The Killing Moon - Chapter 17
I'm going to be laptop-less for the next few days, so I thought I'd better stick this up now. ;)
As always, many thanks to melusinahp X
*
17.
The moment Harry stumbled out of the Floo, he knew something was wrong. Even as his brain was telling him to block up the fireplace to prevent pursuit, and his body was going through the motions of doing just that, his eyes were taking in the expensive furniture tossed about like so much rubbish and the spell burns on the carpet beneath his knees. He looked at Draco, and felt a horrible sense of déjà vu as he saw his expression.
This was like the Manor all over again. No, he corrected himself as Draco surged to his feet, his eyes wide and wild with some emotion Harry couldn’t identify - it was worse than that.
“Mother?” The word was almost a whisper.
Oh, shit…
“I knew you’d come for her.”
Harry felt suddenly cold.
Draco rushed out into the hall, pausing only to get a firmer grip on his wand. Harry got to his feet. He saw the packet of powdered moonstone lying on the rug, dropped by Draco in his hurry, and picked it up. It would be ridiculous to go through all that they had to get it, only to lose it now.
One of the room’s sash windows was wide open, letting wind and rain into the flat. He went over to close it, looking down into a little square that would have been pretty if it hadn’t been so completely deserted. One of the townhouses opposite had its great front door thrown open. It was too far away to read, but a large sheet of parchment was pasted onto the brickwork, and furniture and personal belongings were piled haphazardly on the pavement.
The flat was silent except for the rain pattering against the windows and Draco’s hurried footsteps and the occasional slam of a door as he searched. Harry felt as if an invisible vice was closing around his chest.
I have to tell him. I can’t keep something like this from him.
As he turned away from the window, something flashed bright yellow at the blurred periphery of his vision. His breath caught in his throat as he looked back and saw a child’s robe caught on the park railings, fluttering in the wind like a gaudy flag.
Proscriptions. Harry had never heard the term before, but he didn’t need a dictionary in front of him to take a good guess at what it meant.
Anger and frustration swelled up inside him. He heard a choked sob, and for a moment thought it had come from his own throat. Then he realised that the noise from Draco’s search of the flat had stopped.
A few quick strides took him out into the hall. The front door of the flat hung off its hinges, panels smashed through and its lock and handle melted and twisted. Draco stood out on the landing, looking at something beyond Harry’s field of vision. He gripped his wand tighter and went to join him, ducking under the broken door.
Discreetly-patterned wallpaper was almost covered by crudely pasted up parchment - what looked like entire rolls of the stuff, covered in names.
Harry’s own name was on there - but that was hardly a surprise. He was flicking his eyes up to look at the ‘M’s when he saw something that was. “Patrick Parkinson?”
“Pansy’s eldest brother,” Draco said, his voice quiet and flat. “Independently wealthy, can trace his bloodline back ten generations, has no interest whatsoever in politics - I wonder which part of that makes him an ‘undesirable’?”
Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t know the man, but he suspected that ‘no interest in politics’ had become an impossible stance for anyone, even a rich Pure-blood, to keep up.
“Mother will be really upset at the state of the apartment,” Draco said. “Father will have to have the looters found and punished.” His fingers trembled as they brushed over the parchment. Harry looked at the names he was touching.
Malfoy, Draco; Malfoy, Lucius; Malfoy, Narcissa (nee Black).
To Harry, Lucius Malfoy had always been the human face of the enemy, representing everything about the Wizarding world that Harry had learned to detest. The man was cruel and ruthless, an arrogant bigot - and it appeared that he’d died trying to fight Voldemort. Narcissa had always seemed just an extension of her husband, an appropriately cold and haughty companion for such a man. But Andromeda had implied that her sister was no fan of the Death Eaters, and now it seemed that she was a victim of them. As for Draco…Harry almost winced at how many of his assumptions about Draco had been so, so wrong.
He watched Draco’s fingers run over the parchment, again and again, as if to rub out the names. His head was bowed and his hair fell down over his face until the only part visible was his pointed chin and a mouth set in a hard, thin line. Harry remembered the sob he’d heard and wasn’t fooled for an instant.
He felt sick. How the hell was he supposed to tell Draco that his father was dead and that his mother was at best imprisoned, at worst dead too?
This isn’t fair. And that thought could almost have been amusing - Harry himself was a living example of how the world really wasn’t fair, but he could still rage against it on Draco’s behalf.
I want to see him happy, not in more pain…
Draco’s back stiffened as Harry touched his shoulder.
“Draco, I-”
“Save the sympathy for someone who actually needs it, Potter.”
“Riight…” Harry snapped his teeth together and tried to count to ten before replying. He got to four. “God forbid I should actually care about you!”
The answer was snapped back, almost word-for-word what Harry was expecting. “Why do you? I don’t care about you!” Even half-expected, it still stung like crazy, but -
“Bullshit.”
Draco spun around, a twisted mix of shock and anger on his face. Harry reacted without thinking - he lunged forward, one hand catching hold of Draco’s wand hand, the other slamming firmly across his mouth, and shoved him back up against the wall. Draco naturally fought back; it might actually have been a turn-on if Harry hadn’t been so angry. “STOP TRYING TO PUSH ME AWAY!” Draco’s fingers dug painfully into his wrist, trying to yank his hand free; Harry used his slightly greater weight to flatten him against the wall. “I know if I let you talk, you’ll rip me to pieces and leave me feeling like shit. Just to prove me wrong.” The sounds Draco was making into his hand were definitely swearwords. “And I still fucking love you, so what kind of an idiot does that…make… me?” The words stuttered to a halt.
Oh, shit…
Draco froze. The expression in his eyes was pure horror…which was not very flattering.
I can’t believe I said that…
Is it even true?
He felt the bones of his hand grind together painfully as Draco finally pulled it away from his mouth.
“Now who’s talking bullshit?”
*
Draco tried to push back the pure panic pounding through his body. He tried to tell himself that the stupid little part of him that had leapt at the word actually had the right idea; it would be a huge advantage to him…if it was true.
Which of course it couldn’t be.
“You’re enjoying getting laid,” he said slowly, loading every bit of contempt he possessed into the words. “That’s sweet - but don’t push it.”
Potter looked completely miserable. And so he should - Draco shouldn’t have to deal with his romantic crap, he had other things to worry about…
Potter’s gaze flicked away, but not before Draco saw a flash of guilt and pity within those big green eyes. The sudden suspicion he felt was ridiculous - how could Potter know anything about what had happened here?
But he didn’t seem that surprised at the state of the flat…
“Are you hiding something from me?” He heard his own voice, soft and dangerous. Potter met his gaze full on, not even bothering to hide his pity now…
“Draco, I’m sorry.”
Legilimens.
Potter didn’t even try to fight him; he offered up the memory almost willingly. Draco saw his father on his knees before the Dark Lord, watched him die, watched the castle reclaim his body…
No.
It’s a lie. It isn’t true.
He heard Potter’s voice, muffled as if it was coming through layers and layers of thick, stifling cloth. “When Voldemort tried to kill me, he made a connection between us.”
He’s lying…
“Sometimes I get flashes of what he’s thinking or feeling, or have moments when I can see through his eyes.”
Potter doesn’t lie.
He couldn’t breathe. His eyes burned with unshed tears.
You can’t fake memories.
His stomach flipped, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Then he felt power surge out of his body, thick in the air around him like a dirty mix of grease and static electricity. Fire licked against his hair, his robes -
*
Harry dragged Draco away from the wall of parchment. The Proscription Lists blackened and cracked, names glowing brightly then disappearing into the flames streaming across the wall. The heat stung his face and brought tears to his eyes, and he burned himself as he smothered the fire caught in Draco’s hair and robes with his bare hands, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest.
I should have found a better way to tell him.
Draco shoved him away; the crack as the blond boy Disapparated was almost deafening.
Harry retrieved his wand and extinguished the fire before it could spread any further. The townhouse seemed to be deserted, but he wasn’t prepared to risk it. His throat already hurt from Draco’s ad-hoc antidote, and the smoke made it burn even more painfully. He tasted blood in his mouth as he coughed.
He’d never seen Draco lose it like that before. He’d seen him upset, scared, worried, hopping mad, but never out of control.
A horrible thought suddenly occurred to him. What if Draco had Apparated away, not to get some privacy for his pain, as Harry had been assuming, but to confront the person who’d caused it?
*
Not Father. It wasn’t possible. He wouldn’t leave us.
A storm-enhanced wave roared up the beach towards him. Draco narrowed his eyes across the pounding rain and poured all his panic and rage into a banishing spell. He couldn’t fight the ocean - like the war that was devouring everything he cared about, he was tiny and weak before it - but he watched the wave split, crash back into itself, discharging its power in a surging white rush that still managed to push up the beach, catching his feet and the hem of his robes.
He ran for the caves, sand shifting under his feet, soaked robes slapping against his skin, face almost numb from the driving rain. The water catching in his eyelashes was from the rain, the salt he could taste on his lips was just seawater carried on the wind. He wasn’t crying.
A second wave caught up to him as he clambered up over the rocks, catching him and throwing him into the caves. Draco managed to hold on to his wand, even as his back and shoulder slammed into solid stone, and seawater surged up his nose, sharp and painful in his throat.
His fingernails clicked against rock as the water retreated, dragging him back.
If it did drag him back, he’d be helpless, tossed like a rag between the unstoppable force of the sea and the immovable - and hard and sharp - object of the cliffs.
Pain flared in his fingers, then they twitched and as the water tugged relentlessly at him, he shoved nails that were now sharp and hard deep into the solid rock.
There was blood in the water as it rushed back to the ocean. Draco scrambled over the rocks, ignoring both the split and mangled flesh of his fingers and the sharp stinging heat as they healed. He could just about see in the caves without a spell, and he wasn’t going think about that either.
There was just too much to take in, too much to feel. But for now he could just concentrate on survival - and that was almost a relief.
*
“Where is he?”
Harry heard the words he wanted to shout at everyone directed at him, and felt a sudden surge of anger. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “I wish I did!”
Lupin glared back at him. For a moment he looked as if he was going to reply just as sharply, then he snapped his teeth together with an angry click. The expression in his eyes softened slightly as he looked at Harry.
Harry hadn’t really expected Draco to come back to the hotel, but he’d allowed himself a tiny glimmer of hope. If he wasn’t at the hotel, then Harry wouldn’t be able to find him or help him - and he wouldn‘t accept that.
“He’d better be back before sunset.” Lupin sighed. “What happened?”
Harry could almost hear the unspoken question. So, what did you do this time? And just the words Knocturn Alley would probably earn him a - well-deserved - lecture.
“Harry, you do understand that this place isn’t under Fidelius? If there’s even the slightest risk that Draco might get captured -”
“He won’t.” The words didn’t come out with as much conviction as Harry would have liked. He did know that the hotel wasn’t a permanent base - like everyone else, he’d been given coordinates to Apparate to in the event of an attack, and he knew Moody had been hard at work locating and setting up more secure hideouts - but he’d never given much thought to just how vulnerable they were there.
He was just steeling himself for another session of explaining himself - and the feeling of somehow letting Lupin down that always seemed to come with it - when Fred and George wandered past.
“There’s not enough magic bound into it to do real spells.”
“Yeah, but ‘cos it’s not a physical thing, it can’t be damaged by other people’s spells either.”
Harry noticed the box beneath Fred’s arm.
“Hey! That’s Ron’s present!”
The two boys stopped and looked back at him. Fred shrugged and tossed the box over to Harry. “We haven’t damaged it. We were just experimenting with it.”
“We’re done now anyway.”
Harry looked down at the box. He had no reason to be irritated. He hadn’t even opened the Action Duellist’s box, much less had a go fighting it. At least Fred and George were making use of it. He saw the remains of the price tag and flinched.
“It’s clever idea.”
“Wish we’d thought of it,” Fred said with feeling.
George nodded vigorously.
“Anyway - it’s all yours now. Have fun.”
The crack of someone Apparating in made Harry look up hopefully - only to have that hope dashed as he saw Moody marching purposefully up to Lupin.
Where the hell are you, Draco?
*
Shadows danced along the carved walls of the Lower Hall as the torches burst into life. The hem of Draco’s robes left a trail of water behind him as he walked over to the dais and the statues gathered around it. He wasn’t scared anymore - fear seemed to have been one of the many emotions battered out of him on the beach. The clammy cold of his wet robes seeped in through his pores, and he felt completely numb.
The massed ranks of his ancestors parted for him - and Draco saw what was waiting for him on the dais.
He’d known all along that Potter had been telling the truth. That what Draco had seen through the other boy’s eyes had been nothing but the truth. He’d just hoped…
It was suddenly difficult to breathe. He could feel the need to cry burning at the back of his eyes.
Numb? He should be so lucky.
Anger burned inside him, causing his guts to churn in a way that brought acid bile up into his throat. The Dark Lo - no, fuck that, he wouldn’t dignify that thing with a title. “Voldemort.” He was going to die. Draco wasn’t as powerful as his father, or as experienced, but he had knowledge that he could use, people that he could use. He would make it happen.
He sucked in a deep breath, then another.
Lucius had always found tears repugnant, a sign of weakness. So Draco didn’t cry as he rearranged cold limbs into a more dignified position, brushed hair matted with blood away from a face so burnt it was almost unrecognisable, and knelt to pay his respects.
The St Christopher tingled against his skin, demanding attention. He pulled it free of his robes, suddenly hating Snape. Why can’t he just fucking leave me alone?
N. is safe.
Draco let loose a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding, and pressed his face against the cool smooth stone of the dais. His throat closed up, one painful shudder after another shook his body, and his eyes stung as the tears finally came.
*
Harry hugged the box to him as he walked down the hall. He’d given the powdered moonstone to Hermione. It was possible she might be able to finish the potion in time, following Draco’s written instructions; he knew she’d give it her best shot.
He frowned as he thought of something she’d said.
“I looked up Wolfsbane Potion a couple of months ago - I thought I’d be able to make it for Lupin - and it’s way beyond my skill level. How can Malfoy understand such a complex potion well enough to make changes to the process and the ingredients? And it’s not just an intellectual exercise, either, since he’s going to be the one taking it.”
It was odd. Hermione didn’t like to admit that anything was beyond her, so if she said she couldn’t do it, Harry believed her. And, until last year, Harry would have grudgingly judged Draco at about the same level as Hermione when it came to Potions (as well as being a complete teacher’s pet).
Still, it was pointless thinking about it. Right at that moment, Harry would just be glad to get a chance to ask Draco about it. And he wouldn’t care what answer he got, either, as long as Draco was safe and unharmed and with Harry…where he belonged…
“You’re enjoying getting laid. That’s sweet - but don’t push it.”
Harry clutched the box a bit tighter. He was wound so tightly that he felt like he’d been force fed a vat of Hestia’s herbal tea. He couldn’t get Draco out his head for more than ten seconds at a time. But of course that’s just down to me ‘enjoying getting laid’…of course it is, Draco. Idiot.
In what had once been the tea room, heavy velvet curtains had been conjured up over the windows to partially block out the sound of the storm outside. Ginny sat on the floor with a little group of children around her; she didn’t look happy - especially when a sudden roll of thunder sent the children diving on top of her.
“Look - I was told to read you a story, not nurse all of you. Get off. Thunder can‘t hurt you.”
There was some giggling as the kids settled back down. Harry was just trying to slip past without disturbing them again when he heard Ginny call after him. “When you see Ron, tell him he owes me one!”
The thought of Ron trying to deal with those children - in fact, any children - was a welcome, if temporary, diversion for his thoughts. He popped his head back around the door. “Come on, you know this is your favourite job.”
Ginny pulled a face. “My mum’s favourite job.” But she smiled at the kids anyway as she opened the book she held. Colours puffed up from the yellowing pages like chalk dust blown from a blackboard. “Now, this isn’t a fairy story, but it begins, like a lot of fairy stories, with a brave warrior on a quest and a fair damsel trapped in a tower.” The colours formed themselves into a scene of rolling hills and forest, a drawing in pastels made three-dimensional and almost real by the spells woven into the book. A tall white tower rose beyond the trees, and a cloaked man on horseback made his way towards it. “But this damsel was a young witch, who had chosen to lock herself and her children away from the evils of the world.”
Most of the children sat wide-eyed and transfixed, but one girl giggled and reached out into the coloured dust, trying to catch hold of the tiny horseman. A muscle beneath Ginny’s eye twitched, but she didn’t snap or slap the girl’s hand away. “The wizard you’re trying to squish, Olivia,” she said smoothly, “is Godric Gryffindor, gathering teachers and students for the great school he and his fellows are building.”
“Oooh.” Olivia pulled her hand back. The chalk dust caked around her fingers detached itself and flowed smoothly back into the picture, which shifted and changed to show a small woman, barely more than a girl, her waist-length white-blond hair held back by a simple silver circlet. Olivia ‘ooohed’ again.
Harry turned away. Part of him wanted to stay, to plonk himself down amongst the children and imagine himself in a different world, where his mother had read bedtime stories to him, possibly with the aid of something like that book. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the fantasy, before a rumble of thunder and answering squeaks of fear from the children brought him back to his senses.
Ginny raised her voice. As Harry crossed the corridor to the makeshift practice room, he could still hear her over the storm, clear and confident, calming the children down with an effortlessness that he envied.
“It was a time of great fear and hatred - and that fear and hatred had found its way to Eve’s door. When Gryffindor arrived, the tower was under siege. But she was in no need of a hero.” Harry heard the satisfaction in her voice as the door clicked shut behind him and he grinned as she announced firmly, “This damsel could rescue herself.” Yes, that sounded like a story Ginny would like.
His smile faded. Of course, the events of her first year at Hogwarts could have gone towards tarnishing that particular fairytale plot.
‘This damsel could rescue herself.’ And these days she can.
The thought had no sadness attached. Ginny was tough. She didn’t need him like her younger self had. She was perfectly capable of getting on with her life without a ‘hero’, and Harry felt a relief at that that was partly - ok, largely - selfish. He’d never thought of himself as a hero anyway, whatever Draco seemed to think.
Draco…
He had to trust in Draco’s sense of self-preservation. He had to believe that his friend had gone off somewhere to grieve and not done anything stupid. He couldn’t think about Draco going alone to confront Voldemort -
His breath froze in his chest and he felt that cold numbness returning to his body.
No.
If Draco had gone to avenge his father…
No. He’s not so stupid.
…then he’d be…
NO.
He’s not dead.
But some part of his brain was unable to leave the thought alone. Harry had never seen Draco look like he had when he’d Disapparated from the flat. Like his whole world had just disintegrated around him…
Why didn’t I fucking stop him? What if -
A flash of lightning beyond the boarded-up windows painted the room with vivid slashes of light, and Harry felt the emotion boiling up inside him as if in response, along with power that seemed to push at his skin from the inside.
He could be -
The carpet blackened around his feet. The glass in the window shattered, the wood splintered and wind and rain surged into the room as the storm was finally allowed access.
“No.” The word was hissed out past the tight pain that constricted his chest.
*
In theory it had sounded so good. As Hermione had put it, practicing his duelling skills would put some of that nervous energy to good use and occupy his mind with something more productive than worrying. She’d also said that he’d probably feel better after blasting something, which Harry didn’t think was entirely fair.
It wasn’t working. Oh, he had to agree with Fred and George that the Action Duellist was a clever invention, and it was good that he couldn’t actually hurt it, because he was getting more and more wound up inside and he really wanted to break something.
Sometimes he caught fragments of the story Ginny was telling the children, half-sentences and words dimly heard over the wind.
“…so in love…”
“…swore to make his every dream come true…”
Bright ink splattered over his shield spell. Too bright - it made this seem like a game, when it really, really wasn’t. Harry needed to train, he needed to let out some of the power beating against his skin -
“…Gryffindor and Slytherin…”
- he needed something to stop the thoughts going round and round in his head.
“…the lines were drawn, sides were taken…”
The Action Duellist splattered apart as he hit it with Expulso, black droplets mixing with the rain for a moment then rushing back together, only a bright yellow spot on its robes to even show he’d even landed a hit.
Like Wizarding Paintball…
It wasn’t enough. Harry needed a real fight, a real enemy.
“…love wasn’t enough…”
What the hell was Ginny telling those children? Yes, she’d said it wasn’t a fairy story, but still…
He ducked an attack, took a hasty step back to avoid another - and almost did the splits as his foot slipped on the wet carpet. He slashed out with his wand. “Petrificus Totalus.” His artificial opponent just stepped out of its way - and retaliated in the same movement.
The Action Duellist had been created to look like a big man with a hard impassive face, but the way it moved was almost a merciless copy of Draco - every attack, block and dodge flowing together like a well-practiced dance.
“…to protect her family, she could never weaken that way again…”
He’d had enough of this.
Harry dodged, then dodged again, forcing himself to concentrate -
The next roll of thunder carried another sound within it…and the Action Duellist splashed apart again. But not from Harry’s spell. His Expelliarmus hit a powerful Shield Charm.
“Granger said you were in here.”
The Shield Charm dissolved. Harry felt a wide grin stretch slowly across his face. His heart felt as if it was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. But even as he enjoyed the relief, something like a warning flickered at the back of his mind. Draco was still in his fighting stance -
The red flash of the Stunner seared his eyes as he threw himself clear. Harry frantically blinked away the dots jumping around before his eyes and flung up a Shield Charm as another hex came his way. He was nearly knocked off his feet as the sheer force of it made his shield disintegrate.
What the hell is he doing?
“…the castle would fall into the sea, her bloodline would end - all for the love of a son of Gryff-”
Ginny’s voice was abruptly cut off, and Harry heard the familiar squelch as the door was sealed shut.
The Action Duellist started to flow back together. Draco made an irritated noise and flicked his wand in its direction; the inky droplets hardened into ice -
He’d left himself wide open -
- but he deflected Harry’s Disarming Spell with one impatient twist of his wand. And Harry didn’t even have the chance to be angry or impressed, because all those chunks of black ice were suddenly hurtling in his direction.
An Impediment Jinx was enough to stop them - but not the Expelliarmus that followed close behind.
As the spell lifted Harry off his feet and ripped the wand from his hand, sheer bloody-mindedness came to his rescue. He hadn’t asked for this fight, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to lose it. Instead of trying to stop his fall, he twisted his body and snatched his wand from mid-air - and hit the ground with enough force to drive all the breath from his body.
Even thoroughly winded, he instinctively rolled to one side; his skin prickled uncomfortably as he barely avoided another Stunning Spell. But he still had his wand, he could defend himself -
Draco was using relatively harmless spells against him, and Harry knew that he didn’t have any problem using more lethal spells in a real fight. He’s not actually trying to hurt me.
Another hex, another Shield Charm, and Harry made a private vow to learn other ways of blocking as he scrambled to his feet and the charm faltered alarmingly.
“This is pathetic, Potter.” Draco sounded more anguished than angry. “How do you expect to beat him when you can’t even beat me?”
Ah.
Privately Harry thought that Draco was selling himself short. “You’re good,” he managed, dropping to the floor again as his shield disintegrated. He tried for some humour. “What happened? Kwikspell course?”
Draco didn’t take the bait. Instead of a sarcastic reply, Harry got a scowl, and he suddenly noticed how red Draco’s eyes were.
“I trained every day last year,” Draco said, his voice quiet but intense, every word clear even above the wind, “every moment I wasn’t stuck in classes or working on that fucking cabinet. I learned new spells, finally mastered the duelling forms my father tried to knock into my head as a kid - I thought I’d need them to complete my mission… I thought I could make Father proud…” He faltered, then dragged his sleeve across his face and snarled, “and I still failed…at everything…” He lashed out; Harry didn’t even try to block it this time. Pain shot up his spine as his tailbone cracked against the floor, but he kept hold of his wand…even if he really didn’t want to fight. “But that never happens to you, does it? Everything just goes your way, whether you work for it or not!”
If everything goes my way, why are you so worried about me not being able to beat Voldemort?
Harry knew he was supposed to be angry and offended. He couldn’t be. Harry didn’t know where Draco had been or what he’d been doing, but he was soaked through and shivering, the skin around his eyes was sore and swollen…and he was suffering. How could anything else matter?
He cast the Summoning Charm with pure thought, no mouthing the words or even verbalising them in his head - and why hadn’t he realised non-verbal spell casting could be so easy? Just a tug of want and need, a flick of his wand, and Harry had his arms full of struggling, furious Malfoy. Despite everything, he felt a wild selfish joy as he caught hold of Draco’s wand hand to stop him hexing him again and used his full weight to hold him down. He’d half-believed that he’d lost this, and it suddenly occurred to him just how truly horrifying the thought of never seeing Draco again was. Never joking with him again, never fighting with him again, never touching him again…
“I really hate you,” Draco hissed. But when Harry kissed him, he responded almost frantically - too much force, too much use of teeth… He tore his hands free, but not to fight - instead his fingers entangled in Harry’s damp hair, pulling him closer.
*
Draco was afraid. It wasn’t the useful kind of fear that sharpened the wits and gave fleetness of foot, but a kind of cold, smothering dread.
He’d allowed himself to get so cocky. He’d relaxed so easily into enjoying Potter’s company, allowed himself all too often to push the ‘W word’ to the back of his mind, completely blotted out the fact that he was a spy surrounded by enemies…he’d even allowed himself to forget about the war, and the way the world could change in an instant…
He was a Malfoy. That fact had always been the bedrock of his existence. It had given him pride when he had felt weak. It had given him determination when asked to do the impossible. He’d coped with the loss of his home and possessions, even as the physical evidence of his family’s history and existence had been destroyed or fallen in the hands of others. But now his father was gone, cremated to ashes and air before the eyes of his ancestors, and the dead were to be honoured, not wept over and selfishly wished back. His mother was alive, but completely out of his reach, her survival hanging on Draco’s own obedience. Even Draco’s own blood had betrayed him, throbbing to the same rhythm that drove the waves outside, a constant reminder of the pollution in his body.
What was left? He’d made a bold promise in the Lower Hall, but, forcibly cut free of everything that made him him, he was just a hollowed-out piece of flesh in freefall. And he was terrified.
He could hear Potter’s racing heartbeat. When Draco pressed his mouth up against the other boy’s throat, he could smell the blood pounding through his carotid artery, and the salt of his sweat almost overwhelmed his taste buds.
He might even be dead by the morning, or not change back…or change back wrong.
It wasn’t lust that fuelled his kisses, but fear. He could hold on, just for a moment. For a moment, he could pretend that Harry wouldn’t be taken from him just so easily. Even if he was weak, and shit at duelling, and relied too much on luck that couldn’t last forever.
It wasn’t about lust, but as Potter’s fingers caught hold of his jaw and his mouth took possession of Draco’s, he felt a quick hot curl of desire in his belly. “I was worried about you.” The words were whispered against his mouth, barely audible over the shrieking wind, and Draco hated the way his heart clenched, as if squeezed by unkind fingers.
There were very few things in the world that were guaranteed to shut Potter up. Hard, desperate kisses and Draco’s tongue stroking deep in his mouth was at best a temporary solution. He slipped his hands beneath the wet cotton of Potter’s shirt, letting the other boy’s body heat warm his fingers, tracing the familiar lines of his torso and carefully committing every dip and curve and ridge to memory.
Potter’s hair trailed against his forehead, cold and wet. An image flashed into Draco’s head - a different body floating in the subterranean pool, black hair drifting in the water, and dug his fingers urgently into wiry muscles, forcing himself not to go too far, not to draw blood. Warm. Alive. Safe.
For the moment - and the moment was all that could be allowed to matter.
He tugged at the fastenings of his robes.
*
Harry was torn. He had a sneaking suspicion that groping wasn’t the correct way to deal with a grieving person. It could be some form of taking advantage. On the other hand… Draco currently had his hand down the back of Harry’s jeans, his tongue in Harry’s mouth, and was grinding his thick, hot, very hard and very pet-able cock up against Harry’s thigh. It was an uneven battle, and with every movement Draco arched his back, black robes slipping further off pale, glistening shoulders. He reached up and plucked off Harry’s glasses.
A few desperate, fumbling moments later, Harry had shed his clothes - and well and truly lost the battle. He heard fabric tear as he tugged the wet robes further off his lover’s body. His skin was so cold; Harry warmed him up with his hands and mouth and tongue and skin, wrapping him in his own body heat.
The storm was still raging outside. A tree branch slapped against the broken window, sending leaves swirling into the room. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed in total unison. A few rain drops settled on Harry’s back, and the wind was cold against his skin, but it was a minor distraction. All that mattered was that Draco wanted to be touched. And to touch. He was almost clinging to Harry, all bruising fingers and barely human sounds of desire. He kissed as if Harry’s breath was somehow necessary for survival, licked and nipped at his skin, scored Harry’s shoulders and back with his fingernails until he was perilously close to drawing blood and Harry was writhing, his senses drowning, totally overwhelmed by the boy beneath him.
Draco caught hold of Harry’s hand, put two of his fingers into his mouth - and started to suck.
Wow. Not only had Harry discovered two personal kinks in as many minutes, but he got a surging thrill down his spine as a sudden thought struck him - what Draco might want him to do with those fingers he was so thoroughly wetting up…
Though perhaps he was wrong. He was sure they both knew lubrication spells - surely it would be easier to use one of them if he really wanted -
A low growl thrummed around his fingers as Draco tried to move his legs and found them restrained by thick fabric. He jerked back and tore the robes free with one swift movement of his hand. Harry looked into wild, scared grey eyes, then at fingernails that seemed to be thicker and sharper than just a moment before, and finally at the body displayed to him… His brain turned to goo, and he was barely aware of his fingers pressing against puckered flesh, pushing into heat and tightness.
Tension wound throughout his body. “I want to -” He bit back the words, almost shocked by what he had been about to ask, by what he wanted… Draco swore and shuddered and clenched around Harry’s fingers, and Harry’s mind chose to go blank except for one thought. Of course he wanted that tightness around his cock instead of his fingers - he was only human. And that want was bound up with so many others - less physical, less simple, wants he instinctively flinched away from - to take, to control, to own.
“- fuck me.” Draco completed Harry’s request in a hoarse growl that sent a sharp shiver of lust down his spine and made him groan out loud. “What’s stopping you?”
Harry froze. Is that a…yes?
Draco’s fingers gripped his jaw, pointed nails digging into his skin. His cheeks were flushed red, beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, his eyes glittered with something desperate and wild - and any doubts Harry had as to whether he liked this were swept away as Draco twisted his body again and again, forcing Harry’s fingers deeper, quick gasps of breath hissing between his parted lips. “I…can…”
*
I can do this.
He could bask in Potter’s heat, blocking out memories of a dark cell and clinking chains. If he did this, then perhaps he could laugh in Greyback’s face. The werewolf had hurt Draco, scared him, polluted him - but he hadn’t taken everything, hadn’t had everything he so badly wanted.
Still, it was hard to relax. His body had stopped resisting, eagerly surrendered to Potter - as it always did, he thought sourly - but even two fingers was uncomfortable, and his mind didn’t surrender as easily. He tried to tell himself that it would be good - everything he’d done with Harry so far had been good - but he couldn’t shake the thought that it was going to hurt. A lot. And that it would be humiliating.
And he still wanted it.
He shut his eyes, and determinedly fought the burning sensation behind his eyelids as he felt the fingers withdraw and Potter groped for his wand.
Just to hold on, for a moment.
On the plus side, if Potter hurt him badly enough, it would shatter these stupid feelings…
“Fuck!” The balance shifted. His thoughts fell away, and suddenly everything was about his body - the trembling hands gripping his knees just that bit too tightly, pushing them up and apart, Potter’s first tentative breach of his body…
“Draco?” He heard the unspoken question in Harry’s whisper. He took a deep breath and managed a quick shake of his head. “This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”
No. Fucking. Kidding.
Potter took a better grip on his legs and awkwardly hoisted him up - like fucking baggage - and back, finally finding the right angle.
“Ahhh!” One slow, smooth stroke and that was it. He was well and truly skewered by Potter’s cock, opened wide, full, connected. And it really fucking hurt. Draco sucked air into his lungs and grimly fought the fight or flight urge that was causing pain to judder along his bones.
“God…”
Draco mentally echoed Potter’s exclamation. He could have lived without the pain, but -
He clenched around Harry, revelling in the burn and the stretch, the feel of him in him, with him, and forced his eyes open. He met Harry’s gaze, saw the hard, possessive hunger and open adoration warring in his eyes, and almost slammed his own shut again. His own deep breaths and the hammering of his heart were painfully loud as he embraced his enhanced senses. The musky stench of sweat and sex was overwhelming. The light swirl of raindrops sent sparks of sensation across his skin.
Harry’s low moan was a delicious thing. He moved - and Draco…responded. Like he always did. It wasn’t pleasure - it still hurt too much - but it was emotion, and excitement that felt like a wild creature inside him, and he could see the pleasure in Harry’s eyes as he moved, and that was a weird kind of indulgence all by itself…
Connected…
“Oh, shit…” Harry’s eyes squeezed shut. Draco felt his shudders, his fingers digging painfully hard into his thighs, and was trying to think of a suitably harsh curse to inflict on him as he felt liquid warmth spread inside him.
“Couldn’t you have held on for just a bit longer!” he snarled.
“Sorry…” Potter’s irritation and embarrassment were almost comical. The sting as he pulled out wasn’t, nor was the odd sensation of Potter’s come trickling out of him, leaving a sticky, rapidly cooling trail between his cheeks.
Draco felt…strange. Potter leapt on him, winding his body back up to pounding, desperate arousal with all his usual enthusiasm, and he came wonderfully, partially in Potter’s mouth, partially on his face. But as he laughed at his lover’s indignant expression, he found tears rolling down his face.
*
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Harry had fixed the broken window as best he could, and was in the process of drying out the room. Draco sat on the floor with his torn robes wrapped partially around him, showing a distracting amount of ivory skin. He’d settled back into his usual pose of cool indifference; Harry wasn’t fooled.
The sex had been intense in a way he hadn’t expected. Strings of come dribbling down his face - and it had barely missed his eye, which was not funny - hadn’t been enough to dilute his high.
But Draco had cried. He’d tried to hide it, covering his face with his arm, and shoved Harry away when he’d tried to comfort him.
And now he was pretending that it had never happened.
“I’m fine. But you’re getting on my nerves.” Draco reached out a long finger and flicked one of the chunks of black ice.
“You know, that was a gift from Ron.”
“Those things are only good for a couple of goes anyway.”
“I was worried about you,” Harry said quietly. And I still am. “I thought -”
“That I’d gone to avenge my father?” Draco’s mouth twisted into a grin, forced and ugly and with absolutely no humour in it. “Oh, I did.”
Thoroughly confused, Harry watched as Draco got to his feet, pulling a little oilskin bag from his robes. He opened it, and peeled back the fabric to reveal something bigger than the bag itself.
A small golden cup with two handles.
Hufflepuff’s cup, Harry realised with a start as it was placed in his hand. The skin on his palm prickled uncomfortably.
“When you kill him,” Draco said calmly, “make it slow…make him suffer.”
*