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It is bad, he knows. So bad, so twisted, a thing that by all rights ought to have been beautiful and pure and true—growing with the sun's gentle warmth, craving sky and laughter and love—lots of love.
No, it is more like the strangling weed that plagues the gardener's pride. The one that nearly killed him first year, the one that hates light…Devil's Snare? Yes, that's it. Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare, deadly fun but sulks in the sun…or something like that. Hermione would remember, he's sure. Hermione would remember. Hermione isn't here. He can't decide whether or not that's a good thing, not when Hermione is gone—gone, vanished, missing in action—but she was also the one who was the closest to finding out his secret, his disgusting, corrupt shame that no one must know, no one can find out. No one.
On his especially bad days, Harry suspects that maybe it was because Hermione was getting so close to learning the truth that she was targeted, kidnapped out of her own home. Oh, Hermione…
So, it is bad. If he were sensible, if he were smart, he would dig it up right away. Roots and all. Before it spread itself comfortably through the soil, before it began sucking up all the nutrients, selfishly leaving nothing for the other good plants to subsist on. Before…before it took all his energy, and became his obsession.
Just before. But Harry isn't smart, or sensible. And now, he can no more evict the deadly thing than he could kill in cold blood. And, dear gods and goddesses, the plant is taking over his plot of land—his entire life! Like the Devil's Snare, it thrives in the darkness, and Harry is tempted to become a creature of the night to satisfy the plant's thirst—just for this worthless, warped thing that grows in his heart and his head and his soul.
"Mmph." A noise startles Harry out of his contemplations, and he glances back—back through the thick, clear space between himself, out on the balcony of his single apartment, the one he bought himself for his 22nd birthday two years ago, to the bedroom and it's dark-enshrouded contents.
Dark, except for the sharp slice of moonlight that scissors through to dissect the occupant in the rumpled bed.
The boy—lanky, angular, pale skin refracting the silvered light of stars and moonshine, is sprawled gracefully across the bed as if he owned it, as if he owned everything around him. It is an attitude that doesn't leave him, in sleeping or waking. And the soft, soft hair—white-blond as if he had made a habit of bathing in the moon's rays since childhood and it somehow filtered into the color of his hair—
Bad. Evil, twisted, demonic—love that is meant to thrive in the sunshine, meant to give and receive equally. Harry feels himself unable to hear his own thoughts over the throbbing of his heart as he watches his lover sleep, in his element in the night. He never sees Draco unless it's dark—just as Harry Potter knows it would be social and political suicide to be even remotely associated with the known murderer and Death Eater, the one the Aurors still can't seem to catch even after all these years after Voldemort's death, Draco Malfoy knows that it would mean his immediate arrest, trial, and Dementor's Kiss to be caught by anyone—anyone. Draco didn't evade capture for this long by his naïve innocence. Draco learnt from the best and he will make his father proud from beyond the grave, even if it means living his entire life as the most wanted criminal of Wizarding Britain, France, and Germany.
Draco has killed in cold blood, ruthlessly, silently, taking no pleasure in the death but taking no flicker of regret, guilt, or conscience either. Evil, Harry's mind whispers even as Draco shifts restlessly, suspiciously, and his muscles move and play in ripples. Yes, evil. A love that is based not on equal parts giving and taking, but rather simply—taking.
Harry takes what he is unable to take from anyone else. He is the awesome Savior of the Wizarding World. He can be denied just about nothing. He is a hero, a god, an idol. And as such, he is unable to take to bed anyone who might want his power, his fame, his money, his name. Even more, Harry is unable to take, selfishly, in bed, from those who would cut their wrists and bleed to death for him if he ordered it. It would be unethical, immoral, wrong.
As wrong as sleeping with a murderer? his mind murmurs, the question barely heard in the cacophony of Other Thoughts, like whether it would be wise to wake Draco by…unorthodox means, or if it would mean getting disemboweled before Draco realizes that Harry is not an assassin. As wrong as sleeping with Draco Malfoy?
Draco takes and takes too. He is The Enemy. He is hated, reviled, the monster threatened to children who don't go to bed on time. "If you don't go to sleep straight away, Draco Malfoy will come and carry you away. If you don't eat your peas, Draco Malfoy will take you away and you'll never be heard of again." He cannot engage with his supporters, for fear of losing their allegiance or respect. He cannot be intimate on this level with another criminal, who might well be an assassin or wish to usurp his notoriety and power. He obviously cannot associate on any level with respectable, moral citizens, who would first scream and then call the Aurors.
So he takes, takes from Harry as Harry takes from him, because finally, neither one are better or superior to the other, and neither is willing to give up their only source of heat at night for a few hours of glory—for Draco, that of killing the most celebrated man of the Wizarding community, for Harry, bringing in the number one most wanted man of Wizarding Britain…it isn't worth it, and that balance of take and take is perhaps the stability that makes it work, makes this plant that is wrong and devil-inspired and distorted thrive and thrive on night rather than day.
Draco's eyes open, alert immediately, wary as he takes in his location and situation, before relaxing slightly as he sits up, blanket that is already only half-covering on leg and part of his body falling away to reveal even more of his chest. No words are needed—merely an imperious beckoning of one slim, callused hand (out, damned spot!) and Harry has forgotten the internal debate that drove him out of bed in the first place, wracked with guilt and wrongness.
But as they put their hands on each other, and lose themselves in a frenzied touch, taste, see, feelfeelfeel!, the tiny part of Harry that still remembers sunlight moans softly and strains to beat back the darkness that swamps the man. Wrong, wrong, wrong, bad…it beats in each warped red blood cell flowing through his veins, coursing strongly to and from the heart that Harry has somehow misplaced in his occupation with Draco. But Harry ignores it—just for tonight.
A.N.: …Okayy…so, so definitely not what I normally write. But I've been going on a slash/femmeslash kick for some odd reason, and this was one of the results. For those who are readers of Last Spy, my apologies if you got excited and thought it was a chapter update or weren't expecting this at all (because I certainly wasn't!). So…thoughts?