We Are Legend

They had decided to meet an hour before sunrise at the Victoria Embankment, not three hundred yards from Temple Church. Hidden by a strong Fidelius Charm, it had been Disillusioned from sight, Obliviated from living memory, through all these years. No magic in this world would have allowed Harry to see, let alone enter the Templars' old Church. Lucky for him, the Blue Phoenix knew the Secret Keeper of the place.

The Spiteful Child … It was one of Voldemort's legendary creatures, much like the Blue Phoenix. A child, bald, its age hard to guess, four or perhaps eight years old, with the shrivelled-up face of an old man. People alternately described it as hunchbacked or grossly fat, its legs crippled. But everyone who had seen it remembered the red, raw-looking skin and the short-winded, ragged breathing. The Child would walk the streets at night, whimpering and crying, until some unknowing Muggle or wizard came close to offer help. Nobody knew what happened to those taken in by the Spiteful Child. Dementors' prey, Harry assumed. For the longest time he had doubted that there was more to this tale than some Muggles' distraught imaginings. But then he had seen the Child himself, in the darkness, at the guarded gate into the Ghetto. He had been afraid of it, had not wanted to go near to it. How anybody could willingly, out of kindness even, approach it, had been a mystery to him. The magic emanating from it had been immensely powerful, but it had been wild and uncontrolled like a child's.

When Voldemort had been killed by his own Killing Curse, the last tiny fragment of his soul had entered the Horcrux he had prepared for it, even before the battle: the Elder Wand. But his feeble, depleted body had not been able to survive, all of Voldemort's life-extending magic notwithstanding. Harry had seen it laid out on a bier in the chamber off the Great Hall, and he had sensed no magic at all, but strangely, only peace. The soul fragment in the Horcrux must have sought for the one physical manifestation of Voldemort that was still left in this world, the thumping, whimpering thing Harry had seen at King's Cross, in that twilight zone between this life and beyond. He had no idea how Voldemort's restless ghost had brought the child to London, or how he had managed to imbue it with this strange half-life, but somehow he had. The Spiteful Child was not one of his creations, it was Voldemort, as much as any being could still be called Voldemort.

All of this, Harry and Malfoy had pieced together at Aunt Timila's, after Malfoy's discovery that it must be Voldemort who was hiding inside of Temple Church. He had been quiet and withdrawn, but willing enough to discuss Harry's plans for getting close to the Spiteful Child and finally make an end of the Dark Lord.

Since then, a silver tail feather of the phoenix was all that Harry had seen of him. Dropped on the asphalt close to the departure point Longbottom had selected for the refugee trek that Harry had Portkeyed out to Hogwarts yesterday. His last mission. Harry had picked up the feather; had taken it for a sign that the location was safe. He had scanned the sky for the phoenix, but there had only been thick dark fog. Malfoy had refused to come back to Grimmauld Place with Harry when they had left Aunt Timila's, had barely stayed long enough for Harry to kiss him good-bye before he'd Disapparated right from Dartmouth Park Hill. Harry had sent an owl to St Paul's, a dangerous means of communication these days, a risk for sender, bird and recipient, but no answer had come. He had stood on the steps of the Cathedral twice, but he had not dared to Apparate up to the belfry. Malfoy had made it very clear that he did not want to see him again before they went for Voldemort. And Harry missed him like crazy, wanted nothing more than to spend every free second with him, but this was Malfoy's choice. Harry would be gone when the day was over. And Malfoy would be staying behind, bound to the Blue Phoenix and the task Dumbledore had chosen him for.

Harry tried to concentrate on what lay ahead of him. He felt for the Elder Wand, nestled close to his own wand, up in the sleeve of his jacket. Voldemort would die today.

But as he waited on the embankment, staring into the fog on the water, he couldn't help wondering what would become of Malfoy. Would he turn into the phoenix for good, lose all that still made him human: speech, tastes and inhibitions, the memories of his life, of Harry, of what he felt for Harry? Of how he had desired him? And would that allow Malfoy to become a true phoenix, live out the creature's solitary life, poised between fire and sky, until after a thousand years, its time came, finally, and it would lay its egg into the nest of cinnamon and burst into flames for the very last time? It is for the best, Hermione's voice kept repeating in Harry's mind, but his stomach cramped painfully whenever he thought of it. He didn't want Malfoy to become the phoenix, he wanted him to … God, it was not possible, no use to pursue that train of thought. Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived To Kill You-Know-Who. There was no other way. Fate, Dumbledore would have said.

Two shadowy figures approached quickly, having stepped out of the fog a mere forty yards away from Harry. He would have recognised Malfoy anywhere, despite the Death Eater's mask he wore over his face. The small person at his side was wrapped head to toes in green robes. When they came closer Harry recognised the woman form Voldemort's quarters.

"She is the Secret Keeper of St Anne's Chapel." Malfoy's voice sounded hollow underneath the mask. A phoenix's beak was crudely cut from the bleached bone. "She will take us in."

"Blimey, Malfoy, I'm not going anywhere until you take that stupid thing off."

Harry thought he saw a satisfied gleam in the woman's eyes. He slightly nodded at her in greeting, and she returned his nod. Definitely amusement, he could see it clearly now. And she seemed exasperated with Malfoy's antics, the way she glared at him.

Malfoy stood very still, then he removed the mask quickly, tossed it way out into the river. There was a short moment when water seemed to pour from the dark eye-holes, then it was gone, taken by the sluggish waves.

"Fuck you, Harry Potter," Malfoy whispered. His hair hung loosely into his face, his red-rimmed eyes glittered feverishly, he was white as a sheet. His features were even sharper than usually, Harry could see he hadn't eaten these past days. Without another thought he took Malfoy in his arms.

"God, Malfoy," he said softly, kissed his hair, didn't know what else to say. Malfoy's body was tense, he trembled ever so slightly and wouldn't stop no matter how close Harry held him. He let him go after a few seconds. Clearly Malfoy couldn't take comfort from Harry's embrace now. Harry stayed close to him, though, held on to the sleeve of his robes, when Malfoy wanted to move away from him.

The woman had stepped back and watched them curiously from the embankment. Her dark shape seemed like a statue with only the water and the mist behind her. For a moment Harry saw Malfoy naked, standing by the round window of St Paul's, his skin dark blue like the phoenix's plumage, the red light of the sun behind him, setting over an alien, empty landscape.

He grabbed Malfoy's arm, held on to him so tightly it had to hurt, and Malfoy looked at him in surprise, but didn't shake Harry's hand off.

"Now then, let's go in and finish the bastard." Malfoy was trying for some daredevil audacity and failing spectacularly at it. He shrugged, that lop-sided shrug, and Harry wanted nothing so much as to kiss him.

"Death to Voldemort," he said, pushing the hair out of Malfoy's face.

"Death to Voldemort." Malfoy's words were barely a whisper. He turned quickly towards the woman who waved at them to get going. The first light of the rising sun was bleeding red through the mist.

Side by side they walked up King's Bench Walk, the woman leading them through the dilapidated buildings. Harry asked, "She doesn't speak?"

"Only with birds," Malfoy answered absently. He had his eyes trained on something in front of them, but Harry couldn't see what it was.

*

Afterwards Harry thought how he had always wondered what sort of power Dumbledore had used to destroy the Horcrux lodged in Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, the poisonous blade of the Gryffindor sword … But Dumbledore had used none of those. Harry knew that now.

"Well, here I thought the Master of the Wand would just snap this stick," Malfoy had said, the typical Malfoy smirk ghosting over his pale, thin face, when Harry had cast, for the umpteenth time, another Reductor Curse at the bloody thing. Call it a flaw in their plan, a fatal misjudgement of Harry's considerable magical powers, whatever – Harry had been at a loss how to destroy the Horcrux. Then Malfoy, without explanation or warning, had Transfigured into the Blue Phoenix.

Now the bird was hovering underneath the Round Church's dome of glass, silver light shooting from the tips of its wings to the stone floor. But it wasn't the light that was damaging the Elder Wand. Rather, it held it upright, perhaps a yard above the ground. What made gooey, dark red drops leak from the wand's tip was the unearthly, high-pitched scream of the phoenix itself. Harry had pressed his hands over his ears, Draco's voice was reaching for such a high pitch, it hurt. In the air before him, the Elder Wand vibrated fiercely, like a cymbal struck by a drumstick. Then it broke with a quiet snap. The ensuing silence was yet so full of the echo of the phoenix's scream that Harry flinched when Malfoy stood beside him all of a sudden. A thin howling sound, like the wind outside a cottage near the sea – then Voldemort's soul was finally gone from this world, leaving a dark, coiled Thestral hair and three splintered pieces of elder wood on the floor.

They found the Spiteful Child in the chapel leading off from the round hall. It was curled in on itself on the white marble floor, whimpering and rocking from one side to the other. Its eyes were closed, and Harry was glad for it. He didn't think he could stomach those blood-shot eyes staring at him from that small, shrivelled-up face. But then, they would be Tom Riddle's eyes, wouldn't they? For a moment it seemed important that Harry remembered the colour of Riddle's eyes – a tall boy, with jet-black hair, a silver prefect's badge at his chest – but it didn't matter, it didn't matter anymore. With the last piece of Voldemort's soul gone, what lay before Harry, caught in its own wordless agony, was a ghost form, a mere semblance of life, an infant Inferi, nothing more. Harry felt Malfoy behind him, waiting at the wooden doors, when he cast, for the first time in his life, the Killing Curse.

And then he was lying on the marble floor himself. The bright green light of the Curse reverberated from the walls like the echoing boom of a huge drum. And there was pain, ripping his chest open, and Harry tore at his jacket with both of his hands, trying to stop the agony, somehow. And it receded slowly, as the mordant green shimmer gave way to clear daylight streaming in through the high windows. He shivered, the floor underneath him was so cold. But Malfoy's hands on his face were warm.

"Quiet … it's quiet," Harry whispered, "in my head … Forgot how quiet … bloody link … all the time …"

It seemed too much of an effort to explain, and Malfoy understood anyway, or Harry thought he did, from the way he pushed Harry's hair back from the scar, how he kissed it so tenderly. Malfoy was crying, and Harry's face was getting all wet, and it was funny, really, that he should die with another man's tears on his face. Listen, Malfoy … he meant to say, trying to share the thought, but his lips wouldn't move. His arm was touching Malfoy, who knelt beside him, and it felt so good to have him near. Harry wanted to close his eyes, fall asleep if he could, but there was so much still to feel, to see, to –

A fire-extinguisher, bright red and Muggle, not five yards from him, beside the doors. Malfoy's beautiful, beautiful hair, brushing against his skin like soft, shimmering rain. The holly wand on the floor, fallen from his hand, pointing west, guiding the way. The blue brush of a wing, and tears like pearls of ice on his cheek, his throat, his lips … and he sucks at the ice, so thirsty all of a sudden for water, for everything, for this, this –

Death was the sharp tug of Apparition, the swift mercy of the dark.

*

A purple light was moving through Harry's body. It pulsed in a steady rhythm, and with each pulse there was a burst of golden sparks. His toes, arms, thighs, his face and head already were set ablaze by the light. He could nearly taste the flames flickering in his hair, like St Elmo's fire. The purple light moved on, with no pattern that Harry could detect, but flitting back and forth, darting into every part of his body. Ankles, feet, throat, groin, belly. He was made new, turned into a smouldering being of fire – sinew by sinew, drop of blood by drop of blood, bone by bone.

There was a fresh, sweet taste in Harry's mouth, like of purest water. So this is what it feels like to be truly dead, he thought, and it was very different from the time he had woken in that wide-open space, after Voldemort had killed him in the Forbidden Forest. For one thing, he couldn't see very well. After a couple of yards his vision started to become blurry. And this had been different last time, hadn't it? He hadn't needed his glasses in that imaginary King's Cross Station. And he felt pain, definitely, an aching pain pervading his entire body. He moved his hand to his chest and felt the soft cotton of a shirt. The surface he was lying on was soft, too. Harry looked up into a green roof above him.

"Harry."

He almost expected Dumbledore to walk up to him, but it was Malfoy. He was standing beside the … the bed that Harry was lying on, holding his glasses out to him. Harry took them, staring at Malfoy, who was barefoot, clothed in trousers and a white shirt that was unbuttoned almost all the way down to his waist. He gazed at Harry, an uncertain half-smile on his lips, not taking his eyes off him for a second.

"Y-you?" His voice sounded rough and shaky, much too real for this to be death. He was lying in the familiar bed, dark green canopy stretching above him between the four posts. The huge round windows, the bedside cabinet, the phoenix's nest, even the gentle breeze that always drifted through the high tower room – everything was much too real for all of this to be happening only in Harry's head. And Malfoy, Malfoy was –

Harry was up, out of the bed, and he had grabbed Malfoy's bloody white shirt in his fists in no time. "You!" he screamed, unable to keep his voice down, unable to stop his body – his living body – from shaking so hard, Harry thought he must burst with the force of it. "You," he whispered, right in Malfoy's face, a red mist rising before his eyes. "Damn you!"

Malfoy did not move away, did nothing to stop him. "Harry," he said with that gentle, soothing voice of his, and God! he shouldn't have said that, not Harry's name, not another one of his scheming intimacies, taking Harry in, making him believe that Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, for God's sake, could care enough for him to understand, to fucking understand –

He threw the punch without even taking aim, hit right into Malfoy's mouth. There was the sharp crack of broken teeth, and Malfoy's head snapped back. Blood spurted in a wide arc onto Harry's face, onto Malfoy's white shirt, and Harry flung Malfoy's body away from him as hard as he could.

Malfoy crashed to the floor, for a second he lay unmoving on his side, but he recovered quickly, leaned up on one elbow, moved his hand slowly across his mouth. And he said it again, blood smears on his chin and knuckles – "Harry" – and he just couldn't shut up now, could he?

Harry lunged at him, and Malfoy turned to get away from him, but Harry got hold of that blond hair, yanked it back with full force, and Malfoy screamed in pain, but still Harry wouldn't, he just couldn't let go. He leaned forward, brought his mouth to Malfoy's ear. "How," he whispered, "how the fuck could you do this to me? You knew how much I wanted to go. That I need to die, that I can't –" His voice broke, and he couldn't help but press his body against Malfoy and knock, knock his forehead against that stubborn, stupid bastard's head.

Silver light flashed, and Malfoy was gone from Harry's grip, sprawled on the floor a few yards away from Harry. He was furious now, too, Harry could tell by the dark light flashing in his eyes.

"You would never have come so far without me," he spat at Harry, the steel in his voice unforgiving. "You'd be still searching for the Horcrux. You'd be looking for Voldemort in Buckingham Palace, of all places. Merlin, you couldn't even destroy that bloody wand without me." He pushed himself up to knees and elbows, stood before Harry who was still on the floor. He searched Harry's face, looking for something, and Harry'd be damned if he knew what. "You owe me this, Potter." His voice had gone raw and shaky, and he said it again, "You owe it to me."

He turned, left Harry kneeling on the floor, walked to the window and looked out into the bright sunshine of a beautiful summer day, the first day with Voldemort gone. Harry stared after him, thinking that he would never ever, in whatever was left of his life, understand Slytherins. Owe it to him? He scrambled to his feet, stepped closer to Malfoy, moving cautiously and not touching him. Malfoy turned his head slightly, there were tears in his eyes.

"God, Malfoy, " Harry said softly, recalling everything he knew of Draco the phoenix to understand what it was that Malfoy wanted from him, "if … if there was a way, any way that I could help you, I swear, I would. But I cannot give you … that egg." He moved even closer, put one tentative hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Please, don't go mental on me. You know … you must know that I can't be this green-eyed phoenix for you."

A shiver ran through Malfoy's body, as he put his hand over Harry's and squeezed it softly.

"Ah, but now," he whispered, never taking his eyes from the sunlit horizon, "now you can."

*

Malfoy was asleep on the four-poster bed. His hair looked damp, there were tearstains on his face. Red, fresh scratch marks ran across his chest and all the way down his right side. The fly of his trousers was open, his cock was lying limp and fragile-looking on his belly, half-covered by his pants. Dried come was splattered all over his stomach. His left arm was flung out on the blanket, in that painfully crooked angle.

Harry gently moved the arm and stretched out beside Malfoy on the bed. He shifted carefully, not wanting to wake the other man. Not yet. The afternoon sun was shining on Malfoy's face, he looked so peaceful and calm as Harry had rarely seen him. The phoenix's powers had healed the cut in his lip, the damage caused by Harry's punch. The scratch marks would soon be gone as well. Harry traced his fingers across them, wondering what strange pleasure Malfoy had taken from inflicting them on his body. He moved lower, picking flakes of come from Malfoy's skin, rubbing them between his fingers, inhaling the darkly tangy smell of another bloke's spunk. Human, he thought, human still.

Harry had spent the last hours in the phoenix's nest, resting, sleeping – roosting, he should say –, getting used to his Animagus form. Transfiguration had been a simple act of magic, much like casting Lumos or Alohomora. His plumage was red streaked with gold, with a black trail and crest, just as Malfoy had seen him in his dreams. Harry had tested his wings, after the first shock, circled St Paul's, he hadn't dared to fly further. Malfoy had watched him from the tower's window, pure joy in his face and unabashed, barely restrained desire, if Harry had read the signs right.

"You are what Fawkes meant Phoenix to be," Malfoy had said when Harry returned to the tower and his human form. "Dumbledore was wrong. He should have chosen you."

He had wanted to touch Harry, kiss him, but Harry hadn't been able to let him close. His body had still felt too vulnerable, too new, like it was a thing apart from him, like he would lose himself if he let anyone, even Malfoy, touch him. His gaze had fallen on the nest, and he been drawn towards it, by instinct. He thought that Malfoy understood, for he didn't stop him when he Transfigured back into the phoenix, soared up to the ceiling and alighted on the nest. The cinnamon smell soothed him, and he slowly got used to breathing like a bird, each inhalation a flood of pure air, feeding directly into his blood. And this body was light, so much lighter than Harry had imagined, judging from the phoenix's size. He lost his balance a couple of times when he tried to stand on those powerful black talons, holding on to the twigs. But he had figured it out eventually, and then he had slept, in a sitting position, safely wrapped in the smell of cinnamon, dreaming bird dreams of clouds and wind.

He felt Malfoy's gaze on him and looked up to see him awake. Malfoy lifted his arm and cautiously touched Harry's hair. "You," he whispered.

Harry edged closer, brought his skin into full contact with Malfoy's half-dressed body, letting him know that it was okay to touch him now. "Bloody wanker," he said, moving his fingers lightly over Malfoy's cock. "Couldn't wait for me, could you?"

Malfoy chuckled and pulled Harry on top of him. He stroked him with eager hands, everywhere, thighs, arse, waist, back, shoulders and neck. "Didn't know if you were still interested," he whispered as he leaned up to kiss Harry. When their lips touched, Harry felt Malfoy's cock twitch, and he pushed his groin against him. "Yeah, still interested," he said as Malfoy moaned underneath him. Harry traced Malfoy's upper lip with his tongue, feeling for the cut, but there was only soft, moist flesh. Their kiss deepened, and Harry thought he could come just from kissing Malfoy, he felt so good. He panted when they broke apart, buried his face at the side of Malfoy's neck. They were both hard, hips moving in a slow, languid rhythm.

"You can, um … reach orgasm now?" It was a stupid question, really, when he had smelled Malfoy's come on his own fingers, but he needed to know, had to understand.

Malfoy turned his head and looked at him. "Yes," he said, nothing more.

"I don't get it."

"You are here. You are a phoenix Animagus. Phoenix thinks we will mate." He reached between their bodies for Harry's cock and stroked it gently, much too gently. "Don't you feel it, too?" His voice was soft, fearful.

Harry didn't really know what he was supposed to feel. He wanted Malfoy, had wanted him since that first night in the tower. Wanted to fuck him, get fucked by him, blow him, rim him, suck him dry. Get him off any possible way a bloke could get another bloke off. If Phoenix called this mating, fine with him. But whatever they did, they couldn't possibly –

"Will that work, Malfoy? I mean, we are still both males, and –"

"Hermaphrodite," Malfoy interrupted him, "hermaphroditic in nature. Neither male nor female. Both male and female." His grey eyes were on Harry, he stopped stroking him, just held Harry's cock in his fist, squeezing and gently releasing it, as he had that first time. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Harry?"

Harry did, or he thought he did, and he tried to get his mind around it, but he couldn't, not really, not like Malfoy wanted him to. And then – it was all too much, he had lived for so long and he'd died and had been changed and please, please … Tears started running down his face that he hadn't known were burning in his eyes, his whole body shook with sobs he couldn't hold back any longer. Malfoy's body tensed in startled surprise, and Harry pressed himself closer to him. Malfoy wrapped both his arms around him and held him tight. He kissed Harry's chin, lips, nose, eyelids, whispered softly, sounds more than words, soothing him.

"Will you," Harry whispered, "will you just simply fuck me? I've … I've wanted you to all that time. Will you? Please?"

"Merlin, Potter, yes. Yes. I'll fuck you any which way you want me to." Malfoy laughed softly and pulled Harry even closer.

"And go easy on me," Harry managed, laughing too, through the tears. "I haven't bottomed in years."

"I'll take you as easy and slow as you need to. We have all day."

They lay quiet for long minutes, until Harry was calm again and relaxed. Then Malfoy pulled Harry's body up further and started stroking his buttocks. Soon his fingers were sliding up and down Harry's crack. Harry spread his legs, so Malfoy could reach further, widening Harry's hole with his fingers. Malfoy's stiff cock was brushing against his arse, leaking pre-come. Harry felt himself get wet and loose, and he clenched his arse, trying to pull Malfoy's fingers into him. Their bodies moved in a slow rhythm that Harry could tell would soon turn into sharp thrusts, and the thought alone, of Malfoy piercing him, made him go even harder.

Still, something struck him about what Malfoy had said. We have all day.

"How can that be, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice hoarse because, really, all he wanted was for Malfoy to go on touching him like this. "We are two. Two phoenix Animagi at the same time, in the same space. That should not be possible, should it?"

Malfoy pushed two fingers into Harry's arse, making him groan with pleasure. "Your timing, Potter, has always been the worst." He pulled out again, licked hungrily at Harry's throat. Then he let his head fall back onto the pillows, and for a moment exhaustion was showing on his face. "It's a spell. It converges different time lines. I can keep it up for a day. We have until noon tomorrow."

"All day."

Malfoy nodded, his hands lying still on Harry's buttocks.

"And then, what?"

Malfoy closed his eyes, exhaled a shivering breath. Don't know, he mouthed. He shook his head, a quick jerk.

"Do you want help with it?"

Malfoy opened his eyes, and for a moment Harry saw plain relief in them, gratitude even, before Malfoy's mouth transformed into that wry smirk. "Yes, I'd like that." He brought up his left hip without any warning, and in one swift rolling movement he had Harry on his stomach, pinned beneath him. He sat up, pulled off his trousers, dropped them to the floor, then settled back on top of Harry.

"Stretch out your left arm," he said, and Harry did, turning his face so he could look out of the round window, into the fading light of the day. Malfoy moved his own arm, until his hand covered Harry's and their fingertips touched. "It's Tiempo dobles," he said.

Harry cast the Spell at the same time as Malfoy, and magic streamed from their fingers like loosened ribbons in the wind, twirling around each other. For an instant, the moving clouds came to a halt, there was a sudden gust in the wind that always blew around the tower. Malfoy relaxed against him, as Harry felt the Spell gently feeding on his power. It was barely a pull, easily pushed to the fringes of his consciousness.

"Good?" he asked.

"Good," Malfoy said.

*

They fucked like Harry had wanted to, Malfoy's cock buried deep within him, filling him in that stretching, burning, incredibly satisfying way. Harry had come earlier already, from having Malfoy's tongue lick and push its way into Harry's hole. But he was painfully hard again, on his stomach and knees, his arse up, legs spread too wide for his own hand to get him off and come into the pillow that Malfoy had shoved underneath him. Malfoy was thrusting into him fast and hard, his one arm on Harry's back, the other around his waist, holding on, holding him close. Their bodies were slick with sweat, Malfoy's balls were slapping against Harry's arse, and Malfoy was making beautiful, groaning noises. Harry let go of all conscious thought, didn't move anymore by himself, it was Malfoy slamming him into the bed, each thrust bringing Harry closer, closer –

A soft nudge in his mind – Change now, Harry. Change. Please. Malfoy's voice and a sudden vision of the Blue Phoenix. Desire swept through Harry, desire of a different kind, more forceful, almost unbearable even, and at same time gentler, less frantic. He stretched out his arms before he knew what he was doing, and Malfoy at once did the same, on top of Harry, his left arm slightly bent. A crooked blue wing covered red feathers, a silver beak was rubbing against a golden one, white crest burying into black. Harry was wide open and aching, he wanted nothing more than Draco closing in on him. And then Draco did, he brought his own hole close and pressed it against Harry's, kiss-like. Soft, screeching noises came from Harry's throat, as Draco cooed above him. They pressed against each other without any movement at all, pushing harder and harder, until Harry felt something give within him, flare up like fire at his side, and he spilled his seed into Draco, just as Draco's seed spilled into him, startlingly cold, flooding him whole.

*

It was dark in the tower room when Harry freed himself from Malfoy's embrace and got up. They had been touching and kissing, talking, too, but not much. They had this one night left. Time seemed too precious to waste on talk.

Harry felt like he needed to pee, but when he started for the stairs to get to the bathroom below, he realised his whole body was shaking. He sank to his knees, unable to stand, something strange and frightening was happening to him. He whispered, "Malfoy," and pain lashed through his right side. He screamed, "Draco!"

Malfoy was beside him as Harry felt his body break out in sweat, he was gasping for air. He needed, needed to lie down, right here on the floor.

"What, what is it, Harry?" There was panic in Malfoy's voice. He cast a Lumos, his eyes wide and worried, as he looked at Harry, his hands touching his forehead and cheeks. His touch felt cool and reassuring, but Harry couldn't lie on his back anymore, he needed to curl in on himself or the pain would kill him, he was certain of it.

"Please help me," he whispered, as he felt Malfoy draw him close, let him curl up in his lap. "Something's wrong, here." He got hold of Malfoy's hand, pressed it to his side that was swollen and hard and hurting so badly. "Make it stop, please." His voice was a whisper, dark spots were floating before his eyes. He knew he would pass out soon, any second now.

Malfoy held him close as he carefully moved his palm across Harry's side. "Shit," he said, then strangely, "Don't be afraid." He lowered Harry's head to the floor and moved away from him.

The Blue Phoenix loomed over Harry, its crest gleaming in the electric glow from below the stairs. It lowered its head, and because it seemed like the one thing that could end the agonising stabs of pain, Harry rolled around so that the bird could reach his side. The phoenix at once went for his skin, tore at it with its razor-sharp beak, slashed it open. Blood streamed from Harry's side, he gasped in shock, but there was no pain. A whitish ball-like thing slipped from his flesh, and as he watched, it rolled into his lap. The gash at his side closed at once, the stabbing pain was gone. All he felt was the imperative need to shelter the egg, to keep it close, not to let it touch the floor, to protect it with whatever he could give, his body, his magic, all his strength, his entire being. He sat up, pulled the egg towards his belly, where a soft patch of skin seemed to mould against the round form. The egg felt soft and frail in his hands.

Slowly he became aware that Malfoy was kneeling in front of him. In the soft light of the Lumos Harry could see his achingly brilliant smile.

"It's alive," he whispered, and as Malfoy reached out to touch it, Harry knew that only Malfoy could do so. Only he could touch the egg and not have Harry go mental.

"It's still part of you," Malfoy said as he moved his hand across the translucent shell. Harry felt Malfoy's fingers as if he was touching his own skin. "Make me come, Harry."

For a moment Harry couldn't think of what Malfoy could possibly mean. Then he saw his erect cock, pre-come glistening on its tip. Malfoy put one hand on Harry's shoulder to steady himself. The other hand he laid around the egg, holding it, sheltering it. Harry reached for him, pulled him closer, so that Malfoy's groin was almost touching the egg.

"You're sure about this?" he asked.

Malfoy nodded, his eyes on the egg between them, his breathing fast and shallow. There was a shadow moving within the shell, and it felt as if something stirred inside of Harry. He curled his fingers around Malfoy's cock, and the moment his palm touched the hard flesh, he knew Malfoy was right. He gripped him tighter, slid up his entire length. Malfoy groaned, as his hips jerked forward. "Merlin," he whispered, "go easy, Potter."

Harry couldn't help laughing, a shaky laugh of relief, for this felt so right, so good. Malfoy brought his face close, he kissed Harry softly, their foreheads touched. Malfoy came after a few firm strokes, spilled his load into Harry's hand, onto the egg, into Harry's lap. As the first drop of semen touched the egg, its shell became opaque, a stark impenetrable white, as if it had hardened all of a sudden. Harry felt it slide away from his stomach, and Malfoy caught it before it rolled onto the floor. And it was all right, it wouldn't break, wouldn't be harmed, that overwhelming sense of the egg's fragility was gone. This was the phoenix's egg.

Malfoy got up, the egg in one hand. He held out his other hand to Harry, pulled him up from the floor. "How do you feel?" he asked with something like hushed awe in his voice.

Harry leaned against him, more because he wanted to have him close than for support. "I'm not sure. No pain, at least."

"I would have done it, you know. I wanted it so very much." Malfoy gently held the egg to his breast.

"You're pants at breeding." Harry licked Malfoy's ear and kissed the shell with a sudden need. God, how he loved this man.

Malfoy drew his head away, as he put an arm around Harry's waist and pulled him close. "That tickles, Potter. Get a grip on yourself."

"What happens now?"

"The egg goes into the nest, obviously." Malfoy walked towards the phoenix's nest, taking Harry with him.

"Obviously."

"It doesn't need hatching. The phoenix is solitary, from the moment of its birth. We wrap it in myrrh and frankincense, then set fire around it, to keep it warm." Malfoy carefully laid the egg into its nest of cinnamon twigs. It seemed too small, a little white thing in the middle of the huge nest that could shelter a grown phoenix. Malfoy crouched down on the floor, opened a small wooden box that Harry hadn't noticed before. He got out two handfuls of small, reddish-brown and yellowish rocks. Or Harry thought they were rocks, but when he touched them, they were sticky and smooth. A pungent, spicy smell filled the air, mingling with the sharp sweetness of cinnamon.

"You made that all up yourself, didn't you? About the cinnamon and the myrrh and stuff?" Harry said as he watched Malfoy pour the small rocks into the nest, heaping them closely around the egg.

"Not one thing, Potter. You can check it all in Scamander's book. Fifty-eighth edition. I told you." He reached for Harry's hand, laced his fingers through Harry's, pointed both their hands at the nest. "The Spell is a slow-burning Incendio. Do go easy, Potter. None of your Gryffindorish overcompensation, not this time."

Harry nodded with a grin and said "Incendio" in a soft voice, as he felt Malfoy cast the Spell non-verbally. A bluish flame curled up and burned its way slowly all around the rim of the nest; a faint aroma like vanilla rose from it with the smoke. Soo the egg was engulfed by a ring of softly smouldering flames. A fiery horizon …

"And it will be all right?"

Malfoy nodded. "Our job is done," he said before he leaned over to Harry and kissed him.

*