Title: No Better Friend, No Worse Enemy
Author: 
themostepotente
Team: Team Canon
Prompt: The Lovers
Wordcount: 15,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: First-time, digital penetration, infidelity, humour, snarking, epilogue-compliant
Summary: When Harry and Draco are conjoined in a freakish accident, they must learn to set aside their differences if they've any hope of survival.
Author's Note The Lovers can mean literal, soul-bonding romantic love. It can also indicate an intuitive decision that cannot be forced, a matter in which there are several possible choices.
It should have been a dream; one that he couldn't wait to tell Ron about the next day. Only Ron was there, pinching Harry at his request. And the pain was very real.
It should have been a routine Apparition. Only it wasn't. A Tri-Apparition his superior had called it. Ron on his left and Draco to his right. All of them arm in arm. But something went horribly wrong when Ron let go prematurely.
It was such a new affliction; there wasn't even a name for it. This was the unhappiest of accidents, Harry thought bitterly. But what accidents were happy?
Here was one for the fucking science books.
Sick with the attention, Harry turned his anger on Auror Tomlinson. "You can fix this, can't you?" There was a dolourous ringing in his ear that demanded the immediate attention of his finger. Harry made to scratch under the arm of his glasses, discreetly shoving a finger inside to alleviate the death bells.
"Calm yourself, Potter. We'll have you and Malfoy apart in a jiff. In the meantime, you may want to decide which of you has first crack at Weasley."
All of the Aurors laughed, including that smarmy peacock Julian Bloodgood. Ron ran through another incoherent string of I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry.
Draco was so angry he was practically spitting fire. Not that he didn't routinely look as though he were chewing his own face, Harry thought. With any luck, Draco had matured. Harry didn't fancy this cock-up coming to blows.
Harry, however, was not exactly known for his luck. Draco had only to see the flash of Ron's red hair, and he charged like a bull, cursing and pulling Harry with him. Their rubberband snapback was like something out of West End farce. Harry and Draco would have toppled over like ten pins had it not been for Chief Auror Gallagher.
At once, the laughing hushed to dormouse quiet. "Enough, you two!" Gallagher roared. "Donnybrookin' solves nothin'." The Chief arched a ruddy brow at the bridge of flesh that connected Harry and Draco. "This for shites and giggles, then? An answer right quick, lads."
Tomlinson piped in. "There's been an... accident, Liam."
Draco glared at Ron. "I'll say. Just ask Weasley's stupid parents."
Ron gave Draco two fingers. "Sod off, Malfoy. Like I knew this would happen?"
"You let go mid-transit," Draco said, slamming his fist down on the table. "What the fuck were you thinking?"
"I panicked all right?" Ron hissed. "Like you're perfect. And shut up about my mum and dad."
Bloodgood cracked the faintest hint of a smile behind Gallagher's back, encouraging Draco further.
"You know what your mother said right after she had you, Weasley? I should've stopped at a blowjob."
"That's it!" Ron spat. "I warned you!" He started after Draco, but Gallagher thwarted him one-handed.
"Floo home, Weasley. You're only aggravating the situation. Potter, let's hear your version." Gallagher escorted Ron to the door with all the consideration of a Beater.
Draco folded his arms across his chest and levelled his gaze at Harry. "Yeah, Potter, let's hear your version. The one where you predictably defend Weasley's right to idiocy."
By then, Harry's anger had turned to shock. His tongue felt furry, and the words wouldn't form. The enormity of the situation was giving him a migraine.
"Hippogriff got your tongue, boy?"
Draco smirked at Harry. "Clearly, Potter agrees with me that Weasley was responsible. Sir, if I may?"
"Somebody speak fercrissakes!"
Harry raised his finger in protest, stumbling back. What was he going to tell Ginny? The room began to spin. Or James and Lily? The ringing in his ear had increased from knelling to the resonant tolling of church bells. Albus Severus? Harry's vision blurred. What were he and Draco going to do if they could not be separated? The voices around him were growing sluggish, and his sight was dimming. At the thought of living a freakish existence, Harry's legs gave out from underneath him, and he dropped, the glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
The last thing Harry remembered was Draco's subsequent tumble and Gallagher's Snitch-like snare of them both.
And then all went black.
The smell that woke him should have been breakfast cooking. Peppered ham, eggs with runny centres and whole-wheat toast smothered with blackcurrant jam. Rounded with blood orange tea and the sweetness of Ginny's perfume...
But the foulness that permeated Harry's nostrils was undeniably medicinal, and he retched at the thought of ingesting it. Groggily, Harry came to.
Gallagher was smiling at Harry gap-toothed. "Thought we'd lost you there, Potter."
"No such luck," Draco retorted. "I might have had you cut away like a warty growth."
The Chief helped Harry and Draco to their feet. "The Mediwizards have Flooed in from St Mungo's. They want a look at yous."
Harry nodded weakly, motioning for water. He drank in sips and then splashed his face. The cold sting reminded him of a fight he'd once had with...
"Ginny?"
Gallagher laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We thought it best not to contact your families. At least not yet. And Weasley's under strict orders to keep his gob shut. Ne'er fear, though. Blagdon and Beverley are among Mungos' best."
Harry thought they sounded more like a Wizarding legal firm. That was, until, they came at him and Draco with wand and scalpel and phial, peering behind matching monocles. The prodpushpoke was already taking its toll on Harry's tolerance. He kicked Blagdon in the bollocks after several orchestrated attempts, claiming twitchy reflexes. Deep down, Harry knew that he was not helping their situation, but the distractions were medicine enough to ease the bitterness of fear. Draco had taken to biting his nails, threatening malpractice between fingers.
When Beverley shook his head, Harry knew they were doomed. Not one of St Mungo's so-called finest could separate them. Their predicament now mirrored some dark version of the Muggle fairy tale Humpty Dumpty.
"Call it," Blagdon said.
Beverley read the time on his pocket watch. "Three forty-five a.m." The serpent on his Caduceus flicked its tongue at the Chief in passing. "Sorry Liam, this is beyond our level of expertise. You might try William Weasley if further investigation suggests a curse."
Gallagher nodded solemnly. "It's late boys. We'll start fresh in the morning. For now, let's get you set up someplace."
"Hang on," Harry said, prodding Draco to jump down from the examination table with him. "Set us up someplace? We both have wives and children to go home to."
Gallagher took a strange-looking key off his key ring and handed it to Draco. "Not tonight you don't, laddie."
"Oh right, Potter. And whose home shall we stay the night at? Or would you prefer four in the bed?"
"Dream on, Malfoy. I wouldn't lower my standards to raise yours."
Draco's upper lip quivered with fury. "It's a good thing I'm exhausted, or I'd make you eat those words. First thing tomorrow, we're going to see him. For now, I need my beauty sleep. Insomnia's damaging to the hair follicles, you know."
"You don't say?" Harry said, eyeballing Draco's hairline.
"Now, are you coming?" Draco asked.
Harry heaved a great sigh of exasperation. "Do I have a choice?"
As it turned out, the strange key opened the door to a very posh flat in London's West End. Or, at least what was considered posh in the nineteen sixties. It had been Gallagher's old bachelor pad. The psychedelic wallpaper made Harry queasy all over again.
"I should owl Ginny; she'll be worried."
Draco surveyed the bathroom, turning on the dragonhead taps. Brown sludge ran before the water cleared. "Keeps you on a very short leash, doesn't she, Potter?"
"Where I come from, we check in out of courtesy, not out of obligation."
"Oh, whatever," Draco said, motioning for Harry to look the other way. When he did, Draco dropped trou.
"What do you think you're doing?" Harry asked, blushing.
Draco ahhed when the first drop of water hit. "What's it look like?"
The sound of rushing water made Harry cross his legs. He'd wanted to urinate since before they'd left.
"I'd suggest you relieve yourself now, too, Potter. I'm not getting up in the middle of the night for you. Get over your penile insecurities."
"I'm just fine with my bits," Harry said, dancing in place when Draco turned around. "And I'll go when I'm good and ready. I feel no pressure building whatsoever." And just to underscore his meaning, Harry filled the bathroom cup with water and took it with him.
Draco narrowed his gaze and bumped Harry's hand, spilling water on Harry. The slopslop went straight to Harry's bladder. This was going to be a fucking long night, he thought miserably. And that was before he saw the bed.
The bed was round and home to about a dozen gaudy pillows. Harry hated sleeping in his clothes, but the thought of any part of him touching those polyester sheets made his skin positively crawl.
There was a strange lamp on the bedside table that lit with a wave of his hand, illuminating the room with a fiery glow. Tired and a bit loopy, Harry made shadow figures, content to enjoy the silence and his silly hand-puppets, that was, until Draco spoke to him.
"Were you briefed?"
"Was I what?" Harry asked, placing his glasses on the bedside table. His hand hit the lava lamp, and the globules crept like amoebas.
"Briefed, you idiot. On the case."
"Yeah," Harry said, drawing the kaleidoscope-patterned duvet up to his neck. "I specifically asked for this case. And if you call me an idiot one more time, I'll shove this lamp up your arse."
"Tired of living life behind a desk then, are we?" Draco snickered. "The Boy-Who-Lived reduced to The-Man-Who-Paper-Pushed."
Harry ignored the verbal jab. He hated that Draco was right. He could have kindled a dozen Viking funerals with all the papers he'd pushed. "Are we going to discuss the case or not?"
"What made you ask for this case, Potter? Serial poisoning doesn't strike me as something that would interest you. Not messy enough."
"Shows what little you know. This is a high profile case, and my ticket out of obscurity."
"More like Tomlinson and Gibbon couldn't be bothered."
"They're seasoned Aurors. Of course they'll have first pick."
"They're old and off their game. Gibbon's one sarnie short of a picnic."
"Uncalled for, Malfoy." Harry bolted upright, momentarily forgetful of their plight. The pain shot through his body and passed through to Draco. That was nothing in comparison, though, to the painful flick of his ear.
"You move when I say. And we move in tandem. Are we fucking clear?"
"Yes," Harry said, his teeth tightly clenched. "Back to the case."
Draco took a moment to fluff his pillow. "One high-ranking Ministry official, one prestigious jeweller and one society columnist have all been murdered. Poisoned. My expertise was called upon through the Potions Enforcement Agency."
"You work for the P.E.A.?" Harry asked. He shifted uncomfortably under the covers at the acronym.
"Yes, I do. And it might surprise you to know that I'm their top pick."
Harry snorted. "Aren't there only a handful of agents now that the Death Eaters are dead, gaoled or in hiding?"
"As I was saying," Draco said, his words tipped with frost. "I was summoned straight away and told we'd need to Tri-Apparate to reach the crime scene together. Mid-Apparition I felt a terrible lurch in my stomach. That must've been when Weasley pulled away. I'll have you know, Potter, he's going to pay for his incompetence."
"Shut it about Ron, or I'll make use of this glass of water," Harry said, yawning. It made his threat that much less intimidating.
Draco didn't answer Harry's threat verbally. Instead, Draco tugged as hard as he could on the duvet, leaving Harry mostly uncovered. "We'll review the case files tomorrow. After we've seen him."
Teeth chattering, Harry covered up with the scrap of duvet he was left. "Who's this mystery bloke you keep mentioning, Draco?"
A neighbouring snore rattled through Draco's perfect, Roman nose.
"Bloody figures you'd fall asleep right after foreplay," Harry said, reaching for the glass of water. He tipped it over on Draco's side, wetting the bed clean through the mattress. "This'll teach you." Harry fully expected Draco to bolt upright at the soggy implication, but Draco slept right through it soundly.
Staring at the empty cup, Harry was once again reminded that his back teeth were practically floating. Unzipping his trousers, he took aim and filled the cup.
His sigh of relief was so loud that Harry was certain he would wake the dead.
Harry should have known whom the mysterious 'him' was that Draco mentioned several times. It should have clicked with Harry's agile brain. But it didn't.
At least, not right away. When Lucius Malfoy wasn't available to manipulate, beguile, seduce or buy Draco's way out of an awkward situation, Draco turned to Severus Snape.
Snape's main portrait hung in Headmistress McGonagall's office, but he had two others portraits he could travel to; one in the library at Malfoy Manor, the other in the Pestle Room at the house of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Since their first two options were risky, Harry and Draco opted for the third, located just below Buckingham Palace. From underneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak, they made their way to Saint James Park, using the lift in the hollowed oak.
Since the offices were not due to officiate for two hours, Harry and Draco had run of the place. All of the occupants that lined the walls of the Pestle Room were fast asleep. Except Snape. He was bent over a desk, the quill scritch-scratching on the parchment before him. Harry lazily wondered if the bastard ever slept.
When they stepped forward, Snape looked up, arching a brow. "I sense the distinct fibrous crackling of an Invisibility Cloak."
Draco slid the Cloak from his and Harry's heads. "You really are no fun at Cloak and Dagger, Severus. You weren't when I was a child, and you aren't now."
Snape raised his other brow, somewhat in question, mostly in amusement. "I would ask to what pleasure do I owe this visit, but to do so would only deprive me of what little enjoyment I'm allowed."
Draco narrowed his eyes playfully. "Be glad that I'm not in possession of mushy peas. Though, I might be able to muster a few verses of Frère Jacques. In alto soprano."
There was a ghost of a smile on Snape's face. "Ah, I always knew you'd lose your balls in an argument, Draco."
Thoroughly annoyed, Harry interrupted their witty repartee. "Look, Severus, can you or can't you?"
The cold, black eyes bore right through Harry. "My, my, Potter, ever the impetuous one. Can I or can't I what?"
"Separate us, you git."
Draco snatched the glasses off Harry's face and placed them over his own eyes. "Watch your tone of voice with my godfather, Potter."
"Well?" Harry said, squinting blindly. He was not about to show Snape that Draco could still get under his skin.
"And just what would you like for me to do from behind a frame? I can do little more than hang above a fireplace and provide ambiance."
Harry rolled his eyes at the ambiance remark.
"Bollocks, Severus," Draco said, shoving Harry back his glasses. "There has to be something you can do to help us. A spell you can utter? A potion you can suggest?"
"Other than cutting Potter away like a warty growth, I've no idea."
"What, do you two share a brain?" Harry asked irritably.
"I don't think you realise the gravity of the situation, Severus. I have an interview with the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers at the end of this month. I could very well be the youngest member ever inducted. This is my ticket out of that Ministry hellhole!"
"Draco, I say this not only as your godfather, but as your friend. Your problems are your own. Or, in this case, yours and Potter's. You are thirty-six years of age. It's high time you grew up."
Draco snarled in protest. "Then at least postpone the interview! You're only their bloody ringleader!"
"My hands are tied." Snape crisscrossed his wrists to underline his meaning. "There are ten other candidates. You would have me shift everything on your selfish whim?"
"Well," Draco said matter-of-factly. "Yes."
Exasperated, Harry stepped in. "All right, joke's over. Could we please just get on with this?"
"I knew you were simple-minded, Potter," Snape drawled. "But I never imagined you'd require a blackboard and pointer. There is nothingI can do."
"Oh, I get it," Draco said petulantly. "You don't want me to become the youngest member. You've held the title for nineteen years at thirty-seven. It would just kill you to see me usurp your position, wouldn't it?"
"You know better than that, Draco," Snape chastised, attending his parchment again. "I'm sure you realise I'm unable to see you out."
Draco growled in anger, waving a hand wildly at Snape as if he were the one being dismissed. It took Harry three shoves to coax Draco from the room.
When they were out of Snape's earshot, Harry spoke. "Well, that went terribly. Now what?"
"I don't know," Draco said, scooting back underneath the Invisibility Cloak. "Let me think."
"Well, could you think a bit less for now? You're about to steer us into a wall."
Draco dug his heel into Harry's instep. "It's hard to navigate under this thing. You do it, then!"
"Don't take your frustrations with Snape out on me!" Harry hissed. "I'm on your side, y'know. Literally." Ignoring Draco's muttered imprecations, Harry led them to the Cauldron Room. The room contained a giant fireplace, and he desperately needed to contact Ginny. She was probably sick with worry, if not a bit furious at his thoughtlessness.
"I wondered how long it would take you, Potter."
"And what? Just because you don't have respect enough for your wife to firecall her that means I shouldn't either? Our situation is unpleasant enough on its own without you insulting me. I still don't know what I'm going to tell her."
Draco shrugged the Invisibility Cloak from his head and smirked in Harry's face. "This should be interesting."
"Oh no you don't!" Harry argued. "Two's company, three's a crowd where rows and shags are concerned." He expertly arranged the Cloak and tried to look as dignified as he could despite being joined at the hip with Draco. "Quiet now." Forcing a nervous smile, Harry dropped a handful of Floo powder in the fireplace and stuck his head inside. "Godric's Hollow."
In less time than it took for a Muggle to dial a telephone, Harry was face to face with his wife.
"Hullo, beautiful," Harry said cheerfully.
"Don't hullo beautiful me, Harry James Potter. Where in Merlin's beard have you been? I've been worried sick!"
Harry's smile widened. "Just out in the field. Nothing to worry about, Gin. Safe as milk, you see?"
From underneath the Cloak, the word 'liar' was muttered.
"Who's there with you, Harry?"
"Er, no one. Who would be with me?"
Ginny gave Harry a funny look. "I thought I heard a voice."
"No, I'm here alone."
"Where exactly is here?" Ginny asked, folding her arms across her chest.
"Nowhere special," Harry said, backing up a step.
"When can I expect you home?"
Harry backed up again at Ginny's telltale foot tapping. Their connection was weakening through broken contact. "Oh, you're fading, Gin. Gotta go. I'll be a few days on assignment. I'll be in contact. Love you!"
The poison-green glow of the fireplace dissipated as Harry brushed the soot from his hair.
"Gotta go. Love you!" Draco mimicked. "You lie like any other man, Potter. At least I've the balls to lie with a straight face."
Harry threw his hands up in frustration. "What was I supposed to say? I tried to keep it as simple as I could. And now it looks as though I'm being unfaithful."
"You mean you're not?" Draco asked.
"No, of course not," Harry said, replacing the Cloak. It had to be nearing nine. "You do?"
"On occasion, I've been known to dip my toes in other waters."
Harry was morbidly curious. "How many occasions?"
"A fair few," Draco said casually, turning his pointed chin up at Harry. "Mostly with Pansy Parkinson."
"With your jilted ex, Draco? Cor, you really are a cheating bastard. It's going to catch up with you sooner or later."
"She'll always carry a torch for me."
"Pity not in the way Joan of Arc's condemners carried a torch for her," Harry said, inciting a bit of historical irony.
Draco's expression was smug, overbearingly so.
Harry's desire to smash Draco in the face had never been greater, and Draco must have sensed this. He had only to flash a tooth and Harry was dragging him at top speed through the House. They exited the tree when the coast was clear.
"Well, now what?" Harry asked, sighing. "Snape was of no help to us."
"The Nose may kiss my pedigreed arse," Draco said, polishing his nails on the front of his robe. "I've a solution."
Harry twirled his finger in the air with a less-than-enthusiastic whoopee. "This I can't wait to hear."
"I'm going to discover the cure. And you're going to help me."
The shiver that Draco elicited from him by whispering his so-called genius into Harry's ear made Harry queasy.
Holding his breath, Harry went through the motions of examining the case file resting awkwardly on the edge of the table before him. The rest of the table—the source of the noxious odour permeating the room—was taken up by Draco's piss-elegant orichalcum cauldron and assorted potion-making components. The current concoction had made liberal use of asafoetida, and the stench thickened the air, clinging to every surface.
"You're not going to make me actually drink the stuff this time, I hope." Harry could no longer even pretend to concentrate; the wretched smell was making his eyes water.
"No, you bloody git; this is a tincture, not an elixir. You're no better at potionscrafting than you were at school," snapped Draco. His hand reached out to pluck up a phial; Harry groaned inwardly when he recognised it to be fermented flobberworm extract.
Harry was about to make a tart rejoinder when, very suddenly, the door to the flat slammed open. Draco dropped the flask as he snatched for his wand; Harry leapt to his feet, drawing a yelp of pain from Draco.
"Keep your bloody hair on, you two—phaugh, whatever is that stench?" Their sudden visitor stepped forward, revealing himself to be none other than Chief Auror Gallagher. "Anyway, enough about that—there's been another poisoning." Gallagher brandished a thick scroll as though it were a weapon.
"Bloody hell," Harry murmured. "Who was it this time?"
"Deena Peltingham; the proprietress of the Honeytrap—that new knockin'-shop on Carn Alley. They found her dead in the bath; from the look of it, she didn't go easy. The scene's been left untouched; I'll need the two of you there post-haste. Malfoy, whatever you're doing there, get it so it won't explode—and do something about that smell."
After a brief squabble over who was to do the casting, Draco and Harry managed to Apparate to the crime scene. Lying half-in and half-out of a sunken bath, was what once had been a lovely witch indeed; but her honey-blonde hair was now caked with vomit and foam from her mouth, and her muscles were rigidly flexed, fisted hands drawn to the sides of her face, her back bowed in an agonising arch, heels almost touching the back of her head. Her mouth was frozen in a terrible rictus, as though she had tried to grin and scream all at the same time.
"Risus sardonicus," Draco murmured, distaste crossing his patrician features.
"What does that mean?" Harry asked. He focused his eyes upon Draco; the tormented corpse was making his stomach do a slow writhe.
"Look at her face... that's a sign of the extract of Nux Vomica, if it's improperly handled. Or... in this case, intentionally misused. She'd've been aware of what was happening until the end—a victim of this kind of poisoning dies of respiratory arrest or sheer exhaustion. Whoever did this, wanted her to die hard." Draco's words came in a sort of breathy flood, dissimilar from his usual detached drawl. Dragging Harry along with him, he began the process of locating the source of the poison.
Despite himself, Harry found the method of detection to be interesting. Draco was thorough, intense in his task; the pale eyes seemed to miss nothing. Wand out and carefully scanning, Draco murmured spell after spell, things Harry had never heard. Occasionally, an item would glow, drawing them across as Draco analysed and recorded the presence of the substance. Priapisticus Potion and its antidote, Flaccidum, were present in quantity in one of the cabinets; in another, Draco found and confiscated an unregistered phial of Veritaserum. As the search went on, Harry noticed that Draco seemed somewhat familiar with this room and the accoutrements therein. He resolved to ask some questions later.
"I've found it." Draco now stood, looking down at an ornate cosmetic case. Within it was any number of tubes and jars, magical and mundane. His wand was trained upon what looked like a simple jar of face cream. Under Draco's detection spell, however, an image of a small, greenish skull hovered, uncomfortably similar to the Morsmordre of years before. Draco held out a hand; one of the junior investigators handed him an evidence bag at once.
The rest of the premises was searched; each patron, prostitute and bouncer was interrogated; every liquor bottle and container of food was tested. Draco's focus was unshakeable, and Harry was forced to stumble along with him as best he could. Then, after the investigation, there was the interminable debriefing with Gallagher and the head of the Potions Enforcement Agency. By the time all was done, Harry was utterly knackered. He knew he should be studying his side of the case, but at this point, he could barely keep his eyes open. He was quite glad, this time, to allow Draco to handle the Apparition; all he wanted was to divest himself of his robes and sleep.
Draco, however, had other ideas. The crack of their arrival had barely faded away when Harry was subjected to a painful yank on the tissue that connected the two of them.
"Draco, what in the hell are you doing?"
"Separating us. There's no way we're going to solve this case, attached like we are, and I'm sick of you slowing me down," he snapped. He attempted to make for the table where rested his cauldron, but Harry ground in his heels.
"It can wait, Draco. I'm so exhausted that I can barely stand; you've run us ragged all night, and if I don't get some sleep, I'm not going to be a bit of good—"
"That'll be nothing new. Pad up a chair or something. I have work to do."
Harry was forced to comply; arguing with Draco took more energy than he had within him at that moment. He pulled a chair around and threw the garish duvet over himself, closing his eyes.
What little sleep Harry managed to get was permeated with unpleasant smells, and the images of the horrible grimace on the face of the madam, Deena Peltingham. He was awakened—far earlier than he would have wished to be—by Draco thumping his fingers on their connection.
"We have another situation," Draco said. He looked as ragged as Harry felt; the pale grey eyes were bloodshot, and a few strands of hair had actually been allowed to fall out of place. "Come on, we need to get into the shower and clean up."
"What's the problem this time?" Harry groaned. He hauled himself to his feet as Draco stood.
"My parents want to see me, and there's no way I can put them off," he answered. "You'll need to use that Invisibility Cloak—"
"Just wait a bloody minute. You truly expect me to sit through a visit with your parents, after we were specifically told not to contact our families with this going on? What makes this different from me telling Ginny what's happened?"
"Ginny isn't sponsoring your bid to make it into the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. We're going. If you screw this up for me, trust me, I will make such a living hell of your life that you'll wish you had died and been cut away from me like a warty growth."
"How are we supposed to shower like this?" Harry felt a faint surge of disgust at being utterly naked before—or, rather, beside—Draco. He had only barely grown used to coordinating bathroom activities.
"The same way we take a piss, you plonker," Draco rolled his eyes. He grabbed Harry's arm and gave it a yank as he headed toward the shower, to save the sharp pain of a tug on their connection.
As before, Draco showed no hesitation in exposing himself with Harry there; Harry followed suit, less quickly. He did his best to look away, but a cheval glass on the other side of the bathroom revealed precisely what he did not wish to see: Draco's naked body.
In all the years Harry had known Draco, he had become comfortable in the fact that, all things said and done, he had the upper hand. This time, though, the trend did not prove true. Draco was not much better endowed than Harry himself, but the difference in size was readily notable. Another tug on his arm and the hiss of water hitting tiles drew Harry away from this odd train of thought, and he stepped into the shower with Draco.
Manoeuvring in the confined space of the shower proved to be quite a trick, especially considering their hip-to-hip position. Had the shower not been designed for the interplay of more than one person, the necessary moving around and swapping of places would have been quite impossible.
"This isn't working," Draco muttered. "Potter, you're going to have to wash my back; I can't twist around to reach."
Harry hesitated a moment, and then took the washcloth Draco had thrust toward him. As though he were rubbing down a sleeping Hungarian Horntail, Harry began to wash Draco's back. The only sound was the hiss of water on the tiles, until Draco sighed in irritation.
"I said wash my back, not daub at it."
Harry's annoyance at the entire situation made him grind the washcloth into Draco's shoulders; irritatingly enough, Draco seemed to enjoy it. After a few moments of this, however, Draco snatched away the cloth. Wordlessly, he began to return the favour, just as vigorously. Harry shoved aside the physical pleasure of having his back scrubbed and just wished the entire embarrassing matter were over.
Getting dressed was another awkward series of manoeuvres; after several painful biffs and buffets, they at last managed to get into presentable robes, although they each had to make creative use of first a Diffindo and then a Reparo to accommodate the band of tissue that held them together. Draco leaned over, snatching up the Invisibility Cloak, and shoved it at Harry. Harry grumbled but covered himself, and then they Apparated to the expansive, manicured grounds of the Malfoy estate.
Upon his arrival, Narcissa Malfoy greeted her only child with kisses; she would have added coddling as well, but Draco managed to disentangle before his mother noticed he was very much not alone.
"Draco, you know I don't like for you to stay away so long!" Narcissa fussed. "Come; dinner is on the table already. Why are you so late?"
"Had a bit of an awkward matter to deal with," Draco muttered. Harry stifled a derisive snort.
Following Narcissa, they walked into the elegantly-appointed dining room; a great, mahogany table dominated the space. At its far end, already seated, was Lucius Malfoy.
His age showed; lines of worry and unhappiness creased his once-handsome face. The white-blond hair was now a yellowing grey, and he looked as fragile as the delicate bone china that graced the table. His greeting to his son was naught more than a grim nod. Once Draco and Harry had seated themselves—with Draco pushing out a chair upon which to ostensibly place his cloak—Lucius spoke.
"I find myself disappointed in you, Draco," he rasped. His voice was as frail as his body; the sound was like parchment rubbing against sand. "How long has it been since you were home? A fortnight? More? I wish an accounting of your actions."
"My work has kept me—"
"Rubbish." There was a time when the word would have been shouted and accompanied by a fist crashing onto the table; now, though, the expression on the wizened face had to do duty to convey Lucius's anger. He continued.
"I hear Astoria pacing and crying every night. Extracurricular amusements are one thing; complete neglect is another matter entirely. And have you owled Scorpius even once since he's been away at school? I find your behaviour callous and immature in the extreme, and this needs to change. Immediately." The threat was implicit; even Harry, sitting in silence under the Invisibility Cloak, knew of Lucius's support of his son's push for the pinnacle: appointment to the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Without money and influence to throw at the attempt, his efforts would be doomed, and both of them knew it.
"I'm sorry, Father; I'll endeavour to do better—"
"You will not 'endeavour', 'attempt' or 'try'. You are a grown man, with the commensurate responsibilities of such. I will expect you—" Lucius broke off, looking down with sudden disgust.
"That... thing... is rubbing at my legs again. Call it away."
The 'thing' was none other than Sir Reginald von Fluffybottom—a gigantic, longhaired white cat that had been, ostensibly, a gift for young Scorpius. The cat, however, had different ideas; from the day it had come to Malfoy Manor, it had grafted itself to Draco, purring at even the sight of him. Draco adored the sweet-natured feline, though he tried not to be demonstrative about it before his father. He clicked his tongue to call the cat to his feet, rather than Lucius's.
And that proved to be a disaster.
Sir Reginald trotted over, under the table, and promptly leapt into Draco's lap. His claws snagged not only Draco's robes, but the Invisibility Cloak as well. The cat slid to the floor, dragging the cloak with him—and revealing Harry to the shocked gaze of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lucius rasped. His face coloured with rage. "What is he doing in my home?" Draco and Harry, over the years, had managed to achieve a sort of guarded civility; not so with Lucius. His hatred for Harry Potter would never fade; he laid the blame for many of his troubles at Harry's feet, still unable to accept his own responsibility in the ruin of his life.
Draco coughed and then swallowed thickly, attempting to buy himself time; Harry shrugged, gave Lucius a radiant smile, and helped himself to a dinner roll.
"Father... it couldn't be helped." Draco's voice came out high and quick. "There was an Apparition accident; I was supposed to Tri-Apparate with Potter and Weasley, and Weasley, the great clod, let go. The result... rather the opposite of a splinching, I suppose, and we have thus far been unable to separate ourselves." He stood, Harry rising at the same time, and moved aside his robes to reveal the band of tissue that conjoined them.
"Out, out, OUT! Both of you! And do not even think of returning, Draco, until that... that excrescence is separated from you!" Lucius was breathing as though he had run a marathon. "And take that bloody nuisance of a cat with you!"
Draco scooped Sir Reginald up from where he had leapt onto the chair; they Apparated away at once.
Once again, Harry found himself a captive audience to Draco's feverish potionscrafting; the ever-changing stench of various concoctions was punctuated by a steady stream of profanities and imprecations. Now and again, the soft warmth of the cat would interpose itself into his lap; Sir Reginald's presence was the only pleasant aspect of the entire matter.
"All right," Draco snapped, waking Harry from a fitful half-doze in the chair beside him. "We'll try this one. Come on... we have to drink at the same moment... good thing we don't have Weasley involved this time."
Harry's response to that was a petulant kick to Draco's ankle, making Draco yelp with pain. He accepted the flask; the stench of valerian, galangal, bitter aloes and some sort of horrid musk almost choked him.
"All right, on the count of three," Draco said demandingly. "One... two... three!"
Both men managed to drink; both men gagged on the vile concoction. Harry yanked aside the cloth that covered the band of flesh that connected them; results were immediately apparent. The tissue began to bubble and seethe like the contents of Draco's cauldron, and stink just as horribly. It began to look as though one of them had cast a particularly nasty Furnunculus on the band; disgusting eruptions began to emit a greenish slime. It did, however, look like the tissue was dissolving; Draco and Harry held their breath in hopeful anticipation...
... And then the effect began to reverse itself. Within moments, their dejected eyes regarded the band of flesh, as pink and healthy as it had ever been.
"Salazar's withered SCROTE!!!" Draco screamed. His face congested with rage; in that moment, he looked exactly like his father had, back at Malfoy Manor. Concerned, Sir Reginald von Fluffybottom cooed and padded over to him. Draco managed a desultory scratch behind the cat's soft ears, but then stood, yanking Harry roughly with him. "Get your Cloak. We're going out."
"Draco, it's three o'clock in the bloody morning!"
"I don't give a shit! I need something to drink. Put that thing over yourself; we're going out. And then I'm coming back here to get well and properly pissed."
"How is that going to help anything?" Harry asked. Draco's attitude had gone beyond grating upon him; he could happily have punched him squarely in the face.
"It's not, but I'm going to explode if I don't drown my sorrows for just one night. Will you come on?"
Harry had no choice. With a ragged, disgusted sigh, he snatched up the Invisibility Cloak and yanked it over himself. Draco at once headed for the door; Sir Reginald let out a woeful mew, and then began to clean the very fluffy backside for which he had been named.
It was freezing cold and pouring down rain as they stepped out onto the street. Harry gave a very quiet moan of resentment; Draco elbowed him sharply in the ribs. They walked for what seemed to be an interminable distance—or at least it felt that way to Harry. By the time Draco selected a package store and went inside, Harry was soaked to the skin and shivering hard. Draco, on the other hand, was so intent on acquiring the libation of his choice that he seemed oblivious of the miserable weather. Why they hadn't Apparated at least part of the distance completely evaded Harry, but Draco clearly knew where he wanted to go, and had chosen to make the transit as unpleasant as possible.
It was a wizarding liquor shop; Harry understood as much from the purchase he heard Draco to make: a bottle of high-toned Firewhisky, and some sort of wine. And then, they made the wretched walk in reverse, finally arriving at the flat. Sir Reginald started to greet them, but when the cat realised they were wet, he quickly betook himself elsewhere. And washed his arse again.
Harry threw off the Invisibility Cloak and then began peeling out of his wet clothes, throwing them heedlessly on the floor in his anger. He dragged Draco across the room in his quest for warm, dry robes, so angry he couldn't speak. Draco took the same opportunity, smirking the entire time he was getting changed. Once again, Harry could have hit him.
When they were at last dry, Draco headed for the flat's vomit-green-decorated kitchen. He selected four glasses: two shot glasses and two tumblers. And then, at last, they made it back to the table. Harry snatched up the bottle of Firewhisky before Draco could so much as touch it, cracked it open and dumped a sloppy shot into one of the glasses. He slammed it back, the burn so strong it made his eyes water, but the warmth that spread into his guts was welcome.
"Funny; I never thought you much of a tippler, Potter," Draco said, lifting one pale brow.
"I am when some git slogs me on a forced march through the rain and tries to bestow the gift of some sort of catarrh, if not the damned flu! Why in the hell could we not have Apparated at least part of the way?"
"I needed to walk. I was spitting mad—"
Harry interrupted Draco by reaching out and giving his patrician nose a hard twist. Draco yelped with pain, instinctively jumping back; that caused him to catch a heel on one of the chairs behind him and lose his balance; Harry ended up sprawled beside him, after giving his shoulder a hard knock against the edge of the table. The bottles and glasses chattered and rattled together as though in mirth.
"There. I needed to do that. I was so annoyed. You really are a prat, Malfoy."
Sullenly, Draco gathered himself; Harry stood with him. This time, it was Draco that seized the bottle of Firewhisky, jolting back a shot of his own. As he did this, Harry picked up the bottle of wine.
Gilt letters, waving as though a banner in the breeze, read 'Pinot Œvil.' Directly below it, their robes fluttering in the same wizarding-art draft, were three Dementors. One held its rotting, repulsive hands over its hood, roughly where its ears should be; the one beside it was covering its eyes. The last held its hands over its mouth; 'hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.' It would be amusing if it hadn't been so disturbing; Harry could never abide the presence of Dementors, even in depiction.
"Draco, what is this stuff? You surely can't be meaning to drink this swill."
"It's the best chaser going," Draco smirked. "Just turn the bottle around if it scares you so."
"It doesn't bloody scare me! It's just disgusting-looking, and I can't imagine what it must taste like."
Draco laughed, and Accio'd a corkscrew, rather than dragging them both back to paw through drawers looking for it. It flew to his hand; privately, Harry hoped he would catch it wrong and stick himself with it, but no such luck. With a flourish, Draco caught up the bottle and applied the corkscrew; with an insultingly cheery 'pop', the bottle opened. A surprisingly-pleasant smell emitted from it; rather like butterbeer, but with a touch of citron and nutmeg. Draco poured a generous glass of the stuff; it was an innocent, rosy pink, quite at odds with its labelling.
"If you haven't tried it, how can you imagine what it'll taste like?" Draco stuck the tumbler into Harry's hands with a magnanimous smile.
Harry cringed in anticipation of what he was sure would be some sickly-sweet, cheap beverage, a vintage aged for all of a fortnight before being slapped into a bottle and onto a shelf. He was met with another surprise; the flavour was delicate, seeming to change to sweetness only if one held it in the mouth for a moment. The wonderful wine deserved another sip; smiling a little, Harry indulged.
"All right, Draco, you're right about this wine. It really is lovely," he conceded.
"Right, then—let's get hammered!" Draco sat, Harry with him, and poured them each a shot of the Firewhisky. "Come on, shot for shot! Otherwise, I won't share any more Œvil with you!"
Harry sighed and lifted that second shot to his lips, but Draco's strident insistence was not the reason. He had decided that if Draco was obnoxious when he was sober, he would be even more so when inebriated, so he might as well dull the experience in a drunken haze. He knocked back his second shot; the Pinot Œvil did indeed soothe much of the burn of the Firewhisky. He could understand why Draco valued the wine as his chaser of choice. Already, the edges of his perception were softening in a pleasant buzz.
Draco, however, had no intention of stopping merely at 'tipsy.' He immediately poured both of them another shot. As he picked up the shot glass, he grinned at Harry, a little manically. It seemed that the old drinking game of slamming shots was the challenge he offered. Harry dumped this third shot down his throat; both he and Draco chased with the Pinot Œvil.
The contest continued through several more shots; Harry lost count at five. He was enjoying the chaser far more than the whisky itself, finding himself drinking rather more of it than Draco. He mourned the fact that his discovery of such a wonderful wine had not been made with his wife, Ginny...
Ginny! Shit! He thought. It had been two days since he had contacted her. A faint panic rose within him, and, rather than slamming his fourth shot of Firewhisky, he tugged Draco into a standing position.
"What the fuck is it now?" The first traces of a slur were clouding Draco's usually clipped manner of speaking.
"I have to contact my wife," Harry stammered. Talking through the hearth using Floo powder would never do; she'd smell the alcohol on his breath. There would be less ways to explain his tying one on than even there would be to explain being Draco's postnatal conjoined twin. Frantically, he looked around, eyes bugging behind his glasses; and, like some gift from a merciful Merlin, he saw it.
It was a CommuniCandle; a three-wicked blue candle made to broadcast voice alone. Using it, he would be able to speak to Ginny through any flame or reflective surface. He headed for the candle; Draco yelped with pain and gave him a mush-limbed whack on the head. Harry ignored the spew of insults until they had crossed the room, and then turned to Draco, snatching the Invisibility Cloak up and chucking it into his hands.
"Cover yourself, keep your gob shut and don't even so much as fart."
"Oh, ever the dutiful husband! This should be even better than the first one," Draco laughed.
Harry yanked his wand out of his pocket and muttered the Incendio Charm to light the candle. "Godric's Hollow, Ginny Potter," he said.
Sweet Ginny; she would be so lovely as she slept. Harry's heart ached as he imagined the sight of her; resting upon her back, dressed in the soft, silken blue gown he had bought for her on her birthday. He hated to wake her, especially knowing how angry she would be.
"Ginny... Ginny, darling, wake up, it's me," he said. He fought to keep his voice steady and his words clear. The alcohol's effects were advancing.
"What... Harry!" Harry could tell from the sound of her voice that she hadn't been sleeping at all. "Merlin and Morgaine, where are you? I can't believe you'd do this to me—I want you home before I say so much as another word—"
"Darling, listen to me, I haven't much time. The reason I haven't been in touch is that this assignment has become much, much more dangerous than expected. I will contact you again at the earliest convenience. Please, please don't worry, and please try not to be angry with me. It really is out of my hands, my love... I am so sorry. I love you, Ginny, I'll be home as soon as this horrid mess is over." He didn't give her a chance to answer; dizziness was already taking hold, and he knew his words would soon turn to mush. His legs wobbled, and he allowed himself to sink down onto the edge of the tacky round bed with a groan.
"Trust me," Draco slurred. "It gets easier as you go along."
"Well, I intend that to be the last time." Harry would have said more, but he found it difficult to get his resentful thoughts wrapped about with words. As much from spite as from inebriation, he flopped backward onto the bed, forcing Draco to do the same.
"Wait... want s'more to drink." Draco attempted to sit up; Harry grabbed the back of his robes, intending to yank him back down. There was a ripping sound like a catastrophic wind-breakage, and the fabric gave way, leaving Draco bare from the waist up.
Draco reached over and grabbed the collar of Harry's robe, jerking at it hard; it, too, tore, though not as much as Draco's had. Draco laughed and grabbed at the rest, tearing it down further.
"Draco, what the fuck are you doing?" Harry gasped.
"If I get starkers... so do you, Potter! C'mon... off with it!" Draco continued to pull at Harry's robe until it lay crumpled about his waist. He then kicked his own the rest of the way off; all that afforded Harry any modesty at all was the fact that his backside held the remains of his shredded robe over him. Draco then stood up, causing Harry to have to rise as well. For the second time that night, they tumbled over in a heap of arms and legs, Harry swearing, Draco laughing.
"Are you always this much of an arse when you're drunk?" Harry was exasperated almost to the point of sobriety.
"Sometimes... I'm worse!" Draco's normally pale cheeks were flushed and his eyes bloodshot. Suddenly, he slipped a hand down and wrapped it around Harry's prick, making him jump and shout out with shock. "See?"
"Get your hand off me!" Harry shouted, blushing all the way down to his shoulders.
"Get my hand off your what?" Draco slurred. He lay partly on top of Harry, as far as the band of tissue would allow.
"Off... off my cock!" To his horror, the feel of the hand, rich-man soft and cool as a satin sheet, had caused his prick to harden; he was already at half-mast, a fact not lost on Draco.
"Oh, but do you really want me to let go? I believe I feel a little life here!" Draco began to stroke Harry's stiffening cock; it was clear he was no stranger at all to pleasuring a man.
By now, Harry's cock was rock-hard, and there was nothing he could do about it. A sort of boozy anger set in; if this was how Draco wanted to play, he would give as he got. He found he couldn't abide the idea of just lying there as his body betrayed him and doing nothing about it. He reached out, grabbing Draco's prick, just a little roughly.
"All right, you depraved little bastard... you want to play around, we'll play around! But... if you ever tell anyone, I will tell everyone." He gave the large, rigid cock in his hand a tight squeeze.
"Oh, like that, yeah, like that!" Draco gasped, delirious with pleasure. It seemed he enjoyed things a bit rough. His own hand sped on Harry's cock, milking and squeezing it as they lay there in a pile on the floor.
Harry reciprocated, unable to believe he was doing this—and equally unable to believe how damned good it felt. The disgust and shock of what was happening was beginning to be displaced by a sort of slushy bliss; he could never remember being so utterly aroused. There was no trace of whisky-dick, despite all he'd imbibed; he knew he'd explode, and damned soon. He just hoped he could hold back until after Draco came. This had become some kind of twisted contest, and Harry intended to win.
With his eyes closed and both his hand and cock occupied, he didn't notice Draco's other hand—the one behind him—headed downward. The first indication he had of any 'backdoor shenanigans' was a finger muscling its way into his arse; the sensation was filthily delightful. He almost screamed—and almost came that instant. Managing to hold on to his load by just a tiny margin, he reciprocated—roughly, and with two fingers. He figured Draco could handle it; after all, he clearly had quite a bit of previous experience. Draco's thick cock leapt in his hand; Harry felt the sticky heat of come splattering onto his chest—and even onto his face. The disgust he felt turned into sort of a sick thrill, and he licked off what had sprayed onto his lips. Draco's prick was still pulsing; it seemed he would never stop soaking them both.
It was finally more than Harry could take; with a triumphant shout, he allowed himself to explode to the peak as well; yet more sticky heat covered them both. He felt as though he were drowning in it... swimming in come. They lay there a moment; neither had removed his fingers from the other's arsehole. Then Draco did something even more depraved.
"Let's clean up a little, shall we?" Once again, Draco's whisper against his ear made Harry shiver—but not with disgust. What he felt was anticipation.
And then, the next sensation was Draco's agile tongue, scooping up the stickiness—his own as well as Harry's. He seemed to delight in the taste of it as much as he had in the booze. Harry arched and twisted, wanting more of the soft-coarse feel of Draco's avid licking. Unbelievably, he felt himself getting hard again.
It was going to be a long, strange night.
They awakened the next morning, still on the floor, and still tangled together. Somehow, despite their twin hangovers, Draco and Harry made it into the shower. Neither of them had the energy—or the coordination—to initiate any further cock-play; they simply got themselves clean and dressed, almost without speaking.
"We should both have just a sip of the Pinot Œvil. For some reason, it has a great way of cutting back a hangover." Draco nudged Harry over to the table.
"The thought of any more booze makes me feel like puking again," Harry groaned. He had been sick twice in the shower.
"Trust me, this works. This stuff is different. All you need is a little sip." Draco suited action to word, and poured himself a tiny bit of the rose-coloured wine. He drank it, and then sighed. "It works fast, too. Here." He poured the same small draught of the Pinot Œvil, and held it to Harry's lips.
Harry lifted a hand and made to nudge the glass away; even the thought of the delicate wine made his stomach curl into slow loops of nausea. He accidentally knocked the glass from Draco's hand; it dropped away after bouncing pertly off the band of tissue that bound them together.
"Nice one, Potter!" Draco sighed. He tugged up the edge of the tablecloth and wiped at the band of flesh... and then froze, his jaw hanging slack.
"What is it, Draco?" Harry had never seen such a look on Draco's face in all the years he had known him.
"Look, Potter... " Draco showed him the part of the tablecloth he had used to clean up the mess. Upon it was the pinkish stain of the Pinot Œvil, and something else.
Small rolls of peeled skin.
Both of them looked at the flesh bond with breathless attention. The skin did not regrow itself.
"The Pinot Œvil!! Great Merlin's red and hairy arse... this may just work!"
Draco made a feverish run for the side of the table that held his cauldron, snatching up the bottle of wine on the way. For once, Harry moved eagerly with him. The thought of being free of Draco at last had driven away his hangover; he was delirious with excitement.
Draco drew a few calming breaths as the two of them sat down. As Draco heated the cauldron, he quietly asked Harry to hand him various herbs and other potion components. Woodruff, powdered snakeskin, a trichobezoar from a long-dead wizard—all found their way into the cauldron. Harry noted that, whatever strange substance Draco combined with the wine, it did not affect its pleasant scent. The entire while, Draco whispered to himself, lost in what he was doing; Harry at last began to feel a grudging respect for Draco's skill as a Potioneer. Snape had taught him well.
At last, Draco held up a flask of a strangely layered fluid. The bottom layer was a rich red; the one above it a shimmery violet. The top layer was a deep blue. Unlike the other things Draco had brewed since the beginning of their ordeal, this looked and smelt absolutely wonderful. Distantly, Harry found himself wondering if it could somehow be made into a cologne.
"Here goes nothing," Draco breathed. Slowly, he began to apply the beautiful potion to the band of flesh.
At first, nothing seemed to be happening. But then, a tickly, tingling sensation rose that both of them could feel. The bond of flesh did not so much dissolve as fade, becoming more and more translucent until at last it was as clear as water... and then gone.
As before, when the accident had originally occurred, everything went black as Harry Potter fainted dead away.
An undetermined time later, Harry felt himself roused from unconsciousness, but this time not by a horrible medicinal stench. He instead felt the lubricious sensation of a hot mouth on his prick. His hands twisted into the fibers of the shag carpet beneath him; the wonderful blowjob he was receiving held him captive with pleasure. Harry kept his eyes closed; some selfish, petulant part of his mind wondered why Ginny couldn't suck cock so well.
Just then, the sensation stopped, and Harry gave a whinge of resentment; he at last opened his eyes. Draco crouched over him, naked; no trace remained of the tissue that had once bound them together. The pale grey eyes were dancing, and Draco looked flushed; the smell of Firewhisky told Harry that Draco had had at least one celebratory shot before waking him so salaciously.
"Swap you," he breathed.
"What? Swap me what? What are you on about?"
"More of what I just gave you... in exchange for that virgin arse. Let's play, Potter... we won't get to again, you know."
Harry opened his mouth to refuse, to voice outrage at the very suggestion, but it seemed control of his mouth had somehow been usurped by the maddening tingle of lust that held his prick at rigid attention.
"All right," Harry said. "Finish me."
Draco's grin was almost vicious as he again slid down Harry's trembling body. Harry's eyes closed once more as he felt the hot, hungry mouth slip around the head of his cock. This time, though, he was all too aware of who was pleasuring him, giving him the cocksucking of his life. And Draco was quite good at giving head, sucking Harry off like it was his fucking job.
Draco's mouth slid wetly down the shaft of Harry's prick, not stopping until his lips brushed the root. The sensation was incredible; Harry felt like every nerve in his body was on fire. As much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn't last against this onslaught. His trigger would trip quickly indeed; he could already feel his cock beginning to thicken, ready to explode and feed Draco's come-hunger once again.
When it happened, Harry thought he would black out; it was as though every cell in his body was coming, not just his spasming cock. He screamed as though the orgasm was a Cruciatus Curse, his hands white-knuckled as he clenched the fibers of the trashy shag carpeting.
As soon as Harry's body went weak from the release, Draco rose, licking his lips; not even a drop of come had escaped his hungry mouth. He began poking around in the cabinets and drawers, until, at last, he chuckled in triumph. In the drawer of the bedside table, he had found a small flask; the front of it read 'Sloane's Super Slickery Slither Serum.' It could only have one purpose.
"Flip over on your belly, Potter," Draco purred. "There's a good lad."
Harry had no choice but to obey; he'd made an agreement, after all. Not to mention, there was just the barest tingle of curiosity. The sensation of Draco's invading finger the night before hung like a beacon in his memory.
He felt Draco's hand parting his buttocks; surprisingly gently, a lubricated finger prodded his arsehole and then wiggled its way inside. More lube was added; Harry began to relax as the sensation went from alien and invasive to sensually pleasant. He moaned with a growing eagerness as a second finger joined the first. Here was another area where Draco showed expertise. Harry wondered just how many other men had lain in this position, being opened and loosened up for Draco's pale, proud cock.
When, at last, it happened, there was a bit of pain; the head of that prick was wide and blunt. As soon as it passed the rings of muscle within Harry's arse, though, the pain was joined by a strange, shameful ecstasy. He was so tightly filled... the pressure was making his cock stir once again. Harry moaned giddily as the dance began.
Draco pumped slowly at first, allowing Harry to accustom himself to the length and girth that now stretched him obscenely wide. Then, Draco picked up pace, curving his body over Harry's in order to reach Harry's now-rigid prick.
It didn't take long—for either of them. In almost the same instant, their voices rose in cries of pleasure; Harry felt a slick heat inside him, and the realisation of what happened caused his own cock to give forth great jets of come; he dimly wondered how he could possibly have had more in him.
At last, joined once more by flesh, they lay still.
"You do realise, Potter, that we still have a case to solve."
"Not now, Draco. Not now," Harry sighed. Not wanting to move a muscle, he made no attempt to push his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Christ, but the afterglow was fucking brilliant.
Arriving at the Ministry later that afternoon, Harry and Draco were greeted at once by Gallagher, who lofted a reddish brow and grinned his gap-toothed approval, seeing that they were apart.
"How'd you lads manage it? I'm impressed!" he said.
"Oh, I'm keeping quiet about that for now," Draco smirked. "I have... plans... for the formula I used."
"I see," said Gallagher. He glanced at Harry, who was hanging back and keeping quiet. "Neither here nor there, actually. See... there have been two more poisonings. This time, it was someone at your very department, Malfoy; Wexley Wadsworth from P.E.A. was found dead as a rat in his office last night."
Draco reeled; one hand closed to a fist and the other flew up to his mouth. The look in his eyes was, for a moment, grief-stricken, but then sorrow was replaced by cold fury.
"Wadsworth was a bloody good friend of mine," he hissed. He was literally shaking with rage. Harry gingerly reached out and placed a hand on Draco's shoulder; when he didn't shake it off, Gallagher arched that brow again, but made no comment.
"Who was the other poisoning?" Harry asked.
"That might be a crack in the case for us," said Gallagher. "The other victim was Millicent Bulstrode. The lads at St Mungo's say she's made it through because she's just so damned big. I want you two to go at once to see her. Malfoy... I think I should be the one to handle Wadsworth. I'm worried about conflict of interest an' that."
"Bulstrode?" Harry was bewildered. "Whoever would want to poison her?"
Millicent Bulstrode was known to have founded a successful business; Bulstrode's Broom Boutique carried the top-of-the-line designer brooms, as well as some Quidditch supplies. Harry couldn't imagine someone noticing her, let alone attempting to murder her.
Draco didn't answer; his eyes were distant and troubled. Still without speaking, he turned and left Gallagher's office. Harry picked up the new addendums to the case files and followed. Once outside, the two of them Apparated to St Mungo's.
Walking through the passageways, Harry stole a few glances at Draco. Being parted from him had been an ecstatic relief when it happened, but there was a part of him that didn't like it. He had become used to that constant contact; his feelings for Draco were now in complete turmoil. Also, he felt badly for him in the loss of the friend he had worked with. He had only known Wadsworth in passing, but he had lost enough of the people close to him to understand the pain Draco must be feeling.
After a few minutes, they arrived at the private room where Millicent Bulstrode was being treated. The large woman—matured from a freakish tall to a regal height since her days at Hogwarts—lay in a neatly made bed. She looked equal parts intimidating and pathetic; her face was sallow and had a slight greyish cast. Her eyes were sunken, and it was clear that she felt very weak and ill. Despite all that, the scowl upon her face was fearsome and darkened even more when she saw Harry.
"Of all people they could've chosen to investigate this... it would just have to be you. Bloody perfect." Despite the aggressive words, her voice was weak, seeming to come from a bit of a distance, and Harry could tell that speaking took a good deal of effort for her. He felt more moved to pity than anger.
"Millicent, I know we've never exactly been friends, but I am here to try and find out who did this to you, not bother you in any way. To do this, there are a few questions I need to ask. Do you feel able to answer them?" Harry kept his tone firm but kind. He was sympathetic, but he also had a job to do. "What is the last thing you remember before you became ill?"
"Standing in my shop, pricing out some new brooms that just arrived from Japan. The imports are all the rage this year. I remember feeling light-headed and needing to sit down, and then wham... I woke up here, feeling like I'd been run over by a herd of horny hippogriffs."
"Did anything unusual happen earlier in the day? Did you eat or drink anything that was given to you by someone else?"
"No... just went down to the Spread Eagle with Pansy Parkinson, like I always do on a Monday. We have a gillywater and a chat over lunch."
"All right. And before that?" Harry pressed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Draco looked deep in thought, a million miles away.
"Just at my flat, and then down in my shop." She shook her head, seemingly as much to clear it as to indicate in the negative.
"Can you go more into detail regarding your lunch with Pansy?" Draco suddenly broke in. He spoke so abruptly that Harry actually jumped a little.
"Sure... got there just before noon. It was a bit jammed in there; we had to wait for a table." Her eyes closed for a moment, as though seeing her surroundings was an impediment to memory. "While we were waiting, Pansy had me smell this new perfume she got down on Carn Alley. I didn't think much of it, but then, I never wear that stuff anyway."
"Can you describe the scent, Millicent? And can you remember anything else about it?" Harry asked. He glanced to the side; it seemed the same uneasy feeling that plagued him had also befallen Draco.
"Thought it kind of odd that the flask wasn't marked. Usually, things like that have all sorts of silly gewgaws and frippery inscribed upon them. The stuff itself kind of smelt like banana... or maybe like vanilla... not sure, but it was sweet, and I didn't like it. I didn't say as much to Pansy, though... she's my friend...." At this point, Millicent again closed her eyes. "Apologies, I can't do any more right now. My head's pounding like someone's taken a Bludger-bat to it."
"We'll come back if we have more questions. Thank you, Millicent," Harry said softly. He then turned to leave the room, Draco at his heel.
"What do you think?" Harry asked him.
"I think I've been an indirect cause for five deaths and one attempt," Draco said bleakly.
"What? What do you mean?"
"Every last one of the murder victims has had a link to me. And... Millicent and Wadsworth... well, let's say we've had our share of good times together. Like the good times you and I had together, if you understand."
Harry stopped dead in his tracks. He had suspected that Draco had leaned toward promiscuity, but the idea that he was actually the lynchpin of the case came as an abrupt shock.
"But... why would she do such a thing, Draco?"
"Because, the last time we were together, things didn't end well. She's been at me for years to leave Astoria and come to be with her instead. I play around, but I do honestly love my wife and my son. I told her if she asked such a thing of me again, that I would never see her again. She started in; I walked out."
"Shit." Harry had to stop and lean against the wall, gathering himself. Not only had this case become too intensely personal, he realised that he, too, could be in danger.
And so could Ginny and his children, should word of what had gone on in the flat leak out before they solved this case, if indeed Pansy was behind the poisonings.
"I know. Think how I feel. She could be after Astoria or even my parents next, if she's taking shots at people close to me." Draco leaned against the wall at Harry's side, almost as close as when they had been joined.
"We have to find her immediately and either rule her out..."
"... Or arrest her. What a cock-up." Draco didn't say as much, but Harry could easily read the self-recrimination in his eyes.
"Let's get on it, then."
Pansy Parkinson lived just off Carn Alley; not surprising, considering the woman's reputation for having rather a licentious nature. Her house was a neo-baroque monstrosity, newer than the buildings that surrounded it; it was all florid, swooping ornaments and cornices, with a pretentious row of columns at the front, as though standing guard. Harry hated it on sight.
The two of them walked up to the door, and Harry reached out to tug on the overly decorative bell-pull; a gonging song as pretentious as the columns rang out somewhere within. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a fair-haired woman with a snub nose and rather wide-set blue eyes. Pansy Parkinson hadn't changed a great deal over the years; she was still attractive in her own way. When she saw the two of them standing on her doorstep, her expression changed from one of prim neutrality to something like enraged panic.
"What are you both doing here? What do you want?" Before even allowing them to answer, she made to slam the door, but Draco's quick foot interfered. He chose not to speak; Harry would be the one to handle this.
"Miss Parkinson, I need you to accompany us to the Ministry of Magic. You are being detained for questioning regarding the poisonings of several members of the wizarding community." Harry's wand was in his hand; if she made an attempt at resistance or evasion, he would quell it. She was no match for him, magically, and she knew it. Only a fool or someone with a death wish would attempt to enter into a duel with Harry Potter.
In the end, Pansy Parkinson came away quietly, without a hint of resistance. Her eyes, however, remained trained upon Draco in anguished confusion.
That same expression seemed to freeze upon her face throughout her interrogation. Aurors had been dispatched, and a search of her home had turned up ingredients and traces of each of the poisons used in the murders. Despite tears, histrionics and pleadings, Harry still sensed a lack of remorse on Pansy's part. There was deep-rooted detestation beneath the layers of love and obsession. Her wand broken, the angst-ridden and pining expressions would be her only companions on her trip to Azkaban -- where she would remain until her trial. Even though Harry and Draco were lauded as heroes, Harry was mostly numb through the congratulatory handshakes and shoulder pats. There was conclusion, but no closure.
After their long and exhausting day, Draco gave Harry the slightest wink—and Apparated away. A pang went through Harry as the crack faded. He stood for a long time in the hallway outside the interrogation room, turning the strange feeling of loss over in his mind. It was as though something in him had shrivelled away, like a termite trapped on glass.
At last, he turned and began to make his way to Godric's Hollow—home. He could only hope that Ginny never realised that there was a piece of him missing... a void she would never be able to fill.
A wet September had given way to a dreary October; Harry was sitting at his dining-room table, morosely surfing his dinner plate with a morsel of bread. He wasn't particularly interested in the last juices from his supper, but this gave him something to do other than argue with Ginny.
The last month or so had been a stressful time in their relationship. Harry, used to being able to share his inmost self with his wife, was adjusting poorly to the fact that he now had a secret. He had been able to tell her about the accident and the subsequent conjoining with Draco, and even about the night they had been utterly pissed out of their minds. This was, however, where his tale had to diverge from the truth. He had told her that their becoming drunk together had been in celebration of the dissolution of the flesh that bound them; he would never be able to admit to her the truth. Not only had Ginny been blindingly furious that he had kept as much of this a secret as he had, she was also suspicious that he had not told her everything. It had caused a terrible amount of tension between them, and Harry had no idea of how to remedy the situation beyond allowing it to fade with the passage of time.
He had just made another circumnavigation around his plate with the piece of bread, when Ginny's voice came in from the parlour.
"Owl for you, Harry." She sounded cool and disinterested, but Harry could sense the barbed wire just below the surface of the words.
He stood, dismissing his plate and glass to the kitchen with a flick of his wand, and then walked into the parlour. Rather than bringing him the note herself, she had tossed it onto the coffee table and walked out of the room to see to Lily. When Harry picked up the note, he understood why.
The owl was from Draco Malfoy.
Harry's heart began to pound a bit, and he struggled to maintain an air of disinterest as he tore the envelope open. Inside was what looked like a formal invitation. Harry blinked and then, gingerly, opened the card.
Monday, the Fourteenth Day of November, Two Thousand and Sixteen, at seven o'clock in the evening, in the Pestle Room of the House of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.
R.S.V.P.
Draco's oddly backslanted and rigid signature graced the bottom of the card, below the gilt letters.
So you did it, Draco, Harry thought. There was no question of whether or not he would go; he would no more miss this event than he would a recital or Quidditch match of one of his children. The conundrum was... what would they discuss when they were face to face?
Harry had not seen or spoken to Draco since the trial of Pansy Parkinson. Despite their lack of contact, however, he found his former rival very much in his thoughts. He found himself mentally going over the time they had spent bonded together, over and over again. There was no descriptive word to encompass how he felt about that short space of days; it simply was, and it had changed him forever. Once in a while, he would imagine he caught the faintest trace of Draco's scent on his skin, as though in physical manifestation of his troubled thoughts.
He walked over to the small desk at the side of the room and seated himself, jotting a quick response to the invitation and signing it. He would be there.
The event itself was a formal one; Harry sat with the small group of witnesses, there in the Pestle Room of the Society's house. Narcissa Malfoy was there, as well as Draco's son Scorpius, brought from Hogwarts to attend the prestigious affair. The lad looked uncomfortable in his first set of formal robes; on the child's other side sat Astoria Malfoy, her eyes trained forward, waiting for the appearance of her husband. She seemed focused on nothing else. Conspicuously absent was Lucius Malfoy; Harry suspected the older man's health had not permitted him to attend.
The reason for the ceremony being held in this room hung there on the wall; the portrait frame held an austerely-clad Severus Snape, his eyes as glitteringly-alert as they had been in life. There was a mixture of pride, satisfaction and envy in that gaze.
The investiture was an interminable affair, filled with prosy and pompous speeches from each of the members, and then finally Draco's acceptance address. While the speeches were being uttered, Harry stole the occasional glance at Snape's portrait; he got some private satisfaction from the number of times Snape rolled his eyes, or pointedly stifled a yawn in the sleeve of his bat-black robes. The only item of interest to Harry in all that was said was the mention of how Draco had managed to earn his place in the Society: none other than his thesis on what was now called Contrasplinching, and the potion used to reverse the terrible affliction. Harry touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth, imagining the fragrant sweetness of Pinot Œvil there with a nostalgic smile.
At last, the official mortar, cauldron and flask were passed to Draco, with the proper solemn oaths said; he was also given the sash and pin, to be worn on the occasions when the Society would gather formally, for whatever discussions or rites were their personal purvey. There was much congratulating, complimenting and handshaking; Harry wondered whether pedantry and pedagogy were requirements for membership. Snape certainly had possessed those qualities in full measure.
Harry had hoped that he would have an opportunity to do more than shake Draco's hand and congratulate him; but even the buffet dinner seemed to be intended more for pronouncements and pompous toasts than for any sort of sincere socialisation. So Harry had to satisfy himself with a press of Draco's slender hand in his own; he couldn't read what was in the steely grey eyes beyond the fact that his glance to Harry seemed to be more intense than that given to the other celebrants that approached. Deflated, Harry made his excuses and farewells after choking down only a few bites of the overly spiced and unpalatable food he had been served.
Harry left the tree-lift with a distinct sense of anticlimax. He resented the florid and snobbish way in which the proceedings had been conducted. Petulantly, he wished he had had a chance to even ask about what had transpired at Draco's interview. Those questions, it seemed, would have to wait—perhaps forever. Harry didn't want to get into suspiciously-close contact with Draco; he worried that Ginny's questions would lead to further issues on her part. She already had left a few hints that she suspected some sort of infidelity during the time he had been away. He didn't think he had to worry that she would arrive at the truth, but it was still a risk he preferred to avoid completely.
He had intentionally allowed himself the entire evening for the affair; he had told Ginny that such things tended to run very late, and that he would return home the next evening after work. He began simply to walk, allowing his feet to pick the direction. It grew quite late, and without realising where he was headed, he wandered until finding himself not merely in the West End, but staring at the door of a certain strange little flat.
Harry tried the doorknob, not really expecting it to be unlocked. As far as he knew, either Draco or Gallagher were in possession of the key. He was astonished when the doorknob turned. He was just easing the door open to take a peek, when it flew wide, and a hand snatched him within. He found himself held by the collar, staring into the very bloodshot eyes of an inebriated Draco.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here, Potter?" He sounded quite angry.
"The same could be asked of you, you know. You're wrinkling my robes; let go!"
"Just one night I wanted to myself, without being poked at and disturbed, and what do I get? You!" He let go of Harry and turned partly away from him, one hand rubbing over his disordered, white-blond hair. "Well... I suppose I can at least offer you a drink, but you can go pour the damned thing for yourself. You know where everything is." He flapped a hand at Harry.
At a loss for anything better to do, Harry stepped further into the flat and looked in the direction of the familiar table. He saw what he expected he would: a bottle of top-shelf Firewhisky and a bottle of Pinot Œvil. He smiled. He would bypass the whisky tonight, but a sip of the forbidden fruit of the Pinot would be quite welcome. He had not brought the strange wine into his own house; such a vintage would be yet another thing that would have prompted questions. Harry had not tasted it since the last time he had been in this flat. Walking across to the kitchen, he helped himself to a generous glassful.
"Like that wine, don't you?" Draco chuckled. "I'm even more fond of it now that it's got me the one thing I've been after for the past fifteen years... without the old Œvil, I wouldn't be wearing this silly thing." His hands unfastened the Potioneer's sash, and he threw it onto one of the chairs with a drunken toss.
"That was the one thing I wanted to ask you... back there. But—"
"And it's a good bloody thing you didn't. I'm sure they'd have had to have long and ponderous discussions about whether or not bizarre vintages of wine count as quality potion components. Quit hovering around... sit!" Draco gave Harry a harder-than-necessary shove, forcing him to sit rather abruptly on the edge of the bed. The Pinot Œvil in his glass splashed up into his face a little; he licked it off his lips as he would the sweetest of kisses.
"So," Harry said, "What exactly did happen in that interview? Obviously, you were a smashing success..."
"I gave my dissertation on Contrasplinching. I didn't specifically mention who had been the test cases... but I gave an accounting of the accident and the results. I listed all of the formulae I tried—"
"All of them? Even that wretched thing with the asafoetida?"
"Actually, there were three things that contained asafoetida, but since your skill at potions is dodgy at best, you only caught the one. Yes... all of them. All save one... and that one has my patent on it." With a sort of snide triumph, Draco lifted his nose. "I have seen to it that only a Malfoy will be able to reverse a Contrasplinching."
"And me. I was there when you brewed that potion, Draco. Obviously."
"Potter." Draco leaned forward, into Harry's face. He put his hands on Harry's shoulders, getting nose to nose with him. "The chances of you being able to brew the Separation Elixir are about as good as the chances of ... oh, never mind." He plopped back down into his chair with a snort.
"Of what, Draco?"
"Never fucking mind!"
"You have me curious!" Harry sipped at the Pinot Œvil, allowing the delicate bouquet to suffuse his palate.
Draco's response was to give Harry a long stare, his eyes half-hooded. He loosened the collar of his robes—so much that they slipped partly off one shoulder. Harry took another quick swallow of wine, to cover the odd thrill of emotion he felt at seeing a glimpse of the pale skin that had been, once, almost as familiar as his own. He didn't know how to categorise what he was feeling, but he did know he wanted to keep it to himself.
"I'll let you figure it out," Draco said, suddenly. He stood up, and shrugged out of his robes the rest of the way.
"What are you doing?" Harry could not help the stare that he allowed to travel up and down Draco's body.
"I'm going to bed. You got here late; the party's over." With that, Draco removed the rest of his clothing, kicking it into an untidy pile, and tucked himself under the garish duvet. He reached over and waved a hand over the strange lamp on the bedside table, leaving the flat veiled in partial darkness.
Harry stood, staring at Draco's turned back, the glass of Pinot Œvil clutched in his hand. Once again, he felt as though he were facing some sort of challenge, and he began to have a dawning idea of what Draco hadn't wanted to say—the incomplete thought that, even in his drunken state, had been a step too far. Harry tipped the glass to his lips and drained it. He tried to set it down on the table beside the chair where Draco had thrown his sash, but he missed the edge; the glass toppled over, a few drops landing on the Potioneers' emblem.
Moving as though in a dream, Harry began to unbutton his own robes. Unlike Draco, he took his time to unfasten every clasp, to feel every last thing he was doing. When the cool air of the flat touched his bare skin, Harry closed his eyes. This time, he didn't have the excuse of being either drunk or Contrasplinched. The actions he was about to take would be deliberate.
The surface of the round bed gave way slightly as he settled his weight upon it. The only part of Draco's body that he could clearly see was his bare shoulder, where the quilt had slipped. Harry pulled aside the bedcovers the rest of the way, feeling something in his heart give way just a little. He slid into the bed, curving his body around Draco's—and for the first time in weeks, he felt the uneasiness that had plagued him subside. He felt Draco's hand gently clasp his wrist, and then draw his arm over, and then Draco intertwined his fingers with Harry's.
"I missed you, too, Potter."
Closing his eyes, Harry sighed softly and kissed Draco's bare shoulder, thankful for life's happier accidents.
= The End =