Chapter Text
~~~
Vampires are disgusting.
The cobwebs in the winding tunnel are thick, and Draco presses a hand against his face to avoid inhaling them. He hates places like this: catacombs, basements, caves. They remind him of the dark, hidden places beneath the Manor.
It’s just as well he’s never going back there.
Three weeks into his latest mission and he actually misses his cramped flat in London. The Ministry keeps him close and pays him a pittance, but the lull between jobs is better than going into godforsaken vampire nests on the continent. If Draco had any choice in the matter, he’d tell the Ministry to get stuffed, but by this point in his life Draco is well used to having no choices.
The ground floor of the building above is covered in ashes and bones. Draco is good at what he does, even if he hates it. Now he only has to double check that no bloodsuckers have escaped his sword or stake. There are several niches in the brick walls, all empty, and it looks like a dead end up ahead. Draco sighs in relief; he’s wounded, not seriously, but enough that he’d like to stop and apply a healing potion and a bandage.
Just as he turns to leave, there’s a scrabbling sound, like someone — or something — is trying to drag itself along the floor. Draco falls easily into a defensive stance, stake at the ready. A sword won’t be much use in quarters this close. Carefully he inches forward, allowing his wand to slide down from the holster on his lower arm and into his grip, Lumos at the ready. Closer… and closer still. Finally he lets the spell loose, darting forward to meet whatever creature is there while the light is blinding it.
Nothing.
Draco hesitates. He’s sure he heard something in the dimly lit end of the tunnel. But now illuminated, it’s deserted — no, wait. There, on the ground. It’s —
A hand.
Merlin, it’s a human hand. Draco suppresses a gag; he’s seen worse. But there’s no blood, no obvious place where it was severed, only empty space. Is it even real? Draco peers closer, and it moves. He jumps back, cursing himself inwardly for his skittish reaction. More wrist appears, and arm, and… oh, no.
The thing on the ground rolls over, shimmering fabric bunching underneath. Two hands now, clawing at the air, and then twitching legs and a gasping face. Draco knows that face.
“Oh god,” Potter moans. “I’m dying.”
He doesn’t know he’s already dead.
There are two gaping puncture marks on the side of Potter’s neck, empty holes that open and wink shut at Draco as Potter shakes his head deliriously. No blood leaks out, because the body at Draco’s feet has no more blood left.
Potter is incoherent, obviously starved. Why were they leaving him down here? Were they waiting for him to turn but were interrupted by Draco’s attack? He’s been hunting in the surrounding neighbourhood the past few nights; they must have been hiding, unable to snatch a victim to feed their newest family member as he awoke.
“Potter,” Draco hisses. He’s unsure why he’s whispering; the rest of the nest is dead. Maybe he just doesn’t want to speak too loudly, to make it real. Potter doesn’t answer, just continues to tremble and moan about how it hurts, please help. It’s the most pathetic thing Draco has ever seen.
The sad truth is there isn’t any help for Potter, not now. Even if Draco had some blood-substitute potion on him — and what kind of vampire hunter would ever carry that? — it would only prolong Potter’s suffering. Once he came back to his senses he would be horrified. For the most part vampires are outcasts in Wizarding society, and the ones that have integrated themselves are practitioners of the Dark Arts, socialising only with older Pure-blood families who maintain a healthy amount of respect for them. Most are vermin, though. Muggles brought into a world they don’t understand and struggle to survive in.
It’s only grown worse for them after the war, since most vampires supported Voldemort. That’s why Draco is employed to hunt them down the instant they step out of line. He isn't sure why Potter is here, though; he’s still in his Auror uniform.
“How did this happen?” Draco wonders aloud. Potter groans and tries to sit up.
“I have to go,” he mumbles. “I’m late.” He doesn’t seem to notice that it’s Draco in front of him, his old nemesis.
“You’re not going anywhere, Potter. Can you tell me how long you’ve been down here?” It’s a moot point — the change has already happened. Potter only shakes his head again and repeats himself.
“I have to go.”
He manages to get to his knees, and Draco backs up abruptly. Potter or not, this is still a vampire, and Draco would make a lovely first meal. Sure enough, Potter’s green eyes unfocus as he scents the bloody cut on Draco’s leg, and he begins crawling forward as if in a trance.
“Potter! Potter, snap out of it!” Draco stumbles on the rough floor of the tunnel, and for a moment he thinks he might fall backwards, but he catches himself. Potter lunges forward a bit at the perceived weakness in his prey, but his hands slip from under him, and in his feeble state he falls back to the ground. Draco takes the opportunity to turn tail and run.
He slams the cellar door and leans back against it, breathing hard. Fuck. Fuck! What is he going to do? He can’t kill Harry fucking Potter.
But he can’t just leave him down there. Can he?
~~~
Some people might call Draco brave for hunting vampires. Draco is not brave. Draco took a plea bargain and has spent the last five years of his life as an expendable unofficial member of the Hit Wizards.
It’s Friday, and that means it’s time to call his supervisor. The mangy hotel he’s using has a Floo, at least. Draco takes a few minutes to compose himself, still quite unable to believe he just left a starving, vampiric Harry Potter locked in a basement, and tosses some powder in the fireplace.
“Malfoy.”
“Harding.”
“How goes the hunt?” Maxwell Harding always gets straight to the point.
“I’ve eliminated the nest here in Budapest.” Draco gets to the point, too. He conveniently leaves out any mention of the vampire clans’ newest recruit.
Harding strokes his thinning moustache. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Time to pack it in then. We’ll have a Portkey waiting for you in the lobby tomorrow.”
Damn. Draco can’t leave, not with Potter as a loose end. What if they find out he had knowledge of it? What if someone rescues Potter and he tells tales? Worse, what if he kills someone and Draco is blamed for not destroying him when he had the chance?
Draco puts on a show of looking contrite. “Actually, I may need to sweep the surrounding buildings again. I could have missed something, I wasn’t at my best after their final stand. A small injury, nothing to worry about, but still.”
Harding huffs out a sigh. The nest had been very close to Váci Utca, in an area popular with backpackers, and it’s important to be thorough. “Fine then. Call Monday. I’m not bothering the Portkey office on a weekend.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Malfoy? Don’t go stepping on any toes. I just found out there’s an Auror force in Budapest as well, on an international case.”
“Got it, sir. No toes.”
“In fact…” Harding leans in closer conspiratorially, although the effect is lost with his head in green flames. “I only know that because Robards asked if I had any people there, and if my people had seen his people. I think they may have gone AWOL. Keep an eye out, will you?” Harding hates Robards — although Draco has never found out why — and he’d do anything to make the Head Auror look bad at his job.
The fire goes out, and Draco flops back onto his bed with a squeak from the shoddy mattress. Double fuck! Now if Potter never shows up they’ll certainly question Draco — did he see Potter? Interact with him? Murder him?
No. Draco can’t think that way. Killing vampires isn’t murder.
But this isn’t some nameless beast with hunger in its eyes and fangs turned towards Draco’s throat. This is Harry Potter, who saved the world, saved Draco’s life. They haven’t seen each other in forever, but as soon as Draco locked eyes with him, it was like no time had passed at all. Like they were the only two people in the universe for that one moment. Draco never could look away from Potter.
Maybe he’s starved by now. Maybe Draco won’t have to make the decision. He will, however, have to account for Potter’s whereabouts now that Harding is sniffing around. But the thought of dragging Potter’s desiccated corpse over the rough brick and into the light makes Draco swallow in disgust.
He deserves better than that.
Draco is aware of what happened in the Forbidden Forest at the end of the war. He thinks it pitiful, that his mother should save Potter’s life only to have to end it himself.
Maybe… maybe there’s another way.
~~~
Draco catches a few hours’ sleep and rises in the late afternoon. He prefers to do his work near sunrise, when the vampires are slinking back to their nests and tired from prowling all night. Most of the other Hit Wizards, the ones who signed up out of righteousness, hunt during the day just before sundown, when the vampires are waking up. Draco doesn’t care about much except saving his own skin; the people his targets feed on during the night aren’t on his conscience. It’s less dangerous to face them after they are exhausted and sated, so that’s what Draco does.
It’s still light out now, and any sleeping vampires will be hidden by their natural concealment magic. But Draco knows where he is going.
The house where the nest was living is silent. Draco’s boots softly grind the dust from that morning’s battle into the fraying carpets and crunch on scattered pieces of bone. Thankfully vampires are a self-cleaning sort of prey: they fall into ash when killed violently. Draco carries stakes, knives, and a gleaming sword that he won in combat last autumn. He’s become deadly with it. Vampires are fast, and in a crowded fight it’s too easy to be disarmed. If you depend on a wand you’re defenceless after one good hit; if you learn to fight with your body you can carry multiple weapons and improvise with whatever is handy.
Mother had scrunched her nose up delicately at his calloused hands, at the whipcord muscles barely concealed under a Muggle T-shirt. Draco doesn’t bother to hide the Mark. It takes some of them off-guard, the ones who used to be wizards, and any moment of hesitation on their part is a moment in Draco’s favour.
Today he’s wearing a jacket despite the heat. No need to disturb Potter with the sight of Draco’s mistakes. The leather is supple and worn, easy to manoeuvre in should things take a turn for the worse.
As he lifts the brace off the door, an uncomfortable fact curls up through Draco’s thoughts like smoke: he owes Potter. He resents the vampires he hunts, because that was never supposed to be his lot in life, and he takes it out on them accordingly. But Potter has ended up in this dirty tunnel against his own wishes as well, Draco is sure, and Draco’s lot would be even worse if it hadn’t been for Potter’s actions all those years ago.
This time he casts Lumos as soon as he opens the door. Potter is visible on the floor of the basement tunnel, the invisibility cloak nowhere to be seen. He’s crawled toward the door but collapsed halfway. Draco approaches carefully, one fist balled up but no weapon drawn.
As he gets closer, he can see that Potter is shivering, curled in on himself and breathing shallowly. Suddenly, Draco isn’t even sure this will work. How starved is too far gone for a vampire? But he’s made up his mind — he’ll offer what little help he can. And maybe one tiny act of kindness in the maelstrom of violence and death his life has become will go a ways toward redeeming himself, the way he knows Potter had hoped he would all those years ago when he testified at Draco’s trial.
As he kneels down, Potter spasms and rolls over. His eyes are totally unfocused, unaware of his surroundings, but his nose twitches as he scents Draco’s skin. It occurs to Draco what a monumentally stupid plan this is, how easily he could be killed. But Potter whimpers softly, and Draco reaches out with one shaky hand to touch his shoulder. He doesn’t immediately tense; it’s a good sign.
Draco reaches down to his boot and pulls out his smallest knife, his backup weapon in case of a dire emergency. It’s a short blade, and will only slow Potter down if he attacks, but Draco isn’t looking to kill him, after all.
He has to be delicate about this, guide Potter to the proper place to bite before he lunges. Draco hikes up the sleeve of his jacket — the right side — and nicks himself with the knife. Immediately Potter’s eyes go glassy, his entire focus on the inch-long oozing cut that Draco has made in his own skin. Now he does tense, vibrating with need as he creeps closer.
“Here you go, then,” Draco whispers.
The moment those fangs pierce his wrist will be burned in Draco’s mind for the rest of his life. Everything sharpens to those two points. Pearl-white canines invading his skin, digging inside him deeper than just the mere centimetre into his flesh. At the same time he can feel the blood being sucked from his body, flowing out into Potter’s mouth like a river to the sea.
Potter is inside him, and he is inside Potter.
As Potter sucks greedily at his wrist, Draco imagines his lifeblood pumping throughout every part of him: his mouth, his throat, his stomach, his veins. The very concept of Harry Potter being completely suffused with him nearly brings Draco to his knees; he shudders and Potter loses suction for just a moment, droplets of red sparkling out unconsumed to the floor. He whines animalistically and latches back on.
Draco’s cock begins to harden.
This… is not what he expected. There is pain, yes — his wrist smarts terribly, and he knows there will be a bruise like a love bite there for some time. But it’s erotic. Fuck the myths about vampires — as far as Draco knows, they don’t have hypnotic powers, they aren’t especially gifted in bed, and their bite is anything but sexual.
But this is no ordinary killing blow. It’s a gift.
Draco’s favourite part of sex has always been the orgasm — not because of the climax, but because of the intimacy of coming in someone. He almost always tops, seeking that moment when his partner is full of him in every way. It’s possessive, but it’s also a fleeting moment of closeness in his otherwise lonely world. And he can’t get any closer to Potter than he is now.
The awareness of his developing erection breaks through the haze of pain and surprising pleasure and Draco remembers that a hard-on requires blood, something he’s rapidly losing. Gently he presses back on Potter’s forehead until he releases Draco’s wrist, retracting his fangs more delicately than expected. Potter’s eyes are wide, his pupils fully blown, and he mouths at the air for a moment before coming back to himself.
He’s more alert now than when Draco found him. “Malfoy,” he says wetly. “Malfoy, what’s happening?”
“Shh,” Draco hushes him. “You’re fine, Potter. Do you think you can walk?”
Potter does indeed rise shakily to his feet. “What’s happening?” he repeats. He looks pathetic, and Draco almost regrets not putting him out of his misery when he was still incoherent, but then he subconsciously licks his lips to catch a stray drop of Draco’s blood and it’s all over.
“I’ll explain later. Follow me, I’m getting you out of here.”
~~~
‘Out of here’ is a relative term; Draco does indeed lead Potter haltingly up the stairs from the catacombs, but they stay in the house. He can’t risk walking past the front desk of his hotel with Potter; the place is a rat trap, but the doorman probably won’t ignore two men clutching each other, one with blood smeared across his face. Draco instead settles Potter down on a bed in a second-floor room.
“Malfoy, where are we?” The blood seems to have lit a spark in Potter’s system, and he’s glancing around fearfully. “Where’s Brookfield?”
“Who?” Draco busies himself pulling several bottles and a length of bandages out of a satchel he’d stashed in this room before going beneath the house.
“Harold Brookfield, my partner on this mission. Wait, why are you in Budapest?”
“There used to be a vampire nest in this house. I took them out.” Maybe if Draco stays business-like about this he can ignore the strange sensual moment that happened.
“Vampires? But…” Potter trails off, and some sort of realisation settles over him. “Oh my god. Brookfield. They must have killed him.”
“The vampires?” Potter nods dumbly. “Yes, well, that’s generally what they do. As you can see for yourself.”
“See for-?” Potter licks his lips once, twice, and his face is suffused with sudden horror. “No. No!”
He tries to stand, and Draco pushes him back down on the bed by the shoulders. “Calm the fuck down. I’m trying to help you.” Potter catches sight of the leaking bite mark on Draco’s wrist and gasps.
“I attacked you!”
“You didn’t. I fed you. You were newly turned and starving, you couldn’t speak.”
Potter is shaking again, but it’s not like when he was lying in the tunnel. It looks more like a panic attack about to begin.
“Drink this,” Draco commands him, handing over a bottle. Potter eyes it suspiciously. “It’s a Calming Draught. I have to ask you some questions. I’m with the Hit Wizards, my supervisor said you were missing. I’m to report back.” Potter baulks, and Draco moves his hand threateningly toward his still sheathed wand. “Do it.”
Grimacing, Potter knocks back the potion. Almost immediately he takes a deep breath and seems to settle.
“You needed to question me?” he asks dully. His gaze keeps straying to the bite marks, and it makes Draco feel warm. He’s managed to get his cock to behave, so he tries to ignore it.
“I need something to tell Harding.”
“So you work for the Ministry.”
“Not on paper.” Draco leans back against the old metal desk in the room as he begins to wrap his wrist up.
“I don’t- there isn’t much to tell. We were investigating a smuggling ring and were attacked in a warehouse. I don’t remember much after that.” He won’t meet Draco’s eyes.
“So the vampires were a surprise?”
“Yeah, they were. God, this is so fucked up.” Potter runs a hand through his hair and tugs at it in frustration. “Just, this is it? After everything?”
“Is what it?” Draco isn’t letting his guard down. If Potter loses his temper, he could still be a danger. He’s had enough to wake up, but he’s new and will need to feed again before morning.
“I guess I understand,” Potter continues without answering. “It’s your job. I just wish you’d left me to starve.”
Draco knew Potter would be appalled at being turned. “You know I couldn’t do that.”
“Right. Have to write a report,” Harry says flatly. “But my friends would have a body to bury that way.” He brushes off some cobwebs that are still clinging to his trousers. “Will it hurt?” he asks, almost nonchalantly.
“Will what hurt?”
“The way you plan to kill me.”
Draco nearly drops the bottle he is holding. “Potter, why would I have dragged you out of that wretched place only to drive a stake through your heart in the light of day?”
He finally looks back at Draco in shock. “I thought… You said you’re a Hit Wizard.”
“Not as such — wait. You think I’ve been ordered to kill you?” Potter nods dejectedly. “Merlin, no. You’re just collateral damage here. And I didn’t save your life only to interrogate you.”
“Why did you?”
Draco doesn’t have a simple answer for that. “You needed help,” he finally says quietly.
“I’m a monster,” Potter says bluntly. “I’ve already fed from you, I’ll hurt someone else next.”
“I gave you that. And you’ll get more tonight, after I take this Blood-Replenishing Potion.” Potter makes a startled noise.
“No! I won’t hurt you!”
Always the hero. “Don’t be a martyr. You’re a fresh turn, you need to feed for the next week to get your feet under you. After that you can decide what to do.” Draco’s tone brooks no argument, and Potter, still weak and under the influence of the potion, slumps in defeat.
“Now,” Draco continues, “I haven’t eaten much today and I need to keep up my strength. I’m going to the cafe on the corner, but I’ll be back within the hour. Will you be alright here?” Potter nods. Draco returns the gesture and heads outside. He wasn’t totally honest; he does stop at the cafe for lángos, but he eats outside on the street while watching the front door of the building. He wants to see if Potter makes a run for it, if his vampire instincts prove stronger than his famous determination. Tourists and locals alike emerge to mill about the street as the sun sinks behind the Buda hills, but Potter doesn’t give in to the temptation of all the life surrounding him. Finally, Draco finishes his meal and heads back inside.
Potter is lying on the bed, obviously still weak. Draco sits beside him, but he recoils.
“Get away from me. I need…”
“I know what you need,” Draco says placatingly. He holds out his arm. “We’ll do the same wrist, then I’ll heal it, and tomorrow night we’ll switch.” Maybe by then Potter will have calmed enough to trust Draco, and won’t recoil at the sight of the Mark.
“Why are you doing this?” Potter asks. His voice holds the beginnings of a protest, but it dies when Draco peels back the bandage to reveal the wound. His eyes immediately narrow; his fingers curl.
“I told you, you needed hel-” Potter doesn’t wait for him to finish. He reaches out startlingly fast and grabs Draco’s arm with both hands, pulling his wrist up and biting down in one fell swoop. He doesn’t quite hit the previous marks; the skin tears and Draco gasps in pain, grabbing his own thigh and digging his fingers into the flesh of his muscle to try and distract himself.
Potter has dragged Draco’s arm over to himself at an odd angle, and they are bent uncomfortably close to each other. Draco rests his forehead against Potter’s shoulder for a moment, breathing deep, measured breaths as Potter drinks. He’s slowly warming up as he gorges on Draco’s lifeblood, and again Draco is struck by the intimacy of it. Sitting here on a bed, curled into each other, Draco pressed against Potters mouth as he fills him. The pain fades to a dull roar and Draco is vaguely alarmed to realise he’s hard again. He doesn’t have time to berate himself for being a sick fuck — and honestly, he doesn’t think he will later, either, as this doesn’t seem sordid, no matter what other people might say — because he’s growing lightheaded and needs to ease Potter off again.
“Come on,” he says gently, and he’s surprised he still remembers how to be gentle after all this time spent killing.
It takes a bit more pushing and prodding this time to coax Potter to detach. Once he’s licked all the blood from his lips, his senses return to him, as does the look of disgust.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I can’t control myself. Malfoy… I can’t leave this room. You can’t let me.”
“I told you, you’re fresh,” Draco reiterates as he re-wraps his wrist. “You’ll get better at it.”
“I don’t want to get better at it,” Potter hisses, and the vicious sound has Draco’s hand straying towards his dagger, sitting at his hip. Potter catches the slight movement, and he nods. “You probably should.”
“I already told you, I’m not here to take your life.” Draco takes from the world every day of his existence. He’s always taken; as a rich spoiled child, as a Death Eater, as a hunter. Now he can give something to someone, and finds he likes the idea.
“So what are you going to do?” Potter challenges him. “Keep me here and feed me every day?”
“Don’t be absurd. After about a week the cravings will die down.” Draco cinches the bandage and arches one eyebrow. “Surely you know that vampires only need to feed a few times a month, and it doesn’t have to be living blood.”
“I haven’t really made it a point to study them, so no.” At least his snark isn’t totally gone. There may be hope for him yet. “So that’s the plan? Sit here with me every night for a week and let me suck on you? You already look too pale.”
Draco gets a sudden image in his mind of Potter sucking something else, and dismisses it. It’s been too long since he took a lover, that’s all. “I’m still good enough with potions. I could brew you Blood Substitute.”
“Half the ingredients in that are restricted, Malfoy.”
“Always the Auror, I see.”
Potter looks down abruptly at his stained and torn uniform. “I… Actually if you have anything I could change into, I’d like that.”
Draco nods, standing up. “I’ll bring something. Right now I’m going to sleep in the other bedroom down the hall. I know the moonrise makes you feel awake, but you should rest up. Fledglings need a lot of sleep. I’ll go out tomorrow and get the rest of my things.” Tomorrow, while the sun is high and Potter isn’t likely to escape — the sunlight doesn’t cause vampires to burst into flame, but it is painful.
As he leaves the room, Potter is still absently plucking at the decorative buttons of his tattered Auror robes.
~~~
Weakened, Draco sleeps through the night, all the way to the next afternoon. Even though Potter seemed calm, Draco had warded the door and the hallway with alarms. They haven’t gone off, so all seems well. Draco makes his way down the block to a cafe for palacsinta with sweet cheese and cherries. He's eating heavier food than he’s used to, which is par for the course in Hungary, but at least it helps keep him going.
Potter won’t rise until the sun begins to set, so Draco takes an ambling walk up the river, watching the small boats and larger ferries go by. After tonight, he’ll have to think up a reason for staying in the city. It's ironic; he's never needed any excuse to shadow Potter before, the basic fact of their rivalry being enough.
He makes it up both sides of the Danube, past churches and bathhouses, and ends up where he started. He peeks in the bedroom: Potter is sprawled across the bed, wearing only pants. His arse is round, and Draco has a notion to smack it.
Stop it.
Instead he makes a point of shutting the door loudly behind him. Potter is on his feet in an instant, his newly honed instincts alerting him to possible danger. Draco raises one hand in a gesture of supplication. The other is behind him, holding the knife.
Luckily Potter backs down quickly. "You startled me."
“I intended to. I’m not foolish enough to wake you by shaking your shoulder.” Or by spanking you. “Here.” He tosses a spare shirt and pair of trousers over to the bed and waits for Potter to put them on. The shirt hangs on him a bit.
Now that Potter is alert, it’s safe to sit beside him. “You should feed early today.”
“You’re rather matter-of-fact about me sucking your blood, Malfoy,” Potter says, even as he eyes Draco’s neck with desire. That won’t be happening — not ever.
“It has to be done. We’ll use the other wrist today.” He begins to unbutton his cuff.
“I mean, it doesn’t have to be done. You could still just kill me.”
Draco is well aware of this. He can’t really explain this need to care for Potter, to go against every instinct he’s honed over the past five years. “Just do what I tell you.”
“What if I don’t want to? Tell me Malfoy, what is there for me after this, anyway? You say after I get over the cravings I can control myself, but do you really think I can continue to be an Auror after this? That I can see my family? That anyone will want me?" His voice is becoming increasingly frantic, and Draco knows that’s partially due to hunger, but he isn’t wrong. Even Harry Potter is going to have difficulty finding acceptance.
He can’t say that, though. “Look, Potter. You’ve made it through a hell of a lot. Voldemort couldn’t kill you, do you really want to let these low creatures get the better of you?”
“Voldemort did kill me,” Potter mutters.
So Mother told the truth. “Well it didn’t take, and this didn’t either, so maybe that’s a sign.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Potter sounds tired, the bone-deep kind that Draco knows intimately, when all your responsibilities and the world in general hang heavy on your shoulders, and all you want to do is sleep. Blood can’t fix that, but it can perk him up a bit.
“Left wrist today, then. You’ve torn the other one up enough that it needs a couple days for the Dittany paste to set.”
Guilt fills Potter’s eyes, but not enough to cover the hunger as Draco rolls his sleeve up to reveal an inch of pale flesh. He goes further, and the open maw of the snake's head is revealed, black and empty. Potter sighs deeply as Draco stops before the first coil is visible.
"I'd forgotten." He sounds more sad than angry, even though he's obviously put off by the sight of Voldemort’s brand.
"Lucky for you. I never can."
The discomfort is plain on his face. "I don't want to put my mouth on it."
Draco wouldn't enjoy that, either. "Just aim at the base of my wrist."
"I get a little… lost. What would happen if I bit the Mark, anyway?"
As much as he wanted to slice it from his arm in the aftermath of the war, Draco has never actually cut into the Mark. He pauses. What if something happens? In his nightmares, black blood oozes from the snake, covering him until he chokes.
"It's either here or the femoral artery." At Potter’s puzzled look, Draco clarifies. "Inner thigh."
Fuck, Potter's attractive when he blushes.
"Maybe not there. And… not the neck."
"Fuck no."
"I’m too worried I’ll kill you."
That’s not what Draco is worried about, to be honest. He fears the feeling of being pinned down, of having his blood forcibly taken, of being forcibly taken. At the wrist, the arm — even the leg, and Draco's face grows hot as he thinks of Potter kneeling before him, drinking from his inner thigh, hands slowly skating up along pale skin to find his cock — these are places where Draco has some control. Exposing his skin and allowing Potter to suckle from him, that's fine. Being held in place and devoured is decidedly not.
"Just do it, Potter. It's only a tattoo." It's not, they both know it, but Potter's need wins out, and he tentatively takes Draco's arm, one hand on his elbow and another beneath his palm. Their fingers interlace, a parody of romance, before Potter's fangs descend and he rends Draco's flesh once more.
Draco finds that he can't watch Harry’s wicked, kissable mouth so close to the mark of his shame. Instead, he trains his eyes on the ceiling and grits his teeth through the pain. It seems worse this time, without the unintended sensuality of the first two bites. Yet after several pulls, Potter’s thumb begins to stroke circles along Draco’s hand. Even through the hunger, even faced with the reminder that Draco has done terrible things, Potter is trying to soothe him.
Lost in the unexpected kindness, Draco almost forgets to push Potter away from him until dizziness sets in. When he finally removes his mouth, Potter looks up from Draco's arm to lock eyes with him, apparently just as struck by the moment.
“I think once is enough for tonight,” Draco murmurs. “Are you sated?”
“Hmm?” Potter’s voice is dreamy. “Oh. Um, yeah, I'm good.” His fangs slowly retract. “I'm not as tired as I was last night.”
“Your body is becoming accustomed to the change.” Draco stands and begins to bandage his wrist, applying Dittany as he had with the other. He's lucky he carries potions for healing, given the dangerous nature of his job.
Potter fidgets on the bed. “Will you stay and talk with me a bit? It's boring in here.”
“About what?” Draco queries, pale eyebrow arched.
“I dunno. I always wondered what happened to you, after the trial. Why did you do… this?” Harry gestures with a hand around them.
“You thought about me?” Draco wouldn't have expected that. Potter’s cheeks heat up in that sweet blush yet again, and Draco hastily continues. “Wasn’t given much of a choice. Ten years’ probation, remember?”
Potter’s eyes grow wide. “This is your sentence?”
“It was strongly suggested to me I’d be considered in violation of my parole if I didn’t take the Ministry up on their offer, yes.” It still rankles Draco after all this time, and it must show.
“Does it bother you then, being a Hit Wizard?”
“As I've told you, I'm not really a Hit Wizard. They only send me after vampires. And yes, it does bother me. It’s not that I don’t think I deserved some kind of punishment, but all I did was go from one leash to another. They point me at a target and I kill. Doesn’t matter that it’s for a good cause, or so they say. What do you think Voldemort did to us? Picked out a target, sent the Death Eaters to burn it down.” Draco has never spoken so candidly about his situation before. He's never had the chance.
Potter regards Draco carefully, worrying his lip between his still human teeth. “You never killed anyone for Voldemort,” he finally says.
“No, I didn’t,” Draco answers.
“How have you managed to do it now? I always thought you were…” Potter trails off.
Draco snorts. “A coward? I am. I’m excellent at saving my own skin, is all.”
“I was going to say you were put off by real violence.” Draco, you are not a killer. Dumbledore’s words echo between them — Draco knows Potter witnessed that moment, it came out during the trials. What did you know, old man.
They sit in uncomfortable silence for several moments. “They should have let you do community service or something,” Potter finally says.
“They consider this community service, I’m sure.”
“But it’s not… you could die. Seems pretty dangerous for probation.”
“I rather think the Ministry isn’t too concerned for my life. I’m not considered worth very much in society, you see.” It’s true. Any time Draco ventures into Diagon to stock up on potions or other supplies, he can see the looks people cast in his direction.
“That isn’t fair,” Potter states. Draco laughs sharply.
“Oh, Potter, who ever told you life was fair? I should think you of all people figured out long ago that life is cruel and it’s all we can do to survive it.”
“Maybe I can—”
“Don’t. I don’t need you to rush in and save the day. I’ve saved you this time, and when you’re back on your feet you go your way and I go mine, and that’s it.”
There's a mulish look to Potter that says this conversation isn't over, but Draco changes the subject anyway. “You said you're bored? We can play cards.”
~~~
They do play cards, all night in fact — poker and other Muggle games. Potter seems impressed that Draco knows any of them. Draco doesn’t tell him it’s because he spends his nights in the lowest taverns and dirtiest pubs, teasing out information on the creatures he stalks.
There’s an almost perverse satisfaction in seeing Potter brought down as low as him. Neither of them will be welcome at the Ministry balls anymore, that’s for sure. Oh, Potter’s friends will come to accept him, and the Aurors may even make an exception for him to stay among their ranks. But the Wizarding World at large doesn’t like to see its heroes fall.
Potter knows it, too, and his face is resigned the next night when Draco’s shadow falls across his doorway again, pulling up his left sleeve and beckoning to him.
“When do you have to leave here?” Potter asks after drinking his fill. Draco rises to fetch another vial of Blood-Replenishing Potion — he has two left, he notes. He’ll need to visit the local apothecary soon.
“I told Harding I had a lead on you and your partner — Brookfield, was it?” Potter nods miserably. “It’s not a total lie. I’ll be able to go the rest of the week.”
“And what happens after that?”
“I’m not going to turn you in, Potter.”
“Harry.”
Draco downs the potion with a grimace. “Really?”
“I’m living off your blood, Draco. I think we’re on a first name basis.”
Seeing Potter (Harry) sitting there on the bed, flushed with life and full of Draco’s blood, wearing Draco’s clothes, saying Draco’s name — it’s nearly too much. That possessive feeling is back, the one Draco enjoys when fucking someone. Already half-hard from Harry’s fangs in his skin, his cock fills out the rest of the way, and Draco attempts to discreetly adjust himself. From Harry’s quick glance downward, he thinks he may have been caught out.
“Fine then, Harry,” he acquiesces. “Do you feel up to being in public yet?”
Harry pales. “What if I attack someone?”
“You’re sated, and I’ll be right there with you. Come on, it’ll be fine.”
They head to the cafe across the street, where Harry is delighted to learn that he can still eat human food if he wishes, even if it doesn’t sustain him. He licks the thick sour cream from the lángos off his fingers, and Draco has to adjust his trousers yet again. Afterwards they share a single shot of fruit brandy; Draco doesn’t want to thin his blood out. The act of caring for someone, of thinking ahead for more than a day and planning how best to be there for someone, is novel for him.
Draco enjoys it.
“Glad you aren’t dead, eh?” he asks, after the waiter brings over a cherry tart to share for dessert.
“I am dead,” Harry snorts.
“You know what I mean. You couldn’t try new foods if you were dust.”
Harry picks at the tart with his fork. “I didn’t really try new foods when I was alive, either.”
“No?”
“Hermione was always telling me to take a break from work, but there was so much to be done…” He trails off.
Draco snags a bite with his own fork. “Speaking in the past tense?”
“You can’t possibly think I can return to being an Auror, Draco.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, not looking terribly bothered.
Draco tilts his head and contemplates this. “Does that upset you? Because you don’t seem that way.”
“It was a lot.” Harry pokes the tart again. “They had me leading missions pretty soon after I joined. I was always gone, Ginny joined the Harpies, we didn’t have enough time together to make a go of it.” Draco hadn’t asked about the girl Weasley, and finds it intriguing that Harry volunteered that information so easily.
“You sound as if it’s a weight off your shoulders, being dead.” That’s the wrong thing to say. Harry stabs his fork down angrily; a piece of sticky cherry sauce goes flying and hits Draco directly in the chest, staining his white shirt.
“It’s not like that! The Aurors, yeah, that’s a lot of pressure, but — what about my friends? Or Teddy? I can’t see them like this!”
People are beginning to stare. “Harry, that’s not what I meant,” Draco says, trying to calm him. “Let’s just go back, ok?”
Harry’s eyes flash dangerously; anyone who doesn’t know him would assume that’s the beast inside, showing it’s true nature, but Draco knows it’s the temper that had always been a part of Harry’s personality. “Yeah, let’s go back. Keep me inside, locked away.” He stands, shoving his chair aside with a screech on the pavement, and stalks back across the road into the house.
“Fuck.” Draco signals the waiter to bring the bill. As soon as it arrives he throws some forints down on the table and stuffs the last bite of tart into his mouth. No reason to let it go to waste, after all.
Back upstairs, Harry is pacing the parquet floor, his hands clenching spasmodically at his sides. His head snaps up when Draco enters the room.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled. Oh! You’re — oh, right. That’s the tart. Er, sorry about that.”
“No matter, You’re the one who missed out on cherry goodness.” Draco looks down at the stain on his front. “This needs a rather strong Cleaning charm.” One he doesn’t want applied on his skin. As he pulls off his shirt, Harry’s eyes widen.
“Holy shit.”
“What?” There’s only a few faint scars left from their encounter in the girls’ bathroom, and Draco is sure they're not visible in this light.
“Nothing, just… you really work out, don’t you?” There’s an undertone of admiration that Draco doesn’t miss.
"I've had to punch my way out of a fight enough to learn the importance of keeping in shape." It's also something to keep his mind occupied, and also to keep him out of his depressing bedsit. The Hit Wizards have their own gym, and he's allowed access.
Harry's eyes linger on Draco's pecs for a long moment. "The Aurors could learn a thing or two from you. Our training was very wand focused — but I've been without mine enough times to know you can't always depend on one."
Draco remembers the time when Harry disarmed him, and bites back a snide remark. "Muscles are fine and well, but vampires also require a blade," he says instead.
"Not a stake? I thought…"
"Oh, a stake is fine, especially in close quarters. But decapitation is preferred. Keep your distance, and always be sure of a kill. It’s surprisingly easy to miss the heart in the heat of battle.”
Harry shudders. “I feel like I should be more put off, being stakeable myself.”
“You’re not the kind of vampire I kill, Harry. You don’t enjoy hurting people.”
“I hurt you,” Harry says quietly, sitting on the bed. Draco wonders if he shouldn’t conjure a chair; looking at Harry half-reclined every night, where it would be so easy to push him down into the mattress, isn’t helping him control his libido. He shouldn’t look at Harry that way, shouldn’t sit next to him, knees pressed together… and yet he does exactly that.
“You’re a bit hot-headed tonight,” he says, voice unintentionally low and husky. “Did you not get enough to eat?” He starts to roll his sleeve up, even as his mind is screaming what the fuck are you doing, Draco, this isn’t necessary, this is only for your own enjoyment!
Harry licks his lips. “But I’ve bitten you twice on that wrist already.”
“Just re-open tonight’s wound. It hasn’t started to heal much, even with the Dittany.” Harry looks dubious, but he’s leaning unconsciously toward Draco anyway. He can always count on this it seems — Harry’s need of him.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Draco whispers. “I just want to take care of you.”
Suddenly Harry’s fingers are helping him peel back the bandage, before he slips his fangs into his previous wounds, much gentler than ever before.
After only a few sips, Harry looks up at Draco. His teeth are terrifyingly sharp, his eyes completely black. It’s the same as on the face of every vampire Draco has ever hunted down, but on Harry it’s compelling rather than grotesque.
“You’re aroused,” Harry says with a mouthful of Draco’s blood.
“I — I beg your pardon—” Draco stutters.
“It’s true. You get hard every time we do this.”
So he’s noticed. “I… it’s intimate.” How can Draco explain that giving Harry his blood makes him feel so needed, so desired that it overrides the pain?
“I suppose you’re right. We do get awfully close.” Harry then licks into the twin holes as if to emphasise his point. Draco shudders, unable to control his next words.
“When you bite me… You’re inside me, Harry. That’s as close as it gets.”
Harry swallows. "You’re inside me, too.”
Draco doesn't know if the Harry he was before would have found that so compelling. But the Harry he is now feels a bone deep hunger for Draco, one he can’t resist. It doesn’t have to be sexual… but it doesn't have to not be, either.
Before it can take a turn in that direction, however, Harry laps up one last stay droplet and backs away. "I'm tired," he announces. His eyes have returned to green, and he appears unsettled. Draco takes the hint and returns to his own bed.
The next time he feeds Harry, things spiral out of control.
~~~
Last night was a close call. Draco doesn’t want to risk getting too wrapped up in Harry — there’s no future there. But he hasn’t been allowed to have something he wanted for a very long time. He spends the day in one of the smaller bath houses, going back and forth between warm, hot and cold pools. It does little to calm his desire.
It’s further past sunset than he’s returned previously, and his guard is down. Draco barely has time to think that was a mistake as he finds himself pressed against the door as soon as he enters, fangs a mere inch from his throat.
Instinct has him blocking with his arms, pushing up and away, and then spinning out in a kick that brings Harry to the floor. It knocks some sense into the other man; Harry shakes his head and sits back on his heels.
“Fuck, Draco, I’m so sorry. It’s only — I’m so hungry — and you smell so…”
Draco sighs and slumps against the door. “You aren’t out of the woods yet. I shouldn’t have been late, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Without any preamble, he begins to roll up his right sleeve. The wounds there are nearly healed, enough that Harry can bite again, but the bandage catches on a raw spot and he hisses in pain.
Harry takes notice. “Not that wrist, then?” He’s panting with desire — a muscle memory, as he doesn’t need to breathe.
“The other one is worse. You’ll have to go higher on my right arm, I suppose. It will need a deeper bite, but it can’t be helped.”
“Hmm.” Harry is staring at him like he’s a particularly scrumptious tart, his eyes raking a path down to Draco’s trousers. “Could always go for that place you mentioned before.”
Draco follows his gaze. “The thigh?!”
“Yeah.” Harry is already crawling forward. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Draco is going to have to make a decision fast. The sight of Harry on his knees — oh, who is he kidding, the decision is already made.
“I’ll have to kick you in the head if you don’t let go when I ask,” he warns.
“Don’t worry,” Harry murmurs. “I’ll make it good for you.”
Draco doesn’t have a chance to ask what he means; Harry’s hands are already pulling his belt loose and allowing his trousers to fall. Draco is wearing pants, thank Merlin, but they do little to hide his rapidly rising erection. Harry smirks, then runs his hands up the smooth pale skin he’s uncovered, just like in Draco’s fantasies. A pink tongue darts out, and licks him, massaging one spot and bringing the blood close to the surface.
In the blink of an eye, the fangs descend, and Draco only has a second to brace himself on the door.
It hurts, much more than the wrist. Draco whimpers and bites down on his own fist, willing himself through the pain. The initial prick of those sharp teeth was the worst, though, and after a moment Draco is able to look down.
Harry’s head is tilted between Draco’s thighs, soft mouth working at him as he pulls long sips of blood. Draco shudders, and slowly places one hand on Harry’s head. It’s like receiving fellatio, but not — the pleasure is different. Harry kneels before Draco like a beggar come to pray at an altar, gratefully receiving a blessing. Draco can’t help but reach down and palm his cock through his pants.
As his legs begin to shake, he yanks back on Harry’s tangled hair to stop him. Harry seems much more in control now, and he leans over to grasp the bottle of healing paste Draco has been using to stop the bleeding after each bite. But when Draco moves to step away from the door, Harry uses his new and not inconsiderable strength to push him back. “No, stay there. Just take care of the bite first.”
“But you’re done.”
“No, I’m not.” Harry reaches up to take hold of Draco’s balls.
Draco has never applied that damn paste so fast in his life.
As soon as he’s no longer in danger of bleeding out, Harry leans up to mouth damply at his cock through the fabric of his pants, before pulling them down abruptly. Draco’s cock bounces out, nearly smacking Harry in the face. Absurdly, Draco doesn’t think about the imminent blow job. He thinks about how gorgeous Harry looks without his glasses, unnecessary now that his vampire senses have sharpened his vision. He then fleetingly thinks about how grateful he is that Harry has control over his fangs, now retracted, as he closes his lips over the head of Draco’s cock.
Draco doesn’t think about much else for the next three minutes.
It’s sloppy and uncoordinated; Harry is obviously a novice. But it’s Harry Potter and half of Draco’s cock is in his mouth and it’s so patently ludicrous that he nearly laughs before gasping in pleasure. He wants to last longer, he really does, but everything about the moment is so overwhelming that Draco can’t hold out.
Harry takes from him now as he does when biting, swallowing Draco’s come as if it can sustain him just the same.
Even through the dizziness of aftermath, Draco has a notion to bring Harry off as well. But Harry simply leans back, pulls his own cock from his trousers, and comes in five strokes. Obviously he was just as turned on by the whole encounter.
Draco stumbles over to the bed and sits down to shakily wrap a bandage around his thigh. Harry helps him tie it, and they share a long look.
“Stay here tonight.” Harry’s tone is firm, but Draco hesitates.
“You’re going to be wide awake for hours, now.”
“But you’re exhausted. At least sleep for a little while.” He reaches out to smooth one sweaty blond lock out of Draco’s eyes. It’s soothing, and Draco is rather tired after all.
~~~
The moon is high overhead when Draco wakes, several hours later. Harry sits in the chair, staring at him with those incredibly lovely eyes.
“Are you watching me sleep?” Draco asks with a small yawn. Harry smiles and glides over to the bed, sinking down onto the blankets Draco has kicked off in the heat.
“What if I was?” He seems more predatory than usual, yet still in control. Draco supposes this is the vampire finally settling in.
“That would be creepy,” Draco answers, even as he moves aside to make room in the bed. He still isn’t wearing trousers, but doesn’t really care.
Harry is similarly unconcerned about his own half-nudity. With a catlike stretch, he rubs sensually against Draco, who shudders at the feel of cold skin and hard cock. His own is beginning to show interest, and he gestures to the table. “Hand me the Blood-Replenishing Potion.” Harry does so eagerly, and barely waits for Draco to down it before he begins rutting up against him.
It’s a strange sensation, warm cock against cold, but each of them finds it both novel and pleasing. They tear off the rest of their clothes, desperate for more contact. Harry sneaks one hand between them, taking hold of both their pricks and wanking them in smooth, sure strokes. He seems more skilled at this than the blow job, and Draco has no qualms about telling him so.
Harry simply laughs. “I’ve done this part before. Done most of it, actually, just never sucked anyone off.”
“So what you’re saying is that — Uh! Oh fuck, right there — you’re a selfish lover?”
“Guess so.” Harry speeds up, panting into the crook of Draco’s shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close. I wanted to ride you. Next time, then.” The image of Harry perched on his cock flashes behind Draco’s eyes, and he spills over their hands, Harry following a moment later.
“So, ride me?” Draco asks when he regains his breath. “I should have known you’d be a bossy bottom.”
Harry laughs into his shoulder, suddenly shy. “I don’t know about that. It’s just the way things usually end up. Sex the past few years has only been hook-ups. People expect me to be in charge, to just use them. Seems easiest to go along.”
So they expected hero Harry Potter. “You can take pleasure from someone while not being in charge.”
“Yeah. It’s like..
“Like?”
“Like when I bite you. I’m taking from you, but I feel cared for.” Harry raises his head slightly, barely catching Draco’s gaze. “Does that sound strange?”
“No.” Draco runs a soothing hand over Harry’s cheek; Harry nuzzles into the caress. “That’s how I feel, as well. As if I’m giving you something, taking care of you.”
“So it’s not just because I’m a vampire?” he asks hesitantly.
“Fuck, no. If I had some sort of vampire fetish I wouldn’t hunt them.” It’s true; Harry’s nature doesn’t fuel Draco’s attraction, per se. If he needed a potion, or a magic transfer, Draco suspects it would fulfil the same deep desire. “The biting hurts, you know. I’m not a masochist. But it all fades away in that moment that I’m… responsible for you.”
“You’re possessive,” Harry whispers with a nip to the ear, all human teeth. “I think I like it.”
“I think I like sleep,” Draco counters. “I’m getting back to it. Not that it wasn’t a lovely way to wake up.”
The coolness of Harry’s vampire body is soothing in the summer night as they curl into each other. As Draco drifts off, he thinks that this wouldn't be quite so satisfying with anyone else. But possessing Harry, the boy whose friendship eluded Draco for so many years, the man who upended his life repeatedly, is far too tempting to resist. He tightens his hold.
~~~
Draco wakes in the late afternoon, Harry sprawled naked across him. He seems totally dead when sleeping: no rise and fall of the chest, no twitching eyelids. Draco wonders if vampires dream. He has to roll Harry off him to get up, but the other man doesn’t wake, simply settling into the bed on his stomach.
Leaving Harry's spankable arse behind him, Draco visits the apothecary and picks up a loaf of crusty bread and some cheese before the market closes. He eats it on the balcony while waiting for sunset, clad only in a loose robe ‘liberated’ from the hotel. The clanging bells of the boats, the pealing laughs of the cafe patrons, the soft putter of motorbikes — Draco has become used to the city over the past few weeks. There’s a comfort in the strange local language, the hearty food. It’s especially nice being left alone to his own devices.
Harding tried to call the hotel three times yesterday, as Draco discovered when he returned for the rest of his things. Now it’s Draco who is AWOL. The next step is an owl from his probation officer, filled with threats. Draco isn’t terribly worried, because once he shows up back in England with news of Brookfield’s death, Harding will be so over the moon about something to taunt Robards with that Draco will be off the hook. Still, he has no idea what Harry will do. Will he go back to his life, risking the fear and ire of the Wizarding World? Or will he melt into the darkness, finally free to live for himself? And if he does return, will he travel with Draco?
The subject of his thoughts stirs on the bed. Harry sits up and notices Draco, his eyes beginning to turn black for just a moment, before green takes over again. Good. He is learning control of himself, even when waking hungry.
“Which would you like first, cheese or blood?” Harry doesn’t answer, merely rises to his feet, almost liquid, and glides over to Draco on the balcony. “You’re naked,” Draco points out with amusement. “While I’m sure the backpackers appreciate it, you may want to- oof!” In the blink of an eye, Draco finds himself pulled just inside and pressed against the open French door. Harry’s hands are like a vice on his upper arms, but his kiss is gentle, so Draco doesn’t struggle.
“Cheese later,” Harry murmurs, before sinking to his knees and nosing Draco’s thighs apart. With no warning he bites the opposite one from last night, prompting a pained yelp from Draco. Soon enough the shock is past, and he can concentrate on the feel of Harry’s messy hair rubbing against his bollocks. The sounds of the street outside filter in, but Draco is just out of sight, the worn organza curtains fluttering around him in the light breeze. Even as he pulls steadily at Draco’s vein, Harry’s hand finds its way up to his arse, squeezing and pulling at his cheeks, one finger tracing the rim of Draco’s entrance.
Draco’s moans echo in the high-ceilinged room as he sinks into the warm feeling of being touched, as well as the familiar dizziness. This time Harry pulls back on his own. It’s a sign that he’s past the fledgling stage, ready to be free in the world, and Draco feels a pang of something like loneliness before he’s pulled towards the bed.
“Drink your potion,” Harry mumbles through his fangs, still out. “I want you here for this.”
Draco accepts the bottle handed to him, feeling the Blood-Replenishing Potion work its way through his system, perking him up. It requires rest and food to bring him back to one hundred percent, but he’s more than fine enough for whatever activities Harry has planned. He sets the bottle aside and glances back at Harry, eyes opening in shock as he takes in the sight.
Harry’s fangs have receded, but his gaze is still tinged black as his hand works behind him, stretching and preparing his own arsehole. “This hurts a lot less,” he says in wonder.
“Yes, your pain tolerance has increased with the change. Merlin, Harry, can I fuck you? Do you want that?” Draco wants that, wants it very badly.
“Yesss,” Harry hisses, almost like Parseltongue, crawling up Draco’s body and lining his arse up with Draco’s near-painful erection.
For all the initiative he's taken in this encounter, once Harry slides down he turns rather passive, his head lolling back as he simply sits there full of Draco's cock. But Draco is unable to be still. Harry is tight, so tight, and pleasantly cool inside, his internal muscles clenching around Draco's prick until Draco can't take anymore. He grips Harry by his hips, still bony even after all these years, and bounces him forcefully up and down.
If anyone were to see them, they would never guess that Harry is what most consider a wicked, predatory creature. He’s lost in the feeling of being fucked, allowing Draco to have his way, being pulled forward and kissed and then pushed up as Draco shifts into a seated position without slipping out of Harry’s arse. The only initiative Harry shows is to wrap his legs around Draco’s waist. Draco holds him tight, kissing him and sucking bruises into his neck. “Ride me, Harry,” he coaxes, and finally Harry braces himself and begins to lift and fall, moving up and down Draco’s cock until it’s more than he can stand.
“Touch yourself,” Draco pleads. He’ll beat Harry to the finish otherwise. Biting his lip, Harry nods and begins wanking. The visual is glorious, and Draco digs his fingers into Harry’s sides in a bruising grip one last time, holding him still halfway up his cock as he fills him with come. “So warm,” Harry whimpers, spattering Draco’s chest with his own.
They collapse into each other, Draco gasping for needed breath and Harry trembling without any.
Their sticky bodies finally become uncomfortable in the heated night air, and Draco eases out from under Harry to Scourgify them both. “That was amazing,” Draco admits.
“Mmm, yeah,” Harry agrees, running his fingers up Draco’s bicep. “Take me again before the night is over?”
Draco laughs, exhausted, even as he considers it. “You’re insatiable.”
“I feel so hot and hungry for you. For your body, not your blood. Is that the vampire inside me?” Harry doesn’t sound bothered by the possibility, merely curious.
“Vampires aren't inherently sexual creatures beyond the person they already were. There’s no drive inside you to fuck as well as feed.” Draco rolls over, facing Harry contemplatively. “You know what I think? You’re feeling free for the first time. You know that no one will expect anything out of you anymore.”
A shadow falls across Harry’s face. “Yeah, because I can’t go back there.”
“Do you really think that?” Draco has put some more thought into this over the past few days. “The political climate doesn’t favour vampires, it’s true. But everyone you care about has stood by you through worse than this, yeah?” There will be problems, Draco isn’t stupid. But he finds that he doesn’t want to see the dejected look on Harry’s face every time home comes up.
The encouragement works; a bit of hope appears in Harry’s eyes. “Maybe. I mean, my family will still be there. I don’t want to cause any problems for them…”
“Pretty sure being Voldemort’s number one target was a pretty big problem,” Draco says dryly, earning a slap. “Ow! You’re stronger than you remember.”
“Sorry.” Harry smiles tentatively. “You know, you’re not as tough as you think, mister vampire hunter.” Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m serious! You’re... er, you’re kind of sweet.”
Draco gasps in mock horror. “You take that back!”
“No way! Bad boy Malfoy, shows up in his leather jacket with his fucking sword, saves my life!” They’re both laughing now, Draco grabbing a pillow to throw at Harry’s face.
Harry makes good on his offer before they finally fall asleep, thick velvet drapes holding the dawn at bay.
~~~
Hidden away in their secret room, neither man particularly wants to get out of bed the next evening. But Draco needs food, even if Harry doesn’t.
“Rise and shine,” he whispers into the shell of Harry’s ear. “Time for a quick bite.”
“You think you’re so funny,” Harry grumbles even as he sits up. “Where do you want me?”
“On your back, legs in the air,” Draco answers cheekily. “Oh, you meant your fangs? Right wrist, if you please.”
As Harry drinks his fill, Draco watches him with a critical eye. He has perfect control now, treating Draco as if he were a particularly delectable sweet, but not one that he must mindlessly devour.
“You’ll be fine now,” Draco declares once Harry’s finished.
Harry seems unsure. “I thought you said it would be a week?”
“It’s not an exact science. You first fed from me on Friday, sometimes it’s been twice a night. And you were strong to begin with.” Draco nods decisively. “Yes, I think you’re fine to travel. Any apothecary in London can give you a prescription for Blood Substitute.”
“So… back home.” Harry stands gracefully and wanders over to the balcony, pulling the heavy drapes aside and peering through the thinner ones. “I think I’ll miss it here. I didn’t get to do a lot of sightseeing… before.”
“You can always come back.”
“I can, can’t I? Always.” It’s the first reference to his newly extended life either of them have made. Immortality has an understandably bad connotation for both of them.
“Let’s go out,” Harry says, turning from the balcony abruptly. “For our last night.”
Draco nods wordlessly. He, too, is loath to lose this.
They travel up and down the tourist streets, smiling at Muggle backpackers falling out of the ruin pubs, happily drunk on pálinka. They pause outside the basilica, closed for the night. Harry twitches, and Draco wonders if he knows the old superstitions about vampires and churches are just that. They eventually make their way down to the Danube and watch the boats drift by.
“Come on,” Harry says after about an hour. “Let’s walk to the other side.”
This late the Szabadság bridge has very few people on it, especially near the Buda side. Feeling uncharacteristically sentimental, Draco takes Harry’s hand in his own. He’s never held hands with anyone before; he likes it.
Harry pulls away after only a brief moment. Bereft, Draco turns to him to issue a cutting, defensive remark, but Harry shushes him.
“Look at that,” he whispers. “In the shadows.”
Draco’s night vision is not as good as a vampire’s, but he can just make out two figures standing at the end of the bridge. One is larger, bent over another, smaller. The smaller one is struggling.
Lightning quick, Harry is moving. Draco sprints after him, just a step behind, drawing a dagger from his jacket as he runs. Harry is upon the larger figure in an instant — it’s a man — and the shorter one, a young girl, shrieks and runs toward Draco, screaming in Hungarian. He lets her pass, figuring she’ll get herself clear, and catches up to Harry.
His eyes are totally black, fangs extended fully. “Look what we have here.”
“Potter!” the man exclaims, squirming in Harry’s grip. “I didn’t know you were still in town!” He peers closer at Harry’s fangs. “Oh. You too?”
“Let me guess,” Draco asks, aiming the dagger at the man, whose eyes are black as well. “You’re Brookfield.”
“Mal-Malfoy? Why are you- Potter, unhand me! What’s going on?”
“What going on,” Harry hisses, “is you were trying to eat that girl.”
“Well — yeah,” Brookfield answers dumbly. “Innit that what we do now?”
An inhuman growl issues from Harry’s throat, making even Draco shiver. “I don’t know about you, Brookfield, but that’s not what I do.” He manhandles his former partner to his knees — Draco finds himself turned on by this display of strength — and gestures to Draco. “And what is it you do?”
Draco grins wickedly. “I do this.” With a small flourish, showing off for Harry, he produces a stake from his boot and drives it through Harold Brookfield’s heart.
~~~
The new, fancier hotel bed is warmer and softer than that of the abandoned house. Draco and Harry take their time breaking it in.
No longer needing to avoid his supervisor, Draco figures they might as well spend the rest of the night — now early morning — in comfort. Brookfield’s ashes glitter in a vial on the side table, proof positive that Draco had a reason to be off the grid all this time. After all, hunting a former Auror took stealth, yes?
“I suppose the only question now is: do I leave you out of it?” Draco asks Harry as he emerges dripping wet from the shower.
“Out of what?”
“My ‘official’ account. If you’re not coming back, I won’t mention you at all. Everyone will think you were killed.”
Harry sighs, sitting heavily on the bed, ignoring Draco’s noise of protest at being spattered with water droplets. “I can’t let them think that. I did it once before. I’m not returning to the Aurors, but I at least have to see Ron and Hermione, and Andromeda and Teddy.”
“Right then. I’ll mention the Portkey should be for two.” Draco laughs hollowly. “I’d say I’d get a promotion for this, but there’s really no upward movement in the ‘involuntary vampire hunter’ career.”
Harry waves his hand carelessly. “Well that’s not a problem. I’ll tell them they have to end your probation.”
“You really think that much of your pull with the Ministry?” Draco says doubtfully, even as he begins to hope.
“Yes,” Harry says bluntly. “And Kingsley will appreciate that you saved my life.”
“That might be difficult, seeing as you aren’t alive.”
“I’m standing here talking, aren’t I? You could have let me starve to death, or cut off my head. I was angry at first, but now that I’m in my right mind again I’m glad for it.” He leans over and brushes his lips across Draco’s mouth. “And I’m free, now.”
“You are,” Draco murmurs into the kiss.
“So are you. Or you will be.” Harry presses him down onto the bed. Draco allows himself to be pinned briefly before flipping them over.
“We’ll see.”
Harry leans up, licks his collarbone. “I’m immortal now, too.”
“Now that, I am not.”
“Hmm.”
There’s a devious look about Harry, one Draco isn’t quite sure he likes. He’s supposed to be the Slytherin here. Also, he’s doesn’t know how he feels about the prospect of dying. No one knows what happens to a vampire’s soul after they die for good — they don’t come back as ghosts, and have never been raised in a seance.
The fact he would even insinuate such a thing means Harry has changed, maybe more than Draco initially suspected. It should raise a million red flags, give Draco pause.
It doesn’t.
He’s too pleased having Harry with him, on his knees begging for Draco’s wrist or his cock. If there’s something more calculated there… no. Harry was never that kind of planner. He wears his heart on his sleeve.
Reluctantly, Draco withdraws from the bed. “I need to call Harding, get that Portkey set up.”
“I think I liked it, you know,” Harry says idly, splayed naked and unashamed on the bed. “That thing with Brookfield. Us together. How do you feel about freelancing?”
Draco arches a brow. The late nights, dirty tunnels, and risk to his life have never sat well with him. But he is good at it. Maybe with Harry as a partner, and not under the control of the Ministry, it could be exciting? “There aren’t many vampires left in England.”
“Yeah… about that. I’d like to travel. I never got to, you know? I never got to be young. But you’ve been all over. You could show me around.” Harry is casually stroking one finger over a nipple. Draco watches, transfixed, before he smiles slowly.
“Well, I don't know about you, but I’ve become rather fond of Budapest.”