Cockroach cluster, anyone? Anyone?

Special thanks to moonstar-dust who requested Draco's POV a while back. This one was inspired by you!

Crowley Black- Thank you! Maybe they need a safe word?
Shania Maxwell- ( By strange coincidence, I'm listening to the Beetles singing about your silver hammer right now) So glad you are still liking it! Thank you!
Malfoys Queen- Thanks! More naughty Draco on the way.
LeMoN-LiCKEr- Q. How do you know you are in a long term relationship? A. By the time you finish the knotwork, your partner is already snoring. None shall disturb them, I promise. Thanks!
draco-is-a-hottie- Thank you! More is on the way!

For all my generous reviewers:

Unity

Part Fourteen

Beholder

She is like lead-white that the Egyptian wizards wore, so poisonous that she is beautiful. She should have been a Nightshade or an Oleander Black, for mere vanity is never so deadly to others. She rakes her hot coals over him, knowing I can never hate her for it. Not only have I tasted, I have lived abundantly, feasting on the juices of his misery. Harry is mine precisely because he can forgive. Besides, if someone asked for a victim, he would be the first to volunteer. She is fascinated watching him. He is his own endless passion play. Lords light and dark shall tremble in the presence of such raw power. The pain in his eyes alone could destroy a god, or bring him to his knees, had he an eye for beauty.

He is so magnificently himself when he bares his heart. He won't look at me now, as I am the only one on earth who can hurt him. I wonder if he expects me to reject him later in private, or just as soon as I swallow and use my napkin. No Harry, were I of a mind, I would taste my lemon water first, to cleanse my palette, before indulging in anything so delicious.

I could make him apologize for not telling me sooner. I could accuse him of secrecy, dishonesty, perhaps. I could be cruel and cold, and make him guess the reason why. I can make him blame any torture I devise on no one but himself. I could make any torment seem like affection to him. He has given me the power to destroy him with no effort at all. I could do what Voldemort could never do. Then in ten minutes more, I could have him back together, good as new, better maybe, with nothing more than stroking, or a well chosen word.

I guess that's what they mean by the power of love.

I watch the expression on her face as she throws her boule at him. That slight curl of her lips, adding a trace of civility to an otherwise placid mask. It could have been a rock or an unforgivable. That expression would never change.

He would allow, any pain, any humiliation, any degradation, for love. How could anyone, especially Narcissa, not take advantage of that? Harry won't retaliate, of course. He will sit there and do nothing. I know this, as I know my own name. For fun, I ask him anyway.

Then he looks at me. No, I will not throw him down on the table to lick him while my mother sips wine. She is right of course. He is my weakness.

I will be his strength.

I search for something meaningful. The best I find at hand is asparagus. I throw a spear at my mother's heart. Make of it what you will, you Black-hearted Malfoy. Given a moment's cause, I would plunder your vaults at Gringott's, release your personal papers to the press, testify against you, or defend Harry with your life.

In the meantime, do hear an amusing story, mother.

On the way back upstairs, Harry says the sweetest things about Narcissa, all of which are untrue. Maybe, as the old adage goes, Gryffidors really are socially inept Slytherins. I kiss him and tell him we are late, so that he will race me to my rooms. I crave his bare skin, the taste of his sweat, his moans.

"Late for this." I whisper and kiss him like I've wanted to since we set foot on the Quidditch pitch. I lose myself in his kissing. I am no longer a Malfoy, not even Draco. I am part of the kiss, part of him, and a denizen of my own hidden realm. I always knew I could be like this with someone, that somewhere in me, there was feeling, life, warmth. I always knew I existed beyond what others could see, in this magical place invisible to all around me. I am a prince here, a faithful lover, a true friend, a hero, in my own heart. Harry has always been here, first in absence, he was a void, then he was a silhouette, in shadow, now he burns brightly here, transforming all around him, what was once a winter garden is touched by spring.

Before him, flesh was distraction; lust a bland filler making the scarce meat of existence stretch further; sex was mechanical at best and emptying.

Perhaps it is all the years that I have watched him, never touching, except for the occasional push or bump. I can not get enough of him. He is a hunger that knows no satisfaction, a thirst I can not slake. I don't know when I recognized him, as that person my heart knew, or when the root of curiosity grew into lust, nor when lust sprouted tendrils of emotion, nor when loved bloomed, or how often I walked by ignoring all of it, though never him. All I know is that I wonder now, pressing him against a wall, rubbing his body with mine, how I could have not wanted this, wanted him. Then again, perhaps I always have.

I can smell him, his arousal, his fear. It takes will to leave him, just long enough to lock us in and silence the suite. It's so ridiculously Harry to run away from sex, to a bedroom, to hide behind a bed, of all things. For some reason, I'm reminded of Severus and his dialogues on mistaking stupidity for courage.

He looks at my wand, as if it is the last thing he will ever see. I had forgotten it was still in my hand. Using it to lock the door to the bedroom doesn't seem to put him at ease. I wonder why he doesn't draw his wand, if he's so concerned about mine. Then I know. He likes me dangerous. He likes the illusion of his helplessness. Perhaps he has some strange guilt attached to sexual enjoyment.

"Don't run, Harry," I say, trying to sound especially sinister, "If you run, you might upset my bed."

"You are having me on."

I walk toward him slowly. He retreats, keeping the bed between us. I love how wide his eyes are, how uncertain he looks, contrasting so well with the confidence in his voice.

"I'm not afraid of your bed, Draco."

"Why not climb into it, then?" I suggest. Every good Gryffindor needs a quest.

"No," he but he glances at the bed after he says it.

"Oh. So you are -afraid- of me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Prove it, Harry Potter. I dare you to stand still."

I am not the least bit surprised when he does. Note to self, order the first year Slytherins to play Truth or Dare with the first year Gryffindors. Bound to do the whole lot of them some good.

Every step I take, he's breathing more rapidly. I imagine I should be able to hear his heart. I can when we are nearly touching.

"I'm not afraid of you." Harry says again.

"Good," I say, and don't just mean, catching him, pushing him down, and climbing on top of him. I mean everything that has anything to do with that moment, summed up in one small word.

My touches are promises, incantations, portents for the future, prophesies of our flesh. I linger over his lips, brushing against words I have heard and words yet unspoken. I pull back, to get a better look at his face. His eyes are so childlike and full of wonder, as if he can not quite believe what he is seeing when he looks at me. I wonder, if he had to, how he could manage to lie, to anyone, ever. Perhaps I could teach him.

I run my tongue over the sweetness of his lips. They smile and part, letting me taste his teeth until they, too, part. I lose myself in the taste of him, his apples and wine, his well chewed lips and truthful tongue. The moment his arms wrap around me, I know he will allow me any part of him, any pleasure I desire. If I ask, he will answer. If I take, he will give. He will serve my body slavishly, if I let him. He aids me while I undress his chest and pull him into the center of our bed.

I ask him if he trusts me, knowing that he does. I tell him I am going to bind him, knowing he won't object. I bind his hands and touch skin. He moans so exquisitely, and closes his eyes like he has one too many senses. He opens them again as I strip his trousers and boxers, shoes and socks. Color rises on his cheeks. He is nude and unpronounceably beautiful, since muggle lies have become truth for him. Since there are no words, I can say that he will hear and believe, every time I look at him, every time I touch him, I will show him what I see when I look at him.

I undress for him, touching myself, for him, since he can not touch me. I want to fuck him more than I ever wanted to beat him at Quidditch. I want to touch him, as no one else ever has or ever will. I want to give him all of me, until there is no room in his heart for anyone else. I want to love every inch of him that I can reach, as if every moment is our very last. I doubt I'll be doing much of any that today, unless he begs me, very, very sweetly. I start at his feet and work my way up. In no time at all, Harry is thrashing and moaning, though trying hard to do neither. By the time I reach his hips, the effort gets too much for him. I bind his ankles with his legs spread, to make things easier for him.

I press my body, against his. We hold hands and kiss. I want to tell him that we are both restrained, both free, both at the other's mercy, and both safe.

But he says,

"A very wise wizard once said, move right now, or forfeit the top."

Clearly, he has forgotten how competitive I can be.

"True, unfortunately that wisdom doesn't apply, when the wizard who says it is all tied up."

"Bastard!"

I hate thinking about Lucius right now. Not only the definition, but the very word reminds me exclusively of him. Thinking about him does do wonders for my self control, partly because he no longer has any, I imagine. He used to pride himself on his self control. Whatever Voldemort didn't take, Azkaban devoured.

I slide against Harry, ever so slightly, just to tease, and stop.

Suddenly I wish Lucius were dead. That way I could enjoy my good memories of him.

"No, I really don't wish that," for the bad memories serve me just as well.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I didn't mean it. Don't stop."

I really could make any quirk of the universe all his fault. He'd help.

"Hush, you'll be glad that I did," I tell him and begin another pilgrimage, all the way down to his saintly cock. When I get there I kiss it chastely, or as chastely as one can kiss a cock, and cast semponecto durus. I think briefly about casting the same on myself. I don't want to risk losing my focus, with Harry tied to our bed. Besides, there are always things to think about to keep from coming. Dementors and muggles work wonders.

"What did you just do?" he asks.

I tell him.

"Noooo!" he says, because he thinks he wants to come immediately.

I order our bed to close, and set about proving how wrong he is.

to be continued