Chapter 1: Unacceptable Behavior

Summary: Seventh year, Harry and Draco are part of the forbidden, but it is threatening to destroy both their worlds. Both begin to lose their grip on reality as Harrys mind is engulfed by darkness and Draco is forced to sacrifice everything he has, bit by bit.

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He lounged on the cold stone windowsill, rolling a cigarette between his lips. It wasnt lit and was caught limply in his mouth. The lighter in his hand flicked on and off to the rhythm of his thoughts.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

The fire wasnt warm, but burned cool as flames in his world tended to do. It lacked the orange glow that the flames of his old existence had; this was as stark-white as the stars that hung seemingly close outside the glass window that his forehead rested against. His head was numb where it touched the frosty glass and the rest of his body seemed impervious to the biting cold of the grey stone he rested against. It was past midnight; but he knew from experience that he had hours before dawns pink flush would melt the frost off the windows. Click-click. Click-click.

He finally lights the cigarette and slowly inhales, relishing the taste and calm it brings him. This was his beloved ritual, be damned the others he was forced to take part in.

A much warmer body twitches in a large curtained bed a few paces away from the window. Pale hands grip at the emerald coverlet and twist it around a lean body. To the window sitter, this sight had the same contrast as the white light reflecting off of his eyes.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click

What are you doing? Annoyed ice eyes meet smothering green velvet.

click.

I told you not to smoke in here. The smell gets into the curtains, continues the voice. Its owner sits up in the bed, the coverlet falling forward to reveal a smooth white torso. It would seem as though the figure was cut of white marble, except long thin scars crisscross his body. They does little to break the perfection.

The window-sitter looks away, back through the window. Im at the window, he says as way of explanation. He wishes the other hadnt woken up; he was enjoying his time of peace. He rarely had quiet in these days; he was never alone.

His companion in the bed becomes more agitated. The window is closed.

I could open it. He knows hes being contrary, but he doesnt care. He wants to get a rise out of the other, make him loose his perfect cool. He reaches for the window latch and a few ashes fall on to the stone sill.

No! No, dont. Are you crazy? Its snowing outside. For the last time, put that out.

He ignores the last request and instead responds to the question. Am I crazy? He focuses his eyes on the other, who eventually drops his faade of ice under the burning glare. Am I crazy? he repeats and then answers the question himself. Maybe. Maybe I am crazy. What are you going to do about that? He drops off the window ledge gracefully and makes a muffled thump as his feet hit the plush carpet. His bare toes tread over the images of serpents that twist along the rug. As he stands before the bed, he drops the lighter onto the table with a loud clack before crawling over the coverlet the marble-made man is trying to wrap around himself.

You still have your cigarette, and as he says it, a few ashes fall.

So I do. Running a hand through his thick black hair, he takes a long drag of the wizarding smoke, before stretching out to the beside table and stubbing it out in an ash tray. He then turns his attention to the scattered ashes on the silk coverlet. Flicking his fingers, the ashes are banished to the ashtray.

His companion shivers, as much from the cool air as the display of wand-less magic. He smiles and reaches for the shivering form; its a razor blade smile that engraves his ownership on his lovers soul.

The smile fades a bit as he reaches out and traces the lines of the others body. It is the lithe, lean seekers body like his own, but unlike his own, it is inordinately beautiful. Pale-perfect body; even the vicious scars across his chest glow silver, unlike his own puckered-pink scars. His golden-tan hands run across that pale chest, honey over ice. His fingertips burn over that ice-cold skin and he wonders if hell leave scorch marks behind.

He leans forward and presses the other man to the bed, covering delicate petal-pink lips with his own bitter mouth. The kiss is slow and comfortable, without the insistence that first kisses have, but filled with the promises that only long-time lovers can give. The kiss tastes like vanilla and cinnamon. For a moment he thinks he tastes some metallic tang, but is distracted by slim fingertips tracing across his bare back.

He pulls back from the kiss to discover that his pajama top had been removed. When he leans forward again into the kiss, the contact of his burning skin against his lovers ice-cold chest made them both gasp. This is what has kept him here, night after night. The feel of warm skin against cool, the taste of decadence in his mouth, the hunger of passion knotting pleasurably in his lower belly. He tugs at the waistband of his companions silk pajama bottoms, sliding them past narrow hips. Deft fingers reach for his waist and soon theyre both naked, pressed against each other. They twist together so the smaller now straddles him; fine silver strands falling forward to mix with coarser black; cold, starlight-coloured eyes meeting smoldering green. He reaches up and pulls his lover down into another bruising kiss, as if he hopes to burn away the wrongness of his actions here every night.

He turns over on to his lover and studies the figure once more. As beautiful as any angel; duplicitous as any demon. Say my name, his hisses into those lying, perfect lips. He doesnt know why hes asking this, they never use each others names

The marble man sneers at being commanded by him. No.

Say it! he demands. He doesnt know why he needs to hear his name spoke by a voice that never tells the truth.

What does it matter?

It matters more than anything. It makes this real, not some dreamor nightmare. It makes this right. It turns it around so that were not just here because we hate each other, were here because were lovers. It changes everything.

Malfoy, he murmurs, but it sounds wrong. He starts again. Draco, from now on I want you to use my name. Nothing else. He used Dracos name, just to show it could be done.

Always have to break the rules, dont you, Potter? He winces as the bruising grip on his arm is tightened. Youre such a complete prat, Harry.

At the sound of his name, Harry eases back down to lay across Draco-his Draco-ignoring the context in which it was said. Their lips crush against each others once more and allow their passion to engulf them.

Sometime later they both lay pleasantly exhausted among the twisted sheets, their long limbs tangled together somewhat awkwardly. Both are too lazy to more into a more comfortable position though, so they just rest like that together.

Its Dracos voice that cracks the silence. I hate you, Harry Potter.

Mmm, responds Harry sleepily. I dont like you much either.

I dont know why you feel that you are entitled to always push everything to the limit.

Crazy people are allowed to break rules, he says, punctuating his words with kisses.

Draco grudgingly accepts them, before sliding sideways to escape. But Im sane. Or at least I used to be, and we have our rules for a reason. For example, no smoking in my room.

Bugger that. As if you havent broken every other rule there is already at these dorms. Im sure theres one against a Death Eater letting the boy who lived shove his

The man twisted his face into another disfiguring sneer, ruining his delicate porcelain features. Scarlet and Gold is so vulgar, both in word and color, it seems.

And Emerald and Silver is so pretentious, but you dont hear me complaining.

Liar, you just were whining about our rules

He wraps his arm around Malfoys waist and buries his face into the pale mans neck. So? Im crazy, remember?

You are egotistical, insufferable, delusional and paranoid, but thats not out of character for a hero. Stop acting like youre something special.

Pot, kettle, black, Malfoy, he grumbles, but his words are half-lost across Dracos skin.

What, no more first names? Im hurt. And stop acting like I understand your Muggle-speak.

They bicker a while longer as longtime lovers do, before lapsing into comfortable silence and drifting in and out of a warm and lazy sleep. When the sky changes from black to hazy blue-violet, Harry slides away from Malfoys warmth, wincing as the icy air slides over his naked body. Stepping into the Slytherian mans bathroom, he carefully examines his reflection in the mirror.

You dont look very healthy, says the mirror with the voice of a sleepy boy strangely familiar.

Shut up.

No need to be mean about it trails off the mirror sorrowfully.

The conversation went the same way every morning; and every morning Harry would remember that he was supposed to ask Malfoy why the mirror had Harrys first-year voice.

Of course, the mirror did have a point. The last vestiges of his golden-brown tan were fading, leaving him everyday looking more and more pale and sickly. His face was thinner, as though he had skipped meals more than once, and his hair even untidier than usual. Most noticeable, though, were the dark blue-purple circles that hung under his eyes. He gives a quick glance out the bathroom door towards the bed where Malfoy is still asleep, his back turned to Harry.

Perfect, thinks Harry, before turning his attention back to his reflection. Muttering the average incomprehensible spiel of Latin under his breath, he carefully rubs under his eyes with his fingers, renewing the spells that hung there. He then pushes his thumbs across his face, molding the illusion spells to fill out his face and with a wave of his hand, he feels them roll down his body, coating his skin like paint. He now looks healthy and golden, if a bit spacey. Wand-less magic makes him dizzy. Stepping into the spacious shower, he lets the warm water wash away his tension.

Back in bed, Draco opens his eyes and rolls over to face the bathroom. From this angle, Harry is just out of sight, but knows what Harry was up to. Every morning its the sameHarry would roll out of bed and plod over to the bathroom to stare at his reflection. The mirror always fussed over him; and thenwell, Draco knew Harry was working some sort of magic to cover up his failing health. Dracos had always had the ability to sense incongruities in a persons natural aura; Harry always has some sort of magical mess tailing him about. Right before hed leave bed in the morning, the patches of magic would always be the weakest; after returning from his showers they were always the strongest. Draco never bothered to ask about them. Its Potters business. Im just fucking him.

Eventually the hiss of the shower subsides and Draco watches his lover step out of the bathroom amid the steam. A towel clings to his slim hips and water drips from freshly shampooed hair. Hm. You have no right to look that hot unless you are planning on coming back over here, says Draco, his disinterested voice not matching his words.

Stop trying to use your sneaky, sexy Slytherin ways to seduce me, you bastard, Harry huffs in return. I have to get ready or Ill end up being late getting work again. Ive been asked to help with another case. Striding over to the wardrobe and pulling out his clothes, he hurriedly pulls them on. He could feel Dracos eyes on him, but he does his best to act as though he doesnt notice.

You think my Slytherin ways are sexy? And havent I already succeeded in seducing you? We did it twice last night, and again in the early morning

That was so *not* my point, Malfoy.

He quickly buttons up his pressed white shirt, ties his shoe laces, and fiddles with his tie a bit before flinging up his hands, exasperated. Screw it. I cant knot a tie. ErDraco?

Silver eyes roll, and he climbs out of bed, slipping into a black silk robe. You are so incredibly plebian, Potter. Cant even tie a tie? Ive seen you out of work clothes His hands tug on the tie around Harrys neck, pulling it to the correct lengths.

No kidding! Scoffs the boy-who-lived. Malfoy glares, and loops the tie through itself.

dressed in casual clothes before, he grits out. You have no fashion sense either. I really dont know why I put up with you. He loops it around again, and pulls it through.

Because Im a great fuck. Its not like Im your boyfriend or something, where I have to look presentable for your friends. At these words, Malfoy guides the knot up towards Harrys neck, a bit closer than need be, before stepping back to admire his work.

Harry wheezes and pulls the tie looser. That was a little tight there, dont you think?

Perhaps, he shrugs. He hands Harry his belt and robe, who quickly puts them on. He digs through the pockets of his robe before finally finding wand and flicks it, ironing out any wrinkles.

Malfoy smirks. Well, you certainly do clean up nice. You dont need me to show you off, when youre doing such a fine job of it yourself. If Harry had bothered to listen, he might have heard the bitter note in Malfoys voice, but as it is, hes busy drinking in the sight of his lover standing there.

Draco was staring away to the side, his colorless grey eyes almost glowing from the dim blue light creeping through the windows. The light washed across his delicate features and hair, much now paler than it had been when he was a boy, coloring it silver-blue. He looks almost unearthly, like an angel fallen into a twilight ocean. Harry reaches out and places his hand on the mans neck, pushing away the black silk that lay there. He the need to see more of Draco suddenly consumes him, and although by now he must have memorized the way Dracos body looks and feels, the need is still there. He pulls the robe off one shoulder, and then reaches with the other hand and repeats the motion. Draco still looks away, even as Harry pulls him close. Finally, he turns his silver eyes to gaze into Harrys vivid green ones.

What he sees there should not shock him, but does. He is not surprised by the look itself-he has been looked upon many times before with the odd combination of hungry, desperate love. The sort of love that is not really love, just wanting and lusting and greed. What surprises him is that he is looking into the great Harry Potters eyesthe same boy who saved the world, Gryffindors Golden Boyand sees the thing as when he had gazed into the eyes of Lord Voldemort.

When Harry tightens his grip around his waist and kisses him, Draco closes his eyes, doing his best to block out the feeling of dread that tightens in his gut.

Harry eventually lets him go, a slight smile playing on his lips, the sort of hard smile that he reserves for Malfoy alone; so different from the easy-going toothy smile he gives the Weasel and Mudblood. Or the Weaselette, Draco pushes that thought aside. Harry gathers up his briefcase and backpack that were laying in the corner, and without looking back, heads out the door, shutting it quietly.

Draco stares after him with the same indifferent look he always give him, to show that he is unaffected by the stupid Gryffindors whims, and keeps that look frozen on his face long after Harry leaves the room to go back to his real life. When he was finally sure that the other man was gone, he allows his legs to collapse under him. He curls up on the carpet, wishing he could cry over this, or break something, or screambut none of these were things that Malfoys did, so he simply lays there, thinking about how his whole world is a whispered word away from destruction.