Disclaimer: Not Mine.

Note: Welcome to the final chapter of Memory. There will be no sequel. There will be no epilogue. What you see is what you get. Oh, and I said it wasn't going to get any dirtier than the first chapter . . . I might have lied a little. I'd like to say something to:

Rtael: Shame on you. I've written all of my best work while on the verge of completely passing out.

doxie: Enjoy. Your e-mail confused me—mostly because you were acting like you weren't sure whether or not you should be talking to me. . . it was honestly kind of creepy. But mostly confusing.

Lucky Dragon Smile: Thank you. Bunches. ::bites off the head of a stale gingerbread man::

So get back, back, back to where we lasted
Just like I imagine
I could never feel this way
So get back, back, back to the disaster
My heart's beating faster
Holding on to feel the same

Draco could feel his blood racing through his veins. He could feel Harry's hands in his hair. He could feel Harry's mouth on his own. And he tasted like intoxication.

And in the beauty of the moment it didn't matter if Draco's thoughts made sense or not. That was part of Harry's beauty: it didn't have to make sense. The anger, the kisses, the sadness, the insecurity . . . it didn't have to make sense. Draco didn't need to know why he'd been unsatisfied. Draco didn't need to know why Harry had flitted from girl to girl. They didn't have to explain anything. Not to themselves, not to each other, not to anyone. It just didn't matter. None of those dung piles that tried to judge them, none of the adults that tried to tear them apart . . . they simply didn't matter. Certainly not when Harry was kissing him like this.

I should have known I could never keep away from him . . .

Then there were lips ghosting across Draco's collar bone. "Never leave me again . . ." There was heat there, but more so there was desperation.

"Never . . ." Draco pulled the warmth close to him. That was Harry . . . a candle.

"No, never," Harry was insisting. Strong hands were set against Draco's hip bones and the corresponding lips were leaving burning trails on Draco's neck.

"Harry . . ." Draco moaned breathily, pulling Harry closer. And this seemed to ignite him.

"Oh, Draco . . ." Harry's arms slid under Draco's shirt with a sudden passion.

Then Draco was lost on Harry's fingertips. He was melting into his lover's lips but it wasn't enough—he ached to melt into Harry entirely. He didn't want to be with Harry; he wanted to be Harry. There was a sudden burst of sharp air as Harry deftly undressed him, but Harry made up for it. Harry's lips seemed to be everywhere and his hands anywhere that could have possibly been missed. There was a heat in their movements. Draco's hands were reaching out for Harry—hungry for the body they had long been denied of. Draco was gone in a haze of kisses and a familiar rhythm but Harry was with him. There seemed to be nothing in the world but the fire, the sweetness, the sheen, and the rhythm—the rhythm that was around him, and on him . . . and in him.

There were waves of pleasure crashing over him—flames of it licking at him—as Harry moved just so.

And Draco was departed; desperately alone for a moment in a miasma of limitlessness. Then he was back and he could feel Harry breathing as they clung to each other. Draco was damp, and he was sticky, and he was feeling hot and cold at once, but he couldn't have been more comfortable and nothing was better. He was oozing inside, but he was oozing with Harry.

"Have I told you lately," Harry's forehead was pressed to Draco's, "that you are the most gorgeous being on Earth?"

"Not lately, no."

"Well, you are." Harry ran a hand along Draco's cheek.

Draco leaned into it. "No, you are. You're the sexiest thing ever born."

"Oh, let's not start this now." Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and rolled so that he was on top of the paler boy. "Right now I just want to kiss you."

And at the sight of Harry, hovering naked above him with a steal-your-heart-away grin plastered on his face, slick and glowing from sex . . .

"So kiss me, you git!"

………

Draco sighed as he lay in bed. Harry's bed. His and Harry's bed. He had practically moved into the Head Boy's suite. As he laid there Harry bent over to get something out of his lowest drawer.

Draco whistled.

Harry shot up, beet red. "What am I, a piece of meat?"

"Well," Draco replied lazily, "if you are a piece of meat, you're my piece of meat."

Harry rolled his eyes. Those vibrant eyes.

And, momentarily, Draco panicked. Because he was too happy, and things were going too well. That, he chided himself, is craziness. He was crazy, though. Harry would always just grin, and kiss his forehead saying 'you're crazy, Draco'. But Harry would look so undeniably sexy telling him this that Draco would have no choice but to grab him, throw him down on the closest horizontal surface, and ravish him. Sometimes Harry was too gorgeous for his own good.

"Draco?" Harry asked as though deep in thought from where he was leaning against his dresser.

"Yes," Merlin, I want to shag the living daylights out of you, "Harry?"

"What are we going to do after Hogwarts?"

"Well, I thought you'd have some plans." He propped himself up on his elbows.

"I'm working on mine. What about you?" Harry was looking at him, a slightly anxious manner to him.

"Hm, let's see . . ." Draco rolled onto his back and began to count things off as he thought of them. "Shag Harry Potter . . . Finally get a look at 13 Grimmauld Place . . . Shag Harry Potter some more . . ." Harry was rolling his eyes. "I was thinking maybe I could travel some . . . Nothing terribly definite. Other than shagging you, of course."

Harry was smiling but he still looked pensive. "How would you feel if I said we could live at 13 Grimmauld Place?"

"Curious." Draco replied candidly, before he could help himself.

"Well it's mine." Harry shrugged. "Sirius Black was my godfather." His tone was quiet and somber. "He left it to me."

"You mean when he went to Azkaban?" Draco frowned. He knew Black history—it was his mother's family, after all—and Mrs. Black hadn't died by then.

"When he died." Harry didn't look at him. Then he did, and he was on the verge of tears, which put Draco on the verge of tears. "I guess there's a lot I better tell you, hm?" He looked to a wall.

Draco frowned and yanked the sheets of the bed so that he could was over to Harry. They dragged along the floor.

He stopped less than a foot away from Harry. "Hey," he shook Harry's shoulder. "Come on, Harry," He turned Harry's face to his, "we'll get there later."

Harry was trying very hard to smile through his sorrow and failing very miserably. So Draco covered his mouth with his own—why make Harry worry about it?—and kissed it all away.

But Harry didn't take Draco's offer—an offer to take his mind off of everything. Instead he pulled back and leaned his head on Draco, quietly dampening his shoulder. And, honestly, having Harry so close was making Draco crazy; but they'd get there later.

He didn't worry about anything too much, because Harry was there for him when times got tough. They'd probably fight like normal couples and they'd probably get annoyed with each other every nox and then, but love was immovable. And even beyond the love, Draco needed Harry and Harry needed Draco. They would never be able to be angry for long. Draco knew it. He'd always be able to get one good look into Harry's green eyes and every wrong possible would be forgiven. And for once he knew that Harry felt the exact same way. Draco didn't worry about the fights, though—they'd get there later. The present was a time for holding Harry closer and cooing something to reassure him. It was a time to kiss the top of Harry's head. It was a time to enjoy a different side of Harry—the one that wasn't invincible. It was a time to realize that, in fact, Harry wasn't invincible at all.

Most of all though, it was a time to be stupidly, blindly, passionately, and madly in love. Because this wouldn't last forever. The youth would fade and gold and black alike would become grey. Eventually the hearts that had loved so much would give up on beating and one would last longer than the other. Draco hoped that it wasn't his. He might not like the idea of letting Harry hurt, but even less he liked the idea of having so little of Harry. Draco would, he knew, learn to deal with the loss of Harry's body. He'd learn to deal with the loss of Harry's inky hair. And—Merlin forbid—he might even learn to deal with the loss of sex. But as long as he was alive he'd have Harry's bright eyes—the windows to Harry's even brighter soul. And that, that soul, that electric throb that made Harry Harry was one thing which Draco did not want to see fade. That was not one thing he didn't want to fade into a memory. Because memories were like drops of water in a desert or a match in the tundra—they weren't nearly enough.

But, Draco reminded himself, we'll get there later.

NOTE: Good-bye folks. I hope you enjoyed the ride. I certainly did. I know what I said: no epilogue, no sequel, no more. I actually intended to break them up though and, after reading through the first four chapters yesterday . . . I just couldn't do it. See? Even I have a heart. But because of this I'm now all achy to ruin their lives. If you guys would like me to post an alternate ending . . . let me know.

I know, the title doesn't really have much to do with the story . . . but, hey, it's a songfic . . . Maybe one day I'll get around to changing the title. At any rate, I have school tomorrow. Good-night.

New semester (plus) Lyth (equals) A certain guidance counselor getting a very stern talking-to about Lyth's schedule.