FIC: Let Me Have You and I’ll Let You Save Me (R)
Title: Let Me Have You and I’ll Let You Save Me
Author: frayach
Prompt: # 135: Draco enjoys pushing Harry to the darkness, but he is ultimately the one to pull him back to the light and finds light in himself at the same time.
Rating: R
Warnings: please note the prompt and the Author's Notes; darkish!Draco
Word Count: 6K
Summary: Draco keeps coming back, and Harry keeps letting him. Draco can’t stay away, and Harry can’t live without him.
Author’s Notes: kitty_fic prompted Dark or Grey!Harry, but the Harry in this story is more Light!Grey!Harry. A super-special hug to my beta (she knows who she is). K, the prompt and the fic don’t completely overlap, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I know I had a blast writing it.
Let Me Have You and I’ll Let You Save Me
Harry will never be less than a tad ambivalent about Draco. Draco’s a tangled razor-tongued ruptured blister of a man, tart as a lemon, dark as a Nox, and as messy as a full bin blown over in a gale. He swoops into Harry’s life unannounced, deposits his trunk on the couch, and turns Harry’s flat into a Room of Forbidden Things. Belching books. Candles whose flames burn light instead of oxygen. A Banshee’s skull that screams if you open the drapes. The teeth of circus clowns, and once, a toad in a velvet coat that walked on its back legs and recited obscure sonnets with a nasal tone. His sense of entitlement knows no bounds, and he’s usually running from someone or something, but insists that if Harry doesn’t know the details, he can’t be accused of giving aid and comfort to a fugitive. He uses his “Wanted” notices as stationary and keeps Evil Eyes in the breadbox. Once he left a mummified hand on the coffee table that Harry only discovered when Ron found it under a Quidditch mag.
What’s more, Draco still isn’t nice. He’s a shameless gossip who knows the Minister’s going to fart before the Minister even feels the rumble in his bowels. At least a quarter of his vocabulary consists of words Harry’s never heard before, and he sighs like a martyr when Harry asks what they mean. He mocks everything Harry owns and manages to break all of his Muggle appliances no matter how brief his visit. If he Floos in after midnight and finds someone in Harry’s bed, he gives the poor bloke boils and threatens to cast a dick-shrinking spell if he ever dares look at Harry again - let alone touch him. It’s happened so many times that Harry no longer brings home one-night stands, although it’s just as bad if Draco shows up and Harry isn’t there. When that happens, Draco does things so wicked it requires Harry to refurnish his flat or Obliviate his neighbours, or both. Once he’d even had to move.
Just steal it, Draco says if they go shopping and Harry picks up something but decides not to buy it. Just eat it, he says if he’s cooked something Harry suspects will make him ill. Just watch it, he says when he pours a disturbing memory into Harry’s Pensieve. Just do it, he says about pretty much everything else.
He keeps two t-shirts at Harry’s flat. One reads “I’m The Bloke Your Mum Warned You About” and the other merely reads “Menace,” but he can fuck Harry so long and tenderly that Harry’s bones melt like butter.
Draco will never be less than a tad ambivalent about Harry. Harry’s a righteous spiny pigheaded tornado of a man, as sweet as treacle tart, less subtle than a Sonorus, and as irritatingly predictable as a bad novel. He thinks salt and pepper are spices, and forgets to empty his pockets before doing his laundry. The Weasley matriarch cleans his flat, and even worse, he lets her. All of his secrets can be found in the drawer of his bedside table, including a tube of black currant-flavoured lube. If Draco wanted arse that tastes like fruit, he’d rim a bloody strawberry. Everything Harry owns looks like a schoolboy’s mother bought it. His sheets are tartan, his pots and pans are cheap, and his soap comes in packs of twelve. He’s a human furnace and keeps the windows open even in January, killing his houseplants. The most exotic thing he’ll eat is chips with curry sauce, and he uses an electric clock, which he insists on repairing even though he knows Draco hates the glowing numbers and will break it again the next time he visits. He grouses when challenged, guffaws at adverts that aren’t funny, and leaves his pants on the floor after taking a shower.
What’s more, Harry is still a prick. He’s an Auror but he’s too full of himself to bother washing - or even buttoning - his uniform. He smirks and then denies it and has no compunction about passing judgment on things about which he’s stubbornly incurious and proudly knows nothing. He gets outraged at the drop of a hat and stomps around his flat in his Chudley Canon pyjamas, shaking the Prophet and railing against imaginary injustices. Harry would be gorgeous in a burlap sack, but neither orange nor outrage suit him - they never have.
Just shut it, Harry says when Draco wins an argument. Just pay it, he says when Draco questions a price. Just deal with it, he says when Draco complains about his scratchy towels. Just go, he says when Draco makes him lose his temper.
He keeps two photographs in the aforementioned drawer. One is of his parents. The other is of Draco. Harry will never know, but the only time Draco ever questions the life he’s chosen is when Harry’s door closes behind him.
Draco is a dreadful houseguest. He’s a whirlwind of clutter and demands. He goes to bed too late and gets up too early and insists Harry launder the sheets after every time they shag. He doesn’t like takeaway, but neither does he cook, and he refuses to let Harry watch football, invite his friends for supper, or recognise Quidditch rules implemented after 1066. His trunk sometimes smells of ancient marketplaces and his clothes of nervous sweat. The neighbours dislike him because he hexes their dogs and frightens their children, and the local shopkeepers lock their doors when they see him coming down the street. He Transfigures the geraniums in the courtyard to gorse and the ivy on the walls to squids. He ridicules the fact that Harry reads only magazines and newspapers and seeks to “educate him” by whispering poems in his ear as the sweat of their fucking dries. The crotchety old man upstairs leaves threatening notes when Draco takes Harry from behind so hard the headboard dents the plaster. Draco responds by sneering at him in the lift.
What’s worse, Draco doesn’t give a skrewt’s arse. He whinges and weasels his way out of things. He makes a mess and doesn’t lift his wand to clean it. He leaves potion ingredients on the worktop in the kitchen and puts bloody entrails in the fridge. He even Banishes Harry’s condoms.
Make me breakfast, Draco says when he gets up at five in the morning. Cook me dinner, he says the second Harry gets home from work. This place is hideous, he says because he’s an arsehole. I could never live here, he says when he wants to hurt Harry’s feelings.
Draco hates England, but he keeps coming back. Harry likes to think it’s because Draco can’t live for long without him. But he’s not sure because Draco never tells him so.
Harry is a dreadful host. He’s a stubborn glacier of monotony. He goes to bed too early and gets up too late and insists Draco sleep in sheets covered with stiff patches of dried semen. He eats too much takeaway, cooks too much for Draco’s waistline and makes Draco do too much washing up. He wants to watch football and invite his friends to supper while Draco would rather chew broken glass than endure either. He Re-Transfigures Draco’s clever Transfigurations, and recognizes heretical Quidditch rules implemented as recently as 1979. The neighbours love him to the point of nausea because he volunteers to walk their dogs and look after their children. The shopkeepers all know his name and the brand of breakfast cereal he likes to eat, and when the crotchety old man upstairs leaves threatening notes, Harry always apologises.
What’s worst, Harry gets indignant if Draco brews illegal potions or conducts shady rituals. He sighs and mutters obscenities under his breath. He bangs pots and pans and slams drawers and trudges around like a disgruntled troll. He even gets all shirty when Draco Banishes his condoms even though he knows that Draco knows they’re meant to be used by men other than him.
Make your own bloody breakfast, Harry says when Draco wakes him at five in the morning. Ring for a takeaway, he says when he comes home from work. You’re an arsehole, he says when Draco tells him to keep his legs bloody well closed. Fuck off, he says when Draco hurts his feelings.
Harry loves England, but he once told Draco he’d forsake everything he has if Draco asked him to. Draco doesn’t because sometimes he wants to come home.
Draco is not classically handsome. When his eyes aren’t closed in bliss as Harry straddles his hips and slowly impales himself on Draco’s prick, they’re cold tidal pools reflecting a storm-brewing sky. His brows and lashes are so light they’re almost invisible, and his mouth is ugly when he sneers but more tempting than the whisky Harry drinks too much of when he’s gone. His erect cock is a petulant pink, and his hands are seldom still. His hair obscures half of his face in the same way his words obscure half of his intentions. When his guard isn’t down, he has four expressions: disdainful, bored, irritated and distant. He wears too much black, and his skin is so pale that the blue of his veins is visible. His feet are long and bony, and his canine teeth are sharp enough that Harry sometimes fears for his prick when Draco sucks him. He sometimes looks too much like his father and not enough like his mother, and sometimes the moon wraps him in a cloak as silver as his hair and spirits him away in the middle of the night leaving Harry to wake up alone with sore muscles and three orgasms worth of come in his arse.
Stop staring, Draco says when Harry watches him undress. Stop buying me grey jumpers, he says when Harry gets sick of black. Stop touching my hair, he says when Harry tucks a lock behind his ear. Stop moping, he says as he stands in front of Harry’s fireplace, his bags packed and Floo powder in his hand.
He may not be handsome, but Draco is the most beautiful man Harry’s ever seen.
Harry is not classically handsome. When his eyes aren’t closed in bliss as he straddles Draco’s hips and slowly impales himself on Draco’s prick, they’re an Avada Kedavra cast with intent. His thick lashes look feminine and would be more at home on a courtesan, and his spectacles are ridiculously unfashionable. His lips are full and beckoning, but behind them are crowded slightly tea-stained teeth. His mouth is expressive but too often serious, and his fingernails are chewed to the quick. His hair is thick and raven-wing black, but there’s already a hint of grey at his temples. His guard is too often down, and his expressions reveal more of his emotions than is wise - or attractive. He wears jeans when he should be wearing trousers and jumpers when he should be wearing robes. He’s so pale and his hair is so dark that he sometimes looks too much like Tom Riddle and not enough like the Savoir, and sometimes if he’s not careful (which is most of the time), the sun burns his nose and blisters his shoulders forcing Draco to imagine his discomfort even when he’s a thousand miles away and trying desperately to forget Harry’s body.
Stop staring, Harry says when Draco watches him undress. Stop buying me trousers, he says when Draco gets sick of jeans. Stop touching my hair, he says when Draco runs his fingers through it trying to get rid of the tangles. Stop leaving, he says when Draco puts on his coat and opens the door.
He may not be handsome, but Harry is the most beautiful man Draco’s ever seen.
Draco carries a dagger under his robes. Harry hasn’t asked, but he’s sure Draco’s used it. He only hopes it was in self-defence. Harry also knows Draco practises the Dark Arts. Sometimes the fingers Draco uses to prepare him are potion-stained, and his robes smell of blood and smoke. He speaks five extinct languages and can read Akkadian cuneiform. He keeps vigil at the Kingittorsuaq cairns under a midnight sun and smears funereal ashes on his body while meditating with the Aghoris over corpses pulled from the Ganges. He told Harry that once he even ate the still-warm brains of a convict during a Korowai ritual. But the invocation of Voldemort’s name infuriates him, and for every Galleon he spends on the necrotic flesh he uses for potions, he donates three to Saint Mungo’s and The Society for Prison Reform. Although he remains anonymous, he funds a Hogwarts scholarship for war orphans and publishes a monthly pamphlet exposing cult leaders and excoriating corrupt politicians.
Don’t ask if you don’t want to know, Draco says when Harry confronts him. Leave off, he says if Harry interrogates him. I don’t talk in my sleep, he tells Harry even though he does. Ignorance is bliss, he whispers in Harry’s ear after he comes.
Draco says he’ll never accept the arguments that all that is Dark is dangerous and pure-blood status is irrelevant, but Harry knows he’ll be the first to cast a vote for The Reform Party Harry’s painstakingly - and secretly - organising.
Harry carries a knife under his Auror robes. Draco’s asked, and Harry’s told him he’s used it. Draco hopes it was in an attack. Draco also knows Harry knows that he practises the Dark Arts and that Harry is not immune to their temptations. Harry’s eyes widen like a child’s at Christmas when Draco shows him some (some) of the new artefacts he’s acquired, and he’s taken duelling lessons under a Glamour with masters he knows are wanted criminals. Every time Draco visits, Harry lets him conduct increasingly complicated - and Dark - rituals when they fuck. Without hesitation, he gives Draco his body, letting Draco harvest the energies of his deepest needs and desires. Draco’s learned to be careful with them because their power exceeds all others he’s ever encountered. He has the discipline of a monk, but Harry’s sex can break him like a novice. It happened the first time they were together. Draco unravelled like a spool of thread and came undone like an exploding star. He’d never been so terrified in his life, so sure he’d lost control of the rigid requirements of a ritual. And all Harry had done was spread his legs when Draco told him to.
Don’t ask if you don’t want to know, Harry says when Draco confronts him about his job. Leave off, he says if Draco interrogates him. I don’t talk in my sleep, he tells Draco even though he does. Take me, Malfoy, he whispers in Draco’s ear.
Harry says he’ll never accept the argument that the Muggle and Magical must always be separate, but Draco knows that if Harry ever pulls his head out of his arse long enough to become Minister, he’ll veto any attempt to further ban the Dark Arts.
As far as Harry knows, Draco has no old friends. Crabbe is dead. Goyle is mad. Parkinson married a jealous prick. Zabini severed ties with all things Slytherin. Nott is a raging homophobe. Bulstrode works at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and is “too ugly to look at.” Derrick published an unflattering “tell-all account” of his Hogwarts years. Urquhart fancies himself a Neo-Death Eater. The Greengrass sisters loathe him for breaking his childhood betrothal to Astoria. Flint fathered a Squib. Davis teaches Muggle Studies. Warrington’s a bitter invalid. Bole had an affair while he was married to Parkinson. Pucey is “mind-numbingly boring.” Bletchley is a blood traitor, and Vaisey plays in goal for a team in Florida (which is one of the few places Draco has vowed he’ll never go).
In Harry’s opinion, it’s Draco’s prejudices and peevishness that broke up his friendships. Draco hates both Parkinson’s current and ex husbands out of jealousy (although he denies it). He loathes anyone he believes denounced their blood heritage or betrayed Slytherin House, and he dislikes uncomfortable situations and general unpleasantness (i.e. Bulstrode, Warrington, Flint and Pucey). He may have friends everywhere he goes when he leaves Harry, but he never says anything about them. He may even have lovers although it makes Harry insane just thinking about it. When Draco’s gone, Harry can’t help imagining him fucking someone else as he wanks, but after he comes, he wants to throw things. It’s at times like those that he vows to tell Draco it’s over, but of course he can’t and so he never does.
Not everyone needs a fan club, Draco says when Harry questions why he doesn’t contact old friends. You’ve got to be joking, he says when Harry asks if he’ll go to the annual memorial of the Battle of Hogwarts. I can’t be bothered, he says when Harry tells him to reply to his Owls. It’s none of your business, he says if Harry breaks down and asks if there’s somebody else.
Harry hates to think Draco might be lonely during the months that they’re apart, but he hates even more the thought that Draco might not be.
As far as Draco can tell, Harry has too many friends - or at least acquaintances. A day doesn’t go by without a flock of owls scratching at his windows and a half-dozen visitors banging on his door. And don’t even get Draco started about the firecalls! True, Harry shuts out everyone else in the world (with the exception of Granger and Weasley) when Draco’s with him, but that doesn’t mean people respect his pleas for privacy. Reporters lurk on the steps of his building, and fans wait outside the Ministry for autographs. Businesses seek his patronage, and organizations petition him to be their spokesman. Politicians try to bribe him for his support of their candidacies, and both men and women propose every kind of relationship from flings to marriage to slavery.
In Draco’s opinion, it’s Harry’s shyness that encourages the masses. He covers his face to hide from the paparazzi, which only makes the rare candid photographs more coveted. He leaves through back doors and Apparates from the roof of his building, which only entices people with the thrill of the chase. He blushes too prettily when he’s cornered by reporters, and bashfully apologises when he has to push through a crowd of autograph seekers.
Then there’s the clubs that Harry just can’t seem to give up. Apparently his romantic ineptitude diminishes in proportion with the amount of whisky he drinks. It doesn’t matter how far he is from the UK, Draco can’t escape the occasional photo of a bleary-eyed Harry stumbling out of a bar on some gorgeous bloke’s arm. It makes Draco crazy - and then dangerous. He rents the first prostitute he finds and slaps him around before fucking him savagely. He feels sick after the boy leaves bruised and bleeding, and he vows to tell Harry it’s over, but of course he can’t and so he never does.
It didn’t mean anything, Harry says when Draco confronts him. I don’t even remember his name, he says when Draco asks. I never see them again, he says if Draco wants to know if he dates. It’s none of your business, he says if Draco breaks down and asks if anyone else tops him.
Draco hates to think Harry might be lonely during the months that they’re apart, but he hates even more the thought that Harry might not be.
Draco is reckless with his reputation. There’s a cell in Azkaban with his name on the door and perhaps even a Dementor as hungry for the taste of his mouth as Harry is. Draco doesn’t “dabble” in the Dark Arts, he studies them in places where local law enforcement turns a blind eye if you pay them enough. His wand is charmed to repel spell-detection charms - Harry knows because once while Draco was sleeping, he cast a Priori Incantatem. Draco’s evasive with his answers and immune to others’ curiosity. He covers his trail with the skill of a tracker, and slips through the nets of society’s taboos with the bright quickness of a herring. Harry knows that as an Auror he should probably arrest him, but the thought of Draco in a cage is unbearable. Despite all his rule-bending, Draco is Harry’s lodestar in the Darkness Harry can’t avoid. Draco’s voice whispers encouragement when he arrests the neo-Death Eater or the illegal potions dealer who doesn’t understand the responsibilities that come with being a practitioner of the shadowed Arts. If there’s one thing Harry’s certain of, it’s that Draco hates anyone who romanticises Voldemort. If another Dark Lord were to arise, Draco would be by Harry’s side with his wand drawn and a curse on his tongue. Harry knows this, which is why Draco will be prosecuted only over his dead body. He just wishes that Draco wouldn’t take so many chances.
Don’t ask, Draco says in response to Harry’s inquiries. You don’t need to worry, he says even though Harry suspects he does. You’d better not die or I’ll kill you, he says when Harry tells him about his latest investigation. Trust me, he says even though Harry already does.
Wizards like Draco should be Harry’s quarry, but when Draco holds Harry in his arms Light and Dark cease to matter, and the world turns a beautiful silvery grey.
Harry is reckless with his reputation. Despite his tendency to think of the world in shades of Good and Evil, Harry’s hopes for magical society are nuanced and farseeing. He could be Minister of Magic and make them all a reality, but he’s too pugnacious and impatient and naïve. The members of the Wizengamot praise him in public and roll their eyes in private. It makes Draco want to stomp into their chamber and hex every one of them mute so they’d listen for a change. Draco’s sure that if they did, they’d recognise Harry for the visionary that he is - and not just a soldier who exists to do their bidding.
But it’s not only his reputation that Harry’s reckless with; he’s reckless with his life. When Draco lays him down and mouths his throat, he can taste the near-singe of other wizards’ Unforgiveables in Harry’s veins and hear the whispers of their eluded killing spells. Harry died once, and Draco’s afraid Harry thinks he can die a second time and still come back. He’s an avenging angel in red robes and trainers, fierce and unflinching and convinced that he’s right. His wand hand is the dagger of light that accompanies the thunder of his courage, but he’s only human, and Draco’s reminded of just how much when Harry’s fringe clings with sweat to his forehead and his eyes plead with Draco to hold him down. Harry once told him it’s only when he’s pinned between Draco’s body and the mattress that he feels truly safe - both from the world and from himself.
Don’t ask, Harry says in response to Draco inquiries. You don’t need to worry, he says even though Draco suspects he does. You’d better not die or I’ll kill you, he says when Draco tells him about his latest endeavour. Trust me, he says even though Draco already does.
Wizards like Harry should be Draco’s targets, but when he holds Harry in his arms Light and Dark cease to matter, and the world turns a beautiful silvery grey.
Draco's passions are perilously seductive. He teaches Harry spells that would be illegal even under a Voldemort regime and takes Harry to the Knockturn Alleys of the world where Draco buys him beguiling things: a saifani-handled jambiya used to cut out the tongues of apostates, potions that smell of twilight, and iridescent seashells whose voices murmur necrologies of people yet to die. They visit places that later become the backdrops to Harry’s worst nightmares and darkest fantasies. The unmarked graves of suicides and the scenes of unsolved murders. Cafés that serve Mandrake tea with their Belladonna scones. Circles of standing stones that from a distance look like broken teeth. Monastic crypts, the winter gardens of Drumbeg Manor, and the mass crematoriums for London’s Victorian whores. Moors haunted by the ghosts of doomed lovers and wind-gnawed mountains littered with the bones of Sherpa. Mist-shrouded fens, ancient forests roamed by wolves, and the ribcages of ships that foundered on rocks so jagged they rend the waves that thunder into their waiting jaws.
Draco’s tongue and cock and fingers dowse for the bottled up desire in Harry’s veins. His hips move between Harry’s thighs as he moans promises which, if kept, would force him to sell his soul to the lowest bidder. He’s a prophet, divining Harry’s needs before Harry himself even feels them. He’s an ascetic surrendering austerity for the moment of oblivion when he comes.
Draco’s gentlest charms sting like hornets, and his taunts are spoonfuls of vinegar. Twice Harry’s submitted his resignation to the Minister and once he told Ron to go fuck himself just because Draco dared him to. He gives Draco passwords and charms and the addresses of criminals. He lies and denies and then turns a blind eye.
Draco often fucks him too hard and binds him too tightly. He sucks stormy bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, and the scratches he leaves are deep and sometimes get infected.
Come on, Potter he urges into their kisses. Stop being a git, Potter, he says as he rolls his eyes. You’ll love it, Potter, he says when he knows Harry will hate it. Are you scared, Potter? he asks despite knowing the answer is yes.
Draco has a dozen Muggle passports and a dozen aliases in a dozen different languages, but he once told Harry that Harry’s the only one who knows who he really is.
Harry’s desires are unfathomable in their ordinariness. He comes home with blood on his clothes and a wand humming with curses, but all he wants are puppies and kittens and babies and breakfast. In the winter, he wears lumpy jumpers and a Gryffindor scarf and in summer he wears faded shorts and scuffed leather sandals. He whistles Muggle pop songs and sings - not altogether badly - in the shower. He likes old films, pub quizzes, flying in the rain, and holding Draco’s hand. He takes Draco to boring places that later become sweet wistful memories. Muggle museums full of dusty crystals and dinosaur bones, Quidditch matches, and unremarkable parks with sad-looking trees. Pubs with mirrors advertising lagers and hand-written notices on blackboards of karaoke on Thursday nights. Beaches with boardwalks and carnival rides, zoos with lots of snakes and bats, restaurants where at least half the menu is fried, and bars decorated with Premier League memorabilia and televisions the size of Lichtenstein.
Harry strips his t-shirts off over his head, blushes when Draco growls, and smells of skin and sex and shampoo. He whimpers when Draco kisses him and goes down on Draco eagerly, and when Draco finally thrusts against the resistance of his body, he shouts pleas into his pillow that would make the devil blush.
Harry insults are childish and his temper is terrible. Twice he goaded Draco into fucking in loos and once he demanded Draco send flowers to Granger after he’d called her a Mudblood. He bakes him cookies and can recite Quidditch statistics going back to the War of the Roses, but the bruises he leaves on Draco’s biceps are dark and painful and don’t fade for weeks.
Damn it, Malfoy, he grumbles when Draco teases a Muggle. Piss off, Malfoy, he says when he’s had all he can take. C’mere, Malfoy, he beckons when he lies on his stomach and opens his legs. Scared, Malfoy? he asks even though he knows the answer is yes.
Harry has a fan club of hundreds and friends who would die for him, but he once told Draco that Draco’s the only one who knows what he really wants.
Harry will one day be as revered as Dumbledore - although he’d prefer to be compared to his real hero, Severus Snape. He’s the youngest Head Auror in history and the mentor of the best and the brightest recruits. Witches and wizards from all over the world offer him exorbitant sums for his instruction, which he always turns down. He knows Draco is as famous as he is in certain corners of the world, but for very different reasons. Draco fights dirty, and Harry fights clean. Harry has the feeling that more people want to learn Draco’s dusk-hewn secrets rather than Harry’s time-hewn rules.
But Harry’s seen Draco fight as clean as he does - in fact every time Draco visits they duel at least once. Draco’s grace incarnate with strength and speed that exceeds every one of Harry’s other opponents. Harry advises law enforcement officials from places as far away as Japan, but none of their abilities come close to approximating Draco’s. Harry has been visited by presidents and ministers but none of them are as powerful as an intense-eyed Draco Malfoy fucking him in the merciless light of a Walpurgisnacht bonfire.
You’ll never eradicate the Dark Arts, nor should you want to, Harry advises heads of states frankly. You’ll never rid the world of despotic governments, although you should try, he tells democratically elected officials. No matter how good your police are, you’ll never deter a madman, he says to law enforcement agencies. You’ll never capture Draco Malfoy, he tells everyone who’s ever asked.
Harry nurtures the yearning for Light in people whose instincts are Dark, but he’d sell his soul for just one kiss from a Death Eater’s son.
Draco will one day be as wealthy as he would’ve been if his ancestral estate hadn’t been confiscated. He’s a renowned potions master and teacher of duelling techniques that are illegal - and thus coveted. Witches and wizards from all over the world seek him out and offer him exorbitant sums for his instruction, which he accepts and then demands more. He is as famous as Harry but for very different reasons. Harry fights clean, and Draco fights dirty. More people want to learn Draco’s secrets than Harry’s exquisite - and perfectly legal - techniques.
Draco takes their money but dismisses them as fools. Harry is grace incarnate and strength made more beautiful than God’s promises to Adam. Draco advises many potential Dark wizards, but none of their abilities are as marvellous as Harry’s; they are mere approximations of authentic grandeur. Draco sojourns in their palaces and kneels before their thrones, but none of their inhabitants are as awe-inspiring as a sleep-rumpled Harry Potter in his pyjamas frying eggs.
You’ll never be more powerful than the wizard who defeated Voldemort, Draco tells his trainees candidly. You’ll never be able to undermine a democratic government Draco advises despots. You’ll never be able to elude England’s Aurors, Draco tells black marketers. You’ll never win a duel against Harry Potter, he tells everyone who’s ever asked.
Draco nurtures the greed for power in the corrupt, but he’d denounce Darkness and give away every cent of his fortune for just one kiss from a Mudblood’s son.
Draco blows in on winds full of blood-red sand and arctic snows and blows away with Harry’s heart. He leaves a toothbrush in Harry’s bathroom cabinet and blond hairs in Harry’s shower drain. The silence in Harry’s flat aches like a gnawing hunger for days, and he brings men home to sate it, but they never do. He needs Draco, not their cocks, and the lingering discomfort in his arse the next day feels like a betrayal of promises he’s never made - promises that Draco won’t let him make. Sometimes it’s weeks, sometimes it’s months. The waiting is the slow drip on stone that eventually creates a basin of want . . . of craving and not-having and, even worse, not knowing.
He knows he should end this chapter on love unrequited, but when Draco blows back into his life again and takes Harry just steps away from the fireplace, Harry forgives him everything - well almost everything. He’ll never forgive Draco for leaving again and again despite his breathy promises to stay this time.
But this morning’s different. Even though Harry finds Draco’s side of the bed empty, there’s a note on the kitchen counter held in place by a still-warm cup of tea. This is the last time I’ll leave before you wake it reads. Harry rolls his eyes and tries to swallow the familiar lump in his throat, but then he sees it. Draco’s wand and the phone number of the local bakery.
I told you, you berk, Draco says when he walks in the door with a box of pastries. Don’t cry, you arsehole, he says when Harry tears up. Leave at least one éclair, you pig, he says when Harry scarfs another. I love you too, he says when Harry tells him first.
As with everything else that involves them, this won’t be easy. Draco will have to surrender some of his darkness and accept more of Harry’s light. But the look in Draco’s eyes in the morning when he opens them to find Harry straddling his hips is innocent and awe-struck. And though he might deny it, Harry knows Draco could never leave again - no matter how sweet the siren song of the forbidden or seductive the promise of away.
Harry’s always there - if not in actuality then in spirit. His messy flat is the nest to which Draco returns, weary from flying to the four points of the compass, and Harry’s body is the sheath to his soul. Darkness is becoming a whisper and Harry the call. Once it’d been the other way around, but that was before leaving Harry began to feel like struggling to run away with a meat hook of need lodged deep in his belly. Lying on his back on a pallet hundreds of miles from Harry’s bed, he combs his fingers through his pubic hair and then covers his face with his hand, breathing in the scent of Harry’s last surrender. It is sweeter than any incense he’s ever burned.
But still he keeps leaving, and his every return is greeted with less happiness. It takes longer and longer to caress away Harry’s resentment, to ease the tension of his battered pride and guilty submission. When he pushes past the natural resistance of Harry’s body he still encounters it in Harry’s eyes. Someday soon Harry will say no. Draco would rather cut off his dick than face the yawning chiasm of want that one word would carve in his soul. He’d rather forget everything he’s ever learned and unforget everything he makes himself forget to survive. He’d rather drink warm lager on Friday nights than summon spirits and brew potions to wake the dead. Why seek death when he could be holding Harry in his arms?
He has never gone anywhere without his wand, but this morning he leaves it on the sun-splashed counter and walks to Patricia’s Pastries on Whippoorwill Lane. He waits in a queue behind Muggles reading The Mail on Sunday and nattering on their mobiles and ignores their weary sighs when he takes too long at the counter trying to sort out his Muggle money.
When he walks into the flat, Harry’s standing naked in the kitchen reading the note Draco has left. When he looks up at Draco’s cough, his damned eyes grow wet, and Draco does everything he can not to imagine how Harry would’ve felt if he hadn’t returned. He places the box of pastries on the table, grabs Harry, and kisses away whatever stupid thing he might’ve said except the I love you that manages to escape.
The barmy fool.
As with everything else that involves them, this won’t be easy. Harry will have to accept more of Draco’s darkness and surrender more of his light. But the look in Harry’s eyes at twilight when he straddles Draco’s hips is fierce with night-dark longing. And though he might deny it, Draco knows that one day Harry will go with him - if only for a day - no matter how sweet the lullaby of home or comfortable the promises of stay.
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Author: frayach
Prompt: # 135: Draco enjoys pushing Harry to the darkness, but he is ultimately the one to pull him back to the light and finds light in himself at the same time.
Rating: R
Warnings: please note the prompt and the Author's Notes; darkish!Draco
Word Count: 6K
Summary: Draco keeps coming back, and Harry keeps letting him. Draco can’t stay away, and Harry can’t live without him.
Author’s Notes: kitty_fic prompted Dark or Grey!Harry, but the Harry in this story is more Light!Grey!Harry. A super-special hug to my beta (she knows who she is). K, the prompt and the fic don’t completely overlap, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I know I had a blast writing it.
Let Me Have You and I’ll Let You Save Me
Harry will never be less than a tad ambivalent about Draco. Draco’s a tangled razor-tongued ruptured blister of a man, tart as a lemon, dark as a Nox, and as messy as a full bin blown over in a gale. He swoops into Harry’s life unannounced, deposits his trunk on the couch, and turns Harry’s flat into a Room of Forbidden Things. Belching books. Candles whose flames burn light instead of oxygen. A Banshee’s skull that screams if you open the drapes. The teeth of circus clowns, and once, a toad in a velvet coat that walked on its back legs and recited obscure sonnets with a nasal tone. His sense of entitlement knows no bounds, and he’s usually running from someone or something, but insists that if Harry doesn’t know the details, he can’t be accused of giving aid and comfort to a fugitive. He uses his “Wanted” notices as stationary and keeps Evil Eyes in the breadbox. Once he left a mummified hand on the coffee table that Harry only discovered when Ron found it under a Quidditch mag.
What’s more, Draco still isn’t nice. He’s a shameless gossip who knows the Minister’s going to fart before the Minister even feels the rumble in his bowels. At least a quarter of his vocabulary consists of words Harry’s never heard before, and he sighs like a martyr when Harry asks what they mean. He mocks everything Harry owns and manages to break all of his Muggle appliances no matter how brief his visit. If he Floos in after midnight and finds someone in Harry’s bed, he gives the poor bloke boils and threatens to cast a dick-shrinking spell if he ever dares look at Harry again - let alone touch him. It’s happened so many times that Harry no longer brings home one-night stands, although it’s just as bad if Draco shows up and Harry isn’t there. When that happens, Draco does things so wicked it requires Harry to refurnish his flat or Obliviate his neighbours, or both. Once he’d even had to move.
Just steal it, Draco says if they go shopping and Harry picks up something but decides not to buy it. Just eat it, he says if he’s cooked something Harry suspects will make him ill. Just watch it, he says when he pours a disturbing memory into Harry’s Pensieve. Just do it, he says about pretty much everything else.
He keeps two t-shirts at Harry’s flat. One reads “I’m The Bloke Your Mum Warned You About” and the other merely reads “Menace,” but he can fuck Harry so long and tenderly that Harry’s bones melt like butter.
Draco will never be less than a tad ambivalent about Harry. Harry’s a righteous spiny pigheaded tornado of a man, as sweet as treacle tart, less subtle than a Sonorus, and as irritatingly predictable as a bad novel. He thinks salt and pepper are spices, and forgets to empty his pockets before doing his laundry. The Weasley matriarch cleans his flat, and even worse, he lets her. All of his secrets can be found in the drawer of his bedside table, including a tube of black currant-flavoured lube. If Draco wanted arse that tastes like fruit, he’d rim a bloody strawberry. Everything Harry owns looks like a schoolboy’s mother bought it. His sheets are tartan, his pots and pans are cheap, and his soap comes in packs of twelve. He’s a human furnace and keeps the windows open even in January, killing his houseplants. The most exotic thing he’ll eat is chips with curry sauce, and he uses an electric clock, which he insists on repairing even though he knows Draco hates the glowing numbers and will break it again the next time he visits. He grouses when challenged, guffaws at adverts that aren’t funny, and leaves his pants on the floor after taking a shower.
What’s more, Harry is still a prick. He’s an Auror but he’s too full of himself to bother washing - or even buttoning - his uniform. He smirks and then denies it and has no compunction about passing judgment on things about which he’s stubbornly incurious and proudly knows nothing. He gets outraged at the drop of a hat and stomps around his flat in his Chudley Canon pyjamas, shaking the Prophet and railing against imaginary injustices. Harry would be gorgeous in a burlap sack, but neither orange nor outrage suit him - they never have.
Just shut it, Harry says when Draco wins an argument. Just pay it, he says when Draco questions a price. Just deal with it, he says when Draco complains about his scratchy towels. Just go, he says when Draco makes him lose his temper.
He keeps two photographs in the aforementioned drawer. One is of his parents. The other is of Draco. Harry will never know, but the only time Draco ever questions the life he’s chosen is when Harry’s door closes behind him.
Draco is a dreadful houseguest. He’s a whirlwind of clutter and demands. He goes to bed too late and gets up too early and insists Harry launder the sheets after every time they shag. He doesn’t like takeaway, but neither does he cook, and he refuses to let Harry watch football, invite his friends for supper, or recognise Quidditch rules implemented after 1066. His trunk sometimes smells of ancient marketplaces and his clothes of nervous sweat. The neighbours dislike him because he hexes their dogs and frightens their children, and the local shopkeepers lock their doors when they see him coming down the street. He Transfigures the geraniums in the courtyard to gorse and the ivy on the walls to squids. He ridicules the fact that Harry reads only magazines and newspapers and seeks to “educate him” by whispering poems in his ear as the sweat of their fucking dries. The crotchety old man upstairs leaves threatening notes when Draco takes Harry from behind so hard the headboard dents the plaster. Draco responds by sneering at him in the lift.
What’s worse, Draco doesn’t give a skrewt’s arse. He whinges and weasels his way out of things. He makes a mess and doesn’t lift his wand to clean it. He leaves potion ingredients on the worktop in the kitchen and puts bloody entrails in the fridge. He even Banishes Harry’s condoms.
Make me breakfast, Draco says when he gets up at five in the morning. Cook me dinner, he says the second Harry gets home from work. This place is hideous, he says because he’s an arsehole. I could never live here, he says when he wants to hurt Harry’s feelings.
Draco hates England, but he keeps coming back. Harry likes to think it’s because Draco can’t live for long without him. But he’s not sure because Draco never tells him so.
Harry is a dreadful host. He’s a stubborn glacier of monotony. He goes to bed too early and gets up too late and insists Draco sleep in sheets covered with stiff patches of dried semen. He eats too much takeaway, cooks too much for Draco’s waistline and makes Draco do too much washing up. He wants to watch football and invite his friends to supper while Draco would rather chew broken glass than endure either. He Re-Transfigures Draco’s clever Transfigurations, and recognizes heretical Quidditch rules implemented as recently as 1979. The neighbours love him to the point of nausea because he volunteers to walk their dogs and look after their children. The shopkeepers all know his name and the brand of breakfast cereal he likes to eat, and when the crotchety old man upstairs leaves threatening notes, Harry always apologises.
What’s worst, Harry gets indignant if Draco brews illegal potions or conducts shady rituals. He sighs and mutters obscenities under his breath. He bangs pots and pans and slams drawers and trudges around like a disgruntled troll. He even gets all shirty when Draco Banishes his condoms even though he knows that Draco knows they’re meant to be used by men other than him.
Make your own bloody breakfast, Harry says when Draco wakes him at five in the morning. Ring for a takeaway, he says when he comes home from work. You’re an arsehole, he says when Draco tells him to keep his legs bloody well closed. Fuck off, he says when Draco hurts his feelings.
Harry loves England, but he once told Draco he’d forsake everything he has if Draco asked him to. Draco doesn’t because sometimes he wants to come home.
Draco is not classically handsome. When his eyes aren’t closed in bliss as Harry straddles his hips and slowly impales himself on Draco’s prick, they’re cold tidal pools reflecting a storm-brewing sky. His brows and lashes are so light they’re almost invisible, and his mouth is ugly when he sneers but more tempting than the whisky Harry drinks too much of when he’s gone. His erect cock is a petulant pink, and his hands are seldom still. His hair obscures half of his face in the same way his words obscure half of his intentions. When his guard isn’t down, he has four expressions: disdainful, bored, irritated and distant. He wears too much black, and his skin is so pale that the blue of his veins is visible. His feet are long and bony, and his canine teeth are sharp enough that Harry sometimes fears for his prick when Draco sucks him. He sometimes looks too much like his father and not enough like his mother, and sometimes the moon wraps him in a cloak as silver as his hair and spirits him away in the middle of the night leaving Harry to wake up alone with sore muscles and three orgasms worth of come in his arse.
Stop staring, Draco says when Harry watches him undress. Stop buying me grey jumpers, he says when Harry gets sick of black. Stop touching my hair, he says when Harry tucks a lock behind his ear. Stop moping, he says as he stands in front of Harry’s fireplace, his bags packed and Floo powder in his hand.
He may not be handsome, but Draco is the most beautiful man Harry’s ever seen.
Harry is not classically handsome. When his eyes aren’t closed in bliss as he straddles Draco’s hips and slowly impales himself on Draco’s prick, they’re an Avada Kedavra cast with intent. His thick lashes look feminine and would be more at home on a courtesan, and his spectacles are ridiculously unfashionable. His lips are full and beckoning, but behind them are crowded slightly tea-stained teeth. His mouth is expressive but too often serious, and his fingernails are chewed to the quick. His hair is thick and raven-wing black, but there’s already a hint of grey at his temples. His guard is too often down, and his expressions reveal more of his emotions than is wise - or attractive. He wears jeans when he should be wearing trousers and jumpers when he should be wearing robes. He’s so pale and his hair is so dark that he sometimes looks too much like Tom Riddle and not enough like the Savoir, and sometimes if he’s not careful (which is most of the time), the sun burns his nose and blisters his shoulders forcing Draco to imagine his discomfort even when he’s a thousand miles away and trying desperately to forget Harry’s body.
Stop staring, Harry says when Draco watches him undress. Stop buying me trousers, he says when Draco gets sick of jeans. Stop touching my hair, he says when Draco runs his fingers through it trying to get rid of the tangles. Stop leaving, he says when Draco puts on his coat and opens the door.
He may not be handsome, but Harry is the most beautiful man Draco’s ever seen.
Draco carries a dagger under his robes. Harry hasn’t asked, but he’s sure Draco’s used it. He only hopes it was in self-defence. Harry also knows Draco practises the Dark Arts. Sometimes the fingers Draco uses to prepare him are potion-stained, and his robes smell of blood and smoke. He speaks five extinct languages and can read Akkadian cuneiform. He keeps vigil at the Kingittorsuaq cairns under a midnight sun and smears funereal ashes on his body while meditating with the Aghoris over corpses pulled from the Ganges. He told Harry that once he even ate the still-warm brains of a convict during a Korowai ritual. But the invocation of Voldemort’s name infuriates him, and for every Galleon he spends on the necrotic flesh he uses for potions, he donates three to Saint Mungo’s and The Society for Prison Reform. Although he remains anonymous, he funds a Hogwarts scholarship for war orphans and publishes a monthly pamphlet exposing cult leaders and excoriating corrupt politicians.
Don’t ask if you don’t want to know, Draco says when Harry confronts him. Leave off, he says if Harry interrogates him. I don’t talk in my sleep, he tells Harry even though he does. Ignorance is bliss, he whispers in Harry’s ear after he comes.
Draco says he’ll never accept the arguments that all that is Dark is dangerous and pure-blood status is irrelevant, but Harry knows he’ll be the first to cast a vote for The Reform Party Harry’s painstakingly - and secretly - organising.
Harry carries a knife under his Auror robes. Draco’s asked, and Harry’s told him he’s used it. Draco hopes it was in an attack. Draco also knows Harry knows that he practises the Dark Arts and that Harry is not immune to their temptations. Harry’s eyes widen like a child’s at Christmas when Draco shows him some (some) of the new artefacts he’s acquired, and he’s taken duelling lessons under a Glamour with masters he knows are wanted criminals. Every time Draco visits, Harry lets him conduct increasingly complicated - and Dark - rituals when they fuck. Without hesitation, he gives Draco his body, letting Draco harvest the energies of his deepest needs and desires. Draco’s learned to be careful with them because their power exceeds all others he’s ever encountered. He has the discipline of a monk, but Harry’s sex can break him like a novice. It happened the first time they were together. Draco unravelled like a spool of thread and came undone like an exploding star. He’d never been so terrified in his life, so sure he’d lost control of the rigid requirements of a ritual. And all Harry had done was spread his legs when Draco told him to.
Don’t ask if you don’t want to know, Harry says when Draco confronts him about his job. Leave off, he says if Draco interrogates him. I don’t talk in my sleep, he tells Draco even though he does. Take me, Malfoy, he whispers in Draco’s ear.
Harry says he’ll never accept the argument that the Muggle and Magical must always be separate, but Draco knows that if Harry ever pulls his head out of his arse long enough to become Minister, he’ll veto any attempt to further ban the Dark Arts.
As far as Harry knows, Draco has no old friends. Crabbe is dead. Goyle is mad. Parkinson married a jealous prick. Zabini severed ties with all things Slytherin. Nott is a raging homophobe. Bulstrode works at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and is “too ugly to look at.” Derrick published an unflattering “tell-all account” of his Hogwarts years. Urquhart fancies himself a Neo-Death Eater. The Greengrass sisters loathe him for breaking his childhood betrothal to Astoria. Flint fathered a Squib. Davis teaches Muggle Studies. Warrington’s a bitter invalid. Bole had an affair while he was married to Parkinson. Pucey is “mind-numbingly boring.” Bletchley is a blood traitor, and Vaisey plays in goal for a team in Florida (which is one of the few places Draco has vowed he’ll never go).
In Harry’s opinion, it’s Draco’s prejudices and peevishness that broke up his friendships. Draco hates both Parkinson’s current and ex husbands out of jealousy (although he denies it). He loathes anyone he believes denounced their blood heritage or betrayed Slytherin House, and he dislikes uncomfortable situations and general unpleasantness (i.e. Bulstrode, Warrington, Flint and Pucey). He may have friends everywhere he goes when he leaves Harry, but he never says anything about them. He may even have lovers although it makes Harry insane just thinking about it. When Draco’s gone, Harry can’t help imagining him fucking someone else as he wanks, but after he comes, he wants to throw things. It’s at times like those that he vows to tell Draco it’s over, but of course he can’t and so he never does.
Not everyone needs a fan club, Draco says when Harry questions why he doesn’t contact old friends. You’ve got to be joking, he says when Harry asks if he’ll go to the annual memorial of the Battle of Hogwarts. I can’t be bothered, he says when Harry tells him to reply to his Owls. It’s none of your business, he says if Harry breaks down and asks if there’s somebody else.
Harry hates to think Draco might be lonely during the months that they’re apart, but he hates even more the thought that Draco might not be.
As far as Draco can tell, Harry has too many friends - or at least acquaintances. A day doesn’t go by without a flock of owls scratching at his windows and a half-dozen visitors banging on his door. And don’t even get Draco started about the firecalls! True, Harry shuts out everyone else in the world (with the exception of Granger and Weasley) when Draco’s with him, but that doesn’t mean people respect his pleas for privacy. Reporters lurk on the steps of his building, and fans wait outside the Ministry for autographs. Businesses seek his patronage, and organizations petition him to be their spokesman. Politicians try to bribe him for his support of their candidacies, and both men and women propose every kind of relationship from flings to marriage to slavery.
In Draco’s opinion, it’s Harry’s shyness that encourages the masses. He covers his face to hide from the paparazzi, which only makes the rare candid photographs more coveted. He leaves through back doors and Apparates from the roof of his building, which only entices people with the thrill of the chase. He blushes too prettily when he’s cornered by reporters, and bashfully apologises when he has to push through a crowd of autograph seekers.
Then there’s the clubs that Harry just can’t seem to give up. Apparently his romantic ineptitude diminishes in proportion with the amount of whisky he drinks. It doesn’t matter how far he is from the UK, Draco can’t escape the occasional photo of a bleary-eyed Harry stumbling out of a bar on some gorgeous bloke’s arm. It makes Draco crazy - and then dangerous. He rents the first prostitute he finds and slaps him around before fucking him savagely. He feels sick after the boy leaves bruised and bleeding, and he vows to tell Harry it’s over, but of course he can’t and so he never does.
It didn’t mean anything, Harry says when Draco confronts him. I don’t even remember his name, he says when Draco asks. I never see them again, he says if Draco wants to know if he dates. It’s none of your business, he says if Draco breaks down and asks if anyone else tops him.
Draco hates to think Harry might be lonely during the months that they’re apart, but he hates even more the thought that Harry might not be.
Draco is reckless with his reputation. There’s a cell in Azkaban with his name on the door and perhaps even a Dementor as hungry for the taste of his mouth as Harry is. Draco doesn’t “dabble” in the Dark Arts, he studies them in places where local law enforcement turns a blind eye if you pay them enough. His wand is charmed to repel spell-detection charms - Harry knows because once while Draco was sleeping, he cast a Priori Incantatem. Draco’s evasive with his answers and immune to others’ curiosity. He covers his trail with the skill of a tracker, and slips through the nets of society’s taboos with the bright quickness of a herring. Harry knows that as an Auror he should probably arrest him, but the thought of Draco in a cage is unbearable. Despite all his rule-bending, Draco is Harry’s lodestar in the Darkness Harry can’t avoid. Draco’s voice whispers encouragement when he arrests the neo-Death Eater or the illegal potions dealer who doesn’t understand the responsibilities that come with being a practitioner of the shadowed Arts. If there’s one thing Harry’s certain of, it’s that Draco hates anyone who romanticises Voldemort. If another Dark Lord were to arise, Draco would be by Harry’s side with his wand drawn and a curse on his tongue. Harry knows this, which is why Draco will be prosecuted only over his dead body. He just wishes that Draco wouldn’t take so many chances.
Don’t ask, Draco says in response to Harry’s inquiries. You don’t need to worry, he says even though Harry suspects he does. You’d better not die or I’ll kill you, he says when Harry tells him about his latest investigation. Trust me, he says even though Harry already does.
Wizards like Draco should be Harry’s quarry, but when Draco holds Harry in his arms Light and Dark cease to matter, and the world turns a beautiful silvery grey.
Harry is reckless with his reputation. Despite his tendency to think of the world in shades of Good and Evil, Harry’s hopes for magical society are nuanced and farseeing. He could be Minister of Magic and make them all a reality, but he’s too pugnacious and impatient and naïve. The members of the Wizengamot praise him in public and roll their eyes in private. It makes Draco want to stomp into their chamber and hex every one of them mute so they’d listen for a change. Draco’s sure that if they did, they’d recognise Harry for the visionary that he is - and not just a soldier who exists to do their bidding.
But it’s not only his reputation that Harry’s reckless with; he’s reckless with his life. When Draco lays him down and mouths his throat, he can taste the near-singe of other wizards’ Unforgiveables in Harry’s veins and hear the whispers of their eluded killing spells. Harry died once, and Draco’s afraid Harry thinks he can die a second time and still come back. He’s an avenging angel in red robes and trainers, fierce and unflinching and convinced that he’s right. His wand hand is the dagger of light that accompanies the thunder of his courage, but he’s only human, and Draco’s reminded of just how much when Harry’s fringe clings with sweat to his forehead and his eyes plead with Draco to hold him down. Harry once told him it’s only when he’s pinned between Draco’s body and the mattress that he feels truly safe - both from the world and from himself.
Don’t ask, Harry says in response to Draco inquiries. You don’t need to worry, he says even though Draco suspects he does. You’d better not die or I’ll kill you, he says when Draco tells him about his latest endeavour. Trust me, he says even though Draco already does.
Wizards like Harry should be Draco’s targets, but when he holds Harry in his arms Light and Dark cease to matter, and the world turns a beautiful silvery grey.
Draco's passions are perilously seductive. He teaches Harry spells that would be illegal even under a Voldemort regime and takes Harry to the Knockturn Alleys of the world where Draco buys him beguiling things: a saifani-handled jambiya used to cut out the tongues of apostates, potions that smell of twilight, and iridescent seashells whose voices murmur necrologies of people yet to die. They visit places that later become the backdrops to Harry’s worst nightmares and darkest fantasies. The unmarked graves of suicides and the scenes of unsolved murders. Cafés that serve Mandrake tea with their Belladonna scones. Circles of standing stones that from a distance look like broken teeth. Monastic crypts, the winter gardens of Drumbeg Manor, and the mass crematoriums for London’s Victorian whores. Moors haunted by the ghosts of doomed lovers and wind-gnawed mountains littered with the bones of Sherpa. Mist-shrouded fens, ancient forests roamed by wolves, and the ribcages of ships that foundered on rocks so jagged they rend the waves that thunder into their waiting jaws.
Draco’s tongue and cock and fingers dowse for the bottled up desire in Harry’s veins. His hips move between Harry’s thighs as he moans promises which, if kept, would force him to sell his soul to the lowest bidder. He’s a prophet, divining Harry’s needs before Harry himself even feels them. He’s an ascetic surrendering austerity for the moment of oblivion when he comes.
Draco’s gentlest charms sting like hornets, and his taunts are spoonfuls of vinegar. Twice Harry’s submitted his resignation to the Minister and once he told Ron to go fuck himself just because Draco dared him to. He gives Draco passwords and charms and the addresses of criminals. He lies and denies and then turns a blind eye.
Draco often fucks him too hard and binds him too tightly. He sucks stormy bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, and the scratches he leaves are deep and sometimes get infected.
Come on, Potter he urges into their kisses. Stop being a git, Potter, he says as he rolls his eyes. You’ll love it, Potter, he says when he knows Harry will hate it. Are you scared, Potter? he asks despite knowing the answer is yes.
Draco has a dozen Muggle passports and a dozen aliases in a dozen different languages, but he once told Harry that Harry’s the only one who knows who he really is.
Harry’s desires are unfathomable in their ordinariness. He comes home with blood on his clothes and a wand humming with curses, but all he wants are puppies and kittens and babies and breakfast. In the winter, he wears lumpy jumpers and a Gryffindor scarf and in summer he wears faded shorts and scuffed leather sandals. He whistles Muggle pop songs and sings - not altogether badly - in the shower. He likes old films, pub quizzes, flying in the rain, and holding Draco’s hand. He takes Draco to boring places that later become sweet wistful memories. Muggle museums full of dusty crystals and dinosaur bones, Quidditch matches, and unremarkable parks with sad-looking trees. Pubs with mirrors advertising lagers and hand-written notices on blackboards of karaoke on Thursday nights. Beaches with boardwalks and carnival rides, zoos with lots of snakes and bats, restaurants where at least half the menu is fried, and bars decorated with Premier League memorabilia and televisions the size of Lichtenstein.
Harry strips his t-shirts off over his head, blushes when Draco growls, and smells of skin and sex and shampoo. He whimpers when Draco kisses him and goes down on Draco eagerly, and when Draco finally thrusts against the resistance of his body, he shouts pleas into his pillow that would make the devil blush.
Harry insults are childish and his temper is terrible. Twice he goaded Draco into fucking in loos and once he demanded Draco send flowers to Granger after he’d called her a Mudblood. He bakes him cookies and can recite Quidditch statistics going back to the War of the Roses, but the bruises he leaves on Draco’s biceps are dark and painful and don’t fade for weeks.
Damn it, Malfoy, he grumbles when Draco teases a Muggle. Piss off, Malfoy, he says when he’s had all he can take. C’mere, Malfoy, he beckons when he lies on his stomach and opens his legs. Scared, Malfoy? he asks even though he knows the answer is yes.
Harry has a fan club of hundreds and friends who would die for him, but he once told Draco that Draco’s the only one who knows what he really wants.
Harry will one day be as revered as Dumbledore - although he’d prefer to be compared to his real hero, Severus Snape. He’s the youngest Head Auror in history and the mentor of the best and the brightest recruits. Witches and wizards from all over the world offer him exorbitant sums for his instruction, which he always turns down. He knows Draco is as famous as he is in certain corners of the world, but for very different reasons. Draco fights dirty, and Harry fights clean. Harry has the feeling that more people want to learn Draco’s dusk-hewn secrets rather than Harry’s time-hewn rules.
But Harry’s seen Draco fight as clean as he does - in fact every time Draco visits they duel at least once. Draco’s grace incarnate with strength and speed that exceeds every one of Harry’s other opponents. Harry advises law enforcement officials from places as far away as Japan, but none of their abilities come close to approximating Draco’s. Harry has been visited by presidents and ministers but none of them are as powerful as an intense-eyed Draco Malfoy fucking him in the merciless light of a Walpurgisnacht bonfire.
You’ll never eradicate the Dark Arts, nor should you want to, Harry advises heads of states frankly. You’ll never rid the world of despotic governments, although you should try, he tells democratically elected officials. No matter how good your police are, you’ll never deter a madman, he says to law enforcement agencies. You’ll never capture Draco Malfoy, he tells everyone who’s ever asked.
Harry nurtures the yearning for Light in people whose instincts are Dark, but he’d sell his soul for just one kiss from a Death Eater’s son.
Draco will one day be as wealthy as he would’ve been if his ancestral estate hadn’t been confiscated. He’s a renowned potions master and teacher of duelling techniques that are illegal - and thus coveted. Witches and wizards from all over the world seek him out and offer him exorbitant sums for his instruction, which he accepts and then demands more. He is as famous as Harry but for very different reasons. Harry fights clean, and Draco fights dirty. More people want to learn Draco’s secrets than Harry’s exquisite - and perfectly legal - techniques.
Draco takes their money but dismisses them as fools. Harry is grace incarnate and strength made more beautiful than God’s promises to Adam. Draco advises many potential Dark wizards, but none of their abilities are as marvellous as Harry’s; they are mere approximations of authentic grandeur. Draco sojourns in their palaces and kneels before their thrones, but none of their inhabitants are as awe-inspiring as a sleep-rumpled Harry Potter in his pyjamas frying eggs.
You’ll never be more powerful than the wizard who defeated Voldemort, Draco tells his trainees candidly. You’ll never be able to undermine a democratic government Draco advises despots. You’ll never be able to elude England’s Aurors, Draco tells black marketers. You’ll never win a duel against Harry Potter, he tells everyone who’s ever asked.
Draco nurtures the greed for power in the corrupt, but he’d denounce Darkness and give away every cent of his fortune for just one kiss from a Mudblood’s son.
Draco blows in on winds full of blood-red sand and arctic snows and blows away with Harry’s heart. He leaves a toothbrush in Harry’s bathroom cabinet and blond hairs in Harry’s shower drain. The silence in Harry’s flat aches like a gnawing hunger for days, and he brings men home to sate it, but they never do. He needs Draco, not their cocks, and the lingering discomfort in his arse the next day feels like a betrayal of promises he’s never made - promises that Draco won’t let him make. Sometimes it’s weeks, sometimes it’s months. The waiting is the slow drip on stone that eventually creates a basin of want . . . of craving and not-having and, even worse, not knowing.
He knows he should end this chapter on love unrequited, but when Draco blows back into his life again and takes Harry just steps away from the fireplace, Harry forgives him everything - well almost everything. He’ll never forgive Draco for leaving again and again despite his breathy promises to stay this time.
But this morning’s different. Even though Harry finds Draco’s side of the bed empty, there’s a note on the kitchen counter held in place by a still-warm cup of tea. This is the last time I’ll leave before you wake it reads. Harry rolls his eyes and tries to swallow the familiar lump in his throat, but then he sees it. Draco’s wand and the phone number of the local bakery.
I told you, you berk, Draco says when he walks in the door with a box of pastries. Don’t cry, you arsehole, he says when Harry tears up. Leave at least one éclair, you pig, he says when Harry scarfs another. I love you too, he says when Harry tells him first.
As with everything else that involves them, this won’t be easy. Draco will have to surrender some of his darkness and accept more of Harry’s light. But the look in Draco’s eyes in the morning when he opens them to find Harry straddling his hips is innocent and awe-struck. And though he might deny it, Harry knows Draco could never leave again - no matter how sweet the siren song of the forbidden or seductive the promise of away.
Harry’s always there - if not in actuality then in spirit. His messy flat is the nest to which Draco returns, weary from flying to the four points of the compass, and Harry’s body is the sheath to his soul. Darkness is becoming a whisper and Harry the call. Once it’d been the other way around, but that was before leaving Harry began to feel like struggling to run away with a meat hook of need lodged deep in his belly. Lying on his back on a pallet hundreds of miles from Harry’s bed, he combs his fingers through his pubic hair and then covers his face with his hand, breathing in the scent of Harry’s last surrender. It is sweeter than any incense he’s ever burned.
But still he keeps leaving, and his every return is greeted with less happiness. It takes longer and longer to caress away Harry’s resentment, to ease the tension of his battered pride and guilty submission. When he pushes past the natural resistance of Harry’s body he still encounters it in Harry’s eyes. Someday soon Harry will say no. Draco would rather cut off his dick than face the yawning chiasm of want that one word would carve in his soul. He’d rather forget everything he’s ever learned and unforget everything he makes himself forget to survive. He’d rather drink warm lager on Friday nights than summon spirits and brew potions to wake the dead. Why seek death when he could be holding Harry in his arms?
He has never gone anywhere without his wand, but this morning he leaves it on the sun-splashed counter and walks to Patricia’s Pastries on Whippoorwill Lane. He waits in a queue behind Muggles reading The Mail on Sunday and nattering on their mobiles and ignores their weary sighs when he takes too long at the counter trying to sort out his Muggle money.
When he walks into the flat, Harry’s standing naked in the kitchen reading the note Draco has left. When he looks up at Draco’s cough, his damned eyes grow wet, and Draco does everything he can not to imagine how Harry would’ve felt if he hadn’t returned. He places the box of pastries on the table, grabs Harry, and kisses away whatever stupid thing he might’ve said except the I love you that manages to escape.
The barmy fool.
As with everything else that involves them, this won’t be easy. Harry will have to accept more of Draco’s darkness and surrender more of his light. But the look in Harry’s eyes at twilight when he straddles Draco’s hips is fierce with night-dark longing. And though he might deny it, Draco knows that one day Harry will go with him - if only for a day - no matter how sweet the lullaby of home or comfortable the promises of stay.
.