Love Under Will

Chapter Nine

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: R for language, frequent sexual situations, and angst

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here, except the writing. No profit is intended except the sheer joy I get out of constructing this story.

Note: Info on points raised throughout the story will always be chapter-specific; look at the end of each chapter for notes as necessary.

To my wonderful, beloved RQ Babes, for sticking with me and upholding me through the trials of the last year, and for letting me badger you all into reading, first the HP series, then this fic—and for being simply the best group of friends imaginable—I dedicate Love Under Will. To Franzi, my Beta-reader and nonpareil editor, I throw myself at your feet in humble gratitude.  This piece wouldn’t be what I envisioned it being without you.  To readers to come—I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I am enjoying throwing my heart and soul into writing it. --Aja 

Chapter Nine: Heaven Coming Down

You surrender
love under will
rest assured you're adored

And it feels just like heaven's coming down
Your soul shakes free
as its conscience hits the ground
This time, this fate,
takes the path you didn’t choose

—The Tea Party

Harry stormed, seething, out of the classroom.  His fists were clenched, jaw set in a line of silent fury. 

“Harry, what was that about?”  Hermione asked.   She and Ron were waiting for him on the opposite side of the corridor.  Ron was looking at Harry curiously, and Harry could tell by the way Hermione’s eyes narrowed in concern as she looked at him that he was probably wearing a very foul expression.  “What did Malfoy say to you?” 

“Nothing important,” growled Harry, still feeling his lips tingling from Draco’s kiss, and fighting the urge to trace the echo with his tongue.  

“You just look a bit upset.”  Hermione was regarding him shrewdly.

“He just wanted to rub it in that he beat me,” Harry answered shortly.  “It’s nothing.  Come on.”  He started down the hallway quickly, anxious to avoid hearing Draco’s footsteps behind them.   Hermione tugged at his sleeve, and he unclenched his fists on an exhale of frustration.

“But we heard yelling,” she persisted.  “From both of you.”

“Yeah, you look pissed, Harry. What did that bastard do to you?  Did you hit him? Tell me you knocked him out and that’s why he hasn’t come out of the room yet…”

“Will you both just leave it alone?” Harry snapped, pushing past Hermione.  “Malfoy was just being himself.  Nothing for you to get worked up over.”

“Then why are you worked up over it?”

“Hermione!”   Harry’s exasperation carried over into anger, and she stepped back, alarmed, as he began to walk away.  “He’s a selfish, arrogant git, you should know this by now.”  Harry’s words were carrying him away, the same insults about Malfoy falling from his lips from years of practice.  “He just likes to try and get a rise out of me, and I’m, dammit, I’m sick of it.”

“So just beat the snot out of him!  Come on, just once, somebody needs to!”

“Ron, will you lay off?  It’s not that simple.”

Hermione pursed her lips and said nothing.  Harry frowned at them both and strode ahead of them up the corridor, anxious to be as far away from Draco Malfoy as possible.

“Harry, there you are.  Hey, have you got a minute?”

Harry’s reverie ended; he jerked back from the window as Ron joined him on the stairwell landing.   The cold imprint of the glass was still blazing against his cheek.  He’d been leaning against a wide-paned bay window, with intricate beveling and a cushioned ledge that he sometimes lost himself in for hours.   How long he’d been sitting there just then, he didn’t know; after class he’d just sort of wandered upstairs and wound up lost in his thoughts as he stared outside, oblivious to everything around him. 

Well.  Everything but Slytherin Quidditch practice.

Ron could easily see what he had been gazing at out the tower window, where all of the southern stretch of Hogwarts was in plain view.  Harry waited for Ron to point out that he’d been caught staring, obsessing.  Ron, however, said nothing, and Harry, still moody as hell, felt his defenses rising.  When he looked up, thinly veiled worry creased his best friend’s face, and irritably he grumbled, “Well, what is it?”

“How long have you been here?”

Harry shrugged and turned back toward the window.  He really couldn’t care less about satisfying Ron’s curiosity at the moment.   Automatically he sought and found the figure of the one person who had been haunting him all day.  With a sigh he silently cursed himself for being unable to control even such a little thing as where his gaze went.  But then, he thought wryly, he should be used to it by this point: he’d been apparently unable to control anything relative to Draco Malfoy all week; why should it be any different now?    

Wasn’t it, after all, all about control?  Wasn’t it a game, just as he’d told Draco earlier after Potions—a game of power, of cat-and-mouse, that they’d been playing for too long?

One would think that rejecting and walking away from one’s dearest enemy would give one more power over the situation, not less—and yet here he was, completely unsure of himself, Draco, and bloody near everything else.  He’d told Malfoy he hadn’t wanted any part of this and he’d meant it, so why was he still on about the whole situation at all?

Because he couldn’t bloody help himself, of course.  Fuck.

Even from that distance there was no mistaking the small, elegant form of Malfoy on a broom.  He flew with such patterned grace.  Harry had watched him before but never really grasped how carefully Draco flew, how simple he made even the most risky moves look because of this cautious maneuvering.  It was less sharp and less instinctual than Harry’s own style, but it was fast, effective, and… beautiful.

“Well?”

Harry shrugged again.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there watching Malfoy soar through air as though it were just another thing for him to conquer, and he didn’t want to talk about it.  Ron was waiting for him to say something, but he honestly didn’t know what on earth he could say, so he sat still and kept his mouth shut, hoping Ron would ask a question to which he might know the answer.

Ron sat down beside him.  For a moment he looked at Harry in silence.  Harry was looking at Draco.

Finally:  “Harry, you need to let it go.”  Harry met Ron’s eyes and just nodded.  Ron continued fervently, “Look, it had to happen sometime, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And now that it has, you can just focus on beating that bloody git the way he deserves the next time you play.  You can make your own damn t-shirt.”  

Harry sighed.  “You’re right, Ron.”  Yeah. I can see the slogan now.  ‘Harry Potter: And you thought he was trying to grab the Snitch.’

He turned to look outside with a bitter laugh.  His Seeker instincts automatically found their target, but Ron’s indignant expression reflected in the windowpane brought Harry’s gaze back to his face with a sigh.    

“What?” he asked quietly.  He didn’t snap this time, but Ron reacted as though he had. 

“You’re handling this like you thought you were invincible or something,” Ron said irritably.   “I mean, geez, Harry, nobody can win everything all the time!” 

Oh, no. Here we go again.  

“Ron, I don’t—that’s not—”

“Well then, get over it!” Ron retorted, too loudly.

“Geez, Ron, it’s only been a day!  Not even that long!  I mean, give me a break!  How would you feel if you…”   …wanted to get it on with your worst enemy? …had been thinking lurid thoughts about Draco Malfoy all sodding week?   

He exhaled.  “Look, Ron, you don’t know—”   He stopped short, knowing Ron would go all the wrong places with that half-sentence; and he did. 

“Well, yeah,” Ron through clenched teeth, “You’re right.  I don’t know.  Excuse me for not knowing what it’s like to be everyone’s bloody hero, star of the Quidditch team, winner of the House Cup every damn year.” 

“God, Ron, will you stop jumping to concl—”    

“If you ask me, you needed to lose, Harry—yes, even if it was to Malfoy! It’ll do you good.” 

Harry winced.  Why do you have to do this, Ron?  I never asked for this. Any of it.  And I sure didn’t ask for this thing with Draco.

…So it’s ‘Draco’ now.

He sighed wearily, pushed himself off the seat, and looked at Ron, whose lips were pursed in frustration.  “You’re right, Ron, okay?” he said, hoping he sounded defeated.  God, I hate lying to my best friend.  “You’re right. I just… need some time, is all.  I’ll move on.” 

I wish.

Ron’s expression cleared.  He smiled a little sheepishly and stood up too, looking satisfied.  “Good,” he smiled, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder.  “You’re too good to let him get the best of you.   I’m not talking about the game, I just mean… if you show him that you’re letting this faze you, I mean… he doesn’t deserve the satisfaction, really!”  

Harry forced a smile and shook his head, but his mind spun.   Draco? Deserved?   

Draco… 

Draco deserved… hands on his flesh, running through his silver hair… eyes that could stare him down and not let him look away… he deserved laughter and sex and roughness….  

He deserved. 

That morning Draco had given Harry the most amazing kiss of his life.   He had more raw power and skill in his lips alone than most people probably had in their entire body.  But it had been more than a kiss—it had been a challenge: a challenge to believe that something as extraordinary and out of place and unlikely as the two of them getting together could actually work.   

Harry hadn’t taken it.  Harry had walked away.    

God, the way his hands had felt against Harry’s cheek… the way his voice had sounded, the way he had tasted… so unlike anything Harry had ever tasted—sharp and tangy and just a little sweet… and kind of creamy, as though he were all liquid underneath warm, smooth skin… maybe that was what made him such a fluid flyer….   

He found himself looking back out at the window for one last glance at Draco, who was, at that moment, putting a Quaffle smartly through the hoop in demonstration of Blaise Zabini’s less than stellar blocking efforts.  He was ruthless, and competitive, and fierce; and Harry knew as he watched him now that Draco was the only person who had ever been able to really challenge him.  In any way. 

He deserved.  He deserved... well, Harry, really. 

He deserves me.  He wants me.  I want…him. 

Ron was wearing a weird expression.   

“We’re going to be late for dinner,” Harry said shortly, and clapped a hand around his shoulder.  “Thanks.  I know you’re trying to help.”  Ron nodded, and allowed Harry to pull him forward toward the exit.  Harry knew Ron would be satisfied with this as long as he didn’t do anything else totally off the wall, like ogling Malfoy in the Great Hall.   Unfortunately, Harry had every intention of ogling Malfoy in the Great Hall. 

They went to dinner with Hermione and Neville.  Harry sat in silence, lost in his thoughts.  He kept coming back to that morning, and the way Draco had looked in that damned t-shirt; the way he had sauntered into the dining hall like he owned it, like a god claiming his throne—claiming Harry with a shiver just by the way he walked.  

God.  He was so elegant, so poised.  Harry wanted to unsettle him, wanted to see him lose control and give it—willingly give it—to Harry.  He wanted those lips back that had caressed his own so sweetly.  He wanted the same mouth that had taunted him and insulted him so many times to taste him and take him in the dark.   He wanted to rip that damn shirt off his chest and show him exactly just how well he could handle a few things.  

“Funny Malfoy isn’t here for dinner,” remarked Hermione just as Harry was wondering if Draco wore boxers or briefs.  He looked up a bit suddenly; she caught his glance, and her eyes narrowed.  

Before she could continue, Ginny jumped in. “You’re right.   It’s not like him to miss a chance to gloat.”  Harry glared at her. She flushed a bit guiltily when she met his eye.  “Oh… sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry shortly, suddenly keenly uninterested in his meal. 

“Maybe his ego got so big his head exploded,” remarked Neville unhelpfully. 

“Maybe he’s exhausted from mouthing off all day,” Parvati chimed in. Lavender giggled. 

“Maybe he’s off somewhere making another t-shirt,” grinned Seamus.   

“Shut up,” growled Harry. 

“You have to admit it was pretty funny.” 

“That’s not the point. I—”  Harry was suddenly embarrassed, and it didn’t help that the entire table was now staring at him.  “I can take a joke.  It’s just…” 

The Gryffindors blinked back at him expectantly, and Harry was suddenly sick of being the center of attention.  Standing up, he threw his napkin on the table irritably and snapped, “Why does everything always come back to Malfoy?”    

“Harry, wait, I was just—” Seamus looked stricken.  

“I’m not angry.  I just don’t feel much like eating.  I’ll see you all later.”  He hoped the clipped note in his voice would prevent anyone from coming after him.  Their faces were collectively blank, and although they stayed in their chairs, stunned, their stares followed him as he left the Great Hall. 

In that moment he hated every pair of eyes on him. 

He’d been flying for nearly an hour.  

In circles, ironically enough. 

His arms were getting tired.   The nights spent sleepless and anxious over Draco were affecting his stamina.   He sighed wearily.   Shifting on his broom, he tucked his feet underneath him and sat back, comfortably balanced, rolling his shoulders and releasing the tension they’d been holding all week. 

Draco’s fingers on Harry’s shoulders, not with the fierce grip of the day before as they tumbled on the ground, but sure, gentle, coaxing him to relax… The whisper of his breath tickling the back of Harry’s neck… palms sliding down his spine, warm against his sweat-cooled skin, rubbing him oh so firmly, mapping out his muscles, melting them with the strength of his touch…. 

An updraft swept over him and he wavered a bit in mid-air, losing his balance just for a moment.  He cursed and righted himself and sighed, a little wistful at being jolted out of his fantasy, and frustrated because this was getting him nowhere. He’d been flying around now for what seemed like forever, asking himself again and again why it had to be Draco, why it had to be now, and why he had to want it this much.   

He had no great answers.  The only thing that kept pressing on his mind was that he had to know.  Obviously he’d been wrong about having made up his mind; he hadn’t been able to think about anything else all day.  It was time to face up to the fact that they wanted each other—oh, God, did Harry want Draco—and do this thing if it was to be done.  He had to know what the possibilities were, and had to know soon, before he went crazy with the ache and frustration and uncertainty of it all.  

What do you want from him right now? 

Harry thought of Draco smiling at him, the way he had grinned earlier that day as he paraded Harry’s defeat to everyone in the school.  What would it be like to see that expression given to him not because he’d just conquered him, insulted or outwitted him in one of their stupid games, but because he, Harry, made Draco smile? 

The thought sent a strangely queasy delight running through him.  

I… want to make him smile. 

I want to know what makes him laugh and not just what makes him cringe. 

I want to be inside his thoughts the way he’s inside mine right now. 

I… want inside him.  

Harry felt the chill of inevitability harden around him.  He was outside flying in circles because he wanted his worst enemy.  He was outside flying in circles because in solitude he could fantasize about Draco properly.  He was outside flying in circles because everything came back to Malfoy, because in the end he knew that he had already made his decision, and because he was putting off the moment when he gave in to whatever “this” was. 

He didn’t know why he’d done anything in the last five days; why he’d gone from despising Malfoy, to wanting to get to know Malfoy better, to kissing Malfoy, to practically wanting to jump Malfoy and screw him senseless—all while remaining filled with anger and indignation at him.  But the immeasurable sickness clutching his heart all day, from the moment he’d walked out of that musty dungeon, had made it quite clear that he’d made a mistake.  Without knowing what it meant, or how, or why it had happened, he knew that he needed to be moving towards Draco, not away from him.  

He could still remedy that.  

He was planning on it.

Normally he would have simply used the Map.  But as he toyed with dragging it out along with his Invisibility Cloak he couldn’t bring himself to do it; it would have felt too much like spying, and besides, if he really was determined to find Draco he ought to be able to find him without the help of magic.  He’d stayed out on the field flying for much longer than he probably should have, even after he’d made up his mind to see Draco later that night.  The rest of the fifth-years were in the common room, and he’d only nodded to them as he’d come upstairs for the cloak.  He just didn’t feel like bothering to explain himself, and they probably assumed he was mad at them for teasing him earlier anyway.  For now, he didn’t mind.  He really just wanted to get away so he could have time to think, time to figure out what he needed to do about the situation, and what he really wanted to do about it.  And yes, time to look for Malfoy.  

He didn’t know what made him so sure that Malfoy would turn up in the Astronomy Tower.  Perhaps it was the same impulse that told him that Draco also wanted time to be alone to think, to be away from his housemates, just as Harry did.   Perhaps it was the feeling that he, like Harry, would be drawn to the place where it started, the location of their first unforgettable kiss.  At any rate, as he reached the door to the tower he had a flash of pre-knowledge that Draco would be waiting for him on the other side; it startled, excited, and terrified him, all at once. 

He pushed open the door as silently as air itself.  The room was empty.  He stared around at it in surprise and more than a little disappointment before finally seating himself on a window ledge, shivering slightly at the contact with the cold stone, face bathed in moonlight as he stared outside over the frozen grounds.   

Quickly he lost himself in thoughts of Draco.  He wondered if Draco had avoided dinner because he was avoiding Harry.  He had to see him again: he had to be with him, he had to talk things through, get a grip on what was happening—and maybe not be such a total prick this time around….  

The creak of footsteps on the landing outside startled him, then, and gave him just enough time to whip the cape over his head before the door swung open silently, and a faint gleam of golden-silver appeared amid the shadows. 

Harry froze as Draco entered and seated himself in the gauzy armchair, his body so waif-thin that even in the brilliant moonlight you’d never know he was there were it not for the luminous sheen of his hair.  

You moron.  You came up here to analyze how you feel about Draco Malfoy.  There he is—analyze! 

Gulp. 

Harry got lost en route to analysis by way of Draco's forearms.   He'd never noticed them before that morning, but then Draco had done that unthinkably graceful bit of stretching in potions, and he…well, he’d noticed.   Now, something about the moonlight drawing sharp contrasts over his already sharp features made them look taut and toned and strong.  From there Harry's eyes traveled to his chin, and the way his silver forelock—Draco's hair was a miracle unto itself—fell into his eyes.  He looked so real right now, so natural and unguarded: like someone who had an identity beyond The Boy Who Tormented The Boy Who Lived.  And so… so…  

“Goddamn you, Harry Potter.” 

Harry was sure that he choked. 

God.  I was such an asshole.  He’s going to hate me.    

Draco slunk down in the armchair and Harry knew he had heard him.    

Great.  Fuck this, he already hates me.   

The way Draco’s figure had gone tense with wariness wasn’t helping Harry’s resolve.  His heart began to slam against his ribcage.    

I pushed him away.  God, he’ll be furious.  Or worse, he’ll act like none of it ever happened.  He’ll probably taunt me.   He’ll… reject me.   

Wouldn’t that be ironic.

I should just leave. Maybe he won’t show up.  Maybe he’ll—  

Maybe you’re being a neurotic git.  Dammit, don’t make the same mistake twice. 

But he’s Malfoy! 

No.  He isn’t.  Not anymore.  You couldn’t go back to thinking of him in the same way even if you wanted to.  

No—wait, I can’t—I cannot want this! 

But you do. 

I—I… 

Draco relaxed his form against the chair, tossing his head.  The movement sent shimmers of moonlight through his silver-blond hair, and shivers of want through Harry. 

He closed his eyes and gave in. 

I do. 

Removing the invisibility cloak, he stepped forward into the light that illuminated Draco.  “Speak of the devil.”  

Draco looked up and gasped.  

Harry’s shadow fell across the seated Slytherin and he realized how sinuous and well-shaped Draco’s body was, unlike his own silhouette, which appeared ungainly, unkempt, beside it.  Harry didn’t hate the way he looked, but he didn’t find it all that noteworthy—maybe that was why he kept getting chills whenever Draco eyed his figure the way he’d started doing in the past few days: as though he were thinking of all the noteworthy things he could do with it.  

Right now, thinking of all the things he could do to Draco wasn’t too bad. 

Draco’s eyes had held a distant, closed-off look, but when he realized it was Harry in the room with him, his expression changed into something caged and frightened.  It didn’t suit him—he who was usually so suave and calm; and Harry, noting the abnormal tinge in his cheeks, the alarm in his eyes, and the way Draco was gripping the arms of the chair as he looked back at him, somehow felt better than he had all week.

“What are you doing here?” Draco snapped. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

Silence. 

Slowly the current passing between them shifted, moving from uncertainty to resolution.  It crept up Harry’s spine and clutched his throat, and he locked his gaze on Draco’s porcelain features, unwilling to look away. 

For a long time they only looked at one another, and Harry could read Draco’s thoughts as plainly as he could hear his own echoing: You’re here.   You want this.  Whatever ‘this’ is. 

He moved first toward Draco, and in the same instant Draco stood, finally level with him.  Quickly and carefully he closed the distance between them so that in a moment they were as close as they had been in detention—and closer.   Harry took a breath to steady his unusually jittery nerves.  

Draco appeared to be fighting with himself.  “So,” he said with a light laugh, “have you decided to kiss me or kill me?” 

Harry smiled.  He liked the expression of half-fear, half-excitement flickering in Draco’s eyes.  He liked his eyes, in fact.   

Damn.  Draco had unbelievable eyes.  

Am I ready for this?  I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.  But Draco’s gaze kept Harry focused, determined.  “I don’t know if I’m there yet,” he answered finally.  “I don’t even like you.  And I sure as hell don’t trust you.” 

“But you want to fuck me,” Draco said flatly. 

Harry recoiled. “No!  I—I mean—maybe I just want to know who you are.” 

“You do, Harry.” 

The way his first name sounded on that light voice made Harry’s heart ache in a wonderfully sweet way.  “I thought I did.  Not anymore.”  

Draco cast him a funny, haunted sort of look, and Harry impulsively rested a hand on his arm, wondering what was going through his head.  The movement felt so natural that it took Harry’s breath away, and that wonderful sense of comfort began to return.  He kept his hand there and moved closer to Draco, who was watching him as if he were walking through a dream.  Harry said nothing, and finally, when the silence of the evening had settled over them both, he took the opportunity to run his hand over the other boy’s cheek, for the first time, relishing how soft and smooth Draco’s skin felt under his.  If touching him like this felt this good…. 

Draco drew in a shuddering breath.  “I…” 

“…Shhh,” Harry silenced him gently, suddenly understanding that he didn’t need to make sense of anything right now.  “Just go with it.”  He pushed a few loose strands of platinum hair out of the way of Draco’s eyes, and saw that they were filled with quiet anxiety.  The sight made his throat constrict with unexpected emotion, and he was glad neither of them were saying more for the moment.  His arms met Draco’s sides, pulling his warm, firm body close against Harry’s.  It was perfect; it was almost consummation in and of itself to be able to hold Draco this way, to give in to the impulse that seemed suddenly like a lifelong desire. 

In the middle of their silence, neither eager nor hesitant, Draco leaned forward and kissed him.  It was a gentle touch, just barely brushing their lips together; but in that moment Harry awoke as though he were being hit with the force of a slap.  For the first time he knew that this, everything about this, was real: his lust, his yearning, the sincerity of Draco’s anxiety, the emotion behind their argument earlier that day—all of it was real.  A corner of his brain was yelling at him that he was rapidly running out of chances to back away from this, that if he wasn’t careful he and Draco could get in over their heads, that the consequences could be disastrous—but by and large the rest of his mind was telling the part with the complaints to sod off.  In the meantime he was frozen a bit stupidly, and even though this was what he had come there for, what he wanted, what he felt had to happen, he couldn’t bring himself to do more than lean slightly into the curve of Draco’s body. 

After a moment Draco pulled away, favoring him, just as he had done earlier on, with one last small kiss that graced his lower lip and made him a bit lightheaded.  Draco eyed him intently, and Harry half-expected to see scorn for not returning the kiss, or malice, or anything remotely Malfoy-like that he knew and understood.  He didn’t expect to see the look on his face relaxed and somehow satiated, as though Harry’s just being there, refusing to pull away at his touch, was enough to make him happy.  

…to make him happy… 

I want to make him happy. 

I want to make him happy. 

Crikey. 

Harry pulled Draco even closer, so close their torsos were aligned and he could feel the weight of Draco’s breathing against him as it quickened under his touch.  Draco held Harry’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lightly, but cautiously too, his expression betraying an almost desperate wariness.  “I’m not easy, Potter,” he said quietly, with an honesty that took Harry by complete surprise, ruining whatever chance he had at acting prepared for this. 

“Neither am I,” Harry whispered, and they kissed. 

Draco’s lips poured over Harry’s own, threatening to turn him inside out with longing.  His hand moved to Harry’s hip, resting so lightly, so gently, it felt more like an extension of Harry himself than any outer pressure.  Harry was overwhelmed, barely able to believe it, any of it; how natural it all felt, or how tender Draco was being, or how—how complete he felt inside the embrace of Draco Malfoy.  

“Harry,” Draco whispered. 

Harry’s eyelids fluttered open, and he ran his hand over Draco’s angular jaw line.  His cheek was so soft, almost as soft as the half-awake, half-dreamy look in those clear amber-gray eyes.  “Yeah?” he murmured. 

“Everything that’s happened this week—everything I’ve done… it wasn’t—I mean—”  Draco looked flustered.   Forcing himself to meet Harry’s eyes, he finally said, his voice low and utterly serious, “I’m not just dicking around.”

Harry tried to hide his astonishment and reacted the only way he could think of at the moment.  He ran his hand through Draco’s locks of hair, wound his arm around his waist, and responded, “Good,” before taking Draco’s breath away by wrapping him up in his kiss.  A startled jolt ran through Draco, followed by a tremor of release as he relaxed and wound his arms tightly around Harry’s body.  Something about the way he did that, so naturally, without thinking, as if Harry were a favorite pillow, touched something deep within Harry.  He shuddered slightly and pulled Draco even closer to him, wanting to nestle into the curve of his shoulders and neck.  He liked the way Draco felt in his arms: he had a slender body, delicate and pliant, but firm and muscular too.  Just holding Draco made Harry feel warm and innately sure of himself.  Draco’s fingers traced Harry’s cheek, running over his forehead, down to his neck as his lips sank sweetly into Harry’s own.  His touch was easy, relaxed, and teasing; it made Harry want to kiss him until Draco exploded with moans.  Harry’s tongue did a gentle sweep of Draco’s mouth, tasting the essence of Draco, breathing in his scent.  Draco brushed his lips, tantalizing him with his tongue, never sliding all the way in.  Harry found a part of his brain shrieking, I want inside you, dammit! and moving his hands firmly behind Draco’s hips, he grabbed him, pulled him into the curve of his body, and plunged inside Draco’s mouth. 

Instantly Draco began to squirm, groping frantically for bits and pieces of Harry, and let out a low, intense moan that startled Harry as much as it excited.  Did I do that? he thought, halfway between wonder and arousal.   He kept kissing Draco, harder, reveling in the cool air that rushed to meet him whenever Draco hungrily opened his mouth for more.  More. He wants more of me…   But suddenly, as though waking from a delirious dream, Draco took over.  He wound his fingers tightly through Harry’s hair and dove inside Harry’s mouth.   Harry gasped as Draco flicked his tongue over his lips, his teeth, wanting, no—demanding more.  Harry heard a moan, deep and sensual, full of so much desire it frightened him—and then he realized it had come from his own lips.

Draco’s hands moved down Harry’s sides, slowly, taking their time, enjoying every bit of Harry’s body under his fingertips.  Harry was amazed at how bold Draco was, and at how unselfconscious he felt.  He should be awkward, hesitant, shy—he’d never kissed anyone this way; but the time for hesitance was long over, and he was fervent as he responded to each touch of Draco’s, making it clear that stopping was not an option.  He leaned forward and kissed Draco’s hair, tracing his hairline down to his ear and flicking his tongue over the vein in his neck.  Another quiet moan escaped the Slytherin, and Harry smiled, tugging his ear ever so gently with his teeth.  

A sharp gasp, and Draco cried out, saying his name with a mix of surprise, lust, and amazement.  It made Harry feel heavenly and a little terrified all at once.

Draco nudged him playfully and feathered his lips along Harry’s cheek and neckline, each touch slowly deepening in desire, each touch turning into a clutch hungry for more.  His kisses were dry, hot, and intense, like the first fissures of steam from a long-dormant volcano.  Harry, suddenly desperate to cause some kind of eruption, turned his head and fiercely repossessed Draco’s lips.  A moment later they parted for him, willingly, and Draco arched into Harry’s thigh with a deep, not-quite-desperate moan.  Harry smiled, deeply satisfied, and cradled Draco’s lean face in his hands.  

He felt as though they’d done this many times before—perhaps in his dreams. “Draco…”  Harry closed his eyes and relished saying his name, knowing it was going to become the first thing on his lips, his heart, his mind, and liking that prospect very much… 

“Say that again…” 

“You feel so good, Draco Malfoy…” 

“So do you,” Draco murmured, his tongue darting over Harry’s ear, sending delicious shivers up his spine.  He ran his hands over Harry’s forehead, smoothing, then kissing Harry’s scar.  

“Mmm… oh… Draco… keep doing that…”  

“I like hearing you say that, Harry…”  Draco traced the line of Harry’s scar delicately with one finger, then gently began nursing the faint lightning flash with his tongue.  Somehow this single act made this the most intimate moment of Harry’s life.  He’d never let anyone touch his scar before, not even Ron and Hermione; somehow it wouldn’t have felt right.  But now, with Draco, he didn’t think twice: it seemed the most natural, perfect thing in the world.  Draco was almost reverent about it as he cupped his chin in his hands and caressed the mark that had saved Harry’s life.  Harry closed his eyes.    His scar was suddenly very sensitive, and Harry wasn’t sure whether the tingling running through him was because no one had ever touched it before, or because Draco was doing the touching.  

I’m kissing the son of the chief supporter of the one who gave me this scar.  

I’m kissing Malfoy. 

“How did this ever happen?” he whispered. 

Draco paused and looked at him earnestly.  “Starting to wake up?” he asked, and Harry saw that their incredible extended kiss had left Draco a little vulnerable, afraid of the gentleness in his own voice.  Harry suddenly realized how completely trusting Malfoy was being, and it made him uneasy.  He didn’t know if he trusted himself right now, let alone Draco—yet there he was, exposed and quietly entreating. One false step and all Draco’s walls would go back up.   Harry was amazed they hadn’t already, but Draco seemed determined to be real with Harry, though it cost him his sense of security. 

“It feels like it should be harder than this,” Harry said  

Draco smirked.  “I’d be happy to do something about that.” 

Harry blinked, then felt himself go red at his own naiveté.   “I mean—I just meant—”  

“I know what you meant,” smiled Draco, with a wink that made Harry’s heart flutter; yet his voice held an edge when he added calmly, “Just enjoy the easy part now, Harry.  It’ll probably get much harder later on.”   

There was something, a tiny hidden worry in his eyes, that made Harry’s throat go dry.

Draco took Harry’s hand in an unconsciously tender manner and led him to the gauzy armchair, sitting down and pulling Harry into the seat beside him.   Harry murmured and nuzzled his way into Draco’s waiting arms.  They felt so… 

… good, in every way.  

“Why do you trust me so much?” Harry asked as he settled tightly against Draco’s lean body.  He laced his fingers through Draco’s hair, surprised at how soft and fine it was even up close.  

Draco stiffened under the intimacy of Harry’s touch, then relaxed, staring back intently into Harry’s face.  “Because you’re not like me,” he answered firmly.

Harry drew back without thinking.  A kind of quiet uncertainty flitted across Draco’s countenance; then it vanished, swallowed up by his unreadable eyes, and he asked lightly, “Do you think you’ll ever trust me?” 

“Do you want me to?”  Harry blurted. 

“That’s not the same question,” Draco said evasively.   He pressed a warm hand to Harry’s cheek, gave him a half-smile, and flicked Harry’s cowlick out of his eyes. 

Harry nestled closer.  “I—I don’t know if I should…”  He tried not to feel uncomfortable, tried to focus only on how good Draco’s arms felt wrapped around him.  Draco pulled Harry on top of him so that his legs straddled his hips and their chests were pressed firmly together.  A jolt of pleasure surged through Harry as he found himself closer to Draco than ever.   He caught his breath.  Draco, eyes fastened to Harry’s, licked his lips, tongue darting over a delicate mouth that Harry suddenly found mesmerizing.  His hand moved down Harry’s spine to the small of his back, and Harry felt the tingle in every inch of his body as he slid his arms around Draco’s neck, needing to have contact with him; feeling as though his heart would burst from desire if he didn’t.  

“Would you trust me if your life depended on it, Harry?” Draco asked, too casually, his gaze incredibly lazy next to the layer of urgency in his voice. 

The hair stood up on Harry’s arms.  He blinked and fumbled for a reply, but Draco cut him off, pulling him closer.  “Because if you back away now, there’s no harm done, no lasting damage, and maybe you and I will go back to hating each other.” He spoke, still with that brutally frank, laid-back tone, and Harry tried not to let his discomfort show.  “But,” continued Draco, a sudden note of urgency seeping in, “if you kiss me again, I promise you I’ll take this as far as it goes.  And that means—” 

“My life really will,” finished Harry quietly.  

A thick silence fell over them.  In the moonlight Draco’s eyes were hard and soft, intense and gentle, all at once.  Harry had never before looked into eyes like Draco’s, golden-gray eyes with flecks of silver and constant swirls of darkness and light; eyes that seemed to absorb him quietly, afflicting him with tiny deaths.  Searching them, Harry realized that Draco’s take-it-or-leave-it nature left him no in-between; that this wasn’t a game he would play, and that he would never allow for a change of heart if Harry backed down now.  Yet there in his eyes rested that softness, inviting and vulnerable—and somehow reassuring. 

Harry ran his forefinger over Draco’s cheek, slowly and uncertainly.  Everything about this felt right, including the way Draco’s hand rested at the base of his back; including the way Harry’s hips felt digging into Draco’s.  Even the danger of it felt right.  

He’s not a supporter of the Dark Lord.  He can’t be.   I couldn’t feel this way about him if he were. 

Are you sure? 

Draco sat still, relaxed, enjoying Harry’s weight against him.   He said nothing, only waited.  Harry’s eyes darkened.  This is Draco Malfoy.  Malfoy. He can’t stand Muggles, Ron would possibly murder you if he found out, he calls Hermione ‘Mudblood,’ he—he lies and cheats and spreads slander and plays dirty— 

But only to get to you. 

But this is Malfoy! He’ll make you regret it the instant you fall for him.

I think I already have. 

It’s not too late to turn away.  Look at him, he almost wants you to. 

He’s honest. 

He’s a coward. 

You don’t know that.  Look how hard he fought for the Snitch.  And he’d do anything to defend his family.

Do anything, including hand you over to Voldemort.

Do you really think he could have kissed you the way he just did if he were acting as some kind of spy?

Harry looked at Draco.  I don’t know. 

I don’t know.

But I don’t think I care.

Without ceremony he ran his hands over Draco’s torso and pushed back his robes from his shoulders.  He took Draco’s face in his hands and kissed him, deeply, seductively, feeling genuine shock run through the boy underneath him.   He opened his eyes.  There was a question in Draco’s.  “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you,” Harry murmured, sweeping his tongue over Draco’s throat.  Draco shook his head almost imperceptibly, his features expressing vague alarm at Harry’s sudden boldness.  It surprised Harry, too, but he wasn’t complaining.  “Why did you kiss me this morning if you thought I wouldn’t follow through?”  He began working his way down Draco’s chest, unbuttoning the top of Draco’s shirt.  Draco gripped Harry’s shoulders and arched his back, giving Harry better access.  

“I wasn’t planning on it—but when we were alone that way, I—I just needed to,” Draco murmured.  “I couldn’t help kissing you.  I didn’t think any of the rest mattered until—ohhh…”   He became distracted by the things Harry’s tongue was doing to him. 

“Until…?” 

“Until I realized you were going to say no,” Draco ended quietly, averting his gaze.  He dug his fingers softly into the back of Harry’s neck. 

“And now that I’ve changed my mind?”  Harry half-whispered, shifting his position as he kissed his way down the firm line of Draco’s stomach.  Draco slipped his hand under Harry’s shirt and toyed with it, tickling Harry’s flushed skin underneath.  “Does that change anything?”   At this Draco locked eyes with Harry, roughly pulled his shirt over his head, and raised Harry’s mouth to his, enveloping him in a starved kiss that thrilled Harry from his toes to his elbows. 

“It changes everything,” Draco said, the guttural tones in his voice sending lightning bolts through Harry, “except what I feel.” 

“Which is?” Harry prompted, planting kisses lightly on his mouth, tentatively sliding his hand inside Draco’s waistband as Draco tugged at his pants. 

“…Good…” Draco responded faintly, his hands feverishly undoing Harry’s trousers.  

“And?” pressing his erection firmly against Draco’s and rubbing slowly against the warm fabric of his boxers. 

“Ahhmmmm… very good….” 

I can’t believe I’m doing this.  I love the way his skin feels.  I love the way I feel… 

Draco tilted his head back for a long, intoxicatingly deep kiss as he grasped Harry’s shorts and slid them hurriedly down to his knees.  His body was arching with Harry’s in rhythm now, his erection straining towards Harry through his shorts; yet his kiss was irresistibly cool and controlled, his fingertips steady as they massaged Harry’s ass.  Harry bit his lip as he fought back a moan, trying to keep his voice down.  His breath was coming in ragged gasps, while Draco was breathing slowly and collectedly, watching him with that half-smirk Harry knew so well.   Tonight, instead of pissing him off, it was turning him on, and he kissed it greedily.  With a shudder of pleasure, Draco pulled Harry even closer. Harry placed one hand on the back of the armchair for support; the other he entangled in Draco’s hair with a sigh.  Draco’s kisses were venturing further down Harry’s stomach, his hands gripping his ass firmly as Harry’s moans gathered frequency.   In between them Harry managed to gasp, “Have you done this before?”  

Thrown off, Draco looked up. He hesitated for half an instant.   “Does it matter?” 

“Of course not,” Harry said, running his fingers over Draco’s cheek.  “But, well—I don’t have a lot of experience, and it sure wasn’t with a guy.” 

“Second thoughts?” Draco said gently, his hand sliding affectionately up Harry’s shoulder.  Harry was amazed at Draco’s self-control—especially since he wanted to devour Draco now. 

“Well, I—”  Harry tried not to sound embarrassed— “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Oh, that,” Draco scoffed.  “I was just going to try poking things in various places and see what happened.” 

Harry’s mouth dropped open, and Draco, eyes dancing, calmly inserted his forefinger in between Harry’s teeth.  “For example,” he smiled. 

I’m sitting on top of the sexiest man in the world.

“You know, I really don’t think I know you at all, Malfoy,” Harry smiled, pulling on Draco’s finger gingerly with his teeth.   

Draco’s eyes gleamed. “Stop saying that, Potter”—and he slapped Harry hard on the ass. 

Harry jumped, nearly gagged on Draco’s finger, and glared at him.  “Is that how you’re going to play, then?” 

Coolly: “That’s how I always play.”   

Harry pulled Draco’s head up roughly and snaked his tongue over his throat.  Draco shivered and gasped, and Harry abruptly broke away.   “That makes two of us,” he said fiercely, pulling Draco’s boxers open and finally freeing him.  I should have done that a long time ago…   Draco’s eyes darkened in arousal, and he pulled Harry’s mouth to his, wanting more of his tongue.  Harry kissed him deeply as his hands shakily found what they had been longing for.  Draco cried out sharply as Harry began to touch him, and instantly Harry was fighting to keep control.  They scrambled for one another, hands flying eagerly over bodies, moans and sighs bringing them to the surface of pleasure and then pulling them even farther in.   

Draco’s touch was delicate, thin as parchment, smooth as rain; hands glided over him, owning Harry’s desire, keeping him nearly delirious with want.   Roughness and sweetness met in Draco’s kisses, in the shape of his caresses, in the way he moved over Harry, constantly keeping him on edge, provoking him and tantalizing him, a moan, a whisper, a sigh of pleasure always on his lips as he responded to Harry’s own unskilled but enthusiastic groping. 

Harry had the faint impression that Draco had had a lot more experience than he let on—but this and other thoughts were suddenly driven out of his mind when Draco, without warning, took Harry into his warm, wonderful mouth.  Harry let out a scream of absolute ecstasy, so full of lust and longing it nearly sent them both over the edge.  Draco immediately pulled away, eliciting a curse and a growl from Harry, who managed by a miracle to stay in one piece.  With a chuckle Draco began teasing him, playing, demanding that Harry come inside of him as Harry tried to remain coherent and failed.  His brain whirled; he hardly knew where he was or who he was; it was heaven, it was hell, oh, god, it was amazing… he heard himself moaning Draco’s name again and again, felt Draco’s mouth open around him, saw amber-gray eyes sparkling into his, and then he knew nothing but the sparks shooting through him, wracking him with pleasure, carrying him through a tidal wave of pleasure unlike anything he’d ever felt. 

In his euphoria, Harry suddenly wanted to give Draco everything and anything he could in return for being the one to make him feel this way.  He gripped Draco desperately and plundered his mouth, savoring the taste of Draco’s lips before sliding down his waist, kissing him fervently, still trembling and frantic to make Draco feel anything like what he had felt just now.  He wanted this moment with such intensity that it seemed ludicrous to think there had ever been a moment when giving head to Draco Malfoy hadn’t been at the top of Harry Potter’s life agenda.   

His hardness was incredible, almost as incredible as the way he felt and tasted in Harry’s mouth.  Hands tangled in Harry’s hair; he heard the low gasps, felt Draco’s body heave and contort from sheer pleasure, and finally got what he’d craved for an eternity— 

Draco came, gasping his name, and Harry knew, with the kind of certainty that can only be felt, that he had made the right decision. 

He maniacally finished off what was left of Draco and clambered up into his exhausted arms with a truly triumphant grin.  Draco looked at him and the smirk spread into a genuine smile, and he kissed Harry unceremoniously before Harry collapsed against him in exhaustion.  “So you have done that before,” Harry murmured.  

“What? I haven’t.” 

“But… but you… you were so…” Harry turned red and buried his head against Draco’s shoulder, looking up at him as he nuzzled against his neck.  “Amazing….” 

“Well, I…”  Draco actually blushed.   “I was inspired.”  He kissed Harry on the cheek.  Harry’s grin hung around and he gazed back at Draco, wondering if anything else in the world could make him feel this good. 

“You look good in sweat, Potter.” 

“You look good in anything.”   

Draco blinked.  “Really?” he said, which was the last thing Harry expected him to say.  It charmed him, and he found Draco’s mouth again, reveling in the way Draco seemed to love kissing him.   

“Mmmm….” 

“Mmmm… seems you’re a screamer, Potter.” 

“I tried to keep it down….” 

Wickedly, “I hope they heard you to the Forbidden Forest.”  

“You think we might… mmm…” 

“Do this again?”  

Harry could only nod, words being a bit beyond him at the moment because Draco was doing the most unbelievable things to his left nipple.  

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Draco, with a wicked, irresistible grin.

Harry lost track of time.  Draco lay in his arms, wrapped around Harry’s thighs, his lightweight figure rising and falling with Harry’s breath.   Harry’s lips were unhurriedly caressing Malfoy’s skin.  He wanted to absorb every centimeter of Draco, wanted to pull his figure into his memory.  His was a body too beautiful to fade, and the things they had just done together were far too powerful to be forgotten.  

“You do realize eventually we have to return to our dorms,” Draco whispered at length, accentuating his reluctance by dropping a kiss on Harry’s welcoming mouth. 

“Mmm,” said Harry. 

“I wouldn’t protest, except Mrs. Norris is bound to be stopping by here any time, and even with the invisibility cloak, she might,”—he looked down at their sweating, entwined bodies—“sense us.” 

“Mmm,” said Harry.  

Draco smiled up at him and his kiss grew even broader.  “Maybe you should use the Invisibility Cloak,” Harry breathed.  “I could walk you down to the dungeons….” 

Malfoy pushed away and frowned at Harry, traces of his characteristic sardonic disdain showing at the corners of his mouth.  “Listen, Potter, just because you have to have a cloak to sneak around without getting caught doesn’t mean all of us are that inefficient.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed.  “Fine.  I was only trying to help.” 

“I don’t need your help.”  Indignant silence.   Then, cheekily, “Of course, if you want to see me back to Slytherin to say goodnight, I’m more than open to that…”  He nuzzled Harry’s neck and kissed his crop of black hair, and then wrapped his arms around him and pulled Harry close.  Harry watched, rapt, as, for the briefest of moments, Draco closed his eyes.   

He’s enjoying this, thought Harry in wonder.  He likes holding me.

I… like holding him, too... 

Harry studied Draco’s narrow face while his eyes were shut, enjoying the way his contented expression softened the angular features and made them a little less defiant.  He wondered what was going on in that beautiful head, if Draco was excited, or worried, or just plain tired.  He smoothed Draco’s cheek with his fingertips, and Draco brought his own hand up to Harry’s and wound their fingers together.  Harry, charmed, kissed Draco’s fingertips.  “The person I knew a week ago would never have gone this far,” he reflected softly.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be that person again.”  

His straightforwardness shocked Harry to the core.  Apparently it shocked Draco, too, for a touch of steel invaded his expression, and he added, “Of course, if you think I’m going to parade around with you and your Gryffindor friends advocating justice and equality for all—” he stopped short at the look on Harry’s face.  “I didn’t think you’d make that mistake,” he ended with a wink. 

“I don’t want to change you,” Harry said earnestly.   “I just want to get to know you.”  After a moment, he added defiantly, “But don’t think that means you’re going to corrupt me, Malfoy.”  

Draco raised his eyebrow and leered very suggestively at Harry’s body.  “That remains to be seen.” 

Harry leaned in to kiss him, savoring the way Draco tasted and felt.   “When can I see you again?” 

“Mmm… tomorrow… night… no, sooner….”  

“I can get away for a bit after Quidditch workout….”  

“I don’t know—you sure you don’t need the practice?”  Harry gave him a playful slap, hard enough to sting.  Draco laughed, and added smoothly, “Because you sure as hell don’t need the workout.” He pulled Harry’s head down and possessively bit his lower lip.   Harry moaned and clung to him as arousal began to intoxicate him.  “I’ll meet you right here, then, Harry, is that all—mmm… right?”  

Harry could only nod, as his desire to have Draco inside of him again made him shiver with anticipation.  He wrapped his arms tightly around Draco and pulled him close, and Draco clung fiercely to him, reciprocating Harry’s enthusiasm….  

…and then a new, delicious sensation overwhelmed him, as he realized Draco wasn’t going to disappear, that he would be around, that he wanted to be with Harry as much as Harry wanted to be with him— 

And that he was going to have all the time in the world to find out what lay behind those golden-gray eyes.

“There you are!  I was wondering where you’d got off to.  Where you been?” 

“Um. For a walk,” Harry responded, avoiding Ron’s sleep-lidded eyes. 

“For four bloody hours?”  Harry grinned in the dark, but gave a vague mutter in response. Ron sat up, and Harry was thankful for the darkness that hid the utterly disheveled state of his rumpled clothes.  

“Okay, Harry, listen, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to move on. There are other things to think about.”  He waited for a response.  Harry settled into his bed, still aching with need and longing and happiness and the memory of Draco.  Draco… “Come on, Harry,” pleaded Ron gently.   “Remember, it’s just Malfoy.  The slimy git’s not worth that.”  

Oh, Ron—you have no idea…

______