An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Harry/Draco, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Narcissa Malfoy
Additional Tags: Veela!Draco, Veela, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mild Gore, Sexual Content, Dark Comedy, Horror, Crack!Horror, Explicit Sexual Content
In which Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate. .
"When Draco Malfoy turned 16 years old, he thought he’d make a night of it. He went to a club, met a bloke, and then promptly took himself next door pay-by-the-hour hotel, determined to get the most bang for the Galleon, in a manner of speaking.
Not even one full Galleon into it, Draco Malfoy lost his virginity.
It all went just how he’d always imagined it, and it was, all in all, a bloody good time.
Waking up the next morning, however, next to a bloody ribcage and a man’s intestines strewn all over the bed like thick wet streamers - that was a bloody bad time.”
“Don’t touch me,” Draco warns him. “We both know how this ends, and bloodily is an understatement.” It ends, of course, with him waking up next to the devoured remains; bones and bloody bits, a green eyeball like a grape, broken glasses and some messy black hair stuck in his teeth, and thinking, ‘I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!’
“Shhh,” Potter shushes him. He ghosts a hand over his skin, hovering, just an inch above his clothes. It hovers over his arm and Draco can feel the warmth radiating from it, can feel the goosebumps forming and his skin prickle with the feeling.
“I’m sorry,” Potter whispers hoarsely, “but I need this.”
He can feel his breath, warm and moist, on his own lips. “Just one moment. Just let me have this,” he pants. And his mouth is so close. So achingly close that Draco can feel and taste and kiss his breath but not those saintly lips. Not his mouth. That wonderful private needy dirty part of him.
“Let me have this.” And Draco nods. Draco would have agreed to anything at this point, would have killed a man, would have chased the moon, would have torn off all his clothes and danced naked in the centre of Hogsmeade - anything.
And Potter, still not touching with his body, not touching with his hand - saving, murdering, forgiving, damning hand - slowly notches their mouths together. Chaste, gentle, and perfect.
When they say a kiss is stolen they must mean this. A kiss taken from him, lips stolen from him because they are no longer his the moment their mouths meet. A kiss ripped from him, everything he wants and nothing he wants, too much and not nearly enough. His breath, snatched completely out of his lungs in that one meeting, where his whole body is left empty, hollow, wanting.
And he’s never so much loved the thief.
A kiss like this is surely an accident. Draco can’t blame Potter, for the way their mouths fit so perfectly together, for the softness of it, the strange tenderness of it when his whole body hums with the need to tear a human being apart. To disassemble it and explore its insides.
The way Potter kisses him, it’s the way that they kiss in romance novels and in fairytales, the way people kiss against sunset-drenched backdrops and under velvety moonlight; soft and gentle and almost achingly innocent. It makes a strange feeling well up in his chest. A choking, sick feeling; a sharp pain and he can’t breathe. As if his lungs suddenly shrivelled up, as if they’d forgotten what they were meant to do.
It has to be pity. Draco pities him. Potter was supposed to be one of the good ones, after all. He was never meant to want this, any of this, and at the heart of it, he really didn’t want him, as he said. How could he?
Draco supposes that he really can’t help it, and he can’t help that Potter can’t help it, and he’s not sure who he’s supposed to blame, here, but someone should be here to take responsibility for this mess.
“I’m sorry,” Potter murmurs against his mouth, hands balled into a fists at his side, clenching. Draco can feel the heat roll off of his body in intoxicating waves. “All these days and I haven’t found anything. I’ve been completely distracted from my mission and I’ve nothing to show for it. I need to find that bastard and it’s just like before, with them, that was my fault and now I’m doing the same thing to you. You’re just getting sicker and sicker, it’s killing you, and I’m the one to blame. It’s all because...because...”
He stops himself abruptly, cutting off the stream of madman babble, and pulls himself back with a visible jerk. The breeze that wafts in the empty space between them is so sharp and so bitter it might as well have been the Arctic wind.
“Tonight,” Potter says, much more clearly now, clarity in his voice and clarity in his mind; voice filled with that familiar, stupid Potter resolve. “Tonight, at sunset, I’ll let you go, and you can Apparate to the nearest town and...do...whatever it is that you need to do.”
“I’ll come back,” Draco says, quietly.
Potter laughs then, a sound so sardonic and bitter it was far more Malfoy-ian than Potteresque. “Shut up, Malfoy. I’ve three-quarters of a mind to just keep you here and damn the consequences.”
“You’ve only three-quarters of a mind,” Draco points out.
“Exactly,” says Potter, wryly. “So shut up, Malfoy.”
And then he kisses him again, that soft way with just their mouths touching, painfully not enough, body angled carefully away, so close that he can smell him, can feel that heat of him, can hear the pounding of his heart, and yet not close enough to touch - so horrible and frustrating that a few scant inches between them might as well be an endless chasm. Fingers drift, ever so lightly, carefully down the bare skin of one arm and Draco shivers and wants to scream, pushes closer for more contact, arches desperately for it, but all he can get is the touch of lips, soft and wet and almost-shy, moving gently against his own.
Draco actually finds it quite easy to shut up for quite some time.
