Standard Disclaimer: We do not own Harry or Draco, which – in our opinions – is a damned shame. We're not making any money from writing this story (another shame). Everything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. The dirty parts belong to us!

A/N: We're BACK! After an extremely long hiatus, I'm Just Drawn That Way and Felena1971, known here collectively as WordNerds2008, are back to posting fanfic. It feels fucking awesome.

Chapter One: Summer

"I owe you, Potter," Draco said with a shrug. "If you want… that… then that's what you'll get." He suppressed a shudder, with moderate success, hoping to appear nonchalant. Obviously Potter had asked him for… that… just to humiliate him. But he wouldn't give the prat the satisfaction. If he had to go through with it, he would not let Potter see his emotions.

Draco rose from his chair and stepped closer to Potter, unbuckling his trousers as he moved. "Don't you always get what you want, after all?"

Stupid Crabbe. If Crabbe hadn't set off the Fiendfyre in the Room of Hidden Things, Draco wouldn't be in this ridiculous situation. Fiendfyre! As usual, Crabbe knew just enough about a topic to be extremely dangerous. Got himself killed in the process, the poor stupid fat bastard. Nearly killed everyone, didn't he? But of course, when Saint Potter is around, the likelihood of selfless heroism rises to almost ridiculous levels. Bloody Gryffndor!

Scarhead had grabbed a couple of brooms and tossed one to the Weasel, who grabbed Granger the Magical Mudblood and Goyle, and flew them to safety. Why couldn't Potter's sidekicks have grabbed Draco instead? True, he'd then have owed the Weasel a life-debt, a hideous prospect in its own right. Yet somehow he didn't think the Weasel was quite as kinky as Potter himself, his budding relationship with Granger notwithstanding.

But no. Of course, it had been Potter himself who had reached down and snatched Draco out of the Fiendfyre at the last possible moment, with flames licking at them both. It had been Potter's waist he'd wrapped his arms around, Potter's muscular back he'd clung to as they soared through the conflagration. Potter's firm abs that moved and flexed under his hands, maneuvering the broom as if it were an extension of himself. Potter's arse held tight between Draco's thighs.

At the time, naturally, Draco had not been thinking about Potter's body. He'd not even been thinking of the diadem that Potter had been seeking, and why on earth it could be so important that he'd look for it in the middle of the battle that would decide the very future of the Wizarding world. He'd been thinking only about fire. About fire, and death.

But two nights later, after some of the terror and shock of the battle had worn off, he began having recurring dreams in which he was flying. With Potter. Tucked in behind him on the broomstick, and holding on tight. Sometimes they flew over the Quidditch pitch, sometimes over Hogsmeade, and once – interestingly – around the Great Hall of Hogwarts. And always, always, they were naked.

When Draco climbed onto the broom behind Harry to escape the fire, something had happened. A zing – a shock of some kind ran through him. He wasn't sure later what to make of it. Perhaps it was the link between them being forged – the life-debt that he now owed. Or perhaps… Though he hated to consider it, these dreams he'd been having nightly were forcing the issue… Perhaps his body was responding to Potter's body. How could anyone think about lust at a time like that? His own friend – well, his flunky, at least – was burning up below him. Thinking, however, didn't have anything to do with it. It might have been some bizarre physiological response to the nearness and the hardness and, yes, might as well face it, to the heroism of that arsehole Boy Who Fucking Lived. It hadn't escaped Draco's notice that the life-debt almost assuredly had not yet been forged when he first climbed onto Potter's broom: his life hadn't quite been saved yet. Their escape had been narrow indeed.

That had happened eleven days ago. Draco had been having the disturbing dreams for over a week. Oh, he had used a Dreamless Sleep potion for a couple of nights, but as soon as he stopped using it, the dreams returned. He had tried desperately to forget about the whole awful incident. His subconscious, however, apparently had other ideas. As it turns out, it is very difficult to make yourself forget about something. The more you will yourself to forget it, the more it's on your mind. And now, to make matters even worse, Draco now found himself alone in the library of Malfoy Manor with Potter, whose green eyes blazed as he whispered, "I want you, Draco."

What the fucking hell was that all about? Every wizard in Britain, probably every wizard in the world, knew that Harry Potter, Savior and Hero, was dating Ginny Weasley. And every wizard who had attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at any point in the past seven years knew that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy hated each other.

Malfoys have always had a certain reputation to uphold, even with Lucius in Azkaban for the atrocities he committed as a Death Eater. So when Harry Potter showed up on their doorstep, Draco and Narcissa hid their surprise. They invited Potter into the sitting room, offered him tea, and waited politely to find out what the fuck he was doing there.

Potter sat on the edge of the divan, and swallowed a huge gulp of his tea, wincing as it went down – apparently slaying dragons as a Fourth Year doesn't mean one can handle heat. When he set the cup back into its saucer, it rattled loudly in the otherwise silent room. Draco smirked. Good. Potter should be jumpy coming to Malfoy Manor. The last time he was here, he and his friends had nearly been killed. It was gratifying to see that they'd made an impression.

They exchanged insincere pleasantries. Draco waited. Potter wanted something, and Draco looked forward to the opportunity to refuse him.

When Potter finished his tea, Narcissa stood, letting him know the interview was over.

"No, wait," said Potter, and his voice cracked. "I… there's a reason… the thing is…"

Narcissa sat again, and folded her hands in her lap. "Yes?"

"I just wanted to thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

Draco glanced at his mother. What had she done?

"Thank you, for not giving me away. For letting Voldemort think I was dead."

Draco and his mother both flinched at the casual use of the fallen Dark Lord's name, and Draco hoped Potter hadn't noticed.

Narcissa waved a hand dismissively. "It was nothing."

"Well, it wasn't nothing to me," he said. "So, er... yeah... thanks… just... thanks."

"And I am grateful to you, too, for saving Draco from the fire that killed Vincent," she said. "It was an extraordinary night, and many people were helped by friends as well as by strangers."

And in at least his case and Goyle's, Draco had thought, by foes. Why had Potter and his friends saved them?

"Yes," Potter agreed. "Extraordinary. Surreal. I'm still trying to make sense of it all." His gaze lit on Draco for a long moment. Maybe he, too, was wondering why he had saved his enemy.

"I imagine that is so," said Narcissa. "Your life has changed dramatically since then. So much attention. An Order of Merlin. An invitation, I believe I read, to join the Aurors, even without finishing your formal education. It must be… overwhelming."

And here it comes, Draco realized: Potter's true reason for visiting was to humiliate him. His own mother listed Potter's achievements while he just had to sit there, stewing in the juices of his own failure.

But Potter did not gloat. In fact, color rose in his face, accentuating his cheekbones. He studied his shoes and blinked a fair few times. Was it an act? Draco didn't think Potter had the skill. Could he genuinely be that modest?

"Your lives, I reckon, have changed dramatically as well," Potter said, having regained most of his composure, though his color was still high. "Are the two of you managing with Mr. Malfoy… away?"

Narcissa did not blush. If anything, she went slightly paler. "Draco and I will be fine during Lucius's absence."

"Surprised we didn't see you at the trial, Potter," Draco said. "Would have expected you to be a star witness against Father."

"I- I didn't think I needed to be there," Potter said, fixing his bright green orbs on Draco's silver-gray ones. "The body of evidence…" His voice trailed off. "I'm tired," he concluded.

"Couldn't be bothered, then? It was of little consequence to you that my father was being sent to Azkaban, so you thought you'd have a lie-in, and breakfast in bed?"

"Draco," he said, and Draco thought it sounded strange to hear his given name coming from Potter's lips, particularly in a voice that sounded almost strangled with emotion. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant… My entire life has been one battle after another, for as long as I can remember. I'm tired of having enemies, tired of fighting. The trial seemed like it would only dredge up memories I'd just as soon have behind me, and I didn't see that my testimony would make or break the case. I just want peace." Again, his eyes rested on Draco.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, and found no sarcastic reply at the ready. Narcissa silenced him, unnecessarily, with a slight movement of her hand.

"An admirable, and understandable, sentiment," she said. Again, she stood, ready to see Potter to the door. "Thank you for visiting us. I hope you'll come again sometime."


Despite unburdening himself and declaring his desire for peace, Potter still seemed to have something on his mind. Draco and Narcissa both waited for him to spit it out.

"I was just wondering…" Potter rose, and looked beseechingly at Draco. "I wondered if I could have a word with Draco. Privately."

Draco shrugged, though his mind raced. Was it safe to be alone with Potter? He didn't seem particularly dangerous at the moment. Still, it would be awkward, at best, to be alone with him after having dreamed of him naked night after night.

"Certainly, if Draco will consent," said Narcissa, and gestured toward a room off of the hallway behind her. "You may use our library."

Draco inclined his head to show his assent, and then followed Potter to the heavy wooden door. That had been a mistake. If Draco had led the way himself, he would not have been walking behind Potter, eyes glued to the Chosen One's backside snugly encased in black denim, wondering how accurately he had imagined that bit of Potter's anatomy in his dreams. He would not have seen Potter's shoulder muscles and biceps strain under the soft jersey cotton of his green t-shirt as he pushed open the door. Draco entered silently, and dropped into the most comfortable chair while Potter merely stood, goggling at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It must be impressive to someone who used to live in a broom cupboard. It was, after all, the most envied private library in Wizarding Europe, especially now that Dumbledore's library had been dismantled, his books now donated to the school and in Madam Pince's eager care.

How long would the messy-haired git ogle the books like some Ravenclaw bibliophile? It wouldn't have been so bad, except that Draco found he was unable to resist ogling Potter while he was distracted.

"What do you want, Potter?"

Potter jumped, as if he'd forgotten that Draco was in the room with him. "I want to give you something," he said.

He bent to pull something from the backpack he'd been carrying, which he'd dropped onto the floor. When he turned back to Draco, it was with a wand – Draco's wand – in his hand. "Or, I should say, I want to return something of yours."

So Potter had had his wand all this time. Naturally. Potter had a way of figuring, somehow, into everything bad that had happened in Draco's life. It had been hell trying to use his mother's wand these past months. He missed his wand like an amputated limb. He'd been aching for it.

"Yes," said Draco. "If you're quite finished playing with my wand, I will take it back."

Draco stepped forward to reclaim it, but Potter did not release it right away. Instead, he pulled it back toward him, drawing Draco closer, and then he whispered the words Draco never expected to hear: "I want you, Draco."

There was no mistaking his intent.

Draco backed away, wand in hand. "You must be joking."

"I know this doesn't make any sense," Potter said, launching into what sounded like a carefully rehearsed speech. "I know we've never been friendly. I'm used to having you as my enemy, Draco. The thing is, now that we're done with school, and I am faced with the prospect of never seeing you again, I find that I can't stop thinking about you. I wonder…" He closed his eyes, seeming to force the words out. "I wonder if maybe all that energy we put into competing with each other could be put into something more… constructive."

Draco waited. Potter opened his eyes at last, and Draco raised one skeptical eyebrow at him.

Potter drew a breath of relief and smiled. "I can't believe I said that and you didn't hex me. I even handed you the weapon to do it."

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Under his Muggle t-shirt and jeans, Potter looked almost as fit as he had appeared in Draco's dreams. True, this entire implausible situation was probably an elaborate set-up, through which Potter intended to demean Draco further. Well, why the hell not? He'd been fucked by Potter metaphorically for years. Being fucked by him physically couldn't be much worse. And maybe if he gave Potter what he wanted, it would free him from the ongoing shame of the life-debt.

"You want me?"

Potter gulped and then nodded, warily.

"Elaborate," he said, dropping back into his chair. "What exactly do you want to do with me?" Let Potter be the one to squirm. Draco simply refused to show any discomfort.

"I, er…"

The eyebrow again.

"I want to, um…"

Draco smirked. He intended to be merciless.

"I want to… to be with you. Physically."

"Aren't you supposed to be with the Weaslette, physically?"

"Yeah… about that," said Harry, and he blushed again. "I, er, told her I needed some time to recover from the war and all. The thing is, Draco, at night… I still feel your arms around me. From when-"

"I know when you mean," Draco interrupted. "I have been thinking about that broom ride, too."

"You- you have?" Harry sank into a leather armchair, relief evident in his features.

"I have. I have replayed it in my mind over and over, and I still don't understand why you saved me in the first place. Unless you just liked the thought of owning me. And this new…desire… of yours is just another way you intend to own me."

"Own you?"

"You saved my life, Potter. There's no way around it. Crabbe is all the proof I need that I'd be dead if you hadn't pulled me onto your broomstick."

Oh Merlin. Being pulled onto Potter's broomstick. It just sounded so… wrong. So deliciously wrong. No – no. Just wrong. Just plain wrong.

Potter gasped. "The life-debt! I hadn't… this isn't… I swear! It never entered my mind!"

"And now you want to cash it in for sex," said Draco.

"No, no," Potter protested. He stood, arms extended toward Draco, as if pleading. "You've got it all wrong, Draco. It's not like that."

"And since when do you call me 'Draco'? Practicing for whispering sweet nothings in my ear while you… take what you want?"

"Take what I want? I'd never force you, Draco. I don't want it to be that way."

"I owe you, Potter," Draco said. "If you want… that… then that's what you'll get."

He rose and stepped forward, unbuckling his trousers. "Don't you always get what you want, after all?"

"Not like this, Draco," Potter said. He scrambled backward, until his back was against the library door.

Draco refastened his clothing, and smirked. Oh yes. Potter should know better than to try to demean a Malfoy. He just doesn't have what it takes.

"Fine," he said to the cowering brunet. "When you figure out what you do want from me, I'll be here – in your debt, waiting to be freed."

The green eyes shone as Potter turned to pull open the door. "I'm sorry I came," he said. "It was a mistake to think things could change between us." Then he disappeared, the door swinging shut heavily behind him.

A/N: Will Draco regret turning Harry down? Will Ginny tell Harry the baby she's carrying is really Dobby's love child? Will the secret of Hermione's heritage ever be uncovered? The answers to these and many more questions on the next episode of Soap! I mean, SoC!