Grey

Draco turns the key. He's in luck, they have the run of the whole astronomy tower. A narrow building, its spindles twisting high into the dark, cloudy sky. Man observing what is untouchable. Heaven on earth. Kinda like Harry, Draco thinks and smirks at his own sappiness. Just what he has been looking forward to for the whole week.

There are no drapes, no decorations in the room, only maps of the stars on the walls. Star signs, too. Perhaps an influence from Professor Trelawney. He looks for his own, Scorpio. The scorpion. Deadly beast of the desert. Also reputed to be a sex fiend. And then he looks for Harry's. Leo. The lion. King. Fitting. He sighs.

Keeping a little back from the window, he looks out. The view -- what he can see from his height in the sky -- is of the Hogwarts grounds. The Quidditch pitch is a little off to the right, in the distance. There is also a view of the corridor leading up to the tower -- windows cut out of the solid rock with stained glass as thin as paper.

Harry will walk there. He'll stop by one of the coats of armor, look too obviously around him to see if anyone is watching. Hopefully, by the time he's done, there won't be. Peeves, however big a menace, likes to irritate the house elves down in the kitchen at this time of night, but Filch and Mrs. Norris are always possibilities.

He takes out his pen and paper. He could finish a few pages of homework before Harry arrives. If he arrives. Sometimes he gets hung up, or intercepted. Or so he claims.

He puts the pen to his paper and writes his name. He opens his book. He taps his pen against his temple absentmindedly, as if he is trying to gather some constructive thoughts. But, the fact is, he can't think about anything else but Harry... He has fantasies with Harry, just the two of them. He wants to share a big bathtub with him. Wallow around in there with him, in pink suds. Maybe they will, later, when they have graduated. Or if they can find another cheap hotel in London. But no -- last time they were almost caught upon return. It's so hard, sometimes, but it's worth it. It's worth everything. But then, they are risking everything. What if someone were to see them? It would... everything would... leave.

He gets up and paces. The floor creaks. Hardwood, even after all these years. Stained, where students have spilt their ink. How many eyes have looked at the skies from this small stand in the sky? How many bodies have rubbed up against one another here? How many others have had secret affairs? Draco doesn't want to think about that. He wants to think of himself as a frontiersman, paving new paths. Carving himself into the history of Hogwarts, of Harry... leaving a deep, dark, scar... deeper than the stains on the ground, deeper than the scar on his forehead. Something to never be forgotten.

--

Harry walks along the corridor, hoping not to be discovered. It's late, very late. The air feels different at this time of night. Infinitely colder, wetter, more substantial. He's used to it by now. He's been coming once a week for so long he can't remember not doing it.

Here's the door to the Astronomy Tower, where Draco said he'd be. Their easiest hiding spot. Also the spot where they are most likely to be caught. A chance worth taking.

Lately he's had the sense of someone watching him, though whenever he turns around there's nobody there. He's being more careful; he's being as careful as he can. Is he afraid? Yes. Gryffindors aren't supposed to be afraid. Nevertheless, he's afraid most of the time. But his fear doesn't matter. Or rather, it does matter. It enhances the pleasure Harry feels when he's with Draco; also the sense that he's getting away with it.

The real danger comes from himself. What he'll allow, how far he's willing to go. But allowing and willing have nothing to do with it. Where he'll be pushed, then; where he'll be led. He hasn't examined his motives. There may not be any motives as such... desire is not a motive, is it? It doesn't seem to him that he has any choice. It's been like that from the first day. Such extreme pleasure is also a humiliation. It's like being hauled along by a leash around the neck, a shameful rope. He resents it, his lack of freedom, and so he stretches out the time between, rationing Draco. He stands him up, fibs about why he couldn't make it--claims he didn't receive the note, didn't see Draco's eyes flickering across the Great Hall, was unable to avoid Ron and Hermione's questions.

But in the end, back he comes. There's no use resisting. Harry goes to Draco for amnesia, for oblivion. He renders himself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of his own body, forgets his name, his past, his scar. Immolation is what he wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries... for isn't fucking Draco Malfoy the ultimate boundary? The ultimate shame?

--

Draco checks his watch, and then the window again, and here Harry comes. Now he's stopped, as if on cue; he gazes around in that dazed way he has, as if he's just been wakened from a puzzling dream. But he comes on, walking his way up the stairs, he can see him in moving fragments through the windows. He is now out of sight, coming up the front steps. A timid knock. Draco walks over to the door and unlocks it.

Hello. Harry pushes the door closed and stands with his back against it. Draco steps close to him, smelling him. His scent is so distinct -- like cedar and grass.

Nobody followed you. I was watching. Good boy.

Am I a good boy? Sometimes I feel like a prostitute.

You can't be a prostitute, you don't ask for money. You know, I think you watch too many muggle movies, Draco whispers to the side of Harry's head. He could use a haircut, but Harry could always use a haircut. He undoes the top four buttons of Harry's shirt, runs his hand in under. His flesh is so condensed, so dense. He's seen sculptures like that.

Harry is regal, despite his glasses, his messy hair. Draco may look more aristocratic, but Harry somehow demands respect.

Fuck me, Harry commands, with a crackly, earnest voice into the soft hairs on Draco's neck, chilling him with excitement. The small note of insecurity in his voice gives it much more weight than it might have otherwise. Goosebumps pop up on Draco's arms before they descend to the floor in a frenzied, furious fashion.

--

They are now laughing, naked, on a heap of clothing that served as a makeshift bed. Harry softly traces the outline of Draco's ribs.

You should eat more. You're all bones.

It's just the way I'm built. I actually eat like a horse.

I like seeing you naked. It makes you seem like a different person. Without all your green robes. Your hair messed up... It's so much more appealing.

Are you suggesting I become a hairstyle-less nudist?

No, this is mine, Harry says. He wraps his arms around Draco's torso and buries his face in his shoulder. Nobody else can see you like this. And if anybody did, I would kill them.

Do you want to hear a fantasy of mine?

Not if it involves me killing someone for you.

Draco laughs. No... I want to take a bubble bath with you. With gigantic pink suds.

Really? A bubble bath? I never pictured you as a bathing sort. I was thinking that you're more of a shower person.

You can't even begin to know the half of me. You can never expect things I will do or what I won't do. Let me show you...Draco draws a small sheet of paper out of his jacket's pocket and clears his throat.

In our two loves there is but one respect,

Though in our loves a separable spight,

Which thought it alter not loves sole effect,

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from loves delight,

I may not ever-more acknowledge thee,

Least my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,

Nor thou with public kindness honour me,

Unless thou take that honour from thy name:

But doe not so, I love thee in such sort,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

Which one is that?

Draco checks the top of his paper. Thirty-six.

Nice. You do surprise me.

Do I? he says. Why? Though I like to surprise you. He lights a cigarette, offers him one; Harry shakes his head for no. Draco is smoking too much. It's nerves, despite his steady hands.

I never figured you for the Shakespeare type. Also I never thought in a million years you would be reciting sonnets to me. You've sneered at the idea of love too many times. Sickly sentiment, you called it when we first started... He pauses, trying to think of a word. ...this. I think you're going soft.

Don't blame me, Draco says, smiling. Such things happen. Anyway, I found this in the library and I thought it was lovely. Reminded me of us. I have no idea what it means, but I think it sounds very nice. Not that you would know anything about declaring your love. You won't go all the way and admit it. You're to love as a cock-teaser is to fucking.

Harry laughs, a startled laugh. Jesus, he says. I think I'm actually blushing. First you're spouting off sonnets and then you say that.

I'm not anything to you if I'm not honest.

That's true. You're nothing to me without your honesty.

Let me prove it to you. Go ahead. Ask me anything you want.

No, Harry says. I don't want to.

Why not? Are you afraid? I assure you, you have nothing to be afraid of. And I know you want to ask me something. You've got that look.

No, no. No I don't. Nothing. I trust you. That's all.

You trust me about as much as you can bloody throw me. Ask me. Anything.

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it. He stares at him for awhile.

Finally: What do you know about Voldemort?

Draco clearly was not expecting this question. He looks down.

I know everything my father knows. Okay, now my turn to ask you.

That's all I get?

Yes. I was honest with you. Now I get to ask you something. Are you ever unfaithful to me?

Unfaithful. What a quaint word.

Never mind my choice of vocabulary, Draco says. Are you?

I don't think of it as unfaithfulness.

What do you think of it as? Draco asks in a cold voice.

Survival. I need to keep up appearances. Girls, and whatnot. I wouldn't want to disrupt the entire wizarding community with my homosexuality.

Oh. So do you follow up on the deal? Draco turns his face away, his voice coated with impending resentment.

It wouldn't be a convincing performance otherwise.

Fuck you.

I'm only telling the truth, Harry says.

Well, maybe you shouldn't.

Don't get up, he says. I'm only kidding. I couldn't lay a finger on any other person. I'd be absolutely sick. And anyway, I don't understand your sudden need for a heart-to-heart all of a sudden. It's rather disconcerting, actually.

There's a pause. Draco kisses him, draws back. I may have to go away, he says carefully. I needed to tell you. I don't want you to wonder where I am going.

Away where? What for?

I can't tell you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The information I hold is... very valuable. My life could be in danger.

Why don't you just tell them what you know?

I can't. I just... I can't. I'm so sorry.