Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the end of "Serpentine Summer." At some point I will probably write a sequel.

Part Four

Harry wanders through the villa that Blaise brought him to, staring. It's smaller than the one Mrs. Zabini lives in, but as if that matters. It's filled with huge and shining windows, chairs that look as if Harry would fall asleep if he sat in them, a couch that actually wraps all the way around the veranda, a small garden planted exclusively with silver flowers, and a dueling room that gleams with white marble and gold.

"It's a beautiful place, right?"

Blaise sounds a little uncertain. Harry turns around, smiling, and holds out his hand. Blaise comes up and clasps it, kissing the back of it, while Harry nods emphatically.

He wishes that he could say what he wants to in English, but he settles for scribbling down, I can't believe how beautiful.

Blaise abruptly smiles in a way that unsettles Harry a little, and leads him upstairs. Harry follows him, wondering. He saw a bedroom earlier that he assumed would be his, but now he realizes it didn't have his trunk in it. He didn't see any of the other rooms on the first floor.

Then Blaise opens a door that has gleaming cherry wood panels, and Harry gasps at the size of the bedroom that lies beyond. It has multiple doors leading off it, one to a balcony, and it sparkles and shimmers with some of the same shades of blue that are on the robes Mrs. Zabini bought for Harry. There's one wall that is an actual waterfall tumbling slowly down in wavering streams, falling into a pool at the bottom that then channels the water back up the sides with magic.

Harry turns to Blaise, his mouth open. Blaise answers the question before he can ask it. "This was my parents' bedroom when my father was alive. My mother is giving the whole thing to us. You won't have to sleep in that small bedroom."

Harry manages to look wondering enough that Blaise guesses his question without him having to ask it. "I only made you think that you would be sleeping in the small bedroom because I wanted to see your face when you walked in here."

Harry shakes his head, but he knows he's smiling. He flings his arms around Blaise and kisses him. Blaise promptly shoves him back into the wall, his hands and his mouth desperate. Harry blinks, but kisses him harder.

When Blaise's hands are sliding under his shirt and Harry's head is whirling with dizziness, Blaise pulls back to breathe, "Will you let me?"

Harry nods. Honestly, he was ready for Blaise to go further weeks ago, but Blaise really is shy when his mother is in the same house.

If she knows what we're doing now, then I can be just as shy, Harry thinks, and feels his face heat up to the point that he almost loses interest. But then Blaise pulls his own shirt off, and Harry's whole body slams to a halt.

Blaise shines. His dark skin looks even softer and brighter than Harry knows it really is in the muffled light of the bedroom. And he's looking at Harry with a self-satisfied curve of his lips that's immensely attractive as he lays his shirt down on a chair.

"You want me," Blaise says.

"Yes," Harry hisses, and doesn't feel embarrassed about the Parseltongue word when he sees how Blaise's eyes light up even more. He reaches out and traces one finger around Blaise's right nipple. Blaise hisses out a (wordless) complaint of his own while his nipple pebbles gently under Harry's touch.

"Your turn."

Harry flushes even more deeply while he takes his glasses and then his shirt off. He wonders what Blaise will think of him. Not only is Harry skinnier than Blaise and just not as beautiful, he has a bunch of scars.

But Blaise takes a harsh breath, and Harry relaxes a little. That doesn't sound like someone who is disgusted by what he sees.

"Sweet Merlin, Harry." Blaise eases over to him, as if scared that he'll run. His hands trace the scars, Harry's few muscles, the line of hair that trails down beneath his trousers. As much as Harry can make out the expression on his face when he looks at him without his glasses, Blaise is almost awed. "I never realized that you'd survived so much."

"That's a good way to think of it," Harry says, and then wants to flinch and hide his face when he realizes that he's still speaking in Parseltongue. Because of course he is. Because of course that curse hasn't changed, and he can't escape from it even in this private moment with Blaise.

"Please don't duck your head," Blaise says softly, and lifts his chin with three fingers. "I can't wait until you can speak in English again, but I fell in love with you when you were silent, and this is still you." And he kisses Harry before Harry can think of some way to slink off and get rid of the embarrassment.

After that, it's just hot, the way that Blaise leans against him, trapping him near the wall, and won't take his hands from Harry's scars, and has his mouth fastened over Harry's and his tongue thrusting. And the bed beneath them when they finally get there is hot, too, no matter the waterfall on the wall next to them.

Blaise's hands are roving, now, dipping down and grasping Harry. Harry's cry feels like something ripped out of him, the rippling noise up his throat like something someone else made. But Blaise's mouth is still kissing him and Blaise's arms are still holding him, and Blaise keeps him grounded.

Then Harry reaches down, deciding he can be bold, too, and grasps Blaise's cock.

Blaise bucks and grunts, but Harry makes him lean back enough that they can get his trousers off, and then Harry's. Blaise is still wearing pants, which makes Harry roll his eyes as he drags them away.

"Ouch, that hurt when they snapped against me, Harry!"

Harry wouldn't have been able to answer even if he still spoke English. He's staring at Blaise's erection, dark and flushed, curving straight up in a way that makes Harry wonder what it would be like to have it in his mouth, in his arse—

Well, right now he's going to have it in his fingers. He reaches out and gives Blaise a rough stroke, and Blaise's mouth drops open and his hips snap up.

"Let me touch you, too," Blaise whispers. Harry nods, but he can't look down as Blaise frees his cock. It always looks so weird to him, even the times that he's wanked in the shower or just washed himself there.

Blaise makes a soft sound that's all but ripped out of him the way Harry's cry was, though, so he must like it. Reassured, Harry strokes Blaise from the root to the tip, and Blaise's next sound is a lot louder. He rolls on top of Harry, and Harry parts his thighs and welcomes him there, so their cocks and not just their hands can touch each other.

It's hot and wet and sliding, and Harry doesn't think that he's ever felt this good in his life. Blaise's eyes are right there staring into his, his hand is going up and down on the part of Harry's shaft he can still reach, he's making little thrusts, sweat is getting trapped between them, the air is soft with the hissing of the waterfall around them, Harry opens his mouth and thrusts his tongue out and Blaise's tongue is there—

He comes in a shivering rush of pleasure, so good and consuming and happy and shared. Blaise is behind him a few seconds later, muffling his latest growl-noise in Harry's neck as he bows his head.

"That was wonderful," Blaise says a few seconds or minutes or hours later. His free hand is languidly combing through Harry's hair. His other hand is still trapped between them, and Harry doesn't want to think about how he's soaked it.

But Blaise doesn't mind. He stands up with a lazy smile, twisting a little to the side and flexing so that Harry can look at his legs, and then turns around and goes to one of the doors on the far side of the room. Harry shuts his eyes and drifts. Now that he's free to concentrate on something other than the best moment of his life, he finds the waterfall's soft hissing like a lullaby. He could probably fall asleep listening to it.

"Budge up."

Harry opens one lazy eye. Blaise has come back, and he's washed himself off. He has a wet cloth he does the same to Harry with, although Harry jumps and yelps at first because the water is too cold.

"Sorry," Blaise whispers, and casts a Warming Charm on the cloth. Harry lies back with more pleasure as he's wiped down, and looks up into Blaise's eyes.

"I love you," Blaise murmurs.

Harry still can't say it, but he can reach out and curl his fingers around Blaise's and squeeze hard, and sometimes, that's just as good.

The days they spend at the seaside villa are so good that Harry cherishes them later, only taking them out to look at sometimes, like a jewel that has to be wrapped up in case its luster dulls with too much looking. He and Blaise have sex, and watch the silver flowers blooming in the garden.

They go down to the beach, the sands of it clear and silvery, and an inspiration for the flowers in the garden, Blaise tells him. His mother cast a spell at his father that failed and for some reason colored the sand and pebbles this way. Blaise and Harry lie side by side on the softer parts of the beach and watch the sunset blooming across the water.

Harry learns to swim far more in those few days than he ever has, and without gillyweed, even. Blaise holds him up as they paddle through the water, and Harry trusts him. He knows that Blaise will never drop him or upend him or let him float away.

The kiss of the water against his skin is warm, but not as warm as Blaise's kiss.

Blaise teaches him offensive spells that, even when they're making the air crackle or the wooden shields that for some reason the villa is full of crack apart, seem as gentle as the rest of their time there. And he takes every excuse he can to stand behind Harry and wrap his hands around Harry's on the wand and guide his movements. If he spends some of that time sniffing Harry's neck instead, Harry isn't one to blame him.

Every night, they fall asleep in the large bedroom to the murmuring of the water on the wall and outside the windows.

The only sour note marring those green and blue days is another letter from Sirius. Harry picks it up and stares half-helplessly at it. He honestly has no idea what to do with it.

"What was in the one you wrote back to him the first time?" Blaise is lounging on the beach, impossibly perfect as always with the sun and the breeze playing over his dark skin. Harry wants to lean over and lick him, but he refrains.

Harry tears open the envelope and uses it to write on without looking at the letter right now. I said that I was somewhere safe and to please not listen when Dumbledore or other people told him I wasn't. I said you were the person I wanted to be with. That was about it.

Blaise sits up to read that, and then nods. "That makes sense, because you aren't sure what other secrets he might betray." He looks deeply into Harry's eyes and lifts a hand to push the hair away from his fringe. "Listen. Whatever you want to say, that's all right. I'm not going to blame you if you want to tell him more specifics."

But I really don't, Harry writes down, and then finally picks up the letter and turns it around.

I want you to come home, the letter begins, and Harry's heart softens, but only until he gets to the next line.

If that means listening to Dumbledore, then that's what you have to do, Harry. Dumbledore may have made some mistakes this year, but he'll protect you with everything he has. Please don't say that your Zabini taught you to mistrust him. Of course he would mistrust Dumbledore! He probably mistrusts him on purpose, because he's a Slytherin.

There is no signature this time, but Sirius probably figured out that he wouldn't need one.

Harry closes his eyes and massages his forehead tiredly. His scar hasn't ached in the last few days, but it seems ready to start. He looks helplessly at Blaise, who waits for his nod before he picks up his letter and reads it.

"I think this is the sort of conflict that you're not going to be able to address until you're back with him in person," Blaise finally says. "It's probably not hopeless, but he wants you to come back, and you're not going back."

Harry starts to answer, then writes down, Would you even let me go back?

"No." Blaise is giving him a gentle smile that nevertheless has its edge. It reminds Harry of how Blaise smiled at him right after Umbridge died. "I told you how I felt about the basilisk biting you and almost destroying my chance to meet you. The same thing applies here. Either Dumbledore would get hold of you and convince you to die for that bloody Horcrux, or you would end up depressed and longing for me. I say that we skip some steps and just keep you here."

Harry leans his head on Blaise's shoulder. Then he nods. I'm not going to worry about it until after we get the Horcrux out, then, he writes on the last portion of clear paper on the back of the envelope.

Blaise kisses his hair. "That's what I hoped you would say."

"Focus on my voice, Harry."

Harry lies back on the pillows that Mrs. Zabini and Blaise arranged in the large drawing room of the villa, and breathes slowly in and out. He would have preferred to do this outside, but Mrs. Zabini says that they can't have any distractions. Harry has to hear her voice and nothing else.

"I am going to slip into your mind. But this time, I am going to take the end of the Horcrux that extends like a rope from your mind to Voldemort's and I am going to pull. Do you understand? We will pull until the Horcrux comes free."

It sounds terrifying and painful. But then again, the curse has already brought its share of terror and pain into Harry's life. He nods.

"Good. Now focus on my voice. Hear me speaking as I slip into your mind, but don't focus on the way that I am grasping hold of the Horcrux. Hear my voice. Hear it holding you to the present, not letting you slip away into the distance…"

In fact, Harry can't concentrate on Mrs. Zabini's voice for long. It's Blaise's hand encircling his wrist that keeps him grounded as he feels her grasp the end of the Horcrux, and everything around him goes deep and dim and muffled. His heartbeat seems to pound ten times more slowly. He is in blackness. He floats away.

But then there is pain.

Harry screams. He knows it. Mrs. Zabini's voice is murmuring to him, but Harry can't hear her words. He writhes on the pillows, and the black and yellow agony tears the inside of his head apart. Hot needles sink into his stomach and rend his limbs from each other. He opens his mouth and vomits anguish. He tries to roll onto his side, but the nest of pillows holds him still.

And Blaise's hand. Harry can feel Blaise's hand. He clings to that with barely restrained violence.

He will come back for Blaise.

The pain shreds his mind. Harry can see snatches of memory drifting past: the cupboard at the Dursleys', the primary school roof that he once accidentally Apparated to, Sirius bending over him and grinning, the Gryffindor common room, the villa by the sea.

If you die during this, you'll never be in the villa with Blaise again.

Harry channels all the fierce strength of his desire to live into those memories. He wants to live, he wants to keep existing, because if he dies, there's no more Blaise and no more memories they could make in the future.

Mrs. Zabini says something. Blaise responds in a low, tense voice. Harry turns his head towards him.

"Yes, Blaise, keep speaking to him."

Harry hears that much before she pulls again, unraveling something from his soul, and he screams again. Blaise bends over him, and speaks softly in Italian. He must know that Harry can't make out the words, and so speaking in English isn't important. He keeps his hand running up and down Harry's shoulder, and Harry can picture his fingers perfectly, everything from his thumbnail to the exact shade of his skin to the wrinkles in his knuckles.

Harry is going to come back to him. He is not going to be defeated by this.

He hates the Horcrux—

But that's the wrong move, because the Horcrux turns on him gleefully and clings to him, feeding on the hatred. Harry tries to think of battling Voldemort, killing the basilisk and defending the Philosopher's Stone from Quirrell, but that doesn't work. The fight is destroying him, and the Horcrux wants to help. It wants to possess his body and make it kill his friends.

It wants to laugh in Blaise's face.

No! Harry roars out, and Blaise's voice falters for a second as if he screamed it aloud. But Harry knows the trick of it, now. He lifts the memory of love against the Horcrux.

The memories of his parents in the Mirror of Erised. Sitting next to Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor common room and feeling ridiculously satisfied to have such great friends. Believing, for one shining moment, that he might get to live with Sirius.

And Blaise. Blaise making love with him, holding his wrist, smiling at him sweetly and asking why he thought he'd be allowed to go back to Britain, telling him that he can put off answering stupid letters, being furious on his behalf at the notion that he might have to die to destroy the Horcrux.

The clinging tendrils fall away from him. Harry thinks he hears something sob, and laughs at it. If you can't bear love, the greatest thing in the world, what are you, anyway?

And that's right, too. The burning sun of his love turns on the Horcrux and withers it to ash like the sun of Italy warming the waves. Harry tears free with a gasp and a shriek, and at the same moment, hears Mrs. Zabini shouting something in Italian. Harry doesn't know what it is, only that it sounds urgent, but he's fallen back among his nest of pillows and barely has the strength to open his eyes.

There's a harsh sizzling sound that he does, in fact, open them for.

Mrs. Zabini is standing with something clutched in her hand. Harry can only describe it as looking like a bolt of rotten lightning. She flings it from her with a small shudder and dusts her hands off, shaking her head.

Harry watches apprehensively as it flies, but it breaks apart long before it hits the wall of the villa and disappears into less than ash. Harry discovers that he is able to breathe again.

"There," Mrs. Zabini says with deep satisfaction, and manages to kneel among the pillows instead of fall. Her headscarf is dangling off her ear; she rearranges it and reaches over to Harry. "The Horcrux is gone, my dear. Can you say something?"

Harry turns to look at Blaise, who is sweating and shivering the way his mother usually does after one of their Legilimency sessions. Harry reaches towards him, and Blaise immediately grasps his wrist in the familiar way he has, not taking his eyes from Harry.

And Harry draws a deep breath, and speaks in English for the first time in thirteen months.

He says, "Blaise."

Blaise hears the sound of the word, and it's as if some chain has fallen away from his heart. And he falls.

Headlong, furiously, down and down and down. Into love deeper and more profound than he would ever have believed could exist.

He knows now how Mother felt about Father. He knows now why she became a murderer, making sure to destroy the people who profited from his death, when she lost him.

He leans down and kisses Harry fiercely, feeling the hands that rise up and curl around his neck, and not despising the tears that he can taste underneath his lips.

He answers, "Harry."

The End.