Innocence in a Wintry Night

I stand, looking out of the frost tinted window. It is the middle of the night and the moon is nearly full. The snow has momentarily stopped falling, coating the landscape in a blanket of white. The light from the moon makes everything seem ethereal, a dream. The frost on the window is a covering of icy spots that gently fracture and soften the landscape before me. I place one hand on the window, watching as the heat from my palm melts some of the frost, allowing rivulets of water to run down the pane of glass, making the landscape seem even softer than before. The blanket I have draped around my shoulders slips down as I slowly move my fingers against the pane of glass, blurring the shape of my palm print.

There is utter silence in the night, and a stillness that calms me. In this world of uncertainty, my heart needs a little calming and the respite provided by the imagery of the landscape seems to soothe my troubled soul. Humanity comes and goes, but the land lives on. The message of the wild beauty I see before me is not lost. I close my eyes, the snow covered world outside tattooed on the inside of my eyelids and I sigh, content - truly content - for the first time in months.

I feel warmth behind me, a soft breath against my neck and I smile as he comes up and places his hand on mine on the window. Our fingers twine together and I open my eyes, watching the frost about our hands slowly melt away.

It is a perfect metaphor for our lives. The frost of the world outside us disappears when we are together, united.

"Couche avec moi," he whispers, and my smile broadens. He has been learning French, and although his accent is abominable and his grammar atrocious, hearing the Romance language on his lips always makes me shiver. "Je voulais que tu couche avec moi pour tous la nuit," he whispers again, his breath hitching slightly.

Behind me, I can feel the muscles in his chest hitch and I know he is trying not to think of the world that condemns us, condemns our love, condemns everything that we have come to share. I turn in his embrace, and face him, concerned.

"Pour toujours, mon amour, Harry, coeur de ma vie," I say softly, and as he smiles at me sadly, I know what he is thinking. I switch to English. "I do not care what they say," I tell him firmly. "I don't care what they think, what they do, how they castigate us. I am yours and you are mine and together we are stronger than they are."

He kisses my forehead, gently, sadly. "But there are so many of them," he muses, "and only two of us."

"And together we will face them and beat them down and they cannot harm us," I reply, startled at the force of my own words.

He has to know. Has to know that I cannot do without him, will NOT do without him, no matter the cost.

His eyes lock onto mine, and he sees the truth of my words, the knowledge that no, I will not leave him, no one will come between us, and he is worth more to me than all the gold in England.

"Je t'aime," he whispers, his eyes filled with emotion.

"Je t'adore," I reply, taking our still entwined hands and gently kissing his fingers. "Believe me, Harry, I will not part with you, not now, not ever."

He smiles at me, and I know he wants to believe my words, believe that all will be well. He has been beaten down so many times, he has lost so many friends, so many loved ones, and now, in the remains of Hogwarts - that which is left after the war - we are together. I know he fears to lose me too.

"You are so beautiful," I whisper, enveloping him in a gentle embrace, wrapping my blanket around us both. "You are everything to me." I hold him then, for what seems like hours but is merely minutes and not nearly long enough. I feel his heart beat slow, calming, and I know that for now, he accepts the truth of my words. Everything will be all right.

"Come back to bed," he says softly, his voice muffled slightly by the simple fact that his head is buried in my chest. "It's cold out here, and I want to sleep in your arms."

Such an innocence about this young man, even now, even after the horrors of what we have seen and what we have done. He is innocence and beauty, fragility and strength, honour and pride, love and desire and everything else. My heart is full; I can say nothing, so I simply nod in reply and allow him to lead me back to the bed.

We lie together, wrapped in each other´s arms, a tangle of limbs, him on the right and me on the left. He strokes my hair with one hand and I run the fingers of my left hand down his arm, tracing all his scars, his healed wounds, the marks from a life with uncaring Muggles and the marks from the war. They begin to blur after a while. I doubt even he could tell which scars come from where, but I know. Each and every one is engraved upon my memory, like a map of pain and sorrow and loss, and I know exactly which scar came from where.

I lie in his arms and I am complete. The moon shines through the window and bathes us in its cold, wintry glow. He kisses the top of my head and I pull myself closer to him, trying to get inside his skin, trying with every fibre of my being to wrap myself so inextricably around him that no one can say where he stops and I begin.

"You are precious to me," I murmur into his chest and his grip around my shoulders tightens. I know he needs to hear the words, know that he so desperately craves the sound of those words that express my feelings for him. Sometimes I think he does not truly understand how much I care for him, for it is only when I speak of such things that he seems to relax in my love of him. "You are the only thing worth living for, my love. You are the only thing that I would die for, kill for, lose myself for."

It is the simple truth. Others speak of their great causes, the needs of the world, and how evil must be stopped. I am a far more simplistic creature: it is only my love of him that drives me on, leads me to defy my entire family line and separate myself from all that I was raised to believe. I cannot bring myself to believe in first causes or grand gestures. There is only one thing that I believe in, one thing that motivates me, one who can control my actions, who owns my heart, and he is here, now, in this old rickety bed, holding onto me as if fearful I will vanish should he let go.

"Harry," I say gently, moving myself slightly so that I can look at his face, his expressions, "what are you feeling?"

There is a pause before he replies. "Sad. Ashamed. Unworthy."

I frown. "Why do you feel such things, my love?"

"Because I do not deserve such love as yours. I do not deserve YOU."

Ah. The meat of the matter. My innocent young wizard, who stills believes that he is nothing and worth even less. His innocence is a balm to me; it soothes me, for I know I am anything but.

I kiss his cheek. "No, my heart, it is I who does not deserve YOU. You are too good, too pure, too innocent. But I will not let you go, because I am greedy and you are mine."

There is silence between us, a heavy, emotional weight pushing us down. I can feel it almost tangibly in the air about us. My heart swells with love for this young man. I speak again. "You have been broken, beaten, betrayed, Harry. You have lost so much. Let me help you find joy again. Let me help you, love."

He sighs; his breathing is shaky and I know he is feeling the press of emotion as much as I am. "I've never been particularly gifted with joy, Draco," he says sadly. "I've not known very much joy in my life."

It is a statement of fact, not a cry for help or attention as some might imagine it to be. Harry does not feel such things as selfishness, not when it comes to such matters. He has not known any different and so does not realise what he has missed. I, however, grew up warm in the love of my family, rich in the affection of my peers, and I know very well what he has missed. I want to give it to him, I want to wrap him in silks and gold and diamonds and treasure him forever.

Instead, here we are, in a run down room in Hogwarts, with moonlight for company and our beating hearts.

I can feel his fingers trailing slowly down my spine and it makes me shiver. I push myself closer to him, breathing in his scent, listening to his breathing. There are no words for what we are feeling.

I gently move my lips to his and kiss him, just the barest, most fragile touch of my mouth upon his. I can feel him sigh although I do not hear it, and his hand stops tracing my bones and my flesh for a fleeting moment before resuming its course. I open my mouth, my tongue lightly caressing his dry, cold lips, and as he eagerly parts them, silently asking me to kiss him deeper, I demur.

The fingers of my left hand are now gently wrapped in his hair, as my right hand gropes between our bodies and takes hold of his left hand. Our fingers twine together so tightly that it is painful. The urge to deepen the kiss is strong; but I resist. I want to show him how precious he is to me.

My tongue continues its path across his lips, as his own tongue peeks shyly out of his mouth. I gently touch it with my own before applying more pressure to his lips with mine. We stay still, silent, our mouths glued together, our fingers locked entwined, the only thing moving between us being our tongues which dance sweetly in the movements of the kiss.

He deepens the kiss after a few moments, pushing his own lips harder against mine, his tongue sliding deep into my mouth and I gasp into him, tightening my fingers in his hair. His hand on my back is rubbing slow circles against the base of my spine and I move my legs between his so that we are caught in an intricate snare of limbs and bones and flesh. His heart is pounding now, I can hear it and feel it against my ribcage. My own heart is beating so hard that I can almost feel it shattering my bones.

I love the way his hair feels around my fingers, soft, thick and unruly. I love the way his mouth feels on mine, hot, wet, full of longing. I love the way his body feels pressed against me, hard, real, passionate.

Together, we roll over so that I am on top of him, and he locks both his arms and legs about me. He pulls back from the kiss and smiles shyly at me. When he looks at me during these physical reaffirmations of our love, he is always so shy. I tenderly trace his jaw line with my fingers, smiling back at him. "I love you so much, Draco," he whispers, and then I kiss him again.

This time it is not gentle. It is not soft. It is hard and passionate and full of my desire for him. It is a glide of hot, wet lips, a slicking together of tongues. I can feel him wrap himself tighter around me, and I move my mouth off his and slowly kiss my way down his jaw line, tracing his neck, lingering in the hollow at the base of his throat. One hand grips his thigh, as I move against him and he moans, softly.

"I want you so much, Draco," he says, and his voice sounds so broken, as if he expects that I will disappear like smoke.

"You have me, I will not leave you," I reply, because I know he needs to be reassured, and it does not cost me anything to do this small thing for him. I feel him tighten around me again, his hands shaking against my back.

"I wish I could hold you tighter," he says, and I chuckle, kissing his throat one last time before I lift my head to gaze at his eyes, now full of emotion.

"If you held me any tighter, I would choke," I tease him and he smiles hesitantly at me. "Besides," I continue, running the hand that has gripped his thigh up his leg, "you have caught me in your snare. Why would you think I'd want to escape?"

It is his turn to kiss me now, and the movement is made clumsy by the pent up emotion he is feeling. He nibbles my lower lip even as his legs lower off me, one foot still caressing my hips. I love the feeling of his flesh on mine. So warm, so alive. He is a brightly shining star, and his light burns me.

His tongue slips into my mouth, tracing my teeth once before I kiss him back. Together, we taste each other, trace words of devotion in each other´s mouths. He reaches up to cup my face between his hands, and I grumble as he pulls me back, breaking our kiss.

"Draco, please," he whispers, and I know what he wants.

"You don't need to beg, my love," I say, although secretly I love it when he does.

He suddenly smiles at me, a very cheeky, almost naughty smile and I laugh. He knows how much I like to hear him ask me for attention.

"I know," he replies, "but I like to. And I know you like to hear it."

I move again, shifting against him until our hips are moving together. He has once again wrapped his legs around me, his feet locked behind my back. I kiss him, with no finesse now, for what I am feeling is beyond anything that I have felt this night. I taste him as he surrounds me, his flesh warming me and burning me, welcoming me and keeping me safe.

Then there is a burst of joy and pleasure at release, and we are shaking, holding onto one another, whispering half phrases of mutual devotion.

I gently roll myself off him, drawing up the blankets, wrapping us up in a cocoon of wool. He lays his head on my shoulder, his dark hair caressing my skin. I hold him tightly, not wanting to let go, my cheek pressed against his forehead, and close my eyes.

"I love you," he murmurs sleepily, and I kiss the top of his head.

"I love you too, coeur de ma vie," I reply, and he sighs contentedly as he falls asleep in my arms.

My gaze returns to the frost covered window. The snow has started falling again, a pattern of white flakes against the blackness of the night. The dual palm print we had made on the frosty glass is beginning to mist over once again, blurring into a large smudge of white.

"We live and die in the starlight," I say softly, kissing the top of his head once more. For in the starlight, we can truly be together, at peace, and joined in our love.

FIN.