See series notes in the Prologue | Back to Chapter 17
Memento vivere
Remember to live
When the Blood Sport first opened, it was the jewel of Diagon Alley, the place for the serious sports fan. Just five years later, its lustre had faded, much like the quidditch scarves tacked on its grease-stained ceiling, and now the Queasy Quaffle at the other end of Diagon commanded the loyalty of the trendy sports crowd.
From her table near the back of the worn-down pub, Rita Skeeter lifted her Humbug Humdinger. She smiled, watching the elegant swirls of black and white liqueur in her snifter. They never blurred into grey, but became just fuzzy enough that you always thought they might. If you were foolish enough to drink two or three, you would feel just as fuzzy. Rita hadn't ordered one in years—probably not since the last time she was in the Blood Sport—but when the bartender remembered not only her but also her drink, she couldn't bring herself to refuse.
"Another one, Rita?" he asked now.
"I really shouldn't, Harvey, I'm working." "Or I would be," she fumed to herself, "if some people had the courtesy to keep their appointments." Saviour of the wizarding world he might be, but Harry Potter had always struck her as less of a hero, more of a very lucky boy who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. "An ambulance chaser," her contact at the Sun said the Muggles called them.
Sure enough, when that old ambulance known as You Know Who raced by once more, wouldn't you know there'd be none other than Harry Potter eating its dust. And now readers were clamouring for news of the Boy Who Lived. After five years, you would have thought they'd have moved on to something else, but no, they couldn't get enough. She'd already filed "Best Friends Forever," candid interviews with former Hogwarts classmates Cho Chang, Zacharias Smith, and the Patil sisters. She'd gotten Percy Weasley, who'd grown up with Harry, to theorise about Harry's upbringing and his almost pathological obsession to protect Muggle Britain. She'd even spent two hours with that horrible little wizard at the pet shop, enduring his flirtations just for the scoop that his employee was punctual and liked snakes. Rita found that last item to be slightly newsworthy; she was finding the first harder to believe as each minute ticked by. Harry Potter was almost an hour late—if it had been anyone else, Rita would already have stormed out in a cloud of indignation. Unfortunately, returning to her editor without the promised interview was not an option. Her readers wanted their Boy Hero, and she was determined to be the one to bag him.
A flurry of activity outside the door caught her attention. From her vantage she saw her would-be interviewee amidst a crowd of fans. "Just eating it up, isn't he?" she huffed. She considered whether a covert Repelling Spell might be called for, but by the time she'd primed her Quick-Quill (" Wizarding Britain's most eligible bachelor arrived for our appointment with the bevy of nubile female admirers who accompany the Boy Who Lived wherever he goes..."), he had already blundered his way through the doors and was scanning the bar. Rita raised a finely shaped eyebrow at the scowl on his face, noting that it grew when his gaze landed on her.
"Well, Harry," she said in greeting, standing up as he approached. "I'm so glad you could make it." Unable to resist a slight dig, she added, "I do hope our appointment is not inconveniencing you. You must be very busy these days."
("This handsome catch slung his arm slung casually over the back of his chair, he looked more like a carefree teenager than the man who single-handedly orchestrated the defeat of the Dark Wizard.")
"I figure it's best to get this over with. You'll never give me or my friends any peace until I do. Did you really go to the place I used to work?"
"Chester Critswold was very accommodating," replied Rita coolly. "Now, would you like anything to drink, Harry?"
"A butterbeer, thanks."
"And a pot of tea for me, thanks, Harvey." She smiled ingratiatingly at the bartender before returning to her subject with her most cloying voice. "Now, Harry, in the past two weeks we've discovered that the world was very different than what we remembered. I'm simply fascinated to hear about your experience. Could you tell our readers what that was like, living a life without distinction after the last war?"
The man's eyes hardened. "Hermione already told you I won't answer personal questions. If you want to talk about events going forward, fine. If not, then I should be going."
("His expression grew haunted when his past came up, his emerald eyes glistening with the pain of his forgotten existence...")
"No, no, you're quite right," Rita assured him hastily. "I only thought that since you'd already granted an interview to the Quibbler, you might appreciate the opportunity to share your story with the readers of the Daily Prophet. Our paper reaches a much wider audience, you know."
Harry crossed his arms and stared at her. Rita, who'd held her own against the wizarding world's most powerful politicians and business leaders, did not wither under his gaze. Nonetheless, she did admit to a little tickle at the back of her throat as she waited for him to respond. When he didn't, she finally spoke. "Going forward, then. The trials that started this week, I assume those are fair game?" He nodded so she continued, "I must have seen you at every single one, even when you weren't called to testify. Is that purely out of personal interest?"
"Not really. I'd be happy never to attend another, but the Wizengamot requested I be present."
"I don't remember terseness being his strong suit before," Rita thought. "If this keeps up, it'll be a short interview." To Harry, she said, "Well, I'm afraid it doesn't look like they'll be finished anytime soon, not with the cases they're building against the Auror Guard. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been awfully thorough in rounding up all of You Know Who's supporters, wouldn't you say?"
"Voldemort." His voice didn't stumble over the name like anyone else's would have; Rita remembered how, even as a boy, Harry had said it without flinching. She had never been convinced it was brave; it seemed simply foolish. "He's dead now, it's okay to say his name. We need to start saying his name."
("Despite several encounters with He Who Must Not Be Named, Harry retains his childlike innocence...")
"Yes, well, I'm not sure our readers are ready for that quite yet. But you mentioned that You Know Who is dead. Since he's disappeared twice before, and come back each time, can you say with absolute certainty that he really is dead this time?"
"I can. I saw him die myself."
Harry rubbed the scar on his forehead. It seemed an unconscious gesture, and he jerked his hand away as soon as he noticed Rita was watching him. To cover her attention, she asked, "But you didn't kill him?"
"No..." But Harry was still frowning at her. "You already know this story, Rita. It's been in the news for weeks now."
"It has, but our readers are interested in your account of the events. You were there, you saw exactly what happened."
"It happened exactly like I testified at Madam Malfoy's trial. She asked about Draco and then..." Rita didn't miss Harry's telling scowl. "I told you, I'll answer questions about the future. But I don't want to talk about that night."
("Remembering the act of passion that moved the wife of You Know Who's most devoted follower, Lucius Malfoy, to take up a sword against the Dark Lord, the young hero grew sombre, troubled by dark memories of that fateful night...")
Rita smiled accommodatingly, concealing her frustration at the limits on their conversation. "I'm sure your testimony was instrumental in clearing Madam Malfoy. At the trial, you were asked if you would have done the same for her husband, had he'd survived..."
"And I told them I wouldn't. Lucius was involved from the beginning; his memories were restored right at the battle of Hogwarts and he helped Voldemort escape. And you were at Warrington's trial yesterday, you heard him talking about Lucius recruiting them for the attacks. Everything was set up so people would be afraid." Harry shook his head in disbelief. "And then people like Warrington, the ones who caused the problem in the first place, joined the Auror Guard."
"It sounds like you regret that Lucius Malfoy won't be brought to trial."
Harry didn't answer; for a moment Rita feared that he had clammed up again. "Just what I need, a tongue-tied hero." But then, choosing his words carefully, he said, "I do regret that in a way, because people need to hear what happened. But whether justice would be served if Lucius got the Dementor's kiss or life in Azkaban, I don't know." Harry frowned as if chiding himself for letting his thoughts wander in front of her.
("A product of Albus Dumbledore's tenure at Hogwarts, Harry is much more comfortable as an action hero, and seems sorely challenged by abstract notions of justice...")
He brought his focus back to the reporter, casting a wary eye towards the Quick-Quill scribbling maniacally away. "I'm just not sure where justice becomes revenge. Lucius is dead, and we need to remember why, and we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. Hopefully your newspaper will help with that, Rita."
Rita arched an eyebrow at Harry's shrewd smile, irked that he had the nerve to bring up journalistic responsibility. "The Prophet will report the truth, as always," she replied dismissively. "But I do think it's interesting that you hold Lucius Malfoy responsible, and yet you told the Quibbler that you would fight any attempts to recover reparations from the Malfoy estate, which conveniently happens to be in his wife's name. I think most of our readers will agree when I say that it hardly seems fair for her to get off free."
"Narcissa wasn't involved," the young man said coldly. "She was a victim too, and she's already suffered enough."
His determined tone brooked no debate, but Rita had never been known to give up so easily. In fact, she was delighted that this line of questioning was leading so handily to the answer she really wanted. The Patils had spoken openly of Harry Potter's "friendship" with the Malfoy heir, but when pressed they admitted it was only hearsay; the two men had been invited to a party together, but they hadn't attended. Try as she might, Rita could not find anyone who'd actually seen them together. Not that she couldn't let the news slip out anyway—this kind of gossip was gold, even unverified—but it would have been better if she could get independent confirmation. Especially from the Boy Hero himself. Smelling the scent of the kill, Rita suggested, "The talk around town is that your, shall we say, relationship with her son colours your opinion."
Magic crackled through the air a split second before he exploded. "I will not discuss that!" he exclaimed angrily.
Rita looked nervously at the shivering pepper pot, her hand instinctively gravitating towards her wand. But Harry regained control of his magic quickly. He stared at the ripples on the surface of his ale before saying, "I promised that Narcissa will not lose anything else in this war. She has my protection, and I'll do everything I can so she can keep her home."
His tone was final, and at last Rita surrendered that line of questioning. For several seconds she tapped her painted nail on the edge of her teacup.
("Harry declined to comment on his relationship with notorious Death Eater Draco Malfoy...")
"Speaking of victims," she asked, finally landing on a subject that they might safely discuss, "you were institutionalised at St. Mungo's for several months. I understand that you're now involved in helping the patients adjust to life outside?"
To her relief, Harry responded favourably to this new topic. "I'm doing what I can," he nodded. "But the real credit goes to a Healer there, Millicent Bulstrode, who's counselling the patients and their relations. But it's not going to be an easy transition for them."
("Pressed to recall his time as a patient in the Mental Victims wore, the shield that Harry wore slipped, revealing just how much those days had cost him.")
"So I take it the rumours about demanding restitution from the Ministry for these people is true?"
He nodded. "There were eighty-eight people imprisoned there for nothing more than remembering the truth. They have to start over from scratch. The Callandra Osgoode Foundation is being established to help, but it was a Ministry decree that put them in there, so I believe the Ministry owes them something. So the answer is yes, I'll do whatever I can to help them."
("The desire for vengeance shone in eyes hardened from the tragedies he had witnessed...")
"The new Minister for Magic seems amenable to these demands. You and Minister Shacklebolt have a long history from the last war, I recall."
"We do. He's a good man. He'll do a good job."
Rita pressed her lips into a thin line. It was true that Kingsley Shacklebolt had an almost impeccable record as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That, of course, only made her more certain that there was something to dig up. "Well, he's certainly been active," she admitted. "The legislation granting the Auror Guard extraordinary powers has already been repealed. But coming back to you, Harry, I must ask the question that all of Britain is wondering: will you be joining the Ministry yourself?"
"Definitely not."
("Although sorely tempted by the siren song of politics, Harry Potter's true ambition lies elsewhere...")
"Then what does the future hold for Harry Potter? Will you return to anonymity in the pet store?"
To Rita's surprise, Harry smiled at her for the first time that afternoon. "I just came from Hogwarts. The Headmistress has asked me to re-start their Defense Against the Dark Arts course."
"Really, Harry? Well then, let me be the first to congratulate you." Rita smiled a plastic smile; she hadn't heard a whisper of this from any of her informants.
("...in shaping the hearts and minds of the youngest members of our society.")
"But I have taken the liberty and done some research on your background," she continued, giving herself a mental pat on the back for her thoroughness, "and I don't believe that Hogwarts has ever taken on a professor with—pardon me for speaking the truth here—with such a weak academic record. What do you anticipate will be the parents' reaction?"
"I think they'll be happy that their children are receiving a vital part of their education that's been overlooked for four years," the young man said firmly. "And we'll be holding weekend programs, too, for recent graduates who didn't have the opportunity to sit the N.E.W.T. in that subject. Be sure you put that in your newspaper so they'll hear about it."
("Skirting the question of his qualifications, or lack thereof, Harry spoke vaguely of his plans to expand the D.A.D.A. program beyond its previous scope...")
"I hope you've gotten everything you need from me," Harry said, pushing his empty glass aside and standing to leave.
If it had been any other interviewee, Rita would have pressed them with a slew of parting questions. With Harry, though, she had a feeling he'd given her all he was willing to. That just meant she'd have to fill in the blanks in between. "Thank you, Harry. You can look forward to a profile in our weekend edition."
Rita expected him to leave then, but to her surprise he stared at his reflection in the Ogden's Old Firewhisky mirror beside them. "I saw you here once before, you know. It was about five years ago, right after the Hogwarts battle. Do you remember?"
"Here in the Blood Sport?" Rita's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I have no recollection of that. Is that why you wanted to meet here?"
The man nodded, once again making her feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. "You were interviewing the Catapults' keeper. I stood right in front of you and you didn't even recognise me."
"Well, you must have gotten that quite a lot in those days," she replied dismissively.
"I did." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind. Rita watched him leave the pub and then turned to review her Quick-Quill notes. Yes, she definitely needed to fill in some blanks in the Life and Loves of Harry Potter.
The miserable January day didn't entice Harry to linger, so after the interview he Apparated directly from the Blood Sport to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. It was spotless, as usual; Kreacher was showing his pleasure at being back in the old Black home by being even more conscientious with housekeeping. He'd done a first-rate job of decorating, too, Harry had to admit, mixing new objects with the old in a way that somehow made both shine. But for some inexplicable reason, he'd left the mounted house-elf heads adorning the stairway. Harry passed them now on his way to his bedroom.
Befitting his stature, Harry had been moved into the master bedroom. When Harry suggested that he might be more comfortable in the room where he had stayed before, Kreacher had looked so ready to flay himself that Harry relented. Now he was glad he had. This room was lovely and large, with ample space for an enormous bed that would never have fit downstairs. A thick Persian rug warmed the floor and velvet curtains framed the fine view of the wooded square across the road. Harry sat on the unmade bed now and looked at the grey sky outside. "Draco loved the snow so much." Narcissa's words floated through his head, and on a whim, Harry lifted his wand and touched just the tip to the windowpane. "Nevarioso," he whispered.
His vision blurred as a curtain of white suddenly unfurled before his eyes. Fat, fluffy flakes tumbled down, brightening the dark sky with thousands of prisms. Gently they began to cover the grey pavement, adorning the black leafless trees and softening their hardness with a crystal-white blanket.
"You'd better watch it. Muggles won't miss a freak blizzard, and I'd prefer to stay far away from Obliviation spells for a while, if it's all the same to you."
Harry tore himself from the snowfall to smile at his lover. Draco had just emerged from the shower, draped in his thick black bathrobe, and to Harry's delight made no move towards the wardrobe for his clothes. Instead he settled on the bed beside Harry, winding their fingers together tightly. "I do like the snow, though," he admitted, watching rapt as it fell.
"I know you do." He wondered if Malfoy remembered their vicious snowball fights at Hogwarts, the ones where he was sure that the Slytherins had spelled the snowballs. Then he squeezed the hand in his, realising that he must. Draco remembered everything.
Draco looked at him, bemused, and Harry wondered not for the first time if the Slytherin could read his thoughts. He almost asked, but chickened out at the last moment. "How'd your appointment go?"
"Milli gave me a clean bill of health. Said as long as I stay away from Zabini's rubbish spells, I should be fine."
"That's fine by me," Harry laughed. He was happy to hear the Healer's verdict, although he'd expected as much. Draco was looking better today, stronger, just as he had every day since leaving St. Mungo's. He was still too thin, but Kreacher had taken it upon himself to cater to his every whim, and Harry was certain they'd each gain a half-stone before the month was out. And since Narcissa had been cleared and returned home, the deepest wrinkles in his lover's forehead had started to fade.
"And Milli insists we come out Saturday for Blaise's send-off." Draco rubbed his palms together. "It'll be my last chance to remind him that he's an idiot."
"You know, seeing that will be well worth spending an evening with your Housemates," Harry teased. "Although, I might have to invite Ron and Hermione for backup. Then again," he added, remembering Hermione's unseemly attachment to their Slytherin colleague, "maybe it's better if he just disappears back to his pyramids."
"Granger's definitely coming, Blaise insisted." His lover's eye twinkled almost maliciously. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You know the Weasel will be there, too, and Loony and Longbottom. We'll have House unity up to our eyeballs."
Harry smirked. He knew they might never be close friends, especially not Ron and Draco. The surge of their lost memories had reopened the chasms between them. But this recent acquaintance had been indelibly marked with mutual respect, and it was enough to make Harry hope that they could at least get along.
Draco seemed to be trying, for he tactfully changed the subject to ask, "And your interview? How'd that go?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Rita's just as horrible as I remembered."
"Scoop Skeeter? Horrible?" Draco snickered. "And here I always thought her the model of integrity. Still," he added, appraising Harry's appearance, "you look like you survived. The trials yesterday left you wiped."
"They're just hard, you know." Harry took a deep breath. "I know they're necessary, but everybody is looking for someone to blame. I did that for years, and it never got me anywhere."
"They feel helpless," Draco ventured. "It's the same thing I'd see warding homes. People need somebody to tell them that they're safe, that the boogiemen are gone." His lips twitched downward. "Although I guess they are now."
"I'm sorry..." Harry started, for about the hundredth time, but Draco cut him off.
"I'm not." He looked like he was about to say more, and Harry wondered if at last his lover might be ready to talk about his father's death, but then Draco took a breath and the moment slipped away. Now it was a different man looking at him expectantly. "But I wasn't asking about your interview with Skeeter. What happened at Hogwarts?"
"Oh, that interview," replied Harry coyly.
Grey eyes squinted into suspicions. "Listen, Potter, it might not be easy for an ex-Death Eater to get ahold of Veritaserum, but I swear I'll raid the Wizengamut myself if you don't spill."
Harry beamed even as he tried to contain his laughter. "You're looking at the new DADA instructor."
The wind was suddenly knocked out of him by a burst of enthusiastic Malfoy. "I knew it!" Draco exclaimed, his certainty wrapping Harry in a bone-crushing hug.
"So Professor McGonagall told me to call her Minerva..." confessed Harry.
"She did not!"
Harry laughed when Draco fell back, eyes wide and hands clutching his heart. "She certainly did. And she asked about you."
"I can hear her now: 'Mr. Malfoy, fifty House points for not being a complete twat,'" Draco joked, nailing even nuance of McGonagall's clipped brogue.
"Close, but not quite. She mentioned that Professor Slughorn's retiring at the end of the year. She said they're looking for a Potions professor. I..." Harry fixed his eyes on their joined hands, hoping against hope that he hadn't overstepped his bounds. "I told her that I might have someone in mind."
If he'd been expecting another enthusiastic response from Draco, Harry would have been disappointed. Still he didn't expect him to go completely silent. When he glanced up, he saw that the playful expression had disappeared from Draco's face.
"Fuck."
Harry had never been any good at knowing when to wait and when to rush into things—at least not where relationships were concerned. He either missed opportunities by waiting too long or blew them by pushing too fast. And with Draco ... a lifetime of animosity followed by two months of mind-blowing sex, followed by two months of forced separation, followed by a daring rescue. Not quite the standard relationship path, was it? And suddenly Harry was talking about, in essence, moving in with him. All right, not quite, that certainly hadn't been a subject he'd broached with McGonagall, but even assuming that Draco wanted to teach was taking a big liberty. They'd not talked about his future, and Harry had no idea what the other man wanted. But Draco was keen on potions, and it'd be a terrible shame if he didn't consider this opportunity just because he wasn't keen on them. And Harry rushed to assure him of that.
"You don't have to worry about me, Draco ... about us. We don't have to be together if you don't want ... friends, maybe, I'd like that, until we see how things are going ... what you want..."
Draco's grey eyes slowly focused on him, his expression so confused that Harry wondered if perhaps he'd just been babbling in another language. "What?"
"I just don't think you should turn down the position because of me, because I'm moving too fast or something. I mean, I know it's only been two months since we..."
Harry never finished, because Draco's lips crushed his words. "Not two months, Harry," he said after kissing him thoroughly. "Try twelve years."
Harry blinked. "Twelve years?"
"You twonk. You were always there, even if you were the bane of my existence. It's not normal to be that obsessed with someone—Blaise was always telling me that, and he was right."
"Really?" But Harry felt it, too. That same obsession had driven him; he'd tailed the Slytherin through endless hallways, been glued to Malfoy's dot on the Marauder's Map, and always, always craved knowing exactly where the other boy was.
"Really. And then afterwards..." Draco hand cupped Harry's chin, and his smile gradually spread as he studied his face. "Even when I didn't remember, I knew." The smile turned to a smirk—which Harry recognised as quite similar to the sneer he'd known for over a decade, without the malice behind it. "But you probably just assumed I always dropped trou that fast, didn't you."
Harry blushed. "I thought you might," he admitted.
"Well, yeah, sometimes I do. I did," Draco corrected himself.
That tiny amendment meant the world to Harry, giving him the courage to ask, "What do you think of coming to Hogwarts with me, then?"
"I don't know." He frowned, the faint lines criss-crossing his forehead marking the patterns of his thoughts. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'd be any good at it."
"Potions or teaching?"
Draco's forehead crinkled even more. "Both, really, but Potions, mostly. It's been years since I worked with them in any serious way."
"Minerva already thought of that," Harry said, emphasising her name just to see Draco wince. "She suggested that you spend the term helping Professor Slughorn. It's not a Potions Master course, by any means, but it'd get you up to speed. And she's making me re-sit my N.E.W.T.s next year; I could really use your help."
Draco was still frowning, but he seemed to be considering it. "Can you picture me giving the 'stoppering death' speech to a bunch of first years?"
"I can," Harry nodded confidently. "In fact, I think you'll be even better at it than Snape."
"You would say that. You always were atrocious in Potions."
"I'm sure you'll have superior motivational techniques than Snape."
Draco gave him a shove onto the bed. "I should bloody well hope so," he huffed, stretching himself over Harry. "And it's never too early for you to start earning extra credit."
Harry let his legs fall open, let Draco's weight settle between them. "I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy."
"Milli says I've made a full recovery. Want to see?"
"It couldn't hurt to get a jump on my studies," Harry murmured, setting his glasses aside before pulling his lover's face toward him. Playful at first, grinning between light nibbling kisses and teasing darting tongues, they kissed with their eyes wide open, indulging in the certainty that they had time to spare. But that was only until Draco sucked hard on Harry's bottom lip at the same time as he ground his hips harder. Suddenly, every bit of Harry's conscious thought went racing down between his legs. Suddenly, he needed more of this man.
Harry's hands slid under the fine cotton bathrobe, grasping at the bare skin still radiating heat from the shower. Draco's skin felt exceptionally soft, the slope of his back exquisitely formed, and the curve of his bottom ... Harry couldn't help it, he moaned as his fingers stretched out along that arse that fit so perfectly in his hand. Between his parted lips Draco's tongue plunged; the playfulness was gone, now he was openly demanding. Harry's stiffening cock was issuing similar demands as it rocked into the crease of his lover's hip, but his scratchy winter robes made for an uncomfortable prophylactic. "Clothes..." he gasped into Draco's mouth, "...hate clothes."
Harry was unsure if he'd been heard, because the tone of their kiss hardly changed, but then he felt his lover's chest shake with amusement, and after a moment he sat up. "Induviae desvestus," he whispered, with nothing more than a single touch of Harry's outer robe. Immediately their clothing disappeared, rematerializing on the wing-backed chair on the far side of the room. And now Draco was staring down possessively, like a king in a parapet surveying his lands and finding them much to his liking. Harry basked in this gaze, enjoying his own view of the stunning wizard. Draco's lips were swollen from kisses, bruised crimson staining purest porcelain. Still-damp hair caressed his long graceful neck and swung round his chin, darker where the fine strands clung together, shimmering like white gold. And those eyes, gone dusky as twilight, spun an enchantment around them, endless desire and utter fulfillment winding together eternally.
"I want you to teach me wandless magic," Harry said softly, hesitant to break the spell.
Draco frowned peevishly, although strangely Harry didn't think it diminished his beauty in the least. "You're taking this student thing a bit far, Potter."
"Not now, you git." Harry's fingertips smoothed the faint hairs on Draco's chest. "Now I want to feel you inside me."
The frown fled as Draco lowered himself onto his lover. "That I can definitely do."
Draco felt heavy, solid, his weight welcome after his recent frailty. Skin to skin they were now, a thousand times better in Harry's opinion. Spreading his legs wider, his cock slid into place flush against Malfoy's. His lover's forehead fell to Harry's shoulder as they began to grind together, slow and precise, their undulations a prelude to the wilder dance to come. Harry felt his senses swell, inundated with all things Draco. The chilled wet skin as his lover laved his throat ... the hint of salt he tasted as he sucked Draco's fingers ... the faintest scent of sandalwood shampoo ... the sharp intake of breath in Harry's ear when they thrust together harder than before. Merlin, the more he had of this man, the more he needed.
Harry ran his hand along the line of Malfoy's hip, slipping between their sweat-slicked bodies until he found Draco's sac, tight as an overripe plum. Squeezing it gently elicited another gasp and a sharp bite of his neck. Harry slid his hand up the length of Draco's cock. Like the man himself, Malfoy's erection stood long and straight; it throbbed as Harry's hand reached round his girth, and Harry moaned at the thought of how it would feel deep inside him.
When Draco started his slow crawl down Harry's body, and the friction between their bodies disappeared, Harry almost grumbled. But open-mouthed kisses pressed along the hinge of his jaw stilled his protests, and as they mapped the side of his neck, travelling west across his clavicle and dipping south to affront his nipples, Harry abandoned every complaint. Malfoy lapped at the pebbled nubs like a thirsty cat, his sharp little teeth ratcheting up the sensations when Harry's fingers tightened in his hair. Harry fisted the sheet with his other hand, holding himself together even as his body begged to explode. Malfoy's fingertips circling the sensitive head of his cock did nothing for his control, and Harry whimpered as he thrust wantonly against Draco's hand.
Wet sucking heat replaced that firm grip, sliding down Harry's length like a snug velvet glove and sending out ripples of intense pleasure all the way to Harry's toes. Harry wanted to plunge himself into that blissful heat, needed to feel himself completely enveloped in that sleek wet heaven, but he'd only begun tensing his hips when a firm hand squeezed his balls hard, a reminder of who was in charge. When Harry forced back his building climax, he was rewarded by inquisitive, insistent fingers exploring the cleft of his arse. Not caring how eager it seemed, Harry's legs sprawled wider, begging Malfoy to continue.
Stopping his exertions on Harry's cock for just a moment, Draco murmured a quiet lubrication spell before his sleek finger breached Harry's hole. Shuddering, Harry bore down on the intruder, thankful it was Malfoy's longest that slid deep into his channel. But he wanted more, was absolutely dying for more, and even a second finger did little to staunch his hunger. "Want you, Draco," he gasped out, lifting his head to look at his lover. Malfoy tortured him by sucking even harder and penetrating him with a third finger, staring at Harry all the while through eyes dark as thunderclouds. The extraordinary sight of those rosy lips around his glistening cock almost unravelled Harry. "Please, Draco, I need you to fuck me."
Malfoy's lips smiled around Harry's shaft. "Desperation's a good look for you," he teased as he sat up, tugging Harry's ankles onto his shoulders.
"Stars, how does he look mischievous and haughty and so incredibly desirable at the same time?" Harry didn't care about desperation, and he didn't care how vulnerable he was as his body folded in on itself, revealing his most hidden place to his erstwhile enemy. "Fuck, Malfoy, just fuck me already." Harry tried to glower, but he doubted it was very effective, seeing how Draco was grinning.
But at least he did as he was told, which at the moment was all that Harry cared about. Straight into Harry's channel he slid, one smooth glide that didn't stop until Draco's balls pressed flush against Harry's back. Harry felt his overstretched muscles burn, skating along the exquisite edge of pain as Draco withdrew and penetrated him again and again. And Harry wanted more, so much more. Digging his fingernails deep enough to leave half-moons in Draco's thighs, Harry urged him on, faster, harder, wanting to feel that smouldering ache, that physical proof of Draco's presence. With each thrust there was just a bit more of that delicious friction, a bit more burning heat, until pain ignited into the purest pleasure. The men moved perfectly together, energy and magic flowing between them as smoothly as blood pumping through a single body. And when they came, and he heard Draco breathe out his given name, Harry was certain that nothing else in the world existed save the two of them.
Draco collapsed without ceremony, so spent he could barely roll off Harry's stomach. Harry was just as exhausted himself, his arms so heavy he wondered whether he could reach his wand to clean their sticky bellies. Only when the room began to feel chilly against his sweaty skin did he summon the energy to do so.
As they pulled the warm bedcovers up around them, Draco rolled onto his side, his arm cradling his head as he studied Harry. He appeared deep in thought, and Harry waited for him to speak. It took several minutes before he finally said, "Do you really think I should come to Hogwarts with you?"
"I think you should do what you want. But I would like it if you decided to, very much."
Draco smiled mysteriously at Harry before rolling onto his back. "There's the answer to your question right there."
"What question is that?"
"The question you've asked me almost every day since I got out of the hospital: Why I stood with you against the Dar– against Voldemort."
Harry replayed the last part of their conversation, trying in vain to pick out any clues to Draco's nebulous reasoning. At last he admitted, "I don't understand."
Draco chuckled softly. "Of course you don't. It's so obvious to you, you don't even see it."
"So are you going to explain or are you just going to be a smug bastard?"
"I can't do both?"
Harry threw a half-hearted punch at his lover's chest, which Draco easily defused by burying his fingers inside the loose fist.
"You're right, it wasn't bravery. I told Weasley about St. Mungo's because I was terrified that He'd get ahold of you."
"You can be afraid and be brave too..."
Draco cut him off before he could finish. "Shut it, Potter. I've heard all that tripe, and I understand that it works for you, but it doesn't for me." His tone gentled. "I didn't help the Weasel because I was brave. I did it because it seemed like a relatively safe way to get the job done, that's all. And I'm fine with that."
"But what you did that night, that wasn't safe at all. You might not have survived. And Millicent said..." Harry hesitated to bring up the guilt that had gnawed at the back of his mind since talking to the Healer, but he had to know if he really was to blame for it. "She said that even might be what you wanted."
"Yeah," Draco sighed. "I was afraid she might've said something like that to you. She tried to bring that up again today—how I need to 'own the destructive impulses driven by my unbearable guilt.' Frankly, I think all those psych courses she's taken have warped her good Slytherin instincts. Granted, now that I remember everything, there are things I wish I'd done differently. But going out in a blaze of glory was hardly going to make up for making 'Potter Stinks' badges, was it? Or even for trying to kill Dumbledore."
Feeling the weight on his shoulders start to budge, Harry turned to face his lover. "Then you didn't do it because you thought I'd hate you?"
"What would have been the sense in that? I suspect I've more chance of changing your mind alive than dead." Draco flashed a lusty grin that made Harry's cheeks go warm. Then he shrugged. "Besides, what would I have gotten out of that? Sorry, Potter, but the thought of you pining over my tragic redemption doesn't do much for me."
"Fair enough," conceded Harry as casually as he could, although he felt lighter than he had in days. "And I'm glad you stuck around to change my mind. But you've only told me why you didn't do it, not why you did."
"You asked me what it was I wanted."
Draco stopped there, seeming to think that explanation was enough. But Harry was as baffled as before. He expected more, he needed more, and he squeezed Draco's hand impatiently. "Yeah? And?"
"It's so obvious to you that you don't even notice it," Draco said, chuckling with disbelief. "Harry, don't you see? Nobody ever asked me that before. Well, not anyone I trusted, anyway. Dumbledore did, I suppose, but that was to suit his own purposes. And my father..." Draco's voice faltered and his lips froze even as a flood of emotion poured across his features. They passed so rapidly that Harry couldn't begin to identify them. He wondered if they'd stolen Draco's tongue away, but after a moment the man spoke again, his voice rougher than before. "I loved my father, but it will be hard to forgive him. He made his choices, and then he made them mine. Everything was laid out for me, my classes, my career, even the position I'd play on the Quidditch team. Harry, as soon as I got home for Christmas seventh year, he congratulated me because I was going to be branded with the Mark. As if I'd applied for the privilege or something. And Voldemort..." Draco snorted, but there wasn't an ounce of humour in the sound. "The only choice he ever gave me was whether to cruciate you or my mother."
Harry didn't know what to say. It wasn't pity he felt; he knew too well what it felt like to be on an inevitable course, and he could empathise with the futility that came with wrestling against your own destiny. But he'd been able to stay that course because he believed it was the right one. Draco hadn't even had that reassurance. He'd simply followed, unquestioningly, obediently. "That's not right ... that's not you," Harry said quietly, thinking how the Draco he knew must have chafed at such an existence. He understood now. Draco had made his stand because he wanted to decide his own future, one in which he was true to himself. And for the first time he recognised that he could.
It was only after the words left his tongue that Harry realised they wouldn't make sense to anyone who wasn't privy to his thoughts. Once again, though, Draco was able to follow them, though, for his sad expression evaporated as a wide smile filled his face. "No, that's not me at all." He rolled over to face Harry, his thumb tracing the line of Harry's jaw. "I'm twenty-three years old, and it's time I finally decided for myself what I really want."
There was no need for Harry to ask if he was included in that. In the day's last light, Draco's face was completely unguarded; he didn't need any mask, not when he could be whoever he wanted to be. And the kiss he pressed to Harry's lips was more convincing than words could ever be.
It snowed all through that long January night, the deepest snow that London had seen in years. Children still home for the holidays built armies of snowmen with carrot noses and coal-black eyes, and couples strolling down the snow-covered pavement held mittened-hands as they ducked around the frosty sentries. Old folks sat before their tellies, drinking hot cocoa and watching meteorologists scratch their heads at the unforeseen blizzard. Around Grimmauld Square, where the snow seemed to be the heaviest, drifts stretched along the length of the wrought iron fences, their peaked angles corralling a sparkling white sea.
And in a townhouse high above the park slept two men who, no longer haunted by their pasts, could for the first time dream of happily ever after.
THE END
Previous | Back to the beginning
My endless thanks to![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
sarcastic_jo, not just my beta but also my sounding board and inspiration. Also, a huge thanks to seleneheart and shellydkitty for their encouragement every single step of the way.
Memento vivere
Remember to live
When the Blood Sport first opened, it was the jewel of Diagon Alley, the place for the serious sports fan. Just five years later, its lustre had faded, much like the quidditch scarves tacked on its grease-stained ceiling, and now the Queasy Quaffle at the other end of Diagon commanded the loyalty of the trendy sports crowd.
From her table near the back of the worn-down pub, Rita Skeeter lifted her Humbug Humdinger. She smiled, watching the elegant swirls of black and white liqueur in her snifter. They never blurred into grey, but became just fuzzy enough that you always thought they might. If you were foolish enough to drink two or three, you would feel just as fuzzy. Rita hadn't ordered one in years—probably not since the last time she was in the Blood Sport—but when the bartender remembered not only her but also her drink, she couldn't bring herself to refuse.
"Another one, Rita?" he asked now.
"I really shouldn't, Harvey, I'm working." "Or I would be," she fumed to herself, "if some people had the courtesy to keep their appointments." Saviour of the wizarding world he might be, but Harry Potter had always struck her as less of a hero, more of a very lucky boy who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. "An ambulance chaser," her contact at the Sun said the Muggles called them.
Sure enough, when that old ambulance known as You Know Who raced by once more, wouldn't you know there'd be none other than Harry Potter eating its dust. And now readers were clamouring for news of the Boy Who Lived. After five years, you would have thought they'd have moved on to something else, but no, they couldn't get enough. She'd already filed "Best Friends Forever," candid interviews with former Hogwarts classmates Cho Chang, Zacharias Smith, and the Patil sisters. She'd gotten Percy Weasley, who'd grown up with Harry, to theorise about Harry's upbringing and his almost pathological obsession to protect Muggle Britain. She'd even spent two hours with that horrible little wizard at the pet shop, enduring his flirtations just for the scoop that his employee was punctual and liked snakes. Rita found that last item to be slightly newsworthy; she was finding the first harder to believe as each minute ticked by. Harry Potter was almost an hour late—if it had been anyone else, Rita would already have stormed out in a cloud of indignation. Unfortunately, returning to her editor without the promised interview was not an option. Her readers wanted their Boy Hero, and she was determined to be the one to bag him.
A flurry of activity outside the door caught her attention. From her vantage she saw her would-be interviewee amidst a crowd of fans. "Just eating it up, isn't he?" she huffed. She considered whether a covert Repelling Spell might be called for, but by the time she'd primed her Quick-Quill (" Wizarding Britain's most eligible bachelor arrived for our appointment with the bevy of nubile female admirers who accompany the Boy Who Lived wherever he goes..."), he had already blundered his way through the doors and was scanning the bar. Rita raised a finely shaped eyebrow at the scowl on his face, noting that it grew when his gaze landed on her.
"Well, Harry," she said in greeting, standing up as he approached. "I'm so glad you could make it." Unable to resist a slight dig, she added, "I do hope our appointment is not inconveniencing you. You must be very busy these days."
("This handsome catch slung his arm slung casually over the back of his chair, he looked more like a carefree teenager than the man who single-handedly orchestrated the defeat of the Dark Wizard.")
"I figure it's best to get this over with. You'll never give me or my friends any peace until I do. Did you really go to the place I used to work?"
"Chester Critswold was very accommodating," replied Rita coolly. "Now, would you like anything to drink, Harry?"
"A butterbeer, thanks."
"And a pot of tea for me, thanks, Harvey." She smiled ingratiatingly at the bartender before returning to her subject with her most cloying voice. "Now, Harry, in the past two weeks we've discovered that the world was very different than what we remembered. I'm simply fascinated to hear about your experience. Could you tell our readers what that was like, living a life without distinction after the last war?"
The man's eyes hardened. "Hermione already told you I won't answer personal questions. If you want to talk about events going forward, fine. If not, then I should be going."
("His expression grew haunted when his past came up, his emerald eyes glistening with the pain of his forgotten existence...")
"No, no, you're quite right," Rita assured him hastily. "I only thought that since you'd already granted an interview to the Quibbler, you might appreciate the opportunity to share your story with the readers of the Daily Prophet. Our paper reaches a much wider audience, you know."
Harry crossed his arms and stared at her. Rita, who'd held her own against the wizarding world's most powerful politicians and business leaders, did not wither under his gaze. Nonetheless, she did admit to a little tickle at the back of her throat as she waited for him to respond. When he didn't, she finally spoke. "Going forward, then. The trials that started this week, I assume those are fair game?" He nodded so she continued, "I must have seen you at every single one, even when you weren't called to testify. Is that purely out of personal interest?"
"Not really. I'd be happy never to attend another, but the Wizengamot requested I be present."
"I don't remember terseness being his strong suit before," Rita thought. "If this keeps up, it'll be a short interview." To Harry, she said, "Well, I'm afraid it doesn't look like they'll be finished anytime soon, not with the cases they're building against the Auror Guard. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been awfully thorough in rounding up all of You Know Who's supporters, wouldn't you say?"
"Voldemort." His voice didn't stumble over the name like anyone else's would have; Rita remembered how, even as a boy, Harry had said it without flinching. She had never been convinced it was brave; it seemed simply foolish. "He's dead now, it's okay to say his name. We need to start saying his name."
("Despite several encounters with He Who Must Not Be Named, Harry retains his childlike innocence...")
"Yes, well, I'm not sure our readers are ready for that quite yet. But you mentioned that You Know Who is dead. Since he's disappeared twice before, and come back each time, can you say with absolute certainty that he really is dead this time?"
"I can. I saw him die myself."
Harry rubbed the scar on his forehead. It seemed an unconscious gesture, and he jerked his hand away as soon as he noticed Rita was watching him. To cover her attention, she asked, "But you didn't kill him?"
"No..." But Harry was still frowning at her. "You already know this story, Rita. It's been in the news for weeks now."
"It has, but our readers are interested in your account of the events. You were there, you saw exactly what happened."
"It happened exactly like I testified at Madam Malfoy's trial. She asked about Draco and then..." Rita didn't miss Harry's telling scowl. "I told you, I'll answer questions about the future. But I don't want to talk about that night."
("Remembering the act of passion that moved the wife of You Know Who's most devoted follower, Lucius Malfoy, to take up a sword against the Dark Lord, the young hero grew sombre, troubled by dark memories of that fateful night...")
Rita smiled accommodatingly, concealing her frustration at the limits on their conversation. "I'm sure your testimony was instrumental in clearing Madam Malfoy. At the trial, you were asked if you would have done the same for her husband, had he'd survived..."
"And I told them I wouldn't. Lucius was involved from the beginning; his memories were restored right at the battle of Hogwarts and he helped Voldemort escape. And you were at Warrington's trial yesterday, you heard him talking about Lucius recruiting them for the attacks. Everything was set up so people would be afraid." Harry shook his head in disbelief. "And then people like Warrington, the ones who caused the problem in the first place, joined the Auror Guard."
"It sounds like you regret that Lucius Malfoy won't be brought to trial."
Harry didn't answer; for a moment Rita feared that he had clammed up again. "Just what I need, a tongue-tied hero." But then, choosing his words carefully, he said, "I do regret that in a way, because people need to hear what happened. But whether justice would be served if Lucius got the Dementor's kiss or life in Azkaban, I don't know." Harry frowned as if chiding himself for letting his thoughts wander in front of her.
("A product of Albus Dumbledore's tenure at Hogwarts, Harry is much more comfortable as an action hero, and seems sorely challenged by abstract notions of justice...")
He brought his focus back to the reporter, casting a wary eye towards the Quick-Quill scribbling maniacally away. "I'm just not sure where justice becomes revenge. Lucius is dead, and we need to remember why, and we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. Hopefully your newspaper will help with that, Rita."
Rita arched an eyebrow at Harry's shrewd smile, irked that he had the nerve to bring up journalistic responsibility. "The Prophet will report the truth, as always," she replied dismissively. "But I do think it's interesting that you hold Lucius Malfoy responsible, and yet you told the Quibbler that you would fight any attempts to recover reparations from the Malfoy estate, which conveniently happens to be in his wife's name. I think most of our readers will agree when I say that it hardly seems fair for her to get off free."
"Narcissa wasn't involved," the young man said coldly. "She was a victim too, and she's already suffered enough."
His determined tone brooked no debate, but Rita had never been known to give up so easily. In fact, she was delighted that this line of questioning was leading so handily to the answer she really wanted. The Patils had spoken openly of Harry Potter's "friendship" with the Malfoy heir, but when pressed they admitted it was only hearsay; the two men had been invited to a party together, but they hadn't attended. Try as she might, Rita could not find anyone who'd actually seen them together. Not that she couldn't let the news slip out anyway—this kind of gossip was gold, even unverified—but it would have been better if she could get independent confirmation. Especially from the Boy Hero himself. Smelling the scent of the kill, Rita suggested, "The talk around town is that your, shall we say, relationship with her son colours your opinion."
Magic crackled through the air a split second before he exploded. "I will not discuss that!" he exclaimed angrily.
Rita looked nervously at the shivering pepper pot, her hand instinctively gravitating towards her wand. But Harry regained control of his magic quickly. He stared at the ripples on the surface of his ale before saying, "I promised that Narcissa will not lose anything else in this war. She has my protection, and I'll do everything I can so she can keep her home."
His tone was final, and at last Rita surrendered that line of questioning. For several seconds she tapped her painted nail on the edge of her teacup.
("Harry declined to comment on his relationship with notorious Death Eater Draco Malfoy...")
"Speaking of victims," she asked, finally landing on a subject that they might safely discuss, "you were institutionalised at St. Mungo's for several months. I understand that you're now involved in helping the patients adjust to life outside?"
To her relief, Harry responded favourably to this new topic. "I'm doing what I can," he nodded. "But the real credit goes to a Healer there, Millicent Bulstrode, who's counselling the patients and their relations. But it's not going to be an easy transition for them."
("Pressed to recall his time as a patient in the Mental Victims wore, the shield that Harry wore slipped, revealing just how much those days had cost him.")
"So I take it the rumours about demanding restitution from the Ministry for these people is true?"
He nodded. "There were eighty-eight people imprisoned there for nothing more than remembering the truth. They have to start over from scratch. The Callandra Osgoode Foundation is being established to help, but it was a Ministry decree that put them in there, so I believe the Ministry owes them something. So the answer is yes, I'll do whatever I can to help them."
("The desire for vengeance shone in eyes hardened from the tragedies he had witnessed...")
"The new Minister for Magic seems amenable to these demands. You and Minister Shacklebolt have a long history from the last war, I recall."
"We do. He's a good man. He'll do a good job."
Rita pressed her lips into a thin line. It was true that Kingsley Shacklebolt had an almost impeccable record as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That, of course, only made her more certain that there was something to dig up. "Well, he's certainly been active," she admitted. "The legislation granting the Auror Guard extraordinary powers has already been repealed. But coming back to you, Harry, I must ask the question that all of Britain is wondering: will you be joining the Ministry yourself?"
"Definitely not."
("Although sorely tempted by the siren song of politics, Harry Potter's true ambition lies elsewhere...")
"Then what does the future hold for Harry Potter? Will you return to anonymity in the pet store?"
To Rita's surprise, Harry smiled at her for the first time that afternoon. "I just came from Hogwarts. The Headmistress has asked me to re-start their Defense Against the Dark Arts course."
"Really, Harry? Well then, let me be the first to congratulate you." Rita smiled a plastic smile; she hadn't heard a whisper of this from any of her informants.
("...in shaping the hearts and minds of the youngest members of our society.")
"But I have taken the liberty and done some research on your background," she continued, giving herself a mental pat on the back for her thoroughness, "and I don't believe that Hogwarts has ever taken on a professor with—pardon me for speaking the truth here—with such a weak academic record. What do you anticipate will be the parents' reaction?"
"I think they'll be happy that their children are receiving a vital part of their education that's been overlooked for four years," the young man said firmly. "And we'll be holding weekend programs, too, for recent graduates who didn't have the opportunity to sit the N.E.W.T. in that subject. Be sure you put that in your newspaper so they'll hear about it."
("Skirting the question of his qualifications, or lack thereof, Harry spoke vaguely of his plans to expand the D.A.D.A. program beyond its previous scope...")
"I hope you've gotten everything you need from me," Harry said, pushing his empty glass aside and standing to leave.
If it had been any other interviewee, Rita would have pressed them with a slew of parting questions. With Harry, though, she had a feeling he'd given her all he was willing to. That just meant she'd have to fill in the blanks in between. "Thank you, Harry. You can look forward to a profile in our weekend edition."
Rita expected him to leave then, but to her surprise he stared at his reflection in the Ogden's Old Firewhisky mirror beside them. "I saw you here once before, you know. It was about five years ago, right after the Hogwarts battle. Do you remember?"
"Here in the Blood Sport?" Rita's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I have no recollection of that. Is that why you wanted to meet here?"
The man nodded, once again making her feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. "You were interviewing the Catapults' keeper. I stood right in front of you and you didn't even recognise me."
"Well, you must have gotten that quite a lot in those days," she replied dismissively.
"I did." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind. Rita watched him leave the pub and then turned to review her Quick-Quill notes. Yes, she definitely needed to fill in some blanks in the Life and Loves of Harry Potter.
The miserable January day didn't entice Harry to linger, so after the interview he Apparated directly from the Blood Sport to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. It was spotless, as usual; Kreacher was showing his pleasure at being back in the old Black home by being even more conscientious with housekeeping. He'd done a first-rate job of decorating, too, Harry had to admit, mixing new objects with the old in a way that somehow made both shine. But for some inexplicable reason, he'd left the mounted house-elf heads adorning the stairway. Harry passed them now on his way to his bedroom.
Befitting his stature, Harry had been moved into the master bedroom. When Harry suggested that he might be more comfortable in the room where he had stayed before, Kreacher had looked so ready to flay himself that Harry relented. Now he was glad he had. This room was lovely and large, with ample space for an enormous bed that would never have fit downstairs. A thick Persian rug warmed the floor and velvet curtains framed the fine view of the wooded square across the road. Harry sat on the unmade bed now and looked at the grey sky outside. "Draco loved the snow so much." Narcissa's words floated through his head, and on a whim, Harry lifted his wand and touched just the tip to the windowpane. "Nevarioso," he whispered.
His vision blurred as a curtain of white suddenly unfurled before his eyes. Fat, fluffy flakes tumbled down, brightening the dark sky with thousands of prisms. Gently they began to cover the grey pavement, adorning the black leafless trees and softening their hardness with a crystal-white blanket.
"You'd better watch it. Muggles won't miss a freak blizzard, and I'd prefer to stay far away from Obliviation spells for a while, if it's all the same to you."
Harry tore himself from the snowfall to smile at his lover. Draco had just emerged from the shower, draped in his thick black bathrobe, and to Harry's delight made no move towards the wardrobe for his clothes. Instead he settled on the bed beside Harry, winding their fingers together tightly. "I do like the snow, though," he admitted, watching rapt as it fell.
"I know you do." He wondered if Malfoy remembered their vicious snowball fights at Hogwarts, the ones where he was sure that the Slytherins had spelled the snowballs. Then he squeezed the hand in his, realising that he must. Draco remembered everything.
Draco looked at him, bemused, and Harry wondered not for the first time if the Slytherin could read his thoughts. He almost asked, but chickened out at the last moment. "How'd your appointment go?"
"Milli gave me a clean bill of health. Said as long as I stay away from Zabini's rubbish spells, I should be fine."
"That's fine by me," Harry laughed. He was happy to hear the Healer's verdict, although he'd expected as much. Draco was looking better today, stronger, just as he had every day since leaving St. Mungo's. He was still too thin, but Kreacher had taken it upon himself to cater to his every whim, and Harry was certain they'd each gain a half-stone before the month was out. And since Narcissa had been cleared and returned home, the deepest wrinkles in his lover's forehead had started to fade.
"And Milli insists we come out Saturday for Blaise's send-off." Draco rubbed his palms together. "It'll be my last chance to remind him that he's an idiot."
"You know, seeing that will be well worth spending an evening with your Housemates," Harry teased. "Although, I might have to invite Ron and Hermione for backup. Then again," he added, remembering Hermione's unseemly attachment to their Slytherin colleague, "maybe it's better if he just disappears back to his pyramids."
"Granger's definitely coming, Blaise insisted." His lover's eye twinkled almost maliciously. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You know the Weasel will be there, too, and Loony and Longbottom. We'll have House unity up to our eyeballs."
Harry smirked. He knew they might never be close friends, especially not Ron and Draco. The surge of their lost memories had reopened the chasms between them. But this recent acquaintance had been indelibly marked with mutual respect, and it was enough to make Harry hope that they could at least get along.
Draco seemed to be trying, for he tactfully changed the subject to ask, "And your interview? How'd that go?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Rita's just as horrible as I remembered."
"Scoop Skeeter? Horrible?" Draco snickered. "And here I always thought her the model of integrity. Still," he added, appraising Harry's appearance, "you look like you survived. The trials yesterday left you wiped."
"They're just hard, you know." Harry took a deep breath. "I know they're necessary, but everybody is looking for someone to blame. I did that for years, and it never got me anywhere."
"They feel helpless," Draco ventured. "It's the same thing I'd see warding homes. People need somebody to tell them that they're safe, that the boogiemen are gone." His lips twitched downward. "Although I guess they are now."
"I'm sorry..." Harry started, for about the hundredth time, but Draco cut him off.
"I'm not." He looked like he was about to say more, and Harry wondered if at last his lover might be ready to talk about his father's death, but then Draco took a breath and the moment slipped away. Now it was a different man looking at him expectantly. "But I wasn't asking about your interview with Skeeter. What happened at Hogwarts?"
"Oh, that interview," replied Harry coyly.
Grey eyes squinted into suspicions. "Listen, Potter, it might not be easy for an ex-Death Eater to get ahold of Veritaserum, but I swear I'll raid the Wizengamut myself if you don't spill."
Harry beamed even as he tried to contain his laughter. "You're looking at the new DADA instructor."
The wind was suddenly knocked out of him by a burst of enthusiastic Malfoy. "I knew it!" Draco exclaimed, his certainty wrapping Harry in a bone-crushing hug.
"So Professor McGonagall told me to call her Minerva..." confessed Harry.
"She did not!"
Harry laughed when Draco fell back, eyes wide and hands clutching his heart. "She certainly did. And she asked about you."
"I can hear her now: 'Mr. Malfoy, fifty House points for not being a complete twat,'" Draco joked, nailing even nuance of McGonagall's clipped brogue.
"Close, but not quite. She mentioned that Professor Slughorn's retiring at the end of the year. She said they're looking for a Potions professor. I..." Harry fixed his eyes on their joined hands, hoping against hope that he hadn't overstepped his bounds. "I told her that I might have someone in mind."
If he'd been expecting another enthusiastic response from Draco, Harry would have been disappointed. Still he didn't expect him to go completely silent. When he glanced up, he saw that the playful expression had disappeared from Draco's face.
"Fuck."
Harry had never been any good at knowing when to wait and when to rush into things—at least not where relationships were concerned. He either missed opportunities by waiting too long or blew them by pushing too fast. And with Draco ... a lifetime of animosity followed by two months of mind-blowing sex, followed by two months of forced separation, followed by a daring rescue. Not quite the standard relationship path, was it? And suddenly Harry was talking about, in essence, moving in with him. All right, not quite, that certainly hadn't been a subject he'd broached with McGonagall, but even assuming that Draco wanted to teach was taking a big liberty. They'd not talked about his future, and Harry had no idea what the other man wanted. But Draco was keen on potions, and it'd be a terrible shame if he didn't consider this opportunity just because he wasn't keen on them. And Harry rushed to assure him of that.
"You don't have to worry about me, Draco ... about us. We don't have to be together if you don't want ... friends, maybe, I'd like that, until we see how things are going ... what you want..."
Draco's grey eyes slowly focused on him, his expression so confused that Harry wondered if perhaps he'd just been babbling in another language. "What?"
"I just don't think you should turn down the position because of me, because I'm moving too fast or something. I mean, I know it's only been two months since we..."
Harry never finished, because Draco's lips crushed his words. "Not two months, Harry," he said after kissing him thoroughly. "Try twelve years."
Harry blinked. "Twelve years?"
"You twonk. You were always there, even if you were the bane of my existence. It's not normal to be that obsessed with someone—Blaise was always telling me that, and he was right."
"Really?" But Harry felt it, too. That same obsession had driven him; he'd tailed the Slytherin through endless hallways, been glued to Malfoy's dot on the Marauder's Map, and always, always craved knowing exactly where the other boy was.
"Really. And then afterwards..." Draco hand cupped Harry's chin, and his smile gradually spread as he studied his face. "Even when I didn't remember, I knew." The smile turned to a smirk—which Harry recognised as quite similar to the sneer he'd known for over a decade, without the malice behind it. "But you probably just assumed I always dropped trou that fast, didn't you."
Harry blushed. "I thought you might," he admitted.
"Well, yeah, sometimes I do. I did," Draco corrected himself.
That tiny amendment meant the world to Harry, giving him the courage to ask, "What do you think of coming to Hogwarts with me, then?"
"I don't know." He frowned, the faint lines criss-crossing his forehead marking the patterns of his thoughts. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'd be any good at it."
"Potions or teaching?"
Draco's forehead crinkled even more. "Both, really, but Potions, mostly. It's been years since I worked with them in any serious way."
"Minerva already thought of that," Harry said, emphasising her name just to see Draco wince. "She suggested that you spend the term helping Professor Slughorn. It's not a Potions Master course, by any means, but it'd get you up to speed. And she's making me re-sit my N.E.W.T.s next year; I could really use your help."
Draco was still frowning, but he seemed to be considering it. "Can you picture me giving the 'stoppering death' speech to a bunch of first years?"
"I can," Harry nodded confidently. "In fact, I think you'll be even better at it than Snape."
"You would say that. You always were atrocious in Potions."
"I'm sure you'll have superior motivational techniques than Snape."
Draco gave him a shove onto the bed. "I should bloody well hope so," he huffed, stretching himself over Harry. "And it's never too early for you to start earning extra credit."
Harry let his legs fall open, let Draco's weight settle between them. "I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy."
"Milli says I've made a full recovery. Want to see?"
"It couldn't hurt to get a jump on my studies," Harry murmured, setting his glasses aside before pulling his lover's face toward him. Playful at first, grinning between light nibbling kisses and teasing darting tongues, they kissed with their eyes wide open, indulging in the certainty that they had time to spare. But that was only until Draco sucked hard on Harry's bottom lip at the same time as he ground his hips harder. Suddenly, every bit of Harry's conscious thought went racing down between his legs. Suddenly, he needed more of this man.
Harry's hands slid under the fine cotton bathrobe, grasping at the bare skin still radiating heat from the shower. Draco's skin felt exceptionally soft, the slope of his back exquisitely formed, and the curve of his bottom ... Harry couldn't help it, he moaned as his fingers stretched out along that arse that fit so perfectly in his hand. Between his parted lips Draco's tongue plunged; the playfulness was gone, now he was openly demanding. Harry's stiffening cock was issuing similar demands as it rocked into the crease of his lover's hip, but his scratchy winter robes made for an uncomfortable prophylactic. "Clothes..." he gasped into Draco's mouth, "...hate clothes."
Harry was unsure if he'd been heard, because the tone of their kiss hardly changed, but then he felt his lover's chest shake with amusement, and after a moment he sat up. "Induviae desvestus," he whispered, with nothing more than a single touch of Harry's outer robe. Immediately their clothing disappeared, rematerializing on the wing-backed chair on the far side of the room. And now Draco was staring down possessively, like a king in a parapet surveying his lands and finding them much to his liking. Harry basked in this gaze, enjoying his own view of the stunning wizard. Draco's lips were swollen from kisses, bruised crimson staining purest porcelain. Still-damp hair caressed his long graceful neck and swung round his chin, darker where the fine strands clung together, shimmering like white gold. And those eyes, gone dusky as twilight, spun an enchantment around them, endless desire and utter fulfillment winding together eternally.
"I want you to teach me wandless magic," Harry said softly, hesitant to break the spell.
Draco frowned peevishly, although strangely Harry didn't think it diminished his beauty in the least. "You're taking this student thing a bit far, Potter."
"Not now, you git." Harry's fingertips smoothed the faint hairs on Draco's chest. "Now I want to feel you inside me."
The frown fled as Draco lowered himself onto his lover. "That I can definitely do."
Draco felt heavy, solid, his weight welcome after his recent frailty. Skin to skin they were now, a thousand times better in Harry's opinion. Spreading his legs wider, his cock slid into place flush against Malfoy's. His lover's forehead fell to Harry's shoulder as they began to grind together, slow and precise, their undulations a prelude to the wilder dance to come. Harry felt his senses swell, inundated with all things Draco. The chilled wet skin as his lover laved his throat ... the hint of salt he tasted as he sucked Draco's fingers ... the faintest scent of sandalwood shampoo ... the sharp intake of breath in Harry's ear when they thrust together harder than before. Merlin, the more he had of this man, the more he needed.
Harry ran his hand along the line of Malfoy's hip, slipping between their sweat-slicked bodies until he found Draco's sac, tight as an overripe plum. Squeezing it gently elicited another gasp and a sharp bite of his neck. Harry slid his hand up the length of Draco's cock. Like the man himself, Malfoy's erection stood long and straight; it throbbed as Harry's hand reached round his girth, and Harry moaned at the thought of how it would feel deep inside him.
When Draco started his slow crawl down Harry's body, and the friction between their bodies disappeared, Harry almost grumbled. But open-mouthed kisses pressed along the hinge of his jaw stilled his protests, and as they mapped the side of his neck, travelling west across his clavicle and dipping south to affront his nipples, Harry abandoned every complaint. Malfoy lapped at the pebbled nubs like a thirsty cat, his sharp little teeth ratcheting up the sensations when Harry's fingers tightened in his hair. Harry fisted the sheet with his other hand, holding himself together even as his body begged to explode. Malfoy's fingertips circling the sensitive head of his cock did nothing for his control, and Harry whimpered as he thrust wantonly against Draco's hand.
Wet sucking heat replaced that firm grip, sliding down Harry's length like a snug velvet glove and sending out ripples of intense pleasure all the way to Harry's toes. Harry wanted to plunge himself into that blissful heat, needed to feel himself completely enveloped in that sleek wet heaven, but he'd only begun tensing his hips when a firm hand squeezed his balls hard, a reminder of who was in charge. When Harry forced back his building climax, he was rewarded by inquisitive, insistent fingers exploring the cleft of his arse. Not caring how eager it seemed, Harry's legs sprawled wider, begging Malfoy to continue.
Stopping his exertions on Harry's cock for just a moment, Draco murmured a quiet lubrication spell before his sleek finger breached Harry's hole. Shuddering, Harry bore down on the intruder, thankful it was Malfoy's longest that slid deep into his channel. But he wanted more, was absolutely dying for more, and even a second finger did little to staunch his hunger. "Want you, Draco," he gasped out, lifting his head to look at his lover. Malfoy tortured him by sucking even harder and penetrating him with a third finger, staring at Harry all the while through eyes dark as thunderclouds. The extraordinary sight of those rosy lips around his glistening cock almost unravelled Harry. "Please, Draco, I need you to fuck me."
Malfoy's lips smiled around Harry's shaft. "Desperation's a good look for you," he teased as he sat up, tugging Harry's ankles onto his shoulders.
"Stars, how does he look mischievous and haughty and so incredibly desirable at the same time?" Harry didn't care about desperation, and he didn't care how vulnerable he was as his body folded in on itself, revealing his most hidden place to his erstwhile enemy. "Fuck, Malfoy, just fuck me already." Harry tried to glower, but he doubted it was very effective, seeing how Draco was grinning.
But at least he did as he was told, which at the moment was all that Harry cared about. Straight into Harry's channel he slid, one smooth glide that didn't stop until Draco's balls pressed flush against Harry's back. Harry felt his overstretched muscles burn, skating along the exquisite edge of pain as Draco withdrew and penetrated him again and again. And Harry wanted more, so much more. Digging his fingernails deep enough to leave half-moons in Draco's thighs, Harry urged him on, faster, harder, wanting to feel that smouldering ache, that physical proof of Draco's presence. With each thrust there was just a bit more of that delicious friction, a bit more burning heat, until pain ignited into the purest pleasure. The men moved perfectly together, energy and magic flowing between them as smoothly as blood pumping through a single body. And when they came, and he heard Draco breathe out his given name, Harry was certain that nothing else in the world existed save the two of them.
Draco collapsed without ceremony, so spent he could barely roll off Harry's stomach. Harry was just as exhausted himself, his arms so heavy he wondered whether he could reach his wand to clean their sticky bellies. Only when the room began to feel chilly against his sweaty skin did he summon the energy to do so.
As they pulled the warm bedcovers up around them, Draco rolled onto his side, his arm cradling his head as he studied Harry. He appeared deep in thought, and Harry waited for him to speak. It took several minutes before he finally said, "Do you really think I should come to Hogwarts with you?"
"I think you should do what you want. But I would like it if you decided to, very much."
Draco smiled mysteriously at Harry before rolling onto his back. "There's the answer to your question right there."
"What question is that?"
"The question you've asked me almost every day since I got out of the hospital: Why I stood with you against the Dar– against Voldemort."
Harry replayed the last part of their conversation, trying in vain to pick out any clues to Draco's nebulous reasoning. At last he admitted, "I don't understand."
Draco chuckled softly. "Of course you don't. It's so obvious to you, you don't even see it."
"So are you going to explain or are you just going to be a smug bastard?"
"I can't do both?"
Harry threw a half-hearted punch at his lover's chest, which Draco easily defused by burying his fingers inside the loose fist.
"You're right, it wasn't bravery. I told Weasley about St. Mungo's because I was terrified that He'd get ahold of you."
"You can be afraid and be brave too..."
Draco cut him off before he could finish. "Shut it, Potter. I've heard all that tripe, and I understand that it works for you, but it doesn't for me." His tone gentled. "I didn't help the Weasel because I was brave. I did it because it seemed like a relatively safe way to get the job done, that's all. And I'm fine with that."
"But what you did that night, that wasn't safe at all. You might not have survived. And Millicent said..." Harry hesitated to bring up the guilt that had gnawed at the back of his mind since talking to the Healer, but he had to know if he really was to blame for it. "She said that even might be what you wanted."
"Yeah," Draco sighed. "I was afraid she might've said something like that to you. She tried to bring that up again today—how I need to 'own the destructive impulses driven by my unbearable guilt.' Frankly, I think all those psych courses she's taken have warped her good Slytherin instincts. Granted, now that I remember everything, there are things I wish I'd done differently. But going out in a blaze of glory was hardly going to make up for making 'Potter Stinks' badges, was it? Or even for trying to kill Dumbledore."
Feeling the weight on his shoulders start to budge, Harry turned to face his lover. "Then you didn't do it because you thought I'd hate you?"
"What would have been the sense in that? I suspect I've more chance of changing your mind alive than dead." Draco flashed a lusty grin that made Harry's cheeks go warm. Then he shrugged. "Besides, what would I have gotten out of that? Sorry, Potter, but the thought of you pining over my tragic redemption doesn't do much for me."
"Fair enough," conceded Harry as casually as he could, although he felt lighter than he had in days. "And I'm glad you stuck around to change my mind. But you've only told me why you didn't do it, not why you did."
"You asked me what it was I wanted."
Draco stopped there, seeming to think that explanation was enough. But Harry was as baffled as before. He expected more, he needed more, and he squeezed Draco's hand impatiently. "Yeah? And?"
"It's so obvious to you that you don't even notice it," Draco said, chuckling with disbelief. "Harry, don't you see? Nobody ever asked me that before. Well, not anyone I trusted, anyway. Dumbledore did, I suppose, but that was to suit his own purposes. And my father..." Draco's voice faltered and his lips froze even as a flood of emotion poured across his features. They passed so rapidly that Harry couldn't begin to identify them. He wondered if they'd stolen Draco's tongue away, but after a moment the man spoke again, his voice rougher than before. "I loved my father, but it will be hard to forgive him. He made his choices, and then he made them mine. Everything was laid out for me, my classes, my career, even the position I'd play on the Quidditch team. Harry, as soon as I got home for Christmas seventh year, he congratulated me because I was going to be branded with the Mark. As if I'd applied for the privilege or something. And Voldemort..." Draco snorted, but there wasn't an ounce of humour in the sound. "The only choice he ever gave me was whether to cruciate you or my mother."
Harry didn't know what to say. It wasn't pity he felt; he knew too well what it felt like to be on an inevitable course, and he could empathise with the futility that came with wrestling against your own destiny. But he'd been able to stay that course because he believed it was the right one. Draco hadn't even had that reassurance. He'd simply followed, unquestioningly, obediently. "That's not right ... that's not you," Harry said quietly, thinking how the Draco he knew must have chafed at such an existence. He understood now. Draco had made his stand because he wanted to decide his own future, one in which he was true to himself. And for the first time he recognised that he could.
It was only after the words left his tongue that Harry realised they wouldn't make sense to anyone who wasn't privy to his thoughts. Once again, though, Draco was able to follow them, though, for his sad expression evaporated as a wide smile filled his face. "No, that's not me at all." He rolled over to face Harry, his thumb tracing the line of Harry's jaw. "I'm twenty-three years old, and it's time I finally decided for myself what I really want."
There was no need for Harry to ask if he was included in that. In the day's last light, Draco's face was completely unguarded; he didn't need any mask, not when he could be whoever he wanted to be. And the kiss he pressed to Harry's lips was more convincing than words could ever be.
It snowed all through that long January night, the deepest snow that London had seen in years. Children still home for the holidays built armies of snowmen with carrot noses and coal-black eyes, and couples strolling down the snow-covered pavement held mittened-hands as they ducked around the frosty sentries. Old folks sat before their tellies, drinking hot cocoa and watching meteorologists scratch their heads at the unforeseen blizzard. Around Grimmauld Square, where the snow seemed to be the heaviest, drifts stretched along the length of the wrought iron fences, their peaked angles corralling a sparkling white sea.
And in a townhouse high above the park slept two men who, no longer haunted by their pasts, could for the first time dream of happily ever after.
THE END
Previous | Back to the beginning
My endless thanks to
sarcastic_jo, not just my beta but also my sounding board and inspiration. Also, a huge thanks to seleneheart and shellydkitty for their encouragement every single step of the way.
Beautiful love story on top of it all!!
And thank you so much for your encouragement on this story over the last ... has it really been over four months? Sure doesn't seem like it. But really, I truly appreciate your support and comments. They kept me going!
This has been a beautiful and thrilling story--I'm so pleased I got to come along for the ride. I'm a bit wordless at the moment, so you'll have to excuse me!
Dude, so much love for the Rita scene to come full circle. I just love her little quotes showing her slant on everything Harry says.
And the last scene was lovely and hopeful and I totally can see that: Draco just wanted a choice and Harry was the first person to give it to him. Like
Really wonderful, hon! ♥
Thank you too for saying that about Draco as a developed and realized character. Honestly, that was what drove me to write this story, to see Draco fleshed out in a way that JKR neglected to do.
And many thanks for coming along on this ride! It was always so encouraging to get your comments and know you were interested in my little world.
Excellent story.
But the reason I'm commenting again is that I suddenly remembered from chapter 14 that you mentioned Harry's ex boyfriend, Kristján Leifs. My little, Icelandic heart always beats a little bit faster when I see someone mention my tiny, little Iceland. Thank you for that, it made the story just a bit more interesting on my behalf.
Ísafold
And I'm so glad you appreciated the Icelandic comment! One of the countries that's at the top of my list to visit!
It was incredibly frustrating for me, because I was suffering with Harry, first because no-one remembered what he remembered and then that he was locked up in St. Mungos and thought to be crazy. Not to mention Harry's love for Draco, and the anguish and doubts about Draco's real motives.
I couldn't stop reading, needed more and more. The characterisations were brilliant and I loved the plot!
I did make poor Harry go through a lot here, I'm afraid, poor boy. But he's so pretty when he suffers.
Thanks so much for reading!
:)
I really loved everything about it, especially the plot and the suspense - I couldn't stop reading, I was so immersed - the post-war vision you created was ineffably captivating. The dismal insidiousness of that comprehensive memory spell and Harry's quandary in this nightmarish situation was very convincing.
I loved how you didn't make Harry into the all-powerful hero, choosing instead to show him as an ordinary man, trying to make the best of the situation he found himself in. He's still special, there's no doubt about that. But it's his humanity and inherent good nature, as well as his strength of character that make him stand out.
And your Draco was amazing! Stripped of his past, he really had a chance to prove himself as his own person, and make his own decisions, and he fared remarkably well.
Ok, I'll stop gushing now :) and just reiterate that I loved it! *g*
Also, do you have a Livejournal account as well?
Re: :)
And no, I don't have an LJ account, I'm just on IJ now,
Re: :)
Re: :)
Wow
I loved the characterisations more than anything. The depth and breadth with which you examined the characters made my little mathematical heart melt.
Although I did love 'Of Eros and of Dust' better, I did like this quite a lot too! =)
--
Iris
Re: Wow
I am so happy that you enjoyed it! I love "Of Eros and of Dust" myself, I think that's the story I'm most proud of, but I did fall in love with some of the characters here that just weren't explored enough in canon. *loves Milli*
Thanks for your wonderful comment!
*deep breath*
Your characters. They just leap off the screen and into my brain. I was just there with Harry, worrying about Draco, trying to work out what was going on. I swear I actually got adrenaline rushes along the way. Draco, with his complex motivations and limited options, was just perfect. You really got the Slytherin mentality, and how it could be both manipulative and protective, which was wonderful to see.
The magical theory was wonderful. (Look, I love good magical theory so much it might verge on being an actual kink.) It was complicated and twisty, but also logical. I love that you put so much thought into making the magic make sense. I also loved the little details like the winged sapphires, which are so original and adorable.
The mystery plot was solid. You didn't telegraph the twists, but you did give away just enough to pick up some of the key points without being able to see the whole pattern. (Without making it hopelessly obscure. "Lost", I'm looking at you.) I had to think about what was going on, and I enjoyed doing it.
Solid historical background! The Damnatio Memoriae, and Horus as the origin of the Horcruxes, and...
Shall I just shut up and offer you my hypothetical first-born now? Basically, this story is amazing and you are wonderful. I'm going to go and adkfhdgsdgd a bit more now.
I'm so happy that you liked this! I especially appreciate that you liked my Slytherins so much. *cuddles them* I really fell hard for Millicent while I was writing this. And I'm SO glad to find another sucker for plotty fics. It was so much fun trying to fit all this together, and I'm thrilled that you enjoyed reading it!
Also, I apologise for taking so long to respond to your comment. I have no excuse. *waves hands at RL* But it made me immensely happy!
(And btw, I adore your icon!!)
I am glad to have made you happy, because you have made me happy. I try to leave more constructive comments than, "That was good", but that one was epic. I may also have had to go rec it to all 10 people who read my journal.
The Myrtle icon is so unapologetic, I love it. I figure it's fair warning for everyone. :o)
The way you construct and careful create both characters and storyline just makes your writing so utterly pleasurable to read that I'm not even mad at myself for being awake at 4am again!
Loved it loved it loved it- am so thankful to those "SEXY awards" for alerting me to your fics (since I'm rubbish on LJ- I just never understand how to find stuff!!!)
Thanks again- Flippa x