Breathe, HP/DM, NC-17
Indeed, Jenny should be ashamed of herself. Write her a fic indeed. Well, here I am Jenny, ficcing for you while my mango juice grows hopelessly warm. I shall await compensation in school, be it in the form of mango juice or warm gooey Stall 3 cookies.
Your first fic out of the three you requested that I shall be labouring over for a month or so, I expect. DOES THAT PLEASE YOU, JENNY?! You savage. This particular ones involve your latest fixation: Grey Flannel Pajamas, WAR-RAVAGED!Draco, smut for the sake of smut and an ending that does not really make sense but must happen because I quote "HARRY AND DRACO EQUALLS TRUE LOOOOVE AND TRUE LOVE WILL OVERCOME ALL." You asked for it, Jenny, you did. I refuse to take any blame :>
Title: Breathe
Pairing: HP/DM
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ravaged by war, Draco is unresponsive, while Harry is suffering almost-amnesia. Enter bucketload of erotic dreams (sort of).
Harry wakes up in the middle of the quidditch pitch with the sky bleeding red over him. There is blood staining his teeth dark red, and his mouth reeks with the metallic tang of blood diluted by saliva.
There is a hand at his elbow, pale with long tapering fingers smeared with grime and fingernails packed with dirt. Harry turns to squint blearily against the flare of light that rips the horizon jagged and red and sees Draco Malfoy spooned up against him, neck arched back, eyes shut, long eyelashes dusted with soot dark against his fair cheekbones.
There is the faint desperate flutter of a pulse beating in the pulse point of Malfoy’s neck and Harry watches it struggle weakly until Hermione is suddenly crouched next to him, a dark silhouette against the sky pulling his body away from Malfoy’s in a fierce hug. Hermione is sobbing into his neck, cheek sliding wetly against his throat and all Harry can see is the radiance of Malfoy’s locks over the shuddering of Hermione’s shoulder and the wild, dull shock of her hair.
______________
Harry cannot remember anything about his seventh year or the Dark War.
He cannot remember anything but the taste of blood thick on his tongue, the shattering of bones under his knuckle and the cold fury of his voice yelling, over and over and over again, the killing curse, spit-mixed blood splattering from his mouth to gleam red against the horizon.
When Harry closes his eyes he can see, vivid against the black of his eyelids, a milky white neck thrown back, and the gentle curl of silver locks. When he falls asleep, he dreams of eyes grey as storm and thin, thin lips, cracked.
He wakes up to the lingering taste of moist breath warm on his lips.
______________
Hermione tells him that Dumbledore is dead, head loped off with the flick of a wand and a powerful severing charm, mouth still twisted in a smile.
Hogwarts reeks of death and Harry can smell the heavy musty smell of it, of corpses buried in haste in shallow graves near the gardens. He does not like the odour of death so he tilts his head back to take a shallow gasp of air through his mouth as Hermione’s hand closes tight around his.
Ron is barely alive, Remus is missing, Neville left without his soul. The twins, Ginny, Percy, Dean, Parvati, Hagrid. Dead, dead, dead, all of them.
“Malfoy,” Hermione says and her breath rattles in her throat. “Malfoy, he’s broken. Lost his mind. We don’t know what to do, or why he was with you. He’s marked, Harry, dark on his forearm, and Fudge wanted to throw him into Azkaban. But I said no.”
Hermione’s hand tightens and Harry starts breathing faster. His breaths are short, deep intakes of air through his mouth, uneven whistles.
“We put him in St. Mungo’s, Harry. He doesn’t talk, rarely eats, doesn’t sleep. He just sits there, Harry! Just sits!”
The odour of death presses heavy against Harry's tongue and he can almost taste decay at the back of his throat.
“Why don’t you stop by and visit him, Harry? The Healer tells me that- oh Harry. That sometimes he just sits there, just sits there and calls out your name.”
“Why?” His voice feels rusty, a sharp nervous thrust of air out his throat.
“I don’t know, Harry. Maybe you do?”
Harry doesn’t know. He leans back to take a quick breath of air through his mouth. The rush of air scrapes the sides of his throat raw.
______________
Three months later and Hogwarts stands tall against the searing blue sky, filled with the voices of students and the mad clatter of shoes against cobblestone floors.
Harry likes Dumbledore’s office, all solid wood and pine-fresh scent. He reclines in Dumbledore’s chair during school hours and spells his seal onto document after document. Sometimes, he talks to Dumbledore’s portrait, the kindly face immortalized in bold strokes of white paint and careful dabs of blue, skin preserved in layers of beige paint.
Harry does not want to live forever. He does not want to be painted.
Dumbledore reminds him of war and death and he falls asleep on the desk, exhausted. When Harry wakes up, eyes hazy with sleep and the etchings on the side of the table engraved red in his cheek, he remembers a pale collarbone cupped by the high collar of expensive black robes, and the erotic dip in the hollow of a white, white throat.
The next day, Ron takes care of Hogwarts and Harry sets off to St. Mungo’s.
______________
Malfoy is pale, thinner than Harry has ever seen him and so, so achingly small in his oversized grey flannel pajamas, neckline slipping off a slender shoulder dusted with freckles.
Harry sits down softly on the chair pulled up next to Malfoy’s bed, and Malfoy does not react. Harry watches Malfoy lean back in bed, back propped up against dark grey pillows, snow white toes curling, curling against the sheets. Malfoy’s head is tilted black and his eyes burn grey and blank.
Harry watches Draco watch the ceiling and listens to Draco listen to silence.
______________
Harry comes again a week later, but the Healer refuses to let him in, hands on her hips, face creased with worry.
“He’s in one of his more responsive moods again, Mr Potter. I-I don’t think you should go in. Mr Potter, sir! I-”
Harry’s breath whistles sharply out the side of his mouth as he pushes into the small ward.
Malfoy has his fingers tangled in the bedsheets and there is blood, red red blood out of pale blue veins, dark against the pale inside of his wrist, curling around the Dark Mark, skin peeled back raw by fingernails. There is a trickle of blood on his chin and the sharp white shock of teeth gnawing anxious on his bruised lip.
Harry pulls the chair up to the side of the bed and wipes the blood away with his handkerchief. Malfoy’s lips quiver when Harry gently swipes the pale grey handkerchief over them, and when Harry pulls his hand away, cloth dragging over swollen lips, he feels them tremble under his fingertips.
Harry talks to Draco that day, bent over his bed like he’s watched in those damn soaps Aunt Petunia cried over, worrying over Cecilia whatshername and her forbidden love whatshisname Jones deep in coma. He threads his fingers through Draco’s pale, pale hair and Draco does nothing.
Harry tells him how he remembers nothing about his seventh year, and of the war, and how he falls asleep each night to forbidden glimpses of Draco’s ankles and the white shock of the inside of his arm. Draco closes his eyes and curls onto his side, tucking his knees to his chest. Harry watches the flannel trousers tighten and stretch across the back of Draco’s thigh.
He breathes in hard through his mouth and swallows.
______________
That night, Harry dreams and remembers.
There is Malfoy, stalking away in a swirl of black robes, Malfoy with his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned, tilting his head back so Harry can see the shift of sinews in his neck and the stunning flare of sliver hair in the sun.
Harry dreams of Malfoy, the green of his quidditch robes slipping to reveal the pale sharpness of his collarbone, and then of Malfoy’s brows knit in concentration through the green fumes of his Shrinking Potion.
A flash of Malfoy’s hands wrapped around Harry’s neck, and Harry’s teeth snapping at Malfoy’s nose. Then, the grinding of hips, hard perfect thrusts that bump their hardening cocks against each other through the thin material of their trousers and Harry can almost, almost taste Malfoy’s cock hanging heavy in his mouth through the thick taste of blood.
Malfoy has bruises on his thigh, red imprints of fingernails on his hips and the purpling remnants of teeth and saliva on his neck. Every single day, Harry adds more, claming Malfoy’s skin with a nip or scratch. And there Harry is, leaning heavily into Malfoy, pressed into the cool stone of the classroom wall, and growling as his fingers reach for Malfoy through the waistband of his pants.
Then, there is the very last time he sees Malfoy spread on his bed, body pale against the red of Harry’s Gryffindor sheets, curling into Harry’s side.
“You’d never understand, of course, Potter. Father wants me to get marked tomorrow.”
Harry sees himself wrap his fingers around fistfuls of Malfoy’s hair, yanking his head back so that Malfoy jerks against him.
“You don’t belong to him.”
A gasp, and Malfoy rolls onto his knees, locks of hair falling into his eyes glittering darkly in the thin filter of moonlight through the space in the curtains.
“Of course I don’t, Potter, but I don’t belong to you either.”
But he does, he does, because Harry possesses him, takes him over and over again with every stroke, hot and deep and desperate. Harry steals his offered neck, teeth grazing the wet expanse of his throat, slick with sweat and saliva. And when Draco cramps around him in spasms and cries out and claws at the sheets, arching and forcing Harry deeper, so much deeper, Harry doesn’t care about anything else because he is buried in between the quiver of Draco’s thighs and Draco is his, only his, if only for a single night.
And then, he remembers the final battle and how he is saved with the simple lunge of Draco’s body in front of his, Draco’s eyes flashing red as the curse throws him back, limbs crippling in agony. Harry defeats Voldemort with the simple jet of green light from his wand which rushes out, spills out and steals Voldemort’s last breath from his lips. Voldemort’s final responding spell hits Harry in a flash of blue before Voldemort crumples dead on the ground.
Harry remembers death, and tears, and the horrible stiffness of Draco’s body against his.
He remembers the crumpled silver of Draco’s hair burning bright against the horizon best of all.
______________
Harry returns to St. Mungo’s the next day, rushing into Draco’s ward where he is standing near the window. The daylight filters in through the glass and his hair flares silver.
“I talked to your Healer, Draco. She says- She thinks- I can take you home with me.”
Draco does not answer but Harry sees him run unsteady fingers up the windowpane, fingertips brushing the glass to leave a dirty streak against the sky.
“I- I’ll take care of you, Draco. You don’t need to be afraid. It’ll be our home, Hogwarts.”
Draco’s breath freezes moist in a damp spot of hot air on the window pane and Harry takes a gulping breath through his mouth and tilts Draco’s head back, fingers curling gently around his jaw.
He leans in and plants a soft kiss at the side of Draco’s mouth.
Draco looks at him blankly and Harry looks right back.
The next kiss is a prolonged meeting of lips and the slow, slow swipe of Harry’s tongue against the tremble of Draco’s lower lip.
“Draco.”
Draco is silent, lips parted, face flushed.
“Please, just, please-”
Draco is silent, body framed against the window, grey eyes wide.
“Just, just trust me. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Draco is silent, but there is the light brush of fingers against Harry’s palm, then the shy unsteady trail of Draco’s finger burning cool against Harry’s forearm, curious and questioning and testing.
Then Draco steps forward, hesitantly, and slips his hand into Harry’s so that his palm glows pale against Harry’s sun-warmed one. Harry intertwines their fingers and leans his left hand on Draco’s, pressing against the window, curling his fingers over the smaller hand shyly.
Harry breathes in through his nose, a long deep intake of fresh air, and smiles against the silver of Draco’s hair.
Feedback is always lusted after, of course. Always.
Your first fic out of the three you requested that I shall be labouring over for a month or so, I expect. DOES THAT PLEASE YOU, JENNY?! You savage. This particular ones involve your latest fixation: Grey Flannel Pajamas, WAR-RAVAGED!Draco, smut for the sake of smut and an ending that does not really make sense but must happen because I quote "HARRY AND DRACO EQUALLS TRUE LOOOOVE AND TRUE LOVE WILL OVERCOME ALL." You asked for it, Jenny, you did. I refuse to take any blame :>
Title: Breathe
Pairing: HP/DM
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ravaged by war, Draco is unresponsive, while Harry is suffering almost-amnesia. Enter bucketload of erotic dreams (sort of).
Harry wakes up in the middle of the quidditch pitch with the sky bleeding red over him. There is blood staining his teeth dark red, and his mouth reeks with the metallic tang of blood diluted by saliva.
There is a hand at his elbow, pale with long tapering fingers smeared with grime and fingernails packed with dirt. Harry turns to squint blearily against the flare of light that rips the horizon jagged and red and sees Draco Malfoy spooned up against him, neck arched back, eyes shut, long eyelashes dusted with soot dark against his fair cheekbones.
There is the faint desperate flutter of a pulse beating in the pulse point of Malfoy’s neck and Harry watches it struggle weakly until Hermione is suddenly crouched next to him, a dark silhouette against the sky pulling his body away from Malfoy’s in a fierce hug. Hermione is sobbing into his neck, cheek sliding wetly against his throat and all Harry can see is the radiance of Malfoy’s locks over the shuddering of Hermione’s shoulder and the wild, dull shock of her hair.
______________
Harry cannot remember anything about his seventh year or the Dark War.
He cannot remember anything but the taste of blood thick on his tongue, the shattering of bones under his knuckle and the cold fury of his voice yelling, over and over and over again, the killing curse, spit-mixed blood splattering from his mouth to gleam red against the horizon.
When Harry closes his eyes he can see, vivid against the black of his eyelids, a milky white neck thrown back, and the gentle curl of silver locks. When he falls asleep, he dreams of eyes grey as storm and thin, thin lips, cracked.
He wakes up to the lingering taste of moist breath warm on his lips.
______________
Hermione tells him that Dumbledore is dead, head loped off with the flick of a wand and a powerful severing charm, mouth still twisted in a smile.
Hogwarts reeks of death and Harry can smell the heavy musty smell of it, of corpses buried in haste in shallow graves near the gardens. He does not like the odour of death so he tilts his head back to take a shallow gasp of air through his mouth as Hermione’s hand closes tight around his.
Ron is barely alive, Remus is missing, Neville left without his soul. The twins, Ginny, Percy, Dean, Parvati, Hagrid. Dead, dead, dead, all of them.
“Malfoy,” Hermione says and her breath rattles in her throat. “Malfoy, he’s broken. Lost his mind. We don’t know what to do, or why he was with you. He’s marked, Harry, dark on his forearm, and Fudge wanted to throw him into Azkaban. But I said no.”
Hermione’s hand tightens and Harry starts breathing faster. His breaths are short, deep intakes of air through his mouth, uneven whistles.
“We put him in St. Mungo’s, Harry. He doesn’t talk, rarely eats, doesn’t sleep. He just sits there, Harry! Just sits!”
The odour of death presses heavy against Harry's tongue and he can almost taste decay at the back of his throat.
“Why don’t you stop by and visit him, Harry? The Healer tells me that- oh Harry. That sometimes he just sits there, just sits there and calls out your name.”
“Why?” His voice feels rusty, a sharp nervous thrust of air out his throat.
“I don’t know, Harry. Maybe you do?”
Harry doesn’t know. He leans back to take a quick breath of air through his mouth. The rush of air scrapes the sides of his throat raw.
______________
Three months later and Hogwarts stands tall against the searing blue sky, filled with the voices of students and the mad clatter of shoes against cobblestone floors.
Harry likes Dumbledore’s office, all solid wood and pine-fresh scent. He reclines in Dumbledore’s chair during school hours and spells his seal onto document after document. Sometimes, he talks to Dumbledore’s portrait, the kindly face immortalized in bold strokes of white paint and careful dabs of blue, skin preserved in layers of beige paint.
Harry does not want to live forever. He does not want to be painted.
Dumbledore reminds him of war and death and he falls asleep on the desk, exhausted. When Harry wakes up, eyes hazy with sleep and the etchings on the side of the table engraved red in his cheek, he remembers a pale collarbone cupped by the high collar of expensive black robes, and the erotic dip in the hollow of a white, white throat.
The next day, Ron takes care of Hogwarts and Harry sets off to St. Mungo’s.
______________
Malfoy is pale, thinner than Harry has ever seen him and so, so achingly small in his oversized grey flannel pajamas, neckline slipping off a slender shoulder dusted with freckles.
Harry sits down softly on the chair pulled up next to Malfoy’s bed, and Malfoy does not react. Harry watches Malfoy lean back in bed, back propped up against dark grey pillows, snow white toes curling, curling against the sheets. Malfoy’s head is tilted black and his eyes burn grey and blank.
Harry watches Draco watch the ceiling and listens to Draco listen to silence.
______________
Harry comes again a week later, but the Healer refuses to let him in, hands on her hips, face creased with worry.
“He’s in one of his more responsive moods again, Mr Potter. I-I don’t think you should go in. Mr Potter, sir! I-”
Harry’s breath whistles sharply out the side of his mouth as he pushes into the small ward.
Malfoy has his fingers tangled in the bedsheets and there is blood, red red blood out of pale blue veins, dark against the pale inside of his wrist, curling around the Dark Mark, skin peeled back raw by fingernails. There is a trickle of blood on his chin and the sharp white shock of teeth gnawing anxious on his bruised lip.
Harry pulls the chair up to the side of the bed and wipes the blood away with his handkerchief. Malfoy’s lips quiver when Harry gently swipes the pale grey handkerchief over them, and when Harry pulls his hand away, cloth dragging over swollen lips, he feels them tremble under his fingertips.
Harry talks to Draco that day, bent over his bed like he’s watched in those damn soaps Aunt Petunia cried over, worrying over Cecilia whatshername and her forbidden love whatshisname Jones deep in coma. He threads his fingers through Draco’s pale, pale hair and Draco does nothing.
Harry tells him how he remembers nothing about his seventh year, and of the war, and how he falls asleep each night to forbidden glimpses of Draco’s ankles and the white shock of the inside of his arm. Draco closes his eyes and curls onto his side, tucking his knees to his chest. Harry watches the flannel trousers tighten and stretch across the back of Draco’s thigh.
He breathes in hard through his mouth and swallows.
______________
That night, Harry dreams and remembers.
There is Malfoy, stalking away in a swirl of black robes, Malfoy with his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned, tilting his head back so Harry can see the shift of sinews in his neck and the stunning flare of sliver hair in the sun.
Harry dreams of Malfoy, the green of his quidditch robes slipping to reveal the pale sharpness of his collarbone, and then of Malfoy’s brows knit in concentration through the green fumes of his Shrinking Potion.
A flash of Malfoy’s hands wrapped around Harry’s neck, and Harry’s teeth snapping at Malfoy’s nose. Then, the grinding of hips, hard perfect thrusts that bump their hardening cocks against each other through the thin material of their trousers and Harry can almost, almost taste Malfoy’s cock hanging heavy in his mouth through the thick taste of blood.
Malfoy has bruises on his thigh, red imprints of fingernails on his hips and the purpling remnants of teeth and saliva on his neck. Every single day, Harry adds more, claming Malfoy’s skin with a nip or scratch. And there Harry is, leaning heavily into Malfoy, pressed into the cool stone of the classroom wall, and growling as his fingers reach for Malfoy through the waistband of his pants.
Then, there is the very last time he sees Malfoy spread on his bed, body pale against the red of Harry’s Gryffindor sheets, curling into Harry’s side.
“You’d never understand, of course, Potter. Father wants me to get marked tomorrow.”
Harry sees himself wrap his fingers around fistfuls of Malfoy’s hair, yanking his head back so that Malfoy jerks against him.
“You don’t belong to him.”
A gasp, and Malfoy rolls onto his knees, locks of hair falling into his eyes glittering darkly in the thin filter of moonlight through the space in the curtains.
“Of course I don’t, Potter, but I don’t belong to you either.”
But he does, he does, because Harry possesses him, takes him over and over again with every stroke, hot and deep and desperate. Harry steals his offered neck, teeth grazing the wet expanse of his throat, slick with sweat and saliva. And when Draco cramps around him in spasms and cries out and claws at the sheets, arching and forcing Harry deeper, so much deeper, Harry doesn’t care about anything else because he is buried in between the quiver of Draco’s thighs and Draco is his, only his, if only for a single night.
And then, he remembers the final battle and how he is saved with the simple lunge of Draco’s body in front of his, Draco’s eyes flashing red as the curse throws him back, limbs crippling in agony. Harry defeats Voldemort with the simple jet of green light from his wand which rushes out, spills out and steals Voldemort’s last breath from his lips. Voldemort’s final responding spell hits Harry in a flash of blue before Voldemort crumples dead on the ground.
Harry remembers death, and tears, and the horrible stiffness of Draco’s body against his.
He remembers the crumpled silver of Draco’s hair burning bright against the horizon best of all.
______________
Harry returns to St. Mungo’s the next day, rushing into Draco’s ward where he is standing near the window. The daylight filters in through the glass and his hair flares silver.
“I talked to your Healer, Draco. She says- She thinks- I can take you home with me.”
Draco does not answer but Harry sees him run unsteady fingers up the windowpane, fingertips brushing the glass to leave a dirty streak against the sky.
“I- I’ll take care of you, Draco. You don’t need to be afraid. It’ll be our home, Hogwarts.”
Draco’s breath freezes moist in a damp spot of hot air on the window pane and Harry takes a gulping breath through his mouth and tilts Draco’s head back, fingers curling gently around his jaw.
He leans in and plants a soft kiss at the side of Draco’s mouth.
Draco looks at him blankly and Harry looks right back.
The next kiss is a prolonged meeting of lips and the slow, slow swipe of Harry’s tongue against the tremble of Draco’s lower lip.
“Draco.”
Draco is silent, lips parted, face flushed.
“Please, just, please-”
Draco is silent, body framed against the window, grey eyes wide.
“Just, just trust me. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Draco is silent, but there is the light brush of fingers against Harry’s palm, then the shy unsteady trail of Draco’s finger burning cool against Harry’s forearm, curious and questioning and testing.
Then Draco steps forward, hesitantly, and slips his hand into Harry’s so that his palm glows pale against Harry’s sun-warmed one. Harry intertwines their fingers and leans his left hand on Draco’s, pressing against the window, curling his fingers over the smaller hand shyly.
Harry breathes in through his nose, a long deep intake of fresh air, and smiles against the silver of Draco’s hair.
Feedback is always lusted after, of course. Always.