[One-shots] A Better Bargain Driven, H/D, R, 2/3
Second part of a long one-shot. Don't start reading here.
Part III: He Cannot Miss
Draco knelt among the other Death Eaters and watched the torture of the spy in silence. Or the supposed spy. It seemed to Draco, more and more often now, that the Dark Lord tortured those who had done nothing wrong except be in a certain place when he looked at them, or not bowed fast enough, or not babbled out enough convincing excuses for why they hadn’t captured Potter or an Order of the Phoenix member.
He buried those thoughts with the ease of long practice, and bowed his head further as the Dark Lord turned towards him. He thought he knew what the request would be, and sure enough, it came.
“Show him what you can do, Malfoy.”
Draco rose to his feet, eyes fixed and vacant. He knew his parents were looking at him as he crossed the circle of bare stone towards the prisoner. He didn’t look back.
But it was different, this time, as he stood in front of the man and looked down. This was someone he hadn’t really known except by reputation, Hercules Nott, a cousin of Theodore’s who had gone to Durmstrang. He had come back and chosen to be a Death Eater even though he wasn’t qualified. He lay on the floor and stared up at Draco with eyes wide with desperation.
Draco stared back, and thought of qualities and Potter and the idea that he might still have something in his soul that made him even less of a Death Eater than Nott. He snorted and raised his wand.
His Cruciatus was sharp and practiced, by now, and gripped and shook Nott like someone shaking out dust from a rag. Draco actually yawned as he watched. It was a little different from last time, he thought. A little different.
He had something now that made life worth living.
“Enough.”
Draco ended the curse at once and bowed in the Dark Lord’s direction. Those crimson eyes were narrowed, watching him speculatively. Draco wasn’t surprised when the Dark Lord told him to remain after the others had gone, Bellatrix hauling Nott off to one of their Healers. Draco reckoned that the Dark Lord had thought Nott could be useful after all, if only as a spy in some of the circles on the Continent that didn’t owe allegiance to him.
“Kneel.”
Draco did it at once, his head bowed until he touched the floor with his brow. The Dark Lord rose and paced in a steady circle around him. Draco knew that tactic. It was supposed to unnerve people until they blurted out the truth.
But Draco was already unnerved and despairing most of the time, and he knew that the Dark Lord might kill him any hour. He knelt there, until the Dark Lord snapped, “Stand.”
Draco did so at once, and met the Dark Lord’s eyes. He could feel the Legilimency pulling at his thoughts, and carefully rearranged his Occlumency shields so that the Dark Lord could see his contempt for Nott. There was a moment when he was held breathless, and then the pale face in front of him relaxed into a sneer.
“There are those who would say that you are hardly qualified yourself to be a Death Eater, Draco,” said the Dark Lord in a voice like waves of poisoned air.
“I know, my Lord,” Draco whispered back.
“You were less focused this time. Or more focused. Not as absent from the torture, yet less affected by it.” Draco could still hear the sibilants in the Dark Lord’s voice when he dragged out words with s’s, but he didn’t seem to do it as often as he once had. “What changed?”
Draco shook his head a little. “My Lord, I’m coming to realize that no matter how much I’m unworthy of it, I have your Mark on my arm. I have to do something. I can break down and cower under the burden. Or I can do my best to live up to it. Even though it’s late and something I should have been doing before.”
“That is…unusual among Death Eaters, Draco. The desire to change. One would have thought you would have remained what you were at the beginning. Most do.”
“I know, my Lord,” Draco said, thinking of his aunt’s unvarying madness and the way that most Death Eaters cringed and did nothing else. “But honestly…” He hesitated.
“You should always be honest with me, Draco.”
“I was bored staying the same,” Draco said.
The Dark Lord’s slitted mouth split further open, and he laughed, a soundless breath that still made sharp prickles crawl up Draco’s arms. He inclined his head and murmured, “I can understand that motivation. Boredom has made me do many things, in my time.” His eyes slid up and down Draco’s body with what Draco thought was a new appreciation. He did his best to keep his face quiet and still, not showing what he felt or thought.
“Only see that you do not grow bored with serving me,” the Dark Lord added, and the smile fell apart again.
“Of course not, my Lord.” Draco bowed to him.
“Go.”
Draco went back to his bedroom and sat down, staring for a moment at the wall. He hadn’t been as afraid of the Dark Lord as he usually was, he realized slowly, even though he should have been. He had a secret to hide that made it all the more likely he would die in pain.
But he had not been.
It was only right, as soon as the magic would let him-proving he was truly alone-to write a Blood Letter to Potter, asking him along to celebrate his victory.
*
This time, filled with a strange mixture of emotions and lack of time like bubbling champagne, Draco didn’t let Potter voice a complaint about the surroundings, which were the inside of the Shrieking Shack. Or about Draco, or about being summoned in the middle of the night, or anything else. He simply reached out and dragged Potter towards him and kissed him.
Potter stiffened once, then tried to lean back and let Draco “have his way,” as he would probably put it. But Draco followed him up, pushing him back onto the blankets he’d already conjured on the dusty floor, and straddled Potter’s body.
Last time, he’d felt Potter respond almost against his will. Draco was going to have at least the same level of participation now.
He’d passed on details about a raid on a Muggle village and about the Death Eater the Dark Lord had accused of treachery, meaning that the Order could use Nott’s name and description, if they had to, to pretend it was where they’d got Draco’s information. He was patient and clever and holding up under circumstances that would have destroyed a lot of people. Draco thought he deserved a reward.
Potter still tried to stay passive. Draco pulled back and hissed, “You enjoyed it last time, Potter. And I made it clear in my letter exactly what I wanted from you. Now open your mouth.”
A breath when Potter glared at Draco with passionate hatred, and then he opened his mouth. Draco dived in, groaning. The taste made him so hard that he gave up on the notion of lying there and making Potter come first, which he’d been half-planning.
“Come on,” he said, and rolled to the side, and spread his legs. His robes were easy enough to take off. He lay back and pushed his hips up. “Come on,” he added, when Potter hesitated. So his plans were changing. It didn’t matter. He had to know exactly what Draco wanted from the position he’d taken.
And Potter did. And he knelt, grimly, on the floor, ignoring the way Draco nicely conjured a cushion for him a second later. When he opened his mouth, Draco had to close his eyes for a second. He was about to come right there.
There were no words for the way Potter’s mouth sealed around him.
He sucked like he had experience. Draco rolled his hips against Potter’s mouth, and his blood boiled for a different reason as he thought of who Potter might have practiced with. Maybe Weasley didn’t want Potter dating his little sister, and he’d offered himself as a substitute. An older Order member? Would Potter’s godfather, when he was still alive-
Jealousy roared like a tiger. Draco pushed forwards and almost choked Potter. That calmed him a little.
Not so much experience, then, Draco thought, and grabbed the sides of Potter’s cheeks. “Suck me,” he said.
And Potter did.
It was almost as if he was glad to have something to concentrate on, Draco thought dizzily as he fell into it. Potter’s nails were tight little pinpricks on the sides of his hips, and Draco’s body rose and fell with the waves of sensation that Potter stirred up in his cock. So warm, and the sensations kept shifting, as Potter’s tongue moved back and forth and up and down. Draco shoved himself down, but Potter never choked again.
And he almost always held eye contact with Draco, at least during those moments when Draco could keep his eyes open.
Draco felt himself getting ready to come. He reached out and cradled Potter’s head between his palms. He didn’t know what he would say, but he knew he had to say it. He opened his mouth.
He didn’t get the chance. Potter sucked again. The orgasm left him with a whoosh like being caught in a rushing wind. Draco fell back on the blankets and gasped at the ceiling.
It was the best experience of his life.
After a little while, Draco became aware that Potter wasn’t on the blankets beside him. He turned his head, thinking for a moment that he might have left.
But instead, he saw Potter kneeling there, his eyes squinched shut and his hands clasping his bony knees. Draco stared. He couldn’t imagine what Potter thought he was doing.
Then he saw the erection, and he knew. Potter was willing it to go away.
Viciously glad that Potter had no idea there were spells for that-and it really seemed as if he didn’t have that much experience after all-Draco rolled towards him and grabbed him around the waist. Potter opened his eyes and stared like a startled deer, then thrashed in Draco’s grip.
“I don’t want it!” he said loudly.
Draco laughed. “As if I would suck you, Potter,” he said, and slid his hand down Potter’s arse instead, turning him and holding him. When Potter tried to back up, he just trapped himself against the wall. Draco maneuvered his knee until it was between Potter’s legs, and held him there with his eyes, and added, “Satisfy yourself.”
It seemed like Potter might break free. His face was red with outrage, and his nails cut Draco’s leg the way they had his hips, and his eyes were blazing again. But when he moved, it wasn’t away, or backwards, or sideways.
It was forwards, against Draco.
Draco groaned. He had had no idea how hot it would be, to have Potter getting himself off against Draco’s knee. Once again, he refused to yield eye contact, and Draco’s pulse hammered almost harder than it had during his orgasm.
It was like Potter thought this was defiance, instead of obedience.
His neck jerked suddenly, and he held his head to the side and hissed. Draco’s first thought was Parseltongue, snakes, the Dark Lord, and he shivered.
His second thought was triumph as he felt Potter pouring himself out, hot and sticky, against Draco’s knee.
Even better, Potter slumped after that and couldn’t gather the strength to go right away. Draco gathered him close, wildly delighted by the way his shoulders shook and he bared his neck to Draco because he was too worn-out to do anything else.
Potter actually rolled his head to the side and closed his eyes, he was so weary, and snuggled against Draco. Draco kept his chuckle down to a shudder in his chest. He would probably scare Potter away otherwise.
But he must not have kept it quiet enough. Potter’s eyes flew open, and he tensed. Then he tore himself away from Draco with force so great that he probably left some small hairs and flakes of skin behind. He turned around, panting, his eyes wild.
Draco spread his arms. “I’m not holding you here, Potter,” he said. “Not now. I just didn’t think that someone who helped me enjoy myself so much should go away without getting something in return.”
“Go to hell, Malfoy,” Potter panted. “Like you care about anyone but yourself.”
Draco stared straight at him. “When I’m risking my life to trade you information? Think about it, Potter.”
Potter swore at him some more, words that Draco knew more by the shape his lips made than any breath he could put behind them. And then he turned and snatched his wand and rearranged his clothes and vanished.
Draco leaned slowly back on the blankets. He frowned a little. His triumph hadn’t gone missing; his body still buzzed and sang with how good he felt.
But the evening had ended on a bit of a sour note, and he didn’t know why. Potter’s outrage would only have pleased him a week ago.
Part IV: Never Was
“Now, Harry!”
Harry took a step forwards and stabbed the Sword of Gryffindor down at the diadem.
For an instant, he thought a snake was coiled there, lashing at him, and he almost jumped backwards and tried to lop its head off instead. But he remembered what Dumbledore had told him about the illusions that guarded the ring and the locket, and he stabbed anyway.
The illusion disappeared just as the snake looked as if it was about to coil up the sword. Instead, the blade came down with a heavy crunch right in the middle of the diadem. Harry saw foul smoke around it for a second, and a shape like a reaching hand, and looked into the heart of flames. He threw up a hand, and the sword clattered to the ground of the small sitting room in Grimmauld Place where Dumbledore had chosen to attempt the destruction of the Horcruxes.
But all those things vanished. The diadem lay before him in two pieces, and Harry straightened up, realizing that he felt lighter and freer than before. He’d unknowingly been hunching a little and feeling depressed ever since he entered the sitting room.
He turned towards Dumbledore, standing with his wand drawn next to one of the shrouded chairs. For an instant, their eyes caught, and then Dumbledore collapsed on the chair and fanned himself, coughing, through the huge puff of dust he sent up. He was laughing, shaking his head back and forth.
“Ah, my dear boy, it feels so much better, doesn’t it? And with the destruction of the diadem, we have removed four of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”
Harry leaned on the wall and smiled tiredly at Dumbledore. “That only leaves Nagini and-Hufflepuff’s Cup, you think?”
Dumbledore lost his smile at once. Harry stood up slowly. “What is it?” Dumbledore had admitted before they went into the room to destroy the diadem that he didn’t know where the Cup was and he hadn’t thought of a way to get Nagini away from Voldemort, but he looked so serious now that Harry thought something else must have happened.
“There is something I have been meaning to tell you,” said Dumbledore. He gave a long and loud sigh, tapping his finger against the side of the chair. It made a clinking sound, and Harry looked at it. He jumped. There was a ring on Dumbledore’s right hand, and his first thought was that it was Slytherin’s ring, which Dumbledore had repaired for some reason.
But, no, he saw a second later. It was broad and silver, though, with a smooth dark stone.
“Something grave,” Dumbledore continued, drawing Harry’s attention away from the ring. He gave another weary smile. “Let us go down to the kitchen, where we can have hot chocolate. I find it helps considerably with difficult revelations.”
Harry trailed after him, concerned but not worried. What could Dumbledore have to tell him that would really change the status quo? They had destroyed four Horcruxes, with only two left to go.
*
No, three.
Harry leaned on the railing of the stairs going up to the second floor of Grimmauld Place and sat there with his eyes closed.
Dumbledore had told him about the Horcrux in his scar.
“I’m sorry, Harry, but there’s really no other way I can interpret the evidence.”
Evidence like his dream connections to Voldemort, the way he could see what he was seeing even when Harry was awake sometimes, and the way the scar burned when Voldemort was near.
Harry reached up to touch his scar, and then shuddered and snatched his hand back. He didn’t like the thought of touching the disgusting thing now, and the thought that a horrid piece of Dark magic like the flames and snake he had glimpsed in the diadem was part of him too made him faint and sick.
“I think there is no way we can do this except to have Voldemort use the Killing Curse on you, Harry.”
Harry buried his head between his knees, and shivered.
At least Dumbledore had told him that his dying, even if it was the last thing that he could do for the war, didn’t mean Voldemort would win. No, Dumbledore was master of two of the Deathly Hallows now-the Elder Wand, which he’d apparently won from Grindlewald long ago, and the Resurrection Stone, which had been in Slytherin’s ring-and he thought he could become master of the third.
“If you will write me a will, Harry, leaving me possession of the Potter Invisibility Cloak…”
Yes, Harry could do that. And even if it was temporary-because Dumbledore had promised that he would leave it to Ron and Hermione in his will-it would make Dumbledore the Master of Death and that, combined with Voldemort being mortal once Harry had died and the other Horcruxes were destroyed, ought to let him defeat Voldemort.
I always thought I might not make it past the final battle, Harry thought numbly to himself as he mopped at his hair, his eyes, his face. I never thought I wouldn’t see it.
Dumbledore had explained and outlined the consequences and the evidence as kindly as he could. And then he had told Harry to take some time for himself, to think and grieve if he needed to. Or wake up Ron and Hermione and tell them, if he needed to.
Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. As understandable as it would be, as inevitable as it would be, he couldn’t face their grief right now. He needed some time to himself, yes, and it seemed he would use it sitting on this stair and getting ready to face death.
What I really want is something to remind me that I’m alive, jolt me out of feeling this way, he thought dully. I wish I could duel Snape or something-
Then Harry paused. There was something. It made him feel stupid and vicious and tainted, half the time, but in a far different way than the Horcrux did. And it was the result of a decision he had made on his own. Of course he would die for the war, because he had to. But this, he hadn’t had to. It was a desperation tactic that no one but Harry had thought would work.
Now, he would use it for something else.
He stood and went to write a Blood Letter. He hardly dared to hope that Malfoy would be able to slip away right now. It was almost midnight, and Voldemort might make the Death Eaters work harder at night, or at least keep a closer watch over them.
But even if he didn’t respond, at least Harry could Apparate, and to a place that no one else would visit. And he could scream his heart out. And he could pace back and forth, and cast destructive spells if he needed to.
In fact, even as he sent the letter off, Harry found himself almost hoping that Malfoy wasn’t able to come. Probably it was better to just take his temper out on inanimate objects, not rely on sex that he felt was good against his will.
*
But, of course, Malfoy was there, waiting in the ruined shell of Flitwick’s Charms classroom.
Hogwarts was blackened stone all around them as Harry picked his way towards Malfoy, dodging rubble. The Death Eater attacks had burned the school out after it had been evacuated. At least three professors Harry knew of-Sprout, Sinistra, and Flitwick-had lost their lives defending the students as they either Apparated themselves or got taken away by people who could Apparate. Voldemort had had to take out his frustration on walls and doors and towers instead.
It still hurt, to see the places where people should have walked and laughed and studied and read in the library so empty. Harry had to avoid looking at the huge pile of crisp parchment ashes that marked the library, if only because he could feel the echo of the pain Hermione would experience ringing through his head.
Instead, he focused on Malfoy, who had created a little corner, as usual: blankets on the floor, a Disillusionment Charm around them, a fire burning on air. Harry began taking off his robes the instant he was in the protected area. For once, he’d decided not to wear Muggle clothing.
“Potter?”
Malfoy was climbing to his feet, his lips parted. He’d lost his smug look for the first time Harry could remember since this had started. That suited Harry.
“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said, and shucked the robes off so they could fall on the floor. He could hear Malfoy gasp. He wasn’t wearing pants. “Not so it hurts, but as hard as you can.” He turned and knelt on the floor, facing away. It was as much as he knew about this kind of sex between men.
Malfoy moved towards him, quietly. He knelt down and traced Harry’s shoulder. Harry shivered. Now was the time that Malfoy chose to get so stupidly sentimental, when Harry just wanted all the emotions chased out of his head?
“Malfoy-”
Then the git shuffled around on his knees in front of Harry and kissed him.
Harry dived into the kiss with relief. At least this would be like usual, a tongue driving into his mouth that wiped out all thought-
But it still wasn’t. Malfoy kissed him with slow, consuming strength, sure, but not as fast as Harry needed it. And he eased Harry back into the blankets, and spread his legs with a gentle push of his hands, and coated his fingers with a thick, sticky liquid that Harry had never seen before, and slid them inside gently.
“This-isn’t what I asked you for,” Harry panted, even as he tried to get used to the strange feeling of fingers inside him. But it was only strange, not the pounding he needed. “Can’t you-do it-right for once?”
“No,” Malfoy said, and grinned a little. “Because I live to piss you off.”
Before Harry could argue about that, Malfoy kissed him again, and then his fingers spread out inside Harry like his own legs. Harry strangled out a moan. It was still strange, but it was also making other sensations stir that he had no name for.
This was the first time he’d ever been glad to feel himself getting hard for Malfoy.
Malfoy took his time. Of course he did, even when Harry gasped and swore at him. He coated his fingers with more liquid, and at last he had two or three inside Harry-Harry had lost track, between the drug-like kisses and the way Malfoy moved over him, covering Harry, holding him warmer than the fire did. But Harry noticed when Malfoy pulled away and began to undress.
Harry opened his eyes to watch him. Malfoy’s robes had spots of moisture that Harry realized had come from sweat and probably the lube he’d conjured. Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Malfoy could have got naked any time before this and spared himself some Cleaning Charms later.
“Why?” he asked, and gestured with his chin at the robes.
“I didn’t want to,” Malfoy answered, throwing the robes into a corner of the room.
Which was as good an answer as any, Harry thought as Malfoy eased forwards again and got his own cock ready. But why Malfoy wanted to kiss Harry while he was fully-dressed and prepare him like this for so long, even when Harry had kicked him in the back of the knee to get him to move faster, was a mystery.
Malfoy flicked out his fingers one more time and then murmured, “This is still going to feel weird.”
“I don’t care.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.”
Malfoy entered him. Harry found himself holding his breath, but it really didn’t hurt. He supposed that would be the point of all the preparation Malfoy had done. And maybe he’d used some spells to make it more comfortable, too.
But at least it had one effect Harry had wanted. The thought of the Horcrux inside Harry had danced like a flicker of a fire at the back of his mind all through this, and he hadn’t let Malfoy kiss his scar when he’d tried. But now-now-
Something else was inside him. And Harry could raise his hips to meet Malfoy’s and squeeze down on him and be reassured that this was only something anyone would do, that lots of people wanted. Nothing to do with Horcruxes and strange and foul desires.
“Fuck me,” Harry whispered, opening his eyes. Malfoy’s face was strange with shadows as he stared down at Harry.
At least the command got him moving. He reached out and held Harry’s hands above his head, the way he liked to do, wrists against the blankets, as he rocked inside him. And Harry was groaning soon enough. It wasn’t fast, but it was hard.
Every thrust seemed to drive further into him. Harry thought briefly that was impossible, he was imagining things, but that was still what he felt. And his legs came up and clasped around Malfoy’s waist and dragged him in, and that was good too. So good. Harry’s mouth ran with saliva and he turned his head to the side, but found Malfoy waiting to kiss it away.
Thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Harry wriggled closer and discovered something new: he really liked having someone inside him.
The fire dimmed. The blankets grew softer. Malfoy rocked and rocked and rocked, and Harry groaned almost in disappointment when he felt the first climb of his orgasm up the inside of his belly.
Malfoy leaned down and took him prisoner in a breathless kiss, shortening his thrusts and deepening them. Harry could barely move except where Malfoy moved him. Hands held trapped, mouth held quiet, hips jerking in aborted movements under Malfoy’s-
He could barely move to come, it seemed. His cock had no room to twitch, or spill, between his belly and Malfoy’s. He cried out, but Malfoy swallowed the sound and shifted a little and thrust again.
Pleasure tore through Harry once more even as Malfoy came, and he didn’t know whether it was magical or the result of something Malfoy had done. He didn’t care. He shut his eyes and drifted in deep silence.
Malfoy shakily swore above him.
Harry rested.
*
“Why did you want to do this now?”
Harry sighed and rolled over. Of course Malfoy would ask that just when he’d been on the verge of getting comfortable. But it was probably time to go back to Grimmauld Place anyway. When he cast a Tempus Charm, he saw that it was.
“Because I got some very bad news,” Harry said, when he saw Malfoy’s hand reaching for his wrist out of the corner of his eye and knew that he wasn’t going to let it go. Malfoy’s hand fell back again, but then he came and stood in front of Harry, frowning. Harry sighed, draped the robes over his shoulders, and met his eyes. “News that means I’m not going to survive this war no matter what happens.”
Malfoy reeled back a little. He stared at Harry with such a young expression that Harry wanted to laugh. Who knew it took some news of his fucktoy’s demise to make Malfoy look like that?
“You-can’t know that. No one can really know what will happen in a battle until they get on the battlefield.”
Harry had the temptation, then, to ask him how many battles with Muggles or Muggleborns he’d participated in. But he refrained. It would be useless and just get them upset. And Harry had got rid of most of the tension in his body. He wasn’t eager to get it back, not this soon.
“Then say that we’ve chosen a tactic that’s definitely going to kill me. But it’ll end the war.”
Malfoy shook his head. “I’d counted on you being alive. The-” His long eyelashes shaded his eyes in a slow blink. “I’d counted on you being alive so you could testify for my parents and me and ensure that we had a place after the war.”
“Dumbledore and Tonks know about the bargain we made,” Harry said. He was still relaxed after all. Malfoy couldn’t change much. He had already done his worst, and Harry had not only survived it but welcomed it. “They’ll testify for you and your parents.”
“What if they’re dead?”
Harry snorted. “They have a better chance of surviving at this point than I do.”
He turned to walk back through the rubble of Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s arms seized him around the waist. Harry stiffened. He didn’t want to fight Malfoy, but he would if the idiot didn’t let him go. He had to get back soon. Hell, for that matter, Malfoy had to get back soon. Voldemort would be a lot more suspicious than Dumbledore.
“I don’t want you to die,” Malfoy whispered into the back of his ear, his breath wet and hot. He kissed Harry there. Harry stood still, caught in surprise. “I don’t-you can’t die like that. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived.”
Harry bit his tongue to avoid saying something about how that was the reason he was going to die. He couldn’t trust Malfoy with any truth about the Horcrux and the real reason his death would ensure Voldemort’s. Look at how stupidly he was already acting with just a part of the truth. It would be a lot worse if Harry revealed more.
“You’re not going to change things like this,” Harry said harshly. Malfoy’s arms dropped away from him, and Harry felt a little sorry. He went on more gently after a minute. “Thanks for changing what you could.”
He stepped through the illusions and away from the fire, and walked through the school to a point he could Apparate. He didn’t look back. He didn’t think it was the last time he would see Malfoy. The git was likely to call him at least once more, in order to gratify his own desires. And this wasn’t a sentimental parting.
It was just a parting. The way it had to be.
Parts Five and Six.
This entry was originally posted at http://lomonaaeren.dreamwidth.org/843226.html. Comment wherever you like.
Part III: He Cannot Miss
Draco knelt among the other Death Eaters and watched the torture of the spy in silence. Or the supposed spy. It seemed to Draco, more and more often now, that the Dark Lord tortured those who had done nothing wrong except be in a certain place when he looked at them, or not bowed fast enough, or not babbled out enough convincing excuses for why they hadn’t captured Potter or an Order of the Phoenix member.
He buried those thoughts with the ease of long practice, and bowed his head further as the Dark Lord turned towards him. He thought he knew what the request would be, and sure enough, it came.
“Show him what you can do, Malfoy.”
Draco rose to his feet, eyes fixed and vacant. He knew his parents were looking at him as he crossed the circle of bare stone towards the prisoner. He didn’t look back.
But it was different, this time, as he stood in front of the man and looked down. This was someone he hadn’t really known except by reputation, Hercules Nott, a cousin of Theodore’s who had gone to Durmstrang. He had come back and chosen to be a Death Eater even though he wasn’t qualified. He lay on the floor and stared up at Draco with eyes wide with desperation.
Draco stared back, and thought of qualities and Potter and the idea that he might still have something in his soul that made him even less of a Death Eater than Nott. He snorted and raised his wand.
His Cruciatus was sharp and practiced, by now, and gripped and shook Nott like someone shaking out dust from a rag. Draco actually yawned as he watched. It was a little different from last time, he thought. A little different.
He had something now that made life worth living.
“Enough.”
Draco ended the curse at once and bowed in the Dark Lord’s direction. Those crimson eyes were narrowed, watching him speculatively. Draco wasn’t surprised when the Dark Lord told him to remain after the others had gone, Bellatrix hauling Nott off to one of their Healers. Draco reckoned that the Dark Lord had thought Nott could be useful after all, if only as a spy in some of the circles on the Continent that didn’t owe allegiance to him.
“Kneel.”
Draco did it at once, his head bowed until he touched the floor with his brow. The Dark Lord rose and paced in a steady circle around him. Draco knew that tactic. It was supposed to unnerve people until they blurted out the truth.
But Draco was already unnerved and despairing most of the time, and he knew that the Dark Lord might kill him any hour. He knelt there, until the Dark Lord snapped, “Stand.”
Draco did so at once, and met the Dark Lord’s eyes. He could feel the Legilimency pulling at his thoughts, and carefully rearranged his Occlumency shields so that the Dark Lord could see his contempt for Nott. There was a moment when he was held breathless, and then the pale face in front of him relaxed into a sneer.
“There are those who would say that you are hardly qualified yourself to be a Death Eater, Draco,” said the Dark Lord in a voice like waves of poisoned air.
“I know, my Lord,” Draco whispered back.
“You were less focused this time. Or more focused. Not as absent from the torture, yet less affected by it.” Draco could still hear the sibilants in the Dark Lord’s voice when he dragged out words with s’s, but he didn’t seem to do it as often as he once had. “What changed?”
Draco shook his head a little. “My Lord, I’m coming to realize that no matter how much I’m unworthy of it, I have your Mark on my arm. I have to do something. I can break down and cower under the burden. Or I can do my best to live up to it. Even though it’s late and something I should have been doing before.”
“That is…unusual among Death Eaters, Draco. The desire to change. One would have thought you would have remained what you were at the beginning. Most do.”
“I know, my Lord,” Draco said, thinking of his aunt’s unvarying madness and the way that most Death Eaters cringed and did nothing else. “But honestly…” He hesitated.
“You should always be honest with me, Draco.”
“I was bored staying the same,” Draco said.
The Dark Lord’s slitted mouth split further open, and he laughed, a soundless breath that still made sharp prickles crawl up Draco’s arms. He inclined his head and murmured, “I can understand that motivation. Boredom has made me do many things, in my time.” His eyes slid up and down Draco’s body with what Draco thought was a new appreciation. He did his best to keep his face quiet and still, not showing what he felt or thought.
“Only see that you do not grow bored with serving me,” the Dark Lord added, and the smile fell apart again.
“Of course not, my Lord.” Draco bowed to him.
“Go.”
Draco went back to his bedroom and sat down, staring for a moment at the wall. He hadn’t been as afraid of the Dark Lord as he usually was, he realized slowly, even though he should have been. He had a secret to hide that made it all the more likely he would die in pain.
But he had not been.
It was only right, as soon as the magic would let him-proving he was truly alone-to write a Blood Letter to Potter, asking him along to celebrate his victory.
*
This time, filled with a strange mixture of emotions and lack of time like bubbling champagne, Draco didn’t let Potter voice a complaint about the surroundings, which were the inside of the Shrieking Shack. Or about Draco, or about being summoned in the middle of the night, or anything else. He simply reached out and dragged Potter towards him and kissed him.
Potter stiffened once, then tried to lean back and let Draco “have his way,” as he would probably put it. But Draco followed him up, pushing him back onto the blankets he’d already conjured on the dusty floor, and straddled Potter’s body.
Last time, he’d felt Potter respond almost against his will. Draco was going to have at least the same level of participation now.
He’d passed on details about a raid on a Muggle village and about the Death Eater the Dark Lord had accused of treachery, meaning that the Order could use Nott’s name and description, if they had to, to pretend it was where they’d got Draco’s information. He was patient and clever and holding up under circumstances that would have destroyed a lot of people. Draco thought he deserved a reward.
Potter still tried to stay passive. Draco pulled back and hissed, “You enjoyed it last time, Potter. And I made it clear in my letter exactly what I wanted from you. Now open your mouth.”
A breath when Potter glared at Draco with passionate hatred, and then he opened his mouth. Draco dived in, groaning. The taste made him so hard that he gave up on the notion of lying there and making Potter come first, which he’d been half-planning.
“Come on,” he said, and rolled to the side, and spread his legs. His robes were easy enough to take off. He lay back and pushed his hips up. “Come on,” he added, when Potter hesitated. So his plans were changing. It didn’t matter. He had to know exactly what Draco wanted from the position he’d taken.
And Potter did. And he knelt, grimly, on the floor, ignoring the way Draco nicely conjured a cushion for him a second later. When he opened his mouth, Draco had to close his eyes for a second. He was about to come right there.
There were no words for the way Potter’s mouth sealed around him.
He sucked like he had experience. Draco rolled his hips against Potter’s mouth, and his blood boiled for a different reason as he thought of who Potter might have practiced with. Maybe Weasley didn’t want Potter dating his little sister, and he’d offered himself as a substitute. An older Order member? Would Potter’s godfather, when he was still alive-
Jealousy roared like a tiger. Draco pushed forwards and almost choked Potter. That calmed him a little.
Not so much experience, then, Draco thought, and grabbed the sides of Potter’s cheeks. “Suck me,” he said.
And Potter did.
It was almost as if he was glad to have something to concentrate on, Draco thought dizzily as he fell into it. Potter’s nails were tight little pinpricks on the sides of his hips, and Draco’s body rose and fell with the waves of sensation that Potter stirred up in his cock. So warm, and the sensations kept shifting, as Potter’s tongue moved back and forth and up and down. Draco shoved himself down, but Potter never choked again.
And he almost always held eye contact with Draco, at least during those moments when Draco could keep his eyes open.
Draco felt himself getting ready to come. He reached out and cradled Potter’s head between his palms. He didn’t know what he would say, but he knew he had to say it. He opened his mouth.
He didn’t get the chance. Potter sucked again. The orgasm left him with a whoosh like being caught in a rushing wind. Draco fell back on the blankets and gasped at the ceiling.
It was the best experience of his life.
After a little while, Draco became aware that Potter wasn’t on the blankets beside him. He turned his head, thinking for a moment that he might have left.
But instead, he saw Potter kneeling there, his eyes squinched shut and his hands clasping his bony knees. Draco stared. He couldn’t imagine what Potter thought he was doing.
Then he saw the erection, and he knew. Potter was willing it to go away.
Viciously glad that Potter had no idea there were spells for that-and it really seemed as if he didn’t have that much experience after all-Draco rolled towards him and grabbed him around the waist. Potter opened his eyes and stared like a startled deer, then thrashed in Draco’s grip.
“I don’t want it!” he said loudly.
Draco laughed. “As if I would suck you, Potter,” he said, and slid his hand down Potter’s arse instead, turning him and holding him. When Potter tried to back up, he just trapped himself against the wall. Draco maneuvered his knee until it was between Potter’s legs, and held him there with his eyes, and added, “Satisfy yourself.”
It seemed like Potter might break free. His face was red with outrage, and his nails cut Draco’s leg the way they had his hips, and his eyes were blazing again. But when he moved, it wasn’t away, or backwards, or sideways.
It was forwards, against Draco.
Draco groaned. He had had no idea how hot it would be, to have Potter getting himself off against Draco’s knee. Once again, he refused to yield eye contact, and Draco’s pulse hammered almost harder than it had during his orgasm.
It was like Potter thought this was defiance, instead of obedience.
His neck jerked suddenly, and he held his head to the side and hissed. Draco’s first thought was Parseltongue, snakes, the Dark Lord, and he shivered.
His second thought was triumph as he felt Potter pouring himself out, hot and sticky, against Draco’s knee.
Even better, Potter slumped after that and couldn’t gather the strength to go right away. Draco gathered him close, wildly delighted by the way his shoulders shook and he bared his neck to Draco because he was too worn-out to do anything else.
Potter actually rolled his head to the side and closed his eyes, he was so weary, and snuggled against Draco. Draco kept his chuckle down to a shudder in his chest. He would probably scare Potter away otherwise.
But he must not have kept it quiet enough. Potter’s eyes flew open, and he tensed. Then he tore himself away from Draco with force so great that he probably left some small hairs and flakes of skin behind. He turned around, panting, his eyes wild.
Draco spread his arms. “I’m not holding you here, Potter,” he said. “Not now. I just didn’t think that someone who helped me enjoy myself so much should go away without getting something in return.”
“Go to hell, Malfoy,” Potter panted. “Like you care about anyone but yourself.”
Draco stared straight at him. “When I’m risking my life to trade you information? Think about it, Potter.”
Potter swore at him some more, words that Draco knew more by the shape his lips made than any breath he could put behind them. And then he turned and snatched his wand and rearranged his clothes and vanished.
Draco leaned slowly back on the blankets. He frowned a little. His triumph hadn’t gone missing; his body still buzzed and sang with how good he felt.
But the evening had ended on a bit of a sour note, and he didn’t know why. Potter’s outrage would only have pleased him a week ago.
Part IV: Never Was
“Now, Harry!”
Harry took a step forwards and stabbed the Sword of Gryffindor down at the diadem.
For an instant, he thought a snake was coiled there, lashing at him, and he almost jumped backwards and tried to lop its head off instead. But he remembered what Dumbledore had told him about the illusions that guarded the ring and the locket, and he stabbed anyway.
The illusion disappeared just as the snake looked as if it was about to coil up the sword. Instead, the blade came down with a heavy crunch right in the middle of the diadem. Harry saw foul smoke around it for a second, and a shape like a reaching hand, and looked into the heart of flames. He threw up a hand, and the sword clattered to the ground of the small sitting room in Grimmauld Place where Dumbledore had chosen to attempt the destruction of the Horcruxes.
But all those things vanished. The diadem lay before him in two pieces, and Harry straightened up, realizing that he felt lighter and freer than before. He’d unknowingly been hunching a little and feeling depressed ever since he entered the sitting room.
He turned towards Dumbledore, standing with his wand drawn next to one of the shrouded chairs. For an instant, their eyes caught, and then Dumbledore collapsed on the chair and fanned himself, coughing, through the huge puff of dust he sent up. He was laughing, shaking his head back and forth.
“Ah, my dear boy, it feels so much better, doesn’t it? And with the destruction of the diadem, we have removed four of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”
Harry leaned on the wall and smiled tiredly at Dumbledore. “That only leaves Nagini and-Hufflepuff’s Cup, you think?”
Dumbledore lost his smile at once. Harry stood up slowly. “What is it?” Dumbledore had admitted before they went into the room to destroy the diadem that he didn’t know where the Cup was and he hadn’t thought of a way to get Nagini away from Voldemort, but he looked so serious now that Harry thought something else must have happened.
“There is something I have been meaning to tell you,” said Dumbledore. He gave a long and loud sigh, tapping his finger against the side of the chair. It made a clinking sound, and Harry looked at it. He jumped. There was a ring on Dumbledore’s right hand, and his first thought was that it was Slytherin’s ring, which Dumbledore had repaired for some reason.
But, no, he saw a second later. It was broad and silver, though, with a smooth dark stone.
“Something grave,” Dumbledore continued, drawing Harry’s attention away from the ring. He gave another weary smile. “Let us go down to the kitchen, where we can have hot chocolate. I find it helps considerably with difficult revelations.”
Harry trailed after him, concerned but not worried. What could Dumbledore have to tell him that would really change the status quo? They had destroyed four Horcruxes, with only two left to go.
*
No, three.
Harry leaned on the railing of the stairs going up to the second floor of Grimmauld Place and sat there with his eyes closed.
Dumbledore had told him about the Horcrux in his scar.
“I’m sorry, Harry, but there’s really no other way I can interpret the evidence.”
Evidence like his dream connections to Voldemort, the way he could see what he was seeing even when Harry was awake sometimes, and the way the scar burned when Voldemort was near.
Harry reached up to touch his scar, and then shuddered and snatched his hand back. He didn’t like the thought of touching the disgusting thing now, and the thought that a horrid piece of Dark magic like the flames and snake he had glimpsed in the diadem was part of him too made him faint and sick.
“I think there is no way we can do this except to have Voldemort use the Killing Curse on you, Harry.”
Harry buried his head between his knees, and shivered.
At least Dumbledore had told him that his dying, even if it was the last thing that he could do for the war, didn’t mean Voldemort would win. No, Dumbledore was master of two of the Deathly Hallows now-the Elder Wand, which he’d apparently won from Grindlewald long ago, and the Resurrection Stone, which had been in Slytherin’s ring-and he thought he could become master of the third.
“If you will write me a will, Harry, leaving me possession of the Potter Invisibility Cloak…”
Yes, Harry could do that. And even if it was temporary-because Dumbledore had promised that he would leave it to Ron and Hermione in his will-it would make Dumbledore the Master of Death and that, combined with Voldemort being mortal once Harry had died and the other Horcruxes were destroyed, ought to let him defeat Voldemort.
I always thought I might not make it past the final battle, Harry thought numbly to himself as he mopped at his hair, his eyes, his face. I never thought I wouldn’t see it.
Dumbledore had explained and outlined the consequences and the evidence as kindly as he could. And then he had told Harry to take some time for himself, to think and grieve if he needed to. Or wake up Ron and Hermione and tell them, if he needed to.
Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. As understandable as it would be, as inevitable as it would be, he couldn’t face their grief right now. He needed some time to himself, yes, and it seemed he would use it sitting on this stair and getting ready to face death.
What I really want is something to remind me that I’m alive, jolt me out of feeling this way, he thought dully. I wish I could duel Snape or something-
Then Harry paused. There was something. It made him feel stupid and vicious and tainted, half the time, but in a far different way than the Horcrux did. And it was the result of a decision he had made on his own. Of course he would die for the war, because he had to. But this, he hadn’t had to. It was a desperation tactic that no one but Harry had thought would work.
Now, he would use it for something else.
He stood and went to write a Blood Letter. He hardly dared to hope that Malfoy would be able to slip away right now. It was almost midnight, and Voldemort might make the Death Eaters work harder at night, or at least keep a closer watch over them.
But even if he didn’t respond, at least Harry could Apparate, and to a place that no one else would visit. And he could scream his heart out. And he could pace back and forth, and cast destructive spells if he needed to.
In fact, even as he sent the letter off, Harry found himself almost hoping that Malfoy wasn’t able to come. Probably it was better to just take his temper out on inanimate objects, not rely on sex that he felt was good against his will.
*
But, of course, Malfoy was there, waiting in the ruined shell of Flitwick’s Charms classroom.
Hogwarts was blackened stone all around them as Harry picked his way towards Malfoy, dodging rubble. The Death Eater attacks had burned the school out after it had been evacuated. At least three professors Harry knew of-Sprout, Sinistra, and Flitwick-had lost their lives defending the students as they either Apparated themselves or got taken away by people who could Apparate. Voldemort had had to take out his frustration on walls and doors and towers instead.
It still hurt, to see the places where people should have walked and laughed and studied and read in the library so empty. Harry had to avoid looking at the huge pile of crisp parchment ashes that marked the library, if only because he could feel the echo of the pain Hermione would experience ringing through his head.
Instead, he focused on Malfoy, who had created a little corner, as usual: blankets on the floor, a Disillusionment Charm around them, a fire burning on air. Harry began taking off his robes the instant he was in the protected area. For once, he’d decided not to wear Muggle clothing.
“Potter?”
Malfoy was climbing to his feet, his lips parted. He’d lost his smug look for the first time Harry could remember since this had started. That suited Harry.
“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said, and shucked the robes off so they could fall on the floor. He could hear Malfoy gasp. He wasn’t wearing pants. “Not so it hurts, but as hard as you can.” He turned and knelt on the floor, facing away. It was as much as he knew about this kind of sex between men.
Malfoy moved towards him, quietly. He knelt down and traced Harry’s shoulder. Harry shivered. Now was the time that Malfoy chose to get so stupidly sentimental, when Harry just wanted all the emotions chased out of his head?
“Malfoy-”
Then the git shuffled around on his knees in front of Harry and kissed him.
Harry dived into the kiss with relief. At least this would be like usual, a tongue driving into his mouth that wiped out all thought-
But it still wasn’t. Malfoy kissed him with slow, consuming strength, sure, but not as fast as Harry needed it. And he eased Harry back into the blankets, and spread his legs with a gentle push of his hands, and coated his fingers with a thick, sticky liquid that Harry had never seen before, and slid them inside gently.
“This-isn’t what I asked you for,” Harry panted, even as he tried to get used to the strange feeling of fingers inside him. But it was only strange, not the pounding he needed. “Can’t you-do it-right for once?”
“No,” Malfoy said, and grinned a little. “Because I live to piss you off.”
Before Harry could argue about that, Malfoy kissed him again, and then his fingers spread out inside Harry like his own legs. Harry strangled out a moan. It was still strange, but it was also making other sensations stir that he had no name for.
This was the first time he’d ever been glad to feel himself getting hard for Malfoy.
Malfoy took his time. Of course he did, even when Harry gasped and swore at him. He coated his fingers with more liquid, and at last he had two or three inside Harry-Harry had lost track, between the drug-like kisses and the way Malfoy moved over him, covering Harry, holding him warmer than the fire did. But Harry noticed when Malfoy pulled away and began to undress.
Harry opened his eyes to watch him. Malfoy’s robes had spots of moisture that Harry realized had come from sweat and probably the lube he’d conjured. Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Malfoy could have got naked any time before this and spared himself some Cleaning Charms later.
“Why?” he asked, and gestured with his chin at the robes.
“I didn’t want to,” Malfoy answered, throwing the robes into a corner of the room.
Which was as good an answer as any, Harry thought as Malfoy eased forwards again and got his own cock ready. But why Malfoy wanted to kiss Harry while he was fully-dressed and prepare him like this for so long, even when Harry had kicked him in the back of the knee to get him to move faster, was a mystery.
Malfoy flicked out his fingers one more time and then murmured, “This is still going to feel weird.”
“I don’t care.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.”
Malfoy entered him. Harry found himself holding his breath, but it really didn’t hurt. He supposed that would be the point of all the preparation Malfoy had done. And maybe he’d used some spells to make it more comfortable, too.
But at least it had one effect Harry had wanted. The thought of the Horcrux inside Harry had danced like a flicker of a fire at the back of his mind all through this, and he hadn’t let Malfoy kiss his scar when he’d tried. But now-now-
Something else was inside him. And Harry could raise his hips to meet Malfoy’s and squeeze down on him and be reassured that this was only something anyone would do, that lots of people wanted. Nothing to do with Horcruxes and strange and foul desires.
“Fuck me,” Harry whispered, opening his eyes. Malfoy’s face was strange with shadows as he stared down at Harry.
At least the command got him moving. He reached out and held Harry’s hands above his head, the way he liked to do, wrists against the blankets, as he rocked inside him. And Harry was groaning soon enough. It wasn’t fast, but it was hard.
Every thrust seemed to drive further into him. Harry thought briefly that was impossible, he was imagining things, but that was still what he felt. And his legs came up and clasped around Malfoy’s waist and dragged him in, and that was good too. So good. Harry’s mouth ran with saliva and he turned his head to the side, but found Malfoy waiting to kiss it away.
Thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Harry wriggled closer and discovered something new: he really liked having someone inside him.
The fire dimmed. The blankets grew softer. Malfoy rocked and rocked and rocked, and Harry groaned almost in disappointment when he felt the first climb of his orgasm up the inside of his belly.
Malfoy leaned down and took him prisoner in a breathless kiss, shortening his thrusts and deepening them. Harry could barely move except where Malfoy moved him. Hands held trapped, mouth held quiet, hips jerking in aborted movements under Malfoy’s-
He could barely move to come, it seemed. His cock had no room to twitch, or spill, between his belly and Malfoy’s. He cried out, but Malfoy swallowed the sound and shifted a little and thrust again.
Pleasure tore through Harry once more even as Malfoy came, and he didn’t know whether it was magical or the result of something Malfoy had done. He didn’t care. He shut his eyes and drifted in deep silence.
Malfoy shakily swore above him.
Harry rested.
*
“Why did you want to do this now?”
Harry sighed and rolled over. Of course Malfoy would ask that just when he’d been on the verge of getting comfortable. But it was probably time to go back to Grimmauld Place anyway. When he cast a Tempus Charm, he saw that it was.
“Because I got some very bad news,” Harry said, when he saw Malfoy’s hand reaching for his wrist out of the corner of his eye and knew that he wasn’t going to let it go. Malfoy’s hand fell back again, but then he came and stood in front of Harry, frowning. Harry sighed, draped the robes over his shoulders, and met his eyes. “News that means I’m not going to survive this war no matter what happens.”
Malfoy reeled back a little. He stared at Harry with such a young expression that Harry wanted to laugh. Who knew it took some news of his fucktoy’s demise to make Malfoy look like that?
“You-can’t know that. No one can really know what will happen in a battle until they get on the battlefield.”
Harry had the temptation, then, to ask him how many battles with Muggles or Muggleborns he’d participated in. But he refrained. It would be useless and just get them upset. And Harry had got rid of most of the tension in his body. He wasn’t eager to get it back, not this soon.
“Then say that we’ve chosen a tactic that’s definitely going to kill me. But it’ll end the war.”
Malfoy shook his head. “I’d counted on you being alive. The-” His long eyelashes shaded his eyes in a slow blink. “I’d counted on you being alive so you could testify for my parents and me and ensure that we had a place after the war.”
“Dumbledore and Tonks know about the bargain we made,” Harry said. He was still relaxed after all. Malfoy couldn’t change much. He had already done his worst, and Harry had not only survived it but welcomed it. “They’ll testify for you and your parents.”
“What if they’re dead?”
Harry snorted. “They have a better chance of surviving at this point than I do.”
He turned to walk back through the rubble of Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s arms seized him around the waist. Harry stiffened. He didn’t want to fight Malfoy, but he would if the idiot didn’t let him go. He had to get back soon. Hell, for that matter, Malfoy had to get back soon. Voldemort would be a lot more suspicious than Dumbledore.
“I don’t want you to die,” Malfoy whispered into the back of his ear, his breath wet and hot. He kissed Harry there. Harry stood still, caught in surprise. “I don’t-you can’t die like that. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived.”
Harry bit his tongue to avoid saying something about how that was the reason he was going to die. He couldn’t trust Malfoy with any truth about the Horcrux and the real reason his death would ensure Voldemort’s. Look at how stupidly he was already acting with just a part of the truth. It would be a lot worse if Harry revealed more.
“You’re not going to change things like this,” Harry said harshly. Malfoy’s arms dropped away from him, and Harry felt a little sorry. He went on more gently after a minute. “Thanks for changing what you could.”
He stepped through the illusions and away from the fire, and walked through the school to a point he could Apparate. He didn’t look back. He didn’t think it was the last time he would see Malfoy. The git was likely to call him at least once more, in order to gratify his own desires. And this wasn’t a sentimental parting.
It was just a parting. The way it had to be.
Parts Five and Six.
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