Slash Drama
Multiple Eras
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
Published: 01/15/2002
Updated: 06/11/2004
Words: 116,388
Chapters: 15
Hits: 191,616

Love Under Will


Story Summary:
In their 5th year, Harry and Draco choose to be with one another; but the story--and the battle-- is just beginning...

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary:
In their 5th year, Harry and Draco begin a relationship that will force them to question themselves, their choices, and their hearts. Will love endure?

Love Under Will

Part One: Transeamus

Chapter 11: Blocking the Walls

I thought I'd give my apprehensions all to you.

Space Team Electra

Draco Malfoy had never been happier, nor more afraid.

His desire for Harry floated about him, a dream of passion and sex and tenderness from which he never awoke, not even in the transient moments when they were apart. It was terrifyingly fantastic; it was the realization of something he never knew he’d missed—a blissful stranglehold on Draco’s heart. Vague worries about the future, about what it really meant that they were so firmly together, kept tugging at his conscience, demanding his attention when all he wanted to do was pretend everything was fine.

If Harry had the same nagging questions, he never let them show. Draco was glad: he wanted Harry to be happy, and not to worry about their relationship, especially as he was doing quite enough of that in private for both of them; and since the experience of wanting to make anyone else happy was a novelty, he indulged it as much as possible.

His feelings for Harry increased until he felt their bond like a rip through his soul. Sometimes he felt Harry was his soul: that there was nothing left to Draco, and nothing more for him to be, but Harry’s. It terrified him to the core, and what terrified him most was that he didn’t want out. He wanted Harry. He wanted this delicious vortex of belonging and possession, though it threatened to override his very identity.

One night, several weeks before the end of term, they lay on a couch in the Divination classroom, Harry cradled safely in Draco’s arms, the silence of a thousand peaceful spirits drifting around them. “Harry,” Draco murmured, “I’ve asked to stay here for Christmas.”

For half a moment Draco was sure Harry wasn’t the least bit surprised, but then he let out a disbelieving squeak: “With me?” Draco beamed and nodded, kissing Harry. “Won’t your parents—I mean, will they suspect—”

“Oh, no. They let me stay here over our second-year break because Mother was remodeling the house and I was in the way. I’ve told them I want to stay here so I can get in the extra Quidditch practice.” He flicked Harry’s ever-disheveled hair out of his eyes. “They won’t mind.” He added with a hint of cynicism, “Anything to beat Harry Potter.”

Harry bent his head and kissed him softly, unhurriedly and contentedly. Draco kissed back, wondering if Harry could sense on his lips what was already rooted too deeply within him for words. And then Harry murmured against Draco’s lips, “I feel safer when you’re with me.”

Stunned, Draco broke away. Harry had never voiced any fear or concern for his safety now that Voldemort was returned to power, and this was certainly the last way Draco had ever expected to hear it mentioned. He pushed the surprise out of his tone and replied calmly, “That’s quite humbling coming from a wizard who’s only fifteen and stronger than Voldemort.”

Harry leaned against Draco’s shoulder. Draco blissfully ran his hand through Harry’s hair, petting and caressing him gently. “I’m not stronger,” Harry muttered into the folds of Draco’s robes. “I just keep getting lucky.”

Draco hesitated over the many responses to this that flooded his mind. At length, still in that same soft tone, he said, “Now I know why everyone around you has such extraordinary faith in you.”

Harry looked up.

“It’s to make up for the lack of faith you have in yourself.”

Harry’s eyes flickered in puzzlement, and he began to protest, but Draco shushed him gently. “You don’t have to believe me, because when the time comes you always come to your own rescue—” Harry’s cheeks were scarlet as Draco ran his fingers over them—“but Voldemort will never be a tenth the wizard you already are.”

Harry was trembling. “How can you say that? I don’t—Draco, you don’t know… you haven’t seen the things I’ve seen…”

For a long moment he bit back the words, his face etched with pain, and Draco sat up, laced his arms around him, and held him silently. Various emotions flickered over Harry’s face as he struggled to master his emotions as always. Watching him, Draco felt sure that a mask would come down any moment to replace the struggle; but suddenly, Harry looked directly at him, and a quiet request shone in his eyes. More than a request—it was a plea Draco knew he would never, ever refuse.

Draco smoothed Harry’s forehead and said gently, “Tell me.”

Relief lanced through Harry’s eyes: he opened his mouth, began to speak, and cut himself off abruptly. He looked at Draco for a long moment, and suddenly his expression changed to something inexplicable—the look of a caged animal, with a mix of very human regret—and he bowed his head. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“But you need to. To tell someone.”

Harry gripped his arms then, fiercely, and fixed him with a gaze that was almost a glare, it was so intense. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I… it’s…”

“Look, Harry, we all have secrets. But whatever nightmare you’re trying to escape won’t go away unless you face it.”

Harry looked stricken. “No. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Draco said irritably, “It’s not your fault you don’t trust me.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “It’s not that! It’s—look,” he snapped, “Don’t ask me to talk about Voldemort unless you’re willing to share how you feel about your father.”

This was so unexpected Draco didn’t even try to hide his shock.

“Don’t think I don’t know you hide things too,” Harry said darkly. “So think about that before you go asking me to spill my secrets.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and for a moment anger washed over him—but Harry’s eyes held a look that stopped it almost before it materialized. He put a finger to Harry’s lips and drew it over his cheek. “Fair enough.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you—”

“Shhh, Harry. I know.” Harry gave him a look. Draco averted his gaze. “Sorry,” he murmured.

A moment later, Harry shrugged. “S’okay,” he replied, and pulled Draco’s lips to his. It was a sweet kiss—but for a fleeting instant, Draco wondered if it were just a kiss, or a means of distracting them both before they started thinking too much.

Some days later the post brought Draco his answer from home; his frown as he read it drew Harry’s gaze across the dining hall like a divining rod to his eyes, now clouded over with disappointment. He could feel Harry watching him, but he didn’t look up.

Much as I applaud your diligence in wishing to better yourself at Quidditch, I must request that you return home as planned for Christmas. I have business in the Netherlands that will require me being away for much of the holidays, and as you no doubt do not need reminding, your mother’s disposition requires at least one of us to be with her. It should not be too difficult a removal for you, and I expect you shall have one or two surprises during your vacation, which will make the stay more than worthwhile. –Your father.

Malfoy sat with his elbows on the table, head down, glaring at the letter. The words blurred before his eyes, and he lost himself completely in his thoughts.

I have to go home so you can go away?! Why didn’t you mention this trip before? Why don’t you remotely care that you’re leaving your family during Christmas?

Oh, come off it, Malfoy, you didn’t want to be with him anyway.

I wasn’t trying to avoid my family the way he is. But it’s not like I expected anything better from him.

How can you say that? He’s your father.

He really acts like it.

Maybe if you weren’t such a disappointment to him he wouldn’t be so distant.

I have no need to prove myself to him.

Bullshit. You’d do anything to make him proud of you. But you can’t. You’ll never be as strong as he is and you know it. Look at you now. Why don’t you admit why you’re really upset? It’s not because of your father. It’s because you want to be with Harry. You don’t want to spend Christmas without him—but you can’t just write to daddy and tell him you’ve decided to stay here.

Why would I need to do that? Maybe I did want to be with Harry, but I can go two weeks away from him without falling apart. My family comes first.

You’re too weak to choose Harry.

This is different. This isn’t about Harry.

There is no difference. You want to defy your father, but you won’t. You want him to respect you but he doesn’t. And then you pout like this when he doesn’t give you your way, when the real issue is that you’d rather waste time volleying for his admiration when you could be standing your ground and proving to him what true Malfoy pride is. But you’re still a coward. You won’t do that; not even for Harry, the one you—

—want. Want.


Directionless hatred was rising in him, and since his fists were already clenched, Malfoy did something he never, ever did: he gave into an impulse.

The slam of his fist shook the entire Slytherin table. It made him feel a bit better.

His eyes still focused on the blur of his thoughts and nothing else, Malfoy rose and left the Great Hall. Whether his dramatically furious exit garnered stares, he didn’t know; he didn’t know anything except that he wanted to be alone as quickly as possible. Why the hell was this getting to him? It wasn’t as though it was a big deal—his father had a good reason to want him there, especially since he would be absent himself.

But that’s just it. He wouldn’t want me there unless he was going to be gone himself. I’m just something to distract Mother when I’m home, keep us both out of his way. And Harry will be here, alone—without me…

Malfoy felt like a fool.


Malfoy had stopped in the corridor between the Great Hall and the dungeons; he hadn’t heard footsteps behind him, but he hadn’t been listening either, and the cool voice coming out of the shadows discomposed him. Without turning around he responded irritably, “Yes?”—and then instantly felt worse.

“I take it you heard from home?” Harry was standing back from him a few feet. His voice was soft, but contained a note of puzzlement. Malfoy nodded wordlessly. “I guess,” Harry said, sporting a smile and sidling up to him, “I’m kind of flattered you’d get that worked up over the thought of leaving me. You had all the Gryffindors thinking you’d gone ballistic.”

Malfoy knew that if he turned and looked at him Harry’s smile would soften the weird frustration searing his brain. Obstinately, he kept on staring at the wall. “It’s not—I just wasn’t expecting it.” He handed the letter to Harry and watched him read it out of the corner of his eye.

Harry read it, mulled it over for a few moments, and then handed it back to him. “So, your mother will want you home. That’s natural. You will be glad to see her, won’t you, even if you’ll miss seeing your father?” He sounded hopeful, and he was obviously fishing for the truth without asking for it.

Malfoy only said, “I’ll be going home, that’s the important part.”

Harry was watching him curiously. “I don’t know why you’re upset over this.”

“Well, apparently one of us is taking it in stride,” Malfoy snapped.

“If you’re asking me if I’m disappointed, yes, of course I am,” Harry said dismissively. “But you’re—you’re acting like something’s wrong. And I don’t understand what.”

Even as he cursed himself for it, Malfoy heard himself lash out at Harry. “Obviously, nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, you’ll stay here and I’ll go home and stare at the walls while my father frolics in the Netherlands and my mother—” he forced himself to quit and clenched his fists instead.

Harry took a breath. “What do you want me to say, Draco?”

Malfoy looked at him, finally, and hesitated. A cheap, evil, malicious part of him was saying as he studied those wide green eyes, Go on, Harry. Ask me why I can’t just stand up to him, why I can’t refuse to go back.

“It really doesn’t matter to you one way or the other, does it?” he said at last. “Whether I go or stay.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I want you with me, but since you’re going home, I’m not going to pitch a fit about it.”

“Why? Don’t you think I’d rather stay with you?”

“Yes! I do!”

“Then ask me to stay!”

“I’m not asking you for anything! I’m not going to let you guilt trip me into sharing responsibility for your decisions.”

“Oh, no—you’ll just hold it over my head later that I didn’t choose to be with you.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes were flashing dangerously. “Who do you think I am, Malfoy?” Draco flinched at his last name being spat from Harry’s lips. “I never said you had to make a choice between me and your family. You don’t. I’m not going to start putting conditions on you like that now. I don’t play that kind of a game and I never will.”

“So you’ll just smile and nod while I choose Malfoy Manor over Christmas with you and it won’t bother you at all?”

“Dammit, Draco!” Harry’s composure fled. “You have a family—you should spend the holiday with them!”

“Oh, here we go again—Harry Potter, the suffering hero and resident expert on loneliness, going off about his murdered parents!”

Shock tore between them.

Harry stepped back and gaped.

Draco gasped and clapped his hand over his lips.

Harry had gone white. Draco averted his eyes, his mouth open under his palm, reeling from the ache caused by the echo of his own words. There was nothing he could say, nothing. He couldn’t look at Harry—he didn’t dare.

Harry was staring at him. Draco could feel his gaze without seeing it. The intensity of that glare burning into him was more than he could endure; it was killing him without words. He could not bring himself to look up.

“Say something,” Harry said, his voice a whistle of ice, “to make me want to forgive you.”

“I can’t,” Draco responded automatically.

Harry’s fists were clenching. On reflex Draco looked up—he registered the look in Harry’s eyes—a look that had the power of a hundred dementors reaching inside of him to twist and torture his soul—he took in a blur of movement in a split-second—

—with a crack his jaw split apart.

He reeled and staggered back, then fell, hitting the stone floor hard. Harry’s fist had met the left side of his face squarely, with the force of the Whomping Willow, and he felt the impact in his whole body. Draco knew instinctively that Harry had just dislocated his jaw. Gingerly he raised a hand to it as his shoulders slumped, but even that slight touch sent sparks flying into his brain. He hissed in a feeble attempt to avoid a moan of pain, not caused entirely by the injury.

Finally he looked up uncertainly at Harry, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold the gaze and quickly bent his head again. Harry was just staring at him, and Draco felt the weight of the pain behind that look dragging him to hell.

The moment he tried to speak he realized it was a bad idea. Very bad. But he didn’t have a choice.

“I’m sorry,” he slurred, in a half-whisper so pitiful it shamed him, still looking at the floor.

“So am I.” The response was cold and final. Draco’s eyes shut tight.

Harry’s footsteps retreated, and Draco was alone.


Madam Pomfrey took one look at him and gasped. “Draco Malfoy,” she said sternly, “What did you do?”

Draco shook his head slightly—a movement that hurt as much as trying to speak—and looked at his reflection in the long mirror on the opposite wall of the ward. Even from here, the red and yellow gash of color across his cheekbone stood out like a scar. The mirror was slightly concave, and made him seem even leaner and taller than usual; with the bruise, he looked like an odd, pale sort of ghoul. “I ran into a door,” he said, speech thick from the effort it took not to move his jaw more than he had to.

“That’s ridiculous.” She set about getting supplies from a cabinet and directing Draco to an examining table. “You will tell me who did this.”

Draco hissed as she applied her wand to his cheek. It was painful even though he instantly felt the swelling dissolve. “Nobody.” Upon her eyeing him with a look that told him she clearly disbelieved him, he glanced at his reflection again and whispered, “I deserved it.”

Madam Pomfrey’s mouth fell open as if this were the last thing she expected to hear from him. “I hardly think you deserved to have your ligaments scrambled like so many eggs, Mr. Malfoy,” she said—but her voice was considerably softer.

Draco looked at her, and stayed silent. Madam Pomfrey sighed and set about healing him, and she asked no more questions.

He spent the next ten hours resting in the infirmary before Madam Pomfrey would agree to let him leave.

Draco was once again glad he was not a Muggle. If he’d had to rely on Muggle medicine, he’d have been eating through a straw for a week.


He waited for half an hour outside Gryffindor tower before anyone showed up, trading insults with the Fat Lady. Finally she stopped speaking to him altogether, and was threatening to walk away and leave the portrait unattended, when Neville appeared. In his lifetime Malfoy could never remember having been happy to see the pipsqueak, but now he was positively relieved. “Thank god somebody showed up. My ass was freezing.”

“Malfoy!” Neville said in alarm, stopping short in his tracks and automatically whipping out his wand to be on the safe side. Little idiot’s learned a thing or two after all… “What are you doing up here?”

“Relax, Bong-bottom,” replied the Slytherin easily. “I’m just here to talk to someone. I need you to let me into the tower.”

“Since when are you just here to talk?” Neville demanded, holding his ground. “I’m not letting you into Gryffindor, no matter what!”

“Are you going to stay out here with me, then?”

Neville started, as though he hadn’t thought out that part. “Maybe,” he said with a defiant sort of swagger, which didn’t fit him at all.

Draco shifted on his feet and crossed his arms impatiently. “Look, it’s kind of important.”

“What’s so important you’d come all the way up here when it’s nearly curfew, Malfoy? You’re probably getting ready to hex someone, or spy on them!”

“Exactly, that’s why I’m walking in through the front door with you so everyone can see me.” Malfoy rolled his eyes in disgust and fought not to let his discomposure show. He had to see Harry…

“If you want in, you’re going to have to ask me nicely.”


In response, Neville looked at the painting, where the Fat Lady was eyeing Draco with suspicion, then meaningfully at Malfoy, crossed his arms, and waited.

God. This is humiliating.

If groveling in front of this wimp is all the penance you have to do, then stop complaining and be grateful.

With a sigh, Draco straightened. Neville straightened too, out of caution. “Longbottom, I have to see Harry Potter. It’s really important, and I’d appreciate it—I’d be—” he spat the word out, not without difficulty—“thankful… if you’d let me inside.”

Neville’s mouth went agape. That string of words was the nicest he’d ever heard coming from Malfoy’s lips.

“Please,” Draco added softly.

Neville looked back at him for a moment in quiet amazement, and Malfoy knew he was memorizing this incident for posterity. Then: “Soulbinder,” he said simply, still watching him, and the Fat Lady ‘hmphed’ and swung open to let them in. Neville stood back and allowed the Slytherin to enter first. “Thanks for asking,” he added, his voice resuming the tiny, terrified quality Malfoy was used to.

Once inside the Gryffindor common room Draco allowed himself a reaction. “This is…really nice,” he said to no one in particular, looking around at the cozy, warm furnishings and inviting hearth fires.

“We like to think so,” said Lee Jordan with a half-glance in his direction—and suddenly the stares of half a dozen Gryffindor students of various years were fixed on him in collective astonishment.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing up here?” snapped a Weasley twin.

“Right—no Slytherin should be dumb enough to get caught near our tower—who let this git in, anyway?” Seamus Finnigan was eyeing Malfoy with a look of wariness.

“I did,” Neville spoke up, and all heads turned his way. “He asked me nicely,” he insisted.

All heads swung back to Malfoy, and now no one knew what to say.

Just then Hermione Granger stepped through the painting, her arms full of library books, parchments, and a varied assortment of quills and ink which she was doing an admirable job of balancing using her teeth, knees, and various interesting body positions. Ron Weasley was right behind her, watching her in case anything fell. “Whew,” he breathed, taking the bulk of the items from her and setting them on the nearest table. “What’s everybody…” Hermione tugged his sleeve and gestured suspiciously at Malfoy. His eyes fell on the Slytherin, who was almost glad to see them.

Draco crossed the room and stood before them. Ron backed away indignantly, as if he were expecting Malfoy to jinx him, and Hermione folded her arms and spat, “What on earth do you want?”

“I need to see Harry.”

“Harry?” Ron started. “Since when do you need to see him? And since when is he Harry?

Malfoy groaned. Hermione put down the last of her quills and parchment and glared at him.

“Since I said it,” Malfoy snapped. “Now tell me, is he here?”

“No.” Hermione frowned. “He’s not here, he hasn’t been seen all evening, but—” her eyes narrowed and she gripped Malfoy by his Slytherin robes and dragged him into a corner, away from the ears of the others in the room. Ron followed her, his eyes pinned on Malfoy, silently dishing out curses Malfoy knew he would never have said in front of Hermione.

Malfoy seethed with indignation at Hermione’s manhandling, and at the first opportunity he jerked away from her Mudblood touch. “Listen, Malfoy,” she said, her voice low, “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Harry, but I know you’re up to something. And whatever it is—whatever dark magic you’re into, whatever secret you’re involved in—no matter what trap you’re out to spring for him: I want you to know two things.” Her voice was smooth and serene, but very forceful—she seemed so strong and yet so protective as she spoke, two wildly contrasting emotions in Malfoy’s mind. “First off, if you ever come near Harry, if you ever hurt him or try to ruin his life or do anything to sabotage him, the people who care for him will hunt you down and make you regret it from here to eternity.” She said all this very fast. Malfoy blinked. “Secondly, you may beat Gryffindor in a Quidditch match, but you’ll never beat Harry. You’ll never be better than him, and you’ll never get the best of him, no matter how hard you try.”

“Damn straight,” said Ron. Malfoy ignored him completely and focused his gaze on Hermione, saying nothing for a long moment. The two of them reacted to his silence with stone-faced glares.

“So he’s not here,” he said at last, calmly, as though nothing she’d said had registered. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “Then I’ll wait.” Hermione nodded towards the door. “Fine, Granger,” he snapped. “I’ll wait outside. Thank you so much for your lovely Gryffindor hospitality.”

“It’s nothing more than you deserve, Malfoy,” Hermione responded blandly. The others in the common room applauded and catcalled as she grabbed his elbow and escorted him out. Ron walked beside her, as if wary Malfoy might try to hurt her while his back was turned.

“And just you remember what I said about Harry,” said Hermione, cocking her head towards the portrait door.

“Get over yourself, Mudblood,” he shot back. Ron lurched towards him but Hermione stopped him simply by putting her hand on his arm. Ron’s eyes narrowed to slits of hatred. Hermione pursed her lips at Malfoy but said nothing. The thought crossed Draco’s mind that he shouldn’t have called her that: that there was something ignoble about insulting Harry’s friends behind his back, when he wasn’t speaking to Draco—when he wasn’t there to defend them or get mad at Draco or act like it mattered. And without Harry there to react it really wasn’t that important anyway. He was speaking the truth—merely stating an incontrovertible fact. She didn’t have to be so damn noble about it, thought Draco irritably.

It was her way, though, to be noble. Just like Harry himself.


Hermione eyed at him in suspicion until the Fat Lady closed with a look of triumph, shielding Draco from her glare. He turned and gazed down the empty corridor, absently rubbing his jaw, which was still faintly sore. From all appearances, Granger and Weasel were the last ones inside, back from a late-night study session. God, Harry, where are you?

He waited for another half-hour before he knew he should leave. After all, he wasn’t sure where McGonagall’s sleeping rooms were, but he was fairly certain they could be anywhere around there, and he didn’t really fancy trying to explain to her that he was disobeying curfew so that he could get his secret boyfriend back, who, by the way, was Harry Potter….

As he made his way back down multitudinous flights of stairs, he thought about that: what it meant that he was with Harry—well, that he had been up till today. He was a very sexual being, but in all his history at Hogwarts he’d never experienced any real attraction for anyone of either sex: the most passionate feeling he’d had was his obsession with hating Harry Potter. Now that he was with Harry his sex drive had joined with something much deeper than lust. When he thought of Harry, it didn’t matter if he was a boy, or a girl, or a Mudblood, or an orangutan; he was simply the one Draco wanted, the one he—


He had just reached a long landing on the staircase when the voice startled him. Draco jumped and stared: suddenly Harry was there on the other side of the landing, making his way up to Gryffindor tower. His heart suddenly began to pummel his ribs.

“There you are,” Harry said in a voice of surprise etched with weariness.

They stared at each other from across the landing. Draco’d had a speech rehearsed, but now all he could do was gawk. He seemed to have lost the ability to speak. The look on Harry’s face made him tremble: where he expected to see stilled rage he saw only pure, unadulterated yearning, and Draco knew that it was reflected in his own expression as he looked back at Harry.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked him uncertainly. He had crossed the landing halfway and now stood looking unsure about what to do next.

“I… I’ve been waiting for you outside the Gryffindor common room,” Draco said helplessly, emotions stampeding him. Harry… He stumbled forward and crossed his half of the landing to meet him. “I was going to stay there until you forgave me.”

Harry was looking at him very oddly. Very oddly… He seemed to draw his emotions in check as Draco watched. Swallowing, his voice hard, he said, “And why should I?”

Silence followed. “Because I’m sorry.”

“But you meant it.”


“You meant what you said. That I’m a suffering hero hiding behind his dead parents.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and he moved to touch Harry’s cheek, but Harry grabbed his wrist in an iron grip and held him there. Draco made no effort to move or pull away, and this seemed to appease Harry somewhat. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, until finally Draco replied, “If you want to believe I meant that, fine. Believe I meant it, believe I’m incontrovertibly jealous of you, believe I hate you. Maybe you wouldn’t be wrong, Harry, about any of it—” Harry flinched, and Draco’s voice softened—“but don’t believe for one second that I enjoy hurting you.”

Harry held Draco’s gaze, his lower lip trembling a little. Draco so badly wanted to kiss the flickering pulse point in Harry’s throat, the one that always throbbed whenever Harry was trying desperately to rein in his feelings. He felt the fingers around his wrist relax, and Harry bowed his head. Instantly, he moved to hold Harry’s chin between a slender thumb and forefinger, pushing the gaze of the Boy Who Lived back up to meet his own eyes.

This time it was Harry who did not resist. “Why do you make me feel,” he said softly, “That being hated by you would still be better than being loved by anyone else?”

And then Harry nodded in resignation, and Draco knew he was forgiven.

He let out a strangled cry; it was lost as they seized each other and held one another in the most ravenous kiss of Draco’s life. Short, sharp gasps interrupted the struggle of their lips to possess and be possessed all at once; Draco couldn’t tell for a moment whose flesh was whose, and that was just what he wanted—to be inextricably connected to Harry.

“Harry, I—god… I was angry with everything but you… I just—god…”

“Shhh… I know. I know—oh…”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry…”

“It’s okay. I knew you didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have walked away… don’t ever let me walk away from you again…”

“Don’t ever let me hurt you like that again…”



“God… Please let me inside you, I—I don’t care who sees us…”

“Me… either… oh, Harry…”


In that moment Draco really didn’t care if Filch walked in and found them in flagrante delicto, or if Snape passed through and got the shock of his life. He wanted Harry—badly—and nothing could keep them apart. Nothing.

Heedless of the fact they could be discovered at any moment, they fell back against the floor of the landing, skin scraping on cold stone as they kissed, their bodies urgently pressed together. Their mouths clung to one another: fingers clenched against fingers, palm-to-palm, stretching and pulsing and pushing to be so close to each other they joined in a permanent embrace. Gasping, they pushed back robes and tore at clothes until quickly they were only flesh, struggling to be as completely entwined as it was possible to be. Harry pushed himself above Draco, who spread himself beneath Harry and wrapped his legs around Harry’s back with a groan of submission. Harry responded with a kiss so forgiving and passionate Draco nearly climaxed in his arms then and there, just from the rapture of having him back. But Harry’s smile kept him waiting, held him at bay and enfolded him all at once.

He was overcome. He needed Harry inside of him. He needed to become one half of the entity that was Harry/Draco, their bodies writhing in rhythm, sweat and saliva mixing, kisses burning like brands against skin, marks of possession so strong they would never, ever fade. This was the only thing he ever wanted to feel: all of Harry, wrapped around him, heart, mind, soul, and body inescapably conjoined with his, rising and falling within him with every breath he took.

Draco floated. He had never known anything like the insatiable power of Harry Potter inside of his body that night. It was the first moment of true completion in his life.

Underneath Harry, his moans rang through the entire castle; he didn’t care. All that mattered was that Harry had come back, Harry was still his; still the one he worshiped and hated and adored and couldn’t do without. His eyes watered from pure emotional release; tears streaked his face when at last they collapsed against each other, spent but unwilling to be separated. Harry’s arms were locked around him tighter than a Chinese finger-trap, and Draco was beside himself, if only because the idea that Harry wanted to be inside him, inside him in every way, suddenly seemed like the greatest, most terrifying miracle he’d ever known.

Harry ran his hand over Draco’s face, his expression so gentle, so tender and sweet, that Draco almost couldn’t bear it. His heart filled with so much happiness that it hurt; he swallowed, closed his eyes, and brought Harry’s mouth to his so that he could avoid having to look at all the adoration gazing back at him.

“Harry,” he whispered again when Harry’s lips had reluctantly parted from his. “I’m so sorry for what I said.”

“Shhh… I told you,” said Harry, kissing his forehead and maneuvering against him so that he could remain inside of Draco a little longer, “It’s okay.”

“No, no,” Draco responded, catching Harry’s hands in his and sighing as Harry wound his fingers and arms around Draco’s so that they rested between them, right up against Harry’s heart. “I’ve hated you all my life. I envied you, and I was jealous of you, long before I met you. The day we met, I liked you. Then when I realized who you were… god. I felt like I’d had my ribcage slammed out of me. I’ll never forget it. I’d never expected to meet you and—and not hate you at sight.” Harry waited; the only pressure coming from him was the weight of his body against Draco’s, a sensation as natural and pleasant as sleep.

He trusts you so much. Look at him. Even after you hurt him the way you did he still looks at you with such tenderness.

You could tell him anything right now. Anything.

Draco pulled Harry even more tightly into his grasp, and continued, still a little breathlessly as their bodies slowly returned to a rhythm of normal breathing. “I grew up hearing your name. My father was never quite reconciled to the fact that he chose the losing side after Voldemort couldn’t kill you. He was always comparing my progress in magic to the Boy Who Lived, always reminding me that an 18-month old kid had defeated the greatest wizard in centuries whereas I couldn’t even do a single summoning spell correctly. I was raised to resent the name Harry Potter. I was raised to hate you.”

Harry didn’t say a word, but he took the opportunity to lean in to kiss Draco, his tongue slipping inside his mouth in the most complete form of reassurance Draco could ask for. When their mouths parted he took one of his hands away to cup Draco’s face sympathetically in his palm. Draco leaned into the touch—so irresistible—and flickered light kisses over Harry’s wrist. “You want to know what I hated most?” he murmured.

Harry, who had been following the movement of Draco’s lips over his arm by trailing his own kisses over Draco’s neck, paused and looked back at him with a solemn gaze, his head tilted half-warily, half-expectantly.

Draco, feeling far too vulnerable for his comfort, began, “The thing I hated about you the most—” and then he gulped. Even with Harry right there, connected to him in every single way, he wasn’t sure if he could say aloud something that he’d only ever thought in his darkest, most private moments.

Harry reclaimed his hands and rested against him. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said, softly but firmly. “You don’t owe me any confessions.”

Draco shook off the desire to cave into the offer. “No…” his eyes found comfort in Harry’s, and he forced himself to say, “Harry, I know not knowing your parents has been the hardest thing you could ever deal with. But at least you know how much they cared for you. That’s more assurance than I’ll ever have from mine, living or dead.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. Draco plunged ahead, feeling that if he stopped he might never start again. “Before, it was just easy to hate you, especially because I’d grown up being compared to you. But now that I—that I’m with you… I see their sacrifice in you—and it almost makes it worse.”

Harry just looked at him, speechless. Draco gripped him harder, daring him to pull away. Harry flinched, but he moved into, not out of, Draco’s embrace. “I don’t want to go home to this place where I hardly know if anybody cares whether I stay or leave. I know you understand.” Harry nodded, still not saying a word. His eyes had widened, and he was looking at Draco as if he’d never really seen him before. “But I can’t. I have to be loyal to my family. I want to be. I don’t want to be bitter. It was easier to think you didn’t care whether I stayed or left either, so I could lash out at you instead of being angry with—with them.” And with myself… but he wasn’t about to go any deeper. Harry already looked overwhelmed.

“You… you aren’t sorry I told you, are you?” he heard himself asking, suddenly scared.

“Shhh,” came Harry’s response, drawn from the wonder and newfound understanding that had been holding their grip on his expression. “I’ll never be sorry—about any of this.”

Wonderful things were happening to Draco’s heart, but before he could get any of them to translate into a verbal reaction, Harry was kissing him again, intently and deeply. With a sigh of release and contentment Draco arched up into him and rolled over so that Harry was trapped beneath him, forgiveness and understanding written all over his gaze. He had no words for how released, how secure and relaxed Harry made him feel. It sickened him to think that they had tormented themselves for years when they could have been together so much sooner, and he could have had what he had needed for so long.

No. I don’t need him. I don’t need Harry Potter. I don’t.

Draco felt his throat contract with emotion. His smile became a mask, and he growled, “Tell anyone you’ve seen me cry, Potter, and I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

“Just as long as we’re sleeping together—that way I know I’ll die happy.”

“God, you… c’mere.”


“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Draco hesitated.

For coming back.

For forgiving me.

For caring about me this much.

For holding me. For letting me trust you. For not running away.

“For the best sex on a cold stone floor I have ever had.”

Harry blushed. Draco sunk his lips onto Harry’s for a quick, passionate kiss, feeling Harry lace his fingertips into his hair, caressing him contentedly. “Where were you earlier? I waited for you for over an hour. Hermione said you hadn’t been seen all evening.”

Harry smirked.


“You called her ‘Hermione.’”

“Oh, whatever, Potter, you didn’t answer my question.”

Harry, after a moment’s pause, without taking his eyes off Draco, answered with another question.

“What would you do if I did ask you to stay here with me?”

Something that started out on Draco’s face as a quirk of surprise spread irresistibly into a smile of happiness. “I’d say, sorry—I’m needed at home. But thank you very much for asking.”

Harry nodded in understanding and nuzzled his neck. “If you must know,” he said glibly, “I was waiting for you outside Slytherin.”

Draco looked at Harry for a long moment, wanting to wrap him up in a blanket of affection just from the strength of his gaze alone. He suddenly felt a tremor of emotion run through the boy underneath him. Harry started to speak, but before he could breathe a word, Draco reclaimed his lips. Harry moaned sharply and arched up into the curve of Draco’s body as their kisses deepened.

Over and over again they consumed one another, until there was nothing left but euphoria, and the height of the greatest, most perfect feeling Draco Malfoy had ever known.



The title is homage to my dear friend Veronica, who used to slave away at a Movie Gallery. Apparently replacing videos back on the shelves is called “blocking the walls” and for some reason the term just fit this chapter to me. Veronica also introduced me to Space Team Electra, who wrote the beautiful song “Luminous Crush,” source of the chapter quote.

Many thanks go out to beta-readers Franzi, Verdant, and Slightlights; Durendal and Penguin for general feedback; and MissBreed for very very last-minute editing.

This has been a stressful month. I couldn’t have survived it without all the list members who have made the Armchair such a comfy and fun place to relax in its first month; the antics of Potterstinks, Just_Harry, and all the members of Nocturne Alley to keep me entertained; and especially Nancy, Jen, Erica, and She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for constant unconditional support and love as I sludged my way through the mire. *wipes muck off shoes.*

Have I said again how much I love the members of the Armchair? You guys rule. Thank you so much, and thank you so much to everyone who reviewed LUW 10.

And finally:

This is the most personal chapter I’ve written yet, in many bittersweet ways. I dedicate it to R, whose imprint is everywhere—in the writing and in the writer. Always.