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
- 34
- 35
- 36
SUMMARY: Harry reconnects with Ron, Hermione and Hogwarts. Draco feels like he's dead last on Wonder Boy's priority list. Sometimes feeling isn't enough and we need to see in order to believe.

WARNINGS: mild bigotry, bromance & re-bonding; sexual content: D/s, T&D, general rough sex, spanking, biting, anal, cock ring, orgasm control/denial, forced orgasm, very mild blood play

DISCLAIMERS: “Lifeline” by Clarence Greenwood of RainWater Recordings, Inc., February 2010.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: For the record, bubalus bubalis is the Latin name for water buffalo. Sometimes you just can't make that shit up.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

LIFELINE

If you've come looking for a hard time

Hard times ain't hard to find

Cause we've been

Given that lifeline

Only once in a lifetime

Baby we were born

Maybe we were born

To be sure

To endure

When the storm comes

“Lifeline”

Clarence Greenwood

“They're....” Hermione mumbled.

“Bent,” Harry supplied.

“Clearly.”

“You know, Hermione... it's no big deal for wizards. At least not like it is with muggles,” Harry shrugged, leading her back inside. It was getting colder, though the sun was still hours from setting. Perhaps it would rain tonight. “Ron's just... he was being stupid. But he's getting used to it, right?”

“I suppose,” she sighed dramatically, adding a little flipping gesture with her free hand. Harry hoped this wouldn't be like forth year when he and Ron spent half of term not talking to each other because of that stupid tournament. Now it was his ruddy dick tearing their friendship apart—apparently he couldn't win. It wasn't Harry's fault that he liked Draco: it was Ron's fault for being a major tossing bigot. He had to keep telling himself that or the guilt would bring him to his knees. Sighing, he started down the staircase leading toward Hufflepuff and the castle kitchens. Hermione twisted to look at his profile. He kept his eyes forward.

“The kitchens. You hungry?” she asked.

“Not really. But I should probably eat something.”

Hermione's desire to see Harry properly fed and watered apparently overrode her S.P.E.W. programming, as she didn't utter a single word about asking house elves to do extra work and bring his meal up to the Gryffindor common room along with a pot of tea. They were half-way back to the tower before Harry managed to breach the subject that was bothering him.

“Why don't you like the Durmstrang guys?”

“Who says I dislike them?” Hermione replied evenly.

“'Mione,” Harry chastised. “It's written all over your face.”

“So you can read me, now?” she effectively slowed their pace by once again linking her arm through his.

“I took a crash course in comprehending complex emotions this summer,” Harry attempted a joke. “I'm not saying I'm brilliant or anything—just that its become less like Divination. I don't find myself utterly lost and making stuff up as I go.”

“Trying to show me how good Malfoy's been for you?” she snorted.

“Draco and I are good for each other. There's nothing to prove. And please stop trying to change the subject—Bubalus bubalis,” he gave the tongue-twister of a password to the Fat Lady and she swung open to admit them. Hermione hiked up her heavy cloak and they proceeded inside. “Is there a reason you don't like my new friends?”

“Friends, Harry? Really?” Her tone was two parts incredulous, one part revolted.

“Bits of my brain would be decorating Ravenwood's front lawn if it weren't for those guys. Whatever the Order might've told you, they took a huge risk and wound up saving a lot of lives last night—and almost died doing it. So yes, they're my friends. They're Draco's friends, too.” Harry flopped onto his favorite sofa by the fire, dropping an arm across his eyes and propping his legs over the arm rest. Hermione hovered over him, hunched and glaring. He could feel her eyes.

“What do you mean, Malfoy knows them? I thought Viktor brought them into the Order.”

“Draco knew some of them... from before,” Harry supplied, wishing he hadn't spoken at all. It almost wasn't worth it. Hermione was a brilliant witch but sometimes reason eluded her. Draco often pointed that out—and not in a nice way, but that was just Draco. The Slytherin in him believed kindness was fake, something put up to disguise an ugly truth.

“Before when?” she pressed. “As in, they were Death Eaters? Harry—”

“None of them have the Mark,” he corrected, rolling onto his side and looking up at her, head cradled in his hand. She straightened her jumper irritably, dropping her schoolbag beside the couch in case she had to strangle him.

“Then how does Malfoy know them?”

“The TriWizard,” Harry said. It wasn't a complete lie. Draco did know Chereshko and Vuk from the tournament. He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under his head, unzipping his jacket. This was going to take a while and he might as well make himself comfortable.

“Those guys I met couldn't have been old enough,” Hermione protested.

“Chern—the tall one? He was there. And Dima's older brother, Vuk. He's dead now,” Harry fought the lump in his throat. In his mind, Vuk had Misha's exuberance and innocence with Dmitry's big, honest eyes and lazy smile. No wonder Draco had had sex with the guy. “He and Draco dated during the tournament.”

“They what?” screeched Hermione. Her eyes went round as dinner plates.

“Honestly, Hermione,” Harry slumped into the sofa, quirking his brows at her. “Gryffindor doesn't have a monopoly on 'international relations.'”

“Ugh!” she groaned, throwing herself into an armchair so she wouldn't have to look at him. She folded her arms across her chest, too, crossing her legs and arranging her robe over her shins. A very dirty look was shot his way—he rather deserved it for using a Rita Skeeter-ism to refer to his friend's fling with international Quidditch star Viktor Krum, but Harry felt justified. The situation had bloody well called for it. Living with Draco had honed his comedic sense, as well. God knew they could all use a laugh right about now, however inappropriate.

“It was just a joke,” Harry offered good-naturedly, letting his hand drift along the warm fibers of the carpet beneath his seat. His hand swung back and forth, slowly. The heat of the fire was wonderful and the old sofa knew him so well, contoured to his muscles and aching bones. It was good to be home.

Hermione just glared into the flames, a pout on her lips. “I think I liked you better when you were clueless.”

“We've all gotta grow up sometime,” Harry sighed.

Their conversation drifted once Harry's meal arrived. Hermione had gotten the details about Ravenwood from the Order meeting; yet Harry understood that all the dry facts in the world could never describe the taste that burning Inferi left at the back of your throat, the stink of monstrous blood and the thick black fog that choked you from the inside out. He mostly let her speak about the ramifications of the Death Eaters' assaults as he plodded through his soup. She drank tea, postulating.

They eventually made it to Horcruxes just as the pre-dinner rush came through the common room. Harry endured the welcome back hugs with good humor, the jibes about his ragged appearance and inevitable questions over where the hell he'd been. Seamus and Dean were there, Neville offering a quick wave on his way up to their old dormitory. Ginny treated him to a smoldering glare before stomping off with her girlfriends. It looked like a good portion of the Gryffindor crew had returned. Harry recognized almost every face with the exception of the first years, which meant that none of the transfer students from Durmstrang had been sorted into Gryffindor—not that Harry had expected it, of course, but a Durmstranger or two might prove some comfort to Draco, someone to winge about 'the old ways' with, someone to join him on his crusade championing the legality of a Transylvanian Tackle in International play. Harry kept his eyes up, searching the crowd for a familiar head of white-blonde hair. It was second nature to search for Draco after all these years. A certain fixation had always existed between them. Their new relationship only intensified it.

Instead of Draco, Harry spotted Ron bounding towards them through the thinning crowd.

“Bloody hell,” was all the man said before engulfing Harry in a huge hug. Ron smelled of The Burrow, orchards and home cooking and that hint of freshly laundered linen. Large Keeper's hands gripped Harry's shoulder blades, dwarfing him with their brawny size. “I shoulda been there, mate. I shoulda been there,” he said quietly, again and again. Pinned to his chest, Harry wrapped his arms around Ron's waist. It felt like his best mate was getting taller. Harry no longer cleared his broad shoulders. He found himself smooshed against a pectoral, Prefect's badge digging into his face.

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not,” Ron insisted, pulling Harry snug against him and thumping him powerfully on the back. It made him a little nauseous but it felt good, too. “I should've—”

“It happened real fast. They would've sent you on to Shell Cottage, anyway.”

“Next time, I'll be there,” said Ron, pulling away but still holding Harry tight about the shoulders. All Harry could do was nod. It was good to know Ron was back in his corner.

“Did the Order say I was there?” Harry asked, casting a quick Muffliato as people tried to listen in on their conversation. Ron waved Hermione closer. Each of them took a seat on the sofa, Harry squashed between them just like the old days. They were getting too big for this. “At Ravenwood?”

“Not in so many words,” Hermione said, dropping her volume despite the protection his spell afforded.

“But we knew,” Ron interrupted, practically bouncing in his seat. “As soon as the bloke with the piercings showed us that spell, I knew it had to be you.”

“It broke a window in the Room of Requirement,” Hermione added softly, worry evident in her voice.

“No wonder it destroyed your W.C., yeah?” Ron kept right on going. “I dunno what he used to fuel it—but wow. That guy gave me the creeps.” The red head shivered for effect.

“Nebojsa?” Harry asked, turning to get a nod of confirmation from Hermione. “Don't worry, he's alright. And the Order's lucky to have him. Shouldn't the castle windows be impervious to magic, though? Why would they break?”

“That's what I'd like to know,” Hermione said darkly. With her elbow on the arm rest, she stared into the fire, contemplation etched into her features.

“They even had Gregorovich in there and he couldn't fix it,” Ron went on. “Said they'd have to get a couple house elves up there.”

“Why house elves?” Harry started. It seemed odd.

“Different kinda magic, I suppose,” Ron shrugged. “Even with all his 'assistants' working the wards, the old geezer couldn't get a single pane of glass to budge.” His 'assistants' must have been Dmitry and the boys.

“That's really odd,” Harry voiced, scratching the back of his neck.

“Not as odd as what's waiting for us upstairs,” Hermione said with a pointed look at Ron. “Harry found Slytherin's Locket. It was hidden at Grimmauld Place, after all.”

“Noooo,” Ron drew out his disbelief, elbowing Harry in the ribs. Harry gently pushed the hand away. He wasn't sure why his sides were still so tender.

“It's in a containment field upstairs. Why don't we have dinner sent up so Hermione can have a look?” he peeked at her over his shoulder. She was chewing the inside of her cheek with nerves. He figured the sooner she got her hands on the thing, the better.

“You were carrying this on you the entire time?” she whispered, more to herself than anything because Harry had already confirmed all of her questions at least a dozen times. He was feeling much better, having had a few bites from Ron and Hermione's plates while relaxing in Hermione's room. Her chamber had obviously been the living quarters of the old Head's suite, complete with a little library room tucked up in a private turret. They were up there now, surrounded by towers of books that floated in the air, undulating, waiting for a silent spell that would set the desired volume zooming into her outstretched hand.

“What's the verdict, then?” Ron asked. He downed the rest of his tea. It had been the last of the pot. Harry perked up—it looked like Hermione finally had an answer.

“I think... it's still an active Horcrux,” she said at last, setting the locket back in Harry's empty wand case. She put the lid down and secured the latch with a light, familiar clink.

“As opposed to an inactive one,” Ron quipped.

“Oh, shut up, Ronald!”

“Didn't miss you two bickering,” Harry muttered just loud enough for them to hear.

“It wouldn't be called 'inactive,' anyway,” Hermione continued primly, as though her boyfriend hadn't spoken. “The object is referred to as a vessel. It has to be prepared in such a way that leaves a bit of magic behind. Most neutral and Darker magics leave some sort of trace. That's part of how the Ministry can classify and regulate.” Harry thought back to Mad Eye Moody scanning him for traces of Dark magic, or the way Dumbledore felt along the cave wall to find the precise spot where his blood was required. It made sense. Traces needn't always be physical, like his scar. There was the protection his mother had granted him at her death. Who was to say whether that magic was Dark or Light? It had left a trace—and saved his life.

“So how do we destroy this 'active vessel,' then?” inquired a now petulant Ron Weasley.

“With a spell like Harry's,” was Hermione's response, “trained to feed off of the magical residue.”

“But would it be enough?” Harry asked, pushing himself up in his chair. “I mean, if it's just a little spark of magic left, the spell won't burn for very long. It might not even catch.”

“A Horcrux is one majorly evil spell—” Ron offered.

“It's not the severity of the spell that matters, though,” Harry countered. “I've lit up Butterbeer bottles charmed purple. It's the strength of the spell that matters, how well and how recently it was cast. I don't think Eptir Eldr would destroy the locket. The Horcrux magic is too old. It wouldn't burn long enough to damage the soul-part.”

“What about using a magical catalyst?” said Hermione, a sheaf of parchment in one hand and quill in the other. “Like the Russian brothers did with the Dementors at Ravenwood. If you can use a magical substance to attract the fire to the Horcrux and keep it there—”

“That just might work,” Harry cut in. “And they're Romanian, by the way.”

“I'll start researching magical combustibles,” Hermione nodded grimly, her quill going to work.

Harry pushed his cold tea aside, affording himself a better view of the Marauder's Map set out on the low table before him. He'd been keeping an eye on the little dot labeled 'Draco Malfoy' as it went about the castle. First the Head Boy paced outside the Great Hall, then he reluctantly ate. After that, he went to Headmistress McGonagall's office, then Hufflepuff, then Slytherin. Now he was back at Hufflepuff, having brought several Slytherin students with him.

“What's Malfoy up to?” Hermione asked off-handedly, nose practically brushing her parchment as she scribbled, books buzzing about like flies, ready to fly to her aid.

“Who says he's watching Malfoy?” Ron smiled.

“Six years at Hogwarts and when was I not watching Malfoy?” was Harry's cheeky retort. Ron made an unhappy noise in his throat while Hermione hummed, scratching out the last of her notes.

“Is he up to no good, at least?” Ron looked hopeful.

“Nah. Looks like he's holding a peace rally between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Half the badgers are there.”

“Disciplinary hearing,” Hermione said shortly, filing her notes away before picking up a particularly antsy book begging for her attention like an ignored puppy. The pages nearly danced off the spine in delight as she picked it up. That was some Researching Charm she'd perfected over the years. “Malfoy's on duty tonight. Should be mostly prefects.”

Harry re-examined the map, noting some of the other names more carefully. “You're right.”

“You say it like you're surprised, mate,” Ron favored him with a proud and knowing head-tilt. The man was learning to shower his girlfriend with compliments. Harry wondered if it did any good. Nice that Ron was making the effort, though. That was new.

They continued their discussion of Horcruxes and Dark magic for at least another hour. They went until Harry's head hurt and Ron was nearly asleep in his chair, ginger lashes fluttering as his breathing slowed to deep, measured pulls that questioned his shirt buttons.

Harry watched Draco make his way to up Ravenclaw Tower, moving through their common room and speaking with various prefects. At one point he was shown to the boys dormitory where he paced around a bit while a group of younger boys stood in a chastised row. Harry assumed Draco was berating them for something, marching to and fro with white fingers clasped behind his back. When feeling especially imperious, Draco would curl one hand over the back of the other and rest them at the curve of his tailbone, pulling his shoulders back and straightening his limber spine. It always drew Harry's attention to the blonde's ass. Lecture complete, Draco made to leave the tower but was stopped by Luna Lovegood. After a few words, Draco followed her over to a set of windows and there they stayed. Harry thought they might be sitting in a pair of armchairs, judging by the distance between them and their stillness. Draco and Luna talking? Well, he and Draco were fucking and in love, so stranger things had definitely happened.

Hermione stretched, shooting a fond look at Ron's sleeping form in the old wing-backed chair.

“Someone's ready for bed,” Harry joked, indicating Ron by tapping the man with his foot. No response. Ron was out cold.

“Two someones,” Hermione corrected, giving Harry a critical once over. “You still don't look well. Are you sure you weren't injured?”

“Not so much as a scratch,” Harry offered, propping himself up in his chair. “Really. I'm just worn out. I'll be back to normal in a day or two, don't you worry.” He smiled and she returned it, a smudge of ink decorating her cheek. “I think I'll go to bed—unless you need me for anything else?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “And take Sleeping Beauty with you before he starts to snore.”

“Sure thing.”

With a quick “oi” and a tap to the arm, Ron started awake. They said their good nights outside Harry's door, Ron going back to the boys dormitory and Harry ducking inside his and Draco's fire-lit quarters. As inviting as the bed looked—and it was a glowing white specter, an angel in the darkness—Harry didn't fancy stripping down and crawling in without Draco. He consulted the map one last time, confirming his boyfriend's position in the nearby tower before picking up his Invisibility Cloak and Firebolt.

From the wide stone terrace, it was barely a thirty second flight to Ravenclaw Tower. He circled the large tower once and then twice, the light of a nearly-full moon lighting up the castle in an eerie bluish glow. The night air was cool against his skin. It would rain soon—the air had that thick, heavy quality that always came before a downpour. Harry peeked in the windows as he flew.

He'd never been inside the Ravenclaw Common Room before but it looked nice, decorated in navy and bronze with pale blue silks to draw across the large windows when the weather was foul. In place of gargoyles, the exterior had several large statues of ravens about to take flight. Inside were countless bookshelves and a large marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. Beside the window sat the familiar forms of Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy, easily distinguished by their blonde hair in the flickering candle light. Draco was speaking, looking off at a floor-to-ceiling painting of a garden, a large snake coiled around one of the ancient marble columns. It was hard to tell whether the snake was the original subject of the painting or just wandering through. Smiling, Luna responded to Draco, talking with her hands. They were the only ones left in the room and appeared to be speaking freely. The hour was late—Harry was a little surprised Luna was still awake. Then again, she was Luna Lovegood: everything she did was surprising. Maybe spontaneity was something she and Draco had in common, as it certainly wasn't politics or fashion. Harry sat there, watching the two blondes go back and forth, Draco's features perking up from time to time but always within the confines of his Malfoy mask. Luna was perched sideways in her armchair in order to face Draco, giving him her full attention. She even had her elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in her hand and leaning forward just slightly, as though hanging on his every word. Nodding intently, her eyes were wide, pale hair sparkling in waves around her delicate face.

Shifting in his seat, Draco's cloak fell away from his shoulder to reveal a red rose fixed to his breast by the Head Boy's badge. Harry knew without a doubt that it was one of the roses he had sent at the beginning of term. He recognized their shape, the way he'd engineered the flowers to full, bursting bloom. Normal roses just didn't look that way—they'd wilt before getting that replete, that healthy and full and stunningly beautiful. It left him wondering why Draco walked around with one pinned to his chest, wondering which message the rose disguised and whether the blonde had done it before.

Harry guided his broomstick a little closer to the window, thinking he might manage to read their lips. Draco's back was to him but he could see Luna in profile. She laid a hand on Draco's forearm—over the Dark Mark—saying something about “everyone.” The rest was garbled. Harry picked up his own name, though. Luna had such small features; Harry found himself squinting to make out the shapes her mouth made, trying to pronounce the words in his head. It was no use, though. He gave up, pushing back the hood of his cloak and rapping on the window with his knuckles, free hand braced on his Firebolt's handle as he leaned. He gripped with his thighs so he wouldn't become unbalanced.

Draco's head whipped around, white fingers clutching the arms of his chair. Luna beamed at Harry through the glass, rushing to the window and throwing it open.

“Harry! So glad to see you,” she announced in that serene voice of hers. She didn't seem at all surprised by his visit despite the late hour and his mode of entry. “Won't you come in? It smells like rain.”

“I think so,” Harry agreed, flying in and dismounting. He gathered the petite Ravenclaw girl at his side in a one-armed hug, his broom still in his other hand. She put both arms around his ribs and squeezed back, head nestled against his shoulder. She wore a frilly dress in powder blue with white stockings, her outfit perfectly matching the drapes if it weren't for the orange ballet slippers and red radish earrings. “It's really good to see you, too, Luna.”

Draco looked up from his seat, eyes gone so narrow that Harry couldn't catch a glimpse of their color. With his lanky arms folded across his chest and long legs crossed just so, Draco Malfoy could only be in one sort of mood—the foul kind.

“Hi Draco,” Harry peeked around the side of the wing-backed chair, Luna still under his arm. “I didn't see you in the common room. Glad I found you.”

One dirty blonde brow was raised, its temperature icy. That was the only response he got. Luna sensed the tension between them—it wasn't hard. Draco was making his displeasure quite obvious. She gave Harry's side a little squeeze, pulling away and moving to stand behind Draco's chair, extinguishing a few candles with her wand as she went.

“Um,” Harry stuck his hand in his pocket, unsure what to say. He assumed it would be best to remain neutral in front of others if their relationship was to remain under wraps.

“Hello princess,” Draco snapped, cold eyes giving Harry's person a careful and appraising once-over. “I see you've made time for a flight in your oh-so-busy schedule.”

“I—” Harry stuttered, floored. What had he done now?

“Never mind,” Draco waved him off, craning his neck to lock eyes with Luna hovering behind his chair. All Harry had eyes for was the long column of his lover's neck, pale throat stretching out from his starched white collar. Gryffindor red was a nice color on him—just the hint of it from his silk necktie brought out the warm, flushed tones in his creamy skin, his exposed skin coming alive like a master's canvas. Draco addressed himself to Luna alone, meeting her warbly gaze with a pleasant one of his own. “I should be going: Quidditch trials tomorrow. But thank you for having me.”

“You're welcome any time,” Luna said as Draco stood, straightening his robes and tie. “I'm sure the door will remember you.” That statement appeared to have a double meaning because Draco flushed, two bright pink spots appearing at his cheekbones.

“I am sorry about that....” Harry was taken back when Draco actually smiled at Luna. It only lasted a second but the expression transformed his face. It was sincere, honest and so plainly handsome. Perhaps Draco had actually made a friend—as much as Malfoys allowed themselves the entanglement of relationships. Perhaps “ally” was a more appropriate term.

“No worries,” the girl chimed merrily, stowing her wand. “It's nothing Professor Flitwick can't set right in the morning.”

“Er, would you care for a lift, then?” Harry offered, indicating the broom in his hand. “I mean, I'm headed your way and all.”

Draco shrugged, his jaw tight. “Sure.”

“You'd best hurry,” Luna chirped. “It does smell like rain. The Oxerwumps will be out in full force. Wouldn't want to get a few of those in your broom-tail.”

Harry offered Luna the usual indulgent smile. She made her way across the room knocking out candles with her wand, frilly skirts flouncing around her knees. When Harry managed to catch Draco's gaze, the Head Boy just shrugged with his brows, a hand stuffed casually in his pocket.

Harry mounted up, scooting forward to offer Draco a generous space at the back of his Firebolt. They took off, Draco's wand flicking out to close and lock the window behind them. Once exposed to the cool night air, Draco seemed to relax.

“Broom's in great shape,” Harry commented, Draco's arm light around his waist. He wasn't pulling any moves so there was no need to hold on tight. “Thanks for maintenancing it.”

“You're welcome, Scar Head,” the blonde said tightly. The night air whipped at their cheeks, staining them red and raw with cold. Harry felt the first raindrop smack against his forehead as the Head's terrace came into view.

“You're not... mad at me, are you?”

Draco seemed to ignore the question. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Why weren't you at dinner? I waited for you.”

Harry knew that, yet he didn't want to mention the Marauder's Map—not yet, anyway. He wanted to show Draco, rather than tell him. So he settled for half the truth. “I waited for you in the common room. When you didn't show up....”

“I don't go to the common room,” Draco said shortly. Harry descended to the balcony, landing lightly. Draco slipped off, fingers not bothering to linger as he made for the large French doors. Harry stopped him with a hand to his scrawny wrist, still mounted and hovering on the Firebolt. He tightened his grip before Draco could get away from him.

“Why not?”

Draco rolled his eyes impatiently. “No one wants me there.”

“They tell you that?” Harry asked, flip blazing. Draco's response was a scowl as he twisted his hand free of Harry's grip. Harry rearranged his weight and dismounted as he continued, speaking to Draco's retreating back. “Hermione seems to think you're doing a good job as Head Boy, fitting in and all. Maybe you should go down sometime, just to show your face. It might help.”

“I don't think so.”

There was a sudden streak of lightning in the distance and then it was raining—water pouring down on them from the moon-lit sky. The boys barely had a chance to duck inside. Harry took the brunt of it even with his cloak. Draco shook his own school cloak into the fountain as Harry pushed dripping hair off his forehead. At least his torso was mostly dry. His trainers squelched as he followed Draco into their room.

“Are we fighting?”

“Wha'?” Draco spun around, cloak over his arm and a hand hovering at the top button of his starched shirt collar. “Why?”

“What you said in front of Luna....”

“I was jus' teasin',” Draco shrugged. Tie loosened, he tossed his cloak aside and came forward, coaxing Harry's cloak and leather jacket from his shoulders. “No one will believe we've become best mates overnight. Tha's too unrealistic—even Dumbledore wouldn't buy it. I still have ter act like Draco Malfoy.”

“True,” Harry sighed. “You're probably right, love.” As much as he disliked it, Draco had a point.

He was glad when the weight of his soaked outer garments fell away, leaving him light—if still damp. Fat raindrops splattered against the window. With the chocolate drapes pulled back, Harry could see the gale building outside. There would be trees down in the Forbidden Forest come morning. He wondered who was looking after the castle grounds while Hagrid was away. Draco put a hand in his, walking backwards and pulling him toward the fire. The blonde kicked off his shoes, wand flicking to send articles of clothing on their way. With a second swish and flick, Harry was mostly dry. Draco pushed him down onto the couch.

“So what was so important you skipped dinner?” his tone was accusatory. Harry half expected to see an impatient hand on Draco's bony hip. “You're obviously unwell. You can't go skipping meals.”

“I was researching with Ron and Hermione,” Harry spoke to their joined hands against a background of Draco's white-clad stomach. “We had something sent up; besides, if you and I are going to stay a secret, we shouldn't be seen spending all our time together, right?”

The fight went out of Draco with a puff; calm reason could win the blonde over any day. He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing along his pale throat. He looked thin and tired.

“Research went well, then?”

“Not really,” Harry relaxed until his head met the back of the sofa, patting the seat cushion beside him. Draco remained where he was. Harry stared at the ceiling as he spoke. “I'm pretty sure Hermione's wrong, though. I need to go see a wizard who lives in America—he worked with Alastor Moody during the first war. Moody thought this guy was working on something that could help me. It's worth a shot... mostly because I have no other leads or resources at the moment. Moody's dead, by the way.”

Draco sank to the floor beside the sofa, putting a hand on Harry's thigh as though to reassure that he was there, was listening—would always be. His calm was at once infectious and liberating.

“When?” was all he asked.

“Last night. Right outside the house. Philippe attacked us—brought a couple of Voldemort's cronies with him: his allegiances are clear.”

“I meant when are ya leavin'?” Draco corrected, squeezing Harry's thigh. Affection shone through the gesture along with his worry, fear and blatant avoidance.

“Oh,” Harry quit contemplation of the stone ceiling. He regarded Draco from behind smudged lenses, dark circles already reappearing below his tired green eyes. “As soon as I'm rested, I reckon. There are a couple things I need to look into before I go.”

“So... when?” Draco pressed, keeping his voice mellow, genteel. The firmness was in his eyes, the steady hand at Harry's thigh.

“Monday? Maybe Tuesday.”

“Okay,” Draco nodded slowly, absorbing the information. The fire was warm at Harry's front. It warmed Draco's back, too, giving his hair a very golden, halo-like glow. “Will yeh be alright fer Quidditch tomorrow? I had ta book the pitch—couldn't put off try outs any longer.”

“Yeah, I'll be fine,” Harry squeezed Draco's hand in his lap, tipping over until he was laying on his side, his face level with Draco's. He rested his head against his arm, examining the blonde's comforting face, all pointed features and perfect milky skin. “I just look like shit is all. Quidditch sounds brilliant, actually. Did you announce that I resigned my captaincy?”

“Not yet,” Draco shook his head. “I guess ya can do tha' yerself, now yer here.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. Draco was much closer now. This was how it was supposed to be, just the two of them looking into each other's eyes every night. “Why the hell are we talking about Quidditch? Come 'ere.”

He hooked a hand around Draco's neck, drawing him close enough to kiss. Draco came so willingly, melting against his lips. The boy's tongue sprang out, parting his lips to lave at teeth and gums, to twirl and explore as though it were the very first time. Draco moaned when Harry sucked at his tongue. The sound moved through them, echoed back, intensifying. Soon Draco was on his knees, hunched over the sofa in order to claim Harry's mouth with deep, thorough kisses. His hand snuck beneath Harry's shirt, talented fingers walking their way up stomach muscles, toying with the dark hairs littering their path. Harry curled his own free hand in Draco's hair.

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Your hair's getting long again. Love it.” He tightened his grip, tugging until Draco's head was forced back, their lips separating. Draco's breath poured over his face, as warm as the fire.

“Yers is ridiculous,” the blonde smiled, still idly stroking Harry's stomach, stealthily taking out buttons as he went. “Yeh should let me cut it fer ya.”

“I'd like that,” Harry surged forward, calling Draco's mouth back to his own. Their kiss was messy, lips haphazard and already swelling with desire. Harry broke the contact but stayed close, catching his breath. His lips were tingling. “But I need it to hide my scar.”

Draco kissed his cheek, his temple, hand coming to rest warm and solid over Harry's sore ribs. There was only the faintest bruise there, though he couldn't recall how he'd gotten it.

“I know. Think I can manage something,” Draco smiled, pushing at Harry's fringe with the tip of his pointed nose until he'd revealed the lightning bolt scar in question. He kissed it, lingering. Harry moved to bite at Draco's neck, dragging his teeth hard enough to make the man gasp—a wet little sound that burbled at the back of his throat, hitching his chest and causing his head to drop back, exposing more of that delicate, delicious throat. Harry licked a soothing path along the red mark he'd left, nibbling his way to Draco's ear. His fingers found their way to a Gryffindor tie and pulled.

“Take this off,” he commanded.

“Jus' yer tie?” Draco laughed. His voice was a low thrum, heady and chapped.

“All of it,” Harry corrected, working the half Windsor knot with one hand until it gave way. “I want to look at you.”

Draco tugged at his shirt, then—it couldn't go fast enough. He fumbled over the lower buttons before the garment ripped under his hurried fingers, buttons flying everywhere, pinging against the hearth and rolling across the floor. He could fix it in the morning. Stupid things like that could matter in the morning. Right now it was just him and Draco—and the pressing need to be naked and in each other as soon as bloody possible.

Harry delivered Draco's hands to the leather belt securing his school trousers before trailing both his own up that pale chest. Contours he knew so well caressed the pads of his fingers, welcoming him home. One hand very much wanted to stay, tracing the thin scar that split his pectoral, squeezing a hardened nub of sugar-sweet pink nipple. His other hand went to Draco's jaw, inviting him forward for another kiss as the white uniform shirt fluttered to the floor. Draco sucked hotly at his lips, shifting around to get his trousers off as Harry teased him lazily with mouth and hands, reclining on the sofa as though he hadn't a care in the world. A heavy clink heralded the blonde's nudity, belt buckle slamming against the stone floor as he divested himself of trousers and pants.

“Bed,” Draco insisted between languid kisses. But Harry wasn't done with him yet.

“No. Stand up,” he told his boyfriend in a tone that left no room for arguments—as though Draco would ever refuse him anything. Draco was fucking his. “I said I want to look at you.”

Draco got to his feet, looking like a new-born foal with only an inkling of how to use his spindly legs. He nearly toppled over while disentangling himself from his trousers. The slacks hung around his ankles in an untidy pile, tripping him up as he attempted to rise. By the time he was on his feet, he was bright red in embarrassment, the color suffusing his face and chest, cock even redder and presented right in Harry's face. Harry reached out to stroke it, catching Draco's eyes as he looked up.

“You've been skipping meals, too,” Harry noted of the blonde's svelte frame. Draco had always been skinny—never more so than that first week at Grimmauld Place. Ribs were visible again, and not just beneath the rosy patch of scar tissue at his side. His bones were more prominent at knees and hips, shoulders, collar and elbows. He was so gaunt, so faint, like a skeleton encased in marred porcelain skin. “I don't like that. We'll go to breakfast together tomorrow. I want you to eat more.”

“Ya don't like...” Draco repeated, flushing even brighter, delirious from Harry's hand on him. His eyes were probably rolling into the back of his head beneath his closed eyelids.

“I think you're beautiful,” said Harry. Leaning forward, he kissed an old burn scar sitting low on Draco's stomach. His white-blonde head lolled to one side, the fire lighting his skin in shades of amber and gold. Harry gazed up his flat stomach, speaking to the graceful line of his throat. “I want to see you looking healthier next time, okay? You're too thin. More food and Quidditch, less booze and sleep-deprivation.”

The man's penchant for self-destructive behavior was legendary. And Draco always got testy when he didn't get his rest, explaining today's mood swings and irritability. Alcohol was a dangerous drug for Draco: too much made him silly, brash, reckless. He should only be that way when they were together, when it was safe—when Harry was there to look after him, protect him.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, accepting anything that would please Harry. He slid a narrow hand through Harry's hair, palm resting at his temple. Harry couldn't help leaning into that hand while admiring the view. Draco's cock was really perfect, long and thick and impossibly red—or maybe it was the creaminess of his skin, the milk-white background giving contrast to his blood-filled organ. Using a blunt fingernail, Harry traced the white, spidery scar that ran its length, eliciting a fantastic shudder. He splayed his fingers around the base of Draco's dick, his other hand disturbing the fine dusting of hair along his thigh. He loved Draco's stupid platinum hair; it was just one of the things that made Draco who he was, the unusual color defining him, exotic and wild.

“And stop shaving,” Harry said, indicating the man's pubic hair by dragging his nails over the smooth skin where coarse blonde curls should be. “I want you to grow this out for me.”

“Want?” Draco mumbled, lost to the feel of Harry's hands on him.

“Yes,” he confirmed, kissing the place to convey his sincerity. Draco shuddered. He was so sensitive below the belt. Harry reached around to grab his arse for good measure, rubbing the spot where he knew Draco's birthmark to be. He couldn't stop touching, kissing. Once he tasted Draco there was no going back. Lightning flashed behind them, turning Draco's flesh ghostly grey for an instant. Harry kissed a meandering path up the man's stomach, drinking him in in great desperate pulls. He couldn't think of anything that felt better, looked better, tasted better, made his insides purr and his dick scream for more. He wanted Draco. “Make love to me.”

“Yes,” Draco repeated. He bent, seizing Harry by the front of his trousers and dragging him to his feet. “Bed,” he continued, frantic, working at the clasp with fumbling, disobedient fingers. “In bed with me, poilu.”

Harry stumbled sideways, pulling Draco with him even as the blonde fussed with his zipper. The sofa's legs scraped the floor, the large piece of furniture sent sliding with their combined weight and momentum. They zigzagged, attached at mouth and crotch, neither looking where they were going. Did it really matter? The bed was big enough. They'd find it eventually. Draco moaned, mumbling sex-laced obscenities into their kiss. Harry fell heavy against him and they tumbled into bed, a mess of limbs and tangle of open trousers.

“Fuck,” Draco managed, Harry's lower lip still between his teeth. “Wand,” he said. And the hawthorn piece came flying through the air, landing squarely in his hand.

“Love that trick.”

Any reply Draco intended to make was cut off by Harry gathering their cocks together and thrusting greedily into his hand. Draco's head snapped backward, mouth dropping open in a silent cry, back arching off the bed in the most elegant, curving line. Harry bore down, biting his neck and shoulder while twining their fingers together, palms pressed sweaty and tight. Gods, if he didn't love holding Draco's hand. They fit together in every way possible.

“Gonna come,” Draco warned. His voice was nothing but a wail through moving lips, his pronunciation all teeth and hiss, barely comprehensible.

“Come then fuck me?” Harry offered, raising a brow. He loved Draco undone like this.

“Fuck ya then fuck ya,” the blonde countered, thrusting back, wand hand clamped over Harry's flexing arse cheek. His swish went up in the air, flicking wand tip catching Harry's cheek sharp as a bee sting. “Amem Inconcessus Viam.”

That he had to speak the incantation spoke to how far gone he was. Harry rolled to his side, locking lips even as he felt himself stretched by magic. The spell worked him thoroughly—he felt it going deep, preparing him for a good hard fuck. And his cock swelled at the thought.

“Touch me,” he said, wanting more than anything to feel Draco's hands on his skin, present and real, everywhere. The blonde aimed a last Lubrication Spell at their joined members before throwing his wand clear across the room. It hit the window with a fragile clack before clattering to the floor and rolling off somewhere. Neither of them could be arsed. They were wrapping their legs together, nothing but a pile of limbs and bucking, insistent lust.

Draco's hands slid up his bruised ribs, leaving a shivering path of sweat in their wake. It felt as though his spine were stretching, elongating just to give his love that much to stroke, to prolong the pleasure that extra second. Harry couldn't help the groan that rumbled in his chest. There was an intense heat to Draco's hands, an impossible warmth between his fingertips—it felt like fire, spreading along his skin. Draco felt it too, rolling on top of him to get as much contact as possible. Harry spread his hands across Draco's back, flexing his fingers as wide as they could go just to feel and be more. Their chests pressed, rubbing together, energy fairly crackling between them. From behind his eyelids, it felt as though the room were filling with moonlight despite the raging storm rattling the windows, wind howling through the halls. Running his hands up Draco's spine produced the most wonderful gasp. Draco bucked, thin body spasming out of control.

“Gods,” he whispered. “Ya feel tha'?”

“Of course.” Harry brought a hand to Draco's cheek. It almost didn't surprise him when a flash of pale blue light traveled up his fingers, lighting along Draco's moon-pale skin. The light disappeared into him, sending another shiver through their joined bodies. Grey eyes slid closed at the caress, his mouth hanging slack and open. Harry's fingers ghosted over his thick red lips, light crackling as he traced their swollen shape. Draco licked at his fingertips, swallowing down the magic as though it were the sweetest chocolate and most expensive champagne. Suckling, he gave a helpless little moan.

“Good?” Harry asked. It was all he could manage. Draco nodded before releasing his smallest finger. Everything felt cold compared to the crippling heat of Draco's mouth.

“Yer gettin' stronger,” he gasped for breath.

“Magic?” Harry ground out, his brain in a fog born of Draco's naked body atop his own. “Is it... bad?” It was difficult to worry, difficult to think at all with Draco's weight on him, all bony hips, willowy legs and firm, hard chest.

Draco shook his head, worming a knee between Harry's thighs. “S'always been there. Natural. Let it be.” And he brought his knee up very carefully, knobbly bones rubbing against Harry's perineum in a steady slide. It was perfect. The pressure was dazzling, dizzying—it made him want to get fucked, fitted and filled to the point of breaking. He ground himself on Draco's knee like a filthy tart in heat. Hovering above him, Draco licked at his nipple, flicking the other with well-trained fingers. He knew to go hard, to be ruthless to the point of pain. His mouth went lower, kissing and sucking at the muscles of Harry's stomach, dark hairs brushing his lips as he laved and loved.

Harry quickly turned over. He wanted to try something tonight, something he'd seen a hundred times in Draco's perverted head but for some reason they had yet to act the fantasy out. Tucking his elbows under him, Harry stuck his arse in the air until his cheeks made contact with Draco's heaving chest.

“Fuck me like this.”

Draco groaned in acquiescence, biting his way down Harry's ribs to his ass, licking at the tender, exposed insides of his thighs. His fingers followed a moment later, racking down Harry's sides. He felt wandless magic course through him from those sure fingers, relaxing him, preparing him for the dirty fuck they both wanted so much.

“Fuck me. Fuck me,” Harry chanted, gathering fists full of sheets and piling them around his face—to catch the drool as well as muffle him when he screamed his bloody head off. Draco inserted a fondling hand between his legs, lubed and ready to go. His expert hands plied Harry's foreskin, drawing it up his shaft until he leaked precome, sticky gobs of it dripping down to make puddles on the sheets. Draco was sure to get some on his fingers, sucking on them greedily before fingering Harry's entrance. He was well prepared with magic; yet Draco was nothing if not thorough when it came to Harry's body. Two fingers entered easily, then three followed by a surprise forth. Harry pushed back against the feeling of wriggling fullness. Fingers were different from a cock—you could feel the articulation with fingers, feel the digits as they bent and slid against one another. Cock was big, blunt and heavy, like a battering ram or a sword—it had one purpose and one purpose alone: break down, destroy, fuck.

Draco slid in with a mighty hiss, breath catching in a way that made his gut spasm. He braced his body against the tail of Harry's spine, hands splayed out over his back with elbows sticking out everywhere as he panted, reaching for control. Harry stayed perfectly still, though he wanted so much to arch his back into the mind-blowing pressure. He didn't want to push Draco over the edge too soon, and so he waited patiently. This was going to be brilliant, of the way he was smashed into the bed was anything to go by. He could wait for Draco, wait for this.

The shaking translated through Draco's lissome form, vibrating through Harry as his face was pushed roughly into the mattress. Thankfully his glasses had been discarded someplace between the hearth and their bed. Mouth gaping open like a fish out of water, he was free to slurp against the crisp white sheets. They smelled like jasmine, rum and pine, spicy and sweet. Sweat soaked the sheets—mostly his own. It blended with whatever Draco put on the pillows, intensifying the scent until it was almost overwhelming. He gasped it in through his open mouth, waiting for Draco to be ready.

With a twitch and a shudder, Draco pulled out. He had to push himself away with trembling arms, the strength gone from his hips. He slipped from Harry with a wet little pop, hardness jumping up to slap at his stomach.

“Too much,” he explained in a rush, wiping a sticky hand on the sheets. He braced his forearm against Harry's lower back, leaning his weight to keep Harry's face to the bed. “One second. W-wand,” he Summoned once more, shakily. The hawthorn instrument landed in his hand with a hollow thwap. Harry felt Draco shift on the bed behind him, rearranging his knees to the inside of Harry's before sitting back on his heels, aiming his wand at his crotch. “Con... Constrixi Per Tergus,” he managed.

He tossed his wand to the end table with a grunt as his mystery spell took effect. His aim proved wide, wand tumbling off the table only a second later to roll forgotten across the floor. It only took a moment for Draco to line himself up again, narrow fingers gripping Harry's arse cheeks and spreading them. Slick and relaxed, Harry felt his anus opening up, parting in invitation. Even his arse wanted Draco back immediately.

Draco slid home, using gravity to smash Harry face-first into the mattress. He groaned at the feel of it, pressing back with all his might—so deep, so deep. It felt like he was being cut in half, his torso split clean in two by the intrusion. Draco snapped his hips, not so much pulling out as he was driving forward and down, pulverizing Harry's hole with his cock. There was something animal about it, rough and needful. The base of his cock scraped almost painfully, abusing the tender skin around Harry's opening. It was carnal and raw. They should make sex like this illegal.

Harry let out another growl as Draco slammed into him, not even bothering to disguise the wet slurp of spittle leaving his lips as he got his brain fucked out his ass. Draco had to know how good this felt, to be taken like this.

“Taste my cock yet?” Draco teased, taking a fist full of Harry's unruly hair and yanking his head up. He didn't stop until his lover was lifted to his hands and knees, nothing to brace against for the next thrust. Harry bounced forward, pushing out against Draco's knees with his own to keep from toppling forward. The hand fisted in his hair helped, keeping him right where he needed to be. His dick flopped heavy between his legs, Draco's raised scrotum slapping the back of his thighs with each pistoning jerk.

“Deep,” Harry muttered, grunted, moaned. “Aaah! Oh, fuck yes! Draco!”

Draco gave another vicious thrust, merciless and wicked. The rain lashing against the windows was nothing compared to their grunts and moans, like mindless rutting beasts. Blood sang in Harry's ears, his nerves on fire. He could feel that magic again, tingling hot and electric between his fingers still gripping the sweaty sheets for dear life. He saw the blue light flare around his white-rimmed knuckles, licking at his wrists and making the sheets sizzle and steam.

“So good,” he whispered, grinding back when Draco's hips stilled. “More.”

“I feel like I'm gonna break ya,” the blonde mumbled, leaning over him and kissing between his shoulder blades, licking at the rivulets of sweat pouring from him. He smiled against Harry's boiling skin. “Or drown ya in yer own spit. Quel salop.”

After one last swipe of his tongue, he curled an arm around Harry's chest, pulling him upright. With legs spread wide, Harry landed square in Draco's lap, impaled, driving Draco into him strong and hard. Harry threw his head back, twisting until his chin connected with Draco's mop of sweaty blonde hair. He inhaled heavily, savoring the citrus and outdoorsy tang of his sweat, the softness of those familiar strands ticking his face, tangling in his lashes and even slipping up his nose. He got an arm around the back of Draco's neck, forced to arch his back in order to give press and verve, grinding down on Draco's cock. He felt that roughness again, like Draco had something wrapped tight at the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. That must have been the spell he cast. “This angle okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded blearily.

“Here. Lean back on me,” Draco offered, a scrawny arm flexing as he wrapped it around Harry's chest. Little flickers of white-blue light jumped between his fingers and Harry's skin, like their magic was communicating through blips of Morse code. It was Draco's left hand skating across his hairy chest, Gaunt Family Ring sparkling on his finger as he roamed Harry's chest, Dark Mark flush with his greasy, sweat-covered skin. Draco tugged until Harry rested against him, bodies moving together in a slow, rocking rhythm. Draco's other hand rubbed his hip, tracing the curve of his arse before pressing, steady and solid just above Harry's cock. He knew these places to touch, knew how to make blood pound in his veins, swelling his sex to the point of no return. He knew to run his hands over Harry's body, to keep touching him in every intimate place until he went off without his cock so much as being touched.

Draco rolled beneath him, guiding their hips in practiced undulations. With a few adjustments and an especially tight squeeze—an actual hug—the head of his dick brushed Harry's sweet spot. He jerked in Draco's arms, every muscle seizing and shaking as the sensation rushed through his body. Every twitch, every thrust hit that spot, relentless. Draco kissed a wet path up his neck, pausing every few seconds to lick his lips—not wanting a drop of his lover's essence to go to waste. He was panting by the time he reached Harry's lips, fingers digging into his flesh hard enough to leave bruises and little red imprints of fingernails, half-moon shapes adorning his stomach like dead markings in an ancient temple.

Harry kissed him fiercely, placing his hands over Draco's pale ones and squeezing, letting him know it was okay, to go as hard as he wanted or needed. Draco clutched at him—really held him, wrapped up in his arms as close as two bodies could ever be.

“Gods, I needed this,” Harry hissed against his lips. “Needed you, missed you so fucking much....”

“Harry,” Draco whispered, dropping his head to the nape of Harry's neck to deliver a mess of sloppy wet kisses. He nuzzled, breathing Harry as they moved. “Harry, Harry.”

Draco jerked violently, throwing Harry forward. He barely had time to throw down a hand, breaking his fall. Draco slammed once, angry and hard, biting Harry's shoulder as he came in savage shudders. Muscles waged a war with his mind, his entire body convulsing as he sniffled and whined, not wanting it to be over so soon—before Harry had his fill.

He slipped down to his stomach, pulling Draco on top of him. He managed to get his legs together, trapping Draco inside and simply squeezing with every muscle at his disposal, which was quite a lot. Draco thrashed as he spilled his last into that tight, quaking heat. Harry bucked back, giving as much friction as possible—anything to keep Draco excited and on edge. This wasn't over yet.

“You keep going,” he rasped, face in their sex sheets and smelling his own precome centimeters from his nostrils. “You hear me?"

Draco moaned, thrusting feebly through the last of his orgasm.

Harry dislodged a hand from beneath himself, reaching to lay a painfully serious smack across Draco's arse. The resulting crack rang out, sharp, seconds before an echoing clap of thunder. “Come on! Come on!” The words were nothing but a grunt, insistent and guttural. “I'm not done with you.”

He could tell it was torturous, bordering on painful, but Draco kept thrusting his oversensitive cock. He was shaking but he kept going, getting his regular abusing rhythm back in a matter of minutes; his muscles were probably on fire, nerves screaming, but he did it anyway. He would see it through.

“Keep fucking me,” Harry insisted around a mouthful of dirty bed linens, beating the bed with his fist. “Don't you ever stop fucking me. Don't you even think about it. Fuck me, Draco. Fuck me good. Finish what you started. Make me come.”

Draco let loose a blunt scream, slapping the side of Harry's ass as he fucked his tight hole. Harry retaliated with laughter, low and deep, sultry almost, locking his ankles in the sweetest, most gratifying form of torture known to man. Draco screamed again, longer, wailing, calling out Harry's name. He soon dissolved in begging. “Please, Harry, please, please.”

It was just so good, Draco biting at the back of his neck like that, whisper-pleading, panting and straining over him as the thunder and lightning crashed, wind and rain rattling the windows in their panes. It was as though the storm raged as long as they did. He never wanted it to stop.

“I love you too,” Harry whispered back. He understood, then—every time Draco spoke his given name, it meant “I love you.” It was a fervent prayer, a hope, his very fragile emotion served up on a fucking platter. Harry would never take that for granted, nor would he accept any less.

Draco bit at the back of his neck, groaning, pulsing in Harry as strong as a second heart beat. He sunk teeth into the meat of Harry's shoulder, at the juncture of neck and back, punishing, bruising, biting. “Yes,” he gasped. “Love you.”

Trapping Harry between himself and the mattress, he bit down on Harry's shoulder and just screamed—long, loud and tortured.

Harry let himself fall over the edge. He was simply waiting for his lover to give in, to break, knowing Draco needed his strength as much as he himself needed to find it again. And he found it rutting against a mattress, face-down under his boyfriend's straining red cock—screaming each other;s names between unintelligible babble, cursing and hissing. You couldn't help what you needed any more than you could help the color of your hair or shape of your eyes. They were who they were. And this was it. Draco shook over him, drawing blood at his shoulder, teeth ripping into his flesh as he came for a second torturous time, forced his body beyond itself.

Draco's hot tongue passed over the bite, licking it clean. It stung, not quite burning. His teeth had gone deep, nearly to the muscle. Growing up, he'd always had a subtle layer of fat beneath his skin. The worst place was his stomach. No matter how little he ate as a kid, there was always that little bit of paunch there. It was disappearing now, whether because of the intensive training or his burgeoning manhood he couldn't say. But that sweet, spongy layer of boyhood was fast receding—disappearing, not so much becoming thinner as it was beaten out-right by strength, by raw physical power. He felt it now, a heady mix of adrenaline and testosterone flooding his system, making him lethargic and drowsy as his orgasm wound its way down.

He hissed when Draco rubbed a finger over the agitated skin of his shoulder.

“Sorry,” the blonde mumbled, arms too shaky to push himself up on just yet. “I'll heal ya when I can see straight.”

“S'okay,” Harry smiled into the sheets, enjoying the press of Draco all along his back, softening cock still inside him. “Jus' need to clean... so it won't get infected....”

“It'll scar,” Draco warned. He blew over the wet trails left by his mouth, making Harry shiver. It caused Draco's cock to slip out of him a bit, still half-hard in spite of their wildly fantastic toss.

“Good. I've always wanted a better scar.”

Puffs of air disturbed his hair as Draco silently chuckled. “Happy to oblige.” He smiled against Harry's back, groaning as he shifted his weight. The man's narrow arms were useless. “Help me?”

“Uh, sure?” Harry rolled to his side, bringing Draco with him. The boneless blonde slid away, flopping against their sopping wet sex sheets with a fresh groan. Harry saw the problem, then. Draco had conjured a strip of leather around the base of his shaft—probably to stave off an early orgasm. Fat lot of good it had done him... but Harry wasn't going to say anything. It didn't bother him any and would probably only make Draco uncomfortable if he mentioned it. Draco only wanted to please him these days, to make him happy. That much was painfully obvious. Harry returned the sentiment whole-heartedly. It was possible he was the only person in the world who truly cared for Draco Malfoy. Harry was determined to love the man enough for ten or twenty people, more than he'd ever been loved in his entire life. He would smother Draco with the voracity of his affection. He wanted Draco to feel it—choke on it, if possible. He'd put a bullet in his own head if it would prove his love. So he understood the sometimes crazy things Draco did for his attention, did to prove his mutual admiration, adoration and loving devotion.

Harry shifted, rubbing a hand across Draco's stomach. In a few days he would know whether there were spirals of white-blonde hair there. The thought excited and pleased him exceedingly. He enjoyed Draco's masculinity perhaps more than he should—certainly more than was healthy for a supposedly straight seventeen year old bloke. But what could he say? Everything about Draco was beautiful and deserved to be worshiped. He only wanted to see it all.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, bending to lay a kiss to Draco's pale shoulder. Shadows of raindrops slithered down his skin, mirrored ghosts from the window nearby.

Draco gasped, a ragged sound that spoke of dry mouth and a blooming headache. “Not supposta leave it on tha' long,” he whimpered.

“I didn't know,” Harry offered, defensive before he snapped to his senses. Draco didn't want his apology—he wanted Harry to fetch a wand and end the spell so the trapped blood could leave his cock. Harry threw out his hand, calling, “wand.” A lengthy bit of wood slammed into his palm a second later. “Finite Incantatem.”

Draco breathed a clear sigh of relief as the scrap of dark leather faded away, his cock going limp against a slender thigh. Harry rubbed slow circles across his stomach, toying with his navel and the scars that littered his person. Harry could trace them in his sleep, he knew Draco's body so well.

“Better?”

“Of course,” Draco snorted, dragging Harry to his chest by the hair. “Yer here. Go to sleep.”

Harry threw a leg over Draco's, not bothering with the sheets. They were both still boiling. With the heat of the fire, they'd last the night. Draco's fingers carded gently through his hair, sweeping sweat-soaked tendrils from his brow, heartbeat a steady bump and thrum against his ear. He listened as the man's breathing evened, cheek coming to rest on top of Harry's head with a contented sigh.

“Draco?”

“Hmm.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, baby. Sleep.”

For The Curious: Translation of Latin Spellwork

Amem Inconcessus Viam – Let me love in the forbidden way.

Constrixi Per Tergus – To bind or constrict by means of leather hide

For The Curious: Translation of Draco's French

Quel salop – What a slut (m)
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Conscience