"Leaving Scars" (Harry/Draco, Rated R)
Title: "Leaving Scars"
Author: skellywag
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: A little less plot than I would normally prefer, and a blatant disregard of The Epilogue (though the events of this fic occur well beforehand). It's an *ahem* eighth-year fic. *shudder*
A/N: So this was written ages ago, for teshara, for hpvalensmut. Been pretty lazy about reposting things in my journal. Oh well. Beta-ed by the lovely fitz-y, whom I adore forever and ever.
This was not how he'd wanted to do things. He'd been biding his time, but all eyes had been on the Slytherins since the new term had begun. During classes and meals, and even in the corridors. They didn't linger long in classrooms after lessons or in the hallways, and it didn't appear that the situation would change any time soon. The other houses watched them like those who have been stung before, even if the wasps in question were Slytherins who were minding their own business and keeping to themselves. Because the Slytherins kept to themselves, and because the other houses watched them overtly, Harry was very aware of his audience as he crossed the Great Hall to the Slytherin table. Being back at Hogwarts meant being in close quarters with people who considered him the Chosen One, and he had to silently remind himself he was glad that the Ministry of Magic had extended no special treatment to him when it came to relaxing the N.E.W.T. requirements for Auror training.
No chance of hero worship on this side of the room. Harry walked along the Slytherin table, and the Slytherins' eyes followed him, with thinly veiled (if at all) suspicion. Justifiable suspicion, he supposed. No one from the other houses wanted anything to do with Slytherin, so what was he doing over at their table? Harry was beginning to wonder that same thing as he withstood their glares to reach the far end of the long table.
Draco Malfoy sat at the end of the table, with only Pansy Parkinson for company. Where only a year ago he might have been at the middle of the table, thronged with admirers. Of course, Draco was the only Slytherin in the school that had worn the Dark Lord's mark, and was the reason the rest of his house was treated so very carefully. It made a kind of sense that his own house was loath to consort with him now. Harry sat down next to Draco, trying to appear as though he belonged there, and though Pansy, on Draco's other side, appeared less than pleased, Draco didn't even look surprised.
"Come to eat dinner with Pansy and me?" Draco's tone spoke more of weariness than hostility, and he gestured to the empty plate in front of Harry in invitation. "I'm surprised Granger and Weasley didn't come as well, in a show of the solidarity my own house is lacking."
Harry began to pile food onto his plate, more for something to do with his hands than because he'd managed to dredge up much appetite. "They don't think I ought to be over here, this not being any of my business and all." Harry wasn't looking at the Gryffindor table as he said this, thus he saw Pansy's indignant expression and figured she probably agreed with his friends though he hadn't actually specified what 'business' he meant. "They think I'm being foolish."
He hadn't been able to give them a good reason for what he was doing, wedging himself into a situation that was very obviously not his business. But when it came to Draco Malfoy, Harry had always been this way. Nosy, interested, and ultimately suspicious. Last year, however, something had shifted. Less suspicion, he supposed, but it went further than that. He'd saved Draco's life and more than once. He'd vouched for Draco before the Wizengamot, and in doing so had, at least in his mind, assumed some sense of responsibility for him.
Draco turned and looked at him for the first time, and raised an eyebrow. "They're right; you are," he replied with a mildness that felt at odds with everything Harry knew about him. "It makes everyone squirm to see you over here, associating with a social exile. I imagine they think I'm corrupting you, even though you were the one who came over. Eat your food," Draco interrupted himself to add. "It's the same as everyone else's, but we'll let them think I'm poisoning you, too."
With a frown, Harry set his fork down, but Pansy spoke before he could. "Draco, you need to shut it, right now. That kind of thing can't be a joke anymore, because there are idiots who will think you're serious. Especially when it comes to Potter here." She gave Harry a forbidding look, but fell short of actually telling him to go away.
And oh, how Draco scowled at her. He glared as he seemed to struggle for words that wouldn't come, because of course she was right. Harry watched him sigh and rub at the crease between his brows with a thumb. "Why don't you just tell us what you want, because Pansy's right, the longer you're here, the more likely I am to get myself into trouble."
It was a reasonable request. So reasonable, in fact, that Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with it or with the fact that he was blindsided when Draco stared him right in the eye. Some of Draco's usual snide animosity would have made this easier because he wouldn't have felt like he was the one breaking this uncertain détente that wavered between them.
"There's something wrong," he began tentatively. "And it's more than just this business of you sitting at the end of the table instead of in the thick of things, where you belong." Harry leaned forward so he could see Pansy's face as well as Draco's, and he lowered his voice to barely above a whisper though no one sitting nearby was making any obvious attempt to eavesdrop. "There's something wrong with you, Malfoy, and it has nothing to do with being outcast, does it?"
Draco's face drained of blood one moment, and turned beet-red with outrage the next, but Pansy only looked terrified-and Harry had honestly expected her to have the better poker face because he fancied himself fairly skilled at reading Draco after seven years. Harry was quick to arrest Draco's indignant tirade before it began. "There is a reason I am coming to you like this, by the way. You obviously don't want anyone to know, and I don't think that's a good idea, either."
Draco bared his teeth, lip curling into his customary sneer. "I have no idea what you're talking about Potter," he bit out. "Are you sure there hasn't been any lasting damage from your battle with the Dark Lord?" he added, familiar nastiness creeping into his voice, though he'd also kept the volume down.
It was something Harry could work with, both the words and their tone, but he tried not to let himself get well and truly angry at Draco's behaviour, because he knew if he had been in Draco's position he would have felt defensive, too. "Actually," he muttered, "I'm absolutely certain there has been lasting damage." He reached out, and as realization dawned in Draco's expression at just what Harry meant to do, Harry seized Draco's left wrist, dragged the arm over into his lap where only he would see, and pushed Draco's sleeve up to the elbow.
The dark mark was gone from the inside of Draco's forearm, but in its place was a swirl of jagged scorch marks, as if a whirlpool had drawn the dark mark into his skin, but only partially. He touched the marks and was shocked to find the texture of the skin smooth, unmarred by what otherwise looked like a blackened burn. It was not what Harry had expected, but then, Harry had not known what to expect. Oh, he knew something was wrong. Hermione had overheard the professors discussing Draco's significant drop in marks-something that was ultimately blamed upon his situation. And, even more telling, Harry had watched Pansy surreptitiously casting for both of them during a Transfiguration class-the new Transfiguration professor didn't have McGonagall's sharp eyes, and hadn't noticed. But it had only been a guess that Draco's troubles related to the mark, rather than something psychological.
Draco tried to yank his arm away, hissing like a cornered cat and snarling a half-formed curse. And Harry held on, Draco's wrist feeling ridiculously fragile in his fingers. The new mark was not ugly in the way the skull and serpent had been, but it was still ugly and Harry was finding it difficult to tear his eyes away. All at once, Pansy reached around Draco to pinch Harry at the ribs, hard enough to bruise, and from the look on Draco's face she was doing the same to him.
"You are very close to causing a scene," she whispered harshly. "I think that's something we all want to avoid." Draco froze, and Harry's grip on him relaxed enough that when, moments later, he tried again to tug his arm away, this time Harry let it go. Pansy still had about two inches of his flesh in a grip that brought tears to his eyes, and she leaned across Draco until she was so close he could see she had a handful of light brown freckles across the bridge of her snub nose. "Potter, you need to leave. Now. We will stay and finish our meal like civilized human beings."
"You aren't going to be able to cover for him forever," Harry argued, squirming out of her grip and slapping her hand away. He focused a glare on Draco, who looked torn between half a dozen expressions flickering through fear, anger, and bemusement. "Sooner or later, a teacher is going to notice, and then where will you be?"
"Just what do you suggest, then?" Draco bit out sharply. "Do you really think I haven't exhausted my options? Why do you even care?"
That drew Harry up short, because he had been asking himself the same thing. He remembered snatchers dragging him into Malfoy Manor, Draco being forced to identify his grossly distorted face, and Draco lying about his identity even though Harry had seen recognition in those grey eyes. But somehow that didn't cover it, because his testimony before the Wizengamot should have more than repaid what Draco had done. "Pansy's right," he stalled. "We need to separate before I get us into trouble. But we're not done talking."
"I couldn't be so lucky…" he heard Draco mutter under his breath. "Fine," Draco added a moment later, from between gritted teeth. "Leave now, and I will meet you later tonight."
"Where and when?"
"Nine o'clock at That Room. You know the one."
"The Room of Requirement?" Harry supplied.
Draco waved a hand impatiently and then tugged at his sleeve to make sure it hadn't slipped up to bare his arm again. "Yes, yes that's the one. McGonagall is staring at us, Potter," he added with pointed impatience.
And though Harry knew there was probably only a fifty percent chance of Draco actually meeting him later, he got up and crossed back towards the Gryffindor table like he'd been told. Part of him wanted to bypass his housemates entirely, because he knew he wasn't going to have any of the answers Hermione and Ron wanted, but he knew he couldn't avoid them for long, either. And he thought it might actually be an easier conversation if he could field it with, 'I don't know'-s. He definitely wouldn't be telling anyone he had plans to see Draco later on that evening. Harry didn't like keeping secrets from his friends, but he decided he'd tell them when he had a better idea himself what was really going on.
It was closer to ten o'clock by the time Draco showed up, but Harry had expected the delay, watching the dot on the Marauder's Map labeled 'Draco Malfoy' pace circles through a room in the dungeons for almost an hour before the boy in question finally appeared to make up his mind to come. "You didn't have to wait in the corridor," Draco told him sullenly upon arrival. "I'd say I know how to use That Room at least as well as you do."
"That isn't why I waited," Harry argued. "I thought you'd like some input creating the Room."
Draco blinked like he'd been startled, then rolled his eyes and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Let's just get this pointless conversation over with." He gestured to the corridor in front of them and the bare wall that hid the Room of Requirement, and Harry matched Draco step for step as they paced back and forth, concentrating on possibilities for what they might need for this…whatever 'this' was that they were going to have.
The room that resulted, well, it reminded Harry of the one in which he'd conducted his DA meetings, except that it appeared to be a strange amalgamation of all of their classrooms, not just one devoted to Defense Against the Dark Arts, and even included a fairly extensive Potions lab in the back corner-which evoked nothing but resentment in Harry, who, without Snape's Potions text was having his usual trouble with the subject. The front and middle were lined with thick foam padding along the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. The back of the room had floor-to-ceiling shelves except in the corner with the workbench. At a glance, those shelves contained everything from textbooks to Potions ingredients to a variety of the small items they used for Charms work and cages containing the live animals they'd been working with in Transfiguration. It was, all in all, a much better Room than what he'd been given for the DA, but Harry had to wonder if the Room had been somehow damaged by the fiendfyre, because he was quite certain this wasn't what he'd been thinking about at all. Glancing sideways at Draco, he thought this might not be the other boy's doing, either.
Draco looked absolutely murderous. He stalked a circuit of the room and came back to glare into Harry's face. "So you think you're going to teach me, do you?" Harry's lips parted in shock at the accusation, and he shook his head quickly in the negative. Draco either didn't believe him or didn't notice. "This is not simply a case of incompetence; I know the spells and how to cast them."
"I never said you didn't," Harry inserted in a rush, but Draco only curled his lip into a sneer in response.
"This Room says enough." Draco waved a hand dismissively. "You were right about one thing though. There's something wrong with me. Magic isn't easy like it should be." Harry opened his mouth, and Draco quelled his words with a baleful look. "Say you cast a disarm-it's almost always the first spell you use, right?-I'm disarmed almost before the word is out of your mouth. You don't have to concentrate to make it work, it just does-you can even cast it under fire. Spells that should come to me as naturally as breathing can backfire, if they even work at all. I have to focus like I'm learning a new spell every single time I try to cast, and even that doesn't always help."
Draco was near to shouting by the time he finished, and he and Harry only stood about a foot apart, but Harry didn't even twitch. He was trapped in a horrified silence, because this was the sort of misdirected fury he could identify with, at least in part. It was the rage of grief, and though a person hadn't died in Draco's case, Harry could tell that the other boy felt as if someone had and justifiably so, he thought. He could remember the way Sirius's death had felt when it had been fresh, and the way he'd lashed out at even his friends. But Draco's was a secret anguish, and Harry wondered if the other boy had voiced any of this to Pansy, because it felt very fresh to him, the pain raw and unfinished. "Maybe," Harry said quietly, "the Room wanted to give you someplace to practice so no one would find out the trouble you're having."
Draco barked a sharp, dry, joyless laugh. "I shouldn't need to practice! Not like this. But it's like the connection to my magic is severed, and I have to struggle to find the pathway each time I cast. How can I practice that?" He shouted the last, as if the Room itself might answer.
Harry reached out and gripped Draco's narrow shoulders, gave him a shake. "You just do. Who knows? It may even help." Draco was breathing hard, as if he'd been sprinting, and seemed to vibrate with some kind of restrained energy beneath Harry's fingers. He couldn't find a way to let go without making it obvious he'd already held on too long, so he kept his grip and tried not to look at it too closely.
"You are the last person who should be giving me advice," Draco snarled. He fisted a hand in the front of Harry's robes, dragging him even closer. "This is all your fault! It was like his mark detonated when you killed him. My father," he hissed, "cannot do any magic at all!"
And suddenly, Harry's blood was boiling. "Your father would probably be dead right now if I hadn't spoken at his hearing," he ground out, and wasn't even surprised when Draco punched him in the jaw. He was shocked that it was the hardest he'd ever been hit, and he swayed on his feet before Draco punched him a second time and he dropped to one knee on the padded floor. Whole face throbbing, he lurched forward and took Draco out at the knees, tackling and pinning him so he couldn't punch Harry again. "Did you really want Voldemort to win, then?" Harry growled around a swelling lip. "Lest we forget, you didn't make a very good lackey. You'd probably be dead right now if he wasn't."
Draco twisted and squirmed, grunting and snarling, but Harry had at least three stone on him and was crouched on his stomach. The thrashing of his legs did nothing, and his wrists were trapped beneath Harry's fingers. "Shut up, Potter!" he shouted, right up into Harry's face. "Just shut up! How do you know that wouldn't be better?"
"You can still do magic, can't you?" Harry demanded, only centimeters away. "It might be difficult, but you still can. He didn't manage to take everything from you," he added softly. Draco stopped struggling so hard, and Harry loosened his grip on the other boy's wrists-more on reflex than out of fear of hurting him. He almost instantly regretted it, because Draco tensed up and Harry felt it with his whole body; he thought he was about to get clocked again.
But though Draco's expression was still intense, he no longer looked precisely angry. "You really believe that, don't you?" Draco murmured, his voice a revelation. Harry opened his mouth to answer, and Draco arched up and kissed him, hard and needy. He pulled his wrists from Harry's grip and reached up to dig his fingers into the muscles of Harry's shoulders, hard enough to bruise.
Harry tried to pull away, but only once and more from shock than anything else. He found himself returning the kiss as his brain raced to catch up, moaning softly at the way it made his already-sore jaw ache. Draco's tongue was in his mouth and it tasted sweet. He sucked on it tentatively and caught the flavour of cream and chocolate. Draco sighed softly into his mouth, hummed against his lips, and held on as if he thought Harry was going somewhere, or, worse, would take back everything he'd said.
"Let me up, Potter," Draco mumbled, nipping at Harry's lips and thoroughly making a nuisance of himself because of course he didn't actually let go of Harry to make things any easier. Harry shifted to the side from where he'd been sitting on Draco's stomach, kneeling beside the other boy's hips, and Draco used his death-grip on Harry's shoulders to pull himself into a sitting position.
They were still kissing-Draco had barely allowed for a breath of pause even amidst their shifting positions-but suddenly Harry found his lap full of warm boy, and Draco's arms tangled around his neck, and fingers clenching in his hair hard enough that it fell just short of stinging. Harry squirmed a little, because he'd started to get aroused the moment Draco's weight settled on his thighs, but he didn't think Draco had actually considered the possible consequences of his actions-Harry certainly hadn't anticipated finding this position so stimulating and didn't want to embarrass either one of them when Draco realized he was getting hard. "Malfoy…" he panted, and their teeth clicked painfully because apparently Draco hadn't expected Harry to attempt to talk. He was trying to shift Draco off him without breaking the kiss or its momentum, with limited success. Namely, none.
With a low little growl, Draco settled himself more firmly on Harry's lap, their hips pressed flush. And then Draco did interrupt their kiss to lean his head back and give Harry a sleepy-eyed little smirk. "That seems like it could get pretty uncomfortable," he murmured in a husky purr that should have sounded quite ridiculous but nonetheless made Harry's cock twitch with interest. Harry tried to swallow, and nearly choked on his tongue when he felt Draco's hands inside his robes, unfastening his trousers.
He froze, his mind gone hopelessly blank as he tried to figure out what to do. But with Draco's fingers so tantalizingly close to exactly where Harry wanted them, there was only one thing to do: let Draco have his way. Which was how Harry found himself tripping through Draco Malfoy's buttons faster than thought, his fingers quivering because Draco had been faster, sweaty palm already cupping him.
Draco wasn't as hard as Harry was when he managed to free the other boy from the confines of robes and trousers, but Harry quickly made up the difference with a hand that was more practiced on his own flesh. Draco didn't complain, though, inching closer until their knuckles bumped as they lightly stroked one another.
Their breathing was harsh in the quiet room, and they made no attempt to kiss each other. Draco's cheeks were flushed with high colour, and he rocked in Harry's lap in time with their pace-which had unintentionally synchronized. Harry thought he was probably blushing too, because he couldn't look away from Draco's face despite some faint embarrassment, but staring at Draco was pretty standard for him. And Draco seemed to be used to it, too, because his eyes flashed with both arrogance and pleasure, nothing awkward in any movement of his body or the twist of his parted lips. Then, to Harry's amazement, Draco brought his hand to his mouth and spit, several times, into his palm before gathering both their lengths together in his fingers and stroking them both.
Harry groaned, torn between leaning back and using his hands for support, and running his fingers through Draco's hair. In the end, he opted for both, resting his weight upon his left arm, his right hand buried in Draco's hair, mussing it hopelessly. His fingers cradled the back of Draco's skull, and his hips jerked convulsively with the movement of Draco's hand.
The slip and slide of their flesh was the best thing Harry had ever felt; Draco's cock was hotter than his palm, the skin softer and much smoother. Briefly it occurred to Harry that it might feel even better if he conjured a proper lubricant. He squinted at Draco through eyes narrowed in pleasure. Draco's eyes were shut tight in concentration, lower lip trapped between his teeth. No, he was close, they both were, and magic wasn't necessary.
He barked a surprised cough as Draco hissed and increased their pace. Harry shivered, his nails scraping along Draco's scalp, the back of his neck, stuttering little convulsions. He grunted between his teeth when he came, spurting all over Draco's wrist, smearing down both their cocks because Draco only wanked them faster in spite of the way it made Harry shudder with aftershocks.
Draco finished after only a few more strokes, swallowing his moan though there was no risk of anyone overhearing. He'd thrown back his head wantonly, and Harry ducked in to nip lightly at the pale column of his throat, leaving a trail of little pink bite marks, because apparently Draco marked easy. Draco allowed himself to be toppled onto his back, arching his head back to bare his throat for Harry's lazy ministrations.
"There is one thing that confuses me," Draco murmured in a slow, thoughtful voice. Harry, who was laving his tongue over Draco's Adam's apple, felt the words just slightly before he heard them. "I understand the padding, the shelves of books and equipment for Charms and Transfiguration…" He pointed to the Potions lab, which he was staring at upside-down. "I don't understand that. Potions is the one class that gives me no trouble, because there are only a handful of potions that require any wandwork to brew, and we haven't studied any of them this year." Harry followed Draco's finger, looked on the Potions lab with chagrin. Professor Slughorn had expressed extreme displeasure with the drop in Harry's Potions mark between sixth year and the current term, though the man was just as quick to excuse him for it.
"Maybe the Room thought we might work together." Harry's eyes trailed unwittingly to Draco's hand, and the smeared mess of his fingers, and a small smile twisted his lips. "What do you say? You help me with Potions, and you can practice spells with me." His eyes kept straying to Draco's hand, though-Draco was taking deliberate care not to touch anything with it. Harry took Draco lightly by the wrist and tentatively sucked the tip of his index finger. Draco gasped and stared at him, but the taste wasn't wholly unpleasant, so Harry didn't stop. "I think I'll take that as a, 'Yes'." Harry's eyes glinted. "Unless you think I'll be too distracting?"
~Fin.
Author: skellywag
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: A little less plot than I would normally prefer, and a blatant disregard of The Epilogue (though the events of this fic occur well beforehand). It's an *ahem* eighth-year fic. *shudder*
A/N: So this was written ages ago, for teshara, for hpvalensmut. Been pretty lazy about reposting things in my journal. Oh well. Beta-ed by the lovely fitz-y, whom I adore forever and ever.
This was not how he'd wanted to do things. He'd been biding his time, but all eyes had been on the Slytherins since the new term had begun. During classes and meals, and even in the corridors. They didn't linger long in classrooms after lessons or in the hallways, and it didn't appear that the situation would change any time soon. The other houses watched them like those who have been stung before, even if the wasps in question were Slytherins who were minding their own business and keeping to themselves. Because the Slytherins kept to themselves, and because the other houses watched them overtly, Harry was very aware of his audience as he crossed the Great Hall to the Slytherin table. Being back at Hogwarts meant being in close quarters with people who considered him the Chosen One, and he had to silently remind himself he was glad that the Ministry of Magic had extended no special treatment to him when it came to relaxing the N.E.W.T. requirements for Auror training.
No chance of hero worship on this side of the room. Harry walked along the Slytherin table, and the Slytherins' eyes followed him, with thinly veiled (if at all) suspicion. Justifiable suspicion, he supposed. No one from the other houses wanted anything to do with Slytherin, so what was he doing over at their table? Harry was beginning to wonder that same thing as he withstood their glares to reach the far end of the long table.
Draco Malfoy sat at the end of the table, with only Pansy Parkinson for company. Where only a year ago he might have been at the middle of the table, thronged with admirers. Of course, Draco was the only Slytherin in the school that had worn the Dark Lord's mark, and was the reason the rest of his house was treated so very carefully. It made a kind of sense that his own house was loath to consort with him now. Harry sat down next to Draco, trying to appear as though he belonged there, and though Pansy, on Draco's other side, appeared less than pleased, Draco didn't even look surprised.
"Come to eat dinner with Pansy and me?" Draco's tone spoke more of weariness than hostility, and he gestured to the empty plate in front of Harry in invitation. "I'm surprised Granger and Weasley didn't come as well, in a show of the solidarity my own house is lacking."
Harry began to pile food onto his plate, more for something to do with his hands than because he'd managed to dredge up much appetite. "They don't think I ought to be over here, this not being any of my business and all." Harry wasn't looking at the Gryffindor table as he said this, thus he saw Pansy's indignant expression and figured she probably agreed with his friends though he hadn't actually specified what 'business' he meant. "They think I'm being foolish."
He hadn't been able to give them a good reason for what he was doing, wedging himself into a situation that was very obviously not his business. But when it came to Draco Malfoy, Harry had always been this way. Nosy, interested, and ultimately suspicious. Last year, however, something had shifted. Less suspicion, he supposed, but it went further than that. He'd saved Draco's life and more than once. He'd vouched for Draco before the Wizengamot, and in doing so had, at least in his mind, assumed some sense of responsibility for him.
Draco turned and looked at him for the first time, and raised an eyebrow. "They're right; you are," he replied with a mildness that felt at odds with everything Harry knew about him. "It makes everyone squirm to see you over here, associating with a social exile. I imagine they think I'm corrupting you, even though you were the one who came over. Eat your food," Draco interrupted himself to add. "It's the same as everyone else's, but we'll let them think I'm poisoning you, too."
With a frown, Harry set his fork down, but Pansy spoke before he could. "Draco, you need to shut it, right now. That kind of thing can't be a joke anymore, because there are idiots who will think you're serious. Especially when it comes to Potter here." She gave Harry a forbidding look, but fell short of actually telling him to go away.
And oh, how Draco scowled at her. He glared as he seemed to struggle for words that wouldn't come, because of course she was right. Harry watched him sigh and rub at the crease between his brows with a thumb. "Why don't you just tell us what you want, because Pansy's right, the longer you're here, the more likely I am to get myself into trouble."
It was a reasonable request. So reasonable, in fact, that Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with it or with the fact that he was blindsided when Draco stared him right in the eye. Some of Draco's usual snide animosity would have made this easier because he wouldn't have felt like he was the one breaking this uncertain détente that wavered between them.
"There's something wrong," he began tentatively. "And it's more than just this business of you sitting at the end of the table instead of in the thick of things, where you belong." Harry leaned forward so he could see Pansy's face as well as Draco's, and he lowered his voice to barely above a whisper though no one sitting nearby was making any obvious attempt to eavesdrop. "There's something wrong with you, Malfoy, and it has nothing to do with being outcast, does it?"
Draco's face drained of blood one moment, and turned beet-red with outrage the next, but Pansy only looked terrified-and Harry had honestly expected her to have the better poker face because he fancied himself fairly skilled at reading Draco after seven years. Harry was quick to arrest Draco's indignant tirade before it began. "There is a reason I am coming to you like this, by the way. You obviously don't want anyone to know, and I don't think that's a good idea, either."
Draco bared his teeth, lip curling into his customary sneer. "I have no idea what you're talking about Potter," he bit out. "Are you sure there hasn't been any lasting damage from your battle with the Dark Lord?" he added, familiar nastiness creeping into his voice, though he'd also kept the volume down.
It was something Harry could work with, both the words and their tone, but he tried not to let himself get well and truly angry at Draco's behaviour, because he knew if he had been in Draco's position he would have felt defensive, too. "Actually," he muttered, "I'm absolutely certain there has been lasting damage." He reached out, and as realization dawned in Draco's expression at just what Harry meant to do, Harry seized Draco's left wrist, dragged the arm over into his lap where only he would see, and pushed Draco's sleeve up to the elbow.
The dark mark was gone from the inside of Draco's forearm, but in its place was a swirl of jagged scorch marks, as if a whirlpool had drawn the dark mark into his skin, but only partially. He touched the marks and was shocked to find the texture of the skin smooth, unmarred by what otherwise looked like a blackened burn. It was not what Harry had expected, but then, Harry had not known what to expect. Oh, he knew something was wrong. Hermione had overheard the professors discussing Draco's significant drop in marks-something that was ultimately blamed upon his situation. And, even more telling, Harry had watched Pansy surreptitiously casting for both of them during a Transfiguration class-the new Transfiguration professor didn't have McGonagall's sharp eyes, and hadn't noticed. But it had only been a guess that Draco's troubles related to the mark, rather than something psychological.
Draco tried to yank his arm away, hissing like a cornered cat and snarling a half-formed curse. And Harry held on, Draco's wrist feeling ridiculously fragile in his fingers. The new mark was not ugly in the way the skull and serpent had been, but it was still ugly and Harry was finding it difficult to tear his eyes away. All at once, Pansy reached around Draco to pinch Harry at the ribs, hard enough to bruise, and from the look on Draco's face she was doing the same to him.
"You are very close to causing a scene," she whispered harshly. "I think that's something we all want to avoid." Draco froze, and Harry's grip on him relaxed enough that when, moments later, he tried again to tug his arm away, this time Harry let it go. Pansy still had about two inches of his flesh in a grip that brought tears to his eyes, and she leaned across Draco until she was so close he could see she had a handful of light brown freckles across the bridge of her snub nose. "Potter, you need to leave. Now. We will stay and finish our meal like civilized human beings."
"You aren't going to be able to cover for him forever," Harry argued, squirming out of her grip and slapping her hand away. He focused a glare on Draco, who looked torn between half a dozen expressions flickering through fear, anger, and bemusement. "Sooner or later, a teacher is going to notice, and then where will you be?"
"Just what do you suggest, then?" Draco bit out sharply. "Do you really think I haven't exhausted my options? Why do you even care?"
That drew Harry up short, because he had been asking himself the same thing. He remembered snatchers dragging him into Malfoy Manor, Draco being forced to identify his grossly distorted face, and Draco lying about his identity even though Harry had seen recognition in those grey eyes. But somehow that didn't cover it, because his testimony before the Wizengamot should have more than repaid what Draco had done. "Pansy's right," he stalled. "We need to separate before I get us into trouble. But we're not done talking."
"I couldn't be so lucky…" he heard Draco mutter under his breath. "Fine," Draco added a moment later, from between gritted teeth. "Leave now, and I will meet you later tonight."
"Where and when?"
"Nine o'clock at That Room. You know the one."
"The Room of Requirement?" Harry supplied.
Draco waved a hand impatiently and then tugged at his sleeve to make sure it hadn't slipped up to bare his arm again. "Yes, yes that's the one. McGonagall is staring at us, Potter," he added with pointed impatience.
And though Harry knew there was probably only a fifty percent chance of Draco actually meeting him later, he got up and crossed back towards the Gryffindor table like he'd been told. Part of him wanted to bypass his housemates entirely, because he knew he wasn't going to have any of the answers Hermione and Ron wanted, but he knew he couldn't avoid them for long, either. And he thought it might actually be an easier conversation if he could field it with, 'I don't know'-s. He definitely wouldn't be telling anyone he had plans to see Draco later on that evening. Harry didn't like keeping secrets from his friends, but he decided he'd tell them when he had a better idea himself what was really going on.
It was closer to ten o'clock by the time Draco showed up, but Harry had expected the delay, watching the dot on the Marauder's Map labeled 'Draco Malfoy' pace circles through a room in the dungeons for almost an hour before the boy in question finally appeared to make up his mind to come. "You didn't have to wait in the corridor," Draco told him sullenly upon arrival. "I'd say I know how to use That Room at least as well as you do."
"That isn't why I waited," Harry argued. "I thought you'd like some input creating the Room."
Draco blinked like he'd been startled, then rolled his eyes and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Let's just get this pointless conversation over with." He gestured to the corridor in front of them and the bare wall that hid the Room of Requirement, and Harry matched Draco step for step as they paced back and forth, concentrating on possibilities for what they might need for this…whatever 'this' was that they were going to have.
The room that resulted, well, it reminded Harry of the one in which he'd conducted his DA meetings, except that it appeared to be a strange amalgamation of all of their classrooms, not just one devoted to Defense Against the Dark Arts, and even included a fairly extensive Potions lab in the back corner-which evoked nothing but resentment in Harry, who, without Snape's Potions text was having his usual trouble with the subject. The front and middle were lined with thick foam padding along the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. The back of the room had floor-to-ceiling shelves except in the corner with the workbench. At a glance, those shelves contained everything from textbooks to Potions ingredients to a variety of the small items they used for Charms work and cages containing the live animals they'd been working with in Transfiguration. It was, all in all, a much better Room than what he'd been given for the DA, but Harry had to wonder if the Room had been somehow damaged by the fiendfyre, because he was quite certain this wasn't what he'd been thinking about at all. Glancing sideways at Draco, he thought this might not be the other boy's doing, either.
Draco looked absolutely murderous. He stalked a circuit of the room and came back to glare into Harry's face. "So you think you're going to teach me, do you?" Harry's lips parted in shock at the accusation, and he shook his head quickly in the negative. Draco either didn't believe him or didn't notice. "This is not simply a case of incompetence; I know the spells and how to cast them."
"I never said you didn't," Harry inserted in a rush, but Draco only curled his lip into a sneer in response.
"This Room says enough." Draco waved a hand dismissively. "You were right about one thing though. There's something wrong with me. Magic isn't easy like it should be." Harry opened his mouth, and Draco quelled his words with a baleful look. "Say you cast a disarm-it's almost always the first spell you use, right?-I'm disarmed almost before the word is out of your mouth. You don't have to concentrate to make it work, it just does-you can even cast it under fire. Spells that should come to me as naturally as breathing can backfire, if they even work at all. I have to focus like I'm learning a new spell every single time I try to cast, and even that doesn't always help."
Draco was near to shouting by the time he finished, and he and Harry only stood about a foot apart, but Harry didn't even twitch. He was trapped in a horrified silence, because this was the sort of misdirected fury he could identify with, at least in part. It was the rage of grief, and though a person hadn't died in Draco's case, Harry could tell that the other boy felt as if someone had and justifiably so, he thought. He could remember the way Sirius's death had felt when it had been fresh, and the way he'd lashed out at even his friends. But Draco's was a secret anguish, and Harry wondered if the other boy had voiced any of this to Pansy, because it felt very fresh to him, the pain raw and unfinished. "Maybe," Harry said quietly, "the Room wanted to give you someplace to practice so no one would find out the trouble you're having."
Draco barked a sharp, dry, joyless laugh. "I shouldn't need to practice! Not like this. But it's like the connection to my magic is severed, and I have to struggle to find the pathway each time I cast. How can I practice that?" He shouted the last, as if the Room itself might answer.
Harry reached out and gripped Draco's narrow shoulders, gave him a shake. "You just do. Who knows? It may even help." Draco was breathing hard, as if he'd been sprinting, and seemed to vibrate with some kind of restrained energy beneath Harry's fingers. He couldn't find a way to let go without making it obvious he'd already held on too long, so he kept his grip and tried not to look at it too closely.
"You are the last person who should be giving me advice," Draco snarled. He fisted a hand in the front of Harry's robes, dragging him even closer. "This is all your fault! It was like his mark detonated when you killed him. My father," he hissed, "cannot do any magic at all!"
And suddenly, Harry's blood was boiling. "Your father would probably be dead right now if I hadn't spoken at his hearing," he ground out, and wasn't even surprised when Draco punched him in the jaw. He was shocked that it was the hardest he'd ever been hit, and he swayed on his feet before Draco punched him a second time and he dropped to one knee on the padded floor. Whole face throbbing, he lurched forward and took Draco out at the knees, tackling and pinning him so he couldn't punch Harry again. "Did you really want Voldemort to win, then?" Harry growled around a swelling lip. "Lest we forget, you didn't make a very good lackey. You'd probably be dead right now if he wasn't."
Draco twisted and squirmed, grunting and snarling, but Harry had at least three stone on him and was crouched on his stomach. The thrashing of his legs did nothing, and his wrists were trapped beneath Harry's fingers. "Shut up, Potter!" he shouted, right up into Harry's face. "Just shut up! How do you know that wouldn't be better?"
"You can still do magic, can't you?" Harry demanded, only centimeters away. "It might be difficult, but you still can. He didn't manage to take everything from you," he added softly. Draco stopped struggling so hard, and Harry loosened his grip on the other boy's wrists-more on reflex than out of fear of hurting him. He almost instantly regretted it, because Draco tensed up and Harry felt it with his whole body; he thought he was about to get clocked again.
But though Draco's expression was still intense, he no longer looked precisely angry. "You really believe that, don't you?" Draco murmured, his voice a revelation. Harry opened his mouth to answer, and Draco arched up and kissed him, hard and needy. He pulled his wrists from Harry's grip and reached up to dig his fingers into the muscles of Harry's shoulders, hard enough to bruise.
Harry tried to pull away, but only once and more from shock than anything else. He found himself returning the kiss as his brain raced to catch up, moaning softly at the way it made his already-sore jaw ache. Draco's tongue was in his mouth and it tasted sweet. He sucked on it tentatively and caught the flavour of cream and chocolate. Draco sighed softly into his mouth, hummed against his lips, and held on as if he thought Harry was going somewhere, or, worse, would take back everything he'd said.
"Let me up, Potter," Draco mumbled, nipping at Harry's lips and thoroughly making a nuisance of himself because of course he didn't actually let go of Harry to make things any easier. Harry shifted to the side from where he'd been sitting on Draco's stomach, kneeling beside the other boy's hips, and Draco used his death-grip on Harry's shoulders to pull himself into a sitting position.
They were still kissing-Draco had barely allowed for a breath of pause even amidst their shifting positions-but suddenly Harry found his lap full of warm boy, and Draco's arms tangled around his neck, and fingers clenching in his hair hard enough that it fell just short of stinging. Harry squirmed a little, because he'd started to get aroused the moment Draco's weight settled on his thighs, but he didn't think Draco had actually considered the possible consequences of his actions-Harry certainly hadn't anticipated finding this position so stimulating and didn't want to embarrass either one of them when Draco realized he was getting hard. "Malfoy…" he panted, and their teeth clicked painfully because apparently Draco hadn't expected Harry to attempt to talk. He was trying to shift Draco off him without breaking the kiss or its momentum, with limited success. Namely, none.
With a low little growl, Draco settled himself more firmly on Harry's lap, their hips pressed flush. And then Draco did interrupt their kiss to lean his head back and give Harry a sleepy-eyed little smirk. "That seems like it could get pretty uncomfortable," he murmured in a husky purr that should have sounded quite ridiculous but nonetheless made Harry's cock twitch with interest. Harry tried to swallow, and nearly choked on his tongue when he felt Draco's hands inside his robes, unfastening his trousers.
He froze, his mind gone hopelessly blank as he tried to figure out what to do. But with Draco's fingers so tantalizingly close to exactly where Harry wanted them, there was only one thing to do: let Draco have his way. Which was how Harry found himself tripping through Draco Malfoy's buttons faster than thought, his fingers quivering because Draco had been faster, sweaty palm already cupping him.
Draco wasn't as hard as Harry was when he managed to free the other boy from the confines of robes and trousers, but Harry quickly made up the difference with a hand that was more practiced on his own flesh. Draco didn't complain, though, inching closer until their knuckles bumped as they lightly stroked one another.
Their breathing was harsh in the quiet room, and they made no attempt to kiss each other. Draco's cheeks were flushed with high colour, and he rocked in Harry's lap in time with their pace-which had unintentionally synchronized. Harry thought he was probably blushing too, because he couldn't look away from Draco's face despite some faint embarrassment, but staring at Draco was pretty standard for him. And Draco seemed to be used to it, too, because his eyes flashed with both arrogance and pleasure, nothing awkward in any movement of his body or the twist of his parted lips. Then, to Harry's amazement, Draco brought his hand to his mouth and spit, several times, into his palm before gathering both their lengths together in his fingers and stroking them both.
Harry groaned, torn between leaning back and using his hands for support, and running his fingers through Draco's hair. In the end, he opted for both, resting his weight upon his left arm, his right hand buried in Draco's hair, mussing it hopelessly. His fingers cradled the back of Draco's skull, and his hips jerked convulsively with the movement of Draco's hand.
The slip and slide of their flesh was the best thing Harry had ever felt; Draco's cock was hotter than his palm, the skin softer and much smoother. Briefly it occurred to Harry that it might feel even better if he conjured a proper lubricant. He squinted at Draco through eyes narrowed in pleasure. Draco's eyes were shut tight in concentration, lower lip trapped between his teeth. No, he was close, they both were, and magic wasn't necessary.
He barked a surprised cough as Draco hissed and increased their pace. Harry shivered, his nails scraping along Draco's scalp, the back of his neck, stuttering little convulsions. He grunted between his teeth when he came, spurting all over Draco's wrist, smearing down both their cocks because Draco only wanked them faster in spite of the way it made Harry shudder with aftershocks.
Draco finished after only a few more strokes, swallowing his moan though there was no risk of anyone overhearing. He'd thrown back his head wantonly, and Harry ducked in to nip lightly at the pale column of his throat, leaving a trail of little pink bite marks, because apparently Draco marked easy. Draco allowed himself to be toppled onto his back, arching his head back to bare his throat for Harry's lazy ministrations.
"There is one thing that confuses me," Draco murmured in a slow, thoughtful voice. Harry, who was laving his tongue over Draco's Adam's apple, felt the words just slightly before he heard them. "I understand the padding, the shelves of books and equipment for Charms and Transfiguration…" He pointed to the Potions lab, which he was staring at upside-down. "I don't understand that. Potions is the one class that gives me no trouble, because there are only a handful of potions that require any wandwork to brew, and we haven't studied any of them this year." Harry followed Draco's finger, looked on the Potions lab with chagrin. Professor Slughorn had expressed extreme displeasure with the drop in Harry's Potions mark between sixth year and the current term, though the man was just as quick to excuse him for it.
"Maybe the Room thought we might work together." Harry's eyes trailed unwittingly to Draco's hand, and the smeared mess of his fingers, and a small smile twisted his lips. "What do you say? You help me with Potions, and you can practice spells with me." His eyes kept straying to Draco's hand, though-Draco was taking deliberate care not to touch anything with it. Harry took Draco lightly by the wrist and tentatively sucked the tip of his index finger. Draco gasped and stared at him, but the taste wasn't wholly unpleasant, so Harry didn't stop. "I think I'll take that as a, 'Yes'." Harry's eyes glinted. "Unless you think I'll be too distracting?"
~Fin.