A Plague of Legends

Chapter Eight: The Semantics of Kissing

Or, The Five of Swords, Reversed

"The granting of wishes and longings can be a dangerous thing. It is especially so if one's desires are shallow, fragmentary, or ephemeral. However, there is no wish more perilous than the one that is uncertain."

Demetrius Malfoy, 951 A.D.

***

Malfoy stepped out of the showers. His hair clung to his head like a bleached skullcap, beads of water dripping from his hair to his nose to his chin and splattering across his flushed chest. A black towel trimmed in silver rode low on his hips, somehow both less and more decent than a loincloth. Malfoy appeared a mythic elf, like the ones who had populated Harry's childhood: graceful, petite and slender; not short, squat and clothed in tea towels.

Harry did not regret the loss of his childhood daydreams, not really; after all, most of them had been brought to life in one way or another. But Harry also did not forget the fantasies that Dudley had been so quick to discard for game consoles and toy guns. He did not forget gentle Lion-Gods and star-lit Elves, or their tales of bravery and sacrifice. However, he did not make the mistake of confusing these noble legends with the wet boy who stood dripping and proud beside him.

Malfoy was white and silver all over, shiny and unblemished like an ivory sculpture. He made Harry feel dark and ungainly, especially in moments like this one. Even so, Harry could not stop looking at the other boy. Those slanted glances, obscured by dipped head and lowered lashes, had become a daily ritual. They were the inevitable counterparts to the boys' early morning games and the following trips to the Slytherin locker room. The curve of Malfoy's ankles brought to mind the morning of their first game. . .

***

An extremely dirty Harry Potter stumbled behind Draco Malfoy into the Slytherin lockers. Harry waved a fist at Malfoy's back.

"Why don't you just admit that you lost, Malfoy? I already had your flag in my hand by the time you got mine."

"Of course Potter, but only when you admit that you placed your tenth rank Shield illegally in my path."

"I did not! I at least looked at the rules before playing."

"Potter, I have been playing Stratego since I was eight years old. And while I am impressed that your very basic understanding of our mother tongue was enough for a very basic understanding of the rules, rule number forty three, section B, paragraph four, subparagraph two clearly states that Shields ranking tenth level or above cannot be moved diagonally when the Rainbow has been called."

Harry stared at Malfoy. Obviously the only thing stopping the other boy from ending his tirade with an 'I told you so' was his ingrained snobbery.

"So why don't I remember there even being a rule forty three, let alone sections A or B?"

"Probably because your intelligence is on par with that of someone who snogs Dementors as a form of entertainment."

"And you have less tact than a faun in heat, but you don't see me complaining, do- What are you doing, Malfoy?"

Harry stared at Malfoy's suddenly bare arms and chest. Malfoy's skin was white, whiter than his face, if that was even possible. Harry would have thought that skin so white would be repulsive, maybe look like dead flesh, but it wasn't. It didn't. It was. . . beautiful. Like an old painting or one of those famous Muggle statues, mottled stone stretched thin over fluid muscles. Malfoy snatched his robes off of the floor and tossed them onto the bench, the muscles in his arms flexing. His bare, unmarked arms.

Malfoy glanced at the pile of robes on the bench beside him, then at the pajama top he'd just removed. He sneered.

"I am stripping. What does it look like?"

"You're stripping." Harry wondered just when Hermione's prudishness had begun to rub off on him. It wasn't like he hadn't been doing this with the boys from Gryffindor since first year. There wasn't anything special about Malfoy, he was just a boy like Ron or Neville.

Just like them. Was that relief?

"Potter, would you look at me?" Malfoy pointed at his oh-so-slightly smudged face, his tousled hair. "I am in desperate need of a thorough cleansing, as, I might add, are you."

Malfoy stepped out of his pajama bottoms, the silk puddling at the tips of his toes. Harry blushed and decided that now was as good a time as any to examine the door of a nearby locker. Surprisingly, it was no different from the Gryffindor lockers. Even the stain of the wood was the same, a light red. Red. Well, at least Harry now knew exactly how baseless all of the rumors about Malfoy were. Sounds of spraying water issued from the next room over. Right, a shower.

"I know that, Malfoy! But I don't have a towel. And I don't have the key to my House's locker rooms, unlike some people here," Harry yelled.

"Well, of course you don't have a key. You're a Gryffindor. And Gryffindors would never steal anything, now would they?" Harry looked at the Zuu, glittering on top of Malfoy's robes, and flinched. Malfoy made some splashing noises. "So you have no towel. And since you're whining, I should assume that you are currently unable of transfiguration."

It was a tactful (and very un-Malfoy-like) way of asking if Harry had forgotten his wand. Harry nodded, then realized that Malfoy couldn't see him. "Yes."

"Well, given a choice between sullying one of our towels or dealing with your stench, I suppose I'll just have to breathe through my mouth until you leave. As common a practice as it may be."

"Malfoy! Can't you act like a human being for just once and lend me a towel?"

Malfoy emerged from the showers, vigorously toweling his head. His lips were quirked up at the corners.

"Why no, I don't think that I can. And anyway, Potter, the question is not one of whether or not I can act like a human. I am human, so it logically follows that I act like one. The real question you need to ask is one of whether or not I'm humane enough to lend (or make) you a towel. Which I'm not," Malfoy smiled viciously, showing off his dimples.

Harry blinked, for a moment forgetting about the Slytherin's blatant nudity. Malfoy had dimples. Malfoy, of all people.

"You didn't actually think that I would lend you a towel, did you?" Malfoy's dimples deepened. "You did, didn't you? How very trusting."

Harry realized that dimpling could be considered a very wicked thing indeed. He wondered if Malfoy's father dimpled evilly at people before consigning them to the seventh level of Hell, or if Malfoy had inherited his dimples from his mother. A very disturbing thought suddenly back-ended Harry. What would Voldemort look like with dimples, the edges of his poker-red eyes crinkling? Harry thanked Merlin that he had no breakfast in his stomach to lose.

"Just be grateful that I'm letting you use our showers. When you have brought your own towel, of course."

"Of course."

"Well, what are you waiting for? You're fouling the air in here. Begone."

"Of course, anything to please your lordship."

There were those dimples again.

"Anything, Potter? I'll have to keep that in mind."

Harry blushed and made a valiant attempt at stuttering out a witty reply, "Uh, well, I-"

"Oh, just go now." A flash of teeth, "Unless you'd like to watch me change?"

Harry fled. Running from Malfoy was getting to be quite a habit.

***

Harry stepped into his boxers and scowled at Malfoy, remembering his return that morning to Gryffindor Tower. Not only had Harry had to sneak back into his room without waking up Ron and the others, but he'd also been forced to take a quick run through the shower. Harry would never think of Seamus' snoring as anything but a blessing from that day forward. Between the Irish foghorn and his Silencing spells Harry had managed to get clean, but it had been a lot more trouble than it'd been worth. That morning had been the last time Harry forgot to bring his towel (or wand) to the Quidditch pitch with him.

It had also marked a subtle change in his Malfoy obsession. Harry himself didn't know what to make of it. At least, he spent a lot of time telling himself that. Some times were worse than others, like when Malfoy spilled Harpy blood and licked the drops off his fingers, the blue liquid staining his lips violet. Or like the day a Blink Puppy had got into a tussle with Malfoy and somehow managed to strip the Slytherin half naked before Hagrid got him collared. Or like the times when Zabini straddled Malfoy's lap before classes and at meals, their tongues playing tag and hands hidden under robes.

At such times Harry's breathing became labored, heavy. Visions of Malfoy parading naked in front of him, water drawing wet trails along pale skin, flooded his senses and he remembered. He remembered everything, from Malfoy's sneers and smiles to Ron's loud laughter to Hermione's gentle chiding to the sounds of his parents dying screams. Kill the spare. He remembered all and none of this in a matter of instants. What Harry was really remembering was what it was like to feel. Deep and strong emotions, not the shallow dull things that are all a mind on auto-pilot can offer. Like a diver surfacing for air, Harry came up from within himself and looked around with blurred eyes.

And what he saw was Malfoy. Malfoy, who had thrust him into this kaleidoscope. Malfoy who blew up Neville's potions, who called people 'Mudblood', who smiled at him, naked and slick. Malfoy, who was apparently defined as much by his role in life as Harry was by his own. Malfoy, who had silver eyes and skin that just begged to be colored. Nowadays everything seemed to come back to Malfoy.

There were days when Harry found himself tracing out the curve of Malfoy's back in his notebooks, black ink bleeding wobbly lines in hesitant strokes. Ron asked him a couple of times what he was drawing, but gave up after getting the same answer each time. "Nothing." Because he was drawing nothing. Nothing at all.

Harry lived his days rediscovering the world around him, rediscovering himself in a watercolor montage. People and things change, sometimes almost unrecognizably so, after over a year of absence. Harry was startled, scared, by the floods of emotion that rushed out when he looked at certain people. Ron and Hermione: deep love and loyalty. Dumbledore: respect and affection. Snape: respect and intense dislike. Malfoy: fascination and possessiveness and disgust and. . . nothing. Cho: pity and a sad sort of fondness.

Cho. What had happened to his feelings- no, it had been love- for Cho? Ever since fourth year he had liked Cho. Cho of the shy smiles, sweet nature, and fierce determination. Over fifth year he had just. . . assumed, Harry supposed, that he still liked her. Now there really was nothing. A vague liking and the shadow of an inclination to get to know her better. But nothing more. Harry wondered when the feeling had died. Not that it really mattered. Looking back, he could see that his crush had been just that: a shallow impulse that had been unable to withstand his complete emotional shutdown. Or, it had been the first signs of his latent sexuality. Now formerly latent.

His sexuality. Merlin, how he hated his sexuality; it was another problem, and a big one. Living in a haze had blurred his life into surreality and a false security. It had muffled his emotions and his thoughts. It had also dampened his perceptions of his growing body. In the space of time it took Malfoy to slip out of his shirt, Harry remembered lust.

Of course, Harry had never truly forgotten it- he'd just never paid it any attention, and when that hadn't worked, had done his damnedest to ignore it. It was less difficult than one would think to be able to disregard a raging erection.

He was sixteen years old, and the drop of a quill would get a rise out of him. Hormones do not wait for the closure of psychological trials, but come a-calling regardless of true desire or intent. There were moments when Harry had been commuting between classes, thinking of the most innocent and dull things (like his Potions homework), and suddenly he was erect. For no reason at all. None. It was at these times that Harry truly appreciated wizard robes. They hid the evidence of his impulsive and utterly indiscriminate body.

Most of the time.

Because there had been that one time. Under the Invisibility Cloak on the way to the kitchens with Ron and Hermione. It had been dark, and stifling, and just a bit musty under the Cloak, bodies pressed together as they slinked over stone. Hermione had gasped, the heat of her blush scorching Harry's cheeks as she whispered a low apology. Harry squirmed away, the indentation left by the press of her hip tingling. Normal or not, Harry still hadn't been able to talk to her without stammering for days afterward.

Was there anything truly 'exciting' about the Whomping Willow? No. Absolutely not. Not that it mattered to a sixteen year old male body. And of course a pretty face or the hint of breasts under robes could do things to him; he was only human. But it was still nothing real. None of it was anything more than the chemical impulses of an under-stimulated body.

But now. Now he noticed things, and Harry was no longer able to so easily ignore his body. He noticed how Ginny always clung to him and brushed her body against his just so. He noticed Parvati's unique beauty, how coffee smooth her skin was. He found himself wondering what color her skin was under her robes, if her nipples were a light chocolate or a dusky rose. And what it would be like to suck at them. He also found himself watching the other boys in the showers, following the water as it traced patterns down their backs. He wondered how different kissing a boy would be from kissing a girl, and then realized that he didn't much care. He watched Malfoy and Zabini play their public sex games and obsessively fantasized about their private ones. He watched Malfoy, remembering the way Malfoy's fingers had felt in his hair. And Harry hated it.

He hated this sudden objectification of the people around him, the way that his mind turned friends and enemies alike into sexual objects. His most disturbing moment came one day in Snape's class when the teacher was berating Neville for yet another failed potion. Harry had been sketching in his notebook and languidly daydreaming about that morning's game with Malfoy, when he was suddenly staring at Snape's crotch and offhandedly wondering what Snape's genitalia were like. If they were big, small or normal. How heavy his balls were. What it would be like to touch them. Taste them. The thought nearly toppled Harry to the floor. Instead, he clutched at his desk, driving his ragged fingernails into the splintered wood, and ignored Ron's anxious whispers. He had just thought about touching Snape. Never mind how disgusting Harry found the idea; he'd still imagined it. Harry wished he could open up his mind and give it a good scrubbing. But he couldn't. So here he was, still wet from his short shower, watching the way Malfoy's privates bobbed as the blonde toweled his hair dry.

"Stop looking, Potter," Malfoy fuzzily ordered.

Harry glanced quickly up at Malfoy's face. His head was entirely obscured by his towel.

"I'm not looking, Malfoy." The Zuu sparkled on the bench beside him. Harry picked it up and ran his fingers over the rearing lion.

"You bloody well were, Potter." Malfoy's head emerged from under the towel, his eyes sparking annoyance.

"No, I wasn't." Harry tried his best for a calm, adult tone, but he wondered. How had Malfoy known?

"Yes, you were. I felt your eyes on me. And before you protest your virtue-" Malfoy held up one hand and placed the other on his hip, sashaying above and jiggling below.

Harry fought an oncoming blush.

"Let me assure you that I don't need to catch you peeping to know you've been doing it. I'm sure that you, of all people, know what I mean."

Harry wished he didn't. He felt other people's eyes on him all the time, could sometimes even identify who was watching before he'd even turned to look. But that didn't mean he was going to admit anything. This was Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! Harry placed a thumb over the lion's mouth and pressed down, hard.

"Now, let's see. No need to wonder what you were looking at," Malfoy's voice was wry, "so the question then becomes 'why'? Why were you looking at me, Potter?"

Harry clamped his mouth closed and gripped the Zuu.

"Could it be that Harry Potter, Hero Extraordinaire, Idol to the Masses and Hope of the Righteous finds me, Draco Malfoy the Prince of Slytherin and Spawn of the Dark, attractive?"

Harry kept his mouth shut. These days his body seemed to find rocks attractive. And as much of a git as Malfoy was, he was definitely a step above rocks.

"Of course, I am irresistible, so it's not very surprising."

"Malfoy, I just know there's more to this conversation than a chance to increase your egomania."

Actually, Harry doubted it. He also doubted that he could be any more embarrassed than he already was. And since embarrassing Harry seemed to be the goal of all of Malfoy's recent actions. . .

"How perceptive of you."

Malfoy moved like a dying breath, so quickly that Harry could barely register his movements. Between one blink and the next, Harry's wand was sent flying across the room, cracking sharply against the door of a locker. The Zuu toppled off of the bench and rolled towards the showers. Reflexes for once faster than Harry's, almost eerily so, Malfoy pinned Harry against the bench, one hand gripping Harry's wrists together as his other waved the wand that had suddenly materialized there. A low mutter and Harry found his wrists stuck to the bench.

"Let me go, Malfoy!"

"Let me think. No." Malfoy cast shadows on Harry.

Harry wrenched his body off of the bench, wincing when he thudded to the floor. His wrists screamed pain, anchored firm by magic and twisted slightly by the fall. And his robes were dirty, again. Damn Malfoy.

"This isn't funny, Malfoy. Now let me go. You've proven your point."

"This is no joke, which you would understand if you had any idea of what my point is." Malfoy made his point by pressing against Harry, tickling his captive's ear with whispers.

Harry forced himself to ignore the naked slick body rubbing at him, the fingers gliding over him, and met Malfoy's eyes. He would not respond. He would not give Malfoy the satisfaction. He was not Bulstrode.

"Then what is it? A game? If so- fine, you win, let me loose."

Malfoy said nothing, just kept swallowing him up with those utterly impossible eyes. And then-

"Malfoy! What are you doing?!" Harry made a very ineffective attempt at dislodging the other boy. The blonde curled up against Harry like a cat or a snake.

"I'm sucking on your ear-"

"Let go!"

"- and feeling you up. Even you should be able to understand that much."

Harry struggled and flailed, but Malfoy wouldn't stop. He'd stopped licking Harry's ear and was now concentrating on the hollow of Harry's throat, his hands tearing at Harry's pajamas.

"You can't tell me that you don't want this and don't think about this when you look at me. You are always looking at me. Always."

"No, I. . ." Yes, maybe there were times when he thought about Malfoy, he thought about a lot of people. And yes he sometimes looked at Malfoy, but he didn't want Malfoy! He couldn't. Malfoy's mouth on his neck made him feel sick, ecstatic.

"Yes, you. Did you think I hadn't noticed? Mordred, Potter, you do it whenever I'm in the same room as you. Classes, mealtimes, here in the locker room! And if you are so naïve," Malfoy spat out the word, "as to not understand why you are doing this, then I have no choice but to educate you."

Malfoy ripped open Harry's pajama top, eyes cool as he surveyed, cataloged, and rated. "Not bad, Potter. Now let's see about the rest of you." Malfoy shoved down the night bottoms, blinked. "Please tell me that you're not wearing jumbo-sized orange and pink striped boxers. Because a colony of hippopotami could sword dance in there and still have room to set up a buffet. Mordred."

Harry scowled and blushed. They had been Dudley's boxers. "I don't see how it's any of your business, Malfoy. If it bothers you, let me go."

"No."

The soft word ghosted down Harry's body, following the trail of Malfoy's mouth and landing at the juncture of Harry's thighs. Harry crossed his legs.

"Please."

"No."

The word fluttered against Harry's crotch, dancing over the buttons on his boxers. Harry tightened his legs, squealing when Malfoy pried them open. He let out a rushing breath and closed his eyes as Malfoy buried his face into the tenting fabric.

"Potter. Look at me."

Harry shook his head and clenched his eyes tighter.

"Look at me. Harry."

Harry.

Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy was staring up at him, eyes luminous with that look that was just for Harry. Hatred, rage, lust and something else. What was that something else? And how did he know that it was just his? Only his. But did that make what was obviously about to happen any better? Never. No. No. . .

"I can feel you watching me, always. You claim me with your stares and offhand glances. And I do not tolerate possession, in any form."

Malfoy slipped his fingers inside Harry's boxers. Harry shuddered.

"Yet you ignore my warnings and dare to try. To possess me. I cannot forgive that."

The movements of Malfoy's hand made waves under thin fabric, his eyes locked with Harry's.

"So for every look that has marked me I will mark you. Every stare, every blush, every righteous piece of drivel you have ever spouted at me I will visit back on you. Like this."

Malfoy's hand wrapped around Harry.

"And this."

Malfoy's tongue in his bellybutton made Harry shiver.

"And this."

Malfoy parted the slit in Harry's boxers, smiling a bit at the view. He looked up at Harry. Smiled again.

"I will do so until there isn't a part of you left that's not mine. Until every time you look at yourself you can't help but remember how I have touched you, marked you. Claimed you. And I will start with this."

Later, when Harry thought back and tried to remember what happened next, he could do nothing more than come up with fragmented words and sensations. Wet, hot, slick, powerless, want, fulfillment, shame, fear, fury, happiness, and yes- possession. All it took was Malfoy's mouth on his skin and he felt claimed.

To one who has been treated like a disease for most of his life, the sensation of touch is a sacred thing- a terrifying thing. Years of living without anything but the most brutal of human contact had left Harry cold and vulnerable to touch. It had taken Hermione and Ron years to make him comfortable with their frequent casual caresses, their sudden and intense embraces. Even now Harry shied away from most physical advances, unsure of how exactly to deal with them. Thick crowds made Harry break out into a cold sweat, the pawing of his fans made him shudder away; even Mr. Weasley's hand on his shoulder was an intrusion. In some ways, to Harry, there was nothing more intimate and personal than the act of holding hands. Or so he had thought. He really had been naïve. So very naïve. Harry choked, his vision blurry and wet, throat hoarse from harsh gasps.

Malfoy surfaced from between Harry's thighs, observing Harry's reactions as he licked his lips clean. He looked at Harry like he would an empty plate that had, until moments before, been stacked with Turkish Delight and Chocolate Frogs. Harry felt himself flushing, a wash of shame canvassing his skin. He doubted that he could turn any redder than he already was. Malfoy locked eyes with him and then, without breaking contact, slithered up Harry's chest, a liquid snake, halting only when his breath tickled Harry's parted lips. Harry turned his head away, jerking against Malfoy's fingers when they tried to bring him back for a kiss.

"Potter, what is this?" Malfoy's voice was beyond disgusted.

"I am not kissing you, Malfoy."

"Potter, do you need me to remind you of what I just did? Morgaine, Mordred, and Nineve, I just sucked you off. You do realize that a blow job is simply another form of kissing, don't you?"

"Malfoy, I am not going to argue the semantics of kissing with you."

"So you won't kiss me." Malfoy's eyes engulfed Harry, turning him inside out.

"No." And Harry wouldn't. He'd always believed that a kiss was something shared between people who loved each other. And now kissing was the only thing left to him.

"So you think that kissing is about love, do you?"

Harry tightened his mouth. There was no need to nod. Malfoy stared into his eyes, searching for Merlin knew what answer.

"Fine. I don't need your lips as long as I can have the rest of you. And believe me, I will."

Malfoy rubbed himself against Harry's torso. The friction made Harry shudder. Malfoy nipped at Harry's collarbone, laughed, and rolled onto his feet. Harry just lay there, wrists aching and skin tingling as he watched Malfoy dress. Malfoy's fingers danced over his buttons, his every movement a subtle exhibition of grace. Harry felt phantom fingers on him, playing him. He was disgusted to find how much he enjoyed the remembrance of it. As if from within a fog, Harry realized that his wrists hurt. He tugged at them.

"Are you going to cut me loose any time soon?" It felt like his shoulder had been dislocated.

"Oh, yes. That." Malfoy took out his wand and waved it at Harry. "Finite Incantatem. And get yourself off of the floor."

Harry rubbed at his wrists and glared at Malfoy. The look bounced empty and powerless off of Malfoy's porcelain skin.

"Just who put me there?"

"You did, Potter. I had you all nicely laid out on the bench but you decided that the floor would make a better location. I'll have to keep your preference in mind for future liaisons."

Harry paled.

"Unless of course, you stop looking. . .?"

It seemed like such a simple demand. It should have been. It was. Harry was shaking his head before he knew what he was doing. What was he doing? What in Merlin's name was he doing?

"I thought not." Malfoy grimaced. "Well, I'll be leaving now; I would kiss you goodbye, but you've made your wishes on the matter quite clear."

"And since when have you respected my wishes? You didn't today."

"You think not, Potter?" Malfoy grinned lewdly; it was an unexpectedly charming expression. Harry felt his body tighten. He hated himself for it.

"Before I leave, though, I want you to remember one last thing: I will not kiss you. Not now, not ever. At least, not until you kiss me. You might not want to now, but someday soon you won't be able to sleep for want of kissing me. And it will not be love or kindness keeping you awake at night. When that time comes, remember what I have just said.

"And then we will see just how true you remain to your high and lofty ideals."