Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Art of Shadow Boxing	By : Tommy-Lane Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 11212 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any charactors from the books and I am not making any money off of this

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Italics = Flashback to seventh year
Chapter 9
I Need Your...

It has been interesting as of late...

The Golden Trio returned from their meeting with the Order in the early fog of the morning, stumbling into the tent with exhaustion. Granger and Weasley had promptly fallen asleep whilst Potter untied me - with a drawn look that kept my tongue still of any snide comments about being tied and left because he looked horribly ill, like he had just received some truly terrible news.

And for some reason I just couldn't do it, couldn't tell him that I had thought of a way to destroy the horcrux. Instead I had simply smiled at his few attempts at conversation that his heart clearly wasn't in before we both went to our respecting beds and drifted off to sleep.

That was a few weeks ago now and I still haven't told him.

Glancing up over my mug of tea at Granger who’s sitting across the table from me eating her breakfast, I let the now familiar debate rise within my mind. Because half of the foremost reason I haven't so much as hinted at how to kill the bit of soul is currently biting into a disgusting looking bowl of porridge.

"You can't be serious about this mate." Weasley's voice drifts in through the tent flaps and my ears perk up with a vague sort of interest. He does not sound happy, surprise, surprise.

"About What?" Potter's tone is tired, accompanied with a barely heard yawn and I have to fight a frown. He hasn't been sleeping well lately and it's starting to take its toll on his body. I've lost count of how many times he's woken me up screaming, the visions from his link with the Dark Lord growing darker, more intense, and with greater frequency. It's getting harder to calm him down each time.

"Are you seriously going to give him his wand back?"

Say what now? My wand? Give me MY wand back?

"Yeah I am, he needs it." Potter answers and it's about bloody time! Though I am a bit shocked that he's planning on returning it, I think he is secretly enjoying having it in his possession the antagonizing prat.

Granger's spoon stills in midair, her head tilted just so, clearly eavesdropping now with just as much interest as I am. So apparently she didn't know about it either. Interesting. I'm starting to get the distinct impression that all decisions relating to me are made solely by Potter. Of course I haven't decided if that's a good thing or not yet.

Probably good in some aspects at least, considering Weasley would have just killed me on sight all those months ago and Granger...well I'm not altogether sure what she would have done. Then again I highly doubt either of them would have taken such an interest in making me laugh. I swear ever since the damn 'tickling' episode Potter has taken it upon himself to try and get me to snort due to laughing so hard. He's like a damn toddler, he's completely latched onto the sound and will not let it go!

I cannot for the life of me figure out what the hell is so entertaining about it.

Sometimes I really do miss being surrounded by Slytherins.

"Have you forgotten who he is Harry? Have you seriously forgotten everything he's DONE?" Weasley demands and I shift uncomfortably on the bench.

Oh yes, all the things I am, all the things I've done - these types of conversations never go well, most likely owing to the fact that I have been a rather horrible blighter during certain parts of my life. Not that I've exactly wanted to do EVERYTHING I've done. But I am a Slytherin through and through and we are all about saving our own skin. If the Dark Lord says jump you say how high and all that rot.

Especially when they've got a wand pointed at your mother.

"I know who he is Ron." Does he now?

"Do you? Because he's the same git who took great pleasure in making our lives hell..."

That's true, I did have some awfully wonderful times plotting against them.

"...he's the guy who called Hermione all the foul names he could think of..."

Again true, and it has been rather difficult to stop ever since coming here mind you, it's just so ingrained in me. Get mad, insult the mudblood, and walk away with a smirk while Potter and Weasley rage against each other. I kind of miss it in a strange sort of way, almost like being homesick. But Potter would NEVER forgive me if I started that up again and I can just picture the look on his face if I actually did it and...

Damn it, I do not care what precious Potter thinks!

The spoon clanks against her bowl and I meet Granger's wide brown eyes that are oddly not shining with hate. No, instead there's something else there that I'm not used to seeing and can't put my finger on. It's unnerving to say the least.

"...he's the fucking prat who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and killed Dumbledore!"

And there's the clincher, Weasley sure isn't holding back any punches this time.

"He didn't kill Dumbledore, you weren't there Ron, you didn't see what happened." Potter hisses and my head snaps back up.

Now wait a second, does that mean that HE was there? What the bloody hell? When was he planning on mentioning that little tidbit?

"Malfoy..." Granger says softly but I ignore her, not even trying to pretend I'm not listening any longer as I hold my breath.

"Students died because of him Harry! And I don't like what he's doing to you." Weasley barks back and I force my mind to stay in the present, to not filter back to that horrible night. Hell that horrible YEAR.

"What are you talking about?" I can practically see the indignation on Potter's face, the way his hand is no doubt flipping in the air in an annoyed gesture.

"He's getting to you and I don't know how he's doing it but bloody hell you follow the guy around everywhere!"

I'm doing what now? What exactly does he think I can accomplish wandless? And I'm not making bloody Potter dog my steps, he does it on his own thank you very much.

"Follow him around? We live in a bloody TENT Ron! How am I not going to spend time with him?"

Now that shouldn't twinge but it does. Although I simply refuse to believe that that little spike of hurt has anything to do with the implication that Potter only spends time with me because he can't get away. Why should it matter anyway? Aren't I only spending time in his company because of the same thing? Who else am I going to talk to out here?

"I manage it! For the last month it’s been 'Draco said this' and 'we can't do it that way Draco says it won't work' and I'm so fucking sick of it!" Weasley's face is most likely resembling a beet by now and Potter does NOT do that. I should know, it takes far too long to get anything through that skull of his.

"Damn it Ron he's helping! None of us know what the hell we're doing but he's got a better grasp on it then we ever could."

True. I most definitely do. Although probably not a good thing to admit to in a group of self-righteous Gryffindors.

"And why is that Harry? Huh why is it that Malfoy's so bloody good at the Dark Arts?" Oh good one weasel, I see where you're going with this, though isn't this card starting to get a bit old?

"He's not a Death Eater!" Potter shouts and I see Granger jump a little out of the corner of my eye. Though if the jump was because she was frightened by the venom in Potter's tone or from being reminded of who I am is hard to tell.

"You sure? Have you seen his arm? Because I'm pretty sure you don't get that tattoo just for fun."

I feel my heart thud painfully at the reminder and unconsciously begin tugging on my sleeve, like if it's just properly covered up than maybe it will just go away. But it won't, it's the horrible Mark that won't EVER leave me, the Mark that will pronounce to everyone for the rest of my days the sins that I have committed. God I hate it, can barely stomach looking at it, can even fell it squirming with an uneasy sickness sometimes.

"He was threatened!" Now how does Potter know that? "Why can't you let it go? He's defected, even Hermione's willing to give him a chance."

I chance a glance in Granger's direction to find her staring at the table and gnawing on her lip. But she's here, sitting politely with me while her lover boy spews all the evil he can drudge up. And she's not participating, not glaring at me in agreement, not laughing in merriment at the fact that I'm being subjected to listen to this.

Maybe she doesn't despise me anymore...I don't know what to think about that.

"I think the question is why can you? You know you used to hate him just as much as I do."

The teeth that have been ripping into my cheek loosen and release as I scowl at the empty air, annoyed that they forgot the damn silencing charm for once. Because I don't want to hear his answer, haven't really wanted to hear any of this.

"Malfoy." Granger says again. "Ron's stubborn and your history...I mean it takes him awhile to let grudges go...but he'll-"

"Forget it Granger." I mutter, standing smoothly and moving towards the tent's opening. Flipping back the flap, I stand up to my full height and sweep outside, my face a clear mask of perfect blankness.

Potter and Weasley - who's got the damn necklace dangling around his neck, honestly what was Potter thinking arguing with him while he was wearing the horcrux? - are standing just outside and their eyes snap over to me the instant I emerge, whatever the sainted hero was about to say hanging silently on his lips as they stare at me.

"Don't let me interrupt you." I drawl and stride past them, not really sure where I'm going but knowing that I need to get away for a while. "Oh and next time best not forget the silencing charm." Looking back over my shoulder long enough to catch Potter's face pale and fall and Weasley just gets redder, if that's even possible.

The freckly redhead mutters something I can't make out, Potter whispering frantically back at him before I hear footsteps trailing after me. Figures he'd follow, to magnanimous not to I suppose.

"Just let him go." Weasley grinds out just loud enough to reach my ears. "We need to finish this Harry!"

"Later alright." Potter brushes him off and I pick up my pace.

I don't really want to talk to him right now.

I feel...odd. I don't know why this is upsetting me, why in the world should it? I knew Weasley still hates me, I'm not all that fond of him myself but there was something about the conversation - the implications and accusations that were thrown about that aren't settling with me. But most of them weren't even new, I've heard nearly all of them before but...damn it, how does Potter know about what happened that night on the Tower? How does he know I was threatened into taking the Dark Mark?

And why above all can't I stop thinking about the little nagging thought that maybe Potter doesn't actually like being with me?

I should not care. No, I DO not care!

He's a disaster of a boy, completely unrefined, blurts out whatever he's thinking, can't seem to walk without tripping over his own damn feet, and above all takes great pleasure in making me uncomfortable. Not to mention he's obnoxious, his stupid hair is always sticking up all over the place like it's there just to mock me, and of course his damn smile and bloody laugh.

He's...he's...damn it there's not even a word for him!

"Draco wait up!" Potter calls out to me and for some unknown reason I round on him, my expression dark and malicious. "Look I'm sorry about that." He slips two fingers into his curls and twists them around as he visibly tries to not flinch away from my gaze.

"I do not care Potter." I reply evenly. "About what you and your little followers think of me."

His fingers tug his raven locks as he fidgets and I can see him racking his brain for what to say next, where to go from here, and I stand back with my arms crossed - letting him fret. He should be nervous, serves him right for making me...conflicted? Is that the right word?

Bloody hell he's even taken away my ability to adequately analyze myself!

"Here." He says rather loudly, shoving my wand suddenly at me and for some reason I find myself just staring at it in his grasp, the tip of it pointing straight through my chest. "I should have returned it sooner."

"Yes." I clear my throat and force my hand to lift and wrap around it, a muscle twitching in my cheek as I'm reconnected to the funnel of my power. "You should have." It feels light and heavy at the same time as I run my fingers over the base, the anger slowly ebbing out as it's replaced with the smooth grace that wielding my wand again lends.

"Want to go for a walk?" Potter asks and I shake my head quickly, still gazing down at the hawthorn length. "Oh...okay, maybe you could go over that last chapter with me again, I still don't really get it or, you know we could try out that warming spell Hermione came across and go swimming in -"

"I know how to destroy the horcrux." I blurt out rather suddenly and his eyes blink rapidly for a moment as my words sink in.

"How...when?" Potter stammers, a surge of light entering his eyes at the possibility of progress.

I cluck my tongue at my own stupidity, I know better than to just burst headlong into situations. That's how Potter does things, not me. "The night you went to the Order." I reply reluctantly.

Potter stares at me for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. "But that was weeks ago! Why didn't you tell me?"

Pocketing my wand, I gaze at him wearily. "Because Potter, it will take all four of us and your little friends do not trust me."

He bites his lip and watches me curiously, processing the little information I've given him. "Is that really it or is it that you don't trust them?"

"Not particularly but I trust you." His eyes widen a bit and I feel ridiculously self-conscious in a flash. "Nothing personal, I simply know that you wouldn't just let me die because of that infuriating hero mentality you have."

He nods, a little smile that's trying to remain inconspicuous on the corner of his mouth. "Okay, so what do we need to do?"

"Well as we already know all destructive spells do absolutely nothing and then I realized that's because the locket is destructive in nature, it feeds off evil and pain and dark magic. What we need to do is overwhelm it with the opposite, make the bit of soul feel so hostile towards its enclosure that it breaks free to seek a new object to reside in. We need to saturate it with happiness-"

"Like the Patronus charm?" Potter asks.

"A bit, same line of thinking but much, much more. One memory will not cut it, we need a near lifetime of it to draw it out. And out of all of us who are the people with the greatest amount of happy memories?" I finish, trying to not get annoyed at the interruption.

"Ron and Hermione." He mutters as realization dawns.

"Exactly. They will overwhelm it, which will no doubt take all their strength and then when the soul bursts out that is when we will step in and kill it." I finish and wait patiently as he forms his own thoughts around mine, waiting for the inevitable question.

"How will we do it?" He sounds timid, not at all like the boy I know has faced the Dark Lord on multiple occasions and has lived to tell about it.

I take a step closer for no real reason I can fathom other than...I want to, want to be close enough to feel the emotions slide off him, close enough to see his eyes flicker with his thoughts. "By summoning up every horrible memory you have, every terrible thing those awful muggle relations of yours did to you, ever fight we ever had, every loved one you've ever known whose died, every time you've faced the Dark Lord...every little bit of darkness that's inside you and bringing it to the surface and then murdering it."

His gaze darkens and slips over my face. "Wouldn't that just draw it towards us?"

"Exactly." I whisper.

"What about you?" He asks tentatively. "What will you think of?"

I smile, no doubt making myself look slightly crazed in the process. "Trust me Potter, it won't be hard." He looks like he's going to say something but nothing comes out as he just keeps staring up at me.

"Okay but I..." Potter falters and shifts his gaze over my face again and again. "I think we should try to not use the killing curse, unless we have too."

"Agreed." I nod, knowing why he isn't keen on using it, it's the same reason I am. "Now go get the locket and your friends and let’s take one more step towards ending this damn war."

He doesn't move for a good while and I'm beginning to wonder if he's going to reject my idea after all before he mutters a quick "be right back" and turning and leaving. Leaning against a tree I brace myself for the upcoming confrontation, as I'm not naive enough to think that his lemmings will just go along with it without some sort of fight.

And I'm right. After Potter returns with them we take turns explaining what needs to be done, Granger's hand on Weasley's arm like the little touch is enough to hold him back if he decides to try and tackle me again.

"I don't like it." Weasley mutters, eyeing me like he can't believe that my intentions are pure. Which is just tiring, honestly if I had wanted to do something nefarious to Potter I would have had ample opportunity to already. "How do you know it will work?"

"We don't for certain until we try it." I stare right back at him, not feeling the least bit fearful of him.

"But this is dangerous isn't it?" Granger says cautiously and I can tell that she's really giving it some deep thought. Not surprising of course but still it's nice to know she doesn't immediately assume it's some sort of plan on my part to weaken them so I can kill Potter. "This is how wizards go bad, playing with this sort of thing...what if...what if the darkness fills you to point that there's no coming back?" She looks from me to Potter and back before glancing at the locket on the large boulder in the middle of us.

"It's a risk." I tell her plainly, no use hiding it. "But if it does start to take Potter that's where you two come back in, it will be up to you to bring him back before he turns. But hopefully we'll destroy it before it even becomes a concern."

"What about you?" Shockingly it's Weasley who voices this concern and I stare a bit dumbfounded for a moment.

And that's another reason I'm not exactly keen on this plan, what will happen if the process starts to turn me? Merlin knows those two wouldn't do an ounce of good in saving me, hell it would probably just make the transformation complete. I cast a sideways glance at Potter and realize that he's watching me steadily, a worried line across his lips.

Oh hell of course it would be him. Somehow I just know he could do it, could stop me from losing myself but I'd rather inflict myself with bodily injuries than actually admit that to him. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that shall we?"

Weasley takes a deep breath and exchanges glances with Granger before nodding. "Let’s do this."

After carefully going over the particulars, we each take our stances around the boulder, Granger and Weasley on one side, me and Potter on the other. "Remember you have to flood it, every bit of joy you can muster and once it's out cast your shields immediately." I remind them as we all raise our wands.

And then it all happens very fast, the two Gryffindors that couldn't be any more different from each other casting the spells we'd gone over as they concentrate on saturating the locket with love and happiness - who knew something so sappy sounding would be part of the Dark Lords down fall? The Locket shudders, reeking of rage and sickness and I know this all takes a good long while but it doesn't feel like it.

Because suddenly, moments after catching Potter's eyes for a brief second, there's an unearthly piercing scream as the pendent shatters, Granger and Weasley collapsing to their knees behind their shield. But both our gazes aren't on them though but on the thick black mass rising from the shards, funneling towards us with a power that pulls at me and I feel my feet slip on the ground.

Curses and hexes fall from my lips as all the hate and anger and evil I have every felt in my entire life fuels each burst of magic, making it stronger and darker than ever before. I vaguely hear Potter casting beside me and sink further and further into each spell, my eyes filled to the brim with the nasty bit of old soul that the Dark Lord severed and bound and then it all spins and stills.

Potter lets out a choking rasp as the swirling cloud with its golden eyes dragging at me from within turns towards him fully and a panic grips me as he wavers on his feet. The soul is latching onto him, whether in effort to make its new home in him or in order to destroy him once and for all I can't know for sure. My wand nearly pulses in my hand with the force and speed of each curse, while I try to keep an eye on Potter out of the corner of my eye.

He falls to his knees and I feel an explosion of rage tear through me. This is not how he's going to die, Harry Potter will not be taken down by a filthy decrepit old nightmare! The mass is bending towards him, what can only be described as a hungry mouth opening as his green eyes take on a hazy look. I have no idea what it's doing to him but I will not stand by and let it continue.

With an uncharacteristic surge of fear for his life, I find myself skidding between them, blocking Potter from view and with a venomous glare I open my mouth and hear myself scream the killing curse, feeling a bit of me rip in the process. I know I wasn't supposed to, that we were going to try and find a different way to destroy it but fuck it all!

No one can take him from me!

There's a roar that lasts only a split second before the mass converges in on itself, quacking and sputtering before blinking from existence.

My arm falls to my side and I drag in deep heaving breaths, the residual energy from the magic flowing through me wafting around me as I stare at the broken locket lying so innocently on the forest floor. Dead.

"Harry!" Granger shouts from the other side and I blink as I look up at them.

I turn swiftly, rather terrified of the state I might find him in. "Potter, huhmps!" He knocks the air from my lungs as I find my arms suddenly full of a slightly trembling Harry Potter, his arms clinging around my neck.

I stand there awkwardly as he hugs me - HUGS me, no one ever hugs me - my arms tense and straight at my sides, then Granger and Weasley pop into my field of vision. I can feel the intensity of their gazes but they're not staring at us, at the way their leader is latched onto me, no they’re staring at just me with wide unbelieving eyes.

****

There's a warm heaviness draping over me, the scent of sweet coconut wrapping around my senses, a steady rise and fall, rise and fall in rhythm against my own. I turn towards it, blindly seeking it, sensitive finger tips skipping over a smooth hot expanse before sinking into coarse threads that wind around and through. My head turns, hair tickling my nose as I inhale, a smile twitching on my lips as I let myself slip deeper into the cloudy dream that feels too real to be the mist of the midnight mind.
"Mhmm."
The sound is deep and vibrates with a ghost of a breath over my chest and my hand stills as it all skids into focus. Tension starts in my toes and sweeps up my legs and into my torso in a matter of seconds, trapping my air and skipping through my thoughts. An arm tightens around my waist and I stubbornly refuse to open my eyes, to confront what I now know is not a dream but a very real reality. Forcing my fuzzy thoughts together I propel them backwards as I try to still the thumping of my heart.
Why the hell am I in bed with Potter?
I know without even looking that it's him, because the body smells like him, the noise - however small - sounded like him, the hair is most definitely his, and bloody hell even his arms feel uniquely like him.
But my head feels like it's filled with a thick fog and there's a small churning in my stomach and...damn it, am I hung-over? Alright so maybe I had more to drink than I thought last night. I take a deep breath and focus all my energy on mentally retracing my steps. Everything leading up to Madame Safiya, as well as my conversation with her, is perfectly clear, standing starkly and stoically amidst the alcohol induced swirl.
Then I had left her and I remember feeling almost overpowered with a ferocious rage at the way that woman had leered at Potter and then I had...dragged him out. Damn it, why did I do that? Because now that the anger has been reduced to a dull simmer, the realization and repercussions of that action hits me full force.
I overreacted.
Potter is a free man with no debts to her and it would take some time and calculated moves to reel him in but by leaving as I did I may have inadvertently put him in more danger. Because now she knows he means something to me, means enough to break my reserve, hell I had practically shoved everyone out of our way.
I might as well have draped a big gaudy sign over him proclaiming, "hey here's my one massive weakness!"
And that's where it starts getting disjointed and fuzzy. We left and came to...Potter's hotel? Bracing myself as much as I can, I crack my eyes open only to immediately have my vision filled with the top of his sleeping head - because he's using me as a bloody pillow, his cheek just under my collar bone, his chest half atop mine, his arm thrown over me with one of his legs curved around mine. And then I notice my arms around him, one hand buried in his hair, the other pressing around his back. We're both half naked and his skin feels like the damn sun and what the bloody hell!
Silently swearing at myself, I glance around, spotting my clothes thrown across the back of a chair, my shoes having been clearly kicked off across the room. There's a vague memory of pushing him through the door and ordering him to set a ward but then shouldn't I have left?
Shit, this is why I don't drink!
Think, think, think...alright so he set the ward and then...then he had hounded me for answers in typical Potter fashion, though I can't quite remember if I had managed to give him any that really made much sense. I remember feeling uneasy about leaving him, my overactive mind picturing Madame Safiya hauling him off the moment I stepped foot out of his room.
Which is absurd because he’s a powerful wizard for crying out loud, all he would have to do is wave his hand in her direction and she would suddenly not even remember who she is, let alone Potter - but apparently I was drunk and therefore not thinking logically?
Then...was there more drinking? My eyes flick over to the table and fix on the nearly empty bottle of gin and two glasses...good lord what had gotten into me last night? The next thing I can remember is pulling my shirt off and falling onto the bed before passing out. No wait...Potter had been scrambling up onto the other side, muttering about it being his bed and the hell if he was sleeping on the floor.
And that's it.
Though apparently we had migrated towards each other during the night.
I stare down at him silently, his breath drifting from his parted lips and cooling my skin for brief flashes as I wait. For what, I'm not exactly sure, perhaps for the panic that should have come on already at the fact that I can't really remember much after leaving the club or maybe for his touch to start turning painful like any sort of intimate contact usually does. I wait but nothing happens and all I feel is some slight nausea that is most likely stemming from all the liquor I had consumed.
He mumbles something under his breath and I can feel his mouth curve into a little smile as he shifts against me, lighting through parts of my body that I really don't want involved in this situation. I feel a stirring in my stomach and find myself swearing again as I remove my hand from his hair and press it over my eyes.
This is all too much to take in, the fact that I feel completely...present...just as unnerving as the reality that Potter's currently wrapped around me. Add the need to pull apart and examine my conversation with Madame Safiya to the mix and I feel damn near bursting with anxiety. And then there's the little problem of the way my body trying to react to him being glued to me and the timid voice in my head telling me to just pull him closer and go back to sleep - and god the other voice that's trying to get me to lift his face and...
I need to get up.
Now the question is how I do that without waking him up, because I cannot have him regaining consciousness with us like this. My only hope is that he's still as deep a sleeper as he used to be. Holding my breath and pointedly ignoring the ache that's growing between my legs, I slowly roll him until he's on his back under me. His arm flops down to the bed as his head turns to nuzzle back into me, my arm easing its way out from under him in a slow but steady pace.
He's murmuring again and I freeze, staring down at him with an odd little fear holding me in place as I watch him. He looks younger, like he used to, with a softness to his face that time has hardened - his dark lashes dusting against golden skin and I fight not to look lower, to not let my eyes land on his mouth that I know will look much too enticing. His lips brush over my shoulder as he shifts, like his body is trying to seek me out in its sleep and a shiver runs down my spine. And damn it that's it, rolling away from him and right off the edge of the bed, I catch my breath as I land softly on the floor.
What in the world was I thinking staying here last night?
Rising to my feet only to become rooted to the spot a second later as he rolls back onto his stomach, his arm reaching out and tugging the pillow I had been using to himself - his face burying in it but not before I can just barely make out my name spilling from his throat.
Bloody fucking hell.
I turn and walk as quietly and swiftly to the bathroom as I possibly can, closing the door with great care before pressing my face against it and wanting nothing more than to start physically banging my head into it. This is pure torture and even though there's a door between us I can still smell him and am just starting to think that maybe I am losing it before I realize that it's me.
That I smell like him now.
"Damn it." I whisper to the empty room while running a hand vigorously over my face.
I need to get a grip, need to regain control over my body and mind, and to do that I first need to get his scent off of me.
Stripping the wrinkled trousers and boxers off, I turn on the shower and step under the barely warm spray. Closing my eyes I lean into it, willing the water to wash away not only his scent but his lingering touch that feels like it’s been burnt into me. It flows down my skin but doesn't collect and drain away what I need it to, instead it only seems to magnify it and I find myself growing painfully aroused as the image of his sleeping face won't bloody leave the forefront of my mind.
It plays across my eyes, his little sounds filling my ears, the memory of his hands pulling me closer knitting itself into me and I bite my lip harshly. There's a near constant stream of cursing flying through my mind as I press my hands into the tile and clench my jaw, wondering how I allowed myself to get into this situation. Where did my reserve go and why did the smallest implication that someone might want to leer Potter to her bed cause me to snap?
Because I don't act rashly.
Everything is calculated, everything weighed, and everything categorized and placed where it should. Nothing is supposed to slip in where it shouldn't but then again Potter has never been one to play by my rules - whether he knows it or not being beside the point.
And now...damn it now I can't stop feeling him, hearing him, seeing him, and no matter how many horrific things I try to press into my thoughts, nothing diminishes the need that's blazing through me. With a resigned growl and very purposely ignoring the voices nagging at me, I let my hand fall down and slowly wrap it around my erection. Trapping my tongue between my teeth to dislodge any noise, I stare at the scummy wall and let my fingers trail up and down my shaft.
I will get rid of the problem but I will not picture Potter while doing it damn it.
I will not let my mind replay his little moan, will not imagine his smile, will not picture his green eyes sparkling up at me, will not imagine him falling to his knees with the shower water collecting in his monstrous hair and running in rivets down his cheeks.
Shoving the edge of my thumb into my mouth, I bite down till I'm nearly breaking the skin and continue not to think as my hand moves with a growing speed.
I am not thinking about his long dexterous fingers wrapping around my hard length, am not thinking of him pumping it up and down through his fist as he stares up at me with his bottom lip between his teeth. No I am definitely not going to think of him parting his lips and sucking my cock into his warm wet mouth, I am not imagining my hands tangling in his hair and the sounds he would make while I fuck his mouth.
No I'm not, I'm not, I'm...not...oh god.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I feel my orgasm gather and rise and with a muffled cry that is most definitely not anything close to 'Harry', I come all over the shower wall. I slump forward as the water pounds over my head and back, trying to regain my breath and fighting what feels suspiciously like tears pricking behind my eyes.
I slam an open palm against the slippery tile before pinching the bridge of my nose. I feel completely shaken, my limbs weak and heart beating with a quick irregular beat. And oddly enough I feel less in control of myself now than I did before and it's only so much worse knowing that Potter's currently sleeping on the other side of the door.
I stand under the spray until it turns icy with a hard won blank mind, knowing that I will have to confront all of this soon but not now...not yet. Twisting the water off, I step out and dry off with mechanical movements, stepping back into my boxers and black trousers with hands that want to shake. I comb my hair with my fingers, rinse my mouth out, and with a deep breath and fixed face, I slowly open the door.
He's thankfully still asleep, his body curled around my abandoned pillow with an expression of utter peace on his face. Prying my eyes from his sleeping form, I walk with light feet over to the table, pulling my white button-up from over the chair and slipping my arms in. My fingers automatically rise to fix the collar before I even begin to button it up but they pause halfway through the motion as I catch sight of his notebook lying innocently on the table.
And maybe it's just another sign of my slowly coming apart but I can't stop my hand from reaching out for it, lifting the heavy book from the table and running my thumb over the worn leather. With a peak in Potter's direction, I carefully open it, my eyes falling on an old picture fixed to the inside of the front cover.
It's of the four of us - me, Potter, Granger, and Weasley. We're sitting on a long log, bundled against the chilly morning of the mountains. Granger is grinning, her hair a frizzy mess, her nose bright pink from the cold. Weasley has his arm looped around her, a half smile on his face, his legs in a constant fidget. Potter's hands are shoved in his jackets pockets as he leans forward over his knees, smiling softly, his nose crinkling as he glances at me from the corner of his eyes. And there's me, a little more space between where I'm sitting and the rest of them, with the smallest of smiles working to turn my mouth up - like it's trying to contend with a sneer and just barely managing to win.
I stare down at the photograph, remembering clearly the day it was taken. Granger with her camera, trying to capture moments that didn't really need documenting but she was meticulous about it anyway. Like she was desperate to remember it all, every little moment, even me.
God I look young, I look...whole.
With a frown, I turn the page and quickly realize that it's not a notebook for taking notes for his travel articles, it's a scrapbook journal. There's page after page of old photos, some of people I know, some I don't, and more often than not they're the photos from our year spent hunting through the country - his messy nearly intelligible writing breaking the trend here and there. My fingers slip slightly over the worn pages, as I come across my own face time and time again, in so many pictures I hadn't even realized she had taken.
There's me reading on my cot.
Me cooking at the fire.
Me walking with Potter through the woods.
Me scowling at Weasley.
Me laughing and sitting with Potter, sharing a mug of tea.
It goes on and on, spread throughout the book and I've only barely scraped through the first quarter of it. When the photos begin to taper out, his handwriting starts taking up more space, interspersed with postcards and note cards and newspaper clippings. And the further I get the more I start to realize that we've been to some of the same places all over the world - from Italy, to Brazil, to Guatemala, to Nepal…
I can hear my own breathing as it all racks through me, tugging at my mind and playing with my emotions, and with a headache forming behind my right eye I snap the book shut - not daring to venture any further into it. We could have been in the same places at the same times and not have even known it. Our steps marking out the vastness of this world strangely in-sync and I can't help but wonder when he was at each place and how he came to find himself there.
It seems too absurd to be merely coincidence but how could it be explained otherwise? He didn't know where I was and even if he did why would he come looking only to gather up a postcard, jot down some stories, and then just leave? It doesn't fit, doesn't make sense for it to be anything more, for it to have any deeper meaning.
But still...I have the last seven years of his life resting in my hands and all it would take to find out is to let my eyes land on his script and read his words. It's all here, all before me but I know I can't, can't betray whatever amount of trust we still have between us - however tattered and damaged it might be. Hell I've probably already crossed a line just by flipping through it.
With a sigh I set it back down gently, my fingers brushing over it one last time before stilling on the edge of the worn folded bookmark. The bookmark he's always moving from page to page, discreetly folding with careful movements, the little square paper that has a glossy sheen to it, and that he never leaves open for anyone to see.
I know now that it must be a photo and there's a part of me that's near convinced I know when it was taken as well.
It feels like there's something lodged in my chest as I thumb it, debating whether to draw it out and reveal its secrets, to know for sure. The thing grows to the size of boulder, pressing against my lungs, and sending little jolts down my chest and through my arms. It's a strange sensation, one that both terrifies and excites me, breaks me and calls to me.
Flexing my fingers, I pull them back, letting the bookmark stay where it is between the pages - because despite the urge to unravel it, I know it's not for me, that finding its truth could only hold more pain either way.
And it's not like I don't have enough on my mind to deal with at the moment. Why torment myself further? Why tempt the tempest inside me that's seemed to have abated for the time being? Because I know it's not gone, not completely, I can still feel it brewing - for it's still within me, only now I'm in the eye of the storm and where I go from here is anyone's guess.
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The Art of Shadow Boxing