We Are Legend

Strips of moonlight on the floor formed a large, blurry circle. The air smelled strangely spicy and sweet. Someone was with him in this room, which was not his own. This was not number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Somewhere higher, more spacious: a workshop of some kind, judging from the feel of wood and metal around him. Harry turned his head. A peacock feathers' eyes-embroidery white on white on the pillow, muted electric light from somewhere below, the fuzzy shape of a bird upon the perch, bluish dark against an even darker wall. And in Harry's breast, pain like fire. It burned him as he moved, flared into a piercing blaze as he inhaled sharply. A moan tore from his lips; shadows crept into his eyes. The bird swept down towards him, then there was nothing but lightless, painless, sweet, so –

*

A red sundown flooded the room when Harry awoke. He noted the strong smell before anything else, remembered it from earlier and even before, a memory of Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, buried so deep that he had all but forgotten it: star-shaped cookies with a brittle sugary crust on top, melting into the zingy chocolate taste underneath.

The curtains had been removed from the dark-wooded four-poster bed where he was lying, above him was a dark green canopy. He didn't move, simply watched as the thin shadows of the window bars moved across the blankets. There was movement at the other side of the lofty room. Bare feet walked across wooden floor. A human then. It had to be Malfoy. Harry didn't remember too clearly, but Death Eaters had attacked him on his way back home. Their fucking masks, a wand at his throat before he could even blink. The green of the Killing Curse still flashed on the inside of his lids whenever he closed his eyes. A voice in his head said, You knew damn well that the platform was too exposed. You are getting careless, Harry. Hermione's voice, unchanged after fifty-three years. Nothing like Malfoy's rough voice that had spoken to him in clipped, one-syllable words. But Hermione was dead, and Malfoy had been there, had got him away from the Death Eaters and brought him here, wherever here was. Harry remembered nothing after the painful tug of Side-Along Apparition.

Someone – Malfoy – was standing at the side of the bed. Harry was careful to move his head only a fraction, turn it slowly, so that his aching body kept lying quiet. Still he almost flinched. Malfoy was stark naked. A vision of pale skin and white-blond hair tugged into a ponytail, his groin fully exposed to Harry's gaze. He held a goblet in one hand.

"Killing Curse," he said in a matter-of-fact tone as if this was how he usually welcomed people to his place.

Harry bit back an involuntary chuckle, then realised that of course this had to be the biggest puzzle for Malfoy. He couldn't really explain it all that well himself. Voldemort was alive, and thus, so was he. There was another Horcrux, and he would go on living until he found it, destroyed it and killed Voldemort. Like everything in Harry's life, what sounded so simple, was the hardest thing to do. He wanted to say something, answer Malfoy's unspoken question, but he barely opened his mouth when the pain flared up in his breast. He knew at once that he was better, that he wouldn't pass out again, but still the pain made him tremble. Cold sweat gathered on his forehead and palms.

Malfoy said, "Don't speak. Later." He was still gazing at Harry. Then, as if he'd seen something that made him decide what to do, he crouched down beside the bed, his face closer all of a sudden. "Strengthening Potion," he explained. He slipped one hand behind Harry's neck, lifting his head as he held the goblet to his mouth. White stars shot up before Harry's eyes, the pain was so excruciating. He never heard the scream, but he must have cried out. Where the sound had left his throat, there was an aching, gasping cold. In a flash it all came back to Harry: the broken pavement, the puddles gleaming as if they still reflected the blinding silver of the Blue Phoenix's Spell. Beside him a bone-white, leopard's head-shaped Death Eater's mask, the wizard behind it dead or Stunned. The phoenix's head on Harry's body, as if it was listening for the beat of his heart. The frozen tears sliding from its grey eyes had been cold, sharp icicles burrowing into Harry's chest.

Those same grey eyes looked at him now. Malfoy seemed at a loss as to how to get Harry to drink the potion. He dipped his forefinger into the goblet, raised it with the thickly reddish liquid stuck to it. He stopped before touching Harry's lips, and the potion oozed from his fingers onto the pillow.

"Spoon," Harry whispered.

Malfoy's eyes widened at the simple suggestion, and Harry wondered what was wrong with the man. Malfoy rose and turned slowly, obviously searching his home for the place where he might have hidden the silverware. After a few seconds he pronounced a clear, "Accio spoon!" Somewhere below, a drawer opened with a bang, seconds later a spoon came racing towards the bed. Malfoy caught it with his open hand. Once Narcissa Malfoy might have used the delicately wrought implement to stir sugar into her afternoon tea. Malfoy looked at the spoon like he had never seen it before, then turned towards Harry with a smirk. It made Harry ache inside, that boyish smirk. There was no way he could explain to Malfoy why seeing him smirk brought tears to Harry's eyes. He closed them, waiting for the emotion to subside.

The tip of the spoon prodded his lips open gently. Harry could taste the pomegranate underneath the bitterness of asphodel. He swallowed the potion, waited for the spoon to be refilled, swallowed again. When he opened his eyes, Malfoy looked worried. And oddly curious. Drowsiness spread through Harry's body, turning the pain into a thing apart from him. He felt like yawning and stretching. Maybe he did. But all he remembered was the soft touch of a finger on his lips.

*

Harry drifted in and out of sleep. Time had become a spoon at his lips trickling drops of water into his mouth. When Malfoy was not at the side of the bed, there was always the phoenix on the other side of the wide room, up on its perch or half-hidden in an enormous nest. In his sleep Harry sometimes would grope for his chest, trying to get rid of the pain and the itching. Several times, the unexpected feel of the dressing that Malfoy – it had to have been Malfoy – had put on the wounds had woken him. Once he had a strange dream where white-clad people were making him drink potions he spit out with a vicious snarl. The fury was familiar and not Harry's at all, and he had come wide awake with a jolt. Something had happened to Voldemort, he was hurt or sick. Neither can live while the other survives, the old prophecy said, and their bond had become very strong over the years. It was possible that Harry's injury had affected Voldemort.

"You need to eat." Malfoy's scratchy voice was close, and Harry opened his eyes. The smell of cinnamon was stronger when Malfoy was near, as if it emanated from his skin somehow. Malfoy never wore any clothing, and Harry suspected it had to do with the fact that he spent most of the time in his phoenix form. He kept his eyes on Malfoy's hair which hung lose, almost touching his shoulders. Strands of it fell into his eyes, and he pushed them back impatiently. A plate with slices of peach stood on the bedside cabinet, beside it was a tin container without a handle. Behind the plate Harry spotted his wand, his glasses and solar watch.

Instinctively Harry reached for the glasses and was stopped by a painful tearing in his chest. Malfoy's hand was at his shoulder at once, pushing him back into the pillows. He handed Harry his glasses, then reached for the plate and crouched down beside the bed. Harry couldn't help looking at his chest, which had come into sharp focus once he had put the glasses on. He concentrated on the almost hairless skin and the pink nipples, which somehow seemed too small for a grown man. But Harry's eyes were drawn to the thin scars that ran diagonally across Malfoy's chest and stomach. In the muted light of the late afternoon they were barely visible, but in a sharper light they would gleam like sliced ribbons of lace. Harry had seen enough injuries to know how deep the wounds must have been to leave such scars, and he quickly looked away.

Malfoy must have seen him stare, for he put down the plate. Carefully he pulled the covers away from Harry's chest. Harry was too startled to do anything, he just watched as Malfoy removed the dressing with a non-verbal De-Sticking Charm. The bandage came off easily, and Harry felt a bit awed in Malfoy's presence. Which was the oddest of emotions, one that he hadn't felt for a very, very long time. He had mastered wandless, non-verbal magic himself, but he could never do it with such casual ease. And the phoenix had brought down the Death Eaters' Anti-Apparition Spell. Malfoy's magic had always been fairly strong, but nothing comparable to this. Whatever had happened to him must have changed him more deeply than Harry had assumed. He could be a strong ally, Hermione's voice said. You could liberate the Ghetto with such magic. A strong ally, perhaps, but there was no way he could trust Malfoy. This was the Blue Phoenix standing beside him. He is alone ..., Hermione's voice whispered. But of course Harry was the one talking to the ghosts of the dead.

"No scar," Malfoy said and shook his head as if to emphasise his words.

Harry looked at himself. A puckered pink line was zigzagging down the middle of his chest. At three places clear liquid was oozing from it, otherwise the wound was all closed. When he looked up, Malfoy was staring at him. Quickly the other man turned away and picked up the bandages to wipe the liquid from the wound.

"Shouldn't have Apparated," he said haltingly. "Hurt you more." He raised his left arm in a strangely awkward gesture. "Wing was ... broken. Didn't heal right. Phoenix is not as strong as ... before." He shrugged in a lop-sided way. "You ... this will heal right. No scar."

It was the most Malfoy had said since he and Harry had met in the old warehouse. Harry grabbed his wrist, and Malfoy pulled back immediately, a look more startled than angry in his eyes.

"You don't talk much, Malfoy, do you?"

Malfoy moved his hand in an angle that made it impossible for Harry to hold on. One sharp tug, and his wrist was free. "Talk," he spat jerking his head, "is not necessary."

Not a sentiment the old Malfoy would have shared, for sure, but the fierce vehemence in his voice lacked nothing of his former self.

"You, Potter, need to eat," he repeated, reaching for the plate again and holding it so Harry could help himself to the slices of fruit. All the time he didn't take his eyes off Harry.

"How long, Malfoy?" Harry asked.

Again that impatient jerk of the head. "Couple of months."

"More like a year, I think."

Anger flashed dark in Malfoy's eyes, but he let it go, put down the plate and stepped in front of the round window. "Not much company," he said with his face turned towards the city. Grey clouds of fog floated in the dusky sky.

"I bet I'm the first one you've brought up here," Harry said.

There was no answer. Harry tried to raise himself on one elbow, but the movement made his chest hurt badly. He sank back into the pillows and twisted his head sideways so he could see Malfoy. Perhaps there was a slight shrug, but he was not sure. Malfoy stood very still. The sinking sun made his hair gleam a pinkish red, and Harry couldn't help thinking that he had become oddly beautiful. His body was still too thin and lanky, skin pulled painfully tight over bony elbows and hips. But his shoulders were broader than Harry remembered, his upper arms and chest smoothly muscled, and the swell of his arse rounder and fuller than it should have been. The way he held his body erect, how he shifted his weight almost invisibly towards the window ... Perhaps some people (certainly not Harry) would have described the old Malfoy as elegant. But he had never possessed such unselfconscious, striking grace.

Harry looked beyond Malfoy, into the vivid colours of the sky. Such spectacular sunsets were rare in the City of Eternal Fog. The light spilled golden down the curve of Malfoy's shoulder, his muscled arm, the enticing sharpness of his hip. Harry felt himself getting hot and hard, and God, it had been way too long since he'd had sex with anyone but himself. Desire came and went for him these days, making him feel like a Spartan at times. Occasionally he would go out and pick up a willing stranger in a bar. Always male, for years now. And mostly Muggles. It was safer that way. He missed the thrill of magic, that taste of a lover's power during sex. But most of the wizards left in London carried the Mark, and he'd be damned if he used a glamour for casual sex with a Death Eater. He tore his eyes away from Malfoy's body, focused on the dark line of the horizon far off in the distance.

"Where are we?" Harry asked softly.

Malfoy turned to him, a bit too fast perhaps, as if he had waited for Harry to speak. "St Paul's." He waved his hand vaguely towards the middle of the room. "The bells. They are down there."

St Paul's. So they were still in the City, in one of the towers of the Cathedral, presumably. All of a sudden it made sense that Harry could see nothing but clouded sky through the huge windows. They were a hundred metres above the streets, part of Voldemort's world and yet removed from it.

Malfoy stepped closer and reached for the tin container. He held it out towards Harry with a look that was almost pleading. "You've been here three days," he said slowly, pronouncing every word with care. "Without food. You need to eat. Please."

Harry almost laughed. No prophecy had ever told him that one day Draco Malfoy would care whether he ate or starved to death. He took the cup and looked for a spoon, but didn't see one. Malfoy had turned back to the window. Nice arse, Harry couldn't help thinking. He glanced into the cup, expecting some broth. But the cup was half filled with what seemed to be grains. Harry recognised the whitish kernels of corn and unshelled, striped sunflowers seeds.

"I can't eat this." All of a sudden Harry wondered whether he had misjudged completely Malfoy's connection to the phoenix. He had seen it as a conveniently powerful shape for flying, for fighting from the air. But Malfoy seemed more used to the bird's plumage than clothes, he clearly hadn't had any real conversation in a year or longer. Peter Pettigrew had lived as a rat for half his life. It was one of the dangers of Animagus magic that the animal form overtook the man. But this was more than a wizard preferring by need or choice his Animagus' body. Malfoy was fucking offering him birdseed for food.

"You can't?" There was a look of baffled honesty in Malfoy's face. "You don't like it?" he asked uncertainly. "There is more … other." He took the container out of Harry's hand, then stood still.

"Blimey, Malfoy. I don't have a beak. I'm human." Harry's words sounded sharper than he intended. A strangely heated anger made his stomach cramp. He couldn't stand to see Malfoy's naked body any longer. On the other side of the room, the light of the sinking sun lit upon the phoenix's nest. It seemed ablaze with flames. For the first time Harry realised that an invisible line separated the room – the four-poster bed, the bedside cabinet, a desk and chair back in the corner on the one side, the phoenix's perch and the nest on the other. Small, round twigs had escaped from the nest and were strewn all over the floor. "Human like you," Harry whispered.

There was no answer. Malfoy considered him for another moment, then like before, seemed to come to some decision. He put the tin cup firmly back on the bedside cabinet, took the plate in his hand, never once looking at Harry. Carefully he sat down on the bed. It was the first time he had done that. The bed wasn't very wide, and Harry immediately felt the warmth of Malfoy's body, his thigh pressing against his hip. He wanted to move but Malfoy shook his head. Without a word he offered Harry the plate once more. Here we go again, Harry thought as he popped one of the slices into his mouth. Malfoy's lips twitched, as he put his hand lightly on Harry's stomach.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured. His long fingers moved across the blanket, then he was gone. The Blue Phoenix sat beside Harry, its lighter weight making the mattress sway. It raised its head and the red light caught in its silver crest. Harry let out a shallow breath. Carefully he edged away from the big bird. It was watching him from those grey eyes that were nothing like Fawkes's impenetrable black stare. They seemed to be misty and clear, like a spring.

"Can you even see?" Harry whispered and stretched out his hand to touch the bird. Within the soft feathers of its front there were patches that looked as if they were moulting. When Harry smoothed them down he saw that the frayed spots formed criss-crossing stripes across the phoenix's chest. He stroked them gently, wondering how it would feel to touch Malfoy's chest and somehow make up for those scars from so long ago.

A gentle nudging in his mind was the only warning he got. Harry's vision blurred, then he saw himself lying in the bed. The carvings in the headrest came into sharp focus, a peacock's fan between two stylised rose blossoms. His own face was ghostly pale, his hair dark as a raven against the pillows, his body a warm, living form underneath startlingly white covers. Phoenix has very sharp eyes, Malfoy's voice said in his mind. But less colour. With that the image faded, as quickly as it had appeared. Harry stared at the bird that looked innocently enough. Back in Hogwarts Malfoy had been pretty good at Occlumency. In the last eighty years he obviously had mastered the art of Legilimency as well.

"Damn it!" Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in. "Next time warn me." He shook his head to get rid off the odd sensation like cobwebs in his brain.

If he hadn't been sure that birds could not smirk – you needed a mouth to smirk, right? – Harry would have sworn the phoenix smirked at him. A shudder went through the bird as Harry stroked his beak. It stepped back and lifted its wings. The left one hung lower and to the side as if it pained the bird to have it stretched out all the way. Harry was shocked to see the Dark Mark on its underside. It looked like it was stencilled with bruise-coloured ink into the very barbs of the feathers. The bird cocked its head, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy did not want him to see that the Mark was stamped even into his Animagus form. But then the phoenix stretched its long neck, and in one heaving motion vomited a small ball, half an inch wide, the colour and consistency of wet, slime-covered sand. It spit it on the plate where it rolled between the fruit, then the bird started heaving again to bring up another one.

Harry wanted to move away, get up, leave, he wanted to yell at Malfoy, make him stop this bloody bird shite, to behave like a human being, for God's sake. But all he managed was to bring his hand towards his own breast and bury himself deeper into the pillows.

The phoenix regurgitated six balls before it lowered itself back onto the bed. It was shaking from the exertion and had its eyes closed. The balls amidst the red-and-yellow peach slices looked like one of Aunt Timila's more daring Indian desserts. He should leave. Harry thought he was strong enough to Apparate, and it was no use staying here any longer. Malfoy was mental, had merged with the Blue Phoenix or something. Had become one of the strange magical creatures, which multiplied under Voldemort's reign, Red Scaly Vipertooth, the Spiteful Child, the Lethifold Chieftain of the Inferi. He was as dangerous an enemy as any of them, no matter that he was feeding Harry like some brooding mother hen.

A sweet aroma filled the room. It reminded Harry of caramelised popcorn, of all things. He had had caramelised popcorn once, on a rare occasion when Uncle Vernon had allowed him to accompany Dudley to the movies. This smell was different, with a fruitier taste to it. Harry's stomach grumbled, and he really was hungry and –

"Fuck, Malfoy, stop it," he said with a disgusted look towards the plate. "And change back, will you?"

He had hardly finished the sentence when Malfoy was kneeling beside him. His posture was odd, like he was folded upon his thighs. Immediately, he shifted into a more comfortable position. Harry could feel him tremble through the blankets, there was a sheen of sweat all over his naked body. The way he sat, Harry could not help notice his cock nestled within a patch of dark blond hair. Could not help wonder how it would feel to stroke the brownish-pink flesh, to feel Malfoy get hard under his fingers. Malfoy, who'd worn the Mark for more than eighty years, who had been a loyal Death Eater last Harry had heard. Malfoy, who was the Blue Phoenix.

Still the familiar heat spread in his neck, rose to his cheeks, and Harry forced himself to focus on the food. Even half digested, it was food. The enticing smell was fainter, no longer amplified by Malfoy's magic, and still Harry felt his mouth water. Here he was, hungry, horny, about to eat regurgitated seeds. He had to be going mental. And definitely feeling much better. The thin pink line on his chest had all but disappeared. He should Apparate home, let Aunt Timila take care of feeding him, let his own fist deal with that other hunger. Instead Harry pushed himself up on his right elbow and reached for the ball closest to him.

It did taste a bit like soggy popcorn, without the crunch, but not nearly as slimy as he had feared. There was a sourness underneath, like half fermented soybeans, but all in all it tasted okay. And Harry hadn't realised how hungry he was. He ate all six balls and finished off the peach, too. Only when he licked the juice from his fingers did he become aware of Malfoy's bright smile. He practically beamed at Harry, eyes sparkling with what Harry could only guess was intense joy.

"You liked it." Malfoy sounded smug and oddly satisfied, as he moved closer and put his hand casually on Harry's thigh.

And yes, Harry guessed he did like it – bird food or not – considering that he had devoured the stuff in no time. Malfoy moved to put away the empty plate, but Harry stopped him.

"Let me clean up." He pushed himself into a sitting position, with Malfoy's hand ready to support him. His muscles were sore all over, and there was a tightness in his chest, as if someone had punched the air from his lungs. Nothing more. He leaned over to the bedside cabinet, picked up his wand and Vanished the plate with a quick twist of the wrist.

Malfoy watched him curiously. When Harry cast the non-verbal Spell, his eyes widened. Harry leaned back into the pillows. He was short of breath, from the ache in his breast. He should leave, but it felt so good to just lie here in the warmth of the summer evening, with someone close to him.

"Your magic," Malfoy said, then surprised Harry by stretching out next to him, arms behind his head. "It is very strong."

Harry nodded absently. He kept his eyes on the luminous sky, trying hard to ignore the scent of sweat mixed in with the cinnamon that was always around Malfoy. Trying hard to ignore the pale flesh on the inside of Malfoy's upper arm, the blond strands of hair half hiding his delicately shaped ear. Trying very hard. Outside, the sun set over the thick four-columned pillars which jutted out of the grey water – all that was left of Black Friar's Bridge. Dark fog rolled in from the East, and Harry couldn't help but shiver. It was the Dementors' doing, there shouldn't be fog during a sunset that colourful and clear. Malfoy must have seen it, too, for he shifted closer. Or maybe he was only responding to an instinctive movement Harry had made, he could not be sure. But since Harry had eaten, there was an intimacy in Malfoy's gestures, as if he somehow had accepted Harry as a friend. A fledgling, Hermione's voice whispered in his head, and he banished the thought at once. His body certainly would not have such explanations, logical as they might seem – and there he went again, debating logic with the dead. Malfoy was so close that he could hear his easy breathing. It took all Harry had to conceal his rising erection. He bent his right knee a bit so the tent in the blanket would be less obvious. This turned out to be a very bad move. Malfoy, who had been quietly watching the sunset, became aware of Harry's fidgeting. It took him a mere fraction of a second to catch on.

Definitely a smirk. The old Malfoy smirk even. Harry felt light and aroused and inexplicably happy, no matter his predicament.

"How long, Potter?" Malfoy whispered as he turned towards Harry and cupped his erection.

Harry moaned loudly, couldn't help but push his hips up to get more of that exquisite touch. "Couple of months," he gasped, then laughed, as he realised that he'd repeated Malfoy's answer from before, word for word.

"More like a year, I think," Malfoy said. There was laughter in his voice, too, as he restated Harry's words carefully, like a line from a play he was learning by heart. He was stroking Harry's cock lightly, much too lightly, but even with pants and blankets in between, Harry knew he couldn't last long.

"Not much company," he said and it hit him all of a sudden – that despite his nightly dinners at Aunt Timila's, despite the frequent meetings at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, when they planned out the refugee treks, he hadn't had real company for years. He turned to the side and touched Malfoy's hair. Lifted the strands from his ear and kissed, kissed the soft skin stretching over Malfoy's jaw below the ear. A shiver ran through Malfoy's body and he moved away, took his hand from Harry's cock. For a second Harry thought the kiss had been too much, that he had misjudged the other man's – he thinks he's a bird, Harry, damn it! – intentions. But Malfoy simply lifted the blankets, moved underneath and slid close. He reached for Harry's glasses, removed them, using a non-verbal Mobili to have them float onto the bedside cabinet. His fingers tugged at Harry's pants, pushed them down without a moment of hesitation. He closed his fist tightly around the base of Harry's cock and pulled upwards in one deft stroke.

Harry almost cried out. The grip of those strong fingers was too much, the pleasure so intense it cut through him like a blade. He ground his hips forward, trapped Malfoy's fingers between their bodies. Malfoy went still, waiting for Harry to move.

"Slower," Harry croaked. He felt more than saw Malfoy's nod as he buried his face in Malfoy's neck, unable to keep himself from licking the sweaty skin, tasting its salty softness, the cinnamon palpable on his tongue, his nose and mouth full of the powerful, indescribable magic of another wizard. Malfoy. "I want this to last a while," he whispered.

He shifted backward, but Malfoy simply held his cock, squeezing and releasing it ever so lightly, again and again. It was so incredibly arousing that Harry wanted to scream at him to get him off for real, but all he did was push his hips forward whenever Malfoy's fingers tightened.

For a minute there was no sound but Harry's ragged breathing and the soft rustling of the blankets. Then Malfoy whispered in Harry's hair, "I bet I'm the first Death Eater to toss you off."

It should have killed the mood, but it didn't. Malfoy had repeated Harry's earlier words, he had added some of his own. He sounded completely at ease as he made the tasteless joke, a joke the old Malfoy would have made. Harry put his arm around Malfoy's waist, pulled him closer so he could feel the heat emanating from the other man's groin. Malfoy was still half soft, a far cry from how hard Harry was, but he got the message and pressed Harry's cock towards him. Harry frotted against him, frantically now, more aroused than he could remember having been in a long time. Malfoy's thumb rubbed over the head of Harry's cock, spreading pre-come over the entire length of his erection. Harry felt slippery and loose, his mouth sucking at Malfoy's throat, his hips jerking forward without thought, pure instinct, set on release. Malfoy gently moved the foreskin up and down, then tightened his fist around the length of Harry's cock and stroked him firmly. Harry was never quiet during sex, and he couldn't be now, not when Malfoy felt so bloody good. He groaned loudly as he fucked Malfoy's hand with a vengeance. Spasms made his balls contract, his back arched as he buried himself even deeper against Malfoy's body. There was no room anymore for Malfoy to continue his strokes, but it didn't matter because Harry was so close, all he needed was the feel of this skin, this heat.

Malfoy seemed to understand, for he simply kept his fingers tight around Harry's cock and pressed his groin against it. Then - without any warning - he brought his lips to Harry's ear and licked the auricle, lazily, sloppily, and Harry wanted nothing more than the taste of this wet tongue. He twisted his head, searched desperately for Malfoy's mouth, and found it open and welcoming. "Potter," Malfoy whispered, and to feel those lips ghost over his own pushed Harry over the brink. The red light of sunset had been fading the entire time they fucked, but now it flared up, a sea of fire obscuring Harry's vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, cried out, as his body convulsed in orgasm. He held on to Malfoy's waist, digging deeply into soft flesh. Wave upon wave of pleasure ripped through him, making him shudder and pant, as hot spunk splattered onto Malfoy's belly, his groin, his thighs –

Purple light enveloped them as they lay quietly under the blanket. Eventually Harry's heartbeat slowed and he could breathe and think again. Malfoy still cradled his spent cock. When Harry stirred, he let him go. Harry felt the surge of a Cleaning Spell and grabbed Malfoy's wrist quickly.

"No," he said. "Don't get rid of the mess yet. I like …" He squeezed his hand between their bodies, ran his fingertips through the spilled semen and smeared it onto his own belly. "I like to touch it," he whispered. Now Malfoy must think him mental. Perverted, at the very least. But who if not Malfoy would understand? "It reminds me that I'm still human. That I'll get to die eventually, no matter how long I'll have to wait." He wrapped his hand around Malfoy's limp prick and caressed it, using his spunk as lubricant. Malfoy didn't seem to mind. After all, he had offered Harry regurgitated seeds for food.

"Killing Curse," Malfoy said. His hips moved ever so slightly in response to Harry's touch. "You did not die."

It was a statement as much as a question, and Harry quietly explained about the link that bound his life to Voldemort's, about the eighth, the mysterious lost Horcrux, the one the Dark Lord had created when he'd killed that Ravenclaw boy. That Harry needed to find this last piece of Voldemort's soul, how he had searched it for the last seventy years, and how he still was not one step closer to finding it. He didn't go into details about all that had gone wrong since the Battle of Hogwarts, most of it was common knowledge, anyway. Before she had been given the Dementors' Kiss, Rita Skeeter had described in lurid details Voldemort's usurpation of the Ministry of Magic and the many ways in which The Boy Who Lived Has Failed – the title of the third of her series of unauthorised Harry Potter biographies.

While he talked, Hermione's voice was whispering in his head. He's one of the most powerful servants of Voldemort. And he trusts you. Look how relaxed he is, letting you fondle him when he doesn't even get hard. This is your one chance, Harry. Use it. Use him. Harry looked at Malfoy who listened with closed eyes, not interrupting him once. He had spread his legs slightly, giving Harry more room to explore. Harry was sure he enjoyed the touch, but as Hermione had noted so very perceptively – and would that woman please stay out of his bed! – he was not responding in any way that Harry would call sexual. Hermione would not have liked his blunt approach, but there was no clever, underhanded way to ask this. Either Malfoy told him, or he didn't. Harry wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's balls, weighing them in his hand, then he said softly, "Do you know where Voldemort is?"

Perhaps he should have realised that no matter how close his connection to the bird, Malfoy was still a Slytherin and knew all about subtle ball-crushing threats and the pit-falls of pillow talk. He got hold of Harry's hand, moved it away from his groin, cradled it to his chest. Harry's questioning look was met by a cool, scrutinizing glance.

"Not many know where the Dark Lord hides. He calls, we obey. Cattermole gives orders." Malfoy stopped, then added, "General Caesar Pericles Cattermole." The contempt showing in his voice would have made the old Malfoy proud.

So Cattermole was their leader. This was useful intelligence, to be sure. Longbottom might be able to do something with it. He was the strategist of the resistance movement, the one who kept track of the Death Eaters' families, who knew which of their weaknesses to exploit. Harry decided right there and then that he would never tell Longbottom the location of the Blue Phoenix's lair.

"So none of you have seen Voldemort, either? He is not residing in Buckingham Palace? Somewhere outside of London, then?"

Malfoy shook his head. "The Dark Lord is here. In the City." He turned his left arm so that the Mark was showing. An explanation of sorts, perhaps. Harry knew for a fact that Voldemort's hide-out could not be far away. The link was strong and in the past it had always gone weaker the further the distance between them. Maybe it was similar with the Dark Mark. The lines on Malfoy's forearm shimmered red underneath his skin, unfaded like he'd taken the Mark just yesterday. He stared at it, said softly, "The Dark Lord does not show himself. Not ever."

His face was hidden in the shadows, only his eyes shone brightly as he watched Harry. It was rapidly getting dark, with the last rays of the setting sun illuminating the back half of the tower. The phoenix's half.

Harry moved closer, searched for Malfoy's mouth. He kissed him slowly, gently, and Malfoy responded with a need that made Harry think he did want sex after all. "Do you," he whispered, "want to fuck? Or have me suck you off?" God, he sounded like a whore negotiating with a customer. "I'm easy, Malfoy. Just tell me what you want." Easy, Harry? Hermione's voice butting in again, her sarcasm so dear that Harry had to smile in the dark.

Malfoy was breathing unevenly, as he whispered in Harry's ear, "Would you – ?" He broke off and leaned his forehead against Harry's shoulder. He was shivering, and Harry pulled him close. Impotence would be his first guess. That they were both men was not an issue, of that Harry was certain. It had always been an open secret that Malfoy was gay, even during his marriage to the younger of the Greengrass sisters. But he could have been hurt in ways that made sex impossible. Harry saw it all the time among the victims of the war. And Malfoy had been hurt badly, if the phoenix's powers hadn't been able to heal the injury that had caused the damage to his arm.

Malfoy leaned his head back so he could look at Harry. It was dark now in the room, only the electric light glowed from below. It caught in Malfoy's hair, but Harry could not make out the expression on his face.

Malfoy seemed to come to a decision, though, for he moved even closer to Harry, brought their hips together and pushed his cock against Harry's groin. He traced Harry's back with trembling fingers, moved over Harry's shoulder, lingered on his neck and then very gently touched Harry's hair. "Would you stay still? Like this?" he whispered. "Not move. Like … like before when … when …" He didn't finish but pressed harder, and Harry remembered those moments of stillness shortly before he'd come.

He nodded, said, "Sure." If this was all it took to make Malfoy happy in bed – he would have let Malfoy fuck him, and it was a rare treat to have Harry Potter bottom for anyone.

For long minutes they just lay together, their cocks squeezed against each other. Harry's face was so close to Malfoy's throat, he could feel the rapid beat of his pulse. The position was not exactly comfortable, and the muscles in his thighs and buttocks began to twitch. Then, for no reason that Harry could see, Malfoy became aroused. He put his hand firmly on Harry's arse, held him close, his breathing went shallow and fast, as his cock lengthened and thickened against Harry's groin. The sensation was so oddly exciting that Harry felt his own cock move in response. Not impotence then, and Malfoy certainly was bigger than Harry had expected. Still, he doubted the man could come like this. But even though they did not move at all, there was an agonisingly delicious built-up of tension, with Malfoy pressing harder and harder against him, and Harry doing his best to offer the resistance he seemed to crave. Small needy sounds were coming from Malfoy's lips, his fingers were digging painfully in Harry's buttocks.

Then, as unexpectedly as it had started, Malfoy released the pressure with one long stuttering breath. He was still hard, and Harry, with his cock freed all at once, couldn't help but rub against Malfoy's erection. It took him a few moments to get a grip on himself, and only then did he notice the tell-tale signs. Malfoy was straining to keep his body still, but he couldn't keep his shoulders from shaking. Silent tears ran down his nose and cheek, warm tears that dripped onto the pillow and into Harry's hair. Harry wanted to reach for him, to give whatever comfort he could, when he saw the look in Malfoy's face. Such forlorn, such desperate longing. Malfoy was staring at something in the dark, and Harry turned, startled, even though he felt no danger. The tower room was unchanged but for the night which flooded darkly through the windows. Malfoy was looking straight at the phoenix's nest, and Harry realised that he must have looked at it the whole time he had been crushing his erection against Harry.

A memory stirred in Harry's mind, of a mournful lament, and then a sudden silence so fused with unbearable loss and the certain knowledge that everyone he cared for was gone from this world –

He turned back to the other man, put one careful hand on his chest. "Malfoy."

Malfoy moved his face towards him. Harry recognised that stricken look of grief. From the warehouse, from the moment when he had called Malfoy by his name.

"There is only one phoenix in the world, isn't there?"

Malfoy stared at him, swallowed. Just one, his lips mouthed without a sound.

"Is it your phoenix?" Harry had to ask. He knew next to nothing of the magical bird, but something extraordinary must have happened when a phoenix Animagus was all that was left of its kind.

Malfoy got a hold of Harry's hand, pressed it against his sternum. He nodded.

"Fawkes ...?"

"Gone. Dead." His grip on Harry's hand became painful, but Harry didn't mind, not even when Malfoy pushed both of their hands down on his stomach, into the cold stickiness of Harry's come. And moved them lower, wrapping both Harry's and his own smeared fingers around his erection.

"Phoenix is … not human." He shuddered violently, and Harry moved closer, tried to kiss his throat, but Malfoy wouldn't let him.

"I … I won't get to die," he whispered. "No matter how bloody long I wait."

*