Redeem Me

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write…are dominated by gay themes and characters. That's how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

Redeem Me…by Samayel

Chapter 61: Tonight


What passed before the holidays could easily have been described as the best two weeks of Draco’s life. Even though it began with several stern upbraiding sessions about wandering around alone, once he swore faithfully to make sure someone was with him, the rest of the holidays went far better. They didn’t have to warn Draco twice. He’d been caught unawares, not knowing that LeStrange’s gang had returned to the London area, or that Dawlish was still roaming about with a grudge. There was no question in his mind as to what he should do. When he wasn’t at work, he was home, and with the holidays approaching, that was work in itself.

Molly’s Yuletide preparations weren’t restricted to the kitchen or to the opening and cleaning of unused rooms; they encompassed the whole of the Burrow and nearly all of the surrounding property. Draco had been raised in a household of muted emotions and carefully calculated displays…and house-elves. The decorations strewn about the property alone were sufficient cause to have purchased a few elves, but he already knew that such a thing would never come to pass.

There was something oddly pleasing about the preparations, however silly some of them might have seemed. Draco was fully engaged in a project that occupied the entire household, a very real and palpable reminder that he really was part of this place and these people. He wasn’t tolerated, or coddled anymore; he was as good as family here, and he couldn’t even voice how he felt about that…unless he wanted to actually break down and cry in front of everyone! As it was, he was curiously content, even if he was frequently tired.

As the youngest and healthiest males in the house, much of the labor fell to Harry and Draco, and while the heaviest parts were Harry’s, Draco certainly wasn’t taking it easy. Arthur chipped in, but advancing years and considerable wisdom had helped him to master every means for escaping the worst tasks. When cornered on the subject by Harry, the old devil cited ’privilege of age’, and rather smugly found a way to transform each task assigned him by Molly into a ’joint project’ shared by all. All meaning Draco and Harry of course.

An otherwise perfectly healthy tree was sacrificed in the name of the Yule season, and dragged indoors with great difficulty and considerable mess. Draco spent most of an evening just helping Molly decorate that, but at least he was indoors for once. Molly had secreted herself upstairs for almost a day, wrapping presents and stuffing stockings, only to emerge frowsy and exhausted, heavily laden with package after package, each of which was deposited beneath the tree in the living room. Molly’s baking efforts reached new heights as well, and the Burrow constantly smelled of biscuits and pies and fresh bread. However different Draco’s own childhood might have been, Yule Solstice at the Weasleys' was a wonderful thing, and being surrounded by the scents of baked goods and spices, full of good food, and safe as could be was more than Draco could have asked for.

The rift between himself and George had healed quickly enough. Fred and George behaved the same around him as they had before the incident, and a few prank battles later they seemed comfortable pretending that it had never happened. In fact, it had been the twins and Ella who had supervised Draco’s next journey through Diagon Alley for holiday shopping, and a pretty good time had been had by all. The twins were well known and their wealth was a powerful motivator. Being seen in their company, as well as having been seen in Harry’s, forced some of the recalcitrant merchants to open their doors to Draco. In the aftermath of the war, the Weasley family had been universally lauded as heroes, and in the eyes of many folks, if George Weasley could be seen with a former Death Eater in public, then the matter was resolved and Draco was no one to worry over.

No new killings took place, but rumors abounded anyway. A few false leads reached Fred and George’s ears, but not one panned out as accurate. Diagon Alley was blessedly peaceful, and the Ministry and Auror Service proudly announced the capture of two more renegade Death Eaters. Perliss and Chalmers hadn’t been Inner Circle, but they were hardened killers and Muggle-haters as well, and the knowledge that they were bound for Azkaban was a relief to all. Of Dawlish, nothing more was heard after a footnote in the paper about his conduct in Diagon Alley. Tonks dropped by to take a statement from Draco, and sent an owl after Dawlish’s conviction by the Wizengamot. Dawlish would be in Azkaban for seven years before he’d even be considered for release, and Draco was perfectly at peace with that.

Harry had been in an uncommonly good mood for such a length of time, that Draco was beginning to wonder if a major confrontation would even be necessary. He’d even tried the spells for seeing auras again, and while the smoldering presence of evil still clung to Harry, it seemed to have shrunk in on itself, and Harry’s aura was far healthier than before.

Harry showed no signs of anger, and lavished attention and good cheer on Draco. He spoke more often and more openly, and Draco noticed the difference immediately. Harry also showed intimacy with his hands more, in simple little ways that Draco relished. A hand on the shoulder or a pat on the back, a hug for no reason other than because they could, or fingers brushed lovingly across Draco’s cheek. Touch was still a thrilling thing for Draco, and coming from Harry it was food for the soul, nourishing Draco’s heart the way Molly’s meals nourished the rest of him.

Seeing Harry happy and peaceful, playful and kind, set the Weasley household truly at ease. Molly had privately congratulated Draco for being the biggest part of Harry’s changing demeanor, and Draco knew she’d been right. Love was making Harry different, and Draco was at the center of that love. He no longer blushed to think of it, but Harry was changing because he was giving as much love as he was receiving. Sometimes small gestures, other times large, but Harry provided constant evidence for Draco, so that he would never wonder if he was wanted or needed. There were other ways in which they’d grown closer as well, and those were the most telling of all.

Draco hadn’t wasted a single evening since the day Harry had brought him home from Diagon Alley. He poured the whole of his will into a single task, and that task was making Harry comfortable around him. Harry hadn’t lied about being a fast learner, and Draco was in a little bit of a hurry to work out his own limits, likes and dislikes.

It quickly became clear that one thing was still similar to a few weeks ago. Draco did not feel at all comfortable with people behind him, and even Harry’s presence there made him shudder sometimes. Nothing like before, when his skin had crawled at just the thought, but it was still something that made him anxious and edgy, uncertain and faintly frightened. Under the right circumstances, he could handle being cuddled by Harry, and given just enough time to get used to it he would be fine, but Harry couldn’t move suddenly or do much else before Draco found himself nervous. It was a little disappointing, and a reminder that he would never be the same, Snape’s help or no, but it was a far cry from the terror such things used to cause, and that would have to be good enough.

He also felt slightly uncomfortable when Harry was completely on top of him. They’d rolled about in bed quite a bit these past weeks, and frottage had been a very significant part of their initial closeness. When Harry had rolled completely on top of Draco, looming over him, large and strong, Draco’s rational mind found it enticing and arousing enough, but his instincts left him feeling faint and fluttering apprehension. Harry had seen the difference almost instantly, sensing Draco’s slight discomfort, and he’d pulled away immediately while Draco caught his breath and reassured Harry that he was just fine.

Other than positions where he felt too vulnerable, Draco was capable of almost anything else he pleased, and he tested those boundaries thoroughly, making the time he had alone with Harry the stuff of legends. Even now, lugging fresh blankets and sheets to the rooms Molly prepared for her soon to be arriving children, Draco could look back at almost two weeks of orgiastic luxury the likes of which neither he nor Harry had ever imagined.

Firmly fixed in Draco’s memory was the night after Dawlish’s attack. He’d rather expected that, after a full workday and good meals, Harry would know that Draco was more than healthy enough to take things up where they’d left off the night before. It had started more or less as Draco planned it, with a long, happy snog and a bit of fairly discreet rubbing and touching. It hadn’t stayed that way for long, but the direction it took after they were out of their pajamas caught Draco completely off his guard.

Harry…stodgy, gentle, nervous Harry…paused in the middle of their continued snog, running his hands up and down Draco’s chest and thighs, and then slowly kissed his way down to Draco’s groin! Draco periodically remembered to coo encouragement and remind Harry that he was alright, but mostly he was just busy trying to keep himself from coming on the spot. Harry hadn’t the first idea what he was doing, but allowing that he’d never given head before, he was bloody stunning at it. Maybe it was just that Draco had never been given head while sober before, and that the last time it had happened, it had been while under the influence of several drugs, and hadn’t really been a matter of choice. This…this was something entirely different, and calling it amazing didn’t do it justice.

Shaggy, dark hair had veiled his groin from view, and all Draco could tell for certain was that Harry had the softest lips in the world, and a tongue with a penchant for exploration. Draco went from wildly tense to utterly relaxed in minutes, surrendering himself to the mouth that enveloped his erection so deftly. His hands had worked their way into Harry’s thick, dark hair, and he was aware of every subtle motion that Harry’s bowed head was making.

This time, their room had been spelled for silence, and Draco felt free to cry out as he came, shuddering from head to toe while his cock twitched and pulsed in Harry’s mouth. He was too far gone in ecstasy to respond to Harry’s small coughs and gasps, and a small trickle of come ran down Harry’s chin and dripped onto Draco’s inner thigh. The man gave a stellar blow job, but he was just pants at swallowing. Still, first time and all, one could only give Harry kudos for surpassing even optimistic expectations. Draco was laughing and crying at the same time, gasping for breath between choked praise for Harry’s efforts. If it was anything like what Harry had felt the day before that, no wonder he’d been eager to try the same thing for Draco.

And that settled that. No day was complete without one or both of their faces winding up in the other’s lap. The discovery that this could be done by both parties…at the same time…was treated with the kind of respectful awe one would think was more suited to the creation of a cure for cancer, or for world peace, but they were happy, and that was all that mattered. Draco’s days were full of comparatively uncomplicated work, and his nights were full of Harry, and without a crisis to manage, he let the days slide past him in a blur.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think of Harry’s condition, and of Voldemort, but rather that he suspected he was winning the battle in a way that worked out very nicely for him. The specter attached to Harry seemed to be weakening, both visibly and as far as its power over Harry, and those were good signs. Harry didn’t have headaches anymore, and his dreams hadn’t been troubled since the dynamic of their relationship had taken a leap forward. Maybe it was vanity, but the notion that he was the power that soothed Harry’s soul, and was slowly extinguishing the evil thing that clung to Harry, was enticing in more ways than one. It justified his desire for Harry, and made his submission to his own desires more than just rooted in lust, but also heroism, and that was comforting.

Doubts still crept into Draco’s mind, but they were faint and wispy compared to the genuine happiness he’d known of late. Perhaps he was a little…wanton…but it was only with Harry, and while he felt a little strange about being so eager for acts that had once frightened him, he felt entitled to some pleasure in his life. He’d been through hell, and then some! If anyone had ever deserved to be happy, and worked hard to earn that right, then he certainly had. As weakened and shrunken as the darkness in Harry was, so also had the self-loathing and fear in Draco withered. It was hard to be fearful of days to come when life flowed this smoothly, and if Draco was lulled into a little complacency, he meant well none the less.

They had spoken of so many things, curled around each other in the night. Mysteries were answered one after another, and Draco unraveled so many threads that made up the enigmatic patchwork of Harry’s soul. He was fairly certain that Harry had shared things with him that he’d never spoken aloud to another living soul, and that Harry trusted him with things like these was a clear sign to Draco that he had done things right for once in his life.

He knew the truth behind Harry’s childhood. Everyone knew the myths and legends. The Scar and The Boy Who Lived were famous the world over, but what came after was barely known by anyone. The Weasleys knew more than most, but Harry had never wanted anyone’s pity, and he’d never been comfortable speaking of his feelings to much of anyone. The secrets of the Dursley household remained with him to this day. Harry understated it all, obviously trying to make it sound better than it was, but Draco read between the lines. Children do not live in cupboards beneath the stairs unless they are astonishingly poor, very eccentric, or are in the care of people who could barely qualify as human. Harry fell into the last category.

So many things about Harry made sense now. The ratty, oversized clothing. The battered spectacles and underfed waif-like appearance of his youth. The Muggles who had been blessed with the chance to care for the Boy Who Lived had been ignorant and hateful pigs, and Harry had suffered for it. That Harry could still care as much for the Muggle world and people in general was, in Draco’s opinion, a bloody miracle. Harry hadn’t kept silent about his past out of some desire to appear mysterious…he’d done it because he’d been trying to leave it behind and let it go. Small wonder he was such an intensely private person. He’d been raised to keep silent and keep to himself. He’d been used like a house-elf. It certainly explained why the most powerful wizard alive felt right at home with his arms to the elbows in a sink full of dirty dishes.

Draco drank all this in like it was ambrosia. Harry was opening up like a flower in spring after a long and brutal winter, and Draco was the sun that warmed him. He hadn’t raised his voice in anger in two weeks, hadn’t sulked or stormed off for privacy, and hadn’t shown any signs of the affliction that had bedeviled him for so long.

There were two days left until the Solstice, and family members were due to start arriving tomorrow. The house was almost in good order, and this would be the last night of privacy before the bustle of the holidays arrived in full. Draco had plans for this night. He wouldn’t be going to work tomorrow, since the office was closed for the next several days, and he certainly wouldn’t need to worry about rising early in the morning. Tonight he would cross another boundary. He’d made up his mind several days ago, and it seemed kind of inevitable anyway. He’d flirted with it so often these past weeks that it probably wouldn’t be a great surprise to Harry, but he was desperately eager to satisfy his own curiosity and gnawing hunger.

Draco wanted Harry to make love to him. He’d had a bottle of lubricant tucked away for this purpose since his ill-fated visit to Diagon Alley. It had reddened his cheeks to purchase it then, because surely the help would draw their own conclusions. He was in The Prophet as Harry’s boyfriend, pictured curled in Harry’s lap. Being seen in an apothecary shop purchasing lubricant didn’t leave much to the imagination. The only irony was that they probably imagined him getting a lot more action than he had.

His cheeks no longer flushed when he thought about it. His life had changed a thousand fold since he’d come here, and after having spent so much time in Harry’s bed, surrounded by his scent and enfolded by his arms, there was nothing left to be ashamed of or embarrassed by. He’d ironed out the last details after a hasty Floo trip to Charlie and Dula’s. He’d had two purposes. One was to let them know of the changes in Harry, and the other to discuss his changing relationship. Specifically, he’d needed to drag Dula away for a rather ticklish chat about workable positions.

That had been the last blush-worthy event this week, but he’d gotten the information he needed, and he’d sworn them to secrecy on the subject of his plans for this night. He’d left with a very solid idea of what to do and how to do it without hurting himself, and a matched set of hugs that were all the more refreshing because they were now possible. Admittedly, he could have done without Dula looking at him like he was someone’s daughter on her wedding day. Beneath that eloquent and soft-spoken exterior, the man was a terminal romantic.

Draco had always thought himself rigidly unromantic. He’d also once thought himself a cynic, but a cynic at sixteen is generally inexperience posing as worldliness. What he’d seen since then should have killed cynicism and romanticism alike, but a shred of each had somehow lived, and both traits cropped up now and again. He doubted that happiness like this could last, but he was fully prepared to savor every last minute of it while it did.

Molly was calling again. No doubt another frantic last minute thing to prepare, and his help would be needed along with Harry’s. She was another matter that bore thinking of. For all intents and purposes, this was his home now. Draco knew he had a mother, but she was a living corpse in St. Mungo’s, and always would be. The Cruciatus Curse had ruined her nervous system and shattered her mind irretrievably. He would never hear her voice, pleading or fussing, or pinched with condemnation, again. It felt like a betrayal of the woman who had given birth to him, but Molly Weasley was as much a mother to him as she was to her own children. She expected him to try his best, and always knew if he had, and never judged him if he’d done as much as he could. It was still discomforting to think that not all that long ago he had held the people who lived here in contempt. He’d thought he’d had reasons to…then. Now they were the only family he really had, and contrary to everything he’d ever learned as a pureblood, they accepted his fondness for Harry without question.

Molly appeared at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Hurry now, love! Supper’s almost on, and there’s still a bit to be done yet. And tell Arthur to hurry along if you see him!”

“Right. I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.”

Draco delivered a final set of sheets and blankets to one of the recently Transfigured beds, and cast a spell he’d learned in school long ago. The bundles of cloth quickly made themselves and the bed was done and ready, freeing Draco to seek out Arthur, who was probably wrapped up in a simple chore that was mysteriously taking three or four times longer to accomplish than usual.

On the way back to the stairs, Draco passed the open door to his and Harry’s room. The bed was still rumpled from this morning, and looked wonderfully inviting.

Tonight he would give himself to Harry, sharing something that had only ever been taken from him before. It had all been leading up to this…this ultimate act of trust. There was no one but Harry that he would even think of doing something like this for, and tonight his idle dreams and fantasies would become his new reality.

‘Tonight.’


TBC!!!