First off, thanks to Malfoys Queen, for reviewing chapter 4. Sorry I didn't get to thank you before the update.

Thanks also to:

Kaikiki- Believe it or not I had to draw family trees! Geneology makes my brain hurt. It does strike me as something that Draco would be brilliant about.
Rtael- So happy you like it!
LeMon-LiCKEr-69 -Thanks for putting up with megomania and bed of roses, (promise it will have thorns.)
Mak Felton- Thank you! I'll try hard to update asap! As a reader, I too prefer short chapters, to long waits!

Unity

Part Six

Healing

He thinks I'm something else that I'm not. At least it explains why he is here, his sudden interest, and all his random kindnesses. It shouldn't hurt like this. I should be used to it. For six years I have been a parasite feeding off other people's mistaken impressions. Eventually I will disappoint them all. I know it. I've always known it. Somehow, the thought of disappointing him hurts more. I know he will figure it out too soon. It won't take Voldemort killing me for him to realize who I really am and am not.

He asks me if I'm all right. I almost laugh. I manage to say something that answers the question, something partly true that makes sense.

He asks me again if I want him to leave.

I'm so ashamed of my weakness and my absolute inability to hide it from him. I feel so exposed under his steely, hypercritical gaze. I'm trying desperately to think of something, an escape, a distraction, some way to change the subject.

I'm terrified that he will leave what ever I say.

I can feel myself folding, retreating from my edges, curling up within myself. I feel so hopeless, worthless, and weak. I hate myself even more than usual. I hate what I am about to do. My heart warns me with a throbbing preemptive ache, to give me some sense of how I am going to feel, when he laughs at me, pushes me away, vivisects me with his clever cruelty. Maybe this will kill me before Voldemort does. I don't care anymore. I am too pitiful to stop it.

I beg him to touch me because it is all I can do.

I shift closer to Harry and put my arms around him, hugging him. Harry seems to melt against me and exhales a breath he had been holding. I run my fingers through Harry's hair then lift his face to look into his large green eyes. They are full of need that seems to have nothing to do with desire.

Draco puts his arms around me. He is so warm. I try to bury myself in the scent of his clothes. I will time to stop. It ignores me. It always does. He moves. I think he is going to push me away now. He strokes my hair instead then makes me look at him. He can see into my eyes. He can see the pathetic thing looking out at him.

"You weren't touched or held much as a child, were you, Harry?"

The question strikes me like one of Vernon's punches. I wonder how much he knows and why he wants me to wonder. This is all feeling like one of our cruel games, now. It frightens me. He is the only one who knows the rules this time. Again, I answer with a partial truth, "Not that I can remember."

"Take off your clothes," he says in voice that would feel like silk and taste of honey.

In my mind, what Draco says is completely unrelated to the topic. The game is becoming surreal. At least he wants me to play his game enough to make it fun for the both of us.

"All of them?"

"What ever you feel comfortable taking off. Did the Muggles make you ashamed of your body?"

Why does he want to remind me of them? Does he find their cruelty inspirational? I can't help admiring his technique. This brand of sadism could be mistaken for caring but hurts just as much.

"They made me ashamed of a lot of things," I say. If we keep this up, I'm going to learn how to elevate understatement to an art form.

"Would it help if I take off my clothes?" Draco says as if he goes naked to classes.

I can't help smiling. If I scream, 'no, the sight of you nude will make my life unbearable,' would he actually do it then?

"Probably not but I would like it if you would," Gods! I'm answering both our questions and begging again.

He smiles. It takes my breath away. He is radiant. Part of me wants to close my eyes to shield myself from his harmful brilliance. Part of me wants to memorize that smile, to play it over and over until I die of happiness or become immune to it. Part of me wants to hit him as hard as I can in hopes that I will never have to see it again. Most of me has an insane desire to kiss it, devour it with my mouth. Truthfully all of him seems to have that effect on me.

"Would you? Would you like to take off my clothes?"

"Yes, I would." I say it without even thinking about it. It doesn't matter. There is no other way to answer the question.

Draco stands, steps, and spins with a dancer's grace. He lifts his arms and looks about to take a bow. I wonder if that's it. If this is the end of this game. Did he just win? Then he says,

"Go ahead then."

I realize he talking to me. Then it occurs to me just what he is telling me to do. I stand up and look at him stupidly. He notices my general state of confusion. I try misdirection trying hard not to amuse him too much.

"Where do you want me to put them?"

"Chuck them in the hamper. Not like I'll be putting these back on."

Not after I've rubbed my face all over them and polluted them with my hands. Is that what he means? I don't really think it is. I pretend it is. It makes me angry. Anger is a good thing. I feel like I am in familiar territory, suddenly.

"They aren't dirty."

"Clearly we have different standards when it comes to laundry."

And everything else, is the silent truth that follows. Draco disposes of things. Casts them off like garments as soon as he is through with them. He will cast me off like a sweaty Quidditch uniform. I will save the envelope he sent along with Hedwig until my dying day. Somehow those truths don't matter right now because my fingers are undoing his buttons, revealing ever more of his perfect skin. My heart is pounding. Draco looks bored already.

"I feel like your servant doing this," I whisper to him, hoping the image might appeal to him, somehow.

"Then don't do it." He is cold, hard, uncompromising. He has no sympathy in him. It is his very best quality.

"No, I want to- but you have to undress me, too." Good, now he looks interested.

"Fair enough. I am not hanging up dirty clothes, though."

"Fine, chuck them in the hamper."

We undress each other. I take something off of him. He takes something off of me. Now his boxers are all that are left. I just can't bring myself to touch him again.

"Are we finished, Harry?" I try to read him. He is an encoded message in a language I don't speak.

"For now," I say trying not to sound miserable about it.

"Do you still want to be touched?"

Fuck yes, I want you to touch me! I only begged you to do that about fifteen minutes ago! "Yes please."

"On the bed."

I realize I'm crawling around on my bed in boxers and feel my face flush. I take great pains not to flash him. At least I'm not hard.

"Roll over." Well, I'm not hard yet.

Harry did. I climb on top of him straddling Harry's arse. I rest both hands on Harry's sides. As I expect, Harry tenses.

"Ticklish?"

"Don't tickle me, Draco."

"Luckily for you it is not my intention."

I move my hands over Harry's skin rhythmically, soothingly, too gentle to be considered massage, perhaps. For me this giving of caresses serves as exploration and discovery. I suspect that this touch for Harry is an oasis in a desert of deprivation. I slide my hands over Harry's arms and hands, then up over Harry's shoulders and neck, though Harry's hair again, and down over his back. When Harry's body seems to relax a bit under my hands, I crawl backward, sliding my hands down over Harry's boxers, down his legs, over his feet.

The rest is like a dream, a fairy tale come true. He is sitting on top of me, running his hands over my body. His touch is so beautiful that it makes me want to weep. I wish I could remember how to cry. My ears are ringing. My mind slips away. Somewhere out there in the distance I hear Draco Malfoy say,

"Turn over, Harry."

-to be continued