I was going to break this into two chapters, but fuck it. Hope you enjoy.
Title: Before Peace - Chapter 30 - Before Peace
Chapter Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Chapter Summary: Wherein Draco attempts to rule the world and Millicent tries her best not to. Wherein Harry is honest, but so is Draco.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
Chapter 30 - Before Peace
Draco, who'd been about to tell his mother that he was moving out, stopped, his mouth still open. He cast a suspicious glare at the Black book in Narcissa's hands, and sighed, closing his mouth. "I should never have got you that thing. I take it you don't approve."
"Of course not. It's not proper for you to move away before you're married... It's not proper for you to move away at all, but under the circumstances..." she trailed off, and gave a tiny shrug, patting the book. "I suppose I'll still be able to keep an eye on you."
Draco smiled. "Both eyes, by the sounds of it."
"You'll visit me, won't you?" Draco looked at his mother and, for the first time in his life, saw a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and lurking worry in the tiny lines by her mouth.
"No question," he said. "And you'll visit me."
Draco had never realised just how much work went into putting Ministry officials in your pocket. He'd always thought it was all about the money -- if you had enough, you had people on your side. He quickly discovered that it wasn't that simple. It was important to remember birthdays, family situations, bits of trivia and hobbies. None of these things could be mentioned, of course, lest anyone think of you as a mindless sycophant, but it was best to be informed. And on the unofficial side of the political coin, information always meant leverage -- only not over the official you were dealing with, but over other people who were trying to "deal" with him, too. If they didn't know something you did, you could arrange for them to blunder.
His mother had laid much of the groundwork over the past two years, but she didn't feel it was her place to muck about in politics, not with a grown son. And so Draco followed in his father's footsteps. His first goal was to ensure that the name 'Malfoy' never be associated with Death Eaters or the Dark Lord again. He attended cocktail parties and publicity events, social functions for foreign visitors and Quidditch games. With a little help from Andreas, he managed to get mentions in virtually every news article of any importance. He donated to charitable causes and invested in new business.
He even helped a pair of American wizards buy out the still-ailing Zonko's whilst the Weasleys were still making up their minds -- they had had a contract drawn up before the war, but it had expired without being signed. The Weasleys hadn't counted on competition after the war and didn't hurry with the buy-out. Now, the Americans were selling their own joke and novelty items under the trusted Zonko's banner, employing only local folk -- none of the garden-variety shoppers knew that their money was going into foreign pockets. With time, if the Americans were smart, they'd grind the Weasley brand into the dust. As for Draco, he recouped his initial investment within eight months. It wasn't that he bore the Weasley family any particular ill will, but this was business.
Rather formal and serious for his age, Draco Malfoy receives Witch Weekly in the sitting room of his Ealing flat. The walls are bare except for one, which prominently displays a full-size portrait of his mother Narcissa. Long-time readers will recognise the name and the face -- she was voted Most Glamorous Bride in our 1977 Wedding Special. Any witch hoping to work her way into this young man's heart had better measure up...
Draco rolled his eyes and pushed the magazine away. "Take this rubbish and put it somewhere I don't have to see it."
"You didn't even finish reading it," said Andreas, studying Draco over the rim of his teacup.
"I'll read it later," said Draco, leaning back in his wicker chair. They were seated on the patio of a Muggle cafe not too far from Diagon Alley, it was a wonderful summer day, and politics was the last thing Draco wanted to think about. "I don't see what I need this ridiculous Witch Weekly farce for, anyway. I've got Pansy. She's been spreading the rumour for weeks."
"One person can't do as much as a nationally read publication," Andreas pointed out, breaking a scone in half.
"Clearly, you don't know Pansy Parkinson," said Draco with a smirk.
Andreas rolled his eyes. "Are you nervous?"
"Why? It's only a rumour," said Draco with a shrug. Three weeks ago, he had decided that it would be in his best interest to put it about that he swung both ways, as the saying went. That way, if he were ever caught in a compromising situation, it wouldn't damage his reputation as badly. His father would have called it an overly bold move, but his father had also never been the subject of a Witch Weekly centrefold.
There was a hooting noise overhead, and Draco just noticed an owl flying off over the cafe rooftop. There was a roll of parchment on their table in between the butter dish and Draco's plate.
We're getting sworn in tomorrow at the Ministry, and Neville and I are having a bit of a do in the evening, to celebrate three years well wasted. I hope to see you there. Bring a friend if you like.
"What's that?" asked Andreas.
Draco stuffed the letter into his pocket. "Do you remember Millicent Longbottom?"
"She is now. They're having a party tomorrow to celebrate. Would you like to come along?"
They Apparated within sight of the Longbottoms' estate and walked the rest of the way there, talking about their plans for the weekend.
"I'll be at Ellis Moor," said Draco. "It's an off weekend for the League and I'll be able to practise my flying in peace."
"Is that what you're calling it? Flying practice?"
Draco scowled. "All right, I'll be able to attempt flying in peace. It's ridiculous that I still can't. It's been over three years since the fall."
"Maybe there's something holding you back, something else that happened since then," suggested Andreas.
"Since when are you a Muggle head shrinker?" said Draco, a little more hotly than he'd intended. He'd dreaded coming here all day, and almost didn't go. Potter was in there somewhere, and even now Draco could not think of Potter without an overwhelmingly strong mixture of shame and inexplicable longing.
"I like to read the Muggle press," said Andreas as they stopped in front of the mansion's massive oak doors.
The inside hadn't changed much from what Draco remembered, only instead of one large U-shaped table, the ballroom had several dozen round tables draped in white, practically creaking with the effort of holding up all that food. A Longbottom family tradition, he suspected -- providing enough to feed several armies at a party for less than two hundred.
He waved at Millicent, who was busy talking to a couple of high-ranking Law Enforcement wonks. Draco gestured for her not to worry about him and looked around for a place to sit. A burst of laughter drew his attention; he turned around and saw Potter, looking more grown up and handsome than he had a right to, laughing delightedly at something. Potter's eyes met his, and Draco felt a twinge of satisfaction at how quickly Potter's grin slid off his face. He could almost feel the chill that settled over them, between them, though they were quite far apart.
Potter muttered something to his companions and stalked away. Draco watched him, fascinated. Harry Potter had used to be all awkward angles and shuffling walk, but all that was gone, now -- he was smooth, flowing grace, a wildcat on the prowl, and Draco could just picture the play of muscles beneath his skin. There was heat creeping up Draco's neck -- he needed to look away, but he couldn't help himself. Potter stopped next to Millicent and tugged gently on his left earlobe -- Draco wondered if that was some sort of Auror code, but mostly he couldn't believe how fucking gorgeous Potter had become.
Could have been mine.
Andreas touched his elbow. "I think I see Eustace Longhorn -- I've been trying to get an interview about the Baker Street mishap for days."
"Go on," said Draco, waving him off. "We'll find each other later." At first he wasn't sure why he felt annoyed with Andreas, then realised it was for distracting him from Potter. Who had in the meantime chased off the Law Enforcement wonks and was saying something to Millicent, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. Millicent crossed her arms, gave Potter the mother of all murderous looks, and said something that made Potter actually duck a little. She noticed Draco looking and started walking in his direction. Potter glanced around his shoulder, and his head snapped back around when he saw Draco; he took off towards the large double doors leading into the central courtyard.
"Close your mouth," said Millicent. "You're practically drooling."
"I am not," said Draco with dignity, "drooling. What was that all about?"
She shrugged, and clasped her hands in front of herself. "Harry doesn't think you and your friend belong here, since you aren't Aurors or Law Enforcement people."
"I see," said Draco. "So you're going to tell us to leave?"
"Oh yes," she said with a straight face. "Neville and I invited you -- in full knowledge that you weren't Law Enforcement -- only to kick you out the first chance we got. Harry has a tendency to forget himself."
Draco was still looking at the doors behind which Potter had just disappeared. "And this is news?"
"I suppose not. I just can't believe he'd go from lurking outside the hospital wing when you were hurt to-- oops." She looked mortified, which was a very strange sight indeed. "I'm just talking nonsense, don't mind me."
"I know what happened between us in seventh year," said Draco, realising that he'd never told Millicent about the Black book and his trip into Potter's memories. "I've known since after your wedding."
"You've got your memories back?"
Draco shook his head. "It's complicated. So Potter lurked outside the hospital wing?"
"Well, I accidentally walked into him once on my way to visit you. He was in his Invisibility Cloak and I didn't actually see him, but I knew. I didn't think anything of it back then, because I didn't know about. You know. The thing."
"What thing?" Draco grinned.
"The thing in the Forbidden Forest," said Millicent, rolling her eyes.
Draco remembered the fall, the fear, the pain. He didn't remember anything about Potter, but the Black book had said that he'd felt hurt that Potter had completely ignored him during and after his stay at the hospital wing. He shook his head in frustration. Holes; his mind was full of holes that would never be filled again. "I think we need to talk."
"We are talking," said Millicent, blinking at him as though he'd lost the last vestiges of his sanity.
"No, I mean me and Potter." He glanced at the courtyard doors, which hadn't opened again since Potter had walked through them. He didn't want to talk to Potter. He just wanted an excuse to look at him again.
"If you can make him stop acting the bitter old queen, many of his future colleagues will thank you. I never knew a man could walk around in a constant state of PMT."
Draco sniggered. "Far too much information," he said. "And I can't make Potter do anything."
"I'll charm the doors to open from the outside only," said Millicent, producing her wand from the folds of her robes. "None of these people have any business in my courtyard, anyway, not while there's this much food still left."
"I suppose I don't count as people," whispered Draco in her ear, and danced away before she could poke him with her wand. He felt a delirious, drunken excitement he'd only ever experienced as a teenager. Over the prospect of a few moments alone with Potter. What was wrong with him?
Potter was standing near a statue of a trout caught mid-leap. His eyes were on the merrily sparkling water that spouted from its mouth. He had a cigarette between his teeth, and he was smoking it too fast, inhaling and exhaling without even taking it out of his mouth. Draco suppressed a hysterical thought about Potter sucking on other things, and swung the door shut hard enough to slam it.
Potter looked up at him and froze. For some reason, this sobered Draco up and crushed the excited teenager within. Potter had just been trying to tell Millicent to make Draco and Andreas leave because they weren't special enough for this party. It was so like him. "What the fuck is your problem?" he asked, stopping a few feet away.
Potter tossed the cigarette aside and took a breath as though preparing for a deep dive without a Bubblehead Charm. "You. I can't forget you. I don't know why. Maybe because I wanted you and I never got you, not really." Potter paused and glared at the cobblestones in front of him. "When I came back and saw you with that bloke, I lost it. I thought I was done with you, done with your fucking mind games, with your... sorry." He stomped on the still-smouldering cigarette, crushing it against the smooth stone. It was as though he'd been rehearsing this the whole time he'd been here. "Knowing that you were with somebody else made me realise I wasn't really done with you. Fuck, Malfoy. I wanted you so much and you gave it up to someone else. It's like you did it to spite me."
Draco felt an unpleasant chill. "As ever, you flatter yourself. My life hasn't included you since you chose to exclude me from yours. You did make that choice--"
"So what, you don't think I had a good reason?"
I would have killed me if I were you. "Your reasons are irrelevant. You've made your choice. Live with it."
"I'm not Mr Warmth and Exuberance, Potter. Do try not to hold that against me-- why am I even saying that? I don't care what you think. You're making this all sound like we had an ugly break-up, which is ridiculous. We were never together."
"I killed a good part of our seventh year trying to make that happen. I spent most of Christmas that year hiding in my room and looking at porn. I couldn't wait to try it all with you. Everything. I was in love; I wanted all of you, and the walks on the beach, too."
Something strange niggled at Draco's mind, almost like déjà vu, but he couldn't quite understand what it was. I was in love. He sneered to counter his frantic heartbeat. "I don't remember much of that Christmas. But I remember that you showed me the door when I offered you everything."
Potter's eyes were piercing. "Malfoy--"
Draco held up his hand. "No, forget it. This is just one evening, Potter. We will be leaving soon, anyway, so you'll not need to put up with my audaciously non-Auror presence for much longer. Andreas has a story deadline, and I've got a few things I need to do in the morning." He started to walk away, back to the mansion. He wanted Potter with every fibre of his being, and he needed to get out of here before he did something he would regret.
"That fellow you're with. Is it serious?"
"No," said Draco, without looking back. He should have said yes. Then Potter would leave him alone; everyone's favourite novice Auror was far too noble to try and break up a happy couple.
"Do you remember when they gave us our Orders of Merlin?" Potter called again.
Draco stopped, turned back to face him. In the final rays of sunlight, Potter looked every bit the hero. One day, he would be all over the comic books, saving cities and fucking the damsels right out of their distress. Or the damsels' brothers, anyway. Draco's Order of Merlin sat inside a glass cabinet on his wall, and he would never be a hero. "What are you getting at?" he asked, fighting annoyance. Even without trying, Potter managed to make him feel inferior. That's right, Malfoy, suck it, just like that. That's all you're good for, aren't you, sucking my cock... Draco blinked rapidly, surprised at the fantasy's intensity, at the dull, tugging ache in his lower belly.
"Do you remember? It was a big surprise -- we knew about it, all of us who were receiving medals, but nobody else in the school did. Scrimgeour showed up with a few other ministry wonks, there were speeches..."
"I was there, Potter," Draco snapped. "Now if you're quite through reminiscing about our long-past adolescence--"
"You stood up," said Potter. "I remember walking up to Scrimgeour, hands in fists because I wanted to kill him as much as I'd wanted to kill Voldemort, and I looked at you and you were on your feet. For me. I never thought you would forgive me for your father, for the scars on your chest--"
"There are no scars on my chest," said Draco automatically. There weren't. It had been an expensive procedure, but now he no longer thought of Harry Potter every morning in front of the mirror. Only every other morning.
Potter didn't seem to have heard him. "I never thought I would forgive you for everything you did at school, for Dumbledore, for Madam Rosmerta. Not even after that first night at Grimmauld Place. But when I saw you standing there--"
"I don't want to hear this," said Draco, frowning. "I assure you it's not necessary to tell me that I'm forgiven for my youthful indiscretions; I can live without your forgiveness, Potter. We don't all need absolution."
"That isn't the point. I just remember realising that I didn't understand what motivated you to stand. I wanted you, but from then on I also wanted to know you."
"Touching," said Draco. There was a slight gap in his memory of Potter's walk from the podium. After that, he remembered a conversation with Ginny and Potter, and then his memories shifted abruptly to the following morning. What had they done that night? "Did you have a point, Potter?"
"No," said Potter with a sigh. "I suppose I wish we could actually have a conversation."
He walked closer, and Draco's heart gave an unpleasant jolt. "Should have thought of that before." Once again, he turned to leave.
"Is that it? You're going to walk away because of some stupid shit I said when I was angry?"
"Are you saying you didn't mean it?" Draco wondered if it would be awful to throttle Potter right there.
Defiance flashed in Potter's eyes. "Yeah, I am. I didn't. I was pissed off, and I'll always remember what you did to me. But I never wanted to lose you."
Draco reached out and straightened Potter's collar; it was a deliberate, almost motherly gesture he'd perfected, one that helped temporarily disarm insistent but unwanted suitors. "Potter," he said, almost gently, letting his fingertips rest on Potter's chest for a brief instant. "I was never yours to lose."
A warm hand covered Draco's. "I miss you so fucking much."
The words Draco was about to say vanished from his mind. He was acutely aware that this was the first time Potter had touched him -- willingly -- since after Hogwarts. The feel of his skin, his closeness, even the vile stench from that cigarette -- all these were forcing Draco's body into randy adolescent mode. "Don't be absurd. Why would you miss someone who -- how did you put it -- spent a year leading you by the nose?"
"When did I say that?" Potter looked confused. He wore that well, too.
Draco flushed. "After the wedding. When I... came to you." He couldn't believe how stupid he felt, mentioning a detail like that after all this time. "Though it couldn't have been that important to you, since you don't remember saying it.
"I remember everything else. Everything." Potter's hand tensed around Draco's, as though to impart some of his memories through touch. No sudden flash-flood of recollections inundated Draco's brain, but Potter's closeness was bringing out a bone-deep ache he forgot he could feel.
"Kiss me," said Potter, his voice at once soft and commanding.
Draco stood very still, conscious suddenly of warm breath on his face -- such a prosaic, simple thing, yet it made an almost foreign thought flit through his mind. So much time wasted. You could have had this all along.
"No," he said, tore his hand away, and quickly walked back inside. He stopped long enough to thank the Longbottoms -- who were in the middle of a boisterous round of Glowgrog shots -- for their hospitality. Draco thought he could feel Millicent's shrewd eyes on the back of his neck as he walked up to Andreas and said, "It's time to go."
"There's something between you and Harry Potter, isn't there? Tell me true, Draco." Andreas's warm eyes were filled with a clever semblance of deep understanding, but Draco never forgot that he was dealing with a reporter.
"There is nothing between me and Potter," he said. "There never was." Every fibre of his being told him to turn back, to run back -- before he lost his last chance.
Andreas's calm gaze didn't waver. "Then why do you look like your puppy just died?"
"I don't have a puppy," said Draco, telling himself that the chance was lost already. "Let's just go." It was a pity, but he would need to put some distance between himself and Andreas, now; the man was one mean bulldog when it came to his work. If Draco wasn't careful, the story of his and Potter's seventh year would become a novel.
I don't regret it. I will never apologise for it. I don't even remember how I managed to erase all those memories. When I try to think about seventh year, my mind is like parchment with too many ink stains -- but I know I didn't do it because of you.
I did it for my own sake, my own and my mother's -- and my father's. That's right, my Death Eater father's, whose name I will always bear with pride. My father was a great man. You may not think so -- in fact, I'm sure you don't -- but just because you won the war doesn't mean you get to decide who's worthy of respect and who isn't, who's worth remembering and who isn't. You didn't win the war alone, and some of the people who helped you did so without any noble, 'virtuous' intentions.
Erasing my memories didn't really make a difference, in the end. But the end, as always, justifies the means. I don't know what would have happened had I wavered, had I changed my mind. I am glad I didn't change my mind, though, because I needed to do this on my own, not let you or anyone else drag me into it.
I'm gay. I don't deny it any longer, nor do I feel ashamed of myself for it any longer. I came to accept it on my own terms, in my own time. Had Azkaban not murdered my father, I may not have -- I don't know. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I did what I did because I had to. If it means I lost something in the process, so be it. But it was never about you.
I'm not sorry, Potter.
He knew he shouldn't have sent the letter. It had been a concession -- an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, unapologetic though it was. In the three weeks that followed, Potter hadn't written back or acknowledged it in any other way, which was just as well. Draco leaned over the railing and peered at the river beneath him. He had risen especially early that morning -- it wasn't even dawn yet -- and he'd taken advantage of the hour to go for a walk, to collect his thoughts before the long day ahead. Even the river seemed half-asleep: the water moved sluggishly beneath the artificial Muggle lighting, like a botched potion spilling out of an overturned cauldron.
He wanted to move forward, move on with his life. He didn't even remember what it was like to be with Potter. According to his mother's book, he had enjoyed it, but that wasn't saying much. He'd been essentially a boy having his first sexual experience: of course he had enjoyed it, but he'd done so in self-loathing. The memories would never return, and Draco did not miss them.
Considering Potter's highly publicised inability to keep a boyfriend for longer than a week, perhaps he's terrible in bed, anyway.
"Or perhaps I keep picking the wrong people to share a bed with."
Draco gripped the railing with unusual force and tried not to leap off the bridge. "Merlin's fucking pointy hat, Potter, what the hell are you playing at, sneaking up on people in the middle of the night?" He turned around, grateful for the limited lighting. His face was burning with embarrassment. "Your stalking tendencies have not let up, I see. What are you doing here?"
Potter's Invisibility Cloak hung folded from his forearm. "I was coming back from watching a vampire gathering in Gunnersbury Park and I saw you walking by. At first I thought you had something to do with the vampires--"
"Oh, that's so predictable, Potter. Anyone who doesn't like you must also be evil in every other way, right?"
"I said at first," muttered Potter. "Then I realised you lived nearby."
So he knows where I live. "I hope you haven't come to arrest me for living so close to a vampires' gathering place."
"I just sort of followed you," said Potter. He looked like a boy who knew he was being naughty, but couldn't help himself.
"Like I said: stalking tendencies. You might want to get those checked out. Good day, Potter."
Draco started to move past him, but Potter grabbed his arm to restrain him. "What are you doing on Friday?"
"Supervising my mother's house-elves' shoe-polishing." Draco tried to wrestle his arm away, but Potter's hold was firm.
"Saturday?" asked Potter, pulling him just a little bit closer.
"Washing my hair." Draco continued to tug his arm away, but he had to admit the effort was half-hearted at best. He wasn't even entirely certain why he was resisting this, but it felt like the right thing to do.
Draco sighed. "No. The answer is no, Potter, I will not go out with you." He wouldn't get involved with Potter; it would only muck things up. But he wouldn't say no to a fuck. For old times' sake. To know what he'd forgotten.
"I don't want you to go out with me. I want you to move in with me."
"You what? Fuck off, Potter, you aren't funny."
Potter grinned anyway. "Go out with me, then. Or fuck, just kiss me. One kiss." Of course. A hero only asks for a kiss. Fucking is implied.
"Will you leave me alone if I kiss you?" He stopped trying to wrench himself away and leaned in, so close his lips were almost brushing Potter's. He didn't move, just watched Potter's eyelids lower beneath his glasses. It looked like his eyes were closed, but Draco could see they weren't. Potter was looking at his mouth. Draco moved a fraction closer and oh, he could get used to making Potter's breath stop like that. "Well? Will you?"
"If you want me to." Potter's voice was raspy, low, without a trace of his earlier humour. His fingers around Draco's arm had tightened to a death-grip, but he didn't move.
He wants me to do it, Draco realised, remembering the Black book's dry, impersonal account of a conversation they'd had, about Potter forcing Draco into things.
Carefully, Draco pressed his lips to Potter's. It didn't bring any sky-rending revelations; there was only Potter's mouth, slightly open as if waiting for more. Draco pulled back a little and kissed him again, firmer this time. Potter's fingers on his arm slackened as Draco pulled back again, this time to take Potter's bottom lip between his teeth and run his tongue across it.
Potter made a noise too intimate for mere kissing, and Draco couldn't restrain himself any longer. With a sort of whimper, he found Potter's tongue with his, hips jerking forward of their own accord. Potter let go of his arm and gripped both of his shoulders tightly, as though afraid Draco would stop.
Draco didn't. He didn't want this to ever end. He couldn't remember any other kisses like this, but he remembered this feeling: this dizzy, heady, brilliant sensation. It was probably the single thing that had ever made him doubt his decision to forget. He didn't remember that, but he knew it. Their breathing unsteady, they broke apart, staring at each other like two prize bulldogs waiting for the next round of a fight. I missed this, Potter's eyes seemed to say, and that kiss must have addled Draco's brains, because he certainly could never read hidden messages in people's eyes before.
"Oh, disgusting," said a nasal voice. Draco -- and Potter -- turned around to see a couple of touristy-looking Muggles walking past, maps in hand. "We should've gone with the other hotel, Earl. This must be a homo neighbourhood." She had an American twang in her speech and hatred in her eyes.
"Fuck you," said Draco loudly. "You should've stayed home. Bloody foreigners."
The woman's companion looked uncomfortable. "We don't mean no trouble, folks," he said. "Let's just go, Marge."
Draco heard them arguing all the way across the bridge. The woman was scandalised that he didn't defend her honour after a homo said the F word to her. The man was telling her that she ought to keep her big effing mouth shut with no people around. Who knew what these English homos were like; maybe they were all like them gay vigilante gangs from Pittsburgh. Did she want to be another dead 'un floatin' down this here shit creek?
"That was hot," said Potter, and pulled Draco to himself, his erection obvious and huge against Draco's thigh.
"One fuck," Draco half-gasped. "That's all you'll get."
Potter looked even better without clothes on. Not that Draco had had much of a chance to ogle Potter before he was lying spread-eagle on his bed with Potter's head between his legs. "I used to love doing this," murmured Potter, and traced the tip of his tongue along the underside of Draco's cock.
"What's changed?" asked Draco, feeling suddenly apprehensive. Could Potter tell that he was this damned close to coming? They'd barely even done anything aside from snog and tear each other's clothes off. It was embarrassing.
"Huh?" Potter looked up at him, frowning. "Oh. Nothing. I don't love it any less," he said, and closed his mouth around Draco with a content little noise that made Draco begin to lose it all over again.
A moment later, Potter's eyes were on his, fierce and defiant. You are mine, they said, and Draco's earlier thoughts about not getting involved seemed laughable. He was already involved, so involved he would kill before he let anyone else near this man. Potter did something -- Draco's cock pushed past soft, vulnerable throat muscles, and still Potter watched him. Draco couldn't take it; he shut his eyes and threw his head back, letting loose a pitiful, needy moan that drew a similar sound from Potter. The pressure round his cock eased as Potter pulled back slowly, his tongue dragging against the underside. Draco felt a wet, slick finger breach him and his balls clenched, sending a renewed burst of pleasure into his abdomen. Potter swallowed him down again, and Draco screamed this time, screamed and writhed and came, arching off the bed, his fingers digging into Potter's shoulders.
Potter pulled back, mouth red, lips swollen, and surveyed Draco with a look of satisfaction. Draco whimpered and let his head fall back again. Potter climbed up next to him but didn't touch him -- of course not. Potter had to know that Draco needed a few moments to himself after an orgasm. Did Potter? Did it matter?
"I was afraid you'd have a portrait of your mother in here, too," said Potter in a conversational tone.
Draco snorted weakly. "My mother knows everything about my life anyway," he muttered. "The last thing I want is to let her into my bedroom." He glanced over; Potter was stroking himself absent-mindedly, his gaze restless. Draco watched his hand move in spare, fluid strokes, his thumb brushing the slick head at almost precise intervals. "Stop that," said Draco roughly. "I want you in me."
Potter's hand slowed, stopped. "But you just--"
"I don't care." Draco sat up, took hold of Potter's upper arms and hauled him on top of himself. Potter stared down at him, the wandering gaze replaced by pure, dark lust. In an instant, Draco's legs were spread as wide as they would go, and Potter's fingers were in his arse again, stretching and smearing more lube over him and fuck, he was going to get hard again if Potter didn't stop.
Potter rubbed the head of his cock slowly over Draco's hole, and Draco bucked upwards. "Fuck, Potter, just fucking-- ohgod." He was getting hard again. Potter slid inside him, but it wasn't enough, it would never be enough; Draco dug his palms into Potter's arse cheeks, tugging him closer, urging him deeper, deeper -- mine mine mine. There was a dull, painful throb somewhere inside him, but that was just a part of it, always would be a part of it, this was Potter and he was Draco's and--
Potter was moving, slowly at first and then quicker, a little bit deeper every time, until his balls were slapping heavy and sweat-sticky against Draco's arse, and Draco wrapped his legs round Potter's waist, clenching and pulling and making him go as deep as he could on every thrust. Mine. "Going to come," panted Potter. "Can't--"
Draco felt Potter's cock pulse with release as he gave a desperate moan and leaned over, his mouth hot and demanding over Draco's.
"Fuck," said Potter after pulling out. Draco wanted to say something witty regarding how obvious Potter was being, but nothing came to mind, shockingly.
"Was it everything you remembered?" he asked instead.
Potter glanced at him. "I wasn't trying to compare now to then. This isn't about making up for lost time, Malfoy." His voice was rough just like before they'd kissed on the bridge.
No? What's it about? Do you still want to know me? Draco was very, very careful not to say that out loud. He wanted to, though. "All right, how was it, then?"
Potter gave him a grin, endearingly boyish. "Unbelievable."
"I get that a lot." Draco shifted closer to the wall. The bed was big enough for six people, but right now it felt too small. He wanted to be alone. At the same time, he was hyper-aware that it was Potter next to him -- the only man who had ever turned him down; the only man Draco had ever wanted body and soul.
He stared at Potter, stretched out on the bed as if he belonged there. Two very conflicting emotions were battling inside Draco: one was his pride, the need to show Potter the door and tell him that his one fuck was done with. The other was that feeling of ownership, the desire to never let Potter out of sight, to make him come apart again and again until they both forgot about the past. He had never felt that way about anyone else. A third force joined the fray: fear, inexplicable terror of this moment and all possible future moments like this, watching Potter's chest rise and fall, slivers of green beneath long dark lashes watching Draco in return.
Draco rolled away from Potter and swung his legs off the bed. Keeping his back to Potter, he said, "You'd better go now."
Silence. When Potter spoke, his voice was hollow, and there was no mistaking his disappointment. "Just like that."
"Yeah," said Draco. "My mother is coming over in an hour. For breakfast." He took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder. "I didn't say you couldn't come back."
Potter smiled at him, and Draco's pride and fear gave way to an all-encompassing, radiant sense of being in flight. It was as though something clicked back into place inside him, something he hadn't known was askew, until now. As Potter pulled him down for a breathless, heated kiss that felt just like the first, Draco knew he would fly again. Fear was but an obstacle to overcome, no more.
Then came peace.