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Chapter Twelve

Sanctuary

So what if Potter ended up being not so bad? He was still the boy the libido potion had tied Draco to, and they were still magically linked by their scars. And Draco hated this. He hated that anyone, and especially Harry, had even a semblance of control over him, and could share with Draco.

Draco had always hated sharing. When he was a child, he'd been very selfish, and pouted, screamed, and snarled at those who borrowed from him. Having no power over anyone whatsoever at home, he had grown to be very arrogant and putting down to those around him outside of school. He felt they deserved some pain; how could he let them live so content, unbeknownst of the pain he went through?

But they still didn't learn. Never. They simply thought he was a jerk, who liked to make an arse out of everyone, enjoyed being mean. But he didn't, usually. It had been fun for his first year, and part of the second, taunting Harry and co. But gradually it became less and less enjoyable.

Draco looked up, his mind reverting back to reality and away from his thoughts. He saw, half cast in shadow, the furrowed brow and upset frown on Harry's face. He stared at the other boy's profile, wondering what went on in that mind, the alien territory of Gryffindor. He wanted to shake the boy, wanted to knock him from his trance. Oh, he wanted to do so many things! He wanted to force answers out of Harry, wanted to ask the boy what compelled him towards love of Draco, what made him not give up, not plead for death before Voldemort. He also wanted to beat Harry, beat him till he shrieked in terror and pain, he wanted to taste the blood, to own that scent, to own the boy body and mind, having his way with Harry.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't bring himself to try that, to get through that barrier that separated them from understanding each other, wasn't sure he wanted to, and he also didn't know how to get through the protection Harry had; Dumbledore's protection, and the barrier that made the two boys different, the barrier of Slytherin against Gryffindor, and the thought that he might regret getting to know the Boy Who Lived.

And yet, as he stared at that face, silently watched the emotions so familiar to himself crossing the other boy's face; what pain he must feel, to have lost his parents, never having met them, to be bombarded with unwanted fame on all sides, to have told Draco so many things about himself, and even reassured Draco that he did feel loneliness and pain. Draco felt a pang of guilt; he'd forced Harry to reveal parts of himself just so that he could enjoy himself and feel less lonely. He felt that he should somehow return the favor Harry had given him, give the boy comfort, softening the weight of the inner pain, just as Harry had taken the burden of Draco's loneliness, pain, and self-pity, reassuring the Slytherin. But the Gryffindor had only succeeded in giving himself sorrow.

Draco didn't know what was happening, what gears inside him changed and switched places, but something became different. He felt guilt, he felt compassion, he felt the need to console Harry. The feelings were alien, untouched and dusty in his mind, yet his heart accepted them willingly. It was worth a try, to stop this unbearable burden of pain; because he knew that, if he had almost broken under it, Harry surely would. Brave as the Gryffindor was externally, he was fragile inside. Whereas Draco had lived with it all his life, and had never broken because of it before; until the potion came along, and made him even more unsure of who he should be.

Suddenly, Harry sniffed, and Draco watched, silently, solemnly, as a tear or two slid down the other boy's cheeks. Slowly, he reached out a pale hand, demanding it not to tremble, and lay his arm across the other boy's shoulders, hugging Harry to him. He didn't acknowledge the awkwardness, the fear, the strangeness, as the Gryffindor slid to sit in the other boy's lap, leaning against him, his cheek against the other boy's collarbone. Draco took it all in stride, pushing back the urges of fear, passion, anger, and hatred. He wrapped one arm around the other boy's waist, feeling the other boy's figure shuddering against him in broken sobs.

Then, the crying stopped, and Harry wiped his eyes. He turned around so that his back was against the Slytherin's chest. Rested against Draco's slender frame, he was now content. Draco smiled to himself, drawing his fingers up the boy's face to graze lightly against the lightning scar. He leaned back, relaxing, as Harry, empowered by Draco's soothing fingers on his scar, began to breathe steadily. Eventually, both boys fell asleep, one, still made up of contradicting things, darkness, light, fragility, strength, but solaced. The other, content for now, was pleased to have found his sanctuary.

But secrets, hidden as the place the two boys were at, remained whispering restlessly in their souls.

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END OF PART ONE