Draco’s passions are perilously seductive. He teaches Harry spells that would be illegal even under a Voldemort regime and takes Harry to the Knockturn Allies of the world where Draco buys him beguiling things: a saifani-handled jambiya used to cut out the tongues of apostates, potions that smell of twilight, and iridescent seashells whose voices murmur necrologies of people yet to die. They visit places that later become the backdrops to Harry’s worst nightmares and darkest fantasies. The unmarked graves of suicides and the scenes of unsolved murders. Cafés that serve Mandrake tea with their Belladonna scones. Circles of standing stones that from a distance look like broken teeth. Monastic crypts, the winter gardens of Drumbeg Manor, and the mass crematoriums for London’s Victorian whores. Moors haunted by the ghosts of doomed lovers and wind-gnawed mountains littered with the bones of Sherpa. Mist-shrouded fens, ancient forests roamed by wolves, and the ribcages of ships that foundered on rocks so jagged they rend the waves that thunder into their waiting jaws. Draco’s tongue and cock and fingers dowse for the bottled up desire in Harry’s veins. His hips move between Harry’s thighs as he moans promises which, if kept, would force him to sell his soul to the lowest bidder. He’s a prophet, divining Harry’s needs before Harry himself even feels them. He’s an ascetic surrendering austerity for the moment of oblivion when he comes. Draco’s gentlest charms sting like hornets, and his taunts are spoonfuls of vinegar. Twice Harry’s submitted his resignation to the Minister and once he told Ron to go fuck himself just because Draco dared him to. He gives Draco passwords and charms and the addresses of criminals. He lies and denies and then turns a blind eye. Draco often fucks him too hard and binds him too tightly. He sucks stormy bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, and the scratches he leaves are deep and sometimes get infected. Come on, Potter he urges into their kisses.  Stop being a git, Potter he says as he rolls his eyes.  You’ll love it, Potter he says when he knows Harry will hate it.  Are you scared, Potter? he asks despite knowing the answer is yes. Draco has a dozen Muggle passports and a dozen aliases in a dozen different languages, but he once told Harry that Harry’s the only one who knows who he really is. Harry’s desires are unfathomable in their ordinariness. He comes home with blood on his clothes and a wand humming with curses, but all he wants are puppies and kittens and babies and breakfast. In the winter, he wears lumpy jumpers and a Gryffindor scarf and in summer he wears faded shorts and scuffed leather sandals. He whistles Muggle pop songs and sings – not altogether badly – in the shower. He likes old films, pub quizzes, flying in the rain, and holding Draco’s hand. He takes Draco to boring places that later become sweet wistful memories. Muggle museums full of dusty crystals and dinosaur bones, Quidditch matches, and unremarkable parks with sad-looking trees. Pubs with mirrors advertising lagers and hand-written notices on blackboards of karaoke on Thursday nights. Beaches with boardwalks and carnival rides, zoos with lots of snakes and bats, restaurants where at least half the menu is fried, and bars decorated with Premier League memorabilia and televisions the size of Lichtenstein. Harry strips his t-shirts off over his head, blushes when Draco growls, and smells of skin and sex and shampoo. He whimpers when Draco kisses him and goes down on Draco eagerly, and when Draco finally thrusts against the resistance of his body, he shouts pleas into his pillow that would make the devil blush. Harry insults are childish and his temper is terrible. Twice he goaded Draco into fucking in loos and once he demanded Draco send flowers to Granger after he’d called her a Mudblood. He bakes him cookies and can recite Quidditch statistics going back to the War of the Roses, but the bruises he leaves on Draco’s biceps are dark and painful and don’t fade for weeks.Damn it, Malfoy he grumbles when Draco teases a Muggle.  Piss off, Malfoy he says when he’s had all he can take.  C’mere, Malfoy he beckons when he lies on his stomach and opens his legs.  Scared, Malfoy? he asks even though he knows the answer is yes. Harry has a fan club of hundreds and friends who would die for him, but he once told Draco that Draco’s the only one who knows what he really wants.

Draco’s passions are perilously seductive. He teaches Harry spells that would be illegal even under a Voldemort regime and takes Harry to the Knockturn Allies of the world where Draco buys him beguiling things: a saifani-handled jambiya used to cut out the tongues of apostates, potions that smell of twilight, and iridescent seashells whose voices murmur necrologies of people yet to die. They visit places that later become the backdrops to Harry’s worst nightmares and darkest fantasies. The unmarked graves of suicides and the scenes of unsolved murders. Cafés that serve Mandrake tea with their Belladonna scones. Circles of standing stones that from a distance look like broken teeth. Monastic crypts, the winter gardens of Drumbeg Manor, and the mass crematoriums for London’s Victorian whores. Moors haunted by the ghosts of doomed lovers and wind-gnawed mountains littered with the bones of Sherpa. Mist-shrouded fens, ancient forests roamed by wolves, and the ribcages of ships that foundered on rocks so jagged they rend the waves that thunder into their waiting jaws. Draco’s tongue and cock and fingers dowse for the bottled up desire in Harry’s veins. His hips move between Harry’s thighs as he moans promises which, if kept, would force him to sell his soul to the lowest bidder. He’s a prophet, divining Harry’s needs before Harry himself even feels them. He’s an ascetic surrendering austerity for the moment of oblivion when he comes. Draco’s gentlest charms sting like hornets, and his taunts are spoonfuls of vinegar. Twice Harry’s submitted his resignation to the Minister and once he told Ron to go fuck himself just because Draco dared him to. He gives Draco passwords and charms and the addresses of criminals. He lies and denies and then turns a blind eye. Draco often fucks him too hard and binds him too tightly. He sucks stormy bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, and the scratches he leaves are deep and sometimes get infected. Come on, Potter he urges into their kisses.  Stop being a git, Potter he says as he rolls his eyes.  You’ll love it, Potter he says when he knows Harry will hate it.  Are you scared, Potter? he asks despite knowing the answer is yes. Draco has a dozen Muggle passports and a dozen aliases in a dozen different languages, but he once told Harry that Harry’s the only one who knows who he really is. Harry’s desires are unfathomable in their ordinariness. He comes home with blood on his clothes and a wand humming with curses, but all he wants are puppies and kittens and babies and breakfast. In the winter, he wears lumpy jumpers and a Gryffindor scarf and in summer he wears faded shorts and scuffed leather sandals. He whistles Muggle pop songs and sings – not altogether badly – in the shower. He likes old films, pub quizzes, flying in the rain, and holding Draco’s hand. He takes Draco to boring places that later become sweet wistful memories. Muggle museums full of dusty crystals and dinosaur bones, Quidditch matches, and unremarkable parks with sad-looking trees. Pubs with mirrors advertising lagers and hand-written notices on blackboards of karaoke on Thursday nights. Beaches with boardwalks and carnival rides, zoos with lots of snakes and bats, restaurants where at least half the menu is fried, and bars decorated with Premier League memorabilia and televisions the size of Lichtenstein. Harry strips his t-shirts off over his head, blushes when Draco growls, and smells of skin and sex and shampoo. He whimpers when Draco kisses him and goes down on Draco eagerly, and when Draco finally thrusts against the resistance of his body, he shouts pleas into his pillow that would make the devil blush. Harry insults are childish and his temper is terrible. Twice he goaded Draco into fucking in loos and once he demanded Draco send flowers to Granger after he’d called her a Mudblood. He bakes him cookies and can recite Quidditch statistics going back to the War of the Roses, but the bruises he leaves on Draco’s biceps are dark and painful and don’t fade for weeks.Damn it, Malfoy he grumbles when Draco teases a Muggle.  Piss off, Malfoy he says when he’s had all he can take.  C’mere, Malfoy he beckons when he lies on his stomach and opens his legs.  Scared, Malfoy? he asks even though he knows the answer is yes. Harry has a fan club of hundreds and friends who would die for him, but he once told Draco that Draco’s the only one who knows what he really wants.

Malfoy studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, mouth taut. “You’re an arsehole, you know.” “I know,” Harry said, pressing up against him, desperate for some friction against his aching cock. “I’m horrible.” “And I hate you,” Malfoy added, wrapping his hand around Harry’s cock and squeezing. “I know,” Harry said again as his eyes rolled back in his head and he rocked his hips up, trying to get closer. “And I hate you, too. Fuck me, please?”

Malfoy studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, mouth taut. “You’re an arsehole, you know.” “I know,” Harry said, pressing up against him, desperate for some friction against his aching cock. “I’m horrible.” “And I hate you,” Malfoy added, wrapping his hand around Harry’s cock and squeezing. “I know,” Harry said again as his eyes rolled back in his head and he rocked his hips up, trying to get closer. “And I hate you, too. Fuck me, please?”

“I don’t really hate you.” Draco made a chuffing sound of amusement. “Maybe not. But you want to hate me. That’s almost the same thing.” Harry rolled over, pressed his face into the curve of Draco’s neck, and inhaled the familiar sharp musk scent of him. “I’ll still try to kill you in the morning.” Draco smiled faintly and trailed his fingers down Harry’s spine. “I know.”

‘Maybe it’s not worth it,’ I say. ‘If he thinks that all I want to do is hurt him—’ ‘You’re afraid it’s the Malfoy thing he’s after.’ ‘We’ve hated each other for years. Maybe he just wants more rivalry. Someone to kick him in the balls. If that’s the case, he should find any Knockturn alley whore to shove him around.’ ‘And what about you?’ ‘I finally forget about him.’ Theo gives me a look. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I shared a dorm with you for a long time, Draco.’ ‘Most of the time you were a prick who didn’t say anything at all.’ ‘Doesn’t mean I didn’t see the way you looked at Potter when he wasn’t watching. Do you remember when he came to you the first time? You couldn’t Apparate for three days, your brain was so preoccupied.’ The bartender drops a glass of ale in front of me, and I take a sip. ‘I know what he wants now,’ I say. I glance at Theo, and then take another swig of ale. ‘I can’t give it to him.’ Theo rests his hand on my arm. ‘Then give him a chance to want something more.’

It happens like this: You crowd Malfoy, you push him against the wall with violent words sitting on your tongue and fight-tight fists. You know this, you know the contact of your bodies, vicious and shock-sharp. He’ll hit you, you think. He’ll hit you, and you’ll hit back, and the skin over your bones will stain purple-black with his fists. And you crave the pain, oh, you do. You need the shatter-pain contact of his knuckles with the bone of your jaw. You need the blood-crack of split lips and the taste of iron and salt on your incisors. You need to wipe away the sticky salt-red and smile and taunt, your entire body reckless and alive. You need it like a missing limb or a broken tooth. (This is the thing about pain: it’s always helped you know where you end and where the rest of the world starts. This is the thing about pain: it’s always helped you to inhabit your body again.) “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Malfoy?” you spit, and you can feel the tension between you, and you can taste the hate and the violence in the air. (You are entirely drunk on it.) Then: Draco moans, and it all goes to shit.

It happens like this: You crowd Malfoy, you push him against the wall with violent words sitting on your tongue and fight-tight fists. You know this, you know the contact of your bodies, vicious and shock-sharp. He’ll hit you, you think. He’ll hit you, and you’ll hit back, and the skin over your bones will stain purple-black with his fists. And you crave the pain, oh, you do. You need the shatter-pain contact of his knuckles with the bone of your jaw. You need the blood-crack of split lips and the taste of iron and salt on your incisors. You need to wipe away the sticky salt-red and smile and taunt, your entire body reckless and alive. You need it like a missing limb or a broken tooth. (This is the thing about pain: it’s always helped you know where you end and where the rest of the world starts. This is the thing about pain: it’s always helped you to inhabit your body again.) “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Malfoy?” you spit, and you can feel the tension between you, and you can taste the hate and the violence in the air. (You are entirely drunk on it.) Then: Draco moans, and it all goes to shit.

Harry grinned. “You never made snow angels?” he asked, pausing in his flailing. “Not since I was five. I grew up; seems you missed the train.” When Harry stood up abruptly, Draco didn’t think anything of it; his attention was caught, however, when gloved hands reached down and took both of his. His heart leapt into his throat, and he lifted his head to stare at Harry. Harry was staring right back at him, and Draco found it suddenly much more difficult to breathe; it felt like Harry was staring right through him, reading his thoughts, and he was pants at Occlumency—not that Harry would actually use Legilimency against him, of course. “I grew up just fine, Draco.” Well, Draco wasn’t going to argue with that. “I…” His eyes glanced down at Harry’s lips against his will, and he snapped them back up to stare back at him, swallowing hard. “If you’re blind, perhaps.” Insults were his best self-defence, even if that one hadn’t been particularly stellar. Harry suddenly jerked his hands, pulling Draco to his feet, and Draco squawked, teetering on the edge of his balance before he was shoved unceremoniously into the snow. Harry flopped down next to him and proceeded to flail around again, and Draco stared helplessly at him. “You’re such a prat, Potter. The Chosen One, everyone. Fucking brilliant.” Still, he lay on his back and mimicked Potter’s movements, shutting his eyes and letting himself feel five once more. Maybe Potter needed to feel young right before his life was going to be turned on its head. Maybe he needed to spend a little time with his old rival, romping about in the snow and never knowing that Draco was impossibly in love with him.

“I may,” I say reluctantly, “have overreacted. Slightly. Or so Millie and Pans imply. Blaise thinks I should have decked you, not that he’d have been arsed to do so.” One side of Potter’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Are you apologising, Malfoy?” “No.” I glare at him. “Just suggesting that my reaction may have been excessive.” He goes on as if he doesn’t hear me. “Because you’ve never apologised before.” “Don’t be a twat.” I drum my fingers against the arm of my chair. The twitch grows into a wider smile. “Apology accepted.”

This is life or death, Draco,” Ron says evenly. “I won’t respect your privacy if it means keeping you alive.” “It’s not your decision!” Ron leans forward toward his chair, his hands clasped in front him. He looks painfully earnest. “But it is his, and you’re taking his ability to decide from him. I know you’re scared, but he deserves to know, Draco, and I think you’d be surprised by how much he’d want to.” Draco’s fists are clenched. Why do people keep saying that? “He rejected me. I was going to die alone so he’d never have to know. He told me he didn’t want me.” “He was angry. He judged you based on your past and he apologized for that. You can’t hold it against him.” “I’m not, I just… I don’t know how to tell him,” Draco says, honest even though it kills him, and Ron’s entire expression softens. “At first, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want him to be with me out of obligation… but how do I explain that now? How do I explain I’ve been his friend for months and haven’t told him?” “He’s going to care more about you living than how long it took you to tell him,” he answers. “That doesn’t make it easier, but it’s true. He needs to know.” The thing is, Draco knows he’s right, but he also can’t shake the idea that Harry would agree just to save his life. That had always been his fear, and it hasn’t changed. He had a very clear vision of Harry, willing but more and more resentful every year of the soulmate he’d been shackled to… Draco had gotten so used to the idea that he’d die from this that now it’s more frightening to consider that he might have to live with it.

“Who are you?” It hurts. It hurts that he’s tried so hard only to end up here, right where he never wanted to be. “Really,” he replies, a knot rising in his throat, “you ask me that, after all these years?” “Yes,” Harry says. “Who in the bloody hell are you?” He swallows, the knot tight against his vocal chords. “I’m the person trying to protect you, you ungrateful git,” he replies, his voice breaking. “You and your bloody soul.” “Oh, please.” It’s about as much as he can handle. Because yes, he tried very hard to hide the truth. But the truth was right in front of Harry’s eyes for ten long years. “We’re spies, Harry,” he says. “We’re bloody well-trained spies. Murder is basically in our job description. And yet, tell me, how many people have you killed?” Harry staggers back at his words. “We aren’t… We—” “You found out our government isn’t what it seems,” Draco continues. “But did you really believe we’re only here for information? And you still haven’t answered my first question.” “None,” Harry answers, voice hoarse.