TITLE: BERETTA

AUTHOR: sordid humor

GENRE: Action/Adventure, Romance

RATING: M thanks to violence, language, sexuality and generally copious adult themes

SPOILERS: PostHBP, Harry/Draco

WARNINGS: some sexual content, adult language, slash

DISCLAIMERS:

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

- Quotation from the lovely prose verse "Borges & I" by the late great Argentinean Jorge Luis Borges. One of my idols.

SUMMARY: Harry sneaks himself into Hogwarts for an impromptu reunion with Draco. Sparks fly.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The adult content version of this chapter can be accessed at LiveJournal, DeviantArt and Archive Of Our Own, providing you are 18 years of age. I do not post explicit material to ffnet per their rating restrictions.


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CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

BORGES & I

Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself

can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am aware

of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things... my life is a flight and I lose everything

and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

"Borges & I"

Jorge Luis Borges


The ceiling in Draco's room was a network of dark cracks, like the ceiling of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Harry could imagine himself lying in his old four poster, staring up at nothing, fretting about the Triwizard or Ron and Hermione's latest spat. It was easy to pretend, as he lay there, warm and comfortable, enjoying Draco's scent on the unmade sheets and soft cashmere pillows. Life was better, richer with Draco in it. If he had it to do all over again, he thought, he couldn't think of a better life than one with Draco in it. The blonde pushed him, challenged him, teased and agitated and, on occasion, inspired. There was no Harry Potter without Draco Malfoy. End of story.

He waited for Draco to come bursting through the door, covered in sweat and mud from a Quidditch practice gone long.

It wasn't as though Harry could head down to the Common Room and ask what was keeping the team and their intrepid captain—no one knew Harry was back. They couldn't. He'd snuck into the castle using his Invisibility Cloak with the intention of lying in wait, surprising Draco in the halls or up in their bedroom. He tried not to worry as the minutes ticked slowly by. Shadows spread across the stone ceiling, mixing with the cracks to form little eddies of darkness. He waited, thoughts swirling in his head.

He'd considered, for a long time, the sly hints which Draco had been leaving—winks and hints peppered throughout those first two weeks of their relationship, when they'd had the luxury of time, getting to know one another's bodies inside and out. "When you're ready," Draco had said. "Can't call me 'baby' til you've had me," he'd said. The blond was biding his time, working up to it... waiting for Harry to fuck him—to take him down to his knees and make love to him. And he wanted to. Fuck did he want to. But he worried he might not be enough—good enough, "endowed" enough, pleasurable enough. Draco had had sex with other men, while Harry had only their relationship and a lifetime of wank fantasies to base his performance off of. He had an inkling of what to do, how to go about it. He had more fantasies than he knew what to do with. But... what if he was horrible as a top? He... really liked "receiving," as the magazines called it. The thought of change, of cocking up—literally cocking up—such a good thing made him keenly nervous. What if he was pants at it?

He breathed deep, taking Draco's scent into his lungs as the doubts raced through him—a train on a familiar looping track.

When he and Draco were together in that way... it was special. It was like nothing he'd ever imagined. He couldn't produce the magic on his own, either; it took the two of them rolling together, sweating and panting, touching, kissing. Nothing could ever be as good as that brush of skin, as that dampness and mind-numbing heat. They were right. The world followed suit when they were together, too. Everything settled, making sense when Draco pressed against him, bare-chested and breathing ragged, a pretty flush dripping along his cheeks. Together, they were so undeniably right.

They'd been like that since the first moment. When their lips met, it was magic—fire and sparks, light igniting behind his eyelids, trickling down his throat until it reached his heart. He'd felt his chest seize up that first time, heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest, blood boiled-hot in his veins. He'd thought he was drunk. It made him giddy, even thinking about it now. And it had been so good—the most exquisite trembling as he'd shook, eyes closed and head thrown back, fighting the bonds which held him to the bed. Need had consumed him, blinding him to any doubt he may have once harbored about pulling a "How's Your Father?" with another bloke. In that moment—as Draco Malfoy hovered over him, naked, wand drawn—he knew he would be taken care of... protected. He could sense it in the man's eyes, in the teasing play of his fingertips as he traced the lines of Harry's Forbidden Forest of body hair: Draco was taking his bollocks in hand, was giving over everything he had as fuel to Harry's desire.

Now he wanted the last of Draco. He wanted to pull every last fiber from the man—yank it from his throat if need be. He would choke the pureblood bastard, would take it from him, throwing him down and making love to him—making his love known and felt like never before. It was time. No—it was long overdue.

Harry licked his lips; slow, savoring the lingering sweetness of air tinged with Draco. His lashes flickered shut, blocking out the room's sun. The shadows of clouds drifted by. He felt the play of them on his face as they passed.

He'd been thinking about this for a long time. Probably since that first time he and Draco had had sex in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. But sex was so intimate, and Draco had a bad history with helplessness—it had suffused his sixth year, when he'd taken over for his father as a Death Eater, tasked with sneaking Voldemort's followers into Hogwarts. And before that, his virginity had been sold to the highest bidder by his own father, the man whom Draco would later replace. And then there was Mulciber. Harry had seen the man's face in the murk of Draco's mind, shadows like mud splayed across his bent-up face, the lines of the bars of Draco's cell painted over that ugliness, cigarette in hand, reaching for the zip of his trousers.

Draco Malfoy had been "done to," had been had in all the wrong ways, brought about by fear, deception and his own panicked desperation for life and human connection amongst all that terrible uncertainty which had been his life these last couple years. And those memories didn't just go away—they were written across his body, scarred along his insides just as the words "I shall not tell lies" sat inscribed on Harry's hand.

Harry knew he had to tread lightly. Yet he couldn't deny the man what he so clearly wanted. It had always been cat and mouse with them, parry and thrust. Draco had done it first—tying Harry down right there at the beginning, no questions asked, no hesitation; the first spark—hoping Harry's return-fire wouldn't be long in coming.

Harry hoped he would be enough.

At last, he heard Draco's footsteps in the hall. Instantly, he recognized the cadence of his boyfriend's step, the steady rhythm produced by his distribution of weight. His sound was constant, sure and unhurried. Perhaps he'd put on some muscle? Was he taking better care of himself? Harry wondered. Was he growing his body and pubic hair, taking regular meals, working out on the Quidditch pitch? How much of Draco had changed? How much remained the same? Harry propped himself up on his elbows, giddy with anticipation, staring at the door as though he might will it open with the brawling strength of his impatience.

Draco threw the door open.

He was beautiful—covered in sweat from a long Quidditch practice, his hair a flaxen, rumpled mess. A Gryffindor sweatshirt—Harry's Gryffindor sweatshirt, for he knew the ripped-up collar and shredded cuffs—was flecked with mud. Draco had managed to keep his hands and face clean. He'd shaved his cheeks but wore a vaguely defined mustache and goatee, little more than blonde fluff decorating the pink puff of his lips.

Distracted and tired-looking, Draco tossed Harry's Firebolt onto the sofa, flicking his wand at the fire to put a few extra logs on against the castle's chill. Tugging off fingerless Seekers gloves with his teeth, he at last set eyes on Harry.

The blonde froze with a strip of leather between his perfect white molars.

"'Erry!" he shouted, disbelief and the glove muffling his voice. He yanked off the remainder of his borrowed Quidditch gear. "What're you doing here?"

"Everything's okay," Harry said plainly, assuring. "I have a meeting later... but I wanted to see you."

The blonde pulled a face. "Yeh coulda told me," he sniffed, taking the hem and sleeve of the Gryffindor sweatshirt he wore, sweat soaking the pits a dark maroon. The roots of his hair were greasy, his cheeks windblown and ruddy, red as the sweatshirt he eagerly divested himself of. "I look a right mess."

Harry ginned. "Doesn't make a difference to me. It's good to see you, Draco."

The blonde smiled back. "Shower, then?"

"I... brought you something," said Harry, picking up the package beside his thigh.

Draco released his hold on the sweatshirt, sounding a splat of wet cotton against the stone floor a second later. He arched a brow.

"A present?"

"Yeah. It's muggle. But something tells me you're gonna like it."

Draco put his hands to the sleigh bed's curling foot board, leaning his weight. There was more definition in his arms, his shape less spindly. The long line of his shoulders fell from either side of his neck, all bones and angles Harry longed to bite. A line of ashy blonde ran from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of Armani pants.

Harry tore his gaze back to Draco's still-flushed face as the man mused, "Let's see... muggle and something I might like? Simple," he shrugged, conclusion arrived at. "It's either tequila or clothes. Tell yeh wot: I'll have a quick shower—"

Draco had the thick tongue of his belt in hand, tugging. A lean tendon flexed the length of his forearm. The image incited a riot in Harry's trousers.

"It's not clothes," Harry interrupted. "Or liquor. And how about you skip the shower for now? I like you sweaty."

"Not alcohol... muggle... ripe as I am..." Draco's eyes went as big as Dobby's and seemed to glitter. "Good Gryffindor! It's your cock, isn't it?"

Laying back against the pillows, Harry smirked. "Sort of. Why don't you come here and find out?"


Harry took that blonde-bearded chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling Draco's face up to meet his own.

"Closed your eyes, didn't you?" Harry accused.

Draco met him head-on, nonplussed. "I came my bloody brains out, idiot."

Harry's voice deepened. "Did I say you could?"

The tilt of Draco's head was rather charming, curtain of white-blonde hair falling over one eye.

"Do I care?"

Harry knocked the git onto his back. Hovering, he pronounced, "Fine. Never listen to a word I say, see if I give a damn." And he caught Draco in a kiss. Slow at first, it became something more, Draco's tongue darting out to test the landscape of Harry's teeth—as though they'd changed. Reassured, he mapped the lay of gums and tongue, at last biting at Harry's thickened lower lip with a happy, sated sigh.

"But for the record," Harry articulated softly, pulling Draco closer, "you don't sound like a hog at the slaughter. I killed one—don't ask, the story's not worth telling. But I can say with some authority that you definitely don't sound like one." He took a deep breath, then another, gathering his thoughts. "More like a big dog yelping."

Draco snorted, choleric. "Tha's supposed ta make me feel betta?"

"Or a small dog barking," Harry shrugged.

Draco's face fell. "I'll take large dog, then."


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to be continued...