Actions

Work Header

This Day

Chapter Text

“I really don’t think this is a good idea Harry,” Hermione said, as she did every year.

“I know Hermione. But I need it. I’ll be careful I promise,” replied Harry, just as he did every year.

It was a warm morning. Bright early sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating the kitchen of Harry’s flat. He still owned Grimmauld place of course, but he preferred to avoid that place, haunted as it was by the unhappiness of so many generations.

Hermione stared hard at Harry, trying to assess him mental state just from his features. He carefully schooled them into his ‘calm and okay’ face. He just needed her to go. She was the only one who dared enter his flat on this day, and even she was not welcome. But on this day of all days, Harry remembered what he owed her, and he let her fuss. At least she understood.

“Wand,” she said, holding out her hand. Harry handed it over. He didn’t need it anymore of course, but old habits die hard. In exchange for this valuable hostage, this show of absolute trust, he received a muggle first aid kit. Hermione had already removed all the knives and scissors from the kitchen, but she of all people knew that Harry didn’t need anything as commonplace as weapons to injure himself. Sighing deeply, she stepped into the green flames of the floo and disappeared. Harry sighed too, but with relief not worry. He would not force her to go, would never do a thing to hurt her, but she was not welcome. Not on this day.

He rummaged in the cupboard and produced a chipped and dirty mug bearing the words “A present from Morecambe”. He shook out the spiders and produced one of the bottles of fire-whiskey he hoarded for this day from behind the bread bin. He filled the mug and wandered into the living room, where he collapsed onto the sofa, staring listlessly at the mess.

He was not normally untidy, but in the week leading up to the anniversary the depression built. He did not need time off work; it was a national holiday, which was a good thing because he was no good to anyone. To begin with he stopped washing up. Then tidying or cleaning. Then shaving. Then eating. His friends rarely saw him at this time, and those that did knew better than to say anything. Hermione is dealing with it, they said, and left it at that.

Hermione. Just the thought of her name filled him with guilt, and he had hardly begun his drink. He was not worthy of her. He shouldn’t even be near her. She was so good, so kind, a shining example of all that was pure and good and right in the world. What was he but a filthy murderer? There were days (like this one) when he was afraid to go near her in case he corrupted her, damaged her purity and beauty somehow, by his poisonous presence.

Like Ginny. So good, so brave. She was doing well, her team had come third in the national league last season. Still waiting for him though. Still seeing the child he had been. She couldn’t see what he had become. Couldn’t see the darkness in his heart. He avoided her, hoping she would find another, some knight in shining armour who would sweep her off her feet, keep her safe and happy. Keep her pure and shining. She wasn’t for him. He was too damaged, too broken, too evil for her.

He had bourn the darkness of his link with Voldemort for too long. The taint of it had sunk deep inside him. That was the only explanation. He was tainted by evil. Evil had made a home for itself within him, and he was beyond hope. He took another sip from his drink. The amber liquid burned. It burned like he imagined holy water would. But he loved that burn, craved it. Not the alcohol, though that helped to calm the torment of his mind, helped him cope. It was the heat, the slight pain that he needed. Later there would be more. Later he would pay for every death, every hurt. Hermione would find him tomorrow. She would heal him and put him too bed and say nothing. But that was later and he was a coward. He couldn’t do what he knew he must until he had drunk some more of this delicious fire.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He had finished the first bottle when he began smashing things. Glasses thrown at walls, his fist through a vase. And then anything and everything. He tore the cushions on the settee, loving the feeling of power, the wonderful sick tearing noise as the fabric submitted to him. Pictures were torn from their frames, the mantelpiece collapsed in a wonderful cacophony of sound. The clock stopped, the little silence suddenly noticeable among the pain of noise. When at last there was nothing left to smash, he began on the second bottle. Then he began on himself.

He unleashed his magic, knowing the wards would hold it, letting himself go wild. Around him the flat creaked and groaned, but held. The same could not be said for the furniture. A cupboard, still fat with tins and jars, tore itself from the wall and came hurtling towards him. He did not duck. His magic sucked and pulled shards of broken glass and splinters towards him, faster and faster, hitting him hard enough to send him spinning, His glasses cracked but held. Protecting his eyes. The air was full of floating furniture and fittings, swirling like a hurricane, with Harry at the centre, watching wide-eyed as his attackers got closer and closer.

A little cut on his arm. Mysterious little cut, appearing by magic. Funny. All magic. Floating baked beans, sink, cupboard doors, all magic. Broken glasses, no good. Off they pop, down with all the other broken glass. And now the world is fuzzy, blurry. Fuzzy blurry shapes attacking. Was that beans or soup? Hurt like soup. Probably tomato.

Noise. Strange noise, out of place noise. People noise. No people today. Knock knock knock. Ding dong. Knock knock knock. Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing dong. Knockety knock. Harry scowled. No-one was allowed here today. Today was his day. His day for atoning. His day for drink and pain and punishment.

“Not here,” he shouts his voice as blurry as the world around him. Why? Blood in his mouth. Not enough teeth.

Words now. Mutter mutter mutter, outside his door. Magic words. Opening words. Trying to break his wards. Open the door. Tell the mutterer to go.

He wrenches open the door. Blond man shape standing there. Very fuzzy. Won’t go away. Slam the door. Door won’t shut.

A brief struggle, brawn against magic. Magic wins. The fuzzy man shape marches into the destroyed living room. Blonde man is talking. Saying words, so many words.

“…enough of this Potter. You think you’re the only one who suffered? The only one who lost people? The only one who had to kill to survive? It was a war Potter. Civil war. It touched everyone. We all mourn but right now people need you. Why aren’t you out there giving people hope? Giving condolences? Supporting my bloody ministry? Doing anything other than just sitting here moping!”

Harry didn’t know what to say. His magic had calmed and with it his mind. And now he was standing in the middle of his wrecked living room, with an out of focus blond man who could only be Draco Malfoy, deputy minister of magic, shouting at him. He suddenly realised he was angry.

“Why are you here Malfoy? No one comes here on this day. No one! Everyone knows I spend the anniversary alone.”

“Granger comes here.”

“I owe her too much to throw her out. But even she has the courtesy to leave almost straight away. This is not a public day!”

Anger is good, hot. He can feel his magic beginning to rise again, beginning to swirl, picking up little bits at first, just dust and glass but swirling faster and faster.

Then Malfoy punches him on the jaw. That shocks him. Surprises him. It takes him a minute to work out the correct response. And then he breaks Malfoy’s nose.

And then they are fighting in earnest, fists colliding with tender flesh, nails tearing at skin, wands and magic forgotten.

And then he doesn’t really know how it happened, but he’s on the floor and Draco is on top of him, straddling him, with his hand around Harry’s neck.

“Fuck you Potter,” he snarls. “I came here intending to be civil. I wanted to help you. But if you want pain...”

And then he does something strange. He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Harry’s shoulder. Harry whimpers, and then cries out when he feels Malfoy’s teeth break the skin. He was getting hard from the warm weight above him, and the expression on Malfoy’s face, when he grins at Harry, blood dripping down his chin, doesn’t help to lessen Harry’s straining erection.

Malfoy feels it, he knows, because he laughs and grinds down against him, making Harry whimper in pleasure and pain as the rough fabric of his jeans rubs against his sensitive flesh.

He does it again and Harry gasps and calls Malfoy’s name. Malfoy snarls at him, his teeth still covered in Harry’s blood, then raises one hand and slaps Harry’s face hard, loving the way Harry shudders beneath him at the blow. Then he does it again, just because he can.

He thought they had a truce, he and Harry. He thought he’d put all the school-boy bitterness aside. He’d even had counselling for it for fucks sake, as though he were an American! But now he had Potter at his mercy, Potter shuddering beneath him, the taste of Potter’s blood in his mouth he knew it never went away. He just buried it deep. And now it’s all come bubbling to the surface again.

He grabs Harry’s hair and tugs hard, his already interested cock becoming rock hard as he watches Harry writhe beneath him. And then he knows. Knows without a shadow of a doubt. He needs to fuck Potter. He’s going to fuck Potter. No matter what Potter might have to say about it. The word rape never enters him mind. It is simply something which is going to be.

Methodically he begins to rip Potter’s clothing from him, though he can’t resist stopping every now and then to cause some little pain, or to dip his head and run his tongue over the still weeping bite mark at the other man’s neck. He feels like if he doesn’t keep that taste on his tongue this might all turn out to be unreal, just a dream of a fantasy. But then he’s never fantasised about Potter before.

“Never made him scream before,” he mutters to himself. If Potter heard him he gives no indication of the fact, writhing and moaning beneath Draco. It occurs to him then that Potter is lying in broken glass. That thought makes him shiver and he lies down, pressing him body against Potters and grinds against him, listening hard, trying to capture every little noise, be it pleasure or pain.

Finally, finally, Potter is naked. Naked in all his bruised and bleeding glory. Fuck, Draco knows he shouldn’t like looking at him, not this much. He shouldn’t allow that one idle little thought about how Potter is pretty into his head. To compensate, he slaps Potters face again, harder this time, and feels his cheek connect with his teeth.

His erection is beginning to get desperate now, begging him for release. “Soon,” he whispers to it. Then louder, more deliberate, “I’m going to fuck you Potter. Here, on your back amongst all the broken glass I’m going to fuck you till you scream.

Harry just whimpers. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore, so much pain but mixed in is so much pleasure. His whole body’s on fire with sensation, his nerve endings screaming for his attention. He can’t think anymore, not really. But based on the past ten minutes he’s pretty sure it’s a good idea to go with whatever Malfoy suggests. So far he’s been incredible, giving him the pain that he needs, needs so much it frightens him, and the pleasure he craves so much but has been denying himself.

“Up Potter,” a voice behind him growls. “On your hands and knees,” and he can’t help but obey, struggling to get tortured muscles to obey him, sliding on the layer of splinters and broken glass, wincing as his thus far protected knees come into contact with the mess on the floor. But it never occurs to him not to obey. The word rape never enters his mind. This is something that has to be. And besides, right now he’d do anything Draco told him too. Without needing to be told he spread his legs and arched his back just a little, exposing himself, then he just holds himself as still as he can, braced for whatever Draco’s going to do to him.

He hears a little grasp behind him, then without warning, Draco pushes one of his fingers inside him, the lack of lube making even that small intrusion hurt. He cries out, which seems to spur Malfoy on. Harry only has a few moments to adjust before another finger is added and then only a few seconds later a third.

He hears a spell that he doesn’t recognize, and braces himself for pain, but none comes. And then Malfoy’s fingers are gone and are replaced with something far larger and then he knows what the spell was.

He almost protests at the gentleness with which Malfoy breaches him, but the protest is knocked from his lips as Malfoy pulls back and slams into him without waiting for him to adjust. He sways forward with the force of the thrust and scrabbles to get some purchase on the wreckage that covers his floor.

The glass on the floor isn’t cutting his hands and knees so much as worming its way beneath his skin and it’s agonising enough to kill any arousal but he’s so high on endorphins and pain and arousal that it just adds an incredible edge to his pleasure and he thrusts back against Malfoy, mewling his pleasure, unable to articulate words.

Just when the pleasure was nearly at its peak, Draco grabs his hair and jerks his head back painfully, pulling the skin taught and making the bite mark begin to bleed again.

“Say it,” he snarled into Harry’s ear, making him shiver. “Say my name.”

“Malfoy,” Harry gasped, and then screamed when the man above him dug sharp fingernails into his bloody back. “Draco!”

Draco gave a breathless laugh and reached down and wrapped one hand around Harry’s cock, stroking hard and fast and being less than careful about his nails.

His other hand gripped even tighter on Harry’s hip as he thrust harder. He gritted his teeth, trying to delay his orgasm, determined not to come until Harry did.

At last he felt Harry tense even more below him and when he cried his name, Draco couldn’t hold back any longer. One last hard thrust and he was crying his own orgasm. The pleasure was so overwhelming it was almost painful, and for long minutes he held still, shuddering with the aftershocks.

At last he pulled out of Harry’s shaking body and dragged himself to the sofa, which was the only piece of furniture still half intact, and collapsed.

After a few minutes of silence he cracked an eye and sneaked a glance at the prone form of Potter, still lying among the debris.

“Merlin,” he croaked. “Please don’t tell me I’ve killed Harry Potter.” He closed his eyes again. “There goes my political career.”

He was more relieved than he’d ever admit when he was answered by a tired chuckle from the region of the floor.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Harry tried to move, groaned and collapsed back into a prone position. “I really don’t want to move,” he muttered. “Usually I end up unconscious and by the time I come round Hermione has healed me and put me to bed.”

“So why not just stay where you are?” came a sleepy voice from the sofa.

“Because I’m not usually naked. And it smells of sex in here. Plus there’s the added fact that you’re here.”

That last was clearly a question, Harry angling to find out what Draco intended to do now he’d fucked him into oblivion.

This time it was Draco who chuckled. “Merlin, I’d love to see her face. Can you imagine?”

Harry smiled. “That would be worth seeing. But definitely not worth the aftermath. She’d kill us both.”

Draco sighed deeply and forced himself to sit up. He surveyed the room and then finally its owner.

“I ‘spose that means we’re going to have to clean up in here. Starting with you. Merlin you look a mess Potter.”

“And whose fault is that Malfoy?” Harry sighed deeply and slowly and carefully began to sit up and eventually to stand.

“Christ Malfoy,” he groaned. “You really know how to leave your mark.”

Draco smiled smugly and pulled himself up. “Right then Potter. Let’s gets started.” He reached his hand to Potter. “Shall we take this too the bedroom?”

Potter looked nonplussed but he did as he was told, taking Draco’s hand and leading him to the bedroom.

At Draco’s instruction he settled himself on the bed, lying on his stomach. Draco settled himself above him, straddling his hips, and slowly and methodically began to draw out all the pieces of glass and debris that had become imbedded in the delicate skin of Harry’s back.

By the time Harry’s skin was ready to be healed, Draco’s legs were going to sleep and he had a crick in his neck from bending over. Finally though, he was able to cast a healing spell. He hadn’t got the skill or the power to completely heal him, but at least there were no open wounds.

Then and only then he allowed the exhaustion to wash over him. Sighing deeply he shoved Harry across and collapsed next to him. He was just awake enough to pull a blanket over the two on them before they were both asleep.

Chapter Text

When Hermione arrived the next morning, she was surprised to find that Harry wasn’t in his usually spot, collapsed in the middle of his living room floor. There was the usual destruction, and a lot of blood, but no Harry.

Concerned at this variation from his already troubling pattern of behaviour she went in search of him. Eventually she located him. He was in bed, collapsed on top of the covers, with only a thin blanket covering him. It had worked itself down in the night, so that it left his back uncovered. She gasped when she saw the hundreds of livid white marks, showing where just hours before there are been wounds.

Someone had healed him. She knew it wasn’t Harry. He couldn’t control his power level without his wand. He was perfectly capable of healing himself, but if he’d done it there wouldn’t be any marks. Last time he’d tried to wandlessly heal a papercut on his thumb he’d ended up curing the entire ministry staff of everything they had, including one case of baldness. This wasn’t Harry’s work. Someone had been here.

She was about to begin another thorough search of the house, to try and find some clues about Harry’s mysterious benefactor, when she heard the unmistakable sound of a kettle coming to the boil.

She followed the noise into the kitchen and stopped dead at what she saw. Draco Malfoy, deputy minister for magic, was standing in Harry’s kitchen, wearing the vivid orange Chuddley Cannon’s boxers she had vainly attempted to persuade Ron not to give Harry last Christmas. He was making tea.

As she stood, frozen with shock, he said, without turning around, “I know orange isn’t my colour Granger, but there’s no need to stare. They were the only things I could find that fitted me.”

He turned around holding two steaming mugs of tea. “Have a seat,” he said graciously, as though it were perfectly natural for him to be semi-naked in Harry Potter’s kitchen making her cups of tea.

Not knowing what else to do, she sat on the only remaining chair in the flat. Somehow it, and the kitchen table, had survived Harry’s destruction. Actually now she thought about it, a lot more of the flat than usual had survived. That was interesting, but she wasn’t sure if it was good.

The tea Malfoy passed her was too dark for her tastes, but it was hot and comforting and she had a feeling she was going to need its reassurance in the next few minutes. So she accepted it as politely as she could, and sat quietly, staring at Malfoy and blowing on her tea to cool it.

Malfoy transfigured one of the larger bits of kitchen cupboard into a chair and sat down, sipping his tea and pretending not to notice her staring at him. Eventually though, he put down his cup and met her stare.

“I suppose you want an explanation?” he asked calmly. It was only then that she noticed a dark smear that looked worryingly like dried blood at the corner of his mouth and realised with a shock that she hadn’t checked Harry’s pulse.

Malfoy apparently read her mind. “He’s alive Granger. I checked this morning just to be sure.”

“You were here yesterday,” she asked, not quite believing what she was being told.

“Yes Granger. Hence why I am wearing Hero boy’s disgustingly garish boxers.”

“You were here yesterday,” she repeated, as if in a trance, “on that day and Harry didn’t kill you?”

“Well I’m going to be stiff and sore for a week if that’s any help,” he said with a small, not entirely pleasant smile.

That was when it really hit her. It had been obvious from the start, but she didn’t believe it until then. “You had sex.” It wasn’t a question, simply a statement of fact.

“Well done Granger. You’ve correctly stated the obvious, once again reminding me of your brilliance.”

Apparently sleeping with Harry hadn’t made Malfoy any nicer.

“Why,” she asked bluntly. “And why yesterday?”

“You think I took advantage of his vulnerable state?” Malfoy sneered. “Well done, you are perfectly correct. I must stress however that is not why I came here. The idea of sex with Potter had simply never crossed my mind. I came here to try and reason with him about his refusal to attend the Memorial service.”

“So at what point did it cross your mind?” Hermione asked, barely controlling her temper.

“He started it,” Draco said rather petulantly. “He let his powers go with me in the room. Naturally I hit him.”

“So you decided to pick a fight with Harry Potter, on the anniversary of Voldemort’s death? You actually attacked one of the six most powerful wizards of all time. On the one day you knew he wouldn’t be able to control his powers. And this naturally to you suggested sex?” He tone was scathing, but she was actually a little impressed. Facing down Harry in a rage was no mean feat.

“No Granger. It wasn’t until I’d pinned him down, in an attempt to stop him maiming me I might add, and he made it clear he was enjoying it far more than was decent, that the idea of sex with Potter occurred to me. And by then it as too late to back out.”

“What exactly do you mean, too late?” she asked.

“Oh come on Granger, you’re the one with the qualifications in mind healing. Work it out. I’ve spent my whole life in Potter’s shadow, my whole life being second best to him. My whole life obsessing over him, I freely admit it. And then suddenly I’ve got him pinned beneath me, hard and needy and covered with blood, practically begging me to hurt him. All rational though had gone out of the window by that point.” He smirked again. “If I had been thinking rationally I still would have done it, but I’d have found some way to record it.”

“So this is all some childish plan to humiliate Harry?” Hermione asked angrily.

“Merlin Granger, don’t be so dim. Who do you think has more to lose here if this gets out? Sweet brave Harry Potter who can do no wrong in the eyes of the public, or me? Ex-death eater turned unpopular politician. Eldest son of a famously conservative pureblood family. My father might be in Azkaban but he can still disinherit me.”

“So you’re not planning to sell the story. That doesn’t make it okay. I mean fuck it Malfoy, I don’t think Harry’s even gay!”

“Trust me Granger, he was not that drunk. And that definitely wasn’t his first time with a man.”

Hermione was shocked at that. How could she have missed something that important?! But that could wait. Right now she wanted to get the bottom of the problem in front of her.

“What did you mean Harry was begging you to hurt him? Malfoy if you’ve laid a finger on him...”

“Sweet Circe Granger, I’m really beginning to wish I’d left and let Potter deal with you. Trying to be nice is obviously a bad idea.

“Yes I hurt him. A lot. Yes, that is his blood on my lips. I fucked him in the debris out there. He’s going to be picking broken glass out of his knees for weeks. And you know what? He loved it. He begged me for it and I’m willing to bet he’s never had a better orgasm in his life!”

“He hasn’t” said a quiet voice from the doorway. “Hi ‘Mione. Morning Draco. Thank you for not leaving before I woke up.” The smile Harry gave Malfoy was so beaming that Hermione knew he’d fallen. Hard.

Harry managed to tear himself away from the object of his affects and concentrate on Hermione.

“Thank you for coming ‘Mione, but Draco will help me clear up here. I need to talk to him.” He gave Malfoy a pleading look and to her amazement Malfoy gave a small nod.

Hermione sighed inwardly, but Harry was more than capable of protecting himself. Nodding to Malfoy and giving Harry a peck on the cheek she left via the floo.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

When she’d gone, Harry and Malfoy stood and stared at one another for a long time. Eventually, unable to bear the loaded silence any more, Malfoy said, “Aren’t we supposed to be tidying up in here?”

Harry blinked at him for a moment, clearly trying to remember where he was, and then said glibly, “Oh that.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the living room and Draco shivered when he saw the furniture right itself and smashed glass reassemble. It was incredible, witnessing that amount of power, but more than a little terrifying.

“Cleaning done,” Harry said calmly. “Now we need to talk.”

Not knowing whether it was a good idea, but sure that he didn’t want to anger anyone that powerful, Draco followed him into the living room.

The room was spotless. The furniture was repaired, cleaned and in the case of the sofa, a different colour.

“I was bored of beige,” Harry announced cheerfully, collapsing onto his new maroon sofa. “It gets a bit boring after a while. I’ll have to buy a throw or something though. ‘Mione doesn’t approve of me doing big stuff. Not that this is big, but it’s bigger than she can do. It worries her. She likes things to work by the rules, be predictable. It upsets her world to be reminded that I can basically do anything I want.”

It was said with no particular pride, and certainly no boastfulness. It was simply a statement of fact. Malfoy didn’t know how to respond.

“Right then,” Harry said, turning to Malfoy and patting the sofa next to him. Malfoy sat nervously and waited to see what the impossible man next to him was going to say next. “What happens now?”

Malfoy blinked at him and then said, “I rather think that depends on you, Mr All-Powerful. What do you want to happen now?”

Harry looked thoughtful. “Well, last night. Is that the kind of thing you’re usually into?”

The question surprised Malfoy. He’d been expecting more sweetness and devotion from a world’s most famous Gryffindor. But then Harry kept surprising him. “Well as you might expect I was raised to be a sadist, to take pleasure in other’s pain. And it’s something I’ve indulged in occasionally. But actually, I’ve always thought myself to be fairly vanilla. Until last night that is.

“And I don’t know what’s so special about you, but I’m sitting here, knowing that the only part of you that’s been healed is your back, wondering whether I could persuade you to let me fuck you again without a healing spell first.”

Harry gasped, an involuntary little intake of breath. “So what you’re saying is that you’re vanilla, you just like hurting me?”

Draco gave him a crooked smile. “Yep, that about sums it up. What about you? Was yesterday just easier than self-harm, or is there a whole other side to you the papers have yet to discover?”

“Dunno. No one’s ever hurt me like that before.” There was a bitter laugh from next to Malfoy. “Never become a hero of the Wizarding world, Draco. It fucks with your sex life. Before you become a hero you’re too concerned with imminent doom and the looming destruction of all mankind to pay any attention. And afterwards everyone knows who you are and only wants you for your fame. And think that they have to treat you like you’re made of glass in case you evaporate them.” He glanced shyly at Draco. “I’d forgotten how nice it is to have someone genuinely dislike you.”

“Could you evaporate them?” asked Draco, out of a kind of sick fascination.

“Never tried. Probably. But only if I really want to. Mostly I can do what any wizard my age can do but on a bigger scale. It’s only when I feel really passionate about something that I can do impossible things.”

Draco wasn’t going to continue that line of enquiry. He knew what Potter was capable of when he felt really passionate. He’d been in the ministry for the death eater hearings. He’d seen Greyback die. He’d never forget the Werewolf’s screams. It had never been proved that it was Potter that did it, but there really was no other explanation.

“The one thing you still haven’t told me,” he said quietly, “is whether last night was about survivor’s guilt, or whether you think you might like to do it again some time when you’re not off your head on grief and fire-whiskey.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Harry said, grinning at him.

“You mean... Well I not going to object but frankly don’t think I’ve got the energy. I feel like I’ve been run over by a heard of Hippogryphs.”

“Well there’s a way to solve both problems,” Harry said with a smile. He reached out and very gently touched his finger tips to Draco’s forehead. Immediately Draco felt a rush of energy, like electricity so flowing through his body. He had never felt so alive, or awake, in his life.

“Apparently you do want it,” he said, almost vibrating with his borrowed energy. “Where?”

“Bedroom,” Harry said, getting up of the sofa. “Come on, you.”

Draco gave him a maniacal grin, buzzing like a drug addict. He followed Harry to the bedroom, trying not to bounce too much.

He stood in the doorway of the room, unsure of what to do next. Potter grinned at him and began to strip. He wasn’t wearing much and he wasn’t making any effort to be slow or sensuous, but watching that abused flesh revealed, inch by inch, was still an agonising wait for Draco.

Looking up and meeting Draco’s eyes, Harry seemed to notice for the first time that Draco was vibrating with energy. “Sorry,” he said, and coming over he took Draco’s hand.

He felt the energy ebbing until it was at a pleasant level. He felt now that he’d just woken up from a long refreshing sleep.

And now he could really appreciate the sight in front of him. Harry seemed completely unembarrassed by his nakedness and smiled as Draco surveyed him.

He hadn’t made any attempt to heal himself any more than Draco had and he still had a livid bite mark on his neck, surrounded by dried blood. His body was covered in bruises, and from the large spreading bruise on his side Draco suspected he might have a broken rib.

He looked beautiful, Draco thought, there really was no other word to describe it. He was pretty sure he needed to get medical help because it really wasn’t right. Alright he and Potter had never been friends, in fact they’d cordially hated one another throughout school, but he shouldn’t enjoy Potter’s pain this much. What was really odd was that he felt no malice towards Potter. He didn’t even dislike him that much anymore. But the sight of Potter’s bruised and battered body was making him shiver with anticipation.

He took a tentative step forward, and then another. Finally he was standing in front of Harry, not touching, but close enough that he could feel his body heat and the low thrum of magic that always surrounded him these days.

Slowly, carefully, as though trying not to startle a wild animal, he reached out and ran his fingers over Potter’s smooth skin, stroking the huge dark bruise that disfigured his left side.

Potter quivered under his gentle touch but held himself still, waiting to see what Malfoy would do next.

When Harry didn’t move away, Draco took another small step forward, bringing his clothed body into contact with Harry’s naked one for the first time. He put one finger under Harry’s chin and very gently tipped his head back slightly. Then dipping his head he pressed his lips to Potter’s.

The kiss was sweet and tentative and quite nice really. But there was none of the passion of their earlier encounter, none of the fire. Disappointed with his findings, Draco tangles one hand into Potter’s hair and yanks his head back, immediately following him, seeking out those soft lips again, and catching Potter’s gasps of pain.

And this time there’s fire and passion, and Potter is whimpering and clinging to him, finger nails digging deep into Draco’s back, making him moan, but making no attempt to take control. As soon as Draco hurt him, made him make that lovely little breathless moan he was making now, he went passive. He submitted. And that suits Draco just fine.

Opening one eye to stop himself from falling, Draco very carefully walks Potter back until his knees bumped against the edge of the mattress. Then and only then, Draco detached himself from Potter. Potter made a very gratifying little mewling noise of disappointment when he pulled away, then stands, waiting for Draco to make the next move.

He debated it briefly in him mind, but in the end Draco decided that Harry’s comfort is not high on his agenda. Smiling to himself, he reached out and shoved Harry back onto the mattress. The little cry of pain he gives when the fall jolted his broken rib made Draco shiver with delight.

Potter’s bedstead was a big, old fashioned, brass one. It looked out of place in the otherwise plain decor of the flat but it suited Draco’s purposes perfectly.

“Put your hands above you head Harry,” Draco instructed quietly. Potter obeys without hesitation. His submission is charming, but it’s the fact that he could kill Draco with a thought that has him hard with anticipation. Yes Potter’s not physically fighting back like he did yesterday, but he still has the power to end this at any moment. That element of danger adds a delicious edge of fear to Draco’s arousal.

Pulling his wand from his pocket he binds Potter’s hands to the bed head. The binding around his wrists is tight but he still has enough length of rope that he’ll able to hold onto to it.

Satisfied that Potter isn’t going anywhere Draco undresses. He makes no effort to be sexy or to tease. This is not a lover’s game, their earlier kiss proved that. This is about Draco getting off and preferably bringing Potter with him.

When he’s naked (and displaying more than a few cuts and bruises marring his otherwise smooth hairless skin) he climbs back onto the bed, kneeling above Potter, straddling his legs, and begins a thorough examination, finding all the sore spots, the wounds, and livid bruises.

Potter whimpers, how much from pain and how much from pleasure Draco doesn’t know and just at that moment he doesn’t much care.

He makes no attempt to be gentle as he prods at sores and wounds but Potter makes no more than quiet whimpers until Draco strokes his finger over the left side of the Potter’s ribcage. Then he cries out, a sound of pain that’s almost a scream.

Smiling wickedly Draco shuffles back and pushes Potters legs apart. Then kneeling between them he bends down, supporting himself on one elbow and takes Potter’s half hard cock into his mouth. Potter moans, his whole body shuddering. He’s wrenching at his bindings trying reach out, to tangle his hands in Draco’s hair. Then Draco reaches up and drags his fingernails hard over Potter’s broken rib. Potter screams in earnest then, thrusting his hips up hard, making Draco gag and shiver with pleasure.

Potter’s rock hard and his whole body is quivering with pain and pleasure and the tension in his muscles as he tries to force himself to keep still.

Draco bobs his head a few times, his tongue licking broad stripes up Potter thick cock, but very quickly he can’t bear to wait any longer. He pulls away and looks Potter in the eyes.

“Do you want it Harry?” he asks very seriously. He wants to hurt Potter and the idea of just taking him now without warning or preparation certainly appeals, but he didn’t want his political career ruined by a rape charge.

Potter stared at him as though he wasn’t quite sure what was happening then nodded.

“Are you going to heal yourself?”

Potter shook his head. He seemed to have elected not to speak, which suited Draco just fine. But right now Potter could be listing Potions ingredients or even describing his sexual encounters with the Weasleyette and Draco wouldn’t have cared. Potter had just agreed to let me fuck him without any healing.

“Lube?” he asked.

Then Potter had to speak. “Top drawer of the left hand beside cabinet,” he rasped, his voice sounding strained.

Draco leant over him and rummaged in the drawer, finally locating the little tub.

He smeared some on his fingers and began preparing Potter. He was gentle and slow, using all his considerable Malfoy self control to stop himself from taking things at his own pace. It was worth it though for the way Potter writhed and moaned beneath his gentle touches.

By the time Potter’s prepared he’s begging Draco to fuck him, his whole body undulating as he tried to force Draco’s finger’s deeper.

Draco pulls his fingers out and smears his cock liberally with lube. He pushes into Potter slowly intending to give him time adjust but Potter slams his hips up, forcing Draco’s cock into him in one quick hard thrust.

They both pant and Draco holds himself still, not sure what Potter wants, but he’s in no doubt when Potter gasps out “Fuck me Draco please.”

That breaks Draco’s control and he pulls back, thrusting forward hard and fast and without mercy. Potter gives a breathy cry of pain and arousal, his hands writhing against their bindings.

Draco sets his hands either side of Potter’s broad shoulders and begin to thrust in earnest, setting a bruising pace. He restrains himself from being quite as rough as he had been the night before, but Potter’s still screaming in pain after only a few thrusts.

As soon as he hears those gorgeous sounds Draco gives up all pretence of being gentle and sets the pace he wants, pounding into Potter brutally, causing cries of pain and pleasure in equal measure.

Despite Potter’s cries of pleasure Draco could tell he was no where as close as he was to the brink of orgasm. He grabbed his wand from where it lay on the bedside table and freed Potter’s hands. Immediately one of them went to his cock, the other griping tightly to the bed head.

His hand moved in rhythm with Draco’s thrusts, his body gasping and writhing beneath him, his skin flushed and the bruises bright, and Draco thinks he looked stunning.

To Draco’s chagrin he came first, wave after wave of delicious pleasure pulsing through him, making him arch his back and cry out.

Potter gasps, his hand speeding up on his cock, his eyes tight shut as he pleasures himself. Draco watches him for moment, then dips his head, craning his neck slightly, and sinks his teeth hard and deep into the soft fragrant skin of Potter’s neck.

Potter cries out, and then cries out again, this time a noise of equal parts unbearable pleasure and terrible pain as Draco’s teeth break the skin. Draco tastes blood and he’s sure that he will never get enough of that taste. It’s delicious and addictive and if he hadn’t just come it would have made him hard instantly.

Potter’s hand is moving with jerky speed, his head hanging, his breath coming in pants. Draco can see he’s very close, teetering on the brink of orgasm.

Propping himself up with his elbow Draco touches one hand to Potter’s torso, stroking the smooth flesh gently, almost reverently. Then without warning he dug in his nails and dragged his hand down, scoring lines of red over the tanned flesh and then over the purple black that marked Potter’s broken rib. Potter gasped, arched into the cruel touch and came, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure.

As soon as he came Harry’s magic lashed out soaking into Draco’s skin and surrounding him with a brief flash of vivid green light. As Harry panted and relaxed the glow faded leaving behind perfectly healed skin which showed no mark of their previous wounds.

They collapsed together on the bed, their bodies twining around one another of their own accord. Draco was not a natural cuddler but he had no real objections to cuddling and he could quite see why Harry needed it after that. So he allowed himself to be snuggled and even stroked Potter’s hair. It was far softer than it looked and it smelt nice, even after everything they’d done.

“What happens now?” asked Potter in a small voice, making Draco jump. He’d thought him asleep. He decided that was his cue to get dressed.

Potter just lay on the bed and watched him, making no effort to rise or dress himself. He just lay there, unconcerned by his nakedness, and watched as Draco pulled on what remained of his clothes from the night before. He could have repaired them, but he was only going to throw them away when he got home so there seemed little point.

At last he was ready but as he opened the bedroom door he stopped and turned. “Will you be at the orphans of the war fundraising dinner next week?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“In that case,” Draco said, with a voice loaded with promise, “I’ll see you there. Maybe we can find something to make the evening a little less dull.”