Harry kissed Ginny good night, watching as she ascended the steps to the girls' dormitory. Ron had already gone up to their dorm and the Gryffindor common room was empty this late at night as he snuck quietly out the portrait hole.

Ron already knew not to expect him, as Harry had taken to sleeping in the Room of Requirement at night, ostensibly for the peace and quiet (for both him and his dorm-mates; his nightmares still plague him occasionally, and he can never remember to cast a silencing charm on his curtains), but truthfully to ease the suspicion of his nights out with Malfoy, in case they don't make it back to their Houses afterwards. Either way it was actually rather comfortable, and Harry had gotten used to Malfoy's rooms, with its massive bed and gloriously private en-suite.

He hadn't bothered to tell Ginny about his new sleeping arrangements.

Guilt plagued him, as it had for the last week or so, to be honest, and he rubbed at the tension in his shoulders as he deposited his rucksack by the door and toed off his shoes before padding his way to the bedroom, dropping face first onto the mattress.

He didn't know what was wrong.

He knew this thing with Malfoy had gotten out of hand, but he didn't know what to do about it, and it had started to affect his relationship with Ginny.

In the beginning, the whole thing felt like... an obligation. Like, any other thing Harry'd had to do for the sake of this war. It was business, not pleasure. It had nothing to do with his relationship with Ginny, because he liked Ginny. He fancied Ginny; wanted to be with her. He didn't want to be with Malfoy. He just wanted to get him off so he'd give him the information he wanted.

Except that Malfoy hadn't told him anything for the last few weeks.

Except that the information he had gotten was almost completely unrelated to the upcoming war and was, essentially no help. He had no more or less information about the Dark side than when he'd started, no further clues into Malfoy's task.

And yet, once a week without fail, Harry would disappear from his bed and meet up with him in the Room of Requirement for sex, and Harry had nothing to show for it, nothing to gain from it but the dubious pleasure of shagging Malfoy.

The whole thing felt wrong now, and it wasn't fair to Ginny. He knew he loved Ginny; felt it in his heart that it was true. And he didn't love Malfoy, but every day without fail his mind turned to the blond git. His eyes, his attention strayed from Ginny to the other boy in a way that he knew was wrong and Harry just didn't understand why.

He didn't know what to do about it.

He didn't want to hurt Ginny, who was innocent in this whole matter. He didn't know if he should break up with her, and if so why. He couldn't very well tell her about the whole situation with Malfoy; she'd never understand his reasons (which now sounded less than genuine at best, and at worse like an outright lie, to both Ginny and himself). He couldn't tell her that he didn't love her any more because that wasn't true, either.

He didn't want to tell her that he could only get off at night when he had three fingers shoved up his arse, and the image of a hard body holding him down making him take it bright in his mind's eye.

He didn't think he was gay. He'd never thought of other blokes that way before; never thought of Malfoy that way before, and he'd tried to imagine it, replace the Slytherin in his mind with one of his interchangeable house-mates, but inevitably his mind turned back to Draco, like it did all the time anyway, so that wasn't a definitive answer, and anyway he couldn't be gay, because he loved Ginny. He'd fucked Ginny, and it was good! Great, even!

They'd had sex twice since that day under the bleachers, and though Harry'd been afraid he wouldn't enjoy it any more (going by his masturbatory habits), it'd been fine. Harry got off and Ginny'd got off; even if it wasn't perfect.

Kissing was still nice, as well.

Though that was part of the problem, he thought.

Kissing Ginny was nice but it didn't make him feverish, didn't blank his mind and turn him on like kissing Malfoy did, no matter how hot and heavy he and Ginny sometimes got.

The love bites he left on Ginny's pale and freckled cleavage didn't leave him with the same sense of satisfaction he got when he looked at Malfoy's claims, still dark under their glamours after being renewed, like Malfoy was afraid to let them fade.

Even now, Harry blushed as he prods at them with his fingers, revelling in the dull ache.

He didn't know what about them he liked so much, what set these bruises apart from every other bruise and love bite.

They were undeniably possessive, but he wasn't sure Ginny (the marks had been hers, originally) meant it that way, so much as she had just wanted to... explore. Not like Malfoy, who treated the bruises like a brand, or a collar claiming Harry for his own, like Harry was something to be conquered and taken.

Still Harry couldn't bring himself to heal them. He couldn't deny that he liked the idea of being wanted enough that someone would stake possession of him. That he could be fought for even when he was already there, and be left reminders when he wasn't. Maybe it was just a lingering insecurity on his part, but Harry liked the reminders, though they both knew that Harry didn't, would never belong to Malfoy, especially when he was already with Ginny.

Still, Ginny took it for granted that Harry was hers. Ginny didn't fight to take what she wanted, like Malfoy did. She didn't take the lead when Harry didn't do something the way she liked, or demand his attention when he was caught up in his own head.

Harry liked how forceful and demanding Malfoy was, though logically he thought he should be angered and annoyed by that, should think him a spoilt, controlling prick. But the truth was that those actions reassured him in a way he didn't quite understand. Like if Malfoy wasn't demanding of him, if he didn't take Harry into his own hands, then...

It was almost like he wasn't there at all.

It wasn't The Boy Who Lived who bore these bruises, it was Harry.

He didn't know how he knew, but Malfoy didn't see him as that celebrity persona that the public seemed to think of him as. Malfoy didn't have any expectations set for him, except that Harry show up on time and follow his directions. Malfoy wasn't surprised or disappointed by anything Harry did because he didn't expect Harry to be anything other than what he was.

Harry wasn't going to disappoint Malfoy, because Malfoy was the one calling all the shots. Harry couldn't do anything wrong if he was doing exactly as he was told. It wasn't like with the Dursleys, who were disappointed with Harry no matter what he did, or like his "fans", who would always be disenchanted when they realised that he wasn't up to the standards they held him to, or who refused to see his failures at all like nothing he did even mattered.

It wasn't like with Ginny who didn't tell him what she wanted from him.

Ginny was so strong and capable and assertive, and she took what she wanted, except that she wouldn't actually take what she wanted from him.

When they'd had sex, he'd followed her lead but it wasn't what she wanted. He'd tried to make her feel good, and she turned it back on him, like that wasn't the whole point of everything. It wasn't as if Harry had been held against his will, of course he'd gotten satisfaction out of pleasing his girlfriend, but Ginny had wanted more from him and Harry didn't know how to give it to her.

She says she wants him to "take what he wants", but when Ginny let him take the lead, he can practically feel her dissatisfaction when he doesn't do what she wanted, like nothing he did was enough for her.

He knew that he wasn't doing right by Ginny by drawing out this thing with Malfoy, that he wasn't giving her the attention she deserved (though in his defence, he does have a lot on his plate right now), but even when he was he couldn't be what she wanted him to be.

He didn't know what to do about it.

He sighed and cast a Tempus charm which showed it to be a quarter after midnight.

The Gryffindor frowned curiously. It was unusual for Malfoy to be so late. He half wished the other boy didn't show, but school was ending in a week anyway and anything between them would be well and truly over by then, so Harry saw no further harm in meeting the Slytherin one last time. In for a penny, and all that.

When everything was done and over with, maybe Harry could fix this thing with Ginny.

In the meantime, Harry rolled off the bed and wandered back out into the sitting room, digging through his bag for the Marauders' Map.

Pulling out the blank, yellowed parchment, the Gryffindor pressed his wand-tip to the folded crease and recited the pass-phrase and watched the ink bleed into existence before unfolding the map. As late as it was, most everyone was in bed, few dots straying from the clusters of the dorms. Harry's eyes tracked the movement of Filch and Mrs. Norris' footprints (and paw-prints, respectively), stalking down the kitchen corridor in the basement, catching a group of what appeared to be Hufflepuffs (he recognised Annabel Entwhistle's name, anyway, and vaguely recalled being surprised to learn that Kevin's sister had been sorted into Hufflepuff instead of Ravenclaw like her sibling), and sending them scurrying back into their dorms.

As Filch and his cat moved on, Harry resumed scrying the page until he found Malfoy tucked away in the prefect's bathroom. Huffing, he rolled his eyes. Who takes a bath at midnight? And Malfoy gets on his arse for being a few minutes late.

Keeping watch on Filch's progress through the castle, Harry slipped out of the Room and padded barefoot down to the fifth floor.

He'd been here for over an hour now, but he couldn't bring himself to get out.

Draco wrapped his arms around his legs, bringing his chin down to rest on his knees, the water, charmed and steaming even after all this time, comes up to just under his nose.

It would be nothing to just slip under.

Surely his parents couldn't be punished if he died before completing his task? People die all the time, they'll say it was an accident – that he tripped and hit his head while he was bathing, nothing to be done for it. That way it wouldn't be his fault. Wouldn't be his father's fault. There'd be nothing to punish them for.

And wouldn't it be better for everyone if he weren't there to fuck things up?

Better for Dumbledore, certainly. Better for the school if the cabinet stays broken and the Death Eaters stay out.

Though, to be fair, nobody's getting in through that bloody cabinet anyway, because there's no way Draco is going to be able to fix it on time.

School ends on the twenty-third and it's already the fourteenth. He has barely over a week to do what he hasn't been able to do in nine months. It's not going to happen.

He's already failed.

He's living on borrowed time at this point – not that he hasn't all year long, anyway, but it's one thing to have the threat hanging above ones head and quite another to know that in a fortnight's time he-

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, tears stinging his eyes as his pulse races in his ears. He knew that if he weren't already sitting, he'd have fallen. His hands shook when he pushed them into his wet hair, sitting up to ease the pressure on his diaphragm so he could catch his breath, but he couldn't.

He felt like the world is crashing down around him, literally. Like the whole of the atmosphere was smothering him, suffocating him, and all he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears and his desperate, heaving breaths, (fat lot of good they're doing him, because he still couldn´t breathe) and he thought his heart might actually explode, judging from how tight his chest was. Irrationally, through the haze of panic, he wondered if it would be the heart attack or the suffocation that did him in, and how ironic it would be that he'll die in the bath before he gets the chance to drown himself.

He didn't know how long he sat in limbo, feeling like he was dying with his chest burning and his scalp likely bloody from how hard he was digging his nails in, but at some point things got quiet again. He could still hear his heart beating in his chest, but it was in his chest now, and not pounding on his eardrums. His lips were tingling with too much oxygen and he gasped, breath catching, finally, and he exhaled on a sob and then he couldn't seem to stop.

He had never been a loud crier, but his whole body shook, trembling, and the tension cramped his stomach. He moaned, wailing but the sound is false, like he's crying for attention and there's nobody around to act for, no one he wants to pay attention to him now of all times, and the effort gave him no relief, but there's so much fear and fucking despair pent up inside him, a year's worth, and the crying's just not enough, honestly he just wanted to scream until his throat was bloody, or his voice died, whichever comes first.

His eyes were clenched too tight and it was giving him a headache, and this crying lark wasn't cathartic at all, no matter what the Hufflepuffs will tell you. It wasn't relieving the stress he'd been carrying all year, nor the fear that still sat heavily in his stomach.

Draco held his breath, tried to cease the onslaught of tears because he's too depressed even for this. The bath was no longer comforting, and he knows that he's too much of a fucking coward to actually kill himself, so he wipes the tears from his red eyes, blinking them away to try to clear his vision and hiccoughing, heaves himself up out of the water because he needs a bloody drink.

Harry checked the map to make sure the coast was clear, looking both ways down the corridor just in case, then shrugged off the cloak and stuffed the map into the pocket of his trousers. Then, whispering the password to the Prefect's Bathroom, he went inside, angrily searching for the Slytherin who´d stood him up.

And then he found him.

Sat in the bath, both arms stretched along the top steps of the tub, a half empty handle of firewhiskey in one hand, cork nowhere to be seen. In the other hand, a forgotten cigarette, dripping ash onto a well-established mound of ash and filters.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, bemused concern churning in his stomach.

The blond lolled his head back, head turning bonelessly to glance behind him, and ice trickled down Harry's veins at the red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks, looking so reminiscent of that day so many weeks ago that the Gryffindor nearly flinched. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, and a sloppy smirk graced his face as he slurred his greeting.

"'lo, Darling," he drawled flirtatiously, pulling a drag off his cigarette. He leaned his head back to exhale then drunkenly laid his head down on the tile, peering up at Harry from upside-down. "'Ave you come f'ra bath s'well?" He asked, blinking up at him sluggishly.

"Um," Harry answered vaguely, blushing at the endearment and unsure how to handle the situation. "No, I- I was looking for you. We had a, um. We were supposed to meet up at midnight. It's, uh, almost half past now. I was worried." He winced, thankful that Malfoy wasn't sober to witness that particular display of eloquency.

"Oh," Draco's eyes were wide, his lips rounded in a perfect little circle. "'M sorry, Haarrry, I forgot. D'you want me to suck you off?" The blond sounded so earnestly sorrowful that Harry almost said yes, if only just to make the boy feel better, but decided against it.

"No, that's okay, Draco. I´m good. Um. Are you... okay?" He awkwardly reached up to scratch his neck, the hair on his nape curling up frizzly in the damp humidity. God, he could barely handle his own emotions, let alone someone else's. He desperately wanted to avoid what happened last time he'd caught Draco in a vulnerable position, but somehow more than the underlying fear of starting a fight and breaking their fragile truce, he was simply uncomfortable seeing the Slytherin in such a position in the first place. Draco's arrogant, self-assured confidence, annoying as it was, was one of the few consistencies in Harry's life that he could count on, and to see him so out of sorts...

His discomfort and worry only grew as Draco let out an hysterical giggle. "Am I okay?!" he repeated incredulously. "Do I fucking look okay? I'm-" he pushed himself back up, waving erratically as if to encompass the entire situation, unable to form the right words.

Harry bit his lip, flinching at the outburst. "No, you don't," he conceded. "Sorry, I just-" he sighed, carefully approaching the volatile boy who was now looking irritably over his shoulder at him. "What's wrong?" he asked, trying to call on his inner-Hermione as he sat on the floor beside the blond.

Draco scoffed. "What's not wrong? 've got a week to- you know- 'n' so either I fail'n he kills me, or I succeed an' I'll deserve it. So'm damned if I do and damned'f I don't, aren't I? Either way I'm not coming out of this war alive." He sighed, sliding closer and laying his head on Harry's knee, his wet hair dampening his trousers. "Neither one of us are."

Harry's heart stopped. What did Draco know...? "Why do you say that?" he asked cautiously, hand stroking Draco's soft hair, already drying messily.

Draco curled his fingers around Harry's ankle. "Cos nobody puts a teenager on the front lines if they want them to survive. We're too young, Harry. We dunno what the fuck we're doing. There's no way anyone could expect us to make it out alive. They're setting us up for failure. S'why it doesn't matter what side we're on. Doesn't matter that you're the fucking in- inca- poster boy of the 'Light' side, or whatever the fuck, or that I'm a fucking Death Eater," he waved his bare arm, "cos neither one of us is meant to fucking survive this fucking war, so who the fuck even cares what side we're on?"

Harry's breath was coming in harder, because drunken rant or not, he wasn't wrong. Harry wasn't exactly expecting to come out the other side of this.

Still...

"You don't know that," Harry denied desperately, but Draco just looked at him pityingly, expression soft and fond in a way the Gryffindor had never seen.

Draco sat up fully, skin steaming in the cooler air as he fit his palm to Harry's cheek, tugging him closer. He pressed his forehead against Harry's temple, knocking into him harder than he probably intended, but Harry didn't complain, his nose nuzzling under Harry's ear.

"I don't want you to die, Harry."

His breath was soft and warm against Harry's jaw, his words barely audible. Harry could smell the smoke and whiskey on his breath but he didn't mind. His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut, hand squeezing Draco's wrist like a vice. He shook his head, but didn't elaborate on what he was refusing.

He didn't know.

The whole situation, probably.

He didn't want Draco to die either.

"Harry?" Draco mumbled into his skin.

"Yeah?" Harry answered.

Draco turn Harry's face toward him, bumping their noses together. "Make me feel like someone else."

Harry nodded, 'cause, yeah, his head still moving even as he pressed his lips to Draco's, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, scrabbling to bring him closer still. Draco licked into his mouth, thumb stroking Harry's cheek. He messily kissed down Harry's neck, tugging on the collar of his shirt.

"Take this off," he demanded without removing his mouth, and Harry obeyed eagerly, knocking Draco's hands away to loosen his tie and attack the buttons of his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders before tugging off his trainers.

Draco smoothed a soft hand (where were his broom callouses?!) up Harry's ribs, and Harry moaned.

"Where're your bruises?" Draco asked, brow furrowing as he noticed the brunets pristine throat, bare of the marks he'd worked so hard not to let fade these past few weeks.

"What?" Harry asked breathlessly, confused before realising what the problem was. "Oh," he said, reaching for his wand to take down the glamours he'd carefully cast on himself each morning. The hickies were fading to yellow in the centres, the vivid purple ringed around the edges. They no longer smarted when he pressed on them, but he liked to look at them in the mornings before glamouring them, careful not to acknowledge to himself why he refused to let them heal.

"Oh, there they are," Draco sighed happily, pressing sweet, soft kisses to the topmost bruise before latching onto it and bringing the blood back to the surface.

"Don't get rid of them," he pleaded, nipping Harry's jugular with his teeth.

"I won't," Harry promised, and he wouldn't, hadn't yet.

"Mine," Draco claimed possessively, and though Harry wasn't sure whether he was referring to the hickies or to Harry himself, the Gryffindor agreed.

"Yours," Harry surrendered.

If this was all going to end in a week, he might as well make the most of it.

"Draco," Harry moaned, trying to get the blond's attention. "Draco, wait, wait!" he pushed the other boy away, and Draco snarled.

"What?!"

"Shh," Harry kissed him quellingly. "Lemme get my trousers off," he explained, and Draco blinked before his eyes widened in comprehension.

Draco nodded and Harry scrabbled to his feet, not even bothering to unfasten his fly, just tugging his trousers down his skinny hips, peeling his socks off as he let the fabric pool at his feet. Rather than sitting back down, the Gryffindor stepped into the charmed, warm water. He stepped over Draco's legs before falling to his knees, straddling the blond and seating himself into his lap.

The Slytherin growled hungrily and squeezed Harry's ass, pulling them flush. Neither of them were hard yet, but Harry could feel himself fattening and he rutted into Draco's soft length, reaching one hand down to tug it to fullness as Draco claimed his mouth again.

Harry's tongue moved to the rhythm of his hips, rocking in desperate pulses, wrapping his hand around them both.

Draco reached one hand down, sliding his fingers into the crease of Harry's ass, two pruned fingertips rubbing at the tight furl of his hole.

Harry groaned, pushing back against the probing digits which never dipped inside. Draco just kept up the maddening, external massage, teasing the Gryffindor ad insaniam.

"Draco, are you gonna fuck me or not?" the brunet demanded, mouth smearing along Draco's jaw as his tongue dipped and tasted the sweat and bath water that dotted his skin.

"Hmmmm," the other hummed, nosing into Harry's curls, "d'you want me to?"

Harry groaned, cock thick and throbbing now, hard as it slid wetly along Draco's own length. "Yes!" he hissed desperately, canting his hips back, chasing the sweet pressure of the blond's fingers as they teased his rim.

"Say it," Draco growled.

"Fuck me, Draco!" the Slytherin nipped his ear.

"Say that you want it."

Harry raised his head, glared into Draco's hazy grey eyes, more focused now than they were before. "I want you," he intoned deliberately, "to fuck me." He rutted up against the other boy as he spoke, drawing a choked moan out of Draco's throat.

"Again," the blond nearly begged.

"I want you-!" Draco inhaled, clenching his eyes shut as his fingers dug into Harry's hips, and the Gryffindor caught on. Harry leaned in closer, nuzzling his nose along Draco's.

"I want you, Draco," he said softly, words breaking with lust and emotion. "Please."

The words tipped him over, and Draco slicked his hand wandlessly (and Harry had to wonder just how often the other boy wanked that that bit of wandless, non-verbal magic came to him effortlessly in spite of how drunk he still was) and delved two of his long fingers into Harry's tight channel.

Harry gasped, choking out a cry as Draco opened him up too much too fast, but the Gryffindor wasn't about to complain, not when Draco was licking back into his mouth, free hand roaming his body nearly reverently as a third finger insinuated itself into his hole.

Too soon for Harry's actual comfort, but not nearly quickly enough, Draco reached down to stroke himself, spreading the slick along his shaft before positioning himself at Harry's opening.

After a few false starts, Draco's alcohol-ridden mind having lost some of it's fine motor skills, Harry decides to take matters into his own hands.

"Let me," he offers, pushing up on his knees and reaching back to take hold of Draco's prick. He wrapped his fingers around Draco's own, both of them holding him in place as Harry sank down onto it, drawing two simultaneous moans as Harry engulfed him.

Harry pulled his arm back, wrapping it around Draco's shoulders for leverage, Draco's fingers staying between his crack, feeling around the place where they're connected. The blond makes no effort to take control, but Harry is actually confident this time that he knows exactly how Draco likes it, and with that the brunet heaves himself back up before dropping down, feeling each millimetre of friction inside him, his eyelashes fluttering with the sensation. Draco's mouth opens on a shallow gasp. He never breaks contact with Harry's eyes, silver boring into green, and Harry can't look away, couldn't even if he wanted to.

From his position, Harry wasn't able to find the pace that Draco usually set during their trysts, instead settling for quick, shallow rocking, but Draco didn't seem to mind. Instead, the Slytherin pulled him closer, Harry's cock rubbing wetly against Draco's soft belly, forehead against Draco's as they panted into each other's mouths.

It was overwhelming like this, unable to lose himself to the feel of Draco inside him, too focused on the boy himself.

"Say it again," Draco whispered against his lips.

"I want you," Harry obliged, and he wasn't just humouring the other boy. Though Harry wasn't yet ready to sort out his feelings on the subject; may never get the chance to later for it to matter, right then, at that moment, there wasn't anywhere else Harry wanted to be, nor anyone else he wanted to be with.

"Draco," he whimpered, and Draco finally joined him, squaring his feet on the stone floor of the basin and thrusting upward, meeting Harry as he moved back.

Soon, that wasn't enough, and Harry raised himself up, wrapping his arms tightly around Draco's neck as he held himself flush, hiding his face in Draco's messy hair as Draco pounded up into him.

Harry nearly missed his own orgasm. It hit him gently, and though he released he felt no need to stop, happy then to continue on as long as Draco needed him. The Gryffindor nosed down Draco's temple, kissing beneath his sweaty fringe and down his sharp cheekbone (the boy was pointy, but not, Harry acknowledged privately, in an unattractive way).

"Come for me," Harry said. "Come in me, please," he murmured against the boy's pale skin, flushed though it was with drink, sex, and emotion.

Draco gasped quietly and buried his face in Harry's shoulder, shaking as he came, holding Harry down while he ground upward, coming as deeply in Harry's body as he was able, like he was trying to imprint himself into the Gryffindor's very blood.

Harry was pleased by that thought in a way he couldn't explain.

They didn't move for a long while, Harry revelling in the feeling of being full; of being held. Revelled in bringing Draco such comfort in turn as he rubbed his fingers up and down Draco's back, slick with sweat and water.

"We should get out," Harry muttered eventually, sleepily. "We´re going to get all pruny."

Draco sighed. "Yeah," he agreed weakly, but made no effort to move. Rather, he squeezed the brunet tighter to him, not yet ready to let it all go.

School was ending in a week. When they left this bath they'd go on their own ways back into the real world as it hung on the precipice of war. There'd be no more time to hide together in quiet and comfort; no more time to press himself into every poor of Harry Potter's body so that he never faded.

In a week Dumbledore will die or else he will, and either way, Draco's not coming out of this war in tact. He expects that Harry won't either. Thinks, perhaps, that none of them will, really.

This is their last tryst before the end of the world.

Draco buried his nose in the slick curve of Harry's neck, pressing a kiss to his warm skin.

In the mean time, the water's warm, and they could wait.