He shouldn't approach Potter again before he had configured preferably several achievable and realistic plans. There was going to be hell to pay; he should know, after all those years at the wrong end of Potter's temper. Despite that, nothing had quite prepared Draco for the great eruption when he burst into Draco's office unannounced.

'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?'

Damn! From now on he'd never make fun of Magical Law Enforcement. Draco looked up in alarm; how had Potter found out? He had bolted from the scene the minute he could, before Potter had shown any signs of recognition.

Patricia let out a timely yelp of surprise, her hands clutching either sides of the notepad, her gaze shifting back and forth nervously.

'What did you do when I was out?' Potter bellowed, ignoring the third person in the room.

'You must excuse my secretary,' said Draco, pasting a mask of indifference on to his face. 'Since I'm only here once a week, she doesn't get much practice in greeting guests… Patricia, leave us – seeing that Mister Potter has already made it through the door.'

'Shall I serve tea?' squeaked Patricia, quickly recovering from her shock.

'No,' Draco replied. 'We don't want to keep Mister Potter from his important duties for long.'

'Yes, Mister Malfoy.'

But Patricia, who never made a point of hiding her desire to bag a rich husband, had her eyes glued on Potter as she tiptoed to his side, her enormous chest pushed out. 'Mister Po-tt-er,' she purred, dropping her voice low. He gave her an enquiring side-glance. 'I'm a hu-u-ge fan. Can you please please sign my copy of your biography on your way out?'

'Mister Potter hasn't time,' said Draco, gruffly. 'Be a dear and run along.'

As soon as she had left, Draco came out from behind his desk and raised his wand, muttering a few spells at the door. Patricia was known for her love of gossip. Better to be safe than sorry.

'So? I'm waiting,' Potter's voice piped up, reverberating in the small office. 'What have you got to say for yourself? You think a little Colovaria to change your hair or whatever and I wouldn't know that it was you?'

If Potter had any proof, Draco thought quickly, he'd be in a holding cell by now or worse, staring down the tip of Potter's wand. On the contrary, Potter had come alone, and the air he carried suggested that he might want it off-the-record, which meant the possibility of mitigation.

'Didn't leave you out in the cold, did I? I had no choice, I needed to check something. Besides, the spell was lifted before I left…'

'Oh please, don't stop there,' said Potter fiercely. 'I can't wait to hear more!'

'… I needed to know if you can make me feel.'

Potter frowned at him. 'You've lost me. What the hell are you on about?'

'I felt. At Madame Violet's, when you…' Draco paused waspishly before coming up with a less dramatic description. 'When you held me up… Anyway, I had to find out if I was imaging things.'

'Ok,' said Potter succinctly. 'And were you?'

'No – '

'Then what does this mean?'

'I suppose… Maybe I could make a deal with you,' said Draco timidly, looking away as he realised that he'd never be able to get it out while facing Potter. 'If you and I come to an agreement, I can make it… mutually beneficial – you don't have to go to Knockturn Alley for certain things, unless you happen to like hanging around in dark passages…'

'You're not serious… Merlin! You're – '

How did others propose this kind of thing? Was there a subtle way of saying 'I let you poke me if you let me feel'? Draco stared at the leather binding of a book through the glass cupboard door, filled with self-loathing. Potter had money, fame, status; he had nothing else he could offer, which was a truly depressing thought.

'What made you think I'd be interested?' roared Potter, the malice in his voice unmistakable. It was a tense posture he held, black brows drawn down, the colour dangerously high in his cheeks. He glowered at Draco with his hands in tight fists, about to strike at any minute.

He should be afraid, very afraid, knowing what the man was capable of. And with his pathetic physical condition he wouldn't stand a chance against him. His insides tingled with anxiety. It was as though he had been hurtling towards this point for so long and now he was at a crossroads, one path leading to a life he had come to know, another uncertain and obscure. All he had to rely on was the goodness of Potter, and whether the bridges were burned beyond repair… Stupid idea, he told himself, Potter wouldn't help him even if he collapsed to the floor this very second…

'You must be out of your miserable fucking mind,' Potter continued, anger flooding out of him. 'What made you think I'd have anything to do with you? You're lucky I haven't hexed you into next year after the silly stunt you pulled. Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror? You're nothing but a bag of skin and bones…'

Draco winced, but he knew he couldn't retreat. What if one day the pills stopped working? What kind of life would he be left with? The despair in his parents' eyes, their unspeakable guilt for what had happened to him; he could at least spare them the pain of outliving their only son. For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even years, he saw a hint of hope, the electrifying sensation brought by Potter's touch, which he would have done anything to feel again.

'It's Sectumsempra. After that I started to lose my senses – '

'You lying scum! Don't you dare try to pin this on me. George is fine, he still has all his senses. If this is some kind of retribution for what happened at school – '

At which Draco shrugged and pulled his shreds of courage together – where there's a will there's a way. Potter had forgotten one thing – Draco had seen him pants down to his knees bucking into a willing blonde. He knew what Potter liked. He knew how Potter misbehaved. He slipped and staggered and then, with a determined frame of mind, leaned in and pressed against Potter. They were nearly of the same height; Potter was shorter by one inch or so. Pale eyelashes flicked down. He placed his hand on Potter's groin.

'No – ' Potter gasped.

'Don't you see?' whispered Draco, as softly as he could. 'I can make it good for you. I'd let you do things.'

The last word had barely left his mouth before he felt a little jump beneath his palm, and Potter made an incoherent sound. Draco swallowed, long fingers tracing the outlines of flesh at its awakening. It was captivatingly curious; someone's flaccid sex enlarging to rigidity by the mere power of his touch. He stroked Potter through layers of soft cotton, until he shivered, pushing into Draco's grasping hand and beckoning a tighter squeeze. It was time.

His fingers fumbled along Potter's belt, peeling away trousers and boxers. Spluttering, Potter tottered backwards into the chair in front of the desk, a swollen rod springing free, by which time he seemed to have regained a little consciousness.

'No – Stop – I don't – ' he protested, catching Draco's elbow.

Draco didn't know what he was saying. He fell to his knees before Potter; he must be more abnormal than he thought, lips wrapped around another man's throbbing organ yet not feeling an ounce of shame. Why had he stayed to watch Potter rutting that blonde? If Potter hadn't caught him at Madame Violet's, he might have taken the sight with him to the grave. Potter was robust with bodily strength and vitality, his movements vigorous and sturdy, while Draco, on the other hand, was nothing more than a sickly, wretched mess…

The jealousy had eaten away at him. He had rubbed it in Potter's face, blackmailing him with the knowledge of that tarty little indiscretion, even though he didn't give a rat's ass to whom was sitting on Potter's prick. It was too soul-shattering, too unfair; realising the long and short of what could be called the story of his life: he always wanted what Potter had.

He felt a tug at his hair. Not sure if Potter was demanding his attention or pulling his head away, Draco dragged his tongue along the sensitive skin, licking his way to the head. Having found the glistening opening he lapped at it, tasting salty, slightly bitter drops at each swipe. He tightened his lips around the leaking head, grazing it over and over. Yelling and cursing, Potter begun to roll his hips, slow at the beginning but enough of a sign.

With new found confidence Draco took the slick shaft in his mouth again, one hand fondling those tense, heavy balls. He could swear they had a life of their own; every time he closed his hand around them, they would bounce against his palm, matching the rhythm set by the delving prick between his lips. Potter dictated the pace, taking more pleasure as he thrust deeper. In order to keep up, Draco sucked hard, his hand straying under Potter's shirt, where he found taut stomach quivering against his fingertips.

Potter smelt of sex, musky, overflowing, and his hips were bobbing in a frantic, crazed frenzy. Draco suddenly had an inkling of what was about to happen seconds before it did. Potter pulled and pushed like a bat out of hell, shoving as far as possible with an ear-splitting shout. Draco's eyes rolled into the back of his head as Potter came and continued to come, stretching and filling his throat: that was what Potter liked, ramming until the end, not a second before.

Panic started to well up inside him when he realised he couldn't breathe. 'Relax, just relax...' Draco had only one thought left while Potter groaned and spilled. In sheer amazement he felt the engorged head probing soft palate tissues, shooting hot fluid all the way to his stomach as though Potter was making sure that his seed would be kept in.

When he finally drew out, Draco flung himself to the floor, resisting the strongest urge to be sick. His will warred with his unturned belly as soon as the first gulp of air hit his thoroughly abused throat. Then he heard Potter swivelling on the sofa. The rustle of Potter righting his clothes behind him, and Draco, now more lost than ever, kept thinking in his head: What should I do now?

'You're always the same,' said Potter, after a pregnant pause. 'You only play nice when you want something. You needed your wand and you went out of your way to get it back. Once you had it, you turned up your nose and disappeared…'

'It's not like… you missed me…' snapped Draco, despite his better judgement. 'At least I send cards every Christmas. What have you done? So don't act like a long-lost friend.'

He regretted it instantly for the obvious reason that now was not a good time to pick a fight. There was a moment of silence. Draco peered up and found Potter shaking his head. His heart sank within him.

'Still a mouthy little shit,' Potter made a chuckling sound. 'I am not going to the Manor – find a place and owl me the details…'

Draco's eyes widened.

'And don't let me catch you doing pills again, I mean it,' said Potter firmly. 'I want the names, you know which ones… You can argue for all you like; it doesn't change the fact it's a poisonous substance, and you shouldn't be meddling with those pills in the first place – '

'It may be a drug to you. To me it's medicine – '

'Honestly, we've been through this. Do you really want to spend the rest of your days in a whorehouse, sniffing something that could kill you?'

Draco had to restrain himself from saying that between the two of them, he wasn't the one with expertise on the subject of whores.

'And what's more,' said Potter, with an air of finality. 'It can't be indefinite.'

'Naturally,' said Draco, disregarding the lump in his throat. 'When it's no longer a convenient arrangement, we go our separate ways.'

Potter gave Draco a suggestive grin, his mouth curling up at the corner as though Draco had said something amusing. He stood up, offering Draco a hand.

'That I can manage – '

Avoiding Potter's gaze Draco held on to the edge of his table and propelled himself up. He wasn't an invalid. One task at a time he would get there; he always did.

'Very well, the names…'

A quill appeared floating under Draco's nose. He glanced over; Potter had his arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable. You'd think for a man who had gotten off ten minutes ago,Draco thought, he wouldn't be hastening to demonstrate wandless magic.

What an impertinent show off. He wondered if anyone had ever told Potter that.

The clouds lay over the sky like dustsheets. Wind, heavy with moisture and rain, blew in from River Severn, depicting the sleepy little village of Bushbury Hills in almost mystical reverence. In a steady drizzle which had lasted the whole day, even the magpies had ceased chattering but moped about on the wet lawn before a small cottage, pulling worms from the sodden ground and not having a care in the world about how droopy and woebegone they looked.

Draco stared at the patches of grey sky between the trees. It was impossible to tell whether dusk had fallen. At least Neon, the house elf his mother had insisted on sending to help him 'bring that poor excuse of a house up to some kind of standard', wouldn't need to water the newly planted herbs and vegetables in the back garden tomorrow.

He waited with conflicting emotions. What if Potter had changed his mind? Or if what he offered wasn't enough to keep Potter interested? It was his own incongruous idea; he and Potter were like dry Sherry, simply wrong in nature…

Suddenly, from the fireplace there came sounds of something heavy crashing down from a great height, followed by a yell of pain. Oh shite! The sound startled him a little. Draco got gingerly to his feet, hands clutching in pockets, just in time to catch the sight of Potter falling on to the hearth rug, face forward.

'Sorry,' said Draco quickly. 'It's not been lived in for some time. My house elf hasn't sorted the chimney out yet – '

Potter peered up, smeared glasses hanging at the tip of his nose, face black with soot. Needless to say, he was not thrilled.

' – the bathroom is upstairs, if you'd like to have a wash…'

Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Potter gave Draco a look of pure indignation and vanished up the stairs.

Draco listened to every sound that permeated his bedroom, heart pounding in his chest. When Potter reappeared by the door, he had removed his cloak. In an even, detached voice he said: 'What exactly do you want me to do?'

x

It was like the back flashes of an old nightmare; for an instant he knelt over the wreckage of small broken shards of crystal, blood running down his face, there was redness to everything in his vision but he was too terrified to blink.

'Young Draco,' said a cold, angry voice ahead of him. 'Look into my eyes and tell me, who were those people Greyback brought in?'

'I don't know,' the boy shrieked, his whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. 'I can't be sure.'

'Which is it? You don't know, or you're not sure?' the snake-like human hissed. 'Choose one!'

'I don't know – I don't know – '

'I expected more from you, Draco. I chose you. But you disappoint me. I shall have to punish you – Crucio!'

A pale blonde woman plunged toward her son. 'My lord,' she cried, shielding the boy from further harm. 'He is just a boy. Please… Please don't hurt him… Please…'

He felt nothing. Something was wrong. The Dark Lord never missed a target. He screamed and screamed, contorting on the floor. Sharp glass shredded his skin but again there was no pain. He prayed for Merlin's mercy –

Please don't let the Dark Lord find out.

x

His haggard mind wandered on the long walk into nowhere. Potter's hands were blistering on his back. In the midst of his preoccupation, he wondered whether Potter always radiated heat or if it was another facet of realism his vacant sense had led his brain to believe. Potter had reassuring hands. Of course he did. He was the Hero Saint who saved them from the fate of serving a cruel mad man.

People had called him sadistic when he was young. They obviously hadn't seen him clawing under the Dark Lord's feet, fearful of being a failure, a freak, of being killed... None of which mattered anymore, it seemed so long ago. He worried about his next fix more than his nightmares; they hardly seemed significant in comparison, as though Angel's Trumpet had veiled the truth from his eyes….

Draco succumbed to the feeling of being warm and safe before he drifted into the darkness of his dreamland, only this time there was neither terror nor fear.

He awoke with a start, wriggling under the duvet. A grasp on his wrist brought him back to reality: Harry Potter was stretched out on his bed, leaning against a mass of pillows, peering down at him with his shirt unbuttoned at the top, a hint of black hair protruding from under its swath.

'How long was I asleep?' asked Draco.

'A little over half an hour,' Potter told him. 'Go back to sleep. I'll leave you to it – '

'I made a deal with you,' Draco argued, dragging his fingers along Potter's waistline. 'I intend to fulfil my end of it.'

Potter behaved well enough while Draco worked on removing his clothes with painful slowness. He lifted his legs so that his jeans could be slithered off. 'Must you wear that dress?' Out of all the questions he could have asked, he chose to enquire about Draco's attire.

'It's a nightshirt.'

'It's a dress – '

Draco took his prick, effectively shutting him up. Bathed in amber lamplight it looked less intimidating, still enormous even though it was soft, but Draco knew it would spring to life at a twist of his wrist, foreskin retracting to reveal a bulging head.

He had really come to be a common whore, as undignified as the girl of Knockturn Alley, who looked only too happy to get on her knees for Potter anytime, anywhere, any place, sprawling and bending like a spider under Imperio, moaning and begging for it. No, that was decidedly unbecoming.

It was too wrong. If anyone had told him that he'd be filled with the joy of living from below another man's belt, the sodding twit would not have lived to spread the tale. Who'd have thought the essence of existence emanated in the scent and warmth of another's most intimate place? But Potter tasted like life; he found the proof every time his tongue brushed over a pulsing vein.

'Stop – ' Potter panted, hands clenched in Draco's hair. 'I won't last if you keep going. Where's the lube?'

'I'm prepared,' said Draco quietly, rolling to his side.

'Eager, aren't we?'

Placing his face upon a plump pillow Draco closed his eyes. His words might have revealed too much. At least his thoughts could remain hidden.

'Still won't take off the dress?' said Potter's voice as he straddled him from behind.

'I…' uttered Draco in a feeble, muffled voice, 'don't look very good without clothes.'

Potter went still and suddenly his hips were lifted into mid-air, something pushing its way in, although it wasn't what he had been anticipating. His body jerked involuntarily.

'You're too tight,' he heard Potter huskily, 'I can barely fit a finger inside. What the heck did you prepare yourself with?'

'I used a plug – '

'Then you need to relax. Otherwise it won't fit – '

'It's ok,' whispered Draco. 'Open me up.'

And he felt the heavy, sinuous curve of a body tucking itself around the slight, pale edges of his. Potter had pulled out his finger completely; he stayed immobile, both hands on Draco's waist drawing him upright, yet keeping his entire body trapped beneath the feel of him. What they must look like, Draco thought to himself, scrawny and pallid pressed up against tight muscle. Potter nudged his legs further apart. He moved closer, hot and thick between lean butt cheeks, like a weapon that was about to tear, to destroy, to conquer…

Potter plunged forward without warning, ripping him in half. He almost collapsed into the mattress, overwhelmed with excruciatingly intrinsic agony. A silent scream stuck in his throat. Pain had never felt like this before.

'You're too tight,' Potter repeated, sighing.

Draco pursed his lips tightly and endured, blocking the wailing that went on and on in his head. His world had been divided into two; on the outside his skin hung on his bones like a shell, numb and unfeeling, whilst inside an awareness – a sensitivity – grew. In a voice that didn't sound like his, he finally managed to say: 'I can take it.'

'Don't want to hurt you,' said Potter, a little grimly. 'Let's try this instead.'

He began to make careful, shallow movements, stirring instead of pummelling. Despite his ragged breathing, his hips drove lazy, twirling motions as though he was waiting for Draco to give in, to stretch around him, to surrender.

'Better?'

'Hmm...' was all Draco said. It stung, but then it was better than nothing.

The friction thereby changed as Potter slid in and out, slowly building up a rhythm. The bed shuddered beneath them. Draco was dizzy, boneless; they were trundling down a rocky road, and off Potter went, fervently tugging on Draco's hips for leverage, pressing into him with long, even thrusts.

'You're so tight it hurts,' Potter whined. 'Try not to clench!'

What was he talking about?

Draco convulsed queasily. The next thing he knew he was flat on the mattress with his face down. Potter slammed back in, arched forward and pulled Draco hard against his pelvis. He heard Potter making that sound, a throaty wheeze, so close to his neck. When he came inside Draco, every inch of his body shook. Draco was helpless to do anything but lie there and feel every single one of the violent, agitated spasms that rushed through Potter into him.

For long moments they lay entwined in a state of breathing and heartbeats. Outside the rain trickled into the night.

'Sorry, I made you bleed,' said Potter, when he eventually stirred. 'Should I heal you before I go?'

Then the spell was broken.

'I'm ok… It doesn't hurt now.'

Draco lied. Something had retained... a little sensitivity, accomplished unintentionally. He felt cold, slick and tender deep inside his shell of skin.

'Was it really Sectumsempra?'

'Feeling guilty all of a sudden?' said Draco, with a half-arsed attempt at scorn. 'It's highly probable. Only a few people were capable of inflicting that kind of spell damage – this isn't a compliment, by the way.' He paused for a second, imagining the look on Potter's face. 'I can't prove anything definitively.'

'How diplomatic of you,' croaked Potter. 'To think that I was almost worried for a second – '

They glared at each other: Draco knew that Potter didn't believe him and that he would probably challenge his inference with the old argument that the older Weasley was hit the same curse and left relatively unharmed. Suddenly he was bored.

'Don't be,' Draco advised him. 'It's not important now. I didn't tell you that to get back at you, even if it may seem that way.'

'Has it been difficult for you?' Potter inquired, after a minute or two.

Draco peeked at his trademark earnest face and felt… frustrated. Did Potter really need to ask? How could losing his sense of touch have been anything other than difficult? Did Potter even know how it was like to watch his toes every time he crossed the road?

But no, of course he didn't. Potter didn't need to know.

'If it can't be fixed, you got to deal with it.'

Potter stood with his mouth open but nothing came out. In the end he bent down and gave Draco's hand a light squeeze.

Hours later the bathroom was brimming with stupefying white smoke. Soaking in the tub Draco stared into the vast abyss of separation between illusion and reality. Water enveloped his body, rinsing every trace of awareness away, the little of it that was left behind. All he had was emptiness, the insuperable emptiness.

He should have closed the curtains.

The rising moon shone down on them like a new Sickle, dominating the night sky with an air of apathy, as though she knew everything that went on within her luminosity, and yet concerned herself with none of it.

Draco lay passively on the mattress, a fistful of bed sheets in each hand. The noises… they were everywhere, vibrating his bones, humming inside his head, all the result of having a hot, hard body crushing down on to him, whose heavy breathing had galloped into a husky, rhythmic whisper since placing himself between parted legs and forcing his way inside in one sure stroke…

His eyelids felt heavy, and the smell – pungent and heady, a peculiar mixture of sex, perspiration, alcohol, the lavender fragrance Neon insisted putting on the linen, and a faint flowery scent – filling his nostrils with each breath in. Potter hovered over him, thrusting with such force the wooden bed frame thudded. His knees wobbled around a pair of strong, solid thighs, very unlike his own, destitute of strength and colour, summing up their differences. If only that was all there was.

He'd rather be taken from behind. And that was how it had been between the two of them: impersonal, coordinated... a means to an end, although he hadn't the foggiest what the end entailed. One day Potter might be married, or find the arrangement no longer convenient; until then they continued to meet here once a week. Potter came and went as he pleased; sometimes early, sometimes late, sometimes reeking of alcohol, sometimes not turning up at all. Outside this house, their lives were two parallel lines that had no intersection.

Today Potter had a piercing look in his eyes. It didn't make any sense. Draco's nose never lied: Daisy, that was the faint flowery scent. He had a fair guess who favoured it, since he smelt it on Potter more often than other sugary, cheap perfumes. He didn't care – whoever Potter chose to bang was his own business. They were not lovers, not even friends, merely two people who had made a deal and were holding on to their ends of bargain, after a fashion – therefore, Draco wouldn't ask why Potter was so agitated coming from a prior engagement with his girlfriend, for the simple fact that it didn't concern him.

There was a sense of urgency; Potter acted almost… as if he really needed a release. Instead of stalling the message like a long-suffering barmaid, Potter told Draco to get on the bed the minute he walked through the door. His tone left no room for argument.

Draco complied. What difference did it make, on his back or on his stomach? But then he knew, as his legs were spread apart, that he was exposed, completely and utterly, nowhere to go, nothing left undisclosed. And when Potter pushed his knees to his shoulders, strong hands holding the back of his thighs in place, opening him up – a huge mistake, Potter had never gone so deep, and it hurt – but he didn't have time to worry about the pain, something else unsettled Draco, a nameless sense of foreboding he couldn't identify.

'Aw', a ragged breath escaped from his throat. Every intrusion, along with Potter's full body weight sinking down, squeezed air out of his lungs. Draco bit his cheeks, keeping the whole of what he was unwilling to give at these moments, inside.

It only got louder, the smacking sounds of skin on skin, so filthy, so rowdy. He couldn't resist; he had already given full access. In this position, Potter had gravity on his side as he withdrew to the tip, then plunging in, his hairy body slapping on to slender, smooth thighs, evoking an itchy, burning sensation… Potter really lived up to his name… Draco could do nothing, but let Potter hammer for all he would, stretching little bumps and ridges to accommodate his girth, blunt fingers digging into Draco's flesh…He'd bruise later, no doubt; at least Potter didn't have sharp nails.

Potter picked up the pace, pounding him into the mattress. Draco rubbed his face against the pillow and then he clutched, once, twice… the muscles and tissues invisible from outside clinging on to Potter's battering meat, grasping him, demanding by fate ordained…

Thrice… Potter let out an angry groan, cursing and hissing, with a final slam so deep that he breached the very end of Draco's tunnel and emptied his load… then came the part he actually enjoyed; the corner of Draco's mouth curled up in satisfaction – the moment when Potter tipped over the edge, hot spunk flooding inside him, and the pleasant fuzziness that went with it, washing the pain away. Potter didn't need to know, but Draco found himself secretly anticipating, looking forward to those few seconds of ecstasy, the gloriousness of being filled with molten heat...

Next to him Potter was panting heavily, as though he'd been running for miles. Draco waited for him to take his leave. Massage be damned, now he wished to be alone. Without opening his eyes he placed a hand on his stomach, lost in the somatic delight emanating from within. It would've been a blissful moment if he didn't hear Potter grunting: 'She said I don't need her – '

Initially he thought his ears were playing tricks. The mattress leapt with a light metallic sound. Then there it was again.

' – she makes it sound like it's all my fault, but neither does she need me – ' said Potter's voice.

Oh dear. Draco glanced across with great reluctance. Potter had his back against the headboard, legs crossed, his face smothered in the shadow.

' – ok, I know I've made mistakes,' Potter continued, 'the first time I was drunk out of my mind. I thought it was her. It didn't mean anything… She made me apologise time and time again. It's not like I don't make amends – I sat through 'Mione's tea and tongue-lashing, took punches from Ron. Just wasn't bloody enough. She keeps bringing it up every opportunity she gets. Then she tells me if I can't commit, we shouldn't be exclusive…

'… So I let her see other blokes,' said Potter, sounding defeated. 'I thought, she can have at it if that's what makes her feel better. Given time she'd understand everyone makes mistakes but it doesn't mean they will keep making them. What good did that do? It only made us drift further apart…'

His voice trailed off weakly as he leaned forward and looked at Draco as if he expected reply… Merlin's fucking balls! This was a different kind of spilling altogether, one of which Draco did not intend to participate in. Potter could not be seriously seeking relationship advice from him.

'Would you… ' he began, his voice tight and coarse. He coughed, hoping that Potter would drop the topic once he had more drinks. 'Would you like a drink? Brandy's on the table.'

Pale, dappled moonlight poured in through the window, casting Potter's naked form in the softness of a painting. Draco watched in silence as Potter climbed back with a filled glass and downed most of its contents in one.

'How… did she find out?' Potter's gaze fell upon him, and Draco quickly added: 'The first time, I mean.'

'I told her,' said Potter, after a short pause. 'I don't know which idiot said confession was good for the soul – it's a load of crap if you ask me.'

Quite...

Unsure how to respond, Draco chose to remain silent. Girl-Weasley had worked him up good, otherwise he wouldn't have confided in Draco of all people. There wasn't much Draco could really say on the subject. He only knew how to provoke Potter, which buttons to push. Comforting didn't come naturally. Draco decided he should put an end to this fruitless dialogue. Maybe Potter could be distracted. At that, he brought Potter's hand to his lips and caught a fingertip with his teeth.

He took it further in his mouth, offering it the same attention he gave to Potter's prick, lapping it up, rolling his tongue at the tender skin between the fingers, tightening his lips around it every now and then. Potter moaned. It was working. Encouraged, Draco took another, swallowing them repeatedly.

'Stop – ' murmured Potter, huskily. 'I have a better idea.'

He leaned in and poured the remainder of his drink all over Draco's chest. Caught unprepared the nightshirt got most of it, now stained with brandy. Warning bells rang loudly in Draco's head. He was proven right: the brute who had always taken a great dislike to his nightshirt winked at him, reached for the collar of his shirt, and tore it clean down the middle.

'What are you doing?' Draco scolded, batting away a pair of wandering hands. Before Draco had a chance to escape he was thrown against the pillows with a heavy body pinning him down.

'What're you hiding, huh?' groaned Potter, deep in his throat. With curiosity he stroked the smooth skin beneath, his hand sending small shivers of sensation right across Draco's stomach. But that wasn't enough; he caught a tiny pink bud and brushed over it until it was perky and sensitive.

Pools of liquid moonlight glowed in Potter's eyes, pale and exultant, tangling with glistening emerald. Draco looked away.

Potter laughed and dropped his black mop of a head. To his horror Draco felt a thick, roving tongue on his bare skin, wet and hot. It brought the most staggering tingles. Draco gasped; everywhere Potter's hand roamed, his mouth followed. His body acted of its own accord, arching against Potter, who licked the hollow under Draco's throat as though he was tasting the racing pulse. Suddenly he froze. When Potter stilled Draco felt it, his wood that never flagged even once in Potter's presence, now poking into a solid thigh with pride.

Panic squeezed his chest. For weeks he had grudgingly given himself to the man hovering over him, while deep down endeavouring to preserve some semblance of his dignity. It shouldn't come to this. Draco jerked and kicked, in a tempestuous attempt to get away. Then it began to accelerate.

'You have weird foreplay moves – ' croaked Potter, holding Draco's flailing arms above his head.

Draco ignored him. With fervent effort he propelled himself upward. And then –

'Yes, more,' crackled Potter, whose body came grinding down to meet his in a heated, noisy collision. 'I could come from just this.'

They crashed against each other and a feeling of hopelessness spread through Draco as he realised what he was doing was essentially yielding to Potter. He couldn't stop it though, and pushed all the air out of his lungs along with a low, mewling sound.

'Feels so good,' Potter's voice echoed in his head. How could he be talking and sucking Draco's neck at the same time? 'What's holding you back? Don't you like feeling good?'

Pressure was building up, inside his belly, bollocks and between his limp legs. He felt a jolt of pure ecstasy – as sharp and as electric as pain – when Potter reached down and brought their pricks together in a fisted grip.

Draco whimpered. It was that novel and that momentous. He bucked his hips and let go.

When his consciousness returned, Draco found Potter regarding him with a sly, satisfied look, a hand glued to the pearly mess on his stomach.

'WOW, that was quite something,' said Potter, in a lazy, impertinent drawl. 'It was powerful for me too.'

Dread sliced into Draco's heart. It really shouldn't have come to this. He turned to his side without saying a word.

'What's wrong?' said that voice behind him.

'Go away.' Draco made a swishing motion.

'This is getting ridiculous. Now you're the devoured virgin? Surely you've been with people before you got ill – '

'Get out – Leave me alone – Get out – '

He pleaded for solitary with every fibre of his being. Please, please go away –

Deep in the woods of Bushbury hills, a spotty owl soared, silhouetted against the silvery moon. At first glance it looked to be hunting for its next meal, but then it swooped suddenly and landed on a branch near a dark window of what appeared to be a house in ruins. It turned its head, a faint light reflecting upon the round frames that, curiously, hung on the end of its beak.

The owl scanned the room behind the window, seeking out a face, a body, a flash of pale hair that would shine through the dimness… Draco, meanwhile, sprawled oblivious on the bed, slowly drifting into an immense black hole, where in its depth his other existence seemed inconsequential.

'It's a terribly small house,' pouted Narcissa disdainfully, 'perfectly horrid. So shabby and untidy. I don't see why, in Merlin's name, you have to live in Wolverhampton… It's improper. People are going to talk. They will think we don't want you in the Manor – '

'People can talk if they wish to,' Draco replied, cutting into a tender chunk of lamb. 'But I don't think they will. I mean, it's not like the Blishwichs advertised in the Daily Prophet. The way they're carrying on at the moment – selling their portable assets by the bulk – a house hardly draws attention.'

' – you have a suite here – '

' – Where I stay a few days in the week – '

' – Or set up in a more fashionable town. You can do better than a dingy, damp house in the middle of nowhere.'

Draco almost sighed. His mother was a force to be reckoned with once she put her mind into whatever objective she had set out. Narcissa had been protective all his life; there was no chance of her stopping anytime soon. 'I like it there. It's quiet. Helps my research…'

'Narcissa, dear,' Lucius intervened, 'Draco is a grown man whether you acknowledge it or not. Let him have his space…'

'What if he gets injured?' said Narcissa at once. 'Who knows what might happen in that place? He needs someone checking on him…'

A wise man should know when he was beaten, especially by one's wife. The minute her eyes started to water, Lucius took it as his cue to retire back to his study, leaving Draco to deal with her alone.

'It's high time you find yourself a young witch with proper parentage,' she began again, a small victory smile on her face that said: one down, one more to go. 'Your father and I would be overjoyed to see you settling down.

Draco suddenly had a picture in his head of a strange, faceless witch hanging off his arm at various functions and dinners, and it unnerved him. Despite their faults, his parents supported each other throughout the highs and lows and remained faithful to their vows. A devotion to that extent didn't apply to him. Why would any girl wish to marry a man who couldn't even feel his own legs?

'Mother, it's hardly appropriate,' said Draco. There was no need to upset her with the entire truth. 'I can't expect a girl to enter into something that requires the commitment of a lifetime based on false projection. Besides, I'm fine by myself.'

Narcissa didn't rush to respond, but put her hand over Draco's. 'I thought you might already have someone… all that insistence on moving out,' she said, with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. Draco looked at his mother in confusion as Narcissa went on: 'You look healthier, and you're eating more. We won't mind if she's not pureblood. Your farther will come around if she makes you happy…'

'She doesn't exist!' Draco roared with laughter.

'You shouldn't be alone,' Narcissa persisted gently, unwilling to digress.

'I am not alone. I have you and father.'

And more often than not, he considered himself a fortunate man for that. He ought to appreciate what he had, right?

Before the first drops of summer rain, the air was fresh and exhilarating. Beyond and above the village of Bushbury Hills, the landscape had burst into an ocean of vibrant colours: orange, pink, yellow and peach, spread out beneath the bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds that floated past. Gentle breezes caressed the earth, bringing redolent smells of wild flowers, fresh grass and birch trees to heel.

On a day such as this, the English countryside offered views so idyllic that its beauty and grace could sweep away the most dispirited souls. The house in the woods, which the locals always passed by without a second glance, appeared less formidable with a garden brimming with the early blooms of summer. It was a place of dreams; delectable, inviting, full of energy and excitement, yet exuding a sense of peace and tranquillity.

This was, if one could overlook the hurly-burly in the conservatory.

'It's enough – ' Draco whined, earning himself a slap on the butt. The current predicament put strain on his hands and knees as he tried to balance on all fours on a plain daybed stripped of pillows and cushions, but there was a more pressing issue: Potter's face was too close to his rear for his comfort.

'Patience,' chided the man, and he pushed two fingers far up into a squishy, oiled hole. 'You said you'd make it good for me.'

How was playing with his arse going to accomplish that? The complaint died in his throat, however, when Potter hit somewhere which left him shivering uncontrollably. It was a far cry from the butt plug that he shoved into himself without a second thought; the fingers bent and slid against each other, and he could feel those wicked digits twirling and rubbing that place, bringing the most wonderful, overwhelmingly sinful sensation…

Words seemed a useless medium as he failed to eloquently grasp the vague, surreal sense of happiness in his head – perhaps because his every thought and worry had been gently wiped away… Draco was sure that if he was given the choice, his toes would be curled up. He wanted to whimper; it had to be out of bounds…

'Feeling insecure again?' asked Potter, swinging Draco around.

And then it had gone from bad to worse – he was pulled on to Potter's lap with his legs wide open. Potter had a glare in his eyes, daring him to take the bait; the firm grip on his hips and the erection, thick and red – the shameless man gave a mighty thrust, with no specific purpose other than poking Draco's inner thigh – all delivered the message loud and clear.

Alright, if Potter wanted to see him wobble on that stick of his, he'd better not regret it later, Draco thought angrily. Once decided, he grabbed the swollen rod and lined it head up against his hole.

He squeezed his eyes shut while hot, hard flesh pushed past the ring of muscles around his opening; no matter how many times they had done this, the first few seconds were always challenging. Today the agony seemed to be heightened. Draco drew in deep breaths, trying to relax as he lowered himself further.

'You're not doing it right,' Potter moaned, tugging on narrow hips to direct Draco's movement.

Curses were flying out of Draco's mouth. Both hands pressing Potter down forcefully into the daybed gave him the leverage he needed and he sank down with a brutal thump. This time they both froze.

'You muppet!' Potter swore at the top of his voice. Too afraid to move, Draco felt every inch of Potter buried inside him and flinched in delayed shock. Potter heaved a sigh. 'Lean on me,' he told Draco in an even, reassuring voice, and patted his back as he slowly guided his head down onto his chest.

It was humiliating. Draco couldn't tell whose heart was pounding faster, except they were nearly nose-to-nose and he had never looked at Potter so closely, which brought another problem to his attention. In broad daylight everything was at plain sight; he could actually count Potter's eyelashes through transparent lenses, and when he glanced over black stubble he could almost feel the harsh drag of friction it left on his skin. And his lips... those thin, pink lips...

Draco let out a long, deep breath and began to relax, enduring the feel of Potter inside him. Potter gazed back at him, his mouth twitching at the corner, his eyes roving over Draco's face until they came to rest on –

Oh Merlin!

'Don't – ' muttered Draco. Don't make this into something it's not. But Potter held his head in place.

'I was gonna ask you to kiss me,' whispered Potter, sounding drunk with desire. 'I know you won't… so…'

With that he licked a lower lip, gently sucking at it until Draco's heart clenched up in his chest, and for a moment he was so lost that he was feeling both hot and cold at the same time.

'Please… ' a voice pleaded.

Something like an assent came from his throat and he felt a tongue sliding through his lips, soft, wet, and exploring his mouth carefully and thoroughly in a way that made him ache. When their tongues glided together, Draco wanted to rub against the body beneath him, desperate to scratch the itch Potter had inflamed.

Acting on impulse he arched forward a little, then pushed down. Potter threw his head back on to the daybed, whispering under his breath. Draco couldn't work out what Potter was mumbling. Neither did he care as he slowly writhed on the hard, pulsing meat, his movements becoming increasingly pronounced and erratic.

Then he heard a demanding hiss from Potter. 'Here,' he said, placing Draco's pale, bony hands on his chest. 'Ride me.'

Draco felt the brunt of it when he raised himself to an upright position, and it was terrifying, but if he stopped he feared that Potter would take over and the blunt stick might push his organs aside and drill all the way to his throat. Potter's chest hair tickled his palms. He had to carry on moving; at least then he could retain some control.

'Yes, more,' spluttered Potter, urging him on. 'Give me more. Fuck yourself on my dick. More…'

Potter pulled his head down for another kiss while thrusting upward. Draco screamed; his own throbbing erection caught between their bodies. And Potter continued to rock his hips, impaling Draco from below… His hands were boiling hot on Draco's back; he had Draco pressed against him so tight as though he wanted Draco under his skin, in his veins, his blood…

'Cum on me, baby…'

The term of endearment flung Draco off the cliff. Who was Potter calling baby? A sudden chill swept over his body, leaving him cold. But then Potter was spilling himself inside him and he was burning again, consumed by a raging fire. He didn't know what to think anymore: it was all too bloody confusing.

Potter tilted his head to one side and Draco saw it right before his eyes, as tousled, sweat-dampened black hair fell aside. The infamous scar that had changed the course of many lives, now faded into a sliver of silver just like any other old wound… That wasn't who Potter was anymore. That was the old Potter. This Potter was an insufferably kinky sod who liked to give orders. He was also the sad git who was destined to wed the Weasley bint no matter how many bits he'd got on the side.

Sometimes Draco didn't consider what they had to be sex; it wasn't sex as long as he didn't enjoy it. There were plenty of people out there gagging for it, but he wasn't one of them. He didn't want it, he needed it, like medicine, like Angel's Trumpet pills, to prove his existence, even though it was better than any kind of intoxication he could ever lay his hands on. Because when Potter touched him, he could feel.

'Give me a minute,' panted Potter, warm breath skating over Draco's neck.

'I need to get up,' said Draco slowly, and the moment he peeled himself off Potter, every sensation on his skin vanished from the loss of physical contact.

This is my life.

And it had to be enough.

xxx End... for now xxx

More notes

Dear reader:

I do intend to work on a sequel in Harry's POV - it shouldn't end here, should it? Also I played around with Draco's condition in order to make the story work. It's been quite an emotional journey for me to write a story featuring Draco's drug use and its effect on him. Many things, for instance, his symptoms, diagnose, treatments as such, are more fictional than factual. And the medical terms I've used do exist amongst us Muggles but the symptoms those terms describe are different from Draco's in one way or the other. That's all for now, I think. I hope you liked it. :)

Kind regards,

MarrieSue

(Just a small request: reviews make me work faster; no pressure, I'm just saying...)