Disclaimer: None of this is mine, by any stretch of the imagination, except for the bit of plot. And even that isn't truly mine; it is a shared effort of the human mind, ideas taken from ideas taken from other ideas. I'm not making any money in this endeavor, and I no longer am employed, so it would be fruitless to bring any legal action against me.

La Petite Mort

By Lizzie

Some people call it exquisite. Some search all their lives looking for the perfection of it, going from person to person and sampling what there is to be had. The ideal orgasm, the one sexual experience that will mark their lives. Most don't find it. They may find something close, some cheap imitation that fools them, but it's never the real thing. It is my belief that you can't have the perfect orgasm without the perfect love.

When I say perfect love, I most definitely don't mean the clichéd relationship where nothing ever goes wrong and everything is sickeningly and frighteningly happy. No, those sorts of relationships are stagnant. Without conflict there is no growth, and without growth there is no true happiness. What I meant by perfect love was the one person who completes you. The person who loves you for who you are and doesn't judge you. The one who has seen you at your best and your worst and makes no distinction between the two. Your other half, the clichéd 'soul mate.'

It is my wholehearted belief that without the perfect love, without the connection on the mental, emotional and spiritual level, there can be no perfect orgasm. There is always that 'close,' but it will never reach the clouds. So few people actually experience the utter completion one feels when in the throes, that it has become somewhat of a joke; a laughable, unattainable goal

The French call it 'la petite mort,' the little death. It is said that when experiencing this pleasure, it is like dying and being reborn. Mind, body and spirit. Your breath is stolen away, your soul feels as though it is being ripped from you, and you can think of nothing. And then suddenly you're back, in the arms of your lover, and you see things in a completely different way. You've died the little death, and it's exquisite.

The first time I experienced la petite mort, I was seventeen. I had been carrying on an illicit affair with my current lover, and I had begun to realize that my feelings had grown deeper for my 'fuck of the month.'

I'll admit, during my school days I was quite promiscuous, and I flaunted it. I loved hearing whispers following me as I walked down the hallways, all wondering who was my current fuck and when they would be cast off in favor of the next pretty thing that caught my eye. I didn't realize how unhappy I was with this until he came to me, offering himself. At first, I laughed at him. We were enemies, and I couldn't believe that he would come to me like that. Neither of us had thought of the other like that, at least that's what I had assumed, and it was surreal. He pleaded with me, saying that he would ignore me for the rest of the year if I wanted him to if I gave him this chance.

After some deliberation, I finally gave in. It seemed wrong to not take him up on his offer; he was, after all, one of the most sought-after people in school. And so I told him where to meet me, and when. If anything, this conquest would definitely by something to brag about.

Our first fuck was hard and fast. He hardly made any noises when I took him, and I found myself disappointed for some reason, like I had failed somehow. It was later, when I cleaned up the mess we'd made, that I'd found out that he had been a virgin. I had used lubrication, but I didn't go slowly at all, and the preparation had been rushed. There had been blood.

He probably hadn't enjoyed his first time, and I felt an unusual twinge of guilt at that fact. He confirmed my suspicions later, when I spoke with him privately after class one day under the pretense of talking about an assignment we had been paired together for. When I demanded he tell me why he hadn't told me, he shrugged and said that he didn't think that it had mattered.

I didn't know why his answer pained me, but it had, and so I told him to meet me again, later that week. He asked me why, knowing full well that most of my fucks were one-time things, with the exception of a few. My reason must have sounded lame – I wouldn't consider it a done deal until he had received pleasure as well. I had always prided myself on the quality of reciprocation, after all. And, lame or not, his eyes shined.

The second time we fucked, it was slow, leisurely, and absolutely maddening. In a good way. The first time I put my mouth on him, I almost came hearing the throaty moan he released. And from that moment on it became a game, to see how many different sounds of pleasure I could coax from him. Each one was as intoxicating as the first, and soon I couldn't get enough of his vocalizations.

I found out that when he came, he didn't moan, but he held his breath and let it out in soft sighs, each one bearing my name. His release was warm and thick and salty on my tongue, and I knelt there, tasting him and watching him and listening to him, and I realized how lonely my promiscuity was. He spread his legs for me and I took him slowly. That time there was no blood, only the soft cries the two of us made together.

It took three months of our secret liaisons for me to realize that I was falling in love with him. By then, out thrice-weekly meeting had gone from being purely about fucking to something deeper. We had begun talking to each other about our hopes and dreams, about what we wanted for the future. We shared our pasts, our worst fears, and our fondest wishes. It was no real surprise when it turned out that we were more alike than we had realized.

Our chats were sometimes frivolous, sometimes philosophical, and I found myself looking forward to the time we spent together.

I had realized that I was in love with him in the spring of our seventh year. During one of my private flying sessions at the quidditch pitch, I had done a particularly gutsy move, and miscalculated something. I ended up falling from my broom and to the ground. Luckily, I hadn't been too high up, but I had broken my lower jaw open, and was bleeding profusely. All I could think to do was put my hand up to the large cut, and sit there in a daze. I was startled to hear my name being called, and looked over to see my lover running toward me as fast as he could.

When he arrived to where I sat, he knelt in front of me and put a clean handkerchief over my wound. I looked up at him, and I saw the most concerned, loving expression I've ever seen on anyone's face, and it hit me – I was in love. The revelation left me feeling giddy and doomed at the same time, but that could have been the shock.

It was several days that I had to mull over my epiphany, two in the infirmary and one before I'd see my lover in private again. I had made the decision that I was going to tell him about what I had discovered on the pitch, and then I was going to make love to him.

My plans, however, were to be put on hold. That night, we got into a fight. It was about the stupidest things, most of which I can't even remember, all spurred on by the fact that he had been late. The waiting had been agonizing, and I took my frustrations out on him. He had reciprocated, and ended up storming out. I was angry, and hurt, and I wanted to hurt him right then. But I resisted. Instead, I sat in the room we used, and I thought about our relationship. It had been so perfect up until then, and it made me hurt to think that we had to fight. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I'd missed his aspect of our relationship. Since becoming lovers, we had almost stopped antagonizing each other in public completely. And I was surprised that we had lasted as long as we had without some sort of blowup.

When put into perspective, fighting isn't as bad as it's made out to be. And when I thought this, I couldn't stop laughing. That was how he found me two hour later. He had come back to apologize, and had stared at me as if I had gone mad. I explained my moment of mental clarity to him, and he smirked and agreed with me. A new level had been added to our relationship.

I didn't confess my love for him that night. It would be three weeks before I would do so. In light of those events that happened the night of our fight, I decided that I wanted to hold back for a while, to get used to the feeling. In truth, I had gotten scared. A dozen 'what ifs' entered my mind. What if I mess up? What if he doesn't love me back? What if I scare him away? What if, what if, what if? Those questions effectively chased me away from my confession. I didn't know how I was going to tell him, when or even if I could.

The day I died my little death was a Saturday. It was mid-April, and there had been a rainstorm all day, that had stopped by evening. The moon was hidden behind the storm clouds, and my lover and I had been enjoying each other's embrace, basking in the warmth of each other, and reveling in the silence. There hadn't been a plan that night to have sex, so I don't exactly know what happened. One moment we were sitting on a conjured couch in front of a conjured fireplace, the next moment his mouth was on my neck, and his hands were lightly tracing patterns on my upper arms. I turned to face him, and held the distance long enough to stare into his eyes for a moment. In that instant, something clicked, and my mouth covered his for a barely-there kiss.

Our tongues met halfway, and slid together, the velvety slickness awakening my passion for my beautiful lover. Yes, he was beautiful, and I'd always though of him as such. I realized that I'd never told him this. I would have told him then and there that he was beautiful, but I couldn't bring myself to stop the erotic dance of our tongues.

Somehow, we managed to get ourselves to the conjured bed, and from there it became a blur of tangled clothes, tangled limbs, tangled tongues. We both took our time exploring each other, as if this were our first time together. We rediscovered each other's secrets, and made use of previous knowledge. Both of us came once before he finally spread his legs for me and I took him.

It was strange and amazing and wonderful. We knew each other's rhythm, and yet this time it was different somehow. Not in pace, not in anything tangible, but in feel rather. My lover's body had never felt this delicious before, and I could hardly breathe as I pushed in and pulled out. His hips ground into mine with every down stroke, and when I had the presence of mind to open my eyes, I could see his face screwed up in ecstasy, and could hear him whispering my name like a mantra. When I heard another voice join his, I realized that I was doing the same thing with his name.

It went on like that for an undetermined amount of time before we came together. I wish that I could have seen his face as he came, but I was lost in the clouds. It felt as if my heartbeat had ceased, and I couldn't form a coherent thought. My body was on fire, and it was freezing. This was the most painfully beautiful thing that I had ever experienced, and right then I knew that I had felt la petite mort.

It took a while for the two of us to recover from our exertions, and when we did we wrapped ourselves tightly around each other. He shyly asked me if I had felt the difference that time. I smiled at him and told him that I did.

I had just begun to drift off to sleep when I felt him kiss my shoulder lightly.

"Draco, I love you," he confessed in a somewhat choked voice. I could hardly contain my joy.

"I love you too, Harry."

Postlude

After that night, we decided to make our relationship public. It wasn't fair to either of us to sneak around with this, not when it made us so happy. We were not welcomed with open arms. In fact, for most of the rest of the year Harry and I had no one to rely on but each other. At graduation, Harry's two best friends apologized to him about how they'd treated him. They were civil to me, but I don't think that we'll ever be friends. On my side, I got Blaise Zabini back. None of the rest of Slytherin could find it in their hearts to forgive me for being in love with Harry Potter. Fuck the lot of them.

Harry and I get into a lot of fights, and we relish every one. Afterwards, of course. We still experience la petite mort together, and it boggles my mind every time.

I'm planning on asking Harry to marry me.

Right after I beat him up for calling me a ponce.

Author's Note: Well, I hope you enjoyed this. It kind of sprang from my pen at three in the morning, and who am I to deny my pen from writing anything? This is a complete stand-alone one-shot. Gasp, I finished something!!

I was almost tempted to have it end up being Harry who was doing the narration, but Draco called to me, I couldn't resist. shrug

Thanks to Hannah! I'm glad you liked it, thanks for beta-ing it!

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Edit: Several lovely people have let me know of my mistake in French (that's what I get for taking Japanese instead of French in high school…). Thank you for telling me flo and zeynel (and thank you Andraya117 for not flaming me… the last flame I got traumatized me into not writing for a year.)! So here's the fixed version.