Title: Paphian

Author: Neko-chan

Fandom: Harry Potter

Rating: M

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Disclaimer: If you honestly think that you'd get money out of suing a college student… HA. The joke's on you. (Yes: wish that I owned, wish that I could be basking in the incredibly large Super Power that HP has become, but don't get that right. Buuuuuu. D:)

Summary: Because, sometimes, you're just that desperate to prove to yourself that you're still alive.

Author's Note: Second one-shot gift for Aya Macchiato. Sticks and Stones was relatively short and intended for crackish amusement (mostly on my part, but if anyone else was—surprisingly—entertained, then awesome~), but this one-shot is much more serious than the previous one-shot. Paphian deviates a little bit from Aya Macchiato's request in that it takes place during neither 5th or 6th years and instead during 7th. Anyway, regardless, I hope that you enjoy it!

Paphian

paphian – adj; of or pertaining to love, esp. illicit physical love

The first time that Draco Malfoy ever killed someone, he had spent the night in his bathroom, vomiting out the lingering scent of death—the taste of blood that embedded itself in his mouth, clinging viciously to the back of his tongue and refusing to let him forget and immerse himself in oblivion. He had spent the night sprawled out over the tile of the floor, shuddering at the memories that came to him: he was a broken thing, soft sobs catching in his throat as he tried, tried so desperately, to forget.

But death is something that cannot be forgotten.

Only remembered.

And so the boy—the boy who was forced to become a man much, much too early—wept for the childhood that his Master had forced him to leave behind; he wept for himself because self-pity is an affliction that all share, and he wept for his family, an ancient line fallen so low that each must beg for scraps from the table—hoping that that muted begging wouldn't garner the attention of their Master. He wept, too, for the lives that he had been forced to take—pureblood, Muggleborn, Muggle, all—death claimed each and every living being, and it did not matter in the end as to what they had been when alive. Death brought about equality in such a way that Draco finally, finally understood: and understood, too, that that knowledge came too belatedly.

He lay upon the floor of his bathroom, eyes closed and refusing to move, and allowed the hours pass him by; the constellations shifted and spun high above in the heavens, circling the moon with playful faerie dances that did not at all suit the Malfoy heir's mood. Instead, Draco lay: with breath stuttering and eyes shut against the demons of the night (one of which had been welcomed into his own home), and pressed his cheek snugly against the cool stone beneath his body in hopes that it could cool the fever of self-hatred.

It did not help.

But, then again, Draco did not expect it to.

Green, those eyes.

They were the color of springtime, the shade of life that sprung up from the ground surrounding Malfoy Manor: it was the shade of green that promised cool brooks and soft grass to sprawl out upon. It was a warm sort of green, verdant... green the color of emeralds. Green, too, Draco had learned firsthand... Killing Curse-green.

Draco glanced away from Harry Potter's quietly accepting gaze, and the blonde pureblood slightly shook his head.

"Are you sure, Draco?" his aunt Bellatrix hissed out, eyes snapping as her wand angrily spat a black spark.

"I can't be certain," Draco answered, Adam's apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed. He was lying, knew that his aunt knew that he was lying, but there had been so much death in the Manor that Draco... he just couldn't bring himself to sentence another to the type of death that he had seen firsthand, the type of death that he, himself, had been forced to participate in. "The disfiguration is too extensive. It could be him... or it might not be him. I can't be certain. Not completely."

"Come, come, little nephew," the woman crooned as her sister glanced away, afraid for her son but more afraid for herself and the punishments that would soon enough be awaiting them all. Still crooning cajolingly, Bellatrix continued: "You've spent six years of school with the Potter boy. You must surely be able to recognize him by now, disfigurement or not." The woman smiled at that, hand darting out to wrap long, spider-like fingers in Harry's hair. She yanked his head back, baring his swollen face to Draco's eyes, and Draco tried as hard as he could, but... his gaze still got caught in the other's.

That fucking green-eyed gaze that asked him not to do this, that seemed to finally see Draco in a way that hadn't been capable of (that neither had been capable of, if he wanted to be honest with himself) during their first year and the first rejection. Now, though... now those eyes saw and what stung the most was that the other boy seemed to expect Draco to be able to rise above this situation, to be better than what his hell of a life had forced him to become. Seeing those eyes, those expectations and the acceptance that would come if Draco did sell him out to the other Death Eaters...

It wasn't fair!

Where had this boy been when Draco had needed a friend last year? Where had this boy been in his first year when all the blonde wanted was to get to know this boy, this boy with the gentle smile and challenging gaze? Where had this boy been in all of the following years, the gaze that had hardened with hate as the Weasel poured vitriol and prejudice in this boy's, in Harry Potter's, ears? It wasn't fair! And, spitefully, Draco couldn't help but wonder if things would have gone differently, if he and his family wouldn't have been in this situation if this boy had just been willing to take Draco's hand on the train.

Angry and bitter at where he had been forced to end up, Draco lashed out; his palm struck the side of Harry's face, sending the already-broken glasses clattering across the floor, and he watched with silvery, frustrated eyes as the Boy Savior went down without a sound of protest. "It's not Potter," the Malfoy heir told his aunt, words spitting viciously from his mouth as a sneer twisted his mouth into a rictus parody of a smiel. "If it had been, I would have sold him out easily enough. If it had been Potter, he would have tried to fight back. No Potter ever took a beating without a struggle, without attempting to fight back. They're too Gryffindor to do otherwise, Aunt. This is just some filthy Mudblood that the Snatchers were foolish enough to capture instead of the actual Potter."

He spat on the figure that hadn't bothered to get up from the floor before turning abruptly to leave the others behind; with feet tap-tap-tapping angrily upon the marble of Malfoy Manor's floors, Draco tried his hardest to forget those eyes, the eyes that he had come to learn how to despise, and something broke within his chest when he realized that, no matter what he tried, he couldn't bring himself to hate the Boy-Who-Lived. Not anymore, not after seeing the Dark Lord and learning what true hate meant.

With breath that shuddered out, the blonde pureblood trembled as the tension and fear and despair finally took hold of him; Draco's knees gave out and he fell to the floor. It didn't take much to drag himself over to an alcove that was hidden away from prying eyes and, rubbing his face roughly against the stone to try and alleviate some of the internal anguish, Draco finally allowed himself to silently sob. It wasn't fair - he didn't want this - how could anyone ever want this? How could anyone ever be willing to become a prisoner in their own home, locked away and used and beaten in every way possible while only able to ever respond with, "Yes, my Lord." He could feel himself breaking, falling off piece by piece, and Draco couldn't help but wonder, terrified at the very thought, that perhaps this was what it felt like to lose his humanity. He wondered if, with time, he would become just like the Dark Lord: barely recognizably human in form, heart, and soul. Essentially, a broken person that the world looked upon and could find neither pity nor compassion for, only fear.

Breath quickening, Draco's fingernails dug into the solidness of the stone walls as he whispered, "Somebody, please save me."

Midnight passed, the witching hour that brought about the dark celebrations of the Death Eaters: raids were beginning to happen nightly, each man or woman chanting out, "Magic is Might" as they struck, taking down all those who stood before them. Death was their banner, an etched skull with a serpent to stand in for its forked tongue. Lies, death, destruction: there was nothing positive about this new regime, only sorrow and the bated waiting for dawn to arrive to banish the shadows from their hiding places. It was this hour, the breathless gasp between true night and the oncoming day, that Draco and his family used to celebrate joyously.

But there were no more celebrations, no more open arms; open arms welcomed a vulnerability towards others that no one could truly afford at this moment. Vulnerability meant that it would become that much easier for the other Death Eaters to take advantage of you, and being taken advantage of meant pure Oblivion. There were no friendships here, in this house that was supposed to be a home, a sanctuary. There was fear and mistrust, a Limbo of non-existence that stretched and stretched and stretched, warping time and relationships until Draco looked upon his own parents with fear and mistrust. These were the people that he had fought to keep safe, had anguished over and feared for; and these, too, were the very same people that had welcomed the Dark Lord in with open arms, had allowed the creature to take hold of their vulnerabilities and bring them low, so low, from where they had once managed to stand. These people were only ghosts of who they had once been: there was no glory or honor or pride, only abject humiliation.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that had Draco making his way down the steps that led to the dungeons deep beneath Malfoy Manor.

He wasn't supposed to be here, was supposed to be up top and getting rooms ready for when the Death Eaters returned. But this was a rebellion, a small one that no one else had to truly know about. A secret, that Draco could keep all for himself. And thus, the blonde Malfoy heir made his way down into the bowels of his family's one-time home, careful not to make too much noise as each polished, poised shoe placed itself on each step with an assurance, a confidence that Draco knew he did not feel. But it was the appearance that was the most important, the appearance of being in control. That was why he was wearing his best dress robes for this visit, despite the fact that there had been no true reason to don them for months now.

When Draco stepped into Harry Potter's cell, the other boy looked up at him, not at all surprised that Draco had come to make this visit. Instead, the green-eyed teen glanced up from where he had made a small nest of a bed in the corner of the prison cell, quirking a small smile when Draco took another step into the room.

"You didn't sell me out," Harry observed, head tilting to the side. He had grown, Draco had noticed - grown in both maturity and height. Before today, Draco would have expected the great Harry Potter to have bragged in regards to who he was, no matter the fact that he would have doomed them all by the truth. Instead, he had bowed his head to whoever had thrown the Stinging Hex at him - probably Granger since the Mudblood had always been quick to think on her feet - and had silently asked Draco to let him live, all the while staring at the Malfoy heir with those green, green eyes. May-green, life-green, Killing Curse-green, the green the color of his mother's favorite emeralds. There had been that request within that gaze, but acceptance, too, if Draco had been willing to sell the other boy out.

So much had changed in so little time, for the both of them.

"No, I didn't. Which means that you now owe me a life-debt," Draco whispered softly as he continued to make his way deeper into the room. He closed the door behind himself, eyes intent upon Harry's still form. A waiting sort of still, that tenseness, not the stillness that came after the sessions where the Dark Lord had made Draco play with his victims before ending them. The blonde shivered at that, arms wrapping tight around his belly for just a moment, and then allowed them to drop to his sides.

"You're here now. Which means that you probably want to be paid."

"Yes," the pureblood wizard said, reply simple. He knew what he wanted, what he had been desperate for over the course of the past several months: so much, so badly, so desperately, Draco wanted to be reminded that he was human. He needed another to remind him that he was alive. "Everyone speaks about how you're the Savior of the Wizarding World, Potter. I'm not asking for much: just save me."

He eased down then, moving to the eye level of the boy with those green, green eyes; he reached out, and Harry Potter met him half way: fingers tangling with one another, their lips pressed chastely against one another's. For just a moment, both held their breaths so that this perfect touch of skin against skin could last as long as possible - wishing, perhaps, that time could freeze into this impossible second where enemies bowed low within each other's hold and took comfort in the other's presence.

But it was impossible for time to hold ever still, and the second broke: tantalizingly, Draco parted his lips so that he might trace Harry's lower lip with the tip of his tongue. His movements were slow, languid - almost as if he were moving underwater as the blonde's hands came up to bury in the unruly hair, hair that was as dark as a raven's wing. He cupped the back of Harry's head before gently encouraging him closer still.

And Harry responded:

His lips parted beneath Draco's curiously inquisitive touch, coaxing the blonde's tongue into the warmth of his mouth. Playfully, Harry sucked, which then brought a low, broken moan to puddle at the base of the older teen's throat. His fingers flexed in Harry's hair, tugging at the impossibly untameable strands; burying deeper, pressing closer - deepening the kiss so that he might trace the edges of Harry's teeth. Draco found a small chip at the edge of one particular tooth and, fascinated, he spent more than a bit of time exploring the sharp edge, learning it as Harry's body arched beneath his own.

"Draco," Harry whispered when the kiss finally broke, and the Gryffindor let his head fall forward, pressing his face against the bend of the pale teen's throat: the darker boy breathed in the clean scent of soap and the tang of scent, tongue darting out to lick away some of the salt that beaded at the hollow of Draco's throat. The blonde shivered in reaction, eyes falling shut as his head tilted back; position vulnerable, Draco bared his throat for the other boy - an impossible situation, a position that he would have trusted with none other, not when the sharp edges of Harry's teeth were so very, very close to the beating pulse at the bend of his neck.

But...

Was there truly anything left to fear...?

Harry's mouth nuzzled against the underside of Draco's jaw, murmuring something about how Draco had missed a spot shaving - but then that talented tongue was once more tasting his skin, and Draco tightened his hold in Harry's hair. He was careful when he drew the other away, almost unnecessarily so, but Draco wanted to meet those impossibly green eyes as he slowly and methodically pushed the other teen onto his back.

"I want," Draco said, simply.

Harry smiled at that, the expression sweetly innocent. It contrasted, though, with how he began to carefully unbutton the clasps that kept Draco's robes closed, shifting closer when skin was bared so that he might press small, nipping little kisses over the blonde's pale torso. They would leave behind bruises, small red ones that would be patterned over his skin - bruises from bites that would take days to heal, though Draco hoped weeks.

"Remind me that I'm still alive," Harry whispered, lips brushing against the skin over Draco's heart with each and every word.

The pureblooded wizard shuddered at the sensation, and a hand reburied itself in Harry's hair - tugging the other teen's head back so that he could press an almost possessive kiss against the throbbing pulse that he found there and, firmly, Draco began to push Harry back upon the pile of blankets that made his bed.

Gaze mesmerized by Harry's own, Draco never once broke eye contact as he began to carefully undo the buttons at Harry's waistband. As Draco drew Harry's trousers down, taking the other's pants with them, the dark-haired Gryffindor arched up in welcome, in encouragement, and Draco couldn't stop himself from tracing his eyes up those slim legs (nevermind the fact that Harry's knees were knobby), skipping shyly over the other teen's groin (for now), drinking in the sight of the quickly rise and fall of Harry's chest (in excitement? in anticipation? in slight fear as to what was to come? Draco didn't know, but he knew that he would soon enough find out), and... Draco never expected his attention to be caught by Harry's face. A plain face, one that showed the old Potter blood - a sturdy face, but never one that would be beautiful. Until Harry smiled. The smile that Harry gave Draco in answer was impossibly sweet, though the look in his eyes - the look -

Oh, those eyes.

Those fucking eyes.

"We're alive," Draco said before moving closer; he settled between Harry's thighs, using his weight to pin the other down before claiming Harry's mouth in a hungry kiss - one in which Harry arched up to meet him, legs hooking over Draco's hips to draw the slightly older teen closer still. Kiss for kiss, Harry met him, and when the boy beneath him arched invitingly, Draco could only moan in answer and allow himself to be lost in the sensation.

He was alive.

And those eyes. Those impossibly verdant-green eyes.

.:End:.