Reviewers: Again, your unkind stream thins to a trickle. So am I again
reduced to begging? Please, play nice. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and expect
the next installment soon (I certainly do)!
Ass covering clause: I do not own Harry Potter or any thing related to the Harry Potter universe. And if your not interested in slash, your time to leave is fast running out!
Chapter 8: Love and War
"If I could be who you wanted, if I could be who you wanted all the time."
- Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees
"Hermione!," Harry banged on Hermione's door. She had barely left her room since learning about Molly and Arthur's death, though she had tried to be strong for Ron and Ginny; but now that they were gone, she had the house elves bring up food and she even agreed to Dumbledore's suggestion that she take a few days off to mourn. Harry had tried to talk to her a couple of times, but she hadn't wanted to and he hadn't the will power to insist. However, now he really did have to insist. "Hermione! I really need to talk to you!"
Finally, she unlocked her door and let him in, before going listlessly to her bed. She looked disheveled and her eyes were puffy and sported dark smudges that indicated both crying and an inability to sleep. Rubbing her face in a way disturbingly reminiscent of Draco's habit of doing the same thing, she asked, "What is it, Harry?"
"'Mione. I know that this is hard for you, it is for me too. But I need you to come with me tonight to the Restricted Section and show me what books you found that information about the Givers in."
Hermione blankly blinked at him for a moment. It had been a month since she had told him and Ron about what she had learned and there had been relatively little discussion on the matter since - she had tried to ask, but Harry had insisted that there was nothing he could do, for a time being anyway. "Why?"
Harry looked uncomfortable. "I think I know how to defeat Voldemort."
Hermione blinked at him again, but then the pieces all fell into place, realization hit, and an expression of horror emerged. "No! You can't! Harry!," she cried.
"Hermione! You don't understand!," Harry defended, wishing for nothing more than to be able to escape her accusing glare. "Voldemort is going to attack Hogwarts over the holidays and I'm not strong enough to survive another confrontation with him! This is my only chance! This is everyone's only chance." Harry moved to sit next to Hermione, who was cradling her head in her hands. "Hermione, if I can kill Voldemort, then it will set him free. He said so himself."
She lifted her head to look at Harry. "Him?," she whispered emotionally. "You know who he is? You've met him?"
Harry nodded miserably. He knew he was betraying Draco's secrets, but everything was falling apart and spinning out of control and everyday rules of conduct seemed to longer apply. Besides, he would soon have to ask something of Draco that would make betraying his secrets look like child's play. "Hermione," he whined. "He's a student here."
Hermione's mouth dropped open and her face contorted in pain and dismay. "No. . . who - no, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
After a long moment of silence, Harry asked again. "So, will you help me?"
After a long pause, she nodded reluctantly, joining Harry in his pact with the devil.
*
That night they took Harry's invisibility cloak and broke into the Restricted Section, the dustiest and creepiest section of the library. Hermione pulled out the two books that had substantial relevant bits then sat with a sober face, watching Harry read.
The first book contained a chapter about Givers and made Harry want to kick himself for not having done the original research himself - or, at least, for not having asked Hermione for more information. The ancient volume gave enough detail that, had he known, he would've been able to recognize Draco for what he was. Most obviously, some Givers were able to use their magical power to heal both themselves and others. Had Draco known he wouldn't do the research himself?
The second book, entitled Ancient Sex Magic, was more practically informative, though as disturbing as one would predict. The chapter on the Power Transfer Spell (the translation provided for the original, unpronounceable label) described the spell and steps required to drain the life power from a given individual. The spell itself was quite simple, requiring only a long string of words and a dozen candles - like most ancient magic, it didn't even require a wand. The more difficult part, however, had to do the drainee's state of mind. Her (the pronoun used in the text) mind had to be open and her mental barriers down, which would allow her energy to flow from her to her drainer. As any additional magic would interfere with the Power Transfer Spell, there were only two ways to do this in a manner that would accomplish the correct affect - through extreme pain or extreme pleasure. And so Harry learned why Draco always returned to Hogwarts beaten to a bloody pulp.
The chapter ended with a short section on the use of Givers in this spell. It didn't say anything much beyond what Harry had already been able to figure out by that point, though it did claim that most Power Highs lasted three to five hours. It also pointed out that it was actually easier to bring Givers into the required state of mind than it was to bring normal people to the same state, merely by virtue of the fact that Givers were exceptionally sensitive (a fact that Harry had noted himself from the first book). Finally, he shut the hefty volume with a loud thud and a strangled sigh. Hermione, who had fallen asleep in her seat, jerked awake. "Hmph?"
"That was horrible," He said, feeling awful.
Hermione stretched and nodded. "I know." Then she settled again and carefully studied at Harry. "Harry, are you sure you want to do this?"
"I don't think I have any other choice," he answered tiredly.
"Well, do you think you're going to be able to go through with it?"
Harry briefly wondered what she was asking, then. . . Oh. He blushed as he remembered Draco's dance a few weeks ago. The horror of that night, of discovering Draco's secret, had banished the memory from his mind, but now it returned with a vengeance - thoughts of Draco's lean body and long legs and soft, perfect skin - and he was embarrassed to find himself growing hard. He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
Hermione gave a weak smile.
*
Draco received a school owl from Harry the next morning in the Great Hall, asking to meet him at eleven that night in the Astronomy Tower. He didn't know whether to be worried or pleased, as he felt a tantalizing rush of both emotions. He'd missed Harry over the last few weeks, he'd missed the bantering, the near honesty, just. . . Harry. It was much harder to go back to a life of isolation after having. . . had someone. He knew Harry didn't feel the same way, and he certainly didn't expect him to, but it was nice to feel something - anything - that wasn't anger or hatred or fear, or desperation. So he allowed himself to hope, though for what he didn't know. Maybe just to be allowed to fight by his side in the final battle. Maybe Harry wanted his help.
So he showed up at the Astronomy Tower at ten 'til eleven, where Harry was already waiting, staring out the window.
"Potter." He hid his nervousness well, reclining gracefully against the wall, a small but genuine smile on his lips.
Harry turned to look at him, and was distressed by the pang of lust that struck his body. He didn't want to want Malfoy beyond the degree to which he had to. He forced himself to straighten up and approach the other boy, his face somber. "Draco."
Draco grimaced at the expression Harry bore. "Let me guess. Something horrible."
"I guess it depends on one's point of view. But from yours. . . probably." His voice was tight and pained, and Draco was seized with apprehension.
"Well, lets not beat around the bush then. What is it?"
Fuck. Fuck. Oh God, whatever, give me the strength to do this. . . "Time is running out right?," Harry began with a waver. Draco nodded cautiously. "And I'm not strong enough, see? I can't defeat Voldemort like this, I wouldn't even survive a confrontation with him in my normal state." He paused, hoping Draco would catch on, but the blonde continued to look at him expectantly. Was he really going to have to ask?
"I thought you could help me with that." He paused again, but Draco showed no sign of understanding. In truth, it was an aspect of his life that he kept sufficiently repressed that there was no way he could easily draw the conclusion that Harry wanted him to.
"I thought maybe the Power Transfer Spell." He said unhappily, slightly exasperated.
Draco barely reacted. His skin went from pale to pasty, as he blanched considerably, but not a single muscle twitched. Finally, almost unbelievingly, "What?" His mind was reeling to the point that he couldn't form a single thought. This was not something he had allowed himself to consider - or, rather, he had, but not in years.
Harry's eyes fell to the floor, no longer able to meet Draco's, and guilt stabbed at his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"You're sorry? You're sorry! You're. . .," his voice broke as he choked on his own words, his face contorting with hurt and confusion. Harry reached out to him, his instinct to comfort, but Draco jerked away and stumbled back towards the wall.
"No, I. . ." His legs were shaking so badly that he lowered himself to sit on the floor, where be bowed his head covered his face with his hands. Harry cautiously approached him, then joined him on the floor. Still and silent, they both sat there for a long time. Harry was numb, but Draco's emotions raged in him so quickly that he felt quite dizzy. Eventually, they stilled and made way for an agonizing realization.
"Harry. . .," he started softly, and Harry brought his eyes up to Draco's, where the beautiful blue orbs were begging wordlessly. "I. . . I'm in love you. Please don't make me. . . do this." And he didn't lie, he was in love with Harry, he had just realized it. It was, of course, inevitable. He had been so abused, so isolated, that he had fell for Harry like a ton of bricks - for Harry had showed him sympathy, however barbed, and Harry had seen him for what he really was, more so than even Pansy had ever been allowed to see.
Harry wanted to cry; he wanted to rage against a world that put him in this position, where once again he was going to have to take advantage of this delicate creature and to wound him powerfully. "It's the only way," he pleaded in return.
He watched as Draco closed his eyes for a long moment, hating to see the pain disappear as composure returned. He wanted to see and feel Draco's pain, for it was far worse to watch him push it inside, where it was surely cutting deeply. He wanted his to be the arms that even now Draco had wrapped around him, he wanted to be the one to hold and protect him. He didn't want to be the one that was delivering this fatal blow.
When Draco finally spoke, his voice almost sounded normal, but the strain was unmistakable. "You know what you'll have to do?"
Trying to sound convincing, Harry replied, "Draco, it doesn't have to be that bad. I don't have to hurt you, there's another way. I -"
"NO! Harry, don't, please. I don't want it the other way, that would be worse." At Harry look of incredulity, desperation seeped into his voice again. "You don't understand. I can take the physical pain, I'm good at that, I've spent most of my life dealing with it. But I can't. . . I can't take these emotions. It would hurt more the other way. I'm. . . I'm weak, Harry." His last confession was whispered and, with closed eyes, he began to thump his skull against the stone wall.
Harry scrambled nearer, pulling Draco to him and holding the shaking body for a calming moment, before allowing it to draw away. He gazed into Draco's tortured eyes. He heard Draco's words, and even understood them, but, ironically, he lacked Draco's streak of martyrdom (the one that correlated suffering with strength), and he could not bring himself to honor the blonde's request. He could not hurt Draco, not directly, not in the obvious, undeniable way that Draco was pleading for.
He gently stroked a soft cheek and tenderly said, "Draco, I can't hurt you that way. Surely you can understand that." Draco's face crumbled in defeat. It felt fated, somehow, that he would be brought down as low as he could go, and he hadn't the strength to defy the tides and fight against this series of losses. Again, Harry watched Draco's eyes close and his features wipe themselves of dismay. When he reopened his eyes, there was not a trace of emotion anywhere on his face, and then he awkwardly struggled to his feet.
"I understand. . . And am I correct in assuming that you'll need me to apparate you to Voldemort's lair?" Harry nodded - just because Draco had learned to apparate despite being underage did not mean he had. Draco continued, "Okay then. Let me know when. I'm next expected on Sunday." With that, Harry was left sitting miserably on the ground, as he quickly departed the room.
*
Draco walked determinedly to his room. Only once there, and after calmly casting a silencing spell, did he allow himself release. He picked up a wooden chair that rested near his bed and hit it against the wall. It broke satisfyingly, and what didn't he then threw against the wall. Next he grabbed a pitcher full of water and also flung it with all his strength. But it wasn't enough, like blowing on flames when a full on fire extinguishing spell was required. He paced for a moment in frustration before punching his fist into the stone wall. Then again, and again, until his fist dripped blood and certainly sported a couple of broken knuckles; but it was a start. He intently, morbidly studied his fist as he healed it - for the pain had helped, if only by drowning out the agonizing emotions that he feared were on the verge of driving him insane.
He whipped around to where the shards of thick glass lay, being all that was left of the pitcher. Kneeling down next to them, he tore his robes off then gently pulled his shirt up to expose his pale stomach and the bottom half of his chest. He carefully chose the biggest shard, then he viciously stabbed himself in the soft area at the bottom of the ribcage, where the ribs no longer met in the middle to protect the precious organs underneath. He took the pain silently, with a heaving chest; then he dropped the shard and lay back on the floor with closed eyes, savoring the pain that cleared his mind. Finally, when be began to see spots, when he felt so weak and dizzy that he knew he would pass out soon from blood loss (and whatever other damage he had caused), he brought his trembling hands to his wound. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla," he rasped. "Fuck you, Potter. You haven't killed me yet."
With that, feeling much better, if completely numb, Draco dragged himself to his bed and let himself pass out.
*
Harry returned to the Gryffindor dorms on lead feet. He was depressed at what he had done to Draco, and he wanted nothing more that to mend the situation or to comfort the blonde, but neither was in his capacity to do. So instead, he sat heavily in the empty Gryffidor common area and cast his mind to the future. When was he going to go through with this? With everything? Draco had said he was expected again on Sunday. Right now it was the wee hours of Thursday morning. Did he want to do it before or after Sunday? (Sunday was obviously not an option as it was virtually guaranteed that every major death eater in the country would be there to attend the meeting with their leader.) His instinct was to put it off until after Sunday - he didn't feel ready and he was scared. He didn't want to die. But he owed it to Draco, didn't he, to end it as soon as possible? Couldn't he at least spare him another night with Voldemort? In the end, guilt and devotion made drove his decision: Saturday night it would be.
*
Draco received another school owl the next morning at breakfast. It read, "Saturday, 9 pm. Your room. Sorry. H." He crumbled up the small piece of paper impassively, then vaporized it. Fine, Potter, I'll play your game. Just don't be surprised when I lose.
*
The next two and a half days were actuallz worse for Harry than Draco. The latter had managed to wrap himself up in a protective cocoon, existing automatically and repressing all emotion. Harry, on the other hand, was extremely nervous, to the point that he gave himself several panic attacks. There was little he could do to prepare for his confrontation with Voldemort, so he focused instead on what he would have to do with Draco, but that too sent him into anxiety. He'd never had sex before, let alone sex with a boy. The extent of his experience with sex was, in fact, limited to some minor kissing with Cho during fifth year; though he attempted now to buffer this with "information" and advice from all manner of sources (there had even been an unbearable conversation between him and Hermione on the topic). Now he had bring Draco to such a state of ecstasy that his barriers would drop, allowing his energy to escape and be absorbed by Harry. If he failed, would he be able to resort to torture? He didn't know, and he didn't want to know, but the pressure was making it hard for him to think clearly, turning classes and quidditch practice into an absolute nightmare. Of course, it didn't help matters that Draco was steadfastly ignoring him, when all he wanted to was to make sure that that the Slytherin was okay, and maybe to be told how to do this right. But, then again, maybe Draco didn't know either.
And so Saturday arrived. With time, it became Saturday afternoon, then evening. At twenty 'til eight, Harry grabbed his bag of candles, wrapped himself in his invisibility cloak, and snuck to the entrance of the Slytherin dorms. There he waited until a first year whispered the password and entered, allowing him to follow the small girl in. Then he made his way to Draco's room and knocked. Draco opened the door, standing aside as he waited for Harry to remove his cloak.
"Hi," Harry muttered shyly, taking a quick and curious look at Draco's room. It was sparse but tasteful, and his big bed (with green silk sheets!) had been hauled into the center of the room and ringed by twelve lit candles.
"What's in there?," Draco asked, pointing to Harry's book bag.
"Uhhh. . . candles?"
Draco actually smiled at that, if only faintly. "You didn't think I'd be prepared?"
"I don't know what I was thinking," Harry confessed, feeling rather muddled. "I don't even know what I'm thinking right now."
Draco nodded. Then he turned towards his closet and removed his school robes.
XXXXX
Oh, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm so bad I'm Michael Jackson. Since I know how much everyone is just ACHING for the next chapter, I hereby threaten to delay its posting if I do not receive reviews! I know you want it! It's going to be good, great, excellent, I promise!
Ass covering clause: I do not own Harry Potter or any thing related to the Harry Potter universe. And if your not interested in slash, your time to leave is fast running out!
Chapter 8: Love and War
"If I could be who you wanted, if I could be who you wanted all the time."
- Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees
"Hermione!," Harry banged on Hermione's door. She had barely left her room since learning about Molly and Arthur's death, though she had tried to be strong for Ron and Ginny; but now that they were gone, she had the house elves bring up food and she even agreed to Dumbledore's suggestion that she take a few days off to mourn. Harry had tried to talk to her a couple of times, but she hadn't wanted to and he hadn't the will power to insist. However, now he really did have to insist. "Hermione! I really need to talk to you!"
Finally, she unlocked her door and let him in, before going listlessly to her bed. She looked disheveled and her eyes were puffy and sported dark smudges that indicated both crying and an inability to sleep. Rubbing her face in a way disturbingly reminiscent of Draco's habit of doing the same thing, she asked, "What is it, Harry?"
"'Mione. I know that this is hard for you, it is for me too. But I need you to come with me tonight to the Restricted Section and show me what books you found that information about the Givers in."
Hermione blankly blinked at him for a moment. It had been a month since she had told him and Ron about what she had learned and there had been relatively little discussion on the matter since - she had tried to ask, but Harry had insisted that there was nothing he could do, for a time being anyway. "Why?"
Harry looked uncomfortable. "I think I know how to defeat Voldemort."
Hermione blinked at him again, but then the pieces all fell into place, realization hit, and an expression of horror emerged. "No! You can't! Harry!," she cried.
"Hermione! You don't understand!," Harry defended, wishing for nothing more than to be able to escape her accusing glare. "Voldemort is going to attack Hogwarts over the holidays and I'm not strong enough to survive another confrontation with him! This is my only chance! This is everyone's only chance." Harry moved to sit next to Hermione, who was cradling her head in her hands. "Hermione, if I can kill Voldemort, then it will set him free. He said so himself."
She lifted her head to look at Harry. "Him?," she whispered emotionally. "You know who he is? You've met him?"
Harry nodded miserably. He knew he was betraying Draco's secrets, but everything was falling apart and spinning out of control and everyday rules of conduct seemed to longer apply. Besides, he would soon have to ask something of Draco that would make betraying his secrets look like child's play. "Hermione," he whined. "He's a student here."
Hermione's mouth dropped open and her face contorted in pain and dismay. "No. . . who - no, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
After a long moment of silence, Harry asked again. "So, will you help me?"
After a long pause, she nodded reluctantly, joining Harry in his pact with the devil.
*
That night they took Harry's invisibility cloak and broke into the Restricted Section, the dustiest and creepiest section of the library. Hermione pulled out the two books that had substantial relevant bits then sat with a sober face, watching Harry read.
The first book contained a chapter about Givers and made Harry want to kick himself for not having done the original research himself - or, at least, for not having asked Hermione for more information. The ancient volume gave enough detail that, had he known, he would've been able to recognize Draco for what he was. Most obviously, some Givers were able to use their magical power to heal both themselves and others. Had Draco known he wouldn't do the research himself?
The second book, entitled Ancient Sex Magic, was more practically informative, though as disturbing as one would predict. The chapter on the Power Transfer Spell (the translation provided for the original, unpronounceable label) described the spell and steps required to drain the life power from a given individual. The spell itself was quite simple, requiring only a long string of words and a dozen candles - like most ancient magic, it didn't even require a wand. The more difficult part, however, had to do the drainee's state of mind. Her (the pronoun used in the text) mind had to be open and her mental barriers down, which would allow her energy to flow from her to her drainer. As any additional magic would interfere with the Power Transfer Spell, there were only two ways to do this in a manner that would accomplish the correct affect - through extreme pain or extreme pleasure. And so Harry learned why Draco always returned to Hogwarts beaten to a bloody pulp.
The chapter ended with a short section on the use of Givers in this spell. It didn't say anything much beyond what Harry had already been able to figure out by that point, though it did claim that most Power Highs lasted three to five hours. It also pointed out that it was actually easier to bring Givers into the required state of mind than it was to bring normal people to the same state, merely by virtue of the fact that Givers were exceptionally sensitive (a fact that Harry had noted himself from the first book). Finally, he shut the hefty volume with a loud thud and a strangled sigh. Hermione, who had fallen asleep in her seat, jerked awake. "Hmph?"
"That was horrible," He said, feeling awful.
Hermione stretched and nodded. "I know." Then she settled again and carefully studied at Harry. "Harry, are you sure you want to do this?"
"I don't think I have any other choice," he answered tiredly.
"Well, do you think you're going to be able to go through with it?"
Harry briefly wondered what she was asking, then. . . Oh. He blushed as he remembered Draco's dance a few weeks ago. The horror of that night, of discovering Draco's secret, had banished the memory from his mind, but now it returned with a vengeance - thoughts of Draco's lean body and long legs and soft, perfect skin - and he was embarrassed to find himself growing hard. He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
Hermione gave a weak smile.
*
Draco received a school owl from Harry the next morning in the Great Hall, asking to meet him at eleven that night in the Astronomy Tower. He didn't know whether to be worried or pleased, as he felt a tantalizing rush of both emotions. He'd missed Harry over the last few weeks, he'd missed the bantering, the near honesty, just. . . Harry. It was much harder to go back to a life of isolation after having. . . had someone. He knew Harry didn't feel the same way, and he certainly didn't expect him to, but it was nice to feel something - anything - that wasn't anger or hatred or fear, or desperation. So he allowed himself to hope, though for what he didn't know. Maybe just to be allowed to fight by his side in the final battle. Maybe Harry wanted his help.
So he showed up at the Astronomy Tower at ten 'til eleven, where Harry was already waiting, staring out the window.
"Potter." He hid his nervousness well, reclining gracefully against the wall, a small but genuine smile on his lips.
Harry turned to look at him, and was distressed by the pang of lust that struck his body. He didn't want to want Malfoy beyond the degree to which he had to. He forced himself to straighten up and approach the other boy, his face somber. "Draco."
Draco grimaced at the expression Harry bore. "Let me guess. Something horrible."
"I guess it depends on one's point of view. But from yours. . . probably." His voice was tight and pained, and Draco was seized with apprehension.
"Well, lets not beat around the bush then. What is it?"
Fuck. Fuck. Oh God, whatever, give me the strength to do this. . . "Time is running out right?," Harry began with a waver. Draco nodded cautiously. "And I'm not strong enough, see? I can't defeat Voldemort like this, I wouldn't even survive a confrontation with him in my normal state." He paused, hoping Draco would catch on, but the blonde continued to look at him expectantly. Was he really going to have to ask?
"I thought you could help me with that." He paused again, but Draco showed no sign of understanding. In truth, it was an aspect of his life that he kept sufficiently repressed that there was no way he could easily draw the conclusion that Harry wanted him to.
"I thought maybe the Power Transfer Spell." He said unhappily, slightly exasperated.
Draco barely reacted. His skin went from pale to pasty, as he blanched considerably, but not a single muscle twitched. Finally, almost unbelievingly, "What?" His mind was reeling to the point that he couldn't form a single thought. This was not something he had allowed himself to consider - or, rather, he had, but not in years.
Harry's eyes fell to the floor, no longer able to meet Draco's, and guilt stabbed at his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"You're sorry? You're sorry! You're. . .," his voice broke as he choked on his own words, his face contorting with hurt and confusion. Harry reached out to him, his instinct to comfort, but Draco jerked away and stumbled back towards the wall.
"No, I. . ." His legs were shaking so badly that he lowered himself to sit on the floor, where be bowed his head covered his face with his hands. Harry cautiously approached him, then joined him on the floor. Still and silent, they both sat there for a long time. Harry was numb, but Draco's emotions raged in him so quickly that he felt quite dizzy. Eventually, they stilled and made way for an agonizing realization.
"Harry. . .," he started softly, and Harry brought his eyes up to Draco's, where the beautiful blue orbs were begging wordlessly. "I. . . I'm in love you. Please don't make me. . . do this." And he didn't lie, he was in love with Harry, he had just realized it. It was, of course, inevitable. He had been so abused, so isolated, that he had fell for Harry like a ton of bricks - for Harry had showed him sympathy, however barbed, and Harry had seen him for what he really was, more so than even Pansy had ever been allowed to see.
Harry wanted to cry; he wanted to rage against a world that put him in this position, where once again he was going to have to take advantage of this delicate creature and to wound him powerfully. "It's the only way," he pleaded in return.
He watched as Draco closed his eyes for a long moment, hating to see the pain disappear as composure returned. He wanted to see and feel Draco's pain, for it was far worse to watch him push it inside, where it was surely cutting deeply. He wanted his to be the arms that even now Draco had wrapped around him, he wanted to be the one to hold and protect him. He didn't want to be the one that was delivering this fatal blow.
When Draco finally spoke, his voice almost sounded normal, but the strain was unmistakable. "You know what you'll have to do?"
Trying to sound convincing, Harry replied, "Draco, it doesn't have to be that bad. I don't have to hurt you, there's another way. I -"
"NO! Harry, don't, please. I don't want it the other way, that would be worse." At Harry look of incredulity, desperation seeped into his voice again. "You don't understand. I can take the physical pain, I'm good at that, I've spent most of my life dealing with it. But I can't. . . I can't take these emotions. It would hurt more the other way. I'm. . . I'm weak, Harry." His last confession was whispered and, with closed eyes, he began to thump his skull against the stone wall.
Harry scrambled nearer, pulling Draco to him and holding the shaking body for a calming moment, before allowing it to draw away. He gazed into Draco's tortured eyes. He heard Draco's words, and even understood them, but, ironically, he lacked Draco's streak of martyrdom (the one that correlated suffering with strength), and he could not bring himself to honor the blonde's request. He could not hurt Draco, not directly, not in the obvious, undeniable way that Draco was pleading for.
He gently stroked a soft cheek and tenderly said, "Draco, I can't hurt you that way. Surely you can understand that." Draco's face crumbled in defeat. It felt fated, somehow, that he would be brought down as low as he could go, and he hadn't the strength to defy the tides and fight against this series of losses. Again, Harry watched Draco's eyes close and his features wipe themselves of dismay. When he reopened his eyes, there was not a trace of emotion anywhere on his face, and then he awkwardly struggled to his feet.
"I understand. . . And am I correct in assuming that you'll need me to apparate you to Voldemort's lair?" Harry nodded - just because Draco had learned to apparate despite being underage did not mean he had. Draco continued, "Okay then. Let me know when. I'm next expected on Sunday." With that, Harry was left sitting miserably on the ground, as he quickly departed the room.
*
Draco walked determinedly to his room. Only once there, and after calmly casting a silencing spell, did he allow himself release. He picked up a wooden chair that rested near his bed and hit it against the wall. It broke satisfyingly, and what didn't he then threw against the wall. Next he grabbed a pitcher full of water and also flung it with all his strength. But it wasn't enough, like blowing on flames when a full on fire extinguishing spell was required. He paced for a moment in frustration before punching his fist into the stone wall. Then again, and again, until his fist dripped blood and certainly sported a couple of broken knuckles; but it was a start. He intently, morbidly studied his fist as he healed it - for the pain had helped, if only by drowning out the agonizing emotions that he feared were on the verge of driving him insane.
He whipped around to where the shards of thick glass lay, being all that was left of the pitcher. Kneeling down next to them, he tore his robes off then gently pulled his shirt up to expose his pale stomach and the bottom half of his chest. He carefully chose the biggest shard, then he viciously stabbed himself in the soft area at the bottom of the ribcage, where the ribs no longer met in the middle to protect the precious organs underneath. He took the pain silently, with a heaving chest; then he dropped the shard and lay back on the floor with closed eyes, savoring the pain that cleared his mind. Finally, when be began to see spots, when he felt so weak and dizzy that he knew he would pass out soon from blood loss (and whatever other damage he had caused), he brought his trembling hands to his wound. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla," he rasped. "Fuck you, Potter. You haven't killed me yet."
With that, feeling much better, if completely numb, Draco dragged himself to his bed and let himself pass out.
*
Harry returned to the Gryffindor dorms on lead feet. He was depressed at what he had done to Draco, and he wanted nothing more that to mend the situation or to comfort the blonde, but neither was in his capacity to do. So instead, he sat heavily in the empty Gryffidor common area and cast his mind to the future. When was he going to go through with this? With everything? Draco had said he was expected again on Sunday. Right now it was the wee hours of Thursday morning. Did he want to do it before or after Sunday? (Sunday was obviously not an option as it was virtually guaranteed that every major death eater in the country would be there to attend the meeting with their leader.) His instinct was to put it off until after Sunday - he didn't feel ready and he was scared. He didn't want to die. But he owed it to Draco, didn't he, to end it as soon as possible? Couldn't he at least spare him another night with Voldemort? In the end, guilt and devotion made drove his decision: Saturday night it would be.
*
Draco received another school owl the next morning at breakfast. It read, "Saturday, 9 pm. Your room. Sorry. H." He crumbled up the small piece of paper impassively, then vaporized it. Fine, Potter, I'll play your game. Just don't be surprised when I lose.
*
The next two and a half days were actuallz worse for Harry than Draco. The latter had managed to wrap himself up in a protective cocoon, existing automatically and repressing all emotion. Harry, on the other hand, was extremely nervous, to the point that he gave himself several panic attacks. There was little he could do to prepare for his confrontation with Voldemort, so he focused instead on what he would have to do with Draco, but that too sent him into anxiety. He'd never had sex before, let alone sex with a boy. The extent of his experience with sex was, in fact, limited to some minor kissing with Cho during fifth year; though he attempted now to buffer this with "information" and advice from all manner of sources (there had even been an unbearable conversation between him and Hermione on the topic). Now he had bring Draco to such a state of ecstasy that his barriers would drop, allowing his energy to escape and be absorbed by Harry. If he failed, would he be able to resort to torture? He didn't know, and he didn't want to know, but the pressure was making it hard for him to think clearly, turning classes and quidditch practice into an absolute nightmare. Of course, it didn't help matters that Draco was steadfastly ignoring him, when all he wanted to was to make sure that that the Slytherin was okay, and maybe to be told how to do this right. But, then again, maybe Draco didn't know either.
And so Saturday arrived. With time, it became Saturday afternoon, then evening. At twenty 'til eight, Harry grabbed his bag of candles, wrapped himself in his invisibility cloak, and snuck to the entrance of the Slytherin dorms. There he waited until a first year whispered the password and entered, allowing him to follow the small girl in. Then he made his way to Draco's room and knocked. Draco opened the door, standing aside as he waited for Harry to remove his cloak.
"Hi," Harry muttered shyly, taking a quick and curious look at Draco's room. It was sparse but tasteful, and his big bed (with green silk sheets!) had been hauled into the center of the room and ringed by twelve lit candles.
"What's in there?," Draco asked, pointing to Harry's book bag.
"Uhhh. . . candles?"
Draco actually smiled at that, if only faintly. "You didn't think I'd be prepared?"
"I don't know what I was thinking," Harry confessed, feeling rather muddled. "I don't even know what I'm thinking right now."
Draco nodded. Then he turned towards his closet and removed his school robes.
XXXXX
Oh, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm so bad I'm Michael Jackson. Since I know how much everyone is just ACHING for the next chapter, I hereby threaten to delay its posting if I do not receive reviews! I know you want it! It's going to be good, great, excellent, I promise!