Title: Life Hence
Author name: Drea Leeways
Categories: angst, slash, drama, melodrama & (possibly) humour of a (possibly) dark variety
Rating: R
Spoilers: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, QttA
Summary: Sequel to "A Flawless Plan" (thus H/D slash). Basically, Brooding!Harry, Undead!Draco and an Evil Book, not necessarily in that order. As always, the boys seemed destined to be unhappy, but will they choose to be unhappy together?
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: It's been more than a year since I promised this sequel, so I wouldn't be surprised if nobody remembers "A Flawless Plan" by now. Anyway, there comes a time for everything, so I'm uploading the first few chapters I managed to put together so far; they've been lurking on my hardware for way too long. To those of you who waited all this time, I apologise for the delay.
A lot of people wrote wonderful things about "A Flawless Plan". This new piece of writing is dedicated to them, but everyone is welcome to read and enjoy. I hope it won't disappoint anyone and that you won't find this continuation unnecessary. Honestly, I don't think I could've 'killed' Draco at the end of AFP if I hadn't already made up my mind to write this sequel. And I did promise a happy-ending of sorts for the boys.
(For a strange reason, every link I put on this page disappears. You can find my e-mail address and the link to "A Flawless Plan" on my author page here on ffnet.)
Warnings: a) This is slash, so consider yourself warned (or, as the case stands, invited ::grins::). If it's not your cup of tea then don't read it. Also, if you have no idea what 'slash' means (apart from "1. sharp sweeping stroke or, 2. long and deep cut or, 3. slit in fabric or, 4. debris from cut trees or, 5. print character Technical name virgule or, 6. swampy ground"—all according to the "Encarta® Pocket Dictionary"), you probably don't want to read this story.
b) Somewhat far-fetched plot. Or maybe I just spent too much time mulling over it…
c) Possibly unspotted (by me, that is) spelling/grammatical mistakes. Which is another way to say that this fic is not beta-ed, except by my evil, other-personality who calls herself 'Benny' and skipped all her English classes. ;-)
Chapter One
A Night Out
-o–#–O–#–o-
"Oh, what you do in your head,
you do in your head,
oh, if he's dead…"
(Suede, "He's Dead")
-o–#–O–#–o-
Tick-tock, sang the Snitch-clock on the wall. Second after second after second, louder and louder, the tick-tocks made Harry's temples throb, rendering him unable to rest. He'd never noticed how noisy the bloody device was, but then, he'd only had it for a couple of days—a predictable Christmas present from his equally predictable team mates. It even had a pair of Snitch-wings attached and they fluttered in an annoying manner, perfectly synchronised with the tick-tocks—the damned tick-tocks whispering into Harry's mind 'eight o'clock already', which meant there were only four hours left until midnight.
Slowly, deliberately, Harry pointed his wand at the clock and shattered it to pieces. Now, at least, he could just sit and swallow his misery in silence. It didn't make much difference, Harry realised soon enough. He still rather felt like shattering his own, throbbing head to pieces.
Only four hours left—::Tick-tock,:: his mind mocked him—until midnight. But no, he wouldn't think! He closed his fists furiously, nails digging into flesh.
He.
Would.
Not.
Think.
Not again, not tonight! Tonight he would forget, for a change.
He briefly considered crashing the empty bottle in his left hand into the opposite wall and see if the noise bound to follow would make him feel better, before realizing that considering it as opposed to just doing it defied the whole purpose. He was feeling so low he couldn't even vent his anger properly. Perhaps he should go out, get senselessly drunk, find a pretty girl to keep him company… that was easy because he was Harry Potter after all, who had courageously—Harry snorted—defeated Voldemort… but why not a pretty boy instead, his mind deviously suggested… but no, it would remind him of… Harry winced.
All he wanted was to forget.
He stood up from the sofa hastily, only to find that his legs were shaking and he was overwhelmed with dizziness, the sort of dizziness one usually experiences when being hung upside-down from the ceiling. Or, depending on perspective, when the rest of the world decides to hung itself downside-up on you. Because one year (minus approximately four hours) ago that was precisely what had happened to Harry's world—it had incomprehensibly rotated, one-hundred-and-eighty degrees on a vertical line while leaving him rooted to the spot, and nothing had made much sense ever since.
For instance, there was a huge Caerphilly Catapults poster hanging on the northern wall of his living-room and Harry was in it.
He stumbled across the room under Hedwig's disapproving gaze, scowling at his own moving picture. Blue was definitely not his colour and that particular nuance of blue... Better not go in there. He had been playing Seeker for the Catapults since graduation, though. They'd given him this flat, and for some unfathomable reason they'd also charmed the poster to stick to the wall, so it had to stay there whether Harry liked it or not. And he might occasionally act like he didn't, but the truth was he didn't care. Playing for the Catapults had been nothing more and nothing less than a random decision meant to prevent people from pestering him any further about his "plans for the future".
Like it had been any of their bloody business!
Seven months ago, Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry…
It all started with Colin Creevey and his tendency to meddle in things that didn't concern him. Namely, Harry's life.
"What about you, Harry?"
The breakfast topic of discussion at the Gryffindor table was future careers, but Harry hadn't so far expressed any interest in sharing. He desperately pretended he was busy swallowing his pumpkin juice.
"You're going to work for the Ministry, aren't you, Harry?" Colin continued to pry.
Luckily, one could never run out of pumpkin juice because the goblets were self-refilling.
"I think it's brilliant that you want to be an Auror, Harry."
Harry wondered if he would be the first lucky wizard ever to determine just how much pumpkin juice a person could swallow before bursting like a spring-well.
"Course, people talk. Selma McDougal from Hufflepuff keeps telling every dumbskull who'd listen that you're going to work for Gringotts, but I told her—
"Harry, are you—
"Hey, where you going, Harry—
"Harry?…"
"Must be all that pumpkin juice," Dean Thomas helpfully offered between snorts of laughter. Harry failed to see what was so funny. He'd had it one too many times. Perhaps people like Colin liked to chatter incessantly about their future and their plans, but Harry only wanted to be left alone. So he stood up, walked to the Gryffindor tower and into his room, grabbed a letter from the large pile of letters on his bed offering him jobs, glanced briefly at the sender's name (he couldn't have cared less even if it did turn out to be Gringotts), scribbled a hasty response, tied it to Hedwig's leg and returned to the Great Hall to announce he was going to play Seeker for the Caerphilly Catapults, now kindly leave me the fuck alone!
At first, the sole reaction was the uneasy silence—if you didn't count the clicking of Colin's camera. The eldest of the Creevey brothers, who seemingly never parted with aforementioned device, promptly immortalised The Boy Who Lived Losing His Temper. Throughout the Hall mouths had fallen wide open, for reasons varying from the shock of hearing Harry swearing in front of the entire professorial staff to the shock of registering the full significance of his words. And then the whispers started.
…Oh, my! Did he… the F-word?!... Wow… Really?... Whispers, whispers.
…Wait a minute, Harry Potter was not going to work for the Ministry, experience a surprisingly quick political ascension and become the youngest Minister for Magic ever?!… More whispers.
…Holy Kneazle! He's going to do something as trivial as Quidditch instead!!!?... Bloody whispers everywhere.
…Hey, Creevey, I told you talked shite... And suddenly nobody bothered to whisper anymore.
…Whoa, Harry Potter was actually going to be a professional Quidditch player, how awesome!!!... Nobody asked Harry if he cared for their opinions.
…brilliant!!!...
…so told you!…
…irresponsible!...
…stuff about Gringotts was garbage…
…don't get it…
…should start collecting autographs while he's still around…
…calling the "Prophet"?...
…hey, Harry, smile! Click.
…but bloody hell, Harry, the Catapults?!...
And then, there was Ron, rather taken aback by his friend seemingly incomprehensible decision.
"…the Catapults?! Honestly, Harry! And you… never… a word," he blurted to Harry, a look of not-understanding on his face, and Harry was slightly amused noticing that his friend had picked Hermione's verbal habits, before realising that Ron had probably been hurt, if not by his decision in itself, then by the way it had come as a complete, not so pleasant surprise to him. Hell, it had come as a surprise to Harry himself, but it wasn't like Ron would feel any better knowing it.
"You could have at least chosen the Cannons," Ron continued, "if you wanted a team that…erm…well, y'know, hasn't won a game in… like… I mean… Seriously, Harry!"
Harry wanted to tell him that he couldn't care less about the team he would be playing for, but couldn't bring himself to utter the words so he only shrugged instead. The Catapults hadn't played a decent game in decades. It hardly mattered to him.
"It wasn't meant to be," he said silently, but the session of laughter ignited at their table by Ron's confusion—a confused Ron always looked too much like a child deprived of his favourite toy to be generally taken seriously—covered up his words. Harry had the impression that somehow his friend had heard him nonetheless, but Ron joined the others in their cheerfulness and Harry felt relieved that the redhead wasn't really mad at him.
Not meant to be. Much as he hated the words, Harry had come to accept, bitterly, that things happened to him because they were meant to, and didn't happen for the opposite reason. Defeating Voldemort had happened because it had been 'destined'. While him and Draco Malfoy couldn't have been 'destined', not in the least probable of all the probable worlds. So that was why it couldn't have happened—the two of them together in the real world, not in some sort of twisted fantasy of theirs, marred by fears, insecurities and madness, by hate and betrayal and dangerous mind games. Or plainly stupid. Or useless. He wasn't sure.
He'd been telling himself things like that just to be able to keep going. When Harry announced his choice of career, more than five months had already passed since what most people remembered as the night of Harry's triumph over darkness, and barely anyone as the night of Draco's death, but the ache born in his chest on that night had stayed. Harry hadn't been able to stop thinking about him and about how he and Malfoy hadn't been 'meant to be'. About how essentially wrong it had been—his abnormal, revolting, immoral, shameless needs—but also intoxicating, and mind-numbing, and soothing at the same time, and how he'd wanted it all so badly.
Things settled down somewhat after school had finally come to an end. He moved to Cardiff, because the Catapults' manager had insisted and because it was far enough from the Dursleys to meet Harry's complete approval. Once he arrived there, the team management gave him a flat in a Muggle neighborhood, Hermione cast the Fidelius Charm upon it and became his Secret-Keeper so that no unwanted guests would bother him. (All appearances indicated there were quite a lot of unwanted guests who would have loved to—journalists, Catapults fans, other teams' fans, well, suffice to say that if being famous hadn't been exactly a pleasure ride when he was inside Hogwarts walls, it drifted even further from it when he suddenly found himself outside them.) On the plus side, he had practice sessions almost every day to keep him distracted. He didn't bother much about furnishing and spent his rare days when he wasn't training simply staring at the bare walls, which caused Ron and Hermione to fret. Granted, they stopped worrying about his under-furnished flat and wall-staring tendencies after he almost killed himself in his first game as a professional.
And what a game it had been!
His team was playing the Tutshill Tornados—a pretty boring game (not to mention they were losing) until Harry pointed his broom to the ground and accelerated. The Snitch danced cheerfully right under his nose, almost as if taunting him before starting to drop to the ground like a ray of sun. It was supposed to be an impossible catch. The other Seeker wasn't even trying. Still, Harry didn't hesitate. Forcing his every muscle to stay tensed, prepared to pull out of the crazy dive not one moment too soon, he rushed to the ground in what appeared to be a suicidal dive. The Snitch was hovering only inches above the grass when his hand closed over it, but this hadn't been only about the desire to catch the Snitch and win. With the rush of adrenaline Harry had finally stopped feeling the pain.
Then the pain returned, too soon. He'd won the game, sure, and the team manager (a moody little man named Eos Pembrook who used to be a Seeker himself in his younger days of glory) loved him, though he wasn't sure about his team mates—the constant "Potter would win the game or die! Potter knows the meaning of sacrifice! Potter's a winner!" speech that prefaced every single training session after that day hadn't brought him any popularity points—but he felt nothing, no stir of joy or pride at the thought of winning. What he'd done to win, yes, that was a different matter, and he waited no longer than the next game to repeat the stunt. Mr. Pembrook had been ecstatic. The fans had been ecstatic. The papers even more so. Mrs. Weasley cried. Harry shrugged, looked down and said nothing.
Back to the present moment…
The sickness took hold of him so swiftly and violently that, hadn't he already reached the bathroom, he would've probably made a mess of his new carpet—not that he actually cared, he hadn't even wanted to buy one; decorating his flat seemed so pointless. Hermione and Ron were almost entirely responsible for the way his flat looked now ("That's not decorating, that's bloody furnishing, mate…"). It was decently inhabitable if not very stylish or particularly cosy. Harry would have contended himself to leave it as empty as possible… then, perhaps, his mind would have become as empty as well, no guilty thoughts and irrational yearnings to keep him awake at night.
Truth be told, perhaps Harry had one too many butterbeers, but quite unsurprisingly so (given the basically non-existent percent of alcohol in butterbeer) the only effect he'd managed to achieve, in addition to his already well-established headache, and apart from an overloaded bladder, was an upset stomach. At least the headache and the stomach were a distraction from... But no, he wouldn't think, wouldn't think, wouldn't think, wouldn't think about him. About Draco. Damn!
With the sheer perversity the subconscious possesses in such a high degree, the name emerged inside his mind just as he struggled not to think. Draco. And then it echoed. Draco, Draco, Draco. His head was spinning with it. Draco Malfoy, who was dead, had been dead for a year (minus approximately four hours) and Harry still didn't quite understand why.
"Fuck," he blurted before kneeling over the toilet bowl and throwing up, Draco's name ringing in his head with the blind fury of repressed thoughts.
As he sat on the cool floor, a foul taste in his mouth, Harry asked himself for the hundredth—no, thousandth—time the question. Why? Why had Malfoy—he was 'Malfoy' when Harry felt angry and 'Draco' when he felt guilty—chosen to die, as all appearances indicated, for him, for Harry? And for the thousandth time Harry told himself that Malfoy had been enough of a sick, twisted bastard to die the way he had precisely to make Harry lose his mind over it. And yet, yet, Harry wasn't content with telling himself this. And he felt as lost as he had been a year ago, when Draco's cold body had been lying in front of his eyes and he hadn't been able to understand.
At first, after the initial shock had worn out, Harry had been afraid that somehow Ron, Hermione, the people close to him would realise what had been going on between him and Draco. All the forbidden touching, kissing and screwing, everything that had felt so good and was so wrong. It dawned on him, not much later, that he was ashamed, petrified at what his friends' reactions might be. He'd never been ashamed of anything he had done in his life, before. But he wasn't the boy—no, not boy, because that word implied an innocence he didn't possess anymore, but he couldn't think of himself as a 'man' either—the person, then, he used to be. It also dawned to him that Draco died, for all appearances, to save his life and he shouldn't be ashamed.
He hadn't recognised the feeling of guilt initially, only to discover, all of the sudden, that he'd been craving the release from guilt more than anything else. He understood, however, that it was impossible, like many other things he craved for. Answers. Forgetfulness. Innocence. Sometimes he craved for death. Sometimes for Draco's skin that used to be so lovely, so soft and delicate, so easily bruising…
He felt guilty for many things, too.
For betraying everyone and wanting to die, when he should have been strong enough to fight.
(And he hated it was Draco he had to thank for not dying, for finding the strength—or had it been mere desperation?—to fight.)
For letting his own desires overwhelm him and consenting to Malfoy's twisted game.
(But it was Malfoy who died, in the end.)
For telling everybody he didn't know why Malfoy did what he did.
(But he didn't know, he really didn't know)
For suggesting, without blushing, that maybe Draco had finally lost his marbles. For not mourning him in front of them. For not mourning at all. For still hating him. For being so ashamed. For still wanting to feel Draco's skin under his palms, to crush his lips (which had never spoken to him other than words of disdain and insults) in a hungry kiss, to touch every inch of his body hard enough to leave bruises and then soft enough for the bruises not to hurt, to have him trembling underneath him, moaning with pleasure, to melt deep inside him, and then to lay still with his arms wrapped around him in the afterglow and forget about all else that existed.
There had been a time, a distant time, when Harry had none of those thoughts, he knew it, but simply couldn't remember how it felt like, not obsessing about Malfoy. Sometimes Harry had the strange impression that Malfoy ran in his blood like a drug (::Bastard, he'd probably always wanted precisely that!::), that his blood had been poisoned the first time Malfoy kissed him. And Harry should have drawn his wand and cursed Malfoy's sorry ass into oblivion then, but it had been already too late.
Harry decided he needed to go out and either get himself seriously drunk with something much stronger than butterbeer (which, being butterbeer didn't count at all) or, even better, to find someone willing to be shagged senseless for the rest of the night. Tonight, of all the nights, he was going to forget!
-o–#–O–#–o-
The stranger's eyes were dark like an absence and his lips glowed invitingly under the mesmerizing light coming from the dance floor. The long, black hair only accentuated the paleness and it gave him—for it was definitely a "him", Harry could follow the contours of the stranger's flat chest through the black, silk shirt, and still, if any doubt remained as to the stranger's gender, the way the tight and also black leather pants embraced his forms left no place for any—but still, the long, black hair gave him a most entrancing, feminine look.
Yet it was not the hair alone that created this almost surreal impression of femininity. The other looked no more older than Harry's own age and he had a delicate frame, although his body inspired seduction, rather than fragility. His eyebrows were very thin, elegantly ink-drawn lines above his unreadable eyes, and his lips, oh yes, his lips were definitely the most beautiful pair of lips Harry had ever seen.
Harry stared shamelessly at the stranger's lips, imagining how they might feel and taste. His glass was empty again, he was thirsty and he needed those lips on his own. Somewhere, in an obscure corner of his mind, a small, still awake part of Harry started to panic, because this wasn't like him at all, he'd never, ever in his life, done anything like this.
Like walking straight to the surreal stranger dressed in black and, without warning, placing a hand upon his chest, feeling the cold silk under his fingers before grabbing the soft material, then leaning forward into those lips and tasting, claiming, devouring without hesitation. And knowing without doubt that he wouldn't stop there because he was helplessly drunk with the other's scent. The stranger's eyes remained guarded, absorbing like two miniature black-holes even the tiny amount of light coming from the dancing stage, as he responded to Harry's hungry kiss.
"Let's make it worth remembering…," he whispered into Harry's ears as soon as their lips parted so softly that his breath didn't even brush Harry's skin, yet the words sounded as clear as spoken directly inside Harry's mind. His hand—long nails, painted in black… well, Harry, drunk as he was, could definitely see a pattern here—travelled along his neck, fingers finally lifting his chin and mouth descending upon his lower lip, tongue brushing against it hotly.
"…for both of us, my pretty, lonely boy."
As he finished uttering the words, the stranger stood up and pulled Harry to the dance floor. Harry let himself be dragged, losing himself to the beat. He didn't feel like talking, and, by the looks of it, neither did his dance partner. A club (and that club, in particular) wasn't the place for idle chitchat and soul bounding, anyway. And this was all about physical need and nothing more, and Harry made it very clear to the black-haired youth by wrapping his hands around him and aligning their bodies as they began to move to the hypnotic rhythm…
-o–#–O–#–o-
The chain of events leading to this moment had started some three hours ago, when a pretty much absent-minded Harry showered, dressed and closed the door of his flat with a dull thud. To be more accurate, it started with him remembering Draco, which caused him to shower, dress and close the door behind him with a dull thud, determined to devote the entire night to silencing his memories by delving, carefree and drunk, into the more or less forbidden pleasures of the flesh.
The night was cold and starless, and the streets were covered in snow, but Harry ignored the frost biting his cheeks as he hurried past half-deserted sidewalks. On occasions like this he usually Apparated at one nightclub or another, but tonight he felt he needed the physical effort of walking (or rather striding), so he forced his legs to keep up a rhythm that sent distracting jolts of pain through his muscles.
Unlike most wizards, Harry didn't discriminate between Muggle nightclubs and Wizarding ones, and Cardiff had a nice selection of both. His choice resided only in his mood and plans for the night. On nights he didn't feel like entertaining company and wanted to get inconspicuously drunk, he went to Muggle clubs, where no one knew him and he could order as many drinks as it would take to bring him under the table without reading the whole story in "Witch Weekly" or the morning edition of the "Prophet" or whatever.
When he wanted a good shag as a bonus to the drinking, well… then he went to Sprite Square, which was pretty much Cardiff's equivalent to Diagon Alley, with the entire variety of magic shops, a Gringotts subsidiary and—this 'and' being particularly important—the Wizarding nightclubs, where girls (and boys for the matter, though he'd declined the occasional offers so far) would gather around the famous Harry Potter like flies around honey. He would, in this case, probably read the whole story in the morning edition of the "Prophet", given that he was not only the defeater of Voldemort, but also one of the most successful under-twenty Seeker playing for a professional team. The eyes of the Wizarding World were upon him constantly. After all, witches and wizards loved nothing better than reading about Defeating Dark Lords and Quidditch, and Harry was a pro at both.
At first, Harry had indulged in his escapades with a certain pretence of secrecy about them, before discovering that having a secret night life was a virtual impossibility when your name happened to be "Harry Potter". His friends, at any rate, had found out about it from the newspapers in no time. Not about his name being "Harry Potter", naturally, but about how "lately, Harry Potter, the famous 'Boy Who Lived—Repeatedly', also new Quidditch sensation, seems to have developed a strong fondness for the company of attractive young witches and Hinkypunk Hazes (for details on ingredients and preparation open on page nine and read 'The Magic of Cocktails: Which One Stirs Your Night?', an article by the fabulous Nik Spoodgey)" and so on and so forth. He'd been angered by the insinuating tone of the article to such an extent that he considered switching from Hinkypunk Hazes to something even more harmful to one's health just to make a point, then decided not to for the very same reason. He wasn't going to care anymore. They could write whatever they wanted.
The 'new Harry' had come as a shock to both Ron and Hermione. They'd imagined he would keep locking himself up in his under-furnished flat and refuse any contact with the outer world for the rest of his life, a misapprehension for which Harry couldn't really blame them because he'd worked very hard to leave this precise impression.
Well, sometimes things just turned out in the worst possible way.
He finally arrived at the Love Spelled, his destination for the night, at about ten o'clock. The club was quite the flashy scene, from the neon pink sign hanging above the front door to the disturbingly colourful interior, but Harry liked it for a number of reasons. The music was nice. The drinks were good. The company never lacked.
Ten o'clock in the evening, however, was too early an hour for the customary madness to have unleashed properly. The club was only half-crowded with noisy witches and wizards, most of them scanning the place for potential one-night stands. It would be senseless drinking and shagging tonight, Harry had decided, and the the Spelled was the perfect place to seek both.
He strode to the bar, ordered his favourite drink and scowled at the bartender who didn't seem able to avert his gaze from his scar. He wanted to shout "Yes, it's me Harry-Bloody-Potter and I'm here to get fucking drunk, do you have a problem with it?", but then the bartender finally served him, and it did seem a rather sorry waste of his vocal capacities.
Despite the urge to forget himself and the world, Harry emptied his glass with small, slow sips, revelling in the burning sensation the alcohol sent down his throat. Another song started—Muggle singer or band by the sound of it, although he couldn't have explained just how he'd guessed it. The Spelled was the only Wizarding club Harry knew which played Muggle music as well as Wizard bands. The new song was pretty good—was, in fact, so good that it reminded Harry just how miserable his life had been lately.
His vision was already starting to become a bit unfocused, like when he'd still been wearing his glasses and had to take them down for a reason or another. He had renounced his glasses about six month ago (he had to have his eyes magically repaired after agreeing to play for the Catapults), just like he had renounced many other things and learned to live with many more that made life much easier to stand. Like drinking. Drinking definitely made life so much easier to stand, though Harry never drank during daytime and very seldom in the company of his friends or acquaintances. He hated to let them see how low he had sunk and he didn't trust himself to keep silent about Draco after the alcohol would have chased away the sanity.
Well, he'd come here to seek some way of silencing his thoughts and was ready to take it as far as it would go.
"Another Hinky Haze," Harry ordered. "Double," he added as an afterthought. Reputedly, the right quantity of 'Haze' made Hinkypunk lights dance in front of your eyes. Harry was yet to test the truth behind this claim.
Being Harry Potter was highly overrated, he decided as the alcohol burned down his throat. His life was nothing special, well, that was if you didn't count it being a living hell.
A couple of hours later…
…But if all demons looked like the beautiful stranger in his arms, Harry was rather content with the way his hell had turned out after all.
"Why don't we take this somewhere more private, love?"
It was lucky that Harry was positively drunk when his dance partner's words (strangely how a mere whisper sounded so clear inside his mind, with all the noise) brought to his attention that they were standing in the middle of the dance floor and all eyes were on them.
Harry suddenly understood why. It was lucky indeed that he was so intoxicated. Instead of wishing for the earth to split open and suck him in, Harry blinked, then thought he'd rather be sucked by the pretty youth in his arms, an idea which under any other circumstances would have elicited at least a blush from Harry's part, but he was so far and wonderfully gone that he only started to chuckle.
He was in fact so far and wonderfully gone that he hadn't realized until then he'd unbuttoned his dance partner's shirt completely and his right hand was currently resting inside the other's pants.
Oh, whoops.
The newspapers would be writing about this faster than he could utter "Snitch". It was precisely the juicy piece of gossip the Wizarding World loved to read about him. He could almost see the bold, mocking letters of the headlines.
::Harry Potter Does Boys::
Better still…
::Potter And His Naughty Broom::
Or, perhaps…
::Caerphilly Seeker… Catapulted To The 'Other Team'?::
Or whatever. They could probably do ten times better.
During the last six months, he hadn't given the papers the tiniest hint that he swung the other way too. He'd gotten involved mainly with girls partly because he had been terrified to face the monster that was public opinion, and partly because, unconsciously or not, he chose his lovers as to remind him as little as possible of Draco. There had been that Muggle boy though, all blonde hair and pale face and Harry still couldn't think about him without a tinge of remorse… but that was beside the point and, anyway, the papers had never found out about him.
"Let's get out of here," he giggled into the other young man's ear, and pulled him into a very sloppy kiss for the sake of the audience before interweaving their fingers and dragging him to the exit.
Let them write what they wanted about him. To his surprise, Harry found out that tonight he didn't give a damn about newspapers.
After they'd Apparated right in front of his flat (Harry conveniently ignoring the risk of being spotted by one of his Muggle neighbours) he fumbled with the keys, trying to get the door to open as quickly as possible while simultaneously cursing himself for choosing to lock it the Muggle way rather than using a Locking Spell… for a reason that was decidedly blurry at the moment, but then most things would be after the number 'Hazes' he'd ordered (on a side note, no Hinkypunk lights yet). It didn't help in the slightest that his latest conquest was hungrily sucking his way up to Harry's earlobe.
Harry wasn't too sure about how they managed to make it to the bed after he finally opened the door, but didn't spend too much time wondering since there were other more interesting things on his mind at the moment.
Like taking all the close off the beautiful stranger, for a start.
After accomplishing the task, Harry noted with a mixture of admiration and lust that the other youth was just as breathtaking nude, as he was clothed, if not more so. Smooth, hairless skin, begging to be kissed and bruised, and Harry suddenly and inexplicably felt like he could never have enough of it.
"You're over-dressed, beautiful," his lover whispered seductively into Harry's ear.
Harry giggled before he could stop himself. He liked the sound of that; as it appeared, other parts of him also did. No one had called him 'beautiful' before and it never occurred to him that he was particularly so. While pondering this particular aspect, he was being pushed slowly onto the bed and straddled, and his shirt was being unbuttoned with swift movements. By the time his lover was tugging at his pants, Harry came to the conclusion that he was completely mesmerised.
And when the other licked a perfect, hot circle around Harry's navel, Harry thought he would die of too much pleasure.
"Anything for you tonight, darling," the long-haired youth purred, lifting his face only slightly to gaze into Harry's unfocused eyes. "So what will it be?"
-o–#–O–#–o-
They ended up doing quite a lot of things, after Harry discovered he had trouble deciding, and his lover had been more than eager to help him make up his mind. The fleeting thought passed Harry's mind that he might be sore in a lot of unexpected places come morning.
"So what's your name? You already know mine," Harry observed in a soft voice. They were still entangled in Harry's sheets, and the room was still full of heat.
The stranger laughed.
"I don't have a name."
Harry suddenly felt cold inside, despite all the hot air surrounding him. There was something about those words, something he couldn't quite remember in the haze of drinking and getting laid, something about black eyes on a pale face that didn't belong there, and about deception, and death. The stranger laughed again, and climbed down from the bed this time, starting to dress. Harry was a bit disappointed, but then that was what he'd wanted. A non-confusing one-night stand.
"I don't have a name," the other youth repeated, and then continued just like he was reading Harry's earlier thoughts. "Not tonight, anyway. But neither do I have a wish to hurt you, love. If you must know me by some title, I am the Keeper."
In Harry's mind, the word "Keeper" equated with only one thing and that was Quidditch.
"You play for a team, then?" he asked in confusion. The other most definitely didn't have a keeper's constitution.
The stranger laughed for a third time.
"My sweet, silly boy, you have so much to learn." Harry was beginning to get annoyed with being called 'boy', and on top of it 'silly', by someone who didn't look much past his own age, but he was only five minutes after the most intense, not to mention instructive, sexual experience in his not-so-long life, so he figured he wouldn't complain just yet.
"But there will be time enough after you'll receive It," his bed partner continued, puzzling him further more. "I am the Keeper of your gift, precious."
"Gift?"
"This." A book in black covers materialised out of nowhere into the stranger's left hand. "This is your gift. The Book."
"You're giving me… a book," Harry noted, even more confused than before. "We've just shagged and you're giving me a book!?"
"Not just any book." The stranger rolled eyes. "The Book. And consider myself a part of your gift, if you like. The purpose for which I sought you was, however, to bring the Book to Its new master. To you."
"You sought me? I practically jumped you in that club! And what do you mean-"
"You came to me… Harry, love," the other interrupted him, "because I wanted you to. I had to bring the Book to you. It desired to come to you, after the last Chosen died, though It took a whole year to decide this time. "
"This is nonsense! Who was the last, erm, Chosen then?"
"Oh, the Book will let you know at the right time, but it doesn't matter anymore. It's yours now, and it will take the shape of your deepest thoughts and desires…" He was purring seductively again. "If you let It."
Harry stared incredulously.
"I'm afraid I have to leave now. But I won't forget you, my pretty. I can still taste you." He licked his lips slowly, causing heat to rise into Harry's face. "Lovely. Anyway, just remember this, the Book is yours and yours alone. For any other who touches It, It will remain blank and voiceless. It might even hurt them if It feels like it." He waved his hand dismissively. "You'll figure all the nasty details 'cause you're a bright boy."
Harry stared at the book, preparing to say he'd been over bedtime stories for quite some time now. He didn't, however, get the chance, because as soon as he lifted his gaze from the book, he noticed the weird stranger was gone faster than one could say 'Disapparate' and there wasn't anything mysterious about it, it was just incredibly rude. Harry felt used and dirty. The thought that only a couple of hours ago he'd been rather excited at the prospect of feeling used and dirty was none too comforting either.
He also felt strangely empty, like a deserted house. Thoughts of Draco menaced to return any time now, along with the almost ever present guilt and shame.
For lack of a better idea, he took the book in his hands. Its appearance was deceiving. It was heavier than it looked, its dark covers smoother than they should have been, and it stubbornly refused to open. Harry experienced the sudden painful urge to rip it open. And then the Voice hissed inside his head for the first time.
::Ripping me would be rather extreme, young Masster. Just asssk nicely…::
Harry dropped the book instantly and looked around suspiciously, reaching for his wand. There was no one else in the room. Maybe he was finally going crazy. As Ron had once put it, hearing voices wasn't a good sign, even in the Wizarding World.
The Voice chuckled.
::You're not going crazy, young Master. You have to ask me to open. Asssk.::
Still suspicious, Harry picked up the book again.
"Open."
His voice had been nothing but a faint whisper, but the book blossomed in his hands like an exotic flower, pages resembling black petals crawling over his hands invitingly. The letters, which Harry recognised as such only after several moments of curious study, were glowing red and formed intricate patterns. He couldn't help but stare.
Slowly, the letters started to fall into words and words pieced up sentences. It was a poem, Harry realised, a very strange one, which could have been mistaken for a love poem, only it was also about dying without really dying, and its blood-like letters held promises beyond any imagination and comforting words, both seducing and deceiving.
He suddenly longed to touch the glowing pattern, and he did just that, not surprised to find it pulsating under his fingers.
::My Chosen:: The Voice purred inside his head now. ::Glad to finally meet you.::
::What are you?:: Harry asked without opening his mouth.
::My Keeper has told you that already, now, hasn't he? I'm your gift, my Master. Modesty aside, I'm The Gift.::
Harry didn't reply, but he must've been sending some kind of incredulous vibes because the Voice added, seductively,
::I can give you all your heart desires.::
::Erm… Why?:: It was a justified question, wasn't it?
::Oh. Nobody asked that before.:: The Voice sounded a bit dubious. ::Well, because it's my purpose, I suppose. I exist for it and by it. Long, long time ago, a young wizard just like you poured his soul into me and I gave him everything. Now, I will give you everything. Tell me, young Master Harry. Tell me, what does your heart desire? What wishes do you have?::
::I don't have any.::
But just as he thought it, Harry knew he was lying. Before he could stop himself, Draco's image flashed through his mind, like he'd seen the other boy before leaving his room after their first and only night together—asleep, pale in the moonlight and only half covered with the blanket, a purple mark forming on his shoulder where Harry had bitten him in the heat of the moment.
::Pretty. And dead,:: the Voice echoed into his head.
::Shut up!:: Harry snapped angrily.
::Everything, my Chosen. I mean it. You don't know how beautiful it can be to have it, to have the power. It's in yourself. You can't deny it. Or, you could, but it will serve you precisely for nothing.::
Harry shivered. He also found himself desperately aching for something to drink.
::Ah, the proverbial thirst for power…:: Harry could have sworn the Voice cackled malevolently inside his mind.
::Unfortunately, no liquid will quench it, my Chosen. I came to you because you can wield power, my Master. Because you're light and darkness alike, and yet you're neither. You've tasted them both, and none has claimed you completely.::
Harry could almost feel the hunger behind the words pulsing into his mind. Maybe he was paranoid, but for a second he thought the Voice was hungry for his soul. The knowledge left him indifferent.
::I don't suppose you could turn back time,:: he frowned bitterly.
::You don't really want to go back, young Master, do you now? You want him here. Now.::
::No! Stop doing this!::
Harry's heart started pounding. He suddenly had a bad feeling about the Book. Its Voice inside his head made him queasy. But, It couldn't possibly mean that… Because Draco was dead and death was permanent.
::You can't deny it. You want him. Stop fighting me,:: the Voice continued to tempt him. ::It will be only the beginning. I can give you a power beyond your dreams. You only dream of him now. I could make your dreams have no limits, and then make them come true—::
::Shut up! SHUT UP!::
"SHUT UP!!!" Harry finally screamed in loud voice, panting, throwing the book into the opposite wall, watching it fall down and close.
And then there was only silence. He climbed down from his bed and picked the Book from the floor reluctantly, like it was poisonous and would bite—which It could, for all he knew. He looked around the room, hesitating a little, before walking to the wardrobe and tossing It inside the closest drawer, burying It completely under a disorganised pile of socks.
He ran out of the bedroom, his throat very dry and in desperate need for a glass of water. After quenching his thirst, he suddenly felt very tired, but he didn't want to go back into the same room with the Book. He sat on the floor, hugging his knees like he used to do when he was a little boy and still lived inside his much hated cupboard and things weren't at all complicated, and before he realised it, sleep claimed him, heavy and demanding.
End of Chapter One
