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“Thank you for meeting with us today,” Hermione said, looking out over the kitchen table as if she were speaking to a full auditorium instead of just Ron, Harry and Malfoy. “Ron and I have some concerns that we would like to share with the two of you.”

Harry exchanged a wary glance with Malfoy.

Ron just looked uncomfortable.

Hermione cleared her throat. “The thing is, we’re…um…concerned about the…um…nature…well, that is…the…well, I suppose ‘nature’ is as good a word as…of your…ahem, relationship.”

Harry nearly smiled at her profound concern. “Hermione, that’s not necessary, really. We’re fine.”

“Harry, I’m sorry, because I think you’re going to get mad at me, but I have to…I wasn’t talking to just you. Malfoy, are you…are in this of your own free will?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m sorry. What?”

She gave Harry an apologetic glance, and then whispered to Malfoy (in a voice Harry couldn’t possibly miss), asked, “Are you being coerced into sex?”

Harry felt stung—he wasn’t sure how Hermione or Ron could ever think such a thing of him. His first instinct was to yell his offense, but before he could get too angry, he took in the nervous, downcast expression on his best friend’s freckled face and the way Hermione’s fingers were trembling. They weren’t trying to hurt him; they never did. If they were speaking up, it was because they found the evidence overwhelming, and the nature of his relationship with Malfoy, as Hermione put it, was, he had to admit, rather unorthodox.

If coercion was the topic at hand, it was going to have to be Malfoy who cleared this up.

Malfoy sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he asked, “Are you worried about me, Granger?”

She flushed deeply pink. “We’ve…ahem…heard things.”

“Like?” Malfoy asked carefully.

Ron said, “Is he hitting you?”

“Yes.”

Both Ron and Hermione jerked, identical expressions of horror crossing their faces. But Harry could see the hints of humor in Malfoy’s eyes now, and he shook his head.

“Be honest, Malfoy,” he said.

“It’s true,” Malfoy replied, beginning to sound amused.

“Spanking and hitting aren’t quite the same thing in this context,” Harry said pointedly.

“He spanks you?” Ron asked the blond boy, abruptly blank-faced.

“Would you like to see the bruises?” Malfoy asked, definitely amused now.

“There are bruises?” Hermione squeaked.

“Granger, Weasley, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your friend here is a grade A perv. He’s a regular animal. You wouldn’t believe the things he has me doi—”

“Malfoy,” Harry said warningly, and Malfoy made a show of cringing and lowering his eyes submissively.

“Nice,” Harry continued. “That’s great, thank you.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, distinctly worried now, “This doesn’t seem quite…healthy.”

“He’s fine,” Harry said. “He’s just being a prat.”

“Actually,” Malfoy said, “I’m not fine. He’s insatiable. Do you know how many times he wakes me up each night?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said tightly.

“Let him speak,” Ron said, his tone strangled, face still lacking any emotion.

Harry subsided, a little unnerved by Ron’s reaction. Would his friends really think of him as a pervert now? The thought of it made his stomach hurt.

Malfoy hid his smirk, but barely. “Some days, it’s all I can do to get out of bed.”

Harry couldn’t quite help the chuckle about that one; it was true. Some mornings, Malfoy was so sore that he whined incessantly and refused to move an inch until Harry performed a healing charm. However, he almost always did this while perfectly naked and elegantly sprawled on the bed with his thighs temptingly spread, the little minx. Sometimes, he’d add a slowly wandering hand to the display.

“Because of how much he spanks you?” Ron asked, inflection carefully restrained.

“And because of the sheer amount of fucking,” Malfoy said. “Say what you will about Potter, he can go a few rounds. Five times that first day, wasn’t it? I think we hit six earlier this week. And it was four, yesterday. It can be rather difficult to walk.”

The strangled sound came out of Ron’s mouth again, and Harry flinched just a little.

“Why are you spanking him?” Hermione asked Harry, seemingly bewildered.

“There’s never a good enough reason for violence,” Malfoy chipped in.

“Because of that, mostly,” Harry said, pointing at Malfoy. “He speaks. I’ve been working on it, but I’m not making much progress.”

Ron cleared his throat, nodding as if he were trying to understand an intriguing concept. Really, though, Harry suspected he was trying not to laugh. A good amount of his tension faded as Ron asked, “So it’s like, behavior modification or something?”

“He says that,” Malfoy interrupted, “But I think he just likes pain.”

“Only if it’s yours,” Harry said sweetly.

“Stop messing around,” Hermione ordered Harry. “We’re serious. We’ve noticed the room thing.”

“The room thing?” Harry asked, legitimately confused.

“Yeah,” Ron said, once again sober-minded. “The thing where Malfoy acts like Malfoy up until you start to get pissed, Harry, and then he suddenly stops talking and sometimes even leaves the room until you have a chance to calm down. It’s like he’s scared of you.”

Okay, that did actually happen, Harry had to admit, but it sounded much worse when Ron put it like that. He preferred to think of it as Malfoy kindly and carefully managing Harry’s raging insanity.

*

Over the previous week, Malfoy had become an uneasy fixture of life at Grimmauld Place. He was not unlike a table leg that had lost its foot and made the whole business wobbly, spilling any beverages placed on the surface. Malfoy managed, at times, to be nearly pleasant, while at others he was such a spoiled prat that even Harry struggled not to hex him into the next life.

Despite this, Harry never stopped wanting him.

Although ‘want’ might not actually be the right word. Craving. Need. Hunger. All of those were closer to the truth, and he thought sometimes that even they fell short.

Desire hummed under his skin constantly, a low-grade fever that he couldn’t seem to shake. When Malfoy wasn’t in the room it was nearly manageable. If Malfoy were nearby for very long, however, Harry’s determination not to touch him eventually required an act of sheer willpower. Sitting beside him during meals left Harry hyper-aware of the pale boy, and any time their hands or arms brushed, it was all he could do not to grab Malfoy and shove him up against a wall.

In fact, sometimes it was only the mental picture of Ron’s horrified face that kept Harry from bending Malfoy over a table in front of his best friends and tearing the clothes from that slender body.

It helped that over the eight days they’d been fucking, Malfoy had learned a measure of caution. He almost always tried to avoid touching Harry any more than he had to. Whenever things started to get heated, he would begin to watch Harry with a somber expression. He had an instinct for pushing and whining and arguing right up to the point where Harry was on the verge of exploding, and then he would abruptly ease back, get quiet, and give Harry time to calm down. On more than one occasion, he even silently and slowly left the room.

It almost didn’t matter what Malfoy did, though. No matter the amount of irritation he caused Harry—best behavior included—by the time Harry was able to make excuses for the night and get them both up to his bedroom, he was all but shaking with need.

He would be on Malfoy the second the door closed, tearing clothes, hands wrangling limbs, lips licking and biting, his mind a morass of incoherent thoughts and sensations. Malfoy had learned, very quickly, to submit immediately and whole-heartedly during the first round to avoid being injured. This was something that occasionally shamed Harry deeply.

He took comfort, however, from the fact that at some point, every single time, Malfoy would lose himself in the flow of their bodies with such absolute absorption that Harry suspected he often forgot where he was, and perhaps even who he was with. He would become a begging, desperate, shameless thing, wild in Harry’s arms. Any time Harry tried to regain some semblance of self and sanity, it was the knowledge that, with only a few touches and kisses, he could render Malfoy into a creature of pure sexual abandon that would drive away all reason once more.

Well aware of how hard he used the other boy, Harry had repeatedly attempted to give Malfoy the chance to express how he felt about the quality and nature of the sex they engaged in. Each time, the other boy rolled his eyes or made a sarcastic comment, even if he was, at that moment, deeply sore, bruised, and exhausted. It was also true that Harry woke him several times a night and had, more than once, eased into Malfoy while the other boy was still sleeping—and the kid could sleep, as evidenced by the fact that Harry could prepare him without waking him—and that barely earned more than a few token snarls anymore, usually about the effects of sleep deprivation on his complexion.

Harry would’ve suspected Malfoy of ulterior motives in putting up with this treatment if not for the fact that it was perfectly clear that Malfoy had an innate gift for these kinds of power struggles.

He was a mess of contradictions. For one thing, he still refused to put his mouth on Harry anywhere below the belt—he claimed that the only way Harry would ever get him on his knees was if Harry jinxed him—but had no shame about demanding oral sex and rim jobs. He submitted to the spankings he earned during the day with two pairs of red cheeks and sassy apologies that drove Harry up the wall. He knew exactly how to get under Harry’s skin, and did so with a happy smugness that routinely proved to both of them that Malfoy was not without weapons.

The nature of their relationship was simple: fighting was foreplay. It always had been. They could not stop fighting. Which meant they could not stop fucking.

So when Malfoy left the room, it wasn’t because he was scared, at least not of the idea of being abused, whatever Ron and Hermione might think. It was an attempt to avoid getting fucked on the floor in front of them. When he left the room, it was because Harry and Malfoy both freely, if silently, acknowledged that in that moment, Harry did not have the self-control to be the one to walk away.

Malfoy was a madness in his blood.

*

Now, Malfoy raised both eyebrows. “Scared of Potter? I think I’m insulted.”

“So you don’t try to leave when he gets really mad at you?” Hermione asked.

Malfoy didn’t say anything.

“I have some…control issues,” Harry said carefully, ignoring the way Malfoy smirked. “Fortunately, Malfoy’s issues are complimentary.”

“I do not have issues,” Malfoy said. “What we do in the bedroom is no one else’s business. Thank you for your concern, Granger, but I’m fine. Anytime I say no, Potter goes out of his way to convince me that I really mean yes.”

“That sounds awful,” Harry said. “Why’d you have to put it like that?”

“Did you not know?” Malfoy asked, looking genuinely confused. It gave Harry a sick feeling in his stomach. “By the time we’re fucking, I do really mean yes. Most of the time. I mean, sometimes I mean yes before we’re fucking.”

 Harry swallowed. “I didn’t…we’re done, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You can stay. You’re more than welcome. I told you this wasn’t conditional on us fucking, and I meant it, but we’re done. I didn’t…I didn’t realize how you were feeling about this. Fuck, I can’t believe I—”

“No,” Malfoy said, so loudly and firmly that everyone jumped. “I want this. I do.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione said gently.

“I do,” he insisted. He turned to face Harry. “I like fucking you exactly the way I’m fucking you, and no one else needs to worry, because if I wanted out, no force on this planet could make me stay.”

“Is that all it is?” Ron asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. “Fucking?”

Harry said “No.”

Malfoy said “Yes.”

Harry glanced at him, struggling to control his features. He couldn’t help it—Malfoy’s words had hurt.

“It’s been eight days, Potter,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “That’s not very long.”

“Long enough to know this isn’t something ordinary,” Harry said quietly.

“It’s good fucking,” Malfoy said reassuringly, as if that would soothe the wound.

Harry shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”

“It can’t be more,” Malfoy said, but his voice wavered with uncertainty. “I’m not one of you.”

“Are you saying you’re one of them?” Hermione asked.

“No. I’m not one of them either, not anymore. What about my parents, though? And my friends? It’s one thing to betray the Dark Lord. But if I care about you, Potter…it’s like betraying my family.”

Harry felt a tug of sympathy despite himself. Malfoy looked miserable. But there was something in him that still stung, something that had to push. “Are you saying you don’t feel something? Or that you don’t want to?”

“Do we really need to be here for this?” Ron asked the room at large, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.

“It means it doesn’t matter,” Malfoy said to Harry sharply.

“It matters to me,” Harry replied, just as cuttingly.

“Because this feels kind of awkward,” Ron said, again to no one in particular.

“You must think I’m a real piece of shit,” Malfoy said. “You think because I’m a Slytherin, because I’m a pureblood, then that means I don’t care about my family or what they’ll think of me? What the fuck do you think I am?”

“Really awkward, actually,” Ron said.

“Shh,” Hermione said, waving absently in his direction to shush him and watching the argument as if she wouldn’t have minded a bucket of popcorn to go with.

“I don’t think that,” Harry said tightly. “Believe it or not, I respect you for finding it difficult to just leave them behind. But I have a hard time believing your father is going to see that big a difference between us being together and us just fucking.”

“I know that,” Malfoy bit out.

“So why do you let me touch you?” Harry asked, past exasperation into…whatever lay past exasperation. He could barely think he was so frustrated. “If you’re so determined not to be with me, not to feel anything for me, not to let me sway you, why the hell are you letting me touch you?”

“Because I can’t help it!” Malfoy yelled. “All right? I try, and I swear I’m going to say no, and then you swan in and kiss me or shove me on the bed or put your hands down my trousers, and I can’t make myself pretend I don’t want it. But you’re Potter, and I’m me, and I really want to break your face sometimes, and that makes it very hard to admit that…that I want you. There’s something about this whole mess that works for me deep down, I know that. The way we do things…it makes all of it easier. And I think we both know that I’m standing on a slippery fucking slope, and sooner or later I won’t be able to help feeling something more for you, but I can’t just give in to it. I can’t.”

Harry swallowed, absurdly touched. Malfoy apparently doubted the effectiveness of his words, because he came around the table and threw himself into Harry’s arms.

“I love the way you want me. That has to be enough for now or I’ll hate myself. So shut up about it already.”

“Way beyond awkward,” Ron said to himself. “Not even sure there’s a name for this kind of awkward.”

Harry held the smaller boy close, amazed to feel small trembles in the nearly-delicate frame.

However, as nice as it was to hear Malfoy’s words and reassurances, he was now pressed up against an uncharacteristically affectionate body, and his cock was already responding. And he could smell the other boy, soap and clean skin and that indefinable tang that was Malfoy (what Harry jokingly referred to as the scent of pure evil) and which Harry could not resist. Harry’s hands closed tightly on Malfoy’s lower back, easing his hips into alignment, and Malfoy’s breath caught as he no doubt felt the erection pressed against him.

Fighting as foreplay.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, and Malfoy tried to pull back.

Harry didn’t let go. He couldn’t—he had Malfoy’s flesh under his fingers now and he’d already forgotten that they were in the middle of a conversation with other people. There was just this heat in his gut that wouldn’t subsist until he had Malfoy underneath him.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his tone reasonable and even, like he was talking to a wild animal. Perhaps he was.

But that tone went away when Harry slammed him against the wall. Malfoy made a gasping noise then, and for a second, Harry felt those slender hips roll against his own. Then he dimly heard Malfoy say to someone, with mild exasperation, “This is why I leave the room when I do.”

“Is that really necessary?” Ron asked, making a face like he’d smelled something bad.

Harry locked his teeth in Malfoy’s throat. He licked and bit until Malfoy was shuddering, and it took him a minute to realize that Malfoy was saying something.

“Upstairs, Harry. Upstairs. We can’t…ahh, gods…we can’t do this here.”

Harry blinked, briefly managing to lift his head.

“We should go,” Hermione said, but she sounded curiously as if she had no desire to actually do that. She was staring at them, Harry realized, as if intrigued. Ron just looked intensely uncomfortable. Then Harry’s cock pulsed and he forgot about them all over again.

“Upstairs,” Malfoy said, taking his opportunity before Harry lost the thread of the world beyond the other boy’s skin. “Follow me.”

As if Harry had a choice.

Before the door was finished closing, Harry was yanking Malfoy’s trousers down. He spun the smaller boy toward the bed, shoving shoes and cloth out of the way before hoisting that pale, perfect body onto the mattress. A whispered cleansing spell, and he shoved Malfoy onto his stomach, long legs spread wide, and bent, putting his mouth on the pink ring of muscle between firm cheeks.

Malfoy cried out and melted.

Harry licked and scraped his teeth and sucked, fucking Malfoy with his tongue and loosening him up. In seconds only, Malfoy was bucking beneath him, moaning and clutching the sheets. Harry began to push a finger inside, although he couldn’t quite make himself move his mouth. So he had a finger and his tongue in Malfoy’s arse, and the idea of it had him rutting against the bed. Eventually, though, it wasn’t enough, and he was forced to draw back for lube. He had to prepare Malfoy quickly now, because he simply couldn’t wait any longer. Two fingers, then three.

“Mine,” he growled, when the slender boy bucked against his hand.

He threw Malfoy onto his back, kissed him with teeth and tongue and cruelty, lifted coltish legs over his shoulders, and leaned forward until the smaller boy was bent almost in two. He captured Malfoy’s wrists, holding them above his head as best he could in this position. Then he plunged. His cock felt like iron, and he drove himself into the velvet heat of Malfoy’s body over and over, fast, deep, possessive strokes that left him blind and deaf to anything but the writhing of the boy beneath him. He held Malfoy down and fucked his brains out.

Malfoy came with his cock untouched, and it was this that made Harry fall over the edge. He shouted as he spurted deep in Malfoy’s arse, and collapsed.

It was only a few seconds before he came back to himself, and he opened his eyes to see Malfoy looking positively wrecked. Well, it had been fast and rough (is there any other way for us? a small voice in his head wondered, to which he thought shut up). The position they were in had to be brutally uncomfortable, Harry admitted before rising slowly. He’d been holding Malfoy’s hands down. And God knew Harry hadn’t spared a thought for Malfoy’s pleasure, and only the feel of the slippery semen on his belly comforted him about the selfishness he’d just displayed.

“I think there’s something wrong with us,” he said.

“Maybe,” Malfoy said, eyes closed, chest heaving, lip bloody, body limp. “But that doesn’t mean it has to change.”

*

Snape, on the other hand, was an entirely different sort of preoccupation.

He had sent Malfoy to Grimmauld Place with the locket horcrux and the order to give it to Harry before moving on. This was something Malfoy had originally refused to do, believing the locket to be a cursed object meant to harm Harry.

But once the nature of the locket was made clear, the truth of their search and the Dark Lord’s dependence on horcruxes was revealed. Malfoy had become a mixture of hostage (for his knowledge about the good guys’ plans) and consultant (for his knowledge of the bad guys’ plans).

Whenever Harry wasn’t staring at Malfoy’s arse or actively fucking it, his mind raced again and again over the events in the Astronomy Tower. He couldn’t seem to make sense of Snape’s utterly contradictory actions—he had murdered Dumbledore, which implied he was Voldemort’s, but he had located and sent them a horcrux, which implied that his loyalties remained with the Light. It was enough to make Harry tear his hair out.

Finally, a few days after the conversation in the kitchen and after whole hours spent in discussion about their myriad options, he and the others came down to two immediate goals. First, they needed to figure out a way to destroy the horcrux. And second, they needed to talk to Snape.

On the topic of the first, they’d made little to no progress—they’d ruled out virtually all the destructive spells they could think of, and more than a few hexes and curses. Nothing worked.

Snape was as difficult a subject.

“You can’t just firecall him,” Malfoy explained, lounging elegantly on one of the sofas in the parlor, an ankle resting on his opposite knee.

They all sat in the glow from a fire; no matter the weather outside, it was always just a little cold in Grimmauld Place. Still, the tea and biscuits delivered by Kreacher helped keep back the chill, and Harry never had a problem staying warm when Malfoy was around.

Harry sat on the opposite side of the room, thinking that distance was his friend when it came to keeping his hands to himself, although he couldn’t seem to help the way his eyes were drawn to the other boy’s pink lips as he continued to speak. “The Dark Lord has Pettigrew living with him at Spinner’s End, supposedly as some kind of helper, although I’m not sure how true that claim is. If he is one of the good guys, and Pettigrew catches us firecalling, Snape will have to kill Pettigrew to maintain his cover, and even that might bust him.”

“We’re positive he’s good?” Ron said doubtfully.

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “Besides giving you the horcrux, he’s covering for me. I told my parents I would be staying with him, and he said he would let my parents think that until they asked after me directly, at which point he would be forced to pretend I’d never even asked to stay with him. If he really was a proper servant, he’d have killed me or gone to my father right away. Instead, it’s obvious my parents still don’t know where I really am.”

Harry thought it was telling that more than a week and a half had gone by and the Malfoys still hadn’t noticed their son wasn’t where he’d said he’d be.

“A Patronus would pose the same problem as a firecall,” Hermione said, worrying her thumbnail with her teeth.

“An owl?” Ron asked.

“Do we have an owl?” Malfoy asked, taking a polite sip of his tea.

“Er, no. But we could get one.”

“Sure,” Malfoy said agreeably. “Shall a member of the Golden Trio go or should it be the known Death-Eater who walks to the nearest Owlery? I suppose it should be me who gets captured, as I’ll only face Azkaban or the Kiss—you lot will be tortured, raped, and murdered, although in Harry’s case, I supposed it’ll also doom the entire Wizarding world as well.”

Ron glared. “Funny how you claim to want to take down You-Know-Who but you can’t seem to offer any actual help, Malfoy.”

“Believe me, shooting down your moronic owl idea is its own kind of help, Weasel.”

“At least we’d be doing something.”

“Please explain to me how action that dooms us is better than sitting here safely until we have a better option,” Malfoy said.

“Stop it,” Harry said, and Malfoy spun him an appraising glance, judging his frame of mind. Harry sat quietly, waiting for the verdict.

Apparently Malfoy decided Harry could take more, because he said, “It’s a valid question, Potter.”

“You’ve made your point. Quit antagonizing him.”

“Yes, sir,” Malfoy said tartly. He added a crisp salute and Harry ground his teeth together.

“You two are a very sweet couple,” Ron said ironically, watching them with distaste. “It’s rather like watching a love story unfolding before our eyes.”

“Ron,” Hermione said.

“He’s not wrong,” Harry said.

“That’s not going to save me tonight,” Malfoy muttered.

“No,” Harry said. “It won’t.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something that, going by his expression, was likely to be scornful, but something in Harry’s tone registered, and he abruptly stopped himself from speaking.

“Good choice,” Harry said.

“I’m still not entirely convinced this thing between you two is healthy,” Hermione said, her voice a little high-pitched.

“It’s really not,” Ron growled.

“We’re fine,” Harry said tiredly, most likely lying. Three days had passed since it had occurred to him that there truly might be something wrong with him and Malfoy, and their fucking hadn’t slacked off. His suspicion remained. Surely it wasn’t normal for people to want like this? Surely other people didn’t have to fight not to fuck in front of their friends? There had to be a reason for this, right?

Could there be something at work pushing Harry to madness? Or was all of this simply a hallmark of a seriously dysfunctional relationship in the making? Hell, Harry couldn’t begin to guess. Whatever was causing it, he kept thinking that if he could just get enough uninterrupted time, he could get Malfoy out of his system. But the longer this went on, the more he began to wonder if his flesh would burn up before his craving burned out.

Malfoy didn’t say anything about Harry’s lie.

For a moment everyone sat in uncomfortable silence, none of them looking at each other.

Then Malfoy cleared his throat and reached down to the coffee table where the box with the horcrux sat next to the copy of the locket and the note from R.A.B. “So are you expecting to find another horcrux here?”

“No,” Harry asked. “Why would there be a horcrux in Sirius’s house?”

“Well, if he found one, he might’ve gotten to another.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Harry said.

Malfoy seemed to realize they were all legitimately confused and sat forward to tap a finger against initials on the note. “R.A.B. That’s Regulus Arcturus Black.”

They all stared at him for a minute. “How would you know that?” Ron asked.

“He’s my cousin, once removed. Hell, all the pureblood families are inter-related. And if there’s one thing a proper pureblood knows, it’s their genealogy.”

“Wouldn’t do to marry someone a little too close in the gene pool,” Ron said.

“The Weasleys are purebloods, too,” Malfoy replied, smirking. “Be careful who you’re calling inbred.”

Ron scowled.

“I know that name,” Harry said. “That’s Sirius’s little brother.”

“But I thought Sirius was the only good Black? Why did Regulus take the horcrux if he wasn’t a good guy?” Ron asked.

“I can’t say if he was good or not, but I know he was a Death Eater,” Malfoy said. “The Black family tree is a twisted one.”

“Death Eater equals not-good, Malfoy,” Ron said snidely.

“Everything’s always so black and white for you Gryffindors,” Malfoy replied. “Sometimes the best way to win is to play the grey. Make the best you can out of what you’ve got to work with at the time.”

“Sounds like an underhanded Slytherin tactic,” Ron said.

“We’ll search the house,” Harry said, interrupting whatever Malfoy had been about to say. “If there’s any chance there’s a horcrux here, we’ll find it.”

“Speaking of underhanded Slytherins,” Ron said, “About Snape—” he began, only to pause at a tapping sound. He rose and went to the window.

“It’s an owl,” he said. Then he squinted. “Wait, three owls.”

He thumbed the lock, pushing the glass out, and the birds hopped in.

“That’s Alastair,” Malfoy said, sounding confused. “And Parathius. Those are my family’s owls. I don’t recognize the other.”

“All three letters are for you,” Ron said.

“Can owls find a house under Fidelius?” Harry asked Hermione sharply.

“Yes,” she said. “They simply forget the location if followed or tracked, and then they don’t go anywhere. We’re safe.”

“There’s a howler from your family,” Ron said.

“I can see that,” Malfoy replied, but his tone lacked the usual vitriol.

“Might as well get it over with.” The small smile on Ron’s lips grew as the red envelope began to smoke.

The hand Malfoy extended shook a bit, and his face had gone quite white. And then he slid a finger under the flap and the loud, cold voice of Lucius Malfoy echoed through the room.

“There are no words for the disappointment and disgust I feel for you right now. By running, you’ve betrayed not only our Lord but our way of life and the family. You have doomed us with both your weakness and your cowardice. I hope that you will be happy at Harry Potter’s side, because in choosing him, you have become dead to us. You no longer lay claim to the Malfoy name. If the Dark Lord finds you first, you’ll be treated as any traitor should be, and beware that you do not cross my path either, Draco. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you myself.”

When stunned silence fell, Harry crossed the room and reached to take Malfoy’s hand. The other boy yanked away, white-faced and trembling.

Harry went to the window and took the other notes, handing them wordlessly over. Draco thumbed them open, read them aimlessly, and extended them to Harry. “Go ahead,” he said in a dull voice.

Harry read them before passing them to the others. The second said, “Never come back. Mother.”

“Gods, Malfoy. Don’t either of your parents have souls?” Ron asked.

“She’s warning me that I wouldn’t be safe at home, you bastard,” Malfoy snapped. “She wouldn’t have written ‘Mother’ if she was booting me out of the family. She’d have used ‘Lady Malfoy.’ She’s saying she still loves me.”

“That’s love in your family?” Ron put the note on the table, doubt ringing not only in his words but in his body language. “Okay.”

The last said only Stay with him.

“Who is this from?” Harry asked, handing the note over to Hermione like the other.

“That’s Snape’s handwriting,” Malfoy said, his annoyance fading once more into empty staring and exhaustion. “He knows I’m with you.”

“He’s trying to protect you,” Hermione said. “And we’re here. You’re not alone, Malfoy.”

He swallowed hard, once, and nodded in her general direction. “That’s very kind,” he said, his tone proper and stilted. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Malfoy, let me come with you,” Harry said, following.

“Please don’t,” the other boy said, not even turning around. He simply kept walking.

“Fuck,” Harry said.

“Send Snape a return owl,” Hermione said. “Let him know Malfoy is safe and that we want to talk.”

With an annoyed grimace, he grabbed a quill and began to write, although half his attention was upstairs. He was far more worried about Malfoy than he would’ve liked. The other boy had been so…defeated.

“It’ll also serve as acknowledgment that we’ve figured out he’s willing to work with us.” Hermione sank tiredly into a chair. “We might need his help tracking down horcruxes or who knows what else. He might be able to feed us information.”

“We can’t trust it,” Ron pointed out.

“There might come a time when we don’t have a choice,” she replied. “I don’t know why he killed Dumbledore, but sending us the horcrux is an unmistakable sign of allegiance. We shouldn’t burn a bridge if we don’t have to.”

After some thought, Harry sent back a missive just as brief as Snape’s own: He’s safe with us. Firecall G.P. when you can.

*

They spent the rest of the day toying half-heartedly with various plans and theories, but the howler had dropped a definite pall on the house. Snape’s face never appeared in the fire, either, which didn’t help anyone’s mood. Ron and Hermione might’ve shaken off the grim air among them if Harry hadn’t been utterly distracted and agitated by Malfoy’s continued absence through dinner. Finally, he reached the point where he was so worried that the thought of pissing the other boy off seemed weak in comparison. He went up the stairs only to see that Malfoy wasn’t in his bedroom. Neither were his things.

“No,” Harry whispered, already turning. He hurried down the hallway, shoving open doors and peering into darkened rooms. When he got to the last closed door, he was relieved beyond all sense to find a ward on the frame. As disturbed as he was to see that Malfoy had moved out of his room, at least he was still in the house.

“Malfoy,” he called through the door. “I’m just making sure you’re all right.”

No answer.

“I’m going to bring you some dinner in a minute.”

Still no answer.

“If you need anything, little cat…”

Nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” he said finally.

He brought up sandwiches and cast a stasis charm; he had the suspicion that Malfoy wouldn’t take the food in for several hours, and at least this would be less likely to go off before he succumbed to hunger. Then he set a second charm, an alarm, that would ring in his ear when the door opened.

*

Malfoy did not come down for breakfast, and the sandwiches remained untouched.

By mid-afternoon, Harry was going crazy, and finally his patience snapped. He told Hermione and Ron to ignore anything they heard unless he specifically called for them, and prepared for war. Brandishing his wand, he went upstairs and fired several different hexes at the door, the last a mild Reducto that shook the very walls.

The ward remained—Malfoy knew his stuff—but it didn’t matter, because he was at the door a moment later, wrenching it open and cancelling the ward himself. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, voice dangerously low.

“Hi,” Harry said, angry enough that he almost didn’t care that he might get jinxed at any moment. “Ready to come downstairs?”

“Fuck off.”

Harry was tempted to lay out the ‘my house, my rules’ argument, but he was concerned Malfoy would take it seriously and actually leave.

“Malfoy, I’d like you to come back to my bedroom.”

“I’m not really in the mood for a fuck right now,” he said coldly.

“Not for that, you git. For a decent night’s sleep, a shower, and a meal. That’s what you came here for in the first place, remember? Rest, food, a wash?”

“I say again, Potter, fuck off. I mean it.”

“I’m not leaving,” Harry said. Instead, he shoved past Malfoy and slammed the door behind him. “You don’t have to talk to me, but I’m not letting you sit here alone.”

“Why the hell not?” Malfoy asked. “Seriously. Explain to me where this all comes from? Why is that after six years of you hating me, suddenly all you seem to want is to put your cock up my arse and hear me say I belong to you. How many times have you asked me to say that even though I won’t? Now you’re what…comforting me? Not too long ago you’d have been enjoying this thoroughly, and don’t bother denying it.”

“You’ve changed. You’re not one of them anymore. You’re one of us.”

“Don’t try casting me as one of your fellow heroes, Potter. That’s a short road to suffering for us both. I’m not a good person.” He gestured to the place on his forearm where the Mark resided.

“You said yourself that it wasn’t what you thought it would be. If your father and your aunt had been different…”

Malfoy laughed. The sound was sharp, like shattered glass. “Is that what you think? You know, all these times I’ve called you a moron, I think I was overestimating the brains you were born with. I’m not some victim who would have been pure and innocent and playing with unicorns if only I’d had different parents or been born a half-blood or been placed in Gryffindor. The simple truth of it, Potter, is that I am a selfish, shallow person, and a big part of the reason I took the Mark was that being a Death Eater sounded like fun.”

Harry’s breath caught. “Like fun?”

“Yes. Fun. Evil can be fun, Potter. Or did you think people became bad guys because of the outfits? I dressed this well before the Dark Lord came along. I have every intention of dying in French fabric. I don’t need to kneel before a monster to wear a hooded robe. I got the Mark because my father wanted it, because I believed in what I thought we were fighting for, and because I thought it would be fun. What do you think of me now?”

“You didn’t kill Dumbledore.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “Being weak doesn’t make me good.”

“That wasn’t weakness. And that’s not who you are, Malfoy. Not anymore.”

“Who are you trying to convince, Potter? Because this sounds like a desperate attempt to justify your constant need to fuck me, not an argument of my decency.”

Harry stalled for a moment so a part of him could silently admit, yup, that’s what’s happening here. Good job with the rationalizations, chief. Keep it up, and maybe you’ll get some sex soon.

I am an asshole, Harry thought. Then he considered all that he knew of Malfoy’s actions: the crying in the bathroom, the wavering wand in the Astronomy Tower, his refusal to give Harry an object he thought to be harmful and cursed. Maybe Harry was lying to himself a little about what Malfoy was, but he suspected that Malfoy’s picture of himself wasn’t any clearer.

“You’re not all that bad,” Harry said, a little surprised to realize he meant it.

Malfoy let out a brief bellow of frustration. “How fucking moronic can you be, Potter? How the hell has the Dark Lord not eradicated you and your whole fucking Gryffindor species yet?”

Harry kicked the bedframe and yelled, “I know what you are. I’ve seen it. You were scared in that tower. You didn’t want to kill anyone. You’re a bully and a brat and a spoiled little bitch sometimes, but you’re not a monster, and you’re not this glib bullshit you’re spouting. You’re the king of half-assed evil, Malfoy. You’re all show and no follow-through.”

Malfoy shoved him, knocking Harry back a full step before he caught himself, although the unexpectedness of the move made him drop his wand. He could see the strain in Malfoy’s expression. “I am who I’ve always been and who I’ll always be. I am cruel, and I am callous, and I hurt people because I can and because I think it’s funny, and you shouldn’t even want to touch me. God, I don’t know why you want to touch me.”

Harry’s anger abruptly drained away. “Malfoy…”

“I’m just like him, don’t you see? I’m just like him. I said I would turn on you, and I think maybe I meant it, that I would turn on you the same way he turned on me. That’s what it is to be a Malfoy, Potter. As soon as the blood is deep enough to slip in, you turn. I don’t know what you’re doing, keeping me here. It’s the worst thing you could do. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid, Potter.”

Malfoy had built up quite a head of steam, but it wasn’t anger roiling within him; he was white-faced and shaking. His voice had become thin and fragile. Harry stepped closer, waiting. It was only a matter of time now before the other boy broke.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Harry murmured.

“You’re so stupid.”

“I said I would take care of you, and I meant it.”

“Why do you have to be so fucking good? I hate you for that. I hate you for making me wish I was different. This is all your fault. Why do you have to fight and get in the way and try to fix everything? You’ve always been the reason that nothing’s ever enough. I can’t beat you and I can’t get away from you and it’s just a matter of time before you go anyway, and it’ll be even worse.”

Then Malfoy was in Harry’s arms, although Harry didn’t know which of them had moved. Malfoy’s hands had locked onto Harry’s sides, and fat tears began to roll. “You’re the reason he hates me. I hate you, Harry. I hate you.”

Harry gripped the smaller boy tighter, feeling Malfoy’s face press against his neck. He kissed the damp temple, ran his fingers through silky blond tresses, kissed the noble forehead, pointy chin, and soft eyelids.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’ll be all right, little cat. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”

Somehow, Malfoy’s mouth found his. The kiss was punishing, and it was Harry’s turn to taste blood. Hands dove into his hair, nearly pulling out strands before they slid down and yanked at Harry’s t-shirt. Malfoy’s mouth abandoned Harry’s, trailing hard bites and rough kisses along his throat and shoulders.

“Easy,” Harry murmured. “We don’t have to do that. Just let me hold onto you, all right?”

He kept his grip soft, his lips gentle. The anxiety in the other boy made his gut twist with pity and something else. Something he couldn’t identify.

“I hate you,” Malfoy whispered, kissing him again, wet, salty kisses that almost distracted Harry from the way the other boy was tearing open his jeans. Hands shoved him back and he stumbled before landing on a hard-backed chair that he barely remembered seeing earlier. Malfoy’s grip on his hair returned, pulling his head back furiously for yet another blinding, vicious kiss.

“Wait,” Harry said, something he was rather proud of himself for, seeing as he was already struggling to keep himself from leaping on the other boy.

He dimly heard the tearing of fabric; more obvious were the other boy’s panting breaths. Then a hand was on his hard cock, stroking, and Harry lost track of the room and everything in it except for that touch. Malfoy suddenly straddled him, naked as the day he was born, pale and perfect but for the closed eyes releasing silent tears.

The feel of that arse against his groin made Harry shudder, but he felt far too conflicted about Malfoy’s frame of mind to let this go further. “Easy,” he whispered. “Stop. Malfoy, talk to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Malfoy breathed, directly into Harry’s mouth, angry and determined. He lifted himself, eased forward, and directed Harry’s cock to the correct angle.

“Malfoy,” Harry said quickly and firmly, far more firmly than he’d thought he could, considering that his pulse was racing and his mouth had dried up. As Malfoy shifted his weight, Harry’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head, and he had to think hard to remember why he was trying to stop this. “We don’t have any lube and you’re upset. Stop. I don’t want to hurt you—”

Malfoy lowered himself hard and fast, crying out low and anguished. He’d bitten his lip so hard there that indentations remained in the soft flesh even after he let go, and his eyes were clenched tight. There was little pleasure in his face—rage and sorrow, yes, but little else.

Harry gasped, trying hard to remember why he should stop this, but the feel of Malfoy—beyond tight without preparation, blisteringly hot around his cock—made it exceedingly difficult. Didn’t he have a wand somewhere? Magic could make lube, couldn’t it? Where the fuck was his wand?

“I hate you, Harry,” Malfoy whispered, staying still while his body adjusted, putting his forehead to Harry’s. “Why won’t you let me leave?”

“I don’t want you to,” Harry groaned. He blinked, looking deep into watery grey eyes. “Won’t you let me get some lube, little cat? Please? I don’t want to hurt you like this.”

Malfoy’s only answer was to begin moving, lifting and dropping over and over. Without lube there was too much friction for it to feel entirely comfortable for Harry, but Malfoy’s arse was still Malfoy’s arse, and very quickly his hands found Malfoy’s hips to help him move more quickly.

Malfoy moaned, head tipping back. “You should make me go.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Harry spread his legs more, giving them a more stable base. The burn was building in his gut, and he was losing himself in the sensation of thick muscle and velvet around his cock. “Fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s good.”

“You’re stupid to want me,” Malfoy whispered.

“I’m not,” Harry managed. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy, trying to hold him close, but the other boy knocked his grip away, barely allowing him to put his hands back on Malfoy’s slender hips to steady him.

Without lube, Harry knew he was in danger of truly hurting the other boy, if he hadn’t already. He had to fight hard to resist bucking up into that tight arse, however much he longed to thrust. Let him set the pace and the depth, he told himself, clinging to sanity with his fingernails. He shook with the urge to take them to the floor so he could pound into the smaller boy, but the sight of still flowing, if still silent, tears on pink cheeks gave him the strength to resist.

Sweat dampened the skin of Malfoy’s throat as Harry leaned in to kiss the elegant lines—Malfoy all but slapped him in getting a hand up to curtail the tenderness.

“This is all it is,” Malfoy snarled. “Stop trying to make it more. You don’t want me. You don’t know it, but you don’t want me.”

“Easy,” Harry said. He tried again to soothe with a touch, and Malfoy bit him, forcing Harry to jerk his hand back. Apparently unwilling to give up the idea now that he’d had it, Malfoy leaned in and bit down on Harry’s collarbone, hard enough to draw blood.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned. Maybe it was sick, but the pain rocketed through him and made him even harder. He couldn’t keep himself from bucking upwards once, twice, three times. Then he remembered that he was probably hurting the other boy and forced his hips still.

“Little cat,” he murmured. “I see you. I do. It is more.”

Malfoy was rocking wildly on him now, his hard cock pressing against Harry’s belly over and over. He moved like he was dancing, with the same careless elegance he displayed when doing everything else. His hips snapped, his thighs working, his breaths panting.

“You’re not going to turn on me,” Harry managed. He was starting to get close. He tried to remember what he was trying to say. “I won’t let you.”

Malfoy abruptly leaned forward, throwing his arms around Harry’s neck, pressing their cheeks together. “Don’t let go. Please.”

Harry grabbed on just as tightly. “I won’t, little cat. I promise. Oh, gods, keep doing that.” He kissed Malfoy again and again, loving the way the other boy was wrapped around him. He was fucking Harry with bone-jarring force, and Harry could barely find the clarity to listen to the words coming out of his own mouth: yes, that’s good, fuck yourself on my cock, you’re so beautiful, gods you’re tight, I love feeling you in my arms, keep doing that, yes, do that, fuck.

Malfoy obeyed, repeating the motion again and again, making Harry’s entire body shudder as his orgasm slammed into him. He shouted, and managed to get a hand between them to stroke the lovely, thick cock against his stomach. Just as Harry’s tension began to fade, Malfoy groaned and came, his body trembling and jerking and gasping.

A second later, probably before he’d even finished coming, Malfoy collapsed against Harry, sobbing so hard that his whole frame shook. Harry held him close, stroking his fingers down the knobs of Malfoy’s spine in gentle sweeps, pressing kisses to every bit of skin he could reach, soft, sweet kisses meant to bestow peace, all the while speaking nonsense words of comfort. He felt the hot, damp face buried in the curve of his neck and wanted to punch Lucius Malfoy in the balls.

Malfoy cried for a long time, and Harry didn’t make a single move to get up. He simply sat there, buried deep inside Malfoy as he clung and poured tears down his shoulder.

When the storm of weeping finally subsided, Harry gently helped Malfoy to his feet. He transfigured robes for both of them from the bedclothes and cast a healing spell on Malfoy, more than a little perturbed to see blood on the pert arse. Thankfully, he got them down the hall and into the bathroom without running into Ron or Hermione, and tugged Malfoy into the shower under a near-boiling spray. The other boy moved like a doll, weary and spent, almost as if drugged. He stared blankly as Harry scrubbed him clean.

When they were finished, Harry stepped away for a moment to find a towel, only to see that Malfoy had followed him, close enough that they knocked into each other when he turned. Surprised and a little touched by the neediness, Harry steadied the smaller boy and then toweled the pink, hot skin dry. He led them into Harry’s bedroom and guided him under the covers.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked softly.

Malfoy shook his head. He hesitated, then asked, just as quietly, “Will you get in with me? Just for a second?”

Harry slid in behind him and wrapped his arms tightly around the slender torso. Malfoy’s hands came up to grip his wrists and clung. Harry breathed against the nape of Malfoy’s neck and closed his eyes. “As long as you want,” he murmured.

The ache in his chest burned with rage at Lucius for daring to hurt Harry’s…well, he wasn’t sure what the word for Malfoy was, but he was Harry’s, and that was enough. There was also grief, because he knew how deeply Malfoy’s family and lineage was a part of his identity, and he loathed seeing the other boy like this. So he kept Malfoy close and whispered soft words and pressed the occasional kiss to his neck.

They slept.

*

Harry woke to see the beginnings of dawn trailing through the open window. He could smell the faint scent of shampoo coming from the boy locked in Harry’s arms, and when he glanced down, he saw that the grey eyes were open. Harry didn’t say anything, content just to lie there.

Eventually, a whisper came. “Ask me again.”

Harry knew exactly which question the other boy meant—it had occupied Harry far more than it should for far too long now. He felt a thrill of heat and triumph at the soft order. In fact, his voice almost shook as he asked, “Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

And Harry kissed Draco until he melted.