FIC + ART: The Memory Thief [Harry/Draco]

[hp_drizzlemod]

Title: The Memory Thief
Author: nerdherderette
Prompt: # S33 by bixgirl1
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry
Word Count: ~22.3k
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s)/Tag(s): Auror!Harry, Healer!Draco, Light bondage, Oral sex, Anal sex, Wanking, Top!Harry, Bottom!Draco, References to PTSD, This is not an amnesia fic, Shared quarters trope. Draco, Harry, OMC character(s), Kingsley Shacklebolt
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I adored this prompt, and was thrilled to get the chance to fill it. Thanks so much to my incredible betas—the wonderful DN, for her fabulous Brit-picking skills and grammatical (eagle) eye, as well as the amazing JC, who seriously curbed my (overly) fond use of em dashes and redundant descriptions, and made sure that I maintained a consistent POV. Their help was invaluable, and I can’t thank them enough! <33

All remaining mistakes are my own.
Artwork by LB.

Summary: Just because they’re on assignment in the humid jungles of the Amazon does NOT make it okay for Harry to parade around the wild half-naked. Because if the current threat to Draco’s credibility and livelihood doesn’t kill him, then the sight of his ex’s sweaty, golden flesh surely will…

[excerpt]:
“Safe from Wizarding Britain,” Kingsley said firmly. “Do not underestimate the darker, human element at work here, Healer Malfoy. The import of what you do for those who have suffered unspeakable trauma is not lost, but you are of no use to your patients should you end up similarly to Thatcher. Which is why we’ll be providing you with protection from now on.”

As if on cue, there was a sharp knock, followed by the opening of a door.

“Hi, Kingsley. Agatha said you wanted to see me?”

Draco sucked in his breath. “Potter,” he said, turning around.

.~OIO~.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real

~Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

It starts the way it always does, with him picking his way through a weave of white and grey, the gossamer threads stretching dangerously thin as he gently pushes them aside. They push back, thrumming with an energy that reminds him of magic—swirling, flowing, pulsating with life. Their beauty never fails to amaze him, for even a state of semi-stasis can’t completely negate their shimmering light.

He delves deeper. It takes more effort; the strands grow thicker. Denser, too, interwoven with entrenched memories that are further strengthened by the emotions and experiences of the intervening years. He knows it’s somewhere around here. He can feel its sluggishness seeping in, its edges raw and unforgiving, even from this distance.

Circe, he thinks as he steels himself, lowering his shields. The reduction is enough to let in the discomfort of something that resembles the beginnings of a toothache or a migraine, without putting him completely at risk. It’s a technique that he’s honed over the years—thanks to Occlumency, thanks to Aunt Bella.

The irony of the situation causes Draco to bite back a sudden laugh.

The discomfort dulls. He empties himself of his own emotions and reaches out towards the source of pain. The threads grow progressively tangled and matted, and are nearly impossible to push back. Frustration mixes with exhaustion, which leads to the beginnings of despair—Draco’s not sure if it’s the negativity of the memory that’s poisoning his thoughts, but he also knows that the stasis has only eight or nine minutes left to hold. He sifts through the strands more aggressively—never enough to sever their connections, but enough that the attached memories may be more difficult to retrieve, down the road.

Primum non nocere, he reminds himself. In this particular case, he fails to see how he could possibly make things worse.

It’s after a turn to the right, followed by three more pushes and a turn to the left that he sees it: a black thread, steeped in Dark Magic, coiled tightly around a small, almond-shaped mass. Draco’s heart jumps at the sight as he isolates it and marks it for extraction; he’s tempted to abandon caution and to start tugging away at that horrid strand, yet he knows that time and exhaustion are not on his side.

So he puts up several markers and backtracks quickly, careful to leave everything else untouched.

The minute he exits always hits him hard. There’s a slight feeling of nausea and disorientation—not dissimilar to the feeling of Apparition, brought on by the overwhelming rush of adrenaline and endorphins and followed by the inevitable crash. Everything is a bit too bright at first. He leans forward, taking several deep breaths to lessen the tilting. After a minute, the white light fades in favour of the mellow warmth of the sun, still golden despite the lateness of the hour.

We did it.

“Healer Malfoy?” A pretty witch watched him closely, her eyes intent and a near-perfect match for the blue of her Healer-in-Training robes.

“I’ll be alright, Sophie,” Draco rasped. It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. He took another deep breath, inhaling slowly, his lips pursed, before letting it out through his nose. “We did it,” he repeated, this time with greater conviction. He shot her a grin which tipped towards the maniacal, with his lips spread wide and his eyes a shade too bright.

“Perhaps you would like a glass of water?” Sophie asked, nonplussed. She rummaged through her pockets and retrieved an orange-coloured bottle, the movement causing the tablets inside to rattle against its plastic walls. “Magi-me-more?” She ignored Draco’s arch expression. “Pasty?” There was already the shadow of a grease stain forming along the bottom of the bag, but Sophie managed to present it as if she were offering him no less than the bloody Crown Jewels.

Draco let out a genuine laugh. He eyed Sophie clinically, marvelling at the fact that her voracious appetite had yet to manifest itself in her slim, lithe form. With his thirtieth birthday fast approaching, Draco had long conceded to the necessities of jogging and a Muggle gym membership as recompense for his abilities to indulge in the finer things in life.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve dinner reservations at Boulestin tonight. As for the other, I assure you that my levels of magic are more than adequate; I don’t foresee the need for such dubious enhancements, at least for the next seventy years or so.”

“That’s good to hear, sir.” Sophie bit her lip; her easy smile slid into something more thoughtful as she glanced at their patient. Curiosity finally won out over the question of impropriety. “Mrs Longbottom looked so peaceful while you were in there; I never would have guessed that you were digging around the worst parts of her memories. Do you really think that you and Healer Thatcher will be able to extract them? The next time you go in?”

It was Draco’s turn to stare at Alice Longbottom. She looked younger while under the effects of the potion—devoid of the deep lines which usually marked her forehead, and with her mouth relaxed into a near-smile instead of the rictus of a scream.

“I do,” Draco said softly. “I was able to place two signature markers and several tracers along the way. We should be able to locate the damaged area more quickly on the next round, giving us enough time to remove the offending strand.”

“That’s good to hear.” Draco did not miss the quaver in Sophie’s voice. He was well aware that her older brother occupied a bed several doors down, on this very floor.

“Sophie.” Draco jotted down Alice’s vitals, keeping his head bent over his clipboard as he wrote. The ward was eerily quiet, except for the scratching of his quill. “Please let that boyfriend of yours know that everything in St. Mungo’s apothecary is routinely accounted for. You’ll derive little benefit from flagging the attentions of a supervisor, especially for a silly pill that’s supposed to prevent flagging to begin with.”

“Of course, sir,” she replied, her face turning beet-red.

Draco softened. Sophie was hardworking and whip smart; it would be a shame to see such a promising career derailed by youthful indiscretions and poor decisions. Merlin knew, he’d made plenty worse.

“Come now. Off with you, before I’m accused of keeping you past your shift.”

“Yes, sir.” Sophie spared Draco a grateful look before gathering her things and flying out the door. Draco soon followed, stopping briefly to instruct the Mediwitch who kept watch outside the Janus Thickey Ward.

“Good evening, Dorothea. Mrs Longbottom’s blood pressure is ninety over sixty, heart rate fifty-five, and respirations twelve. Her neuro-magical activity should return to baseline within five minutes; there is a rescue phial of Wiggenweld Potion at her bedside, should it take longer than that.” Draco cast a quick Tempus. “Otherwise, her next dose of Calming Draught is scheduled for half-seven. I’ll be in my studio for the next twenty minutes, should you require my assistance.”

A progressive bounce lifted Draco’s steps as he hurried down the hall. The sun was still shining, although as a concession to the evening hour, the cooling charms in the building were starting to fade. Draco had always loved this time of year, when spring slid into summer and Nature reaped the rewards of her efforts, blanketing London in an explosion of colourful blooms.

He smiled as his thoughts turned towards the appetiser of gin-cured salmon and Chevalier-Montrachet Grand Cru which awaited him tonight, as well his upcoming weekend in Spetses with Marcel. The deliciously fit and insatiable Marcel, Draco amended as he quickened his pace, flicking his wand and opening the double doors to the bank of studios with a hasty Alohomora.

The research wing was dark, save for the solitary light which slanted across the hallway from the last room on the right. A frisson of concern washed over Draco as he sprinted towards the partially opened door. It was unlike Colin to be so irresponsible—it was careless, at best, and irreparably damaging to the precious contents of the room at worst. Draco cast several Atmospheric, Hot-Air, and Herbivicus charms in succession, trying to fight his growing panic at their minimal results. The plants, he thought as he whirled around. If their supply withered, it would mean a month of red tape from the Brazilian ministry, not to mention certain obloquy and censure from St. Mungo’s own supervisor.

He pitched forward, his toe catching on something solid. The room spun, a whirl of lime green and brown and gold—a dizzying moment which only ceased once Draco landed on the immobile form of Colin Thatcher, his colleague’s normally vibrant face now a pallid and lifeless blue.

Hysteria clawed at Draco’s throat as his grief was interrupted by the tinkling of breaking glass. It took mere seconds for Draco to rise to his feet, but defence had never been his strength. He experienced a flash of regret as the curse flared towards him—for Alice and for Colin, and for the smell of the sea and skin bronzed by the sun.

Ahhh, fuck. Marcel was going to be so disappointed, Draco thought, as his world faded to black.

.~O~.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Draco clenched his hands in an effort to block out the sound. Don’t fidget, his mother would tell him, admonishment in her cultured tones. He glanced around the office, filled with accolades and honours, and with photographs of smiling dignitaries and war heroes lining its venerated walls.

He focused his attentions on the window in front of him, the glass charmed to depict a pastoral scene. A bleating lamb wandered into the frame, chased by a shepherdess with a cream-coloured complexion and golden curls. She spotted Draco and stared, her wayward charge all but forgotten as she giggled and blushed.

Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed.

“She’s an unabashed flirt,” he apologised as he put down his quill. A drop of ink fattened its tip, eventually falling and marring the blotter below.

“But very helpful,” Kingsley added as he banished the stain with a wave of his wand. He flicked it once more, the shepherdess disappearing in an indignant huff as she was replaced by the chaos of the DMLE. “Most people prefer the illusion of calm.”

“I prefer the truth,” Draco countered. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Speaking of which, I’m sure the Minister of Magic has better things to do than to spend his precious time in the company of an ex-Death Eater. So perhaps you can tell me why I was summoned, and whether I need to place a call to my solicitor?”

A strange mixture of annoyance and amusement flashed over Kingsley’s face, which he quickly smoothed over.

“First, let me offer you my condolences on Healer Thatcher’s passing. The advances which the two of you made in the areas of posttraumatic stress disorder and memory formation were truly ground-breaking.” His eyes gentled. “I am sorry. For both your professional, and personal, loss.”

Draco’s gaze faltered. He knew that Kingsley understood, perhaps as well as anyone else, the meaning of such loss. In the six years since they had first met as novice healers in St. Mungo’s training program, Colin Thatcher had become a surrogate brother to Draco, and one of his closest friends.

Draco took a ragged breath. “So you understand why it’s so important that I continue my research. For Healer Thatcher, as well as myself.”

“I do. But as much as I would like to accommodate your wishes, the project is on indefinite hold. This was a decision made not only by me, but by Barnabus Chilton as well.”

“Healer Chilton would have been happy for our study to have been placed on suspension before it even took off!” The name of the current director of St. Mungo’s caused Draco to flush. Chilton had made no secret of his disapproval of the project. Had it not been for the support of Neville Longbottom and the remainder of the hospital’s Institutional Review Board, Draco and Colin would never have got the project off the ground.

“Be that as it may—and know that I would have made the same decision, with or without Chilton’s input—this is an issue that goes far beyond the borders of St. Mungo’s, or even Britain’s, walls. As it turns out, our colleagues in the Brazilian Ministry have a reason to be concerned as well.

“I hope you understand that the information which I am about to disclose is confidential,” Kingsley continued. “The population of Banisteriopsis somniferum in the Amazonian biome is disappearing. You and Thatcher were the only ones outside of the Brazilian government and the Karajá and Ava-Canoeiro with approvals for its use, and the only ones who had been granted clearances for its export.”

Draco slowly let out his breath. “The number of Banisteriopsis are dwindling?” Without the plant, patients like Alice Longbottom who were imprisoned by their traumatic memories, were left only with conventional options for treatment.

Options which had already failed them.

“Is it the result of something environmental? Or...something else?”

Kingsley looked uncomfortable with Draco’s line of questioning. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. We’re not sure, as of yet. But the attacks on you and Thatcher in conjunction with the loss of the plants is concerning. Until the Brazilians can ascertain the cause, they’ve put a moratorium on the plant’s use, as their already endangered numbers are now threatening to become extinct.”

“My patients,” Draco whispered. “At least let me use what I have to complete my trials. Alice Longbottom...we’re so close to finishing.” He pressed ahead, his voice taking on an undisguised urgency. “Contact Professor Longbottom at Hogwarts; he’ll vouch for me. He’s seen the data, he’s supported our study from the very start.”

“I’m sorry, Healer Malfoy. Truly, I am. But this is not up for further discussion.” Kingsley sighed and scrubbed his face, suddenly appearing old. “There are other concerns, besides just the disappearance of the plants. We’ve kept the details out of the papers, but Thatcher’s death was not simply an unfortunate accident, as the public was made to believe. The fact that you yourself were attacked points to foul play.” He retrieved a file from his desk and placed it in front of Draco.

“This is Thatcher’s forensic report. A series of curses were cast, including an Unforgivable. On some of the others spells, the residue of old, esoteric Dark Magic was found.” He jabbed his finger at the summation before closing the file. “There’s no reason to think that you won’t be targeted again. In fact, it’s a miracle you were allowed to survive.”

Draco looked up angrily as the meaning of Kingsley’s words sunk in. “A miracle? Or an overwhelming coincidence?”

Kingsley flushed. “Well, there are those who are naturally suspicious given the circumstances, of course. The fact is, the threat to your safety comes from multiple sides.” The Head Auror leaned forward, his dark brown eyes sincere. “The difficulty of your situation is not lost on me, Draco.”

“You mean the unfairness,” Draco ground out bitterly. “No matter what I do, I will forever be defined by the mistakes of my past.”

“Prejudices are difficult to let go,” Kingsley conceded. “I can’t change the facts as they stand. But you are in the unique position to help both the Brazilian government as well as yourself. Your marks in Herbology were at the top of your healing class, and you’re one of a handful of experts in the world who’s familiar with the properties of Banisteriopsis somniferum. The British Ministry has arranged a research expedition with the cooperation of the Brazilians to study the plant in its natural habitat. We are hoping that you might be able to detect a pattern, so the Brazilian government can take the necessary steps to combat its further loss.”

“So by sending me halfway around the world, you’ll keep me safely away from Wizarding Britain,” Draco said dully.

“Safe from Wizarding Britain,” Kingsley said firmly. “Do not underestimate the darker, human element at work here, Draco. The import of what you do for those who have suffered unspeakable trauma is not lost, but you are of no use to your patients should you end up similarly to Thatcher. Which is why we’ll be providing you with protection from now on.”

As if on cue, there was a sharp knock, followed by the opening of a door.

“Hi, Kingsley. Agatha said you wanted to see me?”

Draco sucked in his breath. Though it’s been years since he’d heard it directed towards him, the sound of that warm voice still weakened his knees. Draco knew—even before he saw the mop of unruly hair and golden skin—whom Kingsley had assigned as his protector.

Draco drew himself up to his full height. “Potter,” he said, turning around.

Merlin, but Potter looked incredible. His shoulders were broader since they last met, and there was a predatory quality to his movements that filled Draco with an undeniable thrill. Potter had also grown out his hair. Its length now rivalled Draco’s from years past, although Draco had trimmed his since, unable to bear the growing resemblance to his father.

Potter’s cocky grin faltered. “Hi, Draco.” The greeting was soft and tentative, and just familiar enough to destroy Draco’s remaining composure.

Draco glared at Kingsley. “Please tell me that Auror Potter’s presence has nothing to do with what we’ve been discussing.” He was horrified to hear that his voice had approached a petulant whine.

Potter coloured at Draco’s obvious displeasure. “Deputy Head Auror Potter is here,” Kingsley said, “on my orders. Pull up a seat, Harry, so I can fill you in on the details of this case.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, the red tinge in his cheeks deepening as he dragged over a chair and turned it towards Kingsley and alongside Draco’s.

Draco made a show of moving his chair to the right—safely away from that red robe and its pretentious stars, and those black boots polished to a high gleam. Away from that muscled physique and narrowed waist, and all that unbridled magical energy thrumming beneath that tawny skin. Away from that messy, thick, ridiculous hair. Just—away. Away from Potter.

Away from his ex.

In truth, Draco wasn’t sure if a one month fling that burned as hot going in as it did going out truly qualified one for the status of an “ex.” But there was no denying his and Potter’s protracted history—their eleven years of mutual obsession and tension, culminating in what had turned out to be one of the worst decisions in Draco’s life.

As if that wasn’t an indictment in itself.

Draco felt, rather than saw, Potter rolling his eyes. Kingsley handed Potter Thatcher’s file; Potter scanned the report, his brow furrowing as he continued to read. When he handed it back to Kingsley, the concern etched in his features brought a lump to Draco’s throat.

“What does this have to do with Dra—with Healer Malfoy?”

“Healers Malfoy and Thatcher were research partners. They were investigating the use of a plant called Banisteriopsis somniferum.” Kingsley looked at Draco, who gave a curt nod. “As I understand, they were studying its use in patients who had suffered past traumatic events, and whose emotional states had failed to respond to our current methods of mind healing.”

“What does this plant do?”

“It’s a close relative to Banisteriopsis caapi, or yagé, as it’s known to the Muggles,” Draco answered. “Yagé has been used for centuries by the shamans of certain Amazonian tribes for its healing powers, not only as a purgative, but also for its hypnotic effects.

“Like yagé, the ingestion of Banisteriopsis somniferum in high doses can cause psychosis and even death. But in lower doses, it can also induce a hypnotic state which, with the utilisation of certain charms, places the patient in semi-stasis. Healer Thatcher worked extensively on those charms, while my focus was on the damage caused by painful or suppressed memories. Of course, it would be preferable for the patient to work through the damage with a traditional mind healer, but for the recalcitrant cases, we created the option of going in while the patient was placed in semi-stasis, and physically destroying the memory at its source.”

Harry let out a whistle. “So it’s similar to a wizarding version of electroconvulsive therapy?”

Draco frowned at the comparison. “Only in the most superficial sense. ECT is much less specific, and can negatively affect healthy brain tissue and non-harmful memories as well. Once the patient has been dosed with Banisteriopsis somniferum, I use Legilimency to sift through the conscious and unconscious portions of their mind, with the hope of reaching the lethiferous thread and targeting it for extraction. It’s more effective than anything the Muggle medical community has to offer, given the addition of magical applications throughout the process.”

“That’s incredible. The number of people who could benefit from something like this…” Harry shook his head, looking genuinely impressed. “St. Mungo’s should be touting such a breakthrough and sharing it with the rest of the world.”

Draco was unable to stop the flush of pleasure upon hearing Harry’s words. “Our work is not unknown, at least in the healing field. But it’s also not without it’s share of detractors.”

Kingsley nodded. “From my discussions with Chilton, the patient, while suspended in semi-stasis, is left in an extremely vulnerable state. There exists the potential for abuse, of not only a physical sort, but also of an emotional and psychological nature.”

Harry sucked in his breath. “So someone could theoretically go in and tamper with any memory...the good, or the bad.”

“It goes beyond even that,” Draco added grimly. “It’s not just selective Obliviation that’s an issue. Existing memories can be twisted; false ones created and inserted. That’s why the Brazilian government only allows a small amount of Banisteriopsis to be exported each month, and only after its prior shipments had been properly accounted for. Thatcher and I were the only ones approved to administer the treatment. Even after an extensive vetting process, we were still forced to make an Unbreakable Vow of Non-maleficence.” Draco looked at Kingsley. “That was Chilton’s idea, by the way.”

“Who else had access to the studio where your research was taking place?” Harry asked.

“Only Chilton, Thatcher, and myself.” His eyes met Harry’s; they were a bottomless green, radiating intense concern.

Draco took a deep breath, flooded by the memory of the last time Harry had given him such a look. He couldn’t deal with it right now—not when his life was already falling apart.

“Minister Shacklebolt, I’m not a fool. I understand the need for, and accept, your offer of protection. But surely there is someone else?”

Kingsley was flummoxed at Draco’s request. “The Deputy Head Auror’s defensive magic is unparalleled. Given the threat to you, and the magnitude of this case—not to mention the use of Dark Magic—I would think that you would want the very best.” He hesitated. “Harry’s presence could also be beneficial to you in other ways. His word continues to carry a lot of weight in our world.”

Draco felt the bitterness rise. He stole a glance at his ex who was looking studiously away, his fingers drumming rapidly against the arm of the chair. It was a tell-tale sign of Potter’s discomfiture, and one he had apparently not outgrown.

“So when do we leave?” Draco sighed, defeated.

“I’ve arranged for a Portkey for this Friday at noon. Your contact, Nathaniel Baras, will meet you at the Ministry offices in Rio de Janeiro and review your clearances and itinerary while you’re there. You’ll have the rest of the day at your disposal before heading out to the reserve on Saturday.”

Harry grinned. He leaned over the Draco and whispered, “I’ve never been to Rio. There could be worse places to be stuck on assignment.”

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco groaned, rolling his eyes. “I do hope your sorry lack of knowledge is not an indication of your competency on this trip. Kingsley did mention that we were heading to a reserve.”

“Oh.” There was something in Draco’s tone that gave Harry pause. “Erm...where exactly is this reserve?”

“It’s on an unplottable island in the state of Tocantins, just east of Bananal Island in Araguaia National Park,” Kingsley answered.

Draco smirked at the confused look on Potter’s face. “It’s part of the Bioma Amazônia, Potter. And we happen to be traveling there at the start of the hottest season of the year. How does the assignment sound to you now?” He unfolded the long lengths of his legs in front of him, taking great pleasure as he watched Potter’s face actually pale.



Draco held fast to that image three days later, when he and Potter held onto their respective ends of the Portkey and the room began to spin. The comfort was short-lived. Draco told himself that it was the actual act of Portkeying which was causing that unsettling tug in his belly, and not the fact that it was Potter whom he was doing it with.



.~OIIO~.

How can you just forget a person completely until the moment you see his face again?

~Melina Marchetta, On the Jellicoe Road

“Draco!”

Draco turned, his face breaking out into a wide smile at the sight of a friendly and familiar face. Nathaniel’s willowy form stood out even amongst the swarm of beautiful wizards and witches as he expertly weaved his way through the bustling crowd.

Nathaniel pulled Draco into a fierce hug. “Aê, tudo bem?”

“Tudo beleza, obrigado. E você?” Draco asked. He kissed Nathaniel on both cheeks. “Um abraço!”

“Bom, agora que estás aqui.” Nathaniel’s gaze slid towards Harry, who was standing awkwardly by Draco’s side. Draco watched as Nathaniel’s brown eyes widened in recognition, predictably settling on Harry’s forehead and lingering on Harry’s famous scar.

An unfathomable look crossed Baras’ face. “Auror Potter,” he murmured, vigorously clasping Harry’s hand. “Kingsley had mentioned that he was sending his best, but we never expected...well, it truly is an honour, sir.”

“Nathaniel,” Harry said, returning the older man’s handshake.

“Please. Call me ‘Nat.’” Draco barely suppressed an eye roll as Nat held onto Harry’s hand for a second longer than propriety dictated, until Harry finally removed it from his grasp. “Why don’t the two of you follow me to my office? I’ll take care of your security clearances and complete the rest of your paperwork there.” He looked around. “Do you have everything you need?”

Draco nodded, patting his satchel where his clothing and equipment had been carefully shrunk and packed. He glanced at Potter, who nodded as well.

“Excellent.” Nat led them through the halls of the Ministério do Brasil. Draco marvelled at the building’s sleek lines, with its huge glass facade that exposed the interior to the outside world. They reached Nat’s room at the end of the corridor; the space was nearly double the size of those of the British Ministry, the concrete expanse softened by tasteful pops of colour. Draco settled into one of the brightly coloured, upholstered seats, which was surprisingly comfortable despite its minimalist appearance.

“OVO design,” Nat explained, noting Draco’s appreciative look. He gathered the thick pile of folders in front of him and handed them out. “I’m sure you’d prefer to spend the day enjoying our beautiful city instead of spending it indoors, so let’s get started, shall we?”

He pushed two small, circular objects in front of them. “The Brazilian government as well as the Brazilian Ministry takes the preservation of the Bioma Amazônia very seriously. It is an extremely complex and diverse ecosystem, containing millions of species, some endangered, and some yet unknown to the Muggles. Because of its delicate balance, it is paramount that we take the necessary steps to keep it as pristine as possible.

“In an effort to reduce any harmful footprints to the system, we ask that you keep to a minimum the amount of magic used. It’s not just because of the wildlife; we share the region with several indigenous tribes, many of whom practice magic of their own. Some of their rituals are extremely old, and have the potential to mix with wizarding spells in unpredictable ways.” He slid open the tops to the circular objects. Draco leaned over, looking at the rounded indentation at the centre of the heavy, brass base.

A shadow fell over Draco. “May I?” Harry asked, picking up the object as Nat nodded his assent. He turned it over in the palm of his hand, his lower lip swelling as he bit down on the plump flesh in concentration. His hair fell across his face, and it was all Draco could do to stop himself from reaching over and tucking the stray lock behind Harry’s ear.

Harry placed it back on the rosewood tabletop. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” An uneasiness settled across his features. “It felt as if something was drawing a piece of me inside. What exactly does it do?”

Draco picked up its mate. The metal was smooth and shiny, and weighed heavy in his palm. Aside from its novelty, he felt nothing unusual. He placed it back on the table and gave Harry a quizzical look.

“It allows us to keep track of one’s magical activity.” Nat pointed to the indentation in the base. “This depression fits the tip of most wands. When rested in the hollow, the user’s magical signature will be recorded. As you are aware, a wand is so much more than simply its wood and its core; by acting as a conduit for one’s magical powers, it becomes representative of the user itself. Once the signature is captured, if magic is performed by its owner, either with or without a wand, Revelio Incantatem will notify us of its use.”

Harry took a deep breath. “We will do all we can to avoid unnecessary spellwork, Mr Baras. But sending us into an unknown and possibly hostile territory while prohibiting us from performing the appropriate spells could be tantamount to sending us to our deaths.”

Nat shook his head hastily. “No, no, Auror Potter, you misunderstood. You’ll still be going into the reserve with both your wands and magical abilities intact. Think of Revelio Incantatem as an act of good faith. If the use of magic exceeds the amount we would expect on an expedition such as this, we would be able to locate your whereabouts and send a Patronus, notifying you of our concern.

“Revelio Incantatem could also be helpful in reverse. Your use would increase if you were to encounter unexpected difficulties. Were this to happen, a surge in magical activity could alert us of your predicament.”

Draco leaned back in his chair. “That sounds logical,” he proclaimed, satisfied with Nat’s explanation

“So you’re agreeable?”

Draco had already suffered the loss of his wand and the indignities of parole in the year following Voldemort's defeat; a record of his magical signature did not faze him in the least. He placed his wand in the receptacle, watching as the tip glowed a greyish blue. He watched as Harry unhappily followed suit.

“Sit down, Potter,” Draco hissed as the golden hue of Harry’s magic slowly faded. “Could you make your displeasure any clearer? It’s unbelievably rude.”

“I just don’t like the idea of tracking people.” Harry frowned. “What happened to the concept of trust?”

Draco gave him a meaningful stare. “Forgive me if I put little stock in such notions.”

Nat looked uncertainly at the two, his eyes wandering from Draco’s tight and angry expression to Harry’s reddening cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go over your itinerary?” He didn’t wait for their response as he handed them two maps.

“The reserve is east of Bananal Island. Although our rainy season has ended, the Araguaia River is still swollen, so the only way to access that territory is by boat. You will Floo to Palmas, where your guide will drive you through the Cerrado, and then take you by boat to the reserve.”

“Even though the island is unplottable, can’t anyone access it from the waterway?” Harry asked.

Nat shook his head. “Sections of the river become an igapó flooded forest, and are therefore not fully navigable. Even during the dry season, it is extremely difficult to reach. It is also protected by the indigenous people; they use their own version of a Masking spell, keeping those without specific knowledge of the island out.

“A word of advice,” Nat added apologetically. “The weather has been extremely hot this past week. In order to reduce any ill-effects from the sun, I would suggest stocking up on plenty of preventative ointments and healing creams before you leave.”

Draco sighed dramatically. “What I wouldn’t do for skin like yours. Mine only knows three shades—white, whiter, and pink.” He made a moue of distaste. “I stand out here like a sore thumb.”

“You would stand out no matter where you were, Healer Malfoy,” Nat teased.

Draco grinned. Nat had spent several months at St.Mungo’s learning about Draco and Colin’s research before the Brazilian Ministry would grant them their approval. Draco had long suspected that Nat may have harboured feelings of a non-professional nature, but he knew better than to court favouritism or impropriety of any kind. He had worked too hard—and had come back from too much—to jeopardise his reputation or his career.

Seeing Nat’s lithe form draped elegantly in a bespoke suit, as well as his sharp cheeks and the aristocratic set of his mouth, Draco allowed himself a brief moment of regret. He felt Potter’s eyes on him and looked up, taken aback by the blatant curiosity in Potter’s stare

Draco rested his hand on Nat’s. ”Muitíssimo obrigado,” he murmured, as Potter narrowed his gaze.

“Draco.” Nat lowered his voice, almost too much for Harry to hear. “ I know that you and Healer Chilton have had your issues in the past. He’s here, in Brazil. Not in any official capacity that I’m aware of; his request for travel passed through my desk, and he had listed the purpose of his visit as ‘personal.’ But I thought you should know, as the timing seems...well, coincidental, to say the least.”

Harry watched as their heads nearly touched. It could have passed for an intimate moment between the two handsome men, with Nat’s dark and neatly coiffed locks standing out in stark contrast to Draco’s blond strands. The rays of the sun warmed Draco’s face, caressing the pink of his cheeks and the bloom of his mouth. Draco was as gorgeous as ever, but he now carried himself with a confidence and maturity that was breathtaking to see.

“Mr Baras.” Draco and Nat both startled at the sharpness in Harry’s tone. “If we’re finished here, I would like to head over to the hotel. I still need to review the dossier, and an early start would give us time to rest for tomorrow’s trip.”

“Of course!” Nat stood hastily and retrieved two electronic keys. “I took the liberty of putting you up in the Tower Wing of the Belmond Copacabana Palace for the night. I apologise; had I known that you were coming, Auror Potter, I would have made arrangements for something on the sixth floor.”

“I’m sure that what you’ve reserved will suffice.”

“More than, Potter,” sniffed Draco. “The Belmond is a gorgeous hotel. Perhaps I will make separate arrangements to enjoy all that it has to offer once we return from our assignment.” He hoped it was not a statement of misplaced optimism, as Nat’s warning regarding Chilton lingered uncomfortably in his mind.



.~O~.

Draco sucked, unable to stop the breathy moan of pleasure which escaped as the liquid washed over his tongue, its sugary tartness pooling along the insides of his mouth. He savoured the different layers as he swallowed, then licked the residue from his lips. They tasted sweet—flavoured by the tang of pear and pineapple, and the fruitiness of the wine.

“Excuse me,” he said as the waiter hurried over, his brown eyes raking over Draco with undisguised interest. “But could you tell me what’s in this sangria? There’s a smokiness in there that I just can’t place.”

The besotted man rattled off the ingredients, his cheeks pinkening as his eyes rested on the sensual curves of Draco’s mouth. Draco gave an appreciative suck on his straw, his cheeks hollowing further as his lips grew wet.

“Ahhh, that’s what it is,” Draco remarked, his eyes sparkling with amusement at the young man’s blatant stare. “Toasted sesame rum.”

“Is it to your pleasure, sir?”

“É boa pra caramba,” Draco replied. He signed for the bill and stretched out on the chaise. He let out a contented sigh as his eyes drifted shut, lulled by the gentle sounds of the pool, the occasional splash breaking its otherwise still and glassy surface.

“Must you flirt with everything on two legs?”

Draco squinted. Harry loomed over him. His face was hidden by the shadow, his hair haloed against the sun.

Draco closed his eyes with a huff. The chair next to him creaked in protest as Harry manoeuvred it alongside Draco’s, the lounge cushion dipping slightly as it accommodated Harry’s weight.

“So says the man who’s made it his mission to shag every living bird and bloke. It’s quite admirable, your dedication to the public’s well-being.” Draco’s voice dripped with sarcasm; the avalanche of photos depicting Harry’s salacious exploits in the months following their breakup was all the proof Draco needed to confirm that parting ways with Harry sodding Potter was for the better good.

“Keeping tabs on my personal life, Draco? I thought you didn’t care.”

Draco’s couldn’t help rolling his eyes—an admittedly ineffective move, when performed behind closed lids.

“I assure you, I don’t. Now if you wouldn’t mind, kindly bugger off. There’s not enough alcohol in this place to make you even the slightest bit tolerable, and I’d like to return to my nap.”

He heard Harry shifting, along with the mild grunt which left Harry’s chest as he repositioned himself on the chaise. Draco imagined how Harry would look, with his strong legs, and the dusting of hairs that darkened his golden skin. He wondered if Harry would be lying on his front, with the shapely globes of his arse thrusting perkily into the air, or if he was on his back, the solidity of his chest rising with each slow breath, the ridges of his abdomen framing a trail of hair that led in a straight line down to his fat and ample...

“Draco.”

“What?!”

Draco opened his eyes in irritation, which quickly morphed into mortification as his body reacted to the scene. Harry lay beside him, no longer shadowed by the sun, his powerful body rippling with lean muscle and sinew in places that were merely toned just several years prior. His traitorous gaze flicked lower to Harry’s groin, which was clad in the tiniest, tightest, stretchiest swimsuit that Draco had ever seen.

The whine built in the back of his throat, embarrassingly needy. The whole thing was—well, obscene.

“I’m sorry.” Draco’s head snapped up at the sound of Harry’s voice, his pale cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry,” Harry repeated. “This has got to be difficult for you...being held up by all this red tape, having to prove yourself to a bunch of Ministry officials, when all you really want to do is work.”

“Work. Work,” Draco repeated, a disbelieving laugh bubbling inside him as his voice elevated to an undignified screech. “It’s been nearly five years since we've been forced to spend time in each other’s company, Potter, and you think that the reason I’m upset...that the reason you should apologise...is because of my work?!”

He choked back his anger and frustration. “And since we’re on the subject, I’m used to proving myself. I’ve had to do so my entire life.” He waved his forearm meaningfully, which was currently glamoured to resemble a Muggle tattoo. “Although the only thing I seem to prove is how very capable I am at bollocking everything up.”

“What are you on about?” Harry asked, his mouth dropping in genuine shock. “You’re brilliant and successful, Draco. Look at all that you’ve accomplished.”

Draco turned away from Harry and flopped onto his belly, his jaw settling into a familiar pout. “I’m tired of people treating me as either incompetent, or suspect. I’m tired of the scrutiny, and I’m tired of people who think I need to be saved. Especially by you.”

Harry sighed. “No one thinks you’re some damsel in distress, Draco. Even I would have an Auror assigned to protect me, if the positions were reversed.” He hesitated. “Look, can we try to be civil? Try not to kill one another, since there’s apparently someone who’s quite willing to do that, who’s on the loose?”

Draco lifted his head, gazing pointedly at the scars which crisscrossed his chest. “I don’t know, Potter, can we? We don’t exactly have an exemplary history of doing well when placed in close quarters.”

Harry smiled softly. “I seem to remember a time when being in close quarters with you didn’t turn out so badly.”

Draco snorted. “A month of sex hardly makes up for what happened after.”

The silence stretched between them.

“Are we going to talk about this, Draco?” Harry finally asked.

Draco bunched up his towel, his chin jutting out at a mulish angle as he propped up his head. He stared out over the quiet surface of the pool, across to the beach where the waves were breaking steadily, leaving trails of white foam and seaweed along the shore.

“I wasn’t supposed to be on call that night, you know. Hannah had taken ill, so I volunteered to cover her shift.” He laughed at the recollection, a sharp and bitter sound. “I hadn’t been there for more than an hour when the Mediwizards brought you through the doors.”

Draco closed his eyes; he remembered everything—the rattling of the gurney’s wheels against the tiled floor, the horrified whispers of “The Chosen One” on the staff’s curious lips, the sight of Harry’s battered and bloodied body, his viscera exposed as the result of a violent Expulso curse. Potter’s presence meant increased scrutiny for the hospital—from both the public, and the press. And if that didn’t add to the staff’s already considerable burden, it was Harry himself who had demanded more.

For it was Potter who requested that Draco tend to his dressings, Potter who asked that Draco administer his potions, and Potter who insisted that Draco perform the monitoring spells. And it was Potter who had called Draco one week later, and Potter who had invited Draco out. And it was Potter who had pulled Draco through the door of the Leaky’s well-used loo—who proceeded to capture Draco’s mouth in a furious snog, who sank to his knees to suckle Draco’s prick, and who had pressed Draco against one of the bathroom’s metal stalls. It was Potter who sank his thick cock into the heat of Draco’s arse, fucking him fiercely, and Potter who Apparated them back to Grimmauld Place half an hour later, where Potter did it once more.

It was Potter who dared to fill Draco with hopes for a future. And it was Potter who brought everything to a halt.

It had taken Draco the better part of the last four years to finally move on and forget, yet seeing the way in which Harry now assumed his power and celebrity, like a well-worn cloak, brought everything crashing back.

“The time we spent together...that meant something to me, you know,” Harry said softly.

Draco punched his towel. He would not get sentimental about their past. “Right. It meant so much, it sent you back into the arms of the Weaselette.”

Harry flushed. “I didn’t run back to Ginny. I needed time to think. I was...confused.”

“Well, excuse me for contributing to your confusion. So sorry to have disrupted your life like that.” Draco glared. “You know, there were plenty of other people with whom you could have indulged your curiosity. There’s no shortage of wizards who would have gladly bent over for a piece of The Chosen One’s cock.”

“What we had was always much more than that, and you know it. Plus, it wasn’t as if you didn’t have a revolving door of men to your flat!”

“I never cheated on you!”

That was mostly true. It was only once Draco had seen the signs—of Ginny holding fast onto Harry’s arm on the pages of the Prophet, or when Harry’s displays of affection began to diminish, or when Harry’s expressive eyes started to waver with the depths of his guilt—that Draco gave into his instincts and plunged himself into a world of clubbing and one-nighters in an effort to protect himself from the inevitability that was to come.

“So I suppose that Oliver and Blaise...and let’s not forget all the other countless one-offs who’ve had the pleasure of your arse and your cock...don’t count as cheating.”

“And I suppose that Ginevra and I are living proof of your ability to commit.” Draco looked up as the ice in his glass began to rattle against the edges. Harry’s hands were clenched, his famous temper threatening to spiral out of control.

“Careful, Potter,” Draco breathed. “We’re sitting at a pool filled with Muggles, after all.”

The remainder of Draco’s sangria sloshed dangerously along the sides of his glass. “I owled you for months afterwards, Draco. You never returned any of my letters. You never came to your door, or answered my calls.”

“There wasn’t anything for me to return to. I gave you exactly what you asked for—plenty of space. It seems to have worked out well for both of us, yes?” Draco snapped his fingers, signalling the waiter who hurried back to Draco’s side. He rewarded the young man’s quickness with a flutter of his lashes and a seductive smile.

Harry practically growled. “I’m growing bored with the scenery; I’m going into the ocean for a swim.” He dragged his eyes down the length of Draco’s body, settling on his waist. “You know, they say that your metabolism slows down once you’ve reach thirty,” he smirked. “But you just sit here and relax. Enjoy your drink.”

Draco bolted upright, ignoring the waiter’s bemused expression as he looked at his still-trim waistline and sputtered. “I’m only twenty-nine, Potter!”

He watched as Harry walked away, the broad muscles of Harry’s back flexing as his powerful fingers deftly worked the lengths of his hair into a haphazard bun. Draco stared as Harry dove headfirst into the waves of the Atlantic, knifing through the waters before emerging from its depths with the water sluicing over him like some Greek god.

Draco pounded his pillow and squeezed his eyes tight. He tried to ignore the fact that—despite the dazzling display of beautiful bodies surrounding him—half of the beachgoers, both male and female, had turned to ogle the spectacular view. Draco tried to deny the fact that he had matched their appreciative looks, or that their desire had reignited within him a jealousy and possessiveness.

He tried, but failed, to ignore the harsh realisation that its truth had left him with a desperate and aching emptiness in his heart.


.~OIIO~.

There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth

~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Draco had absolutely had it.

It was bad enough that he had to endure nearly two hours of travel trapped in some Muggle death machine given the ridiculous name of “Jeep.” In fact, if Draco didn’t know better, the contraption’s lack of a Cushioning charm and hot metal side panels were devised by someone with a mile-long sadistic streak. Still, he had endured the painful reddening of his palms, choosing to maintain his white-knuckled grip on the side of the vehicle and breathing in the dust as they barrelled over miles of unpaved roads, instead of accepting Harry’s proffered hand.

And as grateful as Draco was once they had rolled to a stop, he discovered that the subsequent boat ride down the muddy waters of the Amazon was not much better—a slow, unrelenting trudge through the flooded forest, with only Potter’s amused looks and the swarms of mosquitos to keep him company.

Forty-five minutes after Rafael had said his good-byes at the edge of the reserve—his boat and Draco’s last contact with civilisation disappearing into the distance—Draco was feeling both over- and underwhelmed by the majesty of the forest. True, he was a proud Slytherin—and a former prefect, at that—and had spent a good number of his formative years either dressed in, or lying on sheets of, or fantasising about eyes of green.

But now there was just so much of it. The forest was nothing like the patchworked, rolling hills of Wiltshire, with their brightly coloured grasses dotted with yellow oilseed rape fields and blanketed by wide, blue skies and grazing sheep. This was miles of dense, hot jungle, where the air settled thick and uncomfortable in his lungs. It was also surprisingly dark; even the sun’s strong rays were barely able to pierce the canopy overhead, the occasional breakthrough of light creating transient, flickering patterns on the twisted underbrush.

A bead of sweat slowly trickled down his brow. Draco trudged forward, trying to ignore the fact that his pants were adhering uncomfortably to the lengths of his legs, or that he had already developed several blisters on the bottoms of his feet. His once-crisp linen shirt lay damp and clinging to his chest, the £150 garment now sadly limp and irreparably stained.

He narrowed his eyes as Potter forged ahead, a cheerful whistle dancing across his lips. Gryffindor’s Golden Boy had already shucked his shirt, the muscles of his torso glistening with sweat. He kept his dark locks tied in that damnable bun, although several strands had already escaped from beneath the elastic grip.

Harry worked to clear their path. The Golok’s blade split several saplings and easily sliced through the tangled brush as Harry attacked the thick vegetation with long and practiced strokes.

Draco closed his eyes, trying to ignore Harry’s grunts. The sight of all those muscles flexing, bright with the sheen of Harry’s exertions, made Draco feel flustered and ill-tempered.

“Unless you fancy looking like a boiled lobster, you’d do well to put on a shirt,” he groused.

Harry put down the machete, looking at Draco in disbelief. “The forest canopy and understory cuts out almost all the sun.” He jerked his thumb at Draco’s sodden clothing. “If you had read the reports Nat gave us, you’d look less like a model for “Safari Today” and more like someone who came prepared.”

Draco smirked. “You think I look like a model? And for the record, I’m all in favour of coming prepared.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He hacked through a thick vine, the heart-shaped leaves protesting noisily as they fell to the ground. The need for trailblazing grew less, however, as the amount of light dramatically increased and the vegetation noticeably thinned.

“You were saying?” Draco held up his hand to shade his eyes from the sudden influx of the sun’s brilliant rays.

Harry frowned. “That’s strange,” he said, looking around at the swath of downed plants “Baras told us that the island was unplottable. I know that the Muggles are felling parts of the biome, but it shouldn’t be happening here.”

Draco leaned over, studying the branches of a nearby seedling. “There are other reasons for trees to fall. Climate change causes plants in this region to grow faster and die younger. Drought stress and standing loss of vigour is common as well.” He squatted, inspecting the younger saplings and early brush. “The combination of sun and drought with slash-and-burn agriculture in nearby regions can cause smoke to travel, creating fires. In this situation, the fact that an island’s unplottable, matters not.”

“Perhaps,” Harry conceded as Draco stood and dusted himself off. “Still. We should be cautious. The amount of vegetation that’s been cleared is just wide enough for a person to travel through it with ease. It seems a little too...I don’t know, regular. A bit too convenient, to be naturally made.” He looked up and squinted, the metal of his glasses catching and reflecting the light from the sun. “It’s nearly half past three. We’ll make use of the clearing for now, but when it comes time to set up shelter, we should do so far from the path.”

“Fine. But the light around here goes down pretty fast, so we’ll have to look for a place soon.” Draco stretched, his muscles protesting the too-brief respite as he stepped out into the open clearing and the heat of the sun.

Salazar, was it hot. Perhaps Potter had the right idea; the git barely looked winded, his bronzed chest rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm as his denim-clad legs propelled him forth. Draco grimaced, swiping at the strands of hair which lay plastered against his head. He forced himself to take one more aching step, and then another. The sweat continued to pour as the forest spun. Draco squinted; the salt stung his eyes as his vision grew spotty, his skin prickling as his heart thudded against his ribs.

He heard shouting in the distance, the words muffled and indistinct. Draco swayed; there was a foggy awareness as he started to pitch forward, accompanied by a vague and delayed panic as he fell.

He was still trying to decide whether the pain inflicted to his body or his dignity was going to be worse, when he felt a pair of strong arms grab a hold of him, lowering him towards the dank, jungle floor.

“Jesus Christ, Draco,” Harry swore. He unscrewed the top to his canteen and placed Draco’s parched lips against its silvered mouth.

Draco drank greedily, eventually indicating he had enough once the heat receded and the swirling slowed. As the world slowly came into focus, he became aware of his compromised position—his head cradled in Harry’s lap, his body protected from the earth’s detritus by Harry’s cushioning charm.

“Oh, God,” Draco croaked. He attempted to sit but the scenery began to tilt, causing his head to fall and his left cheek to press against the denim overlying Harry’s cock. “Shit,” he continued as Harry hitched his breath. “I shouldn’t have had that last drink.”

“It probably would have been better if you didn’t have the third or fourth one, either,” Harry said hoarsely. “You didn’t think to take a sobering potion before we left?”

Draco had thought about it. He had made a conscious decision not to, preferring the physical consequences of a hangover over the discomfort of dealing with Harry whilst sober. In retrospect, it was not the most sensible decision he had ever made, but when it came to Harry, Draco had always lacked anything resembling common sense.

“I was doing fine,” he groused. “At least I was, until we reached the clearing. It’s this damned, equatorial heat.” He paled as his stomach followed his proclamation with a low rumble.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t at breakfast this morning. Have you had anything to eat?”

“I did,” Draco replied, returning Potter’s glare. Harry didn’t have to know that breakfast consisted of a bag of Yokitos Batata Lisa crisps, grabbed from the local Pão de Açúcar prior to boarding the Jeep.

“Something with recognisable ingredients?” Harry sighed at Draco’s silence. “Sometimes you can be such a stubborn git.” He reached into his rucksack and pulled out several pieces of fruit, thrusting them towards Draco.

Draco sat up, his hunger overriding his pride as he accepted one gratefully. He ran his fingernail down the aguajé’s maroon scales, peeling back the skin and letting out a satisfied groan as he popped the buttery flesh into his mouth.

“Mmmm,” he sighed happily. Harry stared as Draco scraped the yellow-orange pulp against his teeth, his lips curling around the fruit as he sucked on its juices and spit out the seed. “Delicious.” He wiped at the bit of nectar that had caught at the corner of his mouth. “Did you know that Mauritia flexuosa is not only highly nutritious, it’s believed to promote a rounder, curvier arse?”

Harry handed Draco two more.

“Eat up. Not that you need it; you’ve always had one of the finest arses I’d ever seen.” His eyes flicked down, darkening as they traced a path along Draco’s delectable curves.

Draco looked away, spots of pink staining his cheeks. “Only one of?”

“The very best,” Harry amended as he lifted his hand and drew it against Draco’s cheek.

A rush of memories came flooding back—of the times Draco had spent either bent over his desk, or against the wall, or on his bed, his body writhing as he thrust out his arse, his pucker loosening as Harry licked and fucked him with his tongue. His eyes darkened, the grey of them disappearing with his lust, and he felt a responsive hardening of Harry’s cock.

“I’m going to get us something to eat,” Harry said brusquely. He stood up suddenly, causing Draco to nearly fall over in the process. “You’re still weak, but if we wait around here much longer, there won’t be time to set up camp and make dinner before it gets dark.” He reached into his rucksack and pulled out something from the side pocket and placed it in Draco’s hand. The thick, platinum band sported a single adornment: an oval-shaped centrepiece that, on first glance, appeared fairly dull, but when held up to the sun, reflected its light.

Draco looked up at Harry, the ring weighing heavily in the palm of his hand.

“The ring contains the remains of a two-way mirror which my father and Sirius once owned,” Harry explained as he put on its mate. “It works through a modified Protean charm. It’ll allow us to remain in communication, no matter where we are.”

Draco slid the ring onto his fourth finger, the size a perfect fit. “It’s brilliant. It’s even charmed to fit the wearer.”

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly, his throat suddenly tight. Draco tilted his hand back and forth, fascinated by the platinum’s glow. “Anyway, I’m off. Rest a bit; I’ll be back soon.”

Draco watched as Harry set back along the path. Harry’s ring was heavy, yet comfortable, on his hand. Draco twisted it around, watching as his frazzled reflection came into view. It was tempting to try it out—to call out to Harry, and watch as the glassy surface came alive, connecting and binding them through its magical thread.

Still, it was a privilege to be trusted with something so sentimental, and not one to be abused. Draco leaned against the trunk of a Castanha-de-cutia tree, still giddy from the lack of food and the jungle heat, and allowed himself the brief recess from the sun. His dizziness faded, and he gave in to his lassitude as he closed his eyes, lulled to sleep by the yelping calls of the white-throated toucans and the soft chorus of the cicada’s whirrs.

“Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Harry said hurriedly as Draco jumped. “I’ve returned. With sustenance.” Draco’s jaw dropped at the collection of root vegetables, fruits, nuts and fish which Harry deposited on the ground.

“Is there a Sainsbury’s around here that I’m not privy to?” he asked as Harry began clearing out the detritus and leaves. “We travelled quite a distance from the river; how did you manage to catch us a fish?”

Slashes of red appeared on Harry’s cheeks. “I may have Accio’d it. I wasn’t sure if you were up to eating ants or grubs, and the thought of trying to figure out how to prepare armadillo or mon—”

Draco blanched. “Never mind. The fish is good, and well worth the magical usage.” He studied the fish’s narrowed head and blackish scales. “It’s more than good, actually; you snagged us a pirarucu. You’re lucky to have summoned a smaller one, since the large ones can grow as long as eight feet.”

“Good thing we got this one, then,” Harry agreed. He placed a flat stone across two matched rocks, and built a fire to heat its surface. Harry then poured some coconut water into a hollowed out shell, mixing it with strips of red pepper and salt, into which he placed hearty chunks of the fish. He set it aside, then leaned over to collect a large, brown root.

Draco suddenly remembered why Potter had failed abysmally at potions. His slender fingers closed over Harry’s wrist.

“What are you planning to do with that root, Potter?”

Harry frowned. “I’m going to cook it. It’s cassava. They sell it everywhere.”

“It is, and they do. But unless you want to kill us, better use these plantains instead.” Draco handed him the fruit, its green peel beginning to show spots of black and brown. “Manihot utilissima, or sweet cassava, is usually what they sell in the supermarkets. But what you have there is Manihot esculenta, also known as bitter cassava or mandioca. It contains larger amounts of a cyanide precursor, and is only safe for consumption with the proper processing.”

“Oh.” Harry looked faintly embarrassed as he tossed the cassava aside.

“Although I’ll bet there were times when you would have found that knowledge quite handy,” Draco added with a lopsided grin.

“We were just kids back then, Malfoy. Kids who were scared, and at times, stupid.” Harry looked at Draco—at the way the sunlight turned his hair the colour of spun silk, and at the uncertainty which softened the aristocratic lines of his face. It was hard to reconcile the Malfoy who sat in front of him with the whiny, entitled prat who had once devoted his energies to the rallying cry of “Potter Stinks.”

“What made you go into research?” Harry asked carefully as he added the slices of plantain to the stone slab. “The last time we spoke, you had your heart set on becoming a Mind Healer.”

“I did. But apparently it’s not enough just to be at the top of one’s class, or to receive an ‘Outstanding’ in nearly all your N.E.W.T.s.” A pained expression crossed his face. “It’s one thing to be accepted into a Healer’s Program; it’s quite another for people to entrust an ex-Death Eater with their emotional well-being. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had patients reschedule once they’ve learned my name, or request one of my colleagues to take over their case after catching a glimpse of my Mark.”

He rubbed his forearm as his eyes turned a stormy grey. “Mind healing is based on trust...a near impossibility, given my past. By going into research, at least there was still some way I could help.”

“But you’ve proven yourself to be trustworthy, more years than not. The staff at St. Mungo’s can vouch for you. The medical director...”

“Four years of helping the public under someone’s oversight is hardly enough to reverse the stain of years of servitude to the Dark Lord, much less the generations of pureblood rhetoric associated with my family’s name. And Healer Chilton has never, and will never, support me. His only child was killed by a Death Eater. He...” Draco choked, then looked away. “He has never seen me as anything more than a copy of my father.”

“But you have patients! Their families, they must trust you.”

“To most of them, I’m little more than a glorified memory thief, a last resort. They turn to me when the prospect of living with such horrors outweighs the risk of putting the wellbeing of their loved ones in my hands.”

Harry handed him a plate of the roasted plantain and fish; Draco hissed as their fingers brushed.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry said softly. “I know you’re not your father. I see you as someone different. As someone I would trust with my own life.”

Draco toyed with his food. The pieces of fish fell apart under the repeated jabs of his fork.

“Why do I find that so hard to believe?”

Harry flinched at the resentment in Draco’s tone. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Let’s see. Perhaps because when we were together, you never trusted the kind of person I was to take our relationship out in the open. No restaurant dinners, or Quidditch matches, or Prophet photos for the Saviour and the queer Death Eater. Or perhaps, if it wasn’t an issue of trust, then it was an issue with me.” Draco chewed angrily, the tender flesh of the pirarucu sticking in his throat as he forced it down.

Harry looked at Draco, clearly gobsmacked. “That’s absolute rubbish. And if that’s what you thought, then I’ve fucked up in more ways than one.”

He ignored Draco’s snort. “I had spent nearly fifteen years of my life thrown from one situation to the next, my course dictated by those around me. I barely had time to breathe, let alone think. That day that I landed in St. Mungo’s...Merlin, you were as gorgeous and prickly as ever, and just as snootily dressed. But you were different. You had such a calling, a conviction and purpose, of your very own. Seeing you reminded me that I had to stop living the life that others expected of me, and find out what it was that I wanted, for myself.”

Draco shook his head in disbelief. “You kept our relationship hidden. I had always thought that part of you was ashamed.”

“Never of you! And never ashamed.”

He placed his hand on Draco’s. “I was just starting to come to terms with my sexuality. And although I was attracted to you physically, that wasn’t the half of it. You made me question what I had been encouraged to expect: a wife and two children and a home by the sea, surrounded by rose gardens and a white picket fence.

”Perhaps I was selfish, for keeping our relationship private. I wanted to sort things out on my own terms, without the scrutiny of the public, or the press. Everyone was acting as if they had a right to an opinion on my personal life. Could you imagine what would have happened, had they known I was dating you?

“I thought I was doing the right thing...at least, at the time. Looking back, I should have talked to you about it. It wasn’t fair to you. Or us.”

“When you asked for more space,” Draco asked slowly, “was that also for ‘us?’”

Harry scrubbed at his face, his cheeks turning a bright red. “I didn’t want to lead you or Ginny on with promises I couldn’t keep. Being with you was consuming. You were all I thought about, but it was like diving from one intense relationship into another. I just needed space to find myself, to sort things out.”

“Well. You certainly made up for lost time once you did.”

“By the time I had realised what it was I wanted...who I wanted...you were no longer a choice.” Harry’s eyes filled with regret. “I couldn’t even look at another man for months, Draco, until you’d made it absolutely clear that you wanted nothing to do with me. You did everything you could to push me away. I would have gladly given up every one of those relationships, if you’d have taken me back.”

Draco’s throat tightened. Being around Harry brought up memories of what had been, what may have been, and what could be. But Draco was a realist, and had lived through enough to have experienced the pain of his mistakes, and the heartbreak of false hope. It had taken him years to get over Potter, and as tempting as the thought was, he couldn’t let himself be drawn back.

“It’s water under the bridge, Potter.” Draco finished his meal and stood, his feet surprisingly steady despite his racing heart. “We need to hurry if we want to set up shelter before it gets dark.”

Harry opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, then snapped it shut. “Right.” He scraped the dishes, cleaning them with the leftover water and a Purifico spell, before shrinking everything down and returning them to his pack. He poured the remaining liquid over the campfire, then stirred the ashes until the last of their embers died down.

“Ready?” he asked. He kept his head studiously forward, checking for any residual heat.

“Yes.” Draco looked up; it was still hot, although the sun had lost quite a bit of its intensity. Draco knew that they only had several more hours before it completely set.

“Here. You can eat it along the way.” Harry handed Draco a fuzzy, oblong fruit whose shell had been split open, exposing the creamy, yellow-white flesh underneath. Draco sniffed, perking up at the delicate smell of chocolate and pineapple, along with a trace of pear and banana.

“It’s a cupuaçu; Rafael told me about it. I thought you might like it, seeing how you love sweets.”

The pulp was an enticing mixture of sweet and earthy, with the hint of something acidic and sour. Draco trailed behind as they made their way through the clearing, grateful that Potter couldn’t see his surprise. He savoured it as they walked, moved by Harry’s thoughtfulness.

It was half an hour later when they stopped.

“Potter. We must be getting close.” Draco’s voice grew with excitement. “The soil’s changed; typically, the topsoils of the rainforest are thin and leached. But the quality here is different.” He poked around with a long stick; it came back dark and rich, even underneath the layers of leaves, rotting wood, and organic decay. “The reserve has conditions which are very similar to this.”

“Let’s set up shelter for the night, then. If we’re that close, we’ve made excellent time. We’ll have a good night’s sleep, then set out first thing in the morning.” Harry cleared the ground, digging a small hole to prevent flooding of their supplies. Once he had finished he unpacked their tent, staking it into the earth and enlarging it modestly as Draco looked on with a moue.

“What now?” asked Harry in exasperation. “Am I not going fast enough for you?”

“Can’t you enlarge it more? There’s barely enough room for our beds.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Look at where we are. A larger campsite would make us vulnerable to discovery, and to rotting branches and trees. Plus, I want to cast a Protego to keep out the wildlife. The tent is large enough to hold two singles and our supplies, without getting us into trouble for the use of excessive magic.”

Draco let out a resigned sigh. If Harry could deal with the beds having a paper-thin separation between one another, then so could he.

He was tired and dirty, and ached in places he never knew he could. Draco threw down his pack and withdrew two containers and a small bowl. After enlarging the vessel, he cast an Aguamenti. The air grew scented with the sharpness of lemon and grass as he added three drops of liquid from the yellow phial.

Harry looked over at Draco. “Tell me you’re not using your magical quota for your ablutions,” he said, as Draco added one drop from the blue.

Draco gave him an affronted look. “It’s a blend of citronella and eucalyptus oils. The mixture will soothe the skin, and lessen the chances of us becoming a meal for bloodsucking pests. Plus, I’m caked in dirt and sweat.” He looked at Harry and sniffed, making a face as he handed Harry a washcloth. “As are you. Since we’re sleeping in such close quarters, I’d prefer if you washed up a bit, too.”

He set the bowl between them. Draco rinsed his face, inhaling the fresh scent of the oils before running the towel through his hair. He let out a sigh of pleasure as the grime and stickiness washed away. A sense of calm swept over him as he wrung out the cloth and dipped it back into the bowl, the water trickling down the sides. He lifted the cloth to his face to rinse off once more, when he was interrupted by a series of groans.

Draco’s lips pressed into a frown. “Seriously, Potter. Can’t you clean yourself without bellowing like some Neanderthal?”

“Sorry. I, erm...I may have overdid it a bit on the sun.” Harry lowered the washcloth from his face with a sheepish expression. Draco swore when he saw that Harry’s skin had turned a beet red.

He came over and pressed his hand lightly against Harry’s shoulder, exhaling loudly as the area blanched. “Merlin. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

If it was possible, Harry turned another shade brighter. “It didn’t hurt until now.”

“Sit. Take this; all of it.” He handed Harry a small phial of pain potion from his bag, then proceeded to cool Harry down with the rest of the citronella-scented water. Once he had finished, Draco took out a wooden box, unshrunk it, and removed a glass jar filled with thick, orange-coloured cream.

Harry looked down curiously as Draco dipped his fingers into the ointment and began applying it to Harry’s tender skin.

“What is it?”

“A variant of burn-healing paste of my own invention. It absorbs more quickly than the traditional burn paste.”

“It smells good. Feels good, too,” Harry acknowledged with a hum, giving into the sensation as his skin cooled and healed under Draco’s touch.

They remained quiet for several minutes as Draco continued to apply the paste. Draco tried to focus on the low-pitched whir of the insects surrounding them and the whistling, cri-cri-o’s of the screaming pihas, but the squelch of the cream between his fingers and the slap of his hand against the broad expanse of Harry’s back had both his imagination and libido running wild. It didn’t help that Harry had started to lean into Draco’s touch, his pleased sighs giving way to guttural moans.

“Godric, it feels so good. You always did have the best hands,” Harry breathed happily.

Draco continued to work his way down Harry’s back. His fingers traced lightly over the knobs of Harry’s spine. The muscles tensed, then eased as he pressed harder, his practiced hands kneading along the stretch of Harry’s well-developed latissimi, before hesitating at the waist of Harry’s jeans.

“Turn around,” Draco said hoarsely. He removed Harry’s glasses and rested them atop Harry’s head, the wire frames sinking into Harry’s thick, dark locks. He smoothed the paste across Harry’s forehead, and over the outline of that famous scar.

Draco swallowed. His face heated as Harry’s green eyes darkened, his pupils growing large with want. Draco paused, then swiped the liniment over the strong angles of Harry’s cheek bones, up to the corner of his eyes, and down the slope of his nose. He felt the slight bump in its descent—a flaw in the cartilage, a remnant of Draco’s cruel behaviour at a time when he should have known better, even as a child. His hand trembled, as his thumb rested against the delicate fulcrum above Harry’s lips.

He stared, tempted to swipe his thumb over that reddened flesh. Harry’s mouth had parted, his breath escaping in soft pants as his tongue darted out to lick the chapped skin. It would have been so easy, for Draco to press his thumb against its margins, to ease it into the inviting heat.

Instead, he lowered it onto Harry’s chest. Harry’s skin burned hot, the coarse and wiry hairs which decorated his chest tickling Draco’s palm, inciting a thousand nerve endings that torched a path straight to his groin.

Harry’s pupils grew even fatter as he shifted in response. Draco looked down; Harry was hard, his mouthwatering length pressing obscenely along his denim’s fronts.

A whimper escaped Draco as he thrust the remainder of the paste into Harry’s hands. “You do the rest,” he choked, ashamed of his cowardice as he rushed blindly into the tent. He threw off his clothes, not caring that they lay rumpled in the corner as he slid into the sanctuary of his bed, hidden under the safety of his sheets.

He squeezed his eyes tight, listening to Harry rustle about outside as he willed his breathing to slow. He was rock hard, and desperate for the sun to go down. He counted each agonising minute as the sky remained awash in golds and orange and lilacs, until it eventually faded to black.

“Draco?” Harry asked softly. A soft glow permeated the inside of the tent as Harry cast his Lumos. Draco could feel the disappointment rolling off Harry at the silence that greeted him. The floor creaked from Harry’s footsteps, followed by the protest of the cot’s springs as he fell into bed.

It was impossible to resist, having his ex less than two feet away, smelling of lemon and citronella and musk, his breathing gradually deepening, soft and low. Draco reached down and began slowly stroking his prick. The tip was swollen, the ache amplified by the roughness of the cotton sheet as it slid across the sensitive head.

He circled his cock with his fingers, still slippery from the paste, the friction and slide exquisite as he slowly increased his pressure and speed. He imagined Harry’s mouth—his lips wet and swollen, opening wide, then wider still, as Harry worked to accommodate the girth of Draco’s prick. Harry had always been so eager when he sucked cock—his face pulled into a rapturous expression as he rolled the roughness of his tongue around the velvety head, lapping and humming as if he couldn’t get enough. Draco let out a hiss at the recollection of those beautiful lips stretched around the thickness of his shaft, those choked moans of pleasure which escaped Harry as he took Draco all the way back, the feel of Harry’s throat contracting around the tip, and the way those green eyes would glitter with the sheen of tears as he continued to breathe and suck.

Fuck. Draco’s hand sped; his thumb brushed once, twice, across his slit, the muscles in his forearm tensing as the pleasure spiralled, a coppery tang spilling into his mouth as he tried to quiet his groans. The sound of skin on skin seemed to echo throughout the quiet of the tent, the squelch of the paste mixed with precome adding to the lewdness, yet Draco continued to wank, unable to stop. He felt his balls pull high as his pleasure built, spreading white hot through his lower belly as his legs tightened, his toes curled, and his arse clenched.

Harry, Harry, Harry. Draco thought about the last time Harry had sucked him off—his nose nuzzling into the softness of Draco’s golden curls, his pleased expression as Draco gripped his head in order to fuck steadily into the warmth of his mouth, the fluttering of Harry’s lashes as Draco’s slim hips stuttered, out of control. It was the memory of Harry’s look of exaltation when Draco had pulled out and painted Harry’s lips and face with his come that made Draco explode with a violent release, his mouth falling open as he panted and shuddered, the thick ropes of spunk coating the undersurface of his sheets.

He continued to pump his cock as he came, trembling and shuddering from the intensity of his orgasm, finally stopping when the feel of his fist became too much. It was only once the blinding whiteness died down and Draco returned to Earth that he realised he had heard a gasp which may not have been his own.



.~O~.

“Hey. You’re finally up.”

Draco peeked up at Harry through the flap of the tent. He had actually been up for the better part of the hour, but needed some privacy so he could cast a quick Scourgify over his sticky belly and his sheets.

“Mmmm.” Draco walked outside and stretched. His gaze was drawn naturally to the canopy of trees; it was still early, yet the sky was already the colour of molten gold. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, with more casualness than he felt.

“Yeah. Although it was hard getting used to all the noise. I don’t know what was worse—” he continued, ignoring Draco’s hard stare, “—the birds, or the monkeys, or the frogs.”

“Ahh, yes. Those noises.” Draco watched Harry closely, but Harry had already turned around to prepare their breakfast. When he didn’t mention anything further, Draco allowed himself to relax. “One would think that we were thrust back into the busyness of London, with all that chatter.”

“Easier to sleep here, though. Did you see that night sky? I never saw anything like it, not even when we were at Hogwarts.”

“It reminds me of the skies over Wiltshire. The nightscape was one of my favourite things as a child. I had the ceiling of my bedroom charmed with the constellations; I could lose myself in it for hours. It was one of the reasons I rarely suffered from nightmares when I was back home. Well, until...”

Harry reached out and gave Draco a reassuring squeeze. “Even Voldemort can’t change the fact that you once experienced happiness in your home. And there’s other places in the world, with beautiful skies of their own.”

“But there’s only one Wiltshire.” Draco allowed Harry’s hand to linger, drawing comfort from the way those strong, thick fingers threaded securely between his own. “And what about you? Have you been able to replace the unpleasant memories with something new?”

Harry gave Draco a squeeze, before reluctantly withdrawing his hand. “I’ve found that certain things are irreplaceable. But it doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try.” He gathered the nuts from out of their husks, depositing them in a sack filled with some berries and other fruit. “I’ve already eaten. Have as much as you want; I’m going to break down camp, and then we can go. If we’re lucky, we’ll hit Saudade Falls in a couple hours, and be at the reserve by noon.”

They made their way back towards the previously cleared path and headed north. Harry had apparently learned his lesson from the previous day; he made the trek with a shirt in place, as the heat and humidity continued their steady climb. Draco looked at the T-shirt’s faded logo with a fond exasperation, its lettering cracked and barely readable against its stretched and ragged form. It had been one of Harry’s favourites, and Draco realised with a pang that it had been years since he last saw Harry wear it, and that this time could possibly be the last.

There was the sound of rushing water in the distance, as the path narrowed and the air cooled. Harry had gone back to using the machete to clear their path. A thick, climbing vine blocked their way; it lay entangled with the surrounding trees, a seemingly impenetrable mass of tendrils and waxy, oblong leaves.

Harry leaned forward, reaching for the vine as he prepared to clear it away.

“Don’t cut that! That’s Chondrodendron tomentosum; you get curare from its stem and roots.” Draco pulled at Harry furiously. “That’s twice I’ve had to stop you from doing something that could get you killed, you clumsy oaf!” Something akin to hysteria and sadness threatened to overwhelm his throat.

“Hey. Hey.” Harry dropped the machete and swung Draco towards him, holding him tight. He brushed the hair off of Draco’s face. “Take a deep breath. Nothing’s going to happen to either of us. We’ll just keep looking out for one another, okay?”

“I’d prefer not to be stuck out here in the middle of nowhere on my own, because of your ignorance and misplaced Gryffindor courage!”

“I’ll be more careful, I promise.” Harry cupped Draco’s chin, his expression softening as angry tears pricked at the corners of Draco’s eyes. He rubbed his thumb along the slope of Draco’s jaw as he moved in. The electricity sparked between them as the chatter of the wildlife grew muffled in the distance, and the magic of the forest intensified and hummed.

“Potter,” Draco breathed. There was an unexpected breeze, perfumed by the hints of orchid, the mustiness of wet earth, and Harry’s undeniable musk.

Harry’s hand crept towards the back of Draco’s neck. “What?” he whispered, so close that their lips nearly touched.

“Listen.” Faint above the sound of their breaths and the thudding of Draco’s heart, was the noise of rushing water and an answering splash. “That’s got to be the Falls. Come on.” He steered them around the vines, grabbing the machete on the way and placing it back in Harry’s hands.

They worked quickly along the path as the flora in the area changed. A large number of flowers and ferns now carpeted the floor, the species of trees reminiscent of those found along the river and the flooded plains, their trunks and branches decorated with the twisted cords of a variety of liana vines. Draco let out a gasp as Harry chopped down the last creeper, its removal exposing a hidden oasis containing an emerald pool and the majestic Saudade Falls.

They stepped forward, together. Their feet sank into the rich earth as their noses filled with the sweet perfume of the riot of flowers, and of life.

“It’s beautiful,” Draco whispered as Harry nodded. He felt the thrum of the water’s power, drawing him in. “They say that the waters of the Falls are enchanted. That for those who bathe in its waters, it is a place of rejuvenation. Of rebirth, and restoration.”

The water churned, a band of white foam appearing where the blue water crashed over the rocks before disappearing into a swash of jade.

“You know,” Harry mused, “We really did make tremendous time.” He moved forward one step.

“We’re only responsible to our own schedules here, Potter,’ Draco drawled in response as he moved past Harry. “What’s the big rush?”

Draco looked at Harry, the challenge plain in his eyes. Harry let out a loud whoop of laughter as he began shedding his clothes. Draco quickly followed suit, the two men nearly tripping over each other to see who could get to the water first.

Draco ran to the water’s edge, his lean, lithe form clad only in his thin boxers. A calculated glance at the clear waters told Draco that although the pool was shallow enough to stand in, it was also deep enough to swim. He gave Harry a two-fingered salute as he kicked off, his long legs powering him through the water’s thundering current as he made his way towards the shelter of the undercutting.

Harry followed him with a growl. Harry was broader and stronger, but whereas he relied on his physical strength, Draco’s movements were more coordinated and smoother. He beat Harry easily, pulling himself up to lean against the rocks with a bored expression, until Harry finally caught up.

“Where did you learn to swim like that?” Harry asked in astonishment as he stood, brushing back his dripping locks.

“I grew up in the country, Potter. There were plenty of lakes and ponds for me to learn how to swim.”

“I’m impressed.” Draco flushed as Harry looked over his body with an appraising stare. His cock began to stir under the visual assault, and he realised with a dawning horror that its steadily growing outline was clearly visible beneath the white cotton of his now semi-transparent boxers.

He backed up fully, his shoulders hitting painfully against the rocky wall.

“Draco.” The green of Harry’s eyes had all but disappeared, the sliver of remaining colour surrounding his dilated pupils.

“What?” Draco asked, barely managing a breathy squeak.

Harry pointed urgently at the plants dangling overhead. “Those vines that you’re leaning on,” he whispered. “Are they dangerous?”

Draco looked at the trailer with its white and lavender flowers. “No,” he answered, surprised by Harry’s question. “That’s Ajo Sacha; they’re completely harmless.”

“Good.” Draco’s head whipped around at Harry’s dark and throaty tone. Harry flicked his wrist; Draco gasped as he felt the strong surge of magic wash over him. The vines starting to lengthen and twist, wrapping themselves around his arms and drawing them up until they were bound and suspended overhead.

He let out a whine, his anger at Harry’s presumptuousness betrayed by his growing arousal.

Harry pressed forward, the water sloshing between them until only the thinnest layer remained, its coolness a slippery film between their legs. He loomed over Draco, his breath hot against the curve of Draco’s neck.



“Do you know what is was like last night? To hear you wank, to hear that gorgeous prick of yours slapping against your skin? To think about the way your mouth falls open, and the way your eyes go glassy when you’re about to come? Merlin, it was all I could do to keep from climbing into your bed, taking you in my arms, and pinning you down.” Harry pressed forward and rubbed the rigid length of his cock up and down Draco’s leg.

Draco strained against his bonds, unable to hold back his whimper at the demanding look in Harry’s eyes.

“Who were you thinking about last night, Draco?” Harry urged. He trailed the edge of his fingernail down Draco’s chest, the sharp edge scraping lightly against Draco’s nipples which hardened immediately from the touch. “The waiter at the hotel? One of those ponces you’re always bringing to the Ministry balls?” Harry nuzzled along the angle of Draco’s jaw; Draco groaned as the day old stubble pinkened his skin. “Blaise?” Harry asked roughly, nipping at the area just below Draco’s ear as Draco arched and keened.

“Fuck,” Draco moaned. His prick was jutting out over the elastic of his underwear, its head already swollen and pink. The magic buzzed all around him; the air was thick with the scent of the forest, and of Harry and their lust. When Harry leaned back and licked his lips, Draco couldn’t stop the helpless thrust of his hips or the answering twitch of his cock.

“Harry,” Draco hissed, angling his body to try to get some relief.

“Tell me,” Harry demanded once more. He ran his hands down Draco’s sides, stilling Draco’s hips. “Who were you thinking of?”

“Fuck you,” Draco grit out. He tried to fuck the empty air, his neglected cock seeking friction from the wet cotton of his boxers as his body fought against the tightness of his bonds. The sensation was maddening and not nearly enough. Draco’s frustration grew, his mind toying with the hexes he was going to cast when Harry’s large hands suddenly snaked behind him and gripped the swell of his arse.

“It’s you, alright?” Draco confessed as Harry gave his buttocks a possessive squeeze. Faint spots of embarrassment coloured his cheeks. “It’s always been you.”

Harry lunged forward as he captured Draco’s mouth with a triumphant roar. Harry’s lips were warm and wet, and tasted of nectar and acai as well as the undertone of something dark. He pushed Draco back until he was pinned firmly against the rocky wall. Harry’s tongue licked and plundered—rough and insistent and possessive, as if he were trying to erase the memory of any other man, even as he stole Draco’s breath.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Harry whispered. He grabbed Draco’s wrists, eyes raking over his body as it lay stretched and bared for his perusal. The spray from the waterfall dotted Draco’s skin, its mist cool against his heated flesh. Its goose-fleshed appearance increased after Harry slid down and took an erect nipple into his wet mouth.

“Fucking shit,” Draco hissed, as Harry flicked the pebbling nub with his tongue. Harry moaned in response, his prick swelling against his sodden briefs as he bit down lightly on the nipple’s sensitive peak.

“I want you,” Harry growled. “It’s been driving me crazy, being this close to you. Watching you bat your lashes at every pretty young thing that crosses your path, you fucking flirt.” He mouthed the soft, fine hairs which dusted Draco’s chest, before taking the other, neglected nipple into his mouth. “Do you know how hard it was for me not to pull you aside and mark you all over, claiming you for my own?”

Draco whined as the hairs on Harry’s head brushed agonisingly over his flesh.

“Tell me you want this,” Harry groaned, standing up and dragging the length of his cock against Draco’s thigh. Draco writhed, practically sobbing in relief as their erections finally met. “Tell me. Please.” His normally assured voice quavered, exposing his desire and need.

“Fuck, yeah, I want this,” Draco breathed. “Want to feel your lips on me, want to hear you moan as you suck my cock.”

“You’ve always been a demanding prat,” Harry growled affectionately. He lowered Draco’s boxers as Draco tried to step out of them, his feet skimming the rocks, body swaying, still suspended by his wrists. Draco let out a sigh in relief as his prick bobbed free. Harry’s eyes were dark with lust as he removed his own briefs, then dropped to his knees.

Draco tilted his hips forward in invitation. His prick was wet and pink, jutting out at the perfect angle in front of Harry’s mouth. He let out a hiss as Harry leaned forward, the tip of his tongue lightly teasing at first, then growing more urgent as Harry began lapping at the swollen head.

“Please,” Draco grit out. He shuddered, his hips thrusting furiously yet ineffectively as Harry licked at the slit. “Let me touch you, Harry. Please.”

Harry looked up at Draco’s pleading face. He didn't hesitate as he cast a wandless Diffindo, Draco’s cock still lodged firmly in the heat of his mouth. Draco let out a shout of surprise as his hands were set free; he immediately threaded his fingers through Harry’s wet locks, and tugged hard.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” Draco asked, accenting the accusation with a vicious thrust into Harry’s mouth. Harry just hummed, taking in the full length of Draco’s cock as he expertly licked and sucked.

Draco slowly loosened his hold as Harry laved the ridges and along the vein. Draco could barely contain himself—this was better than his imagination, better than his dreams, better than when they were relatively inexperienced, all those years ago. As much as Harry’s insatiable desire to please had thrilled Draco in the past, Harry’s current confidence and expertise was making him fall apart. Gone was any hint of awkwardness; Draco watched as Harry took him all the way in, his nose pressed up against his golden curls. Draco’s breaths came short and fast as he felt Harry’s thick fingers kneading his ass, before one slipped between the cleft and circled his furled hole.

“Ahhh,” Draco grit out hoarsely, pushing out his arse in an attempt to get Harry to breach the ring.

Harry chuckled, pulling off of Draco’s cock for a maddening second. He was so beautiful—his eyes a bright green, his lips swollen and red, glistening with the spray from the waterfall, precome, and spit.

“Greedy, aren’t we,” Harry grinned, the ridges of his abdomen lean and defined, his shoulders wide and strong. His skin was beautifully tanned, his hair curling around his shoulders with the faintest streaks of light brown and gold.

“Fuck me, Harry,” Draco begged, reaching over and tugging Harry to his feet. His eyes landed greedily on Harry’s massive cock, his mouth watering at the way it stood rigid and upright, despite its heaviness and girth. Draco curled his fingers around its base, moaning at its glorious weight. “Please. I need you; it’s been so long.”

“Fuck, Draco.” Harry descended on him with an open-mouthed kiss. His senses flooded with the sound of Draco’s answering moans, the touch of his hands, and the taste and scent of his tongue. He trembled as Draco’s delicate fingers teased his shaft, his pale thumb swiping over its sensitive tip.

Harry’s hips stuttered as he thrust into the circle of Draco’s fist. “You need to turn around, or I’m going to come just like this.”

“Like this?” Draco drawled, raising a brow as he turned around and thrust out his perfect arse.

“Yeah. Just like that,” Harry said under his breath. He mouthed the slender, pale column of Draco’s throat, his teeth marking a line along Draco’s neck to his collarbone. He reached down and pressed his fingers bluntly against the opening between Draco’s cheeks. There was the familiar tingle of magic, followed by something burning and wet as Draco felt the progressive stretch and slick. Harry pushed—sinking one, then two fingers into the dark warmth, their lengths pushing and probing, readying Draco for what was to come.

“Harry, please,” Draco keened as Harry inserted a third. He gasped at the fullness as Harry twisted and flexed—more perfect than what Draco’s own skilled fingers or any magicked dildo could ever give.

More than what anyone else could ever give.

Draco felt the broad expanse of Harry’s chest against his back as Harry leaned forward, the thick, rigid length of his cock sliding along the cleft of Draco’s arse. Draco gasped as the blunt head rested and pressed against his opening; there was a slight burn and stretch, which was tempered by the slow trickle of running water and slick as Harry slid in.

Harry stilled as Draco’s shoulders shook. “Does it hurt?” When Draco shook his head, Harry swept a lock of hair off Draco’s face, only to discover that Draco was laughing.

“Salazar, no. It feels incredible.” Draco gifted Harry with a glorious smile. “I can only imagine Nat’s expression when he receives notification of our use of this spell.”

Harry grinned. “Dire needs, Malfoy. Because I was going to die if I didn’t get my cock inside this perfect arse.”

Draco pressed back, Harry’s cock sinking slowly into his slick walls until he was balls deep. Draco smirked as he heard Harry’s breath hitch. “I’d hate to be responsible for our Saviour’s demise.”

“Either way, you’re going to kill me.” Harry looked down, his hands prying apart Draco’s cheeks with only the base of his cock visible, coated with slick. He began to move, mesmerised as his cock pistoned slowly, in and out. “Seriously. Your arse. It’s not natural; it’s fucking incredible. Maybe there’s something to those fruit things, after all.”

Draco managed to wriggle his hips and roll his eyes at the same time. “Potter. Less talking and more fucking, please.” He softened the remark by turning around and nuzzling the line of Harry’s jaw.

Harry gripped Draco’s sides, Draco’s cock bouncing obscenely as Harry’s hips snapped forward. The forest echoed with the slapping noises of flesh on flesh and the sounds of their grunts. Draco’s face screwed up in pleasure as Harry adjusted his stance, his cock now hitting Draco’s prostate repeatedly and making him see stars.

Draco nearly sobbed at the sensation—of being filled, the pleasure of its burn, and the knowledge that this was real. His voice rose steadily to a high-pitched whine, a counterpoint to Harry’s moans as he fucked steadily into Draco’s heat. Their voices lifted and mingled with the noise of the surrounding world, carried by the rushing waters and the lilting breeze, as the thread of magic grew between them.

“I’m going to come,” Draco groaned, fisting his prick. There was a building heat that sparked from the base of his spine, a throbbing ache that burned and spread as Harry drove into him faster and faster. Draco’s legs clenched in response, his toes curling and body tensing, bollocks rising with his imminent release.

It was when Harry leaned forward and breathed Draco’s name—the syllables rolling lovingly off his tongue, his whiskers rasping hard against Draco’s jaw and his hand firm around Draco’s own—that Draco came with a cry. His cock pulsed, the cheeks of his arse clenching tightly as he spurted thickly into Harry’s palm, and he felt Harry spill immediately in response. There was the unmistakable hot splash of spunk as Harry continued fucking Draco through the entirety of his release, his lips pressed against Draco’s back as he murmured his name along with the words ‘It’s always been you.’

Their rutting gradually slowed. Draco sighed, contently curled in the strength of Harry’s arms. The spray from the waterfall splashed against their skin, cool despite the strength of the late morning sun. Harry shifted, his breathing slowly evening until he finally slid out a grunt, his come escaping along with his softening cock as it trickled down Draco’s leg.

They made their way to the middle of the pool, their bodies moving lazily along with the currents as they slowly kissed.

“I can’t believe you cast a wandless Diffindo with my cock in your mouth,” Draco said with a moue. “What if you missed?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice with that particular charm,” Harry grinned. He pulled Draco close, the water causing their cocks to bob between them.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me that bondage and release is now part of standard Auror training.”

Harry pressed his lips gently to Draco’s forehead. “Next time, you can return the favour and tie me up.”

The hard lines around Draco’s mouth softened slightly. “And what makes you so sure there will be a next time?”

Harry cupped Draco’s chin, tilting it slightly as he looked into his eyes. They shimmered a soft grey, flecked with bits of blue and gold.

“I miss this, Draco. Miss you. Is there any way you could give us another chance?”

Draco hesitated. He was satisfied with his life, with his occasional dalliances and one-offs, choosing to focus his energies on his work instead. Perhaps it was not a blinding happiness, but getting back together with Potter would place him at risk for the devastating heartache only Harry seemed to be able to inflict. Draco had experienced loss one too many times in his life, to fall back in so easily.

“Give me time,” Draco said slowly. “Perhaps.”

Harry nodded, looking disappointed. Still, it was not a ‘No.’

Draco looked down. The underside of his fingers had already started to pucker. He shivered, and it was not entirely from the sudden chill.

“We’d better be heading out to the reserve. Although if we finish early, I wouldn’t be averse to coming back here to clean off.” He looked at Harry hopefully. “You know...to give it another go.”

“Okay,” Harry said huskily. He kissed Draco, tasting of desire and promise.

Draco cast a quick drying spell over them both as they shrugged on their clothes. They made their way back to the trail, their shoulders occasionally touching, the tips of their fingers brushing, as if neither could stand to be apart. It was only when Draco spied the first Banisteriopsis somniferum that he left Harry’s side.

“Look! It’s a perfect specimen,” Draco declared, his voice filled with hope. He fingered the leaf, feeling its velvety surface as he studied the hint of rouge interspersed with a deep green. “The leaves appear healthy; they’ve got the right colouring, and there’s no sign of rot. Only optimal conditions could produce a plant like this. That means there’s still a chance that the plants can be salvaged. That there’s still a chance for Alice, and the others.”

In his excitement, Draco was even more beautiful. Harry watched, his heart clenching as he helped pull Draco to his feet.

Draco’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Everyone thinks I went into Mind healing as a way of atoning for my role in the War. That’s true, but only to a certain extent.

“I was six when my mother first took me to Marché Saint-Pierre. There were all these fabric shops, both Muggle and Wizard. The one that we went into was old, its tiny shelves filled with the finest vicuna wools and Muga silks. I remember being fascinated by all the colours and textures, the kind of which were never seen on British wizarding robes.

“One of the shopkeepers had brought over several metres of fabric. There was no question as to its magical properties; it had a shimmering, lustrous texture, its surface practically glowing in the light. She caught me staring, and asked if I wanted to touch it. I had never felt anything so slippery, so soft. It looked like something straight out of a Muggle fairy tale, fit for a prince.

“I had asked what they were going to make from it. ‘Nothing,’ she had replied. I was shocked; she must have seen my expression, because she turned the fabric over and angled it in a way that revealed a small variation, a striping in the silk’s weave.

“‘It is worthless now,’ she explained, readying to throw it out. I may have pitched a fit,” Draco added ruefully,” Because my mother was soon hushing me and hurrying me out the door.

“I never could come to terms with the shopkeeper’s decision. The fabric could still be used to make something beautiful. Just because it wasn’t perfect, shouldn’t make it less so.” Draco took a deep breath. “I’ve never told anyone that story before.”

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand. “You see the good beneath the scars. What you’re doing is adding more beauty to the world.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Draco breathed, twining his fingers with Harry’s own. He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but the words died in his throat as they reached the edge of the reserve.

The region should have been dotted with a field of red and green. Instead it lay sparse, the mature plants having been plucked and uprooted as if harvested in a rush.

Draco looked at Harry, shocked. “This is the only place in the world where Banisteriopsis somniferum grows. Because of their rarity, we were only allowed three plants at a time. With their numbers so decimated, it could be at least a decade before the Ministry approves its further use.”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice dropped low. “Look at the way the leaves are detached from their stems. There’s no way that’s the result of something natural. And the soil; the way it’s clumped and depressed in certain areas suggests that someone was here right before us...an adult human male, of average size.” He pulled out his wand and made a motion for Draco to do the same.

“Stay here. Collect the evidence that you need...photographs, plant remnants, and soil samples. I’m going to take a look around and secure the perimeter for you to do your work.” He hesitated, then dipped his head and gave Draco a quick kiss. “How much of an area do you need?”

Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s. “A two hundred and fifty yard radius ought to be sufficient.”

“Three hundred, then. So it covers you to the treeline.”

“Show off,” Draco said fondly as his lips quirked into a grin.

Harry stood, marking off the distance and casting a Protego Maxima and Fianto Duri. The sun was high above the earth and unrelentingly hot without the protection of the trees. Given the wide perimeter, there was a notable drain on his magic from his exertions. When the last of the blue-white flares settled over the area in the form a shield, he slumped over, exhausted and sweaty, his mouth dry. “That should keep most of the dangerous elements out,” he rasped to no one in particular.

“I’m afraid it’s too little too late for that,” cackled an unfamiliar voice. Harry turned, his grip tightening on his wand upon seeing the man’s dishevelled appearance and wild eyes.

“Auror Potter; I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I’m Barnabus Chilton.” Chilton’s eyes took on a mad sheen as he lowered himself into a grotesque bow. His bony fingers darted out, digging into Harry’s wrist.

“I’m looking for Healer Malfoy.”

.~O~.

Draco held the leaf delicately, the light fuzz which dusted its lamina still unmarred by the tweezer’s flat tips. The underside was thankfully devoid of any rot, and Draco marvelled at its perfection as he cast a light preservation charm before placing it carefully into its tube.

He had already amassed an impressive collection of samples. Draco shrunk everything with a wave of his wand before sending the bags and phials into the padded compartment of his bag. The heavy metal buckle had just finished clicking into place when he felt the buzz of magic coming from Harry’s ring. He held it up, its mirrored surface shimmering and wavering until Harry’s face came into view.

There was no trace of laughter around Harry’s green eyes. Instead, the lines of his body were tense, accompanied by the image of a shirt that was definitely not Harry’s own.

“Chilton,” Harry mouthed. “Stay put.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress, remember?” Draco growled. He ignored the anxious look on Harry’s face as he slung his pack across his back and turned the ring face down. The position of the sun over the trees in the background suggested that Harry was on the far side of the reserve. Anxiety filled his chest, and Draco found himself running heedlessly, neglecting to notice the shadow which fell across his path until he ran into its owner at full tilt.

A pair of hands steadied him. “Draco!” Nat’s brow furrowed upon seeing Draco’s harried look. “I was informed of an explosion of magical activity in the area. Are you alright?” His elegant mouth pulled into a frown. “Where’s Auror Potter?”

Draco tried to breathe, the air constricting tight in his chest. “Harry’s in trouble, Nat. It’s Chilton. He’s here, and he has Harry with him!”

“How did Chilton manage to find you here?!” Nat shook his head in disbelief. “Do you have any idea where Chilton may have taken Harry?”

Draco jerked his head towards the copse of trees near the western edge of the forest. “Harry was establishing a shield from that location.”

The threads of Harry’s magic still lingered in the distance. “Auror Potter’s reputation appears to be well-deserved,” Nat murmured as they headed in that direction. “The effort it must have taken to cast such a spell would surely drain even the most powerful wizard’s strength.” Nat motioned for Draco to stay behind him, but his caution was cast to the wind once Draco discovered Harry’s weary form.

“Harry!” Draco shouted. Chilton appeared to be suffering from the effects of a Petrificus Totalus, his eyes rolling even more wildly at Draco and Nat’s arrival.

“I’m almost done,” Harry said as he secured Chilton’s hands and feet. He gave the rope a tug, testing the strength of the bonds. “He must have been delirious from the heat,” he added, looking at Draco apologetically. “He appears to be hallucinating...he was ranting about your research, and the resurgence of Death Eaters.”

“Healer Chilton,” Nat practically spat. “I should have known you were trouble the minute you stepped foot on Brazilian soil.”

“Well, thankfully he’s no longer a threat,” Draco said, relieved.

Harry ran his hand through his messy locks. “Your timing couldn’t have been better, Mr Baras. How did you know to find us here?”

“Revelio Incantatem. As I had explained, it not only helps to keep the use of unnecessary magic in check, but large fluctuations can signal potential issues. There was a significant uptick in the spellwork cast within the last several hours, followed by a powerful surge when you cast your shield. As soon as I saw it, I knew something was wrong, and Apparated immediately into the reserve.”

Harry stared. “You Apparated into the reserve,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Nat nodded.

“You were familiar enough with the coordinates and the environment within the reserve to perform a long distance Apparition without splinching yourself or landing in the middle of a tree.”

Despite the sweltering heat, a cold trickle of fear caused the hairs on Draco’s skin to rise as he turned towards Nat.

“According to you, you discovered our predicament after Harry cast his Protego. There’s no way you could have Apparated through his shield.”

Nat gave an elegant shrug. “You got me.” He reached for his wand, quick on the draw as he pointed the tip at Draco’s head and wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around Draco’s throat.

“Drop it,” he ordered Harry, who also had his wand out and ready. “After your little display, I would be surprised if you had enough energy left to cast a simple Expelliarmus. And although I question its efficacy given your state, I assure you I will not miss.”

“Don’t do it, Harry,” Draco begged.

Harry hesitated for the briefest of seconds. His green eyes shone in apology as he placed his wand on the ground.

Fuck, Harry, Draco groaned.

Nat gave him a forceful tug. “I’m disappointed in you, Draco. You were once so beautiful, so promising. But you’ve been nothing but a failure at nearly every turn.”

“Surely you can’t think that what’s happening here is my doing.”

“Of course not,” Baras snorted. “It’s mine. I’m talking about your failure when it came to your duty and your heritage. To killing Dumbledore. Your loyalty to the Dark Lord.

“I have to admit, I was surprised to learn that you had taken up healing. But you were always a smart boy; your research proved to be not only fascinating, but to have so many potential uses. The idea of selective Obliviation and memory implantation?” Nat turned his attentions towards Harry. “Why, with its proper use, even the Saviour of the Wizarding World could be turned into the next Dark Lord!”

“You’re as crazy as Voldemort was,” Harry seethed, his fists clenching as he took a step forward.

Draco gasped, his face turning a blotchy red as Nat applied pressure to his airpipe in warning. “Tsk, tsk,” Nat admonished as Harry retreated. “Although I have other plans for Draco, I won’t hesitate to do what’s needed. Especially now that he’s tainted himself with the company of a half-blood like you.” Nat spat as he turned his attention to Draco. “It’s an utter disgrace. You’re weak, and traitorous, just like your father. And to think that I once considered you family.”

Draco’s eyes bulged. “How do you know my family?” he wheezed.

Nat looked perturbed. “Why, Draco. I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.” He removed his wand briefly and flicked it several times in the air. Several letters appeared, shimmering in silver and green, spelling out Nat Baras. Nat flicked his wand once more; the letters began to waver, spinning across the air and rearranging themselves until they spelled out the name of someone Draco had thought long gone.

“Rabastan,” he whispered.

Harry looked furious, even as he let out a loud snort. “How original. You’d do anything to resurrect memories of Voldemort wouldn't you, Rabastan? Right down to the letter.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Rabastan answered with an evil smile. “There are plenty of pureblood sympathisers biding their time, many who are also accomplished Legilimens. We now have enough Banisteriopsis to manipulate the minds of the world’s most powerful wizards. And we’ve discovered another use.” Rabastan sidled forward with Draco in tow, motioning at Chilton’s motionless form. “Low doses of the potion are sufficient to cause a state of delirium and the loss of control. A person becomes easily suggestible, as such. It lacks the sophistication of Thatcher and Malfoy’s techniques, I’ll admit, but it’s quicker and doesn’t require their charms or finesse. Think of it as a more powerful version of what the Muggles call ‘hypnotism.’ Another form of Imperius, if you will.”

There was a small noise from behind Harry, where Chilton was watching with anxious eyes. “Healer Chilton recently experienced the effects of the potion himself. Unfortunately, he appeared to have his own suspicions, and had taken a dose of Grand Wiggenweld Potion when he arrived. He was lucky to have escaped, although I must say you’ve solved that problem for me quite nicely,” he added as Harry paled.

“What do you want, Rabastan?” Harry asked angrily. “If it’s me you’re after, then let Chilton and Draco go.”

“You?” Rabastan let out a sharp bark of laughter. “You always did seem to have an inflated concept of your own self-importance. You’re but a thorn in our side, and one that’s easily removed.” Rabastan kept his wand trained on Draco’s head and slid his left hand into the pocket of his robe. He pulled out a phial and held up its contents, the liquid swirling in the sunlight, a pearlescent, coppery-green.

“Open up, Draco,” he ordered as he pinched the length of Draco’s nose. Draco’s mouth fell open reflexively at the loss of air, but before he could clamp it shut, he had already swallowed the droplet of the potion which Rabastan had placed on his tongue. Draco’s eyes rolled wildly for a moment before his pupils constricted, his heart rate slowing as his body went slack and his head lolled.

Rabastan whirled and caught Harry trying to reach his wand. “Have a seat, Potter,” he sneered, casting a Locomotor Mortis at Harry’s legs and causing Harry to fall to the ground. “I think you’ll be interested in what happens next.”

He carefully removed a leather quiver which held at least ten darts. “How familiar are you with curare, Auror Potter?” he asked as he laid them out in front of Draco’s lurching feet. “It’s actually a popular misconception that curare is a poison, although it can be, especially when mixed with the venom of snakes. Pure curare is actually a muscle relaxant; once it enters the bloodstream, it affects everything. Your legs. Your arms. The muscles which control your breathing.” He shook his head. “It sounds like an agonising way to die.”

“Why don’t you try it yourself and let me know?” Harry sneered.

Rabastan chuckled. “I’d prefer to see how resistant you are to Muggle weapons, seeing how you’ve already managed to survive the Killing Curse twice. It would be a bit of poetic justice, wouldn’t it? To be done in by an invention of the Mudbloods for whom you care so much.” He cast a quick Tempus. “Perfect,” Rabastan grinned. “Draco is just about ready. Let’s see how you handle his Oppugno spell, shall we?”

“He can’t—!” Harry looked at Draco’s glazed appearance. Draco had made an Unbreakable Vow of non-maleficence. If he were to cast the spell successfully...

“So you’ve finally caught on. It’s quite ingenuous, to be neatly rid of the both of you.”

“It was ignorance and arrogance that led to Voldemort’s downfall,” Harry said softly, “And now you’re doomed to repeat it.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Rabastan said. “Let’s see who wins, shall we? Legilimens!”

Draco’s body shuddered as something pushed inside him, fierce and blunt and unrelenting. His head was immediately wracked with pain at the intrusion; there was a sharp, blinding light, followed by a dulling at its edges as the vice-like grip loosened, leaving him swimming in a sea of gauze, suspended by their shimmering, gossamer threads.

His eyes fought to make sense of his surroundings through his haze. Two men were arguing—their voices muffled, yet familiar. His anxiety flared at the one closest to him—tall and lean, a darkly tattooed forearm visible at the margin of his fine, wizarding robes. Another man was in the distance, on the ground—also dark, his forearm bare—and when the man’s eyes caught his own, he found himself swimming in twin pools of green.

When they shouted, it was in angry, spiteful, indignant tones that ricocheted off his skull and clattered inside his brain. His anguish must have become apparent, because one of the voices—the one belonging to the man dressed like a Muggle—suddenly softened, the next word he spoke filled with concern.

Draco. The word lingered longer than the rest, the sound bolstering his fragile state and somehow feeling right. Draco—his name, borne out of love from his mother’s breath, yet sliding so naturally off this stranger’s tongue, its weight perfect as it steadied him, holding him in place.

The peace was quickly shattered by another brutal push. The delicate strands stretched in front of him, the memories much too vivid and bright, their weft propelled across his mind by the hands of a vicious weaver. Draco keened as he was filled with an inexplicable sense of loss. Severus. Dumbledore. Alice. His father. He tried to hold onto their images, but there was another rush as the weft was battened, ripped cruelly from his grasp. The threads grew jagged, their ugliness full of his humiliation and pain.

The voices intruded, the clamour growing as he seethed. The one closest to him grew louder, encouraging him to give in to his impotent rage and embrace his pain. It was silky and seductive, and Draco was spinning, falling, and as everything swirled around him, he clung to its surety like a port in a storm.

Draco. How long you’ve suffered. How much you’ve lost: your home, your family, your entailments, your friends, your privilege.


Your respect.


Draco’s chest clenched, his breaths quickening as the self-pity and anger washed over him, a thundering wave fuelled by a swash of hate. He lurched forward, hands clenched, his eyes wide yet unseeing, their smokey rims clouded and hazed.

Give in to your anger, Draco. You know who’s at fault. A scream escaped as several threads were viciously thrust aside, leaving in their place a gaping hole. A patchwork of filaments appeared, their hasty fabrication spelling out the source of his downfall, of all his pain.

Harry Potter.

It was Harry who had witnessed Draco’s cowardice and his greatest moments of weakness. It was Harry who scarred Draco’s chest, and broke his heart.

The answer is in front of you, Draco. Rid yourself of your misery, your despair.

Draco turned. “You,” he rasped as he faced Harry, the damning word barely intelligible yet unmistakable in its enmity as it escaped Draco’s parched mouth.

The dark voice dripped like honey, falsely sweet with a hint of bitterness despite its promise of succour.

The darts, Draco. Cast an Oppugno.

Draco turned towards the whittled branches, the promise of deliverance in their pointy, tarry tips. The voice hissed in delight as Draco levitated them into the air. Potter’s clear eyes met Draco’s clouded ones, their green colour bright from something more than just the sun. The birds went silent, leaves hung low, the insects stopped buzzing and the sun sweltered as Draco cast his spell.

Draco. I love you.

Draco gasped as Harry smiled, the tendrils of their magic reaching out, seeking one another as the potion began to lose its poisonous hold. The memories came flooding back—of sleepy mornings and gentle caresses, of skin and lips and steady hands, and of a love and forgiveness that Draco clung to with desperation, unwilling to let go. Wisps of silver and gold entwined, weft floating over warp, the fabric stretching then coalescing as its broken edges became whole.

Draco turned towards the brightness of the sun. His eyes were clear, his body singing with all that was Harry. He redirected the darts away from Harry, their deadly forms exploding from the heat and speed as Rabastan let out an anguished cry.

Summoning the last of his strength, Draco cast a counter-curse at Harry’s legs. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched Harry scramble to stand, before his world started spinning and his body fell towards the ground.

The last thing Draco remembered was the press of soft lips against his mouth and the whisper of his name on Harry’s tongue, a weightless state of being even as his body was gripped fervently in Harry’s arms.


.~OIVO~.

Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always

~Dante Alighieri

“Really, Potter. Only you would spend your last remaining day of vacation on your knees in front of a Ministry Official.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a grin. Draco must have been feeling much better if his drawling voice was any indication. He got up from where he was positioned in front of the Floo, and winced from the stiffness of his legs.

“Do you have somebody better in mind?”

“Get over here. Now,” Draco growled as Harry eagerly scrambled onto the bed, clad only in his pyjama bottoms. They sank into the mattress, surrounded by a mountain of white cotton, the sheets bunched around their feet.

“I could get used to this,” Draco sighed as Harry pressed several kisses along the curve of his neck. He inhaled, the spicy citrus of the laelias in bloom wafting through the window, carried by the warm, ocean breeze. Harry’s hand had worked its way down to Draco’s hip, his fingers tracing slow circles along the softness of Draco’s thigh as Draco arched into the touch.

“You always did love being the centre of attention,” Harry teased.

“Mmmmm,” Draco purred. He pulled Harry closer, his head filling with the scent of the tropics and Harry’s deeper, earthy musk. It was a riot of aromas that tugged at the happiest parts of Draco’s memories; even now, he could feel the strands sway gently, reaching out to envelop the emotion as it formed new links.

“No more headaches?” Harry asked, his voice going soft with concern.

“Please. If I did, you’d be waiting on me, hand and foot.” A furrow grew between Draco’s brows. “How is Chilton doing?”

“They’re still keeping him under close observation at St. Mungo’s, but it appears as if there will be no permanent damage from the potion itself.” He let out a sigh. “It turns out he was following you to Brazil. Kingsley said that he was obsessed with proving your guilt.”

Draco was silent for a beat. “I told you that his son was killed by a Death Eater. I never told you it was at the hands of my aunt.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth. “I guess he had a lot of reasons to hate me. To grieve.”

“We all have reasons to grieve,” Harry said gently. “But it didn't make it right for him to direct all his anger and bitterness towards you.”

“How did he end up getting dosed by Rabastan?”

“According to Kingsley, Chilton grew suspicious of Rabastan during his last several visits to St. Mungo’s; Chilton had never seen a government official take such an intense interest in a Healer’s research. And then there was Rabastan’s seemingly untoward fascination with you.”

“I am rather irresistible.”

“That you are.” Harry fingered the nape of Draco’s neck as he gave him an indulgent smile. “Once the numbers of Banisteriopsis somniferum began dwindling, Chilton started reviewing the records of Rabastan’s visits and the shipments of the plants. The decrements coincided with the times Rabastan was back in Brazil. At first, Chilton thought Lestrange was in collusion with you.

“When Chilton arrived in Brazil and met with Rabastan for his tourism papers, he managed to place a Tracer charm on Rabastan. Since Chilton was supposedly here on personal business, Rabastan was unable to utilise Revelio Incantatem to monitor him in return.”

“It was amazing he could shake off the effects of the potion; I was barely able to do so, and I had firsthand knowledge of its effects.” Draco squeezed Harry’s hand. “And I also had you.”

“I think Chilton was frightened about the potential abuses of your research because he feared the loss or modification of his own memories. They were the only things of his son that he had left. That's why he started building a resistance to Banisteriopsis by taking daily doses of Wiggenweld potion. He still felt the effects, but not as much as he would have without it.”

Harry rolled over, stretching alongside Draco. His body slotted perfectly along Draco’s curves, the slow swelling of his prick rubbing lazily against Draco’s hip. “Chilton offered up his memories for review in a Pensieve. It doesn't make up for the things he’s put you through, but he thought it would help in both your work, and the court of public opinion. You’ll be completely exonerated when we return, if there’s any lingering doubt.”

“And Rabastan?

“Repatriated to British soil. Next stop, Azkaban.”

Draco swung a long, pale leg over Harry as he flipped Harry onto his back. “Ughhh. Do we really head home tomorrow?”

“Paperwork,” Harry grimaced. “It’s already been four days. And you’re obviously feeling better. I can’t hold off Shacklebolt any longer.”

Draco sighed. “What’s going to happen when we return? With us, I mean.”

Harry canted his hips and hooked his ankles around Draco’s calves. “I may have convinced Kingsley to extend your protective detail. Until Rabastan is convicted by the Wizengamot, that is.”

“And I suppose you have someone in mind for the job?”

“I also may have suggested that I should continue in the role,” Harry grinned as he met Draco’s downward thrust. “It’s one I’d like to parlay into the long run. If the client would let me, that is.”

The strands of Draco’s hair fell forward as he leaned into Harry, their soft gold tips nearly bleached white from the sun. He gazed at Harry through the curtain of his fringe—at the shadow which lined the strong angle of his jaw, the untamed, unbound dark locks that framed his face, the faded margins of his famous scar, and the ever changing eyes of green.

“I could be persuaded. But I’m a Malfoy; I’d only accept the best.” He flashed a grin as he transfigured a sheet into a sleek tie, its green and silver threads bright against the white of the bed. “Let's see how good you are with a wandless Diffindo, shall we?”

Harry's eyes darkened dangerously even as he complied, raising his arms, his torso stretched and bared, a wealth of strength and experience in his movements. The silk whispered as Draco wrapped it around Harry’s wrists, knotting it once, twice. He then kissed a slow trail down that broad chest as he lowered Harry’s pants, the slide of the soft cotton slowly uncovering every inch of the golden skin until it landed at the foot of the bed.

The pulse in Harry's neck sped up, his heart thudding against the perfect bow of a Draco's lips, the force of his want surging through his veins. The sight of him bound and laid out for Draco, commanding yet vulnerable, tugged at something deep within. Harry was piquant—woodsmoke and the earth, power and compassion, a symbol of that which had been lost, and the magic of hope.

Love you, Harry mouthed.

Love you, too. Harry’s skin was as warm and inviting as the setting sun, and when Draco closed his eyes and swallowed Harry down he tasted the sweetness of memories past and future dreams, and knew it to be true.

~Fin~

Comments

[palendrome]

Ahhhh!!!!! Of COURSE it was you who wrote such an INCREDIBLE prompt!!!! :D

I have to admit, I'm thankful I didn't realize it was yours when I first claimed it because...*fangirl nerves* It was truly beautiful, and all the likes and suggestions which you included in it immediately gave me the idea for their story in my head. (and OMG, the furtive wanking--that was probably what sealed it for me, hehe!)

I'm so happy you liked their past history! I couldn't be content just throwing them together with only the limitations of their environs and their physical attraction to frustrate them, lol. And I'm thrilled that you liked the UST and waterfall scene...I had the most ridiculous grin on my face when I read that!!!!

Thank you so much for your AMAZING prompt, for reading, and your fabulous comment! *mwah* <3333