Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

Warning: VERY heavy slash in the seventh scene- edited to maintain an M rating. Skip it if you're not comfortable with it.

Chapter Fifty-Four: His Night

Harry came in late to breakfast that day, but he was already feeling smug about what he'd accomplished so far. A letter to Camellia to let her know he would spend his Christmas Day at Silver-Mirror, after a few more days at Hogwarts, and then some days with the pack, had gone out with the first owl. Then had gone invitations to several of his allies who might not have presumed to contact him at this time of year. He would like to have Ignifer, Honoria, Hawthorn, Adalrico's family, and Thomas with him for Christmas, if they would come. Snape, Narcissa, Peter, Connor, and Draco would already be there, of course.

He paused when he saw Draco sitting at the Slytherin table. Then he shook his head and started forward. Draco always sits at the Slytherin table, he told himself. In fact, he usually sits exactly there and looks exactly like that. What made you stop?

"Going to enjoy yourself tonight?" he murmured as he took the chair beside Draco. The owl from Hogsmeade bearing his own breakfast, shrunken packages of cornflakes and milk, arrived then. Harry brought them back up to normal size and Levitated the cornflakes in the air as he poured the milk over them.

"Yes. And so are you."

Harry stopped for a long moment. The smirk in Draco's tone didn't deserve a startled jerk and a craning of his neck, even if it was what Harry felt like giving him. He turned his head slowly instead, fully expecting Draco's expression to have changed by the time he saw him.

But Draco was still smirking. Harry shook his head slightly. "I read the description of the ritual you chose," he murmured. "It didn't say anything about my joining in, though of course I'll be there to watch you. And isn't Declaring about confronting the wild Dark on your own? Or the wild Light, for that matter?"

"Ah." Draco popped a sausage into his mouth and eyed Harry's breakfast with mild disdain. "I didn't choose that ritual. I chose a different one."

"Which one, then?" Harry demanded, trying to remember the books he'd helped Draco sort through in the library. There had been too many of them, though, and Harry had done nothing more than scan most of their pages. He had his own tasks, and Draco had wanted to prepare alone.

"You should find out soon." Draco glanced around the Great Hall. Harry tracked his gaze. It was Midwinter morning, and most of the other students had gone home already, unless they were staying at Hogwarts for the holidays. Only Michael and Luna sat at the Ravenclaw table, and the Hufflepuffs had a very small gathering that happened to include Zacharias Smith. Hermione had gone, but Ron and Ginny both remained with Connor. Harry meant to invite them to Silver-Mirror, too, if their parents would concede to them celebrating Christmas with a bunch of Dark wizards. Most of the teachers were at the head table, but both Professor Sprout and Professor Sinistra had left to spend the holidays with family. Draco sniffed. "A small audience, but I suppose it will do. You'll all find out at the same time."

"And so this ritual does require my help?" Harry took a bite of his cornflakes, frowning. "I'll mess something up if you don't tell me what to do, Draco, and I know that you don't want your Declaration anything but perfect."

"You did well on the last ritual where you had nothing but a few instructions, Harry," Draco said, and his voice grew low, teasing, intimate.

Harry swallowed, and felt his face go warm. "That was different," he said. "That was a ritual focused on the both of us. Isn't this a ritual focused just on you?"

"I suppose I can tell you a bit about it, since you won't be able to guess which ritual I'm using just from this small piece of information," Draco said airily. "This Declaration helps me with what I want and need, Harry. And one of the things I want and need is you."

Harry was still trying to apply that vague statement to any reasonable course of action when all the lights in the Great Hall went out.

There were startled shrieks from several of the students, and even from the head table, though later Harry thought the professors would deny making that sound. He remained still in the blackness, trusting to his ears and his magic to guide him. He'd tried, automatically, to conjure a Lumos around his hand, but it had failed.

He could feel the Dark in the room with them.

It rubbed against his hand, a sensation of prickly fur that might hurt if it was rubbed the wrong way; Harry had heard about sharkskin being like that, sharp enough to cut a swimmer who touched it. It laughed in his head, a curl of a chuckle that boomed into raging waves like the sea, and clenched at his spine with fingers that seemed to pierce straight through his skin and bones. Harry felt the weight above him, the choking heaviness of a cave pressing down. His shoulders sagged under stones, and his heart struggled to beat.

But the power still left him free to turn his head and check on Draco. And what he saw there stilled his breath.

A pulse of light was around Draco—either that, or a pulse of darkness so much darker than the rest that the rest became as light. Draco had his eyes closed, his neck tilted back, and a faint smile on his lips. Jaws outlined his head, cupping and cradling his skull, flowing into the ill-defined form of a beast that crouched on his back. Harry knew those jaws could close in a moment and turn Draco's entire face to little more than scattered pulp.

The tableau lasted for long moments, pierced only by occasional startled cries from the other students. Harry felt his own breath quickening the longer he waited. He had dreaded this day, because he knew it would remind him of Fawkes, and he had thought the wild Dark would want to inflict some punishment on him for fighting it last year.

But he should have remembered that the wild Dark was never consistent from one day to another, much less from one Midwinter to another. What he felt was the proud greeting of a very proud power. It suppressed thoughts of Fawkes and phoenix song, and drew his own darkness to the surface. Harry felt as if his vision swam with tar, and his muscles twitched with the need to run, as he had on Walpurgis after the white stag.

But no white stag would come to them today, he thought, no such creature of light. Tonight was the Dark's time.

And Draco's.

The night vanished the moment he thought that, and Draco leaned back in his seat as the jaws around his head went with it. Harry could see others crying softly in confusion, or staring around as they tried to locate the source of the darkness. Harry knew they wouldn't find it. The wild Dark had taken all the light out of the Great Hall because it wanted to, and then it had left again as suddenly. It had no source, and needed none, because tonight the darkness was everywhere.

Draco opened his eyes and turned his head away, not even looking at Harry before he did so. He knows I'm watching, Harry thought, and something in his mind—a remnant of the wild Dark, or the awareness that he'd built up around Draco since the Halloween ritual, or the cruelty that he looked at, sometimes, and then buried under the bed again—purred with satisfaction at the thought.

Blood ran from two precisely précised holes high up on Draco's skull, staining the blond hair. Harry didn't have to ask to know they came from the jaws' prominent fangs. Solemnly, he stretched out his hand and caressed the hole on the left, without asking if Draco wanted the wound healed. The wound couldn't be healed and still signify Draco's willingness as it was supposed to.

"Does it hurt?" He was surprised to hear his own voice sound so breathy, as if he were still watching the beast hold Draco.

Draco turned around and shook his head. "No. It doesn't." He caught Harry's hand and bent low. Harry felt the impact of teeth on his palm, hard enough to break the skin, if not to make him bleed. "Not against the thought of what's going to happen tonight."

Harry watched him with half-lidded eyes, feeling the darkness dance up and down in him. He was not Declared. He never would be. He had the phoenix song and the preference for Light ethics to ground him if he ever thought that might be happening.

But he had a closeness to Darkness, too. And it had been months since he had truly indulged that—arguably, not since Walpurgis. Most of the magic he had been working since he came back from the Sanctuary was Light. The joining rituals he'd shared with Draco on Halloween and his birthday acknowledged the presence of the Dark, but did not confront it.

It could do no harm to indulge the wildness struggling to escape within him, as long as that was what the ritual allowed.

Draco looked up and caught his eye. At once he grinned, a feral expression that Harry was sure he'd seen before, though he couldn't remember if it was on Draco's face or someone else's. "You don't need to think about this, Harry, or worry about the rules," he whispered. "I called to the wild Dark last night. Its appearing this way is a sign that the call was accepted. From now on, the ritual will handle things." He reached up with his free hand and tugged at Harry's hair, hard enough to hurt, the way he liked to do. "Let go."

Harry held back one more moment. "You're sure the ritual won't hurt anyone else?"

"Sure." Draco's voice was breathy, too, come to that. "It doesn't want to. The wild Dark isn't interested in easy victims, not this year. I've given myself up to it, and it wants to play."

Harry nodded, and heard triumphant laughter well in his head, followed by sweetness, followed by the knowledge that he could float off the floor and out the windows of the Great Hall if he wanted to.

He could always have done that, at any time of the year. But this knowledge swarmed back and struck him across the face like a blow from the bird's lizard tail, and he took a deep breath that seemed full of the complementary knowledge: that he might want to do it, too.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Snape knew which ritual Draco had chosen to use, though he'd never seen it act.

He spent the day observing the boys in silence. They helped him brew a stock of potions that Madam Pomfrey would almost certainly need when the students returned from holiday, as they played with magical toys and took falls from brooms and stayed outside long enough to let the cold air soak into their lungs. Harry brewed with his attention half on the process and half on Draco. He made no mistakes doing it, so Snape held his tongue. That was the only reason.

Draco brewed like a dragon would fly, with intent, leaning forward into the hunt, given so completely to it, heart and soul, that it was impossible to imagine him doing anything else. Snape knew the ritual did not give that perfection, only enhanced it. Usually, something else distracted Draco too thoroughly to allow him that focus on potions. Now, he stirred and cut and pounded and cast stabilizing spells as though that were all that mattered in the world. Not like a madman, nor yet a machine, but like a dancer in the middle of his music, each motion a complete and transient work of art.

Snape shook his head and told himself to stop with such poetic comparisons.

He had given Draco Medicamenta Meatus Verus, two years ago, because he had envisioned the boy taking a path that would carry him out of Harry's shadow, and give him his own interests. Yes, Draco might have found the path on his own sooner or later, but his obsession with Harry had concerned Snape. If he could spend even a few hours a day concentrating on what he loved, then it would be good for the both of them.

That had been a spectacular, resounding mistake. Snape could admit it now.

But only slowly was he learning why it had been a mistake, other than the consequences of the book's compulsion for Draco and its losing him Harry's trust. It had been a mistake because Draco was finding his independence on his own. And really, Snape supposed, that was the only way it would ever matter to him, if he unbound himself. A mentor could encourage, as Snape had seen Joseph doing with Harry, but ultimately the decision came down to the student.

And here it was, the culmination of Snape knew not what silent decisions and discussions and debates and false turns. Draco had chosen a ritual that was going to set him on a path that did not turn backwards. The Justification, the formal name for the ritual, brought him face to face with himself. And Draco, by calling to the wild Dark, by invoking this ritual at Midwinter, had chosen to embrace the darker and Darker parts of himself.

It was not necessarily the future Snape would have chosen for him, especially as Harry's partner. It was not the future, he felt certain, Lucius Malfoy would have wanted.

But it was the future Draco wanted, and it was the one he was going to get. Snape could see the delicate tracery of black fire around him—that might even be what continued to draw Harry's gaze, though he didn't know if Harry was aware of it—and knew it would keep steering him along this path. There was no stopping the Justification, once the call had been given and answered.

There was only moving through it, and surviving it.

For both of them, Snape thought, but he knew this was another situation, like the monitoring board, when he had to step back and let them go. Harry would survive it, both the ritual and having a partner like the one Draco was transforming himself into. He wanted Draco to have his own will? This was the consequence.

And, disturbing as it was to see physical desire in his son's eyes, Snape had to admit that Harry didn't look at all like he minded.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

"Greetings, Mother."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes as Draco came into Silver-Mirror, forcing herself to see not an intangible, indefinable attraction about him, but the actual, present mantle of black fire. When she finished seeing it, she stood with a small smile and bowed to him, not extending a hand. Draco would touch only whom he chose to this day, and while Narcissa was certain he had touched Harry, she would be extremely surprised if it were anyone else.

Sure enough, Draco simply nodded back and sat in a chair across from her, crossing his legs. His gaze was keener than Narcissa could remember it being. Of course, when she squinted, she could see a revolving dot of black in the center of each pupil. Well, black or dark green. At this point in the day, there was no difference between them.

"Is Father coming to my Declaration?" Draco asked.

Narcissa nodded. "You know that he may choose to try and bind the ritual in some way," she warned Draco. It was not unknown. Many Declaration rituals were delicate things, and the individuals in the center of them needed to give all their attention to the Dark or Light waiting for them, not to what the spectators were doing. Parents had bound injunctions to obedience into the patterns of the ritual before, and their children had never noticed. Enemies sometimes introduced a weakness in the form of a disease which slowly but surely weakened the victim's heart. Narcissa would watch for such interference by Lucius. She could not guarantee that she would catch it.

Draco laughed softly. "He will, I'm certain," he said. "But you can't bind the Justification, Mother, unless you begin before the wild Dark answers the call."

Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "And what makes you so certain that he did not?"

Draco leaned forward. "Because Father underestimates me," he said. "He has continually underestimated me. He didn't bother extracting a promise out of me not to go to Harry during the rebellion, for example. He merely assumed that I would obey him, because I'm his son, and weaker than he is. And I don't think he's changed his mind. He'll come prepared to counter any number of the weaker rituals, but not this one. It's not one that he thinks I'll choose." Draco's smile flashed for a moment, reminding Narcissa of something that lay in the swamp and showed too many teeth. "Too bloody for me, he'll assume. Too violent." He cocked his head. "Too dominant."

Narcissa might have protested that, but she remembered too many of the words Lucius had murmured to her, when he still assumed they shared one heart and one soul about Draco. He did worry about Draco's seeming submissiveness to Harry, and underestimate his will. He forgot the times Draco had chosen to exert his will—in second year when he found out that his father had given Harry Tom Riddle's diary, when he reached for confirmation as magical heir, when he refused, in dozens of small and subtle ways, to do what his father asked of him. Draco might not ordinarily exert his will, because he had to want something greatly before he would think the effort worth making.

But when he did, Narcissa did not think anything could stop him.

She met her son's eyes, and inclined her head. "I think you are right, Draco," she said. "And Harry?" She did not have to elaborate the question.

"Is going to enjoy himself," said Draco blandly, and that ended that.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Harry shivered as they made their way out onto the Hogwarts grounds. The sun was setting, and that meant the time had almost come for Draco to finish his ritual and call the wild Dark's direct attention. Harry, Snape, and Henrietta, as a neutral Dark witness, would watch, along with Draco's parents, but no one else was welcome.

Harry had to admit he was almost sorry to see the ritual end. The day had been fascinating, as the magic pointed out to him all sorts of small things he hadn't noticed about Draco before. The color of his eyes, the way he bit his lip not only when he was worried or thinking but when he was concentrating deeply on a potion, the way his expression could light with laughter even when he didn't make a sound out loud. At one point Draco had stood in the pale winter sunlight falling through a window and smiled, as if defying the Light to find any good in him or take him back. The sunshine had turned the edges of his face to blankness, his hair to a hard pure luster as cold as adamant.

And Harry had known, for just a moment, what it might mean to find someone else physically beautiful.

They walked through snow now, and biting air that finally made Harry give in and cast a warming charm, conceding that his training couldn't protect him all the time. Snape was beside Harry, and Henrietta on the other side, wand out as she checked for threats. Draco walked slightly in front of them.

Then he turned around.

Harry met his eyes.

He caught his breath. Draco's face looked—uplifted, transfigured, filled with a burning, brewing flame that Harry had seen only in a Light context before, when he freed the unicorns and they cast their glory on the bracken, the trees, and the rest of the forest. Come to think of it, that had been in winter, too, almost two years ago now.

This did not shed glory on anything. It shouted impatiently for its own glory to be noticed. Draco looked up at the first approaching stars, and Harry saw a faint red stripe of light stroke his face as the sun appeared from behind racing clouds.

He doesn't need to shout to get my attention, Harry thought. He has it.

He felt anxieties worrying and pressing at him, trying to remind him of all the times he had wounded or ignored Draco, or the recent fact that Draco had hurt Michael out of pique at not getting attention, or getting the wrong kind from the wrong person. But Harry shrugged and let them slide off, and not even into an Occlumency pool. Draco had asked him to relax and let go today.

He could. The worries occupied him almost every other day, outside the bounds of the ritual. This was for today. The worries would wait for tomorrow.

They reached the place Draco had chosen, and marked out that morning, though Harry had not known with what. He saw, now. A circle lay in the grass, framed by steep banks of snow. Draco had used a spell—or perhaps the wild Dark had used one—that burned the ground. Whenever a dollop of slush slid into it, that dollop flashed and hissed into steam before it could touch the circle itself.

Lucius and Narcissa were waiting for them on the other side of the ring. Harry eyed them for a moment. Narcissa wore deep blue robes, the color of sapphires, the very oldest color of winter. She supported Draco, and indicated that support by showing her approval of the time of year when he had chosen to hold his Declaration.

Lucius wore white.

Harry felt his lip twitch in exasperation. Lucius could not give up, could he? The white proclaimed Lucius an outsider, dressed like a Light wizard for all that he was Dark. He showed support, but only qualified support. Draco had done something that disappointed him.

I hope it's the choice of ritual, Harry thought spitefully. He had restrained his questions about what, exactly, would happen at Draco's insistence. He didn't think Lucius had, but that he could not be satisfied even now—

Harry cut himself off with a shake of his head, and faced the burned circle as Draco stepped within it. He walked with his head up, proud, self-assured. He didn't look at any of them, though his sight line went past Lucius and Narcissa as he faced the setting sun.

"I called to you," Draco said, his voice so low and warm and intimate that Harry's body tingled with awareness, "before the dawn this morning, at a moment of deepest dark when clouds were in the sky and snow was on the ground. You answered me. Will you answer me now, and let me justify myself to you?"

Harry caught sight of Lucius's frown, which quickly turned into wide eyes. He mouthed the words that Draco had just spoken, and took a step forward, as if he actually intended to cross the burned line and take Draco away from what he was doing.

Then blindness struck them all.

Harry saw it as a black hand that passed across his vision and stole away his sight. He stood still, his shoulders hunched, his heartbeat suddenly the all-consuming sense impulse for him as his panic built. But he knew he had to remain quiet, and trust Draco. No one was allowed to interfere. It seemed that no one else was allowed to see what happened, either, except for Draco.

Harry heard a soft crunching noise, like snow impacted by the push of dense paws. Snape's hand rested on his shoulder. Harry leaned his cheek on it, as he listened to the great beast walk towards his lover. Stride, stride, stride, stride, and thump. Four feet, Harry thought, and a long tail.

He could feel the moment the beast halted on the edge of the burned ring. Silence built around them, pregnant as the hour before a storm burst.

The voice, when it spoke, made Harry nearly convulse in joy.

So. Show me that you are worthy to live.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Let me justify myself to you.

It was not until he heard those words that Lucius understood how wrong he had been. The burned circle and the sunset timing were common features of many Declaration rituals. He had waited for Draco to humble himself, abase himself, fall to his knees before the Dark in the particular version of the Minor Music Ritual Lucius was sure he'd chosen.

He had never expected his son to choose the Justification.

He cannot. He will be killed.

Lucius had lunged at the circle fully intending to put a stop to this madness. The Dark had not yet accepted Draco's invitation, not yet arrived. Until it did, there was a small chance that he could break the Declaration by dragging Draco out of the circle.

He was exasperated with Draco, irritated at his recent behavior, and determined to control him, but he did not want to lose his son. And that was what he would do if he let Draco do this.

Then he went blind, and had to halt. He would survive if he stepped over the line of burned grass, but not if he stepped upon it.

In the hammering silence of that moment after blinding, doubt crept into his mind. Draco was not foolish enough to do something like this when he was sure he wouldn't survive it, no matter how desperate he might be to prove his worth to Harry or his parents. He was Slytherin, a survivor. He would not throw away his life.

So he must be confident he could handle the Justification.

The doubt spread through Lucius like a pattern of cracks through ice. And then the Dark arrived, and he had to listen instead, but the doubt grew further and further, worming fine lines into some of his most cherished convictions.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

So. Show me that you are worthy to live.

Draco had been waiting for this moment.

The Dark had come to him in the form of a chimera. The head facing him was a lion's, but the body a black goat's, and the tail that ran behind it was that of a dragon. Sharp, ice-edged wings trailed from its shoulders, a fan-shape like the ridge on some lizards' backs. Draco knew the teeth could rend him apart, that the tail could cave his ribs in, and that the hooves were sharp enough to scalp him. And it would all be done with astonishing quickness, too. Chimeras were the swiftest beasts that lived.

He had not been able to predict the form. Of course he hadn't. The wild Dark did not manifest consistency.

The lion's eyes were a deep and sickly black, like the spots that Draco knew had swum in his own eyes all day. Not looking away from them, he put out a hand.

There was no motion, but the chimera's teeth were clamped around his fingers. Draco imagined the scarred stump on the end of Harry's wrist. It could sever his hand, he knew. It could crush his fingers to less than the solidity of butter. Bone would tumble about him in small and glistening shards.

He breathed evenly.

The chimera laughed at him. He had passed the first test of the Justification, the temptation to run away or cower, but there was always later. And he had not managed to impress it. Nothing impressed the wild Dark, Draco knew. One fought it, and then it circled away and became whole again, forgetting the defeat.

Rather like my father.

Rather like, the voice agreed, the pulse-pounding joy of a storm in flight, and the wild Dark was in his head with him. Draco had invited it in.

It ravaged his mind.

It dived deep, and all his memories were prey for and play for it. It dragged up the small and selfish cruelties he had done as a child, and laughed at them. It snickered at the memory of his proud and horrible father standing helpless in front of the mess Draco had made of his room, with a burst of accidental magic that insured no house elves could touch any of the items. It grabbed his head and pushed it into his own embarrassment over his first sexual desires, as a Kneazle's owner might rub its nose over the feces it had left on the carpet.

Draco withstood it all. He knew those things existed, and now that he had called the Dark, he had no choice but to let the ritual continue. What the Dark saw in him, what it told to him, what it did to him, was its own choice.

Why did you call me? The voice made Draco shiver, but not with cold and not with fear. It was the same arousal he'd sometimes felt over Harry's magic in fourth year, when Harry grew angry enough to let it matter. You have nothing to offer me. What are you but a spoiled and selfish brat?

A spoiled and selfish brat who has done these things, Draco answered, and he brought up the memories of his wrongdoings.

He had known, even as he flirted with Michael, that this might turn around and bite him at some point. But he had been unable to stop. Why should he? It got him what he wanted, admiration for his physical looks, the one kind he lacked, and he was confident that he could survive what came after this. He had resented Harry's punishment; it had made him reconsider his actions, but only in the sense that he had been stupid and would not do anything like it again because of the stupidity. He had not agreed that Harry had any right to punish him. Nor had he thought that his original impulses, the desire to flirt and be noticed, were wrong. He should have chosen his target better, and managed his emotions better, so that the admiration would not turn into obsessive love.

There had been other times like that, too. Draco had meant what he told Michael about his possession. It had been strange to leap in and out of Death Eaters' heads on the Midsummer battlefield, and know they were dying when he left them, and that he was guiding them to their deaths in cold blood. But he had not thought of them past the moment. He couldn't remember their names now, couldn't remember the feel of their minds. The pain of those actually important to him, himself and Harry, had occupied him in the days after the battle, once he was assured that his parents and Professor Snape had taken no serious injuries.

That is the greatest difference, then. The wild Dark's voice was eager. I know the one who calls himself vates, and I know you. He has many whose pain is important to him. You have few whom you truly love.

That was true, Draco acknowledged. He knew that Lucius loved only him and Narcissa. He was fairly sure that his mother loved only his father, him, and Harry. He came of a proud family tradition in loving fiercely, protectively, possessively—and only those people he absolutely had to.

The wide circles were for Harry. The compassion for every small and hurt living thing was for Harry. The love for the wizarding world that the prophecy proclaimed the one to defeat the Dark Lord had to have was for Harry. He was welcome to them.

That did not mean Draco hated the whole rest of the world. Of course not. He might try to get along with them if it seemed beneficial, as it was more and more coming to seem with Harry's brother, or he might do something for them if it did not hurt him, or was amusing, or helped him in his own plans, or pleased Harry.

But his compassion, his love, were reserved for a few people alone. He did not see why they should extend to more.

He supposed he had tried loving more people in the past. There had been a time when he loved Pansy as a friend, for example, or thought he did. Losing her had hurt. But he had recovered from his grief and gone on. He had seen what grief did to Harry when it was deep enough, casting him down, disordering his mind. He had grieved like that over the loss of his phoenix.

Draco did not. He never would. The people who were important to him could destroy him if they died, but that was just another reason to keep them safe as strongly as he could. Draw the circle and defend—or, better yet, reach outside the circle and manipulate so that fewer enemies would ever look their way. The protection of those he loved was in the end a protection of himself.

There were some who called Slytherin irredeemably evil, the wild Dark said in his head, winding Draco around itself like thread on a spool. You know that is not true, do you not?

Yes, Draco knew. Slytherin did not mean irredeemably evil. Light Lords had come out of his House.

What Slytherin tended to mean was selfish, to a greater or lesser degree. Selfish of ambition, selfish of place and precedence, devoted to gaining one's own goals and then hanging on to them. A Slytherin did not give coins and compassion away to every stranger who passed unless doing so would safeguard something more important, like happiness or a sense of self-worth. And Slytherins loved best, were happiest, when they could take those they loved away from the rest of the world and lock them up like the treasures they were.

Draco could not do that with Harry. But then, he'd always known he would have to share Harry with most of the world. What he could do was evaluate his own happiness, know what things he absolutely had to have for himself in his relationship with Harry—just as he knew the people he absolutely had to love—and ignore the things that didn't matter. When someone did intrude on his territory, then it was the time to fight back like an enraged dragon.

And Harry was not someone who only had to be protected. He was a partner who could protect, too, who could hold his own in a fight. Since Draco also enjoyed being sheltered and petted and spoiled, this made him smugly pleased. Harry's magic aroused him. His beauty made Draco want him. His past inspired those rare bursts of sympathy Draco was capable of. And he was honest enough to say, most of the time, exactly where they stood.

The one thing Draco could wish for with Harry was a little more lowering of the barriers—more frequent sex, more attention paid to him physically, more times when Harry would say what first came into his head instead of holding back and phrasing it diplomatically. The Breaking of the Boundaries had started them down this path. Joseph had encouraged Harry to go further. Draco intended the Justification to show Harry something so wonderful that he would never want to go back to the cramped and sterilized little existence he'd led.

The wild Dark laughed in his mind. Draco started. He'd almost forgotten its presence, much more interested in exploring himself.

You are a selfish and spoiled brat. The wild Dark sounded highly amused. You entertain me, Draco Malfoy. You have what you have sought, my recognition and your Declaration. You are a Dark wizard.

Searing pain radiated from Draco's hand. Opening his eyes, which he had closed sometime during the Justification, he saw the chimera removing its jaws. The waves of cold and pressure turned to waves of ecstasy a moment later, as the tooth-marks from that morning had. Draco closed his eyes again and moaned.

Take your lover somewhere else, said the wild Dark. No, not somewhere else. I have changed my mind.

Draco opened his hazy eyes in time to see the chimera facing the stars, tilting back its head, and roaring. A spiral of snow came shooting down from the sky immediately, shining so brightly that Draco was sure the stars themselves were falling for a moment. Wind buffeted him, tore his feet from under him, and carried him into the air.

He blew through blackness, weightless and boneless, until he hit a cloth-covered surface. Breathless, he bounced and tried to get up, but a heavier weight pressed him down a moment later. Draco blinked, and pushed through wild black hair, and saw Harry's startled face, green eyes obviously free of the blinding spell the wild Dark had put on them.

Enjoy, said the voice, and the chimera was gone.

Draco knew this was a room with a bed in it, and it could have been their own bedroom or a place the wild Dark had conjured for them. He didn't know. He didn't care.

He kissed Harry violently, and so began the attack.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Harry rolled over, gasping, his ribs aching, not only from the suddenness of the landing but from the fact that he had landed on top of Draco. Then his glasses smashed into his face as Draco kissed him.

This is new.

But it really wasn't, Harry realized, after a moment in which he writhed under Draco's hands and Draco flipped them both over with surprising strength so that he was on top. This was the kind of passion or violence that Draco had inspired in him the first time they did more than kiss, the kind of abandon Draco had reveled in with the Breaking of Boundaries. The difference was that this time, neither anger nor magic was throwing Harry off-balance. He had a choice in how to respond.

He licked his lips, or tried to—hard as they were kissing, his tongue simply ran right out of his mouth and into Draco's—and considered what he wanted to do. He didn't have to go along with this. He could insist that things slow down, and they could make love more gently. Or he could walk away altogether, perhaps. Harry doubted this lovemaking was part of the Declaration. It was more something Draco wanted to do.

And something he wanted. He could feel himself stirring already, arousal strung through his nerves like hot wires, and thoughts he normally never allowed himself to think drifting around his mind like bits of flotsam in the sea.

He could walk away.

Or he could let himself go.

He closed his eyes and did.

He felt his magic speed away from them both, unfolding like barbed wings and screaming in joy. Somewhere, the lizard-tailed bird would be shrieking in approval. But Harry didn't think he could hear it, because Draco's hand had found that place on the side of his neck that Harry normally hated and pinched it, hard.

Harry's body jerked like a marionette, and he choked into Draco's mouth. Draco sat back for a moment, looking pleased with himself.

Harry took the opportunity to Vanish all their clothes. Draco's pupils dilated noticeably when he found himself abruptly naked and sitting astride an equally naked boyfriend. For a moment, the haze in his eyes vanished all the same, and he gave Harry a quizzical glance.

"Yeah." Harry could see his magic, beyond Draco's head, drawing what looked like a series of intense and intricate pictures across the walls, but he was more interested in the way Draco's eyes got even darker. "I want it, too."

He waited for one more staring, tension-laden moment, then reached up and cupped Draco's head, drawing him down hard enough for his teeth to cut into Draco's lip. Harry rolled them over, trying to get on top again. Draco braced a leg on the bed and pushed off with his knee halfway through the roll. Harry grunted as he landed firmly on his back once more, one of the springs in the mattress stinging his shoulders.

"I want to do what you've done to me twice now," Draco said, hovering over him. "Twice you've touched me, and not allowed me to touch you. This time, you're going to share yourself with me, Harry, and you're not allowed to move. Or to give me anything in return." His eyes cut as he leaned over and stared into Harry's face. "Or are you too unselfish to do that?"

Harry gritted his teeth. He wanted this, and not only because it would please Draco. He could say that at least. The thought of lying still before Draco and letting him touch him like that made a warm frisson run through him that rivaled the cold ones the wild Dark had introduced.

"I want you to touch me," he said.

Draco's smile was pure triumph, and undoubtedly the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen on his face. He lowered his head and fastened his teeth on that hateful point on Harry's neck. Harry swore as he bit it. The tremors that set up seemed to make more muscles in his groin clench than he'd known existed. He tossed his head back urgently, laying himself bare for Draco, the voices that said he couldn't so muted that they might as well not have spoken.

"Fuck, Draco."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Draco muttered, and sucked on the bite mark, making Harry half-shout. His body was slick with sweat already, and he'd forgotten what cold felt like. He writhed on the bed, but kept his hand from rising to touch Draco, just as Draco had requested.

Draco moved down the bed, surprising Harry, who'd thought he would go slowly. But then his hand engulfed Harry, and Harry let his head fall back with a groan, deciding that quick was perfectly all right with him.

Pleasure made his body shiver and convulse. Harry had lost control of his mouth, and had no desire to have it back, even if what he was uttering was a string of nonsense. He couldn't remember sex feeling like this before, like stabs of spears up and down his body, and the urge to push and thrust and scrape reduced to elemental necessity, rather than a step in a dance or ritual.

That's because you've never let yourself go before, he realized. This is what it could feel like, if you'd trusted yourself enough. This—

And then he screamed aloud, because that was a new sensation, yes it was. Not mouth, and not hand. Well, all right, yes it was a hand, but in the wrong place, or at least a place he hadn't expected it, stroking gently around the curve of his arse and then parting his cheeks.

"Draco." Harry was sure he said that. He might have wailed it, though.

"Lie still. You promised me," Draco said, or Harry thought he said, somewhere in the drifting haze that was currently his mind and his magic. "And I think we're past the point of elaborating each step of a sex act before we do it. If it hurts, tell me." He had something slick and sweaty on his fingers. Harry saw one glimpse of his intent expression before he threw his head back. His whole body felt tight, and it did hurt, but then stabbing pleasure invaded again, because it seemed Draco hadn't forgotten about his erection. He whimpered.

The finger stopped moving, but then pushed forward again a moment later. Harry thought he was bracing himself on his heels, his legs arching, his spine curving. He didn't know for certain. Every sensation that struck him lasted only a moment before another overcame it, so that he was buried in a succession of emotions and pressures and pullings, steady as waves.

He babbled something about "clean," he did remember that, and Draco said, "That's why I brought my wand." Or something. Harry was currently trying to breathe and remember that he had to do that and feel good at the same time. It seemed impossible.

He could relax, though, couldn't he? Go limp? Then it probably wouldn't hurt so much. And he was already breaking boundaries anyway. He was here of his own free will. Joseph would be so proud, Harry thought, and tried to picture his muscles as limp puddles of flesh.

It worked. Suddenly Draco's finger—fingers, probably—slid a little further. It led to images of snakes, which was disturbing. Harry gave a drunken little giggle, and saw his magic mess up the mural that it was making on the ceiling above them.

"Hush," Draco whispered, and kissed the side of his chest, which Harry thought was an odd place for a kiss, and then pressed deeper. He had the oddest expression on his face, Harry thought, as if he were groping for a misplaced textbook at the bottom of his trunk.

Well, groping is certainly the word for it—

He screamed then, and didn't care if anyone heard him. He really didn't. Pleasure was hitting him like boiling lead, and the hot wires strung through his nerves had all come to life at once. Harry was certain he was making all sorts of undignified motions with his hips, and babbling nonsense.

"That's called your prostate, Harry." Draco sounded unfairly cool and collected. "I take it you like this?"

"Yes," Harry said, which was also unfair, because he would have liked to add something along the lines of, "What does it look like?" But the pleasure had other ideas, and so did Draco's fingers. Harry supposed his hips did, too, if the way he was moving backward was any indication.

He felt the skin on his groin tingling and tightening, and he concentrated very hard on that to the exclusion of all else, and so managed, with only a few interruptions for panting, "Keep that up and—I'm going to come—before you—get in—here, Draco." Yes, it was strained, and trailed off to a moan at the end, but it was a complete sentence. Harry felt prouder than he thought he had a right to be, most days. Then he decided, Screw it. I have a right to be as proud as I like.

"Well," said Draco, and at last a tremble of strain made itself known in his voice, to Harry's eternal gratification. "Can't have that." He eased backward, which eased the pleasure a bit, and Harry eased his head around and watched Draco.

The darkness that had transfigured his face earlier that day had come back. Harry didn't think he'd ever noticed all those shadows or angles before, and he'd never seen Draco look at him the way he was doing now. Even the man-before-parched-water look during the Breaking of Boundaries didn't compare. This was a look that said Draco wanted to fuck him, would tear his own skin off in a moment if he didn't fuck him.

"You're beautiful," Harry told him, really seeing it.

Draco shuffled carefully up the bed so that he could kiss him, biting Harry's lower lip on the way, in return for the lower-lip cut that Harry had given him, he supposed. "Never thought you'd say that so passionately."

And then he was back into position, and lifting Harry's legs carefully over his shoulders, and Harry had the feeling he would be horribly uncomfortable in a moment, but that didn't matter; it wasn't as if either of them would be lasting very long.

"I should make some long speech about your beauty, too," Draco said.

Harry wondered if he noticed the magic that briefly stopped drawing pictures and came up to hover behind him with steel claws extended.

And then he didn't care, because Draco was pushing carefully forward.

It hurt. But Harry had borne far worse pain, and never as much pleasure. When the pain ate at him, he twisted away from it and rode under it. He would not risk putting it in an Occlumency pool. The point at which he'd finally broken free was no time to go back to his prison.

Draco pushed, and pushed, and pushed again until Harry thought his legs were going to tear off at the hips and his prostate had buggered off. Then he halted where he was and tilted his head back. Harry watched the darkness collect and swirl on his face, haunting every drop of sweat that fell, every crease that seamed his forehead, every straining line of his throat.

Then Draco pulled slightly back and threw himself forward.

And it turned out that Harry's prostate hadn't buggered off after all, just gone into hiding for a little while. Harry forced himself back at least as hard as Draco was thrusting forward, and laughed, because, damn, thinking of the word buggered while it was happening to him was funny.

Draco gasped and tried to say something, probably to ask why he was laughing. Harry didn't give him the chance to. He called his magic, and it floated his upper body from the bed, giving him leverage that Harry couldn't have had with one hand missing. Draco moaned at the change in angle, and then it was his turn to scream. That satisfied Harry, something wild and selfish in him that he didn't want to admit hid at the bottom of his mind and looked out through his eyes.

But this time he could admit it, since he was admitting everything. He wasn't vates or savior at the moment. He was just Harry. It felt wonderful.

And he didn't think he could ever thank Draco enough for making him that way.

It really didn't take long. Harry met Draco thrust for thrust, relentless in competition, excitement speeding through him as it did when he flew on his Firebolt. But this felt far fucking better than the Firebolt ever had, and Harry found himself laughing again when he could find the breath to do so, laughing for the pure joy and fun of it.

Draco caught his gaze, and Harry saw him open his mouth again, then close it, seeming to understand the laughter wasn't for his performance. He shut his eyes instead and sped up.

Harry felt rapture and joy and love and Draco pulling at him, trying to throw him off the edge.

For the first time ever, he really let himself go with them.

He shook as he soaked his belly and his groin, his body responding in a way that only catching the Snitch or thrumming with magic had ever made him do. The thought wandered through his haze: So this is why people like having orgasms so much. They do feel good, don't they?

Draco was still pushing inside him when Harry had done, and Harry didn't intend to relax just yet. Draco had told him to lie still and accept without giving, but Harry figured he'd already broken that rule when he sat up. He reached out, gripped Draco's shoulder with his hand, and pushed forward with all his might.

Draco's shoulders twisted and rolled like someone doing a Wronski Feint, and then he came, too, his head rolling back against Harry's wrist and his mouth open. And still beautiful, Harry thought, even as the darkness appeared to speed away from his face and leave it smeared with light.

He drew Draco towards him when he was done and kissed him thoroughly. Halfway through the snog, Draco recovered enough to join in. He pulled slowly out of Harry without breaking the kiss; Harry only noticed that he had when he rolled Harry over and flung a leg onto his hip.

"Are we done yet?" he asked.

And he would have accepted a yes answer, Harry could see that in his expression. He felt almost sorry for the one he gave.

"No fucking chance," he answered, and had the satisfaction of seeing Draco's face flood with delight before he closed in for another snog.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Draco woke to winter sunlight, and blinked slowly. He lay tangled with Harry around him in a bed that was not theirs. He'd assumed that the wild Dark had tossed them into their Slytherin bedroom, but it appeared not.

He lifted his head and looked slowly about, as much as he could with Harry resting on top of him, his back against Draco's chest and his wild black hair obscuring the view with every snore he made. Draco took in the colors the sunlight showed, and then began to laugh.

That roused Harry, who murmured, "What?"

"We're in an old room where they put discarded furniture," Draco murmured into his ear, "in case they need it, since not every year has a Transfiguration professor competent enough to make comfortable furniture. We fucked on a Gryffindor bed last night." He gestured to the soiled, dusty red hangings around them.

Harry snorted, and stretched, wincing as unexpected pains shot through his muscles. Draco couldn't help being smug about that, even though he had quite a few aches himself. He had done that to Harry. He had made him let go—

No, that wasn't quite true. He had made Harry come, yes. But Harry had done the same thing to him. What made this truly special was that Harry had broken his barriers and done as Draco asked because he wanted to, reveled in his own selfish pleasure, and refused to care what anyone else would think.

Draco no more expected every day to be like that than he expected every day to be Midwinter. But they had changed again, and if they turned backwards on the spiral, they would also return to this point.

He had never felt so self-confident, so self-satisfied, so violently sure in his life.

"Draco?"

He cocked his head at Harry.

Harry had braced himself on one elbow, his torso and head raised, though his lower body was still comfortably twined with Draco's. He had a smile on his face that Draco had never seen before, and eyes that were full of light.

"I still think you're beautiful," he murmured.