Italics is the past, normal font is the present.
Good luck, kiddos.
Written for Christina because she hates to see real work get accomplished.
Die Young
It was a lovely evening in the middle of October when another Ministry event began in celebration of he, the Savior, the Chosen One, the new Head Auror…
The infamous and glorious Harry James Potter.
And this savior couldn't remember a time before the soirée began, nor a time he could describe the experience as moderately enjoyable.
At its best, it was loathsome. Something to grit his teeth by.
The woman plastered to his side positively beamed at the presence of cameras around her. Her genuine excitement for the publicity made Harry next to physically ill, and yet he continued to drag himself and Ginny Weasley to these gatherings for appearances' sake.
On his end, of course.
To Ginevra, Harry was the doting fiancé the press could never get quite enough of. He was infallible as both an Auror and future husband. Each new issue of name-whichever-magazine-or-newspaper-of-your-choosing reported of Ginevra's luck and Harry's graces.
The war had ended ten years ago, but the paparazzi hadn't.
Harry closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, hoping to quell the anger threatening to bubble over in his chest.
It wouldn't do to ruin the effort with displaced magic.
A line of unwarranted congratulations welcomed him in the most ludicrous array of ways. Envelopes of money, harsh slaps to the back, cheek pinches, the occasional all too firm handshake and shoulder grip followed by a hard, challenging stare…
This must be hell. Or at least the first or second layer beforehand.
His date tugged against his finely tailored sleeve and glanced into his face with mock adoration. Harry could see through the charade easily, but he was realistic. Ginny was family. At least he could guarantee her presence. At the very least, he was certain she wouldn't leave him.
And at the absolute least, he knew the Weasley's were happy with this decision. Most of the magical realm as well.
Most.
"I'm going to speak to the Minister for a bit, Harry," Ginny smiled sweetly, "Would you care to join me, dear?"
Harry fought valiantly against cringing at the pet name. He wasn't a Dear, or Love, or Sugar, or what-have-you. He was Harry.
Just Harry.
The Chosen One shook his head with a returned smile. "No thank-you, Gin. I think I'll roam for a while. Loads of people here to talk to and shake hands with."
The witch looked affright and staggered her interest rapidly between Harry and the technically-more-valuable Minister of Magic. The Man Who Lived could have laughed at her obvious inner turmoil, but he refrained just barely.
"It's all right. Talk to whomever you wish. I'm sure the ring on your finger will keep me in mind."
It was meant as an insult, but the youngest Weasley never could quite see through the thick layer separating Harry's disgusted realization. So, with a peck against his cheek, Ginny scampered away towards a more suitable crowd.
The wizard huffed an irritated sigh and stalked off towards the nearest exit for air. A moment without an audience would do him some service and fortunately, his presence still commanded intimidation- alerting everyone on the occupied terrace to politely fuck off.
A banister decorated the edge of the exterior, keeping the daring from leaning too far over. Harry leaned to his best abilities, though, wondering idly if he'd survive the fall and escape these grounds.
Music trickled outside, a tune meant for a younger group.
I grew up too fast to appreciate it.
Lost in his own musings, he hardly felt the company beside him and ignored that same presence once his awareness kicked in.
He wouldn't invite conversation tonight.
"Potter," drawled a familiar greeting, and against his better judgment, Harry whipped his face to the right and was met with a smirk only a Malfoy could distribute appropriately. "Lovely night, eh?"
The pair had been partners before Harry's promotion. Graduating at the head of his class and proving much more formidable in the field, the position should have been Malfoy's. However, Harry's name won him a war and the blond was never even considered.
"I suppose I should congratulate you. I'm sure you deserve it." Bitterness flooded his words and Harry immediately recalled their conversation a year prior to the event at hand.
"Potter, would you desist your blasted moping for a minute to finish this paperwork?" Malfoy groaned after what may have been his twelfth reminder. "We'll drink away your sorrows when we've finished, all right?"
Harry grunted some sort of affirmation and pushed onward. His last form was stamped with more force than he anticipated and its ink spilled over onto another stack of useless regulation sheets.
"Normally I'd find your incompetency amusing, but considering your state, I'll rule against laughing at you outright."
"You may as well have just laughed at me, Malfoy. Just because you have a pretty way of phrasing it doesn't change the meaning."
The corner of Malfoy's mouth lifted slightly and his eyes softened considerably. "I suppose you're right, Potter. But, I am concerned. What's got you so out of sorts?"
"I'm on the list of possible Head Auror candidates."
"Shouldn't that make you happy? You wanted it."
Harry ran a hand through his hair out of nervous habit and pulled at the strands, wincing at distracting pain. "You're not on the list."
Malfoy looked to be considering the information before shrugging with a snort. "I didn't expect to be."
"But, you're better than I am! You're most certainly better than Ron and even he made the list."
His blond partner did laugh, then. He always found Harry's blunt honesty about his friends mildly reassuring and slightly terrifying.
"Potter, we both know where I stand here. I'm an Auror because of your testimony and the only reason I'm your partner is because you were the only person willing to work with me. Even that came from the hero's complex you can't seem to shake."
"That's not true!" Harry practically shouted in the small room—the sound reverberating violently. Malfoy's head tilted to the side in honest disbelief and Harry conceded. "Okay, maybe at first, but you're a brilliant Auror. You've saved my life well over the amount of times I've saved yours. You know you're intelligent—a match for Hermione some days. You don't get distracted. You're never distressed in the field. You're always calm and collected and poised. Draco, you'd be perfect for the title."
He couldn't stop the mistake as his mouth was faster than his mind. Malfoy didn't seem to mind, though. Instead, he merely nodded.
"Thank-you, Harry."
"You know I don't deserve it, Malfoy," Harry assured and continued staring towards nothing in particular. "But, thanks anyway."
"Where's your fiancé?" Malfoy seemed to wonder innocently enough. "You brought her along, didn't you? Ginevra's not one to miss a gathering of this stature."
In the few years they've worked as a team, Malfoy's been the only one privy to Harry's reluctance towards marrying the witch. The former Slytherin could spot the power hungry fan from miles away.
It took a leech to know a leech—even if Malfoy had grown out of that particular phase.
"She's bothering the Minister for photos."
"A right shame you came here with someone, Potter."
Harry quirked an eyebrow curiously and turned open towards his former partner. "Why is that?"
Malfoy simply shrugged—one of his more infuriating habits when he knew precisely what to say and yet had no intentions of saying it.
The music changed again from within the hall and traveled lightly outside—a pleasant disturbance from the otherwise tense silence between them.
"Care to dance, Potter?"
"Excuse me?" Harry asked after choking on the question.
Malfoy smirked yet again. "Dance, Potter. You move your feet a bit, shake your arse around. Dancing."
"I know what it is, you prat," he snapped. "What I meant was why would you want to dance with me?"
"We're friends, aren't we?"
"Male friends, yes. Blokes don't dance together, Malfoy."
A resounding chuckle erupted from his company's throat. "Loads of blokes dance together, you ignorant sod." The insult was all in good humor by the tone of his voice—all teasing. "And it's entirely normal for purebloods."
Malfoy stepped back and offered a hand to Harry. "I promise not to step on your feet," he swore with that same teasing note. His eyes, though, carried a fleeting sense of rejection.
The Man Who Lived seemed more inclined to wipe that fear away than maintain his ridiculous, feigned bravado.
Taking the hand in his own, Malfoy smiled and pulled the man closer than Harry felt comfortable. Not one to back down, he allowed himself to be guided forward until a fraction of space separated the men and they began to move.
As if beyond their control, that space vanished and the pair were pressed chest to chest. Harry sighed in exhaustion and settled his chin atop Malfoy's shoulder in defeat, though he hadn't the slightest notion as to what he'd been defeated by.
Suddenly, Malfoy chuckled and Harry stilled. "What's so funny?"
"I can feel your heart beating to the beat of the drums inside. No need to be so nervous, Potter. I'm not about to maul you like your precious fans."
The former Gryffindor wanted to protest—wanted to wonder why Malfoy couldn't be like those fans. It wouldn't suit the blond, but Harry wouldn't mind it coming from this direction.
And that onslaught of realization hit him with the force of a freight train.
I wasn't looking for trouble tonight.
"Why is it a shame that I came here tonight with Ginny? I know you don't mind her much," Harry whispered as though their conversation might be heard. And really, even if Harry didn't care much for the witch, Malfoy didn't sway either way. They reconciled. Everyone had.
"It's not Ginevra so much as any woman. You could have brought anyone, Harry." The statement resembled a confession of sorts, but the Chosen One couldn't pinpoint exactly where. "You could have brought me, you realize."
Harry reeled back only slightly—far enough to study the man in front of him. They'd stopped swaying and the music had long since matched their circle anyway.
"Would you have brought me?" he asked incredulously.
Malfoy smiled, then. Slowly, as though calculating each muscle's new location. His confidence seemed to falter as his eyes fell and were hidden away by thick, nearly translucent lashes.
"Of course," the former Slytherin professed quietly. "Who else would I bring?"
"Why?" Harry wondered, feeling like the question was certainly justifiable as the previous declaration was next to psychotic.
The blond looked upwards again, all bashfulness gone. "We were partners, Harry. I'd want to share this with you. You're important to me."
"Draco, I-."
"Look, while you're here in my arms," he interrupted, "let's make the most of tonight."
Leaving the pub hours after the impromptu party had ended, Malfoy sagged helplessly against Harry's side as the Man Who Lived tried failingly to assist him home.
"Circe, Malfoy, you're heavier than you look."
"You're lookier than you heave, Potty," he muttered. "Put yer back in it, man!"
The pair had just completed one of the most rigorous cases since their entry and, needless to say, a drink was in order.
Or several.
The ten-minute walk lasted almost an hour as Harry dragged a reluctant corpse a mere half-mile from the pub. Fortunately, for both he and Malfoy, the Chosen One owned his own set of keys to the drunkard's townhouse. For a brief moment in time, they'd shared the space—until Harry became engaged, that is.
"When'd you get a key, Scarface? Sneaky, sneaky, almost Slytherin."
"We lived together for a bit, remember?" Harry condescended to ask, throwing the man atop a plush cushion.
"Hey!" he squeaked upon impact. "And I do remember, now. I saw your bum a few times. You have a nice bum, did you know that? Are you making tea?"
The Man Who Lived laughed at Malfoy's train of thought. "Of course. One lump or two?"
"Two. My mouth tastes icky."
Harry shook his head and prepared the drink accordingly, finding Malfoy in the precise heap he'd thrown him in.
"I'm not helping you drink this, Malfoy. Get your arse up!"
"You're a shit boyfriend," the blond grumbled before taking the offered mug and hissing as he nearly missed the coffee table. "That's hot! The fuck, Potter?"
"We're not boyfriends," Harry responded, completely ignoring the pain his counter was currently experiencing. "Why would you say that?"
"It's pretty obvious that you've got a crush," Malfoy drawled expertly, and blew the steam from his tea without touching the offensive glass. "You're always taking me on dates and touching me and stuff."
"I don't date or touch you," Harry rebutted too forcefully.
"Yes-huh," Malfoy wittily countered. "Last week you took me to eat and paid for me and you gave me loads of hugs tonight."
"Last week was your birthday and you almost died tonight." The actions were rational—to Harry, at least.
"You wouldn't care unless you liked me, admit it, Harry."
At this point, the former Slytherin had removed himself from his tossed-aside position and scrambled to assert himself between Harry's knees and look up at the hero with glossy, wide eyes.
"Admit it," he whispered once more before Harry made the very conscious decision to cease the ridiculous request with a kiss.
Time stretched infinitely and the Head Auror couldn't find himself caring about who may possibly be watching as he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of Malfoy's hair. His contented release of breath caused the man in his arms to tighten his grip and shudder slightly. Harry smiled at the reaction and dared pressing his lips against the skin of Draco's neck.
"Potter," the blond warned in a groan, his hands bunching at the back of Harry's dress coat. "We can't do this here. People will see."
"Then, let's leave. They won't miss me if we're quick."
"But, I don't want to stop dancing," Malfoy readily supplied.
Harry lessened his hold and stepped back. "We could do a lot more than dancing if you'd just let me show you—"
"Don't you get it, Potter?" the former Slytherin barked and pushed himself deftly away. "I might not get this chance again and I'd rather just fucking hold you for a bit. This isn't a game to me. I don't give a damn about your title, or getting the promotion over me. I give a damn that we can't work together anymore. I give a damn that I want you and you're with that lousy bint. I give a damn that after everything, you'd rather get your rocks off than just stay with me."
As if on cue, Ginevra appeared with a look of distain painted across her brow.
"Malfoy," she greeted curtly.
"Ginevra," he mimicked in kind, never taking his eyes from Harry. "You're looking radiant as ever."
"Likewise."
"Is something the matter, Ginny?" the hero added uselessly to the conversation. The woman wasn't entirely daft. "Aren't you enjoying yourself?"
"It seemed you were," she accused, crossing her arms over her chest. "You tell him about the other night, Harry? Did you tell him why you've been so careless at work?"
The witch stalked closer to maintain a level of volume only for the intended party to hear.
"Gin, this isn't the time or the place." Harry fidgeted nervously and grabbed his fiancé's arm in a panic. "Let's head back inside."
"No!" she lashed, whipping her appendage from his grasp. "He called out your name when he came the other night. For the second time."
Draco glanced finally to the witch and gaped like a fish out of water. "Excuse me?"
"Don't make me repeat myself. Don't think I haven't noticed you luring him away from me."
"Luring?" the blond scoffed. "Why, of all the—"
"We were perfectly happy until you partnered up with him! It took almost a year to convince him to move out of your house and into mine. A whole year. I had to propose, Malfoy. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
"You'll forgive me if I can't sympathize with a groupie such as yourself."
Watching the two bicker back and forth did nothing, surprisingly, for Harry's ego. If anything, it made the man defensive for the socially immoral end.
"Ginny, that's enough," Harry enforced, stepping between his future wife and former partner. "He's not to blame for this. I am. I've already apologized."
"You still want him, Harry. What am I supposed to do? I can't compete with the man you ignored me for in school. I couldn't compete then and I can't compete now. We haven't changed and neither have you."
Ginevra stalked off on heavy feet and Harry stumbled after her for a stride or two before glancing over his shoulder.
Draco stood still as stone, eyes pleading for something he obviously had no say in. Harry could either leave or stay. His next move was the final answer and only answer.
No one could exist in two lives at once. Harry couldn't belong to two people.
The former Slytherin appeared to interpret the indecision dejectedly and turned away from the Boy Who Cowered, giving him the opportunity to run.
So, run he did.
"Take my hand, Potter—I'll show you the wild side," Malfoy coaxed with a feline's prowess. His shirt had somehow managed to lose its buttons and reveal a next to flawless chest and abdomen, its muscles straining against heated flesh. Scars decorated the glowing skin and Harry longed to reach out and beg forgiveness from each line marring the otherwise perfect sight before him.
Slowly, certain he'd frighten his partner away if he moved too hastily, Harry trailed a finger up and over the ridges of damaged tissue. Malfoy shivered despite the warmth of the room and nodded.
Unsatisfied with his apology, the Man Who Lived leaned forward and allowed his tongue to travel the path his finger created only a moment sooner. An open mouthed kiss signaled the end of his journey as fingers carded their way through his hair and over his scalp to grip and yank his concentration elsewhere.
Harry was met with guarded, reclusive eyes that melted suddenly into molten pools of lust-ridden trust and shocked adoration.
His next received nod finally registered as permission granted to move from the past and into the present. The former Gryffindor needn't be told twice as he took meticulous care to strip both he and his partner down to dirty socks, only to remove those as well.
He'd seen the man starkers before. The Auror's shower wasn't a private area. And after sharing a space, it wasn't uncommon to see one another lacking in appropriate attire.
This, however, was a sight that would forever be engrained in his mind as the epitome of beauty. Here was Draco Malfoy, former Slytherin and Death Eater, former school rival and constant pain in his arse, physically beneath him—opening himself to rejection and vulnerability.
It was the bravest act Harry had ever witnessed.
Draco's eyes were squeezed tightly as he breathed, "Please."
Not succumbing to the need to tease, Harry prepared the blond as gently as his excitement allowed, impatiently searching for the spot within Draco that would cause him blinding pleasure and distract him from the probable discomfort he was about to experience. He'd located the bud of nerves and was met with an eager arch and cry of appreciation. Removing his fingers to a disgruntled whimper, Harry positioned himself accordingly and locked eyes with his soon to be lover.
"Breathe for me, Draco," he instructed before breaching the blond's excited hole. Both wizards gasped at the intensity and when the Man Who Lived filled the former Slytherin to the hilt, he paused and shot a burning gaze into Draco's shining, silver rimmed eyes.
"Kiss me," Draco commanded, his voice wavering. Their lips molded together easily and quickly turned combative as each man vied for dominance. Eventually, as Harry began to rotate his hips, moving in and out so carefully that they hardly sacrificed a moment of their coupling, the blond gripped Harry's backside firmly and slammed him home. "Give me all you got, Potter," he challenged, biting the former Gryffindor's bottom lip and releasing it only to lap at the abuse.
Forgetting himself, the Chosen One fucked Draco as though the world would end tomorrow and they'd die young. The man meeting him thrust for thrust forced Harry to feel like his world was crumbling in the best of ways. Forced him to accept that he wasn't as aged as his experience accounted for. Forced him to live like he would someday run out of time. Harry wasn't invincible and quite capable of being broken.
And Draco knew just how to do that. It was the sort of magic that no one else could touch.
"Fuck, Harry. Almost there. Wanted this—so fucking long," he confessed—his spine curving and hands clutching and scratching angry red marks down the muscles flaring at Harry's back. The exertion was overwhelming, but this was something beyond words, something the Man Who Lived needed to prove physically.
"How long?" Harry wondered, surprised he was capable of comprehension and contribution. Unfortunately, he never received an answer as Draco released one last helpless moan and released himself between them, crying out Harry's name along with a stream of obscenities in a constant mantra.
The Chosen One followed soon after, muffling his own shouts by biting into Draco's shoulder and collapsing gracelessly.
Breathing heavily, Harry attempted to separate them as his post coital bliss ebbed away.
"Don't," Draco pleaded softly, wrapping his arms around Harry's slick back and urging him to relax by drawing random patterns over his exhausted muscles. "We can stay like this for a while. Please. I want to sleep like this."
With no room for debate, Harry spelled the sheets to cover their damp bodies and drifted away to the sound of a steady heartbeat, even breathing, and talented fingers massaging the nape of his neck.
"Thirteen years, Potter," he heard just before sleep overcame him.
He ran in Draco's direction. Stealthily, as to keep his company unaware, the Man Who Lived stood behind the blond and smiled at the Auror reflexes Draco possessed. He reacted as he would in the field to an intimidator—tackling Harry to the ground and pointing his wand at the hollow of his throat.
The Chosen One raised his hands in surrender, his eyes playful yet fearful. Not of Draco's possible curse, but likely rejection.
"You know better, Potter," Draco rolled his eyes and pulled both men to their feet. "Shouldn't you be begging your future child bearer's forgiveness?"
"I'd rather have yours," Harry admitted with a courage unbeknownst to him. "I'd rather have you."
Draco's eyes lit considerably and a smile tugged his reluctant lips upwards. "You mean that?"
The former Gryffindor just offered his arm in answer. "If you'd indulge me, I'd like to dance with only you for the rest of my evening."
Draco led the way—grinning like a fool—and together, the pair held each other closely and ignored the crowd huddled around them.
While in each other's arms, they'd make the most of the night as though they were going to die young.
-Fin-