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fvckyouimaprophet · 2 years ago

Text

like shadows touching

summary: After a long war that overtook the world, a new order established itself, led by a forum that makes all decisions, composed of the twenty-eight families with the oldest established lineage, also known as the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Their children are raised with the expectation that they will one day sit on the forum and continue to enact its will—one in which the wealthy hoard power, access to needed medical supplies, and food rations.

Ten days before his eighteenth birthday, when he is supposed to join the forum, Draco runs away from home and joins the burgeoning Resistance, led by Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. No one would guess that eleven years later, he’d be leading what was left of it with Remus himself.

length: 21,318 words

warnings: Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Disassociation, Sex as a Coping Mechanism, Dom/sub Undertones, Under-negotiated Kink, Choking, Impact Play, Barebacking, Age Difference, Draco is 29 at the start of this fic and Remus is 39, Draco and Sirius aren't related!

a/n: For @thistlecatfics. Please heed the warnings and note that this is not the happiest fic.

Read on Archive of Our Own.

August 1999

“Don’t give up on us. Please. We need you. You were the best of us.” Draco reaches out a hand. He gently wraps his thumb under Remus’s wrist. The rest of his fingers brush down across the back of Remus's hand, past the rough, cracked knuckles. A shiver runs through Remus, and his eyes close. He lingers in the touch, and, for a moment, Draco is certain Remus will give in and look at him with the same exasperated affection he has for years. But the moment passes, and when Remus’s eyes open again, they are just as inscrutable as they were before. He shakes Draco off and turns away. His shoulders turn inward, and he lowers himself to the edge of his cot. “I can’t,” is all Remus says. Bile curdles in Draco’s mouth, and his skin prickles as he watches Remus curl into himself. Remus’s presence has never been small, but watching him now is no different than looking at a shadow.

Draco crosses the room and sits on the cot, facing the other direction. He moves backward an inch at a time, giving Remus time to stand up. With each inch, Draco’s chest gets tighter, but even as Remus winces, he sits still and makes no attempt to move away from him. When their backs touch, Draco lets out a ragged breath—one echoed by Remus’s own. He drops his head against Remus’s shoulder and stares up at the ceiling. “Well, you can’t stay here,” Draco says, his voice warbling. “What does it matter?” Remus asks. “Out there, in here—he’s still gone. And from the way the guards gloat, it sounds like the war’s practically over.” “It matters to me.” When Remus says nothing, a lump forms in Draco’s throat, but he swallows it before continuing, “And maybe the war is over, but maybe not. If you—“ Without warning, Remus stands, and before Draco can brace himself, he begins to fall backward. He catches himself on his elbows. When he turns, Remus is looking down at him, lips pulled back in a snarl. He stares down at Draco like a cornered animal. “No!” His voice is low and gravely, and spit flies from his mouth. “That kind of thinking is what got him killed. We were all a bunch of martyrs. Where did that get us?” Remus wraps his arms around himself and shakes his head as if still trying to convince Draco. Draco’s eyes sting, and Remus blurs in front of him. Draco blinks—once, twice—until the tears pull back and Remus is in focus once more. “I lost him too, you know. You told me we’d get through it together, but then you left. And I don’t blame you for what you did. But I lost both of you, and you were my family.” Remus stares down at him for several seconds, saying nothing. His jaw tightens, the muscles flexing as he grinds his teeth together. “I’m not dead. He is.” “You’re hardly alive,” Draco says, and when he stands, Remus takes a step back. “What are you doing here, Draco?” “You have to come with me.” The lump in his throat won’t leave this time, no matter how much he swallows. “What’s the point?” Draco takes a step forward, and Remus’s eyes widen momentarily before dropping to the ground. “I spent three years trying to find a way to get you out.” Draco takes another step. “Come with me.” And another and another until Remus is in reach. Remus stands so still that Draco wonders whether he’s holding his breath. He reaches out a hand and cups Remus’s cheek, the beard rough against his skin. It won’t stop shaking, despite his best efforts at steadying it. “Why do you care?” Remus asks, and his eyes look up to meet Draco’s. For the first time, there’s something behind them. It may be fear or confusion, but it doesn’t matter. It’s something. “Do you really have to ask that?” Draco’s voice breaks. He runs a thumb over Remus’s lips, cracking and dry, and Remus shudders before reaching up and taking Draco’s hand in his. He gives it a gentle squeeze. “Draco…” His voice is low and quiet, and despite his best efforts at looking stern, there’s an uncertainty beneath it—one Draco wants to unravel. “Remus…” Draco does his best to mimic Remus’s tone, and for the first time—perhaps since Sirius died—Remus’s lips twitch up into a small smile. As quickly as it comes, however, it vanishes, and Remus’s face contorts. His eyes break from Draco’s as he lets go of his hand. “I don’t know if I could handle it.” Draco isn’t sure if Remus is talking about the world outside or the two of them. Maybe everything; it’s the safest bet. He balls his fists together and runs his fingers over his palms, slick with sweat. “You don’t have to handle it alone. Please, Remus. I can’t bear the thought of you withering away in here until you die.” The time Remus has spent here—just over three years—has already left a notable toll on his body. Underneath the overgrown beard and unkempt hair, Remus’s cheeks sink into his face, too sharp, even for someone with as angular of a face as he has. And Draco had noticed earlier, how pronounced each knuckle in his hand was. “I’ll beg. I’m not above it,” Draco breathes. Even at times when death reared its head at him, Draco refused to beg, as a matter of principle. There were bigger regrets than loss of dignity that he had to live with, but the thought of committing to something that demeaning always made his skin crawl. And yet— “Remus, I can’t lose you twice.” He reaches once more for Remus and drops to his knees. His head rests against Remus’s hip, and he grasps one of his hands. “Don’t die in here when you don’t have to.” Remus teeters at the suddenness of Draco’s weight against his legs, and Draco reaches to steady him. When he looks up, Remus’s face is white and his expression is fixed as if captured in a photograph. He stares down at Draco with bright, piercing eyes. There’s a life to them Draco had thought lost, and his heart quickens. “Okay.” Remus whispers it as if he doesn’t believe it himself. Then, he repeats, his voice steadier, “Okay.” He rests a hand on Draco’s head and cards his fingers through Draco’s hair, his movements stiff and near-clumsy. Despite the ungainliness of his actions, they strike Draco as oddly tender. Perhaps that is what makes him press a kiss to Remus’s hip, just where his head had been resting—though he can’t quite say. “Tell me to stop, and I will.” He looks up expectantly, not daring to move until Remus tells him either way. An unfamiliar look flashes across Remus’s face as he pulls Draco up by the collar of his shirt. “Get up.” His words are gruff, and he grips Draco with a surprising amount of force. Heat crawls up Draco’s neck, toward his cheeks and ears, and he stumbles to his feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“ But he doesn’t have a chance to finish before Remus presses their lips together. Their teeth bump together, awkward and painful. Draco stiffens, caught off-guard, but when Remus’s hand drops to his jeans, fumbling at the zipper, he whimpers and melts into Remus’s touch. Remus presses kisses down Draco’s jaw, and Draco’s mind fills with static. “We should leave before the guards change shifts and they realize—“ His voice falters as Remus rolls a bit of skin from Draco’s neck between his teeth and sucks. “Don’t do it unless you’re sure,” he says instead. Remus pauses. He pulls back, his breath hot against Draco’s neck, and his hand stills for a few seconds, and then pops the button as well. With one relatively fluid motion, he slips past the waistband of Draco’s briefs. And when his fingers wrap around Draco’s cock, he lets out a moan that echoes Draco’s. Draco jerks, sensitive to the touch and leans back into Remus. “It’s okay, little dragon, I’ve got you.” He purrs the name in a tone Draco has never heard before, one that makes his skin prickle. He furrows his brow and begins to turn to face Remus, but Remus runs his thumb over the slit, and then thoughts evaporate from his head. A chuckle rumbles in Remus’s throat, and the heat returns to Draco’s cheeks. His eyes drop down, but the lewd sight that greets him only makes his head spin more. His briefs hug Remus’s hand, the clear outline of his cock visible as well. He watches as Remus’s hand slides down and back up. His throat dries and his hips buck up, desperate for more friction. “Fuck,” Draco whimpers. When his eyes shut, he sees ghosts, and a stone forms in his stomach. They snap back open, and he turns his neck and kisses Remus once more. Remus’s beard scratches his skin, and Draco can’t help the breathless laugh that bubbles out of him. “Have you ever wanted this before, or just now?” He half-expects the situation to burst like a bubble and for the truth to reveal itself—that this was all a large misunderstanding, that they’ve both taken it too far. But although Remus’s eyes begin to glaze over, losing their vibrance, his hand never steadies and he doesn’t step back. “Yes.” It sounds like an admission in a confessional, and Draco almost wants to apologize. But he doesn’t. He leans against Remus, heat pooling in his stomach as his breaths—sharp and uneven—cut through the silence. He comes with a grunt in Remus’s hand and against the fabric of his underwear. Once Draco catches his breath and steadies himself, Remus carefully draws his hand out and wipes it against the fabric of his uniform. Draco is certain that if he were to look, Remus would avoid his gaze, but he doesn’t care to try it and be proven right. “We should go,” Draco says as he fixes himself and tries to ignore the feeling of the drying stain in his briefs. “That sounds smart.” Draco doesn’t manage more than a step toward the door before Remus takes Draco’s hand in his own. He squeezes, and when he lets go he runs a knuckle under Draco’s sleeve and gently drags it across his wrist. It’s the closest to a thank you Draco knows he’ll get.

September 1988

“You want your stance to be wider. Otherwise, someone can knock you over,” Remus says. He kicks out a foot to demonstrate, and Draco’s balance wavers before he topples down. The ground is hard and unforgiving. As he reaches out a hand to catch himself, the training knife goes clattering across the cement. A dull pain shoots up his wrist at the impact, and he groans, nursing it. Gravel digs into his palm, and he brushes it off. “And what did we say about falling?” Draco shoots him a cold look. His body aches, and he rubs his thumb in small circles right against the tendon where it hurts. “Not your tailbone, not your wrist. Try to roll with the impact, like a gymnast,” he recites robotically. Draco lets go of his wrist and drops his head back against the ground as he closes his eyes. His body throbs, and he can’t help but think this is not how he imagined spending his day. He wonders if it would be possible just to stay where he is. Even with bits of dirt and gravel pressing into his back and neck, the cement seems more comfortable than another round. “Alright, back on your feet. Let’s try again,” Remus says, as if hearing his thoughts, and Draco blindly kicks out a leg. Remus’s fingers wrap around his ankle, and Draco’s eyes shoot wide open as he scowls. “If you drag me across the pavement, I will kill you,” Draco grumbles. “You’d have to first learn how to do that.” With little grace, Remus drops Draco’s leg, and it falls back to the ground with a quiet thump . “But I won’t. Now, up.” Draco lets out a grunt as he reaches for a knife, closing his fingers around the very end of it before standing up. Slowly, he rolls his wrist, wincing when he does. There are muscles in his body he doubts he’s ever felt before he started his training with Remus, and the dull ache in his head only grows the longer they stand in the sun. “You make it look so easy,” Draco says and slouches his shoulders. “If I knew this would be such hard work…” “You never would have joined? I’m sorry joining a government rebellion isn’t as fun as you thought it’d be.” The light, teasing edge never leaves Remus’s voice, and Draco can’t help but roll his eyes. “Now widen your stance and try again.” He pushes past the noise from the birds in the distance and the rush of blood in his ears. Instead, he adjusts his stance and takes a deep breath in and holds it for a few seconds before letting it out in one quick rush. With the exhale, he lunges forward, but Remus is faster. He grabs Draco by the wrist and twists until pain shoots up Draco’s arm and the knife falls from his grip again. With hardly any effort, he shifts their weight until Draco faces away from him. And in one fluid motion, he presses his knee to the back of Draco’s leg, knocking Draco to the ground once more. Draco braces himself this time before he drops, the impact rippling up his body until he feels it in his jaw. Frustration twists around him, suffocating him, and he lets out an angry shout and shakes Remus off. “You’ll get it eventually,” Remus reassures. “You just need to practice.” “It’s been two months, and I don’t feel like I’ve gotten any better. I’m shit at this. No, I’m worse than that.” “You’re not shit at this.” Remus kneels as well and gives Draco a stern look. “Or worse than that,” he quickly adds when Draco opens his mouth. “You have gotten better, and I’m not just saying that to reassure you. It’s hard to see your own progress, but you’ll get there. We all start somewhere. A lot of this is about confidence too.” The smile he gives Draco is enough to let some of the frustration uncoil, and Draco’s shoulders drop as he nods. “Okay.” “Okay,” Remus echoes. When he reaches out a hand and his thumb touches Draco’s face, Draco’s eyes drop to the ground. Any remaining frustration dissipates, and he chews the inside of his lip as warmth floods him. Remus rubs a small circle against his cheek and adds, as an explanation, “You had dirt on your face.” “Thanks,” Draco mumbles. He steadies himself with a deep breath and looks back up to meet Remus’s eyes. “Now up, up, up.” He waves Draco up and grabs the knife before tossing it to Draco. While Draco manages to wrap his fingers around it, he catches it by the blade. “If this were a real knife—” “I know. I know,” Draco grumbles and brushes his knees off before readying himself back into position. “Good stance. Now, this time, when you come at me, I want you to focus on—” But he doesn’t get to finish his thought before the door to the house opens. They both glance over, and Draco feels himself shrink. Sirius stands on the threshold, his eyes narrowed as he focuses his attention on Draco. “Remus, can I talk to you?” he calls out. “I’ll be right back,” Remus promises, and although he tries his best to sound reassuring, worried creases form in the corners of his eyes. “You can practice your form.” Draco watches as Remus steps inside and the door closes. Draco drops the knife to the ground and walks across the yard until he can see them through a window. Then, he crouches down, half-behind a shrub. It’s difficult to see their faces from his position, but judging by their posture, their conversation isn’t friendly. Sirius waves his arms, and when he points a finger through the window, Draco shrinks into himself until he’s hidden by the shrub, no longer in their direct line of sight. His eyes burn, and he clenches his jaw as he picks at the leaves of the shrub, pulling them off one by one. When he finds a small, red berry, he plucks it as well and squeezes until it pops between his thumb and forefinger. Still, it doesn’t calm the building nausea in his stomach or the sweat on the palms of his hands. Draco stares down at the skin, angry at it for betraying him like this, before squeezing his fists tight until his nails dig in and his knuckles turn white. When he lets go, he rubs his hand against his shirt, trying to wipe any evidence—sweat, indents, or otherwise—off of it. He peeks above the shrub, only to see Remus and Sirius moving more animatedly. Draco drops back down and adjusts his position, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. He closes his eyes and drifts, trying to ignore the racing of his heart. But eventually, after some time, he hears the door open once more. “Draco?” Remus calls out, but Draco doesn’t move. “Draco?” There’s a slight panicked edge to Remus’s voice that makes Draco stand and reveal himself. “You scared me. I thought you…” Guilt creeps into his voice. “Sorry.” “It’d probably be better for you if I ran away,” Draco says, kicking at the ground. “No one trusts me. Even your boyfriend doesn’t like me.” “Sirius is the last one who should be saying anything. Do you know what his last name is?” Draco shakes his head. “Black.” Draco’s mouth falls open. He’d heard of it before from his own family—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight who’d managed to flee without being killed, unlike the other traitors—his reputation so marred that he was only ever referred to as the deserter . It’d been proof to Draco that he could leave; he wasn’t the first, after all. “That’s him?” Draco asks and glances over back at the window, even though there’s no one there. “Our little secret, okay? Sirius doesn’t like others knowing until he’s ready to tell them.” Anger flashes in him once more—hot and bright—and Draco lets out a choked, exasperated noise. “Then why in the world does he hate me this much? He, more than anyone else, should know how fucking hard this is.” Draco’s eyes sting once more, and he turns his body until he’s facing partly away from Remus. “He doesn’t hate you.” Remus shakes his head and squeezes Draco’s shoulder. Despite everything, some tension begins to leave his body at Remus’s touch, and Draco hates himself for it. “He hates the reminder of where he comes from and who he is.” There’s a gentleness to Remus’s voice that makes Draco give in, and he turns back around. “And honestly,” Remus’s lips quirk up slightly, “I think a small part of him likes feeling special, like he’s the only one who could do what he did.” “Well, what about the others? Most of them want me gone too. They think I’m going to betray them. I can see it every time they look at me.” “I’m sorry. After everything that’s happened to them, it’s hard to trust others. I’m not saying it’s right, but it also isn’t permanent. With time, they’ll learn to believe you.” He smiles at Draco, soft and reassuring. Sure as he is of the fact that Remus will knock him down again today, he knows that Remus won’t give up on him. It’s written in the warmth of his eyes and the firmness of his voice. The feeling he gets from it is more than Draco knows how to express, so he just smiles back. “Are you ready to continue and prove them wrong?” “I am,” Draco says. “Good.” Remus bends down and picks up the training knife before tossing it back at him. This time, Draco catches it by the hilt, and Remus lets out a pleased hum. “See, you’re learning already, little dragon.” Draco scrunches his nose and frowns. “What’s the matter? You don’t like the name?” “Little dragon. Like I’m pocket-sized and harmless. You might as well call me a lizard.” Remus’s eyebrows shoot up, and he gives Draco an incredulous look before bursting out laughing. His palms fall to his knees, and he shakes his head. “Do you hear yourself right now?” Draco flushes and crosses his arms across his chest as if to cover himself, feeling strangely exposed. His skin prickles uncomfortably, and he bites his tongue to stop from speaking before he regrets it. Instead, he lets out a soft, muffled huff, and Remus’s laughter starts anew. Without thinking, he throws the knife toward Remus, remembering to follow through with his wrist just as Remus taught him. For a split-second, it seems like it’ll strike Remus’s neck, but then Remus reaches up and deflects it back to the ground. It falls with a loud clatter, and his laughter dies in his throat, the sudden stillness threatening to swallow Draco whole. His stomach twists, and his eyes sting as he waits for Remus to yell at him—tell him this is it, that he agrees with the others and it’s time for Draco to leave. But he doesn’t. He takes Draco in once more and nods. Draco can’t quite place the look on Remus’s face, but a part of him thinks Remus looks mildly impressed. It’s too bold a thought, and he knows it, so he shuffles his feet and glances down to the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Don’t apologize.” Remus reaches down and picks up the training knife. “I told you to catch your opponent off-guard, and you very nearly did.” Pride swells in Draco until he feels light and almost forgets the ache of his muscles or the throbbing in his head. He beams back at Remus, and this time, when Remus tosses him the knife, Draco catches the hilt again with ease.

June 1996

Draco wheezes, and the floor seemingly moves beneath his feet. A gentle guiding hand—Remus’s—falls on his arm, and he jerks at the touch but allows himself to be led. The world around him can’t quite come into focus, so the feel of a couch beneath him surprises him. His breath whistles in his throat, and when he looks down, dark, coppery red meets him, on his hands and clothes. “I have to get out of— I have to—” But the words won’t come out, no matter how hard he tries. He scrunches his eyes shut, floating further and further. “Breathe, Draco.” Remus’s voice brings him back into his body. He takes in a deep breath and turns to look at Remus, whose eyes remain eyes glazed over and face expressionless. “What are they going to do with his body?” Draco asks, and Remus’s jaw twitches and his fingers dig slightly into Draco’s arm. “I don’t know. Leave it. Burn it.” He lets go and stands, facing away from Draco, shoulders hunched forward. Draco’s chest tightens once more, and he flounders, trying to focus on the scratchiness of the couch fabric or the humming of the television. Remus goes out of focus again, and the ringing in his head starts louder than before. Nausea swells in his stomach until he’s certain he’s going to retch, but nothing happens. “If I’d been faster—” Draco says. He covers his mouth with his hand, only to find a strange wetness. It takes him a moment to place it as tears. “Stop.” Remus’s voice is sharp, and it jars him back to the present once more. Draco shakes his head, trying to get out an apology, but Remus drops to his knees, taking Draco’s hands in his own. “You can’t think like that. If you do, I’ll lose you too. Besides, I was there too. If anyone should have stopped Bellatrix, it should have been me.” “It’s not your fault,” Draco says. He tries to find a hint of something—even anger or grief—behind Remus’s eyes, but Remus’s expression is impossible to read—slack-jawed and vacant. When Draco shuts his eyes, he sees Sirius’s body, two shots marking his heart and head, so he opens them once more. This time, when the nausea swells, he vomits. It dribbles down his chin onto the floor between himself and Remus, spurring Remus into action once more. “It’ll be okay,” Remus says, though his voice lacks any assurance. “How?” Draco asks. “I don’t know.” Frustration bleeds into Remus’s voice, and even though it’s directed his way, Draco is almost grateful to be met with something other than a terrifying monotone. “I don’t know,” he repeats. His eyes fall down to the vomit between them and he stands suddenly. “I’ll go get a wet cloth and some water.” And before Draco can object, he leaves. Draco isn’t sure how long Remus is gone. It feels like longer than it must be, and he sinks into himself, terror giving way to a numbness of his own. When Remus returns, his eyes are red and puffy, and there’s a deep cut running across his left hand. But Draco doesn’t dare ask about it. “Here,” Remus says, handing Draco a wet cloth and a glass of water. He bends down and wipes what’s on the floor before leaving once more. Draco wipes his chin and takes small sips, wincing at the lingering taste in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” Draco says when Remus reappears and wordlessly perches next to him, staring blankly down at the carpet. He’s not sure what for, the unbearable ache—one that must be worse for Remus—or something else. It’s all the same, the sort of bone-deep deep feeling, like wetness you can’t shake after getting caught in a storm on a chilly day. “I should shower.” Remus doesn’t look up. “You okay to stand on your own now?” “Yeah.” He’s grateful it’s the truth; he’s not sure Remus is in any shape to hold him up. Draco double-wraps his clothes in two bags before stepping in the shower. The blast of hot water jolts him, and he nearly loses his balance. He takes a second to steady himself, but when he does, he makes quick work with the soap, scrubbing until his skin is red and raw and the water runs cold and clear. The face in the mirror frightens him, off from his own in a way that he can’t quite place. It makes him nauseous all over, but this time, he only dry heaves. His body feels too heavy to carry, and the room spins once more as he slides down the wall and onto the cold, tiled floor, trying to calm the images looping in his head. By the time he makes it downstairs, night has fallen. For a moment, fear floods him anew when he finds all the lights off. But Remus hasn’t left; in fact, he remains unmoved from where Draco last left him, eyes fixed on the carpet as if they’ve never left it or even blinked. The person in front of him feels like a ghost or a stranger—drifting further away with each passing minute. What do you say to a person who has lost everything—Draco wonders. “What do we do now?” Draco asks, his voice somehow smaller than he feels. “We take it one day at a time.” Remus lets out a shaky breath and turns to face Draco. “Together.” “Together?” Draco repeats, and a sudden wave of exhaustion rushes over him, as he does his best to stifle a yawn. As Remus lets out a hum, he reaches out a hand. “Let’s lay down, just for a little.” Something about the way Remus won’t meet his eyes makes his stomach churn, but he ignores it. Today is not the day to pick at things like this. Besides, Remus has plenty reason not to. Draco nods and follows Remus toward the bedroom. Remus freezes when the door opens. The room smells like him , and reminders of his presence, mere hours ago, are strewn across it. Draco’s sure that Remus will turn around or finally fall apart, but he doesn’t. He blinks several times as his eyes glaze over, and then he steps past the threshold. When Remus goes to take the chair, Draco speaks, though he trips over his own tongue. “If anyone should be sleeping on the—not on the— You should be sleeping on the bed.” He frowns and motions toward it. “I can take the couch or the chair.” “Don’t be absurd.” Remus reaches for Draco’s wrist and tugs him down onto the bed. “Stay. We can both sleep here.” He’s imagined those same words slipping from Remus’s mouth before, but the thought only makes him feel more alone. Images of black hair and confident smiles flicker through his mind, but he pushes them back. Still, he’s in no position to refuse Remus. The thought of warm skin feels welcome, more so than perhaps he’d realized. He aches too much to say no, so he curls on his side, next to Remus. Each time his eyes close, he sees things he’d rather not, yet despite it all, it doesn’t take long for him to drift. When he wakes, Remus is gone. Draco walks back downstairs and turns on the TV, and Remus's face stares back at him, wild and bloodied. The text underneath reads: "Resistance leader captured after killing and wounding twelve members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the Defense Infantry." He listens with a buzzing in his ears as the broadcaster details the damage—all Crabbes and Lestranges wiped out, his father among those in critical condition—nothing piercing through the numbness until he drifts once more.

December 1999

“A new millennium. Makes you feel small,” Remus says, staring ahead at the moon in front of them. “Do people still talk about the world ending when it comes?” “I wish it would,” Draco grumbles, earning a snort from Remus. “A few. Really just the zealots. I think everyone else feels like the world already ended.” The skyline twinkles, and Draco closes his eyes. Although muffled, he can hear their friends—the meager remains of the Resistance—celebrating beneath them. And when he concentrates, he feels the building vibrate from the music. “Where are you?” Remus asks, and Draco feels cold fingers against his cheek. He reaches up, taking Remus’s hand in his own—gloved—and rubbing, trying to warm it. “They used to host parties every year back when I was little. An unbelievable spectacle. Champagne fountains, live music, platters of food. Wonder how much of it was tossed out at the end of the night.” “Lots of it. I used to scavenge when I was younger. Each year there were more of us, and then one year they caught on. They started dumping gasoline on top to make it inedible after that.” Draco flushes at the image of him indoors, well-fed and warm while others, including Remus, starved outdoors. “This was before they tightened security around the Sacreds, of course.” “I’m sorry.” He squeezes Remus’s hand as he stares up, past the other rooftops, toward the stars. “There’s so much I wasn’t aware of when I was little. But I still should have known better.” “You were a kid.” Remus’s hand slips out of Draco’s touch and falls limply to his side. Draco states down at the empty space between his hands, and it feels as though the roof falls from under him. Draco isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing. Remus isn’t much for conversation either—hasn’t been since he returned. But time spent sitting together in silence has become part of their daily ritual. Sometimes, in moments such as these, Draco catches Remus without his guard up. Those are the moments he startles, scared for a moment before he recognizes the man before him—too still, hollow-eyed. It isn’t just Remus’s mind that’s haunted, his body looks it too, positioned like an artist's drawing mannequin, stiff and unnatural. But soon, the quiet becomes unbearable. An itch forms under his skin, and his face burns in a way that has nothing to do with the gust of wind that envelops them with a howl. “I miss you,” Draco blurts out. “I’m right here,” Remus says, although they both know that’s not quite what Draco meant. “Not like— Never mind.” Draco focuses on a spot in the distance until his eyes relax and everything goes out of focus. He feels himself floating, away from this roof and the painful knot in his chest. “Say what you were going to say.” There’s an edge to Remus’s voice that makes him flinch, and Draco feels himself fall back into his body as he tries to gather his thoughts. “I don’t expect you to be the person you were before. I know that’s not possible.” His mind clouds, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Three and a half years, and despite the speeches he’s given in his head, Draco still can’t find the words. He takes a deep breath and continues, “But the war kept going out here, and I had to keep going too.” When he sees Remus opening his mouth, Draco cuts him off. Bitter thoughts churn and twist into graceless phrases. “I don’t know what they did to you in there, and I’m not trying to compare. But I had to watch more people I care about die, and the world turned to shit.” Draco gestures around. “More shit than it was. And you know what kept me going?” “Don’t,” Remus warns, but it’s too late. Draco can’t stop himself. The words tumble out. “The thought of seeing you again, even if it took years, even if it took all I had. But it’s like you’re not even here most days. And when you are, I don’t know you half the time.” Draco reaches up to his throat and squeezes, as if that will stop any more words from coming out. “I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted,” Remus spits out. “Just a big disappointment.” Draco squeezes tighter until he sees black spots at the corner of his eyes and his head begins to swim. He imagines the blackness swallowing him whole, taking him anywhere but here. Tighter still until he begins to choke and his vision blurs and— “Stop it!” Remus screams, ripping Draco’s hand away from his throat. “What the fuck, Draco? What the fuck are you doing? Why would you do that?” He grips Draco’s hand in his own with a ferocity that surprises both of them. Draco’s eyes meet Remus’s. He rasps, trying to catch his breath, but never gets the chance. Remus leans in and presses their lips together. His hand, still around Draco’s, squeezes until pain floods it, but Draco doesn’t try to stop him. Instead, he clings to Remus with his one free hand, desperate and wanting, terrified that if he lets go, it’ll all come crashing down. Remus pulls Draco’s lower lip back between his teeth, sharp and unforgiving, and Draco’s fingers curl tighter yet around the front of Remus’s coat. Remus finally lets go of his hand—Draco’s fingers half-numb from the pressure—and reaches up instead to the back of Draco’s head. He knocks the hat to the ground as his fingers weave into the back and he tugs. A soft whimper escapes Draco’s mouth as his jaw goes slack, and his body falls, pliable, in Remus’s. Remus moves closer and sucks and nips a trail down. He stops at Draco’s ear for a brief second—breath hot against it, making Draco’s head spin—before continuing, undoubtedly leaving an angry trail of bruises in his wake. When he gets to Draco’s collar, however, he stops just as suddenly as he had started. His hands drop, and Draco’s teeters, barely catching himself. “Fuck,” Draco mumbles. Keeping Remus’s gaze, he pulls off a glove and reaches up his hand, tracing the texture of each raised mark on his neck. “If I’m a little dragon, what does that make you? The big, bad wolf?” A noticeable shiver runs through Remus, and Draco bites the inside of his cheek to tame a smirk. Remus’s eyes fix on Draco’s fingers. Draco watches nearly just as transfixed when Remus breathes sharply in, and hollow in his neck becomes more pronounced. He imagines reciprocating, bending in and sucking until Remus melts under his touch. But before he can, Remus clears his throat, and his eyes move just past Draco. “Hold the thought,” Remus says. “I’ll be back shortly.” Before Draco can ask any questions, he gets up and moves toward the door. Draco watches, tongue heavy in his mouth and breath caught in his chest. When the door shuts behind Remus, Draco sighs and slumps down until he’s outstretched and propped up by nothing but his elbows. He stares up at the sky. Only half the buildings in the neighborhood have electricity. Draco’s gotten so used to starry skies on cloudless nights like these that he’s stopped remarking on them. But as he looks upward, a wave of something passes through him. His eyes linger first on his namesake star, in the south before tracing north toward Orion. Hazy memories flutter across his mind—of warm summers and piss beer, of Sirius pointing to the constellations and promising they could make new legacies for themselves while Remus watched on fondly. Draco drifts among them, lost, until the sound of the door creaking open once more jars him out of it. He looks over to see Remus holding two clear plastic cups filled with a colorless, transparent liquid. “That better be vodka,” Draco says, pointing at them. “Not quite. But it’s not just plain water either—promise.” Remus steps over and hands Draco a cup before perching himself, somewhat stiffly, by Draco. “Liquid E.” Draco stares into his cup and raises an eyebrow. “How did you manage to get your hands on this?” “A good magician never reveals his secrets. Or connections for that matter. But maybe the world will end, and if it does, that seems like a proper way to go out.” Remus stretches out the hand holding his cup. “Cheers.” “Cheers,” Draco echoes. He downs the drink and shifts his body slightly so that Remus can settle down once more, one leg crossed and half-tucked under him. Their legs press together, and Draco half-expects Remus to move away, but he doesn’t. Warmth, too soon to be related to what he just consumed, slowly seeps into him. “It takes about fifteen minutes to hit,” Remus says. “I know.” “You know?” Remus gives him an incredulous look. “While I was—“ Draco waves a hand dismissively. “No, not then.” Remus’s lips fade into a thin line, and Draco stifles a laugh. “I had it with—“ Remus doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “Bastard,” he hisses under his breath. “He promised me he didn’t. It was the day when the Death Eaters found my parents’ cabin and took them, wasn’t it?” Draco nods. “How did you know?” “When I told you, you had this blank look in your eyes. At first, I thought it just didn’t hit you, but then I kept catching you with your brow furrowed, like it was taking all your effort to concentrate or something. I asked him about it later, but he said it must have been shock.” Remus squeezes his brow and lets out a long, unsteady breath. “I remember how easy it was for Sirius, like flipping a switch.” A ripple goes through Remus at Sirius’s name, but he says nothing. “We were laughing, and then you walked in, and he saw your face, and it was like he was completely sober. He was so… present. I don’t know how he did that.” “He—” Remus picks at his cuticle as he chooses his words, “had a lot of problems. His life wasn’t easy, and he didn’t always find the best ways to cope with it.” Remus pulls his leg away from Draco and wraps an arm around himself. “Actually, I’d prefer not to really talk about it.” “Yeah. Sorry,” Draco says, and Remus gives him a tight, emotionless smile. They remain lost in thought until Remus breaks the silence. “Fucking shoulder.” He rolls his right shoulder and groans. “I can get that for you,” Draco says. He adjusts himself behind Remus to get the best position. “I wasn’t trying to get at anything,” Remus starts, but Draco waves his hand dismissively. Although Draco moves slowly, Remus still flinches when Draco first touches him. Through Remus’s coat, Draco does his best to press his fingers along Remus’s shoulder blade, where he knows it tends to hurt Remus most. Even with this much fabric between them, Draco can feel how tense Remus is. He sits erect, brow furrowed until Draco’s elbow kneads a circle in Remus’s lower back. “That’s heavenly,” Remus breathes and stretches his shoulders as far back as they’ll go. Draco adjusts his position to better angle himself, and his left knee presses against Remus’s hip. It takes him a moment to realize that Remus does not flinch or pull back, and when he does, he smiles. Remus’s satisfied sighs punctuate the brisk, winter air. Draco sinks into a rhythm, feeling his body droop heavier and his mind wander. One by one, his thoughts slip loose, out of reach, like sand grains in an hourglass, and tension seeps out of his body. Time stretches out before them until Draco finds that he’s stopped moving altogether. It strikes him how suddenly aware of his body he is—its weight, each movement. The scratchy fabric of Remus’s coat against his skin. How it feels to lean against Remus’s hip, cold through his jeans, thanks to the fact that Remus’s jacket ends just above his hip bone. Draco drops his arm to his side and leans forward until his chin sits on Remus’s shoulder. He drops his weight forward, and Remus lets out a small huff, though he doesn’t budge. “Draco…” There’s a hazy edge to Remus’s voice, and when Draco closes his eyes, he pictures his life at the end of the world, the two of them floating in a vacuum, alone together. “Too comfortable to move,” Draco says. To illustrate his point, and perhaps to convince Remus, he lifts a hand up and pulls his glove off with his teeth before brushing his knuckles against the back of Remus’s neck, just at his hairline. Remus shivers and leans backward, into Draco’s touch. “Wasn’t going to ask you to move.” Remus pauses before adding, “You feel nice.” “Yeah, you’re alright,” Draco teases, but he can’t hold a straight face long enough to get it out evenly. The end comes out garbled, lost to a fit of laughter. Under him, Remus’s shoulders begin to shake as he joins in too. “God,” Remus gasps out. “My stomach hurts.” Draco can hardly spit out “ me too ” as it devolves and he begins to cough, trying to catch his breath. “Oh, fuck me.” They’ve only just begun to calm when a loud crack, followed by an even louder boom, disrupts the still air. Draco jumps to his feet, reaching for the nearest weapon, but before he can find one, bright blues and whites light the sky in a shimmering display. They stop and stare. Another boom, another crack, even brighter lights—only white this time. “It’s a new year,” Remus says. “I guess the world didn’t end after all. Would you believe that—” He turns around, eyes fixed on Draco. The sentence ends abruptly, as if unfinished. Color drains from Remus’s face, and the smile slowly fades from his lips as his eyes glaze over. “Maybe it did, and we were all reborn,” Draco says, though he isn’t quite sure himself what it means. His head still spins, and his body feels heavier yet without Remus supporting it. All around them, the sky glows.

June 2000

“Good. Again,” Remus says, handing Neville the prop knife. Neville’s performance is far from good, and they both know it, but he can’t quite blame him for it. Neville seems terrified to handle the prop knife—not that Draco can blame him after what happened to his family. Nonetheless, Draco is grateful to have another deserter of the Sacreds in their company. He’d been presumed dead, so if Neville had the skills to survive three years on his own, Draco doesn’t doubt that they can make a fighter out of him yet. “I could train with him,” Harry says next to Draco, and Draco glances over at him. “You and Remus are spread too thin with all the new recruits.” Harry looks up at him and straightens his back, though the shifting his weight from the ball of one heel to the other gives away his nerves. “I’m going to be twenty next month, you know.” “I know.” There’s a young, naive eagerness that Draco can’t help but admire—one he’s not sure how Harry can hold onto after everything he’s endured. “I’ve seen you with some of them. You’re not half-bad,” Draco says. Harry puffs slightly and beams as if this is high praise. “Thanks.” “But Neville lacks confidence. That’s a hard thing to teach. He can’t unlock his potential or move much further if he’s second-guessing each move he makes.” Draco folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. They go back to watching Remus and Neville train. When Neville lunges forward, he misses Remus by a good quarter of a meter, and Draco winces, thankful that they’re far enough away that Neville isn’t minding them any attention. Still, Remus offers Neville a warm smile and the prop knife once more. “You’re getting better,” Remus tells him, and Draco scoffs. “He’s not going to improve if Remus keeps lying to him,” Draco mumbles under his breath. “He’s worse than most are three months in.” “You said yourself he lacks confidence. But he’s trying. It’d be easy for him to give up, and he hasn’t.” It’s a decent enough point, and they both know it. Begrudgingly, Draco nods his head in agreement and admits, “Fair enough.” “My parents didn’t let me train when I was younger,” Harry says. “You remember—I was a mess when I started too. The older you are, the harder it is.” They watch as Neville tries once more. Although he is closer to hitting the mark, he moves too slowly, and Remus grabs his wrist and twists it. The force of it causes Neville to stumble forward, and Remus reaches out to steady him. As Remus begins to explain how Neville can correct his mistakes, Draco focuses his attention back on Harry. “I was eighteen when I started, you know,” Draco says. “You don’t need to lecture me about the difference.” “And I’m sure you were just better than any other eighteen year-old, hm?” Harry teases. He nudges Draco with his elbow, but Draco just gives him a stony, unimpressed look. “Remus says I’ll be able to stop with the pellet guns and practice with the real thing next week. Says I have the potential to be as good of a shot as Andromeda. Kinda cool, huh?” Harry leans, ever so slightly, against him and looks up with a fond expression. An uncomfortable chill runs up Draco’s spine, and he steps to the side, putting some distance between them. “They aren’t toys,” Draco says, his voice colder than he intends. “They’re dangerous.” “Yeah, I know. Cool was the wrong word,” Harry starts, but Draco interrupts him. “We use guns because they use guns. Too many good people have died at the hand of some trigger-happy, Death Eater asshole.” “You don’t think I know that?” Harry asks, bristling. It hits Draco immediately, the implication of his words, and he runs a hand over his face and lets out a frustrated huff. “Fuck. Harry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” But he doesn’t get to finish his thought. “Harry, why don’t you come on over here,” Remus calls out, waving Harry over. “I want to show Neville how the footwork looks when done properly.” “Harry, I’m sorry,” Draco repeats, gently placing a hand on Harry’s wrist. Harry glances down at it. He lingers briefly, and when he looks back at Draco, the anger in his eyes has softened. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it like that. And besides, I couldn’t stay mad at you if I wanted.” There’s something to his voice that Draco can’t quite place, but before he can process it, Harry walks away. He watches as Remus walks several meters over and picks up another knife, real if dull. He tosses it to Harry, who catches it with one hand and prepares his stance. “Look at how he distributes his weight,” Remus starts to explain to Neville. “The key to hitting your mark is footwork and timing, and the key to footwork and timing is balance, patience, and a lot of practice. You can also learn to anticipate your enemy’s movements through their footwork. For example, Harry…” He motions at Harry, and Harry lunges forward. For a moment, it seems as if Remus might not stop him. Although nearly imperceptible, Remus’s movements lag and lack the precision Draco has become so accustomed to. His breath catches in his throat as Remus ducks and twists at the last second, the blade running along the hairs at the back of his neck. Draco’s nails dig into his palm. He tunes out the commentary Remus provides Neville and tries to ignore the metallic taste in his mouth. It’s been a long day, and Draco feels tempted to blame it on that. He’s done it so far, after all. But there’s no ignoring it anymore. Remus doesn’t have the control he once had, and it makes him slower. All it takes is one mistake, one oversight—they all know that too well. The sound of Remus clapping his hands together jars him out of his thoughts, and he does his best to plaster on a neutral smile. “Practice your footwork, alright?” Remus says to Neville. “Yes, Sir.” “I’ve told you, Neville. No need for those formalities here.” He pats Neville on the back. “Yes, Remus.” Neville gives him a tentative smile and begins to walk toward the house. “And I’ll see you bright and early,” Remus says to Harry. “Will do,” Harry agrees. He gives Draco a smile from the corner of his lips and makes his way toward the house as well, one that Draco does his best to return, even if it feels hollow. “Neville, wait up!” The door creaks loudly behind him, and Draco and Remus stand for a moment, soaking up the stillness. “That Longbottom kid needs a lot of training,” Draco finally says. “Cut him some slack. A little self-confidence would do him wonders.” Remus picks up the knife off the ground and flips it on his hand—once, twice. “You know, I told Harry the same thing.” “Harry’s gotten a lot better since I left. I can hardly believe it.” Draco wants to ask Remus if that’s what they’re saying now, as if Remus gone on a short trip instead of attempting a suicide mission. But he doesn’t. He bites his tongue instead. “He threw himself into training when James and Lily…” Draco swallows thickly. Sometimes it feels like death is a stone’s throw away, no matter the topic. It lays over them both, like a heavy blanket. “God, I still can’t believe I wasn’t here when it happ— when they died.” Although he doesn’t dare say it, Draco knows the road Remus is going down all too well—a black hole of what if s that lead to sleepless nights and gnawing guilt. “They were always so careful after they had Harry.” “Nothing you could have done to stop it,” Draco says firmly and takes a step toward Remus. “We all thought it was a basic recon mission. Peter’s the one who sold them out, and, well, Harry took care of that.” “I know. I know.” Remus runs his thumb carefully along the edge of the blade. Though the metal is too dull to cause any damage, Draco feels a knot tighten in his stomach. “I’m tired of all this grief.” “I’m sorry.” “Fuck this.” The transition is sudden. Draco almost doesn’t notice it—the manic glint in Remus’s eye, the shift from heartbreak to anger to something not-quite-right all in a second. Remus’s lips pull back in a snarl of sorts as he throws the knife at Draco with a smooth flick of his wrist. Without thinking, Draco reaches out and catches it. Panic doesn’t even begin to swell until after the hilt is safely in his hands. He looks down at it, heart racing, and tries to find a coherent thought. “What are you doing?” Draco asks, and glares back up at Remus. “You could have actually hurt me. What’s your problem?” “Save it. I saw your face when I was sparring with Harry. You’ve always been shit at hiding your emotions.” Remus scoffs. “You don’t think I’m as good as I used to be.” There it is, like he’s a teenager again—Remus’s uncanny ability to see right through him, sometimes even before he knows what he feels himself. Draco sputters, trying to come up with a defense or an excuse, but his floundering might as well be agreement. He sighs and his shoulders drop as he admits, “You’re just not as fast as you used to be. You were locked up for three years, and god knows what they did to you. I worry. As you said, I’m tired of all this grief. I don’t know how much more of it I can handle.” “I’m done talking. If that’s what you feel, show me.” Remus curls his index finger in, inviting Draco to make his first move. “You’re insane. I’m not going to fight you.” Draco runs his free hand through his hair and shakes his head adamantly. “Coward.” Remus bends down and picks up the prop knife, though his eyes never leave Draco. Perhaps, Draco supposes, Remus is right. He’s tired of talking. Even if there are more words to say, he can hardly scrounge up the energy to come up with them. So he does what he knows best and lunges instead. Remus dodges, and when Draco’s hand comes up, blocks it with a grunt. They move fluidly, each movement eliciting an opposite reaction, a careful push and pull. When Remus steps forward, Draco steps back. When Draco moves the knife toward Remus’s side, Remus’s fingers wrap around his elbow, blocking his hand, and he moves his own knife toward Draco’s neck. Draco twists until his arm is pinned behind his back and leverages the weight of Draco's position to knock him off balance. Remus moves with the sort of force as if his life depends on it. There’s a familiarness to this that makes Draco’s whole body ache. They heave deep breaths and move in tandem. Even with years apart, Remus knows how his mind works, how he plans each move. No one knows him better than Remus. It should be comforting, but he finds anger lit aflame within him along with a need to prove himself. He's not quite sure if Remus fumbles or if he spots the opportunity, but when Remus steps forward with his arm outstretched, Draco meets the crook of Remus’s elbow with the flat of his palm, blocking the move, and takes the final step forward. He lifts his knife, the tip of the blade meeting the exact point where Remus's jaw meets his neck. “Don’t call me a coward,” he spits. Without warning, Remus swings up his free hand and knocks the knife to the ground. Draco startles, and when his gaze goes to follow the clatter, Remus takes advantage of the distraction. The back of his hand strikes Draco's jaw and cheek with a loud smack, and Draco gasps and topples. His head rings, and his vision blurs as Remus crouches over him and places the prop knife to Draco's throat. “Don’t underestimate me, Draco.” The prop knife falls beside him, and Remus straightens himself and walks back into the house without so much as a glance back.

May 1988

“Cissy, we can’t play favorites. You know that,” Bellatrix’s voice sings from the other room. “We cannot have a repeat of what happened with the Blacks’ boy, or with—” She cuts herself off abruptly. “This is different. He’s my only son. My son, Bella.” Narcissa’s voice rises higher with each word. “Lucius, say something.” Draco peels his ear from the door and stands robotically. Bellatrix speaks again before his father does, her tone almost reprimanding, though Draco can’t quite be sure now that her words are too muffled to hear. A cold wetness creeps under his skin, and he wipes his palms against his trousers and traces his thumb along the crease, carefully ironed in by his mother. He takes a deep breath and wills himself to focus on the sound of it and the blood rushing in his ears. In his head, he does his best to go through a list of things he needs to do and repeats each step again and again, on a loop. Other thoughts threaten to pierce through, but he pushes them back, aware that once one gives in, the rest will follow. And there’s no time to spare on his thoughts. He moves quickly, grabbing an old bag from the back of his closet, carefully stolen from his parents’ storage, where they wouldn’t notice it missing. He errs on the side of fewer items. Running with a bag will be difficult enough; too much weight will slow him down more. He pulls money out from the drawer of his nightstand—money he’s saved from birthdays and holidays among the items, hidden from view—and distributes it, stuffed in a pair of socks, tucked among a folded shirt, buried into the pocket of a jacket. His window slides open, and he stares at the ground, two flights below. He drops the bag, which lands in the grass with a soft thump and positions himself at the ledge, legs swung over, outside, and torso leaning in his room. His muscles ache, urging him to twist his body backward for one final look, but he doesn’t dare. Instead, he breathes in deep, holds it in, and jumps. For a moment, he feels as if he’s hovering, and then the ground rushes up to meet him. He braces himself and somehow manages to land half on top of his bag, his right side taking all the impact. He rolls off of it, the breath knocked out of him as he lays still, half-curled in a c-shape. When he goes to lift himself up, a pain shoots up his right elbow into his shoulder, and he bites his lower lip hard before the whimper of pain can leave his body. A tremble runs through him, and he tries to steady himself, but his throat only seems tighter with each breath. Draco closes his eyes and concentrates, stripping the world away until all he can feel are his shoes planted firmly in the ground. He holds his stance, even when his knees threaten to buckle, and finally sucks in a chestful of air once more. And then he picks a direction and begins to run. Each step reverberates up into his elbow and shoulder, but he pushes through it, grimacing each time his foot hits the ground. Still, he runs until his chest hurts, past the streets with familiar names and curves and trees. It’s warm for a May night—Draco knows that—but his body feels cold in a bone-deep sort of way. Where he’s going doesn’t matter, as long as it’s away, toward the outskirts where none of the Sacreds and their kin venture with the exception of the Defense Infantry. How he’ll get past their night patrol remains a mystery, but he tries his best not to dwell on it. Draco knows that he’ll figure it out when the time comes. He doesn’t have a choice; he has to.

July 1988

Draco leans his back against the wall, wishing he could sink into the wallpaper. He wonders if his face gives him away. Or the bit of blonde at the roots of his otherwise brown hair. A pair of eyes move past him, seemingly lingering for a moment. He’s not quite sure if it’s just his imagination, but it makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "I gave up an important meeting to be here," a short man with hair combed back in a poor attempt to disguise its thinness says and wipes the sweat glistening at his brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now, Mundungus?” a young ginger woman with bright-green eyes asks, over-enunciating each syllable of his name. “Where’s yer husband, Evans?” A cigarette dangles from the man’s—Mundungus’s—mouth, and smoke curls around his lips. “Mundungus, cut it out. You know he’s at home with their child.” The warning comes from another man, tall and lanky with a mop of curly hair on his head, seemingly one of the leaders of the group along with his partner, a man with sleek black hair and defined cheekbones. Draco had noticed them when they first entered the bar and began to talk with other Resistance members. His eyes gravitated as the former had squeezed the latter’s shoulder, much like how his mother would with his father. It was over as soon as he noticed it, but Draco knew immediately what that fleeting touch meant. “Eight—sorry almost eight—is plenty old to be left alone if ya ask me.” Mundungus opens his mouth to say more, but the leader with the curly hair narrows his eyes and gives Mundungus a warning look. Mundungus huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Now then, delegations,” the man says. He goes through a list of names and names a wide array of positions, from night duty to hand-combat training to something called tracker. At his partner’s appointment, a scout, he points and speaks his name, Sirius. “I’ll send a code with the time and date of our next meeting. Dismissed.” People begin to filter out after that, though a few meet with Sirius and the other leader, speaking in hushed whispers that Draco knows he couldn’t overhear even if the swell of other voices didn’t drown them out. When he dares to sneak glances, Draco watches their lips move and tries to decipher a single word, but the angles and those passing, obscuring his view, make the task impossible. Finally, after what Draco guesses must be at least forty minutes, those remaining disperse to their own corners of the pub, and Sirius and the other leader are left alone. With that, their eyes move to him. Draco freezes and glances toward the exit. An escape seems unlikely, as Draco realizes, much too late, that his attempts to blend in have failed remarkably. They walk toward him, and Draco stiffens against the wall as he looks for something he can use to defend himself. His eyes land on the nearest table. On the edge closest to him sits a glass, still half-full with beer. He reacts before his muscles can seize and grabs it and shatters it against the wall. Jagged edges tear his skin open, across four of his fingers and on his palm, but he grips one last shard tightly and wields it in front of him, waving wildly. It cuts into his hand, which trembles in the air. “Don’t come any closer.” The words sound empty, even to him. His heart races in his chest as he imagines how he looks, cornered and feral. He just hopes he doesn’t look as defenseless as he feels. He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer. Sirius reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a switchblade, which pops out with a well-practiced flick of his wrist. “Put that away,” the other leader says and sets a hand on the wrist of Sirius’s dominant hand. “Remus…” Sirius glares at Draco, his gray eyes unforgiving and distrustful, but lowers the knife. Draco follows suit with his shard of glass, and his grip loosens. His hand throbs, but he doesn’t dare drop it yet. “How did you find us?” Remus asks, his voice surprisingly steady. He takes a small step toward Draco, who brandishes the glass again. Remus stops and takes half a step back. Draco trembles as he glances toward the exit again. But all eyes in the pub are now on him, watching intently. His blood runs cold as he sees a glint of sleek, metallic black in another person’s hand, half-obscured behind his back—a gun. The glass slips from his hand and falls to the floor, and Draco falls with it, tossing his hands up in front of his face. “I found a piece of paper. It looked like a weird poem at first, but then…” His breath quickens, and vision blurs at the edges. “Breathe,” Remus says. But try as he might, Draco’s chest only tightens. “What was on that piece of paper?” Draco’s mouth opens and closes twice, and he only manages a wheeze. “What did it say?” Remus‘s voice is firmer now , and he takes a step forward. Somehow, from deep within, Draco scrounges up the last dredges of self-control and steadies his breathing. “Jubilee comes once a year; if only it came twice. Caviar, an orchestra, don’t ask about the price. Alas, alas, time marches on, sure as the sky is blue. But step through the mirror, the view is clearer, and the reverse is always true. If your fortune flips, please let me know. We’ll talk the whole night through.” Draco’s voice falters and fails him, and he swallows thickly, trying his best to get out the last line. Remus, however, finishes the note. “And meet under dead eyes on the crooked sign when the clocks chimes eighteen and two.” The words linger between them and then he asks, “What gave it away?” “Sacreds wouldn’t say not to worry about the price. We don’t even consider it.” It comes out as hardly more than a whisper, but the pub is so quiet that his voice carries to the other end. “I told you it was a giveaway,” Sirius spits at Remus before freezing. He turns and looks at Draco with narrowed eyes before lifting the knife once more. “We?” As Draco peers from behind his hands, Remus and Sirius move as a blur in rapid succession, too quickly for Draco to determine who initiates. Remus smacks Sirius’s hand. Silver flashes in front of his eyes, and the switchblade buries down to the hilt in the wall, mere centimeters from his head. Draco jumps back up and bile rises on his throat. Shouts erupt across the pub. “You have to be kidding me,” Sirius screams. “What if this is some sort of trap?” From his peripherals, Draco spots the man with the gun, hunched and scarred with a patch over one eye, readying it once more. Draco’s eyes close, and, strangely and perhaps stubbornly, he finds that words evade him. He won’t give them the pleasure of begging. He braces, weightless, but no shot comes. Instead, the bar quiets. When he opens his eyes, Remus is standing in front of him, Sirius is one step behind, and the man’s gun is out of sight. “You, better than anyone else, should understand all the reasons why we can’t just kill him,” Remus says to Sirius, though his eyes don’t leave Draco’s. Despite everything, or maybe because he’s defied the odds more than once today, Draco stares back, unflinching. “That explains how you knew the poem wasn’t written by a Sacred, but how did you know it was a code?” Remus addresses Draco now. Draco swallows down his nausea before he responds, surprising even himself with how steady his voice is, “Jubilee is too specific of a date, and eighteen and two is too specific of a time, so I knew it had to be a meeting of some sort. Jubilee is on the seventh of August, or seven-eight if written out. Reverse it and you get eight-seven. Dead eyes and crooked sign—that took me a while to figure out. And there even was another place that matched it, but it was in the middle of the Defense Infantry’s regular nightly route. Put it together and you get the eighth of July at eight at night at the Hog’s Head.” “Aren’t you clever?” Remus clicks his tongue, and he gives Draco a curious look. “He’s a Malfoy. Look at his blond hair,” Sirius says, and a few people murmur. “His father’s responsible for the recent medical restrictions,” a tall Black woman with a shaved head and striking, angular features says. “I’m with Sirius on this one.” “Dorcas, please.” Remus says, and, for the first time, a slight hint of frustration creeps in. The woman next to Dorcas snorts loudly. “Kill him and be done with it.” Draco feels his luck waver again, and he sucks in a breath between his teeth. He realizes for the first time that his jaw is sore and he’s been grinding his teeth. “Or send him back to his parents as a message,” Sirius says. Remus’s back stiffens, and Draco’s eyes meet Sirius’s. “They’ve been searching for me since I ran away. You’d be doing them a favor.” It isn’t entirely true, or at least he hopes not. But the thought has crossed his mind before—what they would do if he were brought home, whether his parents would bow to the pressure to make an example of him. “An obvious trap,” the man with the eye patch says. “C’mon, Remus, you’re better than this.” Dorcas agrees. “Maybe not,” the woman next to Dorcas says. Draco’s eyes bounce around the room to each speaker, increasing dread rising once more in the pit of his stomach. But Remus carries on as if he doesn’t hear them. “If I asked you why you ran away, would you tell me?” “If I told you, would you believe me?” Draco asks, sounding braver than he feels. The same curious look as before flashes across Remus’s face. “Probably not.” With that, he turns to face Sirius. “If he is still working with the Sacreds, we can keep an eye on him. He’s more use to us alive and gives us leverage.” Remus pauses “But Narcissa has been absent from the public for some time now. If he’s telling the truth and he did run away, he deserves a chance.” “I agree with Remus. He’s only a boy,” a woman with carefully tamed, shoulder-length brown hair and wide, kind eyes says. Something about her looks oddly familiar, and she gives Draco a curious look but glances quickly away when she sees him staring. Then, there is it, the same squeeze Draco spotted earlier between Remus and Sirius, gentle and familiar. “Thank you, Andromeda,” Remus says. “Okay,” Sirius agrees, though he continues to look at Draco distrustfully. Remus turns to survey the rest of the room and is met with mumbles of agreement, half-hearted but agreement nonetheless. As his knees buckle under him, Draco’s hand reaches behind him and steadies himself on the wall. Any shreds of strength he’d found evaporate, and the pain in his hand registers and blossoms into sharp, painful throbs. When he looks down at it, the jagged gashes in his palm deep and oozing, blood running down his arm and staining his clothes, he feels faint. A hand reaches by his head, and Draco startles. Sirius pulls the switchblade out from the wall, gives Draco a disdainful glance over, and turns on his heels, walking toward the exit. Draco watches until the door closes behind him. “We’ll have to take a look at that for you,” Remus says, motioning to Draco’s hand. “Can I?” Draco nods, and Remus takes Draco’s forearm and lifts it. The feel of Remus’s skin, warm and rough against his own, is electric after nearly a month and a half without a single, non-accidental touch. Heat rises in Draco’s face, and he focuses his attention from Remus toward his hand. At this angle, Draco can see several small bits of glass protruding from his skin. His hand sears white-hot, and his head falls against the wall as he hisses out in pain. “Where have you been staying?” Remus asks. Draco just shakes his head. “You’re staying with us now.” At that, Draco’s eyes fly open once more, and he looks at Remus more carefully, trying to discern if somehow he’s been duped. Every stranger’s kindness, he’s learned, has a limit. As if reading his mind, Remus adds, “No ulterior motive, and I don’t expect you to pay.” “Why? Your friends don’t trust me. Neither does your…” He stumbles, unsure of what word to fill in the blank with. If he’s misread the situation, the presumption might sound odd. His muscles tense, and he drops his eyes back down to his hand. “Sirius,” he finishes somewhat lamely. “People just usually say Sirius or my partner, but I suppose ‘my Sirius’ has a poetic, if somewhat territorial, ring to it.” He laughs, a rumble from deep within his chest, and Draco feels himself relax once more as he smiles faintly back. “And no, my friends don’t trust you. I haven’t quite decided yet if I do,” Remus says, though the glint in his eye implies otherwise. “But I can promise you one thing. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” With that, he gently lowers Draco’s hand and motions toward the door. Even without looking at them, Draco can feel the eyes of others’ on him as he follows Remus out of the Hog’s Head. Under the dim street light—the only working one on the block—Sirius smokes a cigarette. He hunches his shoulders together, his free hand flicking his lighter open and closed again with a restless imprecision. “He’s staying with us,” Remus says to Sirius, and Draco knows it’s not a question. Sirius looks over at him, upper lip curling back, but shrugs. “Better way to keep an eye on him.” The whole way back to the house, Sirius walks three steps ahead of them.

August 2000

“Remus, I thought I wouldn’t have a chance to see you again, let alone stand here with you, at the front of the Resistance, once more,” Draco says, hating the way his voice distorts and gives him away. It makes him feel stripped down in front of the others, but he does his best to push the feeling aside and continue. “Here’s one year back and, fate willing, many more.” “Many more indeed,” Andromeda echoes, and the others raise their glasses as well. It’s not the ideal setting for a party, but at least it’s a familiar one by now. He’s learned to make do with what they have, and the table is stacked with meals others have brought from their own homes. Their generator’s broken once more, and the faces that look back at him are lit aflame by the light of the candles he’s placed haphazardly around the room and house. Their newest members—Bill, Ginny, and Ron, the last survivors of the long-assumed dead Weasleys—all sit in one corner, weary and offering tight smiles. Draco’s gaze moves to Remus, who gulps the last sips of his beer down and plasters on a smile. He’s gotten good at putting on a face, Draco reflects. The smile nearly reaches his eyes, which crinkle at the edges when he laughs. And his posture remains loose. It’s unnerving and makes Draco’s skin crawl. Draco places a hand on Remus’s, hoping it’ll calm him, but Remus’s hand tenses and tightens into a fist under his touch until Draco’s left resting awkwardly where Remus’s knuckles curve upward. He removes his hand, oddly aware of his own body. A twinge starts at the back of his neck and shoots down his spine, fractured and fast as a lightning bolt. He rolls his shoulders backwards, as if to shake it. He excuses himself with a polite smile and makes his way out of the room and to the kitchen, where Harry sits on the counter, slumped to one side, drinking straight from a bottle of mead. “I see. Too good for the party?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. How are you any better? You came in here to hide too, and it was your party to begin with.” Harry scoffs and takes another swig. Draco crosses the room and leans back, elbows on the counter. He points at the bottle and motions toward himself before looking over at Harry. Harry rolls his eyes and hands it over. “Not my party. Remus’s.” Next to him, Harry snorts, but his expression quickly sobers when Draco doesn’t join in. “Oh, you’re not joking.” Draco bristles. “It’s for him.” “Does this really seem like Remus to you?” Harry motions at the kitchen door, in the direction of the party. Draco jumps to defend himself, but the words don’t quite come to him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he gives in, grimacing. “Funny thing is, I’m not one for parties either, not lately at least,” Draco admits. Draco’s posture drops, and he massages the bridge of his nose. “Party for no one—how fun. This is why I’m drinking alone in the kitchen,” Harry says, punctuating his words with another gulp. Draco surveys the scene before him and speaks slowly, “Sometimes, you remind me of your godfather.” Harry stills, and his attention drops to the bottle as he begins to pick at the label. “I miss him. And my parents. I thought when Remus came back, we’d talk about them. He knew them better than anyone. But he won’t.” Draco’s stomach twists, but his words come automatically, “It’s hard for him.” “You don’t have to always defend him!” Harry drops his head back with a loud thunk against the cabinets. “It’s hard for all of us.” “I don’t always defend him,” Remus snaps back, though the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. A bitter laugh behind him makes both him and Harry jump, and when they turn around, Remus is watching them, eyes narrowed. “How long have you—” Harry starts, but Remus cuts him off. “Just the last few seconds. Don’t worry.” He wets his lips and gives Draco a somewhat cold look as he adds, “It’s rude to invite a bunch of people over and just leave.” “They’re here for you, not me.” When Remus says nothing, Draco grits his teeth. Restlessness bubbles just under the skin, impossible to ignore, but Draco tries nonetheless. “Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” Remus looks between the two of them and steps forward. The uncertainty transparent on Harry’s face reflects Draco’s own as Remus grabs the mead and takes a large gulp of it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go entertain my guests.” With that, Remus walks back out of the kitchen. “How much of that do you think he heard?” Harry asks, sliding down a few centimeters. His lower lip juts out in a worried pout as he looks over at Draco. “I shouldn’t have said all of that. It wasn’t fair.” Draco’s stomach sinks at the sight, Harry dazed from the alcohol and deflated, and gives in. “No, you’re right. We all have our own griefs and losses. None among us have it easy.” Harry’s back straightens slightly. “Look at you, not defending Remus for once. What’s the world coming to?” “What indeed?” Draco offers Harry a slight smile and exits. While crossing the room, he breathes in as deep as he can, and when he crosses the threshold, he lets it all out in one forceful hiss. With it, he smiles once more. He looks across the room, at the familiar faces before him, before settling on Remus. He watches as Remus speaks to Benjy and reaches out a hand, overfamiliar, and sets it on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Benjy flushes, surprised by the sudden attention. Heat crawls up Draco’s neck, and pressure builds behind Draco’s eyes. He blinks rapidly, and glances away, toward Bill Weasley, standing alone with a mostly untouched plate of food. “If there’s anything your family needs that we can provide, don’t hesitate to ask.” Draco throws himself deep into conversations after that. Despite the desire to, he does not look over at Remus all evening. And so the night passes, and those of the Resistance who have elsewhere to go leave. The Weasleys stay, as does Harry, and Draco ensures they’re settled in their rooms before making his way back to his and Remus’s own. Remus stands, back toward the door, staring out the window into the street. “You’ve done an admirable job keeping the Resistance alive. The Weasley girl seems like quite the fighter. You wouldn’t be able to guess what she’d been through just by talking to her. The boys carry their grief much more openly.” He turns around, his features sharper by the light of the candles. A cigarette sits between his pointer and middle finger, poised somewhat upward. Remus lifts it carefully to his lips and breathes, and the tip glows red. "Did you know them growing up?" The image of Benjy flickers across his mind, as Remus undoubtedly had intended it to. Yet Draco's anger evaporates. He hates himself for the way it does, for the way any resentment flows out of him, how his weight shifts toward Remus as if drawn to him by a physical force. He sighs and shakes his head. “Hardly. I was eight when they supposedly died, and even before then, they didn’t have the best reputation among the Sacreds, so my parents kept me far from them.” “I see.” Time stretches as silence swaddles them once more, cut through only by the sound of Remus exhaling a stream of smoke out of the corner of his lips. The weight of it threatens to swallow him whole. He can hardly stand it, the way it makes him feel—shrunken and insignificant, reduced to nothingness. “Why is it that every time I get close to you, you push me away?” The words come out as hardly more than a whisper. “If this is because I didn’t enjoy your party—” “I’ll admit the party was a stupid idea. I remembered what it used to be like when I first joined. It wasn’t just about survival; it was about living. We felt like family. I miss that sometimes. I miss the way you were then. And of course you aren’t the same. I don’t expect you to be, but sometimes looking at you is like looking at the shadow of a person.” Remus steps over to the window sill and stubs out his cigarette. As he does, he asks in return, “Why do you defend me?” Remus has always had a knack for destabilizing Draco with the simplest of questions, and this is no exception. Draco reels, although he does his best to disguise it. “So, you heard what Harry and I were talking about?” “Just a few second’s worth.” Remus lets his question linger, keeping Draco’s gaze, and Draco finally resigns, moving towards Remus. “You were there when no one else was.” His chest is too tight to allow for anything other than shallow breaths. He reaches up with his thumb and runs it along Remus’s jaw, and Remus’s eyes shut as he leans into Draco’s touch. “And because you’re worth defending, no matter the cost.” “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t.” Remus’s voice is gruff, unsteady. “Sometimes I push you, hoping you’ll break. But you never do, and it pisses me off.” He lets out a shaky breath, and his jaw shifts under Draco’s touch as he grinds his teeth. “I’m sorry. I know it shouldn’t, but it does.” Draco says nothing as he carefully undoes the buttons of Remus’s shirt, one by one, until the fabric slips open and gives way to skin. He reaches out and gently, with the tips of his fingers, runs down the length of Remus’s scars, as he’s done at least a dozen times before. Nonetheless, Remus flinches and looks away when the pad of his finger drags against a raised white line, running from his sternum down to his stomach. There are stories Remus hasn’t told him from his time in Azkaban, and Draco hasn’t dared to ask. Despite the horrors that his mind has conjured, Draco is certain the truth is worse yet. His eyes burn. He swallows down hurt, and the growing knot in his stomach only gets harder. “I said it pisses me off. Don’t you have anything to say to that?,” Remus snaps, and two hands push suddenly at Draco’s shoulders, and he stumbles backward two steps before catching himself. But Draco moves forward again and places his hand where it was before. His fingers trace up into Remus’s hair until he sees Remus’s eyes—bottomless. Draco’s skin runs cold. His hand stills on the back of Remus’s neck, and his brow furrows. But before he can ask, Remus speaks. “Feels good.” There’s a small beat, and then, “Sirius.” Anger curdles in his stomach, and he acts on instinct, slapping Remus across the cheek hard enough that the force almost topples him over. When Remus looks back up at him, the corner of his lip is cut open, blood trickling down to his chin. An apology bubbles up his throat, but he chokes it back down. “Fuck you,” he spits instead. “You’re not going to push me away with your bullshit. I’m right here. I’m right here.” Remus stands frozen as time slows around them. And then he leans forward, closing the gap between them and kissing Draco once more with a renewed desperation. The sharp, bitter taste of metallic passes from his mouth to Draco’s. He reaches an unsteady hand down to Draco's belt and fumbles with it, but Draco smacks it away. A vibration runs through his lips as Remus whimpers, and Draco steps back, his chest heaving. “Turn around.” Remus complies without hesitation. He leans one arm and his head against the wall as his other hand fumbles with his button and zipper. Draco ignores the urge to step forward and help. Instead, he watches as Remus’s finger slips twice before getting it. Only then does Draco step forward, pulling the fabric down until it drops around Remus’s ankles, leaving him exposed. Draco stares for a moment, soaking in the sight before him—the curve of Remus’s ass, still half-obscured by his long shirt, and his legs, thin yet muscular. Yet before he’s finished, Remus steps out of the clothes around his ankles, shifts his weight, and looks over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for?” There’s a neediness and petulance in Remus’s voice that Draco has never heard before, and it sends a thrill right through him. Draco lets out a soft tsk as he crosses the room and gets the lube, moving languidly, as if in no rush. Remus’s eyes follow him, hungry, and when Draco finally makes his way back, Remus lets out a long, shaky breath. “Finally.” The word comes out as a whisper as he arches his back toward Draco. Draco’s fingers weave into Remus’s hair, and he gives it a sharp tug. “What did you say?” But Remus just shakes his head and says nothing. “Learning quickly.” Draco lets go of Remus’s hair and places his lips around a freckle on Remus’s neck. He rolls the skin between his teeth before sucking. Under him, Remus jerks. He pulls back and admires the blossoming purple spot as he uncaps the lube and generously coats his fingers. With his other hand, he bunches Remus’s shirt up, above his hips, and places a knee between Remus’s legs, knocking them further apart. Remus grips onto the window frame, steadying himself, and Draco presses two fingers in. Remus’s head falls back at the second knuckle, a pink flush spreading across his cheeks as he moans. Draco watches, transfixed. He pulls them out to the first knuckle and thrusts back in. Remus pushes back against Draco’s fingers and lets out another breathy moan. Draco leans in and presses his lips to Remus’s half-open mouth, his tongue running across Remus’s lips before deepening the kiss. Lazily, he flicks his wrists again, pulling his fingers out. He waits until Remus squirms beneath him before giving him what he wants. Draco teases Remus until the flush has made its way down his neck, and his body quivers as he struggles to keep himself upright. Heat pools in Draco’s stomach as he watches Remus—always so carefully put together—fall apart under his touch. Only when Remus is a proper mess does he pull his fingers out. “Get on the bed,” he whispers into Remus’s ear. “I want to fuck you.” Remus turns, and Draco’s eyes fall down to Remus’s stomach, pre-come smeared and dried across it. His cock juts upward, obscene and red, and Draco images how it tastes, salty and bitter. He swallows thickly and watches as Remus walks toward the bed. Acting on instinct, Draco shoves him, and Remus falls backward, sprawled out, his shirt slipping off his shoulders and leaving him—finally—fully exposed. Remus stares up at him, pupils blown, panting. “Hit me again,” he asks, and Draco snaps out of his stupor. “What?” he asks, as though if Remus repeats himself, the request will be different. “Hit me,” Remus begs. The ground feels suddenly unsteady against Draco’s feet, and his brow furrows as he hesitates, unsure what to say. Remus’s face contorts in frustration. “Hit me!” he shouts, and Draco just reacts. The back of his hand hits Remus across his face, the force of it reverberating up into his elbow. Remus’s neck twists, his face turned toward the mattress, and when he looks back up, blood runs down the other corner of his lips. “Remus, I’m so sor—” Remus’s tongue laps it up, and he smirks. “Harder.” Confusion and arousal blur together, aided by the drinks of the evening. His eyes sting, although he’s not quite sure why, and he gasps for breath as he stares down at Remus, writhing and desperate beneath him. A strange feeling begins to curl and curdle in his stomach, and before he can get hold of him, he strikes Remus once more. Remus lets out a yelp and arches his hips upward, desperately seeking contact. Blood trickles down to his chin, and he reaches up, wiping it away with the back of his hand and smearing it across his face in the process. Draco’s body moves, almost mechanically, as his fingers wrap around Remus’s neck, and he squeezes, cutting the sound off. Remus’s eyes meet his, and he lets out a gargled whimper as his fingers tighten around the sheets until his knuckles turn white. Only once he begins to properly sputter does Draco let go, watching as Remus’s whole body heaves and he tries to catch his breath. “Turn over.” Draco hears his voice somewhere from outside of himself. He watches, removed, as if in a dream from some invisible, bird’s-eye view. Remus scrambles to obey and nods frantically. The marks on his neck are red, the line of each finger visible. He positions himself, face against the mattress, and Draco blinks several times as he slowly sinks back into his body. He lets out an unsteady breath, and his hand whistles before meeting Remus’s ass. The sound echoes across the near-empty room, and Remus jerks again. “Let’s count,” Draco says. “One.” They work their way up to fifteen—the outline of each handprint unclear against the others. But Remus doesn’t break. Rather, he grinds his hips against the sheets, seeking friction. “More,” he begs, though Draco isn’t quite sure what he can give him. His hands sting, and his body trembles, and he finds himself drifting out of his body once more. He glances around them, as if the room will somehow hold the answers. When he doesn’t, he grits his teeth and reaches down, drawing his belt out from the loops of his trousers. He holds it in his hand, the cold metal clasp firm against his stinging palm, and brings it down. Remus’s thrashes as he lets out a scream, thankfully muffled by the mattress. Draco’s eyes sting, and his vision blurs. A dark, red welt is already beginning to form where it struck. He blinks rapidly as he stares down at his hand, somehow foreign to himself. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. Remus cranes his neck and looks at Draco. Remus stares up at him with a feral expression.“I need this. Draco, please.” His voice breaks. “I trust you.” The building pressure in his chest begins to ease. Draco nods and steadies himself. The prong of the buckle digs into his skin, sharp and painful, grounding him. He takes in a deep breath, and when he exhales, he brings his hand down again. With each crack , a little bit of strength gives way. They work their way up to eight, until Remus’s skin is covered in purple bruises and raised marks, and Draco’s arm hangs limply by his side. He looks down at Remus, depleted. The belt slips from his hand and drops to the floor, and he pants, suddenly aware of the fact that his arm aches from wrist to shoulder, and his whole body feels tense. “Can you stand?” Draco asks, and Remus gives a jerky nod. He works his way over, careful not to let his ass touch the fabric. And although he winces with each movement, he eventually makes it to the edge. Gathering the strength he has left, Draco bends down. He places Draco’s arm around his neck and stands him up. Remus clutches onto him, threatening to topple over. “Let me take care of you,” Draco says. He presses a gentle kiss to Remus’s neck and reaches down, his fingers wrapping around Remus’s cock. He strokes it as he holds them both upright, moving from the base up to the tip and slipping his finger along the slit. It doesn’t take long before Remus comes with a pained grunt against his stomach and Draco’s hand. He settles firmly in his body and finds himself—despite all odds—strangely aroused. His cock strains against his trousers, but before he can think too much of it, he hears Remus sniffle. His attention shifts sharply back to Remus, only to find Remus’s eyes red and puffy, tears running down his cheeks. Panic floods him, and he gently places Remus against the bed, on his stomach, as he crouches beside him. “I knew I took it too far,” he starts, but Remus shakes his head emphatically. “It feels wrong, throwing parties, celebrating when he’s not here.” Remus gulps, and his shoulders tremble. “I hate it.” The panic seeps out of Draco’s body, replaced with a gnawing sadness that threatens to swallow him whole. “I know,” he says. He reaches down and runs the back of his fingers gently up and down Remus’s arm. They stay there until Remus’s tears subside and he stills. “I’m sorry,” Remus says. “It’s okay.” “It’s not.” Remus shifts slightly and lets out a hiss of pain. “And you didn’t even get the chance to fuck me.” Remus does his best attempt at a joke, and his face twists into a somewhat sincere, apologetic smile. A small laugh bubbles out of Draco at the absurdity of the comment. The tension in the room gives, and Draco’s shoulders drop. “Yes, well, I’d have to be quite cruel to try anything now.” “How are your hands?” “Not what I’m worried about right now,” Draco says. He looks down Remus’s ass and frowns, and Remus’s gaze follows. “I wish the electricity was working. I could use some ice.” Remus groans as he adjusts his position. “I should probably wash that.” Draco stands. “Probably,” Remus echoes. “And Draco, thank you.” They share a final look, and Draco exits.

March 1992

“Will you stop being so stubborn and let me take care of you?” Draco leans back slightly from the door and frowns at Sirius’s words. It’s not fair to snoop, and he knows it. An uncomfortable itch crawls under his skin, and he rubs at the back of his neck, trying to shake it. Still, when he hears Remus’s muffled voice, he can’t help but lean back in. But whatever Remus has to say is too quiet for Draco to hear, even when he presses his ear against the door hard enough to make it hurt. After a few seconds, he hears footsteps and jumps up. He’s hardly taken more than a few steps himself when the door swings open, and Sirius steps out and closes it behind him. A look of exhaustion spreads across his face, and even his hair lacks its usual sheen. He startles at seeing Draco and offers him a tight, lifeless smile. “What are you doing here, kid?” “Wanted to see how Remus was doing.” It’s not entirely a lie. Perhaps, under other circumstances, when Sirius would be more awake, he might question Draco’s reasoning. But if he has any doubts about Draco’s honesty, they don’t show. “He’s been in his room for days,” Draco adds. “It’s not like him.” Sirius sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. You can ask him.” As Sirius begins to walk away, more words bubble out of Draco before he can swallow them down. “I heard yelling.” He winces at his own bluntness, but quickly recovers when Sirius turns and looks at him, brow furrowed. “Are you two okay? Is that why he’s hiding?” Sirius’s shoulders slump forward, and he glances at the closed door to their bedroom. “No,” Sirius says and quickly clarifies. “I mean, that’s not why he’s hiding. We’re fine, though.” The warble in his voice at the last sentence gives away his lie, unusual for Sirius, who so rarely has a tell when he wants others to believe him. It only makes the worried knot in Draco’s stomach tighten. “Can I go see him?” Draco asks. “I think he’d like that. Just—don’t stay too long. He’s more exhausted than he’s willing to admit.” Sirius anxiously twists the ring around his middle finger twice, but his hand drops when he catches Draco staring. “Just announce yourself when you knock. He’ll probably think it’s me otherwise.” With that, Sirius turns on his heel and leaves. Draco steadies himself with a deep breath and knocks. “It’s Draco,” he says. “Come in.” Remus’s voice sounds oddly hoarse. Draco feels the knot in his stomach get tighter yet. Then, he pushes the door open and enters. Remus lays in bed, eyes sunken into his face and skin somewhat gray, but he offers Draco a warm, if tired, smile. Draco’s heart jumps to his throat, each beat so pronounced he wonders if Remus is able to see his pulse in his neck. He stares in front of him, noting how the stretch of the bedroom feels larger than ever, and closes the door behind him before quickly crossing the room. He comes to an abrupt, awkward stop at Remus’s bedside. “Hey,” Draco says and frowns. “Hey yourself.” With some difficulty, Remus props himself up on his pillows and winces. “You can pull up a chair.” He motions toward the armchair and reaches for where his left shoulder connects to his neck, massaging slightly. His eyes shut, and his lip twitches before he drops his arm. “If you’re just here to stare, I might charge you for it.” Draco jumps into motion, going toward the armchair and pulling it up to the bedside, close enough that when he sits, his knees touch the frame and mattress. “Sorry. You just…” He trails off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. “Look like shit? Tell me about it.” His knee nudges Draco’s, and Draco feels the knot in his stomach slowly begin to loosen. “Are you okay?” Draco chews on the inside of his lip. With each passing day of Remus’s absence, sleep has gotten harder, and his ability to wrangle his thoughts into coherent and acceptable sentences has become more difficult with it. “My mom and aunt said their sister got sick suddenly and died when she was thirteen. You’re not dying, right?” Remus chuckles, and Draco frowns and looks away, suddenly embarrassed by his question. “No, I’m not dying.” The laughter fades, and he lets out a deep breath and sinks back into the pillows. When Draco looks back at him, the creases in Remus’s forehead seem more pronounced, and his eyes glaze over as he chases a thought. “Just feels like it sometimes.” “What is it?” He rests his knee gently against Remus’s, careful not to place any real pressure on it, terrified that the wrong move might leave Remus wincing in pain once more. “Chronic who-knows-what. Hurts like hell, but it's still manageable enough most of the time. Sometimes it's less manageable.” “But not now?” “Usually when I have a flare-up, I've been able to find something to help, but the Sacreds have been tightening restrictions on medication. It's not anything you or anyone else in the Resistance needs to worry about.” Remus gives Draco a look that seems like it’s meant to convince himself almost as much as it’s meant to convince Draco. Before he can respond, however, Remus speaks again. “So, tell me about training. I’ve been cooped up here with my thoughts, so it’d be nice to hear about something else for a change.” Although Draco has more to say, he indulges Remus in the change of subject. “Fine. I think I’m finally getting the hang of hitting moving targets, and I've gotten a lot better at calculating the lead. But Tonks won’t stop pointing out everything I’m doing wrong like her mother didn’t teach her to shoot when she was little. Doesn’t even make sense to me how she’s as good as she is. Trips over rugs and drops plates all day, but somehow she can hit a bullseye on a moving target from a hundred meters away—no problem.” Draco scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Different skills,” Remus says, chuckling quietly. “Sounds to me like it’s going well, though.” “Yeah, I guess.” Draco pauses. “Miss having you around. Sirius isn’t as fun of a teacher.” “It isn’t supposed to be fun.” Remus reaches his right hand up and rubs small circles into his left shoulder, under his shirt. His face scrunches in pain, and he slides a little down in the bed. “You okay?” Remus’s breathing gets shallower, and he looks over at Draco, attempting a smile, but it’s quickly replaced by another wince and sharp inhale inward. “Shit, sorry.” Remus focuses his attention on the sheets and flushes as he tries to find a position that’s more comfortable. It takes Draco a moment to place the look on Remus’s face—embarrassment. “Can I?” he asks. He stands and motions to Remus’s shoulder. “I don’t know. You could make it worse without meaning to. There are some pinched nerves, and…” He trails off with a sigh and gives Draco a small nod, grimacing immediately after. “Okay, but if I tell you to stop, please stop.” “I’ll be gentle,” Draco promises. He reaches out a hand and places it where Remus’s was. He runs three fingers over the skin until he finds muscle that’s harder than the rest. Gently, he rolls the pads of his fingers over it, careful not to put too much pressure on any one spot. Remus melts into his touch, and the tension begins to give. “Wow. Didn’t know you had such a knack for this. Should have told you sooner.” He’s half-teasing, but Draco can’t help the way his stomach flips. He straightens his posture slightly and watches Remus’s face intently as his eyes flutter shut and he wets his lips. “I’m full of surprises.” They sit in silence for a few minutes, Draco working his way across Remus’s shoulder, tracing his gaze across the freckles on Remus’s cheeks and neck. “I’m glad you told me,” he finally says. “Me too.” Remus’s eyes open, and he smiles up at Draco. “I care about you. I hope you know that.” Draco acts on instinct, leaning down and pressing his lips to Remus’s. An electric pulse runs through his body, and he lifts his hand to Remus’s cheek, cupping it awkwardly from his angle. But before he can deepen it, a muffled noise and a push against his chest jars him out of it. Draco steps back and looks at Remus—brow furrowed and eyes wide—in horror. He feels suddenly as if he’s been doused in cold water, and he steps backward, shaking his head. “Shit. I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry.” His breath catches in his throat, and he glances around the room as the walls begin to close on him. “Draco, wait.” Remus tries to sit himself upright, but the movement is too much for him, and he lets out a sharp breath as he clutches his left arm and falls back into the bed. “I clearly gave you the wrong impression.” There’s more that Remus has to say, but Draco doesn’t want to hear it. “I should go,” Draco says. He turns around and runs out of the room, too scared to look back.

November 2003

"You know, Evan , if you were a better spy, this never would have happened," Draco says, lightly dragging his knife up Evan Rosier’s arm. Evan’s eyes follow the metal closely, and he presses back against the chair, trying desperately to get any distance between himself and the blade. “But you’ve always been confident in yourself, haven’t you?” Draco twists the handle in his hands and applies a little pressure, smiling as a bead of blood forms around the tip. Evan begins to shake his head. When he tries to speak, his voice rising in pitch, the gag muffles his words. “Think he’s finally ready to talk,” Remus says and hooks his finger around the cloth gag before sharply tugging it down. “Tell me, what are the Death Eaters planning?” Evan glares up at Remus before spitting, a glob landing on Remus’s shoe. A flare of anger goes through Draco, and he presses the knife to the top of Evan’s ear and saws downward past the sinew until his knife goes clean through it. It falls to the ground, bloodied and obscene, and a scream tears out of Evan’s mouth, belly-deep and painfully loud. He struggles against the ropes around his wrists and ankles, frantic, until his skin begins to chafe and turn red. “Do something like that again, and I’ll take more than your ear,” Draco promises. Then, he looks toward Remus. “Gag him again.” His hairs stand on end at the noise, and he wipes the knife clean on his pants. The noises muffle once more as Remus fits the cloth back into place between Evan’s teeth. When Draco looks over at Evan, the man shrinks back into the chair, trembling, and his eyes dart between him and Remus like a trapped animal. Blood soaks half his face and shirt, stark against his pale white face. “I can handle myself,” Remus says. “I know you can. It’s him I don’t trust.” Draco punctuates his words by pointing the knife in Evan’s direction, and Evan flings himself roughly backward before letting out an anguished scream. A strange sense of pleasure twists through him as he watches, though he despises himself for it. Draco looks away once more and begins to pace across the room. “Where’s your mind at, Draco?” Remus asks, following him and placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco stills and grits his teeth, trying to suppress a chill. He opens his mouth to answer, but the sharp smell of urine cuts through it. It takes him a moment to spot the wet spot down Evan’s uniform trousers and the puddle on the floor. When he looks at Evan’s face, hatred—just as strong as his own—reflects back at him, more so, even, than fear or pain. He lets out a shaky breath and motions Remus over to the corner where he’s certain Evan can’t overhear him. “I don’t know if he’s going to give,” Draco whispers. He feels Evan’s eyes on them and does his best not to let his concern show on his face. “After what you did—” “I think we could stick him like a pin cushion, and he still wouldn’t speak. He’s too loyal.” “Everyone has a limit,” Remus insists. Whatever Evan’s is, Draco isn’t sure they’ll be able to find it. Still, he nods. “Okay. We can try.” When they look over, Evan sits, slumped over as much as the ropes allow, moving toward the edge of consciousness. Remus marches over, his jaw clenched, and swings out a hand, slapping him across the cheek. The tips of his fingers graze against the wound by his ear, and Evan jerks upright, his screams devolving into whimpers. Remus tugs the gag out and says, “Let’s try this again. What are the Death Eaters planning?” “Fuck you,” Evan says, though the words come out garbled. “Draco, the knife.” Remus outstretches his hand, and Draco tosses it to him. Remus winds his arm back and slashes sideways, leaving a gaping cut across Evan’s cheek. “What are the Death Eaters planning?” Remus bristles with life before him in a way Draco only sees when they fight. Years of anger, of hurt, come pouring out of him, and his whole body trembles. Draco watches, and swallows thickly. Nausea begins to build in his stomach as his eyes trace across Evan. A ringing starts in his ears and builds until suddenly interrupted by his name. “Draco, why you? Scum like him, I understand, but you—turning on your own kind?” Evan’s eyes narrow, and his lids start to droop over his eyes. “You’re not my own kind. That’s what you’ll never understand,” Draco says. He walks over to the table and picks up the handgun, ensuring the safety is on before sliding it across the floor to Remus. Evan’s eyes widen, and he lets out a choked, defeated laugh. “He’s not going to speak,” he tells Remus. “That’s why they sent him. He’s not afraid to die, so he’s not a liability if he gets caught.” Evan bears his blood-stained teeth at them both in a soulless grin. His head lolls sideways, and he slips, for a moment, out of consciousness, before his eyes flutter back open and he lets out a pained groan. “Shame your intelligence is wasted on them,” he sputters. “We could have used it.” “He killed Benjy and Flo and who knows who else, so if you want to torture him first, go ahead,” Draco says to Remus. “But make sure he’s dead when you’re done.” Remus tosses the knife to the side and bends down to pick up the gun. “I trust you. If he’s not going to speak, then he’s not worth wasting my time over.” And then Remus aims the gun and shoots.

June 2008

"More like the Sacred Eighteen.” Seamus scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “They’ve done a good job getting rid of a chunk of their own. Maybe if we wait long enough, they’ll self-destruct.” Draco frowns and glances toward Ernie, who bristles slightly at those words but otherwise does a good job containing himself. “No, those remaining are too loyal. And they’re not dumb either. They know how it looks from the outside. It’s why they’ve fortified their Defense Infantry and been training all of the Sacreds,” Ernie says. “We haven’t seen reports of that.” Hermione says, her voice skeptical. Draco can’t entirely blame her. Her skills in research and tracking have been invaluable to the Resistance, and she rarely has gotten a thing wrong since she’s joined. “We’ve been carefully monitoring all activity from the Sacreds and their children for eight months. We have logs, for goodness sake.” “You wouldn’t have. They’ve been careful, doing it in secret, indoors with private tutors or under the guise of doing something else. But I’m telling you, it’s true. All the Sacreds have received basic firearm and hand-to-hand combat training.” Ernie runs a hand through his hair and purses his lips. “Why would I lie about it?” “Alright, prove it, then,” Ron says. “Hand-to-hand combat with—” “I’ll do it,” Ginny volunteers. “No one’s fighting anyone,” Draco says, stepping forward. He ignores the scowls Ron and Ginny throw his way and glances over at Remus, hoping for some back-up, but Remus’s eyes are glazed over, and his brow is furrowed. He reaches his hand up and massages his shoulder, wincing slightly when he hits a specific spot. Draco lets out a worried hum and turns his attention back to the group. “Ernie doesn’t need to prove anything.” “He’s still going back to them . How do we know he’s not working with them too? Especially if they’ve tightened their defenses,” Seamus asks. “Because they killed my parents.” Ernie looks around the room, his hands bunched into tight fists, face turning red, anger painted across his face. “You think I’d willingly work for the people who killed them?” He turns to face Ron. “You think that after what they did to your families?” He turns to Neville, “What about you?” Neville meets Ernie’s stare, unflinching, and shakes his head. “No, I really don’t think you would.” A few people murmur, seemingly appeased, at least for the moment, by Ernie’s response. But then Draco looks over at Seamus, whose frown deepens, and he opens his mouth, ready to further argue the point. Before he can, Harry, who’d thus far been uncharacteristically quiet, speaks. “It’s hard to build trust, and they want it to be. And I get it. My parents were killed by someone who was supposedly working for the Resistance. But I don’t go around questioning all of you.” Seamus’s words die in his throat, and he shuts his mouth, having the decency to look somewhat ashamed. Draco releases a long sigh of relief and glances over toward Remus. But Remus is no longer in the same spot. He turns, glancing through the crowd, and spots Remus just as he’s closing the door behind him. While Harry continues to speak, he weaves through the crowd and follows, offering whispered apologies to those who give him questioning looks. But Remus is not in immediate sight, nor is he in the kitchen or the garden or their bedroom. In fact, Draco’s nearly scoured the whole house before he thinks to check in the attic. Remus lays on an old, stained mattress on the floor and stares up at the low ceiling. Draco’s nose scrunches as he brushes cobwebs away and crouches, shuffling his way toward Remus. “You left.” “Harry seemed to have it under control. He’s turning out to be quite the leader. His parents would be proud.” Remus’s smile is quickly replaced with a wince as he scoots over to make room for Draco. “Sirius would be proud too,” Draco says, and Remus lets out a small hum of agreement. Remus says nothing as Draco lays down beside him and positions himself on his side, facing Remus. “Another flare-up?” “Am I that obvious?” “Just to me.” Draco bends down and kisses Remus’s neck. Remus’s eyes close, and he breathes in slowly before letting out a loud, long exhale. “It’s more minor,” Remus says, though Draco doesn’t entirely believe him. “Still unpleasant, though.” “Maybe you shouldn’t be laying on a lumpy, old mattress, then. Now roll over.” Remus complies with a groan, and Draco reaches out and carefully runs his finger along the skin until he finds a knot. Gently, he presses and rolls his finger in a small, circular motion. “But since you are, how’s that?” “Divine.” “Wow, divine. Look at me go.” Draco lets out a low whistle, and Remus laughs. His shoulders drop slightly as he relaxes into the mattress. “You’re carrying a lot of tension around.” “When am I not?” “Yes, well, fair point.” “Sometimes I’m tired of being tired, though. You know?” Draco’s stomach drops, and he nods. “Yeah, I know,” he whispers. He props himself up and leans over Remus to press a kiss to his cheek and another to the corner of his lips. When he starts to move back to the other side of the mattress, however, Remus turns his body and reaches a hand and rests it on Draco’s cheek. “Please.” Draco isn’t quite sure what Remus is asking for, but he doesn’t question it. Instead, he leans down and kisses Remus. Remus whimpers, and his fingers trace up Draco’s jaw and into his hair, giving it a light tug. Draco’s lips part, and Remus deepens their kiss and rolls them over until Draco is on his back, and Remus lays half-strewn on top of him. His lips move down Draco’s neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point. Draco’s heart speeds up as the room around them begins to fade away. “What about your shoulder?” he mumbles, somehow managing to pull a thread of logic through the haze. “If it’s worse, it’s worse,” Remus says dismissively, his low voice vibrating against Draco’s skin. Draco’s eyes drift shut, and his last bits of will give way as he lets out a breathy, content moan. Slowly, one arm trembling, Remus sits himself up, straddling Draco. He gives his hips an experimental roll, and Draco sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh.” “Where’d you think this was heading, little dragon?” Remus teases, and Draco lets out a petulant huff rather than answer. Remus’s fingers dip under the hem of Draco’s shirt, and he splays them out—his little finger just above his hips and his thumbs meeting at the center. He runs them upward, and a pleasant shiver runs through Draco, starting from his spine and working its way up to his neck. Remus bends down and places his lips next to Draco’s ear. “How’s that?” Remus’s breath tickles the spot of Draco’s neck right below his ear, and Draco groans. He reaches a hand out and places it on Remus’s hips as he rolls his own. He adjusts his leg as tension begins to build in his body, starting at his stomach and working its way lower. His eyes open, and his face warms when he finds Remus’s gaze fixed on him, determination cutting through the pain. “I’d say I’m not the only one enjoying it,” Draco says. “Never said you were.” One of Remus’s hands slips out from under Draco’s shirt, and he undoes the button and zipper of Draco’s jeans. “Off.” He lifts his weight off of Draco’s hips long enough to give Draco time to shimmy both them and his briefs off. He kicks his legs until they fall beside the mattress and watches, hunger building in him as Remus takes off his own as well. “I have a secret. I come up here when I want to be alone, and sometimes... I jerk off.” Remus reaches beside the mattress and procures a small bottle of lube. “We have a bedroom,” Draco says, though his lips immediately scrunch up, and he shakes his head. “Why am I complaining?” “Why are you complaining?” Remus chuckles and uncaps the bottle, squeezing some onto his fingers. “Don’t you want me to roll over?” Draco asks, but Remus ignores him, reaching the hand around himself. He shifts his stance to get a better angle and then presses two fingers in, stretching himself. “Fuck.” Remus’s head tilts slightly backward, and his lips part as a pink glow spreads across his cheeks. He works himself, slowly at first, curling his fingers at the second knuckle and easing his way to the third. But before long, he finds a rhythm, rocking back into his own touch. His chest falls rapidly, and his eyes shut as he lets out a small groan. Draco’s gaze drops to Remus’s cock, and he reaches out a hand. But he only gets within an inch of it before Remus swats his hand away, though his eyes remain closed. “Don’t.” Draco nods and sucks in his lower lip as Remus’s eyes open again. He grips the base of Draco’s cock, straddles Draco’s thighs, and lowers himself slowly. Draco reaches for the mattress. But there’s not quite enough fabric, and his fingers scratch noisily against it. He whines, desperate to find something to grab hold of. Eventually, he settles his hands on Remus’s hips, and his fingers dig into him as Remus settles, fully seated. “Are you going to—” Remus stops, somewhat disoriented, and blinks several times. “I feel so full.” Draco's hands slide up Remus's chest, running over each scar and mole with a gentle precision. His thumb flicks across Remus's nipple, and Remus shudders and rolls his hips in response. “What were you going to say?” His words slur together as a shock of arousal runs through him. Remus laughs, though he sounds distracted, and he rests a palm on the center of Draco’s chest as he balances himself and his holes clenches around Draco. “I was going to ask, are you going to let me do all the work myself?” It's all the invitation Draco needs. He props himself up slightly on one elbow and reaches with the other hand to Remus’s hair. He weaves his fingers into it before pulling him down with a sharp tug. His nails graze against Remus’s scalp, and he thrusts his hips up. Remus keens, and his back arches inward. His thighs tremble against Draco, and Draco’s hands drop to Remus’s hip again, steadying. He pulls out as much as he can without slipping out entirely and presses back in with another sharp thrust. His hands move back to Remus’s hips, and he kisses him, swallowing Remus’s moans as he begins to set a pace. Other thoughts fade until all he can think of is the feel of Remus’s skin and lips, the way he feels around him. Before long, Remus’s hand reaches for Draco’s arm. The only warning he gets is the feel of Remus’s fingers digging into his skin, and then Remus comes between them and on Draco’s chest. Even when he’s through riding his orgasm, Draco doesn’t relent, fucking Remus with a raw desperation. Remus thrashes, and his fingers dig harder into Draco’s skin. With each passing second, his movements become more erratic. The only sound that fills the air is their skin slapping wetly. Between them, Remus's cock bobs obscenely, already beginning to get half-hard. The heat pooling in his stomach swells into a wave, and the pressure in him bursts as he comes in Remus. He rolls his hip one last time before slipping out, sighing at the sudden loss of warmth. Remus collapses on him, shaking, and Draco sinks into the mattress as well, its springs prodding into his back. They lay there, panting, trying to catch their breath. When Draco’s heart slows, he wraps a curl of Remus’s hair around his index finger. "Your grays are coming in more and more." Remus smiles, and the lines by his eyes become more pronounced. “What can I say? The march toward death continues.” Draco rolls his eyes. “Always with the dramatics. So, does your shoulder really hurt, or was that all a ruse to get me alone and seduce me?” “Oh, it feels dreadful,” Remus says with a tired grin. He rolls off of Draco and winces as if to emphasize his point. “But it was still worth it.” They lay in silence, skin sticky to the touch, aided by the thick, summer heat. But eventually, the pleasant buzz in Draco's head—the one keeping out other thoughts—fades, and with it, the smile starts to fall from his lips and exhaustion seeps into him, deep and unforgiving. His mind drifts to the meeting, to the world outside. And when he looks at Remus, he sees that he’s lost in thought too.

August 1999

“I don’t know why I thought you’d still be in his house,” Remus says, glancing around at the unfamiliar home. He perches at the edge of the seat, body stiff and visibly uncomfortable. “I knew they’d find it. I had to leave.” Draco runs the razor under the water and shakes the excess out. “And did they?” Draco freezes, terrified of seeing Remus’s reaction. Instead, he stares pointedly at the white fluff of the shaving cream and the mess of hairs sticking in clumps to the sides of the metal kitchen sink.“Yeah. They burned it down.” “Oh.” Remus’s voice is small, and it makes Draco’s heart sink. The loss of Sirius’s house is the least of his bad news, but that can wait for another day. Today, Remus is home—as much as this house can be one—for the first time in over three years. He takes a deep breath and runs a rag under the warm water. He feels it wash over his hands, soaking it through. Carefully, he wrings it out and crouches by Remus. “May I?” he asks. Remus nods and shuts his eyes, and Draco runs the cloth gently over Remus’s jaw and neck. Beads of water trickle down, and Remus shivers. “I forgot what it felt like for someone to touch me without trying to hurt me,” Remus says. Draco wants to ask what he means, but the words catch in his throat. His eyes burn as he places the cloth under the tap and repeats the same motion. “There,” he says instead. “All done.” Remus reaches up and runs his fingers along his clean-shaven skin. “Why go through all the trouble for me? Somehow I doubt you’d do this for anyone else.” “I wouldn’t,” Draco admits. “But I care for you too much to let you rot in some cell.” Remus’s face contorts, almost pained. “I’m not going to be any use to you.” “Maybe not. But I’m not giving up on you. You never gave up on me.” “Still,” Remus insists. When Remus’s gaze meets his, Draco fumbles, and his chest and stomach tense, as if the wind has been knocked out of him. For the first time, there’s a spark of something familiar, of the person he once knew. And then it fades as quickly as it came. “Let’s get you to bed. We have a lot to discuss tomorrow,” Draco says. He reaches out a hand. For a moment, he wonders if he’s miscalculated, but then Remus takes it. “Okay.” Remus stands, and they walk together, uncertain, toward the future.

#draco/remus #dremus #past wolfstar #my fics #my dremus #hp #it needs to be said on tumblr.com so i'll say it #portraying unhealthy relationships is not endorsing them

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