re going to fight against him.”

“How are we supposed to fight against anyone if we’re all falling apart?” Lupin asked, his voice very quiet. He seemed to have been cowered by Harry’s rage and the boy did not notice he was shaking violently, his face bright red, eyes flashing in vehemence. Lupin sighed at the look Harry gave him. “You may want to be treated as an adult, Harry, but the fact is you’re sixteen and what just happened wasn’t right—”

“Goddamnit!” Harry screamed, slamming his fist against the table so everything on it rattled. The rage within him felt strange suddenly, foreign and everyone in the room was staring at Harry in shock.

“It’s Elisha,” Snape whispered from the corner of the table, sitting up much straighter, looking slightly more lucid than before.

“What?” Harry said to him.

But Dumbledore spoke, knowing immediately. “When she transferred her powers to you, she must have given you her emotions as well. Harry, have you noticed any changes in your behavior during the past few days?”

Harry paused for a long moment, fully understanding Dumbledore’s words. Is this why he felt so overcome that morning? Why for the past week he had locked himself, depressed, in his room, something so unlike him? How he had rejected the pleas and worries of everyone around him in favor of stewing his thoughts?

Yes, it was very much like Elisha… Hadn’t Harry witnessed her lock herself away, always hide in her head? Hadn’t he witnessed firsthand her explosive anger, all consuming and animalistic?

“What did she do to me?” Harry gasped, grabbing his hair with his hands as though he was crazed. Snape flinched in the corner and Lupin looked awed and frightened from Harry to Dumbledore.

“Many side effects can occur with the De Potestate that she performed,” Dumbledore whispered. “One of them is a transfer of emotions, feelings, states of mind.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Harry groaned.

“It means Elisha may have passed on more than her powers to you. It means you may feel out of control for—”

“Forever?” Harry whispered, fear stabbing him.

Dumbledore shook his head.

“The De Potestate only lasts until the task you need to complete is over—”

“So until I destroy Voldemort?”

“Precisely.”

“Then we need to discuss this and we need to do it now,” Harry said, his voice urgent. “I don’t like…whatever this is that’s happening to me.”

No one in the room said anything and Harry felt the anger bubbling in him again. But this time he felt a sense of dread and confusion—that anger, it wasn’t his. Harry closed his eyes and willed himself to be calm. He wanted an answer, a solution and he wanted it quickly. He wanted to leave that room and get away from Snape and the rest of them, to go back to Draco and confess what had just happened before the guilt consumed him whole…

“Well?” Harry snarled.

“I’m not sure now is the time—” Dumbledore started but Harry gave a low growl, almost like an animal. And then he stopped suddenly, his face flushed.

My God, he thought, trembling violently, is this what Elisha felt like? Trapped in her own skin? Out of control?

Harry and Snape’s eyes caught and Harry’s breath stopped—for a moment, one twisted moment, he was glancing at Elisha, like a deer caught in the headlights. And Harry realized then how out of control Snape was too. That it wasn’t just Elisha, that she must have gotten this from someone, somewhere.

From Snape.

“Get out,” Harry said suddenly his eyes not breaking from Snape’s. But Snape knew he was not the one being addressed, that Harry’s command was for the other two men in the room. Snape did not move.

Lupin gaped at Dumbledore and Harry, shaking his head in protest but Dumbledore held his hand up.

“If we’re not going to talk about Voldemort, then get out,” Harry whispered, still staring at Snape. “I’ll figure this out on my own—”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Harry,” Dumbledore murmured.

“No, it doesn’t,” Harry agreed, nodding, unblinking, boring into Snape’s nervous gaze. “But you’re not helping me right now. So please, just leave.”

“Harry—” Lupin started, standing up from the bench and giving Snape a glare of disgust.

“I said, please leave,” Harry repeated, his voice calm and steady and cold.

“Come Remus,” Dumbledore said softly, urging Lupin toward him. “Harry, we will give you two some time. And then—because you are right—we will discuss what we have to about Voldemort.”

“Fine,” Harry said.

Lupin did not protest again but moved slowly and extracted himself from his seat. Harry did not break eye contact with Snape but only heard the quiet shuffling sounds of Lupin and Dumbledore’s departure. The kitchen door closed after a few long moments and Snape pulled his wand from his pant pocket, pointing it to the door, whispering a silencing spell.

Neither said a word but remained where they were, Snape seated feet from Harry and the boy now with his arms crossed, examining Snape’s face closely as though he was seeing him clearly for the first time.

“That can never happen again,” Harry finally said.

Snape put his wand on the table, fidgeting for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice broken, cracked. Harry closed his eyes at the sound—it hurt simply to hear Snape speak this way, his words laced with so much self-loathing. “I don’t know why…”

“I was attracted to you,” Harry confessed quietly, feeling tremendous relief spill from him. “Over the summer, I…I found you very…beautiful.”

“And now?”

“You still are but… Snape you’re like my mentor, you’re Elisha’s father… It just wouldn’t be right,” Harry said. “It isn’t right. I love Draco.”

“I know,” Snape whispered. He was crying. “I know. I love Lucius. That was a moment of weakness on my part. I should have never laid a hand on you in the first place—”

“Look, it happened and now we just…”

“Forget?”

Neither responded.

“I have to tell Draco,” Harry said, his voice listless.

“And I must with Lucius.”

Harry tried to master his breathing again, the thought of confessing this to Draco terrifying him greatly. Harry didn’t know what to do anymore. He didn’t know what to say to Snape. He didn’t know how to even begin to tell Draco what had just happened—he barely understood it himself.

And Snape sat there with a look of horrible guilt, a look that made Harry want nothing more than to break down weeping.

“I’m sorry,” Snape said again. “I’m not…well.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, his eyes full of tears now. “I know this would have never happened if…if Elisha were still here.”

Snape bit back a sob.

“No, it wouldn’t. But that does not excuse my behavior—” Snape started.

“Nor mine,” Harry whispered. “It was both of us.”

The fear came back into Harry again, prickling him, burning him. Yes, he was responsible for his actions. Yes, this meant that he and Draco might pull apart. That Snape and Lucius might end their partnership after so many years… that everything would crumble, fall into a void.

Harry let out a shaky breath.

“I’m going to go,” the boy said, steeling himself for what inevitably would happen upstairs.

Snape looked confused.

“But don’t you want to talk to Dumbledore—?”

“I do,” Harry whispered, taking a deep gulp of air in. “I do. And… and I need to. But I have to do this first.”

“You’re going to tell Draco now?”

Harry nodded.

“You realize what time it is? He’s probably still sleeping—”

“Then I’ll wake him,” Harry remarked.

“I admire your strength,” Snape said in a quiet voice, glancing at Harry curiously. “The bravery in telling him this now.”

“Aren’t you going to speak to Lucius?”

“Eventually.”

“No,” Harry said, leaning forward so his eyes glinted into Snape’s wide ones. “You shouldn’t wait.” Harry glanced away, his eyes darting up to the ceiling where, directly above, Draco slumbered. Draco, cocooned in the comfortable bed, in dreams, in rest. Harry felt terror at what he had to do.

He turned back to Snape.

“You should never wait,” he said to the man, green eyes overcome with tears.

*

His legs felt as though they were filled with lead and his whole body too, his heart; he had trouble walking up the stairs, his brain shutting down as he tried to put one foot in front of another. He tried forming some sort of apology in his head, some speech explaining himself, something eloquent and meaningful, something sensible he could say to Draco, but his mind did not comply. Instead he could only feel the horror, the confusion, the fear biting at him like a wild animal unleashed on his body.

Harry left a confused Lupin and Dumbledore standing in the foyer, had left Snape, had left them all. He could offer them no explanations, no excuses; he could not sit in a room with them and talk to them when this loomed over him.

He had to do this now.

He kept repeating that to himself, I must do this now, as he made his way back to the room he shared with Draco, as he trembled opening the door—I must do this now—bit back a sob at the sight of his beautiful partner, his loyal lover asleep. Harry tried to stop the horrible thoughts rushing through him now—the reality that this would be over between them in a matter of minutes, that Draco would leave him forever.

I must do this now.

Must wake Draco.

Harry walked slowly to his lover, placed his shaking hands on his soft shoulders, admiring for a moment how delicate his skin was, how ivory and even. Harry reveled in the feel, allowed himself to brush his fingers over Draco’s collarbone, remembered the many nights he planted kisses there as they were making love, how often he rested his head in the nook between Draco’s shoulder and his chest, how lovely the sound of Draco’s heart was.

And crying freely now, Harry urged Draco to wake, shaking him slightly with his frightened hands.

Draco’s bleary eyes opened and he glanced up at his lover. He yawned.

“Harry?” the blonde murmured, weary and tired. His blue eyes met with Harry’s, and the blonde bolted upright realizing Harry was weeping. Harry felt Draco’s hands on him, on his face, running over his cheeks, brushing his tears away. How sweet. How gentle.

“What is it?” the blonde whispered urgently.

Do it now.

“I need to tell you something,” Harry gasped, the words barely leaving him.

“What?” Draco whispered.

I love you. I love you and I’m sorry.

Harry took a deep breath. He opened his mouth and spoke.

TBC
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Endurance