Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

It's all moving too fast. Gak. I can't get my pacing back. Sorry. Anyway, in this chapter, I rediscovered the semi-colon; I found great joy in using it.

Chapter Six: Beast of Pride

"This feels unreal. How can it be true? I've always wanted my reality to be sharp to the point where it hurt. This – this is so cloudy, like I'm dreaming. I know why, though. It's because I have to push everything away. I have to push away Hogwarts and my friends and Voldemort just so I can look into your eyes without hating you. I still do; part of me does, at least. I hate how you were so smug and condemning and so intolerant. I hate how you make me want to stay here, because I can't, and I hate myself for wanting to. And I hate that this has to end. But then, doesn't everything?"

The fire flared high. Draco and Harry lay between their cloaks, their leather boots and gloves thrown to the side and random pieces of clothing drying by the fire. They had stayed out too long, and they were soaked with melted snow when they returned. The fire was warm, though, and so was Harry. Draco had never imagined a body could emit so much heat. It was strange, laying with him and not feeling the cold; it was strange to be so close.

Draco was half-asleep, entwined with Harry, their chests pressed together. Harry's breath stirred a strand of Draco's hair as he spoke. He was whispering lightly, just talking. Draco watched his mouth. Occasionally Harry would lick his lips, and Draco would have to kiss them. Once Harry was absorbed in a memory, his teeth biting the soft skin, and Draco kissed him hard, breaking the concentration. Sometimes Harry would smile; Draco would kiss him then, too.

"People say that love conquers everything. That's not true. It just makes you forget. It makes you forget every bad thing that's ever happened; it makes you forget to breathe." Harry sighed. Draco kissed him lightly on the base of his neck. A faint flush of red crept up to his cheeks. "I'm glad I'm not alone," he whispered, grinning.

Draco thought Harry had an aversion to being alone. He didn't blame him, of course. If Draco had spent the first ten years of his life in a cupboard, he'd probably want to be around people as much as possible. He'd probably be afraid of the dark, too. But Draco had been surrounded by souls, good and evil, strong and weak, forever. He welcomed the change.

Draco was very tired. He drifted somewhere between dreams and reality. "...and that's when I knew that I would never be the same, when...." Harry's voice was drifting about the bright strands of light that laced around his closed eyes. Draco, fighting insincerely to stay awake, thought he was on top of a mountain. He thought he could see Harry standing very far below him – and Dumbledore, too. He kept getting higher and higher until they were merely spots on the landscape, which was beautiful. "I think I'm very tired, Draco," Harry muttered, and Draco just waved at him from his position in the astoundingly blue sky. "I think I'm going to fall asleep."

- - -

Draco didn't open his eyes when he first awoke. He was afraid that if he did, the previous night would vanish in a breath of wood smoke. The aurora still burned brightly in his mind; he could still taste Harry on his tongue. It was glorious and fragile and he didn't want to do anything to shatter the image – not even lift an eyelid. He breathed in Harry, the chilled scent of his robes and the musty odor of sweat. His arms slunk around Harry's waist, around the bare skin of his back and into part of his shirt. The green cloak was covering them, so it still remained dark. And it was the first time in days that he'd woken up warm.

Finally, silver eyes peaked from light lashes. He wasn't prepared for what he saw, and the acidic emotion bit his gut. Harry was so peaceful, so gorgeous. His dark hair fell in his face, his glasses were tossed to the side, and his skin was damp with a light layer of moisture. Draco touched his cheek, grazed his finger down to the tender spot at the base of his neck where he could feel his heart beat.

Harry opened his eyes. It was surprising, because they were immediately aware of everything. He awoke so abruptly, like he was instantly prepared to face the world and whatever it may bring. Green eyes darted around Draco's face, which remained frozen. He feared the other boy would not remember, that he would be disgusted with Draco and push him away.

Then Harry smiled, and Draco forgot his fear. Harry wasn't embarrassed anymore; all traces of shame or anger had evaporated. They might return; in time, Harry might remember why he hated Draco, but Draco couldn't imagine that happening anytime soon. It was all too perfect to be spoiled, too new to fade.

A feral light caught Draco's eyes and he kissed Harry wetly on the mouth. "Good morning," he whispered huskily. Draco was automatic. When he looked at Harry, he didn't think about anything; he simply existed in the visceral heat of lust. His hands moved to Harry's hips and in a swift movement he glided on top of him, his mouth driving with pressure on Harry's own. Harry's fingers amused the groove in Draco's lower back and he panted roughly for air only when he absolutely needed it. Draco wanted to drown him. He wanted to be drowned. He excitedly, and with the deepest craving, thrust his pelvis into Harry's thigh. Harry gasped, which only made Draco kiss him harder, stifling him. He didn't notice the threatened, now punctured movements of Harry's scrambling hands. Draco didn't want to talk or stop. That wasn't part of it. He urgently needed Harry, and he smothered Harry with his violent lips.

Draco's hand ventured further down Harry's stomach, passing over his navel and slipping into his pants. Harry was tight and scorching, and feeling that made Draco moan deep in his throat.

A strangled cry flew from Harry's mouth and he forcibly raised Draco off him. They were both panting ruggedly, and Harry was frightened. He bit his lip and dropped his head to the side, avoiding Draco's glance.

"What?" Draco barked, perhaps too harshly. He was strained and doing everything he could to keep from attacking Harry with more brutal kisses.

Harry shut his eyes. "What are we doing?"

Draco grunted loudly, exasperatedly. He flung himself away from Harry and slipped on his gloves and boots and cloak and dashed out through the opening, away from the shelter and the person inside it, wild with frustration and desire and confusion. The cloak whipped around him like an avenging phantom and made his fury all the more evident.

"What the fuck is the matter with him?" he shouted to the trees. "Why the fuck doesn't he understand? What is he playing at? And why is he so goddamned afraid?"

Draco shook with the effort it took to keep everything inside him. In an instant he hated Harry and loved him, loathed the idea of climbing back into the wooden shelter yet couldn't wait to return, wished Harry would come after him and explain and, at the same time, wished never to see him again. Harry was so...so human. He was everything Draco despised, and everything he adored about the race. He was a sweet smile, a soft voice, and he made Draco tremble with a burning, consuming ache. But he was also fickle and frightened and ungrateful and oh, God, Draco couldn't think about anything else. He was still strained against restricting fabric, his blood still pumped rigorously through his veins, and he could still feel Harry in his mouth and in his gut, a permanent and everlasting stitch.

It took him moments of stomping, farther and farther from the camp, to finally feel the cold. And when he did, it bit him hard; it was ruthless and gnawed with an insistency worse than Harry. There were some things more powerful lust. The wild was one of them.

He trained his eyes to fix on the mountain in the distance, tried to breathe cold air into the pain in his chest. He was bewildered by his own emotions. Why should Harry, suddenly changing his mind as Draco knew would happen eventually, disturb him so much? He didn't know – he was beginning to believe he never would.

He was climbing hills now. He didn't know where he was going; he didn't care. He walked for so long he thought his legs would give out from under him and his cloak was nothing more than a paper bag against the frigidity of the air. He wanted to make himself feel everything, though, every discomfort. He wanted the natural, bitter irritation to drive Harry from his mind. He watched the weak sun filter through the canopy of evergreens and the eagles soaring in the sky above him. He heard the swift current of the river and a deep rumbling from far off that he couldn't place; it came from the mountains. He slowed his pace and stood still, serene, shutting his eyes and imagining that he was part of everything, that Draco Malfoy didn't exist, that the only matter of real importance, the only reality, was this: the perpetual snow and ice and the unyielding mountains that rose sharply into the atmosphere. He looked up.

Pale blue eyes like circles of glacier were angled towards him. Thick fur, yellow teeth, the ears lain flat against his head, growling from low in his throat. One paw was raised in preparation. Draco couldn't look away. He remained frozen with undiluted fear. His heart raced; he was aware of that, his swift breathing, and of his life, which seemed to have fallen onto the snow in front of him, completely at the clemency of the beast.

Blood danced in his vision. He could see one immediate future: himself as dog food. He thought about never seeing the stars again. He thought about the aura of warmth around a fire and the crackling of wet wood. He thought about hunger, the sun, the snow, the feeling of cloth against his skin, and the strong flow of magic in his veins. He thought of all the paths there were to travel in the world, how all of that was so profoundly significant, and how intimate he felt with it. Last of all, he thought about Harry. Harry would be alone; he would be more at risk without Draco. It was his life, too. It was all worth protecting – except Draco couldn't. As much as he could realize the importance of life, he could do nothing to save his own.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. His entire line of sight was consumed by the wolf's eyes, powerful and forbidding. The woods were mute, or Draco was deaf to their sounds. He kept hearing the music of winds echoing on stone, through cracks and crevices in a rock face, charming his ascent to an unknown place. He saw an animal, posed for attack, but all he could hear was an unidentified chord, low and harmonious and singing of nature itself.

The wolf lowered his head as if bowing to Draco. The blue eyes loosened their grip on him, and he took a step back, then another, never turning fully around. With each tentative step he felt like he was being given a new gift, like the animal was slowly letting him go and soon he would be entirely free.

Free. It was something Draco had forgotten about. He was so bound by Harry that he lost sight of freedom. That was what he wanted, wasn't it?

He marched back to the camp, contemplating freedom. He was so withdrawn. His steps were weak; he was content so simply be. He knew he had been granted something wonderful, something that he might understand in time or might never. Why was he alive? It was an exchange. The wolf knew to let Draco go, and he'd taken something of Draco with him. Those severe eyes held Draco's unspoken promise in them.

He paused outside the shelter. Inside, he could hear the fire eating away at the logs, and Harry's indistinct humming. Ducking down, he entered.

Harry's head whipped up when he saw him. His face was apologetic and concerned. "You've been gone for hours," he observed faintly.

"Hours? There's no clock," Draco replied fluidly, dropping to the floor and biting into a strip of fish.

"I thought you were in danger."

Draco lifted his head and smiled, but when he caught Harry's eyes the grin transformed into a frown. The air sparked between them. Harry was agitated.

"You frighten me, Draco. You're the only person that has ever made me afraid."

"More than Voldemort?"

"I hate Voldemort. I'm not afraid of him."

"You hate me," Draco said with a tinge of anguish.

"Yes...." Harry bit down on his lip. It didn't matter what Draco had resolved to feel when he next saw him; now, Draco wanted to kiss Harry. He wasn't in control of anything, least of all himself.

"Why did you push me away?" Draco asked bluntly. There was a silent space between their words.

"I didn't know how far you would go. I was fine with kissing you, and holding you. I could justify that. We were cold, and – and, well, it was just kissing." Harry spoke as if his lines were scripted. Draco believed he'd rehearsed this speech. "I know that's stupid. I know what I feel isn't 'just' anything. It's...it's you. Everything else I've ever done has been okay because it was the right thing to do. This, though.... I don't know what it is. It's hard to breathe around you, Draco; it's hard to speak. I thought that if we went any further – and you, you were moving so fast – I didn't think I could ever go back to who I was before we came here."

Draco watched him evenly. "No, you can't. Already you can't go back. You have to deal with it."

Harry's face lit up, first with anger and then with acceptance. Draco knew he'd been fighting this for a while, and a conclusion had just been made. "Come here," he said hesitantly. "I'm cold."

Draco crawled over and lay down next to Harry. Harry sighed against his cheeks and kissed him wetly on the mouth. "This is okay," he whispered, wrapping one arm around Draco's waist and placing his other hand on Draco's chest. And so Draco was given another gift. "You weren't really in any danger, were you?" Harry asked. Draco pressed himself closer and nestled his head into the nook of Harry's neck.

Harry's hands tickled their way down Draco's stomach. Draco gasped softly. Harry, who laughed lightly into Draco's hair, teasingly murmured, "This time, I promise not to stop."

That would be impossible, Draco thought. Nothing in nature ever did.