White Horses

HARRY'S HANDS WERE STILL HOLDING Draco in a painfully tight grip as he shook his head, trying not to acknowledge the prickling in his eyes. He blinked furiously and thought, Why? Why is it a shock that he is a Death Eater? Of course, Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater. Why should it hurt?

"Why, Draco? Why did you have to do it?" He realized he'd spoken aloud, though even he wasn't just certain of what he was asking:

Why did you have to become a Death Eater?

Why did you have to make me care about you?

Why did you have to let me find out?

Draco was frozen; horrified and confused by what was going on. When he'd opened his eyes to find Harry leaning over him with a bony hold on his wrist, he hadn't been awake enough to realize what was happening. Draco never woke up well, he'd never been one of those people who were instantly alert and knew what was going on; and so now he was still struggling to catch up to what had happened.

It was the middle of the night and Harry was on his bed with him. Harry had grabbed his left arm and pulled up the sleeve that covered it. Harry looked wretched and was still staring at the mark branded on his arm. Harry was looking up at him, his green eyes brimming with tears. Draco searched those eyes and consciousness filtered into layers building up to the horrifying truth. He felt a matching panic rise in his eyes. He knows. Harry knows.

The Gryffindor jerked away, trying to leave; trying to hide from the truth that was glaring at him in the form of a black grinning skull marring the smooth skin of his boyfriend. But Draco still held the wrist of his right hand, and though his grip hadn't helped him to hide the Mark, it did give him enough leverage to keep Harry from running. The Gryffindor struggled toward the door, fighting to wrench his arm free even while he couldn't dare to look back at the boy on the bed, and so Draco pulled sharply on his arm. It upset Harry's balance and sent him tumbling back onto the mattress with the blonde.

Harry struggled even more desperately as he fought to get free. He fought like something wild, all thoughts of any training abandoning him as he struck at the boy who was holding him tightly. He punched Draco, tearing at his clothes and his hair and anything he could get a hold of. But the blonde didn't fight back, he only tried to restrain Harry as the boy wept. Harry didn't even seem to realize that he was sobbing as he beat the young Death Eater.

Draco could feel the salt of tears stinging in the cuts that Harry had left on him. He realized in shock that some of the tears were his own. I can't believe I'm so weak. I've taken much worse beatings without crying. But it had to be the pain of Harry's blows that had made him cry. What else could it possibly be?

Eventually the rain of blows stopped. Blinking cautiously, Draco tried to take stock again as he loosened his hold on his boyfriend. The Boy Who Lived seemed to have exhausted his anger for now and was only left with tears. He collapsed weakly onto the Slytherin and wept. He was clutching Draco's top in tight handfuls and the boy began to understand the hysterical words in those harsh sobs: "Draco, what's wrong with me? Oh my god, what's wrong with me? Why am I like this?"

Draco held tightly onto the shaking boy, their mingled tears burning the abrasions that littered his face and throat. Harry felt lost, as he hid his face from the boy who was probably going to kill him before Voldemort even got the chance to. Everything that had happened, all the stress of the last few months had overwhelmed him. The prophecy's weight, the gaping hole of Sirius' death, the lack of help or support from Dumbledore, the absence of his murdered classmates, the trauma of his abduction, his fragile trust in Draco. All of it culminating in this betrayal.

The tears should have seemed cathartic, but Harry didn't feel any better for their burning pain. And still he couldn't stop the ugly gasping that was wracking his body. Draco was kissing his face, trying to stop the flow of tears. Too frustrated and pained to even push himself away, Harry spoke directly into Draco's throat, tasting the saltiness of his skin. He was finally able to voice, "Why, Draco? Why are you with him? Why are you doing this to me?"

Draco pulled the unresisting Gryffindor up to him and smoothed his palms over that damp skin, pushing the black hair back off Harry's face. He gave a little sobbing laugh, before he murmured into Harry's mouth, "Must everything always be about you, Potter?"

Harry echoed his strangled laugh and said in a choked voice, "No, Draco. Don't make me like you when I hate you. I hate you." Saying it aloud seemed to help Harry's resolve, and he tried to slide away from the other boy, finding it impossible when Draco only held onto him more desperately.

"Harry," he said pleadingly, "Please, don't leave. You have to understand, Harry. You have to..."

It wasn't so much what Draco was saying as it was the tone he was saying it in, which stopped Harry. He recognized the thickness in that voice, though he never would have expected it from Malfoy. Glancing up to the Slytherin's face only confirmed the tears that made his eyes more silver than usual and leaked into his fine hair. Draco Malfoy was crying.

Harry couldn't understand how he could feel so wretched and betrayed by finding out the truth, and yet still be moved by seeing the self-contained Draco weep. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't deny it. With a fleeting thought of Fuck it, Harry kissed Malfoy as he had been kissed - trying to erase those tears and what they meant. He forgot about the Dark Mark on Draco's arm, forgot about the similar mark that disfigured his own chest, and everything but the sensations in the dark of the blue-lit night.

Draco kissed him back with the same fierce desperation, feeling triumph sweep through him. They clung tightly to each other - knowing that they could never reach each other across the deep river that their tears had created. Hands roved over bodies in an effort to leave their stain behind, as if their marks could erase the Mark that each boy wore.

Harry's glasses were long gone. Whether they had been torn off in his earlier thrashing or in their heated struggles, neither knew or cared. Draco had been mostly freed from his sheets by all the struggles, but now he kicked free of the last of the bedclothes. He laced an arm around Harry's waist to bring them together without any further barriers. Without ever breaking the contact of their lips, Draco rolled the two of them over so that he straddled Harry's narrow hips. The black-haired boy gasped as he felt their twin erections pressed together. He had never felt anything like that delicious pressure and he ground his hips up against Draco even as he took the other boy in a deep, searching kiss.

Draco leaned up for a moment, his white hair falling across his face and nearly obscuring his silver eyes. He seemed to be having a bit of trouble breathing as he leaned on Harry, his hands smoothing over the hard chest below him. He looked up into Harry's eyes as he began to unbutton the boy's top with shaking hands. He was trying to be slow and gentle, but Harry seemed to have different ideas.

The Gryffindor pushed away those thin white hands and sat up partially himself, his muscles rippling under Draco's hands and unintentionally forcing their groins together again. Draco's hands dug convulsively into the boy's tense abdomen and Harry let out a thin hiss of air at the sensation of the other boy pressed against him, before yanking his shirt over his head. With a quick swivel of his hips, he tumbled on top of Draco and tore that silky black top from him as well.

This was the first time Harry'd had so much access to Draco's body, and he took full advantage of it. He lowered himself to that milky, smooth chest, lavishing the soft skin with his attention. Catching one flat nipple with his teeth, he gave it a slight tug and was fascinated as Draco squirmed beneath him, the Slytherin's breath catching in his throat. Draco allowed him his play and - though he ignored that one marred forearm - Harry left no other inch of that newly-bared skin untouched.

Draco lasted as long as he could under that sweet torture, before taking control again. He swept the small Seeker into his arms and rolled them over, now nearly diagonal across the bed. (Neither noticed.) Adopting a similar posture as before, Draco lay atop his lover, nearly straddling the boy, and Harry could feel that insistent hardness demanding an answer from him - one he knew would be forthcoming.

He arched up to bite Draco none too gently on the shoulder, sucking on that tender curve between the neck and collarbone. Harry wrapped his arms around the other's neck to pull the blonde down to his eager mouth. The smooth skin of their young chests rubbed together and Draco could feel the roughness of Harry's newest scar as it slid over his own skin.

The longer their heated struggles continued, the more their hips took on a rocking pattern, as if of their own volition. As they strained against each other, Harry could feel that hot, liquid sensation in the centre of him coalescing into a tight ball of feelings that he had never even been able to imagine. Tongues thrust into mouths in an echo of other possibilities and Draco slipped a hand between their straining bodies. He marvelled at the taut rippling of Harry's stomach, before he finally pushed his thin fingers into the waistband of the Gryffindor pyjamas.

His hand delved briefly through the tangle of soft, wiry hair before he found what he was looking for. Harry cried out his name as Draco daringly wrapped his hand around the other boy, the exclamation caught in their searing kiss, and Harry was gone in just moments, convulsing under the Slytherin. Draco took those frantic cries into his mouth and it didn't take any longer for the blonde to follow Harry down into that sweet abyss.

IN THE AFTERGLOW OF THEIR shattering orgasms, Draco came back to himself in a series of fragmented sensations. He could feel his pulse thundering raggedly through his body, throbbing at his temples and wrists. He realized that it was Harry's heart pounding against his chest like a frightened animal's. As they lay pressed limply together, Draco also realized that they had made a warm, damp mess of themselves, and the sticky fluids were rapidly cooling.

Knowing that this would soon become quite uncomfortable, Draco made the effort to move his loose muscles. He clumsily stripped off his own silky pyjama bottom and Harry's striped cotton, using the dry bits to clean them both off with limbs left strangely weak and numb. As he saw Harry's slender, athletic body in the faint blue light, he couldn't help licking a brief path down that flat stomach, his breath cooling the quick wetness and ruffling the inky black hair. Harry groaned at the delightful sensation and began to pull himself together, struggling weakly to sit up.

Draco wasn't willing to let him go though, and he wrapped his arms around the Gryffindor, pulling them over to the untouched side of the bed. He loosed one arm and roughly dragged the heavy duvet over them, trying not to fixate on the decidedly distracting feel of Harry's damp skin pressing against his. It was easier once he felt the fine trembling that had overtaken his boyfriend. When the first hot tear hit his skin, he pulled back slightly to look into Harry's face. The boy had his eyes tightly closed and had turned his face away from Draco. The tears seeped slowly from those clasped lids.

"No, Harry..." His whispered plea made a brief sob escape the boy in his arms, and Draco said brokenly, "Harry, please. Please..."

He didn't think about what he was asking, but maybe Harry understood regardless because he accepted Draco's long, soft kiss; he returned the gentle pressure even as his tears were dripping down both their faces. Draco felt him go limp as the Gryffindor collapsed into the exhaustion that had been fraying at the edges of him - and the post-coital sleep was more like unconsciousness than a doze, after the emotional trauma of the night.

Draco looked down at that sleeping face on his chest, tears still clinging to the heavy black lashes. The Boy Who Lived was more vulnerable than anyone had ever been allowed to see. No wand or even clothes to protect him, no effort in his slumber to cover his frightening scars or to hide the frail nudity of his underfed body. Draco wasn't sure how he could send this strangely contradictory, yet fascinating boy to Voldemort, but he knew he would do it regardless.

That would all be some time down the road, however, and Draco was more concerned with the next few hours. Eventually Harry would wake up and he would either hate him even more or want a repeat performance. Draco knew which scenario he was hoping for. He also knew that there was nothing he could do to change the boy's mind now, and so he took what might be his last chance to hold Harry Potter to him. He whispered into the dark hair, "Je rêve de toi," reverting to the language of his childhood as he fell asleep in that uncertain embrace.

DRACO WOKE UP ALONE THE next morning, wondering why that felt wrong. Then he noticed his utter lack of clothing and he thought in confusion, But I never sleep in the nude. Sitting up in his bed, he felt the aching in his body and the memories of the night before slammed into him as he groaned. He could feel now the stinging pain of the multiple scratches and bites that Harry had given him (some in the fight, some in what had followed.) His head jerked up frantically and he immediately spotted Harry sitting in one of his ebony chairs, which the Gryffindor had dragged over to his bedside.

Harry was wearing a pair of heavy black slacks and a dark, charcoal grey turtleneck, both of which had started their lives in Draco's closet. He was even wearing a pair of the Slytherin's socks and if the boy was wearing anything more personal of his, Draco decided he didn't want to know. He hadn't ever seen Harry in really decent clothes and he had to admit that they looked good on him, perhaps even better than they looked on the blonde himself. The infamous green eyes looked painfully bright against all that fine, monochrome cloth.

Draco shifted slightly and was painfully reminded of his own state of dishabille. The sheet was riding low on his hips, revealing the faint presence of his pelvic bones and an almost invisible trail of silky white hair. He made no move to pull the sheet higher, not willing to let his nervousness show. He didn't say a word, waiting for Harry to set the tone. He watched as Harry's normally wide eyes narrowed on the tattoo that marred his left forearm, and he remembered all too well how hideous the Dark Mark looked in the bright sunlight.

Harry got up silently and walked to the door. No, you can't...

"Harry!" He didn't have any control over the weak, croaking voice that couldn't have possibly come from his mouth - his mouth that had been in so many interesting places last night. As his (ex?) boyfriend turned to look at him, Draco did something that he hadn't done for years. He let his mask drop completely.

His body hummed with tension, his lean muscles taut as he threw away all his pride and control. His face was open and showed all of his anguish, fear and hopelessness. His anger at the situation, that he couldn't let anyone else see was laid bare. His uncertainty about what he was doing, his feelings for Harry (whatever they might be) - it was all there. And the raw longing and painful loneliness that even he didn't know was in him, though Harry could see it painted on his face.

Knowing it was a bad idea, and knowing that nothing could change, Harry walked back to the chair and sat heavily. Now there was a glimpse of something else in that naked face. There was a touch of hope and - perhaps because of that daring hope - there was a new rush of fear. Harry watched the play of emotions thrum through the naked blonde's body and waited for Draco to explain.