AUTHOR: sordid humor

GENRE: Romance, Yo-yo-ing Dark Comedy/Teen Angst

RATING: M for violence, language, sexuality and copious adult themes




I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to JK Rowling.

SUMMARY: A heaping quantity of tripe; because Harry Potter is indeed a hopeless, romantic sap, and there is no method by which one can avoid this fact after 450k.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a very partial installment, with the remaining 13k of the chapter yet to follow. I've been remiss in my postings (naughty author).





Lying safely in bed, they watched the sun rise. In the dark of the Head Boy's chamber, they sipped from an ampule of Invigoration Drought passed lazily between them, its flavor shared in slow, breathy kisses.

The first slivers of light crept in, reflecting off the beveled glass of the windows and the gilded mirror over Draco's dresser. Harry listened to the even pulls of Draco's breathing; his scarred, bitten-up chest rising and falling against Harry's side, the red marks of fingers and teeth running the length of him, threatening to bruise in a spectacular fashion. The sunlight made its way up their bodies, starting at toes, working past calves and groins and hairy chests to at last sting their eyes.

Harry discarded the empty potion container, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the sun. He could feel dark circles forming under his eyes.

"Canna remember the las' time I stayed up all night," Draco muttered, burrowing his face in Harry's armpit to escape the sun. The blonde took a deep breath, inhaling the stink of Harry's sweat—rubbing his face in it, really. He continued in an offhanded tone, "Everyone will be leavin' soon. As I understand it, Granger's spendin' her holiday with the Weasley brood. Then Gweir's bound for his Great Uncle's plantation in Chile: his grandmother fled there after Margene passed. And Lovegood will be with her father. They've stayed in England—Merlin knows why."

Harry smoothed a hand down Draco's spine.

"I don't wanna move," Harry sighed, yawning. "Is that bad?"

"Could always stay at Hogwarts fer hols," Draco suggested sleepily. He patted around the bed, searching out another potion.

Harry shook his head. "Not exactly romantic. Besides, I made arrangements."

Draco lifted his face out of Harry's armpit long enough to raise an ashy blonde brow. He then slapped a potion against Harry's chest and fell face-first into a black-haired pit, sighing happily.

Harry toyed with the potion Draco had dropped in the divot between his pectorals, muddling over whether he ought to down it all or just drink half. Similar to Pepper-Up Potion, too much Invigoration Drought could give a bloke heartburn, especially on an empty stomach. He spoke looking at the potion phial. "We'll catch the Express to London so no one suspects."

"Then?" Draco asked, muffled in Harry's hairy Wonder Boy armpit.

The side of his mouth turned up. "I'm not telling, love. It's a surprise."

Draco snorted. "Surprise? It's a sodding honeymoon... sentimental twat."

"We're going to relax, just the two of us," Harry corrected, shrugging dismissively. "Call it what you will—it's a vacation and we've ruddy-well earned it. And don't tell me you wouldn't fancy getting away for a few days, no responsibilities... aside from shagging each other senseless, of course, and lying in bed the rest of the time."

He felt a smile reshape Draco's face against his skin. "Sounds delightful."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, snuggling down into the mattress. "Too bad it requires getting up."

"Bugger." Draco laid a kiss to his side.

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. Getting out of bed felt like such a chore. His thighs and bum ached from fucking in angles he wasn't yet accustomed to, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and—damn the potion coursing through his veins—drift off to sleep. Instead, he uncorked the murky blue drought Draco had left on his chest and downed about two thirds of it.

"I got you something," he told the top of Draco's head. "It's in my bag if you want it."

With a groan, Draco rolled onto his back. "Damn you, Potter," he cursed, pushing himself to a sitting position. He seemed as sore as Harry, if not more-so. "You've found my weakness."

"Presents?" Harry snorted. "And here I thought it was my cock."

Draco fixed him with a smoldering over-the-shoulder glare. His silver gaze hung for a moment on Harry's bits before swinging up to his face, where his glasses sat askew. Draco reached out, adjusting the lenses until they stood straight on the bridge of Harry's nose.

"Your body, dear boy, is the world'sweakness," the blonde announced. "The attraction is hardly unique to me." With a long, quavering stretch, Draco heaved his legs off the side of the bed and stood. Harry could make out the pink outline of his fingers across a smooth white buttock. The sight brought a rogue grin to his lips.

"Get your fucking presents, already," Harry teased.

Draco wobbled, jelly-limbed and marzipan-boned, making his way to Harry's discarded bag with the help of nearby furniture. Bending looked painful as he put a hand to his lower back, groaning. He rummaged through the sack, pulling out this and that, searching out anything unfamiliar. It didn't take him long to find the shrunken shopping bags.

"I meant them as Christmas presents," Harry explained, propping himself up on his elbows to see Draco more clearly. The blonde wandered back to the bed, retrieving his wand from its black lacquered case and giving it a flick. The packages re-sized themselves, taking up a third of the bed. Draco eyed them greedily.

"Go on, then," Harry insisted.

Draco pulled out a large clothing box first, lifting the lid with the joy and anticipation of a kid on Christmas.

Harry had wanted to get Draco a hundred thousand gifts. Memories of terrible holidays with the Dursleys plagued him—dirty old socks and bent-up coat hangers thrown into his cupboard Christmas morning while Dudley rolled in man-high piles of brightly wrapped packages. He wanted Draco to have gifts to open, wanted to give the man some semblance of normalcy in all this chaos. He wanted this to be the most perfect Christmas ever. It was the first time he truly had what he wanted; a family, someone to love him, legal and official.

Draco pulled out a red wool coat.

"I knew you didn't have a muggle jacket, and you'll need one where we're headed," Harry pointed out, watching Draco's face as he examined the garment. The coat was long—it would reach almost to Draco's knees—with thick black fur at the collar and golden, double-breasted buttons. Draco's ringed fingers lingered over certain details—the round buttons, the heavy fur collar, where the lining joined the hem in invisible little stitches. Harry admittedly didn't know much about fine clothing beyond what Draco had drilled into his head, but from the fit and the frightening price tag he was assured that this was a quality piece. He'd gone to Paris and back, just to surprise Draco. "You like it?"

Draco was looking at the silk lining when he spoke. "Gryffindor red?"

Harry forced himself to sit up fully, eye-level with his new husband. He caught Draco's gaze, holding it when once, long ago, he might have looked away. "Red looks well on you. Brings out your color." And he reached out, touching Draco's cheek.

Draco turned his face, biting the fat of Harry's hand.

Harry yanked his hand back. "You know, muggles have a saying about not biting the hand that feeds you."

Draco fixed him with a playfully lofty look. "Do I look like a muggle?"

"No, you're most certainly not a muggle," Harry chortled, "you distinctly-magical, self-righteous, ungrateful little pissant."

He took Draco by the middle, wrestling him onto the bed. The blonde's face wound up buried in the black rabbit's fur of his new coat; his pointy, flailing elbows tucked in Harry's grip as the stronger fellow straddled him, pinning him down, immobilized. Draco kicked his legs in a petulant show, his feet dangling off the side of the bed.

"Fine! Fine! I yield!" the blonde squirmed. "Fuck, my shoulder!"

Harry released Draco's skinny arms immediately, going for the scruff of his neck instead and squeezing. "See if I buy you presents again," he growled in Draco's ear, none-too-serious.

The pureblood bucked his rear against Harry's crotch. "I'm still a Malfoy, damn it," he simpered. "We iterate our thank you's in other ways."

Harry took a swat at the top of that plump arse, landing his hand precisely over the imprint already there. Draco bit his lip, screwing his eyes shut and grimacing at the pain of it. He was such a pussy sometimes.

"We don't have time, anyway. We have to pack, then act normal—we go down for breakfast and catch the Express. You can blow me on the train if you like." Harry was, after all, a benevolent husband. This was to be their honeymoon, and Draco would want for nothing.

"Pack?" Draco repeated lamely. "It helps if you tell me where we're going."

Harry smacked him again. He was getting good at it, getting more than the old squawk of indignation out of Draco. The tips of his fingers stung, skin of his own hands nearly as red as their shadows printed on Draco's bum like words on a page. And now Draco would hiss through his teeth, feeling the same sharp pain in his sore rump.

"Nope. There's a muggle suitcase," he jutted his chin toward the pile of packages, some of which had slid to the floor in their grappling match. "And some outdoor things I figured you didn't have. I need a quick word with McGonagall before we leave, actually. Think you and your superb pureblood magic can handle packing our things?"

Draco peeked back at him, pouting. "Yeh really won't tell me?"

Harry licked his lips, smiling. "It'll be cold, with snow. And there won't be many people around. Maybe a set of robes each, just in case. Will that suffice?"

"I'll make due," Draco conceded, tapping at Harry's knee. He rolled off, pulling Draco to his feet. The blonde pressed right against him, kissing his temple before whispering in his ear. "We at least have time fer a shower, right?"

All of Hogwarts seemed to be on the same lazy schedule as Draco and Harry. Half of Gryffindor House was lounging in the Common Room by the time they made it below stairs, brushing rice and brightly colored flower petals from their shoulders—someone had set a charm outside their door to shower the newlyweds with good-luck bits and bobs as soon as they emerged. Draco suspected Luna. He was muttering under his breath of the colorful things he would do to the witch when he laid hands on her at breakfast.

Most of the comfortable furniture was already occupied, so Harry conjured a few pillows and they plopped down on the window bench, watching the snow fall until the house elves came to take their luggage away. Harry discovered a pile of old Daily Prophetbands collecting dust in the corner of the window seat and began flinging them at Ron when his mate wasn't looking. Ron spun around every time, first eying Dean and Seamus and then Draco, eyes narrowed with increasing ire. Hermione caught him at it almost immediately, shooting the pair of newlyweds a sly, telling wink.

Harry was propped against one wall, Draco seated between his legs as he examined an old Runes book from the library at Grimmauld. Whenever Harry flung a rubber band, Draco would raise the book over his mouth so the rest of the Common Room couldn't see him choking back his laughter. They were both a tad giddy from lack of sleep, and the potion coursing through their veins... and possibly the unspeakable deeds they'd done in the shower. Harry had no idea where either of them had summoned the energy from—but nothing had stopped them sucking and fucking each other senseless the past four and a half months, and presumably that wasn't about to change. He used to feel as though anybody looking at him would know that twenty minutes ago, he'd had Draco's prick in his mouth or up his bum. It had taken a while to get over the paranoia. Now, no one paid them any mind. Harry and Draco were just another couple, snuggling up in Gryffindor Commons before the Express arrived to take them away on holiday. For a fleeting moment, it felt nice to be normal.

Normal got boring very fast. Thus, Harry increased the frequency of his rubber band flinging, just to see how red Ron's face could get before his best mate exploded in a bellowing, beet-faced, accusatory mess.

The Welsh boy Kieran Gweir sat on the floor at Harry and Draco's feet, a Quidditch strategy guide in his little lap, snickering behind his hand at Harry's antics. Draco reached down at one point, ruffling the boy's already messy black hair.

Draco leaned back, pressing his shoulders into Harry's chest as The Boy Who Lived To Annoy aimed another rubber band at Ron. Draco tilted his face up, the bright light catching his hair and skin, making him glow. At the back of his mind, Harry registered the clickof Colin Creevey's camera across the room, the lens zoomed to the max and pointed right at them. He ignored it, his attention split between annoying the piss out of Ron and how bloody gorgeous Draco looked in the sunlight.

"I neva knew yeh were such a pisser," Draco whispered against his ear. "We shoulda been mates years ago. Imagine the mayhem we coulda caused, workin' togetha."

"Wasn't it bad enough with us at one another's throats?" Harry mused, one eye closed as he focused. His next rubber band smacked Ron right on the ear. The red head slapped at the spot, glaring around the room. "All those detentions, your damn Inquisitorial Squad—and how much damage did we do to Myrtle's loo last spring?" Draco shrugged against him, the bones of his shoulder blades scraping patterns over Harry's chest, pressing bruises shaped like his pretty mouth. It made Harry wince and smile at the same time. "I think we passed mayhem a few years back."

"Still," Draco sighed. "We coulda been a great team."

"Who says you aren't?" piped a tiny voice with a Welsh accent. Harry peeked down at Gweir, who was watching them with blue eyes so big, they seemed to take over his face. "Weasley's looking," the lad advised. "Kiss! Tha'll throw him off yer trail."

Draco looked like he was about to tell the boy to sod off. But Harry caught Draco before he could open his mouth. Harry swept in, capturing Draco's lips in a very obvious open-mouthed kiss. He could feel dozens of eyes on them as Draco took up a fist-full of his hair, inviting him closer, giving more. He didn't give a damn that anyone was watching, but pulled away before he would need Draco as a shield to hide his quickly tenting trousers. Draco and that bloody mouth of his had always driven Harry wild.

Ron and Hermione caught up with them on the Express, squeezing into their compartment shortly after Gweir left, fleeing the overzealous attentions of Abigail Brown, younger sister of Lavender and just as clingy.

The two sat down opposite Harry and Draco, Ron wearing a dark look.

"Malfoy," he began curtly. "In the Common Room. Why were you throwing things at me?"

"Is it still Malfoy?" Hermione asked, far more gently. "After... last night." She whispered the last after double checking that the compartment door was closed, Harry's MuffliatoCharm still up.

Draco glanced up from Harry's Chocolate Frog Cards; which he'd been alphabetizing, presumably out of boredom.

"I'll be going by Malfoy, yes," he told Hermione. "Until the climate is... well..."

"Once the war's over," Harry finished for him, sneaking an arm around his partner's waist.

"That's sensible," Hermione agreed. "Don't you think so, Ronald?"

"The bands," Ron repeated, belligerent. "You were throwing them. A couple nearly got me in the eye."

Draco shook his head, smiling. "You've got the wrong Potter."

Ron bit his lip, eying Harry with wide eyes. "Harry wouldn't."

"I didn't!" Harry trilled. "It was you, Draco. You put Gweir up to it."

"I did no such thing!" Draco stopped mid-sorting, as though struck by Petrificus Totalus. He turned woodenly to Harry. "Way to throw me under the Knight Bus!"

"I thought that's what marriage was," Harry joked. "Having someone to pass your cock-ups and bad decisions off on."

"Why you..." Draco's hands inched toward Harry's throat, Chocolate Frog Cards scattered to the compartment floor.

Ron seemed to realize it was Harry who had launched rubber bands at him all morning. The fact that it was Harry placated him and he sat back in his seat, arms folded, looking out the window so he wouldn't have to see Draco advancing on Harry with a peculiar look in his steel eyes.

"Wow," Hermione tapped her wand against her chin, regarding Harry and his new spouse. She pointed between the pair of them, the tip of her wand wooshing. "You're rather mean to him, Harry."

By this time, Draco had Harry on his back, a hand on his chest and the other around his stupid neck.

"You arecruel to me," Draco announced, chill fingers tightening. Harry felt a corresponding twitch in his pants. The sensation traveled lower, resting between his legs like a humming little Snitch just under his skin.

Harry put on his best Boy Who Lived smile. "He likes it." And he shot Draco a wink from his back.

"Uh, Malfoy?" Ron posed shyly. "Could you possibly, um, notstraddle Harry until you're officially on your honeymoon or whatever?" He jerked his ginger head toward the compartment door, where several girls stood, mouth-breathing on the glass. "You have an audience."

"Kneazling fuck," Draco snipped, untangling himself from Harry and adopting the same pose as Ron, arms folded and face equally cross. "Every room you're in, Wonder Boy, becomes a bloody fish bowl. Or a Press Conference," he added, petulant.

Harry waved the girls on with a shrug. The show was over—the public portion, anyway.

"So, you two going home for Christmas?" Hermione offered brightly, effectively changing the subject.

"No. This tosspot won't tell me where we're going," Draco gestured grandly. "But he says it's going to be cold. My money's on Greenland."

"Give me somecredit," Harry put a hand on Draco's knee. "Greenland? Not very romantic."

"Merlin..." Ron whispered.

Hermione slipped her hand between his, saying sweetly, "Harry's right, though. It's supposed to be romantic. You only get one honeymoon."

"Unless you're Mrs. Zabini," Ron mumbled. "Wot's she at, seven?"

Draco snorted. "Eight last spring."

They passed idle time with Hogwarts gossip. Even with a diminished student body, people still found things to talk about. Most of the major yarns going round concerned whose family had relocated to what country, and who planned to follow. Only three students had left Hogwarts permanently, one due to the family moving—the Ravenclaw boy now attended The Salem Institute—and the other two due to deaths in their families. There was lighter gossip, too. Ginny Weasley had had a rather public string of unsuccessful relationships, while Draco's starting Chaser Dean Thomas was rather openly courting a fifth year Hufflepuff called Laura Madley. Draco relayed several increasingly hilarious tales of the odd places he'd caught the inter-house couple snogging, including atop Argus Filch's filing cabinets while the caretaker was out prowling the grounds. Harry was impressed with their daring, if nothing else. Perhaps they got off on the danger.

"How long are you two gonna be away, then?" Ron asked, snacking on a licorice wand. He gestured between Harry and Draco with the floppy candy stem. "'Cause—no offense, Malfoy—Harry's got work to do, with the war and stuff. You can't take him away for too long."

"I know," Harry admitted readily. "We'll only be gone for hols. Then it's right back to work. I promise."

Hermione canted forward in her seat, her face pinching. "Speaking of horcruxes, Harry. What about the cup?"

Harry cocked his head. "Hufflepuff's cup? How did you...?"

She smiled Draco's way. "Your better half told me."

Ron cut in, posing, "If you found it, mate, shouldn't we be destroying it? Like the locket?"

Harry folded his hands in his lap. "Er, no. You see... I don't think it's a horcrux. I mean, not anymore, anyway." He squirmed in his seat, trying to explain himself. "McGonagall had a report from Snape that Voldemort was wounded pretty badly back when the Death Eaters took the Ministry. I'm thinking—since he had that horcrux nearby—he might've... I dunno, used it up or something. Absorbed it to get his strength back. Would that be possible?"

Ron looked supremely worried. He couldn't keep still, legs jittering, freckled fingers folding and unfolding around the stem of his licorice wand.

Hermione chewed her lip. "I think so. It sounds plausible, at least."

"I agree," Draco piped up from Harry's side. "From what you've described, it seems that the horcruxes are meant to keep the bastard alive. If he's wounded, dying, he wouldn't think twice about using one up... presuming he can make more, that is."

"He can," Harry confirmed.

"Blimey," Ron breathed, ginger head now resting in his hands. Hermione rubbed a soothing hand on his back.

"Harry," Hermione was looking pensive. "What makes you say the cup no longer contains a horcrux?"

"Not anotha one a' yer gut feelin's?" Draco teased.

Harry rolled his eyes. "No. I ran some tests on it, up in the Room of Requirement. I'm pretty sure whatever was in there isn't anymore." He looked to Ron. "We can still blow it to pieces just to be sure... but I'd rather preserve a priceless Hogwarts artifact if I could. And from what I remember, Voldemort stole Hufflepuff's cup. When this is all over, I'd like to return it to its proper owner."

Hermione approved. "That's lovely, Harry."

Draco made a gagging noise. "Bloody Gryffindors. I think I'm gonna be sick."

Ron just laughed, muttering, "Get stuffed, Malfoy."

Harry and Draco burst out laughing; Hermione's brows went up. It would seem Ron didn't notice he'd just made a rather spectacular gay joke. The newlyweds collapsed against one another, dissolving into a Potter and Potter pile of hitching shoulders, red cheeks and slapping, flailing limbs.

Ron elbowed Hermione. "Wot?" his freckled face cringed. "Wot'd I..." He seemed to realize his mistake and turned beet red.

And Hermione laughed too. It was too good, too perfect not to.


(to be continued)