Thank you again for all the reviews!
This is the last chapter of Building With Worn-Out Tools. I haven't entirely ruled out the possibility of side-stories or sequels, since this story seems to lend itself to them better than A Year's Temptation, but I definitely won't be posting anything new before the DH release, and after it I have a half-dozen plots waiting for me to get back to them, so we'll have to see. Thank you again for reviewing and for the support that helped me feel good about such an odd little story.
Chapter Thirty-Three—Together
Harry hesitated on the threshold of the room Draco had directed him to come to. It was warmer than usual—had he lit a fire?—but it also seemed gloomier, with no trace of light leaking from where Harry knew the hearth to be. He recognized the use of glamours and charms; he just didn't know what use Draco had put them to.
A week ago, or perhaps a week and a half, he would have shivered in distrust, imagining the kinds of traps Draco might want to conceal under those spells. Now his shiver was born mostly of anticipation.
"Harry."
He turned. Draco had emerged from a shadow just behind him, which slid back like a silk curtain to reveal more and more about the room. A round wooden table, small enough that they would practically be bumping elbows if they sat at it, occupied the carpet near the fireplace. Two chairs stood next to the table, but only one large plate on it, bearing steaming bowls of soup. The smell made Harry's mouth water. The color of the room beyond the opened-up scene, which rather reminded Harry of an isolated set in a play, remained soft and red and dark, the color of an inner chamber of the heart.
"Draco," he said, and oh God, did his voice have to go breathy just then? What was wrong with him? He made an effort to cough and master himself, but it wasn't very successful. "What's all this?"
"What I wanted to do," Draco said quietly. His voice didn't help lessen the shivers coursing up and down Harry's spine. "To give you—well. My equivalent of your sudden seduction." He smiled suddenly, dazzlingly, and reached out a hand to hook a curl of Harry's hair behind his ear. Harry found he couldn't move as that hand touched him, and he didn't want to; the odd melting sensation that it spread through the bones of his face was delicious. "Only, being Slytherin, I prefer to move slowly."
He leaned forwards and kissed Harry in a leisurely fashion, the motions of his tongue and lips as slow as the drawing of the shadow that had revealed the table and the fire, but there was nothing patient about the fire it lit in Harry's groin. He tried to step forwards, but Draco laid a hand in the center of his chest and shook his head.
"I'll ask you to trust me," he said.
"Of course I do." Harry made one more effort to close the distance between them, and again found himself restrained. He hissed in frustration. "Would I want to go to bed with you if I didn't trust you?"
"I mean, trust me to arrange things as I like." Draco stepped away and moved towards the table, languid and slow as serpents reluctant to stir themselves from a sun-warmed stone. "A nice meal first, and afterwards—well. Afterwards is afterwards, and does not need to be discussed at dinner." He turned his head and winked, then gave Harry a smile with definite edges to it.
Harry took a deep breath and nodded. The first frantic heat of his arousal had cooled, leaving him still longing but not desperate. Another coil was added to it as he watched Draco gracefully sit down, though, and he decided that he knew what desire was like for the first time.
"I'll try," he said. "But it's your fault if I explode in the meantime, you know."
"I would not wish to spend my evening picking up bits of exploded Gryffindor from my carpet," said Draco, and his voice was soft, with a hint of laughter. Harry had never known he could speak that way; even when he whispered in the courtroom, he conveyed strength, not gentleness. But here, there was—Harry sought for a word that would identify it. Ease, maybe. Relaxation.
Draco trusted him enough to lower his guard around him.
Harry felt honored and humbled, both at once.
"I suspect you'd make your house-elves do it," he retorted, sitting down on the opposite side of the table. He glanced again at the large plate and the bowls of soup, and this time identified a charm he couldn't remember seeing before on the spoons. He blinked and looked more closely. "What's this magic?"
Draco only picked up a spoon and began to eat, leaving Harry to sigh and follow suit
Draco tried not to let the heady surge of perfect confidence soaring through him throw his balance off. Yes, he felt good enough to drag Harry down on the carpet and have him right now—and Harry would probably let him. But that would be succumbing to the same impatience that had ruled them the last time they were together. Draco did want to hesitate, take his time, and assert the slower methods of seduction that were his specialty.
It had been Harry's turn last time. Now it was his.
He watched as Harry took his first swallow of the soup, closing his eyes in bliss at the taste. Draco casually took a second sip, and Harry choked, his eyes flying wide, though by some miracle he didn't spit soup everywhere.
"Draco?" he whispered.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Draco admonished, turning his words slow like honey. "It's rude." He took another sip, and this time Harry let his eyes drift shut and just sighed.
The spell on the spoons let a person feel the second spoon inside his mouth, at least as long as his dinner companion was eating at the same time, and also taste what he tasted. Thus the thick, redolent taste of the soup, meat scattered with spices that Draco didn't know half the names of—why would he, when he had house-elves to do all the cooking?—and flavored with a touch of sweetness not unlike flowers, was redoubled. And if Draco moved the spoon a certain way against his tongue…
"You are a bastard sometimes," Harry said. He made sure to enunciate clearly, since this time he had been polite and swallowed it all.
"So comforting to have one's essential nature recognized," Draco said, and then reached out and captured Harry's chin, briefly kissing him. It was much less than either of them wanted, since Harry sought his mouth the moment he drew back and Draco sheered off on an edge of pure yearning that made his stomach feel as warm as the soup. But he sat back and smiled when Harry tried to crawl over the table and into his lap. "The difference between dinner and afterwards, remember?" he asked.
Harry would probably give some dignified name to his own expression if he could see it right now, Draco thought, amused. A manly sulk, perhaps. He didn't care. To him, it was a pout, and pouts were inherently amusing.
Then Harry had the bright idea to use his spoon in certain ways that were both intriguing to watch and made the inside of Draco's mouth tingle and spark. He simply smiled, though, and refused to be rushed. The true art of any Slytherin, as his mother had once taught him in saner days, was to convince one's prey that he wanted to walk into the serpent's lair of his own free will.
Harry, of course, was practically panting for it, but that wasn't good enough. Draco wanted him incoherent with need by the time the meal was over.
Harry was sure that Draco had designed every move he made during dinner to be another nail in the coffin of torture.
The way he ate was sinful. The way he moved his arms was sinuous. His replies to every question Harry asked him—which weren't many, since he was concentrating on his meal and the sensations in his mouth and groin and his plan to try and overwhelm Draco—were sibilant. It was when Harry found himself staring fixedly at the way Draco had turned his head, though, and the way the firelight flickered soft reds along his skin as if it were translucent, that he realized something.
Either Draco had used many more charms than Harry thought he had, and so subtly that he couldn't sense them—
Or he was just helplessly fascinated with everything the bastard did because he was Draco.
From the way his arousal flared again, he thought it was the last. He had filled his belly with as much soup as he could, and now he set aside the bowl and the spoon, hands shaking. It wasn't food he wanted, and the growing hunger he felt now both frightened and humbled him. He hadn't known he could feel like this. Draco turned a smile on him, and he actually whimpered. The smile promised much and gave little, but that didn't matter; it filled Harry's head with the thoughts of all he could receive, and the muscles in his groin tightened until he was almost in physical pain.
"Oh, please," he whispered, and leaned across the table for another kiss.
As before, Draco caught his head gently, with a grip so light it said that Harry could break away at any time. He was here of his own free choice, not because Draco had coerced him. And Harry tried to use his lips to say he knew that, Draco had proved his bloody point, could they get on with it?
But Draco still did not get on with it.
Instead, he combed his fingers through Harry's hair, his touch sure and searching. Harry realized he must have remembered how Harry reacted to caresses of that kind when they were having unsatisfactory sex, and then—
Then his back arched, and he moaned as Draco found a place. His magic purred in approval in his ear, and Harry opened one eye to see them both surrounded by a cascade of moving blue-purple sparks. That had never happened with Ginny, either.
But Draco's fingers were destroying his ability to concentrate. One hand moved through his hair, the other over his jaw, and fuck, even that felt good, a light and ordinary touch, as though his face had become an erogenous zone in turn. And all the while, his lips were stroked, now and again, by Draco's darting and retreating mouth.
"Please," he said, or thought he said. It might have been rather hard to understand the moan spilling from his lips just then. "Please, Draco." He shifted in his seat, only restrained from moving closer for fear that he would upset the table and the bowls. "I'm ready. I'm ready."
God, Harry was magnificent.
Draco could feel a series of small, pleasant shocks where Harry's magic fluttered and crossed over him. The restrained strength in it excited him further. Harry could break free at any time, if he decided he wanted to; all it would take was a slight push from manifested magic that powerful, and Draco would go flying across the room. He would never be helpless, at least not against an opponent concentrating on him. Draco knew that one could take his heart and twist it by putting someone else in danger.
But here he was, strength surrendered, muscles practically quivering against Draco's hands not with the need to break free but with the need to lie down, rendered incoherent—yes, incoherent, because he was trying to speak now and couldn't—by a few touches.
And he wouldn't be like this for just anyone, Draco thought, the smugness a solid thing his mouth, like a warm biscuit he could taste. He's this way because I'm touching him, and he desires me so much.
He had planned another diversion after the meal, a massage, but that had assumed Harry wouldn't react as well to the meal as he had. He was gone now, but he could only be pushed so far, and Draco didn't want the evening upended because Harry had got impatient.
Or, worse, cut short. From the small squirming motions Harry was making in his chair and the way his hand had started to edge down his leg, he might do something to satisfy his intense need before Draco could stop him.
He dropped his hand from Harry's jaw to take his wrist, turned his hand upright, and planted a kiss in the middle of the palm, provoking another moan. Then he turned his head and whispered into Harry's ear, even as he made the gesture with his shoulder that Seeky and Heeky knew meant he wanted the table taken away. "Lie down."
Harry did not so much obey as sink to the floor with his arms around Draco and in Draco's arms. Draco decided, as he dropped down chest-to-chest with Harry and let his face roll against his neck, every motion bringing up a stinging sensitivity along his skin, that he approved of this interpretation of his instructions.
Harry was nearly giddy. For a moment, he had veered dangerously close to a premature release, but now he was back in a softened, sense-heightened world, made better by the knowledge that Draco would take care of him.
And wasn't that a wonderful thing to know? Harry didn't think he'd trusted someone like this, ever. There had been occasions during Hogwarts and the war when his very existence depended on what Ron and Hermione did, and he had trusted them to do it without hesitation, but that was a matter of life and death. Faith in his friends was a necessity there. Here, it was a luxury. He could have changed his mind, could have backed away, or could have refused to play this game and tried to have sex with Draco exactly the way they'd last done it.
He didn't want to, though. The range of possible options was there, and that was enough. For right now, he wanted to let Draco do as he liked.
Draco carefully straightened his limbs away from his body, motions that felt as slow and heavy as if they were in a dream. Harry opened his eyes at one point and surprised an expression of intense, tender concentration on Draco's face, as if he were Arguing the case of someone he dearly loved. He was not smiling, but his mouth was slightly parted, and he didn't even notice Harry's gaze. Harry arched his head back and let his eyes fall shut again, because he could.
Draco murmured a charm, and his clothes vanished. Harry wondered idly for a moment if Draco would leave him naked and himself clothed, to reverse what Harry had done the other day, but he repeated the charm a second time, and then lay down on top of him, skin to skin.
Warmth flared everywhere, and Harry's magic responded like lightning called to a lightning rod, looping and spiraling out of his body in gleaming chains that, when he opened his eyes again, competed with the firelight. The sparks had changed to a complete purple, the color of tropical seas at twilight, and they rocked and swayed and surged slowly, now gathering, now fading.
Draco stretched his limbs along Harry's, and laid his face against Harry's cheek. For long moments, Harry was content to feel that, and more than content; a soaring, muted joy filled him, and any comparison he might have made to lovemaking with Ginny was burned to ashes.
Then Draco sat back on his heels. Harry watched him with hazy eyes, saw his hair and skin catch an edge of rose in the firelight, and felt his desire ascend one more point when Draco whispered a spell he had reason to recognize.
Draco was trembling.
He did not want to be trembling. It made it inconvenient to pick up his wand, for one thing, and whisper the spell, for another. And it was silly, anyway, to know that he was trembling because of a lover. He'd taken plenty of people to bed, plenty of times, and some of them after a build-up as slow and careful as the one he'd arranged with Harry.
But none of them had been Harry.
His own playfulness had come back to haunt him. He was at least as desperate now, and had to fight the temptation simply to reach down, take himself in hand, and stroke to completion just so he could concentrate, which had never, ever happened before. His mouth watered, and he concentrated for a long moment before he spoke the spell, because, damn it, Malfoys did not drool.
And then he saw the expression on Harry's face when he felt the spell wash through him, relaxing any muscles that might have managed to remain tense, and he knew he had been right to wait. He couldn't have appreciated this, otherwise.
He reached out, threaded his fingers through Harry's hair, and tugged, tilting his head to one side to bare his throat. He didn't know why he needed to make the gesture, just that he needed to, and he wasn't about to question his impulses right now.
Harry gave him a glorious smile before letting his head fall limply to the side, relaxed, trusting.
Draco stooped down and licked the side of his throat before he began to ease his fingers into Harry. And with every finger, he watched the expression on his face change.
One finger, and Harry caught his breath and furrowed his brow, as if he'd just had an idea that had never occurred to him before. Draco used the hand in his hair to soothe him before stroking with the finger, and Harry relaxed. The purple chains of sparks encircling them, which had frozen for a moment, went back to swirling around him and Draco in dancing rings of light, and Draco knew for the first time that pleased magic felt like a hand in the middle of his back, warmer than the fire.
Two fingers, and Harry made a soft "hmmm" sound, and lines that Draco hadn't even noticed around his mouth relaxed. He wriggled a bit and pressed backwards, and Draco surprised himself by chuckling.
"Soon enough," he promised, and Harry's eyes opened. The pleasure in them was not merely physical, but delight in his company, and Draco felt a smile of simple, giddy happiness break across his face.
"I know," Harry answered, and Draco maneuvered himself down so that he could kiss Harry, carefully, before he returned to his previous position.
Three fingers, and Harry gasped and turned his head to kiss along Draco's arm, his lips spilling small murmurs of excitement. His face had flushed more deeply again, and his green eyes shimmered with the black of arousal. The spark-chains danced up and down like restless snakes. Draco thought it was a good thing that he didn't find serpents intimidating.
Four fingers, and Harry said, through gritted teeth, "I know you wanted to do this your way, but you found my prostate a minute ago, and I think we've both had enough foreplay, don't you?" And his glaring eyes pierced Draco like a stake.
Draco said, "If you insist," and waited until Harry nodded. Then he carefully cast one more spell, this time to smear his own erection, and tossed the wand to the side so they wouldn't roll on it.
Then he eased inside his lover for the first time—
And it was heaven, and that was no hyperbole.
If anyone had asked Harry a month ago if he would be eager to have someone else stick his cock up his arse, he would have stared at them, before laughing and saying no. Or perhaps he would have hexed them, and then yelled no.
But oh God, now, it was all he wanted, and he wondered dazedly through the filling-up how Draco had managed to wait so long—either just now, or in the bedroom the other day when Harry had made him wait and wait and wait before he entered him.
This was a more intense variation of the same feeling Harry had had since Draco had laid him down: that Draco was taking intimacies Harry allowed him, that he would have stopped if Harry had said he should stop, that this was not something it was necessary to add every time they made love—
But when it was added—
It was wonderful.
There was some pain, of course, but Harry let the reminder that it was Draco doing these things, making him feel these things, drown the pain, and then the fingers curled in his hair tugged again, and he gasped something about moving, and Draco began, finally, to act a bit impatient himself as he did.
Harry's fingers scrambled and clawed across the carpet. Every move inside made him more and more aware of what he'd given up and taken in, and the fact that Draco was holding his trust carefully and returning it full measure. And every single thrust built the arousal until it felt as if it were bleeding out his pores.
Or perhaps that was just his magic—Harry could see it dissipating into the rest of the room in a blue-purple haze when he forced his eyes open—or his happiness.
He felt happy at the sensation of Draco pushing into him, doing nothing he had not invited. He felt happy at the sight of Draco, his eyes gone more than unguarded; they were completely defenseless, as he gasped and sweat dripped down his forehead and his cheeks flushed and his shoulders flexed. He felt happy at the sounds they were making—he was making?—wet skin and broken groans and half-choked sobs.
He shifted his hips up to meet Draco's then, and changed the rhythm with a single clench of his muscles. Draco shuddered and began to move faster, and again there was pain that the pleasure swept away. Harry wondered for a moment just who was stronger here, who was winning.
We both are.
He let out a laugh Draco couldn't have possibly mistaken for a jeer, and then reached down his body to capture his erection. His desire found a new direction now, and he matched his pulls to Draco's strokes, and then a third element was added as Draco's hand came down, rested on top of, and joined his, and perhaps a fourth, as Harry thought the dance of his flooding magic might be timed to their lovemaking, too.
Oh, God, he felt on top of the world. Free from Ginny, free from the depression that had kept him motionless at home for so long, free from the uncertainty that had troubled his future.
And all of that, Draco had given him.
He looked up through eyes sheened with adoration at Draco's face sheened with heat, and hoped his declaration wouldn't be taken any less seriously for the time at which he said it.
"I love you," he mouthed, and then his back bowed.
He came with a cry of pure joy.
For such a great orgasm, Draco had almost no memory of it. He knew he'd come, knew it had been tremendous, but his mind was filled with the shapes of lips moving and the look in Harry's eyes.
You're being a sap, stop it, his mind scolded him, but there were things more important right now than listening to that part of his mind.
"You meant it?" he whispered to Harry, as Harry lay exhausted on the carpet in front of the fire and Draco lay exhausted on top of him.
Harry turned his head and caught his lips in answer, and, just as he had said, he was better with actions than with words. Draco knew.
"I—I love you too," he whispered back. His voice was nerveless, because it was one thing to use words to defend another person in the courtroom, and another entirely to admit something he could use to shatter you.
"I know how hard that was for you to say," Harry murmured into his ear, drawing back. "Thank you."
No questions about whether he meant it. Harry's trust was gained.
Draco let his head fall against Harry's shoulder, still shuddering with small quivers that were not the aftershocks of orgasm. Harry rolled over so he could wrap his arms around him, and his magic formed a cocoon of power on top of that which cradled them both.
Never would he have suspected that an ordinary divorce case could bring him so much.
Draco lay still until the shivers subsided entirely. Then he said, because he was good with words, "I think there's no use in talking about an ending of this bond any time soon, then?"
Harry's hand, stroking his spine, never paused. "Not only no time soon," he said. "Never, if I have anything to say about it."
Draco snaked an arm around his shoulders, pulled him close, and held him tightly. The firelight softened Draco's senses; he closed his eyes and basked in the warmth of the hearth and their mingled body heat.
Equal, then. Each feeling and doing as much as the other does, at last.
Together.
The end.