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Tomorrow is dead to me	By : Prototype_UP77 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3028 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 9
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and I do not own Harry Potter. This is a fanfiction, no profit has been made with writing and publishing - it's all just for fun.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 4
- 5
Draco had undoubtedly underestimated how eager Potter was for a new adventure, and he had to admit that he was more cunning than he himself had expected him to be even after that afternoon. Still, the doubt could not be entirely banished; it seemed strange to him that Potter would resort to such means, merely to bridge his barely disguised boredom.
Though he did not return the kiss, had, in fact, barely moved from fright, from a budding longing for more, and because he feared that a twitch of his muscles, however imperceptible, might shatter this seemingly unreal transgression, Potter drove him into a frenzy beyond his previous sexual experience.
Potter's tongue painted a burning path on his lips, which he blurred again with his kiss, and as Draco wondered how to bear it, how to live with the fact that something so tender could trigger a desire to grind against the other body and tear his clothes, Potter began tugging at Draco's lower lip with his teeth. Each touch in itself triggered a heated throbbing inside him, only to connect there and make him burn up in their power to the fullest.
Like Potter, he almost closed his eyes to drown in the engulfing sensation, but the perfection of Potter's blurry face so close to his own forced him to look and take in as much of the moment as he was capable of. Draco's breath came in jerks, and his stomach tightened as he gazed at the long, black lashes. Torn, he wondered if the wizarding world was even aware that Potter wasn't just their savior; he was a demon lurking beneath the kind, benevolent facade, tearing anyone who fell for it into a thousand deaths of rapture and devotion; weaving a magical spell just by the excruciatingly ravishing shade of red of the smooth skin of his cheeks or the mesmerizing curve of his surprisingly soft lips, and he wished he could see them move on his mouth and invisible sparks of arousal streak across it; just so he could truly believe it.
As he watched the green eyes gradually open, his heart stopped for a cruel moment, knowing that it would be over as soon as Potter saw clearly, as soon as he recognized Draco's face because how else was such magic possible than that he had forgotten where he was and whom he was kissing? Finally, something like this had to have happened; in their frenzy, the glowing mists of the spell had dissipated.
Indeed, Potter winced noticeably at his lips, as if he had awakened from a dream, pulled his head back, sank back down on his heels, and quivered. Then he waved his wand and flashed the light in the blinding globe-shaped lamps on the walls before looking at Draco. There was an openly curious expression on his flushed face, and Draco could have sworn the corners of his mouth lifted, ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if it pleased Potter that he had cut a swath of devastation through his mind, but all too quickly the expression vanished again.
"Help me fix the elevator," Potter said softly, so that he barely managed to drown out the racing pulse in Draco's ears.
In Draco's family, this would have been considered weak style; such an obvious act of bribery would have been laughed at mercilessly, but in his chest a chilling current of fear stirred into excitement. How could he possibly stand firm, prevent himself from succumbing to the spell and agreeing against his will? How could he fight a battle that he would lose with certainty?
Draco wanted to say no and opened his mouth, but instead a question dripped out that had the power to shatter the fragile intimacy - albeit created by calculation - between them to pieces all at once. "How can you kiss me just to get into this cursed basement?"
In retrospect, Draco would have liked to bite his tongue if it would have undone his insanity.
Potters, however, smiled indulgently and placed his fingertips on Draco's cheek. "Oh, Malfoy. Can't you guess that I fell head over heels for you when you called me Zabini and pushed yourself against me?" With a feigned sigh, he brushed a strand of Draco's hair behind his heated ear.
The taunting words burned like poison in Draco's stomach. His jaw tightened. "Cut the crap!" shouted Draco fiercely, and Potter winced, jerking his hand back and leaving a trail of rapidly cooling embers on his skin.
"It's alright. I won't touch you again," Potter said sternly, taking a few steps aside to lean against a yellowed doorframe as if to guard the entrance to the drawing room.
"That's not what - I didn't mean that -" Biting his lower lip, rubbing over the marks of Potter's teeth, he tried to remember who he was. Draco Malfoy, a man who, despite all his insecurities, despite his discord with his own parents, had nevertheless undergone some basic training; a man who had learned to cope with such disappointments without letting them show, surely had to have some way of pulling himself together!
He took a deep breath, as if he could dilute the pain with oxygen until it dissipated, and said, "Maybe I'll reconsider and help you lose your life in this cellar, if you want it so badly. But only if you finally tell me what a pitiful game you're playing here." Contrary to his hope to give himself a somewhat serious appearance, his voice quivered and a croaking dissonance had settled in the words.
"I'm not playing a game. If you think I've been disguising my true motives, you're wrong," Potter countered with a grin, playfully wrapping a lock of hair around his index finger, seemingly unfazed by Draco's prompting. "I wanted to get into your house, so I stole the deed and used the spell. And now I want to get into your basement to see what's hiding there, so I want to get this elevator going." He wore the appearance of having to think hard. "Unless you demand that I blow up the floor. Quite possible, but certainly no less dangerous for you, Malfoy."
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" groaned Draco, running both hands through his hair, wedging his fingers in his strands. "What do you get out of tormenting me over this basement?"
Potter hung his head so that his face was once again in shadow. "I can't." He fiddled busily with the tight stand-up collar of his cloak until he found a button, which he deftly opened with the fingers of one hand. As he stroked down along the seam to undo more buttons, Draco tried to keep his eyes fixed on his tousled mop of hair.
This won't work again, he thought tensely. Now that I know Potter knows he can get me around with his attraction, I'm certainly not going to fall for it again.
"And why not? Why can't you just go away and spare me from your madness?" Draco stared laboriously at the nearly white skin of Potter's scalp without blinking, because blinking meant breaking eye contact with his vanishing point and instinctively looking to see what Potter's purpose in his actions might be - as if it wasn't perfectly clear. No, he would merely be exposing himself to that allure, and he wouldn't be able to stand it.
Without looking up, Potter began to laugh, deep and rumbling like a panther in a cage, and Draco shuddered involuntarily. Out of the corner of his eye, he vaguely saw the lime green melting from Potter's shoulders. Still, he winced and drew in a gasping breath as the cloak hit the floor with a loud audible thump.
It's not wise to sacrifice your energy in a fight you cannot win.
"Because it's important to get to the basement, Malfoy. I don't know why, but it just is." At last Potter raised his head, made sure Draco was looking at him, then ran his hand through his hair, deliberately, it seemed, for by this movement he drew attention to his arm, his shoulders, his armpit; to the fact that his upper body was naked. A nerve on Draco's cheek began to twitch, and he dug his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from letting his gaze slide down the length of his neck, giving himself up.
"An Auror Cloak like that is heavier than it looks, isn't it? All the protective spells woven into the fibers would be quite enough, you'd think," Potter said lightly, demonstratively pulling his lower lip between his teeth as if to entice Draco to reach out and free it. "Look how it cuts into the skin."
Draco snorted, and gradually the pressure of his self-control seemed to pull his knees to the floor; his legs were already beginning to shake. He squinted his eyes, lest he give in after all to the almost overpowering desire to listen to the seductive voice and simply toss his mind to the baser instincts that were raging within him.
A bright laugh. "Why do you resist this much? Your efforts are in vain. You know that; and haven't you seen all that you're trying so desperately to block out just now, anyway?"
"But that wasn't really you," Draco murmured devotedly. When it came to maintaining complete self-control, he had always been lost. Fear, lust, or even just the joy of provoking, all of these had often usurped dominance in Draco's life, and now it was imperative to let at least a little pressure out of the cauldron, or he couldn't guarantee anything.
Potter didn't seem to suspect what really lay behind this unfortunate affair with Zabini.
Unwelcome images swirled in his mind, stirred up by his sheer fear of what Potter might say in return. Images of Potter lying beneath him, the oddly fitting white shirt torn from the slender body like wrapping paper; mouth agape in astonishment; eyes dark with fear and excitement behind the slipped glasses.
These were snapshots that had imprinted themselves irremovably in his brain and haunted him as if they had been key scenes in his life so far; and by Merlin's snake, in a way, they were. They always carried the wretched feeling of surrender, but at the same time they were riddled with guilt. He had given in to Zabini's lures without a moment's hesitation.
Afterwards, he had noticed details that should have stopped him immediately, even in his temporary insanity: socks in the wrong color, with a monogram to boot. The fine fabric of the shirt that seemed tailored to his body. The languid smile with which he let Draco's madness befall him.
How ashamed he had been when Potter became Zabini underneath of him! He had felt soiled, cruelly deceived, and yet he had complied with the demands with which Zabini had since stepped before him, without thinking about it or planning a liberating blow. In the end, this libelous episode would also have damaged Zabini's reputation had it ever come out in the open, and there had simply been no reason to panic.
That, at least, was what he told himself.
But the fact that it had been just Zabini trying to extort a few personal benefits had relieved him, mainly because he would never have forgiven himself if he had desecrated the real Potter in this menial way, using him for his own pleasure as if he meant nothing to Draco.
This time, too, the images stirred the ugly imprints of long-past torment, and the tears were already burning behind his pinched eyelids when Potter confronted him with the certainty that the only positive thing about Draco's act was nothing but imagination; that Potter was far from pure and innocent.
In his desperation, he hadn't noticed that Potter had moved closer again. A tug at Draco's suit trousers, tentative at first, seeming almost accidental; Potter's breath on his neck; then the whir of the zipper. A warm hand brushing his pants off his hips.
If it had stayed at that, Draco would have dismissed it as curiosity. Potter had undressed him; so what? He had, after all, practically dared him to; leaning against him in the kitchen. He would have gotten dressed, called Potter a faggot (or something similarly fatuous, considering that it was Draco himself who had rubbed up against him), and forgotten about it.
Holding his breath tensely so that Potter's scent, which must have been tamed by the thick cloak, didn't tingle his nose and stifle his intentions, he waited for the hand nibbling at his underpants to disappear so he could bend down to pull his pants around his ankles back on.
Seconds later, Potter was squeezing his rock-hard penis and giggling when Draco's eyes snapped open in an instant. He felt his wand slip from his hand before it hit the floor with a clatter.
"Oh Malfoy, you really do have some juicy secrets, but you should learn to defend them better already," he murmured darkly.
- 4
- 5
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Tomorrow is dead to me