(no subject)

[elouana]

Title: Hands Dirty
Author: Elouana
Pairing: H/D, mentions of R/H, SS/RL
Rating: NC17 to be safe
Warnings: angst, fluff, sex, tiny bit of contemplative non-con

Summary: It's been a year since the war. Healer Malfoy hears a song that brings memories of a past relationship flooding back, and Auror Potter is having the same problem. But they seem to remember things differently, especially how it all ended. Will they ever be able to set things right?

Word Count: 10,000
Notes: This is not a ‘song fic’ as such but single lines of lyrics are involved as the song prompts memories in our favourite boys.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the Harry Potter universe belongs JK Rowling etc. All italicised lyrics belong to Alanis Morrisette etc.
Beta: Brilliantly beta-ed by
magentah, any remaining mistakes are my own.

DOES NOT CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR DEATHLY HALLOWS.

Two parts for size:

Healer Draco Malfoy entered his St Mungo’s office and immediately halted. Something was off… and that something was muggle. Muggle music.

‘What-’ he sneered, pausing for effect and fixing his gaze on his student assistant, ‘is that?’

Daphne however, was used to his behaviour and didn’t flinch, merely answered with innocent excitement. ‘It’s a muggle radio station, we managed to magic it onto the wizard wireless, isn’t it great?’

‘No, it is not great, and I don’t want to hear that - that noise - in my office-’

‘Our office.’

‘I am your superior!’

‘Mmm.’

As usual, his day could only get worse.

*

Harry Potter had never entertained any other thought than to become an Auror and continue to rid the world of evil. Yet now, after his year’s official training (and - including his seventh year which he begrudgingly spent at Hogwarts - a two year war) as he found himself filling out his one hundred and twenty seventh case report in a month at his Ministry for Magic desk, he began to doubt his aspirations.

Sure, the rush of bagging a rogue death eater was still there, as was the thrill of working undercover to suss out a group of Third Generation Death Eaters, who nearly all, quite sadly, turned out to be students he recognised from his Hogwarts days. One face that wasn’t present in such a scene, however surprising this was to many, was Draco Malfoy, who Harry himself had once thought epitomised pureblood mania. But no, Malfoy had turned up at Grimmauld Place during the Christmas holiday of Harry’s seventh year… Harry stopped his wandering thoughts there. The Malfoy-shaped portion of his life remained pushed under his consciousness, and he forced himself to focus on his report.

*

Draco rubbed his eyes sighed. St Mungo’s was heavily over subscribed in his department (Mental Maladies) since the war, and the new generation Death Eaters were torturing people into insanity daily. And now this.

The Daily Prophet lay flat on his desk and he stared at it blankly.

New Minister Brings in New Bill: Death Eaters to be Killed on Sighting

He’d only managed the first paragraph, about those known to, or seen to, bear Voldemort’s mark being Avada-ed on the spot, no questions asked. He wasn’t worried for himself, of course, Potter’s testimony (during the first year of the war) had cleared him of all charges after he fed him information (he must have loved that, he thought bitterly now) and he had never been able to kill in the first place to get the mark.

His mother was a different story. She’d only killed for Lucius, when she was young and in love, and was now in hiding, maybe even dead. He’s always harboured some hope that things would clear; she’d have a chance to redeem herself. But no. Potter and his cronies would be AK-ing her on sighting and loving every minute of it. He sneered at nothing and dumped the paper in the bin, pushing away the gut wrenching, confused feeling that accompanied thinking of Potter.

*

Harry was furious. They couldn’t kill Death Eaters on sighting, they might have valuable information or been under the imperious! His mind drifted to Narcissa, one of the few remaining First Generation Death Eaters at large, and the way Draco’s eyes lit up when he spoke of her, and he felt his stomach give a nasty squirm. He didn’t know which would be worse, doing it himself or not being able to be there for Draco when he found out it had been done.

*

The muggle radio station was not making his day any better, and it was about to make it a whole lot worse. Draco was cross-referencing some files when Daphne squealed (how she was ever a Slytherin was beyond Draco).

‘Malfoy, you have to listen to this. It’s by that witch who poses as a muggle to sell more records… it’s so good!’

‘I do not have to listen to anything.’ The first guitar part wasn’t bad, Draco admitted to himself reluctantly, oh, and the voice was quite nice, a little unusual.

If it weren't for your maturity none of this would have happened, if you weren't so wise beyond your years I would've been able to control myself…

Draco snorted, but couldn’t help the images of old-before-their-time deep green eyes that always pulled him in. A jade green that disappeared when their pupils dilated with lust…

If it weren't for my attention you wouldn't have been successful and, if it weren't for me you would never have amounted to very much.

His stomach twisted uncomfortable as words echoed in his head ‘I can’t do this without you’ to accompany those eyes.

Ooh this could be messy, but you don't seem to mind.

Draco sat bolt upright in his chair as he was arrested with the memory of those near-exact words. ‘This could get messy, Potter.’ ‘Harry.’ ‘This could get messy, Harry.’ ‘I don’t care, Draco.’

He jumped up out of seat and left the room.

*

Harry pushed himself further, just another lap, his muscles burned but it felt good, good to be outside, to not think. His muggle radio swung from his neck neck?, the beat urging him on, but a slower tempo song started and he slowed to a halt, using it as an excuse to stretch and rest on a bench.

He tried not to frown as he related the opening lines, but as ‘Ooh don't go telling everybody, and overlook this supposed crime’ put followed them he ripped his ear phones out if he’d been burned.

Like he needed to be reminded in the day of thoughts that haunted his nights. Images such as Draco Malfoy, his face completely blank and impassive, passing him when he takes a patient to St Mungo's from one of his raids. Every raid. Draco, not even looking him in the eye as he signed over a patient as mentally fit for Harry’s team to interrogate. The way he-seemingly easily-never, ever touched him, not even in passing, as if he were was diseased.

Harry relented and placed the earphones back in. ‘We'll fast forward to a few years later, and no one knows except the both of us. No. It was just too much. Too real.

*

Draco paced back and forth in his modest apartment, wanting to simultaneously rip his own hair out and wank furiously at the images that he’d been plagued with all day. Oo, interesting combination, he mused, allowing himself the tiniest of smiles. Why could he go days, no weeks - yeah right - without thinking about that stupid bespectacled git, then have a wave of memories, images, a sensory over-load, assault him all because of a stupid muggle song. Harry barely knew he existed anymore - Potter, he corrected himself. He’d been Potter again for 1 year, 2 months and 4 days.

He fell heavily into his armchair and glared at the CD and walkman he’s purchased on the way home from work. For fuck’s sake.

*

Harry slammed his front door and headed for the shower. Running usually made him feel so much better, actually alive, but now he felt empty and thoroughly depressed.

He turned the water on hot and powerful and worked out a kink in his neck. But now he had Draco on the brain, and all he could think of was his those stupidly perfect teeth grazing along his firm neck and along his collar bone, how Draco’s teeth used to clamp down there and make him cry from a pain that wasn’t necessarily unpleasant. He closed his eyes as he experienced both arousal and an aching feeling in his chest.

Cursing, he let himself go. It was an indulgence he allowed himself occasionally, usually after he’d passed Draco a patient and almost got to touch his warmth, or when his photo appeared in the paper as people once again marveled at his quiet, dignified reform.

His hand travelled down his own chest and he pictured a blond head following its path. They were in the shower at Grimmauld, the autumn after Harry had finished Hogwarts. Draco was on his knees, nipping at his hip bone, being deliberately slow, agonisingly teasing, knowing this could be the last chance they had together and dragging it out. Hell, at that time it could have been the last time he’d see Harry alive. But those were thoughts for another time, and Harry focused on the memory of his tongue first darting out, his nose rubbing his lower stomach. Harry groaned, embarrassed that it was always memories of the more intimate, sweet, actions that made him hard, and grabbed his cock firmly. He wanted this to be quick, so he could pretend this wasn’t the only thing he ever really got turned on by, so he switched tactics.

Draco beneath him, biting his lip so hard he was sure it would draw blood, so he leaned forward and swiped his tongue over it, which the little bastard bit instead. That was a time they hadn’t remembered silencing charms until they were too far gone to perform them; Draco was making these amazing quiet whimpering sounds that weren’t quite groans but drove Harry wild.

No, that wasn’t quick enough. He needed something he couldn’t get sentimental about. The first time, before feelings got involved. Easter. Draco had been goading Harry every weekend since Christmas he visited Grimmauld from Hogwarts, going insane from being cooped up. A vocal sparring match, followed by a physical fight, Harry had just lost it, charging into Draco. But the little buggar was taller and generally sneakier, and flipped them. Instead of the punch he expected to break his nose for the second time, Draco hit a nerve much harder with words. He’d leaned down, his nose touching Harry’s, and snarled ‘Any excuse to touch me, eh Potter?’

‘I fucking hate you, Malfoy!’ He’d squirmed, embarrassed and - though he’d never admit it to anyone - both shocked at the accuracy of Malfoy’s words and even more turned on by his weight on top of him.

‘Fucking hate practically translates to would love to fuck, you can’t keep your hands off me can you, the boy who lived to lust after Draco Malfoy-’

Harry was half delirious with lust at this point and, knowing full well he’d regret it and it would only last two seconds before Draco killed him, he lunged upwards and kissed him, hard. Draco was still opening his mouth to speak, then out of shock, and Harry shoved his tongue in without a second thought to manners or technique. This was pure, animal lust. He couldn’t care less if Draco didn’t want it, though at the back of his hormone addled brain he knew that it equated to rape, but it in instead of it some weird way, he felt like he and Draco could do anything to each other, and it would always be ok. There was a bizarre kind of rightness about it all. They were always equal.

But Draco didn’t stop him, he kissed him back, moving his hands from holding Harry’s own down to his gripping his hair tightly, to tilt his head so he could explore his mouth completely, and Harry swore he heard him growl. Then there was a weight on groin, as Draco settled himself, hard and heavy, perfectly aligned. Harry groaned and Draco pulled away, panting. ‘I knew you wanted it, God you’re pathetic Potter.’ Harry bit his lip to stop another moan, hearing Draco insult him shouldn’t turn him on even more.

He pulled up slightly and for a terrible second Harry thought he was just going to get up and leave him there, but he merely shifted and sunk his teeth into Harry’s neck.

‘Fuck, Malfoy.’

‘Fuck you.’ He murmured through a mouthful of flesh, biting so hard Harry yelped, then licking the area and moving to the other side.

He groin was pressed flush against his again, and whilst he sucked on his neck so hard Harry wasn’t sure any strength of glamour would ever hide it, feeling he was being marked to the bone, taking him through a piece of flesh alone, Draco shifted from straddling to settling between Harry’s legs, prising them apart roughly with his own knee, and oh god that felt good. He could feel Draco’s cock, oh so hard against his own, and knowing he’d done that turned him on more than anything in his life.

In the shower, Harry knew he was close without thinking of the main event. As much as the sweet moments turned him on, he was a sucker for the dirtier times. He sped up, shifting his memory to Draco practically ripping his jeans open and fisting him hard and fast as Harry writhed beneath him.

‘God you should see yourself Potter, how long have you wanted this?’ But Draco’s words held not the malice he was aiming for but a kind of wonderment, that the boy who lived was reduced to a whimpering mess in his arms. Harry reached down to fumble with his zipper but Draco stopped him, slowing his own movements; rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock, teasing the slit. ‘Not yet Wonder Boy, I’ve got plans for you…’

And he had, holding Harry’s hair in a death grip as he slipped his cock into his mouth from above him, his jaw slack and relaxed from just coming harder than ever a second before. Harry let him fuck his mouth just enough so Draco could almost pretend he didn’t have a say in it, and as memory-Draco emptied himself down Harry’s throat, Harry sunk down the tiles of his bathroom, panting heavily, feeling worse than ever.

*

Draco gave in and put the CD on. He knew it was only a matter of time and that damned song was in the ‘top ten’, which apparently meant muggles insisted on playing it every damn minute. He could ‘desensitise’ himself to it, he decided, whilst still pretending he hadn’t read and noted several things from the muggle book on mental maladies - ‘psychology’ they called it.

It really was a good song, he thought sadly. Maybe he could just listen without equating it to anything.

And I have honoured your request for silence, and you've washed your hands clean of this…

Ah. No such luck. There was Harry, in the bathroom at that damned Ministry Ball that officially marked the downfall of Voldemort. He killed him some three weeks before, three weeks of hell for Draco, as he heard nothing, stuck at a safe house after Grimmauld Place was finally infiltrated. Three weeks where he waited for Harry to come and tell him that everything would be ok now, to spend a week in bed like he’d teased.

But no. nothing. Then in he’d waltzed on the fucking Weaselette’s arm, proceeded to ignore him all night until they happened to be in the bathroom together.

‘Look Draco-’

Draco fixed him with a blank, cold glare.

‘If it’s going to be like this, could you at least not tell anyone, I’m not ready for the world to know yet.’ Harry looked sad and resigned. ‘Obviously feeling guilty for using me,’ Draco thought bitterly.

‘Your wish is my command.’ God he felt so stupid, of course ‘The Saviour’ wouldn’t want him in the cold light of day.

And now nothing. Not so much as a letter to inquire how he was. It was only through a newly honoured Snape (who had killed Dumbledore on his orders and, really, ultimately, been the one to cause Voldemort’s downfall) and a strange, unlikely friendship he’d struck up with Remus during their safe house days together that Draco had survived after the war at all. For Draco had brewed Remus’ wolfsbane potion while Snape was stuck deep undercover, and, unbeknownst to him, Remus could smell Harry all over him for almost two years, noted their furtive glances, and smelled the pure heart break that dripped off Draco when he visited after the war, meaning he gained a soft spot for the blond. Through their support he managed to get a place on the Healer programme (though Remus’ name wasn’t worth much, he could still pull some strings.)

It was a less complicated course and took six months of fast tracking to complete - luckily he’d literally spent the past two years reading (and fucking, a nasty little voice piped up in his brain), and now he was a Junior Healer and supervised three other students. He felt proud for the first time in his life that he’d done something that actually was worthy of pride, not just a name or a bank balance. And he like the white coat he got to wear, which swished as he walked, reminding him of his favourite potions master and making him feel at least a little formidable.

I know you depend on me like a young thing would to a guardian, I know you sexualise me like a young thing would…

Draco jolted out of his reverie, perturbed by the amount of lines in this song that hit soft spots. He could almost feel Harry curled in his arms in his loft room at Grimmauld, where he all but moved into as well towards the end. Even Weasley and the M- Hermione (Draco had momentary lapses where he forgot that one, Hermione was an extremely talented witch and his co-worker, and, bizarrely, not totally unlikable, though he’d never tell her that) noticed that they’d struck up a friendship of sorts. He even overheard Weasley say: ‘I don’t know what it is about the little ferret, but Harry can talk to him, which he needs, so I say we leave it.’ To which Hermione had ‘hmmm’ed and that had been that.

The strange thing was they did talk. About everything. Once it stopped just rough kisses that weren’t really kisses as much as biting each other’s faces, necks, chests… stopped being hard, fast hand jobs, bartered blow jobs (though Potter was a slut for it and didn’t need Draco promising to return the favour, Draco liked to pretend maliciously in hindsight), sometime after the first time Harry killed, cried himself to sleep in Draco’s arms. Waking him up with his tongue and murmuring ‘fuck me like you care, please’ with such sadness that Draco just couldn’t, not until he told him ‘I’ll fuck you how I want to, Potter’, to which Draco swore he saw a shimmer of tears, that disappeared when Harry realised what he meant, as he kissed him softly, desperately trying to channel how he felt because he just couldn’t say it, not yet anyway, maybe not ever.

That was the night he knew he had, as always, lost to Harry Potter.

Sliding into that hot tightness should have felt dirty and fucking fantastic because it was the boy who lived and he was begging for it, spreading his legs wider, pulling him closer, but it didn’t. Of course it was hot but it was also amazing and beautiful and suddenly Draco knew why people called it making love, even though he hated himself for thinking it, because he could almost feel himself taking the last steps to falling there and then, as he met Harry’s eyes and saw wonderment there, and Harry smiled, he smiled and then frowned at a wave a ecstasy went over him and he couldn’t help but contort his face in pleasure as Draco filled him completely.

Yes, they talked. Draco told him things no one knew about his home life, not even both his parents, as they usually went behind each other’s backs to punish/protect him from the other. Harry let everything out at the end of each day, and after he told him about his childhood - yes, there was only one way to put it - they’d made love, for hours; it was almost too good, agonisingly beautiful.

They’d just lay there sometimes, lips sliding against each other, barely touching enough to be kissing. More often than not it would grow heated, but there were times they needed just that. When the headline ‘Narcissa Malfoy, missing’ was splashed across the papers, and Harry had just stroked his hair, touched his face, he was just…  there for hours. Of course they only realised she was missing because they’d gone to arrest her, so Harry didn’t know what was worse.

And throughout all this Draco knew, on some level, that Harry needed him. Hell, he’d said he couldn’t do it without him, but he knew it, every time Harry had to kill someone he’d come ‘home’ and absolve himself in Draco’s arms. It was more than being lovers, Harry needed a kind of unconditional love that Draco, strangely, found he could give him. And all for what?

And you've washed your hands clean of this.

*

Harry waved Hermione over in the bar they’d agreed to meet in, smiling broadly at his best friend. He needed this, to get out, to escape his own thoughts. But fate didn’t seem on his side, as Hermione loved to talk about work, and work meant Malfoy.

‘Harry, I still don’t understand why you flinch when I say his name, I thought you two became-’ she paused, searching for a word, as she loved them so much she liked to get them right. ‘-friends during the war?’

‘Allies maybe. Acquaintances, yes. Friends?’ Harry frowned and took a large swig of his beer to avoid directly lying. Friends, yes. Lovers, yes. Soulmates, yes. Yesyesyes.

‘I just think it’s bizarre, that’s all.’

‘He obviously never gave a toss about me, ‘Mione. He never even visited when I was unconscious for thirteen days.’

‘Well no,’ she said off-handedly, stirring her non-alcoholic cocktail, ‘but he couldn’t could he? He was still on lockdown, keyed to your magical signature, he was stuck til you woke up - then of course we had to find him and Remus-’ she faltered. ‘What?’

‘What. Are. You. Saying.’

‘We told you all this Harry, though you were still a little delirious I guess, and ever since you’ve completely banned his name from conversation.’

‘What do you mean find them?’

‘Well the wards fell but you were still too out of it to tell us exactly where you put them, and we’d stoppered their magic to stop them being traced by it, remember? Found them in Ireland two days later. Remus said Draco had been beside himself, they didn’t know what had happened of course.’

Harry felt like he’d been punched in the stomach repeatedly. How could he have been so stupid, he knew Draco loved him, why would he presume him not visiting meant he didn’t want to, not that he couldn’t. It was still war… Jesus. And then he’d walked into the ball with Ginny, strictly as friends - she was engaged to a muggle named Peter - and looked right through him.

‘I feel sick. I got to go-’

‘Harry-’

‘I’m ok I just got to go, I’ll owl you tomorrow, sorry Hermione, say hello to Ron to me, bye little ‘uns.’ Harry reeled off in a rush, he gave her slightly rounded belly a brief, light touch and raced out of the room.

The first thing he did as he apparated into his flat was race to the fire and floo-call Remus, who was living in a cottage in Wales.

After brief hellos he dived straight in.

‘Remus, what was Draco like when I went into the final battle?’

‘Ah. Well, I didn’t think it was any of my business but I’m surprised you haven’t asked that before - the way you just dismissed him-’

‘Wait- you know?!’

‘Werewolf, hello? I can smell everything.’

‘Ew.’

‘Including love. Which poured off the two of your in torrents when you were in the same room.’

‘Oh god, Remus I think I’ve made a huge mistake.’

‘I did always wonder what went wrong Harry, I must say. I thought Draco would worry himself to death the thirteen days we were on lockdown, and then the two we tried to get back, he was a nightmare… and then they wouldn’t let him into St Mungo’s, prejudiced bastards, and he couldn’t even get close enough to get a message to you.’

‘What about you! You could have given it to me!’

‘Werewolfs weren’t allowed in St Mungo’s at the time either-remember, Harry? My word was worth as much as an ex-death eater, and then I transformed, and the next week I went to Europe to help trace the death eaters that escaped the final battle…’

‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?!’

Remus frowned. ‘You know how highly I value privacy, Harry. I presumed you and Draco were close enough to have talked and had gone your separate ways. Far be it for me to stick my nose it, relationships are personal-’

‘We aren’t you and Snape! Just because you like being all secretive and stupid doesn’t mean we did. Oh Christ! Why didn’t anyone tell me!’

‘No one knew, Harry.’ Remus let his personal attack slide for the moment, wondering how he’s placate Severus afterwards, who he’d never told Harry had discovered their relationship during the war and was listening avidly behind him.

‘St Mungo’s was chaos. It wasn’t simply about ending Voldemort, you’ve learnt of this. The Death Eaters largely escaped your showdown and caused as much damage was inhumanely possible. Thirteen days of carnage where people couldn’t stop to even contemplate celebrating because people were being killed left, right and centre.’

Harry closed his eyes. ‘I just wish-’

Another head appeared in the fire.

‘Wishing is for feeble people who are incapable of making things happen, Potter. Now as you apparently know about my role in Remus’ life I shall take the liberty of telling you some home truths about your own. If you think for one second you’ll make this up to my Godson by sitting around wishing things had gone differently, you aren’t the man I thought I saw kill Voldemort. And if you are the reason he’s been such a damn state the past year, then I suggest you fix it, immediately! And Potter!’

‘Yes?’ Harry squeaked.

‘Good luck.’

The fire died.

Part 2