Threadbare

Sixteen: Forward

Harry.

The next day at breakfast Ron and Hermione are tickling each other under the table whilst harmlessly munching on forkfuls of egg so that, in their temporarily daft perception, no one will notice. While waiting for them to swallow, you look over Hermione>’s shoulder at the Slytherin table, where Draco suddenly ducks his head. You grin at him until he looks up again, slightly pale with embarrassment. Both of you nod to acknowledge each other.

You turn back to Ron and Hermione, who are still apparently having much fun below the table. You clear your throat, but they don>’t seem to notice. You take a sip of coffee before saying, >“I have to tell you something.>”

Ron stops mid-chew, mid-tickle. Hermione raises an eyebrow. Their smiles are frozen on their faces, curious and almost guilty. You throw your head toward the doors to the entrance hall. You stand, leaving a third of your meal uneaten. They don>’t look much like they want to finish theirs either, because they follow you without a last glance. You take them through the corridors to a dimly lit alcove. They shift their feet in the pause between arriving and listening to you speak, as if they know what>’s about to come.

>“You two seem happier than usual today, and I hate to pick a bad time, but I have to tell you this because I>’ve been hiding it for so long and soon it might be too late. I was raped.>”

Then you shrug. >“I>’m all right about it now, though. I just thought you two might like to know.>”

>“When—>” >“Who—>”

But their voices catch in disbelief. Your conscience berates you, if only a little, for telling them just now.

But you could never tell them then; you could never expect them to accept it when you yourself could not.

>“October. Lucius Malfoy.>”

Even you are surprised by how easily the words come, sliding out of your mouth like a >‘Good morning>’ or horrible food. What>’s stranger is that they fail to even sting like they used to, as if you have forgotten the pain, or have perhaps become desensitized to it.

Hermione looks like she>’s about to cry, her eyes directed at one point in space as if trying to remember the date. Seconds later she blinks in recognizance, than looks down at her hands, then looks up at you and asks if it was on that day you missed Draco>’s Quidditch match, that day you were looking for parchment.

>“Yes, it was that day. I>’m amazed you remember.>”

Hermione shares a look with Ron, whose face is pink with anger or shock or both. She tells you, >“Oh, we... we knew there was something wrong, but then we thought it was just you and Draco having a fight or something... Oh, Harry, I>’m so sorry!>” The tears slide down her cheeks then. Ron wraps an arm around her waist and squeezes, but the gesture only makes her cry harder.

Ron says, >“It was my fault. I didn>’t know... I assumed you were watching the game from the other side of the pitch, and I... I told Hermione that—>”

You shake your head to interrupt him, not wanting them to blame themselves for a mistake neither of them made. It was Lucius>’s doing, and his alone. No one else is responsible. Not even yourself.

You swallow deeply at the realization. It wasn>’t your fault.

>“Don>’t cry, Hermione. You guys had nothing to do with it.>”

The look on her face almost reminds you of Mrs. Weasley back in the summer before fifth year, when the boggart turned into her dead sons. Hermione appears helpless, and you find yourself unable to do anything about it. You turn to Ron. He is watching you intently, as if searching your features. There is a glint of suspicion and anger in his eyes.

>“Draco had nothing to do with it either,>” you tell him. Sometimes it>’s hard to accept that they still dislike each other after all this time, even if there hasn>’t been direct antagonism. Despite your continual assurances, Ron still has distrust left for him, too deeply rooted to disappear.

Ron surveys your expression and knows you>’re telling the truth. He gives a slight nod. Hermione buries her face in his shoulder.

>“Lucius will get what>’s coming to him. Don>’t worry, I>’m going to make sure of it tomorrow.>”

Hermione raises her head.

>“What d>’you mean, mate?>” Ron asks.

You tell them everything about the mission. Afterward you feel oddly relieved, as if a great burden has lifted from your chest—despite their horrified, terrified gawps. You exchange looks back and forth with both of them, until finally Hermione decides to speak:

>“Harry, you can>’t go. It>’s too dangerous!>”

>“I>’ll have to go sometime, Hermione. I don>’t think it>’s something we can discuss.>” Her face falls. >“I promise to treat you two to all the sweets you want when I get back.>”

Ron shakes his head with a small smile, subconsciously caressing Hermione>’s hair.

And then—perhaps because they understand how pain is painful to recall—or perhaps because they know that anxieties beget only anxieties—no one speaks any more.

Knowing that they>’re beside you is enough.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

>“Where are we going, again?>” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets as the breeze hits you both when you go out the castle>’s main door. You gesture toward the lakeside and walk, wicker basket swinging in your hand. He follows quietly, taking in the surroundings. It looks like spring has come early this year: the last of winter has melted, and flowers and grass have begun to bloom here and there. You head toward the old beech tree, scantily clad with leaves, touched by the dim fingers of sunlight. You take out your checkered blanket and spread it over the earth.

>“We>’re having a picnic?>” he says incredulously.

You try to appear affronted. >“Do you have a problem with it?>”

>“No, no, it>’s just... uncharacteristic of you, that>’s all. I mean, we had one last year, but that was my idea.>”

>“Rest assured I subjected the house-elves to long and painful torture to get all these.>” You lay out the food one by one.

>“You forgot one plate. And one set of utensils.>” He smiles triumphantly, the smile that used to make you feel like punching him in the face. Now it merely looks adorable, but of course you>’re never going to tell him that.

>“We>’re sharing a plate, you idiot.>”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn>’t seem to have a problem with it. He flops down, grabbing the basket from you and continuing to take the contents out. He seems like a child, so different from how you saw him only yesterday. You know that there is no way for so much to change overnight. But you also know that things can get better.

You and he eat in silence for a while, occasionally feeding each other like sentimental newlyweds; but no one is around to see, anyway, and even you can afford to let your guard down. Sometimes romance is more important than reputation, though you>’re never going to tell him that either.

After finishing the Yorkshire pudding he smiles in satisfaction and lies on his back, watching the clouds. You check to see if anyone>’s lurking around (it>’s a habit, really) before following his example. Fleetingly you think about bringing up what happened yesterday, asking him how it made him feel and if he>’s doing all right. But Harry sighs again beside you—a joyful sigh—and you don>’t want to ruin the moment. So you stay quiet.

And then he turns on his side, facing you, and tells you about the mission.

:o:

There is no initial quiet shock, because once you hear everything fear immediately rushes to your mind, so strong that you can feel the tingle in your spine, and you only have to part your lips to say, >“And what if you get hurt? If you die?>” You shudder at the idea, but Harry just smiles wistfully.

>“Dumbledore doesn>’t have the right—no one has the right to tell you to risk your life, even if it>’s for a cause. Why did you say yes?>”

>“I>’ve told you about the prophecy. I>’m the only one who can defeat him. I>’m doing it willingly, and I have to see it through.>”

>“Harry, please—>” and a lump is lodged in your throat, perhaps because you never say please, and perhaps because he is only sad instead of angry.

Resignation is not surrender, but the fulfillment of one>’s responsibilities. Harry seems to think so. But you find it hard to understand.

>“I don>’t want to lose you,>” you tell him.

He rolls on his back again and stares at the sky. You take a long look at him before doing the same. A moment later his hand finds yours, and its warmth seems to tell you, Me neither.

And the wind seems to whisper the same.

:o:

You take him to the seventh floor.

He squeezes your wrist as he steps closer to the Room of Requirement doors. Yesterday they were wood-colored with antique copper handles for knobs. Now they are painted white with golden vine-like designs, finished with elegant brass handles.

>“Why are we...>” he starts, a smile dancing on his lips.

>“Let>’s go in,>” you say, stepping forward and opening the doors. You make a sweeping gesture with your arm, and he chuckles. He walks in, and then promptly inhales, his eyes wide with amazement.

>“Its... really brighter in here than I remember...>”

Daylight is spilling through the thin silk curtains that somehow remind you of waterfalls. The bed is large, with a cream-colored spread and a headboard of brass curves and curlicues. The chairs and desk are made of white wood and golden upholstery. At the far side of the room, a fire burns warmly in the hearth.

You spot a tray of chocolate and champagne on the nightstand. Just what you needed.

Harry>’s eyes, if possible, light up brighter at the sight of them. He reaches for a truffle, but you place a hand on his wrist to stop him. He frowns slightly, and you grin. >“Patience is a virtue. Sit down. And take off your filthy shoes. Socks too.>”

Later the two of you are cross-legged on the bed, feasting on the chocolate and wine. At one point you pick up half a truffle between your thumb and forefinger, and bring it to his mouth. He takes an experimental lick before wrapping his lips around it, taking your fingers along. He lets the chocolate melt in his tongue; it doesn>’t take long before he holds your hand and slowly sucks the sweet residue off the digits. The gesture is surprisingly erotic, and seems to spark a fierce flame inside you. Harry hasn>’t done anything like this in a long time.

When he>’s finished he looks meaningfully up at you, still holding your hand, his lips a wet crimson. You lean slightly forward, as unsure of your actions as a third year Hufflepuff; you watch his reaction, if any, before proceeding to lean further forward. His face is expressionless, and you start to think this might not be the right thing to do. So you stop midway toward him, embarrassed by your own presumptions. But he slides a thumb across your lower lip, tenderly like a breeze; he takes off his glasses and places them on the nightstand; and his eyes are dark with longing as he closes the space between you.

His kiss feels like redemption, like a goblet of pumpkin juice would feel after a journey in the desert, or like freedom after twenty years in Azkaban. You and Harry have lost so much, and there is no way to recover it—but when Harry presses his lips to yours it feels like moving on.

You return the kiss with equal ardor, pushing him gently so his back rests on the pillows. You close your eyes and savor the slightest hint of chocolate on his lips and tongue. He brings his right hand up to your nape and pulls you to him, deepening the kiss. You trace your left palm from his hip to his stomach, pushing up the hem of his shirt. He arches toward your touch, his other hand working on the zipper of your trousers. He lets go for a moment, raising his arms so you can slip his shirt over his head. You pause to admire his well-toned torso and muscled arms, although they are paler than you remember.

He pulls you back to him and kisses you again, with a wildness you didn>’t think he would be capable of after everything. And then he looks intently at you and nods. You unbutton your shirt slowly. When the last button is freed from its hole he yanks the fabric with both hands off your arms and throws it onto the floor. >“I missed this,>” he whispers, and finally unfastens your trousers—but not before fumbling quite purposely against your budding erection.

When you realize the extent of your arousal, you hesitate again for a brief moment, appraising his expression. There is no trace of reluctance in his eyes. He pulls your hand toward his groin, where he is quite evidently turned on as well. You pop open the buttons and pull down his Muggle jeans, along with his underwear. After the sudden absence of contact he thrusts his hips forward, pressing against your thigh.

The friction is too much and you take off your trousers and underwear as well, slipping a hand underneath him as you capture his lips once more. You caress his arse; he curves his spine to push harder towards you. Voraciously you trail a series of kisses from his neck to his chest, stopping to suck on the hollow of a clavicle, whereupon he gasps and bites his lower lip. He hisses when you cup his groin; and when you begin stroking him, he whispers >“Ah—ah...>” and cannot continue.

And you think, We>’re moving on.

:o:

Later, much later, when you are poised at his entrance and aching to enter, and he is shallowly breathing, urging for release, you ask him if he>’s all right.

By instinct he says >“Yes,>” but he squirms where you are pressing against him, almost inside him—and he swallows, and he takes a deep breath, and he gazes at you, wide-eyed with apprehension.

>“Draco, I—>” he begins, voice fraught with something you can>’t identify, but something that makes you cry inside.

>“Shh.>” You press your forefinger to his lips. >“It>’s okay, Harry.>”

>“But I—>”

You kiss him. You slide down your fingers and coax his climax out of him, so he, at least, can let go.

When he moves to return the favor, you press your lips to his brow and hold him tightly, saying, >“No, I>’m great,>” because his fear stabs at you from within and you can>’t bear it. You can>’t even begin to try.

>“Next time, I promise,>” he says. >“I>’ll get used to it. You>’re not him. You>’ll never be. Next time—>”

>“Shh...>”

All is quiet for moments after that.

Then he murmurs, >“Thank you.>”

He buries his head in your chest. Soon enough he falls asleep.

As you stroke his hair your eyes sting with hope and remorse and something resembling love.

Yes. Always love.

TBC.