Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3530258.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Harry_Potter
  Character:
      Aberforth_Dumbledore, Draco_Malfoy, Harry_Potter, Ginny_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Astronomy, Hogwarts_Fourth_Year, Flashbacks, Star-crossed, Post-Hogwarts,
      Unicorns
  Collections:
      The_Hex_Files, HD-Holidays_2008
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-12 Words: 13392
****** Times of Bright ******
by Vaysh
Summary
     The one year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts finds Draco Malfoy
     in a room in the Leaky Cauldron. Incidentally, it's also the time of
     a rare star conjunction, which has been triggering a secret lovers'
     spell between him and Harry Potter for the last seven years. Only now
     he's a Death Eater on the run, whereas Harry's a honoured guest at
     the ceremonies celebrating the downfall of the Dark Lord.
Notes
     This was written for H/D Holidays 2009. Many thanks to my beta
     absynthedrinker, who went far beyond the call of duty and love to
     whip this story into shape. And I must acknowledge my indebtedness to
     "Take That Waltz" by Leonard Cohen which inspired the Hungarian
     lanterns and the scene in the Great Hall.
     Note on Astronomy:
     Mars-Sun oppositions (the "times of bright" in the story's title) are
     the times when Mars can be seen shining very brightly in the night
     sky. Such oppositions took place four times between the years 1992
     and 1999, with Mars and Earth closest approximately on January 3 in
     1993, on February 12 in 1995, on March 17 in 1997, and on May 2 in
     1999. These are very rough approximations. For a period of about two
     months around these dates, Mars was "unusually bright".
     However, on May 26th 1991, when first-year Harry and Draco
     encountered Voldemort feeding on the dead unicorn in the Forbidden
     Forest, there was no Mars-Sun opposition. Rather, during that time
     Mars was shining only at about ten percent of its possible maximum
     brightness (see: Astronomy_in_the_Harry_Potter-Series by Mike
     Weinstein). Perhaps J.K. Rowling did not check her astronomy. But
     perhaps something else entirely was going on. It's the latter of
     those possibilities that this story explores.
     "Every two years or so the Earth catches up with Mars as they both
     circle the Sun,
     and the two planets are in line with the Sun. That is called
     opposition
     as the Sun and Mars are then on opposite sides of the Earth.
     Opposition is
     when Mars is at its closest to Earth and at its brightest. Of course,
     it is more complicated."
     from: The_changing_brightness_of_the_planet_Mars by Nick Lomb
   
Rennes, Le Havre, Calais - Draco had learned the names by heart. Muggle places,
all of them, as if his route to Harry was some kind of Muggle pilgrimage. When
the ferry approached Britain, he was startled to see the white cliffs in front
of him. The boat jumped at just that moment, and hot tea from the Muggle
plastic cup scalded his fingers, leaving them tender for the entire train ride,
later, into London. He had of course been to the Foreland Cliffs, they were one
of the most powerful places of magic in Britain. How stands the old Lord
Warden? Father would have quoted at their sight. Are Dover's cliffs still
white? But only when Draco saw them from the ferry did he understand that it
was neither tradition nor history which made this place so powerful. It was the
rocks themselves, bridging sea and sky, their colour like the clouds at times,
and then again like the spray, as if the sea itself had white-washed them, to
leave a testament for the times when even the oceans were gone, but certain
that the cliffs would endure.
Other people were standing with him on the ferry's platform in the rain.
Muggles, most likely, but he wasn't sure. A woman in a sky-blue uniform, her
legs bare below the short skirt, was speaking in hushed tones to her companion.
Someone stepped close to the railing, all wrapped in a green raincoat, staring
at the cliffs. The rocks came close faster now, rising ever higher from the
water. All of a sudden the person turned to him, a woman with grey hair, and
Draco saw her awe-struck face. Even Muggles can feel it, he thought. And he
wondered whether the magic, which had so subtly shaped the last seven years of
his life, could truly ever be broken.
                                       *
"… as we have come together here, one year to the day after the final battle in
the long war against the One-Who-Will-Never-Again-Be-Named, his crusade of
pure-blood terror crushed in this very hall, we commemorate the dead …"
Fudge's smooth, magic-enhanced voice droned on above the muted rustles and
whispers of as many people as could possibly fit into Hogwarts' Great Hall.
Traces of the battle could still be seen everywhere, shallow holes and gashes
in the walls, dark star-shaped smears where spells had missed their living
targets and were deflected to the stones. The students were lined up against
the walls, standing beneath their House colours. A row of seats was set up at
the head of the hall for the dignitaries – high-ranking politicians, members of
the Wizengamot and a selected choice of war heroes. But while the hall was
filled to bursting, there was one spot that people avoided, skirting around it,
gingerly stepping over it. Nothing marked that spot, no polished brass plate,
no rusty stain of blood or the black soot of that final spell. Yet its location
was etched into the memory of all that had been present that fateful afternoon,
when the sun had shone so brightly to dim even the garish green of the Killing
Curse that struck down Voldemort. Fudge elaborated on the event, well-worded
diplomacy was his forte, after all, and he waxed on about the boy who had given
his entire youth in preparation for this moment in time.
Or not. Harry had gracelessly declined the Ministry's offer to be seated
amongst the guests of honour. He was standing with his House, listening with
less than half an ear to a story that more and more became less his own. Hero,
Chosen One, sacrifice – he had heard the words ad nauseam. They'd lost all
their meaning, turned into mere post-war rhetoric. Harry knew that there were
people in the hall who owed him their lives. But it was the dead who were with
him most of the times.
The dead and the missing. Hermione was still in Sydney, trying to bring her
parents' memories back. Her last letter had sounded hopeful – Mrs. and Mr.
Granger remembered now that once there had been a bright, bushy-haired little
girl in their lives. If the hours Ron spent in the library were any indication,
he missed Hermione even more than Harry did. They would pour over their
Advanced Transfiguration books, and Harry would catch Ron staring at the table
back near the Restricted Section which had been theirs, Hermione always sitting
at the broad side on her own, taking up the space of three with all her books
and endless rolls of parchment.
Someone touched Harry's wrist and he winced. Ginny was standing beside him, but
she was holding Dean's hand. They had been going out for five months now, since
before the Christmas holidays. There was no talk about marriage, no cheesy
lines about how Dean would be like another son to the Weasleys. But he was.
Harry could tell from the way Mrs. Weasley was trading recipes with Mrs.
Thomas, both of them looking with bright, happy eyes at their children. It was
with a mixture of bitterness and relief that Harry would watch Mr. Weasley put
a glass of milk out on the table for Dean especially, cherishing the strange
Muggle custom.
"Are you coming with us to the Burrow after the ceremony?" Ginny whispered,
quickly withdrawing her fingers from where she had touched Harry.
He turned to her and squeezed her hand. The last thing he wanted was Ginny to
think that he didn't like her to touch him. For he did - did want her to touch
him. Look at him, talk to him, laugh and be silly with him. He just didn't want
to be her boyfriend. He'd gladly be another brother to her, wanted her in his
life, wanted to be in hers. He'd offered her friendship, and sometimes they
were friends. Other times, she was Ron's little sister, Dean's beautiful
girlfriend, the best Chaser Gryffindor had had in years, a girl he barely knew
who had once thought she'd loved him.
The Burrow. He shook his head, and suddenly knew that he had some place else to
go after this. In fact –
Ginny squinted her eyes, leaned towards him. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Harry said. A lie – and Ginny of all people could see right through
it. But she didn't know any of it. Nobody did. Nobody but … another one who was
missing.
And perhaps, Firenze knew.
Harry had been watching the centaur all through the ceremony, had looked right
at him when he gave his short, muddled speech about the new House solidarity in
Hogwarts. Firenze still taught Divination, and Harry took the class, although
he wasn't going for Divination N.E.W.T.s. But Firenze knew – perhaps he knew,
and at least Harry could hope – and it was this thought which had kept him
together throughout the school year: to know that there was someone who –
perhaps – knew. Firenze never addressed him in class, left Harry to his
wandering thoughts. Once he had given him a red jasper pendant encased in a
flowery circle of silver. "For direction," he had mumbled, then had grasped
Harry's wrist, to only stare at it and retreat with an awkward bow.
Harry was watching Firenze now, with the sunlight streaming through the tall
windows of the Great Hall. It made the palomino body of the horse-man gleam a
light silver. White-blond hair.
Harry wanted to ask him – for the millionth time – Had it been you?
The one with the frantic whisper – Run, Potter! –, the one who'd pushed Harry's
head to the ground, the touch so gentle that it still made Harry's heart stop
to remember it, after more than seven years. The one with the frightened look
from eyes grey like stone, like the sea, gone seconds before a pale sapphire
gaze appeared in front of Harry's face.
Had that white-blond streak truly been the centaur's fur? Had that body which
yanked Harry out of the way of Voldemort's charge really been half-horse, half-
man? Or had it been just another boy, so young, both of them, and so afraid
(silvery-blue unicorn blood dripping from sharply gleaming fangs)? Had it been
Malfoy – that blond vision Harry remembered so vividly (a lighter shadow at his
side reflected in the unicorn's wide-open eyes)? Had Malfoy come back after
he'd fled in panic? Had he watched from underneath the trees, had he seen,
before Harry did, that thing attacking him? Had he – for whatever reason –
hurled himself across the clearing to pull Harry from its grasp?
Harry didn't know for certain, and in all those years, he'd never asked Malfoy.
He hadn't asked Firenze either. And the other two who had been present were
both dead and could no longer tell him what they had seen.
"I need to go," he said abruptly.
Ginny stared at him, then blinked. "Now? But, Harry … you can't just leave."
Her voice shook with a disbelieving chuckle. "There is still the gathering at
Dumbledore's grave, and you're to say a few words." She stepped closer, as
heads turned towards them and a small bald man hissed at them to be quiet.
"I need to leave," Harry said again and he knew that it was true, that he
couldn't lose any more time here, with the past, that he had to go. "Will you
please tell McGonagall I'm sorry but something came up?" He leaned down to
retrieve his bag.
"What happened, Harry?" There was open concern now in Ginny's voice. "What can
possibly be more important than this ceremony? You didn't want to leave just
minutes ago …" She watched him, as he closed the clasps of his robes. Then she
caught his wrist in her fingers, deliberately, as she would catch the Snitch.
"It's because of this, isn't it?" she whispered softy so that only Harry could
hear her.
He suppressed a gasp and tried not let his face betray the pain that was
shooting up his arm. Slowly he freed his wrist from Ginny's grip. "Don't touch
it," he told her with as much kindness as he could muster. His wrist burned as
if Ginny had prodded a half-healed wound.
"So I'm right." She edged even closer but kept at a distance from Harry's right
arm.
Dean was watching them, his hand on Ginny's shoulder. The bald wizard put a
finger to his mouth, giving them a stern look. Harry nodded apologetically,
then looked to where Firenze was standing. The centaur had his proud head
turned towards him and their eyes met.
"I'm right," Ginny repeated. "Am I not?"
"Yes," Harry simply said. Ginny always noted things about him, but she didn't
understand.
"You should go to Madam Pomfrey with it," she said, putting her palm against
Harry's chest as if she could hold him back with sheer physical force.
Harry moved his head to the side. "It's not a sickness. Just a spell."
"Spells can be as dangerous as illnesses," Dean said, stating the obvious.
"I need to be going, Ginny," Harry said. "You will tell McGonagall, won't you?"
He looked over to where Firenze was watching him, then turned back to Ginny,
took her face in his hands. "And tell Ron I'll be back Monday for Potions, at
the latest." He paused, a memory of Ginny's soft lips flashing through his
mind. And of someone else's lips, and teeth and tongue, kissing him with a
passion he'd never known with Ginny. "Please," he whispered, and Ginny nodded,
her cheeks moving ever so lightly against his palms.
"Thanks." Harry put his hand to the shoulder strap of his bag and moved towards
the doors. He felt Firenze's gaze on him as he weaved through the crowds,
trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Fudge's voice was
still droning on. The Minister for Magic never realised that the Boy Who Lived
was leaving.
                                       *
He had to be a fool to arrive at the Leaky Cauldron in the middle of the day.
On that very special day, even. The day when "all of wizarding kind" - thus the
official wording in the Daily Prophet, and even in that French rag, Le
Télégramme Magique – was getting drunk and careless, revealing themselves to
Muggles, all in good sport, to celebrate the first anniversary of the downfall
of the former Dark Lord, now officially declared megalomaniac par excellence.
Still, here he was, number 47 on the Ministry's Most Wanted Death Eaters list,
heavily Glamoured, with a false name so ridiculous it might even convince that
twit of a barkeeper. He had come all the way from Brittany to London, for a
secret rendezvous with his maybe-lover. Who did or did not know that he was
waiting here. Who was unlikely to even think of them as lovers. Who was going
to get married any day now, for all he knew. He was, Draco Malfoy couldn't
repeat often enough to himself, a fool of extraordinary dimensions.
"The room's to the back, Sir, quiet, as you requested. Well, at least you won't
hear the bustle of Diagon Alley." Tom the bald barkeeper, whose pure-blood name
not even his most loyal customers could recall (but Draco knew, for family
mattered, especially for those in exile), glanced at him quickly, not
unfriendly, but clearly taking him for a Mudblood. The Muggle clothes were part
of Draco's disguise. The jeans and leather jacket hopefully spelled tourist to
anyone who gave a second look. One of those travelling wizards who were at home
all over the world, staying in London for a couple of days to see the sights at
the centre of wizarding Britain. Not its heart nor its soul, as Father had
never grown tired of pointing out. Draco smiled faintly, a smile that the old
fool could only misunderstand, and he did, flashed him a toothless grin and
nodded back over his shoulder.
"You'll be taking the stairs leading up from the kitchen hallway, if you
please, Sir."
Draco walked towards the arched doorway to the left of the long bar. A young
wizard in an old-fashioned sky-blue coat looked up from his glass of
firewhisky, gave him the once-over, then winked at him. A nice arse, a good
smile, but Draco was not here for that kind of distraction, little as the
Breton countryside had to offer in that respect. He shrugged non-committally as
he stepped through the archway.
The hallway was dark, there was no other source of light but what filtered in
from the barroom. The air was filled with dust and the smell of a savoury stew,
wafting over from the kitchen. Venison was on today's menu and perhaps it was
safe to go down later and have some. A narrow flight of stairs opened to
Draco's left, and he walked up, letting the banister guide him in the murky
darkness. He registered the pitiful creaks of the ancient, splintery steps.
Good. No one could sneak up those stairs without making a racket. Potter he'd
know by the sound of his steps, like he'd always known, whenever they had met.
The dark had always been their friend, final irony of ironies. And if the
Aurors Apparated up to his room, then he'd been found out anyway and would
Disapparate, no matter that the magic trace betrayed him for good.
He stepped into the hallway on top of the stairs, treading heavily on the
carpeting. There was no sound, which wasn't good. Draco counted the doors
leading off on both sides. Twelve doors, four to the right, eight to the left.
And a half, if one included the broom closet. His room was the third to the
left, the number 9 a flourished affair in brass attached to the door with a
Permanent Sticking Charm. Leave it to fate – or rather to that fool Tom – to
decide whether to give him a room on the Muggle or the wizarding side of the
Leaky. Harry's side or his – which was a ridiculous thought, really, Harry
Potter being a celebrated hero, and Draco Malfoy for all the world a wanted
criminal who had sought refuge in exile.
Draco lightly touched his wrist, where the red lines of the Dark Mark were
still clearly visible. The ribbon binding the Mark, however, couldn't be seen,
not now, at midday. But its nightly bluish shimmer had been getting stronger in
the last weeks, to the point where Draco hated its faint, but insistent squeeze
almost as much as he had dreaded Voldemort's painful Summons. For all that he
had learned about the voluntary nature of this particular bond, it sure was
persuasive. How else could he explain even to himself (much less to his
astounded mother) that he had dared to come to Britain, to Diagon Alley, of all
places, the Ministry of Magic just across Trafalgar Square? He had been
careful, used only the most basic spells, refrained from using any magic which
could give his identity away. With Father gone, killed in cold blood by the
Special Aurors' Force, Mother needed him to stay alive. But he … he needed to
see Harry, even if it was for the very last time.
And so here he was, standing in this dark hallway, waiting for who knew what.
He opened the door and stepped into the room. Immediately he was overwhelmed by
the scent of old magic, so strong and familiar, it almost brought tears to his
eyes. But he would not cry for this – this country with its magic so different
from the effervescent, fleeting magique of Brittany. He was not here to cry for
his lost home, or even to take revenge upon it. He was here to end it, whatever
was between him and Potter, to end it, cut the bond, and go on with his life.
When Draco cast a Lumos into the shadows of the room, he let its magic pass
through his body, trying to not give it another thought. Three white candles on
a small table near the door flared up and another one ignited on the bedside
cabinet. The curtains were drawn, keeping out the sun. He walked into the room,
taking in the dark-wooded four-poster bed, the small ebony secretary in front
of the windows, two stuffed chairs at the dead fireplace. So here they would
meet again. The room reminded Draco of another one, back at Hogwarts, a room
that had been provided for them by the Castle itself, as if all magic had
conspired to bring them together, against their will –
They had fucked on the seventeenth of March in their sixth year, going within
minutes from threatening each other, at wand-point before the Room of
Requirement, to ripping their clothes off. The Room had opened for them to a
chamber all silver and black, with nothing in it but a bed. What little light
there had been, Draco had extinguished with a handful of Peruvian Instant
Darkness Powder. He hadn't been able to trust Potter, not then, and Potter
would have seen that he had taken the Dark Mark. The ribbons had swirled around
their bodies that night, but he'd never seen them. The Darkness Powder had
effectively cancelled out even the spell's shimmering light. They had stumbled
onto the bed, had barely exchanged a word. Potter had been so eager to touch
him, had kissed and caressed him with such sweet passion, then had finally
succumbed and let Draco fuck him. In the entire miserable year, it was the one
night he remembered fondly, remembered, as if it had been just yesterday, how
he'd pierced Potter with a need so desperate and raw, precisely because he had
needed so much more than sex. He'd been utterly alone that year, and that had
been the worst of it. That night, the ribbons floating around them in the
darkness, and Potter's slick, writhing body underneath him, he had wished that
he could simply talk to him. He had needed a friend, not a spell-bound lover
who went back to being his enemy, come daybreak. The next time they'd met, just
the two of them, Potter had tried to kill him …
A few steps brought Draco to the windows and he threw the curtains open. Two
glass doors led out to a balcony, and he opened them, just wide enough so he
could step outside and get some fresh air. Directly opposite the balcony rose
the Eleanor Cross. Not its cheap nineteenth century imitation, but the old one,
one of the twelve crosses marking the way of the Queen's dead body from Harby
to Westminster Abbey. The magic of death and love had made the cross resilient
to fire, earthquake and the slow poisons of time. Half-hidden behind it, Draco
could see the statue of Charles I, one of the Muggle Kings, and for a moment he
was tempted to cast a Paint-Flashing Jinx, just to test the reach of the
Leaky's Disillusionment Charm. But of course that would have drawn the Aurors
towards him in an instant.
Draco squinted into the sun. A lantern made from leaded glass was attached to
the Leaky's wall. He had seen similar lanterns in Hungary, in Kastély Kinizsi
where he and his parents had spent those first months after Voldemort's demise,
hidden by friends still loyal to Father and the Malfoy name. Another memory
threatened to surface, a stronger one, of lanterns glowing in the dark. Draco
turned quickly as if he could stop remembering when he no longer saw the
lantern swaying in the breeze. Damn, he was not here for a trip down memory
lane. And those lanterns in the Great Hall belonged to another life –
It had been the night of the Yule Ball in their fourth year, with students and
teachers from the best schools of France and Russia in attendance, the future
European wizarding elite. Draco had danced with Pansy all through the evening,
her in clothes all pale pink, and moving pliantly in his arms. They had easily
been the best-looking couple in the Great Hall. They'd certainly been dressed
sharper and were better dancers than that Hufflepuff fool Diggory and Chang,
who Draco later heard, had been some kind of unrequited crush of Potter's. The
Sunday Prophet had proclaimed those two the Couple of the Evening, but during
the event, he and Pansy had been the stars. It had possibly been the happiest
night of all his years at school, with the magical grandeur of the Ball, the
feeling that this was the world he was born into, rightfully his to succeed in,
his element, more even than the Potions lab or the Quidditch pitch. What had
made it even sweeter was Potter, who had looked dismal with Parvati half-
dragging, half-steering him across the dance floor. For all that Draco could
tell, the Chosen One had been miserable all evening.
They had stumbled into each other later. Their encounters always seemed to be
by chance, and this time Longbottom's left shoe, of all possible things, had
brought them together. After the Ball, there had been partying in the dungeons,
and in the wee hours of the night Draco found himself tiptoeing through the
Castle to return Longbottom's shoe to the Great Hall. Some overly clever
Slytherin second-year had taken it, when Longbottom slipped his footwear off to
do some shimmy (the extent of Gryffindor fun!). Goyle couldn't be sent on such
a mission, he and Filch attracted each other like magnets after curfew. Crabbe
was out, snoring in their dormitory room, and Pansy had declared quite huffily
that this was boys' business.
He was drunk too, from the firewhisky Montague had smuggled into their common
room. And he noted the glimmer around his wrist, but paid it no heed. He hadn't
spent a thought on Potter since Weasley and the Mudblood (and Draco'd be damned
if he knew what Krum, Victor Krum, saw in that little brain-for-balls bitch)
had had their shouting match. All he thought about when he slipped into the
Great Hall, was Longbottom's dumbfounded face when his one shoe would be found
tomorrow morning, dangling from the garlands. Draco chuckled silently. The
other shoe, of course, had long been tossed out of the dungeons' windows into
the lake.
He came to a full stop when he saw the figure standing in the middle of the
Hall. The emptied space still vibrated from the festivities, with the last of
the lanterns burning out their magical light. He knew at once it was Potter,
still wearing his dress robes and staring up into the starry black sky of the
enchanted ceiling. As Draco walked towards him – really, he couldn't help but
get closer to him – Potter turned and flashed him a smile, the light from the
little lanterns red and golden on his face. For all that Draco could tell,
Potter had been waiting for him.
"You noticed it, too, then?" Potter raised his arm, so the robes fell back and
revealed the tell-tale shimmer on his arm.
The ribbon on Draco's wrist tightened painfully. He reached for it, wanted to
rub the pain away, and moved so clumsily that he dropped Longbottom's shoe.
"It's not yet time," he muttered, startled by the vivid shimmer on his own
wrist. The twirling patterns of the ribbon were clearer than he'd ever seen
them before. Like the markings on a unicorn horn, he thought.
"This is Neville's shoe," Potter said. "God, you idiots took his shoes. He's
been driving us crazy, looking for them." He sounded not a little pissed off,
and the anger in Potter's voice gave Draco a quick moment of savage
satisfaction.
"It's not yet time," he repeated stubbornly, only too aware of Potter's
closeness, the way he reached out hesitantly towards Draco. The words were
barely out of his mouth, when Potter closed his fingers around Draco's wrist,
pulling him even closer. The feeling was overwhelming, just like last time in
that deserted corridor. Only this time Draco knew what to make of the sudden
tightening in his groin, that heat which spread within moments from his stomach
all the way up to his face. He couldn't help leaning into Potter and inhale the
faint scent of soap and sweat.
"It's close," Potter whispered at Draco's cheek. "And look," he pointed up to
the ceiling, "in here, it's that time already."
Draco didn't want to move, the soft touch of Potter's skin on his face felt
just too good. But he turned his head a bit, so he could see what it was that
Potter wanted to show him. It took a few moments for Draco's eyes to adjust to
the inky dark, criss-crossed with garlands of mistletoe and ivy. But then he
saw the single star Potter was pointing at. It shone brighter than all of the
others, a red hue to its silver light.
"Mars."
Potter nodded. His hands were moving up Draco's arms and down his sides,
circling him, until he had him wrapped in a tight embrace. Draco pressed his
body against Potter, and it was not like he could help it, the way Potter's
chest felt so firm, and his cock hard, pushing against Draco's own erection.
"Why the fuck Mars?" he hissed. His hands were on Potter's hips, which were
moving ever so slightly, forward and back, in a rhythm of their own.
"I've no idea. I don't get any of this." Potter's voice was hoarse. "Do you
want to dance?"
Dance? Draco looked around in the empty hall, which was almost all dark now,
with only three lanterns left burning, two red, one golden. "Yeah, sure. Let's
dance. Whatever." He made a few steps, and Potter tried to follow, but they
moved in different directions, and Potter stumbled over that idiot Longbottom's
shoe. They almost crashed to the floor together, and Potter would have gone
down for sure, if Draco hadn't steadied him with a firm grip. "Fuck, Potter,
you can't dance without music."
He realised then that Potter was blasted, too, for he giggled, like a girl, and
searched for Draco's mouth. Their lips touched when the golden lantern
sputtered and died, leaving them in red-hued darkness. Draco had kissed before,
Pansy mostly, but also a second year Ravenclaw whose name he couldn't remember.
And Nott, of course, a sloppy snogging session before they had tossed each
other off in the shower. But kissing Nott or Pansy was nothing like kissing
Potter. In the beginning, his kisses were little more than shy pecks. When
Draco responded, he started sucking at his lower lip in way that made Draco
groan loudly, from a place so deep within, it startled him. He broke the kiss,
panting, he didn't know why.
Potter looked at him, the red light washing over his face. He moved his thumb
across Draco's lips, his voice a soft murmur. "Come, let's dance now." Potter
stepped forward, putting his thigh between Draco's legs, which really made it
quite impossible for Draco to do anything even remotely resembling dancing. But
Potter had his arms around him and he guided him with careless ease, in a
circle of small, graceful steps. From somewhere Draco could hear music, a slow
waltz, and he started moving to its rhythm without giving it another thought.
"You hear it?" Potter asked, and Draco nodded, hungry again for Potter's lips.
They had kissed and danced, for what had seemed like hours, until the last of
the lanterns had been extinguished. And they'd left just in time, before Filch
discovered them walking hand-in-hand through the entrance hall …
Draco closed the balcony door with a last look at the Eleanor Cross. Its shadow
seemed longer somehow, as if he'd been standing on the balcony for an hour at
least. But it was still early in the afternoon. Still time for Potter to come
to the Leaky and find him, like he always did. Draco walked to the fireplace,
rifled through the selection of magazines, then picked up the Quidditch Weekly
and sat in one of the stuffed chairs.
Longbottom's shoes had reappeared in the Great Hall the next morning, standing
side by side. There had been much chuckling and guessing as to why one shoe was
soaked and trailing seaweed, whereas the other was dry. Draco would never
forget the secretive look Potter had given him, over the heads of a whole mob
of Gryffindors, Longbottom among them, his face red like a beet with
embarrassment. He had winked at him, a sly smile on his face, Draco was sure of
it.
Later they had done more daring things, tossed each other off, fucked for real,
during these strange encounters in the dark. But moving to imaginary music with
Potter in his arms, his hands around Draco's waist, his fumbling, too wet
kisses, that smile which had been just for him – it still made Draco hot and
hard just thinking about it. He sighed and opened the paper, trying to
concentrate on the Cannons' chances to still wrench the League Cup from the
Tutshill Tornados.
The rumbling of the Muggle cars at Charing Cross could be heard in the
distance, muted by the Disillusionment Charm. Other than that it was oddly
quiet in the room. The creaking of the chair's old springs when Draco moved,
the rustling of the paper when he turned a page – it sounded like disturbances
in the stillness, too sharp, too loud somehow. Draco found himself listening
intently for sounds coming from the hallway, from the narrow flight of stairs.
There was nothing. No clanking of pots from the kitchen, no orders bellowed
from the barroom, none of the noises that the Leaky's customers were bound to
make, especially now, with tea-time near.
He put down the paper, listened again. His look fell on his left wrist, where
the Dark Mark was etched into his pale skin. He thought he could detect the
soft silver-blue shimmer, but the ribbon's light was too soft still for Potter
to be close. What was taking Wonder Boy so bloody long? He got up, pressed his
ear to the door. Nothing but that impenetrable silence.
In the secretary's drawer Draco found sheets of paper, blank but for the
printed address of the Leaky Cauldron, envelopes, a quill and inkpot. A card
saying, We gladly provide Owl Service, compliments of the house. Quickly he
composed a message, took his wand from his sleeve and spelled the words so only
one pair of eyes could see it. Then he wrote another message, stuffed the paper
in an envelope and Summoned an owl. It was only a matter of time now until the
Aurors tracked the signature of his magic to room number nine.
A sharp knock from the balcony had him spin in startled fear, but it was only
the owl. He opened the door, and the huge bird, obviously well trained, flew
straight to the secretary. Draco sent it off with its missive and watched it
circle once before the balcony. Then it plunged down towards Charing Cross with
a soft hoot.
He went back to the chair at the fireplace, wand still in his hand. When he sat
down again, the ribbon at his wrist tightened for a moment. Draco gasped, but
it could only mean one thing: Potter was coming. Too late, but he would be
here, in this very room. Something like pain made Draco's stomach clench, just
as he felt himself get hard at the thought of Potter, here, close to him. Soon
…
When minutes later the sharp pop of Apparition shattered the silence in the
hallway, Draco was gone.
                                       *
Harry walked down the lane towards the Hogwarts Gate with brisk steps. Over at
the shore of the lake, Dumbledore's grave glistened in the sun, and Harry
promised himself to visit it later. Perhaps he will come with me ... But Malfoy
couldn't come, it was too dangerous. There was a good reason why neither Goyle
nor Parkinson finished their education at Hogwarts. Some Slytherins had
returned, notably Nott, whose father was one of the main witnesses for the
prosecution of Voldemort's followers. Parkinson was at Durmstrang, Goyle at
Beauxbaton. Nobody knew about the whereabouts of the Malfoys, both Narcissa and
Draco had seemingly disappeared from the surface of the earth. Lucius Malfoy?
There were rumours, which never made it into the Prophet, but Harry had heard
them from Shacklebolt and Ron's dad. Rumours of a body found in a railroad
tunnel near Litttle Hangleton (Imperiused into self-suffocation, some of the
more gossipy rumours said). The Auror Office suspected vigilante Death Eaters
taking care of a traitor, but Harry wasn't so certain anymore. Fudge's new rule
of "laissez-faire" was not so laissez-faire when it came to the Death Eaters'
Most Wanted List. Names were crossed out one after the other, without the
wizarding world noticing any of it. Death Eaters didn't make headlines anymore.
Instead the cells in Azkaban were filling up again, and old pure-blood families
were selling their estates and leaving for Estonia, Transylvania, Malta or any
of the other places of the ancient magical commonwealth.
The orchards before the Hogwarts Gate stood in bloom, and Harry walked for a
bit under their cool shade. A public place, he felt, more than knew as he
looked up into the leaves dotted with tiny pink buds. Malfoy was waiting in a
public place, a store, a bar, perhaps. The invisible ribbon around his wrist
contracted at the thought of seeing Malfoy again, after an entire year, and
Harry closed his eyes. He had felt the pressure mounting during the last weeks,
had seen the silver shimmer on his wrist grow more visible each night. His
dreams had told him, too – all of them erotic, memories meshing with half-
acknowledged desires, of Malfoy's lips on his mouth, his teeth biting Harry's
hot skin, the pain a release almost as strong as when he'd come in Malfoy's
hands. For a moment Harry leaned against a tree, brought his face close to the
bark. That woody smell … Fresher, cleaner and yet oddly similar to the inky
dustiness between the shelves full of ancient books in the library –
It had been the twelfth of February, in their fourth year. Malfoy had been
studying in the library, which was odd in itself, because the Slytherins as a
rule studied in the dungeons, in the gardens or not at all. He had been sitting
close to their table, too, which was even odder, because all year Malfoy had
done nothing but make Harry's life miserable with his "Potter stinks"-badges
and the insidious interviews given to Rita Skeeter.
All year but at Christmas, Harry thought, as he looked over to Malfoy. Hermione
was going on and on about how all Malfoy wanted was to ruin Harry's meagre
chances to accomplish the second task: to stay underwater for an hour to
recover whatever it was the merpeople would take from him that he'd sorely
miss.
Harry rubbed at his wrist. It had been bothering him more and more since
Christmas. Not in a painful way, just a light squeeze, like someone was pulling
him towards … towards Malfoy, grown all tall and lanky in the last two years,
emerging from the dungeons when Harry was on the way to breakfast, towards
Malfoy, so focussed on crunching scarab beetles that the tip of his tongue
touched his lips. God, Harry missed him. Not his stupid bloody badges, not his
daily insults … no, he missed the other Malfoy. The one who'd held him in that
night-time corridor in second year, the one who'd danced with him in the
darkness of the Great Hall. Who'd kissed him so shyly first, and then so wildly
that Harry still wanked to the memory of those kisses.
Malfoy turned a page with long fingers, slowly, with deliberation, Harry
thought. He had to hear them whispering, and there was no way he could not feel
Harry's gaze on him. Sometimes, when Harry sensed that Malfoy was watching him,
it was as if he touched him with hot, desperate hands. If Harry imagined
missing anything sorely, then it was those hand touching his face, pressing
against his back, pulling him closer. Again that sickening fear flared up in
his chest – that the magic of the Goblet of Fire somehow let Dumbledore,
Karkaroff and Madame Maxine know what was going on between him and Malfoy. But
it couldn't be. Nobody knew.
"I've seen him stare at you," Hermione said softly. "He's up to something."
Harry shook his head. "He must be working on a study project for Hagrid. All
these books are about wild beasts of the forest. Unicorns."
Malfoy had books piled up on his table – The Unicorn and the Lake, The Lore of
the Unicorn, Forest Wonders and the Order of Nature – on and on, a whole stack
of them, topped by the standard edition of Fantastic Beasts. Harry and Ron had
had a look at them a couple of days ago, when Malfoy had left the library
early.
"A project for Hagrid? On unicorns?" Hermione laughed which was a rare
occurrence these days. When they were not in classes or reading up on
underwater breathing in the library, she was biting her nails and touching
Harry nervously as if to make sure he was okay. "Harry, the day Malfoy
volunteers to do a project in Magical Creatures, is the day when I predict your
future in a pile of sodden tea leaves. I am telling you, he knows we're
researching for your second task, and he's here to make sure you're drowning in
the lake."
"He doesn't even know it's going to take place at the lake," Harry muttered,
but he didn't press the point. He suddenly realised that Hermione started to
pack her things and was about to leave.
"Are you coming?" she asked.
"I'll just finish this chapter of Madcap Magic." Harry tried to sound as if he
was all immersed in the pages of the book. "I'll be up shortly."
Hermione motioned her head towards Malfoy. "It's just going to be you and him
in the library," she whispered.
Her words made the invisible ribbon around Harry's wrist tighten. Behind her
back Malfoy was looking at him. "It's all right," he said, trying not to rub
his wrist, trying not to let Hermione know that he wanted to stay behind, that
it was his one chance to get Malfoy alone for a couple of minutes before the
library closed.
Hermione gave him an odd look, then took her school bag from the chair. "Bring
a couple of the books, so we can read some more in the common room," she said,
put her hand on his shoulder for a moment and then walked to the door. She
never looked at Malfoy, just said "Good night" to Madame Pince at her desk in
the front.
The moment the heavy door closed behind Hermione, Malfoy started packing his
things, too. Harry watched him straighten the stack of books, then, when Malfoy
caught him watching, buried his head in Madcap Magic again. The next time Harry
looked up, Malfoy was gone. No "Good night" to Madam Pince or, God forbid, to
Harry, no creaking of the old huge door. Simply gone. If Harry didn't know
better, he would have thought Malfoy had somehow managed to soundlessly
Disapparate from the library. But they would only get their licence in two
years, and even if Malfoy had secretly learned to Apparate, illegal as it was,
Apparition was just not possible within the bounds of Hogwarts Castle. Harry
looked around, searched the vicinity of the desk, the bookshelves behind it,
but there was no trace of Malfoy. Shit, he couldn't just –
"The Library will be closing in five minutes." The terse voice of Madam Pince
resounded from the rows of bookshelves.
Harry didn't wait. He threw rolls of parchment and his quill into his bag,
added Dreadful Denizens of the Deep to Madcap Magic for good measure and
disappeared into the aisle just behind Malfoy's desk, choosing by pure instinct
the fourth row to the left to hide himself. They had done it before: a Shield
Charm protected him against Madam Pince's simple tracking spells to make sure
the library was indeed emptied of students. The librarian was moving around in
front of the Restricted Section, mumbling, "Now, when did those two leave?"
Harry had the Charm up when the lights went out, and he found himself in pitch-
black darkness. A quick flicker of magic made sparks bounce of his Protego, but
they were too tiny to be seen by anyone who was not standing in the aisle.
There was the sound of quick light steps, the rustle of clothes, the heavy door
opened and was shut, then a key turned. Harry was locked in the library.
"Shield Charm, huh?" a voice behind him whispered, and Harry jumped so hard, he
almost knocked several books down from the shelf next to him.
"Shit, Malfoy," he gasped, holding on to a dusty tome which threatened to
topple to the floor. "Can you fucking not scare me to death?"
Warm hands wrapped around his waist and drew him back, deeper into the row of
books.
"Like this?" Malfoy still whispered, even though there was only Harry to hear
him. His body was so close that Harry could feel how fast his breath was
coming, and he thought that Malfoy was keeping his voice down to not betray how
hoarse it was, and shaking. He remembered that trembling voice from the last
times they had met like this, in the utter dark, just lips and hands guiding
them. It didn't make sense, none of it. How could this be same boy who'd been
taunting him with Skeeter's phoney articles all school year? Not since
Christmas, though. No bloody badge-flashing, either … The ribbon on his wrist
had loosened its hold, and when he looked to his hand he saw it floating in the
darkness, a shimmering band of muted silver, the patterns in it swirling and
reaching out for Malfoy's hand that was pressed firmly against Harry's stomach.
"What are we doing?" he asked into the darkness, his body already giving in as
Malfoy pulled him closer to the wall.
"What does it look like to you, Potter?" Malfoy's drawl was tainted with
impatience and something else that Harry couldn't put a name to.
"I don't know," he managed and let his head fall back, "I don't …," and he
hadn't known his voice could sound so raw, so … hungry, hadn't known that the
mere touch of Malfoy's cheek against his face made him want to slam Malfoy
against the wall and kiss that stupid mouth of his. It was like Christmas in
the Great Hall, only so much stronger. And there it was, that woody smell, of
the shelving, the floorboards, even the books seemed to have retained a trace
of scent from the trees they were made of. Harry was harder than he'd ever
been, his groin aching painfully for Malfoy's hands to slip lower and just
touch him. He moved back with force and smashed into Malfoy's body. They had
reached the wall. Malfoy didn't seem to care that he was just about to be
crushed by Harry, but wrapped his arms even tighter to him. Harry felt Malfoy's
lips on his neck, on his throat, and he arched back even more, his head on
Malfoy's shoulder. There was no question about how excited Malfoy was. The
feeling of his cock against Harry's arse was intoxicating, making Harry move in
ways he would have considered shameless and lewd only moments ago.
"We can't do this," he moaned, as Malfoy turned him around, already searching
his mouth. Memories of Cho flashed through Harry's mind, as he responded
eagerly to Malfoy's lips, to Malfoy's tongue demanding entrance, and Harry
couldn't stop sucking at it and twirling his own tongue around it, tasting it,
tasting Malfoy, tasting of tea and fire and magic. All that agonising about
Cho, sweet, soft Cho, had never been like this. He'd imagined kissing her so
often, but not like this, when Harry was drowning in spit and warm breath, and
wanting it so badly, he had to go on kissing Malfoy or go mental.
They moved apart a fraction, for air, breathing fast, with their faces so close
that Harry felt Malfoy's hair falling into his eyes. Harry's hands had somehow
found their way around Malfoy's neck, holding on to him as much as keeping him
from moving away. The cold stone of the wall was grazing his knuckles, and he
pulled Malfoy towards him, letting his hands glide down his back.
"Fuck, Potter," Malfoy whispered, "can you stop it? I've been going crazy. I've
wanted you ever since that stupid Yule Ball." He sounded desperate, and Harry
felt Malfoy's hands beneath his robes, tracing the waistband of his trousers.
"It's just this … this spell." Harry was keenly aware of Malfoy's finger
pushing underneath the fabric, reaching for skin. He moved back a bit, brought
space between them, to unzip his trousers. Really, he couldn't help it. They'd
never touched like this, never before. But now he needed those hands on his
skin.
Malfoy gasped as he felt the movement. "Just a spell, you say?" He yanked
Harry's trousers and pants down with both hands, had them pool around Harry's
ankles.
The cold air on his naked skin made Harry shiver and he moved closer, trying to
get as much contact as possible. Malfoy was shaking all over. But he knew what
he wanted. His palms were sliding up from Harry's thighs to his arse, and he
moaned softly as he was kneading Harry's buttocks. Somehow their hips had
fallen in a rhythm that made their groins rub against each other. It almost
hurt, the way Harry's naked cock was crushing against the front of Malfoy's
straining trousers.
He put both hands on Malfoy's shoulder and pushed himself away. For a couple of
seconds there was only the sound of their ragged breathing in the dark. And
perhaps a wheezy, papery crackling from the Restricted Section.
"I don't want …" Harry started, but desire all of a sudden surged through his
body, and he arched against Malfoy. This was not right, this shouldn't feel so
bloody good, not so – Harry felt pre-come seep from his cock, when Malfoy's
fingers were tracing the length of him.
"But you do want it, Potter. And don't dare stop now." Malfoy's lips ghosted
over Harry's ear, he was licking Harry's skin. "Come on, let's … let's figure
this out later. Come on." Harry felt him straddle his legs more, push his hips
forward. A clear invitation, and there was no way Harry could resist. He moved
his hands down Malfoy's chest, felt the sharp coolness of the mother-of-pearl
buttons of his shirt, moved lower over muscle and flesh, the firm warmth of
Malfoy's belly. He was wearing trousers with old-fashioned fastenings, damn
those pure-blood traditions, which had Harry fumbling at strings and clasps.
"Just tear them open," Malfoy groaned, and Harry tore and felt the cloth give.
Something hit the floor, a clink like fine silver, and Malfoy's cock sprang
free. Harry never had touched anyone intimately before, and he suddenly felt
shy. It was one thing to have Malfoy touch him all over, but was it okay to
stroke Malfoy's cock like Harry did himself when wanking? And it was so full,
so different than Harry's. He gently wrapped thumb and forefinger around the
head of Malfoy's cock and moved the foreskin, which was much tighter than his
own.
He must be doing something right, because Malfoy jerked forward and hissed,
like he was in pain, but Harry recognised the sound. Pain laced with pleasure,
pleasure with pain – his most intense wanks were like that, the need almost
unbearable, having him come with a force that scared him, as if it was a
sickness to have his body so out of control. God, what if it was like this with
Malfoy? Would he laugh at him? Tell Skeeter in another one of those bloody
interviews that the Boy Who Lived was a sex maniac? Harry had read that word in
a magazine that Charlie Weasley had left in the kitchen of the Burrow, and the
thought of it made him sweat with embarrassment.
"Is it … is it okay like this?" The moment the words left his mouth, Harry knew
he shouldn't have asked. Malfoy would know at once that this was his first
time.
And he knew, of course, and laughed softly, still with that hissing edge of
pain. "Never touched cock before, Potter?"
Harry bit down Sure, my own, merely shook his head. What did he care that
Malfoy could not see him in the dark? But Malfoy must have felt him move, for
he brought one hand to Harry's face and touched his cheek.
"You're doing fine," he muttered with a tenderness that took Harry by surprise.
"You can go harder," he added. His hand on Harry's arse dug into the flesh, and
he groaned as if just feeling up Harry's butt gave him as much pleasure as
having Harry touch him. He did as he'd been told and took Malfoy's cock in a
firmer grip. Wanking like this would have been painful for him, and not in a
good way, but he could tell Malfoy liked it, the way he thrust into Harry's
fist, wanting more. Harry was tossing him off now for real. He was rewarded
with a sharp intake of breath, and the sound made him search for Malfoy's mouth
and he caught his lips, couldn't help but bite into that wet softness.
Malfoy's hand moved from Harry's face to his cock, he was touching it with
uncontrolled, jittery strokes. Harry thought Malfoy had to be close, the way he
was bucking into Harry's fist and moaning breathlessly into his mouth. It was
the strangest feeling, thrilling like nothing else, to have Malfoy respond to
his touch like this, and Harry focused all on him, the way his hips jerked
forward wildly, all rhythm lost, how he seemed to need Harry to go easier on
the tip of his cock, with strings of pre-come oozing from it. "Let go," Harry
muttered, "just let go," with no idea what Malfoy should let go of or why he
even felt that Malfoy was holding back. But he wanted Malfoy to lose it, wanted
to break through that sneer and drawl, see him split open, for once. To make up
for all those bloody insults, the taunting, for almost getting Hagrid fired.
And Malfoy did let go. Harry felt a shudder ripple through Malfoy's body, and
he pressed himself so close that Harry was barely able to continue stroking
him. His body was trembling hard, it felt like he could shatter at any moment.
Then he arched back against the wall, his head hitting stone, with a deep
groan.
He came with Harry's name on his lips, hissing through clenched teeth, as he
would a mad curse. The feel of sudden heat splattering onto his hands and groin
startled Harry, it was so different than having his own spunk all over him.
Malfoy came in spurts, his entire body wracked in spasms. He was holding on to
Harry, who found himself putting one arm around Malfoy's waist and resting his
face against Malfoy's cheek in the dark, as if it was important that Malfoy
could feel him close. Malfoy's cock had gone soft and was warm and slick,
covered in come. He was still leaning against the wall, his breathing fast and
laboured. His hands were back on Harry's butt, stroking and kneading it.
Mixed in with the smell of long seasoned wood was the unfamiliar scent of sex,
and Harry was sure he could smell himself, embarrassing, but so arousing, too,
that he just had to kiss Malfoy again. He kissed him back sloppily, his lips
all tender and relaxed. They went on like this for minutes which seemed even
longer in the lightless, book-filled room, just their lips touching, and
Malfoy's hands drawing slow circles on Harry's bare skin.
Malfoy finally broke the silence, saying, "This is insane, Potter. We hate each
other." His body had gone stiff, as if he was pulling himself together.
"I don't hate you," Harry said, and it was true, for how could he, with
Malfoy's spunk on his hands and the taste of Malfoy's kiss on his lips?
But Malfoy let out that cruel laugh of his, which was reserved for people he
thought beneath him, like Hagrid or any of the Muggle-born students. His hands
were pushing into the crack of Harry's arse, pulling Harry towards him, as he
spread his buttocks apart and began rubbing his fingers against Harry's hole.
It didn't feel right, none of it, Malfoy's tone of voice, his probing fingers,
the way he kept on with it, even when Harry clenched his arse. He was too
shocked, really, to say anything but a muttered, "don't," and "not there," when
Malfoy wouldn't stop.
Malfoy's voice was soft, but the tenderness from before was gone. "You'll like
it, Potter," he drawled. "You're exactly the kind of stuck-up little shite who
likes to have it shoved up his arse." With that last word he pushed a finger
into Harry's hole, and it hurt badly, and Harry wanted none of that. He'd heard
dirty jokes, of course, of men doing it like dogs, but he and Malfoy had just
been kissing and tossing each other off. They were nothing like those men. Or
perhaps Malfoy was, the way he was thrusting his finger into Harry's arse. But
not Harry. It hurt, and fuck the spell, it couldn't make him want that. He
grabbed Malfoy's arms, shoved them back and tried to move away. Good thing it
was so dark, for his dick was still painfully hard, and even as he was
disentangling himself from Malfoy's hold, Harry couldn't help but rub against
his thigh. And Malfoy wouldn't let him go. He caught Harry with one arm around
the waist and held him tight, while he tried to push another finger into him.
It really hurt, and Harry could barely stifle a scream of pain. He clenched his
buttocks and fought to break Malfoy's hold now for real.
"Let go of me," he said, and something about his words, or his tone, or perhaps
the way he had his forearm wedged against Malfoy's throat, seemed to get
through to the git. He withdrew his fingers, but still held Harry tight. It was
then that Harry noticed how fast Malfoy was breathing, how hard he had got
already again in the last minutes. He leaned against him deliberately, moved
his cock against Malfoy's rising erection, and Malfoy gasped with need. He let
go of Harry for a moment, and he could have bolted, could have left Malfoy to
his sick needs, left the aisle, left the library. But there were these soft
slurping noises in the dark, and Harry touched Malfoy's face and found him
sucking hard at his own fingers.
"Spit," he explained and lightly prodded Harry's lips with wet fingertips.
Harry moved his tongue around those fingers, trying hard not to think where
they had been, but licking them, adding his spit to Malfoy's. There was a hint
of something dark and musky which had to be the taste of his own arse, but
somehow, because Malfoy had tasted it, too, Harry found it strangely arousing.
After a while Malfoy replaced his spit-covered fingers with his lips and kissed
Harry, while his hands were sliding back into Harry's crack, exploring it
gingerly now.
Harry held all still. His cock was throbbing with need, but there were these
fingers sliding up and down his crack, hovering over his hole, and Malfoy
whispered hoarsely, "Let me … let me … inside …" Malfoy wanted this, wanted it
badly. Harry felt his face grow hot, with shame, but something else, too,
something that made him push his arse backwards, into Malfoy's fingers, giving
him permission to explore. Malfoy exhaled sharply, and he put one fingertip on
Harry's hole, pressing inward, but not breeching it. He made slow circles,
moving the tight muscle back and forth. How can he be so gentle now when he
hurt me before? Harry thought, and God, I hope I wiped myself all clean, and
Would I like to do that to him? But mostly he felt an overpowering need to
relax and have Malfoy shove his finger into him. He slumped against Malfoy
without really meaning to, and Malfoy whispered, "Yes," his voice raw, yes,
nothing more. Still the word reached down to Harry's cock, crushed between
their bodies, and made it twitch and seep more. He rocked back and forth, eager
to reach anything to rub his cock against, when his hands were wrapped around
Malfoy's neck, twisting his fingers into his soft hair. Malfoy rocked with him,
and it was the most amazing feeling, like dancing in the Great Hall had felt,
without thought, just movement and friction and waves of heat flooding his body
again and again …
Malfoy's finger slid into Harry's arsehole on one of those back thrust, almost
as if by accident. There was no pain, just the feel of something giving, and it
was familiar to Harry, a sign of imminent orgasm. Then Malfoy thrust into him
again, in a different angle this time. And suddenly nothing was familiar
anymore. For a second Harry didn't know whether he wanted more of that
delicious friction when his cock rubbed against Malfoy's, or whether he needed
Malfoy to touch that, that place again. His body decided, pushing back,
clenching and unclenching, wiggling, writhing – anything to make Malfoy's
finger slide into him again, and deep. He felt himself lift one foot, wrap it
around Malfoy's thigh, to allow him easier access, grinding out, "Do that
again," gravely and low, nothing like his voice ever sounded. Malfoy moved into
him, and this time it hurt, a painful burn, but it didn't matter, didn't even
make Harry flinch, because, yes, this was it, this fullness, stretching him,
opening him up. He buried his face in Malfoy's neck, licked his sweaty skin,
thinking how bloody good it would feel to have Malfoy's cock up his arse.
Malfoy's fingers reached that place again, and Harry cried out, he needed to
come so badly. He was panting like a dog now, and Malfoy was pulling him even
closer. His mouth was on Harry's throat, his teeth grazing the soft skin there,
and Harry threw his head back, because really, anything, anything so he could
come now, now … The pain was sharp as Malfoy bit into his skin, sucked at him
with choked, needy moans – and to hear that sound, Malfoy's voice so broken,
pushed Harry over the edge.
His knees buckled under him, and Malfoy couldn't hold him up, either. They
crumpled to the floor, and Harry found himself in Malfoy's lap, Malfoy's
fingers thrusting furiously into him, his own hand on his cock, stroking
himself so hard, while he was already coming. He grabbed for Malfoy's shirt
while the last of his load spilled out of him, not caring that he was touching
his own spunk. He barely registered that Malfoy was frotting against him still,
hot and frantic, and was coming only moments after Harry had finished.
The darkness had turned velvety, crimson-tinged all around them. It seemed to
expand in ripples, stretching further from the narrow row, out into the aisle,
flooding the library. Malfoy was warm and solid against Harry, he was breathing
heavily. When Harry moved, he slowly pulled his fingers out of him. The soft,
wet noise brought Harry back to reality. He pushed himself up to his knees.
Malfoy was slumped against the wall, his head bowed. Only when Harry started
stroking his spent cock, did he move, gathered up his trousers and pulled his
robes around him.
"Don't touch me," he said, trying to make it sound like some threat, but
failing. There was exhaustion in his voice, and something else, something like
defeat.
Harry edged closer, grabbed Malfoy's wrists in the dark, stopped him from
straightening his clothes (a hopeless chore, anyway) and searched for his
mouth. When he tried to kiss him, Malfoy turned away. Not fast or angry, but
with a determined jerk of his head.
Bloody, stupid git, Harry wanted to say, but he couldn't. His whole body ached
in tenderness for Malfoy. He wanted nothing as much as to wrap him in his arms
and curl up, here, on the dusty library floor, and fall asleep with him. He
tried again, stroked Malfoy's hands, his wrists, moved his lips along Malfoy's
jaw, telling him as best as he could how he felt about him.
It was the wrong thing to do, obviously. Malfoy hissed and yanked his hands
away. "I mean it, Potter," he spat. "Don't touch me again." He got up, using
the wall for support, and stepped away from Harry. "Merlin, what a mess," he
said, his words punctuated by the sound of clasps snapping shut. "Fuck, Potter,
did you have to come all over my clothes?"
Harry rose to his feet. He felt numb, a painful emptiness in his chest. Still,
he silently moved closer to where Malfoy was standing. He needed to touch him
again before he got away. How could he not feel what Harry was feeling?
From the darkness came Malfoy's tired voice. "The spell – it's got something to
do with those bloody unicorns. Some fucking bonding spell. Or more likely, a
beguiled lovers' curse." He let out a mirthless laugh, then Harry felt him step
towards the aisle.
"You can't just leave like this." Harry's voice was trembling so hard,
betraying how shaken he still was from the sex, how much he needed Malfoy. And
Malfoy had to know where he was standing, because Harry had spoken loudly.
Still he took another step and walked right into Harry who caught him, by
instinct, in a tight embrace.
"Let go of me, Potter." Malfoy struggled ferociously for a few moments, then he
stopped abruptly. He stood motionless, Harry's arms around him. "I hate you,"
he whispered when Harry pulled him close. "Hate you."
His hands were trapped between their bodies which was why Harry saw the faint
shimmer only when it lit Malfoy's face from below. The muted light seemed
bright after they had been in darkness for so long, and Harry was so startled
that he let go. Malfoy stepped back, but was staring at his arm, too.
Strangely, it was Malfoy who reached for Harry's hand where the ribbon
glimmered with a corresponding silver light. All that time Harry had not felt
or seen the ribbon but for that moment which seemed hours ago, when Malfoy had
dragged him towards the wall. The ribbons were still loosely wrapped around
their wrists, moving towards each other, when their hands touched. Their
shimmer seemed to grow ever brighter, and there were flowery circles within
them, twirling around each other.
"The same patterns are on unicorn horns." Malfoy was speaking softly, his body
taut, as if he was afraid of the magic between them. "Ground unicorn horn cures
blindness and hallucination, everybody will tell you that." He shook his head,
staring at the ribbons. "But what does it do to us?"
Harry put his left hand on Malfoy's waist. Malfoy turned his head, but he did
not move away. The ribbons were now spiralling around each other. Soon it was
hard to tell which was one, which the other, as they slithered down Malfoy's
arm, over their hands and up Harry's arm, wrapping themselves around his skin.
It reminded Harry of nothing so much as the albino cobra which he had seen
dancing to a snake charmer's flute on Diagon Alley last summer. He looked up at
Malfoy, his face illuminated by the silver light, and he felt the tenderness
well up again. It was insane, but he wanted this, wanted to feel the way Malfoy
made him feel, so furious, so happy. The ribbons snaked around their forearms
and hands, and Harry leaned against Malfoy, put his head lightly on his
shoulder, wishing Malfoy would relax so he could kiss him. He stared at the
ribbons when he told Malfoy, in the only words he knew. And it shouldn't be so
hard to wrap his lips around those simple three words, should it?
But Malfoy jerked away from him, almost yanking the ribbons apart. They
squeezed tightly around their wrists at once, and Harry yelled, "What? What?"
shattering the library's dark silence.
Malfoy's eyes were wide open, shining with fear in the silver light, or with
awe. Harry listened for the echo of his words and recalled oddly distorted,
hissing sounds coming from his throat.
"Say that again," Malfoy said breathlessly, his grip on Harry's hand painfully
hard. He stood close all of a sudden, his erection pressing against Harry's
thigh.
Harry had said the words again in plain English, his eyes on Malfoy, head
turned away from the ribbons slithering up his arm.
Malfoy's reaction had made Harry realise that he really did love him. And it
wasn't about the spell, or even about the sex. It was about the way Malfoy had
looked at him in utter disbelief, then thrown his head back, the faint light
emphasising the sharp line of his chin, and he had laughed, like Harry had
never heard him laugh before, pleased, amused, so free … And then he had kissed
Harry, the last time for another two years.
Harry took a deep breath and blinked into the afternoon sun. A light breeze was
blowing through the leaves, making shadows dance on Harry's face. He moved his
hand over the bark of the tree, inhaling again its fresh smell.
All those times they'd always met as if by chance, even if it never had been
chance. Harry knew that now. He didn't know about Malfoy, but he had never
sought him out, had never consciously followed the ribbon's Call. Even now
Harry thought, too dangerous, it was too dangerous, Malfoy wouldn't, God, he
shouldn't even come into the country. But he was here, so much closer than all
year. Harry felt it with a certainty that should no longer surprise him, but it
did. He touched his wrist, which looked ordinary in the sunlight, like it
belonged to any seventeen year old, too bony and slender yet to be mistaken for
the wrist of a fully grown man. Only the tenderness of the skin betrayed that
something was different, and Harry found himself mouthing, Wait for me.
Which, really, was too sappy for words, and he closed his eyes, concentrating
on the row of dilapidated shacks on the entrance of Hogsmeade. Like always,
Apparition made him feel like he had been stuffed into a tight rubber tube.
Seconds later, he stood, gulping for air, before the wooden sign with the
weathered letters saying Village of Hogsmeade
High Street lay deserted in the afternoon sunshine but for two witches who were
standing in front of Scrivenshaft's. They wore small, sky-blue hats to
identical summer robes. Harry watched them from the corner of his eye. They had
obviously noticed his arrival on High Street. Something spelled Auror about
them, but Harry couldn't be sure. Perhaps it was the colour of those odd hats.
Fudge had been insistent that Aurors be clad in uniform robes, and since then
the light azure had become the trademark of the Office, much to the annoyance
of Shacklebolt and the older hounds.
He walked over to Dervish and Banges. Malfoy would never wait there for him;
he'd not go anywhere near where there was a chance someone might recognise him.
And he had been quite a frequent customer to Dervish and Banges all through
their sixth year. The Hog's Head was a much likelier choice. But if the Aurors
were already aware that the young Malfoy had entered the country, then Harry
would not be the one leading them to him. He peeked into the window of the
store where a variety of travellers' pensieves were on display. The witches
over at Scrivenshaft's seemed still immersed in their talk. One had her back to
him, and Harry took the chance to sneak into the shadow underneath the low
roof, then turn into a side alley which cut over to the street where the Hog's
Head was located. He walked quickly through the tangle of back alleys, cutting
through a garden path running alongside small stables where the villagers kept
their chickens and rabbits.
Not even the bright May sun was able to penetrate the age-old smear on the
windows of the Hog's Head. It took Harry a couple of moments before he could
make out the guests in the murky room: a lone wizard, nursing a glass of
firewhiskey, and a house-elf, busily polishing the bottles of butterbeer on the
table before him with the dirty towel which covered his body. Harry moved to
the bar looking for Aberforth, but there was only a black-haired fellow,
pouring water from a rusty kettle into a teapot which seemed too fragile and
clean for a place like the Hog. Over the curling steam, he nodded a welcome
towards Harry.
"Is he here?" Harry asked. There was no need to explain who he was looking for,
not when it was Aberforth and his magic, which held even the floorboards of the
Hog in place.
The barman pointed with a flat thumb over his shoulder. "He's up in the office.
Takin' a nap, I guess." He glanced at Harry curiously, but then just shrugged
and moved his chin towards the stairs.
It was all the invitation Harry would get, and he quickly stumbled up the
rickety staircase to the sitting area with the stuffed chairs and the
fireplace. He could hear Aberforth moving around behind the closed door of an
adjacent room, ripping paper, it seemed like, and mumbling to himself. Harry
stood, not sure what to do, when suddenly the door opened, and the face of the
thin, grey-bearded wizard peeked down at him.
"Harry!" he exclaimed, taking in Harry's dress robes in one quick glance from
underneath his glasses. "Why aren't you up in the castle, giving your speech?"
"I … need to go someplace." Harry wondered if he could just ask if Malfoy had
been here. The Hog's Head had always been a place where the dark and the light
mingled, where one could meet a lonely, drunken Auror as soon as find a Death
Eater on the run. Aberforth served them all, their secrets safe with him. He
had brought Nott's offer to Shacklebolt, but at the same time he'd made sure
the Goyles had safely left the country before the Aurors came for Greg's
father. Fudge had tried to arrest Aberforth, force him to reveal all that he
knew under Veritaserum. But the memory of Albus Dumbledore still held power. As
did the magic protecting the Hog's Head and its clientele. Aberforth Dumbledore
was untouchable. For now.
"So, so. Someplace." The old wizard turned quickly, and Harry caught a glimpse
of his wand. Did he have Malfoy hidden in there? Harry stepped closer, tried to
peek inside the room, but Aberforth wouldn't budge. "What d'you want from me?"
he asked tersely, his eyes still on whatever was going on in the room.
"I have to know if Malfoy is here. Draco Malfoy." The name felt strange on
Harry's lips, like he hadn't said it aloud for a very long time. He and Ron
would mention Fred and Creevey and Remus and Tonks ever so often – Fred would
have laughed so hard about this – Remember Tonks' hair, it'd gone green at that
–, but they rarely spoke about the ones who were missing.
Aberforth turned to him, a look of surprise in his eyes. "You're looking for
the young Malfoy?"
He nodded, but before he could say another word, Aberforth slammed the door
shut in his face. Harry immediately pressed his ear against the wood. There was
loud cursing, then Aberforth spelling Aguamenti, followed by a whoosh of magic
blasting against the inside of the door. Harry stepped back at once, just in
time for Aberforth to open the door again. The entire front of his beer-stained
shirt was dripping wet, but he had a broad grin on his gaunt face.
"So you're looking for Malfoy," he said, clapping Harry so hard on the shoulder
that he stumbled against one of the stuffed chairs.
"Rip," Aberforth hollered down to the bar. "Heard from Tom lately?"
The black-haired barman was looking over a row of sparkling butterbeer bottles
that were lined up before him. The house-elf stood at the bar, his head barely
reaching up to the counter. He followed the barman's gaze anxiously. After a
moment or two this odd inspection seemed finished. Rip nodded to the elf who
clutched his towel and scrambled for the kitchen door. Only then did he look up
to the gallery to where Aberforth and Harry were waiting.
"Venison's been hard to get, Tom says." He started to put the bottles away
underneath the counter. "He's had turnip and chicken stew on the menu all week,
he says. And then today comes a whole crate of fish, fresh like you picked it
from the ocean with your own hands, he says. He'll be making you an offer,
seein' as he can't use it all himself." With a clank the last bottle was stored
away.
Aberforth mumbled something like, "That'll be the day, that old fart selling me
his leftovers."
Harry's inquiring look was met by a piercing blue gaze, so like his old
headmaster's, it made his heart skip a beat. "Um," he managed. "So, fish … ?"
Aberforth smiled at him. "A pure-blood visitor from the continent arrived at
the Leaky today. That'll be your boy."
                                       *
Rennes, Paimpont, Le Canné – Apparition made the journey so much faster, but
when in exile it was not a good idea to Apparate straight to one's home. It
took Draco two hours and five jumps to arrive here, at the Muggle road leading
into the forest and onto the path that wound all the way up to Chalêt Belvina.
The muted light of dusk streamed through the leaves of the young beech trees
lining the path. He passed the old oak at the Pont de Secret which marked the
border to the wizarding lands.
It was so different here from Wiltshire, no rolling downs and meadows, no elms
guarding the sandy footpaths. Brécélien was dark and old like its massive oak
trees, a forest that would never part with the secrets entrusted to it.
On the other side of the lake pale golden globes of candlelight shimmered in
the windows of the Chalêt. Mother was waiting for him. They would have dinner,
and then he would be waiting up, if needs must all night, for Harry.
The Leaky's grey delivery Owl would have surely swooped down into the kitchen
and delivered the letter to Tom Abbot. It read:
     Dear Sir -
     may I kindly request that you lead my companion, who will be arriving
     shortly, up to the room I rented for the week-end? He will pay for
     whatever expenses my untimely departure may have cost you. And please
     give my regards to the kitchen: the fish stew was excellent.
     Yours respectfully,
     Kite Bonnecroire
Potter (blasted fool that he was) had hopefully skirted the Aurors, to come
back later and climb up the narrow stairs. Room number nine and three eighths
held only one secret, and it was lying open for all to see on top of the
secretary: a blank sheet of paper with the address of the Leaky printed in the
upper right corner. Only to Potter it would spell the words:
     H -
     you bloody took your sweet time coming. Looks like your mates from
     the Auror Office got here first. Now it's your turn. Meet me in the
     old Forest of Brécélien. You'll find the place. And do come. We
     figure this out now or never. I shall not wait another two years for
     you.
     D
Draco stepped between the two moss-grown boulders, the gate to the Chalêt's
grounds. He drew his wand, knelt and changed the wards to let Potter through.
When he cast the spell, the ribbon on his forearm tightened so forcefully, he
almost dropped the wand in pain. Potter had to be close. He rubbed his wrist,
then stared at it in wonder. The bluish-silver light shimmered as strongly as
never before; he could barely make out the lines of the Dark Mark underneath.
A bird was chirping sleepily in the trees beside the path. On the Southern
horizon the full moon was rising, and further to the left, the red tinged
silver of Mars was shining bright.
From underneath the trees came a noise so foreign to the Forest of Brécélien,
that for a moment even the leaves stopped their endless rustling. It made Draco
turn and look back to the path he'd come from Le Canné. A shadowy figure was
walking briskly towards him, the right hand wrapped in a soft light, as if the
person was carrying a magical lantern to guide the way. Draco felt something
well up in him, a feeling like joy that made him want to run and shout, to
climb on top of the boulder and wave, like a fool. But he didn't give in to the
urge. He allowed himself a small smile, a quick twirl of the wand. Potter was
here.
                                      fin
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