Title: A Glass Fairytale
Pairing: Harry/Draco, very brief Draco/OMC
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Warning(s): None, but see genre.
Summary: It's these moments Draco craves the most -- when he connects with a part of himself that he has lost long ago.
Notes: Written for karaz on the occasion of her birthday. I stole the name Lucien from mctabby's Summary Executions; his name was originally Anselmo. *\o/* ♥ Thanks to imadra_blue and much_reality for the hand-holding and concrit, and to everyone in Hogchat for putting up with my wibbling.
Length: 1100 words.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
The best way to gain the trust of an opponent is to make it seem like you trust him implicitly.
And really, nothing says 'trust' like shoving your cock down someone's throat.
Draco groans and twists his fingers in Lucien's dark curls; he really is quite good at this. There is a tension building at the base of his cock, so very significant -- nothing could be more important than the slick heat of Lucien's mouth. Draco's eyes widen and he tilts his head back, glaring a little at the marble tiles of the wall opposite.
There is a faint buzzing there, like a million tiny insects have nested in an invisible pocket of air. Draco can't stave off his release and he comes; his hips arch off the wall and he loses himself for a moment. It's these moments he craves the most -- when he connects with a part of himself that he has lost long ago.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispers into the afterglow.
Lucien's body slumps to the ground at Draco's feet. Draco puts his wand back into his pocket and tucks himself back into his trousers. He checks his reflection in the oval mirror and strides out of the bathroom. A quick glance at the large rotating glass door in the hotel lobby tells him it's still raining outside. He curses inwardly; he can't cast a charm to protect himself from the water. The Muggles are sure to notice an odd thing like a man walking through the rain, completely dry.
He turns his collar up and walks through the rotating door, sparing a glance at the doorman. The man's face is grey above the stiff white collar and his Dali moustache ends seem to quiver a bit, though there is no rain under the portico roof. In a moment of recklessness, Draco is tempted to tell the man to send security to the bathroom -- he looks like he could use a distraction -- but decides against it. He's never liked speaking French.
Draco turns to the left and everything turns upside down. There stands Potter, his black hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes not wide with recognition yet -- but they will be in a second. Draco feels a rush -- what a fantastic turn of events. He's been sent to execute a traitor and he's going to come back with Potter. Maybe there is a God up there somewhere. That Potter would be in Paris, huddling under a hotel's portico roof, right when Draco is there to see him -- that had to be some kind of divine justice.
Draco approaches Potter, smiling as pleasantly as he can.
"Isn't this a nice surprise," he says. "It's been a long time."
Potter's eyes are beautifully fearful now, fearful and defiant. He seems to have got rid of the glasses, and Draco wonders if this is Potter's idea of disguise.
"Going to take me back to your master now?" asks Potter with a touch of resignation in his voice.
Draco plays cat and mouse. "Malfoys answer to no master, Potter. Since they fed you to the crowd, I've lost my yen for the war, I'm afraid."
It's true. He can't say he enjoys what he does -- well. He's going to enjoy this, won't he? Because Potter wants to trust him, it's there on his face as plainly as the handwriting is on the proverbial wall. Draco smiles again. "You see, for me it was all about you -- always. With you gone, it wasn't interesting anymore."
There it is, that window of opportunity; Draco can almost feel his foot in the door.
And they are caught by the gentle month of May, this velvet season where thunderstorms are welcomed and the air smells fresher than ever before. Fleetingly, Draco pictures a different life, one where he and Potter were never enemies, where they braved the winds together, flying side by side. There is nothing in Potter's eyes except dreams and happiness that's been forgotten, and that is Draco's strength.
"It was always about you," murmurs Draco and sweeps his tongue across Potter's bottom lip. His hands are resting on the small of Potter's back now, thumbs flat against his skinny waist. His lie makes Potter's eyes light up just a little, and Draco curses himself for feeling a brief twinge of something foreign. He's not supposed to pity this man.
On the window of Draco's flat there lives a sad fairytale, carved into the glass with invisible ink. It's the same one everywhere he goes, too -- Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid, Rome. Sometimes he thinks that it has something to do with him, but these thoughts don't stay long. Draco watches Potter reach for the glass of blood-red wine on the table and thinks of question marks.
Potter talks about loss and tragedy -- these things should not be foreign to Draco, but they are. The Mudblood Granger, dead. The Weasley blood traitor is being held somewhere in hopes that Potter will come for him. The Dark Lord knows that Potter's friends are his weakness -- something Draco understands but doesn't identify with. Draco's friends are not real friends, just people walking the same path. Potter's pain is alien but strangely compelling.
Potter's fingers are hesitant around Draco's wrists. They also burn, and Draco wants to pull away but he can't. Potter leans close and kisses him, kisses like he does everything else -- with single-minded determination. And when there are hands sliding over his back -- Potter's hands -- and a mouth closing around his cock -- Potter's mouth -- Draco realises that he's trapped in a prolonged moment of release, one of those moments he always tries to catch but never can.
Potter's eyes are bright, his breath hot, his fingers too thick for where he's putting them, but Draco doesn't care. He's caught up in this, all of it, and it's the thing he's been missing. It's not even Potter -- or maybe it is, but Draco doesn't want to admit it. Draco wants this, he really wants it, and he hasn't been able to say that for a long time. Potter looks like he's in pain when he comes inside Draco, the muscles in his neck like cords straining against an invisible force. The wish to make him bleed and die quickly, so he wouldn't have to face the Dark Lord, overwhelms Draco.
The best way to gain the trust of your opponent is to make it seem like you trust him implicitly. Sometimes, though, play-acting turns into the real thing. There is something about Potter -- something that has always been there, something that Draco has never noticed before -- that makes Draco want to do crazy things.
Draco sweeps his thumb across Potter's scar and it feels like he's touching darkness itself.
"You will be my endless suicide," whispers Draco, and sleeps.