Title: Found Wanting

Author: Liz

Pairing: Draco/Harry

Rating: R-NC17

Disclaimer: No money, no fame, no ownership implied. The characters herein are indentured to JKR, but I did give one of them fangs.

Warnings: Bloodplay - It’s a vampire fic. Slash.

Summary: Challenging everything you thought you knew about vampires.

Authors Note: Written for Vampire!Draco challenge. Many thanks to Stefanie my intoxicatingly efficient beta who merrily modified my mostly adverb-heavy prose.

*********

It was cold in the room. He’d forgotten to stoke the fire. A quick flick of the wrist and a whispered word and the logs blazed, the room heated. Another word and candles sputtered to life, throwing dancing shadows against the stone.

The figure stalked over to the chair near the grate and flung himself into its softness. His booted heels made a small sound on the flags as he crossed his ankles. It had begun and what a beginning. He lost himself in the memory and savored the taste that still lingered. So sweet, who would have thought? Yet with the heady taste of power and the promise of something more. Maybe this would indeed be the one. Lacing his graceful fingers, he stared into the fire, lingering until Helios was calling his horses to lead the sun into another day.

******

Harry’s body followed his reaching arms and he woke suddenly to find himself embracing only air. His heart was pounding, blood singing in his ears and he was panting. It took a moment for his vision to clear, to show him ceiling instead of - fragments of a fantasy.

The twisted sheets around his waist were sticky with lukewarm wetness. Harry reached down to move the mess away from him, gasping as the sheet pulled the fabric of his shorts across his skin. He flung the cover to the side and lay back down, grateful that his bed curtains were closed. As he tried to control his breathing and slow his heart he wandered back over the dreamscape that was quickly dissolving. He recalled red and gray; swirling heat and soft touch; and desperate longing.

This was certainly not the first time Harry had woken to clammy sheets. He was 17 after all, but he could say with conviction that he had never had such an intense reaction. The dream was now gone, evaporated like morning mist meeting the sun. He ached, deep in his gut and somewhere beneath his ribs. He wanted it back, wanted him back, that ethereal vision that his heart had seen, and his memory struggled to retain.

Harry reached for his wand and muttered a cleaning spell, thankful yet again that he was a wizard, that he was at Hogwarts and that he was finally of age. He shuddered as he recalled summers at the Dursely’s, and the beating he had gotten at 14 when his aunt had found him attempting to wash his sheets. She had screamed, called him a freak and a pervert, and yelled for Uncle Vernon. Vernon had beaten him into unconsciousness and then had locked him in the cupboard under the stairs for two solid days. When Vernon had finally released Harry, he had threatened him with dire consequences if he told of the incident. Harry, of course, had told no one. He had been deeply embarrassed and ashamed. Such dreams had not been frequent, but the experience had taught him that they were dangerous. Afterwards, Harry had managed to find a very old and forgotten towel in the back of the garage. He’d slept with it carefully positioned in his clothes every night after that, just in case. The towel was still hidden under the loose floorboard at the Dursley’s.

‘Well,’ Harry thought, rolling over and wrapping himself in blankets, ‘that trip down memory lane certainly managed to kill any lingering arousal.’ Harry punched his pillow and carefully cleared his mind, then he fell back into the oblivion of sleep.

********

The Malfoy family was truly of ancient origin. Draco Thomas Dorian Malfoy could trace his ancestors back, father-to-son, for nearly 2,000 years. The sires of his sires had wielded the wand for millennia, and for centuries had kept the family secret.

Malfoy men were all similar: cold, beautiful and powerful. Money allowed them arrogance and prestige. Wit offered them allies and shielded them from foes. Power ensured survival and success. And beauty? Beauty provided them with many things, for people are drawn to beauty, and beauty claims much and wins more.

It was in the source of this beauty that the secret lay.

The Malfoy family was long-lived, dying in extreme old age ­ should violent death not find them first. They were not immortal. They did not fear the sun. They could not fly unaided, did not transform into bats, did not frequent graveyards and were actually quite fond of garlic. They were, however, (irrespective of these petty, mostly muggle-created myths) vampires.

At least the men were. Malfoy women carried the gene, could feed the hunger and benefit from it, but they could not pass it on. Nor could any Malfoy, by blood or by bond, betray the secret, not even under torture or truth serum. The secret guarded itself , bound itself in blood to their very bones and would not yield. Any who learned by happenstance either died or forgot. There was no other option, and the blood itself made the choice.

It was blood that gave birth to and succored beauty, and beauty which guarded and allowed the blood to be fed. Beautiful people had more choices, better choices, greater freedom. Beauty could choose a perfect mate. Or so the Malfoys had always believed.

The youngest of the Malfoy males was now 17. He had reached his majority and the hunger was upon him. He would, in a very short while, find his mate and bind that person to him, and himself to them.

******

It was Friday, double Potions with the Slytherins, and Harry was almost bouncing in his seat waiting for lunch to be over. The dungeon would be dark, lit only by coruscating torches that did nothing whatsoever to dispel the gloom. Harry had often wondered if Snape secretly watched old muggle movies. Dracula would have felt right at home in his classroom. Harry pictured Snape pulling his sweeping black robe up over one arm and swooping down on a screaming buxom blond. He snickered at his own mental picture and Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Funny pudding?” she asked

“No, just thinking about Snape and muggle movies. Do you think he might have consulted Bela Lugosi when decorating his classroom?”

Hermione laughed and lunch ended before Ron could demand an explanation. The trip to the dungeons was brief. Harry kept telling himself that he was not looking forward to Potions. He was not walking faster than normal. And his eyes were certainly NOT going to be searching for a certain blond Slytherin.

The “Golden Boy” of Gryffindor had recognized his attraction to those of his own gender sometime during his fifth year at Hogwarts. By the end of sixth, his preference was known to most of his House. Harry had never had what you could call a “relationship,” merely a few snogging sessions here and there ­ usually behind a quidditch shed. His most recent infatuation, however, was one of which he was sure his housemates would not approve. If he was honest with himself he had to admit that this fascination was not new at all, merely suppressed. Recently, his subconscious had seemed to be determined to force the issue.

The dreams had started the previous Sunday. Five nights now, and in each he had awoken gasping and spent in the darkest part of the night. Each night he had been disappointed to find himself alone. Each time the dream had melted, leaving him only fragments of image to cling to. All that had consistently remained was lingering arousal and a memory of haunting smoke-colored eyes.

******

Draco had not been at lunch. As Head Boy he had been given a private room for the first time since entering the boarding school, and he took full advantage of this. He had received some mail at breakfast and had been attending to it.

Slytherin was located in the dungeons and hence he was one of the first students to enter the Potions classroom. He smiled and exchanged pleasantries with his Head of House, then took his customary seat. This year the class concentrated on individual work. He would never understand how Neville Longbottom had managed to pass his OWL and make it into the advanced class, but at least this offered Draco a constant source of amusement. He had a friendly bet with Parkinson today on the timing of the explosion. Draco wagered that Longbottom would create combustion in under an hour, while Pansy countered that it would take him at least 60 minutes to create a suitable mixture. The sound of footsteps filtered in from the corridor. Draco smirked over at Pansy as the object of their bet came in, looked nervously at Snape and slumped onto the stool behind his desk.

“Longbottom,” he called, sneer firmly in place, “do try to aim for your side of the room today, I just had my boots shined.”

“Shut your hole, Malfoy,” snarled Ron who had entered the room just in time to hear the comment. The redhead took several steps toward him but was intercepted by Snape.

“Language, Mr. Weasley. I would hate to be forced to take points from your House because of your lack of conversational grace.”

Ron’s face instantly flushed and his fists clenched, but he moved toward his desk.

“Looks good in red, doesn’t he?” Pansy murmured, not loudly, but loudly enough to carry.

Draco smirked, nodded and then winked at Ron, who appeared nearly apoplectic with rage. The Slytherin held his gaze long enough to cement Ron’s reaction, and then turned to Parkinson once more. “Gryffies are almost too easy. I may become soft from lack of challenge.”

******

Harry had watched the exchange with interest. Draco could certainly get under someone’s skin. That thought, combined with a visceral reaction to Malfoy’s remark about not being soft, led Harry’s heart to speed up. His gaze caressed the blond at the front of the room, noting his posture, the way his lips moved when he talked to his housemate, the graceful fall of his robe over his lithe-limbed frame.

‘That will be quite enough of that’ he told himself firmly as he wrenched his eyes back to his desk and began to purposefully lay out the ingredients that were listed on the board. Burn salve. Fabulous. Three guesses whom Snape would choose to burn in order to “demonstrate the efficacy of your concoctions”. Harry silently implored whatever deity was listening that Snape would use Hermione’s potion for the test. He did not want to be permanently scarred by one of Neville’s creations ­ even if he did consider the young man a good friend. Anything Ron brewed would be only somewhat better, and while Harry’s own potion making skills had improved slightly, they were still hit and miss. Cursing his future fate, Harry spent the next two hours valiantly attempting to turn out a perfect burn salve.

Exactly 57 minutes into the class Harry’s worries about being used as a guinea pig for Longbottom Labs were allayed when Malfoy won his bet. The cauldron actually left the table, soaring toward the ceiling with a green flash and a cloud of coal black smoke. By the time the air had cleared Gryffindor was 50 points down and the classroom contained one less student. Neville would be back for detention later - to clean and repair the desk and the spot in the roof directly above it.

Forty-eight minutes after the light show Snape stood, waved his wand, and extinguished any remaining fires. “Your potions should be completed and bottled by now. If they are not, then you may simply accept your zero or schedule a make-up session in which to re-do the procedure for a possible 80%.” There were nods and grumbles and the sounds of clearing up.

“Potter,” Snape growled, “to the front of the classroom.”

Ron and Hermione gave him sympathetic looks as Harry resignedly stood and prepared for the inevitable. He had long ago stopped attempting to argue when Snape invariably chose him to demonstrate anything dangerous or painful. He walked to the front of the room, stood beside the instructor’s desk and turned to face the class.

“Please roll up the sleeve of your robe and extend your right arm over this bowl.” Harry did as he was told, trying not to worry about what would happen. “There are many types of burns,” Snape told the class, “and some remedies are efficacious for only one or two specific forms.” Harry was not looking at Snape and not really listening. He was watching the class. Every eye seemed to be focused intently on his extended limb. Harry simply hoped that he would still have that particular body part by the end of the class. He tried not to look at Malfoy, but his eyes strayed in that direction when he saw the blond tense suddenly. Gray eyes flashed dangerously and rose quickly to look to Harry’s right.

This was the only warning he received.

“. . . particular salve is most useful for burns created by acid.” Harry tuned back in and heard the words about a microsecond before he felt the pain sear into him. The an acrid scent assaulted his nostrils and Harry bit his lip, hard, to keep from crying out.

There was a complete, stunned, silence. The Gryffindors were horrified and even many of the Slytherins appeared a bit sick. Harry sought a point to focus on, to distract himself, and unexpectedly locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. He looked livid. Harry registered this, subconsciously, before shutting his eyes to keep in the tears. The nails of his left hand dug deep into his palm.

“Will none of you assist him?” Snape asked casually.

An acid burn continues to spread until it is diluted. Therefore, the pain in Harry’s arm was steadily increasing. Just as his knees were about to buckle, the burning suddenly stopped. Soothing coolness flowed into and over him and then it was if nothing had happened.

*****

The class wrapped up relatively quickly. Harry told his friends that he would catch up with them, waving aside their insistance that he go to the hospital wing and snapping that he was fine. “I will meet you,” he said firmly to Ron and Hermoine, “later.” He sighed, “Please, just go. I’ll talk to you in a while.”

With a whispered “Be careful, Harry,” Ron led Hermione from the room.

Harry stood outside the door to the classroom, bag over his shoulder, leaning against the wall. As he waited, he reviewed the final moments of class. He had been very surprised when he had finally opened his eyes and blinked away the tears that had clustered there. Hermione, it seemed, had leapt from her stool ­ it was lying on its side - and started for the front of the classroom. Someone else had gotten there first.

It was Malfoy’s potion that had stopped his agony, and Malfoy’s hand that had been withdrawing from his arm. A glance at the skin of his arm had shown no sign that he had been injured at all. Not even a red mark remained. Harry had raised his head to thank the young man and found that he was gone, sitting back down in his seat while throwing out a casually snide remark about Gryffindors being full of hot air and the dangers of combining this with fire. The Slytherins had laughed, Snape had snorted and awarded Malfoy ten points, and Harry had walked, somewhat shakily, back to his desk. Once there he’d sat looking blankly at his own cauldron, lost in thought. When class ended his friends had descended upon him en masse, voicing outrage and concern.

Harry now stood in the hall waiting. He was not waiting to confront Snape, as he was sure he friends assumed. The recent actions of his adversary had precipitated a decision. He had thought frequently of his blond nemesis over the past few months, and with what amounted to near obsession over the past week. This most recent addition to the puzzle had clinched it. As one famous conjurer had quipped, ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, but the angels are all in heaven, and few of the fools are dead.’ Harry was a Gryffindor after all. It was time to take action.

Several minutes went by and then Draco Malfoy and his entourage emerged. “I need to speak with you,” Harry said firmly, meeting the silver gaze.

Malfoy tilted his head elegantly and raised an eyebrow, “So speak.”

“Alone.”

Draco regarded him for a moment and then gave a brief movement of his head and flick of his eyes. The “minions”, as Harry called them, turned as one and left.

“Yes?”

The honeyed voice washed over Harry. “Not here,” the Gryffindor said.

“Alright.” Malfoy considered. “Follow me.”

Harry did so, trying not to focus on Draco’s arse as he followed him down the corridor and around several corners. The Slytherin stopped before an old wooden door and pushed it open. “After you,” he said and stood aside so that Harry could precede him.

*******

The dungeons of Hogwarts were quite extensive. Very few individuals ever bothered to explore them and so the secrets of this part of the castle had remained unknown to most. Snape, of course, had prowled the depths to great extent; but he was unaware that one student knew the drafty corridors and dank passages even more intimately.

This student knew every room, cupboard and nook in the deep parts of the castle. As a third year, Draco had found a tunnel leading to the edge of the lake. An absolutely hideous and completely tasteless portrait of Vlad the Voracious hid the entrance. Draco had deduced from the eight inches of dust on the floor that no one else knew of its existence, at least no one still living. The passage had come in useful over the years, as it could be used for both ingress and egress in times of need.

The previous Friday the young Prince of Slytherin had used the passage to leave the castle for a nighttime flight. Draco found that flying at night, while arguably dangerous and obviously forbidden, was calming. He made midnight forays into the sky at least once a month, flying randomly, concentrating on the feel of the wind on his face, the broom underneath him and the brightness of the stars above. On that particular night he had decided to circumnavigate the castle itself. He’d flown close to the walls, dipping up and down, around the casements and under the battlements, racing up to the tops of turrets and then plunging toward the ground. It was as he had spiraled around and around one tower that he had noticed the open window.

******

A vampire of the enigmatic breed to which the Malfoys belonged was not technically a dark creature. It was not a creature at all, merely another genus of wizard. It was entirely possible that no others like them existed in the world (they had always believed themselves to be in a class all their own). It was equally possible that there were many. The secret, the enchantment, the blood ­ it had many names, but none were ever spoken outside the association of those who were bound to the family.

A Malfoy male did not survive only on blood. Blood was necessary, but not in great quantity, and not for simple nutrition. Draco ate and drank and slept just like any other wizard or witch at Hogwarts; he simply required one more supplement. Blood fed the bone and being of the vampire to some extent, but it also fed the magic of the wizard.

Draco did not routinely prey on his classmates. He did not have to. The wealthy heir to the Malfoy fortune was well taken care of. Every student at Hogwarts was familiar with the eagle owl that came at least once a week bearing gifts. No one, however, was aware that this owl also bore something else. Each care package was sealed with a beautiful silver serpent clip. Draco would slip off the clip, put it nonchalantly in his pocket and then peruse his latest offering. Later, alone, he would whisper the words to reveal the snake clip as the vessel that it truly was. He would empty it of the crimson liquid inside, re-cast the glamour and send the object back to the manor.

Draco had been nursed from the day he was born on the blood of his mother. As the bonded mate to a vampire she was able to generate the vital fluid in vast supply and at a startling rate. This ability, along with great strength and an amazingly efficient immune system, among other things, had been gifts to her as a result of the bonding. Her son would continue to need her until he found his own mate - someone who would, willingly, feed his hunger with their own lifeblood.

This was not to say that Draco had never drunk the blood of another. The Malfoys called it “tasting” and they referred to the tastees as “the sampled”. When someone was sampled he or she would receive no lasting harm. What occurred was a simple transaction, a trade, an exchange of goods for service. That was how Draco viewed it. The results were nearly always entertaining to him, as well as being beneficial. He believed the sampled also enjoyed the results.

*****

The open window had called to him, like the song of the siren to sailors of old. He had noted, peripherally, that it was Gryffindor tower, and this had intrigued him. Draco had sampled most of Slytherin house at one time or other ­ well, at least those of his House whom he considered to have intellect or power. He had also sampled a few individuals from other houses and even an instructor or two.

Now he was Head Boy and had freer reign of the castle than ever before, and the hunger had risen. The search for a mate had begun. Draco would now taste only those to whom he felt an attraction. It would begin with a taste. If he was compatible with someone he sampled, and they with him, the magic of the secret would manifest itself to them both. They would be drawn to one another.

Draco had reached into his robe and drawn out his wand. He’d landed lightly on the casement and cast a deep sleeping charm over the room before entering. Once inside his gaze traveled over the sleepers and he had been delighted. There were five young men in residence but Draco had had eyes for only one of them.

The hero of the wizarding world had stretched and sighed as Draco ran his hands above his sleeping form. The Slytherin had not touched him, merely caressed his aura, inches above his body. The scar on his brow had briefly reflected the moonlight as Harry turned his head away from the young man hovering over him, unknowingly baring his neck and revealing the pulsing jugular to the vampire. Draco had stood frozen for long moments, watching as life throbbed beneath its thin covering of skin, letting the enchantment in him reach out to the sleeper and wrap him in its silken threads.

Slowly Draco’s fangs had extended and his senses had increased and sharpened. He’d been able to smell the blood, to hear it singing through the veins. Nimble fingers ran through black hair and Harry had moaned. Soft breath was blown over the offered neck, and Harry’s skin had flushed. Draco had knelt next to the bed, placed his other hand on a shoulder and gently held him still. The hand in Harry’s hair had tilted the head back further and then Draco had sunk his sharp teeth into Harry’s flesh.

Sensation had swamped the vampire. He had felt heat and desire and longing, and the taste had been exquisite. Harry’s body had flexed and the boy had moaned again, more deeply. Draco’s breathing had increased, and he’d fought the urge to drink deeply. Harry’s pelvic muscles contracted and he had thrust upward; at which point Draco had pulled away. He’d kissed the puncture site and the wound had disappeared. At that final touch Harry had rolled toward him, arm outstretched, almost, but not quite, touching the one who had just drunk from him.

Draco backed away, fangs retracting, his own blood roaring, breath coming fast. He had stood in the shadows near the window and watched as Harry continued the dream that was a consequence of a tasting.

Erotic dreams were a gift but also a response, forcing the regenerative antibodies left by the bite to course quickly through the body of the one who was sampled. The dreams promoted increased heart rate and respiration, allowing for faster healing. Transfixed by the site of the writhing body on the bed, the vampire had stood and watched as the dream ran its course, had stepped to the window as Harry neared completion, and had flown away just as the Gryffindor spent himself.

Flying had been uncomfortable after that. Draco had ached as he walked back through the tunnel to the dungeons. The response had been new. Never before had the vampire reacted to the desire the tasting always created in the other. Never before had he felt it himself.

*****

Draco stood still as Harry disappeared into the room in front of him. He took a deep breath and contemplated the previous 15 minutes and the prior week. He had been absolutely furious when he’d seen Snape pull out that vial of acid. Had he not been surrounded by his peers, had Snape not been his Godfather, had the secret not been sacrosanct, in short if there would have been any way to explain it, Draco would have hexed Severus Snape into the next world. Harry was his! No one else was allowed to touch him! No one was allowed to harm him! Draco had been on his feet, potion and wand in hand before Snape had even begun to speak. As he recalled the pain in those emerald eyes, the blood and curling skin on the golden arm, fury boiled up in Draco again. He resolutely pushed it down. This would not do at all.

Control and care and caution had been bred into Draco Malfoy. He had never sampled anyone on subsequent nights, had rarely even sampled the same person twice. On the rare occasions that he had specifically enjoyed a taste, his visits had been spaced far from each other in time. Care had been thrown aside in the past week, caution trampled, and he feared that control was fast slipping away entirely. Draco had found his mind constantly returning to the same place. Jade eyes and hair black as night haunted his waking dreams, and he had found himself returning to the tower on each succeeding night, yearning for an open window. Each night he had found that window open.

Now he hesitated on the threshold of a door that could take him toward his future. He tried to rehearse what he would say to the Gryffindor, how he would explain the fact that he, someone Harry considered an enemy, had rushed to his aid. He took a deep breath and schooled his features. Draco did not want his thoughts to show on his face. Harry need not know right now that he wanted to hold him, to run concerned fingers over his arm and comfort him; that Draco wanted to enfold him in his arms and kiss him, to possess him, to own him, to lose himself in that firm figure and to bury his teeth in Harry’s conscious body.

Draco took another calming breath and stepped into the room. He did not have time even to register the location of his companion because he was immediately thrust, hard, into the wooden barrier. The door and Draco both fell backward and the door slammed as the blond boy was crushed between it and the body of Harry Potter.

“What . . .?” he began, but speech was cut off as his mouth was captured in a fierce kiss.

*******

When Harry finally had to come up for air his head felt slightly clouded, and all of the blood in his body seemed to be heading south.

“. . . the hell?” Draco said, but the tone was soft, startled; not derisive and acerbic as Harry had feared it would be.

“Thank you,” Harry said. He was still breathing hard and he wanted to kiss Draco again.

“For the kiss?” Draco asked. He looked a bit stunned, which only made Harry want him more. “That was your idea, remember? Not that I’m complaining.”

“For that too,” Harry affirmed, “but I meant, thank you for healing me. I can’t imagine why you did it.”

Draco looked away and drew in a deep breath. “And I,” he replied, raising his head again so that Harry could see his eyes, “can’t imagine why you just kissed me.”

“I’ve wanted to do that for months. Probably longer than that if I’m honest with myself. Unless you stop me, in fact, I’m going to do it again.” Draco opened his mouth but said nothing, and Harry took that as an invitation.

The second kiss was better than the first. Harry slipped his tongue between Draco’s parted teeth and savored the taste of him. He tasted like - like - Harry searched for an appropriate word for a moment before giving up and focusing all of his energy into the kiss. He seized Draco, encompassing his waist and pulling him closer. Harry moaned as Draco responded to the embrace by reaching to hold Harry as well. One hand moved to the back of Harry’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, as the other arm wound around his neck.

Draco returned the kiss, sucking Harry’s tongue further into his mouth and caressing it with his own. This touch caused Harry to quiver and his hands wandered lower, finally cupping Draco’s arse and molding the blond to his body. Said action brought matching erections into close contact and Draco hissed as Harry groaned into his mouth. Suddenly, and with surprising strength for one so slender, Draco pushed himself away from the door and propelled Harry further into the room. He wrenched his mouth away from Harry’s, untangled their limbs and walked over to stand in front of the fireplace, panting.

Harry felt the separation like a blow to his gut. One minute he was soaring and the next he had crashed to earth. Not certain what he had done wrong Harry took a few hesitant steps further into the room, toward the blond who now had his back turned.

“I’m sorry .” Harry said, although he knew that this was not entirely true. He wasn’t sorry that he had kissed Draco. He was sorry that it had ended. He faltered, not knowing what else to say.

Draco was leaning on the mantle now. He did not respond and Harry was not certain that he had even been heard. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he tried again, feeling his throat tighten. “I’ll just go then,” Harry’s voice caught. He backed up one step, then another, and was about to turn toward the door when a single word stopped him.

*****

“Stay.”

Draco was breathing hard, practically gasping. He had nearly lost control, had nearly given in to his basest instincts. When Harry had pulled him close and he had felt concrete proof of an arousal matching his own Draco had felt the purely visceral, animal reaction rising quickly. He’d pushed Harry away, thankful that he’d still had enough control to prevent himself from flinging the other young man clear across the room. He’d quickly turned his back and concentrated hard on keeping the fangs, which had begun to descend, from lengthening. His vision had started to cloud and go red. This was not a normal reaction. He had been aroused before, but it had never been like this.

Draco heard Harry speak, heard the confusion in his voice, the hurt. He tried to reply but found that his voice was gone, and he was afraid to open his mouth for fear that he would give in and let the hunger take him. This was not the way. It was meant to be voluntary. There was choice involved. He could not, would not, pounce on this man and simply take him. Draco knew that if that happened, and if Harry lived through it, the secret would make the Gryffindor forget. Draco, however, would remember. Such an act of violence would forever stand between them. This was too important. It meant too much. He had never hurt anyone, not like that, and he would not do so now. He would regain control.

“I’ll just go then.”

Draco heard that. The words pierced him, cut through the fog of need, and filled him with fear. No! Harry couldn’t leave. It couldn’t end before it had even begun.

“Stay.” This was the only word he could force past his lips, but Harry stopped walking. Another minute passed and Draco was back in control. He turned.

“Stay.” He walked across the room, took Harry’s hand cautiously in his own and led him to a couch in the corner. It was old and faded and one of the springs was broken. Sitting was good. Sitting allowed Draco to rest his shaking limbs. “Don’t say you’re sorry unless you really mean it,” Draco said, looking into the green depths of Harry’s eyes. “I’m not. It was just too fast, too much, I almost lost control of myself. I don’t want to do that.”

“Maybe I want you to lose control,” Harry said softly, stroking his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand.

Draco shook his head and pulled his hand free. “Look Harry, - may I call you Harry?” he asked, suddenly aware that he had never said that name aloud to its owner.

“Of course,” Harry replied.

Draco nodded. “Harry,” he began again, “we don’t know each other very well. We’ve been rivals for years; our Houses have been adversaries for centuries. Any relationship between us would be complicated.” He paused for a moment and then continued, “Or were you merely looking for a distraction? A fling? A conquest? Did you want to add shagging the son of a Death Eater to your resume? Because if the latter is the case, then I am not interested. I healed you, I did not proposition you.”

Draco was apprehensive as he spoke these words, heard the sharp tone of his own voice. Nevertheless, things must be very clear from the start. If Harry was going to back out he should do it now, before Draco had invested too much of himself into this. The secret was whispering to Draco, tugging at him, drawing him inexorably toward Harry. He knew that Harry was drawn as well. That was the magic telling them they were physically compatible. Draco wanted more than that. He wanted passion and fire, yes. He wanted to feed the hunger, but he also wanted comfort and companionship and, well, he wanted - .

He simply wanted more.

*****

Harry was startled, and slightly insulted. Draco Malfoy - cold, calculating, unfeeling, Draco Malfoy - was asking Harry if he was merely after a quick shag and bragging rights? Wasn’t that type of action more up Malfoy’s alley?

Harry glared at his companion for a moment but the smoky gaze did not flinch or withdraw.

Maybe not. Maybe Draco was right and they did not know each other at all.

Harry sighed, and reached to take back Draco’s hand. “I’ll admit that just a moment ago I wasn’t thinking at all. I was feeling. I’ve thought about you for a long time. It’s not sudden. I guess what happened in Potions just made me pluck up my courage. I thought I saw something when you looked at me. Then you healed me. I certainly didn’t expect that. You’re right, I don’t know you, but I would like to.” He now grasped the other hand. “Will you allow me to try to get to know you?”

The Slytherin’s breath seemed to leave him suddenly and Harry wondered if he had been holding it. Draco lowered his gaze to look at their clasped hands and his blond hair fell forward, shielding his face. “I’d like that, Harry. However, I will warn you - there is more to me than is readily apparent. I’m not the person everyone thinks I am.”

“So let’s begin again,” Harry said. Harry moved to lean his back against the arm of the couch and pulled Draco to him, so that Draco’s back was resting against Harry’s chest. “My name is Harry Potter,” he began, “and I’m pleased to have the honor of making your acquaintance, Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry did not see his face, but the smile was evident in the Slytherin’s voice when he replied, “Call me Draco.” He then lay back and accepted Harry’s embrace.

******

They had talked for hours that first afternoon. So long, in fact, that when Harry finally returned to Gryffindor Tower he’d found that his friends were nearly hysterical with worry. Hermione had been certain that Harry had managed to get himself expelled, while Ron was more concerned about Snape cursing him and leaving him injured somewhere, unable to call for help.

Harry had lied and made up an excuse to explain his absence. He couldn’t even remember what it was now. That had been three weeks ago. Three weeks during which he had seen Draco nearly every day and had thought about him almost every minute that they weren’t together.

Draco being Head Boy had definite advantages, the most obvious of which was his private room. Since the incident in Potions, very few nights had failed to find Harry in the dungeons. Hogwarts was a very small place for all its immense size, and secrets were rare and hard to keep. A private room afforded just what it advertised, privacy.

The two former rivals spent long hours there, talking and doing homework and kissing. So far they had not progressed much beyond the kissing stage because Draco kept calling a halt to things. While this frustrated Harry enormously, it also secretly pleased him. Draco was taking this very seriously. Harry knew that he was not alone in feeling the desire that blazed between them. Still, Harry cherished their time together. Only when curfew was long past and Harry feared he would be missed would he slink from the room and sneak back to Gryffindor tower, wrapped in his invisibility cloak.

The dreams had slowed markedly in frequency but increased in strength. Just last night Harry had been forced to serve a long detention, and he had not been able to meet Draco at all. About two o’clock in the morning, however, he had woken from another dream, this one so powerful that he had been yelling when his mind clawed its way back to consciousness. From the size of the puddle on the bed he suspected that he had put on quite a show. Harry didn’t know how he had failed to wake his roommates, but he was extremely grateful that he had not done so. Part of him suspected that it was Draco’s name he had yelled as he came.

*******

It had, in fact, been Draco’s name that Harry had shouted into the night. Draco paced in circles around his room as he remembered the scene. Last night had been---- He was not sure how much longer this charade could continue. Hearing his own name cried out in passion had, he feared, been his final undoing.

The vampire had been restraining himself. He had tasted Harry only once before in the three weeks that they had been “dating”. Several nights after their first kiss Draco had convinced himself that he could control his own reaction. He had been wrong. The experience had nearly overwhelmed him. It had been harder than ever to stop after he sank his teeth in and tasted Harry’s sweet blood. Pulling away with great effort he had fled immediately back into the night, not staying to witness the completion of the dream he had set in motion.

Subsequently, Malfoy had instituted iron control on his instincts and had not sought out the sleeping form of his would-be mate. Instead he’d begged his mother for additional care packages and tried to quell the hunger. He wanted to woo Harry, to find out if there could be more than mutual physical need between them. Last night, however, he had given in once more.

Draco stopped his pacing, sat in the chair by his fireplace and lost himself in memory.

Draco had not seen Harry at all that day, yesterday. As the night darkened and wore on he’d found that he could not sleep. Giving in at last to the longing in his blood, he had left his room, taken up his Firebolt and followed the passage outside. Part of him had hoped the window would be closed, but it was not. It was as if some part of Harry knew what was happening and was calling the vampire to him. It was entirely possible that this was true. The enchantment of the secret was potent. Regardless of the reason, Draco had found himself standing in the room.

The sleeping charms he’d cast were extremely powerful, but he cast them only on four of the five occupants. Upon Harry no spell was laid other than that already woven by their mutual chemistries. Draco had stood for long minutes beside the sleeping form of the one he intended to sample. He’d stroked Harry’s aura, and when the young man rolled on his back and presented his neck, Draco had kissed him. His tongue had run along Harry’s bottom lip, and the sleeper had responded, opening and inviting him in. The kiss should have been enough to wake him, it had certainly woken things in Draco. His own blood heating and pooling, causing him to harden, Draco had watched unashamedly as Harry’s own body responded to the dream the kiss had set in motion. Draco had run a hand under Harry’s shirt and fingered a flat nipple as he’d dropped to his knees and his fangs had extended. The nipple had hardened, and Draco had had to bite back a moan of his own as Harry vocalized his reaction to the touch. When his teeth had pierced the skin and slid into the artery, Draco had all but passed out from the sheer pleasure that crashed over him.

It had been too much. It suddenly felt wrong to do this when Harry was unaware. It was too close to rape, and Draco never wanted to hurt this man. Using all the force of his will and drawing upon reserves of self-control he had not known he possessed, the wizard had drawn back. It had felt almost like ripping himself in two. The vampire had not wanted to lose its prize, but the wizard had rebelled, and won. Draco had found himself lying on the floor next to Harry’s bed, shaking so hard that he could not stand. He’d healed the bite and then dragged himself to the window and pulled himself up to sit on the sill as Harry’s vision continued. It had been quite a show, and though the noble part of him had wanted to leave, Draco had been unable to stop himself from watching. When Harry had finally climaxed, screaming Draco’s name, the Slytherin had known that the time for flirting was over.

Draco dropped his head into his hands. He would reveal the secret tonight. Would Harry be receptive? Would he understand the depth of Draco’s feelings for him? Or would he feel betrayed? Used? Could Draco even argue that he hadn’t been? He fisted his hands in his hair and tried to calm down. Irrespective of possible outcomes, the offer would be made. He only hoped that he was strong enough to accept the answer in whatever form it came.

*******

Harry’s mind was made up. A serious talk was in order. Harry wanted his relationship with Malfoy to progress. He felt like he was flying when he was in Draco’s arms. He missed him so much that it hurt when they were apart. He was content to listen to the Slytherin’s voice for hours or to sit silently by his side as he studied. He wanted Draco to be happy and knew beyond doubt that he would sacrifice anything to keep him safe. In short, Harry was in love, and he planned to make the declaration that night.

It was with this thought in mind that Harry told Ron he was not interested in playing wizard chess. “I’m actually not feeling very well, Ron,” Harry lied. “I think I’ll go take a shower and then go to bed. Please tell everyone goodnight for me.”

“Sure, Harry,” Ron said sympathetically, “Can I get you anything, mate?”

Harry felt a moment of guilt but pushed the feeling aside at the thought of spending most of the night with Draco. “Thanks Ron, really, but I think I just need some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Ron nodded and Harry went to take a very thorough shower. He then returned to his room, found it thankfully empty and changed into tight muggle jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Hermione had once told him that he looked “hot” in this get-up. He hoped she was right.

After giving himself a perfunctory look in the mirror and deciding that there was no hope for his hair, he turned to his bed. Harry carefully pulled the bed curtains shut and spelled them to remain so. He cast a charm that would allow someone who listened closely to hear soft breathing. The final spell was a repelling charm that would cause anyone who actually touched his bed to have a sudden need to run to the restroom. Crude, perhaps, but effective. With that done, Harry pulled his invisibility cloak over himself and walked carefully down the stairs.

Pushed flat against the wall, Harry waited for someone to open the portrait hole. He could not do it himself. This was a wizarding school after all, people were suspicious of things that moved by themselves and were quick to attribute such occurrences to intent rather than happenstance. Besides which, Harry had friends that knew about his cloak, and doors opening by themselves would cause immediate suspicion and lead to hurt feelings.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was only twenty minutes, Ginny Weasley declared that she had left her book in the library and got up to retrieve it. Harry cheered silently. A moment later, he cautiously followed her out as she left the common room.

******

The trip to the dungeons had never been quick, but it seemed to drag interminably tonight as Harry tried to simultaneously make haste and be silent. His blood was singing and he was eager to see the man he loved, the man he hoped to make his lover.

Harry whispered the word and walked into Draco’s room unannounced. He was startled to find the blond sitting near the fireplace with his head in his hands. Since he did not move Harry assumed that Draco had not heard the door. He walked softly to the chair and then knelt before it. “Headache, love?” he asked as Draco jumped, “I can help make you forget it.”

Draco sat up and smoothed his cloak, erasing the emotion on his face as he did so. “I didn’t hear you. Lost in thought. Are you early?”

Harry smiled. Draco very rarely spoke in fragmented sentences. “A little,” he admitted, “do you mind?”

Draco stood and drew Harry to him. “No,” he said, “I don’t mind.”

******

Draco sighed and fabric whispered as it slid from his body to the floor. Harry was undressing him, slowly revealing him. Tonight the kisses tasted richer somehow, as if Harry had drunk an exotic wine. Perhaps he was simply pouring more of himself into them, feeding Draco his essence through the portal of his mouth. He opened his eyes when the lips on his moved again, making the kisses shallow and then trailing softly across his cheekbone, to the pulse-point in his neck. When Harry licked the same spot that Draco’s teeth had known on the Gryffindor himself, he dropped his head back, moaning and digging his fingers into Harry’s back.

Harry’s hands were everywhere - on his chest, his back, caressing his cheek and twining in his hair. “Harry!” he gasped as a tongue circled his nipple before drawing it into a hot mouth. He brought his own fingers up to touch the soft inky strands the fell over Harry’s scar. “Oh. You. Yes!” A chuckle rose from the man suckling his chest and Draco closed his eyes again gave in to the sensation.

Harry had drawn him to the bed, first stepping back to let his gaze travel over Draco’s body. That pause had allowed Draco to do the same. His mouth had gone dry as he looked at Harry, clad in tight clothes that left little to the imagination. When Harry had pulled on his hand Draco had gone willingly, and now they lay entangled on his rumpled duvet.

Never before had the Gryffindor taken the lead. He had hinted, suggested, tried to be coy, but he had always let Draco take control. Draco assumed that he was a virgin, would have laid bets on it in fact. Tonight, however, Harry was clearly the aggressor.

“Ah!! Merlin!” Harry’s mouth had moved to the other nipple, which he was now nibbling upon. Draco’s back arched at the sweet pleasure-pain, and he was suddenly acutely aware of exactly how tight his pants had become.

The sensation eased and moved and as small nips traveled across his torso Draco watched, unable to tear his eyes away. Suddenly Harry looked up. The hand on his chest slid down, slowly, to caress Draco through the taut cloth, and Harry smiled licentiously. “I’ve always wanted to make you lose control. I want to make you writhe. I want you call my name as you come. To make me yours.” While Harry spoke these words he unlaced Draco’s trousers. The blond was gasping. When a hand finally slipped in and wrapped around his erection as Harry spoke the word “yours”, Draco grabbed hard that the frayed edges of his control.

“Stop,” he choked. “Please, Harry.” He was panting and trying not to thrust into the fingers that held him so intimately.

Harry looked shocked and a little hurt, “Draco? Why? I know you want me.” He looked down Malfoy’s body to the flesh in his hand.

“Yes.” Draco breathed. “Yes. I do. I want you so much it hurts. But Harry, I want to talk about this first. I want..” he broke of with what was almost a sob as Harry stroked him softly, apparently unwilling to stop his ministrations.

After a moment of trying to force blood back to his brain, Draco tried again. Meeting the emerald depths, he said, “Please! Please? Just for a few minutes.”

Harry looked disappointed and frustrated but the hurt was gone. He carefully removed his hand, tucked Draco back in, and re-laced his trousers. That action almost caused the blond lose the small amount of control that remained. He closed his eyes, held his breath and concentrated on potion ingredients until Harry had stopped touching him. By Salazar, this was hard! Er, difficult.

******

Harry had enjoyed turning Draco into a shuddering mass. He wanted to continue, very much. Still, Draco had said please. Three times!! Whatever it was must be important. Harry sighed and stretched out on his side near Draco. Then he waited and watched with some satisfaction as the other young man struggled to regain his composure.

When Draco finally slowed his breathing and rolled to look at Harry the silver gaze was a little glazed. “Sorry,” Harry said, completely untruthfully, “you just taste so good.” He waggled his eyebrows and ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. “Sure you won’t let me continue?”

Draco groaned. “Harry. I want to have a serious conversation. You are not helping.”

Harry shrugged unrepentantly and then nodded. He decided to alter his position and try to pull his mind out of his trousers. When he had his back against Draco’s headboard he said, “Okay. I’m sorry. Talk. I’ll pay attention, I promise.”

Draco sat as well, crossing his legs and positioning himself so that they were sitting face to face on the bed. He took a deep breath, then another. He said nothing, but caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Harry watched his hands. Draco seemed to be unable to decide what to do with them; first he laced his fingers, then he clenched them into fists, then he crossed his wrists and drummed his fingers. Never once did Draco meet his eyes, even when Harry tilted his head to the side and leaned forward a bit in an attempt to capture them.

Harry was suddenly more than a little apprehensive. “What is it? You can tell me anything, you know.” Harry took a deep breath himself, and when Draco still remained silent he reached for one his hands. “Alright. I have something to tell you as well. Should I go first?” He paused for the barest second. “I love you.”

Harry watched as Draco’s eyes widened and a sudden smile lit his face. “Oh Harry,” he said, “I love you too. So much. That’s why I wanted to talk to you before we took this further.” The smile faltered a bit, and he looked hesitant. Harry squeezed his fingers and nodded to let him know that he could go on. “There are some things about me that you need to know, that you have the right to know.”

Over the next twenty minutes Harry listened with growing horror to the story that Draco told him. When he mentioned that he was a vampire Harry laughed, until Draco closed his eyes and then extended his fangs. Harry stopped laughing. The story continued.

Draco told him about the history of the “secret”, then about “tasting”, and Harry began to feel ashamed. Had Draco witnessed his dreams? Had he caused them? Had he created them? Was it all fake?

He said nothing, but he let go of Draco’s hands. The blond looked hurt and wary but did not stop. Harry wondered peripherally how Draco even managed to breathe. He spoke in one continuous flow, obviously designed not to give Harry any chance to interrupt. Harry did not try. He didn’t know what to say. Pain was starting to build behind his breast bone and it was quickly being replaced by anger.

When Draco got to the point about the “bond” Harry went cold. “All mates of our bloodline forge such a bond. You see, the bonded mate of a vampire can provide an endless supply of blood for his or her mate. It’s not all one-sided, however, the mate receives strength, an increased immune system and some powerful protection. You seem to be taking this very well. I was afraid that you wouldn’t.”

Here Draco paused to take a breath and Harry flung himself off of the bed as the anger that had been building erupted.

*******

The color had slowly drained from Harry’s face, and he’d let go of Draco’s hands, but he had listened intently. Draco had been sure that this was going better than expected. He had no indication of the storm that was coming, until it broke upon him. He turned, his eyes widening as he watched Harry grab his wand and cloak and turn to leave. Then he changed his mind. Flinging the items to the floor, Harry rounded on Draco.

“SO IT WAS ALL A LIE?!?” Harry’s face was very pale, causing the hair on his forehead to stand out like splashed ink.

He shook his head and held up his hand when Draco tried to interject. “Don’t bother! I thought that for once that I had found something that was mine! That belonged to just HARRY! I thought for once I was good enough, was wanted for who I was on the inside. I should have known better!”

Harry began pacing back and forth across the room, yelling. “I’ve been used since before I was old enough to speak, Draco! Do you have ANY idea what that feels like? First I lose my parents because of some stupid prophesy! Then I’m hated and loved for something I can’t even remember. I’m alternately portrayed as a nutcase or the ‘only hope for our world’. The Dursley’s used me as a slave for years! And Dumbledore sees me as his own personal weapon!” Harry’s voice had gotten progressively more strident and he was now throwing the words at Draco like knives.

Harry stopped pacing and walked over to stand inches from Draco, who had stood to go to him and then stopped, unsure how to make this better.

“And you???” Harry snarled, “What the hell was all of this about? If you only wanted my blood; if you had the means to take it; if you took it ALREADY; then why the whole act? Why even bother to pretend that there was more? Why not just take me and use me as you saw fit?” The rest of the statement ‘just like everybody else’ was not spoken aloud, but Draco heard it nonetheless.

Draco reached for him, “I didn’t---”

“SHUT UP!!!” Harry pushed him, hard, and Draco stumbled backwards, caught his foot on the edge of the rug and fell in a very undignified heap.

“It’s not the first time. Did you know that? Or was that the whole point? Did Voldemort tell you how useful HE found my blood?”

“No! What—???” Horrified, Draco spoke again but his words were lost in the vitriol still pouring from Harry.

“Voldemort orchestrated the whole Triwizard Tournament for that very reason. He had Cedric killed - in front of me; had me tied to the headstone of his dead father; and then forcibly took my blood to use for his rebirth. THEN, after my vital fluids had managed to restore the evil bastard, he called his Death Eaters. Your father was there, by the way. But I’m sure you knew that. Didn’t you? Voldemort laughed at me, tortured me for sport, and tried to kill me. How convenient for YOU that I managed to survive.”

Draco was appalled. He felt sick, and knew his mouth had fallen open but he could not seem to close it. Harry walked over to him and stood, towering above him as he finished his diatribe.

“It must have been such a fun story for you to hear. Harry Potter, ‘Hero of the Wizarding World’, brings the Dark Lord back to life. ‘Great blood, that one. Perfect for an all-you-can-eat buffet.’ How you must have laughed.” Harry’s voice broke on the last word, and there were tears streaming down his face.

Draco rose to his knees and met Harry’s pain-filled gaze. “I didn’t know any of that!!!! I swear! I’m not trying to use you. I’m sorry! Please? It wasn’t a game. Don’t you know how I feel, Harry? I love yo...” He never got the chance to finish that sentence. Pain exploded through his head and then everything went black.

***********

Some time later Draco woke on the floor of his room. He sat up quickly and winced as his head spun. He gently fingered his now swollen left cheek, and then the memories crashed back, flooding him with images - color draining away leaving Harry’s face pale, the disbelief and horror and hurt that had chased themselves though the green eyes, the anger, words pummeling Draco like fists, tears on Harry’s cheeks, his own pathetic attempt to explain, then pain and darkness.

He pushed himself slowly to his feet and walked across to the mirror over his dresser. “Well Malfoy,” he drawled to his expression, “that went well.” His eyes traveled over his own visage, noting the purpling skin. Draco would have a beauty of a black eye by morning. When he noted the thin trail of blood from a small cut above his cheekbone (had Harry been wearing a ring?) his fangs extended. Draco examined himself critically in this state, bruised but still, and possessing both fierce magic and deadly weapons. “And I wonder that he left?” Draco turned away and walked to his closet.

Moments later, wearing his dark traveling cloak and supple gray boots, he picked up his wand and left the room. It was dark in the passage, but he had followed it frequently and the light from his wand was sufficient. Guessing that it was just after midnight, the vampire walked along the shore of the lake and then beside the forest until he came to the gates of the school.

Draco’s father had made sure that he knew the secret to evading detection when wandering the school or the grounds - exorbitantly priced Scotch. Filch had a taste for it, and would willingly turn a blind eye to any who would feed his habit.

The moment Draco passed beneath the iron arch he disappeared. He did not have his apparating licence but that had never stopped him from going home when he wanted to. Lucius had taught his son to apparate at nine, and he was fully capable by eleven. In a mere moment the Malfoy heir appeared outside the gates to his family home.

Malfoy Manor sat on a vast estate. There were sweeping lawns, gardens, part of a forest, and a lake. The serpent on the gate hissed a welcome to him. The seal parted and the two halves swung apart. The Master was home. Hunching his shoulders Draco walked onto his grounds. As he disappeared into the darkness, the gates swung silently shut behind him.

Draco had spent his youth in this place. His father had been away often but when he was home his attention had focused on his family. Draco had been taught to dance and to fence and to fight. He had been tutored in the arts of casting curses and weaving enchantments, and he had been given a love of all beautiful things. Draco had become an expert horseman at his father’s side as they rode their regal Arabians over the vast acreage of the manor. His father may have been many things, some dark and evil, but he was a good father. Draco longed to see him.

The young man walked down the drive toward the house for perhaps a half kilometer before turning into a charming narrow passage lined by tall black poplars, with branches meeting overhead. They were poplar trees. The track twisted sinuously back and forth. It’s destination lay deep within the Manor grounds and no person without Malfoy blood or accompaniment could get there.

Fifteen minutes later the path brought him to his journey’s end. Draco walked softly towards the white marble obelisk gleaming in the moonlight. He approached from one side and edged forward until he was standing in front of a rounded block of stone that served as a bench.

Lucius Malfoy

Damnant quod non intelligunt

The words were engraved and inset with silver. “They condemn what they do not understand”. A fitting epitaph for the man who had been his father.

Stepping back he sank down until he was sitting on the ground. Draco leaned back against the cold marble and thought of his beloved father. To the world he had been an enigma; to some a monster, to others a philanthropist. He knew that his father’s enemies had considered his charitable gifts to be elaborate bribes, but Draco had often wondered if Lucius gave so freely of his money as much to buy forgiveness as to curry favor.

Draco closed his eyes and remembered. It had been over a year since the burial, more than two since he had heard his father’s voice, felt the touch of his father’s hand on his shoulder. He wondered again what it must have been like for his beautiful, proud father to suffer such an inauspicious fate. To die in prison. He imagined him lying in rags, nightmares crashing over him as the sanguicolous hunger ate at him with every beat of his heart, pounding in his head and feeding itself on his flesh. Had he descending into madness as so many did in that place? Draco hoped so. It hurt less when he could convince himself that the cunning mind had gone and left only an insensate body behind. However, Draco doubted that fate would have been so kind. Had he held out any hope at all? Had he fought the nightmares? Had he cried out for his dear wife, for the son he loved, as he lay dying in the darkness? Would he have altered the choices he made if he had been given the chance to do it all again?

Draco raised a pale hand and brushed at his eyes, then he stood, “Where you really a monster, father, or did you just make choices that were irreversible?” He sighed, prodding gently at his painful eye, “Am I a monster? Is the secret really a gift, or are we it’s slaves? Did you know you know you would be his slave when you allied yourself with the Dark Lord?”

Draco paused again and looked around at the beautifully tended plots. Such care taken for those whose eyes would never see again. “Is the strength and the power worth the price? The price you paid for your master was too high, and you did not pay alone. Would you have me become like him? Bind another to me in darkness and pain? Shall I listen to the hunger that wants to use me for itself, for its own gain?” Draco’s voice broke. “I never wanted that.” Another long moment, and then, spoken softly as the breeze from butterfly wings, “I miss you.”

Draco wondered what a passerby would think, should they stumble upon an elegantly dressed young man with a bruised face talking to a piece of marble. He wrapped his arms around his waist and held himself against the coldness of the night, and the ache in his heart. He stood, watching the moonlight play against the silver of the letters on the stone. Perhaps some things needed darkness to shine brightly.

“Forgive me father. I want the one thing you had that you always told me was beyond price. ‘Lux tua vita mihi.’ Your most precious blessing, you called her. I want someone who ‘loves me well’,” he paused and pondered the image of his mother as he now always pictured her, standing in this very spot, dressed for mourning and with jewel-bright tears running silently down her face. “She mourns you still.”

He walked away for a moment, into the gardens, and plucked one long, dark, perfect flower. As he laid it upon the grave he spoke again, “I love him father, the one you sought to destroy. I could take him, use the power of the blood to chain him to me and bend him to my will. I could become the monster.”

The stars wandered across the night sky as he stood, looking at the ground, at the place where a hulk of flesh lay moldering in the soil. His father was not there, or at least he hoped he was not, but perhaps somewhere he heard and could still touch the son that needed him. A gust of wind encircled him, moving his cloak and lifting his hair. As what almost felt like a kiss brushed his cheek, Draco made his decision. He knew in that moment, deep in the midst of darkness and despair that he had been loved, beyond all else, and that his father would not have sacrificed him - should all the hounds of hell have bayed at his door. “But I shall not.”

With sudden calm Draco walked to the stone and laid his cheek against it; then, turning, he walked back down the path. At the gate he vanished into the spell that would take him back to school.

*******

Harry woke only when Ron finally shook him. “If you don’t get up NOW mate, you are going to miss Transfigurations and McGonagall will not be pleased. You already slept through breakfast.”

Harry yawned, reached automatically for his glasses and winced as he closed his right hand. He sat up, put on his glasses and examined his fist. It hurt, the knuckles were bruised and raw - as if he had hit something. He searched his mind for an instance when that could have happened but came up blank. He next noticed that he had one heck of a headache and his throat was sore.

“Harry!!!” Ron yelled from the doorway.

“Yeah, Ron,” Harry groaned, “I’m coming.” He decided that he would worry about his physical ailments later and rushed to get ready for class.

******

His decision made, Draco returned to his room and slept. He did not bother with breakfast or lunch, even skipping his first class. It was the Potions class that mattered today.

He entered the classroom early, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle. He did not want to have to explain his appearance to Snape so he immediately took a seat at the front and buried his head in a book. Harry would not remember last night. He had rejected the offer, rejected Draco; and although the Gryffindor would not recall, Draco intended to help him achieve his goal. After today Harry would leave him alone.

Draco’s heart ached far more than his face. He had not healed it because it would be a critical prop. He wondered how much of the night Harry would lose. Would he remember telling Draco that he loved him? Would he remember the way their passion had felt? Would Harry miss Draco when this was done?

All through class his neck burned, and Draco knew whose eyes were fixed upon him. Soon they would look no more. Words from Shakespeare flitted through his head again - too much time at his father’s crypt, he supposed. ‘Qui me alit me extinguit - who feeds me puts me out.’ Even the Bard mocked him.

******

When Harry had finally made it to the bathroom he’d noted that he was wearing clothes, not pajamas. The sight of the clothes had filled his veins with ice. He had been wearing tight jeans and a white T-shirt. He had remembered picking out this outfit and hoping that Draco would approve. He had thought hard and found that he could not remember much of anything that happened after he had reached the dungeons. He’d seen Draco, gone to him, kissed him and then - nothing.

Harry had rushed to Transfigurations and tried to concentrate on the lesson, but he found his attention shifting time and again to last night. He had gone down there with the intention of declaring his feelings and hopefully seducing the blond, but if that had happened he would have remembered. Surely, he would have remembered.

Harry had looked for him at lunch, but there had been no sign of blond hair at the Slytherin table. It was Friday, however, and Draco would be in Potions.

Now, as he sat struggling to pretend to care about Snape’s lecture he could not tear his eyes from Draco’s pale head. The Slytherin sat so still that at times Harry wondered if he was breathing. He was leaning forward, his hair unencumbered and falling over his face. Harry longed to see his smile. There was a sense of unease deep in the pit of his stomach that he did not understand. It felt like loss.

He finally gave up the staring, realizing that Draco was not going to turn. Harry would simply have to catch him after class.

******

Finally the lesson was over and Harry threw everything in his bag, careless of the bottles and packets that clattered down on one another. He was in the hallway before any other student and he waited off to the side for Draco to appear.

When he saw Ron step out of the room and look the other way, Harry hid himself behind a nearby suit of armor. He would not explain his lurking and he did not want to lie.

Draco came out by himself and turned to walk down the corridor in which Harry stood hidden. This passage led to the room of the Head Boy.

“Draco?” Harry began and then stopped short in dismay as the blond drew even with him and he saw his face for the first time that day. “My God!” he gasped, “What happened?”

The eyes that met Harry’s were cold and shuttered and flat. “Not here,” Draco said, and continued to walk, not looking to see if Harry followed.

When they were once again in the room where they had shared their first kiss, Harry reached for Draco.

Draco backed away quickly, flinching. Something flashed in his eyes that could have been anger. “What do you want, Potter?” Draco spat. “I think I’m very clear on your ‘message’”. When he said that last word he indicated his face.

Harry looked again at the sight that had sickened him in the hallway. Draco’s handsome face was stained by a huge bruise. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. There was a cut on his cheekbone and purple-black hemorrhage extending from his temple nearly to his jaw line. Harry shook his head, “Draco, my God, what happened? Who did this to you?”

Draco shook his head, as if in disbelief. “You mean you don’t remember?” Malfoy sneered. His voice was so cold that Harry flinched. “Taken up drinking have you? Who did this? Save me from fools!”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said softly.

“Your fist seemed to understand well enough last night. You made your feelings perfectly clear. I’m a monster, you want nothing to do with me. Come to find out if I cried?” The upper lip curled derisively, marring the beautiful face and turning it into a mask of hatred. “It’s just lucky for you that you knocked me out Potter, or I would have shown you some real hexes.”

Harry was confused and feelings of guilt were blossoming quickly. It was a very ugly bruise. Could he have actually done that? Harry looked down at the knuckles of his right hand and suddenly knew exactly why they hurt so much. “Draco, I’m sorry! I don’t . . .”

“You no longer have permission to call me Draco,” the furious wizard told him. “In fact, don’t call me anything. Just stay the hell away from me, Potter.”

Harry slumped against the wall as the man he loved turned on a booted heel and swept from the room.

********

It had been nearly four months since that incident in the dungeons. Four months since he had last been alone with Draco. Four months in which to remember what had happened, what could possibly have made him hit the man he loved. Harry could not remember, and it tormented him. He mourned for what he had lost, what he had clearly driven away.

“Harry?” Hermione said softly, “Won’t you come to Hagrid’s with us? He’s invited us for tea. I expect he wants to give you and Ron some pointers for the match tomorrow.”

Harry simply shook his head. He couldn’t face Hagrid, couldn’t be in that cabin with the big smiling man who thought he was a hero. He couldn’t laugh and smile and pretend that everything was fine. Nothing was fine. It was likely that nothing would ever be fine again.

Hermione watched as the thoughts flickered through his eyes and then she hugged him close. “Okay, Harry. You know I love you, don’t you? I’ll help you if you’ll only tell me how.”

Harry did not return the hug, although he appreciated the gesture. “Thanks Herm. I know. Tell Ron and Hagrid; well, tell them something. Okay?”

“Sure, Harry.”

As he watched his smart, compassionate friend walk out of the Common Room, Harry sighed. He knew that she would help him. He had thought of talking to her so many times. Ron would never understand, but Hermione could see past old grudges. She had come to have a quiet respect for the boy who shared Head duties with her. She would have tried to make things better, but Harry could not bear to talk to her about Draco. How could he explain what had happened when he did not know himself? How could he tell her that he was a monster? That he was dangerous? He had told her those last things before, but she did not believe them. Harry knew them to be true - he was the monster; a careless, selfish boy who brought harm to all those he loved. He was destined to be a killer. No wonder Draco had fled - it was not as if he hadn’t had reason.

Since that horrible afternoon Draco had gone out of his way to never be alone with Harry. He had not reverted to insulting him and picking fights as he had in the past. Now Draco simply refused to acknowledge that Harry existed at all. They never spoke. Harry had approached him on a number of occasions but was always rebuffed. He had even gone to Draco’s room one night. The password had been changed and he dared not bang. Draco would not have opened to him, and Filch had excellent hearing.

Harry was alone. Even the dreams had stopped, though he often sought them, exhorting the heavens to at least send him dreams of his love if he could not have the man himself. They did not come. He had never felt so completely alone in his life, not even during the years he spent in the cupboard. He had given his heart to someone else but found, to his dismay, that it was entirely possible to live without one’s heart.

So he watched from afar. Draco was not looking good. He had gotten so very thin, but perhaps that was simply Harry’s perception. It had become second nature to seek out the blond head, a flash of silver, in every room he entered; to watch enviously as Draco talked to others, and to feel pain like the slice of a blade if the Slytherin smiled at someone or laughed with them.

Tomorrow Gryffindor would play Slytherin, and he would be closer than he had been to Draco in months. Close to him? In the air in front of hundreds of people, but still Harry looked forward to the match.

******

Draco wondered if the match was ever going to end. He should not be on a broom. Sixty-three minutes in the air and he felt as if he was frozen to the wood. He had about as much chance of catching the snitch as he did of being named Muggle of the Year.

It did not help at all that this was the match against Gryffindor. He did not want to fly near Harry. He was in enough pain without that. He was cold and distracted and tired and he simply wanted to go back to his room and his fire. Perhaps this was why he did not see the bludger.

******

Harry was at least seventy feet above the ground and a good fifty feet above Draco, but he was paying attention to the match. He had seen the snitch twice but had not gone after it. His team was winning and he was unwilling to so easily give up his reason to watch Draco. One seeker is expected to keep an eye on the other. He could stare at will, drinking in his every movement, and no one would think it strange. Draco, however, was not looking up to form. He seemed tired and he flew without his customary grace. Harry was starting to think that he would have to consider ending this game soon after all, when he saw the bludger.

The brown missile was hit towards the Slytherin seeker by one of Harry’s teammates. Even as he began to fly downward he noted who the player was and promised himself that he would deal with him later. Hitting a bludger at a seeker who was not chasing the snitch was a foul. Seconds later all thoughts of fouls left his head as the projectile slammed into the tail of Draco’s broom and the blond seeker slid silently off and began to fall.

Harry hurtled toward the ground, moving faster than should have been possible. He’d still been far above Draco when he fell, but he almost beat him to the ground - almost caught him. He was close enough to hear the sickening sound of bone breaking and the wet thud made by a body hitting the ground very hard.

Harry was on his knees beside the boy in an instant. “Draco,” he said, carefully gathering the slight body into his arms. “It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. Madam Pomfrey will fix you right up.” Even as he said these words he noted the sunken cheeks, the greyness of the skin and the limpness of what had once been silken hair. “Draco,” he said again as fear began to grow in him.

The pale lashes fluttered and Harry found himself looking into flat leaden eyes. There was no sparkle, no anger, not even pain. Harry was suddenly terrified.

“Harry?” Draco whispered.

“Yes, I’m here. Everything is going to be okay.”

The blond head flopped listlessly. “No, Harry,” he wheezed, “I never wanted to hurt you. I-I’m sorry.” He stopped speaking to breathe, and Harry’s throat began to close.

“Someone help me!!” Harry yelled, but Draco pulled on his cloak and Harry looked back down.

“You were right. I was a monster, but I stopped. I- ” The last words were gasped and then the eyes closed again as Draco slid into unconsciousness.

******

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, you’ve awoken. Excellent!”

Draco opened his eyes to find that he was staring at the white ceiling of the infirmary and the concerned face of Madam Pomfrey. He sat up slowly and raised an eyebrow in her direction.

“You received a compound fracture of the tibia and a slight concussion as the result of your fall. Those injuries I have healed. The true cause of said fall, however, is still in question. I have examined you thoroughly, Mr. Malfoy, and I can find nothing physically wrong with you. Nevertheless, I have eyes, and it is evident that you are extremely ill. I would say that you were suffering from malnutrition, but the tests indicate otherwise. You are excruciatingly thin, and it appears that you are bleeding magic.”

Draco sighed. “I’m not surprised that I look a little the worse for wear after such a fall. Thank you for healing me. I’m sure that all I need is some rest. I’ll just return to my room and do that.” As he was speaking Draco stood, picked his cloak and robe off the chair and donned them quickly.

“Stop this instant Mr. Malfoy!” the healing witch ordered. “You are to get back on that bed and lie down. I will not have a student wandering the hallways in such a state. You are likely to collapse.” When Draco made no move to follow her command she placed a hand on his chest and one on his shoulder and gently pushed him back onto the bed. He did not resist.

She looked sternly at him, and when she seemed convinced that he would not get up again, she continued. “Please tell me if you have noticed any symptoms. Have you been feeling unwell? Have you been eating? Have you come across anything unusual that may have resulted in your current state?”

“Truly,” Draco said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “I’m not unwell. I am naturally slender, as are my parents. I feel fine. You said yourself that your tests revealed nothing.”

The healing witch frowned at him. “Be that as it may,” she said firmly, “I trust my eyes and my instincts. I wish to keep you here, at least overnight, for observation. I also intend to contact your mother.”

“NO!” Draco sprang from the bed. “I am not sick! You must not disturb my mother. She does not need to be distressed by ill-founded concerns over my health.” His silver eyes were flashing dangerously, although he did not know this. The witch looked at him in alarm for a moment before resolution hardened her features and she raised her wand.

“You are not going anywhere, Mr. Malfoy, until I am satisfied about the state of your health. Get. Back. In. That. Bed.” She advanced on him and Draco knew that there was going to be no arguing, so he decided to tell her the literal truth. The secret would protect itself and he could think of no other way to extract himself from this situation without violence or expulsion or both. Draco sat.

“You wish to know the real reason behind the state of my health? Fine. I will enlighten you.”

Draco boldly met the gaze of the older witch and held it. Then he extended his fangs and waited for the gasp or the scream or the horror that would follow. He got none of those reactions, merely a slight intake of breath and a look of dawning understanding. Draco continued, “I am a vampire, Madam Pomfrey. Some time ago I attempted to bond with someone, but they were unwilling. I have sought no other. My mother’s blood, of late, tastes like ashes to me and does me no good. In short, I believe I am starving, although not from lack of food.”

The older witch reached out and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, which action caught him completely by surprise. “How can I help you? Is there no other who would do? Can I provide you with donated blood?”

Draco shook his head. “No, ma’am. There is nothing that you need to do, although I thank you for your kindness.” He moved as if to rise but she pressed down on his shoulder and blocked him.

“Mr. Malfoy - Draco - you do understand that if you continue on this way you will most likely die? I don’t fully comprehend your condition, but it is not only your body that is weakening, your magic is draining away as well.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “But that is not your concern. I will claim no other than one that I love, one that loves me, and I will not prey long-term upon the unwilling or the unsuspecting. I do have standards, and morals, after my own fashion. Please. Just let me leave. No one will blame you, in fact you yourself will not remember this conversation. The secret will see to that.” The last words were spoken with a great deal of bitterness, but the bitterness was not directed at her.

“I cannot do that,” the witch stated firmly. “You must let me help you. You are too young, and too gifted to throw away your life.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, in one fluid motion he stood and lifted the witch as if she were made of paper. He tossed her, carefully, across the aisle toward a bed, and she landed on it with a startled whump. Draco watched long enough to make sure she was not harmed and then turned to the door. “Forgive me, but I would not spend what time I have in this place.” With that he turned on his heel, and left the infirmary and a very solemn healer behind him.

*****

As Draco left the hospital wing an invisible figured slumped to the floor. Harry had gotten away from his teammates as quickly as he could without causing undue concern and then he had fetched his cloak. Once concealed, he had run headlong toward the infirmary as Draco’s words echoed in his ears. Something was terribly wrong.

Harry had arrived in time to hear the argument ­ had entered the room just as Madam Pomfrey was casting the “enervate” spell that woke him. Now Harry wrapped invisible hands around his knees and buried his head in his arms. He was shaking and knew that he was only an inch from tears ­ great wracking sobs that would give him away, without question. He concentrated hard on his breathing and willed the nurse to leave.

After a few moments Madam Pomfrey stood, shook her head as if to clear it and straightened the bed she was on. As she walked across the room she began to hum softly. She remade Draco’s bed and put away her supplies, face smooth and unconcerned.

Harry saw none of this, but he heard the door close when she left the room and he was on his feet in an instant. He opened the door a crack, checked for passersby and then moved quickly and quietly to leave the castle. He crossed the grounds to the Whomping Willow and stilled its branches with a stick. When he was finally in the tunnel he threw the cloak off, wrapped it in his arms and ran as if the furies themselves were chasing him.

He was soon climbing the ladder, then the stairs. In a very short time he was once again in the dust-covered room with the broken bed and its faded red cover. Here, alone, away from any who could overhear or judge or interrupt he flung himself on the mattress, buried his face in his father’s cloak and wept.

*******

The liquor reminded him of the green eyes of the boy who had held him on quidditch pitch. Draco hurt, but after months of denial the pains of the hunger, though excruciating, were commonplace. He no longer had to cast time-release spells on himself to keep from rising in the night and seeking out some anonymous “tastee”; or, more accurately, from seeking out Harry. He knew that his father would not approve. He knew that this would break his mother’s heart, but he could no longer find the inclination to care.

The decision made at his father’s grave had been final. Draco Malfoy would not settle, and Malfoys had never stooped to begging. He loved Harry, and that feeling was his, and his alone. No one could take it from him, not even Harry himself. Draco would guard his lover even if it cost him everything.

“An artist’s drink” he spoke, swirling the green liquid and holding the glass so that the fire shone through it. “And I am starving. I wonder if that makes me an artist.” He laughed softly at his own musings, a hollow, humorless sound. He was getting drunk, again. Drink eased the pain, both the pain caused by the secret eating his flesh and by the heartache racking his soul. A little wormwood would do no harm at this point. Poisoned or starved or pierced through the heart the results were the same.

*******

How long he lay sobbing Harry did not know. When the tears finally ceased, his head hurt, as did his throat, but what hurt the most was his heart. He was out of tears. The pain of what he had seen, what he had remembered, still remained.

Harry rose and stared at the spot where he had knocked Sirius to the ground so long ago. So many mistakes he’d made. So much that could not now be taken back. Sirius was gone. Harry would never live with him, never rejoice with him when his name was cleared, never hear stories of his father from one who had known him well, never do any of those things. He’d been hasty and careless and Sirius had paid the price.

Months ago he had done it again. He had been hasty, had reacted without thinking, considering only his own pain, and now Draco was paying. The one he loved was dying. And it was Harry’s fault. Again.

“No,” Harry spoke aloud to the dust and the memories that lived in this place. “Not again. Not this time. This time I can stop it. I can make a new choice. I can think it all through and act, rather than reacting. I can save him.”

Harry paced around the room, leaving swirling dust devils in his wake. He had remembered, remembered everything. When Draco had extended his fangs the memories had simply reappeared, crystalizing into solid pictures. He had gasped as the emotions that accompanied them filled him. Fortunately the two visible inhabitants of the room had been speaking and had not heard.

He remembered, as clearly as if he had lived it all again in an instant - the warmth of Draco’s skin, the taste of his kisses, the shock that Harry felt as the story began to unfold, his own self-loathing rising to stab him when he assumed that Draco did not have feelings for Harry but only use, his own anger - bitter in his throat, the look in Draco’s eyes (how could he have forgotten that look?) right before Harry had knocked him cold.

It was the look that haunted him now, that left him reeling. Draco had been on his knees, hands outstretched, horror and sorrow and love flashing like quicksilver in his eyes. Draco had been saying something but the Harry of the memory had not heard, had only been able to hear the rushing of blood in his ears and the echos of taunts long past from relatives who had only ever told him he was worthless.

It came clear in a flash and Harry found he had to sit again. Any residual anger or betrayal was washed away by the words the blond had spoken. The words of months ago ran through Harry’s suddenly clear head and were echoed again by words spoken only a short time ago.. “I love yo--” “­claim no other than one that I love--”

“I’m so stupid!! I was so stupid! I had what I wanted, someone who loved me, who may love me still, and I hurt him and betrayed him and left him to die.” Harry blinked hard and knew he would have wept again had there been any more tears to shed.

It should have been simple. Harry loved Draco, beyond all else. If Draco returned that love then it should have been easy. All that was lacking was recognition, followed quickly by happily every after.

Harry snorted as the naivete of those thoughts. And Voldemort should simply give himself up, and Fudge should admit that he was an idiot. Nothing was ever simple.

*****

Draco usually drank wine, deep red like the blood he was now denying himself. Tonight, however, the bitter taste of the liqueur matched his mood. He swirled the liquid in his glass, viridian, like the eyes of the one he loved. It had been worth the pain of the fall to be held in his arms once again.

Draco lifted his drink in silent salute and then drained it, closing his eyes at the burn this caused in his throat.

After a moment he opened them and examined the crystal tumbler in his hands. He turned it over and over and reminisced. The glass was linked to his oldest memories - a soothing fire, the smells of polished leather and cigar smoke, and the hand ruffling his hair that was the characteristic greeting of his grandfather. Augustus Black had died many years ago. He had left everything to his grandson, referring to Draco, in his will, as his “hope for the future”.

“No hope, grandfather. I wonder if you can forgive me.” Draco spoke aloud, to the memories and the ghosts in the room. His eyes showed him nothing, but at times like these he was certain that he was not truly alone. He cradled the glass now. It was not only his legacy, but a reminder of someone else he had loved - and lost.

So much loss. Draco closed his eyes, knowing that he would not sleep. He wanted another drink but lacked the energy and inclination to prepare one to his satisfaction. Drinking never really dulled the pain, only made him morose. He had hoped that perhaps the infusion that leant this drink its flavor would provide a more effective distraction. Lost in melancholy and memories as he was, it was perhaps understandable that when the vision of his love appeared before him he attributed it to loneliness, memory and the mild hallucinogen.

There he stood, the one Draco longed for. He was dressed carelessly in school trousers and a white shirt smeared with dust. His hair was a wild black thicket. And his eyes, green pools behind those glasses, looked at Draco in the way he only did in dreams ­ with love and sorrow, longing and acceptance. The gaze of the apparition pierced him to the heart. He set the glass down carefully on the table, never taking his eyes away from the form in front of him, fearing it would evaporate as suddenly as it had appeared.

“Harry, my love,” he whispered to the ghost, “if only I had the power to make you real, to make you love me, to change what I am.” He held the gaze for only a moment longer and then looked down, closing his eyes against the emotions that could never really belong to him. Perhaps the Absinthe had not been a good idea after all.

His head slammed against the chair back in reaction to the warm hands that covered his fingers and the kiss that brushed his forehead. When he opened his eyes it was to find his spirit vision made flesh. Harry Potter knelt at his feet.

******

He had initially been unable to speak when he appeared in Draco’s room to find the blond sprawled in a chair, drinking and lost in thought.

Harry had pulled himself together and put a plan into motion upon leaving the Shrieking Shack. He had known that Draco would likely not answer a knock, and so Harry had decided that he would get into the room another way. A quick trip to the kitchen had provided him with the means. Dobby still viewed Harry Potter as his savior and would do anything for him. Harry had asked to speak to the elf alone and had then thrown himself on the Dobby’s mercy. Quite simply, he had begged. House elves can go anywhere in the castle, unobserved. It was Dobby who had sent him into Draco’s room via a type of elf magic like apparition.

Now he knelt and held the hands of the man he had wanted for so long. Harry’s breath had stopped when Draco had raised his eyes and looked at him with such yearning. He did not realize that the blond thought him a vision until he spoke. Now he sought the silver gaze again and spoke himself. “I am real. I do love you! And I don’t want you to change. Can you ever forgive me?”

Draco seemed unable to find any words. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then just looked at Harry as if still not quite believing that he was real.

Harry continued, “If I could change the past I would. I’ve been such a coward. It was killing me to stay away from you but I was so stubborn, so stupid! I never thought that you - that you might not truly hate me. Do you love me still? Despite everything? Will you let me love you, help you, be with you? I only want to be with you, my heart.”

Draco shook his head and blinked, drawing his hands away from Harry. “Ah, Harry. You don’t understand. Please just go. I can’t do this again.” Draco’s eyes had become glassy and he looked down, blinking hard to stay the tears that Harry couldn’t help but see.

Harry gently raised Draco’s chin with his hand and forced him to meet his eyes. “I do understand. Everything. I followed you to the infirmary, as soon as I could get away, under my cloak. I heard the discussion with Pomfrey, and then I remembered. All of it. The secret, the fight, the words you said to me that I never really heard. I never had time to think, Draco. The memory was taken and I’ve been eaten alive for months trying to remember what happened. Now that I do I can’t tell you how ashamed I am. I’m sorry! So very, very sorry. None of things I said to you were true. I know that now. I know you didn’t want to use me. You’re not a monster. And I love you, more than I could ever say. Please let me help you, be with you. I’ll do anything for you, my love. Anything.”

******

Draco held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity to Harry, then he whispered two words so low that Harry barely heard. But he understood, and his heart started beating hard against his ribs. “Really? Do you really want me to?”

“Yes,” came the answer, spoken softly as a sigh.

Harry smiled and then moved with his seeker’s speed, drawing Draco into his arms. Draco returned his kiss, tasting the salt of his own tears along with the fire that was Harry.

“Bind me to you!” Harry beseeched him.

Draco withdrew and looked at Harry intently. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive? You cannot change your mind once we’ve begun­“

Harry placed a finger against his lover’s lips. “I have never been more certain of anything. I give you my blood - and my heart - freely. Yours forever, if you want them.”

The vampire said no more, simply moved to complete the ritual. After taking a small knife from his pocket he opened Harry’s mouth with his fingers. The slash of the blade on his tongue made Harry jump and he immediately tasted blood. Draco quickly did the same thing to his own mouth and then reached for Harry.

“Sealed with a kiss,” he said, “as are all good fairytales.” Then Draco’s mouth was on his, and Harry surrendered to the kiss. Their blood mingled and Harry was engulfed in sensation, and he gave in and let go.

******

It felt as though the room was spinning. Multicolored lights danced inside the lids of Harry’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. Briefly the sole taste dancing over his tongue was that of their intermingled blood. Then all was replaced by Draco’s own taste - anise and tears and subtle sweetness. The kiss deepened. It was heady and intoxicating and Harry never wanted the moment to end. He could feel the blood tingling enchantment circling and sinking into and through him, and he welcomed it.

When Harry next came back to earth it was to the feeling of a trail of fire traveling up his back. He realized that Draco’s hands had found their way under his shirt and onto his skin, raising gooseflesh and trailing sparks like lightning. His eyes flew open when the kiss was ended suddenly, the embrace broken, but quickly realized that Draco had moved away only so that he could finish divesting Harry of his clothing. In moments he was bare-chested and shivering, but not from cold. Draco moved closer again and Harry’s stomach lurched as Draco’s fingers ran across his abdomen. He found that he urgently wanted there to be fewer impediments between them. He fumbled with the clasp of the cloak at Draco’s neck only for a moment before giving up in frustration. Harry stepped back abruptly and saw Draco’s eyes widen in surprise as Harry pointed his wand at him and spoke. “Alohomora!”

“Neat trick, Potter,” said Draco. “Have you used that one before?” He was shaking his head, but there was laughter in his eyes. Harry looked a bit surprised himself. Draco had suddenly found that every item of clothing he had on (well, every item with a fastening) had suddenly come open, some coming off entirely with the force of the spell. He was no longer wearing his shirt or his cloak and nearly everything else he wore was on the brink of falling off. The buckle of his belt, his zipper, even the laces of his boots had been freed.

“I believe in nothing if not efficiency,” said Harry, grinning. He took one step closer, and one quick movement later the feeling of cool air on his legs made it clear to Draco that he was now wearing only his boxers and his boots.

Draco sat down on the side of the bed, removed his boots and socks, and looked up at the man standing just a few feet away. “Harry,” he said softly, and as he did so he held out his hand and waited for his lover to join him.

It was just his name, Harry thought, he’d heard it millions of times, said by so many people, but it had never sounded like that before. That one word, spoken as it had been just now, held within it so much more than his identity—it offered forgiveness and acceptance and feeling too heartfelt to be articulated. Harry’s throat closed and he covered the small distance between them in one stride.

******

In years to come Draco would recall the moments that followed as the turning point in his life. It was the first time he could ever remember feeling utter joy, feeling complete, feeling grateful to be in his own skin. Harry loved him, and in the timeless time that followed Draco was loved by him. He could never have imagined such a thing - all emotion, all his barriers stripped naked, as he himself was. He could never have dreamed of finding such a freedom and a feeling of home in that place where there was nowhere to hide, and no need.

Perhaps it was the bond that healed him. It could have been the blood, which Harry freely gave to heal and sustain him, but Draco preferred to think that it was Harry himself — Harry, who was living proof that loving someone beyond everything else was enough to save their life.

*****

“Beauty hath his power and will, which can as well inflame as it can kill.”

FIN.