Naked [Harry/Draco] - Part 3 of 3

[hp_drizzlemod]

Title: Naked
Author: bixgirl1
Pairing(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Warning(s): Oral sex, anal sex, anal fingering, rimming, semi-public sex, dirty talk, some violence.
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.

Read PART ONE
Read PART TWO

---

An Auror from the Ministry shows up to collect Liz’s still-sleeping form. Draco regrets it, but now that they’ve cottoned on to the potential risk of each person’s role, he and Harry can’t chance it. Before the Auror shows up, he files through what he can of Liz’s mind, notices no inconsistencies with what she’s said about anything. He makes a mental note of her handwriting and uses it to forge a letter to her husband, claiming that she can no longer be a part of whatever’s going on. After thinking for a moment, he adds, "I love you and hope you’ll come back to me," at the bottom, then signs with her distinctive flourish.

"We’ll need to separate again," Harry says, as both of them strip back out of the clothes they’d put on for the Auror’s visit. They’d also freshened the room so it didn’t look quite so much like a fuck-den, but that was more pragmatic, Draco he thinks. He’s still not quite sure where they stand, officially.

"We can’t," Draco says, thinking. "At least not for the whole of the day. I know there’s a lot more to cover, but it really would look odd if we’re seen again without each other. Especially if both of our names are on the list."

"Yeah. Fuck." Harry quirks him a lopsided smile. "Smart."

"Thanks," Draco says, blinking.

"Okay, so then—we’re fucking."

"What?" Draco says, taking an automatic step toward him, his body complying even before his mind catches up with a firm not now!

Harry notices, of course he does. His smile becomes sly and his eyes smoulder for a moment. "Shit, don’t do that," he murmurs. His face is taut with sudden arousal and, sheepishly, Draco takes a step back.

"What did you mean?" he asks. His cheeks are burning. Although it’s really not fair, is it, that Harry’s standing there with his cock filling out, that he’s looking the way he does, and that Draco knows how they feel together, now. So it’s not entirely his fault.

Harry swivels away with a tight laugh. "I literally cannot even look at you now, Malfoy."

Draco smirks, relieved and as flattered as he thinks Harry might’ve been a moment ago. Of course, now he has a splendid view of Harry’s back—the beautifully defined dip in its spine, the firm curve of Harry’s arse, the muscles of which are tense and clenched, and the crevice between the cheeks, in which Draco was buried for—

Draco chokes, turning around quickly too. "This is not helpful, Harry," he scolds— both of them, really. "We can’t even—Just tell me what the fuck you were thinking," he says to the wall, annoyed by his burgeoning erection.

"I’ll Apparate around to the different rooms of those listed," Harry says.

"Some of them are Muggle," Draco tells him.

"Right, I know. If I get caught, I’ll use a gentle Obliviate. Or a sleep spell. They need to be away from here, I think," Harry’s voice comes.

"What if we’re wrong about the targets and you’re just guiding whoever’s behind it away from trouble?" Draco asks. "And what does this have to do with me fucking you again?"

Harry makes a strangled sound. "I never said it was your turn again, I said—" Another one of those laughs comes, deep and rough and charmingly bawdy. "People won’t be suspicious if they think we’re in here, having newly-married sex. As long as we’re together, right? Then we can meet and check out the hot springs together. A couple-y thing for us to do."

"Fine."

"And then we should try to wait it out," Harry continues. "Be seen together so we’re not under suspicion for disappearing the people they want."

"Fine."

"And then you’ll leave before the meet and get someone to substitute who won’t be in danger," Harry says.

"Fine."

"Really?"

"No, you moron," Draco sneers at the wall. It doesn’t give him the same kind of intense satisfaction that sneering directly at Harry’s face does, but— "I’m not abandoning you or this assignment, and so help me Merlin, Harry, if you try to put me to sleep I’ll hex a flaccid prick to your forehead."

"Oh. Yeah, that didn’t sound much like you," Harry confesses, sounding disappointed.

Draco snorts. "I’m good with the part where we’re seen together and the hot springs. But we’ll split up that list—I mean, I have talked to more people than you, they’re less likely to run screaming about a man defying the laws of physics by popping into existence in front of them if it’s me—and there’s no way I’m not there tonight, not knowing what—"

Appalled, Draco snaps his mouth shut, barely managing to keep the words, "this all does to you," back.

He hears the whisper of a sound; movement. And then Harry’s hands are gentle on Draco’s hips, voice gentle in Draco’s ear. "Not knowing what?"

"What this case may mean," Draco covers, powerless to stop the backwards press of his own body. Harry’s cock comes into firm contact with his left buttock, and Draco lets out a stifled moan of desire that fades into silence when Harry moves away.

"Jesus and Merlin," Harry mutters.

Draco nods. "There is nothing relaxing at all about having all of my bits on display," he agrees unsteadily, swallowing. "Or having to see yours."

"I’ve got to get out of here now," Harry grinds out. Draco turns, stomach plummeting at the tone in Harry’s voice. But then Harry comes back, closing the two-foot gap between them and kisses Draco hard, fingers tight on his jaw. He gives Draco a stern look and says, "Summon me when you’re done; I’ll meet you back here and we’ll head out to the hot springs. I’ll take the first three names on the list."

He Apparates before Draco can reply, and Draco stands dumbly for a moment in the suddenly empty room, cock thick and bobbing away from his groin, lips still burning with the force of Harry’s kiss. He shakes his head, trying to gather his thoughts, and it occurs to him he doesn’t know the exact layout of the lodge the way Harry does.

Giving his cock an apologetic look—he could wank now, of course, but he’s still a bit sore and doesn’t really want to if Harry isn’t there to watch or participate—Draco sits on the bed to think of his options, and wait for his erection to subside.

***


Draco snicks his wand out of its holster and casts a surreptitious Disillusionment charm, even though the hallway is empty. He lets himself into room 215.

In the end, it had been as simple as striding to the front desk and asking for a master key card from the Auror on duty, whom Draco had recognised only because he was wearing a Hogwarts class ring. It was a silly little enchanted piece of jewellery that’s been in and out of fashion for years; for what reason, Draco had never been able to figure out—the rings are downright ugly.

But the Auror had simply nodded at his request, not asking any questions. Draco had thanked him, then crisply informed him that wearing magically identifying jewellery while undercover at a Muggle resort was not the most professional thing one could do.

The Auror had grinned unabashedly, flashing all of his teeth. "Neither is shagging your partner," he’d said under his breath, handing over the plastic card. Draco’d snorted, half-irritated and half-impressed. He wasn’t shocked by the implication, by the idea that a rumour—or even the truth—was floating around. But he had wondered if the boy would use some proper manners if he knew who the partners were, and had promptly decided that he probably wouldn’t. Some people were inflicted with too much cheek.

Like Harry, he thinks as the cushioned door slips shut behind him quietly. Harry has always been like that—too much sarcasm and not enough sense.

Draco shakes off the thought and looks around. Everything seems calm; eerily silent. Too much like the first room he’d visited. And the second. His stomach pitches uncomfortably as he spies the dark, heavily rhinestoned sunglasses he remembers seeing perched on Althea’s head two days prior as they’d chatted in the pool. They rest on a small table near the bed, but other than that, the room looks untouched; the cleaning crew—something he and Harry had requested not come into their suite—has obviously been here.

But when he checks, he sees her clothing is gone, too. As is Alans’s. If not for the small bit of black plastic resting on the table, winking flashes of sunlight at him as he begins a series of methodical checks, it would be easy to assume the room was vacant. He looks through the wardrobe, the en suite, and under the bed. Everything is empty, clean.

At length, he sweeps the room with a series of revealing charms to search for magical signatures, and finally he finds something; the low pulse of wand usage, hours old. Most of the spellwork has faded but Draco can make out a shimmer of blue into pale green, indicating some sort of transformative spell—transfiguration, possibly—and a deep, muted grey, which could be any number of things: a sedative spell, Obliviation, constraints tightened against a struggle. Or a combination of things. And then there’s something that makes his Mark pulse unpleasantly, a shift of movement. But the trace of wand work leaves no other signature beyond a bad taste in his mouth and a reaction on the skin of his forearm.

Draco backs away from the last section of the room carefully, casting a wide arc with his wand to copy the traces of magic before swishing it in a low spiral to sanitize it from the air. He walks over to their sliding glass door and stares out.

Althea and Alan’s room is on the opposite side of the lodge from his and Harry’s; they have a view of the path into the forest that leads to the hot springs, and Draco looks out over the landscaped grass and the darker trees beyond for several minutes, thinking. Each room has been the same; devoid of signs of human life with the exception of the sunglasses, here. He doesn’t suppose whoever’s behind this will have too difficult a time covering it up from the Muggle authorities; a few simple Obliviates and an Imperius curse or two ought to do it, but—

He pauses, frowning, then Apparates back to their room and Summons Harry, who arrives less than a minute later.

"The potions," Draco says, first thing, before Harry’s even caught a breath. "The potions, something like Amortentia, remember, but also—"

"Like the Imperius curse," Harry finishes. He inhales slowly; lets it out. "To cover up the disappearances."

Nodding, Draco says, "We need to get more people in here for tonight. All of yours were missing too?"

"Almost all of them. One woman from the first list still had her husband with her; there’s Tom, and there’s you," Harry murmurs. His jaw ticks and the lines around his mouth are hard. "I can’t figure out who’s complicit and who’s a potential victim. All of the rooms I checked had magical traces in them, but barely enough to identify. And it’s too dangerous to bring in more people on this."

Draco scoffs. "I know you’re accustomed to running into the line of danger without thinking about your own safety, but plenty of us are more sensible than that. We need a full backup unit, Harry."

Harry shakes his head mutely and Draco feels frustration well up in him. But then Harry looks back up and his eyes are bleak. "Think, Draco," he says, low and urgent. "Think what we’d be opening up if people knew about what they could do."

Draco draws back, revolted. "They wouldn’t want to," he says.

"Maybe not them. But what about the one who hears about it, through the friend of a friend? What about the wife who has a generational blood curse, or the brother who thinks his life was just not quite good enough and wants the chance to do it over once he’s gone? What about those people like T-Tom Riddle," he says, voice shaking in a way it hadn’t on the night he took down the Dark Lord and called him by his given name. "Those people who just want power and don’t know how else to get it?"

"It’s splitting your soul!" Draco hisses, taking another step back, then another.

"Exactly!" Harry stalks closer to him, catching Draco’s biceps in his hands, halting his escape from the discussion. He gives Draco a little shake, eyes angry and hard. "There’s a reason people don’t talk about this, Draco. Do you know how long it took Riddle to find out the key? Neither do I. He read something in a book, which led him to a teacher, which led him to one thing after another. By then he had followers and worshippers to help him, and yes, maybe it can’t be done without this thing they’re selling, but do we really want to advertise it either way?"

He breaks off, chest heaving, and Draco stands stock-still, eyes glued to his face.

"Why do you think no one talks about it?" Harry says again, gulping in a bit of air. "It’s because there’s always someone who wants to know!"

Draco doesn’t know how he can suddenly feel so calm; not with his heart racing like this. But Harry’s furious argument makes sense, no matter how it was presented.

There wasn’t a Lord Voldemort, once.

And then there was. And was again.

Draco gives a clipped nod. Harry doesn’t seem to see it, his eyes fixed on something through or past Draco, so Draco catches his forearm; it flexes under his grip. He nods again when Harry seems to come back. "Alright, we’re on our own. I reserve the right to call for back-up if one of us is dying, but until then we’ll work with the team here and Obliviate anything they might overhear; apparently we’re allowed to do whatever we want with them," he adds with a small smirk. "And in the meantime, we’ll do whatever we can do to make it to that meet."

Harry’s shoulders, hunched high toward his ears, come down a little. He searches Draco’s face. "It would be safer for you if you left."

"I could say the same thing to you, but why should we start listening to each other now?" Draco asks dryly, and Potter sputters a laugh. Draco grins, scared and pleased all at once. "We should go to the hot springs. Perhaps paranoia has weighed too heavily in this conversation; I didn’t notice anyone listed on the tennis courts or by the pools, but they could be at the springs or even on the hiking trails, though the bugs must be awful with your cock out," he adds with a grimace. "Whoever picked this place must be truly evil, because honestly."

Harry rolls his eyes. "We need to scout more of the location, anyway. And be seen in public together. And the bugs are clearing out today. The storm is going to break, soon."

***

The hot springs are just as they were the previous day—slightly warmer but no less muggy, even in the shade. A heavy steam wafts out of each of the dozen or so large, sunken stone bowls in the earth, where water churns gently from the forces beneath. Where normally hot springs tend to give off the strong sulfuric odour of minerals, these are different and emit the heavy scent of pine needles, of wet clay, as if the waters themselves draw power from the forest they are secreted away in. Draco wrinkles his nose as he and Harry walk up the path, hand-in-hand, but accustoms himself to the smell quickly; it’s not unpleasant, just… slightly overwhelming, at first.

The area feels the same, as well. His Mark stirs as if to acknowledge the magic floating around them, thick as dust motes in an aging home. But then it softens and rests again, going so still on his forearm it almost feels as though it’s not there. It’s unnerving. And a relief.

The hot springs are as crowded as any place at the resort has been. Draco recognises several people he’s shared short conversations with in the previous two days and they acknowledge him with a friendly wave or a "Hi, Daniel!" in the way he is coming to learn is typical with such a community. And despite what he said back in their room, Draco finds that Althea was right; he notices his own nudity less when surrounded by other people who don’t seem to give a damn about it, one way or another.

"Over here?" Harry says quietly; pointing off in the direction of a small pool in what looks to be a cool-water section—there is no steam issuing from it—that would fit only two or three.

Draco’s mouth curls up. "You think we’ll be able to ask many questions, isolated like that? Planning on calling them across the dirt paths, then?"

Harry stops in place and slants a sideways look at him. His taut, angry jawline has softened; his face is loose with an easy smile. "I was suggesting that spot for casting, after we talk to a few people," he snorts.

"Sure you were," Draco says, raising a single eyebrow and watching with satisfaction as Harry’s green gaze flickers to it, as his cheeks bloom with a sudden flush that has nothing to do with the steam or the thick humidity that has gotten worse, even, since they left the lodge’s blissful air-conditioning.

"Don’t," Harry warns under his breath, leading Draco over to a hot spring with two other people that, just barely, looks as though it will have room for two more. Properly chastened—less by Harry’s tone than the distracting surge of desire to his own cock—Draco shuts up and tries to look friendly and harmless as Harry smiles down at the people in the spring. "Do you mind if we join you?"

"No, of course!" The older gentleman waves them in, then leans his head back against the lip of the warmed stone, which curves out naturally and breaks off in the dirt, like the spots were carved out with the comfort of humans in mind.

This place is the sort of thing the Unspeakables should be investigating, rather than how to utilise some sort of soul-carving stone. Draco determines to bring it up with Granger—if they make it out of here alive.

Draco eases in first, dipping down into the overheated water with a hiss of discomfort.

"Just like being in a sauna," the man assures him cheerfully. "I’m Wally."

Draco nods dutifully, though his muggle knowledge doesn’t extend that far. However, being half-submerged in the hot spring is a bit like being in a steam bath, so it’s not half bad once his skin grows used to the temperature.

Harry slips in beside him, eyes widening. "I’m Harry, this is my husband Daniel. Wow, when they said hot springs, they really meant it, didn’t they?"

"Our hot springs are some of the best in the world," the younger woman murmurs. Draco recognises her as one of the lodge employees, and she smiles as though she knows what he’s thinking. "It’s one of the reasons I took this job; wonderful pay, and I can use the amenities on my days off."

"Must be lovely," Draco puts in. He scans her as gently as he can, and Wally too. Neither of them give off any sort of magical signature, and their minds—so relaxed from the heat of the water and in tune with the energy of the area—are open and at ease.

Harry leans pressed against him in the water, the coarse hair of his upper thigh brushing Draco’s own. He puts a hand on Draco’s knee under the water; squeezes as if to ask what Draco saw. Draco shakes his head, silently marvelling at the nonverbal way they can communicate with each other. He’s a little curious if he has a particular face he makes when he performs Legilimency. He’ll ask another time.

Harry hooks his foot over Draco’s and presses it so that Draco’s toes are pointing at the employee. Draco nods, ignoring the flash of heat that tears through him at Harry’s casual touch under the water. He looks at the employee. "I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name."

"Sarah," she says with a smile, sounding a bit groggy.

"I don’t suppose you know—Forgive me," he backtracks. "It’s your day off."

"No, no." She lifts a wet hand from the pool and waves it languidly. "Really, it’s fine. What did you want to know?"

"Well, there was a couple Harry and I made dinner plans with," Draco explains. "But they were supposed to be here as well and it occurs to me we haven’t seen them all day. I was simply wondering if they may have had to check out early or something."

"Althea and Alan," Harry puts in. He removes his fogged glasses, folds them closed, and sets them down on the packed earth. "Yeah, love, I hadn’t thought about it—I don’t think they were out at the pool, either."

"Oh, Althea!" The employee’s face warms. "We just love her; she and her husband have been coming here for years. No, they’re booked here for the whole month, like always. They never miss the nude badminton tournament, although last year Alan couldn’t participate because he’d had shoulder surgery."

"The nude—" If Draco remembers correctly, badminton is basically flinging an uncharmed snitch at each other with handled nets. He falls silent, visions flashing in his mind of naked people jumping and dodging and lunging to catch the snitch while their breasts or cocks pop around in the breeze. He forces down the panic that threatens and smiles genially. "What fun."

Harry coughs a laugh. "When is it?" he asks, wide-eyed. "Daniel was quite the athlete; perhaps we could join."

"Oh, it’s not until the sports festivities in the last week," she tells them. "You’re only booked for one, right? Though perhaps we could give you a discount if you extend your stay; there are always a lot of spectators and never enough participants. Particularly for the three-legged race."

"The three-legged race?" Draco echoes, feeling faint. He can’t—doesn’t want to—imagine what that is.

"Oh, I always take part in that," Wally puts in. "I came alone, though, so they have to set me up with someone else. It’d be nice to be able to pick my own partner for once. Would either of you be sitting it out?" He eyes them both speculatively.

Draco’s ears burn. Does the man not understand that they’re supposed to be married? He’s not really sure how to respond; should he flirt, or show outrage?

"I’m afraid we’d just end up doing it together," Harry says, eyes glinting at Draco mischievously. Draco sighs in relief. "Besides," Harry continues, "I don’t think we can stay for another two weeks; we both have business to attend to at home."

"Where’s that?"

They settle into a chat about London versus Glasgow, about their respective jobs, and then the sweltering heat that’s making everyone so on-edge before the employee excuses herself, followed shortly by Wally. "Don’t stay in here too long," he advises, "a bit is great for you, but a few years back someone fell asleep and—it wasn’t good."

They promise to be careful and wave him off with a smile, then Harry turns to Draco to look at him fully. "Do our files mention on-sight deaths in the last few years?"

"Just the last twelve months; there haven’t been any. But it’s probably unconnected, Harry," he says, hushed. "Those things happen."

Harry seems unconvinced, but he nods. Then, with a smile, "We still have to move to the cooler pools; they’re not as crowded, and we need to do some checks."

"I’m done here," Draco says. He feels a bit like a boiled lobster, and suspects he looks like one, too. But Harry just gives him a fond, lopsided smile when he helps Draco out of the water. Draco’s cock feels embarrassingly soft, but at least the heat hasn’t done anything to misrepresent its appearance. He grabs Harry’s glasses and they walk over to the mostly-empty pools, picking the smallest one, that Harry had pointed to before.

Slipping into this water feels absolutely heavenly, and Draco lets out a whimper of gladness as he sinks as deep as he can get. His burning skin soothes immediately in the cool, clear water, and he looks down to see the dark grey bottom of the rock-cut basin, made smooth from years of rain and underground runoff currents and perhaps the bit of magic flowing around them, as well.

Harry sits across from him and lays his arms up as though reclining against the lip of the pool; Draco mimics him and twitches his wrist just enough that his wand can be cradled by his palm. "How far is your reach?"

Rolling his eyes up to the shadow of trees above, Harry cracks a disbelieving laugh. "It’s, um, pretty fucking far, Malfoy. I thought you might have gathered that, considering—" He twiddles his fingers subtly and the path that leads deeper into the forest, about thirty metres away, clears slowly of the pine needles obscuring it.

"Oh. Right." Flustered at having forgotten—although really, how often is one supposed to remember that they’re in the presence of the Master of Death (whatever that means, really)—Draco bites his lip for a moment. "Well, then you incant as far out as you can, coming in, and I’ll start here in the centre. Revealing charms, first; check for anything dangerous, right?"

"Right, sounds good."

They work in easy tandem, not unlike their conversations on those pub nights after a case—not unlike the way their sexual chemistry found its own immediate rhythm. Draco begins small, keeping his charms quiet and contained; Harry, as always, is a bit more brash with his use of power, and Draco can see the trees ruffle around them as Harry’s magic sweeps against them.

Draco widens his search in concentric circles and can’t find anything beyond the sweet, sparking response of renewable forces in the magic. There is nothing threatening here; no curses or spells or traps. But a niggle of fear threads through him at how responsive the magic is to his casting; he feels a zip of—of appreciation, as though the land has been waiting to be harnessed, every time he sends a beacon of new magic from his wand. It unsettles him down to his core, what people—wizards and Muggles alike—might to do this place, given the opportunity.

Harry has been narrowing his search steadily, and they conclude when their spells connect with one another. For a long moment they lock eyes and lust pours through Draco, stiffening his cock in a bare second. Harry’s throat works silently for a moment, then his hand relaxes, curling into a loose fist, and that erratic pulse of connected magic untangles. Draco exhales a deep breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

Not looking at him, voice velvet and low, Harry says, "I found nothing. Protective charms now. Same pattern?"

Draco nods, though Harry’s eyes are studiously fastened on something to his left. He begins without waiting for Harry, throwing up protective charms in layer after layer until he can almost see them as a fine, glowing mist in the air already so saturated with the steam of healing waters and the humidity of the coming storm. He casts every protective charm he can think of after the strongest and most broad have been used, up to and including skin charms to protect against the sun, hidden beyond the leaves.

Again, they stop when their magic clashes against the other’s. It spikes sharply through Draco, everything he’s ever learned of desire and seduction; all of the truths he’s ever held dear. The magic mingles, slowly, when they don’t end the casting right away, and Draco shudders with the force of it, with the way he can feel past Harry’s Occlumency shields, can feel Harry’s want and fear and conflicted need for contact burn against him.

Harry makes a small, lamenting noise when it happens. His lips are parted, his hairline dotted with moisture. His eyes are greener than the forest around him, and Draco’s cock juts away from his body at the look Harry gives him.

"We shouldn’t," Harry whispers. "We can’t. Not now."

"I know."

But they get out of the water silently, grabbing their towels and wrapping them swiftly around their waists. Draco spares one look for the people remaining at the hot springs, who are too engaged with each other and the soft sprinkles of rain starting to hush down to notice them, before allowing Harry to tug him deeper into the forest.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and Draco realises where they’re both heading—where they’re being called. The land can feel the way their magic ignites when it comes in contact. It wants more.

They make it to the copse of trees with the clearing outside the property line, so like the mysterious places ancient runes were once made. The rain has turned steady and Draco vaguely hears the heavy rumble of thunder; the sky has gone completely grey.

There is nothing sensual about the hard heat in Harry’s voice when he says Draco’s name; it comes out sounding coarse and ugly, and if Draco didn’t know what their magic felt like—what Harry felt like—he would perhaps recoil away in disgust. Instead, he shuffles closer, putting his hand flat over Harry’s chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he covers the brand on Harry’s skin, which feels hot against his palm.

He is not surprised when he says Harry’s name and it comes out sounding just as raw and unpleasant. But it feels like ambrosia on his lips, which Harry immediately covers with his own.

The kiss is sharp and urgent, all teeth and fighting tongues. Draco sucks Harry’s into his mouth, letting his teeth scrape over it; he bites at Harry’s swollen lips, tasting rainwater. Then he sweeps his own tongue into Harry’s mouth where it receives the same treatment, and Draco groans loudly, hands shoved into Harry’s hair. He yanks Harry’s head back, bares his own neck and pulls Harry’s mouth to it; the stubble on Harry’s jaw is rough over Draco’s skin but it’s not enough, not until Harry bites down and sucks a mouthful of flesh between his teeth, tongue lashing over it. Draco can hear the loud, demanding cries tearing from his throat; he can feel the mottled bruises blooming on it.

Harry’s hands grab roughly at Draco’s wet skin and Draco arches into him; their cocks graze each other, then press, as Harry pulls him painfully tight, grabbing handfuls of Draco’s arse cheeks to open and close them. His teeth rake over Draco’s collarbone, across his neck, pausing every few seconds to mark him. He says something gutturally, then he is sliding two stiff, slickened fingers into Draco’s entrance, twisting them as he inches them deeper.

Draco hisses, "Yes, fuck." He slings his leg up around Harry’s hip, wobbling on one foot until Harry’s hands steady him. Their cocks grind together like this, trapped between their bodies, and it gives Harry’s fingers better access. Draco’s head falls back, mouth opening on a sharp cry as Harry begins fucking deeply into him with two fingers, bringing them out to the tips and then stabbing them deep. Draco’s hips work, rolling in time with Harry’s movements; he’s still a little loose from their last session several hours prior, but the discomfort of Harry’s ruthless pace is just what he wants. "Do it, fuck me, I need your cock."

"Jesus, Malfoy." Harry raises his head. The scenery no longer competes with the colour of his eyes, which have gone black and so focused Draco has the wild thought that Harry can’t see anything but him. On the next slide in, he adds another finger, and Draco’s arse burns from the pressure but he nods frantically, rain falling from his soaking hair. Harry breathes, "My cock is so fucking hard for you."

"I know, I know, I feel it," Draco babbles, fucking himself on Harry’s fingers, rubbing his aching erection over Harry’s cock. "Just do it, just put it in me."

With a low growl, Harry stalks him backward, fingers gone still inside of Draco’s channel. Draco clings to his shoulders, his leg falling from around Harry’s hips until his back hits moist tree bark. Then Harry pulls his fingers out and grasps his hips, whipping him around. Draco flattens his hands against the trunk of the tree, the feel of the rough wood anchoring him in place as Harry tugs his hips back and kicks his stance wide.

Draco feels the blunt, spongy head of Harry’s cock circle his rim; he gasps and backs into it. "Please!"

Harry holds him in place with one hand, finger pressing one arse cheek open, and guides his slippery cock to Draco’s stretched entrance. He pushes inside with a grunt and a "Yes," and then he slides deeper, faster, embedding the full length of his swollen prick inside Draco with a hoarse groan.

"This is how I want you, Draco," he mutters, pulling out halfway and slamming home again. He slides a hand over Draco’s back and does it again as Draco presses against the tree and cants his arse up. "If you get to— fucking say those things, and see those things, then I get to—"

Harry sounds furious, his words deep and vicious, punctuated by each ferocious pump of his hips. They don’t make sense—nothing does but the burning delicious stretch of Draco’s arse as it widens to accept each slide from Harry’s cock. Harry pants, palming his arse cheeks wide, and Draco feels the rain pick up, stinging his skin with harsh, warm droplets as the wind begins to get aggressive.

"Watch it," Draco gasps out, "Watch yourself fuck into me, watch yourself go in."

"I’m—ah!—watching you take it, you fucking take all of me, you bastard, everything you think you want," Harry growls. Harry’s hand finds his hair and he grips a fistful of it, yanking Draco’s head back as he rides him. He saws his hips back and forth and the obscene, wet sound of his balls slapping against Draco’s arse, of his cock plunging deep, is faint but hypnotic against the sound of the storm’s torrent. Draco feels split wide open, tender and sore and overstimulated by too much sex; his cock throbs, smacking rigidly into his belly every time Harry pounds in. Draco lets his head drop forward between his outstretched arms and watches it; it’s near-purple at the tip, the shaft flushed deep pink.

There is nothing light, nothing playful about this. They aren’t learning each other anymore; this is about testing their limits, and Draco doesn’t know for what. But Harry plows into him ceaselessly, so Draco clenches his arsehole on every third thrust, digging his fingers into the peeling bark of the tree trunk to stay in place. The ground grows damp beneath him and he adjusts his stance, planting his feet firmly again just as Harry whips his hips down, angling his cock for a deep press against Draco’s prostate. Draco grits out, "Harry—"

"Say it," Harry orders him, whipping his hips faster, but it sounds more like a plea. Draco can feel the ridge of his crown, can feel the way his cock jerks inside him. He’s used too little lube and it’s wearing off, but Draco can’t bring himself to care.

"I’m—I’m full," Draco manages. His eyes sting from the rain dripping from his hair. From something else, maybe. He whimpers at another hard stroke. "I’m full of your cock, full of you, fucking all of you, fuck, Potter—"

Harry’s free hand grips his shoulder, fingers digging into the meat of it, half-draping himself over Draco’s back as his thrusts get erratic and less focussed. His leans forward for a split second and licks the dip of Draco’s spine. "No," he says breathlessly, voice thick with restraint, "No, tell me how you—"

Draco doesn’t know where the words come from, but they tear from his lungs of their own accord. "I know you, Potter, keep fucking me, harder, you prick—I know you, oh sweet Merlin fuck Harry, I’m going to come—"

But then Harry plunges deep and stays, continuing to rock his hips but keeping the two of them firmly pressed together so that Draco’s arse follows him with every minute movement. Draco’s throat arches; his scalp stings under Harry’s clenching hand. He feles the hot spill of semen inside of him, hears Harry’s loud cry of release as his cock slickens Draco’s passage anew, and the friction is just right. Draco grunts loudly; his orgasm hits him like the storm came, with no build or warning. His cock pulses hard, bouncing at each frantic, connected roll they make and he comes, eyes on his spunk as it hits the wet grass in long ropes.

After what feels like years, Harry’s hold on his shoulder softens; his fingers loosen from Draco’s hair. Draco feels battered and bruised inside and out, as if the force of Harry’s need—of his own—has reshaped him into something strange and out of place, like those stone bowls in the earth.

Harry slips out of him and Draco staggers up. His thighs hurt; his arse feels swollen, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get away without a healing charm this time, but he feels oddly energised, all of his previous exhaustion from two nights of little sleep gone. He pushes off the tree and shoves his wet hair out of his face, then leans his back against the trunk with a wince.

Harry is still breathing heavily. His raven hair is sopping wet, clinging to his forehead and temples. His eyes catch Draco’s, then move away, looking around. "It’s going to be here," Harry says, panting a bit.

"Yeah."

"It’s hungry for magic." Harry gazes at the clearing. "Even just our presence… It wanted us. We could do a lot of things here."

"We just did," Draco says wryly. The splotchy pink blush is fading from Harry’s chest, from his throat.

Harry wanders toward the middle of the clearing. Draco stays put; he’s too sore to do much more than hobble after him, anyway, not that he’s inclined to. Harry waves his hand, fingers coaxing his magic forth. Draco hears the low murmur of his incantations as he walks around and investigates; lovely though the sight of Harry is, walking naked in the warm downpour, Draco stops watching him after a moment to keep a lookout around them, lest some stray Muggle decides to investigate the noisy sounds of fucking they’d been making. The rain eases off slowly, leaving the air cool and fresh and clean.

A few minutes go by and Harry finally approaches him again. He’s found his glasses—where, Draco doesn’t know; he must’ve dropped them somewhere—and looks more like himself, but for his similarity to a wet Crup. Apropos of nothing, he says, "I’d like to go out to dinner with you when we get back."

"Oh?"

Draco wishes, the second the word slips out, that he’d said it with aplomb. But it comes out startled, instead; dumb with surprise. Fucking oh? Draco chides himself, mind still working to catch up. He blurts, "Did you find anything?"

Which is not much better.

Harry shakes his head as if to say, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He steps closer. Draco can smell the musk of his sweat, can sense the energy of the magic coursing through him, radiantly savage. It practically snaps off his skin and from his eyes. Draco finally understands what Shacklebolt meant, about how they complement each other.

"Will you?"

"Will I—?" Draco blinks, not bothering to humour Harry’s madness with a placating smile. "Are you stupid?"

It’s Harry’s turn to blink. "No?"

"Will I go out with you?"

"A proper date. Several, I think," Harry says, nodding. "Yes."

Draco snorts. "I’m sorry," he says a touch snidely, "which part of ‘fuck me harder, Harry,’ made you feel like I might deny you a meal? But I swear to Salazar, Potter, if we get out of here and find out that what we just did here bonded us into matrimony or something, I’m going to be a widower exremely fast. Fair warning."

Harry rolls his eyes; takes Draco’s hand. "Couldn’t we just divorce and then date?"

"God, you’re such a Muggle-born," Draco huffs. He pulls his hand away and gestures irritably. Asks again, more pointedly, "Did you find anything?"

"No. But it’ll be here," Harry says, and Draco knows it’s true. He’d thought the hot springs, but this place is too greedy to be used, to give back—it doesn’t matter what kind of magic it’ll be used for.

"I know. Heal my arse," Draco tells him distractedly. Harry’s mouth quirks; he places a hand on Draco’s waist, turning him. Runs his fingers over Draco’s crease; the ache in his arse lessens, mostly vanishes, and Draco clenches experimentally, pleased to discover that Harry added a cleaning charm. "Thank you. We haven’t gotten any kind of Summons yet."

"No. Anytime after dinner."

Draco hesitates. "We should find a way to send Granger something. In case—"

"No," Harry says implacably. "I can’t risk her again. I won’t. Or Ron. And we’ve already talked about others."

"And you won’t tell me why not them, right?" Draco asks.

"Right."

"But we’re dating?" he checks ironically.

"Right," Harry says again.

"Fine." Draco sighs, shrugging. "Let’s go back to our room; I’m not eating in my pants again."

"You had no trouble with it, this morning," Harry says, taking his hand as they walk out of the clearing.

Draco looks down at their linked fingers in surprise. In spite of what just happened, and Harry’s assumption that they might be able to begin some sort of relationship away from here—in spite of how Draco’s ridiculous heart feels inexorably wrapped up in the idea of it—he can’t quite believe the gentle intimacy of the gesture.

While no one they know is around to see, at least.

They make their way past the hot springs. Only a few people have remained in the wake of the storm, and only one of those gives them a knowing look. Draco smiles sheepishly at her, then rolls his eyes at Harry’s beaming grin as they continue on to their room.

He waits in the hallway, wishing it would have been remotely believable to come in from outside dry. But with their towels soaked and the rainfall, he has to suffer, shivering, in the blast of air-conditioning. "Nine warming charms," he mumbles as Harry lifts the key card corded around his wrist with one of those funny coiled bands. "Dry me the fuck off and then I want nine of your best warming charms."

Harry smirks. "I’d offer to just—warm you," he says as they step inside. "But we really do have to make an appearance at dinner."

"I’ll show you warm," he grumbles, then immediately imagines Harry’s arse turning pink and hot under the smack of his palm, and shivers for an entirely different reason.

Distracted by the thought, he turns to shut the door when it comes crashing in against him. His face aches from where the edge of it cracked into his forehead, but Draco automatically twitches his wrist to release his wand, fingers sliding over the smooth wood before some odd sensation overcomes him and he realises he can’t move his hand. He’s been hit with some sort of modified Immobulus, he realises in horror, eyes seeking Harry’s, who has frozen in place with his hand outstretched.

"Alright," the man behind him grumbles, shoving Draco away from him. "Go stand with him."

"I’ll kill you," Harry says, low.

Draco straightens at Harry’s side. His head hurts and he’s not a little pissed off at having gotten injured for the second time in twenty-four hours, but even more so when he realises it’s Tom the Businessman smirking at the two of them.

"I don’t think you will, Mister Matthews. After all, I have something you want." Tom flicks his wand and summons the glowing image of a small blue stone, letting it hover in the air for a moment before dissipating.

"Which I was planning on bidding on, tonight," Harry clips out. His hands are fisted; his muscles tensed. Draco evaluates the situation; two against one would be no problem, even with his right hand immobile. Hell, Harry could Disarm the idiot in a split second—he hasn’t been immobilised at all. But Tom isn’t stupid enough to have hidden the stone on his person; he’s at least smart enough to get past the Legilimency Draco used on him, and they need that fucking rock. At least the Obliviate from their visit to him seems to be holding.

"Of course you were," Tom says smoothly. "Unfortunately, despite your impressive bank account, I need a little extra insurance. Your wands, please."

Draco snarls; the tip of his wand is frozen in his hand, but just the thought of relinquishing it makes him want to hex the man.

"I don’t think so," Harry says carefully. Draco glances at him. "What’s our insurance that we won’t be harmed?"

"Gold transfers can’t be made if they’re coerced," Tom says. "You should know that. If you sign away your gold, the bank parchment will scan for authenticity."

"And if I lose the bid?" Harry asks.

"You’ll receive back anything I’ve taken, with my apologies," Tom says with a sweeping bow. Draco narrows his eyes, casting his mind out slowly, like a whisper. He can’t sense a surface lie, but Tom’s mental shields are suddenly like a fortress. He continues, "After all, I have a bid coming up in a few months for another item. It’s different, but powerful. It wouldn’t do to offend those few who might be interested, and who are also wealthy enough to afford it."

The look in his eyes is sly and greedy. It’s a look Draco grew up seeing in his father’s face; a look he has seen in the mirror. He doesn’t think Tom is lying, but he can sense his burning impatience, which is making him twitchy. His dark eyes study the two of them too warily to be arrogant, but too arrogantly to ensure their safety.

"My wand," Draco says shortly between clenched teeth. He holds out his hand, showcasing where it’s been frozen. At least this way, if he hands it over, he won’t have been Disarmed.

Tom’s shoulders come down a bit. "Why, thank you!" He casts his own and releases Draco’s hand. Draco slips his wand free of its holster and passes it to him. Tom turns to Harry with an expectant face.

"I don’t—" Harry falls silent, mouth pressed so tightly the edges have gone white. "It’s in my bag. We only brought one holster."

"I’ll wait," Tom says with a genial smile. "I’ll keep my wand trained on Daniel, how’s that. In case you get any ideas."

Harry’s glower has gone so deep, Draco thinks it’s rather a miracle that Tom hasn’t already spontaneously combusted from it. He heads over to his bag and draws out his holly wand, stroking over it with his forefinger. He points it at Draco, casts a series of drying and warming charms over his skin before he can even blink, then holds it out to Tom.

"That wasn’t smart," Tom remarks mildly, but takes the wand with a tip of his head.

"I promised him some warming charms," Harry mutters, moving back to his side. Draco takes Harry’s hand to steady him. To steady himself against the way his knees went weak when Harry’s magic washed over him, simple and lovely, moreso for the statement it made.

"How sweet." It doesn’t even sound snide. Tom chuckles a little, slipping their wands into the pouch around his neck; it must have an invisible extension charm. "You keep your promises. That’s good to know. You know, you may actually be the winning bidder, after all, in that case. You should promise him he’ll be fine, now."

"What?" Harry growls.

"Well, as I said, I like insurance." Tom raises his eyebrows, points his wand at Draco. Harry tenses beside him as Tom goes on. "And if you’re the winner, you won’t have to worry about anything happening to him."

"I thought you said you’d give back whatever you took," Draco interjects coldly.

"And indeed, I will. I can promise your wands will come to no harm. And I can promise you’ll return to your husband, if he wins. Even if he doesn’t, actually, though in that case I can’t promise the state you’ll return in," Tom says. "So if you’ll come with me, now."

Draco can feel it, the restless shift of Harry’s energy next to him. The build of power that skitters over his skin; he’s too used to the feeling, now, to ever mistake it for anything else—he’s been studying Harry for near-fifteen years, would know that snapping anger anywhere. But they have hidden advantages in that Tom doesn’t remember talking to them, doesn’t realise that they know what, exactly, is being sold. That Harry’s wandless magic is still a secret is something Draco doesn’t want to give up. He squeezes Harry’s palm.

"I’ll go," he says, keeping his voice soft while glaring at Tom, who looks amused. "Win the bid. We need it, right? We need it, so win it and it’ll be fine. We have two whole vaults we didn’t even bother using for verification; it’s not as if he can lose us as potential clients," he says, then scowls at Tom’s nod. "And it’s not as if he’ll attempt something like this again, right?"

"What would be the point?" Tom agrees. "This is a bit of an extreme circumstance, as you can imagine. Eternal life? This is a one-time-only kidnapping, I assure you."

"Harry," Draco says. Harry rotates his head like it pains him to take his eyes off Tom, and drags his gaze to Draco’s. "I’ll be fine. Do what we said, and I’ll be fine." His mouth goes firm; he arches an eyebrow. "I can take care of myself."

Harry looks at him for a long moment. He releases a shuddering breath, then gives a jerky nod. Draco has to tug his hand out of Harry’s, but Harry finally loosens his grip and allows Draco to step over to Tom’s side.

"Brilliant," Tom says, pleased. "This will all run smoothly now, I guarantee it." He slides an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him too close, and Draco stands rigidly as Harry takes a step forward, then halts himself.

Draco draws upon every ounce of Malfoy within him, haughtily looking down his nose at the fucker holding him too tight. "May I at least put on some pants before we go?"

Tom laughs. "No."

He Apparates them.

***

The first thing Draco becomes aware of is a soft hand, patting frantically at his face. Then the ringing in his ears dims a bit, and the world snaps into place. "Daniel?" It’s a hissed whisper. "Daniel! Are you okay?"

"Stop—stop slapping me," Draco snaps weakly, opening his eyes and heaving himself up. The world spins for a moment; his Mark writhes ceaselessly, connecting uncomfortably to the Dark Magic burning through their surroundings. Althea crouches off to the side, looking anxious; there’s a hex-welt on her temple. "Althea? Where are we?"

"I don’t know," she whispers, crawling backward. Draco takes a moment, letting his head clear, before looking around.

They’re in a… cage. Glowing blue bars surround them as they hang, suspended a half-dozen meters in the air in the middle of the clearing. The sun has already set, but light is coming from somewhere. Seven other people are slumped, unconscious, at the far end of the rectangular box, and yet another shifts, awake, off to his right. Draco touches the pendant around his neck several times and when nothing happens, he looks over.

It’s Tom.

Draco opens his mouth, then shuts it again and peeks down through the bars. He sees a group assembling beneath them, quietly taking their places in folding chairs. They’re surrounded by—of all things—strings of fairy lights, as if people are in attendance for a wedding or some such nonsense. Another Businessman Tom is standing with Liz’s husband, Roger, at the head of the group. Merlin, they’ve actually procured a podium for this. Arseholes.

And then Draco notices three of the undercover Aurors they’ve interacted with. They’re positioned around the adapted stage, standing rigidly in place. Their eyes are perfectly blank, their wands held firmly at their sides. He glances at Roger again; remembers what Liz had said about the potion. He just has to hope none of them have revealed anything about the two of them.

Fuck it.

"Harry," he calls down loudly, spotting him. Harry looks up. His jaw is tight.

"You’re doing alright, Daniel?" he calls back, almost formally.

"Just stuffed up here with nine other people," Draco relays, aggravation rich in his tone. Harry nods; he’s gotten it. "And one of them has been Polyjuiced to look like the runner of the event," he adds.

The Tom on the ground, listening to their exchange—for all Draco cares—grins. "It’ll wear off soon enough. Please keep it down, we’ll be starting soon," he says to both of them, then goes back to talking quietly to Roger.

Harry, slightly lower, calls back, "There’s a field around you, or I’d come closer so we could talk. But it won’t let me in."

"I’m fine," Draco tells him. He looks back. "Several of us haven’t woken up."

"As long as you’re okay," Harry says, which Draco interprets as do something about it.

It’s harder than it should be to pull his eyes off of Harry, but Draco peels himself away from the bars and heads over to the unconscious people, one of whom turns out to be the missing bartender. He hasn’t mastered much wandless magic, but a few spells are required for Aurors, and fortunately, one of them is a reviving spell. "Rennervate!" he mutters, then again when nothing happens.

He can feel the magic collecting at his fingertips, but it goes sluggish when he releases it, as if absorbing into the atmosphere. He looks at the bars—magic dampeners, then.

Althea has huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her shins. "Alan, Alan isn’t here," she says fearfully when Draco catches her eyes.

Draco crawls back over to her. "We’ll find him, pet. I’m sure he’s fine, okay? Do you remember what happened?"

She shakes her head. "No. We’d gotten back from dinner when… The first thing I remember is waking up, here."

"I’m not supposed to be here," Tom blurts out, finding his voice.

Draco sneers at him. "And this was the exactly the holiday we’d booked."

"No, you don’t understand," Tom says, voice getting louder. "I was here to get paid for something, and now I’m in a cage. I’m in a cage! What are they going to do to us? I’m not supposed to be here!"

"Fucking hell, pull yourself together," Draco sneers. He hates people sometimes, he really does. Althea reaches out timidly; she grazes his bare knee with her fingertips. Draco looks at her, softening a bit. "Yes?"

"What can I do?"

"I’m, uhm, working on it." He pats her hand. "Perhaps try the slapping thing on those people? That might be useful, if we have to run at some point," he says. He pauses as something occurs to him. "Are you a witch?"

"I beg your pardon?" She manages to look affronted, naked and curled up in the floating cage though she is.

Draco examines her; her outrage is real. How the term ‘witch’ ever got twisted into an insult, he’ll never know—he’s certainly never heard someone call a man a ‘wizard,’ in a derogatory fashion. "Nothing," he says, smiling a little. "Just, um, prepare yourself, alright?"

She studies him for a moment, then gives a short nod and crawls over to the people on the opposite side of the cage to begin whispering at them.

Draco heads back over to look out of the bars again. Harry is staring up at him, and Draco can even make out the green of his eyes, his gaze is so focused. He raises one eyebrow intermittently, giving tiny, leaning nods. Irritated, Draco indulges in copying him for a second just to show him how stupid he looks, but Harry purses his lips and widens his eyes significantly, then glances off to the left. Draco follows the look; he sees a floating twig and watches as it levitates toward the cage, beyond the field of vision of the organisers. It slips in through the bars and immediately drops to the floor; apparently, even Harry’s magic isn’t strong enough to sustain power inside the dampener.

Draco picks up the twig and inspects it, then turns back to Harry with a helpless shrug, surprised to see Harry’s look of relief. His eyes dart off again and Draco glances over; there’s a table where everyone’s wands have been stacked neatly, as though waiting to be passed back out. The bubble-like charm around it flickers and fades for a blink, then resumes, and Draco realises Harry has managed to sneak his wand out. He ventures a smirk as Harry subtly floats it into the cage. Some of the knots in his stomach loosen as Draco grabs for it before it falls to the floor.

Draco tries a couple of simple spells again, to revive the unconscious, but even with a wand it’s useless.

"Excuse me?" he calls down again politely, louder when Tom doesn’t look up immediately.

He finally does, overly-patient. "Yes?"

"Unfortunately—while I admit to not being the most adept at wandless magic—whatever dampeners you’ve put on our… accommodations… have made it impossible for me to revive those who aren’t awake," Draco explains. "Which, given that I’m not sure if they’re Muggles or Wizards, could be a problem if they’ve been hexed."

"They’re fine," Tom says dismissively. "Shut up, please."

Draco falls silent, checking with Harry, who nods again. He scurries to the opposite side of the cage, where the door is, facing the forest and—glancing back to make sure he’s hidden by the angle—sticks his arm out as far as it will go. It’s not ideal; his body is inside the cage and the magical core is usually considered to be centred somewhere within the brain or the torso or perhaps a combination of both—yet another thing Unspeakables could do more research on, he thinks venomously—but he’d felt the magic from his fingers before it had faltered, so it will have to do.

He flicks twists his hand back to face the door; his unlocking charm fizzles, but the dampener makes a soft, spritzing sound. Surprised, Draco tries again, and sees the glow on the bars darken a bit. A simple locking dampener, which would be easy enough to get rid of, given time, but there’s still the problem of how not to alert their captors, if the glow fades upon the charm’s dissipation.

Trying a combination of things—a brightly coloured Lumos in conjunction with a sticking charm—Draco thinks he’s about got the right glow and tone when he hears Tom’s voice, magnified by a Sonorus, calling out.

"Thank you for coming tonight," he says. His tone is striving for gravitas but merely sounds smug and excited. "Thought I must apologise for the tactics I had to use on our less, shall we say, willing bidders, I appreciate that you’ve all still taken the time to come out tonight."

Draco snorts.

"While the object of tonight’s bid is desired by many," Tom continues after the bidders have quieted down, "those who want it do not often have the resources and resolve to attain it. Tonight, you need only the resources."

There is muffled laughter, and Draco glowers to himself. "Althea, how are things going?" he murmurs as he continues to cast.

"I—I don’t know. This one here is moving," she whispers back. "That’s good, I think."

"Very," Draco agrees.

"Daniel?"

"Yes?" he asks breathlessly. If he could just reach his arm out a little further, he feels sure he’d be able to Summon the correct amount of magical force to cover the bars with the glow charm while simultaneously releasing the cage lock and dampener.

"We’re floating, aren’t we? I’m not—" Althea pauses, sounding uncertain. "I’ve not gone senile?"

"No," he grunts, trying to throw a smile her way. It feels like more of a wince, his shoulder shoved through the narrow bars as it is, but she merely nods. "You’re not senile."

"Oh good," she mutters. Her voice gets resolute. "Then you keep doing… something that looks magical, and I’ll do—this."

"Yes, thanks," he wheezes out, straining for the right amount of distance to get the right sort of angle. Draco listens with half an ear as Tom sells the product below without saying anything definitive about it, then pauses as his voice slowly begins to morph into something deeper and booming, like that of a barrel-chested man. He glances at the other Tom, who has remained silent and hunched into one corner as though he can pretend not to be there.

Draco leaves off the bars for a second to check out the other side of the cage. The body of the Tom below is shifting, Polyjuice wearing off, leaving a portly man with a hairline that could be only generously described as receding. Draco looks back at Althea just as she pauses, and the voice registers.

"Alan?" she screeches, grabbing hold of the bars in both of her hands. Her face lights up with relief; then, as she watches the completion of her husband’s transformation into himself, darkens with a wrath that reminds Draco of some combination of his own mother, Molly Weasley during the last battle, his Aunt Bella, and even Harry.

He inches away from her, just in case she has any latent magical abilities.

"You sonofabitch, I will kill you for this!" she screams, trying to shake the immovable bars. She can’t, but Draco finds he really wouldn’t be surprised if she could. "After twenty-nine years and a child, supporting you when you got fired from that middle-management job, taking care of you after three surgeries and those five years BEFORE YOU DISCOVERED VIAGRA! You complete arsehole! if I ever get out of here I swear to JESUS my face will be the last thing you ever see! What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Chest heaving, she sucks in a breath and glares downward. Draco stares at her for a moment, impressed beyond measure, before looking down as well. Alan’s face is ashen, a nervous smile falling from his mouth. His lips open and close like a gaping fish. "You won’t remember a thing, love!" he assures her, voice only slightly shaky. "I’ve managed to keep this from you quite well and I only really needed you as an example, so please—just settle down for a few minutes if you will?"

If possible, her furious brown eyes get even larger. "DID YOU JUST TELL ME TO SETTLE—"

"Of course not!" Alan says. "But if you’ll—be patient. This is really all for us, darling, so—"

Althea breathes loudly through her flaring nostrils and she attempts another vicious shake of the bars. "There are injured people up here," she hisses. "You’ve taken me hostage and trapped me in some kind of a magic cage and—"

Alan swallows visibly. He grabs a handkerchief from the podium and blots his shiny brow, addressing the guests. "My apologies. I’ll Silence the cage if I need to, but of course it’s always good to have examples, which is why I brought my beloved wife tonight."

Draco touches Althea’s shoulder lightly before she can begin another rant. She turns to him with a sharp look. "Stop," he tells her quietly. "If he sends up another spell, it could undo the progress I’ve made getting us out of this."

She sucks in another lungful of air, looking mutinous, but gives him a short nod and grits her teeth. "I can’t look at him anyway," she mutters, moving back over to the rest of the hostages. Her face is a mix of rage and grief but despite the amount of confusion and pain she must be in, she attends to those things she can do, and Draco takes another second to admire her.

Below, Alan has lost a bit of the mystique and stature he was going for, but he gamely steps once more into his presentation. "Middle management, you said?" Draco murmurs to Althea, who makes a harrumph sort of sound under her breath.

"He kept trying for sales; they got all the good holiday incentive prizes," she grumbles resentfully, "even though we’ve always somehow made a good enough living to afford going on holiday in style, to put our daughter into the best schools."

"The reason I brought her," Alan says, bringing the point around after what Draco feels was an excessive amount of excuses, "was to show that not only can eternal life be gained for oneself… It can be granted to someone else!" He finishes the sentence with a flourish, like an aspiring wireless host.

Harry catches Draco’s eye again and Draco bites his lip. No matter how amusing some of this may be, Harry’s face seems carved out of stone, implacable as a mask, eyes steady on Alan as he talks.

Alan reaches into a bag at his hip and pulls out a luminescent stone. "I am aware that many of you have heard the term ‘Horcrux,’" he intones; Draco flinches, hearing it uttered so casually, and there is a loud intake of breath that seems to come from all of the bidders. Alan must be Muggle-born. He smiles. "There’s no need for that. Though the magic used to create them is Dark, and very powerful, splitting one’s soul will not automatically turn you into a Dark Wizard like the—well, we all know what happened several years ago," he says, almost coyly.

"What happened a few years ago?" Althea whispers. Draco shakes his head.

"You are all here because we’re like-minded; interested in self, rather than world-domination. The person—mind, I use that term loosely—who almost came into power did a very thorough job of erasing his tracks, but I," he gloats, "am even more thorough."

He displays the stone, levitating it carefully as it spins before the group. Draco eyes it with trepidation.

"And many of the parchments I used were written in the hand of—well, You Know Who I mean," he adds jokingly. When no one laughs, his smile grows a little pained. He clears his throat. "This can be verified if needed."

Draco sucks in a breath. Harry’s face becomes even more impassive.

"As of this week, I have procured the last components necessary for harvesting more than one piece of your soul, and breaking someone else’s to preserve, all with one sacrifice. With the spell, the sacrifice, the stone and the potion, one can easily transfer a bit of oneself into an object for rejuvenation," Alan explains, growing more confident. "By the time you receive notification for my next auction, I will have worked out how to do that before one’s demise."

"Did he say sacrifice?" Althea whispers, horrified. Draco can’t blame her. "Are we sacrifices?"

As though Harry can hear her—hell, maybe he can; Draco wouldn’t put it past the wily bastard to have a charm close enough to the cage to hear them—he raises a hand. Alan’s eyebrows go up, thrown off his tempo, mid-spiel. "Yes, Mister Matthews?"

"Sacrifices?" Harry asks mildly. "I would rather not draw Auror attention to myself by abducting and sacrificing anyone."

"No, no, discretion is very valuable," Alan agrees gleefully. "Which is why I’ve brought you some."

"We’re to do this here?" Harry asks evenly. "Tonight?"

"It will ensure your silence on the matter, should you change your mind down the road," Alan says, frowning. "I believe I made clear the importance of insurance."

"And who did you bring? Surely, we’re not supposed to harm the loved-ones you’re holding hostage." Harry sits back in his folding chair, crossing one trousered leg over the other—of course he gets to wear clothes to this—looking for all the world as though he’s having a discussion about his finances with a goblin at Gringotts.

"As I said," Alan snaps, finally goaded, "it would be wise to be the winning bidder." He pauses and clears his throat, composing himself. "Who will be allowed to choose between three sacrifices with no living ties, and a series of objects in which to place their Horcrux." He smiles slyly. "And they may also pick between any of the hostages, excepting my wife, to use for that."

"What?" Harry barks, half standing. He halts himself, lowering back into the chair.

Human Horcruxes. Draco’s heart jumps into his throat; revulsion crawls through him. If the Dark Lord had known he could do that, Draco doesn’t even want to imagine what would have happened. And for someone to be violated in such a way, hosting a murky, shattered piece of soul, is so unthinkable that—

Harry is shaking subtly; his face is flushed and his eyes are bright. Draco looks at him and for a long, long moment, everything goes quiet in his mind.

Gathering his wits, Draco calls down, "And what if the person hosting it dies? That doesn’t seem a very safe place to hold one’s soul…"

"Then the Horcrux will keep them animated, of course. The soul will alert its original owner so that it can be retrieved," Alan says pompously. "Really, a live host is better than an object, because souls deteriorate without something living to latch on to. It may take a century, but it happens."

"And we just get to… pick?" another wizard—the husband to one of the unconscious people in the cage, if Draco is correct—asks.

"That’s right!" Alan says cheerfully. "I will be demonstrating the spell with my wife once bidding is complete; I very much hope none of you objects to a partial Obliviation on the subject, should you lose the auction. Can’t have all my secrets creeping out," he adds.

Harry inclines his head, as though he agrees. Draco wonders how no one else senses the waves of magic rolling off of him, practically visible in the cool night air, like the steam from the hot springs.

"So now I’d like to introduce Roger, to begin the auction. Please have your parchment ready; gold will vanish from your account immediately upon winning the bid, as per the contract you all signed upon arrival," Alan says. He waves at Roger, who looks anxious and wrings his hands a bit before approaching the podium.

Roger begins the bid low, at fifty thousand galleons, and there is a muffled laugh from the crowd. On the next bid, he takes it up by another fifty, and Draco realises abruptly that he doesn’t have much time. He heads to the other side of the cage and shoves his arm through the bars, his temple pressed against them, and begins casting multiple spells at once.

Then, there’s a whisper in his mind, muted and clumsy. Harry’s voice. "What can I do?"

Draco shudders with fear at the risk Harry is taking. "Keep the bars glowing as I unlock," he mutters under his breath, teeth gritted.

"Give m— a s—nd," Harry tells him, voice fading out, then resuming. He really is shit at any sort of Legilimency. "There’s a cha— around the c—ge that I can b—rly get through w—out al—ing them. Poin— your w— at the charm to keep it stea—y."

"Hurry the bloody fuck up, then," Draco hisses. He reaches as far as he can and focuses, finally picking up the faint shimmer of a shield around them. He points his wand and casts, feeling a dull, vibrating ripple when Harry’s magic bends it inward, then slices through it. The charm remains shimmery, and no sparkles or noises alert Roger or Alan, below. Draco lets out a breath; he bends his wrist and angles his wand at the lock of the cage. The bars stay lit even as he hears the sudden popping noise of the lock, and Draco’s stifled magic bursts into his chest, startling him.

"Good?" comes Harry’s voice.

"Put your fucking Occlumency back up," Draco orders. When there’s nothing else, Draco nods to himself. He doesn’t bother to open the cage door; there’s really no way they could make an escape yet without alerting everyone. But he turns to the other hostages and pushes Althea aside to cast gentle reviving charms on each of them.

Four of them pull awake immediately, groaning and clutching their heads, but the other five take a few minutes; Draco has to heal the hex marks on their foreheads and throats before they come to. With the exception of Althea—who is perhaps the most collected person Draco has ever met, barring his mother—they all seem to be aware of the magical world.

"What—" A slender witch of about sixty years, wearing exercise shorts, folds her arms over her bare chest. She glares at Draco. "We were supposed to be part of that auction," she declares, as though he’s to blame.

"We are,," he says disdainfully, wishing he hadn’t healed her headache. He tells her so, just to be spiteful, then heads back over to where he can view the proceedings.

The galleon number has climbed to 4.3 million, and if it goes much higher, they’ll be forced to drop from the bid; the ministry has only put five into their account. But there are only five bidders left as he thinks it, then three, and suddenly it is between Harry and a witch of about thirty years old. She raises her parchment just as quickly as he does to drive the bid up, glaring daggers at him, but Harry continues to raise his parchment with a small, ferocious smile on his face.

At 4.9 million galleons, she growls, her hand dropping into her lap. Roger crows "Sold!" to Harry’s bid of 4.95 million and everyone freezes in their seats.

Alan takes the podium again. "Let’s bring our guests." He smiles at Harry. "You didn’t seem particularly fond of the idea of using one of them for your Horcrux, but please; allow me to demonstrate with one of the sacrifices. I may also be able, for an additional fee, to allow you use of the host for your husband’s soul-fragment," he says lightly as the charm—repaired under Harry’s deft hand—pops and the cage wobbles, then floats down to the grassy floor.

"You could do that?" Harry asks. He’s managed to suppress everything else, and sounds only curious. "More than one soul fragment being hosted in a person? Meaning Daniel and I could share just one, right?"

"Right!" Alan agrees, sounding pleased. "That was rather reasonable of you. I’m relieved. Shall we?"

"Of course." Harry smiles, flashing his teeth. "We do all want the same thing, don’t we? No matter how we need to get it."

Draco hastily relocks the cage; he doesn’t think the absent magic dampener will be noticed—the bars are still glowing bright—but an uncharmed cage lock most certainly would be. Just in time, as well, because the lock promptly pops open with a flick of Alan’s wand.

Alan looks at Althea, a bit sheepishly. "Yes, I’m a wizard," he says, long-suffering. "But it’s not exactly a normal way of life, is it? And you went on and on twenty-eight years ago about having the perfect normal life and—"

"You are about to take out my soul and you can’t even remember that we’ve been married for twenty-nine goddamned years," she bursts out, fingers curling into claws.

"Not your whole soul, just—" Alan frowns. "We’re getting older, pet, and—"

"I will kill you," she says. Her body trembles with ire. "Who are you?"

Alan sighs. "It’ll be fine. I’ll make you forget," he says, dismissing her. He casts his wand at her and casually throws out an Imperius curse. Her eyes go dull and blank. Draco takes a step forward, and Alan rolls his eyes. "Don’t even think about it," he sneers. "I’m charmed to the gills; anything you try will be rebounded."

Draco blinks, wondering if the man is actually so stupid as to just give him such information freely, or if he’s bluffing. He keeps his wand pressed, hidden, against his side with his arm.

Alan pops open the door. He gives a muttered directive to the Aurors, and Sheila reaches in to drag out a dazed Althea. The other two grab the bartender and the real Tom, who is shaking so hard Draco could swear he’s about to piss himself.

Yes, well. That’s what happens when one aligns themselves with the Dark. Draco knows that well enough.

"Seems odd you’d be living as a Muggle with so much magic at your disposal," Draco observes when Alan nods to him and allows him to join Harry at his side. On his way out of the cage, he Glamours the door sound as though it’s popping closed, and Disillusions it to look locked when Alan flicks his wand.

"I made some mistakes in my youth," Alan admits, amused. "I was without magic for quite a long time, actually. You learn to live with it. You never learn to like it. But it is what it is, and I’ve found Althea, who—"

"Does not seem best pleased with you right now," Harry remarks.

"She’ll be fine by tomorrow. And we’ll never have to worry about her pesky heart problem, or the way my cartilage keeps breaking down, or even aging," Alan says with a sigh.

Draco arches a brow at Harry; he hasn’t heard that Horcruxes stop aging in its tracks. Harry gives him a minute shrug and says, "Aging?"

"Another bid, another time, Mister Matthews." Alan gestures. "If you two will come forward? Roger, won’t you join us?"

Roger slinks up to them and, curiously, obediently heads to the side of Tom and the bartender. He looks down at his feet.

"Now," Alan says, "I am taking my young helper here as Althea’s sacrifice; please feel free to choose amongst these other two, or one of my wanded assistants," he adds, waving at the Aurors. Draco swallows.

Harry purses his lips. His eyes glint, but he studies the options dispassionately. "Him, I think," he says, pointing to the Auror who’d watched over Draco the previous night; Dave.

"And your host? Or object," Alan says, pointing to a series of items laid out on a small conjured table next to the podium that Draco hadn’t noticed. It’s mostly heavily-stoned jewellery, but a few other trinkets look to be made of solid gold.

Harry’s shoulders come up; he points to a small pocket-watch.

"Are you sure?" Alan asks. "One of the best things about having one of these two as a host is that—not only does their living status benefit your soul—they are both in need of money and so for something like a small assistant job—with a bit of Confundus thrown in—you’d be able to keep him with you; put him on a salary."

Harry examines the men thoughtfully. "Good point. Him, then."

"No, no, no, no, you can’t, I just needed to sell something—" Tom babbles as he’s dragged forward. Alan Silences him, and Draco tries to feel bad about it; he really does.

"Now, the fun part," Alan declares. Althea is pushed forward to his side, and he removes the stone from his pouch again. "Please watch this very carefully. If you get it wrong, we’ll have to start from scratch and there’s a possibility of damaging the stone. Roger?"

Roger steps forward and Alan has him hold the stone in his hand. He cups it, staring down into its bottomless, radiant depths with a sort of numb acceptance on his face. Alan begins incanting and though the night has dragged on more slowly than Draco had thought possible, he realises that Roger is about to be murdered in front of him; he realises that the night has caught up to them all at once.

He looks to Harry, who is staring at him with an intensity that goes far beyond a Legilimens link. And then several things happen at once.

Althea stirs, blinking rapidly several times, and with astonishment, Draco realises that this Muggle woman has managed to fight off the Imperius curse, just as Harry Summons his own wand from the table and tosses it to Draco. He catches it nimbly, all of his reflexes surfacing as his adrenaline surges, and brings up his right arm, too.

Alan’s voice cracks; he’s so focused on reciting the spell properly, that it takes him just enough time to notice that anything has gone awry for Draco to Stun one of the Imperiused Aurors with one hand and, with the other, aim at—and miss, the lucky bastard—another. Alan stops, turning toward the scuffle, his lax wand hand coming up. He points it at Draco, singeing his bicep with a flat yellow curse as Draco ducks to the side.

Harry lets out a furious shout; he always looks like he’s dancing when he duels, fingers loose and twirling complicated patterns, wrists firm, forearms bunching. His feet move deftly as he sends out a flurry of hexes to the Auror Draco missed and the one he stunned, who’s popped right back up, aided by the way his Imperius orders have driven him. Draco wishes he had time to watch, but he’s a little busy throwing himself at Alan while aiming for Dave. Dave’s face doesn’t register pain, but a bright splash of blood begins gushing from his temple, although it’s still not enough to deter him from jinxing Draco’s knees backwards until he manages to right them, and then throwing a Deafening hex, which tilts the world and his centre of gravity for a few critical moments. Draco shakes it off as he goes down with Alan, aiming his wand at Alan’s robust belly, but Alan still has his own wand, and Draco feels the skin under his earlobe slice open; he feels the ribbons of blood seep out. Alan rolls them, pressing heavy over Draco’s form, but Draco uses Harry’s wand to blast him backward, sending him three feet away to hit the earth with a dull, grunting thud.

He was bluffing, then.

Sparing no time to look at Harry, Draco casts a brightness spell over to the people in the cage--who have been watching, stunned--in hopes they will figure out that it’s time to go. They start scrambling out, wandless and mostly terrified, although about half of them are composed enough to get Summon their own wands from the table. Unfortunately, they seem to be the ones who have enough reason to help Alan; they revive whichever bidders they came with and step in to join the duel.

Draco gasps as another hex flies at him from an unknown location, hitting him up high on the back of his thigh. He crawls toward the podium with his elbows, keeping low and moving fast. One arm points Harry’s wand behind him, sending curses in every direction he senses movement, and he aims his own fir wand to support Harry in his duel—now against three Aurors. Tom is huddled behind the podium, knees up against his chest, eyes bitter and frightened. Draco squishes back into the small area as well as he can, peeking out once he has better coverage.

He sees Roger standing, not doing a thing to protect himself, stone still cupped gently in his hand. Draco Summons it, simultaneously sending a strong Protego toward Roger, who doesn’t seem to notice. He sinks down into the soft grass, eyes distant as the stone whizzes into Draco’s hand, its surface surprisingly silky and hot. It pulses, and Draco ignores his Mark as it flares scalding, instead reaching down to pocket the thing only to be slammed with the reality that he’s still not wearing any goddamned clothes.

Irrationally furious at that, he shoves the stone at Tom and casts an Immobulus at him, then stands from behind the podium with renewed effort, gritting his teeth at the pain that sears under his left buttock, and starts firing off curses right and left. The remaining bidders hide in the small crowd, heads and wands popping up to throw out new hexes, and Draco thoughtlessly keeps up his barrage as his eyes seek Alan.

Who is getting beaten.

Rather severely.

Startled, he barks out a laugh and splits his focus between his own fight and the way Althea shoves and hits at her husband, her face livid, until he stumbles back onto his rump. His wand has fallen who-knows-where under her siege, but he has the presence of mind—while trying to protect himself from her assault—to Summon it. He raises it between them and she kicks at his arm so fiercely that his shoulder dislocates. Alan howls in pain, wand tumbling out of his grip.

Draco risks another glance at Harry, who has managed to get the Aurors under control and has joined him in the fight against the bidders. They each still seem intent on getting that stone, even if they don’t know the procedure necessary to use it. Harry flashes him a quick, feral smile that Draco returns, sweating and panting with exertion, as they play off each other, dodging and shifting and sweeping around one another for the best angles from which to aim.

And it’s like another dance, this thing they’re able to do together so easily. Maybe it comes from fighting each other for so long, in so many different ways--from learning how to work against each other--that their harmony in a duel is so seamless. Draco’s eyes flash to Harry’s empty hands, then to his own, which hold two wands. It feels good; right and natural, to Draco, to fight at Harry’s side while using Harry’s wand. It’s like kissing, and flying, and practice, and sex, all at once. It’s the same feeling Draco gets when Harry’s magic sweeps over his skin, issued by a soft command from Harry’s lips.

Harry cries out softly, jerking forward. Draco spins, left arm still casting toward the crowd, right arm ruthlessly sending a Diffindo at the bartender, who has managed to procure a wand and has resurfaced from wherever he was hiding. The bartender grunts and goes down, holding his side as blood spills out of it and Draco casts a rapid stasis charm over his whole body, then turns back to the fight.

Harry edges back, overwhelmed in just those few seconds, and though Draco can still see his talent, his skill, his fucking power, he also sees the rest of it on Harry’s face—the gruelling, constant effort he’s under, the unhappiness at being in this position again as their assailants begin to get nervier and approach the stage with less fear.

But then Draco sees a flash of ginger hair; his eyes stray to it and widen. Weasley, out of the Aurors these last three years and working in a joke shop, stands at the edge of the treeline. His face is grim and set, brutal curses flying from his outstretched wand. Draco gets a glimpse of two bidders falling and trying to rise, only to be hit again. The resolve Weasley shows is almost frightening; his normally genial face is sharp and angry as he lends to their fight from two metres away. Another hex shoots over Draco’s shoulder, hitting the older woman from the cage as she sends a bright shot of green toward Harry. Harry narrowly jumps out of the way, and Draco sees Granger join them as well, stepping forward steadily, brown eyes alight with deadly promise, so different from the reactionary, panicked skill Draco witnessed eight years prior. Her hair flies around her, the front lit by the fairy lights, casting a shadow behind her as she proceeds to their side.

"Harry," Draco hears her murmur calmly. "You look different."

"Glamoured by your team," Harry says, breathless. "Thanks for coming."

"I was planning on it anyway," she replies, hopping neatly to avoid a hex sent low. "Malfoy, why didn’t you put on clothes for this?"

Draco huffs, but then Weasley is there to make everything so much better and so much worse. "Probably decided Harry needed some incentive."

They’re able to slow some as the four of them gain the advantage, the revived bidders starting to fall back. Draco cocks his chin at Weasley. "I think you accidently complimented me in the most appalling way."

"Yeah," Weasley grunts. "I was trying to come up with something to imply you’re an idiot, but it’s not so easy when you’re dodging a Cruciatus. You have a really small dick. Better?"

Harry laughs to Draco’s right, and Draco rolls his eyes, refusing to allow the spasm at the corner of his mouth to turn into a smile. And then, somehow, the clearing has gone quiet. The witches and wizards fighting them are either unconscious or bound or too injured to continue. Harry Summons their wands just in case, gripping six in one fist and two in the other. His chest heaves, and that disturbingly flat look begins to fade from his eyes.

"Thanks for coming," Harry says again.

"I never get to fight anymore," Weasley says, pocketing his wand and wiping his brow. "Plus, when ‘Mione told me about—"

Harry shakes his head abruptly, black hair flying. His eyes stray to Draco for a split second, and Draco feels a stab of pain that now, still, he can’t be trusted with Harry’s truths.

"Anyway," Weasley continues after a beat. "I guess we’d better get this wrapped up, right?"

Sighing, Harry gestures the Aurors. "They’re undercover. Imperius, or some potion version of it. Hermione, could you—?"

"On it," she says with a swift smile, heading off in the direction of them.

"Althea," Draco calls. She’s wheezing, and her kicks have gotten rather weak, but he’s pretty sure Alan is down for the count. He looks… Rather awful, actually. "Althea, love, you may want to leave off now."

It seems to take a few moments for his words to sink in, but she finally stops kicking her husband and staggers back to collapse into one of the folding chairs. Alan’s body does not look very good; he’ll very likely need at least a week in the hospital. A magical one, at that.

Weasley and Harry confer quietly, then begin murmuring locative and Summoning spells at random. "What are you looking for?"

"The stone," Harry says quietly.

"Oh." Draco heads over to the podium where Tom remains huddled. He grabs the stone from Tom’s frozen clutch and returns. "Here," he says, starting to hand it over. He pauses. "What do you plan to do with it?"

Harry looks at him levelly. He’s got a sluggishly bleeding gash at his hairline; another on his chin. "We’re supposed to bring it in."

Draco raises an eyebrow. As expected, Harry’s gaze strays to it; his Adam’s apple bobs. "I know," Draco tells him quietly, passing it over. "What do you plan to do with it?"

A small, grateful smile curves Harry’s lips. He hefts the stone a few times in his fist, fingers gripping it tight as he weighs his options. After a moment, he gives Draco a sidelong glance. "It’s a good thing we’re in a place with so much magical energy, isn’t it? These things are always a bit harder to handle when there’s a void."

"Lucky, that," Draco agrees.

"Where, d’you think?"

Draco looks around and spots the area in the very centre of the clearing, where Harry had kissed him, hours before. He remembers the heavy pulse of magic beating against him, harder and more tantalising than the rain. "There."

It’s just beyond where the last of the chairs are set up, and Harry carries it over. "I could probably use a bit of help," Harry says, setting it down on the grass, then tugging on one ear.

Draco smirks. Harry doesn’t need any help, as a matter of fact, and he knows this, but… it’s something. No matter what happens when they go back, it’s something. "I’ve got two wands here," he says.

"That you do," Harry says, eyeing his holly wand in Draco’s grip. He seems pleased by how it looks. "On three then?"

Draco nods. At the countdown, he casts his strongest exploding curses. He feels Harry’s magic shudder as he releases it out of his hands, feels it connect with his own. Feels the ground beneath them quake with the force of it, and maybe Harry did need the help, even if neither of them believed it, because it seems like the earth beneath the stone bends inward for a split second, trying to protect it. Draco forces more of his magic out, gritting his teeth against the strain, and the stone jumps a few inches and descends. It shatters with a huge bang that reverberates through the woods, pieces flying like exploded glass before they crumble and dissipate into nothing.

Hermione joins them. "Harry," she censures, voice serious and authoritative, "you were supposed to bring that back. However could you have been so careless?"

"Humble apologies, Hermione."

"Well," she says with a deep sigh. Her voice turns light. "Nothing to be done about it now, I suppose."

They head back to the ruin of the auction, and Draco stares around in dismay for a moment. They’ll be able to call the Ministry for clean-up specialist help, but are going to have to do an awful lot of Obliviation on their own, and he’s not looking forward to it; he pretty much aches everywhere, he’s bleeding from at least half a dozen areas and—

"Merlin," he mutters, looking down. "Fuck. Potter, pry that robe off that wizard over there, would you? He looks about my size."

Harry grins and turns. Draco waits, finally allowing his knees to feel loose and wobbly, something he’s successfully managed to avoid until the fighting was over, and he wanders over to one of the chairs near Althea to sink into it. She’s silent, but after a moment says, "So magic exists?"

Draco nods wearily. His headache is starting to return. "Yes."

"Weird things used to happen around us," she says thoughtfully, looking down at her husband. "I used to think—a mistress, another family, a gambling addiction when we’d suddenly get flush. Things of that nature."

"I’m sorry, love," Draco says, and means it.

She shrugs, sighs. "I always told him the one thing I wouldn’t abide were secrets… He was going to murder someone to turn me into a monster, wasn’t he?"

"I’m sorry," Draco tells her again.

"I wonder at how little I knew him," she muses in a sort of detached way. "Whatever you do to me so I won’t remember, don’t let me forget that I don’t want to be with him anymore, okay? Even if he lives. Especially if he lives."

"I won’t," Draco promises, meeting her eyes.

"Make it something really bad. Make it all those things I said," she continues, then closes her eyes briefly. "Oh, god, my daughter."

Draco pats her on her bare, quivering shoulder. His head drags forward, dropping with exhaustion, and then there’s only the tiniest, rustling movement and burst of light to warn him.

Draco knocks Althea to the side hard, eyes flashing to Harry’s. Harry is ambling toward them, a slightly tattered robe held limply in one hand, a tired smile on his face. His face takes on a red-and-green hue, glasses reflecting the hex that hits Draco low on the belly.

It doesn’t hurt, at least; there’s more a feeling of heavy pressure than pain, and Draco clutches at his stomach in hopes of alleviating the sensation. There’s another flash of green, something he recognises, though he doesn’t know where from, heading in his general direction from where Harry is running toward him. Then Harry’s face is before him, his hand gentle on the back of Draco’s neck, and his mouth is moving but Draco can’t hear him; maybe he’s using Legilimens again. Harry’s a fool of the first order, and Draco tries to tell him that, but Harry’s eyes are anguished and terrified and Draco thinks it may not be the right time to tease.

Draco sees the flicker of movement, the flash of Hermione’s stark face and Weasley’s shocked expression. Noises come back to him in a rush, like after he neutralised the Deafening hex, and he hears Harry rambling something, hands hovering over his torso. "Fucking hell, Malfoy, stay with me you stubborn—" Louder he says, "Help me—!"

Then Draco is moving, and in the blink of an eye he is overwarm, and wet, and wrapped in Harry’s arms. Harry is speaking in a low, rapid tone without pause, his magic flowing through Draco soothingly. Something in his stomach knits tight, causing a burst of pain which fades as Harry keeps talking and touching him. Draco’s a little confused by the whole situation but generally okay with it, he thinks drowsily as Harry’s chest shakes while he rocks Draco in his clasp. It’s pleasant, with the steam rising around him, and for once Draco doesn’t want to question his luck.

***

Over the course of the next several days, Draco wakes up multiple times only to have clipped, tired conversations before closing his eyes again and going back to sleep. Granger is there a few times; Weasley once. Healer after Healer, and even Shacklebolt drops by, but Draco’s mind is too bleary to make out much beyond, "Harry is busy, but he says he’ll come when he can," and, "Harry was here for a while earlier," and "Solved two cases at once, Auror, well done." He basically does his best not to call anyone idiotic because Harry isn’t coming and why on earth would he get any sort of commendation for getting injured three bloody times on a mission, and almost dying?

He also receives a host of descriptions about his own injury that he doesn’t really pay attention to beyond that Harry had somehow known to drag him to the hot springs before attempting to Apparate him; that Harry had saved his life. But he can’t really pay much attention to anything beyond the tight ache in his middle, the various sore spots plaguing his body, and his own disappointment that he’d been Harry, upon their return..

Sleep is better.

On the sixth day, Draco opens his eyes alertly, dragged unceremoniously out of sleep by whatever new potions compound they have him on. The pain, by then, has faded into a sharp twinge that reminds him not to move so quickly when he does, sitting up and shoving his hair back with one swift movement.

"Fuck," he hisses, hand pressing right above his groin. The skin is patched over with Healing gauze but it’s tender, underneath.

"You okay? Want me to get someone?"

Draco looks over, startled. Harry sits in a chair next to him, the bridge of his nose knit. His eyes have dark smudges under them, and his face is drawn.

"Why are you here?" Draco demands. Even that seems to take a lot of effort, and he lowers himself against the raised back of the mattress carefully.

Harry frowns. "What do you mean, why am I here?"

Flustered, Draco waves a hand. He looks around; he’s in a private room. Quite posh, for an Auror, actually. "You haven’t been." He pauses. "You’ve been busy."

"I’ve been by a couple of times," Harry says, irritably. "But I had to do a lot of case wrap-up, and I had no partner to help me."

"Merlin, Potter, if you’ll whinge about extra work even when the person who was supposed to contribute has been mortally wounded it’s truly a miracle you made it through Hogwarts and got your NEWTs all," Draco says with a snort.

"It’s a miracle for other reasons," Harry says wryly. "And I got my NEWTs without doing much because they wanted to race me through to Auror training. But yeah; Hermione helped a lot, back then."

"And the other night," Draco points out, ignoring that bit about Harry’s NEWTs. He cocks his head curiously. "Which I thought was supposed to be too much of a risk for you to take with her life."

"Circumstances changed," Harry says, standing. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn denims and walks over to the window, peering out. He scoffs a little. "Did you really think I was going to let them kidnap you and not get some backup? They were the only ones who knew—who know—about… I couldn’t trust anyone else at the Ministry, not after her letter."

"Oh." Draco ponders this, looking at Harry’s shoulders, tense under the stretched fabric of his t-shirt. His face heats up a little as he rolls Harry’s words around in his mind, the implicit gist of them. "Well. Thank you."

"You’re welcome," Harry says gruffly, still not facing him.

"So what happened?" Draco picks at the threading of the light bedspread covering him, eyes darkening as something occurs to him. "And why the bloody hell am I still naked?"

Finally Harry turns, a grin creasing his face. "Your wound was so low that they didn’t want any added pressure on it; not even the covering of clothing, until it was safe. They only gave you the blanket last night."

"The Minister was in here," Draco recalls faintly, horrified.

Harry laughs. "They had a privacy charm over you. Everything was opaque from your chest down. And I brought you some clothes," he adds, nodding to a small leather bag sitting on a visiting chair. "I had to fiddle with your wards a bit to get into your place, I hope you don’t mind."

"Of course not," Draco grumbles acidly. "Why would I mind knowing that my flat is insecure enough that it only takes a bit of ‘fiddling’ to break into?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry heads back to the chair next to his bed. "I’m not exactly ‘anyone,’" Harry says sheepishly.

Draco blinks. "Right. So, the case? What happened with Althea? And Roger? And the bidders? And the potions? Were the other Aurors alright? What about—"

"As far as we can tell," Harry says, interrupting his flow of questions, "Alan went to Hogwarts about thirty-five years back. He was one of the only people from a non-wizarding family to get placed in Slytherin since its founding. I guess there have been about a dozen?"

Slytherin. Of course. Draco grimaces, but gestures at Harry to continue.

"Anyway, he got caught using the Imperius curse on some other classmates. Apparently, it was a speciality of his; he was expelled and had his wand taken away. He didn’t serve time only because he was under seventeen, but I guess the stigma was really bad and he returned to the Muggle world," Harry explains.

Draco nods impatiently. "Yes, I’d gotten that part."

"Well, he’d always been really good at potions, so it must’ve been several years—we’re not exactly sure of when—but he’d Polyjuiced himself and managed to procure a new wand. I guess he mostly used it when things were rough, to make their circumstances a bit easier. Then he started having ideas about ten years ago," Harry says with a scowl. "Black market sales of potions, experimenting. Only, you know, people who use Dark Magic and who’ve a record of using Unforgivables get tracked when they’re around Muggles because—"

"Because it’s easier to trace them than when they’re surrounded by magic," Draco says, trying not to be bored but flapping his hand again anyway. "So that’s why he chose the resort. The magical land?"

Harry’s mouth quirks. "Exactly. And it was working really well for him, I guess. He’d done some research on—on the other thing," he says, stumbling a bit, "when he was at school. The teacher he’d Imperiused had given up the information, so he had a starting point. He stayed far away from the war, but I guess when rumours started to float around about…" Another grimace.

Draco nods thoughtfully, taking it in. "And Roger?"

"That was our fault, that he was so compliant," Harry says, wincing. "He’d gotten the forged note and stupidly informed Alan that he wanted a cut of his profits from the potions because he was out. Alan told him that he’d caught Liz and was holding her hostage. It’s sort of sweet, actually, that he didn’t put up a fight."

"It’s daft that he didn’t even ask for proof of life before allowing himself to be used as a bloody sacrifice," Draco says, although secretly he agrees a bit. "That’s what it is. Sweet extends to making sure your spouse is actually in danger before you offer your life for theirs."

"That’s what you’d do?" Harry drawls, amused.

"If I planned on having a spouse," Draco says smoothly, giving him a flat look.

"I meant for anyone you were with."

"Of course." Draco snorts. "Let someone send me their pinky, then I’ll think about how I can wiggle out of complying while I save their life."

Harry chuckles. A dark pink stain starts riding high on his cheekbones, Draco notices with interest.

There’s an awkward moment of silence, and then Harry brings the topic back. "Althea’s fine. We modified some of her memories to protect the Statute and—the other stuff. But…" He shrugs. "She said to tell you ‘thank you,’ and that she hopes to meet you next year."

"Doubtful. The day I walk around in public naked again is the day I give up my wand. But I liked her. She’s impressive," Draco admits. He doesn’t even say for a Muggle because he knows very few wizards who can break out of the sweet stasis of Imperio.

"She really is," Harry says, tone admiring. "The Aurors, too. All of them are fine. I guess Alan figured out he was being watched the first night we got there—not by us, fortunately. One of the undercovers was stupidly wearing a class ring—sometime after we talked to Tom. Tom said in his statement that he woke up in a body-bind that night. Alan Polyjuiced as him off and on because the bartender—one of his couriers, who he’d intended to use for as a sacrifice—knew of Tom’s involvement and might have gotten suspicious if he’d just disappeared."

"Clever," Draco says, upper lip curling in distaste. "So every time we saw him after that?"

"It was Alan, yeah."

"And he’s in Azkaban?" Draco asks. He thinks of Althea’s bare feet kicking him and feels his sneer pull into a smile. "Or is he still being tended to in the hospital?"

Harry looks away. His jaw goes tight; the muscle in it jumps. "He didn’t make it out."

"He was breathing," Draco protests, then stops. He recalls a blurry flash of bright green coming from Harry’s direction after he’d gone down, and for a moment, his ribcage seems too tight for his lungs. "Oh. I see."

"Yeah, well." Harry doesn’t meet his eyes. "He was aiming for his wife, I think. You saved her life."

Draco stares at him, trying to compel Harry to look up. When he doesn’t, Draco sighs. "What about the… research? What they were investigating at the Ministry?"

Harry huffs a little, seemingly pleased. "Well, Hermione just got a promotion," he offers with a small snicker. His head remains bowed, shining black hair unkempt as always as he gazes at his hands, folded together over his crossed knee. "It was her boss that orchestrated it. He’d been on several— lists, I guess, for years. Things that might give him a leg-up on research. He heard whispers of the auction but knew he’d never have enough money, so he passed along the information about a Dark object being sold, hoping he could get a hold of it. That was all he could remember; it was almost like someone had Obliviated the kind of object he’d wanted to research before he was interviewed," he adds, smirking a little. His amusement fades and when he continues, his voice is much softer, a little melancholy. "Hermione’s really good at Obliviation spells."

Draco debates asking about that, but he’s already done too much of it. "And what should I know about how it was destroyed?"

"An accident." Harry’s head comes up; his face is surprisingly warm, despite the wistfulness of his tone a moment ago. "A stray spell from one of bidders, we think. Who," he continues before Draco can prod him, "are all in holding cells right now."

"And you’re here." Draco studies him. "You’re not wearing your robes."

"Taking some time off," Harry says simply.

Draco sits back. "Why? How much?"

"Well, I’m due a holiday, aren’t I?" he says, sounding only a touch defensive. "A real one. I’ve been an Auror for—"

"Since you were eleven?" Draco puts in dryly.

Harry’s mouth tightens and draws into a downward-curving bow, but he nods. "So I thought I’d take a year or so, re-examine some things."

"A year?" Draco’s never much liked the look of someone gaping, and he can feel that he’s doing it in the way his jaw sags, but it takes him an embarrassingly long moment to compose himself. And then it hits him; that’s why Harry is here.

To say goodbye.

Heaviness presses on Draco’s chest. He glowers at Harry for a second, who looks startled and says, "What? It’s not as if they’ll not pair you with someone good, Malfoy. Maybe even someone who will stick; you’ve never liked being a floater the way I have."

Though this is true, it’s unimportant. Draco swallows and is relieved when his voice comes out sounding interested. "You mentioned seeing America?"

Harry straightens his glasses, peering at him. "What do you mean?"

"You’ve always wanted to go," Draco says, posture stiff. "On holiday."

"Well, yeah, but—" Harry’s mouth drops open. Gaping, Draco notes, is a much better look on him. He starts laughing, disbelief ringing in every huffed, chortling breath. "I’m not leaving on holiday! I’m just— I’m on sabbatical from the Aurors for a while." Once his laughter dies down, his smile softens and grows disconcertingly fond. "I mean, if things are still working in a few months, maybe you’d be willing to take a Portkey there for a long weekend…"

"Still working?" Draco echoes blankly. "We won’t be working together."

"Fuck, they told me the curse didn’t damage your mental state," Harry says, exasperated.

Draco opens his mouth to say something cutting, but Harry stands, taking two steps closer to the bed and then catches Draco’s face in his hands, swooping down to press an inappropriately deep kiss to Draco’s mouth. They’re in the hospital Draco thinks wildly before letting himself sink into the sensation. Harry’s hands are warm on his cheeks, his tongue slick and tasting of sweetened tea. They kiss for so long that Draco is breathless when Harry finally pulls back, eyes heavy lidded, and he realises that Harry has half-climbed onto the bed with him, one knee propped on the edge of the mattress.

"Still working," Draco says again shakily when Harry gives him a rueful smile and pulls his knee down, standing close. "That kind of ‘still working.’"

Harry shakes his head, casting an indignant look to the ceiling. "You still thought I was in it for the sex."

"Well, it was rather fantastic sex," Draco says, blinking rapidly as his thoughts start to coalesce into something he understands again. "So yes. I was. Am. I mean, not—"

"For while we were there," Harry clarifies. "Fuck, I really am out of the loop, aren’t I? And here I thought, ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner when we get back,’ was a pretty clear way of saying you wanted to date someone."

"It is, but—" Draco licks his lips; he can still taste Harry’s mouth on them, still feel them tingle. He’s too genuinely bewildered to go on. Shagging is one thing; even friendly, continued shagging. He’d somehow never counted on the idea that something could occur between them that wasn’t relegated to the shadows, to Harry’s flat, or his or perhaps to the occasional dirty loo stall at a pub after drinks. He clears his throat, meeting Harry’s sparkling eyes and gives a formal nod, then promptly feels ridiculous. "Yeah. Yes. We could have dinner. I did already say so, back at the resort."

Harry stares at him for a beat. "And after?"

Draco stares back, then snorts. "If I’m in here too much longer, maybe during. Though the other people in the restaurant might object."

"Nothing I haven’t heard before. It’d be worth it." Harry’s eyes grow hungry. "They’re supposed to let you out soon. Though I don’t suppose you’d be feeling well enough to—?"

"I’d not be opposed to a bit more—" Draco hesitates, flushing. Fuck it. "A bit more snogging. Perhaps some other things. But no, I’m a few days out, I think, from the rest." He seeks out the main bandage and presses on it with two fingers to check his own judgment. Regrettably, he feels certain he’s right in his estimation, though his cock has already thickened a bit under the blanket.

But then Harry is there, taking Draco at his word. He climbs up briskly onto the bed, straddling Draco’s thighs and hunching carefully over him. They’re not even touching, really, so Draco can’t be sure why his heart skips, why his prick lengthens even more. Harry presses his fingers into Draco’s shoulders and Draco allows himself to be pushed back; allows his mouth to be covered by Harry’s eager, breathless lips, allows Harry’s tongue to slip inside. He allows the world to spin away for several perfect, frozen moments in which he can forget that he almost died, forget that Harry did once, too, and focus only on the expert tease of Harry’s kiss, and his tongue as it flicks against and curls around Draco’s own.

Draco finally has to pull his mouth away; Harry’s cheeks are ruddy, his glasses fogged. He sits back with a gulping breath, steadying himself over Draco’s legs as he pulls them off and cleans them with his t-shirt. It’s barbaric, but the flash of the skin on Harry’s stomach is remarkably tantalising, and Draco trails a finger over the black hair that disappears in a trail beneath Harry’s jeans.

"I’m not up for it yet," Draco admits apologetically. His cock certainly is, having gone hard and leaking just from their extended kiss. He wonders if there’s any way to get a blowjob out of his convalescence—maybe here; maybe now—but Harry gusts out a loud breath and swings his leg back over, sliding off the bed.

"S’okay." Harry sits down in the chair again; he scoots it forward until he can pick up Draco’s hand. The hard line of tension in his forehead eases, just a little. "I like you," he adds quietly. Stunned, Draco tries to think up a way to respond, but Harry continues before he can. "I like you, and we have time."

And Merlin if that doesn’t make Draco want to jump him even more. He sighs, rubbing both of his hands over his face and giving a frustrated, muffled groan. "I suppose," he says. "Only what should we do with it until we can fuck each other stupid for a week straight?"

"Talk," Harry shrugs with a tiny, amused smile. But Draco doesn’t miss the way his eyes flare for a moment, like he’s considering Draco’s words a challenge.

"Talk?" Draco echoes, dubious and vaguely miserable. "About what? Where we’ll go for dinner? How I don’t think I can even have a wank right now without hurting myself? What?"

Harry smiles, but his eyes are steady and serious. He leans forward. "Well… seeing as you have some time," he says, pulling Draco’s hand forward and laying it flat against his chest, "I thought you might want to hear a story."

Draco looks at him. He feels the heavy thump, thump of Harry heartbeat under his palm. Feels the searing heat of Harry’s brand as well, burning in pulses under the fabric of his shirt.

"I’d be interested," Draco says slowly, cautiously. His own heart slams against his ribcage as though demanding to be let out.

Nodding, Harry presses his hand tighter. "Good," he says seriously, taking a deep breath. He smiles. "Because I’d like to tell you."

---

---

Comments

[fantasyfiend09]

I loved this story and I regret that my comment will fail to do it justice. I love that you wrote it from Drao's pov and we are trying again and again to break through Harry's defenses and then feel Draco's pain and disappointment each time he is shut out.

Draco was deliciously complex and provided a wonderful host for our journey into the story.

I loved the case and the mystery and excitement it provided. I enjoyed your OC's, especially Althea. I loved the dynamics with Hermione and Ron. Ron had little more than a cameo, and yet you convey his loyalty and wit so well.

The nudist colony was such a great setting and I love how you explored every awkward, sexy, hilarious part of being there. I really enjoyed this story.

[bixgirl1]

Your comment does wonderful justice and in was so grateful for it!! :) I'm glad you liked so many of the elements I put into it; thank you so much for reading! <3