Facade

A great deal of time later, Draco lay his head against Harry’s sweat drenched skin and kissed Harry’s shoulder between gasping breaths, content to lay within his lover as they recovered together. He forced himself to draw slow, deep breaths as he leaned back to study Harry’s countenance, his hand lifting to brush damp locks of hair from his forehead, his thumb brushing lovingly against the lightning bolt shaped scar.

Harry opened his eyes slowly, acutely aware of Draco’s touch. Every caress, every breath, every movement seemed to encompass his entire world as his body and mind attempted to reconcile themselves with each other, to reconcile himself. Draco had the remarkable ability to shock his senses with things foreign. Losing in a billiards game—that had been foreign. Being rivaled in his attentions to Ginny was foreign. Romantic innuendo directed at him was foreign. Being insulted in polite company was foreign. Erotic exploration of another male’s body was foreign. And, now, being made acutely aware of how sensual spiritual poetry could be. Not for the first time he marveled at the way Draco had affected him so greatly in the past two weeks of constant contact, and wondered whether he and Draco would be able to do as Sirius and Remus had done, and become devoted companions to one another for years without recess.

A pleasurable stroking behind his ears made him blink and his gaze focused, flickering upwards to see Draco smiling at him, a question in the blue eyes.

He smiled back, his voice husky with emotion as he spoke. "You know, I studied that poem at university.”

Draco shifted beside him, his skin creating friction as it rubbed against his own. “Did your professor demonstrate this particular interpretation in class?”

Harry laughed, his hands sliding down the blond’s shoulders in a lingering caress. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard Donne interpreted so . . .” Without his wanting it, he was becoming aroused again. Was this affliction ever to be conquered? Would he ever be able to think of Draco as anything but a sexual being? He changed what he was going to say mid-sentence. “. . .was the poem really intended in that way? Or are you just making it sexual?”

Draco kissed his lips softly, tracing his cheek in a purely affectionate and indulgent manner. “Harry, I recited the text verbatim.” His usual smirk returned to grace his features as Harry eyed him suspiciously. “Well . . . using action in place of imagination illustrates the sexual nature of the text perhaps a little more clearly.”

“Perhaps . . . a very little,” Harry admitted grudgingly, “or perhaps I was right and you have this urge to defile all that is holy. I always thought that poem to be about a man’s struggle between earthly love for his lover and spiritual love for his god.”

“I don’t consider it a defilement to see how the practical relates to the spiritual. Not everything is as ideal as the poet may have you think. You should know that more than anyone, Harry.” Soft fingers stroked his cheek, the blue eyes looking intense even if they were accompanied with a jocular smirk. “If our relationship were ideal . . . perhaps one of us would be female.”

Reality was slowly invading Harry and Draco’s perfect world. Life existed outside of Malfoy Manor, and more importantly, the world outside labeled them as abnormal. Sodomites. Harry responded with a smile, trying to keep his tone light and teasing in an attempt to keep the seriousness away. “You are more feminine than I am. Think of all the lovely muslin gowns you could have.”

Draco eyed Harry, aware of the fine line they walked between despair and resolve. Indulging the other man, he raised a brow in challenge. “Hrm. I’ll decline as I don’t wish to relive my days at Mother Clapp’s.” The blond stretched in a sinfully erotic manner, leering at his lover. “And besides that . . . men’s clothing is far easier and more fun to remove. There are a number of uses for that stock I’ve yet to show you.”

“There’s no time yet before I leave?” Harry asked, feeling his pulse speed up at the images conjured by the remark. Draco was so very talented with words.

“Mmm. Perhaps we have time for a lesson or two. If that’s the only thing you wish to enjoy this last morning in paradise.” Draco leaned back against the bed with a sulky pout. “Before you’re off to face the nine circles of hell known as the Weasleys.”

Harry frowned, his always expressive eyes revealing his hurt at the slight. “Hermione is a Weasley now. Can’t you speak of them for five minutes without being insulting? They’re honest, decent people, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco, having been so in tune with Harry’s emotions and thoughts for the past two weeks, immediately directed the conversation in a more neutral direction. “At least I have God to thank that Hermione settled down with Ron. I had a horrifying dream in which she had married the older son, Percival, and had a brood of know-it-all redheaded children.”

Harry had to smile at that, allowing a laugh to escape him. “Percy? Oh lord. I don’t think he could handle someone like Hermione, despite the similarities in temperament when it comes to the pursuit of knowledge. I believe he’s attached to a Miss Clearwater of Bath.”

Draco sat up, brushing sweat-dampened locks of hair out of his face. “Clearwater? I believe I know the family. Distantly connected of course. Soft-spoken girl, but level headed. I daresay she’d not lead him astray.”

“No, I doubt she would.” Harry said quietly, enjoying the sight of his normally composed lover sweaty and tousled.

“And as far as connections go, a fine match,” Draco continued lazily. “The Weasleys are moving up in society, thanks to their offspring. Hopes usually rest on daughters to marry well, not the sons. But I suppose in Miss Weasley’s case one cannot really ask for much.”

Harry’s chivalrous nature showed itself as his shoulders squared, conveying the impression of strength that Draco knew was more than skin deep. “You are not entitled to speak so harshly of Miss Weasley, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice low. “You made half the party think you were madly in love with her during your stay at Hogwarts. And I, for one, have not forgiven you.” Green eyes shone with fierce protectiveness as he held Draco’s gaze. To Harry’s immense surprise, and respect, Draco did not back down, but returned the accusation.

“I did her a favor and opened her eyes, Potter,” he said, his voice dripping with formal condescension. “She is tolerable, I suppose. But unless she allows herself to become a person, and not a commodity, she will never be handsome enough to tempt any man.”

“Ginny has her own charms, Draco,” Harry responded defensively. “Someday a man will surely be able to see that and give her what she wants.”

His exclamation was met with silence, the other male studying him quietly. At length, Draco’s eyes met his, piercing his soul as he spoke. His voice was carefully neutral, but spoken with hesitation. “So far, Harry, the only man that is able to do as you ask . . . is you. Are you willing to trade her happiness for yours?”

Their farewells were brief. Harry took his leave of Lady Narcissa and Miss Parkinson, noting the smug satisfaction in their eyes as they wished him a good journey. They excused themselves quickly, retreating inside on the pretext that Miss Parkinson’s delicate health was threatened by the summer breeze.

But even without female prying eyes, public etiquette and inherent caution made both of them wary. At last Draco clapped Harry on the shoulder. “We shan’t meet again for quite a few months, Potter,” he said casually. The desperate blue eyes spoke volumes, his voice strained. “You will write to me, I pray.”

Harry felt the touch burn even through the layers of clothing, Draco’s thumb tracing small circles. He took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth twitching in a half smile. “I promise. I’ll be at the Burrow until the end of September. Then I shall return home, to Godric’s Hollow.” He stepped away from Draco’s hand, trembling slightly, and climbed into the carriage.

Once Harry had seated himself, their eyes met through the lowered window, trying to communicate everything that had been left unvoiced.

“Bon voyage, Harry.” Draco said softly.

Harry said nothing, the space between them growing ever wider. Draco nodded once, in understanding, and ordered the coachman to drive on. Harry leaned back against the leather seat, sighing heavily as the horses carried him from the great estate. A lone figure stood stoically by the gate. Unwilling to watch his lover disappear completely from sight, Harry turned his face away, closing his eyes.

Memories spun through his mind as he let it wander, inevitably, to thoughts of Draco Malfoy. The blond coolly eyeing him from across the room at Hogwarts, gazing at him challengingly across the billiards room, looking down on him as Harry lay writhing with pleasure. Draco’s face was an ever changing living mask of expression. A variety of emotions could be indicated with only the arch of a brow, a curl of his lips. There was one constant, no matter what the situation: blue eyes regarding him with such intensity as to make him breathless, weak, feeling unworthy of the adoration they revealed.

He would miss that.

He would also miss waking up to feel Draco’s eyes upon him, and the simple pleasure of flesh against flesh in an intimate setting. Not having been touched often as a child, or at any point in his life, Harry had been almost shocked to discover how much he enjoyed Draco’s touch. Thoughts of touching Ginny or any other girl had never crossed his mind. During the past two weeks he’d learned to indulge his long-suppressed need for human contact. Months without that solace lay dauntingly on the horizon.

And there was Ginny. Draco had alluded to her earlier and Harry had, naturally, jumped to her defense as he was trained to do. Even if he could not bear to give Miss Weasley the life that she deserved, it was his responsibility, as much as it was Ron’s or any of her family’s, to see that she was happily, and advantageously, married. He only hoped that Ginny would be easily persuaded to see other suitors. Although the way she responded to Draco’s flattery, and the flattery of the militia officer, Creevey, seemed to indicate she might be amenable.

However, Harry could not justify being absent any longer. He had commitments to the Weasleys, and to Sirius and Remus, that required his attention. Ever since he had left university he had taken a portion of the management of Godric's Hollow upon his shoulders, since his godfather had no taste for scientific farming, and although his steward Dobby was a capable man, good to Harry's tenants, he was nearing the age of retirement and inclined to be timid. Harry did not intend to shirk his responsibilities as a landowner, and had no doubt that when he returned home there would be many matters requiring his attention. The months ahead would be both busy, and empty, and he knew the hardest part would not be being without Draco, but being without himself. He was Harry Potter—the burden, the friend, the godson, and the master. Until Draco had shown him how things could be, he had hardly known that his life was a shadow, a façade. Not until he was with Draco behind closed doors would he once again be able to drop the mask.