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What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 45
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- 47
Epilogue 2. Draco's Deliverance

Draco sat with his mother in what remained of the Great Hall, surrounded by Potter’s victorious supporters. Yet surprisingly, no one bothered them, tried to attack or arrest them, nor even insisted that they leave. He couldn’t fathom why, but he was grateful.
His head rested on her shoulder as she stroked his singed and soot filled hair in such a rare public display of affection that Draco couldn’t remember it ever happening before. Of course, nothing was as it was before. His father was dead, Bellatrix was dead, the Dark Lord was dead, along with so many others on both sides. And those that remained were left bloodied and bereaved, their lives forever scarred by The Dark Lord’s reign.
Voldemort’s death, however, wasn’t the excruciatingly painful passing given to his father. Nor was Bellatrix’s. They’d died quickly, possibly painlessly while his father had screamed in agony and gurgled his last breath. They didn’t die consumed by flames like Goyle and Rudolphus and Macnair either. Instead, they were granted a merciful death, which left Draco bitter with resentment. Potter had the ability to burn them both alive, to make them suffer for their crimes, but he didn’t.
When he’d first pulled off his invisibility cloak after the Dark Lord turned his wand on Weasley’s mother, Draco thought he’d seen that glow in his eyes, that same wild fury he’d seen in the ruined, charred cellar of his home. Potter intended to protect her the way he’d protected his friends. He’d read it on his rival’s face and felt a rush of fear coupled with the thrill of excitement to be able to finally witness that power directed at Voldemort. Yet Potter didn’t channel that rage into a torrent of vengeful magic against his mortal enemy. Maybe it was because he couldn’t control it enough not to harm the hundreds of people watching. Draco didn’t know, but he was disappointed.
Like the Weasley matriarch dueling Bellatrix to protect her children, Draco’s own mother had protected him too, in her own way. Sending him back to Hogwarts shortly after his meeting with Potter and his friends on the Muggle underground train was her last ditch effort to protect him from Voldemort. She’d taken one look at him when he’d arrived back at the manor and knew something had happened, something that put him in great peril, but she asked no questions. She was afraid to have the knowledge herself, afraid she would be forced to give details of his betrayal to the Dark Lord. Yet she sensed there was something more he was hiding besides just the damage to his face.
Giving him her wand, she traded it for the one Potter had left him with and insisted he return to Hogwarts that very day, telling him that she could convince The Dark Lord that her son could be of more use to him there, gathering information from the students about Potter’s whereabouts or news of his plans since Bellatrix’s torture of her captors had gleaned nothing. Draco hadn’t wanted to leave her at the Manor alone, but he didn’t argue. He was dead if he stayed. They both knew it. Ensconcing him at Hogwarts would buy him some time, at the very least. It was her last hope of saving him, and he would not disobey her wishes. So he spent the next several weeks languishing in the Slytherin dorms, attending no classes or school functions. Then Potter came and set them all free.
He sat at the table in the Great Hall for a long time, hours maybe, letting his mother pet him, not unlike other mothers and fathers around them with their battle weary children. He watched the youngest Weasley, the girl he thought Potter had fancied, sitting across the hall from them, clutched protectively to her own mother’s bosom, just openly staring at them, as if she was in a daze, maybe from shock, grief, or fatigue. Then someone stepped in front of him, breaking his line of sight. Draco glanced up warily.
Potter was standing directly in front of them from the other side of the table, his two constant guardians a few steps back. Sitting up and pulling his head off his mother’s shoulder, Draco nervously smoothed the front of his burnt, soot covered robes as if he were being presented to royalty. His mother, too, straightened her posture and they all stared at one another in guarded silence. Then, without a word, Potter slid a wand across the table towards Draco. It was his own wand, the one Potter had stolen. The wand he’d refused to give back to Draco in the Room of Requirement before Goyle tried to kill them all. Potter was returning it to him now.
Draco just stared at the thin strip of wood for a long time, almost afraid to touch it. He was in awe of the instrument. It was the wand that had disarmed the Dark Lord, the wand that had been wielded by the wizard standing in front of him in a remarkably short duel that had finally ended Draco’s torment and freed his mother from her bondage.
Finally, Draco reached out a shaking hand and pulled it towards him, feeling the familiar texture against his fingers. The wood was still warm from Potter’s grip. Happy to be reunited with it, Draco marveled at it, turning it in his hand, while Potter stepped back.
“I’m not sorry your husband’s dead,” Harry said quietly, addressing Draco’s mother without preamble. He was just as blunt as he’d been at their last meeting on the Muggle train. His voice was weak, full of exhaustion as if it were a struggle just to stay on his feet and say the words.
Draco stared up at Harry who glanced back at him briefly before returning his bloodshot eyes to Draco’s mother. “I’m not sorry your sister is either… but I don’t have any quarrel with you. I’m grateful for the help you’ve given me. Both of you. We’re all free now. He’s finally gone, for good this time, I think.”
Regarding Potter a long moment with that stone façade she’d perfected, his mother finally nodded her head regally. Potter nodded back before turning and walking away, and that was that.
He and his mother left after that and went home, returning to the manor that belonged to only them again, as if they’d just been waiting for Harry’s acknowledgement, for him to judge them and pronounce them innocent, absolving them of any guilt so they’d be free to leave.
Draco thought on those moments a lot over the weeks and months since they’d occurred, reflecting on his own actions and their consequences. He would never have thought he’d find himself back here, back at Hogwarts sitting in a classroom after he’d fled the grounds with Snape that night. He wondered sometimes, especially when he woke from a night terror of reliving his father’s horrible death again, bathed in sweat and trembling in his four poster, what his life would have been like if he’d just accepted Dumbledore’s offer of protection. Would his father still be alive? Perhaps. He’d surely be imprisoned in Azkaban, but he’d be alive, their family whole. Or would they all be dead now? Discovered and captured like Potter had been. All of them raped and tortured to death instead?
It was funny how life went. The choices he’d made, right or wrong, had changed him. The consequences of his actions, or inactions, had humbled him, and tempered some of his arrogance. Some of it, but not all, he thought as Granger looked at him over the cauldron of her perfectly brewed Pepper-up potion and threw her eyes in Harry’s direction. He didn’t need her pointed stare to tell him what he already knew, though. She was like Potter’s mother or something, but he’d been watching, too, much as he despised himself for it. Hell, they all did. Draco saw the tremble in Potter’s hands as he added ingredients into his cauldron from two desks away. He saw the beads of sweat that broke out over his forehead when it started to boil and bluish smoke rose over the top of the iron belly. He was seriously freaking out, which was just plain dangerous. Potter needed to blow off some steam, and Granger was clearly telling him to take care of that, the bossy bitch.
My pleasure, he thought.
The moment class was over, Potter threw his things in his bag and made a beeline for the door. Draco rushed to try and catch up, leaving the Mudblood to clean up after both of them. Catching sight of Harry’s messy black hair, Draco hurried to follow. Potter gave the password and ducked into the prefect’s bathroom.
Perfect, he thought as he slipped inside, quietly locking the door behind him.
He snuck up behind Potter as he splashed water on his pale face from the basin and bent, cupping his shaking hands to take a drink. Running a damp hand through that ridiculous hair then, he made to straighten back up. He’d see Draco in the mirror when he did, and without thinking, Draco pounced. Throwing his arms around Harry’s chest, he yanked Harry flush against him. Trapped, with his arms pinned down at his sides, Harry let out a yelp of fearful surprise.
Draco knew immediately he’d made a huge mistake as Harry went stiff all over. He’d done more than startle him, he’d terrified him. He could feel the electric charge building in Harry, making all the hairs on Draco’s body stand on end. It stung his skin like a thousand tiny pins pricking him as Harry’s body hummed with power, but he was afraid to let go. He remembered the dungeon cellar of his home after Potter had finished with it. He remembered what they looked like when he’d finished with them.
“Whoa… easy, Potter, it’s just me,” he said quickly through gritted teeth, his lips against Harry’s ear trying to quickly talk him back down before Harry did him serious harm. “It’s just me, Draco. You’re okay… I’m not trying to hurt you, all right? Just calm down,” he soothed as he slowly relaxed his hold, though he was still pressed into Harry’s back.
Harry whirled around to face him then so that they were chest to chest, murder in his wild eyes. “MALFOY!” Harry shouted into his face. Outraged, he shoved Draco hard in the chest, sending him staggering backwards. “You. Total. Fuck!”
Rubbing his arms vigorously, Draco tried to massage the stinging sensation out of them, trying to flatten the hairs back down on his arms which were still standing on end. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to startle you. I guess I wasn’t thinking,” he apologized. “What? Did you have a flashback or something?”
“Shut up!” Harry yelled indignantly. “I’m not talking to you about that!” Fuming, he pointed an accusing finger at Draco, who immediately raised his arms in surrender, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. “I could have killed you, you idiotic cunt. You complete fucking arse!”
“Language, Potter!” Draco admonished in mock offense. “Do you kiss Granger with that filthy mouth?”
“Go to Hell!”
“You first!” he sneered.
They stared at each other a minute, Harry boiling with rage, his face red, his chest heaving. At least his color was back and his shaking was due to anger now instead of fear. It was a start. When he was fairly sure that Harry wasn’t going to attack, Draco lowered his hands and then smiled widely, bravely or stupidly stepping close to Harry again.
“I said I was sorry. Do you want me to say it again?” he asked with a pout, stepping in even closer. When he didn’t immediately get a fist to the face, he pressed himself against Harry, grasping him by the hips, grinding his growing erection into Harry. “Or I can show you if you like.”
“You're a git, Draco,” Harry growled yanking him by the back of the head. Their lips crashed together in a bruising kiss. Teeth and lips and tongues warred with each other, both of them trying to dominate the other.
Running his hands over Harry’s arse, Draco dug his fingers in the firm flesh, pulling him close to grind their mutual arousal together. Harry groaned into his mouth, and Draco knew he was forgiven.
This was what Draco loved about Harry, when they were together it was a battle. The physical struggle between them was like waging a war that left them both bleeding and exhausted when it was over and occasionally more seriously injured. It had been like this since they were eleven years old, and Draco loved every minute of it. Well, it hadn’t been like this exactly, of course, it had been a lot less enjoyable back then, but he couldn’t resist provoking Harry any more now than he had been able to then.
They were like magnets, on opposite sides of the war from the moment they met, almost polar opposites in every way. Constantly pushing against each other, they repelled each other until the events of their lives, of the war, changed them, altered their polarity and just like magnets then, they were drawn violently, irresistibly together. Bound tightly now, each was gripped powerfully by the other. It wouldn’t last though, Draco knew that. Once they got control of their lives, once they adjusted themselves to their new reality and healed the damage as much as possible, this would end. This dependence, their reliance on each other would be over. There was nothing between them long lasting, not affection, not friendship and not even hatred really anymore. Only a mutual attraction to the violence held them together. But they were already weaning themselves off the other, healing in their own warped way.
Like a star in the twilight of its life, the intensity of their contentious relationship had built over the years growing white hot as it died, burning brightly here at the end before finally going dark. They were on the brink of that implosion, the star already in the throes of death, the intensity too great to sustain much longer as it consumed its own fuel faster and faster. Draco knew it, accepted it, though he knew he would miss it, too. Its absence would leave a black hole inside him as it would in the heavens. He would miss moments like this, and part of him was irritated about it. Not that it was going to end, but that he would feel nostalgic about it when it did, reflecting on it fondly like some Hufflepuff sap.
This was only a brief intermission in their lives, however. An unholy alliance of sorts where both of them took from the other what they needed. Once they were mended, and no longer had anything to offer the other, the contract would expire, never to be renewed again.
“You’re such a slag, Potter,” Draco teased, whispering into Harry’s ear as he continued to hump him into the wall.
“Fuck you!” Harry growled angrily. “I didn’t go looking for you, Malfoy.”
“Yeah, but everyone knows I’m a slag,” he responded with a chuckle, still rubbing against his raven haired rival, as if to emphasize the point. “But you’re The Chosen One. What would the devoted readers of Witch Weekly say if they found out? Think of your reputation,” he mocked.
“Shut up,” Harry snarled. Pulling Draco by his perfectly combed hair, Harry shoved his tongue back down his throat again, effectively silencing him, which was just fine with Draco. Like everything between them, Harry snogged like they were in mortal combat. It was fucking fabulous. Besides, Potter wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and they agreed on almost nothing, anyway. Their relationship had absolutely nothing to do with the philosophical and everything to do with the physical.
Draco was an equal opportunity lover, boys or girls, it didn’t matter to him. He was attracted to both, and they to him. Well, he reasoned, despite the damage to his family name with this war, he was still a Malfoy and a Black, both wealthy and well bred. What could you expect? People hit on him all the time, and if he was in the mood, he took them up on their offer. Nothing wrong with that, he thought. People could call him whatever they liked, he called it satisfied.
“What will they print on your frog card, Potter?” he asked, sounding scandalized when they broke apart, still panting hard as he continued to provoke the formidable wizard he had pinned up against the wall with his own body.
“Harry Potter, also known as The Boy Who Lived or The Chosen One, famous for his defeat of the Dark Lord, known alternately as Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle or He Who Must Not Be Named, at the tender age of seventeen during the Battle of Hogwarts.” he recited quickly in a very pompous voice, trying to sound like Granger actually, when she gave an answer straight from the textbook to a professor while he ran his hands up Harry’s sides, dragging his shirt up and un-tucking it from his trousers.
“Potter is the only person known to have survived the killing curse when, at the age of one, he was attacked by Lord Voldemort, who is widely thought to be the most powerful dark wizard of all time. The attack killed his parents, leaving him orphaned,” he went on, watching Harry’s face darken and his eyes narrow, knowing he was pushing it now. “Since his victory over the Dark Lord his ambition is now to become an Auror. He likes to spend his free time playing Quidditch and is known to be a very good Seeker. He also likes to shag his best mates and is especially fond of being buggered blind.”
He was sniggering now, his fingers deftly popping the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “Maybe you can pose for your picture on your hands and knees Potter with your robes flipped up in the back to expose that luscious arse.” He ran his hands over Harry’s chest, pushing the shirt open. “Maybe riding your broomsti—” He broke off when he got a fist to the gut for his trouble.
“Do you really think I’m a good Seeker, Malfoy?” Harry asked, batting his eyes at Draco, in a parody of bashfulness before snorting with derisive laughter as he loosened his own tie. “Sounds like you’ve given my frog card a lot of thought. I suppose I should be flattered.”
“I said widely thought of as a good Seeker. I didn’t say I thought that. Your Potter fan club certainly does, though, which includes just about everyone else in the damn wizarding world.”
Harry scowled at that. That’s one thing he had learned, actually. Potter really did hate all the attention. Go figure.
“You’re just jealous they won’t be making any frog cards for any of the wizards on your side,” Harry replied. “Did you want a shiny little medal, Malfoy? Would it have made up for all the people that died? Would that have made you happy? ‘Cause I’ll give you mine. I’ll even polish it up for you, if you like, before I shove it up your arse.”
There it was again, finally, the anger he’d been trying to draw out of Potter. That glorious, green eyed vengeful demon that lived inside him was coming closer to the surface now.
Come on out, he thought, Come on out and play.
“I wasn’t on his side,” he muttered, unable to keep from defending himself, however feebly.
“Oh, that’s right. I remember now. You chose not to fight on either side, didn’t you? You sat the whole thing out like the coward you are. Intent on saving your own skin and no one else’s, weren’t you, Malfoy? Probably figured you’d be able to sidle up to whichever one of us was still standing in the end, that way.”
That stung. Draco gritted his teeth, but said nothing because it was the absolute true. In the end, he’d fled from both sides of the battle. His only purpose, his only thought was of saving himself. And if faced with the same circumstances again, he’d probably do the same. He wasn’t like Potter and had no desire to be. Perhaps if killing curses just bounced off him like they did the boy wonder here, he’d feel differently, but he wasn’t.
His mother had shared with him what had happened when Potter had come to meet The Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest. She told him how Harry just stood there, unarmed, and let Voldemort curse him. He hadn’t missed. The curse hit the defenseless wizard straight in the chest, she assured him. She said that he’d glowed green for a moment before he crumpled to the ground in front of them, apparently dead. Only she’d been sent to investigate and discovered differently.
What would possess a man to do that? What kind of suicidal madness would lead him out there? Unless, of course, he knew the curse wouldn’t kill him. But how could he? Sure, he’d survived it once before, but still, that was taking a hell of a chance with his life. Harry might think him a coward, but that went well beyond bravery. Potter had clearly been out of his mind, demonstrating the same casual disregard for his own life that Draco had seen that night in the dungeon. Even then, all he cared about was the welfare of his friends. Of course, Draco had also seen the proof on his arms of Harry’s willingness to throw his life away that day on the train and many times since then when those scars were exposed. Even now, sometimes, Draco had seen how tenuous a grip he had on his own will to keep living. It was a delicate thing.
Stepping back then, he stared at the hostility on Harry’s face, considering him. He may be suicidal at times like this, but Potter was still filled with that magnetic power. It radiated off of him, making him hot to the touch. It was that power which attracted Draco to him. He was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
Harry had finally worked his tie loose. Pulling it through his collar impatiently, he then stripped off his shirt, leaving him with just the pouch he always wore around his neck, which sat directly over the mark on his chest from that final killing curse, concealing the scar from Draco’s view. Draco had asked him several times what was inside the pouch, but Potter wouldn’t say.
“Broken dreams,” he’d answered evasively once when Draco persisted, which only served to peak his curiosity more.
It was probably that stupid medal. Well, it probably wasn’t, but Draco liked to think so anyway. He liked to imagine a vain Potter coveting some of his fame. He wasn’t vain though, his appearance proved that, and he shunned the public. Hell, he was practically a recluse, which was a shame. What Draco could do with that fame, the power he could wield with it if it belonged to him.
“You’re so much more attractive when you’re angry,” he told Potter, taking in his disheveled state, his tousled hair and flushed face, those emerald eyes glowing.
“Well then, I ought to be bloody gorgeous right now,” Harry snarled back. “Hell, it’s no wonder then you’re constantly trying to jump my bones every time I’m around you. You always piss me off.”
“I’m not trying to jump your bones most of the time. I’m trying to crush them.”
“Well, it’s an interesting method you’re using. I don’t think rutting against me like that is going to break any bones unless it’s just my pelvis you’re trying to shatter. Perhaps you should reconsider your technique.”
Draco glared at him as he worked his hand into Harry’s trousers to get his hands around Potter’s impressive manhood. He had a really nice sized cock, and what’s more, he knew how to use it.
“You know there’s no actual bone in that, right?” Harry asked, smirking.
“Shut up,” he growled, bypassing the belt and the fly to cup his balls.
“Shite,” Potter groaned. Resting his head against the wall, Potter closed his eyes against the feel of it, surrendering himself for a moment as Draco fondled him.
“We haven't got much time. So, are you tossing my salad or am I tossing yours?” Draco asked, arching one eyebrow when Potter had finally shut up.
Potter’s lip curled, and he opened an eye. “God, Malfoy! Can you be anymore crude?”
“I’ve got my hand down the front of your pants, fisting your cock and you’re worried about me offending your delicate sensibilities?” he asked incredulously. “If you wanted tame and loving, go find one of your other fuck buddies.”
Harry snorted derisively in response, which made Draco pause. He guessed, now that he thought about it, the tosser was in a fucking three-way with Granger and the weasel. Not that Potter had ever admitted it to him, of course. Despite Draco’s endless grilling, Harry had never confirmed nor denied that the relationship between the three of them was more than friendship. Draco was convinced it was, however, and the conviction made him irrationally jealous.
The three of them probably got up to some wild shit together. The youngest Weasley looked like she’d be a firecracker in bed herself. That wasn’t to mention the constant barrage of people who shamelessly threw themselves at The Boy Who Lived. The thought made him suddenly envious.
God, Potter got so much action it was a wonder he could walk at all. He had to be rubbed raw constantly. Shagging Granger had to be like fucking an encyclopedia though, he decided, trying to console himself for the disproportionate amount of play Desirable Number One here was getting. Surely it had to be just as dry and clinical. She probably talked the whole time, instructing Potter on how to stick it in, how far, how many thrusts and how hard. She was such a damn bossy know it all, he was sure she told you all the things you were doing wrong, everything you could improve in your technique the whole time you were banging her. Potter probably had to ram his cock down her throat sometimes just to shut her up.
Weasley, though, was a different story. The redhead had a certain swagger about him, a virility that he’d first noticed on that muggle train ride. Draco was certain that nothing in the way he fucked was probably tame or textbook. Ron was awful damn aggressive these days, probably in and out of the bedroom, and a real jealous bastard from what Draco could see. There was a reason Granger and Potter kept his relationship (if that’s what you wanted to call this) with Harry a secret. Draco’s nose had already been introduced to Weasley’s hostility once. The ginger brute would go ballistic if he knew Draco was anywhere near Harry, and he didn’t fancy having his nose bent the other direction by Potter’s jealous boyfriend. Harry did enough damage to Draco’s body on his own, but always stopped short of all out maiming or murder. He didn’t think Weasley would show the same restraint.
Still, he thought with satisfaction, he bet the weasel never bottomed for Potter. He didn’t look the type. Draco wasn’t really the type either, for that matter. Potter was the only person he would ever allow to roger him senseless. He was a Malfoy for God’s sake! But sometimes, only sometimes, he’d set that aside and let Potter fuck him until he came without even having to touch himself at all, filling him with that power until he was screaming Harry’s name, begging for more. He felt even more blood rush to his cock now just thinking about it, hoping fervently that’s what Potter wanted to do today instead of something like a quick blow.
Maybe the Mudblood liked to be bossed around in bed, he considered then. Lots of normally dominate people liked to be submissive in the bedroom. Take Harry, for instance. Draco was convinced that he was Weasley’s sub, and he was the hero of the fucking wizarding world. Hell, he was the biggest badass Draco knew. But the only person he thought Harry was actually aggressive with sexually was him, and even then, Harry bottomed for him sometimes.
It was a very interesting dynamic the three of them had, now he thought on it. He’d like to be a fly on the wall sometime when they got together. How weird would it be to watch the weasel ride roughshod over the other two? Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, and the smartest witch of her age letting Weasley dominate them. How fucking perfect was that?
He shook his head to clear it. Why the hell was he wasting time thinking about Harry having sex with Granger and Weaslbee, anyway, when he could be having sex with him right now, instead? What did he have to be jealous about when he had Potter ready and willing in front of him right here, right now, in the middle of the day in the Prefect’s bathroom?
Eager not to waste anymore time, he pressed himself against Harry again and bit down on Potter’s lower lip, drawing a growl from Harry as his hand fisted in Draco’s hair. Harry jerked Draco’s head backwards, forcing him to arch his back as Harry ran his tongue up the column of Draco’s exposed throat and then latched on, biting hard on the cord of his neck. Draco moaned open mouthed at the ceiling and his legs shook in anticipation as he squeezed Harry’s shaft tightly in response.
Yep, it was going to be one of those hate fucking kind of days, he thought. Brilliant!
Harry needed to let out his aggression, Draco knew it. He knew Harry’s vices, knew he liked it rough, knew he liked to be choked. Harry liked a little pain with his pleasure. Well, a lot really, more than even Draco was willing to give him sometimes, lest he fall over the edge himself. But Potter wasn’t afraid to ask for it from Draco. Not like he was with the precious Weasley siblings and Granger. When Harry wanted to get dirty and nasty, when he needed it to hurt, he did it with Draco. With him, Harry could make his own demands and didn’t really care about Draco’s feelings. It was a win-win situation for both of them, in Draco’s opinion. He did, after all, have his father’s and his aunt Bella’s blood running through his veins. He had a penchant for cruelty, and he could enjoy it.
Sometimes they didn’t fuck at all. That didn’t come until later, actually. When they’d first come together shortly after term started, it was to beat the living shit out of each other. The sex had just been a byproduct of that aggression. Their violence against each other escalating one night had finally exploded into a frenzy of sexual desire, where the winner of their wrestling match took all. Now, when one or both of them needed that kind of release, they seemed to sense it in each other, drawn together by their mutual desire for pain and punishment, needing to exact some revenge against someone they believed was the enemy or a close substitution at least. Then they’d just physically go at it, no wands, no magic at all until one of them collapsed.
They both had so much hatred, so much anger at each other and at the world. There was a damn mountain of shit between them. When they’d finally exhausted themselves, they’d heal what they could and hobble down to the infirmary to have Madam Pomfrey mop up the rest, which she always did without asking any questions.
Kreacher, Harry’s house elf, always met them at the infirmary doors with a tea service. Harry never summoned him, and Draco had no idea how the elf knew when they would need to visit the Healer, but he was always there without fail, whatever hour of the night with a greeting and a bow for his master and a scowl and a mumbled threat under his breath for Draco. Once, the insolent toe-rag even asked Potter if he would allow him to take care of ‘the Malfoy brat’ when Harry had come off the worst during one of their encounters. His request was met with outrage by Draco and a snort of laughter from Potter.
“Not this time, Kreacher,” he replied, moaning a little with pain when the laughter hurt his bruised ribs and pulled open the tear in his lip. “But keep a saucepan handy, okay? Or perhaps, the cutlery. I’ll call you if I need any help with this one.”
“As you wish, Master Harry,” Kreacher replied. Then he glared malevolently at Draco in warning before handing over the tea service and bowing again while Draco rolled his eyes.
The tea was some kind of inside joke between Harry and Madame Pomfrey because she would break into a smile when she saw him, no matter what state they were both in, and always accepted the cup Harry poured for her. They were actually pretty good at healing spells and potions on their own now, though, and were even good at cleaning and mending spells for when their robes were in tatters.
It was completely fucked up, but it worked for them. It kept them both sane, kept them out of Azkaban at least. Draco thought the rest of the wizarding world actually owed him their thanks. Well, him and Granger and the family of weasels too, maybe. Without them, Harry would likely be the next dark lord. The boy was seriously messed up.
His eyes traveled over Harry’s body, lingering on the scars he’d received in the cellar of Draco’s family home. Many his own father had given him. He remembered what they looked like fresh on his broken body. Harry watched him with those eyes that seemed to see everything, that seemed to either reflect all the light in the room, or absorb it all, glowing with power sometimes.
“Admiring his work?” Potter asked darkly.
Draco looked into those verdant eyes then, but didn’t speak, sensing that the time for provocation was over. Any cheek now would likely erupt into real violence, and he was looking for something different today, something a bit more pleasurable. He’d come here to diffuse the tension in Harry, not ignite it.
“I would have killed him, Draco. Your father? I would have killed Lucius if I’d had the chance. If Riddle hadn’t stolen it from me.” He spoke in a low commanding voice that made the hairs on Draco’s neck stand up. It was quiet, forever raspy now, permanently altered, but full of steel that matched the look in his eyes.
“I know. You had reason to,” he replied simply.
The Dark Lord had killed Draco’s father for sport, for pleasure, as a warning to his other followers. Potters remorseless admission was nothing but the truth. He would have killed his father, Draco had no doubt, and he both hated and respected Potter for it. He’d kill anyone who’d done that to him, too. In the end, his father wasn’t the same man he’d once been. Voldemort had set him to ruin. He’d set the whole Malfoy family to ruin along with many other great purebred wizarding families. Draco sometimes wondered if that wasn’t the Dark Lord’s true intent all along. Once his own blood status was revealed, that Riddle’s own father was a dirty Muggle.
Harry never referred to him as Voldemort anymore, not in public, and not privately either. He wouldn’t use the name the Dark Lord had fashioned for himself any longer. It seemed once the name had been made taboo, he’d simply stopped using it, but he wasn’t about to call him The Dark Lord, or He Who Must Not Be Named either. He called him Tom or simply Riddle. Using his common muggle name to strip away the public’s perception of him, to take away the power and fear the name had inspired in people.
Leaning in, he ran his tongue along Harry’s collar bone, following the path of his father’s blade. Tracing the fine, thin, white line out across to his clavicle and then laved his tongue over the circular scar he found there. He heard Harry suck in a sharp breath, and his body tensed before Draco bent his head farther and sucked Harry’s nipple into his mouth, biting down hard until he could feel his teeth break the skin and his quarry’s warm blood seep into his mouth. Suckling hard then to draw it out, feeling the nipple pebbling under his tongue, Draco milked him.
Arching his back, Harry pulled Draco by the hair as air hissed between his gritted teeth at the rush of pain. Then Harry gripped his shoulders and quickly spun him around, reversing their positions suddenly. Without warning, he flung Draco face first into the wall and nearly ripped his own nipple off in the process. Before Draco could react or fight back, Harry was pressed against his back, pinning him.
“I guess I’m tossing yours,” he growled into Draco’s ear as he thrust against his arse, pushing Draco into the wall so that his cheek was smashed against the cold stone while his hands worked to unfasten Draco’s belt.
Roughly yanking his slacks and boxers down, Harry’s warm hands crawled back up Draco’s now bare thighs and over his arse. Spreading his cheeks open with his thumbs, Potter inserted a dry finger into his unprepared hole before Draco had even braced his legs apart, much less prepared himself for the invasion.
Draco grunted at the pressure and slight burn of the intrusion, but it was almost immediately followed by a wordless lubrication charm, and his grunting turned into a gasp of surprise as the warm wet heat filled his cavity.
Potter was obviously too impatient for any kind of proper preparation, or was simply intent on punishing Draco for frightening him so badly earlier at the sink.
He inserted another digit, and the burning intensified as he stretched Draco open and slicked his entrance with the lubrication now coating the fingers of his hand. Scissoring them a moment before adding a third, he pulled Draco, panting and gritting his teeth, from the wall with the other hand at Draco’s head. Harry shuffled them both backwards awkwardly by the handful of Draco’s hair clutched in his fist.
“Get on your knees,” Potter commanded harshly, in that gravelly voice, heavy with desire and dangerous with intent.
Draco obeyed immediately, a thrill of fear making his pulse pound as he went to his knees as quickly as Potter’s grip on his hair would allow. Harry’s fingers slid out of him as he sank to the floor, and his knees had barely kissed the rough stone before Potter was pushing him forward onto his hands. Harry fumbled behind him to free himself, the impatient rasp of his zipper menacing to Draco’s ears. Then he gripped Draco by the hip and positioned himself at his tight entrance.
“Bear down,” Potter warned him, the only preparation he had before the head of his cock pressed against Draco’s puckered hole, pushing against the tight ring of muscles.
Draco gave a shudder, clenching his muscles in fear, resisting Harry.
“Fuuuuccckkkk!” he growled as Potter pushed into him. Fisting his hands, he bit down on his lips against the pain of being filled so completely, stretched open unmercifully by Harry’s engorged prick that seared his insides with its heat.
“Relax now,” Potter instructed when his full length was encased inside Draco.
“Fuck you!” Draco gasped angrily. “You try relaxing with someone’s cock shoved up your arse none too gently, and its owner mad as hell!”
“I have,” Harry replied coldly. “Several times.” Then without any more warning or reassurances, Harry grabbed him by the hair again.
“Wait! At least give me time to adjust before you start ramming that massive cock into me,” he begged. “It’s been a while, you know.”
“Sorry, winner’s choice, right?”
“But that’s not fair! You didn’t win anything, you prick. I volunteered.”
“Yes, which still makes it my choice,” Harry argued.
“I don’t know where you learned about fairness…”
“I learned it from your Master, your father, and your mates, Draco,” Harry angrily replied.
Draco squirmed, whimpering once, and hating himself for it as Harry slid almost all the way out and back in again once to fully lubricate his shaft, giving Draco all the time he intended for him to comply before beginning his assault. After several powerful stoke, however, the pain had been replaced with pleasure. Draco was moaning in satisfaction every time Harry slammed into him, his heavy balls slapping against Draco, his grunts echoing in the expansive chamber while Draco’s now straining cock bounced between his spread legs. The acoustics of the room were amplifying the sounds of their carnal struggle, surrounding him, reverberating off his eardrums and under his skin, heightening his pleasure.
A powerful thrust threw Draco off balance, making Potter jab hard into his prostate. Draco saw stars. “Oh, God, fuck me harder!” he moaned. Bracing his hands farther apart and locking his elbows, Draco pushed back into Harry eagerly now, desperate for more.
Reaching around him, Harry released his hair then to grip Draco’s weeping, swollen cock, stroking him firmly in rhythm to the pounding he was delivering to his arse, while Draco cried out his approval. Then it was more than Draco could stand, and he started howling, thrusting back into Harry, impaling himself on Harry’s thick rod while humping his fist at the same time. Potter stiffened behind him, bracing himself and squeezing harder, rolling his thumb over the head of Draco’s cock when it pushed through his tight fist. He was letting Draco take over, letting him bring them both to completion with the frantic bucking of his narrow hips.
Shouting when he came, Draco spilled over Harry’s hand and onto the bathroom floor as Harry gasped, erupting a moment later. His fingers digging into Draco’s hip while his cock kicked, he growled as his release spurted inside Draco’s abused hole.
When they’d finished, cleaned up and had gotten their breath, they shared a fag together in the bathroom. Lying sprawled out, both half naked on the floor, they passed it between them. It had become almost a ritual. He’d never seen Harry smoke at any other time, only with him and only at the end of their sessions together.
“I said I was sorry for scaring you, you know. You didn’t have to ream me so hard,” Draco said petulantly, blowing smoke through his nostrils.
“Please, I was the one with the half-attached nipple. You aren’t even bleeding. Besides, in the end, you were using me to fuck yourself. I was just trying not to get thrown off. If you’re sore, it’s your own fault,” Potter argued. “You followed me in here.” Taking a long drag then, he turned, holding the smoke in his lungs and looked critically at Draco. “Are you really hurt?” he asked, the smoke swirling around Draco’s head as he exhaled.
Draco was surprised that he could see actual concern in Potter’s eyes that he might have truly injured him. “Don’t start going all soft on me. It’s not any worse than usual,” Draco admitted, motioning impatiently for the fag. “I came like a fountain didn’t I?” Taking a final pull, inhaling the last of the tobacco smoke before crushing the cigarette against the floor, Draco staggered to his feet as Harry scowled at him. “I’ll take it out on you the next time,” he promised.
He was going to be a little sore, but as Harry had said, he wasn’t bleeding, or anything. Potter hadn’t done him any permanent damage. In truth, that fuck had been fantastic, but still, he lamented, the things he sacrificed for the greater wizarding world without a single word of thanks.
“So, what was it about the potion?” he asked, tucking in his shirt and attempting to smooth the wrinkles.
Potter stared at him as if trying to figure out his motivation. “Just reminded me too much of one your aunt forced me to take once,” he finally muttered. “I guess it made me lose it a bit. Then, when you grabbed me from behind… it was… I thought…” He held his breath, squeezing his fists together for a moment before looking up at Draco. “That was stupid, you know.”
Draco nodded, surprised actually that Potter would satisfy his curiosity or even admit that he’d been struggling in the first place, no matter how obvious it had been to anyone watching, and with Potter, there was always someone watching.
Healing their minor wounds then, they both finished getting dressed again without another word. Draco contemplated skiving off his next class because he dreaded the idea of sitting on a hard wooden seat in Transfiguration while his backside throbbed, knowing he’d be in for an hour of misery even with a cushioning charm. At least he didn’t have Quidditch practice this evening. The prospect of sitting on a broom for several hours in the cold November drizzle would be torture, he realized. Thank God the Ravenclaw’s had booked the pitch this whole week for their match against Hufflepuff this Saturday.
Before leaving, Draco checked his reflection in the mirror, scowling as he adjusted his tie and tried to smooth his hair, attempting to repair the damage Potter had done to it. It always seemed like that was his goal. Harry always appeared intent on mussing Draco’s hair so that it strongly resembled his own. Potter’s hair, in comparison, always gave the impression he’d just been shagged. It was a disgrace. Maybe next time, if there was one, he’d spend all their time together trying to make Harry’s lie flat while Harry continued to work again to mess his up.
“Tell Granger I said, you’re welcome,” he called over his shoulder as he left the bathroom, smoothing the front of his robes one final time.
“Fuck!” he heard Harry curse as the door swung shut.
Draco walked away, smirking. He knew Harry absolutely hated that.

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What it comes down to