The Bet
Chapter XIX - Ambivalent Nature
Harry/Draco, Harry/OMC, Harry/OFC, Draco/OFC, Seamus/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Neville/Luna
R/NC-17 | 12,553 words | 2004-present
Beta: IcyAurora
Summary:AU. Post-war. It all started with a little bet. Draco Malfoy has never been one to back down from a perfectly do-able bet. But when that bet involves Harry Potter? Draco is realising that this bet is not as cut and dry as it seems, nor as easy...
Notes: Written before HBP and DH.
***
Draco was pleased to note that his conversation with Chaikovsky was
still affecting the Chaser, and grinned and winked mischievously at
him throughout practice. Harry rolled his eyes, between nudging at
Draco to stop antagonising his boyfriend, and shooting Mikhail apologising
looks.
After practice, Draco sauntered off with one more lascivious wink
before disappearing into the forest. Harry shook his head, approached
Mikhail and smiled. “I’m sorry about Draco. He’s
gotten it into his head that you like blonds.”
Mikhail winced and dragged Harry to the storage shed. Once inside,
he took Harry’s hands into his own and said, “I don’t
care what colour they are, I like men. However, I don’t like
Draco. Not that way. I was just…feeling insecure because of
that article, I guess. He told me that he likes blokes, but that he
has a girlfriend. I don’t know what to make of that.”
Harry’s smile grew and he threaded his gloved fingers through
his boyfriend’s. “I’m not worried,” he replied. “Draco’s
just playing it up. Being Draco, I suppose. He’s not easy to
like anyway. And I think it’s sweet, that you were worried.”
Mikhail looked at Harry in the dim light. Looking for what, Harry
wasn’t sure. But he didn’t have much time to think about
it, as the next thing he was aware of was that he was being kissed.
His eyes went wide in surprise for a moment before they closed and
the kiss intensified. Moving closer, Harry tilted his head back, and
Mikhail untwined one of his hands to card it through Harry’s
hair. Harry opened his mouth and Mikhail took a sharp breath and plunged
right in.
Wrapping his other arm around Harry’s waist, he lifted him up
slightly and pinned him to the wall. Harry’s head bumped against
the thin wood, but it didn’t bother him; he was so lost in the
feeling of Mikhail’s tongue in his mouth and his firm body pressed
so hard against his, he couldn’t think of much else. Mikhail’s
hand wound up on his ass, lifting him up higher, so that Harry’s
toes were barely brushing the ground. As it was, one of his legs was
half-wrapped around Mikhail’s waist, and his hands were around
the older man’s shoulders, hanging on and holding close. Things
were so hot and sweat was beginning to build on their already sweaty
skin, and when Mikhail moved his hot mouth to lick the salt from Harry’s
neck, it was like the passion-haze was lifting, after the shock of
breathing cold, musty air. His eyes opened fractionally to look around
him, and he suddenly felt confined; this was too like before, too like
the small little room, with the musty smelling air and heat and bodies
and…
“W-wait!”
Mikhail jumped from the stuttered sound and pulled away quickly, without
letting go of Harry. Taking in the startled wide eyes and the harsh
breathing, he realised quickly that he might have moved a bit too fast.
“Oh god. I’m sorry-I didn’t-”
“No, no. It’s fine. Just…too fast. I need to breathe.”
“O-okay,” Mikhail breathed, willing his passion to subside
for the time being. He gently lowered Harry until his feet touched
the floor again, and backed away, muttering an apology and averting
his gaze, his hands up in front of him slightly as if to ward himself
away.
Harry quickly caught his breath and grabbed a hold of one of those
hands. “Mikhail.” The man’s eyes closed and his jaw
clenched as if mad. “Mikhail. It’s okay. Don’t
be mad at yourself. I know…I know that I told you that it was
too fast, and it is, in a way. But I’m not naïve. I want
this as much as you, I’m just…unsure of myself, I guess.” Now
Harry averted his gaze, and cursed himself for telling half-truths
to his boyfriend. “I just don’t know anything about
relationships like this, let alone with a guy. I mean, what’s
too fast? What’s normal? I don’t know. And, well…I
just didn’t want to lose my virginity in a broom shed, you know?” he
joked under his breath.
He heard Mikhail chuckle right before he was embraced. “I’m
still sorry. I just…get carried away, sometimes. I’m glad
you stopped me, because I was probably about two seconds from taking
it a bit further, and I want…well, if I’m your first,
I want it to be good. Like it should be.”
“Well, it’s good I have a soppy, romantic boyfriend then,
huh?”
Mikhail smirked. “Yeah.” He kissed Harry’s hair
and said, “You ready to go out tonight? Show all those people
we don’t care what they think about us?”
Harry nodded. “Yes. Just let me get home and shower.”
“Okay. Meet me at Cel’s then? Or shall I pick you up?”
Harry leaned back and smiled. “How about the courtyard, in an
hour?”
“Sounds perfect. Dress warm, I feel a frost coming on.”
***
Harry realised that he was rather nervous, walking with Mikhail to
his flat in the modest apartment building—the only one in Rookwood.
Most of the students from the small university lived there, and it
was almost like its own community of friends and co-workers and classmates.
Mikhail was lucky enough to have a corner room on the top floor (it
was only five stories), so he didn’t get a lot of disturbances
from his neighbours.
They had spent the evening at Celestine’s, a busy Friday with
not only the usual fare and company, but also the small collection
of rather nosy and rude patrons looking in their direction, and none
too discreetly.
Finally, after enduring the staring of a table of five older wizards
nearby, Mikhail broke and snapped, “What? Don’t you have
something more important to pay attention to?”
The one sitting closest to their table was grizzled, with old teeth
and deep lines in his face. He growled, “We don’t like
fags.”
“Then it’s best you don’t smoke them, eh? Bad for
your health.”
Harry dearly wanted to snicker at Mikhail’s cheek, but dared
not to. In fact, he was wondering why they didn’t just leave,
or cast a notice-me-not spell. Or better yet, use his ‘fame’ to
get them to bugger off. Perhaps he just wanted someone to take care
of him for a change, rather than him having to use his latent
abilities to get people to stop noticing him.
The old man spat at Mikhail’s feet and sneered. “You’re
a cheeky one, ain’t ya? Well, I’m tellin’ ya, we
don’t like fudge-packers. Fags. Gays.”
Mikhail glared and leaned forward menacingly. “I don’t
give fuck what you like or don’t like. Public domain,
old man. If I want to take my boyfriend out, I can. If you don’t
like watching it, leave.”
“Why you-”
“What is going on here?”
The old men all looked up to see Celestine standing behind their table,
looking archly down at each of them. “Trying to start something
in my place, Archie?”
Archie sat back and said, “No. Just lettin’ this young
bloke know that we don’t take kindly to people like them.” He
jerked his thumb back at Mikhail and Harry.
“Well, Archie, I’ll have you know that these are special
friends of mine, and I don’t care who they like, they are welcome
here. If you don’t like that, you can leave. Or, you can stay
and be civilised. As long as you don’t start anything, you’re
welcome. Otherwise, leave these boys alone.”
Archie looked like he’d rather do anything but stay, but there
wasn’t anywhere else in town to get a pint on a Friday night. “Alrigh’,
alrigh’. I won’t start nothin’.”
“And I best not hear any of you gave them any trouble on the
way home.”
The old men all acquiesced, and Cel left them alone, coming over to
whisper a word to Mikhail and Harry.
“Don’t let those arses bother you. There will always be
someone hating someone, for something or another, be it blood, love,
or skin. I don’t swing that way myself, but I like you guys,
and that’s more important than who you’re fuckin’.
You like who you like. I wish you two happiness.”
“Thank you, Celestine,” Harry said.
“Yes, thank you,” Mikhail echoed.
“It’s no problem. I look after my mates. Drinks for you
tonight on the house, to make up for the riff raff.”
The two young men had actually left shortly afterwards, with a sharp
and rather demonstrative warning for anyone who wished the follow them.
But they already knew that come morning, the headlines would read all
kinds of salacious activities between the two of them. Someone was
bound to go to the press to get their fifteen seconds of fame. There
was nothing for it, really, and Harry almost pondered the idea of making
those possible headlines come true, until he thought of the semi-disgusted
look on Draco’s face just before he left practice on Wednesday.
It made him wonder why he agreed to spend the rest of the night at
Mikhail’s, but it was as good a place as any other to spend some
time alone. Better, perhaps, because Mikhail didn’t have any
roommates.
And horribly scary, for the very same reason.
They walked up the beaten dirt path, while Mikhail
took out his wand to unlock the front door. They slipped inside and
took the immediate flight of stairs up. While they were both rather
athletic, Harry still got a bit winded; using muscles he hadn’t
really used since his Hogwarts days of roaming a vast castle full of
stairs and no lifts. Mikhail chuckled at Harry’s loss of breath,
but led him down the hall and to a door with “514” in brass
mounted upon the wood. Another unlocking charm, special to the door
and combined with a specific brass key, opened the flat to them, and
the older man gestured Harry inside, spelling the candles and gas lamps
on.
Harry looked around the flat, and noted immediately
that it seemed to be a studio. A very large studio, but a studio
none the less. It was all hardwood, with a few sparse rugs, and a very
comfortable-looking couch and armchair set, which were covered in a
soft-looking deep chocolate material. A small hearth was set in the
left-hand corner, right next to the modest kitchen area, which ran
right up to the entryway. The entryway ran a little long on the right,
extending out into the main room. There was a door in this wall, which
probably held a nice closet. In the opposite corner, there was a raised
area, atop which stood a rather large bed, swathed in navy blue and
cream. There were two doors off to the right; Harry assumed they went
to the bathroom and another closet. Bookshelves lined the far wall
between two large windows. The room seemed much too big for fourteen
or more of them to be crammed on each floor of the little building,
but Harry figured that it must be done up with space-enlarging charms,
which were probably set to a certain size and no more, so as not to
over-work the space continuum of the building. Even the stretches of
matter had its limits.
It was modest, lived-in and bachelor feeling, however, it wasn’t
as messy as their dorm was most often. Harry wondered if Mikhail was
just really neat, or if the taller man was expecting Harry’s
company. He emboldened himself and asked.
Mikhail chuckled, kicking off his shoes. “No, I’m generally
neat. I haven’t much else to do, other than Quidditch, classes,
and homework. Though I did tidy up a bit for you.”
This made Harry blush in that aggravating way again, but he decided
to ignore it and toed off his own trainers. Mikhail took his denim
jacket from him, and opened the closet door (Harry noted he was right),
taking off his own jacket, and hanging them up.
“Thirsty? Hungry? I could fix something up quick. I know we
didn’t get much at the café.”
Harry shrugged. “I’m a little thirsty…food can
wait.”
Mikhail walked into the kitchen area. “I can set something to
cook itself. Or, I’ve got some leftover soup in the icebox I
can reheat. Butterbeer okay with you? I don’t really keep anything
stronger at home.”
“Yeah, butterbeer’s fine. And soup’s fine too. What
kind?” Harry asked, as he ventured into the living area and looked
at some of the pictures mounted on the wall and mantle.
“Chicken vegetable.” Mikhail could be heard clanking pots
and pans around.
As Harry was browsing over pictures of witches and wizards he didn’t
know, except for a few shots of Mikhail with those people, the man
in question came up behind him, offering him a cold butterbeer. “Who
are all these people?”
“Friends from school. My parents. This one here’s of me
and my best mate Jason. He’s a Welsh bloke, and is living there
now with his wife and three kids.”
“Wow. What house were you in, by the way? I don’t remember
you from Hogwarts…I can’t tell what house you were in
by this picture.”
“I was a Ravenclaw. I wasn’t really involved in Quidditch
my last few years. My father told me not to bother if I was to become
a law-wizard like him. I graduated…a few years after you started
there. ’93, I think.”
“That makes you…twenty-eight?”
Mikhail nodded. “Just turned in August. I’d better go
check on the soup.”
While the Chaser tended to their dinner, Harry approached the closest
window. It looked out over the village, a random smattering of warm
lights from below. Over the orange and red treetops, Harry could just
make out a ring of golden light from campus. The stars were out and
twinkling merrily and Harry could almost hear the crashing of the waves
against the shore just past the school.
He was so enthralled with the view beyond the window, he wasn’t
paying attention to the inside reflection. So when he felt warm arms
encircle his body from behind, and felt warmth against his neck as
his boyfriend kissed him there, it startled him.
“I could just eat you up,” Mikhail whispered huskily into
his ear. The sensation made Harry shiver and his groin leap to attention.
Turning around in the embrace, he smirked, saying, “Why don’t
you, then?”
Mikhail raised an eyebrow before taking hold of Harry’s butterbeer
and setting it on the windowsill behind them. Keeping his dark eyes
focused on Harry’s, he slipped his hands beneath Harry’s
jumper and caressed the firm skin there, running his fingertips over
nicely defined ribs and flat planes of muscle. Harry raised his arms
up and leaned in to kiss the taller man, who took no time in ravishing
Harry’s mouth. They broke apart and Mikhail tugged Harry’s
jumper off of him, knocking his glasses askew. Harry righted them before
asking breathlessly, “What about the soup?”
“I put it on low,” came the similarly breathless reply.
Taking a hold of Harry’s belt loops, Mikhail steered them across
the flat to the raised bedroom, kissing Harry’s neck and face,
humming with pleasure while Harry caressed his hair, trying to keep
an eye out to where they were headed.
“Too fast?” One murmured into fair skin.
“No,” was the panting reply.
Once they stepped up to the bed, Mikhail released Harry and started
to divest himself of clothing. Harry got the cue and removed his glasses,
tossing them on the nightstand, and then nervously stripped down himself.
He barely had time to register how good what he could see of Mikhail
looked, or just what they might be heading to before Mikhail’s
lips were upon his, and he could feel his warm and broad chest against
his, his stomach against his, his thighs against his, his erection against
his, and Harry flew into delirium and knew not much else than the feel
of their skin upon each others.
It was like Mikhail’s hands were everywhere, and while Harry
could feel the other man cupping his arse, he could feel his own hands
through wild, spiky hair, soft and thick, to heated skin and flexing
muscles and then Mikhail’s sweet lips on his, their tongues curling
around each others and sucking and teasing and pushing-
-and then Harry was on his back on the bed, and while the homey smell
of chicken soup wafted to his nostrils, he was also overwhelmed with
the aftertaste of Mikhail in his mouth, and the smell of him, and the
sensation of that thickly wild hair tickling his chin as Mikhail moved
down his body, teasing Harry’s nipples and caressing his sides.
Harry almost giggled at the soft touches, but then his most sensitive
area was greeted with warm breath and a slick tongue, and the giggle
turned to a gurgle in his throat.
Catching his breath, Harry gasped as Mikhail took a gentle hold and
licked his penis, swirling his tongue around and kissing the sides.
It was a sensation that Harry had never felt before, and he was suddenly
amazed that he made Draco feel this good and better without
any idea as to how it actually felt. He could feel Mikhail nuzzle
his groin and breathe him in, right before he muttered, “You
smell wonderful and you taste even better.” It was like Mikhail
knew what effect those words would have on him as he felt himself hardening
even more; it was going to start becoming painful soon if something
didn’t give-
Upon the immense heat that suddenly engulfed his prick
his eyes flew open when he didn’t even realise he closed them
and his back arched off of the bed. Oh…Merlin…
“God!” he gasped out loud, and it never occurred
to him the oddity of thinking a curse of the most powerful wizard in
history, and verbally cursing an entity mostly only Muggles believed
in. It was just…so hot, and so intense, and Harry
had no idea how long it took, but the rushing tingle building up in
his groin and abdomen exploded in a white-hot pleasure, and the feel
of Mikhail swallowing it all down and licking the vestiges away was
distant in his mind yet severely jarring upon his sensitive flesh.
He moaned low in the back of his throat; a low-pitched keening noise
that came from somewhere feral inside of him.
As Harry was still catching his breath, Mikhail was sliding up his
sweat-glistened body, his weight heavy but comfortable. He nestled
their groins together, slowly lowering his body atop Harry’s;
kissing his neck and cheeks. Gradually, Harry came to feel Mikhail’s
kisses, and wrapped his arms around the man’s middle, splaying
out his hands on his back, shifting slightly and registering Mikhail’s
still hard length, which only urged his slowly into action.
Mikhail raised himself up from Harry’s neck and smiled. “I
know we said we’d go slow…”
Harry chuckled. “Does it sound like I’m complaining?”
The Captain’s grin grew wider. “No, I suppose not.”
Harry shifted again, experimentally, and Mikhail took that as a cue
to move as well, and started rubbing their erections against each other.
Harry moaned, arching his back and pressing his fingers into Mikhail’s
back. Mikhail ran a hand through Harry’s hair, curling his fingers
around the thick locks of black before trailing that hand down Harry’s
neck, chest and side, settling it upon Harry’s thigh, caressing
the muscle and kneading a bit of his ample ass. It wasn’t even
so much of the friction that was making it feel so good, or the pressure
between their bodies…it was more that the movement quite simulated
something else…something Harry knew he wasn’t ready for,
but yet wanted so badly at the same time…
“You’re so beautiful,” Mikhail whispered softly.
He dipped down to steal a kiss, and afterwards Harry looked up at
Mikhail and his dark brown eyes and that look of awe and lust on
his face, and immediately, Harry was thrown back into the last time
someone was looking down at him like this. But then, it had been a
sparkling grey watching him, with shiny blond hair falling forward,
and the look wasn’t one of reverence and yearning, but of utter
adoration and intense desire; a small and partially amused smirk on
parted lips, and a healthy flush upon pale cheeks. The vision in front
of him clashed so horribly with his memory that he stiffened, and Mikhail
caught it immediately and stopped.
“Harry? Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
“I…I just-” Harry shook his head, “I’m
sorry, Mikhail. It’s not…I just…”
“You think we’re moving too fast. I’m sorry, I told
you we’d move slow and I-”
“No! Don’t…it’s not you. I said I wasn’t
complaining, I just…can you…can we…just lie here?
I’m feeling a little…”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. I just want
you to be okay with what we’re doing. I remember my first time
with a guy…I was bloody terrified.”
Harry let out a breathless laugh, looking away. “I really liked
what we were doing, if it makes you feel better.” He took a fistful
of his own hair and tugged on it a bit.
The Chaser kissed Harry’s cheek soundly and lifted himself up,
smiling. “No worries, love. I think the soup’s done anyway.
Would you like to eat some now, or just lie here?”
“Mmmm…just lie here, for a minute, I think. Then food.”
Mikhail nodded and slipped down to Harry’s left
side while Harry rolled over on his right, facing away from
his boyfriend. Mikhail automatically spooned up behind him, wrapping
his arm around the slightly smaller man, kissing his shoulder and neck
as they lay there.
This was not how Harry pictured his night to be going—having
random Draco-centric flashbacks in the middle of getting it on with
his boyfriend.
But isn’t that who you want? Draco Malfoy? A
sarcastically humoured voice said in the back of his mind.
Not. The point. He shot back.
Harry was pretty sure the voice didn’t reply not because of
defeat, but for the accomplishment that it had brought up the very
thing Harry was trying to avoid thinking about. He realised very early
on (let’s say Mikhail and Harry’s first kiss as boyfriends),
that playing Mikhail the way Raven had told him to and the way he thought
he would just wasn’t an option. Mikhail didn’t deserve
that. No one did. And what kind of person would that make Harry if
the first boyfriend, the first relationship he’d ever
had was completely false in pretences? So Harry decided to really give
Mikhail a shot. To put Draco and that whole emotional disaster behind
him, or at least out of his mind for the time being. Focus on Mikhail
and their new relationship, let Draco and Raven work things out, and
then start hanging out with them again. As friends.
But apparently, he couldn’t keep Draco out of his head. It didn’t
help that they shared classes and Quidditch together. They had been
amicable, but as Harry closed his eyes to fight back the sudden unwelcome
water in them, he knew that it still stung. It hurt. Harry had
laid his heart and his feelings out to Draco, and Draco took those
feelings, caressed them and almost nurtured them, and then swiftly
dashed them to pieces upon waking. Harry had to give Draco credit for
warning him off about the situation, but hell, Harry was more than
happy to be with both of them! He knew he really liked Raven, was even
falling for her in some way, before he had been blindsided by his overwhelming
desires and feelings towards Draco.
But it still all fell apart.
Harry cursed Draco as much as he cried for him.
If this is what finally letting myself get close to someone is
supposed to feel like, than I’d rather go back
to feeling nothing at all.
***
17 October 2003
Dear Harry,
I have no doubt that you’ve been receiving
letters already about the article in today’s Daily
Prophet. I can only imagine the variety of responses you’ve
already received, and I hope mine doesn’t get
lost in the fray.
I’m writing to tell you that I support you.
Assuming Rita Skeeter is supplying at least a partial truth; as I
am sure I know you well enough to know what’s
real and what’s not; if not, then give her hell.
I cannot say what your parents’ or Sirius’ feelings
were on the subject, but I know that they loved you, and if that
love was even a fraction of what I knew it to be, or of my own, know
that they would have kept on loving you, and would have supported
any decision you made in life, if it made you happy.
I wish you the best of luck with this relationship of yours, and
any other endeavours you choose to pursue. I will try to make it
to your next home Quidditch match.
Much Love,
Remus
~~~~~
A dark-haired man stood on a low wooden porch, frowning
and fiddling with the buttons on his cloak. Steeling his nerve, he
knocked sharply on the wooden door, waiting anxiously for an answer,
yet praying that no one would, so he wouldn’t have to have this
conversation, which he was positive would not go well.
After what seemed like forever, the door finally opened, and a short,
blond, bespectacled man greeted him with a rather confused frown.
“Yes?”
“Er…is Draco in?”
Giving him a once-over, and seemingly okaying what he saw, the young
man moved out of the way to let him pass. “Yeah, he’s upstairs
in his room. The door across the stairs.”
“Right. Thank you.”
He took a few steps inside, nodding to the man holding the door, and
took the unforgiving wooden stairs in front of him. Wood, he
thought. Trees; the vitality and immortality of life. Merlin, give
me strength.
He paused at the top before taking the few short steps to the door
opposite. Knocking softly upon it, a very timid repeat of his rapping
on the front door, he waited for permission to enter, or for the occupant
to open it. When he heard Draco’s tenor, he paused again, only
for a moment, before turning the handle and stepping inside.
He found his quarry sprawled out on the midnight-swathed bed in the
centre of the room, like a great white cat, lounging in silk and sunlight,
and reading one of many books surrounding him. Draco looked up when
he entered, and he felt glued to the spot, the cat’s questioning
gaze quickly becoming a glare, one of which he was quite sure he’d
never like to be the focus of again. Yet the scowl didn’t mar
the blonde’s features, it only cast him in a much cooler light
than that of the warm sun shining in through the window. Like silver
and gold.
“Chaikovsky. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mikhail swallowed quickly and said, “I was wondering if we could
talk. About Harry.”
Malfoy seemed to regard him, weighing something only he knew of. Finally,
he sat up from against the headboard and said, “Would you feel
more comfortable taking a walk in the public, or staying in here, away
from prying eyes and entirely in my domain?” A small smirk accompanied
the question, and it threw Mikhail off centre, as only Draco Malfoy
probably could. God, he even exudes an aura of a tiger eyeing some
prey that just happened upon its lair.
Mikhail took a quick glance around, noticing the full-length mirror
in the corner (with just a little quirk of an eyebrow), the immaculate
tidiness—minus the desk—and the silk sheets that just begged
to be used salaciously in the warm light, and suddenly being outside,
in the wild serenity of nature with crisp, cool, wintry air seemed
much more appealing than staying in a warm room bathed in fabrics and
man-made things with one of his boyfriend’s best friends.
“Outside is fine.”
Draco’s lips quirked up in a smile and he said, “Meet
me downstairs. I just need to get some things in order.”
Mikhail nodded without a word, gratefully slipping out of the seclusion
of the room, and quickly made his way down the stairs and back outside
to the cool woodenness of the porch.
A few moments later, after Mikhail felt he sufficiently cleared his
head and fortified his fraying nerves, Draco stepped outside, a black
cloak around his shoulders and black dragon hide boots adorning the
seemingly perfect white feet he saw earlier.
“Where would you care to go?” Draco asked, not even sparing
him a glance as he stepped off of the porch.
“Anywhere’s fine.”
“Alright.” And Draco led Mikhail towards the path that
led to the Quidditch pitch. “What is it that you feel you need
to talk about with me that involves Harry?”
“Well, I was wondering, if he’s ever talked to you about…any,
er…intimacy issues he’s might have had.”
Draco stopped dead in his tracks, and when Mikhail turned back to
look at him, blinked, and promptly broke out in laughter.
Through his guffaws, Draco managed, “You-you’re asking
f-for love advice with Potter from me?” At Mikhail’s
grimace and nod, he only doubled over in continued mirth, holding his
stomach in almost-pain.
Mikhail took a hasty look around and was pleased to see no one nearby,
though he thought he saw a swish of a curtain in one of the windows
of the second dormitory. “Malfoy,” he whispered intently, “I’m
serious here.”
Draco righted himself with a grin and his cheeks flushing with amusement. “I’m
sure you are.”
Mikhail scowled and stepped close to Draco, and the blond immediately
sobered, his grey eyes meeting Mikhail’s brown ones directly. “You
say you care about Harry,” the brunet said fiercely. “If
that’s true, you’ll listen to me. I think there’s
something wrong.”
Those grey eyes narrowed. Draco grabbed Mikhail’s arm, hard,
and steered him into the woods. Stopping several metres in, he turned
to the older man and let go. “It’s none of your business
how little or how much I care about Harry. But I’ll listen. If
there’s something wrong, I want to know.”
Mikhail took a few calculating moments before giving a slight nod
and speaking. “He seems afraid of something. Like…well,
you probably don’t want to know this, but when we start getting
intimate, he pulls away. He’ll kiss me, and even a bit more,
and I’ll think everything is fine, but then he suddenly freezes
up, and I’m not sure why.”
Draco took a moment to freeze his own thoughts from showing on his
face and said with more than a hint of coolness, “Have you thought
that maybe you’re moving too fast for him? You’re his first relationship,
Chaikovsky. Have you thought about that at all?”
“Yes, and he’s told me so. I’ve apologised each
time it’s happened; in fact, it happened twice yesterday.”
“How many other times?”
“I think that’s been it, so far. But I told him, before
we even really kissed, that we would take it slow. And I know I might
get carried away, and he says he likes what we’re doing, but
I can’t help but think that there’s something more. Something
he won’t tell me.”
Draco felt that he a rather good idea about just why Harry might be
freezing up on Chaikovsky, but it was too much to hope for. And he
wasn’t about to divulge the information that the man was looking
for. Instead, he asked, “I’m sure I will regret asking
this, but how far have you gotten?”
Mikhail’s steady gaze flickered away for the barest of seconds
before resting back on Malfoy. “Not far,” he answered. “We’ve
made out a bit, and I…I gave him a blow-job last night.”
Draco grimaced and turned away slightly. Oh, bad thoughts… Draco
rather thought he’d like to pummel and hex Chaikovsky
just for touching Harry that way. Jealousy burned like poison in his
belly. He roughly shoved it aside in favour of giving the man
a level stare.
“I’m assuming he pushed you away during that?”
Mikhail’s brow furrowed slightly, thinking that it seemed odd
that if Draco liked men, he seemed to be uneasy about talking about
sex involving them. “No, actually,” he answered. “He
seemed to like that no problem. It was afterward. I was lying on top
of him, and we were sort of moving a little, you know…” he
waved his hand in a vague gesture, trailing off.
“Yes, I’m sure I can figure that out. Is that when he
stopped you?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps he’s just terrified of sex. It wouldn’t
surprise me, seeing as he’s never had it before, even with a
woman.”
“I’ve thought of that. I know I was terrified with my
first time. But there’s something different in Harry’s
eyes. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m just asking if
he’s ever mentioned anything that might be the reason behind
it. I mean…was he abused or anything growing up? It’s
hard to rely on what’s in papers, and I never read that stuff
anyway, so I’d rather ask someone who might know.”
“And what makes you think I know? I hated Harry for years. I’ve
told you that. Our rivalry is nearly legend. Why aren’t you asking
Weasley and Granger these questions?”
“Because I thought perhaps…well. I’m not blind,
Malfoy. I know you two were really close, at least until recently,
and I…” the British-born Russian stopped, staring at Draco
for a moment before hesitantly finishing with, “I thought that
since he seemed to sort of, figure his sexuality out when he was your
friend and not before, that perhaps he might have told you more about
himself.” The question he really wanted to ask, however, he decided
to keep to himself, for the time being. He didn’t have any evidence.
“He’s still my friend. And if you want to know
about his past or his family, ask him. It’s up to him to tell
whom he wants about things.”
“You know, though, don’t you?”
His tone was firm. “What I do know, I can’t tell you.” And
that was most definitely true. “And I wouldn’t say Harry
was abused. At least not…sexually.”
“You ‘wouldn’t say’?”
“Look, Chaikovsky, I’m not going to tell you. It’s
for Harry to tell. If he doesn’t want to, then he doesn’t.
If he doesn’t feel comfortable with sex-related things, don’t
press him. I know you know that he was still rather fucked up after
the war, even up to this year. It’s a precarious balance, the
board he’s walking on. Don’t fuck it up by pressuring him
into doing things with you. Keep your head out of your dick, alright?”
“Fuck you, Malfoy. I’m not just thinking with my dick.
I actually give a shit about Harry, why do you think I’m asking?
I don’t want to pressure him into something
he doesn’t want. If what you know will help me from fucking up,
I’d rather think it’s your responsibility to tell me.”
“No, it is not. Harry has a right to his privacy, as I’m
sure you are well aware of. Just ask him, and if he doesn’t
want to tell you, just play it on the safe side. Or dump him, if he’s
not satisfying your libido.”
Mikhail growled and clenched his fists, his already rosy cheeks flushing
darker, and his nostrils flaring slightly in anger. “You’re
an asshole, Malfoy. It’s a wonder Harry was ever your friend.
I think it’s plainly obvious why he’s not close to you
anymore.”
Draco settled back and crossed his arms. “Oh? Then please, do
tell. My relationship with Harry has absolutely nothing to do
with you, or anyone else. If you want to know why or how Harry could
ever be friends with me, ask him. Like I’ve bloody well
been telling you to do this whole conversation. Harry knows who I am.
He’s known it first-hand since we were eleven.”
“Then what changed?” Mikhail cut in quickly.
Draco smirked. “That, is between Harry and I. And no
one else. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important thesis work
to get back to.” And Malfoy stepped past Chaikovsky, shoving
his shoulder rather hard as he walked past.
Mikhail watched the blond go, determined not to rub at his smarting
shoulder, and felt like he rather got nowhere. Why did Draco have to
be such an ass? Didn’t he care about Harry? Maybe that’s
just it, his mind supplied. Maybe he does care for Harry…much
more than he should. And won’t help me just for
the very reason that Harry’s with me, and
not him.
Letting out a calming breath, Mikhail hurried out of the woods, determined
to get past whatever it was that was stopping Harry from wanting to
get to close to him. I just hope it really is just him being terrified, he
thought.
But, he mused, he’s also a twenty-three
year old male who’s never been with anyone. Shouldn’t
he want sex and want it now?
Not unless he’s sexually repressed. I can probably
bet that the war made him more worried about his mortality than any
amount of affection he might receive from someone.
I’ll just have to play it safe. Take it slower.
Gently pull him along, and let him lead more. Make him comfortable
with intimacy. Don’t demand any type of sex.
Ask him questions, like the holier-than-thou Draco Malfoy suggested.
The only good thing that’s come out of that
snide and pouting mouth in my presence.
Mikhail was well aware that he had quite a bit more sexual experience
than his boyfriend, and that was liable to scare many people off, if
they were in Harry’s position. But he was also quite aware that
there was something that Malfoy was hiding, and for the sake of helping
Harry become more comfortable with himself, he was going to find out
what it was. If it involved Harry, it involved Mikhail.
***
Harry was sitting on his bed in the late morning of Saturday, dressed
in a faded grey tee-shirt and dark blue jeans, one white sock on, the
other held limply in his hands. He had a rather dazed look on his face,
as if he had forgotten just what it was he was doing, but didn’t
much care.
He broke out of his stupor when there was a rapping at his door, and
he dazedly granted permission for entry.
“Hey mate,” said Ron, closing the door behind him. “How’d
it go last night? You got in rather late.” His freckled face
lit up in a suggestive grin.
Harry shrugged, and resumed putting on his near forgotten sock. “It
went alright, for my first, real date.” He grinned. “Some
parts were better than others.”
“Uh-huh…” Ron intoned in that ‘knowing’ way,
leaning back against the door behind him. “Did you…?” Though
his question was proposed in a rather inquisitive manner, versus the
queasy despair of the last time he had asked.
Harry rolled his eyes. “No, Ron. God, why so interested
in my sex life? I know you can’t possibly want to know
the actual details.”
Ron grimaced. “Yeah, you’re right. But if only some parts
went better, what else happened?”
Harry got very quiet and introspective. “I…froze up,
I guess.”
A puzzled frown marred the redhead’s features. “Froze
up?”
Harry nodded. “It’s happened twice. Mikhail and I, we’ll
be kissing, and things will get…more, I guess, more heated,
and then I…freeze. I stop it from going further.”
Ron bit his lip. “But why do you ‘freeze’?” he
asked.
Harry looked even more miserable and buried his hands in his hair.
All Ron heard was “co”.
“Sorry?”
“It’s Draco,” Harry said a bit louder, obviously
clenching his teeth.
“Malfoy?” Ron frowned. “What the hell does he have
to do with anything?”
“I can’t stop thinking about him!” the Seeker exclaimed,
standing up suddenly and pacing his room.
Ron moved forward from his semi-relaxed position against the door. “Calm
down, mate.”
“No! I can’t. You don’t understand,
Ron. I was lying there, getting my first and most amazing blow job,
and then Draco just popped into my head! It’s...it’s just…unnerving.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Draco when
I’m with my boyfriend!” Lost in his ranting, Harry didn’t
notice Ron’s startled look at the amount of information Harry
just let out, nor did he notice when Ron came up to him; not until
he was grabbed by the shoulders and shaken out of it.
“Harry, you have got to calm down.” When Harry
took a deep breath and nodded, Ron went on. “Now, I may not know
anything about relationships with guys, or at all, really, outside
of Hermione, but I reckon that the fact that you’re not over
Draco, and you rushed into a false relationship with Mikhail
has something to do with your current predicament.”
But Harry was shaking his head. “But that’s just it, Ron.
I decided at the beginning that I couldn’t do that to Mikhail.
Use him. So I’ve been really giving him a chance. And
I like him. He’s nice and good-looking, and cares about
me. Just me. Draco loves Raven, and I can’t compete with that.”
“But you still like Draco, don’t you?” Ron asked
quietly.
Harry’s eyes closed and he looked pained. “Yes,” he
whispered, before turning away. “Very much, sometimes. I miss
him. There’s like a huge block between us now, but I can’t
say I regret what happened. Not really. I never would have known…”
It hurt Ron to see his friend in such a state of warring emotions,
but he honestly didn’t know how to help him. For Merlin sakes,
he didn’t even like Malfoy, so why did the thought in
his head sound like he was rooting for the pointy-faced git? Ron mentally
sighed. It had to be said.
“Do you think it’s fair to Mikhail then? Or you?
That you know you still care for Malfoy but you’re in a relationship
with Mikhail?”
“No. I suppose it isn’t.” The green-eyed man took
a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “But what should I do? Draco does have
Raven; shouldn’t I just stay with Mikhail and let them be happy
together?”
“I don’t know, mate. Do you want to be with them? Both
of them? Do you like Mikhail more than you like Draco and Raven?”
“I…” And Harry grimaced. “I don’t know
what it’s like to be with Raven. But all I wanted when I was
with Draco was Draco. And when I’m with Mikhail, he won’t
stay out of my head.”
“Do you think you might just want Draco, then?”
Just as Harry was resigning himself to the possibility that Draco was all
he really wanted (though he couldn’t really deny the curiousness
of what being with a woman was like), footsteps were heard pounding
on the stairs right before Hermione burst in, breath hard and her cheeks
rosy.
“Harry! You have to read this! I almost didn’t
notice it, but Ginny pointed it out to me this morning. It was buried
in the last pages, strangely enough. He must have just barely made
it before printing!”
“What? Who?”
“Draco! He wrote an article for the Evening Prophet.
Here, look!” She thrust the ripped page out at him.
Looking at her intense brown eyes, he took the paper carefully, so
surprised at the news that he didn’t know what to expect.
The article was about a quarter of the page or more, squished between
an advert for Sleekeasy’s Hair Potions (which Harry belatedly
remembered he had still to get) and a moving picture of a sleazy-looking
witch modelling for a ‘muggle’ clothing shop (though the
mismatch of clothing she was wearing didn’t secure Harry’s
faith in the shop’s services any). He swallowed nervously before
settling his eyes on Draco’s words, murmuring them under his
breath.
Harry Potter, Never the Boy-Who-Lived
By Draco Malfoy
It’s not easy being a friend of Harry Potter.
Granted, our friendship is relatively new, but I’ve
known him as long as any of this other friends. His fame will follow
him anywhere, and he has a knack for severe moods and attracting
trouble. But he’s also loyal to a fault, witty,
and has a mischievous side to him that makes me wonder if he ever
was a true Gryffindor. The frivolities of our mutual friendship and
how it came about are not important. However, the fact that I am
his friend, and remain so, is.
Rita Skeeter has done all of us, including you readers, a grave
injustice. She writes slander and lies and weaves them with just
enough truth that even the relatively well-informed are caught by
her trap. I am not going to bother telling you to not believe anything
you read; that would defeat the purpose of me writing this column.
If you want the truth, read The Quibbler. Though this is probably
the only instance I would suggest such a thing.
Many of you might ask if I was surprised to find out that Harry
Potter likes men. I don’t I think I was surprised,
no. But then again, isn’t it best to know all
the secrets of an adversary? To know them better than you know yourself?
Because that’s what Harry and I were to each
other until this September; adversaries. Yet we are friends now,
and I will not sit idly by while someone tries to damage my
friend’s life and make a mocking of mine. And
his or those that he is close to.
Formal charges against Rita Skeeter’s person
will be publicly announced in this very newspaper, as well as The
Quibbler, through Mr. Stanislav Chaikovsky, Law-Wizard and father
of the offended Mikhail Chaikovsky, as well as Misters Ira and Roy
Oswold, Law-Wizards of the Malfoy Estate. Any grievances with Misters
Harry Potter, Mikhail Chaikovsky and myself, Draco Malfoy should
be made through them. All other correspondence by unknown persons
sent directly to the above persons and their acquaintances will be
automatically destroyed. Keep your opinions. You can have them. It’s
nobody’s business but our own. Just as your life
is your business. Harry Potter has had quite enough grief and public
meddling in his life, and wouldn’t you like to
be left alone if you were him? He is not just a hero of the
Wizarding World, he is not just a poster boy for the survival
of life as we know it; he is a man, a friend, a lover, a Quidditch
player, a son, and an adversary still, to some individuals. He should
be treated as such by all. He survived; we all have, to be given
a second chance. Not to spend it delving into others’ lives
when it is not our place.
Harry Potter is a person, as are we all. Never should he have been
seen as The Boy-Who-Lived. Or anything less than the proud, strong,
and intelligent man that he is.
The bit of parchment felt fragile and delicate in Harry’s hands
as he blinked stupidly at the words blurring in front of his un-focused
eyes.
“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, glanced at Hermione, who
glanced worriedly back.
Harry seemed to shake himself out of it. “Yeah, I…I just
didn’t expect…”
“Didn’t expect what, Harry?” Hermione asked gently,
after a brief silence.
“For him to…” He shook his head again, keeping
his thoughts to himself. “I wonder if Mikhail knows.”
“That Malfoy is helping Mr. Chaikovsky? Yeah, I think so,” Hermione
said.
Ron looked at her curiously and Harry blinked. “Actually, I
meant if he knew Draco is filing charges as well. But do you know something
I don’t?”
“I saw Mikhail and Malfoy talking behind Number Three this morning,
just before I came here. Malfoy was laughing about something, and I
couldn’t see Mikhail’s face, but Malfoy got suddenly serious
and almost manhandled Mikhail into the woods. I couldn’t hear
what they were talking about from my window, though. I just assumed
from the article that they were working together, and that Mr. Chaikovsky
must have told Mikhail.”
Harry’s brow furrowed just for a moment before he shrugged. “I
guess I’ll find out later tonight.”
“Another date?” Ron asked.
“Not exactly. He’s coming over for dinner,” the
Seeker said, grinning.
“Ooh, a romantic dinner…” Ron crooned, slapping
his friend on the shoulder.
“Not really. You’re all invited. It’s your house
too, and I can’t cook. Well, I don’t know how to cook dinner
things. Only breakfast. Wait! Except for Chicken Cacciatore.”
Ron looked puzzled. “Chicken what?”
“Chicken Cacciatore. Zabini showed me how once. Sort of. I might
remember it.”
Hermione’s lips parted in preparation to comment, but she refrained
and only waved her hand as if to dismiss the rather strange information
she just received. “Well, regardless of that, I’m guessing
you were just going to wait for us girls to come over, cook dinner,
and then bring Mikhail along?”
“Well, when you put it that way…yeah.” Harry’s
grin widened.
“Tch. Men.” The young woman smiled and shook her head
as if to clear it. “Well, I’m glad you seem so happy with
him, Harry. I can’t lie to you and say that I don’t feel
some comfort to see you with someone other than Draco Malfoy. I was
really worried you’d get badly hurt there, for a while.”
Harry stood there, shocked for a half-second before letting out a
terse breath and sharing a glance with Ron.
Hermione didn’t miss any of this. “What? What is it?”
As Harry sat down on his bed, Draco’s article still in hand,
Ron offered a response.
“Harry’s been…having problems…er…” He
looked back at his friend for some support, permission, anything, but
Harry was just looking at that article.
“Having problems with what? Harry?” Hermione inquired.
The man looked up, eyes wistful and pain filled. Quickly averting
his gaze he said, “When Mikhail and I are, you know, I just sort
of…freeze up.”
“Oh,” she responded softly. “I…see. So you’re not happy
with him then?”
“No, that’s just it, I am. But I…” Harry
rolled his eyes, fed up with being so shy about reluctant about the
topic. “I keep thinking about Draco. When I’m kissing Mikhail,
or more, Draco keeps popping into my head—the things we did that
night—and I freeze up.”
“I didn’t realise that what happened with Malfoy was still
affecting you so much.”
“It wasn’t, at first. Things have been great with Mikhail;
he’s sweet, and nice, and handsome, and he wants me. Only me.
I’m really starting to like him. But it’s just this one
thing. I can’t seem to shake off what happened with Draco for
some reason, it just totally ruins the mood, but I don’t know
how to explain it to Mikhail. He thinks I’ve never been with
anyone. And if I keep freezing up on him, he’s going to want
a better explanation than ‘you’re going too fast.’”
Hermione sat down beside him and took his hand. “Do the thoughts
of Draco ruin the mood because it feels like an invasion between you
and Mikhail, or because you want Mikhail to be Draco?”
Harry stilled. “What?”
“Do you want what’s happening between you and Mikhail?”
“Yes, of course. It feels…really good.”
“Okay. Do you want that with Draco more?”
Harry blinked, his eyes widening. “I-er…I don’t…” His
thoughts raced and he felt a rising panic fluttering madly in his veins
as he realised that that was the catch, wasn’t it? Who did he
want more?
“I know what you’re thinking, Harry. But what’s
best and healthy for you may not be entirely what you want most.”
“But I don’t even know what I want at all!” Except
to feel loved and not alone anymore, his mind supplied.
“We’re not saying you do, Harry. This is decision you
have to make for yourself.”
“Yet I know you two don’t like Draco, so I already know
what you want me to choose.”
“We’re not saying that-”
Harry jumped up and backed quickly away from both of his friends,
not noticing his fist clutching the newspaper violently. “Yes
you are! You could never accept that Draco was decent enough
to be my friend, and I would want to be his! You’ve hated
the idea of him and me together even as friends, let alone more. You’ve
said as much yourself just a minute ago! You don’t even like
that I’m half-gay!”
“Harry, mate, that’s not it at all-”
“No! That’s the truth, isn’t it? You don’t
like that I fancy blokes, but if I’m going to, I might as well
be with the ‘smarter’ choice, shouldn’t I? It doesn’t
occur to you that Draco helped me discover this part of myself, and
that he and Raven broke me out of whatever place I was, that
they made me start thinking about myself and what my desires
are. What I wanted out of life rather than what I couldn’t do
in the past. As much as I know they have each other, and I have no
future with them, I want what they can give me now. But you
don’t approve of that, do you? Can’t have Harry just take
what he wants, can you? Just let me be free to make my own choices,
my own mistakes, and stop-”
Hermione had finally gotten fed up with Harry’s diatribe, and
slapped him across the face. “Now you listen here, Harry James
Potter, you stop making Ron and I out to be the bad guys. We’ve always supported
you, we don’t care that you like men, or
did we not make that clear to you a week ago? I am more than happy
that Raven and Draco helped you out of your shell, Harry, so don’t
think for one minute that I hate them for that. Or that it didn’t
occur to us. I just told you not two minutes ago that it was your decision
to make. What Ron and I think is best is not the point. We can
only give you guidance. You’re right; I’m not particularly
fond of you and Malfoy together, but it’s because I don’t
want you to be hurt. Because you will, and I know that you know that.
But if it’ll make you happy, then go for it. Live your life the
way you want to. Make choices, make mistakes. Find happiness your way.
If you don’t know what to tell Mikhail about your ‘freezing’ moments,
I suggest the truth. Before it’s too late to be repaired. I don’t
gather that Mikhail will be too keen to find out you lied to him, but
I imagine that he’s forgiving enough and understanding enough
to realise that you were scared to tell him. But it also sounds like
you already know what you want, from what you just yelled at us. So
that’s my advice. Take it or leave it. It’s up to you.”
Harry’s jaw clenched and a whimper caught in his throat. “I’m
sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hanging
his head. “I’m just so confused. One day, I’ll miss
Draco more than anything—his company, his mean sense of humour,
his smile, those kisses…and then the next, I’ll almost
completely forget about him, because Mikhail makes me feel like no
one exists but me. I’m sorry. I know you guys support me. You
always have. I just don’t know what to do,” he finished
with frustration in his tone.
“Harry, mate, it’s only been a week. I know you were only
with Malfoy for one night, but maybe it’ll just take longer to
get over him. He was your first, after all.”
“Oh? And what experience do you have with it, Ron? You’re
marrying the only girl you’ve ever loved.”
“I’ve watched Ginny struggle to get over Dean.”
Harry’s eyes showed that he understood, but his mouth replied, “I
don’t want to talk about the war.”
“Fine,” Ron huffed, “we’ll avoid that subject.
But Harry, you’ve got to realise that Malfoy isn’t good
for you. Not in that way. Just stay friends with him, if you have to
keep him around.”
“I do have to. I know you guys don’t understand, but Draco
and I…we depend on each other, in a way that you and
I don’t. He’s always been there, same as you. And he’s
always been bad for me. It’s never stopped us before.”
“Yeah, but then he wanted to kill you.”
“And now, he’s messing with your heart,” Hermione
put in.
“He never wanted to kill me,” Harry sighed, running
a hand through his hair, before moving to sit on his bed. “Fuck. I…you’re
right. I should just…give it some time. I’ll stay friends
with Draco. He has Raven after all, though I…” He just
let the sentence hang, and Ron and Hermione leaned forward almost imperceptibly
in wait for the conclusion.
“Harry?” asked Hermione.
Harry jumped. “Yeah?”
“Though you what?”
“Oh! Er…” He blushed and looked away. “Though
I…still wonder what it’s like to be with a girl.”
Ron and Hermione shared a blushing glance before Ron patted Harry
on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just as great as
being with a guy.”
When Harry and Hermione shot him odd looks, he amended, “Different,
but just as great.”
“So you still like Raven then?” Hermione clarified.
Harry tilted his head back and forth. “Yeah,” he replied
with a shrug. “It’s kind of weird to think about, though.
I thought I was falling for my friend’s girlfriend, you know,
and then suddenly I was thinking about Draco, and now, boys are about
all I think about.”
They all chuckled, and Hermione asked, “Do you feel better now,
Harry?”
He shrugged again. “A little. We’ll see how it goes. But
thanks for slapping some sense into me. Literally.”
“I didn’t like doing it, but you’re welcome.” She
brushed the pink skin of his perpetually rosy cheeks before giving
him a swift kiss and hug and said, “Now, Ron and I have to go
to London to finalise some wedding things, so we’ll see you later,
unless you’d like to come?”
“I’d like to, but I’d better go thank Draco, before
I’ve got to work on my homework before meeting up with Mikhail.”
“Okay.” Just before leaving the room, Hermione asked, “What
would you like for dinner, by the way?”
Harry smiled. “Surprise me.”
The woman rolled her eyes, but replied, “Never want to make
a firm decision anymore, do you?”
Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I think I’ve made enough of
those ‘firm decisions’ to last me a lifetime, thank you
very much.”
“So be it then. Don’t give me flack when I make something
you and your sweetie don’t like.”
Ron put an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “You’re
an amazing cook, love. I’m sure you’ll make something great.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Hermione led the way out, rolling her eyes
at her boys in exasperation. “Bye Harry.”
“Bye. Have a good day. Let me know if you need any help.”
“Will do.”
After they left, Harry let out a cleansing breath. Now all he had
to do was face Draco. And be firm. Because of that ‘decision’ thing
he made. Yeah. Right.
Fuck.
***
Harry tucked the article away in his jacket pocket, making his way
across the courtyard to Number Three. It was very chilly outside, and
Harry was starting to wish he’d worn his heavy winter cloak,
when he heard someone calling his name from ahead.
“Harry! Harry!”
“Oh, hey, Raven.” He accepted the brief hug she gave him.
“Going to see Draco?”
“Yeah, how about you?”
“Coming to see you, actually. I haven’t seen you in a
while, thought we could spend some time together, if you weren’t
busy. How’d you like the article? I read it last night. Going
to go maim our lovely blond journalist, or shower him with your greatest
affections?”
“Er…neither?”
“Then your plan is…?”
“To, er…thank him, actually. That’s all.”
“Oh. Well. Um, after you’re done with that, would you
like to hang out?”
“Well, I have a bit of homework to work on, but sure, if you
just want to hang out and work on that together.”
Raven screwed up her nose in a cute way. “Oh bother, you’re
no fun. But yeah, sure. Come and get me when you’re done with
our little Dragon.”
“Sure thing. Later.”
“Later, Harry.”
He watched her walk back to her dorm, robes flowing
behind her, before turning up the path that led to Draco’s dormitory.
Knocking on the door, it only took a moment before short, blond Stewart
Ackerley opened the door. Pushing his glasses up, the younger man asked, “Harry
Potter. Here to see Malfoy, I imagine?”
“Yes, Stewart. Is he in?”
“Yeah. Up the stairs, and I assume you know where his room is?”
“Yeah, I’ve been here before.”
“I remember.” Stewart opened the door
wider to let Harry pass. “Your boyfriend was here earlier,
did you know that?”
“I heard. Nothing horrible happened, I hope?”
The former Ravenclaw shrugged. “Dunno. Malfoy came back with
a rather snide look on his face, though. But Malfoy almost always has
a snide look on his face.”
Harry chuckled. “Hmm. Well, thanks, Stewart.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just promise to stop interrupting my homework time.”
“Sure thing.” And Harry gave a quick wave before jogging
up the stairs. He knocked on Draco’s door, calling out his identity.
“Come in.”
Harry opened the door to find Draco sitting on his bed, absolutely
surrounded with parchment, scrolls, and books. An open inkwell was
balancing precariously on a large stack of books that towered from
the floor, and Draco was hunched over a particularly long scroll, referencing
a particularly large book on his lap, running the feather of his quill
thoughtfully over his lips. He seemed to finish reading whatever it
was he was reading before finally looking up at his visitor.
“Harry. Come in and close the door. Sorry about the mess. I’m
getting a head-start on my Potions thesis.”
“Its fine,” Harry replied, closing the door and taking
a few steps into the room. “To be honest, I rather thought you’d
look up and be wearing glasses, looking such the scholar the way you
did.”
Draco wrinkled his nose. “And be a speccy git like you? Never.”
Harry smiled as Draco took out his wand and cast a charm to banish
all of his parchments and books to their proper place on the desk and
shelves. The inkwell floated straight to his hand, where he recapped
it and reached to set it on his night table, placing his quill next
to it.
“Here, sit down.” He gestured to the spot next to him
on the bed, and as Harry settled down, making sure to keep his shoes
from touching the duvet, Draco asked, “So…what’s
the visit for?”
“Oh. Well, I, er, wanted to thank you, actually. For this,” Harry
pulled the article out of his jacket pocket, flattening it out with
his palms on his thigh. “It was…unexpected.”
An amused expression grew on Draco’s face. “You’re
welcome, Harry. I couldn’t just let what that bitch said slide,
you know. She damaged your reputation as well as mine.”
“Well, yeah. But you didn’t have to. You could have just
announced your plans to put charges on Skeeter.”
“Yes, I could have. But I wanted you to know how I felt.”
Harry glanced up at his friend. “What do you mean? You could
have just told me.”
Unexpectedly, Draco took one of Harry’s hands, placing it between
his own. “I could have,” he repeated. “But even
with me helping Chaikovsky’s father, I felt like I wasn’t
doing enough. I still don’t feel like I am.” Harry’s
unease grew as Draco looked up at him. “Tell me how you want
me to help. I’ll do it, no questions asked.”
This sudden unwavering loyalty unnerved Harry more than ever, and
he extracted his hand as delicately as he could, replying, “No,
Draco. There really isn’t anything to do, except let the lawyers
handle it. I’m thankful for your help in that department too.
But really, you don’t need to do anything more. You’ve
done more than enough. No less than I would expect.”
Draco pretended not to notice Harry’s withdrawal from him. “What
does that mean, exactly?”
“It means,” Harry said, putting away the article, “that
I expected you to exact revenge on Skeeter, and you’re doing
so. You really don’t need to help me. I’m fine. Mr. Chaikovsky’s
handling it, from what I gather from Mikhail.”
“Yes, it’s so perfect having a boyfriend with parents
in high places, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t miss the
animosity in his tone.
“Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It means nothing.”
“No, it does. Are you jealous?”
Draco levelled a look at Harry. “What do you think, Potter?”
Harry took a breath. “I think you are. I think you’re
beating yourself up about suggesting I date Mikhail, and you can’t
handle that maybe I might be happy with him. That maybe it won’t
be temporary. That maybe I want it to last.”
Draco snorted, ignoring again the twinge of truth Harry’s words
had. “Don’t kid yourself, Potter. You’re not fooling
me. I know that you’re not entirely happy. Otherwise, your stupid
brute of a boyfriend wouldn’t be coming to me asking for
sex advice when dealing with you.”
Harry stilled for a moment, before saying softly, “Don’t
call Mikhail that. And what do you mean, going to you for sex advice?”
“You didn’t know Mikhail came by this morning, about an
hour or so ago?” asked Draco archly.
“I knew he came by. Not why. Hermione told me, and Stewart,” Harry
added.
Draco’s arms crossed and he smirked a knowing smirk that Harry
decided he definitely didn’t like on the blonde’s
face. Right before he spoke, however, he grew serious. “He wanted
to know if you were abused growing up. If that’s why you kept ‘freezing
up’ on him, as he claimed.”
Harry’s breath whooshed silently out. “What did you say?”
“To talk to you, as always. I’m not going to tell him
anything, Harry. And I mean that. Anything. I promised you.”
Harry pursed his lips. “I don’t know what to tell him.
The ‘too fast’ excuse will get old, fast.”
Draco cocked his head. “So it’s not ‘too fast’?
What is it then?”
Harry avoided Draco’s gaze and fiddled with the buttons on his
jacket. He quite realised that he couldn’t just ignore Draco’s
question, but he also knew he might have said too much for their current
standing of relationship.
“Harry?”
The green-eyed man jerked slightly, before settling in with, “It
is too fast, and it’s not to fast. I don’t mind what we’ve
been doing, but I’m unsure of myself. I’ve never been with
anyone other than you. And what we did was fantastic. It really was.
But Mikhail expects a certain level of hesitancy from me, and sometimes
that hesitancy is real. I just don’t always feel completely comfortable.
I’m afraid it’ll lead to sex.”
Draco hid his smirk as much as he could, cocking an eyebrow. “And
this is a bad thing how?” At Harry’s huffy roll of eyes,
he clarified, “Don’t you want to get laid? Finally lose
that pesky virginity?”
“This might come as a surprise to you, Draco,” Harry
said, face set, “but I actually want to love the person
I sleep with. I don’t think I love Mikhail. Not yet.”
“Harry, you are depriving yourself now almost as much as you
were being a sulking mass of flesh. You hardly seem to have any problem
actually jumping into the bed stark naked, doing things that
I’m sure your mother would wash out your mouth for, yet
you can’t open up yourself to the possibility of exploring all
venues of sexual pleasure?” Draco made a ‘tutting’ noise
in his mouth. “Apparently, that book I left for you has been
sorely neglected.”
“Shove off, Malfoy.”
“But what I’m saying is true, isn’t it?”
“So what if it is? And why turn the tables, Draco? Make up your
fucking mind. You don’t want me with Mikhail, I know you
don’t, but now you’re wondering why I won’t sleep
with him?”
“My opinions have never changed, Harry. Yeah, I still don’t
want you with him. I want you with me. And Raven. We know you.
And we care about you.”
Harry stood up and faced the man on the bed. “Mikhail cares
about me too! Only me! You have Raven, so what the fuck do you
need me for? I can’t be second to someone else, Draco,
I thought I could, and maybe a part of me wants to; wants to be with
you both at once. But I can’t just be set aside. I know that
as a certainty now. And you can’t give me your full attention.
I’ll always be vying for it with Raven.”
Draco got up on his knees. “I want to try, Harry. I want to
give you all the attention in the world, but you won’t let that
even be a possibility.”
Harry paused. “What’re you saying? Don’t you love
Raven anymore?”
“Of course I do. But I…I can’t not have
you in my life, Harry. I…I care about you too much.”
Harry could feel his heartstrings being pulled so tight they might
snap, and he didn’t like the thought of the backlash. “I
can still be in your life, Draco. We’re friends first, right?”
“Of course, but I don’t think I can live like that. It’ll
be too painful.” The blond closed his eyes and sat back on his
heels. “Besides, I’m not sure how long Raven and I will
be lasting.”
“What? What do you mean?” Harry found himself closer to
the bed without even realising he took the steps.
The blonde’s shoulders slumped some more before he sighed. “I
don’t want to doom our relationship, but I just can’t find
it in me to care for her as much anymore. I don’t find myself
always enjoying our private time together, though I do anyway, but
just not with the same intensity as before. The thought of finally
having sex with her isn’t as strongly appealing as it was. And
it’s not because the fight, or because of anything else. It’s
just that…all I can ever think about is you.”
Harry tried not to wince, and only stood there nervously. Before he
could reply to that brutally honest admission, Draco laughed without
humour and said,
“But it’s not like you’re thinking about me as much,
is it? You’ve got Mikhail and your practically perfect
relationship to think about now.” The jab about Harry’s ‘problem’ was
left unsaid.
Harry, himself, was trying to reign in his instincts to get upset
with Draco. Draco wasn’t the same, and really, neither was Harry.
The instincts to get angry with each other were so great however, that
sometimes it was easier to fall back into habits of yesteryear than
to think more rationally. Unfortunately, it was almost just as painful
either way, because on one path, you hurt in a way that you never had
before, even with familiar anger, because you knew too much about the
other person, and they knew too much about you. But the other path
led to near self-destruction in the extreme cases—you contained
the anger inside of you until it burst free of it’s confines
in the most unflattering of manners, and at the worst time imaginable.
After successfully filing away the stinging wound of Draco’s
words he said, “I think about you all of the time too, Draco.
But you’re right—sort of—I do think about my relationship
with Mikhail too. And homework and life and my best friends’ wedding,
and I…I don’t know. I break down sometimes. I don’t
know how I feel; if dating Mikhail is the right thing, if I care about
him enough to make it last, or if trying to be in a relationship with
two people I know won’t last will make me happier. I just
don’t know.” Harry kneeled on the
bed in front of Draco. “But I do know that I care a lot
about you. And Raven, in a way. I understand that you might not feel
like you care about her as much. My focus has always been on you too.
Even before I ever thought about guys. I was always thinking about
what you would think about me having those kinds of thoughts about
Raven. I always cared what you thought. I still do. But, I also like
Mikhail. He’s a really great guy, and he doesn’t
deserve to be hurt or used. And, like I’ve said to you and Ron
and Hermione; he cares about me. Just me. And if I can make it work,
fall in love with him, than I’ll try. I’m sorry.”
When Harry coupled his last words with a brush of
his hand on Draco’s
shoulder, the blond jerked back like a startled colt, but his gaze
was wide, dark, and painful, as if he was trying to be cold and angry,
but the pain he was feeling was choking it down. Harry thought he saw
the same battle he had just had moments ago in the other man’s
steel grey eyes. Draco’s voice was soft and intense when he spoke.
“I want to be with you Harry, more than anything right
now. More than the happiness I could possibly have with Raven, more
than breathing, more than life. I think about it all the time.
And besides knowing that I screwed up beyond measure, I want to try. I
know that it seems stupid, that I do have Raven, and you could start
having a life with someone else, instead of waiting for me to let you
go, but Merlin, I don’t want to. I don’t want to
let you go. Ever.” He swallowed thickly, his intense stare darting
away for just a fraction of time, as if he couldn’t handle that
he’s just said something so soul-bearing. Or he was embarrassed
by it.
Harry’s chest was tense with some unnamed emotion. It was starting
to hurt, and he realised he couldn’t breathe, and he had never
heard something so…honest and heartbreaking, or
directed so solely at him, and he didn’t know how to respond,
and what was Draco trying to say? That he’d break up with Raven?
That he’d only be with Harry? That he…? No. No, that wasn’t
possible. He couldn’t possibly. And Harry knew he didn’t,
so… But he’d never thought about it before either, so… Oh
fuck, I think I’m gonna pass out…
“Harry? Harry, please say something.” The man with the deepest
green eyes could barely hear the plea in Draco’s words over the
rushing in his ears, and his vision was starting to waver, and some
dim part of his brain realised he was blacking out from lack of oxygen,
and why can’t I breathe? Oh, fuck…Draco…
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