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It's an extraordinarily shitty Saturday. Summer is in full blast, hot and smelly in London as usual, but that's not what makes this particular weekend dreadful. Since the end of the war Harry’s life consists of mostly keeping a low profile as the most recognizable face in wizarding Britain. The galas are at their peak and Harry’s never felt more alone.
Ron and Hermione are in Sydney until September, Ginny is off to bigger and better things and doesn’t want to be seen around with Harry because no one wants to compete with Harry bloody Potter. Her exact words. Neville is spending an exorbitant amount of money and time at the Leaky and watching him make googly eyes at Hannah gets old real fast. Luna is, well, Luna. Harry isn’t sure where she is for weeks at a time before she reappears with a new tale about Swinwindles and how they bring good fortune to those who leave a shoe for them, but curse those who don't hide the other half of the pair somewhere they won’t find it.
It’s terribly unheroic of him to dread the preparation required to return to Hogwarts, but the expected ordeal almost makes him flee back to Private Drive. There’s no hiding in Diagon Alley as he’s navigating the hassle of buying supplies for his final year at school.
After about an hour, during which Harry spends only half the time signing autographs, he is done with quills, parchments, runes, and has spent a small fortune on a new cauldron and potion ingredients. He is determined to make Snape proud this year, even if it means begging Malfoy for tutoring. The blond git is, for some inexplicable reason, also returning to Hogwarts. Harry doesn't see him as someone interested in pursuing a career where formal education holds any importance, and using Malfoy's wand made Harry realise how little he has to learn from their professors. Malfoy's spellwork is a bloody marvel compared to Harry's, and if he's being honest, even Harry could pass their practical exams with flying colours at this point.
His last stop of the day is at Madam Malkin's for a set of new robes. Despite not having the growth spurt he hoped for, Harry has still outgrown most of his wizarding garments. Besides, he has the money to spare, and if he has to see himself on the front page of The Daily Prophet every other day, he might as well look like a wizard and not like a Muggle hobo, as he did in today's edition. Lately Hermione's been looking concerned even through the green hue of the Floo network. If she’s taking the time to call regularly from Australia, Harry thinks it's time to get his shit together.
The little golden bell chimes merrily, greeting Harry with a chirping Good day, Master Potter as he enters the shop, the scent of lilacs wafting from a wooden bowl filled with dried petals. The light is magically enhanced to allow the patrons to see themselves even under London’s ever erratic weather and there’s low pitched bird song playing on the wireless.
Harry lets out a breath as the crowd around him is shut out of the shop. Unfortunately his relief is short lived as he looks around to meet the sharp grey eyes of none other than Draco bloody Malfoy. The git stares at him accusingly through an ornate mirror right in the middle of the cosy space, cold and molten, like glaciers meeting fiendfyre. The mirror reflects a desert setting with Malfoy in the middle, wearing a robe similar to the one he has on in front of it, with minute changes - a slightly tighter seam here, a subtle shift in colour there, cinched waist in an almost obscene way, and delicate embellishments accentuating his striking pose. Malfoy has never been unattractive, but after growing into his pointy features and reigning his temper to be worthy of wizarding royalty, he became stunning. The whole world seems to think so too, based on the way he managed to climb out of the hole his father dug for the family to be featured on The Witch Weekly's list of most desired bachelors in their fall special. They even printed a rather fetching photo of the arsehole instead of the forty-nine other candidates, including Harry.
Harry wants to loathe him for being almost as famous as him, but for all the wrong reasons, and thriving on it while Harry spent the last few months as a recluse in his aunt's perfectly mundane, Muggle house, pretending to be invisible. Malfoy expertly spun the narrative of his mother’s and his own aid in winning the war, paying exuberant amounts of money to help right the consequences of his wrongdoings and even engaged in charities advocating the establishment of the Muggle Atonement League (a Fabulous Opportunity for You! - or M.A.L.F.O.Y. for short). It’s all so fucking transparent, but it works and it makes Harry’s blood boil. Especially that it seems Malfoy has turned everyone to his side, even Neville has semi-publicly accepted his apology, one that Harry has never received.
It helps a bit that the only person in all of London who seems less than thrilled to see Harry, is Malfoy himself. His delicate sneer and tightly pressed lips resemble his mother as she stood up to the Dark Lord and lied to his face. Harry almost turns and runs because Malfoy is a Black too, and Harry knows better than to disregard that. Anyone who thinks Lucius is more formidable than Narcissa is a blithering idiot. But he really needs new robes, and it's not like Malfoy can hex him with the shop's strict "no wands" policy.
Harry obligingly drops his own wand into the enchanted basket and can't help but wonder about the history behind it. Purebloods don’t part with their wand willingly, yet here they are, season after season, purchasing outrageously expensive garments as if three hours of fitting are worth the single occasion they wear the robes afterward.
Malfoy's lips press even tighter as Madam Malkin (the thirteenth, according to the little brochure next to the wand basket) herself sails out from the back of the shop. Her intricate robe flutters with colourful butterflies and sparkling hummingbirds as she all but orders Harry onto the pedestal next to Malfoy, her perfume smelling of fruity sunshine in stark contrast to the thunderous expression on Malfoy’s face. Despite a mere four-inch height difference, Malfoy lifts his chin regally and clasps his hands behind his back, emphasising every inch, making it feel like ten feet instead.
"I pity the loom that's made to weave the wool for your hunch, Potter." Malfoy scoffs, glaring at Harry through the mirror. Harry instinctively reaches for the wand he doesn't have on him.
"Malfoy." Harry nods in greeting, refusing to rise to the challenge. He wants to avert his gaze, but it's impossible. There's fire in Malfoy's slate-coloured eyes, a fire Harry hadn't seen at the Wizengamot hearing, and it lifts a heavy weight from his shoulders. Because as much as he wants to hate, Harry has never had an easy time figuring out how he feels about Malfoy.
The boy who became a man under the worst possible circumstances, who gave up his wand when they both needed it most, whose mother loved her son just as much as Harry's mother loved him. Malfoy's brilliance wasn't extinguished, and Harry wants to Accio his wand and thrust it back at him because he's going mad with these thoughts. That Malfoy somehow deserves better than just getting away, that he deserves to be more than a pardoned Death Eater. That his magic is so exquisite that it excuses all his other flaws. That bloody wand.
"Potter." Malfoy graciously nods as if he didn’t insult Harry just a moment ago. It all makes sense when Madam Malkin appears next to Harry, holding up a deep maroon fabric embroidered with so much gold that it outshines the hummingbirds on her robe.
"This will work marvellously with your skin tone, dear." She says, holding the fabric next to his face. Harry watches with a detached sort of fascination the sheer terror on his own reflection. There's a subtle snigger from the podium next to him, where Malfoy could wear a colour that clashes with his bloodless skin tone and still look fit as fuck. But he isn't. The deep green fabric turning black around the edges, with silver buttons and intricate folds, could be in a fashion magazine without any of the adjustments shown by the enchanted mirror.
"Um, I was thinking of a more subtle colour," Harry stammers. He wouldn't wear that thing ironically in the privacy of his own house, let alone in front of Malfoy and half of Diagon Alley peering unsubtly through the shop windows.
"Of course, dear. Let me get you something else." Madam Malkin agrees easily and disappears, muttering about greens, silvers, and turquoises.
"You look like a bland apricot." Malfoy hisses, as if it's the worst insult he can come up with, and Harry feels it to his core. Because he is. Lifeless, lumpy, and uninviting, utterly non-magical standing next to Malfoy, who is anything but.
"Fix your posture, you idiot. You're Harry bloody Potter, start acting like it. Merlin knows the world needs you to." Malfoy says, reaching out an elegant finger to poke Harry into position. Harry catches himself from flinching at the last moment, repeating in his head that even Malfoy can't sneak a wand into the shop to murder him with.
"The world can fuck right off." Harry snaps back but obligingly squares his shoulders. Malfoy turns his head to look at him instead of his reflection, raising an eyebrow delicately. The amount of control Malfoy displays over himself makes Harry startlingly envious. He knows that's how Malfoy controls his magic, beating even the last trace of unwanted flair into submission until it's perfect, not a whisper of magic out of place. It’s still bloody impressive.
"The world is grovelling at your feet, Potter. You could give us the courtesy of casting a long enough shadow where we can at least stretch." Malfoy explains with a snarl, as if it should make any fucking sense to Harry. As if it would help him stand taller among the ruins of his life.
Just then, Madam Malkin returns, levitating a frightening number of different fabrics resembling a school of brightly coloured fish. They drape themselves over Harry's shoulder and chest one by one as the seamstress hums and nods along, cooing at her favourite colours. The ones she doesn't choose float back dejectedly, leaving only a handful of delighted samples flapping around Harry's face. There's a pale blue one with subtle gold work, a red one with bright yellow embroidery that Harry likes best, a dark purple and silver that reminds him too much of Dumbledore and makes him feel old, one very similar to Malfoy's green-turning-black one, and a couple of others whose colours Harry can't even discern.
"The atrovirens is too Slytherin, the eburnean makes you too pale, the crimson I'm sure you call red in your head is too much of a statement," Malfoy comments along, displaying impeccable knowledge of obscure colours and earning an approving nod from Madame Malkin. "Go with that cobalt one. It will look nice enough and won't offend anyone," Malfoy suggests pretending to be helpful, as he critically pokes at a perfectly pressed fold to adjust its cut in the mirror.
The Malfoy in the mirror cocks his hips slightly for a better angle, and Harry has had enough. He turns with intent to tell Malfoy exactly where to shove it—all of it. His pretentious knowledge, his perfect posture, and his fucking insights into the wizarding world that Harry doesn't care about. That he's more than welcome to choke on them as long as Harry can stop hearing his chillingly cool voice mocking him by saying reasonable things just to make Harry furious without a chance to fight back.
The deep blue fabric sample chooses that exact moment to squirm and weave, forming into the shape of a dress robe around Harry's body. He stumbles as his leg catches in a fold and takes a step, directly onto the edge of the platform. His trainer slips on the marble, and his hands scramble for purchase, finding it in Malfoy's own dress robe. The fabric feels really nice, however it isn't stitched together, and the magic gives at odd places with tiny sparkles as the garment falls apart. They both stumble towards the ornate mirror where Malfoy's doppelganger frantically jumps out of the way. It must be good to know that the final version of his dress robe doesn't hinder Malfoy's movements. He can be a coward gracefully at his next ball.
As Harry squeezes his eyes shut in preparation for the impact, he feels Malfoy grabbing his elbow in a feeble attempt to keep him upright, and they fall for what feels like way too long for those few feet between them and the mirror. The shattering never comes, instead they both land in a pitch-black place on hard stone with a loud thud, Malfoy's pointy everything all over Harry. Why can't he ever fall into a cushion-shrub field?
"Lumos," Malfoy says dryly, like he doesn't need to, like he's humouring Harry to assure him that no hex is coming his way as a ball of light forms on his palm.
Harry is a little impressed by the ease of Malfoy's wandless magic. It isn't something Harry can't manage himself, but his Lumos would only do the job of being a lump of bright light, not forming a perfect sphere of a sun-coloured ball that can float in the air, impeccably balanced, illuminating Malfoy in an annoyingly captivating way.
Harry scolds himself for being an idiot and looks around to stop staring. He sees a yellow slab of limestone that is most likely the other side of the mirror they fell through. He feels a pang of regret for the boy he had been just eight years ago, who would have gaped and been amazed at anything magical. He isn't even phased by falling through a mirror anymore and ending up Merlin knows where with Draco sodding Malfoy.
Harry stands up, dusting off his painfully muggle jeans and T-shirt, reaching for his wand to Scourgify the rest of the dirt before he realises that their wands are back at the shop. Fuck.
There is gravel under his trainers, and the light illuminates hieroglyphs all around the spacious chamber they fell into. There are no doors or windows, the air hot, stale, and ancient-smelling, fine sand and dust covering the smooth surfaces of the odd rock shapes scattered around. They look like benches and tables with a podium in the middle, not unlike the one Harry fell off a moment ago.
He makes an attempt to circle the room, looking for hidden passages or just a gust of wind that would signal an airway or a corridor. There are none.
"Fuck, we're trapped," Harry says, just to forego Malfoy's tirade on how this is all his fault. Or to get it over with. There is no point in letting Malfoy simmer and prepare the insults; he is plenty good at improvising them.
"Your talent to state the obvious never ceases to amaze me, Potter," Malfoy answers coldly, like he chose to be stuck in this chamber with scorching air and no way out with the person he possibly hates the most in the world. He is already sitting on one of the slabs, dusted off, wearing black slacks, a white shirt with a tie, and a fucking waistcoat with the remnants of his dress robe hanging off one shoulder. He could probably make it into the next fashion haze if he tried.
"Stop being a git, Malfoy." Harry sighs because this is going to be an exercise in self-control matching Malfoy's if they are to get out before they kill each other.
"Oh right. Yes sir, Saviour sir." Malfoy mocks with a smirk that Harry knows all too intimately from their school years. It still fits Malfoy's grown-up face like a buttersoft leather glove, more subtle in nature but just as disdainful. It doesn't help matters that Harry somehow finds it attractive.
"Accio wand!" Harry cries out, pushing everything he has into the spell. He isn't exactly surprised that it doesn't work; no wizard can Accio anything from London to Egypt, even if they are still in the same dimension or whatever.
"I also remain unceasingly impressed by your sheer stupidity. Good job, Potter." Malfoy remarks, sarcasm so cutting that Harry almost checks himself for injury. "If you were any better at magic, you could have killed us both just now and spared us the suffering." He adds.
There are three more balls of light hanging in the air by the time Harry realises that the chamber is now brightly lit, with emphasis on a crumbled pile of rocks that seems to have caved in on an entranceway.
"Any bright ideas, then, Malfoy? We don't have a wand." Harry shoots back because he is trying to get them a wand at least while Malfoy is decorating.
"I hope you're doing this on purpose." Malfoy mutters, and Harry doesn't even want to ask. "Shall I remind you that you actually have at least two? Whereas I truly don't have one." He turns then, with unbridled fury in his eyes, but his face somehow still remains an impassive mask of contempt.
"You didn't get a new one?" Harry asks, incredulous. He's had Malfoy's wand for so long, he didn't consider that the posh wanker wouldn't simply purchase a new one. How did he get on - a stuck-up, pureblood, attached to his wand like a baby to a pacifier - without one? He doesn't use a comb; he spells his hair into place every morning!
"You're an idiot, Potter." Malfoy sighs like Harry is deliberately obtuse.
"Already out of pretentious insults?" Harry shoots back because how was he supposed to know? Malfoy could have sent a fucking owl requesting his wand back, and Harry would have obliged. Maybe.
"No, but I'm trying to figure out how to get out of here, rather than flap about like an intellectually challenged toad." Malfoy turns for a moment, but his eyes are scanning the walls, only meeting Harry's for a fraction of a second.
"Get out of an ancient Egyptian pyramid brimming with magic, wandless?" Harry asks while he tries to focus on anything but the dark magic making his skin prickle. He suspects he is again stating the obvious, but what else is there to say? They are trapped without most of their magic.
Malfoy just lets out a long-suffering sigh, runs a hand through his bloody perfect hair, and holds out his other palm, delicate fingers moving with practised ease. "Nebulus!" He calls, and the chamber fills with a conspiracy of ravens in various shapes and sizes made entirely out of fog.
"Fuck, that's… beautiful." Harry follows the flight of the birds in awe. Malfoy does this almost absentmindedly, like it’s perfectly normal to Transfigure a Meteolojinx before finishing school, without a wand.
"Stop gaping, it's much more impressive with Incendio, but circumstances and all." Malfoy waves his hand loftily, and the birds scatter along the chamber, sitting on the benches and tables. The spell holds beautifully, like there is enough will and thought and sheer fucking talent behind it to make bloody mist ravens sentient.
"Malfoy, how good are you at wandless magic, really?" Harry asks cautiously.
"I get by." Is the clipped response, like Malfoy doesn't want Harry to know and only conjured the ravens to stop his rising panic about their lack of wands.
"I couldn't do that without practice if I had a wand." Harry presses. Really, some wizards he knows couldn't do that if they practised, and even Harry could only copy the spell, not create something like this.
"I had time to practise." Malfoy snarls, but there is no real heat behind it, like he is just concealing a vulnerability he doesn't want exposed with all too familiar animosity.
"Really?" Harry asks sceptically. Malfoy never struck him as the studious type.
"Really, Potter. I was under house arrest until yesterday." Malfoy answers with yet another perfectly arched eyebrow and not a twitch of his face.
"Oh, right." Harry mumbles lamely, because he does know that. He just forgot. There is really no reason to feel sorry for Malfoy for being stuck at the Manor with an army of house-elves at his disposal and his own enchanted forest big enough to house a dragon. And probably memories of torture and unspeakable horror.
"Precisely." Malfoy nods imperiously, like that answers anything.
"So you spent your time since, you know, doing..." Harry continues to stammer as Malfoy silently levitates an impressive number of small rocks into another raven shape, and the bird takes off to join its misty brethren like a living, breathing thing. "Wandless and wordless magic?" Harry finishes in a way more impressed tone than he'd have liked.
Wingardium Leviosa isn't a difficult charm in itself, but casting it wordlessly and so precisely controlling so many different objects takes... Harry has no idea what it takes. He could levitate the whole fucking pyramid before he could control his magic like that. It's art, like carving stone, rather than spellcasting. Harry can draw stick figures that are vaguely recognizable and do the job, while Malfoy deserves his own bloody exhibition.
"You took my wand, so yes." Malfoy succinctly fills in the gap where Harry couldn’t find the words. "I can't quite figure out motionless, but I could hold my own in a duel like this against, say, Weasley with a wand." There's a dangerous glint in Malfoy's eye, like he's contemplating trying his luck against Harry.
Harry has no doubt that if both of them were wandless, it wouldn’t even be a real duel. He could throw up a Protego strong enough that Malfoy would need like three flicks of his wrist to disrupt it, but that would be the end of it. Ron isn’t the best dueler out there, but they both know what he's capable of, and Malfoy, for once, doesn’t seem to be bragging, just stating the obvious.
"How do you control it? My wandless is usually out of terror and desperation." Harry thinks back to his unintentional magic uses, which were mostly accidents when his subconscious mind couldn’t see any other way out.
"I would imagine mine is quite the same." Malfoy answers with a visible shudder.
"Oh…" Because really, what else is there to say?
"Potter, you left me wandless in a house full of Death Eaters and Voldemort, who was furious with my Father. Did you think it was going to be a pleasant tea party?" Malfoy grinds out a feeble sneer, but Harry isn’t really intimidated anymore. It's just a front, and behind it lurk the horrors that Malfoy has lived through, yet still managed to teach himself this level of spellwork and keep it hidden. It makes Harry ache with compassion he doesn’t want to feel.
"No, I guess not. But I always figured you had a plan because you let me have it." Harry says desperately, like he needs it confirmed. He's always been under the impression that Malfoy let him get away too easily, that he missed way too many opportunities to recapture him at the Manor before Dobby showed up. Harry didn’t do this to Malfoy alone, Malfoy did this to himself just as much.
"That’s beside the point." Malfoy is back to his usual cheerless self, like he can cut a cord on his emotions on command. Fuck, maybe he can, which must have been a difficult lesson for someone with a temper like his.
"It wasn't my fault, Malfoy. I have no idea what happened after, but I didn't want any of it." Harry's voice breaks in a way Malfoy’s never would anymore. Part of him really doesn’t want to find out what a score of angry Death Eaters would do to a wandless boy whose father had fallen out with their master, and the other part of him thinks that the least he deserves is to know. Because it's his fault.
"Well, it turns out that with enough practice, you can get through the first three seconds of the Cruciatus Curse without screaming." Malfoy spits out the word "practice" with such intensity that Harry flinches before the rest of the words' meaning sinks in.
Harry knows what being on the wrong end of a crucio feels like, and nothing can compare to that pain and hopelessness. There's the immediate, blinding knowledge that you'd die if given the choice from the moment it first hits you, and if Malfoy has lived months with that choice and has never made it, then he must have had a bloody good reason to force himself through it. Harry realises with sudden clarity that that has been Malfoy's plan because knowing what would come next and still facing it like Malfoy has done is either foolishly brave or comes from a self-loathing so deep that death isn’t an absolution.
Harry scrambles away to check on the fallen rocks before he collapses into a sobbing heap at Malfoy’s feet, begging for forgiveness. It isn’t his fault.
He reaches for the stones blindly, magic thrumming against his fingers, dark and sticky as he touches them. Malfoy isn’t brave, so the only explanation would be that the troll-brained idiot thinks he deserved being tortured. Then he turned that terror and desperation into the most marvellous thing Harry has ever seen. A learning curve steep enough that it would make Hermione astonished. Some of the fog ravens disappear with a puff, but the rest of them still stand, plucking their feathers and crowing soundlessly as if mocking Harry.
After a few minutes of trying, Harry is sure they won’t be able to move all of the stones. Anything bigger than his fist is charmed to weigh a ton, but he can busy himself with the smaller ones while he works through his guilt. He has become surprisingly adept at that in the past year and a half.
“You didn’t deserve it.” Harry grinds out once he can trust his voice and there are no other stones he can manually move. Malfoy might be an indescribable prick, but Harry is getting fed up with the people around him wanting to be punished so unfairly out of proportion. How many years did he lose with Sirius being in Azkaban?
“I didn’t have much of a choice now, did I? I could either have run and left my family to die or off myself, which I couldn’t do without a wand at first. Merlin knows I’ve thought about it.” Malfoy explains conversationally while he levitates a few pebbles away without touching the bigger stones. “Then I decided that I might as well prepare myself for Azkaban. Conjuring a Patronus is rather bothersome when you spend most of your days screaming into your pillow. Happy memories are pretty elusive at those times.” The sneer is back on Malfoy’s face, artificial yet a fetching sign of life, and Harry is just happy for him to have survived. No strings attached. Malfoy doesn’t have to change, doesn’t have to repent, doesn’t even have to say sorry. His continued existence is enough for now. Harry wants to hug him.
“The stones are charmed. We can’t move them.” Harry says instead because they’ve exhausted their annual dose of past traumas in the last ten minutes.
“They're, in fact, cursed.” Malfoy’s clipped voice is a match for McGonagall. He'd be a marvellous teacher if he pretended to be nice from time to time. It's certainly enough to make Harry feel like a student even without the niceties. Like he's back at school, always a good ten steps behind Hermione.
“That makes a difference how?” Harry asks, wiping his forehead and dusting off his jeans again.
“I'm much more proficient with curses than charms.” Malfoy rolls his eyes, like Harry should know that. Hermione most certainly would have figured it out while upholding the conversation. She wouldn’t be stuck on Malfoy’s pale face, intense eyes, and impeccable bone structure, though. Harry has it bad.
“Oh, right. So you can break the curse?” Harry asks, somewhat hopeful. Being utterly useless is a disconcerting feeling. Usually, everyone expects him to save the day, whether it's rescuing a Kneazle stuck on a tree or defeating Voldemort. But right now, all he can do is cheer on Malfoy of all people or hope for a rescue.
“Theoretically yes, practically no. It would take weeks, if not months.” Malfoy says, a visible crease on his forehead, the first sign that he doesn’t feel as confident as he looks. They don’t have months, neither of them has as much as an apple to conjure food based off of.
“Why?” Harry doesn’t manage to banish all desperation from his voice. How could Malfoy have the answer yet not be able to deliver it in time for them to actually make it?
“Shit, Potter, you really didn’t do anything besides wanking this summer?” Harry feels himself flush at Malfoy's unexpected crudeness. He did, wank, quite a bit, Malfoy being one of the main protagonists when Harry let himself go there. It's a guilty pleasure with heavy emphasis on guilt.
But he can’t stop himself, especially at times after taking the wand out for a spin. How could he, when the wand takes his Protego, stretches it over the whole house and garden, infuses it with magic Harry hasn’t even known he had, that he's sure it could stop an AK? It's precise and perfect, and Harry feels ashamed how he normally uses the magic equivalent of a tree trunk to conjure a toothpick. The wand takes his tree trunk from him, demands more, and builds a fucking table with seating and cutlery for four and a holder for two handfuls of toothpicks. He’s usually hard before the spell solidifies.
“I did, but advanced curse breaking wasn't it.” Harry says, his voice strained, because just the memory of it is enough for the warm affection for Malfoy in his stomach to bloom.
“Okay, imagine a crumbling house you want to demolish. Closer to the Manor in size than Weasley's shack.” Malfoy stands up, sighs, but resists the urge to express his disdain in other, more effective ways. “You take it down brick by brick so it doesn’t collapse.” His brows lift in question, like asking whether Harry can follow at least this much without getting lost in a straight corridor. Malfoy has really expressive eyebrows for how close to invisible they are.
“All right.” Harry nods. He doesn’t want to think of himself as dumb, but yeah, he has no knowledge on how to break curses. He actually only knows how to avoid them when they're flung at his head.
“That times a hundred. I pick the wrong brick, we die.” Malfoy finishes with a flourish, encompassing the cave-in like the cursed death trap it is. The torn dress robe sleeve slips from his shoulder, and he gathers it on his forearm like that’s how it's supposed to be worn. Maybe it is, Harry really doesn’t know at this point.
“So it's like deadly Mikado?” He clarifies and almost chokes seeing Malfoy’s puzzled expression.
“What?”
“Never mind, it's a muggle game where you pick up sticks from a stack without moving the others.” It's a stupid game anyway, not like he's ever been allowed to actually play, but Dudley enjoyed breaking the sticks when they were little.
“As I was saying,” Malfoy continues like Harry hasn’t interfered with his lecture. “Unless I can make sure that the curse as a whole stays unbroken long enough, there's no way for me to dismantle it without us dying. I can either do that by going extremely slow, I'm talking about months here. Or hold up the whole thing while taking out sections.” There's a tiny, apologetic shrug at the end of his speech, but Harry isn’t sure it isn't just a flicker of the Lumos.
“And how do you make sure it stays up?” Harry asks, because Malfoy seems to have stopped at the most important part. It must be blatantly obvious based on the long suffering expression on his face.
“Magic.” Malfoy whispers back dramatically like that's some huge secret. Harry decides to ignore the mocking tone.
“So what’s the problem?” It's exhausting talking to Hermione when she gets like this. It's excruciating when it's Malfoy.
“Revelio Incantatem!” Malfoy does an elaborate hand gesture, and the web of curses slowly starts to unfold. They're ugly, ancient things, most of which Harry doesn’t even recognize. “Look at it and tell me what you think.” Malfoy instructs.
“Ehm, it’s intricate?” It's like saying the sun is a little bit bright. It's very fucking intricate. “How long until you can cast a spell like this?” Harry looks at Malfoy in question. If anyone, he would be able to do it at some point in the next century if he put his mind to it.
“Potter… What do you mean by how long?” There's a complicated expression on Malfoy’s face, shock and incredulity hiding awe and resentment.
“It's Harry, if we're stuck here you can at least pretend to be a human being.” Harry corrects him, because he's fed up with his name being butchered into Pottah, and frankly, he has no idea how to answer.
“No, this is definitely a Potter moment.” Malfoy waves him off. “Now tell me, how do you think this curse was cast?” His bony finger points onto the swirling mass of intertwined curses, still slithering and pulsing after thousands of years. Harry notes with rising horror that he really likes Malfoy’s hands. They're strong and elegant, nails perfectly manicured. Like maybe Harry wouldn’t be opposed to those fingers stretching him open, just until he comes about three seconds in and then forgets all about it.
"Someone spends ages perfecting it and when the pharaoh dies, he casts it?" Harry guesses. If they are in Egypt, that is. It is meant to seal something in, and whoever did it, made damn sure that it stayed there.
"You're not even asking the correct question.” Malfoy sighs impatiently. “This is the work of about four wizards and witches with above-average power, in perfect sync." Harry doesn't need Professor Malfoy fantasies, but he reckons it will be another two weeks at most until he caves and tosses one off, imagining himself on his knees sucking Malfoy off for a pass. Beautiful wands come at a price. "And you think you could do it." Harry knows he will do it before he realises that Malfoy isn't talking about his stupid fantasies. Right, the curse.
"Oh, definitely not. But it’s the difficulty, not because it takes a lot of effort." Harry shrugs. He can muster the power, but not much after that. Knowing that you can draw a bow doesn't mean your arrow will hit the target. Aiming is Malfoy's forte, apparently.
"Merlin, you really just live trudging ahead like a charging hippogriff, don't you?" There is honest wonder on Malfoy's face, like when he asked Harry polyjuiced into Goyle whether he really could read.
"Fuck off, Malfoy." Harry growls back.
"No, I mean you don't actually master a spell, you just throw enough power at it until it works." Malfoy explains, reigniting Harry's professor fantasies. Harry is just glad that their teachers at Hogwarts can't pull off the rags Malfoy is currently wearing quite as well as he does. Torn dress robes shouldn't be hot.
"Isn't that how everyone does it?" Harry asks resignedly, but to his surprise, Malfoy's lips only curl into a malevolent smile without any insults as accompaniment.
"Great…" Malfoy gears up for something, Harry can tell. "Well, the good news is we might survive. The bad news is we're going to have magic sex."
"What?" The whole day isn't the peak of Harry's eloquence, but what the actual fuck?
"C'mon Potter, sex." Malfoy keeps on bloody smiling. It is the most unnerving thing Harry has ever seen, and he has seen Voldemort hugging the wanker. "You know, when you put something of yours into something of someone else's. Or the other way around, I'm not judging. Surely, even you get the basics."
This is the day Draco friggin’ Malfoy explains intercourse to Harry. It should have come with a warning; Harry's boring, recluse life hasn't prepared him for this.
"Malfoy…" He huffs because he is pretty sure he could be persuaded to shag Malfoy without the threat of their imminent demise, but he isn't going to just say that.
"I will penetrate you to take your magic. Temporarily." Malfoy explains with a barely-there flush on his cheeks. At least he is somewhat affected. Harry feels like he could hide in a tomato field. "And I'm going to enjoy the shit out of it." Malfoy adds because he is an arsehole and a social predator who can recognize a weakness from less telling signs than what Harry is displaying.
"Why do I have a feeling it won't be mutual?" Harry asks cautiously. Magic sex sounds fun, but having his magic taken away doesn't.
"Oh, yes, it will be. Or we die. I can't wandlessly magic rape you." Malfoy says arrogantly, like Harry has offended him somehow. "If what I suspect is true, I couldn't do it without your consent anyhow." He adds, like Harry should feel secure now that Malfoy can only end him in a hundred different ways, but magic rape isn't one if them.
"You're frighteningly resembling Hermione right now." Harry sighs. Back to square one, not understanding a bloody thing going on around him.
"That's probably a compliment coming from you. And you should be alarmed that you're intrigued rather than apprehensive." Malfoy warns, and Harry is too exhausted to contradict him.
"Probably... so, an explanation for the mentally challenged toad?" He asks resignedly looking up to see Malfoy snort in a somewhat non-mocking way. He has a bloody handsome face, especially when it isn't sneering at Harry. Pale skin and sharp angles, an aristocratic nose, and fiery grey eyes, like asphalt in the summer, with hair a shocking shade of blond, curling gently in the heat. He has undeniably grown up, some mass on his previously boyishly lanky frame, like he couldn't grow upwards and build muscles at the same time at school and had to play catch up in the last months. The stubble is also doing things for Harry; grown-up Malfoy can pull off all the swagger teenage Malfoy had tried to put on.
"Highly illegal dark magic that allows the caster to drain from his target's power." Malfoy says impassively, and it doesn't sound like the fun shag Harry was hoping for. "And you have to enthusiastically consent so the spell holds long enough. Breaking the curse even when I don't need to be that cautious will take hours, and we have to do it in one sitting. This is not the 'close your eyes and think of England' type of situation." That, in turn, makes Harry snort because Malfoy is making a muggle joke.
"How will that even work?" Harry rubs his eyes. Malfoy and him enthusiastically consenting to dark magic sex seems almost as impossible as breaking the curse.
"I don't know, Potter. You tell me. What would make you like and trust me enough that you'd want me to fuck you?" Malfoy turns on the charm he normally reserves for the likes of Blaise and Pansy. Harry feels horrible how he could refer to them by their first names while Draco has always been just Malfoy. "Like holding you down and making you take it, fuck you. Not the sweet and gentle lovemaking I'm sure you impose on your unlucky trysts." He continues, again with the crudeness. Harry has no idea why it works for him, but Malfoy's standoffishness paired with his posh rasp spewing filth at him does more than anyone ever has.
He now quite understands how Malfoy has friends though, even after everything. He is witty and charming, and he looks natural while being all that and more. His magic is brilliant, and like it or not, he is the wizarding equivalent of royalty, and he holds himself as such despite his current less-than-desirable status. His lopsided, flirty smile and unwavering, blazing eyes help too; they are magnetic.
"Not liking you doesn't actually play much role in me wanting to shag you." Harry mutters, flushing another fetching shade of red, he is sure.
"Oh, Potter. You're full of surprises." Malfoy has a delighted frown on his face only he can pull off. It is very confusing.
"Just wanted to clear that up. No point in stressing about issues that don't exist when we have real ones." He says and looks sharply at Malfoy, daring him to make fun of him.
"So if I promise to let you fuck me silly afterwards, you'll let me magic shag you now?" Malfoy asks, the word fuck sounding strange and really hot from his mouth.
"Do you want that?" Because while Harry might not have much of a choice now than buckle up and go through with it, he isn't going to let Malfoy have pity sex with him. Or worse, sleep with him like this is some sort of business deal.
"I want to live, and it's not a price I'm unwilling to pay. I've done worse." Malfoy reminds him, and yeah, Harry can imagine that. Almost as much as he can imagine himself sliding home into Malfoy's tight arse, pale hips bruising where Harry is gripping him, stretching all over his bed. Malfoy panting and pushing back, like he wants it too.
"Come off it, Malfoy." Harry says with an edge. He is at an enormous disadvantage for actually having his stupid feelings, but he is tired of fighting.
"C'mon Potter, I'm still me," Malfoy spreads his arms, lindworm-green fabric flowing like poison in the air, like being him is an accomplishment in itself. Which Harry supposes it is, still breathing and such; Merlin knows they both have had their fair share of chances to expire before they hit eighteen. "I'd fuck you just for the bragging rights and to see you crawling back for more, even if you looked like a cave troll." Malfoy smirks with malice, and Harry thinks both unicorn hair and him are idiotically gullible.
"I don't need your sacrifice." He spits back, heart racing. After everything Malfoy has been through, Harry can't imagine coercing him into sexual favours.
"Well, I need yours. Again." Malfoy sneers. "Because for this to work, it doesn’t matter whether I want it, but you have to consent." He clarifies, and Harry thinks it’s a good thing that he’s already there anyway.
"Okay, tell me your darkest secret." He prompts. If he can get anything out of this most unpleasant adventure, he will find out one of Malfoy's secrets at least. Merlin knows he must have some nasty ones.
"Really, Potter?" Malfoy laughs, and it is a stunningly strange expression on his face with laugh lines that Harry has rarely ever seen. "I suppose this is horribly dull from your righteous point of view, but during the war, I rooted for you, even before taking the Mark. Against my beliefs, against my family, against my own interests. Mind you, I thought we'd end up in Azkaban or dead, and I still did it. I was a fucking coward and never rebelled, but I always pretended to be less than I am. Weaker, dumber, slower, so I could never be more than my father's son and couldn't help more than I did. And I kept it a secret through everything." There is a forced lightness to his tone, and Harry doesn't believe for a second that it was that easy. That Malfoy didn’t want to give up and gather everything he had to fight back. They wouldn't be here now because Harry might have a misplaced worship thing going on, but even he knows Malfoy couldn't have taken an army by himself.
"That's why you let me get your wand." Harry concludes. Because they both needed it, and Malfoy had decided for the both of them.
"I am far from that noble." Malfoy waves a dismissive hand. "I let you have it, because it was dying from all the dark magic. I started meddling in wandless because of that. I wanted it back in the Room of Hidden Things, because I could do almost anything wandless at that point and Mother’s wand was holding me back. I am not the sentimental type, but it is… was… my wand." Malfoy finishes like it is imperative that Harry understands the importance of his words.
"It still is." Harry hastens to assure. As much as he loves the wand, he is ready to give it back. "Although I can use it pretty well. If we are doing uncomfortable confessions, I take it out quite often for it being someone else's wand. I don’t know, it twists my magic into something elegant, ambitious, but without redundancy. Like yours. Like it remembers how you did it and that reminds me that you are a person like everyone else, that you aren't evil." And makes Harry want to do things no schoolyard nemeses should want to do to each other. Ron would kill him if he knew.
"I was scared, not evil." Malfoy agrees, straightening into perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back. "Not that that’s an excuse for eventually repairing that bloody thing, mind you. It took me over a month to tell them that I did it, I figured it out weeks earlier. I was just stalling and hoping for a miracle, I guess. I certainly am not good, but not evil." Malfoy finishes like he had this argument with himself countless times. Harry can only sympathise.
"You are a Slytherin who could have been a Ravenclaw." Harry says in wonder. He never thought Malfoy had anything but pure Slytherin in him. But really, he is Hermione’s mind put to less noble pursuits and packaged much more to Harry’s liking.
"You sound surprised, Potter." That fucking eyebrow again, like Malfoy finds it amusing that along with everyone else, he managed to fool Harry.
"When did you get so smart?" There must have been a point where ‘My father will hear about this’ turned into ‘I can fix ancient magical objects in service of evil and that’s far from the most impressive thing about me’. Harry thinks about what else Malfoy could have done. He could have won the war for Voldemort.
"I was never dumb in the first place." Malfoy points out sensibly. He did well in classes, it was Crabbe and Goyle who dampened the average IQ of his social circle considerably. Maybe that was intentional too.
"But you never seemed smart either." Harry presses. Malfoy has always been a brat, coasting on money and status whenever he could get away with that before bothering to do any work.
"Potter, I was always smart enough to not want to seem anything special. Good was okay, but I could never be brilliant." Malfoy explains like Harry is five, then seems to put real pressure on himself to continue. "I didn’t hate Granger because of her blood, mostly I hated her because I could have been her without mine." Malfoy scowls, clearly unhappy with himself. Like he knows his upbringing was wrong, but can’t reconcile his loving parents, well Mother mostly, with people as fundamentally corrupt as the Death Eaters.
"So why do you hate me?" Harry asks. He has a vague idea, but five minutes ago he would have sworn Malfoy’s main issue with Hermione was that she wasn’t a Pureblood.
"Is that going to help at all?" Malfoy asks, pained.
"Honesty, Draco." Harry takes a step back, preparing for an onslaught of unpleasantness.
"Well, Harry." Malfoy spits the name, and maybe it is Potter between them. "You were the Saviour of the world. The Boy Who Lived without doing a single fucking thing. You were famous for your mother's sacrifice, and it didn’t make her special. It made you special for some reason. You were irritating and contradictory and frankly dumb as rocks without Granger's help, and despite everything, everyone was head over heels in love with you." Malfoy's gaze is heated with anger, and under different circumstances, Harry wouldn't mind it directed at him.
"You certainly weren't." Harry snorts. Yes, there was a lot of adoration from complete strangers, but anyone who knew him stopped with it after about five minutes. Malfoy only needed five seconds.
"I don't know, I was definitely obsessed." Malfoy says thoughtfully. Harry feels a weird twist in his gut because he definitely used to be obsessed as well, way before the whole wand incident. Malfoy looks at his shoes and continues in a carefully neutral tone. "I can't—wouldn't—help who my father is, but I've been bearing that cross for better or worse my whole life. We're at the two ends of the same spectrum, Potter, yet it was always me who pulled the short straw. You got away with shit for your family, and I got into shit for mine. I was a stupid boy with skewed values sorted by a mad talking hat into an echo chamber of the same shit. How was I supposed to learn better when the bloody thing didn't even consider me for Ravenclaw? I know now that I was more than qualified, but I didn't know then. How is it okay to tell an eleven-year-old child that they aren't smart or brave or even nice, but they are cunning? Did you even know what that meant at that age?" Malfoy finishes, and Harry suspects this is him being delicate about the issue. To be fair, pitching children against each other really doesn't seem like the best educational choice from an adult perspective.
"No, I don't think so." Harry answers and recalls how he was allowed to fly in his first year. He was, despite blatantly breaking the rules, because McGonagall had pulled strings Snape probably couldn't have with their Gryffindor headmaster. Harry loved every minute of it, but Malfoy also was right to be mad at him. It wasn’t fair, especially for kids at their age. And there were all the House Cups and countless other times he was given a pass either for being Harry Potter or for being a Gryffindor. It's not even that Malfoy didn’t try to do the same, but somehow the world loved Harry, but despised Malfoy for it.
They aren't that much different, really, just the sons of their parents. Only Malfoy has always thought it was his prerogative to live off of his father's reputation and hasn't been given a chance to prove himself among peers who aren't cowed by his name, while Harry would have given anything to have his mum back and be ordinary.
"Do you hate me any less now?" He asks, and it's a loaded question. Malfoy seems to be out for blood. Like he wants a fight.
"I haven't hated you for a long time. You saved my life, Malfoy. I trust you," Harry shudders because fuck if it isn't true. Wholly insane, but not less true.
"I merely didn't kill you a couple of times; it was you who saved mine. At most, we're even, Potter. Not friends." Malfoy says, which isn't untrue either.
Malfoy had pretended not to recognize him, hardly putting up a fight when they had come to that. Knowing what Harry knows now, Malfoy could have finished him basically any time, at the Prefect's bath, at the Manor, even in the Room of Requirements, which had gone so horribly wrong because Malfoy hesitated and almost died for it. Harry wouldn't even have known the spell that ended him. Kind of how Malfoy had never known Sectumsempra.
They'll never be friends, will they? They're worlds apart, with Harry's Muggle upbringing against Malfoy's traditional family, the sides they took in the war, even their personalities clash, both of them volatile, tamed differently by circumstance. Harry belongs with Ron and Hermione, not Malfoy's lot of Slytherins and assorted Purebloods.
"Lucky only one of us has to like the other for your spell to work." Harry sighs and holds out his arm. "Go on, cast it, it'll work. I promise." For all of Malfoy's various faults related to cowardice, this time he doesn't hesitate. He grabs Harry's wrist, fingers warm on his clammy skin, turns it palm up, and puts his hand above the veins. The touch sends shivers up Harry's spine.
"It might feel a bit intrusive" Malfoy warns as his hand starts moving.
"Just like sex, right?" Harry tries to joke, but it falls flat as dark smoke starts gathering around Malfoy's fingers.
"I'm not usually the one being intruded there, Potter." Malfoy looks up with a cool gaze, then goes back to cast his spell before Harry can twist himself up about the implication. Straight or top? And why is Malfoy even offering the information? "Sanguis tuus vita mea!" Malfoy grinds out, and the smoke solidifies, rushes to bind Harry's wrist, and scrambles into his veins to reach its goal.
"Merlin, Malfoy, how the fuck is that a bit intrusive?" Harry gasps out because Legilimency is a walk in the park compared to the feeling of someone taking a nose dive into your soul.
"I know exactly what it feels like," Malfoy growls. Of course, how else would he know about this spell at all if not from personal experience? "Just don't fight it, please, Potter. Once in your life, please don't fight." Malfoy is begging, Harry notes with wonder through the rage of realising that someone has done this to Malfoy. Given his former circle of acquaintances, there couldn't have been much concern about consent there.
"I'm not, just don't move." Harry takes a deep breath and consciously lets it out. He can feel Malfoy in his magic, blessedly repressed, but completely alien. Like someone breaking into his house and making him tea. He’d still have them blasted out of his dining room without question.
"Shit, fair warning, I'm going to come at some point." Malfoy says, and it's enough to have Harry snap his eyes back open.
"What? From fumbling around in my magic?" He asks desperately. The instinct to immediately kick the intruder has subsided somewhat, but the anxious buzz of what Harry now recognizes as arousal still makes him twitchy.
"Fuck yes." Malfoy drawls involuntarily in his best bedroom voice, and Harry has no idea whether he likes their situation more or less for it. "It makes so much sense now that Voldemort was scared shitless of you. It’s like seeing the ocean for the first time when you didn’t even know such a thing existed." Malfoy continues in the same tone, and yeah, Harry likes it. "Just give me a minute." Malfoy adds, eyes squeezed tightly shut, still holding onto Harry’s wrist.
"You can—I can't believe I'm saying this—poke around." Harry nudges the little ball of darkness in his magic, and Malfoy moans, so into it that he couldn’t have faked that.
"Yeah…" There's more wriggling and choked gasps, and Malfoy reigning himself in a way that only makes it worse for Harry. Self-composure apparently does it for him as well. "So, mentally challenged toad time.” Malfoy drawls, for once without his usual contempt reserved just for Harry, and releases his arm. “Imagine that all of us wizards are trying to cultivate a garden in the desert. We have different-sized buckets, we prune and breed and nurture and do everything in our power to have our plants thriving." Malfoy explains with a flush on his cheeks. Harry reduces the two weeks leeway on the professor-fantasy to as soon as he is alone. He's going to jerk himself raw over Malfoy sending him to detention and not even pretend that it’s the wand's fault. "I have a fairly large bucket and an exceptional green thumb, generally speaking. You have a fucking bathtub. Enough magic—water—that you could grow rice in the desert while wanking the summer away as I'm struggling to get fluxweed blooming." The black ball in his magic starts to grow as Malfoy finishes, and it's less horrible than what Harry had anticipated. It's distinctly Malfoy, and Harry can feel his awe and excitement, and his own magic preens in return.
"At least you can tell fluxweed from maple. C'mon Malfoy, fucking do something!" Harry demands, because he feels a pull, to shove his magic at the ball, and it doesn’t seem like the brightest of ideas.
“Aguamenti!” Malfoy says, clearly to prepare Harry rather than anything else, because he doesn’t even do any flairs to the charm. Harry has the sudden, maddening certainty that Malfoy could do this in his sleep. He isn’t just getting by; he could take all of their N.E.W.T.s with straight E-s without even remembering that he's missing his wand. The water—naturally—starts flowing in the middle of the desert, in a crypt, in an elegant arch from where Malfoy pulls it to the surface.
“Merlin's balls! Shit!” Harry cries out as the ball starts syphoning magic like a sponge, writhing and alive. It grows warm and heavy, filling him up just right, and the ball is Malfoy inside Harry, the phallic comparison oddly accurate. The rebounding feelings of Malfoy’s arousal help a lot, actually. Harry can be okay with this, he could very easily get off on it too.
“What?!” Malfoy forces himself to speak through the haze. “This usually doesn’t make it worse.” Harry realises that he's so anxious because he thinks he’s messed up the binding curse.
“No, it's just…it’s like your wand, only so much better.” Harry grinds out, and it feels like a physical caress as his magic rushes into Malfoy’s Levitation Charm and manages to move some of the bigger rocks.
“How much did you use my wand?” Malfoy pants heavily, leaning against one of the slabs, shooing the remaining ravens away. Harry wants to bury his hands into his hair and pull until it's a mess and maybe snog him a bit as well.
“Your fucking wand seduced me for you, okay?” He says desperately. Merlin help him, but this isn’t just some stupid attraction for his infuriatingly handsome classmate he loathes most of the time anyway. He’s been properly seduced, and now with Malfoy getting off on his magic, Harry is helplessly roped in. He wants it all, to take and be taken, to own and be owned, fuck, he wants to cuddle and hold hands. He still isn’t sure he even likes Malfoy apart from his pretty face and stupid impressive magic.
“And now you get all tingly from my spellwork?” Malfoy asks, a lot smug and a little desperate himself. Harry lets himself provide magic for the bond to move one of the exceptionally stubborn stones, and he can’t suppress a groan at how good it feels.
“Your spellwork gets me a good tug away from coming, but close enough.” He says honestly. There’s really no point in playing coy anymore. Jeans don’t hide much.
“A wand can't do that!” Malfoy says, with eyes wide and determined. The fact that he's tenting his slacks from Harry's magic dampens his argument considerably.
"It can apparently do a lot more." Harry says without ever intending to explain. He lets himself be drawn again, luxuriating in Malfoy's careful touch and the way he channels Harry's magic into his intricately perfect patterns. Merlin, he's so ready to come.
"And why are you mad at me?" Malfoy asks, and Harry realises he's scowling.
"I'm not!" He says. At least not at Malfoy. Harry hates this whole situation of them being seconds away from their orgasms with two feet between them in an ancient burial chamber, fully dressed.
"You thought about this." Malfoy realises. Harry lets himself feel a minute of embarrassment about the situation. Maybe he can stalk over and push Malfoy just a bit. With the tug of the bond, he wouldn’t say no. He can make it good. Then live with the humiliation for the rest of his life.
"Of course I fucking did. Your wand thinks you're brilliant." Harry snarls and pushes as much magic as he can at Malfoy just to see what he'd do with it. Malfoy comes with a low growl, face screwing up in a very controlled manner.
After a few seconds, he pants a flippant "Well, I am." But the excess magic is already being channelled into a Cooling Charm, a Scouring Charm, and what seems like the beginnings of an Incarcerous, but Jinxed to be projectiles or something. Harry loses track of the modifications before Malfoy is halfway done.
"Your wand also makes me think you're brilliant." Harry says defiantly. Malfoy is fucking brilliant, damn him.
"I still want it back." Malfoy says, his voice tense as he tries to regain his composure. He shoots out the Incarcerous from his left palm, and Harry is jerked and lifted into the air, his limbs bound by smooth silk-like bonds. A hand strokes leisurely along his ribs. It’s a bit concerning that he never even thought of throwing up a Protego.
"It doesn't want me to keep it, it wants me to keep you." Harry chokes out, Malfoy’s movements still steady as he continues to control the spells. Harry's mind is spinning, and he can't help but feel a mix of fear and desire.
"Well, good thing we're pretty much dark magic engaged then." Malfoy snidely remarks, his spells remaining unyielding. Harry had provided the magic, and Malfoy's aim is sure and impeccable.
"We should probably get things out of the way before you start with the curse-breaking then." Harry tries to look up, but the sensation of the silky bonds winding around his cock makes him drop his head with a groan.
"Yeah, your first helpful thought." Malfoy praises, tightening the bonds while a phallic-shaped force presses against Harry's arse. It feels real, warm, and fleshy.
"What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry asks, futilely struggling against the solid magical bonds. Given the countless times Harry has been bound and tossed around by magic since starting Hogwarts, it doesn’t even dampen his arousal.
"Just proving a point." Malfoy says thoughtfully as the magic cock made from Harry's own magic brushes against his lips. Harry refuses to suck a fake, spelled prick for Malfoy's amusement. "That I could fuck you." Malfoy adds, the pressure against Harry's arse returning. Harry wishes it were smaller, it feels immense without any preparation.
"Yeah, yes, okay. Please." Harry hears himself say, and he can't blame that particular episode of insanity on the wand.
"Are you mad? Not like this." Malfoy sighs as if giving up the idea of an actual shag instead of sustaining a dangerous spell that could harm Harry if Malfoy so much as flicked his hand in the wrong direction.
"Please." Harry pleads, disappointment clear in his voice.
"You know, Potter, by the time I'm going to fuck you, you'll be begging for me to grace your arse with my cock. And I'm going to give it to you until you can't sit on anything but a Cushion Charm, and you'll be so loose that I can just slide straight back in in the morning." Malfoy snarls, anger suddenly taking over. "And I'm going to make you beg for that too." Harry shivers with anticipation, finding himself surprisingly okay with begging to Malfoy. The silk on his cock tugs viciously, lacking finesse but enough to rush him towards completion.
"Fuck, please, don't stop!" Harry pushes more magic to keep the bond from slowing down, desperately humping the enchanted air until he comes with a force completely unwarranted with how he hasn’t even touched Malfoy yet.
"Potter, I could drain you dry through this curse. It's illegal for a good reason," Malfoy pants, sweat beading on his forehead. "You could at least help me resist temptation by not begging for it. Even my control has limits."
"I fucking know you, Malfoy." Harry drawls as Malfoy slowly lets him down. If Malfoy can't stop himself, Harry is a lost cause.
"I'm not like your precious friends, Potter. I'm not used to not getting what I want." Malfoy growls, and Harry prepares himself for the curse-breaking, suppressing a snort. Malfoy is exactly like Hermione, and he can feel the anticipation through the bond, as if the work of multiple fully-fledged wizards is an exciting exercise before the school year begins.
There's an absent-minded Scourgify washing over Harry, but after Malfoy's constant display of competence, it barely stirs his arousal. Harry estimates he'll need at least five minutes for round two. Disappointingly, Malfoy is already focused on his task at hand, casting spells to figure out his plan of attack. Even more disappointingly, he accomplishes it with his own magic.
The curse-breaking itself is long and tedious, requiring more effort to keep the ancient curses intact than to break them. Malfoy murmurs to himself when he gets stuck, occasionally telling Harry to shut up when he breathes too loudly.
Meanwhile, Malfoy is extremely courteous with the bond, requesting and receiving the magic to be syphoned instantly. Harry senses the hunger, but Malfoy never acts on it, even though the bond could draw Harry's magic after sustaining itself for about an hour without Harry's permission. Malfoy had demonstrated this to prove how foolish Harry was for pushing at it.
After what feels like hours of continuous spellcasting, Harry is exhausted, and Malfoy appears to be on the brink of collapse. They are sweaty and gross, but the curse is finally lifted, with only minor incidents that left the chamber in a less-than-pristine condition.
Malfoy's cautionary series of Protegos worked like a miracle. They make sense to Harry intuitively, but Malfoy used actual formulas and talked about lowering the power of the function to adjust for the smaller space and the merits of complex versus absolute numbers for the best coverage. Harry wonders if he should study Arithmancy in his next year or let it remain a mystery and continue wanking over Malfoy as he utilises it.
The black ball of magic-syphoning doom retreats as Malfoy whispers a Finite Incantatem and collapses, sitting down to drink some water from their little fountain. The issue of the stones remains, but without the curse, they are merely ordinary rocks that Harry can blast through once his magic is back in order.
The process of his magic returning happens faster than he anticipated, but then it suddenly gets stuck in a peculiar way. There's something wrong where the binding curse had pulsed just minutes ago. It's no longer intrusive but transformed in a way Harry can't quite grasp. It's like having his teeth regrown—always perfect in a way the old ones weren't, yet they still don't feel right.
Harry is about to ask Malfoy how long this feeling will last when their eyes meet, and he sees terror reflected on Malfoy's usually expressionless face.
"Fuck." Malfoy whispers, and Harry can't fathom how he isn't breaking down from the anguish Harry can still feel as if his own.
"Malfoy? What's wrong?" Harry cautiously asks, avoiding the obvious guess. The bond hasn't dissolved; he can still feel Malfoy, and it's not reassuring.
"Your soul..." Malfoy swallows and shakes his head in disbelief, unable to express the single, most evident conclusion.
"You fucking took a piece of my soul?" Harry shouts in panic. That's what's wrong with him—there's a part of him missing, and Malfoy's emotions continue to leak through the crack.
"You offered it, you idiot!" Malfoy snarls, pushing himself up with superhuman effort. Merlin, Harry can sense just how exhausted he is.
"I can feel it there. Shit, I can feel you in here." Harry points at his chest, tracing the fine thread connecting him to Malfoy.
"Well, you took a piece of mine as well..." Malfoy shrugs, as if that's not important. The worst part is that it feels nice. Not alien like the bond—it's easy, warm, and bright. Malfoy fits, and Harry would have welcomed it if it had happened by choice. Perhaps a couple of years down the line, after they've explored every possible way of shagging.
"You could have said something!" Harry growls indignantly. He wants to be furious, but Malfoy is moments away from collapsing, in pain, and Harry can't stop himself from caring long enough to be properly upset.
"It's not like I wanted to, but as I said, even my control has limits." Malfoy huffs, stretching out on one of the slabs, eyes closed, chest containing a part of Harry's fucking soul rising and falling steadily.
"Well, it's fucking great that you failed to mention this." Harry says, unsure of what actually happened. The curse Malfoy cast was a nasty one, not designed for a fair exchange of souls. It was created to control its victim, not to shackle its caster.
"I didn't know! Besides, it doesn't matter. This was our way out, soul exchange or not." Malfoy says, motionless. He seems to be waiting for a miracle right there on his bloody slab of stone. "Do you think I'm running around with half of my soul missing from how many times I was drawn?" He adds after a moment's hesitation.
"As if you'd miss it!" Harry says bitterly. Malfoy, the scheming, sly little snake, probably considers having a soul a minor inconvenience and is glad to be rid of it.
"Fuck you, Potter! How do you think I feel when I know it's all about that bloody wand? At least I..." Malfoy cuts himself off as if he's struck with a Silencing Charm.
"You what, Malfoy? At least you have your soul with a decent human being? Must be a change for it." Harry finds the anger finally. He's fed up with being kept in the dark and being manipulated. Fuck Voldemort, fuck Dumbledore, fuck Snape too, they had no right to make decisions for him. If he isn't a kid enough to die for them, they shouldn't have treated him as such. Also, fuck the whole Ministry and the wizarding world while he's at it. Fuck Malfoy too with his stupid perfect face and especially with his bloody brilliant mind. Fuck hawthorne trees and unicorns too. Harry had fucking enough.
He's panting like he's run a marathon instead of sitting on his arse for the past few hours, annoyed by his own uselessness, mad at himself for trusting Malfoy. It's been so easy, he's been so bloody magnificent that Harry could forget all the bullshit of the past. How Malfoy casts Unforgivables that Harry would never... Except he has, hasn't he? He just needed the bloody circumstances to be right, and he Crucioed Carrow for nothing, really. It's not like anyone he loved would have died for it if he hadn't.
"At least I fucking like you, not a wretched wand or your overinflated magic, you bloody pathetic, blundering excuse of a trollspawn!" Malfoy spits with all the intensity of someone carrying an enormous burden that leaves them broken even after letting it go.
"What?" Harry takes an involuntary step towards Malfoy and sees him stiffen, getting ready for a punch. Merlin, he's so used to being abused that his emotions don't even falter. He's resigned.
"You wanted secrets. Well, there you go." Malfoy soldiers on bitterly. "I'm not going to repeat it. I shall treasure your soul, please don't trample too much on mine until I figure out how to turn it back." Malfoy's whole body closes off, pale like a corpse on a wake except he's still alive. Against all odds and circumstances, they made it, and if Harry's stupid heart chooses him and Malfoy is reciprocating it in whatever capacity he can, Harry isn't going to be a martyr of their past. He can add Ron and Hermione to his fuck'em-all list if they don't understand.
"It's not about the bloody wand." Harry feels determination bubbling in him, strangely similar to how he marched to his death against Voldemort. To be fair, proving to Malfoy that he's interested in him doesn't seem any less terrifying. "C'mon, get it here." He pushes an enormous amount of magic at Malfoy, enough that he could Accio a brand fucking new one from Ollivander's, and he'll pick the right one.
"You sadistic, little..." Malfoy's cheeks flush, eyes flying open like he's oversensitive after coming three times within an hour, but his mind still can't stop getting aroused.
"Get. The. Wand." Harry spits the words and pushes some more, the soul link transferring just as effectively as the curse until the bond is overflowing, and there's a halo shining around Malfoy with all the untapped magic.
"Fine." Malfoy says, his breathing picking up and opening a palm. Harry feels his magic surging, sleek, and elegant, like his spells never are, seeking the wand, sure that it will find it at the end of the world if need be. It's unfairly hot, it would be hot even if it wasn't Malfoy doing it.
It takes a lot of time, they're over three thousand miles away, but Harry knows the moment Malfoy finds it. He can feel the relief of being reunited with his wand. They don't speak at all. It takes even longer for the wand to physically travel back to them, but there's nothing to say, really. Harry tries his hands with the rocks, but it's pointless, he can't save more than ten seconds of cleanup once they get to it with charms rather than muscles.
The wand breaks through the whole bloody pyramid, neatly falling into Malfoy's waiting palm, leaving a single ray of light where it goes through several feet of stone and mortar in a direct line. Malfoy tosses him the wand carelessly, like it doesn't pain him to do so. Like finding a lover in bed with someone else but loving them enough to wish for them to be happy rather than cursing their whole lineage. It's utterly shocking to feel Malfoy, vindictive, spiteful Malfoy having these feelings and for Harry to be absolutely certain that they're genuine.
"Expecto Patronum!" Harry shouts, and his stag comes leaping, blindingly bright and perfect with such an obvious resemblance to Malfoy as if they were twins of different species. "And now tell me it's not real." Harry says tightly, looking into two pairs of storm grey eyes and coat and hair an identical shade of blond. Even their features are similarly pointy and haughtily disdainful.
"Oh." Malfoy pushes himself up on his elbows and watches the stag hold its head in such an unmistakably Malfoy way that Malfoy mirrors it unconsciously. Harry starts laughing just a slight bit hysterical.
"Yeah, oh. You are my fucking Patronus." He says and lets himself move towards Malfoy. "You know, the spell that feeds on love and happiness."
"Now I'm hoping for a rat or an earthworm..." Malfoy says with an evil glint in his eye.
"Ferret?" Harry asks cheekily.
"Fuck off, Potter." Malfoy replies without heat.
"I don't think that's how it works." Harry shrugs. His stag never looked like anyone. He might fancy Malfoy more than a little bit now, but he has loved many people in his life fiercely, and it has never made a difference to his Patronus.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's the wand. You have nothing to do with it." Malfoy waves a hand, still mesmerised by the one spell he never quite figured out.
"Why do you think your wand let me use it? It chose you to save you in the first place." Harry points out, handing the wand back to Malfoy and letting his fingers linger on Malfoy's pale skin longer than necessary. It's electrifying in a way Harry hadn't expected. He always thought that the intensity of the real thing could never match what he'd always imagined. He's never been so fucking wrong.
"And found a kindred spirit in you with your saviour complex." Malfoy looks back at Harry with piercing eyes. There's lust and hope and confidence once Malfoy is satisfied with what he sees in Harry's face. It's a fleeting moment, but Harry feels like he could live off this hope for years to come.
"Pretty much." Harry nods, sitting down next to Malfoy. They can do this, they deserve to be happy. Or at least experience something as ordinary as love and heartbreak and learn that losing doesn't always mean the end of the world. Harry doesn't particularly care for that lesson, but he isn't optimistic about him and Malfoy, yet he can't not try.
"It's still mad that you would have let me fuck you with your own magic. You begged for it when I said no." Malfoy lies back again, eyes on the ceiling, but he doesn't move his hand where it touches Harry's thigh. "I think that was when it happened. I wasn't prepared for that. The Potter I know wouldn't do that, especially not for me. You're not the surrendering type." Malfoy tries to explain, finally tucking his wand away. It's not like he needs it anymore in his everyday life.
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Malfoy." Harry says sternly, earning another calculating gaze from below Malfoy's eyebrows of doom. "I've lost enough already. Family, friends, the people who believed in me and paid for it, and I don't even know their fucking names. My childhood, my trust in people, the wonder of being a wizard. I refuse to lose the things I can still have." Harry takes a deep breath and collects every ounce of Gryffindor bravery he has and soldiers on with ears burning in embarrassment. "If that's what it takes, I am going to beg on my knees for your prick to grace my arse, and I'll thank you after. I'll even take care of the Cushion Charm, and my only condition is that it has to be something we both want." Harry finishes forcing himself to look at Malfoy. He isn't going to pass on something that might make him happy just because his brain tells him that he should.
"I suppose I can always transfigure a bed." Malfoy says with hooded eyes, but his hand is already sneaking to Harry's inner thigh, pointer finger dancing along the inseam, and suddenly all bets are off.
"A rug on the softer side will suffice. " Harry smiles at Malfoy's quick intake of breath and pulls him up by his wandering hand. He might be bottoming for the rest of his life, but Harry will be damned if he just lies down and takes it.
"Fuck Potter, I'd never imagined you quite so..." Malfoy trails off as Harry drops to his knees, cushions be damned.
"Forward?" he asks cheekily, looking up at Malfoy.
"Deferential." Malfoy corrects, and really, Harry is going to fail Potions just to get some extra tutorage out of Malfoy. The thing is, Harry actually enjoys that finally someone doesn’t treat him as an infallible hero and doesn’t expect him to always be the leader. It’s exhilarating to wait for what comes next and just go along with whatever feels right.
Harry shakes himself and starts working on Malfoy's slacks, the outline of his cock already visible. When he manages to open it, Harry does a double-take because it's the spelled one. Or rather, the spelled one is an exact copy of Malfoy's rather generous prick.
"Fuck me, you weren't exaggerating." Harry breathes fervently. He licks the crown, and Malfoy hisses.
"I'm not going to fuck you in a bloody tomb, Potter." Malfoy warns before Harry realises he's pushing magic again like Malfoy needs it for Transfiguration. He gives it an even chance that he could convince Malfoy if he really wanted to.
"Okay, so what are we doing?" Harry asks sensibly. Suddenly having Malfoy's stupid perfect prick in his arse is becoming the most important thing Harry can think of, and if Malfoy has another way, he can win this time around. Harry will put his foot down later.
"Apparate." Malfoy gulps. Their soul thing isn't a one-way street. He knows exactly what Harry is after, and that his agreeableness is going to be short-lived.
"Surely even you can't." Harry says sceptical but pulls himself up to stand next to Malfoy.
"I'm pretty sure I could." Malfoy sneers indignantly. "Oh, settle down Potter, we have a villa in Cyprus, can't be that far." Malfoy says like the self-absorbed brat he really is. Not that Harry is much into geography, but it's still an entirely different continent.
"So we could have Apparated all this time?" Harry asks, baffled. Had Malfoy really wanted to break that curse for shits and giggles?
"Potter, again, stop wanking and pick up a book from time to time. Technically, yes. Juiced up on you, I could go pretty fucking far. In fact, you should be able to go pretty fucking far by yourself, and the curse couldn't have stopped us. But it would have broken and possibly destroyed half of wherever we are. Surely even you don't want to shag me that bad." Harry begs to differ just a little bit. Malfoy could never do teaching though, there would be riots.
So he steps closer, grabs Malfoy's hand and says with bravery only partially faked, "Let's see Cyprus then."
"Let's." Malfoy agrees easily, and Harry is being lurched through space that suspiciously feels like a rubber tube, to be spit out on the other end in the Malfoys' charming villa in Cyprus. It’s enormous and luckily it stands in stark contrast to the Manor, with light walls and huge windows opening onto a patio overlooking the sea. The view is spectacular, with seagulls and azure blue water, palm trees and brilliant sand, made even more so with Malfoy standing right in front of Harry, hair longer but just as white blond as ever, skin a healthy pale rather than ashen grey, eyes fierce and alive, mouth quirked up in a rarely seen smile. It's very smug, to be fair, but he's breathtaking either way, and Harry has had years of experience dealing with the bratiness.
The best of all is the smell, it’s clean, crispy, slightly salty, the air fresh and cool against his grimy skin.
Malfoy pushes Harry toward a bed, runs a finger down from his neck to crotch, and all his clothes neatly unbutton themselves. It still takes precious seconds until he's down to his posh silk underwear, which slither down his legs like a wet dream come true.
Harry has no such issues, his shirt ends up on the floor within the blink of an eye, losing a few buttons, not that he cares. His jeans follow soon after. Finally, he sheds his own underwear, dropping his plain white shorts without any of Malfoy's flair.
It's awkward as they stand naked, Malfoy pale and lithe, breathing heavily. He has the thighs and arse of a Seeker, a hint of abs with fine hair leading down below his navel and scattered over his chest. He looks aristocratic, regardless of being bare-arse naked, fuck, even his prick looks posh. It's thick and longer than Harry's, gently curved, daunting yet irresistible among its nest of neatly trimmed white-blond hair.
Malfoy Accios a Pepper-Up for himself and gulps it down immediately, the bone-deep exhaustion fading from the bond.
"You should get down to the begging, Potter. Dinner's served in two hours," Malfoy cocks an eyebrow, but otherwise lets Harry stare to his heart's content.
Which Harry does. Malfoy has filled out some since Harry last saw him after the odd Quidditch practice. There are scars, but they're as much a sign that they've made it as tokens of their pasts. Harry wants to touch and kiss them all over, to move on to unblemished, perfect skin, to trace the moles with his tongue. He's never realised just how badly he wants to care about somebody like this, with burning passion to give and expect nothing in return.
"So just knowing how much I want it doesn't do it for you?" Harry asks, taking a step closer and tilting his head. Malfoy's breath hitches, and it's like a confession from him. He knows exactly.
"Almost. I'd like a practical presentation, though." Malfoy shrugs, and Harry can tell when he decides to take a leap in a very Gryffindor fashion.
There are suddenly fingers in his hair, gripping, guiding, Malfoy's mouth sure and soft against his. Harry has to tip his head up, but he doesn't mind much anymore because Malfoy uses all his cunning for good finally, biting and demanding with his kisses and slowing down whenever Harry gets too desperate in return. All he can do is hold on to Malfoy's bony hips and take whatever he's given because any time he tries to lead, their progress stops. It's maddening and so hot at the same time that Harry has half a mind to just hump Malfoy's leg to completion.
"Okay, I can do that." Harry decides after a while because Malfoy seems to be content to just continue kissing for as long as Harry lets him.
"Get on your knees then, Potter." Malfoy whispers, like Harry needs encouragement, and a pillow flies from the bed to rest between them before the last words leave his mouth. A Scourgify runs over Harry, cool and refreshing, leaving gooseflesh and a distinct citrus smell behind.
Harry drops down easily enough, without the pretence that this isn't something he desperately wants and pushes at the bond experimentally. "Nah-ah. No cheating, get me hard in the proper way." Malfoy says, his voice blazingly mocking, before he puts a finger below Harry's chin to lift his head and look into his eyes. "Because every ounce of magic you push at me, I will use to deprive you. And for reference, only a fraction of your power is enough for me to shut down all your senses and truss you up so tight that you won't even know when I'm fucking you and when I'm not." There is a mischievous glint in Malfoy's eye like he is ready to go through with it, like he dares Harry to test him, while a snake slithers down Harry's left arm to tug it back behind him with scales and proper hissing. The magic isn't enough to be unbreakable, but it makes Malfoy's point perfectly clear. And Merlin, if Malfoy is going to be like this, Harry is going to come back crawling for more.
He takes a fortifying breath and goes for it, swallowing Malfoy down, deep as he can and wrapping his free hand around the rest. It isn't really centaur-sized, but it feels like it, stretching his jaw obscenely wide and gloriously uncomfortable, bumping Harry's throat while not even halfway there. It is an impossible task, and Malfoy seems content, filling up even more, petting Harry's hair but otherwise just enjoying the attention.
Normally, by now, Harry would sneak a hand down to give himself some relief, but he wants to play by Malfoy's rules. So he keeps his arm obligingly where the spell suggests it should be, the snake's body biting into his bicep just enough to make it impossible to ignore. It is strange but so good, getting off on following orders rather than going with his instincts, and Malfoy is also brilliant at giving him all the time he needs to adjust and casting a spell that would disappear if Harry just hisses at it in Parseltongue.
It feels like a switch being flipped where Harry no longer has to be responsible, make decisions, be a fucking role model to people who could be his grandparents. Not here, not with Malfoy. Here he can choke himself on a cock, want to get fucked by it so desperately it hurts, and all the consequence is that he'll be allowed to do all that only once Malfoy says so. Experimentally, he pushes some more magic at the bond. Darkness engulfs him, accompanied by Malfoy's broken "Oh, Potter." It’s easy to settle into it then. He can still hear the encouraging noises Malfoy makes, fingers combing through his hair, Malfoy holding himself back from thrusting, thighs shaking with it.
"I should think we're ready." Malfoy mumbles, and whether he refers to himself and his cock, which should have its own room at the Manor by now, or if Harry is included is anyone's guess. But Harry is ready too, so fucking ready that he hasn't even realized he's gotten hard without his own hand. Malfoy guides him onto the bed, arranging him face down on a duvet cover that probably costs more than Ron's entire house, the fabric cool and smooth against his skin, and he's leaking on it so much it's bound to be a ruin by the time they finish.
"Do you want me to...?" Malfoy asks tenderly, running a finger down Harry's spine, bumping into his stretched back arm.
"No!" Harry answers immediately. It's nice that he's offered the choice, but he doesn't want it. "It's... I like it," he whispers, embarrassed for no reason, because it was Malfoy's idea in the first place, Harry liking it was pure coincidence.
"I didn't ask whether you liked it, Potter, I can tell that much." Malfoy's voice is smooth and very close, body warmth all around Harry without a single point of contact. "What you like and what you think is okay to like are two very distinct things. You're embarrassed. This is supposed to be fun." He says, and his hand caresses Harry's naked arse. Harry pushes back into it, face flaming with the neediness of it. He's helplessly aroused, and deciding whether he's okay to be getting off on this or not, or whether it's even the lack of control or just Malfoy himself, seems like a task he isn't up for.
"Fuck Malfoy, you've taken us this far, don't get shy now." Harry puts as much challenge into his voice as he can, hoping that their rivalry is enough to get Malfoy going.
"I'm far from shy, Potter. I'd whip you bloody in a heartbeat if you had it in you to utter the words." There's a smile in Malfoy's voice and a ghost of a touch over Harry's aching cock. "I'll indulge every single perverted whim you can think of, but for our first time, I don't think we should have you repent for all your sins - real or made up. Even assisted self-flagellation is only sexy when it's safe and consensual. In our case, sane might be pushing it too much." Malfoy says, and Harry lets himself bask in the moment rather than figure him out. If Malfoy wants something, he can talk to Harry when he isn't bound and blindfolded, waiting to be fucked by something as intimidating as Malfoy's prick. He has enough on his mind already.
After some rustling, Harry moans when Malfoy's slick finger starts massaging his arsehole, not breaching yet but clearly taking things further, like Harry has answered his question somehow. It's maddeningly slow, his arm burning where he consciously doesn't break the magic, not seeing Malfoy, but feeling everything all the same. A cleansing charm washes over him again, like cool water on a hot day, and before Harry can ask, Malfoy is diving in, no warning, no hesitation, no easing him into it, just broad licks and a deft tongue darting into his arsehole like this is what Malfoy has ordered as his last meal.
He's so fucking enthusiastic about it too, groaning like he could do this indefinitely, until Harry shatters to pieces and then keep going while he puts himself back together just to do it all over again. It's frustrating as all hell, but Harry never wants it to stop.
"Fuck Draco, please!" Harry grinds out in a haze, pushing back into Malfoy's whole face like he could get more. He whines when Malfoy's tongue pulls back.
"Oh, so you do know my name?" Malfoy is panting a bit, and Harry has no idea why he finds that so important. Like he isn't in this alone, like Malfoy is just as invested. "And all I had to do was French kiss your arsehole like my life depended on it." Malfoy says smugly, but finally, his fingers are back - multiple, thank Merlin, because Harry couldn't have dealt with any more teasing.
"Shut up, Malfoy." He groans right before a third one joins and goes straight for his prostate. Harry almost leaps off the bed then squirms back as well as he can to get more. Malfoy's thumb keeps pressure on his taint, and the fingers massage him from the inside, and it's too much, too sudden, but Harry doesn't know how to stop it, doesn't know if he even wants to stop it, so he just pushes back some more and rides the pleasure, sobbing into the pillow under his face.
Malfoy doesn't want him to come though because when he adds a fourth finger, he eases up on abusing Harry's prostate and focuses on stretching him as much as possible, humming delightedly. It's a sweet torture, the stretch almost too much without the pleasure, but at least, it allows Harry to catch a break. It's getting easier by the minute, the slick slide of Malfoy's fingers smooth and welcome, getting Harry ready.
He isn't a virgin, not by a long shot. He has made the bachelor's list along with Malfoy, thank you very much, and there was always the opportunity to be perfectly ordinary in a muggle bar where Harry could pick up someone and just be himself. After Ginny, he had a rough patch, with girls, boys, whoever was willing some nights, and he couldn't be happier for that now because Malfoy isn't a beginner course.
“Ready, Potter?” Malfoy asks with a last twirl of his fingers before removing them and kneeling up behind Harry. Harry can only nod and push back, but Malfoy follows the movement easily, his cock a taunting presence at Harry's hole. "Not good enough. I meant it when I said you were going to beg me for it." Malfoy grins into Harry's neck, sharp teeth grazing the sensitive flesh there and blankets him, the feel of skin a maddening reminder that Harry isn’t allowed to touch. That he isn’t allowed anything unless Malfoy lets him have it. And fuck, he’s going to beg for it, he’s beyond desperate and out of the two of them Harry’s sure he'll be the one to break first. He also can’t give up this easily.
"I know you want it just as bad." Harry pants, debating with himself whether pushing more magic at Malfoy was worth the risk.
"Of course I do." Malfoy allows, and slides his cock downwards to bump into Harry's balls. He nips at Harry's shoulder, just this side of sharp and grounding, taunting that he could suck it into a bruise. That Harry would let him. Harry pretty much wishes he would.
"I could make you come." He whispers in a last ditch effort of defiance. Malfoy’s primed for it, just a wad of magic and he'd be losing it, inhuman control or not.
"I'm hoping you will." There’s mirth in Malfoy’s voice, like he thinks himself clever and enjoys winding Harry up as he starts humping, nudging Harry's balls with every thrust. "Feel that, Potter? You can have it. All of it. Just ask me real nice." Malfoy’s tone drops from his nice baritone to a resonant bass he gained with puberty and Harry feels his resolve crumbling. Is it really so bad that he wants Malfoy?
"Malfoy, please!" He makes himself say, because he’s only delaying the inevitable. It doesn’t help his embarrassment, but it feels freeing to say it.
"Please what?" Malfoy presses like the arsehole he is. Harry’s already laid bare and forcing himself to be as utterly honest as he knows how, but Malfoy still demands more.
"Please, fuck me. Merlin, just push in, please." Harry bursts out and he almost cries with relief. He said it out loud and nothing horrible happened. Malfoy isn’t mocking him and the world didn’t end.
"With pleasure." Malfoy growls and slides in, slow, like he has all the time in the world. Harry groans, because frankly, Malfoy’s huge to be going in his arse, but there isn't a fibre in his body that doesn't want it anyway.
Malfoy’s careful, a surprisingly generous and considerate lover for being, well, himself. He holds back for the both of them, until Harry can’t feel anything but pleasure, his mounting need and burning desire. He isn’t gentle, but Harry wasn’t looking for that anyway, he wants to be held down and fucked until he forgets his own name and he has a strange conviction that Malfoy is going to deliver, but only on his own terms.
"C'mon Malfoy." Harry mutters trying to push back for more, but Malfoy unsurprisingly is having none of it. Much like with his kisses, the more demanding Harry gets, the slower Malfoy goes.
“Stop that.” Malfoy chastises and rewards Harry with a rough push when he obliges and keeps himself still. Harry groans, his whole body vibrating with the need to move, but he knows it wouldn’t do him any good. “I’m going to get you there, Potter, someday. You’ll lie down and just take it without this need to control fucking everything. It’ll be bloody spectacular.” Malfoy picks up the pace, holding onto Harry’s hips and slamming in with unexpected force. It’s so good, Harry arches into it, Malfoy’s balls slapping loudly against him, that ridiculous cock stretching him to the limit.
“Someday.” Harry agrees and pulls his arm down to push himself up on all fours, the snake evaporating with a soft pop. The blindfold spell breaks as well, or Malfoy breaks it, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that Harry has leverage now, to spur Malfoy to give him more, to fuck him harder. And Malfoy, thank Merlin, does that. Gives up his ridiculous quest of subduing Harry when he’s strung this tight, where all he needs is a few more thrusts against his prostate to come.
“It’s so fucking hot when you rebel.” Malfoy groans and somehow finds the strength to reach under Harry’s chest and pull him up against him, the new angle doing wonders for Harry. Malfoy’s hand wanders up to rest at Harry’s throat, not squeezing, just providing that thrill of what if and Harry tips his head back with a moan. “I’m close, get yourself off for me.” Malfoy whispers after a few more brutal thrusts and Harry wants to resist, just on principle, but he’s so close too that it doesn’t take much to wrap a hand around his prick and tug a couple of times. He comes with a groan, holding onto Malfoy’s hip behind him, fluttering around his prick that’s still hard in Harry’s arse.
Malfoy pushes him back down then and Harry doesn’t have it in himself to protest. His face is squished into the cover, a hand between his shoulder blades and another on his hips to create the exact curve Malfoy wants. Maybe someday came a lot sooner than he’d expected, because Harry’s laying boneless and taking it, whining with oversensitivity, but lacking the strength to do anything about it. Malfoy, the posh fucker only huffs a slightly more audible breath as he comes, his cock twitching in Harry’s abused arse and Harry isn’t sure if he was joking about sliding back for a second round without prep, but he already knows that the Cushion Charm part is going to be true.
Malfoy collapses on the bed next to him, content and panting with exertion. Harry gathers all his strength to turn his head and look at him. His hair is still perfectly in place, cheeks just slightly pinker than normal, mouth open as he comes down from what felt like a spectacular orgasm. His eyes are brilliant blue instead of his usual grey, but that might just be Harry. Who doesn’t have the slightest clue what is supposed to come next.
Malfoy still has his soul, well, they have each other’s. Harry is already pining, wanting to touch, kiss the mole on Malfoy’s shoulder, but not knowing if he’s allowed to. Was this just for the bragging rights? Malfoy has said he liked him in a fit of anger - very proper for them - but could they really exist outside of this bubble? With Rita Skeeter on the loose, they can’t even hope for privacy to decide before literally everyone knows.
Because sometimes being famous is a curse, being bent isn’t an option and being in love isn’t enough. Because Malfoy is exactly that, the single Malfoy heir, expected to further the bloodline and Harry can’t think short term about them. He can’t imagine that a few years down the line he could be out of love enough to be ready to let Malfoy go.
And Malfoy excels at control. Over his magic, over himself and more than that over Harry too. Maybe Harry won’t be strong enough to keep away, but Malfoy is pragmatic. If he decides that they aren’t meant to be, he will leave Harry even against his own feelings.
“Stop overthinking it, I’ll find a way to fix it.” Malfoy says, skin back to being pale and eyes closed.
"Fix what?" Harry asks, dreading the answer.
"The bond. I won’t have you chained to me for an infatuation with my wand or my magic or whatever. You’re just on the rebound from the Weasley girl." Malfoy looks at Harry with an unreadable expression, even the link between them feels impassive.
"I'm not…" Harry closes his eyes and sighs, they aren't even friends, it’s to be expected for Malfoy to think that Harry wants rid of him. "Ginny broke up with me because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. She was the rebound, not you." Harry says softly. Fuck, he did Ginny so dirty. "She's amazing, you know." Harry whispers and there’s a flash of hurt on Malfoy’s face before it settles back to nothing. "And if I couldn’t be happy with her, I don’t think I can be with anyone."
"And you want to be unhappy with me? Fuck off, Potter." Malfoy hisses and summons two glasses of pumpkin juice for them, offering one to Harry.
"You know what I meant." Harry says before sitting up and taking a sip. It’s the perfect temperature. Damn Malfoy and his bloody impressive wandless magic. "Just put me out of my misery. You can have whatever you want, you know." He sighs. They aren't getting anywhere and Malfoy isn’t brave, really, he wouldn't just put himself out there without knowing the exact outcome.
"You're completely nuts to offer me something like that." Malfoy says and Scourgifies them, then summons a fresh set of clothes, no less pretentious than what he's worn to Diagon Alley. "Dinner's ready in ten." He adds and frowns at Harry before a set of dress pants and a button-up shirt appear presumably in Harry's size.
"I'm just tired of fighting and keeping fucking secrets." Harry admits and looks at his briefs in disdain. Malfoy didn’t get him a new pair and he can’t clean them without a wand. It would have felt so natural to just pick up Malfoy’s that Harry had to stop himself before he Accioed it. "I want you for some bloody reason and if all you want is to fuck me, I'm in." Harry says with fake bravery and tugs on the briefs without pulling a face.
"That would be very exploitative of me." Malfoy looks up from doing up his own pants. Harry finds him putting on clothes attractive, if that doesn't convince Malfoy that this isn’t just a fling, Harry has no idea what would.
"Fuck, if that’s the best you can do, I'm not going to demand better." Harry just has to learn to live with a broken heart. It’s not like it’s a huge secret that his self preservation instincts are lacking.
"Don't be obtuse, Potter." Malfoy rolls his eyes and finishes buttoning his shirt with a flick of his wrist. "Between the two of us, you're the catch. I'd be doing you a solid if I were nice enough to say no to you." Self deprecation is such a foreign gesture for Malfoy that Harry stops to stare for a second. He is a conventionally attractive, rich, brilliant bad boy. So what if he made mistakes? Harry made mistakes and people died for them just the same, the intentions behind them wouldn’t bring any of them back.
"I don’t want to be saved, Malfoy." Harry has had enough of good intentions poisoning his life. "What I want is to wake up next to you in the morning and not be this fucking terrified whether I can touch you or not. But I'll understand if you can't do that." Because Harry has no choice, really.
"You're a proper wanker, Potter." Malfoy sneers. "You got my soul from a fucking curse that was supposed to chain you like an animal. Worse, like a sack of magic that I can empty and toss away. And even the imbalance of that bloody curse wasn’t enough to stop mine from being taken. So if we are debating who has it worse, you'll lose." He finishes on a deep breath, fixing his tie for dinner which shows exactly how apart their worlds really are. Harry doesn’t even know how to tie it properly.
"It's not a fucking competition." Harry says, giving up on doing up his tie to be worthy of dinner at the Malfoys' and goes with Hogwarts standards.
"But it is. I'm going to fucking ruin you for anyone else, Potter if I have any say in it." Malfoy says harshly and grabs the tie to pull Harry closer. They stare at each other for a long moment.
"You already kind of have and you didn’t even bloody try." Harry whispers and presses a chaste kiss to Malfoy’s cheek.
"We're going to kill each other." Malfoy says desperately while he fixes Harry's tie into an impeccable knot.
“I’m good at not dying.” Harry shrugs. He’s utterly out of place in the fancy clothes, in a swanky villa with Malfoy of all people, but there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.
“Do you really want to do this? With me?” Malfoy asks in a surprisingly adult manner. No sneer, no mockery, just trying to wrap his head around something he’s not really familiar with. It’s maybe just emotions in general. “I’m probably shit at relationships, you’ll be outed as soon as we leave the villa and your friends will know about us before you can Firecall any of them. I’m still a Death Eater.” Malfoy lists all the reasons Harry’s brain has come up with months ago.
“Former Death Eater.” Harry corrects. “And yes, all of that.” He rolls on his tiptoes and proves just how much he wants everything by snogging Malfoy breathless. The soul link flares up with life one last time before dissolving warm and sweet like hot fudge.