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A Better Bargain Driven	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3083 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Part IV: Never Was

            “Now, Harry!”

            Harry took a step forwards and stabbed the Sword of Gryffindor down at the diadem.

            For an instant, he thought a snake was coiled there, lashing at him, and he almost jumped backwards and tried to lop its head off instead. But he remembered what Dumbledore had told him about the illusions that guarded the ring and the locket, and he stabbed anyway.

            The illusion disappeared just as the snake looked as if it was about to coil up the sword. Instead, the blade came down with a heavy crunch right in the middle of the diadem. Harry saw foul smoke around it for a second, and a shape like a reaching hand, and looked into the heart of flames. He threw up a hand, and the sword clattered to the ground of the small sitting room in Grimmauld Place where Dumbledore had chosen to attempt the destruction of the Horcruxes.

            But all those things vanished. The diadem lay before him in two pieces, and Harry straightened up, realizing that he felt lighter and freer than before. He’d unknowingly been hunching a little and feeling depressed ever since he entered the sitting room.

            He turned towards Dumbledore, standing with his wand drawn next to one of the shrouded chairs. For an instant, their eyes caught, and then Dumbledore collapsed on the chair and fanned himself, coughing, through the huge puff of dust he sent up. He was laughing, shaking his head back and forth.

            “Ah, my dear boy, it feels so much better, doesn’t it? And with the destruction of the diadem, we have removed four of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”

            Harry leaned on the wall and smiled tiredly at Dumbledore. “That only leaves Nagini and—Hufflepuff’s Cup, you think?”

            Dumbledore lost his smile at once. Harry stood up slowly. “What is it?” Dumbledore had admitted before they went into the room to destroy the diadem that he didn’t know where the Cup was and he hadn’t thought of a way to get Nagini away from Voldemort, but he looked so serious now that Harry thought something else must have happened.

            “There is something I have been meaning to tell you,” said Dumbledore. He gave a long and loud sigh, tapping his finger against the side of the chair. It made a clinking sound, and Harry looked at it. He jumped. There was a ring on Dumbledore’s right hand, and his first thought was that it was Slytherin’s ring, which Dumbledore had repaired for some reason.

            But, no, he saw a second later. It was broad and silver, though, with a smooth dark stone.

            “Something grave,” Dumbledore continued, drawing Harry’s attention away from the ring. He gave another weary smile. “Let us go down to the kitchen, where we can have hot chocolate. I find it helps considerably with difficult revelations.”

            Harry trailed after him, concerned but not worried. What could Dumbledore have to tell him that would really change the status quo? They had destroyed four Horcruxes, with only two left to go.

*

            No, three.

            Harry leaned on the railing of the stairs going up to the second floor of Grimmauld Place and sat there with his eyes closed.

            Dumbledore had told him about the Horcrux in his scar.

            “I’m sorry, Harry, but there’s really no other way I can interpret the evidence.”

            Evidence like his dream connections to Voldemort, the way he could see what he was seeing even when Harry was awake sometimes, and the way the scar burned when Voldemort was near.

            Harry reached up to touch his scar, and then shuddered and snatched his hand back. He didn’t like the thought of touching the disgusting thing now, and the thought that a horrid piece of Dark magic like the flames and snake he had glimpsed in the diadem was part of him too made him faint and sick.

            “I think there is no way we can do this except to have Voldemort use the Killing Curse on you, Harry.”

            Harry buried his head between his knees, and shivered.

            At least Dumbledore had told him that his dying, even if it was the last thing that he could do for the war, didn’t mean Voldemort would win. No, Dumbledore was master of two of the Deathly Hallows now—the Elder Wand, which he’d apparently won from Grindlewald long ago, and the Resurrection Stone, which had been in Slytherin’s ring—and he thought he could become master of the third.

            “If you will write me a will, Harry, leaving me possession of the Potter Invisibility Cloak…”

            Yes, Harry could do that. And even if it was temporary—because Dumbledore had promised that he would leave it to Ron and Hermione in his will—it would make Dumbledore the Master of Death and that, combined with Voldemort being mortal once Harry had died and the other Horcruxes were destroyed, ought to let him defeat Voldemort.

            I always thought I might not make it past the final battle, Harry thought numbly to himself as he mopped at his hair, his eyes, his face. I never thought I wouldn’t see it.

            Dumbledore had explained and outlined the consequences and the evidence as kindly as he could. And then he had told Harry to take some time for himself, to think and grieve if he needed to. Or wake up Ron and Hermione and tell them, if he needed to.

            Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. As understandable as it would be, as inevitable as it would be, he couldn’t face their grief right now. He needed some time to himself, yes, and it seemed he would use it sitting on this stair and getting ready to face death.

What I really want is something to remind me that I’m alive, jolt me out of feeling this way, he thought dully. I wish I could duel Snape or something—

Then Harry paused. There was something. It made him feel stupid and vicious and tainted, half the time, but in a far different way than the Horcrux did. And it was the result of a decision he had made on his own. Of course he would die for the war, because he had to. But this, he hadn’t had to. It was a desperation tactic that no one but Harry had thought would work.

Now, he would use it for something else.

            He stood and went to write a Blood Letter. He hardly dared to hope that Malfoy would be able to slip away right now. It was almost midnight, and Voldemort might make the Death Eaters work harder at night, or at least keep a closer watch over them.

            But even if he didn’t respond, at least Harry could Apparate, and to a place that no one else would visit. And he could scream his heart out. And he could pace back and forth, and cast destructive spells if he needed to.

            In fact, even as he sent the letter off, Harry found himself almost hoping that Malfoy wasn’t able to come. Probably it was better to just take his temper out on inanimate objects, not rely on sex that he felt was good against his will.

*

            But, of course, Malfoy was there, waiting in the ruined shell of Flitwick’s Charms classroom.

            Hogwarts was blackened stone all around them as Harry picked his way towards Malfoy, dodging rubble. The Death Eater attacks had burned the school out after it had been evacuated. At least three professors Harry knew of—Sprout, Sinistra, and Flitwick—had lost their lives defending the students as they either Apparated themselves or got taken away by people who could Apparate. Voldemort had had to take out his frustration on walls and doors and towers instead.

            It still hurt, to see the places where people should have walked and laughed and studied and read in the library so empty. Harry had to avoid looking at the huge pile of crisp parchment ashes that marked the library, if only because he could feel the echo of the pain Hermione would experience ringing through his head.

            Instead, he focused on Malfoy, who had created a little corner, as usual: blankets on the floor, a Disillusionment Charm around them, a fire burning on air. Harry began taking off his robes the instant he was in the protected area. For once, he’d decided not to wear Muggle clothing.

            “Potter?”

            Malfoy was climbing to his feet, his lips parted. He’d lost his smug look for the first time Harry could remember since this had started. That suited Harry.

            “I want you to fuck me,” Harry said, and shucked the robes off so they could fall on the floor. He could hear Malfoy gasp. He wasn’t wearing pants. “Not so it hurts, but as hard as you can.” He turned and knelt on the floor, facing away. It was as much as he knew about this kind of sex between men.

            Malfoy moved towards him, quietly. He knelt down and traced Harry’s shoulder. Harry shivered. Now was the time that Malfoy chose to get so stupidly sentimental, when Harry just wanted all the emotions chased out of his head?

            “Malfoy—”

            Then the git shuffled around on his knees in front of Harry and kissed him.

            Harry dived into the kiss with relief. At least this would be like usual, a tongue driving into his mouth that wiped out all thought—

            But it still wasn’t. Malfoy kissed him with slow, consuming strength, sure, but not as fast as Harry needed it. And he eased Harry back into the blankets, and spread his legs with a gentle push of his hands, and coated his fingers with a thick, sticky liquid that Harry had never seen before, and slid them inside gently.

            “This—isn’t what I asked you for,” Harry panted, even as he tried to get used to the strange feeling of fingers inside him. But it was only strange, not the pounding he needed. “Can’t you—do it—right for once?”

            “No,” Malfoy said, and grinned a little. “Because I live to piss you off.”

            Before Harry could argue about that, Malfoy kissed him again, and then his fingers spread out inside Harry like his own legs. Harry strangled out a moan. It was still strange, but it was also making other sensations stir that he had no name for.

            This was the first time he’d ever been glad to feel himself getting hard for Malfoy.

            Malfoy took his time. Of course he did, even when Harry gasped and swore at him. He coated his fingers with more liquid, and at last he had two or three inside Harry—Harry had lost track, between the drug-like kisses and the way Malfoy moved over him, covering Harry, holding him warmer than the fire did. But Harry noticed when Malfoy pulled away and began to undress.

            Harry opened his eyes to watch him. Malfoy’s robes had spots of moisture that Harry realized had come from sweat and probably the lube he’d conjured. Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Malfoy could have got naked any time before this and spared himself some Cleaning Charms later.

            “Why?” he asked, and gestured with his chin at the robes.

            “I didn’t want to,” Malfoy answered, throwing the robes into a corner of the room.

            Which was as good an answer as any, Harry thought as Malfoy eased forwards again and got his own cock ready. But why Malfoy wanted to kiss Harry while he was fully-dressed and prepare him like this for so long, even when Harry had kicked him in the back of the knee to get him to move faster, was a mystery.

            Malfoy flicked out his fingers one more time and then murmured, “This is still going to feel weird.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “No, I suppose you don’t.”

            Malfoy entered him. Harry found himself holding his breath, but it really didn’t hurt. He supposed that would be the point of all the preparation Malfoy had done. And maybe he’d used some spells to make it more comfortable, too.

            But at least it had one effect Harry had wanted. The thought of the Horcrux inside Harry had danced like a flicker of a fire at the back of his mind all through this, and he hadn’t let Malfoy kiss his scar when he’d tried. But now—now—

            Something else was inside him. And Harry could raise his hips to meet Malfoy’s and squeeze down on him and be reassured that this was only something anyone would do, that lots of people wanted. Nothing to do with Horcruxes and strange and foul desires.

            “Fuck me,” Harry whispered, opening his eyes. Malfoy’s face was strange with shadows as he stared down at Harry.

            At least the command got him moving. He reached out and held Harry’s hands above his head, the way he liked to do, wrists against the blankets, as he rocked inside him. And Harry was groaning soon enough. It wasn’t fast, but it was hard.

            Every thrust seemed to drive further into him. Harry thought briefly that was impossible, he was imagining things, but that was still what he felt. And his legs came up and clasped around Malfoy’s waist and dragged him in, and that was good too. So good. Harry’s mouth ran with saliva and he turned his head to the side, but found Malfoy waiting to kiss it away.

            Thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Harry wriggled closer and discovered something new: he really liked having someone inside him.

            The fire dimmed. The blankets grew softer. Malfoy rocked and rocked and rocked, and Harry groaned almost in disappointment when he felt the first climb of his orgasm up the inside of his belly.

            Malfoy leaned down and took him prisoner in a breathless kiss, shortening his thrusts and deepening them. Harry could barely move except where Malfoy moved him. Hands held trapped, mouth held quiet, hips jerking in aborted movements under Malfoy’s—

            He could barely move to come, it seemed. His cock had no room to twitch, or spill, between his belly and Malfoy’s. He cried out, but Malfoy swallowed the sound and shifted a little and thrust again.

            Pleasure tore through Harry once more even as Malfoy came, and he didn’t know whether it was magical or the result of something Malfoy had done. He didn’t care. He shut his eyes and drifted in deep silence.

            Malfoy shakily swore above him.

            Harry rested.

*

            “Why did you want to do this now?”

            Harry sighed and rolled over. Of course Malfoy would ask that just when he’d been on the verge of getting comfortable. But it was probably time to go back to Grimmauld Place anyway. When he cast a Tempus Charm, he saw that it was.

            “Because I got some very bad news,” Harry said, when he saw Malfoy’s hand reaching for his wrist out of the corner of his eye and knew that he wasn’t going to let it go. Malfoy’s hand fell back again, but then he came and stood in front of Harry, frowning. Harry sighed, draped the robes over his shoulders, and met his eyes. “News that means I’m not going to survive this war no matter what happens.”

            Malfoy reeled back a little. He stared at Harry with such a young expression that Harry wanted to laugh. Who knew it took some news of his fucktoy’s demise to make Malfoy look like that?

            “You—can’t know that. No one can really know what will happen in a battle until they get on the battlefield.”

            Harry had the temptation, then, to ask him how many battles with Muggles or Muggleborns he’d participated in. But he refrained. It would be useless and just get them upset. And Harry had got rid of most of the tension in his body. He wasn’t eager to get it back, not this soon.

            “Then say that we’ve chosen a tactic that’s definitely going to kill me. But it’ll end the war.”

            Malfoy shook his head. “I’d counted on you being alive. The—” His long eyelashes shaded his eyes in a slow blink. “I’d counted on you being alive so you could testify for my parents and me and ensure that we had a place after the war.”

            “Dumbledore and Tonks know about the bargain we made,” Harry said. He was still relaxed after all. Malfoy couldn’t change much. He had already done his worst, and Harry had not only survived it but welcomed it. “They’ll testify for you and your parents.”

            “What if they’re dead?”

            Harry snorted. “They have a better chance of surviving at this point than I do.”

            He turned to walk back through the rubble of Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s arms seized him around the waist. Harry stiffened. He didn’t want to fight Malfoy, but he would if the idiot didn’t let him go. He had to get back soon. Hell, for that matter, Malfoy had to get back soon. Voldemort would be a lot more suspicious than Dumbledore.

            “I don’t want you to die,” Malfoy whispered into the back of his ear, his breath wet and hot. He kissed Harry there. Harry stood still, caught in surprise. “I don’t—you can’t die like that. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived.”

            Harry bit his tongue to avoid saying something about how that was the reason he was going to die. He couldn’t trust Malfoy with any truth about the Horcrux and the real reason his death would ensure Voldemort’s. Look at how stupidly he was already acting with just a part of the truth. It would be a lot worse if Harry revealed more.

            “You’re not going to change things like this,” Harry said harshly. Malfoy’s arms dropped away from him, and Harry felt a little sorry. He went on more gently after a minute. “Thanks for changing what you could.”

            He stepped through the illusions and away from the fire, and walked through the school to a point he could Apparate. He didn’t look back. He didn’t think it was the last time he would see Malfoy. The git was likely to call him at least once more, in order to gratify his own desires. And this wasn’t a sentimental parting.

            It was just a parting. The way it had to be.
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A Better Bargain Driven