Copper Ashes

- Copper Ashes -

Malfoy licked at the blood leaking from his scar, eyes glinting fiercely. The other's eyes opened a crack as he was jolted nearly awake.

He tasted copper.

"Harry," someone hissed, their voice heavy with dark promise. Harry. That was him. He was Harry-- Harry Potter.

Eighteen years old. A wizard. Alive. He was still alive, even when something in him told him he shouldn't be.

He was also half unconscious, barely able to think, but he knew it was Malfoy. He could smell him, and it wasn't just the dirt and blood and the stained metal from the sword he could feel poking at his thigh. There was something pure there; something almost fresh-smelling in the midst of all this... war.

He couldn't remember thinking about what Malfoy smelled like before; he was almost completely certain. The tiny, itchy feeling of doubt persisted, driving him mad along with the wet clothes he wore and the tickle of blood between his fingers and down his chin. Somehow, he'd known, just like that. It hit him like a fist in the stomach for some reason. So this was what that had been, then-- a scent he must have noticed before, but now it was mingled with the heavy tang of his own blood.

Malfoy was sitting on Harry's stomach, not sparing any of his weight. And he was grinning.

Harry was aware that he'd be quite nauseous if his stomach had anything actually left in it. As it was, he was just dizzy and faintly sick. He swallowed convulsively, but that only reminded him of the awful taste.

He was sure he'd never seen Malfoy grin like that before. Wide and fearless, like this was the first time he'd seen the huge starry sky they had here, far from London. It was childlike, somehow. Free from malice or corruption of any sort; completely incongruous, really, considering their surroundings.

Harry's eyes rolled up in his head, and he saw flickering lights. He knew they were outside, and he was in the dirt, and the stars were out, and Malfoy was on top of him. None of that added up to sense, however, and Malfoy certainly wasn't helping. Harry couldn't seem to muster up enough emotion to get truly upset about it for some reason. It didn't matter, anyway; there were more pressing things to consider.

There was something important; something Harry knew he should be remembering. Was that what Malfoy was waiting for? It must be.

Harry groaned. It hurt all over, and he was alone. With Malfoy, who wasn't moving. And the stars, which kept flickering.

This wasn't right.

And he didn't think these were stars. Stars didn't dance like this. They didn't make his blood pound in his chest like this. They didn't make his breath rasp in his throat, harsh and empty of any actual words.

Distantly, he realized he was lying in a mud-puddle, and his cloak was going to be caked with dirt and grime when he got up. If he got up.

Where was his wand? He couldn't feel his wand. Momentarily, Harry was distracted from Malfoy's warm weight and the blood gathering in his mouth by a stab of panic. He was helpless without his wand, wasn't he?

Finally, his mind cleared enough to recall tiny snatches from the past 24 hours. Oh yeah. Voldemort. Dead. His wand turned to ash... pretty copper ash. Harry remembered that very well.

Presently, there was something trickling down from his temple. Blood, he thought. It felt warm; his heart kept pumping and the blood kept running. It was funny how that worked.

Malfoy's tongue was rough and too hot; much too hot. It swiped down his cheek, leaving behind a wet trail that was probably a mixture of blood and saliva. Harry's hair stuck to his face, and it itched like hell but he was much too weak to bother and Malfoy knew it. For what it was worth, Harry was at his mercy. If something was going to happen, it would happen now, and all Harry could muster was a distant curiosity as to what Malfoy would do.

The stars burst behind his eyes, and Harry gasped.

There was a warm, wet mouth covering his, and a tongue pushing inside. It was so-- molten-- slick and fast and desperate and-- sudden. So very sudden.

Malfoy was sucking the blood right out of his mouth, mingling their spit and growling, yes; biting at his lower lip, but not hard enough to pierce skin. Somewhere at the back of his throat, the sound vibrating against Harry's lips, he was growling. But that couldn't be right, could it? It was almost like the other boy was trying to tell him something.

It felt right. And scary. Quite a bit of both, in the end.

Bound by blood; it wasn't even a thought-- more like a tiny thrill of fear. What was he doing? He and Voldemort... Harry knew what that was like. The scar that could connect them, in life and death. Malfoy... he couldn't want... not like this. Not between -them-. Could he?

Harry shook, his mouth wide open and trembling and vulnerable under Malfoy's. He knew it would be taken advantage of, and he was right.

Malfoy's tongue probed deeper, curling around his own with an eerie sense of familiarity which should have disturbed him much more than it did. He certainly wasn't as squeamish as Harry remembered. Or maybe Harry had already swallowed all the blood.

He didn't want to die now, he thought. There was a surge of strength at that, at long last, and his fists clenched by his sides. For some reason, all he did was wrap his arms around Malfoy's waist, pulling him closer.

Someone laughed, a harsh sound. Malfoy didn't resist. He still didn't remember everything, but he thought he knew enough.

It sounded... it sounded like victory. Harry's eyes got wider, and just then, the other's simple smile came back.

"We won, Harry," Malfoy whispered into his mouth. His breath tasted raw, metallic; it seemed to crackle with some sort of electric charge. Harry shivered, helpless. "We won."

~~