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Title: The Road (14/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rurounihime
Rating: hard R when all is said and done…
Pairing: H/D eventually
Summary: In the midst of a disintegrating war, Harry awaits the arrival of the Order’s last hope.
Warning: violence, character death, spoilers for all books
Disclaimer: The HP characters and most of the spellwork do not belong to me.
A/N: Thank you to April for her fabulous and attentive beta-ing, and to Coffee for constantly letting me bounce ideas off of her. The other major pairing in this is Blaise/Seamus, but there are minor het pairings as well.
…
No artwork or music for this chapter.
…
**ETA: THIS CHAPTER HAS RECEIVED ITS FINAL EDIT**
Previous chapters
Chapter 14: Flashfire
Draco stalked from Moody’s chambers in the blackest mood he could remember. The stone make-up of the walls was the only thing that kept them from being destroyed; his entire being sought for something to rip and tear and break. Draco could hardly breathe with the force of it.
It wasn’t Moody himself, though the man’s unfailing insinuations of treason had not lessened in the slightest. No, this was bigger than Moody, bigger this entire castle. Draco felt alive as he hadn’t in days, full of that perfect vitality that came with impotent rage, but a tiny part of himself watched in awe as it fed upon everything it could get its claws into.
His fury had red hair and freckles. Green eyes. Stolen wands and twisted snakes emerging from skulls. But mostly, it possessed dirty cornsilk hair, eyes the colour of smoke… and a decisive lack of anything remotely like resolve when it counted.
No, he had not alerted the Death Eaters accidentally, or otherwise, you pompous, outdated old fool, why don’t you bloody say what you really want to say to me? He’d fulfilled his mission, saved them all, and for what? To watch his misery take a final shape?
Had he come this far, through the deaths of his parents and this infernal mess of a war, only to—he shut down the thought before it could gain momentum. Gods, it was over. There was nothing he could do to change it now, no backtracking and fixing to make things finally go his way for a change. If he could have done that, he might as well have gone back to a time before Pansy slipped into Voldemort’s shadow as a spy, or stopped himself from sleeping with Theodore that first night.
Draco sagged, catching himself against the wall. The space behind his eyes was burning. You should never have brought any of them into this. They came for you, but they never knew why you were really here. He hadn’t been able to tell Pansy at her deathbed, and Theodore…
Theodore had known, and had let it happen anyway.
Only Blaise was left of his three friends, Blaise who had made other attachments, whose reasons for fighting had changed. If Blaise died, it wouldn’t only be him that Draco’s short-sightedness hurt, but others as well—Seamus and Ginny Weasley, of all people—and could Draco ever make amends for the spiral he had pulled them all into?
Maybe none of them would survive this war. Not him, not Blaise, not Weasley or Seamus Finnigan. Or Harry Potter.
The thought of Harry dying only anchored the despair and anger more deeply. What in Merlin’s name could he do about either? Nothing. “You’ve already gone above and beyond.” Oh yes, he’d done his absolute fucking best.
He couldn’t feel this. If he did, he would crash right into it and there was nowhere private enough to hide what would come pouring out of him. Best to shut it down and see if the light of morning couldn’t sober it out of him.
Too late, Draco heard footsteps ahead in the hallway, but he was so immersed in his turmoil that it took him several seconds to look up.
Harry Potter stood not thirty feet away, watching him with cautious earnestness.
It hit harder than he’d expected. Draco stopped dead in the hallway. And then loathed himself for it. He should have kept going, straight past Harry until he found the room they’d set aside for him. He didn’t know where it was, just that he needed its solitude. And then his mind caught up with him.
Oh. Of all people, Harry Potter in the middle of the hallway blocking his path. Draco wanted nothing but sleep, deep and blank, where there was no room for regrets. Frustration eddied: it seemed even that would be denied him tonight.
Harry came toward him at an easy pace. “Malfoy.”
He might have said more, but Draco was in no mood to hear it. “Potter, where’s my room?”
Harry halted several yards away. He glanced back toward the stairway rising into the darkness. “It’s one flight up. Are you hungry?”
There was no space left for hunger. “No,” he said, and made to go around the other man.
Harry shifted sideways into his path, forcing him to stop once more. “Wait. I wanted…” Harry drew a breath that echoed in Draco’s ears. “Ginny told me about your head.” He gestured and Draco’s hand flicked up involuntarily to touch the wound. “Do you need Pomfrey?”
“No, I don’t need Pomfrey,” Draco muttered, angry at the injury for making this more complicated. The front of his skull ached dully and persistently, and Draco wondered if he did in fact have some sort of concussion. Harry’s eyes travelled over his face. Draco remembered the wand slice across his cheek. Heat flooded his ears. Salazar. Maybe he could just go to sleep and let the head trauma take its due. There’d been no time for rest since the Death Eaters, but now there was nothing to stop it.
He looked up and found that Harry’s eyes had darkened, narrowing in on his face. “Malfoy. Are you alright?”
Draco’s fingers clenched around his pack strap. He suddenly wanted to fling the bag at Potter. “Yes, I’m bloody fine! What the hell do you care?”
Something even blacker flitted through Harry’s eyes. He stepped forward deliberately. The change struck Draco as very odd: this was no timid boy anymore, this was a man well-versed in the art of protecting himself and those around him. Draco edged backward. He knew that man, very well, and he didn’t want to see him right now.
“Draco. I wanted to thank you. For what you did. You’ve no idea—” Harry’s chin dropped and then rose again. “Ginny and I both want to thank you.”
Why the fuck wasn’t Potter with his future bride, celebrating her safe arrival? Draco’s chest cinched up; he had to force himself to inhale. Because they wanted to make sure he knew how happy they were? “What?” he said flatly.
Harry tilted his head. “I want to thank you for bringing her here safely. I know you didn’t have to do it. There’s no way I can properly express my gratitude. But I…” His shoulders twitched. “We wanted to thank you.”
Something went askew inside Draco. He flung his pack to the ground and spread his arms wide. “That’s so touching,” he snapped. “I’d expected you to do this hand in hand, but go on. Please, express your undying gratitude to me.”
Harry blinked and stared at him. “Draco—”
“No, go on. If it will settle some sliver of guilt in your oh-so-noble heart, then by all means, unburden yourself.” He was sneering; he was so angry his vision had sharpened and now the shadows were endless and Harry stood out like a glowing beacon.
Harry’s brow shuttered. “What are you talking about? This isn’t about guilt, this is about gratitude. For risking your life.”
Draco laughed, a high-pitched burst that sounded strange to him. “Well, you bloody well ordered me to do it, didn’t you? So, you’re welcome, Potter, you are very, very welcome. I’m so fucking happy it all turned out for the best.”
Harry stalked forward so abruptly that Draco’s laughter died. “What is the matter with you? I’m not trying to pick a fight!”
Harry was only feet from him, green eyes sparking. For some reason, it only managed to fuel the anger beating through Draco’s body, and he was thankful. “No, we’ve all got to work together for everyone’s benefit now, don’t we? Well, good. I’m glad I’ve been able to do my civic duty for the cause. Why don’t you go and enjoy the laurels of our accomplishment and leave me alone?”
Disgust glittered around the edges of Harry’s expression. “I don’t understand you, Malfoy,” he gritted out. “Just when I think we can have a civil conversation, you twist it all to hell again.”
Draco stepped forward, backing Harry up a pace. “Oh, so we’re friends now? Potter, I was never your friend. You don’t even understand—” He jerked himself free of that dangerous tirade and pounced on another. “Friends don’t order each other to do what you ordered me into, so don’t pretend that you know me somehow. I’m nothing more than your bloody soldier, not your friend!”
It was petty, so petty. Untrue. But he couldn’t stop it, and the seething in Harry’s eyes was the last, desperate nail in the coffin. The leader reared up in Potter, breathtakingly powerful.
“Malfoy, I am sorry you had to go through this, but it’s not all my fault.” His voice held the deadly rasp of unrestrained authority and disappointment. “I wanted the best. You’re the best, and we need you. It’s our last chance to win this. We have to win.”
Draco’s fury rose in response to the righteousness in Harry’s stance. Because it was all true, but it was all completely unfair, and he hated it, and Harry. “Oh, that’s pretty. Our last chance? How many last chances have you witnessed? You don’t know how many people I’ve watched die for your cause. In your name. And they don’t get remembered, they just bleed to death on the ground, and I watch them and I don’t die. Because it’s always about everyone else. It’s about you. When is it going to be about me? When is it going to be about what happens to me?”
Harry’s expression was saturated in anger, and getting darker. He scowled. “You are the world’s most selfish person, Malfoy.”
Something snapped. Everything, falling upon Draco from the highest heavens, and it wasn’t worth it. For the first time he felt it keenly, that it wasn’t worth it. His heart cracked in his chest. “Fuck you, Potter! Fuck you. You’re the selfish one. You won’t even see what’s right in front of you, who’s dying for you. Who would die for you. This is going to work and then where will we be? Where will I be? I hope it’s far away, somewhere where I don’t have to see any of this, where I don’t have to cart women into your arms so you can save the bloody world! I don’t fucking care anymore, not about this world, not about you, or your spells or your perfect war—”
Harry grabbed his arm, jerked him forward, and met Draco’s open mouth with his own. It hurt. Draco’s eyes flew wide. Harry’s tongue swept his mouth and the rest of Draco’s words choked in his throat. For one shattering moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Then he grappled with Harry’s shoulders and forced him away.
Draco stumbled backward. The feeling within him was expansive, completely uprooted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and the anger took over. Pure, devastating rage.
“Fuck you,” he whispered in a broken tone.
* * *
Harry blinked, and then Draco was on him, crushing Harry’s mouth to his, one hand gripping his arm painfully. Harry grabbed the body against his, not close enough, they weren’t close enough, felt himself being pushed, staggering, and it felt free like he never had. Draco bit at his lips, shoved up against him; Harry’s back hit the wall, then his head. Light dazzled his eyes in tiny sparks. But Draco’s hands were suddenly there, climbing through his hair, slipping behind to cradle his head. Touching with tender fingers.
“I’m sor... I...”
Harry shook his head and felt the dizziness swamp. He gripped Draco’s nape and edged him closer, until he had his mouth again.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he whispered.
Draco made a strangled sound and pushed away, only to turn Harry around and fall back, pulling them both to the wall again. Harry pressed him full-bodied into the stones. He felt Draco heave against him, all panting breaths and tugging hands. Harry stilled the trembling of Draco’s hips, thrust his own against them forcefully, and tasted Draco collapse on his tongue. But Draco’s strength was formidable; Harry couldn’t have broken free even if he’d desired it. Draco’s fingers curled into his hair, gripped there, and his tongue slid over Harry’s, touching and sweeping, hesitating only to suck at him as though he wanted his breath.
Draco smelled of rain and the tart scent of earth. Harry’s fingers caught on snarls in his hair and he worked them free, smoothing his palms down Draco’s cheeks. So pale before, now filled with colour. Harry could taste Draco’s journey on his tongue and the flavour was intoxicating. He bucked even closer to Draco’s body, felt his fingertips skitter over the raised, worried flesh at Draco’s temple, and felt the whimper of pain against his lips.
Harry groped and found cold fingers, wrapped his hand around them. His knuckles scraped the stones and Draco’s hand clenched hard around his. His name came in a gasp, filling the silence of the hallway. Draco lurched against him. Sparks flashed through Harry’s vision at the contact. He tore his glasses from his face with a shaking hand and then forgot about them. Draco wriggled free of Harry’s grasp; a second later the press of fingers underneath the hem of his shirt made Harry pull out of the kiss. He gripped Draco’s hips and lifted, settling him up higher on the wall, then thrust bodily against him. Draco let out a faint moan; his head fell back, knocking against the stones. Hands tangled in Harry’s hair and pulled.
And it just wasn’t enough.
Harry’s mind supplied the answer. He wrapped an arm tightly round Draco’s waist, the hot skin of Draco’s back beating into his forearm. He tugged Draco as close as he could manage, bit at his throat, and whispered a “Hold on,” then felt the twisting jerk of his own Apparition. Draco’s cry of surprise was lost somewhere in the transfer, and suddenly they were in Harry’s room. The fire had gone down to the coals, and his bed was a mess of sheets and blankets. Draco caught him in another searing kiss and Harry fell into it before pulling free. Draco tore his own cloak off, then dragged Harry to him again, yanking his head back to bare his throat. Harry growled, catching Draco with one hand around his waist, undulating his hips, and earning a choked groan for his efforts. Draco fought to stand upright, and Harry urged them both toward the parted curtains of his bed.
But Draco had him in as tight a grasp as he’d ever felt, a hand climbing relentlessly up beneath his shirt, the other clutching the back of his neck. The pain was a delicious thrill down his spine and Harry arched until he could only feel Draco’s heat. He grappled with Draco’s pullover, yanking too hard and hearing a grunt, but then it was off and there was nothing but bare skin beneath his palms. Draco shoved him down onto the bed and climbed atop him, fitting body to body, wrestling with the hem of Harry’s shirt again. Harry let him drag it up over his head and fling it away, mesmerised by the flex of bare muscle. Draco shifted, the slightest lapse of control, and suddenly Harry didn’t want him there.
He twisted up and out, and Draco gave a surprised shout as he was flipped onto his back. Harry straddled him. Draco struggled once, seeking purchase, until Harry bent and sucked his tongue into his mouth. Draco moaned deep in his throat. His knees rose, locking Harry’s hips in their grip, and Harry couldn’t stop the flex of his pelvis into Draco’s, or the delicious friction it elicited. When Draco shuddered, head to toe, Harry’s chest ached. He dipped his head to lap at the expanse just beneath Draco’s chin. A hand climbed up into his hair again.
“Harry,” Draco managed, voice wavering like a candle’s flame, “I—You…”
“Draco, shhh,” was all he could force out. Words just didn’t match the emotion screaming through his brain. Draco Malfoy was in his bed. It was still incomprehensible, and Harry didn’t want to comprehend it, he just wanted to feel it and taste it. Be it. Climb inside Draco, because that was the only place he’d wanted to go in years, see him unravelled, pull apart the threads himself, and even as he thought it, he knew that Draco was tugging his own threads out at the seams.
He wanted this man so badly he could have wept.
Harry found Draco’s trouser fly, and Draco arched into his touch, hips bucking spasmodically. Harry squeezed his thigh to steady him and pushed the buttons free. Draco stuttered on a word, and then Harry felt hands scrabbling with his own trousers. He lifted himself away just enough to give Draco room, already hating the space between them. Draco got his trousers down at last and Harry kicked them off, not even bothering to make sure he’d completely freed himself before returning the favour. Draco’s hips rose off the bed more from Harry’s efforts than any aid from Draco himself, and then his trousers were gone as well and Harry saw pale skin stretching across red linens. Draco’s knees bent and Harry’s body slid between them on its own. He couldn’t tell who the moan came from when they finally touched.
Draco’s eyes were open, deep as thunderheads. Fixed on him. Harry kissed his mouth, his cheek and the skin just beneath his eyes. Long eyelashes fluttered shut, dusting Harry’s forehead. Harry could taste the sweat and old dirt from days outside. It splintered through him, reminded him of where Draco had been. He sought the cut across Draco’s temple, the angry welt lancing Draco’s cheek. Death Eaters. Something in Harry clenched and threatened to burst.
Gods… What had he done to Draco? He could have lost him to this war any number of times. He could still lose him, in so many ways, and he’d already been the instrument of more of Draco’s pain than he ever wanted to think about. His heart warred with itself: How could he feel these things for Draco and send him to his death at the same time?
Harry needed to touch him, to feel the life within this body. He’d not managed to take it away yet; for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he’d been granted a reprieve in spite of his stupidity. Draco was here, moving under him and against him and through him, and a single thought ricocheted through his brain, that he wasn’t going to give this up for any reason. He wasn’t going to lose this.
Draco’s body arched sinuously—helplessly—against his. Hands clutched. His hips thrust so tightly to Harry’s that Harry felt the lightning spasm skating through Draco’s muscles. He gasped, and Draco made an equally desperate sound. His hips shuddered again. Again, rolling up, pressing to Harry’s. The sight of Draco tightening, giving in, caught at Harry’s breath. His heart gave a strange, sublime shift, hurting for one glorious instant; Harry moaned, gathered Draco to him, enfolded his arms and legs, and met his mouth hard.
Draco’s breathing was a faltering rasp; he clutched onto Harry tightly enough to bruise. Incoherent words fell into the scant space between their mouths, and Harry lapped them up, found Draco’s mouth again and stroked deeply with his tongue.
Felt something loosen at the weak whimper that broke from Draco’s throat.
An unbearably beautiful creature was in his bed. Draco’s muscles were a sensual flow beneath his skin. Harry found the white scar from York marring hip and back, and followed it like a silken ribbon. Draco’s hand climbed to his own mouth. He bit his knuckles and squeezed his eyes shut and shook. Harry gave in, placing his lips over the curve of that throat, and Draco’s hand kneaded back into his hair. He swallowed convulsively and Harry found himself attending the movement with this tongue, copying it, worshipping, unable to resist.
Draco’s legs lifted, squeezing precariously around Harry’s waist. His trembling rippled into Harry, sparking a hundred tendrils of arousal. Harry shuddered, felt Draco gasp into his neck. “Harry, I want—Now—”
He looked down and found Draco’s eyes hooded, absolutely drunk on sensation. He tucked his hands under Draco’s knees and pulled them up. Draco reached back for the headboard. The bed creaked. Draco let out a breathless sound, and suddenly Harry couldn’t help himself. He thrust down, feeling the body beneath him clench. He found the curve of Draco’s thigh, the taut muscle of his backside, and then his entrance. Draco whimpered again and Harry whispered a spell, then pushed one finger into his body.
Draco’s lips parted, air hissing in and out between his teeth. Harry kissed him thoroughly, working at opening Draco up enough. He was close already, so damn close, and he could feel Draco’s body begin that slow, dangerous undulation that meant climax was nearing. One of Draco’s legs climbed up and cinched around him. Harry forced himself to slow down, to avoid the edge for as long as he could.
But when he finally slid inside, there was nothing powerful enough to keep him in check. The heat was unbearable, Draco’s body writhing desperately under him, Merlin, constantly moving, Harry thrust hard, pushing Draco further up the bed, nothing but the creak of the old wood and the gasps like a torrent from Draco’s lips. Draco raked fingernails down his back. The splash of pain spiked through him and Harry cried out. His body went swiftly out of his control. Couldn’t think, just see: skin glowing gold in the light, flaxen hair splayed across the sheets, one white-knuckled hand gripping the headboard as if to break it off. Draco’s head fell back—his eyes had rolled up—he jerked so violently that Harry thought he’d hurt him, and then Draco was coming, a helpless chaos of movement, tightening around Harry, tightening—Draco thrust back twice, rolling his hips in a broken arc, and Harry fell hard, his climax flooding like a deluge. He couldn’t breathe; he was drowning. And all the while Draco shuddered beneath Harry, coaxing it from him in a steady stream of white light and dancing sparks.
Harry dropped at last, utterly spent, across Draco’s body. Trickles of almost-pain shot through him, every touch against his skin an electric shock. He groaned, enduring it helplessly, waiting for it to subside. His mind… was a mush. He could only breathe, and taste the flavour of Draco’s skin and sweat on his lips. He felt legs clench around him, then release and drop away. With the last of his coherent thought, Harry raised himself from the heaving body of his lover and dropped to his side on the bed.
Draco’s eyes were shut, cheeks a bright red flush. He lay sprawled, completely uninhibited on top of the mussed sheets, one arm thrown up above his head. Harry struggled to find a cleaning spell in his mess of a brain, but wasn’t sure in the end if he’d actually cast it. He had to be closer to Draco. There was nothing else except that.
Wriggling, Harry insinuated a leg under Draco’s bent knee, flung an arm across his chest, and gathered him in until he rested against hot, sweaty skin. Draco fumbled sluggishly with the bedclothes, finally succeeding in extricating the edge of a sheet. He tugged it over them both and exhaled. Harry pressed as close as he could get. Only then did he let himself drift, listening to the hitch and sigh of Draco’s breathing.
* * *
When Harry awoke, the sun was setting the floor stones aglow, Luna was singing brightly of greensleeves, and Draco was gone.
...
Chapter 15
Author:
rurounihimeRating: hard R when all is said and done…
Pairing: H/D eventually
Summary: In the midst of a disintegrating war, Harry awaits the arrival of the Order’s last hope.
Warning: violence, character death, spoilers for all books
Disclaimer: The HP characters and most of the spellwork do not belong to me.
A/N: Thank you to April for her fabulous and attentive beta-ing, and to Coffee for constantly letting me bounce ideas off of her. The other major pairing in this is Blaise/Seamus, but there are minor het pairings as well.
…
No artwork or music for this chapter.
…
**ETA: THIS CHAPTER HAS RECEIVED ITS FINAL EDIT**
Previous chapters
Chapter 14: Flashfire
Draco stalked from Moody’s chambers in the blackest mood he could remember. The stone make-up of the walls was the only thing that kept them from being destroyed; his entire being sought for something to rip and tear and break. Draco could hardly breathe with the force of it.
It wasn’t Moody himself, though the man’s unfailing insinuations of treason had not lessened in the slightest. No, this was bigger than Moody, bigger this entire castle. Draco felt alive as he hadn’t in days, full of that perfect vitality that came with impotent rage, but a tiny part of himself watched in awe as it fed upon everything it could get its claws into.
His fury had red hair and freckles. Green eyes. Stolen wands and twisted snakes emerging from skulls. But mostly, it possessed dirty cornsilk hair, eyes the colour of smoke… and a decisive lack of anything remotely like resolve when it counted.
No, he had not alerted the Death Eaters accidentally, or otherwise, you pompous, outdated old fool, why don’t you bloody say what you really want to say to me? He’d fulfilled his mission, saved them all, and for what? To watch his misery take a final shape?
Had he come this far, through the deaths of his parents and this infernal mess of a war, only to—he shut down the thought before it could gain momentum. Gods, it was over. There was nothing he could do to change it now, no backtracking and fixing to make things finally go his way for a change. If he could have done that, he might as well have gone back to a time before Pansy slipped into Voldemort’s shadow as a spy, or stopped himself from sleeping with Theodore that first night.
Draco sagged, catching himself against the wall. The space behind his eyes was burning. You should never have brought any of them into this. They came for you, but they never knew why you were really here. He hadn’t been able to tell Pansy at her deathbed, and Theodore…
Theodore had known, and had let it happen anyway.
Only Blaise was left of his three friends, Blaise who had made other attachments, whose reasons for fighting had changed. If Blaise died, it wouldn’t only be him that Draco’s short-sightedness hurt, but others as well—Seamus and Ginny Weasley, of all people—and could Draco ever make amends for the spiral he had pulled them all into?
Maybe none of them would survive this war. Not him, not Blaise, not Weasley or Seamus Finnigan. Or Harry Potter.
The thought of Harry dying only anchored the despair and anger more deeply. What in Merlin’s name could he do about either? Nothing. “You’ve already gone above and beyond.” Oh yes, he’d done his absolute fucking best.
He couldn’t feel this. If he did, he would crash right into it and there was nowhere private enough to hide what would come pouring out of him. Best to shut it down and see if the light of morning couldn’t sober it out of him.
Too late, Draco heard footsteps ahead in the hallway, but he was so immersed in his turmoil that it took him several seconds to look up.
Harry Potter stood not thirty feet away, watching him with cautious earnestness.
It hit harder than he’d expected. Draco stopped dead in the hallway. And then loathed himself for it. He should have kept going, straight past Harry until he found the room they’d set aside for him. He didn’t know where it was, just that he needed its solitude. And then his mind caught up with him.
Oh. Of all people, Harry Potter in the middle of the hallway blocking his path. Draco wanted nothing but sleep, deep and blank, where there was no room for regrets. Frustration eddied: it seemed even that would be denied him tonight.
Harry came toward him at an easy pace. “Malfoy.”
He might have said more, but Draco was in no mood to hear it. “Potter, where’s my room?”
Harry halted several yards away. He glanced back toward the stairway rising into the darkness. “It’s one flight up. Are you hungry?”
There was no space left for hunger. “No,” he said, and made to go around the other man.
Harry shifted sideways into his path, forcing him to stop once more. “Wait. I wanted…” Harry drew a breath that echoed in Draco’s ears. “Ginny told me about your head.” He gestured and Draco’s hand flicked up involuntarily to touch the wound. “Do you need Pomfrey?”
“No, I don’t need Pomfrey,” Draco muttered, angry at the injury for making this more complicated. The front of his skull ached dully and persistently, and Draco wondered if he did in fact have some sort of concussion. Harry’s eyes travelled over his face. Draco remembered the wand slice across his cheek. Heat flooded his ears. Salazar. Maybe he could just go to sleep and let the head trauma take its due. There’d been no time for rest since the Death Eaters, but now there was nothing to stop it.
He looked up and found that Harry’s eyes had darkened, narrowing in on his face. “Malfoy. Are you alright?”
Draco’s fingers clenched around his pack strap. He suddenly wanted to fling the bag at Potter. “Yes, I’m bloody fine! What the hell do you care?”
Something even blacker flitted through Harry’s eyes. He stepped forward deliberately. The change struck Draco as very odd: this was no timid boy anymore, this was a man well-versed in the art of protecting himself and those around him. Draco edged backward. He knew that man, very well, and he didn’t want to see him right now.
“Draco. I wanted to thank you. For what you did. You’ve no idea—” Harry’s chin dropped and then rose again. “Ginny and I both want to thank you.”
Why the fuck wasn’t Potter with his future bride, celebrating her safe arrival? Draco’s chest cinched up; he had to force himself to inhale. Because they wanted to make sure he knew how happy they were? “What?” he said flatly.
Harry tilted his head. “I want to thank you for bringing her here safely. I know you didn’t have to do it. There’s no way I can properly express my gratitude. But I…” His shoulders twitched. “We wanted to thank you.”
Something went askew inside Draco. He flung his pack to the ground and spread his arms wide. “That’s so touching,” he snapped. “I’d expected you to do this hand in hand, but go on. Please, express your undying gratitude to me.”
Harry blinked and stared at him. “Draco—”
“No, go on. If it will settle some sliver of guilt in your oh-so-noble heart, then by all means, unburden yourself.” He was sneering; he was so angry his vision had sharpened and now the shadows were endless and Harry stood out like a glowing beacon.
Harry’s brow shuttered. “What are you talking about? This isn’t about guilt, this is about gratitude. For risking your life.”
Draco laughed, a high-pitched burst that sounded strange to him. “Well, you bloody well ordered me to do it, didn’t you? So, you’re welcome, Potter, you are very, very welcome. I’m so fucking happy it all turned out for the best.”
Harry stalked forward so abruptly that Draco’s laughter died. “What is the matter with you? I’m not trying to pick a fight!”
Harry was only feet from him, green eyes sparking. For some reason, it only managed to fuel the anger beating through Draco’s body, and he was thankful. “No, we’ve all got to work together for everyone’s benefit now, don’t we? Well, good. I’m glad I’ve been able to do my civic duty for the cause. Why don’t you go and enjoy the laurels of our accomplishment and leave me alone?”
Disgust glittered around the edges of Harry’s expression. “I don’t understand you, Malfoy,” he gritted out. “Just when I think we can have a civil conversation, you twist it all to hell again.”
Draco stepped forward, backing Harry up a pace. “Oh, so we’re friends now? Potter, I was never your friend. You don’t even understand—” He jerked himself free of that dangerous tirade and pounced on another. “Friends don’t order each other to do what you ordered me into, so don’t pretend that you know me somehow. I’m nothing more than your bloody soldier, not your friend!”
It was petty, so petty. Untrue. But he couldn’t stop it, and the seething in Harry’s eyes was the last, desperate nail in the coffin. The leader reared up in Potter, breathtakingly powerful.
“Malfoy, I am sorry you had to go through this, but it’s not all my fault.” His voice held the deadly rasp of unrestrained authority and disappointment. “I wanted the best. You’re the best, and we need you. It’s our last chance to win this. We have to win.”
Draco’s fury rose in response to the righteousness in Harry’s stance. Because it was all true, but it was all completely unfair, and he hated it, and Harry. “Oh, that’s pretty. Our last chance? How many last chances have you witnessed? You don’t know how many people I’ve watched die for your cause. In your name. And they don’t get remembered, they just bleed to death on the ground, and I watch them and I don’t die. Because it’s always about everyone else. It’s about you. When is it going to be about me? When is it going to be about what happens to me?”
Harry’s expression was saturated in anger, and getting darker. He scowled. “You are the world’s most selfish person, Malfoy.”
Something snapped. Everything, falling upon Draco from the highest heavens, and it wasn’t worth it. For the first time he felt it keenly, that it wasn’t worth it. His heart cracked in his chest. “Fuck you, Potter! Fuck you. You’re the selfish one. You won’t even see what’s right in front of you, who’s dying for you. Who would die for you. This is going to work and then where will we be? Where will I be? I hope it’s far away, somewhere where I don’t have to see any of this, where I don’t have to cart women into your arms so you can save the bloody world! I don’t fucking care anymore, not about this world, not about you, or your spells or your perfect war—”
Harry grabbed his arm, jerked him forward, and met Draco’s open mouth with his own. It hurt. Draco’s eyes flew wide. Harry’s tongue swept his mouth and the rest of Draco’s words choked in his throat. For one shattering moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Then he grappled with Harry’s shoulders and forced him away.
Draco stumbled backward. The feeling within him was expansive, completely uprooted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and the anger took over. Pure, devastating rage.
“Fuck you,” he whispered in a broken tone.
* * *
Harry blinked, and then Draco was on him, crushing Harry’s mouth to his, one hand gripping his arm painfully. Harry grabbed the body against his, not close enough, they weren’t close enough, felt himself being pushed, staggering, and it felt free like he never had. Draco bit at his lips, shoved up against him; Harry’s back hit the wall, then his head. Light dazzled his eyes in tiny sparks. But Draco’s hands were suddenly there, climbing through his hair, slipping behind to cradle his head. Touching with tender fingers.
“I’m sor... I...”
Harry shook his head and felt the dizziness swamp. He gripped Draco’s nape and edged him closer, until he had his mouth again.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he whispered.
Draco made a strangled sound and pushed away, only to turn Harry around and fall back, pulling them both to the wall again. Harry pressed him full-bodied into the stones. He felt Draco heave against him, all panting breaths and tugging hands. Harry stilled the trembling of Draco’s hips, thrust his own against them forcefully, and tasted Draco collapse on his tongue. But Draco’s strength was formidable; Harry couldn’t have broken free even if he’d desired it. Draco’s fingers curled into his hair, gripped there, and his tongue slid over Harry’s, touching and sweeping, hesitating only to suck at him as though he wanted his breath.
Draco smelled of rain and the tart scent of earth. Harry’s fingers caught on snarls in his hair and he worked them free, smoothing his palms down Draco’s cheeks. So pale before, now filled with colour. Harry could taste Draco’s journey on his tongue and the flavour was intoxicating. He bucked even closer to Draco’s body, felt his fingertips skitter over the raised, worried flesh at Draco’s temple, and felt the whimper of pain against his lips.
Harry groped and found cold fingers, wrapped his hand around them. His knuckles scraped the stones and Draco’s hand clenched hard around his. His name came in a gasp, filling the silence of the hallway. Draco lurched against him. Sparks flashed through Harry’s vision at the contact. He tore his glasses from his face with a shaking hand and then forgot about them. Draco wriggled free of Harry’s grasp; a second later the press of fingers underneath the hem of his shirt made Harry pull out of the kiss. He gripped Draco’s hips and lifted, settling him up higher on the wall, then thrust bodily against him. Draco let out a faint moan; his head fell back, knocking against the stones. Hands tangled in Harry’s hair and pulled.
And it just wasn’t enough.
Harry’s mind supplied the answer. He wrapped an arm tightly round Draco’s waist, the hot skin of Draco’s back beating into his forearm. He tugged Draco as close as he could manage, bit at his throat, and whispered a “Hold on,” then felt the twisting jerk of his own Apparition. Draco’s cry of surprise was lost somewhere in the transfer, and suddenly they were in Harry’s room. The fire had gone down to the coals, and his bed was a mess of sheets and blankets. Draco caught him in another searing kiss and Harry fell into it before pulling free. Draco tore his own cloak off, then dragged Harry to him again, yanking his head back to bare his throat. Harry growled, catching Draco with one hand around his waist, undulating his hips, and earning a choked groan for his efforts. Draco fought to stand upright, and Harry urged them both toward the parted curtains of his bed.
But Draco had him in as tight a grasp as he’d ever felt, a hand climbing relentlessly up beneath his shirt, the other clutching the back of his neck. The pain was a delicious thrill down his spine and Harry arched until he could only feel Draco’s heat. He grappled with Draco’s pullover, yanking too hard and hearing a grunt, but then it was off and there was nothing but bare skin beneath his palms. Draco shoved him down onto the bed and climbed atop him, fitting body to body, wrestling with the hem of Harry’s shirt again. Harry let him drag it up over his head and fling it away, mesmerised by the flex of bare muscle. Draco shifted, the slightest lapse of control, and suddenly Harry didn’t want him there.
He twisted up and out, and Draco gave a surprised shout as he was flipped onto his back. Harry straddled him. Draco struggled once, seeking purchase, until Harry bent and sucked his tongue into his mouth. Draco moaned deep in his throat. His knees rose, locking Harry’s hips in their grip, and Harry couldn’t stop the flex of his pelvis into Draco’s, or the delicious friction it elicited. When Draco shuddered, head to toe, Harry’s chest ached. He dipped his head to lap at the expanse just beneath Draco’s chin. A hand climbed up into his hair again.
“Harry,” Draco managed, voice wavering like a candle’s flame, “I—You…”
“Draco, shhh,” was all he could force out. Words just didn’t match the emotion screaming through his brain. Draco Malfoy was in his bed. It was still incomprehensible, and Harry didn’t want to comprehend it, he just wanted to feel it and taste it. Be it. Climb inside Draco, because that was the only place he’d wanted to go in years, see him unravelled, pull apart the threads himself, and even as he thought it, he knew that Draco was tugging his own threads out at the seams.
He wanted this man so badly he could have wept.
Harry found Draco’s trouser fly, and Draco arched into his touch, hips bucking spasmodically. Harry squeezed his thigh to steady him and pushed the buttons free. Draco stuttered on a word, and then Harry felt hands scrabbling with his own trousers. He lifted himself away just enough to give Draco room, already hating the space between them. Draco got his trousers down at last and Harry kicked them off, not even bothering to make sure he’d completely freed himself before returning the favour. Draco’s hips rose off the bed more from Harry’s efforts than any aid from Draco himself, and then his trousers were gone as well and Harry saw pale skin stretching across red linens. Draco’s knees bent and Harry’s body slid between them on its own. He couldn’t tell who the moan came from when they finally touched.
Draco’s eyes were open, deep as thunderheads. Fixed on him. Harry kissed his mouth, his cheek and the skin just beneath his eyes. Long eyelashes fluttered shut, dusting Harry’s forehead. Harry could taste the sweat and old dirt from days outside. It splintered through him, reminded him of where Draco had been. He sought the cut across Draco’s temple, the angry welt lancing Draco’s cheek. Death Eaters. Something in Harry clenched and threatened to burst.
Gods… What had he done to Draco? He could have lost him to this war any number of times. He could still lose him, in so many ways, and he’d already been the instrument of more of Draco’s pain than he ever wanted to think about. His heart warred with itself: How could he feel these things for Draco and send him to his death at the same time?
Harry needed to touch him, to feel the life within this body. He’d not managed to take it away yet; for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he’d been granted a reprieve in spite of his stupidity. Draco was here, moving under him and against him and through him, and a single thought ricocheted through his brain, that he wasn’t going to give this up for any reason. He wasn’t going to lose this.
Draco’s body arched sinuously—helplessly—against his. Hands clutched. His hips thrust so tightly to Harry’s that Harry felt the lightning spasm skating through Draco’s muscles. He gasped, and Draco made an equally desperate sound. His hips shuddered again. Again, rolling up, pressing to Harry’s. The sight of Draco tightening, giving in, caught at Harry’s breath. His heart gave a strange, sublime shift, hurting for one glorious instant; Harry moaned, gathered Draco to him, enfolded his arms and legs, and met his mouth hard.
Draco’s breathing was a faltering rasp; he clutched onto Harry tightly enough to bruise. Incoherent words fell into the scant space between their mouths, and Harry lapped them up, found Draco’s mouth again and stroked deeply with his tongue.
Felt something loosen at the weak whimper that broke from Draco’s throat.
An unbearably beautiful creature was in his bed. Draco’s muscles were a sensual flow beneath his skin. Harry found the white scar from York marring hip and back, and followed it like a silken ribbon. Draco’s hand climbed to his own mouth. He bit his knuckles and squeezed his eyes shut and shook. Harry gave in, placing his lips over the curve of that throat, and Draco’s hand kneaded back into his hair. He swallowed convulsively and Harry found himself attending the movement with this tongue, copying it, worshipping, unable to resist.
Draco’s legs lifted, squeezing precariously around Harry’s waist. His trembling rippled into Harry, sparking a hundred tendrils of arousal. Harry shuddered, felt Draco gasp into his neck. “Harry, I want—Now—”
He looked down and found Draco’s eyes hooded, absolutely drunk on sensation. He tucked his hands under Draco’s knees and pulled them up. Draco reached back for the headboard. The bed creaked. Draco let out a breathless sound, and suddenly Harry couldn’t help himself. He thrust down, feeling the body beneath him clench. He found the curve of Draco’s thigh, the taut muscle of his backside, and then his entrance. Draco whimpered again and Harry whispered a spell, then pushed one finger into his body.
Draco’s lips parted, air hissing in and out between his teeth. Harry kissed him thoroughly, working at opening Draco up enough. He was close already, so damn close, and he could feel Draco’s body begin that slow, dangerous undulation that meant climax was nearing. One of Draco’s legs climbed up and cinched around him. Harry forced himself to slow down, to avoid the edge for as long as he could.
But when he finally slid inside, there was nothing powerful enough to keep him in check. The heat was unbearable, Draco’s body writhing desperately under him, Merlin, constantly moving, Harry thrust hard, pushing Draco further up the bed, nothing but the creak of the old wood and the gasps like a torrent from Draco’s lips. Draco raked fingernails down his back. The splash of pain spiked through him and Harry cried out. His body went swiftly out of his control. Couldn’t think, just see: skin glowing gold in the light, flaxen hair splayed across the sheets, one white-knuckled hand gripping the headboard as if to break it off. Draco’s head fell back—his eyes had rolled up—he jerked so violently that Harry thought he’d hurt him, and then Draco was coming, a helpless chaos of movement, tightening around Harry, tightening—Draco thrust back twice, rolling his hips in a broken arc, and Harry fell hard, his climax flooding like a deluge. He couldn’t breathe; he was drowning. And all the while Draco shuddered beneath Harry, coaxing it from him in a steady stream of white light and dancing sparks.
Harry dropped at last, utterly spent, across Draco’s body. Trickles of almost-pain shot through him, every touch against his skin an electric shock. He groaned, enduring it helplessly, waiting for it to subside. His mind… was a mush. He could only breathe, and taste the flavour of Draco’s skin and sweat on his lips. He felt legs clench around him, then release and drop away. With the last of his coherent thought, Harry raised himself from the heaving body of his lover and dropped to his side on the bed.
Draco’s eyes were shut, cheeks a bright red flush. He lay sprawled, completely uninhibited on top of the mussed sheets, one arm thrown up above his head. Harry struggled to find a cleaning spell in his mess of a brain, but wasn’t sure in the end if he’d actually cast it. He had to be closer to Draco. There was nothing else except that.
Wriggling, Harry insinuated a leg under Draco’s bent knee, flung an arm across his chest, and gathered him in until he rested against hot, sweaty skin. Draco fumbled sluggishly with the bedclothes, finally succeeding in extricating the edge of a sheet. He tugged it over them both and exhaled. Harry pressed as close as he could get. Only then did he let himself drift, listening to the hitch and sigh of Draco’s breathing.
* * *
When Harry awoke, the sun was setting the floor stones aglow, Luna was singing brightly of greensleeves, and Draco was gone.
...
Chapter 15
