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The Name I'll Give to Thee	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 42129 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Forty-Three—An Evening In

            Harry laughed as they reached the top of the stairs and nearly fell over. He managed to step back from Draco, put his hands on his shoulders, and smile at him. “I think that we should decide where we’re going and then go together,” he said, a little shocked to hear how deep his own voice was. “Instead of kissing our way there.”

            Draco lifted his head and exhaled hard. Then he nodded. “As long as it means we end up on a bed with me inside you, then I think that’s a good idea,” he muttered.

            Harry swallowed, feeling himself thicken and harden, throb and swell. He reached out and picked up Draco’s hands, rubbing his thumbs back and forth over the knuckles. “Come on, then,” he said, and guided them both to his own bedroom, since it was the closer one.

            He got the door open, and then Draco shut it again, with the way he slammed Harry back against it. He was kissing Harry’s neck and groaning into his mouth. Harry kissed him back, running his hands through Draco’s hair. Draco pulled away and shook himself so that his hair settled back into place.

            “What do you want to do?” he whispered. Harry opened his mouth to protest that everything would be good for him and Draco should choose, but Draco seemed to read his mind with a kind of painless Legilimency. He reached out, put his hand on Harry’s arm, and pinched a little bit.

            “I want you to choose,” he whispered. “I know what I said about being inside you, but—whatever you want, first, before that.”

            Harry smiled and knelt down where he was. Draco looked bewildered for all of a half-second before Harry began undoing his trousers. Then he gasped and went on holding his breath until Harry had his erection out and was smoothing it back and forth between taut fingers.

            “You don’t really want to?” Draco whispered, as though he was breathless.

            “I think I know what I want,” Harry said, and curled his tongue and lips around Draco before Draco could make another stupid assumption.

            Draco’s taste was sharp and salty. If there was anything else there, anything that came from the meal they’d eaten, Harry couldn’t taste it yet. He swallowed and sipped and sucked and hummed, then choked a little as Draco forgot himself and thrust deeply.

            “Sorry,” Draco mumbled at him, and stumbled back, aiming for the bed. Harry stood up and pursued him, smiling as Draco caught his eye and blushed. Draco’s whole body turned that dusty pink color, at least if the skin Harry could see through the gap in his trousers was any indication. Harry hadn’t known that.

            He felt a little drunk as he steered Draco onto the bed, knelt between his legs and kissed him again. Draco’s trousers and shoes still clung to him, and the cloth scraped against Harry’s chest as he dropped back to take Draco in. Not to mention, he was still fully dressed himself, and they would probably look weird to anyone who came in.

            But no one would come in. That was the wondrous part of it. They were free to do as they wished, and Draco rolled his hips and groaned once in the back of his throat as though he had just thought that himself and the idea satisfied him immensely.

            Harry closed his eyes so he could concentrate more on the taste riding his tongue. Draco writhed and skidded around at one point, though, and Harry’s eyes snapped open. Draco was tugging off his shirt. He shook his head when Harry looked at him.

            “Don’t stop,” he whispered, and tugged at the shirt again, hard enough that he winced as his arm caught in one sleeve. “I’m just—I have to—it’s so hot in here.”

            Harry chuckled around Draco, which, from the suggestive arch and thrust of his hips, Draco appreciated. Then he closed his eyes and went back to lapping and licking again. He was going slower now, because he wanted to see what it tasted like that way, and Draco’s hands were flapping and grabbing at nothing. Once or twice they found a grasp on Harry’s hair or shoulders, but then slipped off again.

            Draco was losing control of his mouth, too, and he babbled nonsense that Harry listened to tolerantly as he continued to suck him. “Harry, I—I promise—I won’t—I love you—this is so good—let me do you—”

            That last was the only part Harry didn’t like, because he intended to let Draco do him, but only after he had thoroughly done for Draco. He leaned in until his lips brushed the hair at Draco’s groin and sucked again.

            That did it. Draco froze, his mouth stretched open as though he was letting through some words that were too wide to pass otherwise, and then came down Harry’s throat. Harry relaxed some more and managed to swallow.

            It was a sharper and saltier taste than he had expected it to be. But that wasn’t much of a surprise considering what Draco had tasted like the rest of the time he had been doing this. So he licked his lips only a little afterwards, and crawled up to begin taking off Draco’s trousers from the hips down. Of course, that meant he had to stop and get his shoes off, and Draco moaned and opened his eyes as he was doing that.

            “You’re really good,” he whispered.

            Harry could imagine a time when being praised for his skills in bed would either make him stammer in denial or embarrass him horribly. Now, he had to grin. “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t exactly have a lot of practice, but loving someone and wanting to make them happy is a good substitute.”

            Draco nodded and suddenly pulled hard, so that Harry fell across his chest. Harry grunted in some discomfort and started wriggling to get away, but Draco put a hand in the middle of his back and stilled him without much effort. His eyes were locked on Harry’s and shining, enthralled.

            “What?” Harry whispered back, because Draco looked as though he was going to speak some mystical revelation.

            “I want to kiss you,” Draco whispered, and leaned up, and did that.

            His mouth was more engulfing than Harry had expected, deeper than it had felt on the stairs, and Harry did fall, sprawling across him, his arms losing the ability to balance him. God, it was so good, the way that Draco kissed, the way he touched Harry, his hands in his hair, and his tongue licking in deeper and deeper, until Harry felt as if he had a mouth like Draco’s, and the whole world became the two of them, kissing.

            He laughed into Draco’s mouth, and Draco pulled back and eyed him with some amusement. “Laughing at me?” he asked, reaching down and pulling on himself a little.

            “No,” Harry said. “Laughing because I’m happy.”

            For some reason, that made Draco’s eyes glow like comets, and then he was kissing Harry again and undressing him as he rolled him onto his stomach, and Harry laughed again until the silky slide of the sheets against him made him forget about the laughter and remember how hard he was. He arched his own back, and Draco put a hand on the small of it and rubbed up and down, slowly, as though he was thinking about something else.

            Harry laid his head on the pillow and snorted a little. “You’d better be thinking about me,” he said, when Draco went on touching him, in the absent sort of way that he might pet a cat.

            “I was trying to remember the incantation that would let me fuck you,” Draco said. “I meant what I said.”

            Harry leaned his head back into the pillow and lay there with his eyes closed until he heard Draco murmur something that sounded happy and then a spell. A moment later, Draco was sliding his cock along Harry’s hip, so slick and wet and hot that Harry humped into the bed.

            “No need to do that,” Draco said, and took him by the arse as he finally pulled the last of Harry’s clothes off. “I’ll satisfy you soon enough.”

            “A lot of talk and magic and not a lot of touching so far,” Harry said. Then he gasped as Draco pried him roughly apart and reached in with fingers that he must have lubed when Harry wasn’t listening—or did the spell that had got him hard again do that, too?—to make him twitch and gasp and thrash.

            “You were saying?” Draco asked, in a soft voice that sounded almost elegant, almost uninterested.

            “Fuck you,” Harry muttered, and Draco laughed with so much meaning in his voice, dark meaning that made Harry clench down on his fingers, until Draco pulled them out and said something Harry couldn’t hear over the pounding in his ears.

            “What?”

            “You’re more than ready,” Draco said, and eased forwards, into him.

            Harry had felt this before, but it seemed to go deeper this time, the same way their kisses in the bed had. He swallowed and relaxed, because he wouldn’t let himself do anything else, and once again there came a moment when the burning vanished into pleasure. He clutched at the sheets and hissed.

            “I wish I could hear you praising me in Parseltongue,” Draco whispered as he thrust, and Harry went sliding up the bed until Draco cast another spell, one that made the sheets rise up and grasp his hips to hold him in place. “I wish it was just like this, here, all the time, and me always riding you like this, and you always taking this…”

            Harry thought he said something back, but he really couldn’t remember afterwards. His mind was a deepening spiral of black and purple pleasure, and he put his head down and pushed his way through the next few thrusts, striving, reaching for the goal he could feel waiting just beyond him.

            Draco prolonged it, though, pulling back when Harry tried to impale himself, and murmuring how Harry was so impatient, and he had to wait, and nearly making Harry remember why he had hated Draco when they were children. But then he gave in, maybe to his own need more than Harry’s whimpers, and shoved inwards again. Harry reared up on his fingers and toes, crying out.

            “There, there, yes,” Draco said, and made it into a chant as he went back to thrusting and pushing.

            And then they had both reached that place, and Harry rose up like a bird and came down like a weary-winged bird, and he shuddered all over with the consuming nature of it, the way Draco was inside him and down him and around him.

            Particularly when Draco leaned over and grabbed Harry’s shoulders as he panted out his own orgasm against Harry’s neck, it was intoxicating.

            Harry lay there with his eyes closed when that was done, and Draco stroked his shoulders and back and said something long and low and sweet. Harry didn’t even try to listen to the words. That wasn’t what he was interested in, just the tone, the way that Draco seemed interested in just holding and touching him.

            And then he was asleep, and he never knew if Draco had fallen asleep in the same position or not.

*

            “Mistress Narcissa is expecting Master Draco.”

            Draco blinked his eyes open and turned his head. He had had a house-elf wake him in a potentially embarrassing situation more than once, but he had to admit, never one as embarrassing as this one. He was still inside Harry, and pulled out with a long groan and a sticky feeling.

            Ossy continued to look at the wall, and repeated, “Mistress Narcissa is expecting Master Draco.”

            “She probably knows exactly what we were doing, and wanted to make sure that I don’t spend any more time than necessary with Harry,” Draco muttered, and shook his head as he stood up and began to dress. “That would be like her.”

            “Master Draco Malfoy is preferably not being accusing Mistress Narcissa.”

            Draco looked at Ossy, who continued to look at the wall. He knew that he could demand that the elf explain that remark. And then he would have to deal with frigid words and maybe the highest heresy of all, burnt meals, for the next week.

            Then Draco cast a look at Harry, still sprawled on the bed, and sighed and continued dressing. No, Ossy wouldn’t burn the meals, not now that Draco’s demi-husband ate them with him. Instead, he would choose sweet things that Harry had proved to like and Draco couldn’t abide.

            “Mistress Narcissa is expecting—”

            “She’s probably been expecting me for at least ten minutes,” Draco snapped at Ossy as he tossed his head back to glare at him. “She can wait a bloody minute.”

            “Mistress Narcissa,” Ossy said, exactly as if he were a Muggle recording machine, “is not expecting Master Harry.”

            Draco stared again. He wondered if there was something wrong with Ossy this morning, if perhaps a fly had got into the kitchens and contaminated some food he was making, and thus driven him crazy. Ossy continued to stare stolidly straight ahead, and said nothing, and said nothing some more, which finally caused Draco to shake his head and jam his feet into his boots. “I know that,” he muttered.

            “But,” Ossy said, with delicate precision, “she is saying nothing about bringing him along.”

            Draco took much less time to process that than he had the messages Ossy had passed along to him so far. Then he grinned, and reached out to shake Harry’s hip to bring him awake.

*

            Harry concealed his yawn behind his hand, and thought he saw Ossy smile from the side of the room. But then the smile went away, and Harry decided it must have been Ossy grimacing instead. He probably should, when the latest Malfoy heir showed up yawning and with his hair mussed in another Malfoy’s bedroom.

            Which wasn’t his fault. Harry had wanted to shower and pat his hair down, at least, so Narcissa couldn’t tell so clearly what they’d been doing, but Draco had hauled him along, insisting that his mother was expecting them.

            She had turned away from Harry the minute he entered, which meant at least part of that message was false and Harry would have to speak to his husband about grey lies later, and spoken only to her son. They’d exchanged false pleasantries for long minutes now. Like duelists, Harry thought, warming up with minor curses and hexes before they exploded into the true battle.

            He found the idea tedious. He stared at the shelf of books on the wall instead. He would have thought Narcissa’s tastes would run to the dry tomes Draco had given him to read, but she had novels and a book that looked as though it might be history. But a more interesting history than the goblin rebellions Binns had taught them, Harry thought, craning his neck to try and see the title.

            “Please tell your demi-husband not to peer at my possessions, Draco.”

            Harry winced as he turned around again. Damn it, he was trying. But it seemed even a simple gesture was wrong.

            And he would probably cause Narcissa more tedium if he apologized, because he would do something wrong there, too. He pinched his lips so tightly shut that he winced again a second later, because he’d hurt his mouth.

            “I think it’s good of Harry to be interested in our history, Mother,” Draco said, in a milder tone than the one he’d been using a moment ago to discuss someone Harry had never heard of. “It’s his history, too, now.”

            Narcissa’s fists doubled up. Harry stared at them for a second. Was it his imagination, or was the skin on them less wrinkled and loose than it had been yesterday?

            He lost his desire to keep on looking when Narcissa turned a face that had gone porcelain with fury on him.

            “It is not his history,” she hissed, still responding to Draco although this time she seemed to be looking directly at Harry. “It will never be. He did not marry into this family. He did not grow up in it. He did not become part of the pure-blood world by any right except that of conquest. And do not talk to me about demi-marriage, Draco,” she added viciously when Draco opened his mouth. “I know that he has that right, as he would phrase it. But that does not make him part of us the way a real marriage would. The way that my marriage to your father did.”

            “Isn’t this all about how strong the marriages make the family?” Harry asked. He started a little at the sound of his own voice, which was more distant and uninterested than he had known it would be. Narcissa glared at him, and Draco stared at him, and still Harry went on speaking as though someone else was speaking through him instead, someone who had thought more deeply about this and knew the history. “So let’s look at the results of your marriage and my demi-marriage.”

            “You dare to speak to me like that,” whispered Narcissa.

            Harry smiled at her. “Yes, I do dare, and not even you sound as if you were really phrasing it as a question,” he said. “So. I married Draco and rescued you from debt. I made sure that Draco had a new wand. I made sure that both of you had protection while you recovered from your coma. I quit my job for him, because the Ministry was too prejudiced against my new family to treat me fairly, and in the meantime I fought and defended the family against enemies, some of which were brought into the picture by someone who was blood-related. Blood loyalty is overrated, I find. I was loyal to Draco and I helped you because of nothing except a demi-marriage that you refuse to call real. If it was a tentative bond, it was one that I chose to honor.”

            Narcissa tried to say something, and Harry had the faint impression Draco might have tried as well, but he was in full flight right now, and there was nothing that was going to stop or slow him down.

            “Let’s look at your marriage,” Harry said. “You have one child. So you provided the Malfoy family with an heir. That was well done.” His voice was still cold and calm and grey, and he thought he was starting to recognize the mood he was in the middle of. He had felt it before, when he was confronting criminals that he knew were never going to change or repent, and he might as well hit them with the force of all he knew about their crimes. “But only one. And you had a husband who joined the Dark Lord and swore loyalty to him above his family. He endangered his only child. You tried to mitigate that damage by making Snape swear an Unbreakable Vow to protect Draco, but that ended, in turn, by dragging an ally of the family to his own death. You saved my life, and now you speak as though you wish you hadn’t, because it made me unworthy to marry into your family. If my stupid life had ended there, I can hear you thinking, in the Forbidden Forest at the Dark Lord’s feet, then you would never have collapsed, or Draco lost his power or his wand or the wards, because I would never have been able to pull on your life-debts when the Dementor ghosts came.”

            Narcissa said a single, stabbing word. Harry didn’t hear what it was. He had turned and walked over to the bookshelf, where he stood looking at the books and speaking, not turning around. He didn’t touch the books, because she didn’t want him to and he wasn’t stupid enough to offend her for no reason. But the words were there when he reached for them, continuous, endless, relentless.

            “And now your husband is in prison, and you couldn’t help to lead the family because that was the new head of the family’s job, and then you fell into helplessness and old age when the magic tore your life-force from you.” He could feel the flinch from behind him. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to watch the invisible wounds his words had torn in her bleeding, either. He could be kind, in a way, a hard, grey mercy. “That isn’t so bad. That wasn’t your fault. But ever since you woke up, you’ve been hammering and tearing at Draco’s marriage, denigrating what he and I have achieved together, and insisting that he divorce me and marry someone else. That isn’t the way to make the family strong, Narcissa. It isn’t even the way to mitigate the excesses of what you think are a poor marriage and support your son in another way that will build him up. Telling me to my face that you hate me and that you wish I hadn’t married Draco? That’s not subtle evil stepmother. That’s not good politician and cunning diplomatist. That’s simply—” and he turned around and launched the word at her with the polite smile of the politician he’d talked about “—rude.”

            Narcissa stared at him with her mouth open. Then she snapped it shut, and swallowed. Harry listened to the sound of her swallowing in perfect indifference, and watched with equally indifferent eyes as Narcissa sagged back, tried to speak, and failed.

            “Yes,” Harry said. “I think that’s the word for it.”

            Draco came forwards and took his hand. Harry looked into his eyes and saw a mixture of relief and wariness, anger and hope. Harry nodded a little. Well. He would allow Draco time to think about it and decide whether or not Harry’s words had been fair.

            Or, no, not fair. That wasn’t the point, was it? They were supposed to think about everything as a source of strength or weakness, whether it would help the family or not. Narcissa hadn’t done that, but Harry would have to, at least in the ways he interacted with Narcissa and Draco.

            “You haven’t provided the family with an heir,” Narcissa whispered.

            Harry might have laughed, but she was white to the lips and he didn’t want to. “I have someone in mind,” he said. “Someone who’s even blood-related.” He bowed and turned towards the door of the room.

            Draco’s hand slipped along his, ending up in a grip on his fingers. Harry looked at him silently. Draco just shook his head a little, opened his mouth, tried to speak, and closed it.

            “I know,” Harry said gently. “I won’t ask you to pick a side, because it’s not right. But you might think about the fact that I’ve asked you for certain things, and your mother’s asked you for certain things, and you might or might not be able to serve both of us.”

            He raised Draco’s hand to his lips, not caring if his mother saw, and detached Draco’s grasp gently, then went off to be by himself. He was shaken, and drained, and not entirely pleased.

            But it might have been the only way to make her see reason.

            Please, let her see reason.

*

            delia cerrano: Narcissa might at least believe Harry means his devotion to Draco now.

            polka dot: Oh, Harry has no intention of bowing down in front of every Malfoy.

            Rina: I think this counts?

            Diana: Here’s the next chapter.

            moodysavage: They enjoyed the evening, anyway! Not so much the next morning.
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The Name I'll Give to Thee