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A Year's Temptation	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 28515 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Year of Temptation
- 2-February
- 3-March
- 4-April
- 5-May
- 6-June
- 7-July
- 8-August
- 9-September
- 10-October
- 11-November
- 12-December
- 5
- 6
- 7
Thank you again for the reviews! This chapter is quite probably the angstiest so far. Fair warning. A few review responses are at the bottom.

Chapter Six—June

            “Happy birthday, darling.”

            Draco looked into Pansy’s eyes and smiled as she leaned over their shared bed to embrace him. “Thank you, dear.”

            He wondered for a moment if he would have seen the coldness in her eyes a year ago. Then he shook his head slightly. No, he would have seen it, but it would have meant something different, something that hadn’t bothered him then. They couldn’t muster love for each other, and rarely passion, but they could muster contentment. And if Pansy would maneuver around him to get what she wanted, at least Draco knew that, and could respond in the same fashion.

            Now he knew how much more he could have, and the knowledge was forcing him further and further away from his wife.

            “Is something wrong?” Pansy’s voice had acquired a subtle edge.

            “Of course not,” said Draco, and sat up a bit. “What could be wrong on my birthday morning?”

            On cue, the house-elf appeared with a breakfast on a tray: strawberries thick with chocolate, pancakes of a particularly delectable taste that they only prepared on Christmas, his birthday, and Pansy’s, and one of their foods that was half-confection and half-bread. Draco didn’t think it was called a dumpling, but that probably came closest to embodying its nature.

            Draco smiled a bit. Breakfast in bed was a true luxury, since Pansy usually insisted on maintaining perfect manners at home even when they didn’t have a guest. He did raise an eyebrow when Pansy arranged the tray on her own lap and picked up a fork, however.

            “I’m going to feed you, darling,” she said. “You’ll agree to that, Draco?”

            “Of course,” said Draco, though he wondered why she wanted to. Pansy wasn’t much for nursing or any other activity that required her to tend to people. He leaned back on the pillows and opened his mouth, though. If she wanted to feed him, then he wouldn’t deny her the opportunity.

            He quickly found out why she’d wanted this. She touched his face constantly and softly in between handing him the bites on the fork, her fingers brushing against his nose and cheekbones. Whenever he met her eyes, she would smile, the secret, sexual, enticing smile that had once made Draco harder than he knew he could get.

            It hadn’t done that in months, though.

            Draco only had to think about Harry for a moment to make his pants swell. He shifted, and Pansy glanced down, seeming to notice, though how she could have seen through the blankets was beyond him.

            “You’d rather skip over the breakfast?” she asked, voice as amused and beckoning as her smile.

            “After breakfast,” Draco promised her, letting his own hand brush her wrist as she brought another bite of the dumpling-thing to his lips. Pansy showed her approval of that by following it with a kiss.

            And he did try to make it work with her. But the only way he managed it was by thinking constantly of Harry, and spending a long time carefully crawling over her body, licking and kissing her, so she couldn’t see his eyes.

            They could still have sex, but the entire time, the Veela whinged in the back of his head and gave him distracting daydreams about the things he could be doing with Harry instead. Draco bit his lip savagely when he came, to keep from saying the wrong thing, and then bent down and kissed Pansy passionately when he was done.

            Pansy let her hand rise and twine lazily in his hair. “I thought we would remain here for today,” she said. “No practice. No dinner parties. Just speaking to each other, lying in bed beside each other, and eating in bed if we want it.”

            Draco pulled a bit away from her, and raised a smile. God knew he’d smiled under more trying circumstances during several parts of his life. “I notice there’s no mention of wearing dress robes during that period, either. Daring, Pansy.”

            She laughed at him, face as open and soft as it ever got, and then leaned up for another kiss.

            Draco permitted it, because they were still married and Pansy would have questions indeed if he suddenly stopped allowing it. But he had already made up his mind. He deserved something more than this for his twenty-fifth birthday, even if it couldn’t happen on his birthday. He would send a letter to Harry and demand a private meal together a few days hence.

            He only had to mention it was for his birthday, and Harry would feel compelled to come, he knew. Gryffindors fell for sentimental nonsense like that all the time.

*

            Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.

            Harry felt sweat sheet down his face, but he didn’t stop running. He was nearly in a trance state now, where the sound of his own feet both drove and lured him onwards. The pain in his side had retreated until it was no more troublesome than a small cut along his ribs. His shirt flapped around him, and the short Muggle trousers he wore provided just enough cover while not restricting him.

            He had taken up running in the last few weeks, hoping that it would serve as a distraction from his worries over his personal life. It seemed to work so far. Its main attraction for him was precisely this trance state, in which he could stop thinking and just do, the way Quidditch had once been for him.

            He hurtled along a street in a quiet wizarding neighborhood a half-mile away from Diagon Alley—a series of small houses, mostly of wood and ancient, weathered stone, with the larger buildings of Muggle London rising in the background. The June air clung stickily to him, not aided by the rain that had ended just a few hours ago and left puddles sparkling in every corner of the street, but that was another thing he could mostly ignore.

            Vaguely, Harry recognized that he was nearing the end of the run. He didn’t want to stop, but exhausting himself wasn’t part of the plan, and Ginny would feel neglected if he were away from home for too long.

            He grimaced to himself, and spun down an alley that led between this street and the next one, and ultimately back towards the Diagon shops. He didn’t want to think about her, not yet.

            He was just aware enough to realize that not wanting to think about his wife was a bad sign.

            Harry grunted, trying to turn his thoughts in a more productive direction, and a bolt of red light exploded past him and made a small puff of dust rise from the stones of the alley.

            Harry dropped into a roll before he realized what he was doing, Auror instincts flaring to life in his head like Muggle emergency lighting. He came back up into a crouch in the shelter of the opposite wall, wand in hand, eyes scanning the street.

            The sudden cessation of the run struck him like another spell, and he hung his head for a moment, panting, exquisitely aware of every small pain in his sides and legs now, the frantic trembling of his muscles and the sharp smell of his sweat.

            Another spell slanted down past him, a worrying green this time. Harry forced his instincts to shut up and listen to reason. He hadn’t heard anyone speak the incantations, and it seemed odd they couldn’t hit him.

            And the spells had come from above.

            Harry looked up, focusing his eyes as hard as he could. Kingsley was forever telling his Aurors to see what was there, not what they wanted to be there or thought should be there. If they looked, he insisted, they should be able to ignore illusions and see the reality.

            What Harry viewed wasn’t illusion, but he did see the slight patch of blurry air that marked a Disillusionment Charm, marked by odd, wild darting and wavering that he knew well. Someone rode a broom above him, and he wasn’t exactly used to controlling its maneuvers. He’d probably counted on the shock of surprise and his own invisibility to overcome the disadvantage.

            Harry aimed his wand carefully a little to the left of the blurry patch. He waited, and sure enough, the broom’s next dart carried it to the left.

            “Reducto!” Harry yelled, voice as firm as he could make it. He could have done it nonverbally, but his nonverbal spells had always been weaker than the normal ones with a few exceptions—such as the Shield Charm—and he didn’t want to chance missing.

            As it turned out, even as his own curse flew, one he didn’t recognize came down from above, a wide, expanding ripple of pure white light. Harry hurled himself away from the wall and rolled across the middle of the alley, on the general principle that he didn’t want to be under that light when it struck.

            The light hit the wall across from him with a whirring sound like startled pigeons, and Harry heard a sharp crunching from the stones. He winced. He could only imagine what it would have done to his bones had he stayed in place.

            At the same time, though, a voice cried out in pain from above, and Harry felt a moment’s smugness.

            He realized what this was now, of course. His mysterious “friend” had said that he would start hunting Harry in June. And so far he seemed to hold true to the terms he’d promised. He’d certainly attacked Harry a long way from family and friends.

            Harry didn’t intend to let the contest go on long. The spells they used would attract quick attention from first the wizards who lived nearby, and then from Aurors. And he wanted to keep this private, special, something just for him.

            It had worked so far. He laughed, and that savagery he only felt when he was in imminent danger of losing his life reared up inside him, whispering restlessly, giving him suggestions for what he should do next. Harry imagined a particularly impressive result, and let his smile stretch further.

            “Aguamenti Incendio!” he called up at the figure, flicking his wand in a complicated movement not well-known outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His mind fixed intently on the air around that blurry patch, to tell the spell where he wanted it to go.

            A cascade of boiling water drenched the broom, and must have interrupted whatever spell his enemy planned to send after him, because the broom veered more sharply than before, and a series of startled obscenities drifted down towards Harry.

            Harry laughed again, and this time couldn’t seem to stop. God, it felt good to have something to fight, to have the number of chances and choices restricted. This wasn’t like the mess of his personal life, in which he only stumbled more and more the more he tried to do something. If something went wrong here, he would die. That was all there was to it.

            The broom turned then and soared away. Harry stared after it regretfully, but decided that he had to leave. Their spells had been noticeable, and, on his part, loud. An Auror might be on the way from the Ministry even now.

            He Apparated home from the alley as he lay, without trying to make it to Diagon. He ended up on the ground outside his house panting, weary, with a silly smile on his face.

            He straightened up and used a few cleaning charms to repair the worst ravages of the sweat, as well as removing any dirt and dust he’d taken from rolling about in the alley. No need to tell Ginny what he’d been doing. Then he jogged forwards and opened the front door.

            “Harry?” Ginny called sleepily from the bedroom. “Is that you?”

            “Yeah,” Harry called back, and stood where he was a moment, this time to bring his exhilaration under control. Bright, sweet joy surged through him, and the hurry of adrenaline and blood through his body only made it better. This felt—

            Well, this felt like really great sex, was what it felt like.

            Harry rolled his eyes, but retained his smile. So he would be without really great sex for a few months. That didn’t matter, especially now that he had this, which could serve as a substitute.

            “An owl came,” Ginny murmured, and the blankets rustled with the sound of her turning over to go back to sleep. “Brought you a letter. I think it must be on the table, since it landed there.” A lengthy yawn. Harry doubted she would rise for another few minutes, which gave him even more time to hide any evidence of what had happened in the alley this morning.

            Harry tore the letter open eagerly, sure it was another taunting message from his enemy. His mood soured a bit when he recognized Malfoy’s elegant hand on the parchment. At least he didn’t waste time, any more than the enemy would have.

            June 6^th, 2005



            Harry:

            Yesterday was my birthday. I had to spend it at home with my wife, of course, and I’m sure you can imagine how enjoyable that was to me. I deserve something more than that for a present.

            I want you to have lunch with me tomorrow, and spend at least a few hours in my presence. I’m sure that you can arrange something with your superiors. My coach permitted me an escape from practice, and I can assure you, everything you’ve heard about Branwen Gooseberry’s sternness is true. I want to see you.

            Draco.

            Harry rolled his eyes, and stood there for a moment, holding the letter in his hand and thinking.

            Pansy’s list of cruel things for him to do to Malfoy had included information on his dead parents, his failure at Hogwarts in their sixth year, a number of minor failures in Quidditch games that had haunted him over the years, and some sexual details that Harry would have been better off not knowing. Harry had glanced over them with a sick feeling. He had not seen, then, how he could keep his promise to Pansy. As much as he hated the web Malfoy was entangling him in, he didn’t have the stomach for deliberate and sustained cruelty like that.

            But the suggestion at the bottom of the list had intrigued Harry. It said that Malfoy hated nothing more than being ignored.

            With a tight smile, Harry crumpled up the letter. He could always say, if Malfoy came looking, that the git hadn’t bothered to send a place to meet him at, and that Harry had too much work to do. Of course, Malfoy had doubtless intended him to write back and ask about the place, which would constitute an acceptance of the invitation and let Malfoy trap him into the lunch.

            Harry didn’t want to be trapped. Not any more.

            After a moment’s careful thought, he dropped the letter straight into the dustbin. He wouldn’t call Ginny’s attention to it, but he also wouldn’t incinerate it, which had been his immediate impulse. He hoped she would find it, however, and understand how little Malfoy mattered to him now.

            And it didn’t hurt much, if at all.

            That’s it, then, Harry thought in some wonder as he went in to shower. The only reason I was so hesitant about brushing Malfoy off, before this, was that I thought it would hurt. And it might hurt him, but he’s pushing the boundaries of our bargain, asking for things I never agreed to give him. And I can live with what pain it causes me.

*

            Draco ground his teeth and paced back and forth in his long dining room. He’d waited all day yesterday for Harry’s letter, and then come back to the Manor this afternoon, just in case the owl arrived this morning. But no owl had appeared. It was as though Harry had decided to—

            Ignore him.

            It was infuriating.

            “Draco?” Pansy’s voice held a very slight sound of surprise. “You’ve returned awfully early, darling. Did the practice go well enough to satisfy the bitch, for once?”

            Draco turned around and forced himself to smile. Pansy did look lovely, her blonde hair done up on her head and her blue gown low around the shoulders and yet casual enough that she didn’t seem overdressed. She stood in the doorway, a perfectly framed picture, and blinked at him.

            She looked lovely if one wanted her.

            Draco didn’t. The Veela’s daydreams were full of green eyes and black hair and a strong body arching in reluctant pleasure. And the daydreams had become part of Draco’s consciousness now.

            “No,” he said, and came forwards to take her hand and kiss it, since he wouldn’t get out of this one. “Branwen did say I could have this time for a lunch, when I told her about my birthday being two days ago.” He rolled his eyes to indicate, he hoped, exasperation with his coach and not her. “I only have until three, of course, and then it’s back to chasing the Snitch and hoping the others miraculously grow skills sometime in the next half-day.”

            Pansy chuckled lowly and looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Well. It is only two days after your birthday.”

            Draco wanted to grind his teeth again. But he had to go to bed with her. Otherwise, he would have to admit that he’d invited Harry to a private lunch and hoped the idiot would respond to the invitation, and Pansy would score another point in their running argument. Draco still hoped to make life so uncomfortable for her that she would leave of her own free will, so he didn’t have to take the first step.

            “You’re right, it is,” he said, and found a smile for her.

            Harry bloody Potter would just have to wait. Draco hoped his lunch was burned.

*

            Harry uttered a patient sigh. “This would go more easily if you would just admit who your employer was.”

            Alecto Carrow, chained behind a table in front of him, glared at him as though her eyes alone could make him melt and run. Harry concealed a little snort. Better witches than her had tried. Bellatrix Lestrange’s glare, in particular, was more practiced and polished than hers.

            “Not talking?” Harry cocked his head. “I suppose I can’t blame you. He must be angry with you.” He kicked idly at the leg of the chair in which he sat, and took a risk. It would have been an even greater one, but he was alone in the interrogation room; the rest of the Hermes Corps were working with Richard Yaxley and Amycus, who seemed more likely to give them information. “He did say he was upset at my costing him his best potions-brewers. He seems to have blamed me for that just like you blame me for the fall of the Dark Lord. I can’t imagine why.”

            Alecto’s head snapped up, and her breath came in a series of sharp gasps. Harry watched her through half-lidded eyes.

            “You haven’t heard from him,” she said, her voice a hissing snarl like a cat’s. “You’re lying.”

            “Of course I could be lying,” said Harry. “And I might be lying even without knowing it. I received a letter that mentioned you, but it had a handwriting charm on it. He did mention having some trouble managing his anger where I was concerned, of course.” He produced a thin smile. “And three days ago, when a spell like a white cocoon came out of the air and ground stone to dust behind me, that might not have been him. I’ve angered plenty of enemies over the years, after all.”

            Alecto stared at him, her chest heaving. Harry focused his eyes on her face and made himself see what was there. Not just anger, not just fear that Harry might learn her employer’s name after all.

            Desperation.

            Harry’s eyebrows rose a bit. He had a new conclusion to take to Kingsley. It might not be right, but it would at least be testable. It was possible that Alecto and the others were victims of an addictive potion. It would explain some of their sudden changes in mood and wild, uncontrolled magic over the last few months.

            “That—“ said Alecto, and then seemed to remember she was being questioned by an Auror, the enemy, and narrowed her eyes and her mouth, both.

            “That was him, you mean?” Harry shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “I did think so. I have a lot of enemies, I understand, but it seemed a bit too much of a coincidence for two of them to appear out of thin air at the same time.”

            “He’ll kill you,” Alecto whispered, her eyes taking on a strange, feverish shine that increased Harry’s suspicions in favor of the potion. “You know nothing about what his spells are capable of. He’ll kill you. If you survived one strike at you, it was a scouting mission, to watch your reflexes and your moves in battle. He can project from that, guess what you’ll do next when you face him again. He’s not someone you’d think of at first, Potter.” She gave a chattering laugh, as though there were a private joke in her words. “You’d think him a middling wizard. But he’s not. He’s stronger than he appears, stronger and luckier and more wonderful. You have no idea. You cannot know. You will never know in time.”

            Harry half-closed his eyes. He could think of several people that might fit that definition for four Death Eaters, but the most likely was someone whom they had known while they were Death Eaters. And that might signal why the letter-writer hadn’t been afraid to use Voldemort’s name. He would have known that Voldemort was irrevocably dead, when the Dark Mark lost all its magical power.

            Harry decided on another gamble. “And I suppose he has no reason to think I’m wonderful, carrying the snake and the skull as he does,” he murmured.

            Alecto jerked as if he’d punched her, this time, or tried to fondle her breasts. Then she leaned forwards in her chair, and her voice was quiet and deadly earnest. “When I get out of here, I will kill you. He deserves the chance to do it, but if you are not his prey before I leave, you are mine.”

            Harry gave her a lazy smile and stood. “The only way you’ll ever leave here is if you tell me something about him.”

            Alecto showed him bared teeth and flared nostrils.

            “He might want you to tell me about him,” Harry added thoughtfully, one hand on the doorframe. “If that’s the only way he can have one of his most skilled potions-brewers return to his side, at least—and it is.”

            She said nothing. After a few more moments of waiting, Harry shrugged and exited the room. He had enough to tell Kingsley, with the scraps of information he’d picked up about her employer and the details on the addictive potion.

            He met up with the rest of them, and gave his report to Kingsley. The tall Black Auror stood still for some moments, chewing over the gristle in Harry’s words, and then nodded. “Did she seem personally threatening to you?” he demanded.

            “No, sir.” Harry knew better than to say yes, or to mention that Alecto wanted to kill him. All the Death Eaters wanted to kill the Boy-Who-Lived, anyway. And if he said yes, Kingsley would assign him guards, and they would get in the way when Harry tried to have a private duel with his enemy.

            Kingsley nodded sharply, once. “File your reports, then,” he said. “And, Potter, we don’t need you the rest of the day. Go home once you’ve filed the paperwork.”

            Harry looked up in surprise, but Kingsley had already turned away and was striding down the hall. Hestia gave him a sympathetic look before she scrambled after Kingsley, but no answers.

            “What—“ Harry began, looking at Ralph.

            “You don’t look well, Potter,” Ralph said, and took his arm, steering him towards their office. “You’re obviously not sleeping as well as usual, and you look like you wrestled with a bear when you come in here every morning.” He lifted his eyebrows, waiting, expectant.

            Harry felt a bit guilty for deceiving him, but there was no way that he could bring Ralph into the mess of his personal life. They were good partners, and fairly good friends, but Harry simply didn’t trust him the way he had Ron and Hermione.

            “It’s been difficult, since Ginny’s accident,” was the only thing he was willing to say.

            “Stop feeling guilty about that,” Ralph said, striding ahead of him with a spring. “She’s handled it well, I’m certain, because she’s the gorgeous and resilient Mrs. Potter. And you need to stop feeling guilty.”

            “I didn’t cause the accident,” Harry argued, glaring at Ralph’s back and wondering why everyone around him seemed so sure they knew his feelings better than he knew them himself. “I never thought I did.”

            “But you can still walk,” said Ralph, glancing over his shoulder. “She can’t right now. That kind of thing is hard for people. My sister took a hex when she was in Hogwarts that deprived her of her eyesight for a year. Sometimes she hated me for being able to see. It’s natural, but you have far too much of a martyr complex, Harry. You take that kind of thing to heart, and now it’s affecting your work performance.”

            “I do not have a martyr complex,” Harry muttered half-heartedly, but he followed Ralph down to their office without saying anything further. The report wouldn’t take long to file—he only had a few incidental observations about Alecto to add to what they already knew—and then he could go home to Ginny. He had to admit the extra free time would be welcome.

            But then he saw Malfoy leaning against the doorway of his office. He swung his head around when he heard their footsteps, and his eyes were fierce and hawk-like. At once he stood and stalked towards Harry.

            “Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry groaned, and fought the temptation to drop his head into his hands.

            He saw Ralph frowning when he looked up, glancing back and forth between him and Malfoy. “Problem?” he murmured. “You want me to get him out of here?”

            Harry shook his head wearily. “A problem of sorts, but not one I can put off much longer,” he said, waving one hand. “You go ahead. I’ll speak with him out here, and hope that whatever he wants doesn’t take long.”

            Ralph moved off, but glanced over his shoulder several times, and left the office door open when he went inside. Malfoy, bearing down on Harry like a storm in full flight, didn’t appear to notice.

            “Malfoy,” Harry acknowledged, and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms casually. He refused to back down or show any other sign of how tired he felt, and how little he wanted to talk to Malfoy just then. He wouldn’t let the bastard scare him.

            “Harry,” Malfoy hissed, almost into his ear. Even as gooseflesh spread along his skin from the close contact, Harry was glad of it. At least they stood less chance of someone overhearing this conversation. “What the fuck did you think you were doing, not accepting my invitation?”

            Harry filled his mind with Ginny and Pansy. It really didn’t matter how hurt Malfoy might feel over this, he reminded himself. He’d had more than anyone else out of this arrangement, and he didn’t even seem to mind much of what the Veela drove him to anymore. Well, Harry did, and their wives deserved better than this. Their wives shouldn’t have had to deal with this at all.

            “I wonder what the fuck you thought you were doing, sending it,” he retorted, in a cold, calm tone that took the edge off Malfoy’s rage. He stepped away from Harry, his eyebrows rising and his eyes narrowing. “I’m not your toy, to be commanded to your side. I’m not your friend, to wish you happy birthday. I don’t care what you want. This is supposed to be about need and survival, but since you think with your cock, I can see why that would have slipped your tiny little mind.”

            Malfoy breathed in silence for several moments, as though trying to figure out why Harry had turned on him like this. Harry forced himself not to change his posture or expression. It wasn’t really difficult. He was so tired. The only thing that had made him happy in the past month was the revelation that he had an enemy out there who wanted to kill him. Malfoy could offer him nothing that didn’t come with a heavy price tag. Harry was just as happy to avoid his arms and his bed.

            Finally, Malfoy shook his head and said, “This makes no sense, Harry. We are closer than we were. You can’t deny that.”

            “You always wanted to believe that.” Harry yawned in his face. “And there’s a large distance between liking and pity, Malfoy.”

            That made the bastard jerk. Harry told himself he was happy with that. Really, he was. Of course, not ecstatically happy, but that was just something he would have to forget about feeling until the year was over. He stayed where he was, and painted layer after layer of cool disdain over his face.

            “It wasn’t pity I felt when your cock hardened in my hand,” Malfoy finally said.

            “No, it was lust.” Harry shrugged. “What can I say? Veela are attractive. But you’re fooling yourself if you think it’s more than that.”

            “The Veela is me.” Malfoy edged a step or two closer, the way Harry thought someone might approach a wild dragon. “You know that. But you didn’t object when we had that marvelous Quidditch game in April, or when I healed you of your hurts last month. It was me you came and told the truth to, remember? Not your wife.”

            A bark exploded out of Harry’s throat before he could stop it. After a moment, he realized he was laughing. He bent over, hiding his face against his shoulder, while Malfoy’s silence hovered on the border between perplexed and enraged.

            Harry finally straightened and shook his head. “Why would I have told Ginny things that could hurt her, when she’s injured and someone I love?” he asked. And a taunt of his own occurred to him. “That’s what you were, you know. A convenient dustbin for feelings I didn’t want to carry around. That’s not how I interact with Ginny. It’s not how I interact with anyone I love. Sorry to say, you aren’t in that category and never will be. You—“ He paused a moment to survey Malfoy head to foot. “You are a charity case.”

            Ah, there it went. Malfoy barely moved a muscle, but his body suddenly screamed fury.

            “And do you want your charity case to die?”

            “Hardly,” Harry said. “When you need me, Malfoy, send me a letter saying so. The same terms as before. We meet in a place I can Apparate from, I don’t stay the night, I don’t respond to you, and I leave as quickly as possible.”

            Abruptly, Malfoy bent over at the waist and laid his hand on his chest, as though he were having a heart attack. Harry restrained his immediate concerned motion. He thought of Ginny, and waited.

            Finally, Malfoy straightened and gave a harsh laugh. “The Veela hates the very idea,” he whispered. “The Veela wants to give something back to you, Harry, and hurts me when it thinks I won’t give it. And it wants you to give yourself freely, and it hates that it can’t have that, either.”

            His face held true pain. Harry felt his muscles coil, so tensely that a headache began to throb behind his eyes. He hated the sight of someone in pain. Let it go on long enough, and Ron and Hermione’s faces would float up in front of his eyes, along with the faces of victims in crimes that he’d failed to save.

            It took an almighty effort not to move forwards and put his hand on Malfoy’s cheek.

            But if I do that, it’s not fair to Ginny. Or Pansy, who wants her husband back. She must care something about him, even if I—don’t.

            I don’t. I really don’t. And this kind of thing will just make him think I do. Not to mention encouraging an affectionate bond that will make it harder for us to go back to our separate lives in the end.

            He asked calmly, “Will you die without those things?”

            Malfoy clenched his jaw, as if he had just truly realized that he would get no sympathy from Harry. “No,” he said. “Only suffer. And I thought you were here to prevent that, Potter.”

            Harry felt a rush of relief like cool rain when Malfoy called him by his last name. Maybe he accepts it, too. After all, why in the world would he want to associate with someone who taunts and rejects him? “I am,” he said. “As much as I can. But you know that a lunch together violates the rules of our agreement.”

            “The connection is growing stronger with the months,” Malfoy retorted, and then forced himself upright with strength Harry would have said he didn’t have. He took several long steps forwards, until they faced each other from a few inches away. Harry refused to look away, though Malfoy’s eyes felt as hot as the touch of his skin. “That agreement doesn’t suffice anymore.”

            Harry fought the temptation to close his eyes. Shit.

            “I won’t come for you,” he said in a heated whisper.

            “You might have to, in a few months,” Malfoy replied. He reached out and cupped Harry’s jaw, stroking his thumb over his lips. His eyes were distant and calculating. Harry preferred that to soft and melting with warmth, but it did make him wonder what would happen next. “This month, I don’t think it necessary. Come to the Manor’s gardens at eight-o’clock at night on the twentieth. We’ll do it then.

            “For now, though—“

            He waved his wand, cast a spell that probably disguised them from view, and then leaned in and kissed Harry.

            It was a kiss unlike the others they’d shared. Then, Malfoy had been desperate to share something, or take something from Harry. This kiss had no purpose but seduction, creating a need and then promising the satiation of it if Harry would just let Malfoy in. His tongue darted and slid about, mimicking an action that made Harry begin to harden as he thought about it.

            No! Damn it!

            He raised his hand, intending to grab Malfoy’s wrist and drag it away from his jaw, but Malfoy leaned in further, and the intensity of the kiss increased, though not the pace. Malfoy’s tongue dragged slowly along his gums, along his teeth, along his own tongue, and a moan that Harry entirely didn’t want rose this time. He hardened further, and his own arousal ached in him as if it were a need, probably remembering that it had had only his own hand to occupy it since Ginny’s accident.

            He wanted Malfoy to smirk against his mouth, or laugh, or do something else that would show this was just a ploy to humiliate him. But Malfoy did nothing save kiss and kiss, now and then uttering moans of his own, and hungry little groans and growls. He pressed further and further in, arching his body as if to cover Harry from the sight of anyone else, keep him all to himself.

            A surge of pure pleasure went through Harry at that. He’d always liked it when Ginny got possessive and jealous, though he thought she had cause to do it far less than she imagined she did. And a magical creature, which the Veela essentially was, becoming possessive of him—

            No!

            Finally, he had panicked strongly enough for his innate magic to react. An uncoordinated blast of it shoved Malfoy away from him. He reeled across the corridor and into the far wall, while Harry leaned against the wall behind him and tried frantically to recover the strength in his legs and the feeling in his mouth.

            Malfoy stood up before he did. His voice came out deep and hoarse, sounding—Harry couldn’t prevent the comparison from attacking his thoughts, though he tried—like Harry after he finished sucking Malfoy’s cock last month. “You want it. You do. You want it so much.”

            Harry turned his eyes away from the other man’s face. The throb traveling through his groin had become actively painful. He only had one choice, which would also hurt, but at this point he didn’t care. He waved his wand and intoned a charm that he hadn’t used since his last year at Hogwarts.

            His erection subsided so quickly that he hissed. Then he rose and glared across the corridor at Malfoy.

            The other wizard blinked, maybe because of the sheer hatred Harry knew shone in his eyes.

            “And that’s why you’re a charity case, and not a friend,” Harry said flatly. “You’re a fucking selfish bastard, Malfoy. What part of ‘I have obligations to people other than you’ don’t you understand? I don’t care what you want. I barely care what you need. The idea that there’s more between us than that is laughable.”

            He flicked his wand one more time, this time soothing his swollen lips and removing the flush from his cheeks.

            “I’ll be there on the twentieth,” he said.

            “Will you really?” Malfoy murmured, and the husky tone of his voice was an invitation.

            “With pleasure,” Harry snapped. “Because when that’s past, there are only six times that I ever need see you again, and then this accident that ruined my life is over and done with.”

            He stepped into the office. Ralph looked up at him, but seemed to sense that now was not the time to ask questions. Harry sat down and tore grimly into his report.

            He was almost sorry that he Apparated home each time he left the Ministry, and therefore was unlikely to be attacked on the way. At the moment, he could use an excuse to discharge his adrenaline.

            He fixed his mind somewhat desperately on Ginny. She was the reason he did all this. She was the reason he couldn’t just tumble into bed with Malfoy and enjoy himself. She was his wife. He loved her.

            Maybe, if he repeated that to himself often enough, it would serve as a bulwark against all kinds of temptation.

*

            Draco didn’t know how Harry had done it—he suspected it was with the careful use of calming charms and spells that numbed the nerves so as to be indifferent to any sensation, pleasure or pain—but he was entirely unmoved when he came to Draco on the twentieth.

            They met in the gardens, as before. Draco had Transfigured the bench in the gazebo into a bed, this time. He meant for Harry to be comfortable and lie between his legs as he sucked Draco off, and after that Draco would unleash his Veela allure, pin Harry to the bed as he was writhing, and return the favor.

            But Harry didn’t blink when he saw the bed. He just nodded, climbed onto it, performed the charm that Vanished Draco’s clothing, and then bent to his task without a taunt, without a greeting, without an expression of defiance.

            Draco’s back had arched and his mind had gone blank. The sensation only satisfied his physical needs, without doing a thing about the Veela’s—or his—emotional ones, but he’d gone so long without even a kind word from his mate, let alone a touch, that for the moment, that was enough. He would have sworn that perhaps Harry had used spells on his mouth to increase its heat and wetness, too, but he knew that wasn’t the case. His body had simply needed Harry with so much desperation that anything felt good right about then. He came with a feeling that he had emptied everything, tears and anger and frustration and all, into the orgasm.

            Harry stood up when he was done, cleaned come off his lips with a flick of his tongue, and performed the cleaning charms. Then he looked around for a moment and leaned off the bed.

            Then Draco’s robes landed on top of him, a gesture so casual that the Veela cried out in stunned pain, like a kicked dog.

            A moment later, Harry had Apparated away.

            Draco lay where he had been abandoned, and closed his eyes. The same crushing grip he’d first felt in the Ministry had hold of his heart, manipulating it, shredding it. He could feel the physical muscle laboring at exactly the same cadence as the emotional pain, and the fading of pleasure’s aftershocks let him feel it all the more.

            God, he wanted to kill something.

            Harry was a blind idiot to think their marriages, their lives, would ever be the same after this. Even if the stupid bargain they had made had somehow endured, Draco would have dreamt of the heat of Harry’s mouth and hand for the rest of his life, and wondered if it was only the Veela that made sex with Harry so much better than sex with Pansy. Eventually, Draco would probably have given in and pursued Harry so that he could find out.

            The little Weasley’s pull over Harry was too weak. Draco knew sexual compatibility wasn’t everything, but it was a lot, and Harry’s erection against his hip the other day, from just a kiss—in which he hadn’t used a bit of Veela allure, thank you very much—was even more. He was fighting a futile battle. He had to give in. The Veela’s longing for him would die. Draco’s wouldn’t.

            Why is he fighting so much?

            Draco went still suddenly, and frowned at the canopy of the bed. It did seem odd, that Harry had turned so suddenly cruel and callous. It wasn’t like him at all. He had been open and compassionate until April, even after the little Weasley had made that rule he couldn’t give himself to Draco. Was it really only the holiday that had changed him? Or the trick Draco had used on him to make him confess his fear and unhappiness? Harry could hold grudges, yes, but avoiding Draco would have made more sense than outright cruelty.

            Someone moved at the edge of his peripheral vision.

            Draco rolled his head, hoping against hope it was Harry come back, but Pansy stepped out of the darkness instead, and stood looking down at him in the bed. Her left hand held her wand, as expected. Draco thought she would make some comment about his state of undress, or the still large pool of semen splashed on his belly.

            She coughed and made a little gesture with her wand towards her right hand. Draco followed the motion.

            She held a camera in it.

            Draco snapped his gaze to her, furious. Pansy smiled a bit and sat down on the far edge of the bed, the one Harry had occupied. She didn’t seem to care how near her hand, even her robe, came to the mess. She just watched him with bright, slightly mocking eyes.

            It wasn’t Harry’s idea to be that cruel, Draco thought.

            The Veela uttered its raptor screech at the thought of someone actively interfering, trying to keep it from its mate. With a heavy effort and a visualization of the bare stone room, Draco kept it from transforming him.

            “What do you want?” he asked in a level voice.

            Pansy fluttered her eyelashes, but Draco wouldn’t be fooled again. She was no more innocent than a succubus was. “Only what every wife wants,” she said. “The love and loyalty of my husband.”

            “The first was never yours,” Draco said, in as distant a tone as he could manage while revelation and fury ate him alive. He could feel it as actual fire in his belly, building up in his flanks like the heat Harry had delivered from his orgasm in May. His shoulder blades quivered with the need to grow wings. He knew that if he did, when he lifted them again, the white-blue energy that had gathered under them in March would rise and devour Pansy. “As for the second, you think moving this obviously is the way to get it?”

            Pansy gave him a slow, mischievous smile, which suited a girl much younger than she was. “I’ve already moved subtly, and shown you my disapproval, and it didn’t really matter.” She rolled a shoulder. “And I know that you’re thinking of taking and destroying the camera, Draco. It won’t matter. It really won’t matter. I have pictures from the last few months, too. And the nights that I wasn’t here, or that you thought I wasn’t—“ Her smile flashed with venomous sweetness, and Draco felt a stab of hatred deeper and stronger than any he’d felt in seven years. “The house-elves obliged me.”

            Draco spent another moment considering her in silence. He wanted to say the house-elves would never have turned against the master of Malfoy Manor that way, but he knew better. Pansy’s status as his wife gave her a certain amount of power over them. If he hadn’t specifically forbidden something, and she commanded them to it, then they would oblige her.

            He could command them never to do this again. But that would not stop Pansy from publishing the photographs of him and Harry she already had, or showing them around more discreetly but still to their ruin.

            It was not so much his own ruin that Draco thought of, though part of him shuddered at the thought of building his name up again after the Death Eater scandal had almost ruined it. He was thinking of Harry.

            He’s wrong. I was never selfish enough not to care about him, at least not after March happened.

            “You know that I’ll die if I give you my full loyalty,” he said carefully. He had to be so careful. He had to project the image of a trapped beast to Pansy, showing her that he was desperate and angry and longing to get the photographs away from her. If he showed too much fear, though, she wouldn’t believe it, and if he showed too much anger, she wouldn’t accept the desperation, either. “Is that really what you want, for me to perish before the year’s out?”

            “No,” said Pansy. “I only wish to have some say in how you arrange your trysts, Draco, the way any good wife would.” She stroked his shoulder. Draco was glad that he had practiced the exercises to control the Veela, then, because it shrieked and screamed in his head in revulsion. It didn’t like anyone save its mate touching it, anyway, but Pansy was worse, a traitor. Draco mastered it, though, and kept lying there with a calm expression. “You’re to meet on the twentieth of each month, just as you did this time. Only and ever here. You’ll inform me beforehand. I’ll be watching from the shadows, though I quite understand if you never want me to bring a camera again.”

            She smiled. Draco kept down the effort to strangle her by sheer force of will.

            “Potter will finish his business with you and leave.” She arched an eyebrow. “The example he set tonight is quite instructive, and one you’ll follow from now on. Should the beast inside you absolutely require it, then you can pleasure Potter as well. The exchange should never take more than five minutes either way. Men are randy creatures, aren’t they, darling?”

            Draco just tilted his head, seeking to make her go on. Visions of bloody death flashed across his mind, but they’d done the same thing when he trained with some of the Death Eaters. He’d kept them from noticing it, and he could do the same thing with Pansy now. At least his life wasn’t in danger this time.

            “And then you’ll come with me, and we’ll make love, so that you’ll know whom you belong to.” Pansy extended one hand and wriggled the fingers insistently. “In fact, we’ll try that part of it right now. Do come with me, Draco. And remember that I’ll know if you intend me harm.”

            She might think that, but it wasn’t true.

            Draco put the Veela away, in the back of his mind. Its screaming had calmed in the last few minutes. Perhaps it had seen his own daydreams, and realized he was thinking of ways to punish Pansy. At least it curled up and left him alone, so that he could do his own human job of acting.

            He cleaned himself, and took Pansy up to their shared bedroom. He stripped her, murmuring endearments into her ears. He laid her on the bed and began slowly to worship her, his lips marking her skin the way they had when they made love on his birthday.

            It wouldn’t last. Come his next birthday, he would be doing this to Harry.

            As always, the thought of Harry shot his arousal higher, and he sat back so Pansy could see his cock swelling between his legs.

            “I don’t know that I believe that’s for me,” she murmured.

            Draco climbed back up the bed to her and set about, very coldly and deliberately behind his lover’s mask, bringing her to such heights of pleasure as she had never felt. When he thought it safe, he let a little touch of Veela allure leak through here and there, though it made the Veela whinge weakly in the back of his head. It wanted to save its allure for its mate.

            All the time plotting her murder, he made love to her delicately, gently, tenderly, with such techniques that she writhed beneath him, incoherent with desire, by the time he entered her.

            Draco kept his thrusts at a leisurely pace. Since Harry had taken the edge off for him, it was no effort to do so.

            He made sure she came twice before he did. He gazed at her, memorizing the pleasure-flush of her cheeks, the way her hair sprawled about her on the pillow. He wanted to remember what she looked like, wanted to remember it deeply and dearly, and cradle and treasure the memory in the back of his head.

            She would suffer.

            And he knew how she would by the time he finally succumbed to his orgasm, and then to sleep beside her, cradling her as though she was indeed his mate. His dreams burned in pleasant ways, full of vengeance sometimes, and of a far different, sweeter-smelling body lying beside his at other times.

*

            Harry had had a wonderful evening.

            There was, after all, something that made him happy: the company of the Weasleys. Harry still found it hard to face Molly and Arthur, knowing he’d killed one of their children, but when they invited him and Ginny over for a dinner to celebrate the twins opening their first shop in Hogsmeade, it would have been even harder to resist. So he and Ginny, still walking carefully without the aid of her crutches, went to the Burrow for dinner.

            The twins were there, and so was Angelina Johnson, who had recently started dating Fred. Bill and Charlie remained abroad, but Fleur had come in for a visit, along with her five-year-old daughter, Roxane, petted and the treasure of the entire family, but too shy to be spoiled. Percy was also missing; his reconciliation with his family was still partial and painful.

            But nine people, counting Roxane, was more than enough to make the table feel crowded and the house dense and warm. Harry laughed at some of the twins’ genuinely funny stories, and Ginny did the same thing, for once without a trace of bitterness in the sound. Roxane was passed from adult to adult, her feet rarely touching the floor. She was fond of Harry, but her means of showing affection was mostly to cling to him in silence, burying her head in his shoulder. Harry felt he was healing as he held her. There was something different about holding a child.

            Once he looked up across Roxane’s head and saw Ginny watching him with a steady expression. Harry smiled hesitantly. He couldn’t make out anything behind her eyes. He hoped she was thinking of the children they might have someday.

            That we will have someday, he decided firmly, and handed Roxane on to Angelina.

            Molly and Arthur were solicitous to Ginny, willing to listen to Harry’s talk of Ministry business, and always conscious of where their granddaughter was at any given moment. Sometimes, listening to them talk to each other, practically finishing each other’s sentences the way Fred and George did, and watching them exchange secret smiles, Harry felt he might be able to tell them he had killed Ron, after all, and that they would weep, but still accept him.

            He did not feel like testing it, of course.

            When he and Ginny stood to leave, Molly dragged her daughter aside for motherly advice about not pushing herself too hard while recovering. Harry, standing and watching them with a faint smile, was more than a little surprised when Fleur took him aside in turn.

            Years had only turned her more beautiful, and stately, so that she carried her long pale hair like a crown. She had also mostly lost her French accent, though it hovered around a few of her words. “Ah, ‘arry,” she said. “You will forgive me, yes? I noticed that you ‘ad a scent of the Veela on you.”

            Harry could feel his ears heating up. He hoped desperately that anyone watching would just mistake it for the embarrassment most men felt when talking to the beautiful Veela woman. “Yes,” he admitted. “I—that is to say—“ He reminded himself that he couldn’t really deny it, that his stammering only made the matter seem more serious than it was, and that if anyone would understand this madness that had taken over his life, Fleur would. “An old acquaintance of mine had his Veela heritage pushed to the forefront of his life by a magical accident last year,” he admitted grudgingly. “It turned out I’m his mate. We’ve found a solution,” he added quickly, seeing Fleur’s eyebrows fly up. “I only have sexual contact with him once a month, and that’s enough to content his Veela. And it should fade away at the end of this year.”

            Fleur stared at him for a moment, then turned to look at Ginny. “It is ‘ard on her,” she murmured.

            “It is.” Harry looked back at his wife, who was listening patiently to her mother. God, she was beautiful, enough to make the breath catch in his throat. Fleur and Malfoy both had that distant kind of cold, hard attraction, like a snowy mountain, but Ginny was as lovely as fire was. “But she agreed, like the rest of us did. It’s—hard. But it’s working. It’s just a few more times.”

            Fleur made a low, thoughtful sound. Then she said, “Forgive me again, but—you speak of the Veela as if eet were an animal inside this—acquaintance—of yours. You know that is not true, yes?”

            “It’s not precisely true,” Harry said, shrugging. “I know that. But he can control it like a part of himself.”

            Fleur sighed. “Over time, the Veela blends with the wizard,” she said. “We ‘ave seen eet many times, because many of those awakened late in life come to us for ‘elp. So the Veela wants you, but over time, the wizard will want you, too.”

            “He can’t have me.” Harry shifted his shoulders. “I’ve taken steps to discourage his interest in me.”

            “I can only ‘ope for you,” Fleur said seriously. “This is a dangerous situation, very delicate. The Veela ‘ave their mates for a reason, yes? To content them, but also to content the mate. They will do anything to make their mates ‘appy.”

            “I’m happy with Ginny.”

            Fleur only looked at him with pity, kissed his cheek, and then turned away to catch up Roxane, who was saying, “Mummy, mummy,” over and over in a soft voice.

            Harry shook his head, and turned to take Ginny’s arm. She looked up at him with the same steady expression she had used during dinner, but leaned against him willingly so that he could carry her through the Floo.

            They had barely arrived home, though, when she stepped away. Harry shut the Floo connection behind him and faced her, not sure what she wanted. His heart was pounding in his ears with a muffled knocking.

            “It’s over,” Ginny said.

            Harry felt as if a giant had punched him. He tried to muster some words from his throat, some saliva in his mouth, but a dry croak came out.

            Ginny didn’t seem to notice. She was looking down. One hand ran over and over the mantle above the fireplace.

            “I looked at Mum and Dad tonight,” she said into the silence, “and then I listened to Fleur talking about Bill. Those are—that’s the kind of marriage I want, Harry. A strong one. A solid one. One nothing can tear apart.” She suddenly let out a harsh, quivering breath, which was the only sign Harry had of how close to tears this conversation had already carried her. “One where one partner would never consider cheating on another.”

            Harry opened his mouth to answer as he always did, that Malfoy’s mortal danger hadn’t left him a choice, and then closed his mouth again. He had had a choice. He had even told Ginny that he would rather go to Azkaban for conspiracy to murder Malfoy than make her unhappy.

            He’d made his choice, and he had to live with the consequences. He’d done the wrong thing, even though he had thought it was the right thing. He cast his own eyes down and waited.

            “I deserve more than this half-existence you’ve inflicted on me in the last six months,” Ginny said quietly. “I deserve more than to be cheated on, slept around on. I deserve more than a husband who will—commit adultery. And I also deserve more than a husband who keeps giving pieces of himself away to other people.”

            Harry could just see her hands twisting furiously together in the corner of his vision.

            “This is so hard,” Ginny murmured. “I do love you, Harry. You’re an easy man to love.

            “I don’t know if you’re an easy man to continue to love.

            “You’re so righteous. Sometimes it’s self-righteousness. You do the right thing, and I love that about you, but it’s at such a cost. You’ve been good, in the past, about making sure that only you pay for it, but now it’s costing me. And I just—I don’t know. Either you’re too good for me, or I deserve something more than this, even with all your sacrifice. I deserve more.”

            Harry nodded, still not looking up.

            “None of this,” Ginny said, coming close to him and whispering into his ear, which made him start, “disturbs me as much as what I saw you doing with Malfoy. I think I could forgive the cheating. What is it but giving each other a little physical release? And if you’d remained distant from him and treated him with the same contempt as you did at first, I could have borne it.

            “But you got closer and closer to him. You gave him pieces of yourself, and not just to bandage his wounds, but to keep. He brings a passion leaping out of you that I can’t. You—you provide the memories in the Pensieve, but you don’t experience them from the outside, so I don’t think you’ve really seen the expression on his face when he holds you, kisses you. He’s falling in love with you, Harry. Maybe he’s already there.” She hesitated a moment more, than added, “And from the outside, it looks awfully like you’re falling in love with him.”

            That, at least, Harry could answer.

            “I’m not,” he said quietly, studying the floor. “In fact, Pansy asked me to keep as much of myself back as I could. She doesn’t want to lose her husband, either. I taunted him and made him suffer as much as I could bear to.”

            “Really?” Ginny’s voice held a lilt of surprise.

            Harry’s heart did leap, then.

            “It’s not enough,” Ginny said after a pensive silence. “Not right now, at least. But—I suppose it couldn’t hurt to give you a few more months. Six more months, Harry.” She stepped away from him, and he finally looked up at her.

            Her eyes were sad and soft, but determined. “If you still love me in six months—if you’re not in love with him—then come to me, and we’ll take up where we left off.”

            Harry nodded, the hope high in his throat, keeping him silent. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

            He helped her pack up in silence, and listened to her low murmured stream of instructions about sending on her post and when he should come to visit her. She would stay at the Burrow, of course. It was already arranged with Molly and Arthur.

            She kissed him once, and then she stepped through the fire, as steadily as if she had never crashed a broom, and was gone.

            Harry leaned his forehead against the mantle, his hands clenched around the sides of his head and his eyes tightly shut. His happy mood of the earlier evening had vanished completely, but something better had taken its place: determination stronger and fiercer than Harry had felt when he’d hunted the Horcruxes.

            He fixed an image of Ginny in his mind, set it to burn there like a candle.

            That was the woman he loved. That was what he should aspire towards. And he would. It didn’t matter what measures he had to take along the way.

            Malfoy could fall in love with him all he liked.

            Harry was not going to fall in love back.

*

            LupinsLady: As you can see, not quite a divorce.

            Night the Storyteller: Draco has some advantages on his side in this battle, yes, but Harry might manage to ignore them by sheer stubborn force of will.

            Bookworm51485: One thing Harry has to do is face what makes him happy. He never really has. Or, at least, he’s answered the question only once.

            Missy Padfoot: I can assure you Pansy is not Harry’s enemy. She suspects a truth confirmed in the next chapter, that a Veela dies when its mate does.

            Acr1228: Thanks! Harry told Draco off, finally, but he probably did even more damage in doing so.

            Caroll: Harry chooses what memories he puts in the Pensieve. He just excluded the one about the letter.

            GummiBear: The identity of Harry’s enemy has not yet been revealed. And since anything in the letter might be a lie, it’s hard to guess.
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A Year's Temptation

Chapter Six—June