Remix Fic

1  How and Why by Lucilla Darkate

Of all the questions I’ve ever been asked about him, nobody has ever bothered to ask me how. They ask me why all the time. They disguise it as how by saying things like "How can you do that? How can you touch him? How can you let him near you? How can you stand it?" They don’t really mean how when they ask me those questions. They mean why. "Why have you betrayed us? Why is he the one? Why are you so different? Is it his fault? Can we blame him for it?"

Those are the real questions. The questions I am asked that I never answer.

But no one ever asks me how. Not really. I think perhaps they don’t want to know.

They don’t want to know, and if the truth be told, I don’t feel any need to tell them.

We were very young. Only seventeen, you know. And we hated each other. Hated each other intensely, with all the burning passion of the desperately young.

He was evil. Everyone said so and for as long as I had known him all through school, he had never done anything redeeming to prove them wrong. I know now that this was because he felt no need to prove himself to people who were determined to cast him in the role of villain. He is, and always has been, hard to make friends with. He makes you work for his friendship, but once given, it is never taken back.

I did not know then how very great a thing it was for him to offer his hand to me. He offered me his hand in friendship that first day I met him, without question or condition, and I carelessly cast it aside. It was never offered to me again.

Even now, years later, with everything that lies between us, I cannot quite call what we have friendship. I have had him inside me from every possible angle and he has fucked me in every conceivable position, and there is a companionship of sorts that has developed over the years because of this, but we are not friends. Lovers, perhaps, if you stretch the truth a lot and tilt your head just so when you look at our relationship under a microscope.

Mostly we just fight. No great change there. Except now when we fight, sometimes I pull my punches and sometimes he curbs his wicked tongue. And sometimes—most of the time—the fights end with rough sex and heated words whispered into the shell of my ear, instead of shouted at me across the room. It’s still there when we’re finished. The anger, the resentment, the words waiting just a few more minutes for him to catch his breath, to be hurled at me with as much rage as he can muster with my cum glazing his belly and the taste of my sweat on his tongue.

Some days when we fight we never leave the bed.

That summer, when we were seventeen, we were both staying with the Order at Grimmauld Place. Neither of us had much choice in the matter, really. Neither of us had anywhere else to go.

I hated that house. I hated it for what I felt it had taken from me. There is a part of me that still hates it, will always hate it. But there is another part of me, the part that belongs to him—that part remembers the smell of honeysuckle and wild roses, the taste of tears on his skin, and the prism shine of his hair in the midday sun. That part of me finds it impossible to hate that house.

I came upon him that day, sitting on a stone bench in the overgrown garden. He had a tawny owl perched on his shoulder and a small roll of parchment clutched tightly in his hands. He was half turned away from me, so I stood there for a few moments, unnoticed, and watched him.

He took a deep, ragged breath, then viciously crumpled the parchment up and threw it as far as he could—which was not very far. The parchment caught the little breath of air that gusted through the ivy and floated back to the grass a short distance from his feet. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, tilting his face toward the sun. His movements disturbed the owl and she flew away with a disgruntled hoot.

I moved forward then, as he sat there with his head tilted toward the sky. He was perfectly still, except for the slight tremors along his shoulders that made him shake just a little. I quietly walked over to him and stood, careful not to let my shadow fall over him, and looked down at his face.

He had tears in his eyes, gleaming on his white lashes and pooled in the hollows at the corners of his eyes. They looked like smooth diamonds, or opals, or moonstones. Some kind of precious stone that could be gathered and put on a chain for a pretty girl to wear. The sun shining through the trees surrounding the garden dappled his alabaster skin with bits of gold that fluttered like moths trapped just beneath the surface of his skin.

As I watched, he sighed and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbled on it. His eyes fluttered, but did not open.

That was the first time I realized that he was beautiful. And almost as soon as I realized that, I knew that I wanted him.

I must have said something. Probably his name, now that I look back on it.

He opened his eyes and lowered his head to look at me. He regarded me coolly for a long drawn-out moment while I watched his silent tears slide down his face.

"My father’s dead," he murmured.

I nodded and said nothing. What could I say to that? I never really had a father.

"My mother…my mother’s afraid," he confessed. To this day, I do not know why he confided these things to me. Not there, in the garden, with his tears caught like gleaming jewels on his eyelashes.

"I’m sorry," I said, and though I really wasn’t, he seemed to accept it.

He nodded and looked down at his lap, where he was twisting his fingers together.

I reached out and touched him then. I slid my fingers up the back of his neck and through his hair. He tensed, instinctively I think, at the contact, then seemed to force himself to relax. He bent his head a little more forward and made a soft sound of pleasure, like a cat purring.

"What are you doing?" he asked me. Not like he wanted me to stop, more like he truly wanted to know.

"Touching you," I said softly.

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

I drew my hand back then, but he caught it. "Don’t."

I lifted a brow at him. "Don’t what?"

His pale grey eyes stared straight into mine. "Don’t stop."

"I’m not…" I hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I’m not going to comfort you," I said. It sounded heartless, even to me, but I meant it. I wasn’t going to do anything more if he wanted to use me to make himself feel better.

He lifted my hand to his mouth and I thought he was going to kiss it like some dandy in a Shakespearian play. So I was caught completely off guard when he pulled my middle finger into his mouth and sucked. He kept his eyes on mine as he did it and I felt all the blood in my head rush straight to my loins.

He took my finger out of his mouth, gave the tip one final swirling lick of his tongue, and said softly, "Do I actually look like I need comforting?"

No, he didn’t. But then, too me, he never seemed open to that kind of empathy from anyone. Especially not from me.

"No," I said.

He smiled a little then and tugged me forward by my hand, standing to meet me as I drew near. "Harry?" he whispered, his breath warm against my face, making me shiver.

"What?"

"Can I kiss you?"

It is one of very few times that he has ever asked me for my permission, but I remember it well because it was the first.

I swallowed and stared into his eyes, pale and colorless as chips of ice, but just there, just below the surface, for the first time, I saw something more.

"Yeah," I said. It was spoken on a breath, almost inaudible.

He smiled at me again, and this time it was wicked and knowing, just this side of taunting me with his laughter. Then he kissed me. He kissed me slow and deep, with tongue and teeth and a ferocity that surprised me, and I forgot about his taunts and his laughter and just let myself feel the heat in my blood and the slow, throbbing tingle running up my spine.

Somehow I ended up on my back in the grass with him on top of me. He pulled my shirt off and threw it aside like it was a vile bit of rubbish, then began trailing soft nipping kisses down my throat, along my collarbones, over my chest, lower, until I was whimpering and writhing like a wanton. I felt vulnerable with him straddling my legs like that, but for the first time since I knew him, I didn’t worry that he would take advantage of it. I knew he was going to take advantage of it. And I wanted him to.

I slipped my hands under his shirt and tugged on it until he stopped kissing and licking my belly long enough to sit back and take it off himself. When it was gone, I ran my hands up his stomach, flattening my palms, smoothing up his pale chest to grip his shoulders.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine, but did not kiss me. "Do you even know what we’re doing here?" he whispered against my lips.

I tried to pull him down, force his mouth to mine, but he was stronger than he looked, even then.

"Do you know what I’m going to do to you?" he asked. His tongue flicked out over my bottom lip and I moaned.

"I…have a pretty good idea," I said breathlessly.

He grinned, and it was a look I had seen on his face many times, but never directed at me. It was that look that always had me comparing him to corrupted angels.

With his eyes laughing at me and that wicked smile still on his face, he unfastened my belt with a sharp jerk.

"Draco?" I gasped.

"Hmm?" He was unfastening the fly of my jeans.

"Be…careful," I said hesitantly.

He looked at me over the length of my body and met my eyes, held them, then nodded. He understood what I was saying without needing me to voice it. He understood, and he agreed.

"Careful," he said. "Got it. Now lift your hips up."

The look in his eyes and the low tone of his voice made me catch my breath. I did what he said and he crawled backward along my body, pulling my trousers and pants with him.

I threw one arm over my eyes and nibbled my lip nervously. I was essentially naked, laying in the grass, with Draco Malfoy of all people, undressing me. I was blushing. I couldn’t help it.

He grazed his teeth lightly over my calf and I gasped. "What—?"

"Shh," he soothed. He pulled the laces of my shoes free and slipped them off. The socks next, then my pants, and I was completely naked.

It did not escape my notice that he was still mostly dressed. I reached for him, but my fingers slid over his skin and he pulled back with a mocking grin.

"Draco, damn it—"

"Patience," he admonished.

I huffed out a breath and lay back, then cried out and almost leapt to my feet in shock when he kissed the tip of my cock.

He chuckled at my innocent reaction, then pushed my legs apart and swirled his tongue over the tip. I moaned and pulled at the grass on either side of my hips.

"Please," I gasped.

"Mmm, sure," he murmured.

He slid his mouth over my cock, sucked gently, then flicked his tongue over the slit again and again until sharp, desperate little cries were falling from my mouth and my grass stained fingers were tangled in his hair. I whimpered, moaned, cried, and begged until he sat back, laughing.

"Don’t stop," I moaned. "Please, gods, don’t…"

He reached down and unfastened his belt, his eyes still on me, staring at me like some predator that was going to eat me alive. Had that been the case, I couldn’t have cared less.

"I’m not," he said, then reached between my legs and pushed a precum slicked finger inside me. "I promise you, I’m not."

I hissed out a breath and tensed at the intimate intrusion. He moved over me and scraped his teeth lightly along my neck to my ear. He nibbled my earlobe and pushed his finger deeper. It hurt a little and I made a soft whimpering sound and writhed to get away.

He released my ear and nuzzled the side of my neck, then thrust his finger deeper and curled it. Pain blossomed into pleasure so fast that I screamed and arched against him, digging my fingers into his shoulders.

He pressed his mouth against my cheek, beside my ear and whispered, "You okay?"

I made a desperate mewling sound and clutched at him, throwing my head back as pleasure, like razors, sliced me open. "Draco," I moaned. "Draco, please…oh fuck!"

He shifted and pushed his trousers down his hips with his free hand, then added a second finger to the first and spread them. I bit down on his shoulder and my scream this time was muffled by his skin.

"Hush," he murmured. He removed his fingers and pressed his cock against my ass, slicking precum over my entrance, then returned one of his fingers to slide it inside. "It’ll only hurt for a moment."

He waited until I nodded before he started to push forward. I gasped and clawed at his back and he stopped.

"Harry?"

I squeezed my eyes shut and whimpered.

"Harry, look at me," he insisted.

I opened my eyes and looked back at him. "W—What?"

"Are you sure you’re alright?"

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes."

He did not ask again. He grabbed my hips, tilted me back, and pushed inside me to the hilt. I did not scream, but it was a very near thing.

"Oh God, oh God," I panted.

"Yeah," he said.

He pulled back and thrust forward again and I wrapped my legs around him, and threw my head back with a shout. He laughed softly and the sound vibrated along my skin and up my spine, raising gooseflesh everywhere and making me shiver.

It was one of the single most amazing sensations I had ever felt in my life. Like being marked, branded, owned, and conquered. Being filled so completely that there was no room for pain, only intense, cell splintering pleasure.

And so this brings us back to how.

Or maybe why. Why do I love him? It’s really very simple. Because I would never change him. There are things about him that I do not always like, but they are part of the whole that makes Draco Malfoy the man he is. I love him because he is not easy to love. He’s not easy to love, and that’s what makes it so easy for me to love him. I know that makes no sense at all, but it is true nonetheless.

Call it betrayal if you want, but it isn’t. Blame him for changing me if you like. He has changed me…in so many ways.

2 Harry Potter's Betrayal

I am his betrayal. Harry Potter's Betrayal. It's hardly the worst label I've worn in my life.

Death Eating scum

Manipulative shit

Evil conniving bastard

So many lovely terms of endearment, from anonymous Howlers and letters to the Prophet and the Quibbler. From hisses in Diagon Alley pitched just low enough that I can hear them, but not loud enough for me to identify and confront the speakers. From Firewhiskey-bold bar patrons at night in Knockturn Alley. From dear old Aunt Walburga's portrait at Grimmauld Place.

It's too bad I only thought of starting to collect them last year; they're really quite entertaining.

I know he's often asked why he's with me. I find it amusing that I'm almost never asked why I'm with him. Most people believe that I'm the lucky one, the one who should be grateful that the great exalted Harry Potter deigns to allow me into his life. It's a little insulting, but I've had to deal with plenty of insults ever since my dearly departed father dragged the Malfoy name into the mud, and I don't much care any more.

It doesn't make me resent Harry. I know that if things had turned out just a little different, most people would be asking me why. Why him, how could you, he's a Gryffindor, a half-blood, raised byMuggles - the opposite of everything I was raised to value.

That's if I was even with him. Would I be? I don't know. We only came together because I was being hidden in an Order safe-house with him during the war; if not for that accident of location, which obviously wouldn't have come about if I hadn't switched sides when Voldemort started to lose, I doubt he would've ever thought to even touch me. And I'm sure I never would have thought of touching him. I had been attracted to him for a while - who wouldn't be, by all that power? - but I'd never considered doing anything about it.

And I wasn't considering doing anything about it the day we first got together. It just... happened.

You user, you disgusting user, you just use his body and his fame and you don't care what it does to him

I wasn't really thinking of doing anything about anything that summer. I was totally lost and had sort of... withdrawn, from trying to act or plan or even understand the world around me. I was in an Order safe-house, with Harry Potter, my father was in danger and possibly working with the very people who wanted me dead - whether he wanted me dead or not - and my mother was alone out there, who knew where. My life was in shambles, and by that point I didn't much care. Though I do remember trying, a few times, to imagine what my father would've done in a situation like mine, and missing him and cursing that I could never be as clever as he.

Then again, he was so clever he'd been shipped off to rot in Azkaban for months, and was on the run at the time. Perhaps a good reason to avoid emulating him.

And then suddenly he was dead. It shouldn't have been a shock to me, but it was. And I was in the safe-house garden, holding the letter from my mother, trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears that Father would've hated, and remembering every good thing he had ever done with me. The way he'd got me onto the Slytherin Quidditch team when I was twelve; his fury at that blasted hippogriff that hurt me when I was thirteen; our holidays in Spain; hours spent on our brooms; the best seats for the Quidditch World Cup...

You should rot in hell like your bastard of a father, you deserve the Kiss every bit as much as he ever did, you're rotten to the core just like him...

Oh, you're surprised that I have good memories of him? You're surprised that Lucius Malfoy was a good father? You probably expected tales of horror and abuse, Cruciatus flung at me for talking back, violent hexes for not beating Hermione Granger's grades. Sorry, none of that here. My father was no angel, but he never lifted a hand against me. He could be strict, yes. Abusive, never.

And then he was dead. And I was in a house with nobody who would care - worse, I was in a house where I would probably have to hide in my room to avoid people celebrating his demise once the news got out. My mother was grieving and alone, and afraid for her life and my own. Afraid of what would happen if Voldemort found us. What would happen if the war went badly. What would happen if Father had cursed us somehow before his death. I know, I said he wasn't abusive, but he also wasn't well after so long in Azkaban. He'd been getting erratic and almost violent during Mother's visits. I was never allowed to go, so I hadn't seen him in two years.

I was alone, that was the inescapable fact that my mind kept coming back to in that lovely garden. Alone and friendless, now fatherless, with nothing ahead but more solitude and fear. Not even able to look to the end of the war as a beacon of hope, as it was unlikely that there would be much of a place for me in the wizarding world after all the curses and hexes were spent and the dust settled and the bodies buried.

You should've died in the war, nobody would've missed you

Why don't you do the world a favour and top yourself off?

It all seemed rather pointless. And I was young and stupid enough that thoughts of ending the misery for good came to mind, and not for the first time, either. Nothing terribly detailed, mostly just pathetic adolescent angst and despair, but there it was.

I threw the letter away - whether to try to ignore its devastating news, or pretend it hadn't reached me, or deny that it had just destroyed a part of me, I don't know. I closed my eyes and tried with all I had to simply feel the sun on my face and to silence the weary little voice in my head that whispered that I might as well just lie down and die, nothing was going to get any better, Mother would likely be dead soon too and then it would be my turn and even if it wasn't, really, why bother any more...

And in the middle of this, who comes by but Potter. Turning an already shit day into something even worse. Reminding me that now we were both fatherless. I'd never wanted to have anything in common with him, but now I did.

I don't remember what he said. He may have asked what was wrong, may have just said my name, I don't know, but I was too shattered to do anything other than tell him what had happened, and he was... honest with me. He said he was sorry, but we both recognized that for the polite fiction it was and he didn't bother trying to convince me otherwise. And then he touched me. After so long with almost nothing around me but coldness and resentment and touches meant to harm, after weeks of sullen indifference passing between us in that bloody safe-house, he touched me. I wasn't used to touch any more. I wasn't used to human interaction.

He wasn't doing it for me. He told me, with characteristic appalling tactlessness, that he wasn't going to comfort me. Which was more comforting than any false sympathy could possibly have been.

You deserve whatever you get, you foul piece of slime

In that moment he made me feel like myself again. Not Draco Malfoy, the powerless little boy that needed to be hidden from danger and who deserved pity liberally mixed with poorly hidden contempt from the others at Grimmauld Place. Not Draco Malfoy who was wondering how the hell he was going to keep pushing on, or if he even wanted to push on. No, he made me feel like me again: Draco Malfoy, who didn't need pity from anybody, least of all Harry Potter. Not even at the moment of learning of his father's death.

I don't know why I did what I did, other than I had just been feeling and fearing and wanting death, and sex was life. But I suddenly saw that he wanted me - why, I had no idea, as he'd never shown any kind of interest in me before. He had touched me, and it felt better than anything I had felt in a long time, and I wanted more. To hell with despair and sorrow. To hell with my father, who should've known better than to get involved in a bloody war in the first place.

I wanted more than just a comforting touch. I wanted to forget my father, escape my powerlessness and drown my grief, and here was Potter, the source of so many of my troubles, showing me a way to do all of that. How marvelously... fitting.

Harry was a virgin, I found out that day. A virgin just itching to give it up, dying to be touched and taken and used. All wide green eyes and flushed cheeks, soft lips and grasping fingers, and shivers and gasps of shock and joy. Like an unexpected present begging to be unwrapped.

You don't give a damn about him, you just use him and corrupt him and don't care, like he's your toy or something

I swear it's one of the hottest things I've ever experienced. When I took him into my mouth he fell apart, going incoherent from the pleasure, losing every shred of pride or dignity or detachment he'd ever worn in my presence. Willingly becoming more naked before me than the lack of clothing could account for. When I started to enter him the pain made him almost panic - for all of a second, before he recklessly gave me permission to take him. And when I plunged into him he cried out and gloried in it and seemed to feel such intense joy that I almost died right there. Nothing existed, other than the incredible gift I'd been given. The gift of knowing that my life didn't have to end with my father's. That there was still joy and purpose and life to be lived. I don't know or care what that day meant to Harry; all I know is that it saved my life and sanity.

You don't even appreciate everything he's done for you, you ungrateful piece of shit

I'd had nothing, a few minutes earlier. Nothing but my fear and loneliness and grief. And now I had myself back again, and I had Harry Potter, the hope of the wizarding world, completely at my mercy. Willingly giving me complete control over him. Trusting me with nothing less than himself.

It was exactly what I needed, though I doubt he knew that.

He wasn't out to save me that day, he was just curious - and remember, he had specifically said he wouldn't offer comfort. Which probably sounds harsher than anything you might expect from him, but it's not, not really. You don't know him like I do; I don't think anybody does. As far as I can tell, nobody else seems to notice that he can be quite the heartless bastard when he chooses to be. Perhaps he doesn't choose to be that way with anybody else. Sometimes I think that knowledge of him is a privilege, sometimes I think it's a pain, and sometimes I think others see it too but choose to label it as something else, so that their boy hero can remain pure and golden in their minds. I have no need or desire to ignore anything.

He's too good for you, and some day he'll realize it and toss your pureblooded arse out the door

Yes, I just used the word privilege. I know I am that - privileged, that is. I know that without him, I would have almost no social status whatsoever, and would probably be driven into exile from the wizarding world; if not by the force of its laws, then by the sheer force of its hatred.

I'm not particularly grateful for that fact. People expect me to play nicely with the other allies of the Light, but I can't be arsed to. People expect me to simper and smile at Harry in public and bask in his radiance, hang off his arm at official functions, happily play my part as "The Man Behind the Chosen One." I can't be arsed to do that either. Harry knows where the door is; if he wants a devoted little husband, he's welcome to walk out through it and find himself one. I'm not the scared and lonely boy I was the day I found out my father died, and I don't need Harry any more. The "privilege" of his presence or status, for what it's worth, is not why I'm with him still.

People expect me to give him my gratitude, my adoration and my eternal devotion. They expect me to treat him with far more deference, far more gentleness. But that's not who we are, that's not what we have. What's between us is rarely pretty or soft or gentle; the words we shout at each other far too often are every bit as cruel and malicious as the words I hear in the Howlers and letters and hisses and rants.

Don't give me that racist pureblood shit, you prick; your side lost, remember?

You're a selfish bastard, fuck it's no wonder none of your so-called friends bothered to come back to you after the war!

Why don't you just walk right out, then? Save us both the misery?

And what I shout back is just as loving.

You're fucking pathetic, the way you try so hard to pretend your Muggle relatives didn't mark you, like they didn't convince you that you're as stupid and worthless as they said you were.

Off to wallow with the Mudblood filth you call friends, are you?

You think the fact that the world adores you makes you special? Well I don't give a shit about that, so why don't you walk out and find somebody who'll feed your fragile little ego!

Unforgivable, the words we scream at each other. And we don't forgive, or forget. But we do carry on.

So why am I still with him?

You'd be nothing without him, you know that

Funny how often I'm reminded of that, and how little I care. And that's actually one of the things I really am grateful to Harry for, as a matter of fact. The fact that I don't care about any of it, because of him. Life is much simpler when you don't bother to calculate every move according to what is the most politically astute choice. When you simply do what works for you. Because then you get to ignore the disapproval, the faceless masses who hate you.

Who in their right mind would want to be with you? Everybody knows you're just bewitching him, and when they figure out how you've done it you'll pay

You also get to ignore the questions you are asked, the questions that could be more difficult to ignore. Because the fact that most of the winners of the Second Voldemort War don't think to ask me why I'm with Boy Who Lived doesn't mean I don't have to justify myself to anybody.

I'm still asked why. Just usually not out loud, and not by anybody you can see. The ghost of my father. My mother. My former friends from Slytherin house. They all, living and dead, still ask me why and how.

How could you, betraying everything your family ever taught you, you're a disgrace to the Malfoy name

Blood traitor, filthy Mudblood-lover, shame of our families

How can you flaunt yourself, their darling's tamed Death Eater pet, your father would've killed you for the dishonour you've brought to his name

I ignore them. I started ignoring them a long time ago, and it's worked well for me. Remember, my father hadn't yet been lowered into his grave before I started spinning him in it. We're together, that's all, and I don't particularly care why.

I don't even particularly care to label what we have, either; if pressed I would call us lovers, but that brings to mind all sorts of romantic sap that doesn't apply to us at all.

What does apply is anger and sex, and passion. The anger is ugly and hurtful and always there. The sex is fantastic; as hot as the eager, virginal Harry was, the demanding, self-assured kinky bastard he is now is even hotter. No shyness, no holding back. And the passion is there for both anger and sex. He throws himself into fucking like he throws himself into fighting, like he throws himself into flying, like he threw himself into the war. With all the power within him, with all the honesty of his Gryffindor soul.

And I'm not talking about the moral and ethical honesty of idiots who care about that kind of thing, because Harry's an accomplished liar and manipulator that could put most Slytherins to shame. I'm talking about the honesty of his passion, of his unyielding acceptance of me as I am, of us as we are. Of the respect he accords me, to hell with what the rest of the wizarding world thinks. Fighting me tooth and nail and then letting me fuck him until neither of us can feel anything but each other.

No, I don't need him. I want him, though.

And that's enough.

- End.