Author's Notes: Well, this was something I thought up while I was waiting for the bus. This part knocks my technically R rated fic into the NC17 realm, so consider yourself warned. Special thanks to Miss Breed for the talk about power, Libertine for the talk about how Harry and Draco were never meant to be together, and the conversation about the nature of evil and the function of cruelty. Oddly, I ended up writing about the opposite, but isn't that always the way. I should also point out at this time that my Draco is a hacker, just like Libertine's Draco in Harry Potter and the Internet. In my fic, he's just hacking magical objects instead of the internet. Hacker!Draco belongs to Libertine, and I'm borrowing him. (Neville will bring him back later, though he might be a bit winded.) I apologize for the fact that this chapter does not particularly help the plot along very much. We can actually consider this part 7 and a half, if you like.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, settings, or spells. I am only borrowing them to entertain myself and a few others. Don't make me stop this car, do you hear me?

Belong

Chapter Eight - Morning lemon

By Ivy Blossom

       

Cold. Tingling , demanding pinprick cold, inching inwards, spiraling outwards, engulfing, overwhelming. Eyes torn out and dripping. Pleasure in small pieces, flesh, my own flesh. Fingernails, carefully manicured. Thin, strong legs, long eyelashes, soft hair. Two heartbeats, asymmetrical. One mind split in half, two minds made whole. War.

Harry woke slowly, with the now-familiar images filling his head. They burned into his brain, more terrifying than they ought to be, objectively, but less so than they had been. Along with images, sensations, vague traces of thoughts was the inexorable knowing of whom they belonged to. What haunted him most about these moments, these early morning, half-awake, moment when he still half wrestled with sleep, was the sensation that he was not Harry Potter anymore, not entirely. There was a part of him that was Voldemort, and even the long course of potions could not completely stave it off. He must be drugged in order to be himself, and this realization struck him still, morning after morning.

At the same time, over the course of the last two weeks he had managed to gain a degree of control over these visions, sensations, apprehensions. He could experience them without collapse or falling into complete delusion. It had been the potions that made this possible; Draco had mixed up variations on its original theme, with increasingly positive results. His latest alteration simply made it taste better, which he developed at Harry's request. Dumbledore had kept a close eye on Harry. When Draco had altered the potion to allow Harry call up and dismiss his portal into Voldemort's brain on command, Dumbledore had been nominally pleased, but worried. "Goblin magic is notoriously unpredictable, Draco."

"I know it, I know it. I'm not taking any risks with Harry's heath, I assure you. Of all the matrixes involved, the one I've based this on, the Uglukai, is one of the most stable, it's stability underlies most of goblin magic. Since this," here he held open his hand, eyes focussed on his palm, "Gjekspfah, Jonsig Tewjiek." A small, green stone appeared in Draco's hand. He breathed on it slowly, and said, "Hoi!" making it disappear again. "Since that invocation and dismissal will always work, its matrix being the very stable heart of Goblin magic, the–"

"Alright, Draco, alright!" Dumbledore raised his hands, laughing. He was pleased to still see the sparkle of drive in his eyes. Long ago, Draco had found that he had talents other than those in the Dark Arts. Dumbledore had decided that it would be best if he could foster those talents, and help the Ministry at the same time. It had been a struggle, of course, getting Draco into the Ministry in the first place, and Dumbledore's suggestion that he be an Unspeakable, that he work with the magic he had come to be obsessed with under Dumbledore's care, was the tallest of tall orders. In other times the suggestion might have been dismissed summarily. It had been Hemsley himself, the goblin charm-maker and master of goblin magical arts, who had vouched for Draco, and in the end, it was probably his word that forced them to fulfill Dumbledore's request.

When Voldemort had been defeated, Hemsley had remained at Hogwarts for some time, watching over the charm itself, explaining its properties, discussing the need for a team to work on its defense. He watched Draco recover with a kind of horror; long lines of scabs, punctured and torn flesh across Draco's body slowly healed and became clean again. He watched as that nearly translucent skin turned slowly opaque, coloured white as if it returned to a state of unsullied purity. When he woke, he was broken. Hemsley had shuddered seeing him then. It is a horrible thing to witness the destruction of a mind, and Hemsley himself believed that Draco would go mad. But he did not. Instead, he became obsessed, and it was at that point that Hemsley came to like and admire the boy. Draco had become obsessed with goblin magic.

After weeks turned to months of watching him in the hospital wing, poring over dusty and forgotten books brought to him from Hogwarts library, from the rare book room, helping him learn to speak Goblin, answering his near-endless questions, seeing his torment, his guilt, his regret written and rewritten by the curve of his lip, the motion of his eyes, Hemsley had felt his horror at his betrayal turn to pity.

Dumbledore had felt pity as well, pity and triumph. He had no doubts, he had always sensed it, that just beneath the surface Draco had too stout of heart to be one of Voldemort's minions. Was it Draco's ability to love, simply to love, that had convinced him? He wasn't certain. But he had been sure, even when Draco was a small, hateful boy full of spite and anger and viciousness, that there could be so much more to him. That corrupt as he was, there was still something left in him untouched, and, of all people, it had been Harry Potter who had been the one to touch it. Human hearts had keys as well, and Dumbledore knew, longer, he suspected, than Draco himself had known, that Harry would hold a special key to Draco's heart as long as it was still beating.

"Just be careful, and keep me informed." Dumbledore smiled broadly at the two boys, one acknowledged by those few in the know as the ultimate master of goblin magic in the wizarding world, the other, Harry Potter, who looked worried but healthy and happy. These would be trying times, but perhaps we are, all of us, prepared to be tested. "Perhaps we should be teaching Goblin magic at Hogwarts now."

Draco snorted. "They'd have to start with Goblin linguistics, and I'm sure no one will be terribly interested in that." But he smiled, and Harry saw a bit of colour spreading into his cheeks. This was his passion, Harry realized. How did he not know this? This was where his gifts lay. He had absorbed a whole other world of magic, he had answers to questions most wizards didn't know how to formulate.

Now, breathing evenly into Draco's chest, Harry understood. Draco was an expert in goblin magic because it was goblin magic that had saved them both. It was a realm completely outside the purview of his father, the Death Eaters, Voldemort. It was not dark magic, it was not endless, stinking potions that turned him inside out. Draco had turned his mind to goblin magic because if he believed, he hoped, that if he knew it well enough he could save Harry, save himself, though he hadn't been strong enough, wise enough, to do so before. He could cover over his guilt. Contribute. Hide. Protect Harry rather than betray him. Harry sighed.

For Harry, everything was both easier and harder. He knew Draco wrestled with his guilt, but for the most part Harry forgot about this, because it was not his to remember, and because he couldn't possibly understand what it felt like to have betrayed someone he loved. Not understanding it, it had been easy to overlook. He skidded along the surface, day to day, revealing himself completely, because he had nothing to hide, and he feared very little. He was wary of Draco's ability to betray him, but he not afraid. Harry loved him without knowing how far he could be trusted, knowing that Draco himself could not know what it would take to ensure his betrayal.

Draco had everything to hide, much to fear, and played a part dictated by his past, his ancestry, his stubbornness, his flaws and his strengths. He played the part of the reserved, suave, self-possessed, elegantly witty and refined young man. He would never crawl on his knees, begging for forgiveness, no matter how desperately he longed to. His pride was as much a part of him as his guilt. In quiet moments like these, lying here in silence, half-asleep, Harry had a glimpse of what Draco hid from him day to day. The quiet sadness, desperation, longing, the things he required from Harry that had gone so long unfulfilled that they were an almost physical characteristic, his ruffled dignity, his undying devotion; these were the things Voldemort had seen in him. It was these that marked his weaknesses, and also, Harry suspected, the location of a strength Draco didn't know he had. Harry knew that Draco loved him. Recently, he had come to suspect that this emotion ran far, far deeper inside him than Harry had understood. That his love for Harry had been with him so long that it was in his marrow, swam determinedly in his blood, underlay the structure of his skin, the pattern of his veins. Harry had never meant to be unkind, he had never meant to be cruel.

       

Draco felt Harry waking against his skin. He felt his eyelashes (such lovely, long, dark eyelashes) brushing against his chest. No, no, not yet. Don't let it be over just yet. He clung to Harry in a way that he would never want it known that he had clung to anything. He heard Harry sigh, and felt that warm breath against his chest. Any moment now, he will lift his head, and he will say "good morning," being the gentleman that he is. And I will smile at him, he will stir and rise, and this long embrace will end.

Draco surmised that Harry was about half awake when he started to suck on Draco's nipples. Perhaps about half awake. Draco stroked his back, lying still, enjoying the sensation of Harry moving lithely yet sleepily across his body, his increasing arousal pressed reassuringly into Draco's thigh. In the mornings, Harry's thoughts turned sexual. Draco's, on the other hand, turned philosophical. Not a bad match, Draco considered. Harry was sleepily tracing patterns across Draco's skin, working his way down his torso. Draco imagined that, in spite of the horrors brought to him by Voldemort, Harry had profoundly peaceful dreams. This gentle waking, this morning desire, spoke of a kind of peace Draco hadn't know in a very long time, if he ever had. Harry woke without ferocity, without sharpness or fear. He woke with a smile on his lips, with a desire for submission without conquest. Draco considered the idea that Harry was either simply unconcerned about his degrees of power, or he was so powerful that he had no need to wonder at it or question it. He decided the truth was very likely both.

Harry sat up on top of him, grinning lopsidedly, now entirely awake. Draco rose to meet him, pulled him into his arms, kissed him ferociously, as if he didn't need to breathe, as if he would never need to breathe again. Harry pressed his shoulders back down onto the mattress, his lips still entwined with Draco's. When their lips parted, Harry's hands against Draco's chest, their eyes locked for a moment, within the short distance of Harry's vision. Draco could read words in those eyes as easily as he could hear them from his lips. There is much to you, you are such a challenge to me. I have taken up many challenges, and I have yet to be back down from one. I will not back down from you. Harry sat up, ran one hand down the length of Draco's body, reached down an picked up something off the floor, and then wrapped his fingers around Draco's patient erection, and shuffled his body down so that his cheek rested softly against Draco's inner thigh.

Harry was ultimately gentle, Draco mused, feeling Harry's tongue teasing him, easing into him, opening him, greeting him. What Harry did not know about Draco was the multitude of ways that he could, and had, come. Not that Draco felt any particular need to tell him. Draco had come being fucked in the lubricant of his own blood, dripping down his thighs; he had come with a knife against his throat, with bruises rising across his body, bound, gagged, screaming and certain he would die afterwards. He had come in situations most people, including himself, would consider rape. He had come with knees bloodied, full of wooden shards from a rough floor, and the hilt of a fourteenth century sword embedded inside him. He had come begging for mercy, begging for his life, begging to be allowed to breathe.

Draco closed his eyes as he felt Harry press the tip of his tongue into him. Harry would not understand that kind of violence. He would not understand how Draco could climax while enduring it either, how he could be flipped on his stomach and skewered, torn and bleeding, and come lavishly. He did not crave the violence of it, per se, but knew what his body could endure. He knew that on the other side of pain, even horrific pain, was a kind of pleasure, a kind of release it is difficult to quantify. Harry would not understand it, would not participate in it. Draco found this thought neither reassuring nor disappointing. It was merely a fact.

Harry's softness, his supreme tenderness, was a kind of brutality in itself, Draco mused, feeling Harry's hot tongue moving deeply inside of him, feeling his own moans rumbling in his belly, purring like a cat. Violence forces you into a state of submission, and Gods, did Harry's tongue, his fingers still playing carefully and teasingly against his erection, ever subdue him. Here he was, quietly frenzied, splayed open, a sacrificial lamb, willing and groaning with pleasure. Whatever Harry wanted, Draco would give it to him in these moments. He felt emotionally defenseless. Harry's delicate ministrations made him feel as if he had no bones, no other desire within him. Harry needed no violence, no gags or restraints, no knives, whips, or threats to hold Draco in thrall like this. He was destroyed by that sweetness, that gentle softness, by Harry's ability to find a thousand variations of pressure in the touch of a single finger against his skin.

Draco felt Harry withdraw, slowly, his lips leaving him last, and then felt a skin-warmed fluid against him, the tip of one oily finger, then two. He felt his hips moving against Harry's fingers, pulling them inside him. He felt Harry add a third finger, and felt him shudder against his thigh. Draco had long known the difference between being a top and being a bottom. Are you butch, or are you femme? It had been a taunt once. The power was in the top, of course; topping meant you called the shots, you forced others open, they were required to receive you. You decided when, where, and how. You decided whether the other got to come or not, and when and how they did. He had learned that a smart top keeps his partners on their stomachs, where they cannot see him, reach for him, make any demands. A smart top keeps his lovers under control.

What was odd about Harry was that Draco wasn't so sure if he understood this dynamic at all, or if he was a master of it. Harry did not seem to ask for Draco's submission, but he got it more surely than if he had held his wand against his temple and screamed for it. Harry was shifting forward, slipping his fingers out of him, resting them carefully against his waist, positioning his hips. Draco loved this part. He reached down and touched Harry, hot and slickened, guiding him forward into him, stroking him, feeling Harry inching into him so slowly, so thoughtfully, that it almost moved Draco to tears. It was in those moments that Draco's careful boundaries collapsed. Bottom, yes. In control, yes. Out of control, yes. Here logic failed him.

He couldn't watch Harry in these moments, moving so slowly, entering into him, consuming him, panting with desire, with heat, with the shock of sensations moving at his agonizingly wonderful pace. He couldn't watch him. Not yet. It was too overwhelming, too shocking, too brutal. There was too much raw truth, raw emotion, raw Harry there, to look at him would be like staring into the sun. Draco couldn't entirely comprehend that he could possibly be wholly at Harry's mercy, and then watch him base his rhythms, his every motion, the pace of his breath, the very beating of his heart, entirely on him. The role reversal was too much for him; he wasn't sure who he was in this. He wasn't sure whether he was powerful or powerless.

On one hand, Draco understood that by allowing this, by letting Harry fuck him the way he did, he was offering up his jugular. I am yours, this action said. I am yours and you may kill me if you so desire. Draco meant this, of course. But Harry didn't seem to understand this simple statement of submission, written in the meek resignation, the compliant yielding of his limbs resting nestled against Harry's sheets. Or, he chose not to accept it. Instead, Harry pressed himself forward, so tenderly he made Draco mew like an infant, with such generosity, with such humility and honour and devotion, that it seemed as if he had instead read Draco's body as saying you are mine and I will receive you. You are mine and I will let you go when I am ready.

Harry came in waves, hot and sweet, crying out as he always did. Draco carried the sound of that wanton cry around with him all day after he had heard it. For hours it lingered in his ears, distracted him from his work. In the beginning, when Harry had first consented to crawl into Draco's bed with him, Draco had been next to useless the following day, though he pretended that he was having trouble deciphering a particular scroll, claimed headaches, illness, insufficient sleep. He had not been able to even momentarily erase the sight of Harry writhing beneath him, his lopsided grin, that cry, those delicious moans, the tensing and relaxing of a thousand muscles pressed against him. Those lips, that tongue, those hands, thighs, his weeping, pulsing erection, all left indelible marks on Draco's soul. For days after that first time, that first time after he had been forgiven, he saw nothing else when he shut his eyes.

And now that cry filled his ears again, and Draco felt it reverberate through him, writing messages on his sinews and tendons, stroking his ego, his soul, organizing his thoughts around itself, preparing for the siege of the day, preparing to hold dominance over all other sounds, all other sensations. It was a sound that etched itself into the matter of his brain. Harry collapsed, quivering, into Draco, who held him with his eyes shut tight. Harry breathed deeply, still shaking for several moments, enveloped in Draco's arms, enveloped in Draco. After a short respite, Harry shifted himself down again, taking Draco's throbbing erection into his mouth, pressing two careful fingers inside him, finding just the right spot, nudging him from one plane of existence into another. The gentleman that he is, Draco thought, as he felt his own orgasm surge through him, teeter for a moment on a plateau of sheer anticipation and bliss, held there by the gentleness of Harry's tongue, the firm grip of his hands, and then down, pulsating through and out of him. He heard a roaring, like seashells pressed against his ears and he lost track of his limbs, his hips bucking senselessly, his mind temporarily seizing, refusing to give him control. He heard himself speak throaty words, and hoped they weren't comprehensible. He hoped they weren't as raw and rawly pathetic as they must be, as he felt himself caught entirely open, entirely submitting, entirely in love, overcome and wholly within and outside himself at the same time. Again his arms were full of Harry. They breathed, shivered, mingled sweat.

Yes, there were a multitude of ways that Draco could, and had, come. And this way, beautifully, frighteningly, comfortingly, in the hands of such tenderness, was not the least challenging.

Harry nuzzled Draco's neck, his breath still ragged. Draco didn't want to move. Not yet, he pleaded. Don't let this be over just yet. Harry rolled over to one side, and looking at Draco with that lopsided grin, head propped up lazily on one hand, and said, "good morning." He had a lovely, gruff, beautifully sexy morning voice. Draco smiled, both pleased and sad.

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