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Every You, Every Me	By : lordoberon Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 6704 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or claim any part of it. It is solely the property of J K Rowling. I make no money in the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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PROMPTS FOR ENTIRE FIC:

Lake

Charm

2 a.m.

Needle

Turpentine kisses and mistaken blows

Wire

Every you, every me

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EVERY YOU, EVERY ME

By lordoberon

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Chapter 1

BLAISE

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No one else pissed Blaise off as much as Draco Malfoy.

He hated that goddamn smirk at every hour of the day. He hated the whining; he hated the way Malfoy got everything he wanted, even down to the best bed in the Sixth Year Slytherin dormitory (the one on the end, by the window). He hated the way Malfoy made people do things for him -which Blaise thought weak -as if he were superior. And he hated that look Malfoy got around his "friends" when he made a joke, which demanded, laugh, or else.

Mostly, Blaise hated the way that Malfoy –lazy, arrogant, bitchy Malfoy -attracted him.

The blonde's attitude was anything but attractive. Sure, he could be funny. Sure, he had wit. Sure, he was good in classes and well-read. Sure, he possessed the etiquette required of a Pureblood heir. But his idiotic preening was too much. Especially because Blaise couldn't disagree. Malfoy was attractive -especially if you could ever get him to shut up.

When he was quiet, he was even beautiful. Blaise liked to watch him. Malfoy's hair was like silver in the light, a lamp in the corridor smash full of dark robes. He watched the delicate tilt of Malfoy's head as he scanned the Great Hall. He watched the pursing, full mouth with the flash of pink moistening tongue, when Malfoy was concentrating on his studies. He watched the every curve and line in that graceful body when Malfoy rose off the Quidditch pitch. He watched the long, swaggering gait, and the languid way Malfoy draped himself over a couch, over a Hogwarts Express seat, over Pansy Parkinson (stupid, lucky girl).

Blaise watched all of it. It all pissed him off. It was torture to hear Malfoy speak his name during the brief train trips were he cavorted with the group. It was torture to hear Malfoy laugh, and to watch him, always watching and never getting a glance in return. But Blaise couldn't stop. He was pissed off at Malfoy, and at himself.

How had he gotten himself into this? Why couldn't he stop?

It was all his mother's fault. If she hadn't killed her most recent husband, Anthony, then Blaise's hormones and attention would not have needed to hunt a new target down. But she had killed Anthony, of course, when she found him with Blaise in her bed.

Ouch. Blaise hadn't meant to be discovered. He hadn't done such a bad job calculating a plan in years. He was usually so good at staying in his mother's good graces. It was a secret many men had tried to steal from him. He had taken advantage of Anthony's desperation and turned it into desperation for Blaise, instead. It was admitting to himself that he maybe missed Anthony, beautiful, tempestuous Anthony, which made Blaise go on the hunt once more.

Only Anthony had been able to distract Blaise to the point of such miscalculations. He had made Blaise stupid, stupid with lust. Blaise hadn't been that stupid in a while. It had felt good. But now...it was bad. Very bad. How was Blaise ever going to get Draco Malfoy? He had to get what he wanted. Unlike Malfoy, though, he wasn't one to expect what he wanted to fall into his lap.

No more waiting and watching. It was time to start the hunt.

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DRACO

The dreams sometimes felt real right after he woke up. They certainly felt real during.

In this one, the burning sensation was not created by a black, consuming fire, a number of horrible spells, or the long, pale fingertips of the Dark Lord. But it was just as horrifying as the rest of them.

He lay alone, in a room so dark that he could not even see his own body. Only the needle was visible. It glowed in the dark, gleaming silver, and he could do nothing to stop it. A hand, cold and distant, pulled up his sleeve. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He tried to shake his head to get the shameful tears away. But he couldn't even move his head! He could only wait for it.

The cold pin prick of the needle touched his arm. Pain. It was like this every time. It felt like the Cruciatus curse had, when Draco was twelve and his aunt Bellatrix had decided to have some fun. She had made up for it later by teaching him Occlumency, but he would never forget the pain.

When the needle dug into his skin, the pain increased. It rolled hard through his body, and he could only compare the sensation to being yanked in different directions by Port keys. His stomach roiled with it. And always, always, the hissing voice was in his head, commanding him, praising him, or taunting him. No matter what the voice said, it always made fear clench in his gut. He was not a Gryffindor, and his lack of bravery made him loathe himself sometimes. He loathed himself most in those moments where he sat in the presence of the Dark Lord and just hearing that voice made him break out in a cold sweat. Even in dreams, it scared all the sense out of him.

The Dark Lord liked to wipe all sense away, and replace it with only his desires. Identity was important to Draco, and he had an inkling that the Dark Lord knew of his pride in his name, his House, and his possessiveness towards what he considered his. But the Dark Lord wanted Draco and all his belongings to be his. Draco wouldn't be anything, just a servant. That was perhaps the most scary part of it. His fear would come out in his dreams; the pain would wipe away everything he was.

As the needle began to carve its design into his skin, dream-Draco gritted his teeth and tried not to scream. The Dark Lord was saying his name now, tauntingly, waiting for him to break. He resisted, feeling the magic of the needle burst over him in waves. It dug deeper, and began to create a burning hot sensation.

When it left, Draco stared at the Mark the needle had left on his arm. The skull with its open mouth seemed to laugh at him. New, the Mark burned red. Sometimes in his dreams, the Mark would cool, and become black. Now the pain became so great that he had to scream. Victorious, the Dark Lord laughed at his misery.

Draco shot awake in the dark, panting. He gulped in deep breaths of air, willing himself not to throw up. It's not real, it's not real, it's not real! His face was sticky with tears, and his arms were shaking. As he sucked breath back in loudly, grateful for the Imperturbable charm around his bed, he tried to think. It was difficult, with the memory of the pain still searing through his brain. He hated that helpless feeling.

Anger followed hot on the heels of his despair. It always did that and often got him in trouble. He'd gotten detention from Snape for blasting a fellow House mate across the Sixth Year dormitory. It had felt so good! Power had coursed through him again. He hadn't even had to recite a spell; his anger had flared out and blasted the boy against the stone wall. He'd deserved it for waking up Draco in the midst of the nightmare. Draco would never nap during the day again, if the nightmares were going to haunt him even then.

Okay. He was ready. He clenched his fist against the urge to grab his wand, and took a deep breath. The fear swam in him like a fluid eel, and he cursed it over and over in his mind. If he could vent his anger somehow, in words or in spells, it was like a release. Without it, he was a robot on autopilot.

Swallowing hard, he pulled up the sleeve of his night shirt. His hand shook, and he cursed it for shaking like that.

He looked at his arm. It was blank. Of course it was. The Dark Lord had promised him the Mark only after he completed his task. What had he expected? Yet he breathed normally again, in relief, anyway.

Draco flopped back on his bed. He shut his eyes against the memory of the burning sensation on his arm, and tried to remember how much Draught of Peace potion he had left. He hated using it so quickly, especially since it was not the easiest to make, but sometimes he had to. His mother had advised it, and Snape had supplied some ingredients recently.

Draco sighed and turned over. He hated help. He hated the way his mother coddled him even more since his father had been sent to Azkaban. Almost worse than the nightmares about the Mark were the ones of his father in Azkaban…

No. He wouldn't think of that. It was not the time. He had a Quidditch game tomorrow against Gryffindor, and he would not lose to Potter this time! Potter. That was another line of thought Draco did not want to follow right now. He felt his blood pounding in his ears just at the mere beginning of a mental thread on Potter.

He leaned out of the protective, sound-proofed spell around his bed, and whispered the spells to unlock his trunk. His House mates couldn't be trusted. They were Slytherins, after all. He summoned his potions kit and returned to his bed. A gulp of Sleeping Draught was all it took, and the world faded away.

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BLAISE

It was 2 a.m in the morning. That was the secontime Blaise had seen Malfoy unlock his trunk and summon some secret potions kit to his bed. Both times had been late at night, when Blaise lay awake, tortured by insomnia. He was the real Slytherin ghost, as they rarely saw the Bloody Baron –it was Blaise who haunted the Slytherin Common Room and Sixth Year dormitory at night, reading by candle light, and musing alone.

Clearly something was wrong with Malfoy. He had been the blonde's House mate for five years and counting, and had even played with Malfoy as a child long ago. In all that time, he had never known the Malfoy heir to be like this. He seemed nervous, terse, and even more sensitive and short-tempered than usual.

Malfoy didn't blow a fuse like Weasley, but his words were extra cutting, even to his House mates. They were meant to hurt rather than tease. Malfoy had caused a House mate to fly across the room and then hit him with Furnunculus two days ago, causing boils to erupt all over his victim. Then Snape had appeared (in that mysterious way he always did) and stopped it.

Malfoy had gotten a detention. He had been rash, per usual, but it also made Blaise curious. Why had he reacted so strongly, as if he were in danger? What might he have dreamt? Why was he so explosive in general lately?

It could just be Lucius Malfoy's imprisonment in Azkaban that was bothering Malfoy. Merlin knew even Blaise was a bit nervous when he considered how easily his mother could be put in there if she let anything slip. Sometimes he wished her there in his mind, but in reality, he would wish that on no one. Maybe his dad, for being an asshole idiot who'd gotten himself killed, but his mum had doled out the necessary punishment already, when Blaise was five.

He had to admit he felt a bit sorry for Malfoy, if he was worrying over his father. He hoped his House mate hadn't gone and done something stupid, like become a Death Eater. The Dark Lord was probably smarter than to recruit a teenager, but...if he wanted to punish Lucius further –purportedly Lucius had screwed up with the Dark Lord –what better way than to make his son suffer?

Blaise couldn't help but repress a shiver, imagining his House mate bowing before the Dark Lord. His mother approved wholly of Pureblood supremacy and the slaughter of Muggleborns and blood-traitors, but that was the furthest she got to supporting the Dark Lord. Having a father as a Death Eater, as well as an aunt who was the Dark Lord's right hand woman, had to be far worse.

But the mystery of Malfoy would not help Blaise fall asleep. Neither would thinking of Malfoy as he had looked in his fury before he cast Furnunculus. His face had gotten pink, which was funny, but his mouth was pursed in this distracting way that reminded Blaise of kissing, and his eyes had been like bluebell fire. God, he was gorgeous like that. He had filled out since last year alone, and gotten a little taller. It was hard to tell anything else beneath robes, even if Malfoy was a purist who wore only robes, and even if he had them tailored to fit.

This train of thought followed Blaise to sleep and was in his head the next morning at breakfast. He decided to sit away from Malfoy, because he couldn't stand watching Parkinson fawn over Malfoy one more second.

Oh. From the corner of his eye, Blaise watched Malfoy down the table. He couldn't hear what was said, but that angry expression appeared again (stop it, Blaise, he told himself) and Parkinson got up and left the hall. Well, well. That was interesting. It couldn't just be Quidditch, could it?

Blaise ate silently, and occasionally looked up from his book to glance at Malfoy. The second and third times, he caught Malfoy looking over at the Gryffindor table. Nervous? He should be. Potter looked in high spirits today, laughing with his fellow Gryffindorks. You didn't have to be a Quidditch player to know that high spirits meant good game play.

He had a Potions essay to write, but fuck it. Part of him hated seeing Malfoy lose to Potter every damn time, but he also liked watching Malfoy on a broom. It gave him far too many ideas…and he knew in the back of his head he would never get his essay done…but so what? Maybe then he'd share detention with Malfoy….God he was obsessed!

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I promise it gets better. Keep reading!
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Every You, Every Me