Whenever Dark Draws Near
Title: Whenever Dark Draws Near
Author: stonegrad
Type: Fic
Length: 2700
Main character or Pairing: Lucius/Harry
Rating: R
Canon compliancy: Compliant up till the final battle, AU thereafter
Disclaimer: anything recognizable belongs to JKR and WB, and I am making absolutely no profit from this
Warnings: none
Summary: When Harry Potter's hunt for Lucius Malfoy finally comes to a head in the backstreets of Rome, there's no telling how things are going to pan out...
Cards Drawn: Wheel Of Fortune, Two Of Cups (R), Nine Of Wand
Card Interpretation: condensed version - a clearly 'unpredictable turn of events' followed by some 'unfaithfulness' to, well, the war, and the opposing sides, and probably a few lovers, and ending with the very Malfoy position of 'knowing that you will be victorious'.
Author Notes: This story almost never made it. The original fic grew too big to finish, and this one just didn't want to be written in the very short time frame I gave myself for it. A huge thanks to my beta, Cazz, who basically poked me in the shoulder until I wrote the damn thing - it's an odd story, I know, but it's here! I get points for that, surely.
Whenever Dark Draws Near
It's the eyes that give him away.
No, not the eyes, it's the look; the one that makes the skin between his shoulder blades itch, that settles like a dead weight in his stomach, hot and cold all at once, never failing to make his head spin. This is how Harry knows - because when it all comes down to it, there's never been anyone else in the world who's looked at him with the same intensity that Lucius Malfoy does.
He's looking at Harry now from under the cowl of his robe, face in shadow, graceful and taut as a string, standing on the steps of the shop on the other side of the street - and whatever elaborate plan Harry had of tracking him down has been smashed into pieces, because this isn't how it works; he's not the fugitive here, he shouldn't be the one being hunted.
But he is; probably has been for days now, if not right from the moment he first set foot in Rome just over a week ago, alongside Savage and Dawlish.
Harry's alone now - well, not alone, because his quarry is there, right there in front of him - and, really, everything just seems so incredibly surreal. He's been tracking Lucius for months, following rumors and conjecture through Europe, feeling like he's been hunting a ghost because, damn, but the man is hard to find - and now he's here, and, truth be told, Harry's not quite sure what he's meant to be doing about it.
Well, no, that's not quite right. He knows what he should be doing - trying to detain an escaped criminal, which is his job, it's what he's here for - so in actual fact the thing he doesn't know is why he's not already doing it.
It's not fear - he's not afraid of Lucius, not yet, and even if he were it wouldn't be enough to stop him. After all, he's been frightened half out of his mind while pursuing Death Eaters before, but that doesn't mean he failed to put the Lestrange brothers behind bars - and even if Lucius is more terrifying than the two of them combined, well… he's not a Gryffindor for nothing.
Nor does he harbor any illusions about Lucius' guilt; no fanciful dreams of giving out second chances, because surely he's had far too many already. Make no mistake, Harry wants to put the man in Azkaban for life.
He just… isn't trying.
Stranger yet is the fact that Lucius isn't trying anything either; just watching with a fierce, predatory intensity - and when he tilts his head just a little bit to the side, the sunlight pierces through the shadows covering his face, lighting up one cheek and a throwing a savage glimmer into his eyes. He's not running, not attacking... only measuring Harry up and it’s a little - just a little - unnerving.
A quick glance down the street to either side; it's just past dawn, and the streets aren't all that crowded yet, though they will be soon. He has to get to Malfoy before they come, or it'll be all too easy for the man to slip away - mind you, Lucius could probably do it without them, if he felt the need.
Harry hooks one thumb through the belt-loop of his pants, using the movement to mask the way he flexes his wrist, ensuring his wand is still safely in its holster and easily obtained - he's going to need to be quick for this one, no doubt about it.
A moment later he takes a deep breath, and holds it, preparing himself and wishing that he were wearing something more than a t-shirt and torn jeans - anything that would cover more skin and offer a little more protection that cotton and denim, in case the encounter turns into a fight. Lucius certainly looks more attired for a duel; he's wearing wizarding clothes, probably charmed, for all that they appear Muggle enough to blend in. A little Victorian in places, maybe, but he's just the kind of man who can make it work.
Bastard looks good in breeches.
He lets out the breath, taking one last look at the area - still mostly empty, thank Merlin - before he steps forwards, down the three steps to the street - opposite, Lucius moves smoothly to mirror him. Or, at least Harry thinks that's what he's doing.
But the moment his boots hit the paving stones, Lucius pivots on one toe, turning left to head down the street - an easy flick of his head and the hood drops back slightly to expose the rest of his face, completely void of expression, the light rippling over his cheekbones and catching in his eyes.
Harry doesn't even pause, just falls into step a meter or so behind him - if this is going to be made into some kind of game, then he's going to play. It's not like he can cast a spell, anyway; Lucius is far too aware of him to risk one, even wordless. The man's fast, very fast, and attuned to magic in a way that makes it exceedingly difficult to catch him off guard.
Plenty of Aurors have died trying to prove otherwise, and Harry isn't going to become one of them.
Not that following him is even the slightest bit less dangerous, of course. But Harry's superiors always say that he has a curious streak a mile wide, and that, one day, it's going to get him into some serious trouble - maybe even today. But that's all just a part of the game, isn't it? What helps to make this job so much more exciting than anything he could have dreamed up.
They walk in silence, but for their footsteps and the swish of Lucius' cloak as he moves - he looks relaxed, calm; confidence in the situation, ease that Harry doesn't even attempt to mimic. But that's a Malfoy for you - all wrapped up in little layers, never showing what they're really thinking, always blank as a slate and usually twice as cold. Damn him, but this is what makes Lucius such an impossible opponent, because excluding the fact that he's smart and powerful and fucking gorgeous, the man just cannot be read. So Harry's curious, and nervous, and a little bit afraid because he knows that this could turn out very badly indeed.
Because he doesn't understand Lucius - because he doesn't know the motives for this little game, but he's playing it anyway. Stupidity, some might call it, but, well... he's Harry Potter. This is what he does, and the world should know that by now.
The street is getting busier, and louder, but Lucius is easy enough to follow, so long as Harry doesn't get distracted; Rome is beautiful, there's no question about it, but he has to focus. He can't loose him, not now - not after thirteen months worth of Auror work (admittedly, not all of it done by him) trying to chase down this one rogue Death Eater.
It's amazing, really, that after this much time so little about him has changed; here he is, alone, on the run, although Harry certainly doesn't think he's living life like a typical fugitive - the man is rich, insanely so, and, based on the few sketchy tidbits they'd managed to get out of Draco, it seems he certainly knows how to pull all the right strings to fly under the radar of almost every Ministry in Europe - and he appears exactly the same as he did the last time Harry saw.
Well, perhaps not exactly - he's not covered in blood this time, there's no magic skittering down his body in sparks of white, his clothes aren't torn, and there's not that same unbridled, feral look in his eyes. But that was in battle; the Final Battle, in fact, when the only thing he'd done was protect his family, killing Death Eaters and members of the Order alike, no longer even bothering to pick any side but his own. And sure, the fact that he'd decimated Voldemort's ranks meant something, but it would have meant more if he hadn't offed far more than his fair share of Aurors while doing it.
But his presence is the same; haughty, cold, sharp-edged and dangerous. Always dangerous, and Harry isn't going to forget it.
Only a step ahead of him, and well within touching distance, Lucius looks somewhat ethereal - out of place, but not in the same way that most wizards are. He looks comfortable in the Muggle world - more so than Harry would have thought - and it's not a failure to dress or act appropriately that makes him stand out. It's just that he's Lucius, and, Merlin, but they ought to cover him in marble and stand him in the Pantheon; the man is a fucking god.
And, sure, he can blend in when he wants, but it's not as if he'd want to do that very often. He is a Malfoy, after all - conceited, the whole lot of them.
Although, admittedly, that's more his emotions talking than his mind - he's prejudiced, he gets that, but it's hard not to be; and he also gets that Malfoys aren't the sort of people you can place neatly into boxes. Hermione once said that they compartmentalize, that they can separate everything, completely disconnect if they need to, and it's true.
Lucius? Likes to do it to extremes. It's why he's so good at magic that deals with the mind - the Imperius, the art of Occulmency - it's why it's not possible to read him, unless he wants you to. The best sort of enemy, because he keeps Harry on his toes...
But the worst too, because it's all too likely that he'll win in the end.
They're coming to another intersection, the crowd growing larger by the minute, and Harry is forced to quicken his pace; Lucius glances over at him, one corner of his mouth pulling up, before he takes another few steps forwards and ducks into an alley - the sky is a narrow sliver at the other end, half-blocked by his body, but still bright and completely blue. Harry follows him, hopping deftly over a pile of stones, keeping pace; his wand is burning into the bare skin of his wrist in silent warning.
There's an alcove about three meters in, and a doorway; Lucius pushes it open with three fingers, disappearing into the shadows, and Harry catches it just as it begins to swing shut, shoving it back open with his shoulder and slipping inside; there's a solid thunk as the door closes behind him, the sound of a lock sliding into place. Damn thing must be spelled.
It's not quite completely black; there's a greyish cast to the air, a spill of white light down the stairway before him, the carpet under his boots thick and rich; the muscles in his shoulders are so taut he feels like stone. Merlin, but he's an idiot, isn't he? This is stupid, this is so stupid and...
He puts one foot on the bottom step, looking up where it curves into the distance, Lucius already at the landing but paused, now, waiting for him to choose, waiting to see if he's going to keep playing.
Harry takes a breath, curses himself silently, and ascends the staircase.
The door at the top is left open, and he takes a second to waver on the threshold, looking inside - it's neat, and large, and lit with sunshine. Polished floorboards, an oak table, two black couches, bookshelves lining every wall bar the one that's all window, and the space taken up by the headboard of Lucius' bed.
There's a vase of flowers on the windowsill - lilies, white as moonlight, as the skin of Lucius' throat, of the fingers suddenly bared from their glove as he drums them across the tabletop, leaving a soft pile of leather behind him; Harry brushes them with his thumb as he passes, not thinking. They're still warm - of course they are, but he notices it like it's just hit him between the eyes and it's stupid, he knows that, but he can't help it.
The air smells like magic and brandy and books - cracked leather of a spine and the rustle of a page, hot and sudden in the not-silence of his imagination, like a breath spilling over his lips that is not his; this is Lucius. This is Lucius. Ordered and meticulous and heavy with the weight of centuries, of magic, of things he'll never know.
He doesn't talk; this isn't his time for talking. They've each played a move already, and now it's time to do it all over again.
But Lucius isn't talking either - he's turned around, and now he's just watching, not moving, and it would be odd except for the fact that he gives stillness as much significance as every other gesture - perhaps even more so, when coupled with this pervading silence. His grey eyes are hard as flint, skittering idly along the lines of Harry's collar, up the bare stretch of his neck - so intent that for a moment he wonders if Lucius is actually searching for some sign of a pulse.
Three seconds, four... an eternity of unease, before Lucius drops his head back on a slight angle so that those eyes are half-hidden by a lock of hair; he's looking down his nose still, but it's a little bit easier to face now. Damn, man's got a piercing gaze when there's nothing to block it.
"Do you know what you're doing?" Lucius asks, finally - just the barest hint of a reprimand, faintly amused; and Harry thinks about lying - is planning to, in fact - but the first word to come out of his mouth is still "No" and he can't take it back.
"No," he repeats, and shrugs - because it's true; because there's nothing he can do about it, and there's no use fighting that. He doesn't know what he's doing here.
Though he wonders if he's scored some points with that remark, because Lucius is sort of half-smiling, with one corner of his mouth quirked up; he takes a step forwards, smoothly, and another. Harry tightens his grip on his wand, feeling his hips connect with the table - this close, he has to look up to see the expression on Lucius' face. Smooth, mostly, except for a slight gleam of white teeth, bared beneath the pale curl of his upper lip - and it's true that that bare hint of sadism suits him; that thin sheen of violence laid over every inch of his skin, the magic haunting his movements, dark and thick and bitter, bitter.
Even his flaws are beautiful.
He should be casting a spell, detaining a criminal, doing his fucking job - but he's not, and when Lucius splays a hand over his hip, leans closer, the only person he can blame for this situation is himself. And this here is his chance to play for time, to say something, anything, stop this impossible game in its track - except there's no air in his lungs and no time left to speak. Just the sudden press of Lucius' mouth against his, soft, but there's something savage lurking underneath, something demanding, something he's not entirely sure he's ready to face.
But he's doing it anyway, isn't he? Because this is Lucius with his tongue in Harry's mouth, body pressed up against him, bare fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt and they're warm, too warm… and he understands, now, that the true different between them lies in the fact that, for Lucius, the world will never be enough - that everything needs to be bigger, stronger, greater. That pain is not pain unless it is in excess; that love is not love unless it is full, and bright, and all-consuming. That there will always need to be more, much more; death and love and life and lust and sensation, and this is why being with him makes Harry feel so much.
"You've taken a long time to find me," Lucius whispers, his eyes closed now; and Harry sighs, pressed against him cheek to cheek, hip to hip, and says "I'm sorry" because it's the only thing he's still got left to lose.
~fin
Author: stonegrad
Type: Fic
Length: 2700
Main character or Pairing: Lucius/Harry
Rating: R
Canon compliancy: Compliant up till the final battle, AU thereafter
Disclaimer: anything recognizable belongs to JKR and WB, and I am making absolutely no profit from this
Warnings: none
Summary: When Harry Potter's hunt for Lucius Malfoy finally comes to a head in the backstreets of Rome, there's no telling how things are going to pan out...
Cards Drawn: Wheel Of Fortune, Two Of Cups (R), Nine Of Wand
Card Interpretation: condensed version - a clearly 'unpredictable turn of events' followed by some 'unfaithfulness' to, well, the war, and the opposing sides, and probably a few lovers, and ending with the very Malfoy position of 'knowing that you will be victorious'.
Author Notes: This story almost never made it. The original fic grew too big to finish, and this one just didn't want to be written in the very short time frame I gave myself for it. A huge thanks to my beta, Cazz, who basically poked me in the shoulder until I wrote the damn thing - it's an odd story, I know, but it's here! I get points for that, surely.
Whenever Dark Draws Near
It's the eyes that give him away.
No, not the eyes, it's the look; the one that makes the skin between his shoulder blades itch, that settles like a dead weight in his stomach, hot and cold all at once, never failing to make his head spin. This is how Harry knows - because when it all comes down to it, there's never been anyone else in the world who's looked at him with the same intensity that Lucius Malfoy does.
He's looking at Harry now from under the cowl of his robe, face in shadow, graceful and taut as a string, standing on the steps of the shop on the other side of the street - and whatever elaborate plan Harry had of tracking him down has been smashed into pieces, because this isn't how it works; he's not the fugitive here, he shouldn't be the one being hunted.
But he is; probably has been for days now, if not right from the moment he first set foot in Rome just over a week ago, alongside Savage and Dawlish.
Harry's alone now - well, not alone, because his quarry is there, right there in front of him - and, really, everything just seems so incredibly surreal. He's been tracking Lucius for months, following rumors and conjecture through Europe, feeling like he's been hunting a ghost because, damn, but the man is hard to find - and now he's here, and, truth be told, Harry's not quite sure what he's meant to be doing about it.
Well, no, that's not quite right. He knows what he should be doing - trying to detain an escaped criminal, which is his job, it's what he's here for - so in actual fact the thing he doesn't know is why he's not already doing it.
It's not fear - he's not afraid of Lucius, not yet, and even if he were it wouldn't be enough to stop him. After all, he's been frightened half out of his mind while pursuing Death Eaters before, but that doesn't mean he failed to put the Lestrange brothers behind bars - and even if Lucius is more terrifying than the two of them combined, well… he's not a Gryffindor for nothing.
Nor does he harbor any illusions about Lucius' guilt; no fanciful dreams of giving out second chances, because surely he's had far too many already. Make no mistake, Harry wants to put the man in Azkaban for life.
He just… isn't trying.
Stranger yet is the fact that Lucius isn't trying anything either; just watching with a fierce, predatory intensity - and when he tilts his head just a little bit to the side, the sunlight pierces through the shadows covering his face, lighting up one cheek and a throwing a savage glimmer into his eyes. He's not running, not attacking... only measuring Harry up and it’s a little - just a little - unnerving.
A quick glance down the street to either side; it's just past dawn, and the streets aren't all that crowded yet, though they will be soon. He has to get to Malfoy before they come, or it'll be all too easy for the man to slip away - mind you, Lucius could probably do it without them, if he felt the need.
Harry hooks one thumb through the belt-loop of his pants, using the movement to mask the way he flexes his wrist, ensuring his wand is still safely in its holster and easily obtained - he's going to need to be quick for this one, no doubt about it.
A moment later he takes a deep breath, and holds it, preparing himself and wishing that he were wearing something more than a t-shirt and torn jeans - anything that would cover more skin and offer a little more protection that cotton and denim, in case the encounter turns into a fight. Lucius certainly looks more attired for a duel; he's wearing wizarding clothes, probably charmed, for all that they appear Muggle enough to blend in. A little Victorian in places, maybe, but he's just the kind of man who can make it work.
Bastard looks good in breeches.
He lets out the breath, taking one last look at the area - still mostly empty, thank Merlin - before he steps forwards, down the three steps to the street - opposite, Lucius moves smoothly to mirror him. Or, at least Harry thinks that's what he's doing.
But the moment his boots hit the paving stones, Lucius pivots on one toe, turning left to head down the street - an easy flick of his head and the hood drops back slightly to expose the rest of his face, completely void of expression, the light rippling over his cheekbones and catching in his eyes.
Harry doesn't even pause, just falls into step a meter or so behind him - if this is going to be made into some kind of game, then he's going to play. It's not like he can cast a spell, anyway; Lucius is far too aware of him to risk one, even wordless. The man's fast, very fast, and attuned to magic in a way that makes it exceedingly difficult to catch him off guard.
Plenty of Aurors have died trying to prove otherwise, and Harry isn't going to become one of them.
Not that following him is even the slightest bit less dangerous, of course. But Harry's superiors always say that he has a curious streak a mile wide, and that, one day, it's going to get him into some serious trouble - maybe even today. But that's all just a part of the game, isn't it? What helps to make this job so much more exciting than anything he could have dreamed up.
They walk in silence, but for their footsteps and the swish of Lucius' cloak as he moves - he looks relaxed, calm; confidence in the situation, ease that Harry doesn't even attempt to mimic. But that's a Malfoy for you - all wrapped up in little layers, never showing what they're really thinking, always blank as a slate and usually twice as cold. Damn him, but this is what makes Lucius such an impossible opponent, because excluding the fact that he's smart and powerful and fucking gorgeous, the man just cannot be read. So Harry's curious, and nervous, and a little bit afraid because he knows that this could turn out very badly indeed.
Because he doesn't understand Lucius - because he doesn't know the motives for this little game, but he's playing it anyway. Stupidity, some might call it, but, well... he's Harry Potter. This is what he does, and the world should know that by now.
The street is getting busier, and louder, but Lucius is easy enough to follow, so long as Harry doesn't get distracted; Rome is beautiful, there's no question about it, but he has to focus. He can't loose him, not now - not after thirteen months worth of Auror work (admittedly, not all of it done by him) trying to chase down this one rogue Death Eater.
It's amazing, really, that after this much time so little about him has changed; here he is, alone, on the run, although Harry certainly doesn't think he's living life like a typical fugitive - the man is rich, insanely so, and, based on the few sketchy tidbits they'd managed to get out of Draco, it seems he certainly knows how to pull all the right strings to fly under the radar of almost every Ministry in Europe - and he appears exactly the same as he did the last time Harry saw.
Well, perhaps not exactly - he's not covered in blood this time, there's no magic skittering down his body in sparks of white, his clothes aren't torn, and there's not that same unbridled, feral look in his eyes. But that was in battle; the Final Battle, in fact, when the only thing he'd done was protect his family, killing Death Eaters and members of the Order alike, no longer even bothering to pick any side but his own. And sure, the fact that he'd decimated Voldemort's ranks meant something, but it would have meant more if he hadn't offed far more than his fair share of Aurors while doing it.
But his presence is the same; haughty, cold, sharp-edged and dangerous. Always dangerous, and Harry isn't going to forget it.
Only a step ahead of him, and well within touching distance, Lucius looks somewhat ethereal - out of place, but not in the same way that most wizards are. He looks comfortable in the Muggle world - more so than Harry would have thought - and it's not a failure to dress or act appropriately that makes him stand out. It's just that he's Lucius, and, Merlin, but they ought to cover him in marble and stand him in the Pantheon; the man is a fucking god.
And, sure, he can blend in when he wants, but it's not as if he'd want to do that very often. He is a Malfoy, after all - conceited, the whole lot of them.
Although, admittedly, that's more his emotions talking than his mind - he's prejudiced, he gets that, but it's hard not to be; and he also gets that Malfoys aren't the sort of people you can place neatly into boxes. Hermione once said that they compartmentalize, that they can separate everything, completely disconnect if they need to, and it's true.
Lucius? Likes to do it to extremes. It's why he's so good at magic that deals with the mind - the Imperius, the art of Occulmency - it's why it's not possible to read him, unless he wants you to. The best sort of enemy, because he keeps Harry on his toes...
But the worst too, because it's all too likely that he'll win in the end.
They're coming to another intersection, the crowd growing larger by the minute, and Harry is forced to quicken his pace; Lucius glances over at him, one corner of his mouth pulling up, before he takes another few steps forwards and ducks into an alley - the sky is a narrow sliver at the other end, half-blocked by his body, but still bright and completely blue. Harry follows him, hopping deftly over a pile of stones, keeping pace; his wand is burning into the bare skin of his wrist in silent warning.
There's an alcove about three meters in, and a doorway; Lucius pushes it open with three fingers, disappearing into the shadows, and Harry catches it just as it begins to swing shut, shoving it back open with his shoulder and slipping inside; there's a solid thunk as the door closes behind him, the sound of a lock sliding into place. Damn thing must be spelled.
It's not quite completely black; there's a greyish cast to the air, a spill of white light down the stairway before him, the carpet under his boots thick and rich; the muscles in his shoulders are so taut he feels like stone. Merlin, but he's an idiot, isn't he? This is stupid, this is so stupid and...
He puts one foot on the bottom step, looking up where it curves into the distance, Lucius already at the landing but paused, now, waiting for him to choose, waiting to see if he's going to keep playing.
Harry takes a breath, curses himself silently, and ascends the staircase.
The door at the top is left open, and he takes a second to waver on the threshold, looking inside - it's neat, and large, and lit with sunshine. Polished floorboards, an oak table, two black couches, bookshelves lining every wall bar the one that's all window, and the space taken up by the headboard of Lucius' bed.
There's a vase of flowers on the windowsill - lilies, white as moonlight, as the skin of Lucius' throat, of the fingers suddenly bared from their glove as he drums them across the tabletop, leaving a soft pile of leather behind him; Harry brushes them with his thumb as he passes, not thinking. They're still warm - of course they are, but he notices it like it's just hit him between the eyes and it's stupid, he knows that, but he can't help it.
The air smells like magic and brandy and books - cracked leather of a spine and the rustle of a page, hot and sudden in the not-silence of his imagination, like a breath spilling over his lips that is not his; this is Lucius. This is Lucius. Ordered and meticulous and heavy with the weight of centuries, of magic, of things he'll never know.
He doesn't talk; this isn't his time for talking. They've each played a move already, and now it's time to do it all over again.
But Lucius isn't talking either - he's turned around, and now he's just watching, not moving, and it would be odd except for the fact that he gives stillness as much significance as every other gesture - perhaps even more so, when coupled with this pervading silence. His grey eyes are hard as flint, skittering idly along the lines of Harry's collar, up the bare stretch of his neck - so intent that for a moment he wonders if Lucius is actually searching for some sign of a pulse.
Three seconds, four... an eternity of unease, before Lucius drops his head back on a slight angle so that those eyes are half-hidden by a lock of hair; he's looking down his nose still, but it's a little bit easier to face now. Damn, man's got a piercing gaze when there's nothing to block it.
"Do you know what you're doing?" Lucius asks, finally - just the barest hint of a reprimand, faintly amused; and Harry thinks about lying - is planning to, in fact - but the first word to come out of his mouth is still "No" and he can't take it back.
"No," he repeats, and shrugs - because it's true; because there's nothing he can do about it, and there's no use fighting that. He doesn't know what he's doing here.
Though he wonders if he's scored some points with that remark, because Lucius is sort of half-smiling, with one corner of his mouth quirked up; he takes a step forwards, smoothly, and another. Harry tightens his grip on his wand, feeling his hips connect with the table - this close, he has to look up to see the expression on Lucius' face. Smooth, mostly, except for a slight gleam of white teeth, bared beneath the pale curl of his upper lip - and it's true that that bare hint of sadism suits him; that thin sheen of violence laid over every inch of his skin, the magic haunting his movements, dark and thick and bitter, bitter.
Even his flaws are beautiful.
He should be casting a spell, detaining a criminal, doing his fucking job - but he's not, and when Lucius splays a hand over his hip, leans closer, the only person he can blame for this situation is himself. And this here is his chance to play for time, to say something, anything, stop this impossible game in its track - except there's no air in his lungs and no time left to speak. Just the sudden press of Lucius' mouth against his, soft, but there's something savage lurking underneath, something demanding, something he's not entirely sure he's ready to face.
But he's doing it anyway, isn't he? Because this is Lucius with his tongue in Harry's mouth, body pressed up against him, bare fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt and they're warm, too warm… and he understands, now, that the true different between them lies in the fact that, for Lucius, the world will never be enough - that everything needs to be bigger, stronger, greater. That pain is not pain unless it is in excess; that love is not love unless it is full, and bright, and all-consuming. That there will always need to be more, much more; death and love and life and lust and sensation, and this is why being with him makes Harry feel so much.
"You've taken a long time to find me," Lucius whispers, his eyes closed now; and Harry sighs, pressed against him cheek to cheek, hip to hip, and says "I'm sorry" because it's the only thing he's still got left to lose.
~fin