Fragile Tension
Your words are acidic, but your mouth is sickeningly sweet; a dangerous concoction I’ve become addicted to. Your kiss sucks my soul from my chest, and each time it is more reluctant to return, a little bit staying under your tongue. Saliva drips into my mouth like a tasteless poison that I knowingly swallow with the intention of dying in your arms. You clutch my chin, sharp nails digging into my cheek as your warm breath ghosts over my lips. I am suddenly aware of the world around us; the mossy, glass walls of the rundown greenhouse and the vines steadily conquering it, the twisted silhouette of the sycamore outside. The wooden bench is unforgiving against my back, and you press me further against it, your hands splayed on my shoulders as you straddle my lap. It’s raining. The sky is bleak and gloomy as needles of water stab noisily at the glass, but I can somehow hear your even breathing above the racket.
“You’ve news for me?” you enquire, nonchalant, running your spindly fingers over my Auror robes. ‘Scarlet’, I think was the word you used to describe the colour. Scarlet like my blood, you’d said as I fought an uphill battle with consciousness.
“There’s been another murder.” I watch you intently because you’re the mercurial apple of my eye, not because I want to gauge the reaction you never have.
Your thumb unhurriedly stretches the corner of my mouth. “Who was it this time?”
“Thorfinn Rowle.”
You hmm and roll your left sleeve up to your elbow, revealing the fading Dark Mark, ugly and slate against your pale skin. “Do you think I’m next, Potter? Do you think our unknown avenger has his sights set on me?” You smirk like you think it’s funny, but I know you think acting this way gives you control of what you believe to be your final days. It’s why I’d let you sink your demented claws into me. If I’d known you were this infectious, I would’ve thought twice about martyrdom.
“I told you I won’t let you die.”
“Such a fucking saviour, our Harry,” you laugh bitterly. Out of the blue, you wrench my head back, my black hair knotted around your white fingers like a rein of inky tendrils. I’ve come to appreciate the art-the beauty in everything: a side-effect of your influence. My eyes flutter shut as your tongue traces the scar on my forehead.
Without thinking, I grasp your bony hips, grinding my hard cock against the crack of your arse. Tadpoles wriggle about in the terracotta plant pot beside us as if entranced by our rhythm. You bear more weight onto my lap, moving forward and backward and driving me mad.
“Fuck, Draco…” I pant, pressing a kiss to your wide, thin lips. I try to push my hands under the back of your trousers, but your belt refuses to slacken.
“I have a present for you.” You slide off my lap and I resist the urge to pull you back down with me. I already know what the present will be: a potion. I never know what will happen until I’ve ingested it, trusting you for reasons unknown. The last one you poured down my throat induced a strange coma, and I awoke sore and bruised, my cock sticky and my nose bloodied, never knowing what you’d actually done.
“I brewed it myself.” You reach into your pocket, producing a phial in which a yellow solution sloshes about. “Do you know what the colour reminds me of?” You question me about the colours every time, taking delight in correcting my layman’s ‘purple’ with your enlightened ‘amethyst’.
I smirk crassly. “Piss?”
“No, but close.” You return my smirk. “It reminds me of gold. Whilst perusing literature you would most certainly disapprove of, I stumbled upon a series of spells with the power to turn human organs into real gold. Isn’t alchemy positively fascinating?”
“That sounds more like Dark Arts than alchemy. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I was simply reading for entertainment purposes. I’ve already got more Galleons than I know what to do with, what need have I for gold? Although it’s nice to have options should I be unfortunate enough to find myself a pauper.”
“Draco-”
“It was a joke, Potter. Relax.”
“Right,” I say, obediently sinking into my seat.
“Is it that easy to believe that I’m so horrid?” The question hangs heavily above our heads like a condemned criminal swinging from a noose. Your gaze falls from my face to the grimy stone floor, vignettes of a turbulent past replaying in slow motion. “I suppose it is.”
“You’re volatile, Draco,” I plainly state. “You’ve changed, but you’re volatile and sometimes I just don’t know what’s going on in your head. However, ‘horrid’ is the last word I’d use to describe the man you’ve become.”
Your steely eyes penetrate me to the marrow, calculating and yet unreadable. “Would you trust that man?”
“I already do.”
“Then strip; I want everything off.”
My eyes never leave yours as I unclasp my robe and shrug it from my shoulders. It falls to the floor in a rustle of stiff fabric, my wand clicking against the stone in its concealed holster. My hands tremble as I unbutton my shirt, and it takes every ounce of composure I posses to stop myself from tearing it off. I’m anxious; I want everything you could possibly give me. I want to feel you, I want to hear you, but most of all, I want to see every single part of you.
“Would you mind getting undressed, too?” I ask carefully; denial is a weapon you expertly wield when I want something too much.
You appear contemplative for a moment before advancing toward me. “Open your mouth.” I do as told and you flip the phial sideways and place it between my teeth, smiling smugly at your handiwork. “Well, what are you waiting for? Those pesky trousers won’t remove themselves.”
My jaw aches from the strain of holding the phial with enough pressure to secure it without earning a mouthful of broken glass. I swiftly remove my boots and lift my arse off the bench in order to roll my pants and trousers down my legs, through it all our eyes locked. For my efforts I’m rewarded: you unbuckle your belt. Your cock bobs between your slender thighs, jutting out beneath your shirttails, purple-pink and fully erect. I want nothing more than to take it into my mouth.
A small frown tugs at your lips as you run your fingers over the buttons of your shirt. I know you won’t take it off; you don’t want to be reminded of weakness by the faint Sectumsempra scars, nor do you want to be reminded of the power I hold over you. Not right now. You once again straddle my lap, kissing my chin before easing the phial out.
“Your nose is slightly crooked,” you say as you uncork the potion.
“That’s hardly surprising; I seem to remember you pummelling it.”
“Don’t blame me for your shortcomings.” Your tone is sarcastic and familiar. “Tilt your head back.”
The potion floods my mouth, the taste saccharine and distinctly chemical. My throat spasms frantically as I gulp it down: my body’s involuntary defence against choking. The last drops fall onto my tongue and then you’re kissing me, lapping all over the inside of my mouth as if in search of residual potion. My cock is pressed against the white cotton of your shirt, and I can feel a wet spot forming. You drag your lips from my mouth, leaving a damp trail of spit in your wake, down to my neck where you suck and bite and bruise. I’ll be wearing the masterpieces of your teeth for days.
“Tell me more.” You nip at my collarbone, pale eyelashes tickling my skin. When I don’t answer, you look up at me expectantly, eyes a stunning blue-grey in this light, mouth red and wet and kissable. Whitish hair falls above the severe angle of your jaw, and I can’t help but think that Picasso would come back from the dead to paint a portrait of you and all your sharp, unusually beautiful lines.
“What do you want me to tell you?” I gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
“I want to know how Thorfinn Rowle died.”
Just thinking about the grisly murder scene makes me want to vomit and I can feel myself go green in the face. You grasp my cock, pumping it slowly in order to keep me aroused.
“Go on.” You whisper encouragingly, peppering my neck with sloppy, little kisses.
“He’d been hiding in Helsinki, but the murder was executed in the same style as the others; gutted like a fish, heart removed.”
“Are you any closer to finding a suspect?”
“We’re not and that’s why you need to stop bloody well rejecting Auror protection!” I shout without realising it. My vision blurs instantaneously into jumbled blobs of colour. I can feel the weight of my glasses on the bridge of my nose, and yet I reach for them to make sure they’re there.
“Is the potion starting to work?”
“How would I know? It’s not like you told me what the fucking thing does. Don’t change the topic.” The blurs are steadily becoming less and less defined.
“We’re not having that discussion right now,” you tersely reply as you push yourself off me. I grab after you, but you’re too fast and my fingers rake through humid air. I can’t make out which direction you’ve gone in. I whip my head left and right, shades of grey racing past my eyes. And then I can no longer see at all. Everything is pitch black. There is no light, there is no colour, and there is no movement. And I am a fool for trusting you.
“You blinded me. You fucking blinded me.”
“It’s only temporary.”
I feel utterly helpless, and it’s not a feeling I particularly enjoy. I’m angry-at you and at myself. I’m naked and blind and at your mercy and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“Why the hell would you want to make me blind?” I feel as though I’m talking to myself, and that makes me even angrier.
“I’ve yet to do something you didn’t enjoy. Have faith in me, won’t you, Potter? You’re the only one who does nowadays.” Your voice is louder, nearer. I reach for you, and my hand comes into contact with living solidity. I drag my fingers over your skin, deciphering the smooth, firm plane of your nearly-concave stomach, the tip of my middle finger slipping into your navel. You took your shirt off. My other hand joins the exploration of your body, the subtle narrowing of your waist, the contours of your ribcage, the rougher skin over the since-healed gashes that forever bind us.
“When you lose your sense of sight, the others are supposed to become more attuned,” you say as I lick your jutting hipbone, your arse cupped in my hands, soft and round and perfect. “Your tactile sense in particular.”
I’m inclined to believe you; my cock is painfully hard and all I’ve done is touch you, taking pleasure in the images my memory provides me with, filling me with pride because I know your body better than anyone else possibly could.
“Show me.” I release you and sit back, staring unseeingly into what I hope are your eyes.
The first thing I notice is the addictive warmth of your nakedness against my own. Your skin is slippery to the touch and I can smell the damp sweat, musky and intoxicating. I tongue the crook of your neck, tasting your natural salt and revelling in the gasping moans you puff onto my ear. Christ. You’ve never tasted this good. You roll your hips, our cocks rubbing together in a slow, slick slide. It’s so fucking good and yet it’s not near enough.
“Doesn’t your body feel thousands of times more sensitive? Doesn’t not knowing what I’ll do next turn you on?” you pant, damp lips grazing my cheek. Before I can respond, your warm hand is wrapped around both our cocks as we forcibly frot against each other. I curse loudly and buck my hips, my hands slipping down your back, the muscles beneath contracting and expanding as you writhe in my lap. The sensations threaten to drown me now that there’s nothing to do but feel.
You’re kissing me and I can’t think of anything else. No one has ever made me feel this way, feel as though there’s a fire burning under my skin, like my heart’s a bomb about to go off. I arch my back, barely noticing that I’m coming. Seconds later, your back goes rigid and your thighs tense, and then you’re coming all over my stomach, warm and sticky.
You laugh, sounding both smug and winded as you lean into me. “See? It’s not so bad now, is it?”
“Fucking intense,” I rasp. My thoughts are muddled and my eyes are wide open despite being unable to see a fucking thing. It’s sort of funny, only it’s not. “I wish I could’ve seen your face when you came.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” You scoot backward.
“How? Do you have the antidote?”
“No, I’ve something much better.”
I gasp as you clamp your teeth around my nipple, tugging gently and swiping your wet tongue over it. I can feel the flesh become tight and puckered under your ministrations and when you blow a puff of cool air onto it, my cock throbs with want. You continue to shift, giving yourself more room to lick and bite your way down my torso until you’re on your knees between my spread thighs, licking your come off my stomach.
The rain has let up for now. It’s quiet but for the October leaves crunching like glass as the wind blows. My body is strung tight, anticipation coiling in my gut; I can feel your warm breath on my cock. You’re toying with me. You want me to beg you. I nearly hyperventilate when you suck my bollocks into your mouth.
“Shit!” I hiss, throwing my head back. My balls slide out of your mouth with a vulgar, wet noise a moment later.
“Tell me what you want,” you spit harshly, the nails of your thumbs cutting into my inner thighs.
“Suck my cock, Draco…Please.” I’m suddenly desperate. I don’t need pride when I can have you. You always do this to me, drive me temporarily insane and reduce me to your little puppet. But right now I don’t care; I just want you to touch me.
Colours explode beneath my eyelids, and for a second I think I can see again until I realise my eyes are squeezed shut. You swallowed my cock whole, your nose flattened against my pubic hair. You bob your head up and down, sucking me as if your very life depends on it. I blindly tangle my fingers in your fine hair, shoving your head down as I violently fuck your mouth. Your nails have sunk so deep into my thighs that you’ve cut me, and that only makes me want you more. It always comes down to blood between us: your blood on the bathroom floor all those years ago, my blood seeping under your fingernails at this very moment. You make my blood boil, and you make it rush into my cock so fast that it makes me dizzy. This is what we are.
“I need to come inside you,” I say with startling clarity.
Everything is a blur as you clamber into my lap, all long limbs and heady pheromones. The spit on my cock is all we use as lubricant because we’re out of patience, and when you lower yourself onto my cock, it burns and it’s so tight it hurts me, too. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want this. Our lips clash in the antithesis of a kiss; it’s messy and vicious and our teeth collide and I’ve bitten your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. It’s unpleasant, but neither of us can tear our mouths away. You ride me so hard that I’m in awe at the strength of your skinny body, one hand gripping my shoulder for leverage and the other fervently wanking your own cock between us.
Not surprisingly, we don’t last long.
My vision returns just as you reach your climax, your walls clenching my cock like a vice as you shout Oh fuck, Harry! at the top of your lungs. Through my smudged, lopsided glasses, I can see your flushed face, your red-raw mouth slack in a silent scream and your eyes half-closed. It’s all it takes to push me over the edge. I hold your hips down as I thrust madly into you, coming so hard it’s almost painful.
It’s raining cats and dogs, the surrounding glass completely foggy. You lie along the length of the bench, a beautiful, unabashedly naked mess, following me with lazy eyes as I pull my clothes back on. The place reeks of guilt and sex, the way it always does after I’ve been alone with you for too long.
“Are you staying for brunch?” You yawn, standing.
“No, I’ve already been here too long. I have to get back to work.”
“Sod work.” You wave your hand dismissively. “You’re Harry fucking Potter. Stay here and fuck me.”
Lust warms my stomach. “I have a job to do, Draco. We can’t all lie around all day.”
“You could if you wanted to; you’re rich.”
“But I don’t want to,” I say firmly.
“Fine. What about after work, then?”
I wince. “I wanted to spend time with Ginny and the baby.”
You’re suddenly too close. You reach between my legs, cupping my crotch, your flaccid prick resting against my thigh. “Quel dommage. Tell Ginevra I say hello.” You give my cock a firm squeeze, and then you’re out through the door, making your way over the hillock which separates the greenhouse from the manor, naked in the pouring rain.
~*~
“This rain just won’t let up,” Ginny mutters, cradling James to her breast.
I grunt in acknowledgement, forking the kipper and mushroom Molly sent for supper into my mouth.
“I don’t want James to get sick,” she continues.
“He’ll be alright.”
“I think I’ll ask Mum for some Pepperup, just in case. She’s always got some at the Burrow.”
I reach across, fluffing James’ unruly thatch of red hair. “It’d be pretty hilarious watching steam come out of his ears.”
She snickers. “That’s a terrible thing to say about your son.”
James grins toothlessly, playing with Ginny’s hair.
“I reckon he’d find it funny, too. He’s already got a sense of humour.”
He lets out a loud, happy squeal, and Ginny holds him away from her, making a face. “Too much of a sense of humour; he just made an awful mess in his nappy! How can someone so cute make something so disgusting?”
“It’s your turn to change him,” I say quickly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.
She rolls her eyes as she stands. “I might as well run him a bath and put him to bed, then. It’s getting late.”
“I’ll give you a massage when you come to bed.” I offer a truce.
“I think I can live with that.” She kisses me on the cheek on her way out.
My cock is too sore to fuck her, so I go down on her after rubbing her shoulders. It’s enough; she’s tired from looking after James and running errands all day. I try not to think about you when I’m lying next to her, but it’s impossible. I love my family; it’s an easy, comforting love like a plaster over a paper cut. It’s not what I have with you; it’s the paracetamol to our morphine. It’s funny how you inspire me to wax poetic, even if that metaphor would fly over your ignorant head.
Ginny sighs softly in her sleep and my eyes are drawn to her. She’s beautiful in the way women are meant to be: pretty and soft. Her waist has broadened since having James, and her flat stomach now bears a bit of paunch and stretch marks. It’s shallow and foolish and I’m ashamed of myself for thinking that you’re all skin and bones and well-coiffed hair like a model in a Muggle fashion magazine while she slowly descends into a matronly figure.
What have you done to me, Malfoy?
“Are you alright? You seem restless,” Ginny yawns, eyes bright in the dark.
“I’m alright, just a bit of insomnia.” I smile, pressing a kiss onto her freckled hand. She nestles closer, and I feel like the scruff of the earth.
Minutes later, I begin to drift off to sleep, only to be interrupted by James’ piercing wails.
~*~
Today you venture from the isolation of the greenhouse and your role as the wealthy, reclusive loon locked away in his countryside manor house. You Apparate us to a location that I’m left in the dark about, your brow gravely set. I stagger when we arrive at our destination, willing my dizziness away as I take in our strange, new surroundings. The chapel is old and abandoned, its spires scraping the sky in hopes of gaining God’s attention after being abandoned by mankind. The stained windows are either broken or boarded up and grass grows tall and unkempt. A murder of crows squawks loudly overhead, darting across the swollen rain clouds. Their black presence is both fitting and foreboding amongst the ruins. I tighten my grip on your hand; if you notice, you don’t acknowledge it. You lead me down a worn pathway which meanders through the ruins, my eyes flickering from the blackened stone of the church to the rusted bell in its tower and the grassy nothingness which stretches for miles. It’s dreary and depressing, but you were adamant we come here.
A stone seraph welcomes us to the churchyard, arms outstretched in symbolic salvation. Many of the tombstones are weathered and illegible and bits of ribbon blow about; all that remains of a once-vibrant wreath, and I’m left with all sorts of questions I can’t answer about the finality of death. A crow watches us predatorily from its perch on a chipped crucifix
“Why are we here, Draco?” I finally ask, my unease forcing me to break the cryptic silence.
You say, keeping your head forward, “Because I have something I need to discuss with you.”
“That’s hardly an answer.”
“For fuck’s sake, Potter. Can’t you just trust me?” You clench my hand so tightly that I’m certain my fingers have purpled.
“Can you really blame me for asking? Quite frankly, this is all a bit unsettling. We’re in a bloody cemetery!”
I’m not prepared for your sudden halt and I nearly crash into your back. You quickly turn on your heel, shoving me hard enough to send me falling into a prickly bush, a rock or perhaps a low headstone connecting with one of my vertebrae.
“Fuck!” I hiss in pain. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You want to know what’s unsettling?” you spit, your pale face red. “Your Mudblood arse is planted on my father’s grave and no one would ever know it because he’s buried like a fucking peasant!”
I inhale sharply, the cold air burning my nostrils. I look down at the damp dirt and the weeds shooting up through it. There’s a flimsy, little, white, wooden cross stuck into the ground, barely standing upright and mostly hidden by shrubbery. Lucius Malfoy: reduced to an unmarked grave in an abandoned cemetery. He’d been the first ex-Death Eater to meet a violent death at the hands of the unknown murderer. I dare to meet your heated gaze.
“We were strongly advised to bury him privately due to threats of vandalism. When all this insanity is over, I’d like to move him into the family crypt where he should’ve been from the start.”
I push myself back up, and I can feel blood dripping down my back and mud caked on my arse. Your gaze threatens to skin me alive as the rain begins to fall. “I may not have liked your father, but he didn’t deserve any of this.” I’m not completely sure of the extent of my sincerity. “What do you want from me?”
“In the event of my death, I want you to ensure that my father and I are interred in the Malfoy crypt when the time is right.” You speak with such calmness that it sickens me.
“Draco, you’re not going to die.”
“You can’t guarantee that!”
“Accept the fucking Auror protection and I’ll do the best I can!” I yell, grabbing your bony shoulders and violently shaking you.
“For the last time, I don’t want your help!”
“So you just want to die then? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“At least I’d have been in control for once in my fucking life!”
I stop shaking you. I can’t tell if it’s the rain or if you’re crying. I’m instantly reminded of that night in the girl’s bathroom. I don’t know how long we stand there, staring at each other like fucking idiots until we’re both soaking wet.
“Draco-”
You swallow my train of thought with a bruising kiss. You taste like rain water, sorrow, and desperation. I think you’re fucking insane, but I’m kissing you back with just as much insane ardour. Your cold fingers curl around my wrists, jarring me back to reality. I pull away from you.
“You can’t distract me with sex this time.”
You close your eyes, breathing hard. Your hair is stuck to your head and darkened by wetness, and you look so young and scared that it makes my heart break.
“I don’t want to get my hopes up,” you say shakily, keeping your eyes shut.
“You spend all day locked away from society. Why?”
“What should I be doing? I have no future. I’m going to die, Harry.”
“Stop it.”
“But it’s true!” Your eyes are opened again, bloodshot and cagey.
“You can’t keep on living like this. You survived a war so many of us haven’t. Why are you going to throw away a chance to make something of yourself?”
“That’s easy for you to say! You’ve got that fucking ginger bint and a child and everyone fucking loves you! What do I have? I don’t have one shite but money! I’m a failure. My father died thinking I’m a failure.”
“You have me,” I find myself saying.
“Potter, you’re married. It’s just sex between us.”
“You and I both know it’s deeper than that.”
“You’re MARRIED!”
“Sometimes I regret that fact, but I never regret anything we do together.” The honesty in that sentence frightens me more than you’ll ever know.
Your resolve is breaking, but you fight like a cornered animal. “Am I supposed to be happy with being second fiddle to your perfect little family? You must really think I’m pathetic!”
“If leaving Ginny is what it takes, then fine.” It’s easier said than done, but right now it’s so simple and it feels so right.
You frown. “You don’t want to do that. You’ll lose everything.”
“I don’t care. As long as I can see my son, I don’t care.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re always telling me to trust you, why don’t you trust me?” I ask, frustration boiling within me.
“I suppose this is how you’ll gain my trust.” You wrench from my grasp, your shoes squelching in the saturated ground. “If you love me, then fucking kiss your perfect life goodbye. In return, I’ll accept Auror protection.” You lean forward, pressing a cold kiss to my mouth. “Just be prepared to live with the fact that you might just lose me, too.”
You Disapparate.
I stand in the pouring rain, a heavy ultimatum above my head and the taste of your lips on my tongue.
~*~
Fin.
“You’ve news for me?” you enquire, nonchalant, running your spindly fingers over my Auror robes. ‘Scarlet’, I think was the word you used to describe the colour. Scarlet like my blood, you’d said as I fought an uphill battle with consciousness.
“There’s been another murder.” I watch you intently because you’re the mercurial apple of my eye, not because I want to gauge the reaction you never have.
Your thumb unhurriedly stretches the corner of my mouth. “Who was it this time?”
“Thorfinn Rowle.”
You hmm and roll your left sleeve up to your elbow, revealing the fading Dark Mark, ugly and slate against your pale skin. “Do you think I’m next, Potter? Do you think our unknown avenger has his sights set on me?” You smirk like you think it’s funny, but I know you think acting this way gives you control of what you believe to be your final days. It’s why I’d let you sink your demented claws into me. If I’d known you were this infectious, I would’ve thought twice about martyrdom.
“I told you I won’t let you die.”
“Such a fucking saviour, our Harry,” you laugh bitterly. Out of the blue, you wrench my head back, my black hair knotted around your white fingers like a rein of inky tendrils. I’ve come to appreciate the art-the beauty in everything: a side-effect of your influence. My eyes flutter shut as your tongue traces the scar on my forehead.
Without thinking, I grasp your bony hips, grinding my hard cock against the crack of your arse. Tadpoles wriggle about in the terracotta plant pot beside us as if entranced by our rhythm. You bear more weight onto my lap, moving forward and backward and driving me mad.
“Fuck, Draco…” I pant, pressing a kiss to your wide, thin lips. I try to push my hands under the back of your trousers, but your belt refuses to slacken.
“I have a present for you.” You slide off my lap and I resist the urge to pull you back down with me. I already know what the present will be: a potion. I never know what will happen until I’ve ingested it, trusting you for reasons unknown. The last one you poured down my throat induced a strange coma, and I awoke sore and bruised, my cock sticky and my nose bloodied, never knowing what you’d actually done.
“I brewed it myself.” You reach into your pocket, producing a phial in which a yellow solution sloshes about. “Do you know what the colour reminds me of?” You question me about the colours every time, taking delight in correcting my layman’s ‘purple’ with your enlightened ‘amethyst’.
I smirk crassly. “Piss?”
“No, but close.” You return my smirk. “It reminds me of gold. Whilst perusing literature you would most certainly disapprove of, I stumbled upon a series of spells with the power to turn human organs into real gold. Isn’t alchemy positively fascinating?”
“That sounds more like Dark Arts than alchemy. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I was simply reading for entertainment purposes. I’ve already got more Galleons than I know what to do with, what need have I for gold? Although it’s nice to have options should I be unfortunate enough to find myself a pauper.”
“Draco-”
“It was a joke, Potter. Relax.”
“Right,” I say, obediently sinking into my seat.
“Is it that easy to believe that I’m so horrid?” The question hangs heavily above our heads like a condemned criminal swinging from a noose. Your gaze falls from my face to the grimy stone floor, vignettes of a turbulent past replaying in slow motion. “I suppose it is.”
“You’re volatile, Draco,” I plainly state. “You’ve changed, but you’re volatile and sometimes I just don’t know what’s going on in your head. However, ‘horrid’ is the last word I’d use to describe the man you’ve become.”
Your steely eyes penetrate me to the marrow, calculating and yet unreadable. “Would you trust that man?”
“I already do.”
“Then strip; I want everything off.”
My eyes never leave yours as I unclasp my robe and shrug it from my shoulders. It falls to the floor in a rustle of stiff fabric, my wand clicking against the stone in its concealed holster. My hands tremble as I unbutton my shirt, and it takes every ounce of composure I posses to stop myself from tearing it off. I’m anxious; I want everything you could possibly give me. I want to feel you, I want to hear you, but most of all, I want to see every single part of you.
“Would you mind getting undressed, too?” I ask carefully; denial is a weapon you expertly wield when I want something too much.
You appear contemplative for a moment before advancing toward me. “Open your mouth.” I do as told and you flip the phial sideways and place it between my teeth, smiling smugly at your handiwork. “Well, what are you waiting for? Those pesky trousers won’t remove themselves.”
My jaw aches from the strain of holding the phial with enough pressure to secure it without earning a mouthful of broken glass. I swiftly remove my boots and lift my arse off the bench in order to roll my pants and trousers down my legs, through it all our eyes locked. For my efforts I’m rewarded: you unbuckle your belt. Your cock bobs between your slender thighs, jutting out beneath your shirttails, purple-pink and fully erect. I want nothing more than to take it into my mouth.
A small frown tugs at your lips as you run your fingers over the buttons of your shirt. I know you won’t take it off; you don’t want to be reminded of weakness by the faint Sectumsempra scars, nor do you want to be reminded of the power I hold over you. Not right now. You once again straddle my lap, kissing my chin before easing the phial out.
“Your nose is slightly crooked,” you say as you uncork the potion.
“That’s hardly surprising; I seem to remember you pummelling it.”
“Don’t blame me for your shortcomings.” Your tone is sarcastic and familiar. “Tilt your head back.”
The potion floods my mouth, the taste saccharine and distinctly chemical. My throat spasms frantically as I gulp it down: my body’s involuntary defence against choking. The last drops fall onto my tongue and then you’re kissing me, lapping all over the inside of my mouth as if in search of residual potion. My cock is pressed against the white cotton of your shirt, and I can feel a wet spot forming. You drag your lips from my mouth, leaving a damp trail of spit in your wake, down to my neck where you suck and bite and bruise. I’ll be wearing the masterpieces of your teeth for days.
“Tell me more.” You nip at my collarbone, pale eyelashes tickling my skin. When I don’t answer, you look up at me expectantly, eyes a stunning blue-grey in this light, mouth red and wet and kissable. Whitish hair falls above the severe angle of your jaw, and I can’t help but think that Picasso would come back from the dead to paint a portrait of you and all your sharp, unusually beautiful lines.
“What do you want me to tell you?” I gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
“I want to know how Thorfinn Rowle died.”
Just thinking about the grisly murder scene makes me want to vomit and I can feel myself go green in the face. You grasp my cock, pumping it slowly in order to keep me aroused.
“Go on.” You whisper encouragingly, peppering my neck with sloppy, little kisses.
“He’d been hiding in Helsinki, but the murder was executed in the same style as the others; gutted like a fish, heart removed.”
“Are you any closer to finding a suspect?”
“We’re not and that’s why you need to stop bloody well rejecting Auror protection!” I shout without realising it. My vision blurs instantaneously into jumbled blobs of colour. I can feel the weight of my glasses on the bridge of my nose, and yet I reach for them to make sure they’re there.
“Is the potion starting to work?”
“How would I know? It’s not like you told me what the fucking thing does. Don’t change the topic.” The blurs are steadily becoming less and less defined.
“We’re not having that discussion right now,” you tersely reply as you push yourself off me. I grab after you, but you’re too fast and my fingers rake through humid air. I can’t make out which direction you’ve gone in. I whip my head left and right, shades of grey racing past my eyes. And then I can no longer see at all. Everything is pitch black. There is no light, there is no colour, and there is no movement. And I am a fool for trusting you.
“You blinded me. You fucking blinded me.”
“It’s only temporary.”
I feel utterly helpless, and it’s not a feeling I particularly enjoy. I’m angry-at you and at myself. I’m naked and blind and at your mercy and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“Why the hell would you want to make me blind?” I feel as though I’m talking to myself, and that makes me even angrier.
“I’ve yet to do something you didn’t enjoy. Have faith in me, won’t you, Potter? You’re the only one who does nowadays.” Your voice is louder, nearer. I reach for you, and my hand comes into contact with living solidity. I drag my fingers over your skin, deciphering the smooth, firm plane of your nearly-concave stomach, the tip of my middle finger slipping into your navel. You took your shirt off. My other hand joins the exploration of your body, the subtle narrowing of your waist, the contours of your ribcage, the rougher skin over the since-healed gashes that forever bind us.
“When you lose your sense of sight, the others are supposed to become more attuned,” you say as I lick your jutting hipbone, your arse cupped in my hands, soft and round and perfect. “Your tactile sense in particular.”
I’m inclined to believe you; my cock is painfully hard and all I’ve done is touch you, taking pleasure in the images my memory provides me with, filling me with pride because I know your body better than anyone else possibly could.
“Show me.” I release you and sit back, staring unseeingly into what I hope are your eyes.
The first thing I notice is the addictive warmth of your nakedness against my own. Your skin is slippery to the touch and I can smell the damp sweat, musky and intoxicating. I tongue the crook of your neck, tasting your natural salt and revelling in the gasping moans you puff onto my ear. Christ. You’ve never tasted this good. You roll your hips, our cocks rubbing together in a slow, slick slide. It’s so fucking good and yet it’s not near enough.
“Doesn’t your body feel thousands of times more sensitive? Doesn’t not knowing what I’ll do next turn you on?” you pant, damp lips grazing my cheek. Before I can respond, your warm hand is wrapped around both our cocks as we forcibly frot against each other. I curse loudly and buck my hips, my hands slipping down your back, the muscles beneath contracting and expanding as you writhe in my lap. The sensations threaten to drown me now that there’s nothing to do but feel.
You’re kissing me and I can’t think of anything else. No one has ever made me feel this way, feel as though there’s a fire burning under my skin, like my heart’s a bomb about to go off. I arch my back, barely noticing that I’m coming. Seconds later, your back goes rigid and your thighs tense, and then you’re coming all over my stomach, warm and sticky.
You laugh, sounding both smug and winded as you lean into me. “See? It’s not so bad now, is it?”
“Fucking intense,” I rasp. My thoughts are muddled and my eyes are wide open despite being unable to see a fucking thing. It’s sort of funny, only it’s not. “I wish I could’ve seen your face when you came.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” You scoot backward.
“How? Do you have the antidote?”
“No, I’ve something much better.”
I gasp as you clamp your teeth around my nipple, tugging gently and swiping your wet tongue over it. I can feel the flesh become tight and puckered under your ministrations and when you blow a puff of cool air onto it, my cock throbs with want. You continue to shift, giving yourself more room to lick and bite your way down my torso until you’re on your knees between my spread thighs, licking your come off my stomach.
The rain has let up for now. It’s quiet but for the October leaves crunching like glass as the wind blows. My body is strung tight, anticipation coiling in my gut; I can feel your warm breath on my cock. You’re toying with me. You want me to beg you. I nearly hyperventilate when you suck my bollocks into your mouth.
“Shit!” I hiss, throwing my head back. My balls slide out of your mouth with a vulgar, wet noise a moment later.
“Tell me what you want,” you spit harshly, the nails of your thumbs cutting into my inner thighs.
“Suck my cock, Draco…Please.” I’m suddenly desperate. I don’t need pride when I can have you. You always do this to me, drive me temporarily insane and reduce me to your little puppet. But right now I don’t care; I just want you to touch me.
Colours explode beneath my eyelids, and for a second I think I can see again until I realise my eyes are squeezed shut. You swallowed my cock whole, your nose flattened against my pubic hair. You bob your head up and down, sucking me as if your very life depends on it. I blindly tangle my fingers in your fine hair, shoving your head down as I violently fuck your mouth. Your nails have sunk so deep into my thighs that you’ve cut me, and that only makes me want you more. It always comes down to blood between us: your blood on the bathroom floor all those years ago, my blood seeping under your fingernails at this very moment. You make my blood boil, and you make it rush into my cock so fast that it makes me dizzy. This is what we are.
“I need to come inside you,” I say with startling clarity.
Everything is a blur as you clamber into my lap, all long limbs and heady pheromones. The spit on my cock is all we use as lubricant because we’re out of patience, and when you lower yourself onto my cock, it burns and it’s so tight it hurts me, too. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want this. Our lips clash in the antithesis of a kiss; it’s messy and vicious and our teeth collide and I’ve bitten your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. It’s unpleasant, but neither of us can tear our mouths away. You ride me so hard that I’m in awe at the strength of your skinny body, one hand gripping my shoulder for leverage and the other fervently wanking your own cock between us.
Not surprisingly, we don’t last long.
My vision returns just as you reach your climax, your walls clenching my cock like a vice as you shout Oh fuck, Harry! at the top of your lungs. Through my smudged, lopsided glasses, I can see your flushed face, your red-raw mouth slack in a silent scream and your eyes half-closed. It’s all it takes to push me over the edge. I hold your hips down as I thrust madly into you, coming so hard it’s almost painful.
It’s raining cats and dogs, the surrounding glass completely foggy. You lie along the length of the bench, a beautiful, unabashedly naked mess, following me with lazy eyes as I pull my clothes back on. The place reeks of guilt and sex, the way it always does after I’ve been alone with you for too long.
“Are you staying for brunch?” You yawn, standing.
“No, I’ve already been here too long. I have to get back to work.”
“Sod work.” You wave your hand dismissively. “You’re Harry fucking Potter. Stay here and fuck me.”
Lust warms my stomach. “I have a job to do, Draco. We can’t all lie around all day.”
“You could if you wanted to; you’re rich.”
“But I don’t want to,” I say firmly.
“Fine. What about after work, then?”
I wince. “I wanted to spend time with Ginny and the baby.”
You’re suddenly too close. You reach between my legs, cupping my crotch, your flaccid prick resting against my thigh. “Quel dommage. Tell Ginevra I say hello.” You give my cock a firm squeeze, and then you’re out through the door, making your way over the hillock which separates the greenhouse from the manor, naked in the pouring rain.
~*~
“This rain just won’t let up,” Ginny mutters, cradling James to her breast.
I grunt in acknowledgement, forking the kipper and mushroom Molly sent for supper into my mouth.
“I don’t want James to get sick,” she continues.
“He’ll be alright.”
“I think I’ll ask Mum for some Pepperup, just in case. She’s always got some at the Burrow.”
I reach across, fluffing James’ unruly thatch of red hair. “It’d be pretty hilarious watching steam come out of his ears.”
She snickers. “That’s a terrible thing to say about your son.”
James grins toothlessly, playing with Ginny’s hair.
“I reckon he’d find it funny, too. He’s already got a sense of humour.”
He lets out a loud, happy squeal, and Ginny holds him away from her, making a face. “Too much of a sense of humour; he just made an awful mess in his nappy! How can someone so cute make something so disgusting?”
“It’s your turn to change him,” I say quickly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.
She rolls her eyes as she stands. “I might as well run him a bath and put him to bed, then. It’s getting late.”
“I’ll give you a massage when you come to bed.” I offer a truce.
“I think I can live with that.” She kisses me on the cheek on her way out.
My cock is too sore to fuck her, so I go down on her after rubbing her shoulders. It’s enough; she’s tired from looking after James and running errands all day. I try not to think about you when I’m lying next to her, but it’s impossible. I love my family; it’s an easy, comforting love like a plaster over a paper cut. It’s not what I have with you; it’s the paracetamol to our morphine. It’s funny how you inspire me to wax poetic, even if that metaphor would fly over your ignorant head.
Ginny sighs softly in her sleep and my eyes are drawn to her. She’s beautiful in the way women are meant to be: pretty and soft. Her waist has broadened since having James, and her flat stomach now bears a bit of paunch and stretch marks. It’s shallow and foolish and I’m ashamed of myself for thinking that you’re all skin and bones and well-coiffed hair like a model in a Muggle fashion magazine while she slowly descends into a matronly figure.
What have you done to me, Malfoy?
“Are you alright? You seem restless,” Ginny yawns, eyes bright in the dark.
“I’m alright, just a bit of insomnia.” I smile, pressing a kiss onto her freckled hand. She nestles closer, and I feel like the scruff of the earth.
Minutes later, I begin to drift off to sleep, only to be interrupted by James’ piercing wails.
~*~
Today you venture from the isolation of the greenhouse and your role as the wealthy, reclusive loon locked away in his countryside manor house. You Apparate us to a location that I’m left in the dark about, your brow gravely set. I stagger when we arrive at our destination, willing my dizziness away as I take in our strange, new surroundings. The chapel is old and abandoned, its spires scraping the sky in hopes of gaining God’s attention after being abandoned by mankind. The stained windows are either broken or boarded up and grass grows tall and unkempt. A murder of crows squawks loudly overhead, darting across the swollen rain clouds. Their black presence is both fitting and foreboding amongst the ruins. I tighten my grip on your hand; if you notice, you don’t acknowledge it. You lead me down a worn pathway which meanders through the ruins, my eyes flickering from the blackened stone of the church to the rusted bell in its tower and the grassy nothingness which stretches for miles. It’s dreary and depressing, but you were adamant we come here.
A stone seraph welcomes us to the churchyard, arms outstretched in symbolic salvation. Many of the tombstones are weathered and illegible and bits of ribbon blow about; all that remains of a once-vibrant wreath, and I’m left with all sorts of questions I can’t answer about the finality of death. A crow watches us predatorily from its perch on a chipped crucifix
“Why are we here, Draco?” I finally ask, my unease forcing me to break the cryptic silence.
You say, keeping your head forward, “Because I have something I need to discuss with you.”
“That’s hardly an answer.”
“For fuck’s sake, Potter. Can’t you just trust me?” You clench my hand so tightly that I’m certain my fingers have purpled.
“Can you really blame me for asking? Quite frankly, this is all a bit unsettling. We’re in a bloody cemetery!”
I’m not prepared for your sudden halt and I nearly crash into your back. You quickly turn on your heel, shoving me hard enough to send me falling into a prickly bush, a rock or perhaps a low headstone connecting with one of my vertebrae.
“Fuck!” I hiss in pain. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You want to know what’s unsettling?” you spit, your pale face red. “Your Mudblood arse is planted on my father’s grave and no one would ever know it because he’s buried like a fucking peasant!”
I inhale sharply, the cold air burning my nostrils. I look down at the damp dirt and the weeds shooting up through it. There’s a flimsy, little, white, wooden cross stuck into the ground, barely standing upright and mostly hidden by shrubbery. Lucius Malfoy: reduced to an unmarked grave in an abandoned cemetery. He’d been the first ex-Death Eater to meet a violent death at the hands of the unknown murderer. I dare to meet your heated gaze.
“We were strongly advised to bury him privately due to threats of vandalism. When all this insanity is over, I’d like to move him into the family crypt where he should’ve been from the start.”
I push myself back up, and I can feel blood dripping down my back and mud caked on my arse. Your gaze threatens to skin me alive as the rain begins to fall. “I may not have liked your father, but he didn’t deserve any of this.” I’m not completely sure of the extent of my sincerity. “What do you want from me?”
“In the event of my death, I want you to ensure that my father and I are interred in the Malfoy crypt when the time is right.” You speak with such calmness that it sickens me.
“Draco, you’re not going to die.”
“You can’t guarantee that!”
“Accept the fucking Auror protection and I’ll do the best I can!” I yell, grabbing your bony shoulders and violently shaking you.
“For the last time, I don’t want your help!”
“So you just want to die then? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“At least I’d have been in control for once in my fucking life!”
I stop shaking you. I can’t tell if it’s the rain or if you’re crying. I’m instantly reminded of that night in the girl’s bathroom. I don’t know how long we stand there, staring at each other like fucking idiots until we’re both soaking wet.
“Draco-”
You swallow my train of thought with a bruising kiss. You taste like rain water, sorrow, and desperation. I think you’re fucking insane, but I’m kissing you back with just as much insane ardour. Your cold fingers curl around my wrists, jarring me back to reality. I pull away from you.
“You can’t distract me with sex this time.”
You close your eyes, breathing hard. Your hair is stuck to your head and darkened by wetness, and you look so young and scared that it makes my heart break.
“I don’t want to get my hopes up,” you say shakily, keeping your eyes shut.
“You spend all day locked away from society. Why?”
“What should I be doing? I have no future. I’m going to die, Harry.”
“Stop it.”
“But it’s true!” Your eyes are opened again, bloodshot and cagey.
“You can’t keep on living like this. You survived a war so many of us haven’t. Why are you going to throw away a chance to make something of yourself?”
“That’s easy for you to say! You’ve got that fucking ginger bint and a child and everyone fucking loves you! What do I have? I don’t have one shite but money! I’m a failure. My father died thinking I’m a failure.”
“You have me,” I find myself saying.
“Potter, you’re married. It’s just sex between us.”
“You and I both know it’s deeper than that.”
“You’re MARRIED!”
“Sometimes I regret that fact, but I never regret anything we do together.” The honesty in that sentence frightens me more than you’ll ever know.
Your resolve is breaking, but you fight like a cornered animal. “Am I supposed to be happy with being second fiddle to your perfect little family? You must really think I’m pathetic!”
“If leaving Ginny is what it takes, then fine.” It’s easier said than done, but right now it’s so simple and it feels so right.
You frown. “You don’t want to do that. You’ll lose everything.”
“I don’t care. As long as I can see my son, I don’t care.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re always telling me to trust you, why don’t you trust me?” I ask, frustration boiling within me.
“I suppose this is how you’ll gain my trust.” You wrench from my grasp, your shoes squelching in the saturated ground. “If you love me, then fucking kiss your perfect life goodbye. In return, I’ll accept Auror protection.” You lean forward, pressing a cold kiss to my mouth. “Just be prepared to live with the fact that you might just lose me, too.”
You Disapparate.
I stand in the pouring rain, a heavy ultimatum above my head and the taste of your lips on my tongue.
~*~
Fin.