Author: Augustus
Email: gaius_octavius_@hotmail.com
Web Addy: http://bestenemies.cjb.net
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R18+ (Aus), 18 (UK), NC-17 (US)
Status: New, complete
Series: Nope.
Chronology: Final year at Hogwarts.
Category: Dark. As in Very.
Archival: Best Enemies. List archives are fine, as for anyone else I would be thrilled and honoured, but please let me know where it is.
Feedback: Go ahead; make my day *G*
Summary: Memory is everything. Draco POV.
Warnings: Character death, sex, violence and a bit o' S&M.
Notes: I don't know what it is about HP that makes me write majorly messed-up stuff... This falls firmly into that category. If you're looking for Best Enemies Draco, you won't find him here.
Disclaimer: These chaps are created and owned by J.K. Rowling, with Warner Bros. and countless publishing houses fitting in somewhere. I just play with them – badly. I do this for love, not money. It's either this or Backstreet Boys slash... ^_~
Date: 21-08-2002 => 31-08-2002
Loved
by Augustus
((Murder is simple. There is no eloquence in uttering forbidden words, hiding behind magic and benign expectations. Death is one of the few realms in which the Muggle world prevails over the timeless ease of wizardry. Where we shy from pain and complication, they embrace the intricacies of slaughter and suffering, melding torture to the most exquisite of art forms. There is no originality in a curse, no surface upon which to carve one's own signature. I find no challenge or contentment in simple elimination.
Likewise, no glory is achieved through a death by utterance. A mundane end carries an ignominious shadow, an indelible mark on even the most extraordinary of lives. Through the will of another, one can be sliced from existence, travelling from here to not here in a mere whisper of syllables. A magical death bears no honour. There is no heroism in tedium; history is not pieced from sterile disappearances and quick-forgotten ends. Renown is as fickle as the flowers on one's grave.
He will not be forgotten.))
The glimmer of candlelight on steel is mesmerising. I test my blade on the shadow of his hair, twisting shorn strands into a whole and pushing them deep within the folds of my robes. He watches me, trusting my movements. I smile at him, bruise his mouth with lips and tongue and
slide rigid fingers through his naivety. He blinks and accepts my presence, concealing his curiosity within the embrace of his gaze.
I mark the hollow of his neck with my fingertips, dig scarlet brands into the frailty of his flesh. His ingenuity crumples. My heart beats an erratic rhythm as I meet his eyes. Bare confusion morphs and shimmers, lashes sweeping long shadows against his cheeks. His pain sears my consciousness, teases my heartbeats into a cacophony of excitement as I tighten my grasp.
"What are you doing?" he gasps, voice crushed by emotion and the slide and push of my fingers.
"Touching you."
"You're *hurting* me."
"I know."
His eyes widen and he twists roughly from my grasp, panting as he clutches the crumpled fabric of the sheets beneath him. "What's wrong with you?" he whispers as one hand trembles upward to rub at the spreading redness at his neck.
I shrug, lips curling upwards, then retrieve the knife from its resting place on the mattress beside me. "You're going to be famous forever, Harry. One hundred years from now, they'll still be talking about you. Children will learn about you at school; old men will speak of you in the dim corners of their local, rat-infested bar. I won't let them forget you."
He stares at me as if I were insane, eyes flickering from the knife to the growing smirk upon my face. "I don't understand." His voice quivers, brows twitching beneath the dark weight of his fringe.
"I love you." I lean in, placing an arm on either side of his torso and covering his forehead with damp kisses. He remains tense within my embrace, his breath meeting my cheeks in hot, erratic gasps. I smile at his reticence, tangle fingers in his hair and slide my weight across him. He arches beneath me, corrupted by the known seduction, and I taste the frozen curve of his lips. He touches my cheek as if I were everything.
I am not moved by his ambiguity.
His skin is fragile; my knife parts it with whispered strokes. He twitches beneath the insistent pain, muscles cringing from the pressure. "Magic would be too easy, you see," I murmur conversationally, lifting and dividing the fabric of his shirt. "There's no challenge, no irony."
The dichotomy of mingling red-and-white appeals to my aestheticism. My thoughts contract. He is beautiful.
As I cut, the silver of the blade becomes marred with crimson, the trail of my possession blurring and smudging with each careless touch of my hand. He writhes under the weight of my knees, eyes closed as though to block my identity. I bend to trace the lines with my tongue, a metallic
stain colouring my lips as I trace the familiar lines of his ribs with the palm of my left hand.
The Dark Mark suits him.
"When they find you, they'll call it suicide." My tone is even and my hands remain steady. "The papers will be filled with the tragic downfall of everyone's favourite hero. Granger will be torn between tears and disapproval, while Weasley will attempt to mask his jealousy with stoic denial."
"They'll never believe it," he gasps, fingers tightening within the folds of my robes.
"No? Is there really that much difference between fucking the enemy and joining him?" I turn the blade slightly, watching in fascination as a fresh stream of blood oozes thickly from the wound, slowly mixing with the previous trails and becoming indiscernible amongst the crimson.
"I'm meant to be the hero."
"Heroes can be forgotten." I press lips to his chest in a sensual goodbye, red-slicked fingers catching in the damp strands of his hair.
I move so that our faces are aligned, kissing him roughly as I press firmly against my masterpiece, reaching down to slide heated fingers along the dampened flesh of his thigh. My breaths thicken and I moan into his lips, thrusting against him involuntarily as he wraps shaking arms around my waist. His skin is slippery, nauseatingly slick beneath me. The depravity of the situation excites me and I work rigid fingers beneath the stiff fabric of his waistband, clumsiness tangling my efforts to release the buttons of his trousers.
As I touch him, he squirms, twisting beneath me as his arms press ever tighter into my torso. He whispers my name, words bending and succumbing to the seductive slide of tainted metal. I hold him, brand him, wear his soul as if it were my own while his heartbeat screams a challenge in my
mind. My fingers tease him to distraction while I press teeth to his throat and imagine the taste of innocent flesh.
((There is no art in copulation, in the sticky glide of bestial bodies and the chaotic up and down of unhindered desire. The challenge in sex lies within the denial of meaninglessness and the pretence of import. Love is unnecessary. Pure emotions cannot shade the inanity of the claw and drive and groan and shiver; the savagery is infinite. There is no skill in basal instinct.))
He jerks into my embrace, hands clutching my immutability. I smile, close my eyes and press my blade into his side. His moan immerses me, a vocal intertwining of pain and lust and unwanted release. His breathing stops, begins and becomes confused as I twist the knife within him, his
blood coating my fingers with taunting innuendo. My kiss swallows his confusion and I thrust deeper still within him, rending him both inside and out as I tear his thoughts into obscurity. His warmth enfolds me.
I laugh.
He provokes me with pleading fingers and I let the blade drop spent onto the bedclothes. Its shadow spreads and I concentrate on the push and slap of our bodies as he torments me with his gaze. As I climax, I stretch fingers around slippery silver and carve my release into his arm. He curves into me, his stiff-limbed assent tangling in his murmurs and enfolding my sleepy satisfaction within the zenith of his fervour.
Boneless, he kisses me, wraps his tongue around the blade and marks my skin with diluted blood. His gaze cowers and yet he chases a conclusion, teasing me with a stranger's movements as I remember to inhale.
The culmination lingers.
His skin is soft beneath the silken touch of my blade, his blood an intoxicating shadow upon the whiteness of his skin. He seems resigned to the pain, lids heavy as he breathes a tattered acknowledgment of each incision. I press deeper into his flesh, tearing and defiling and sculpting his imperfection. Finally, he understands. His lashes quiver. I look away from the admonition in his eyes.
I kiss his wrists and slide my tongue across the broken lines of his mortality. He twitches beneath the pressure and I smile, raising my head to meet his shattered gaze. As his mouth quivers in an attempt at reciprocation, I make the final cut, watching in fascination as the angles of his face tighten and become surreal. His weakness becomes tangible, rendering him immovable beneath the eternity of my resolve.
Harry's breaths are short, his features tight and grey. "I thought you loved me," he whispers. "You *said* you loved me."
As his eyes begin to glaze over, my smile freezes. "This *is* love."
~ fin ~
© Augustus, 31-08-2002