This one is for Inscription, for [info]malafede.  I don't normally believe in sequels, but I guess this will be an ongoing series of exceptions.  Hope you like.   

Harry thinks about the missing spaces on the Black family tree, and he thinks that for every name blotted out, there’s a new name inscribed on someone else’s heart.

There is to be a memorial service.  Harry is furious when he hears of it.  It is not as if Snape ever did anything that was worth commemorating; he was a bad teacher, a horrible human being, and, so it would seem, a horrible spy.

Hermione tells him, then asks faintly if Harry is going to go.

Harry, wondering why Draco has not mentioned any memorial, retorts that he doesn’t see why he should care, to which Hermione replies in a querulous voice that she just thought, perhaps, because of Harry and—she stops here, as if she has reached a point of thought so foreign to her that her brain has shut down completely rather than accept the idea.  Harry tries to grapple with the fact that he is expected to honor Snape because he and Draco are— and his own brain almost follows suit.

In bed that night, Draco arches up and up, begging to be touched from his throat to his ribcage to the backs of his knees.  Harry knows distantly there is something behind this, but he is focused on canvassing the smooth terrain from Draco’s navel to his thigh, on lapping up the drops of sweat that have formed and clung to the hair at his groin.  Harry buries his face there, in the scent and the damp, and just when he is almost immersed, Draco says his name.

Draco says his name, and Harry raises up and pushes up the length of Draco’s long waist; he fits their torsos together like matching jigsaw pieces and locks his hips against Draco’s.

He wonders briefly what has happened to him, because lately he always needs to look Draco in the eye before they kiss.  He thinks they will kiss now, but instead Draco watches, just watches, and Harry hears himself saying in a rush, though they have not talked about it at all:

‘Am I supposed to go tomorrow with you?’

Draco’s eyes widen, and unknowingly he moves his hand down Harry’s right arm, over the faint scar from his fingernails.  He stops when he touches the fading scar left from Umbridge’s quill, and his fingers move over it without his needing to look for the shape.  Harry knows that when Draco inevitably discovers the existence of that first, hidden scar, he will try to claim it for himself, without knowing that he already has.

He looks as if he wants to answer, but does not know what answer to make, and Harry can’t blame him.  His cock is pressing against Draco’s and he can’t help closing in for more pressure, but Snape is dead, and Sirius is dead, and Draco’s family killed them, and he can’t fuck right until Draco does something about it.

‘He didn’t get one,’ says Draco, his eyes flickering as if the awareness is sudden.

‘Who.’  Harry presses down again, urgently, wanting to move, wanting to get inside and stay there until the entire thing is over.

‘Black.’  Draco’s voice has gone lower and quiet, and he is returning the pressure without haste. 

He doesn’t say any more, but Harry suddenly doesn’t want him to.  His throat is dry, and he gives Draco silent permission to move up and kiss him until he forgets all the things he wasn’t going to say.

The service is brief and bleak.  When the eulogy is over, Harry murmurs a requiescat for two instead of one, and tries to feel warm when Draco takes his hand.

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