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My Home is You

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Sometimes, I hate you so much, I just want to scream. At you. At me. At the fucking world. You don't care and I care more than enough for both of us. I'm so stupid for you, it makes me furious. And so very weak.

I think about you looking at me and I can't help but think: You felt it too. Didn't you? How could you not?

It was so obvious.

I knew it the moment I first saw you at Madam Malkins, having no idea who you are. I just knew.

You're not even that pretty. Not really. But I was gone.

You knocked me dead with all that You.


I'm standing in the destroyed Great Hall, corpses covered with white linen, when I see you for the last time. It's then I try to say goodbye. Try to make peace with you hating me and me loving you.

In that moment, it's easy. You're grieving. I am too. You're the hero, you saved everyone. I am the one who brought the destruction. It doesn't matter whether my eyes are burning with the unshed tears of years in the shadows.

I know that you're not for me. You have never been, even though it used to feel like nothing else makes sense. Nothing but us.

But I know better now.

I take one last look at you and decide you are still breathtakingly beautiful and in that moment, I truly don't hate you. I just hope you'll be glad you've been there one day. It's hard for you to see how much good you did. How loved you are. How very much you deserve that love.


When I think back now, I realize just how mad for you I really was. Still am. Probably always will be.

I remember watching your every move. I've been so diligent, I still know your timetable by heart. It probably makes me a creep, the way I've always been looking at you, simply not able to tear my eyes away.

Even in sixth year, when I hated you following me, I still couldn't shake your impact. Sometimes I think it must be some wicked kind of magic, how I always know when you're looking at me.

Right now, you are.

But it can't be. I'm sure that this only means our magic has finally faded – I've unlearned your print.

Because Harry Potter does not stroll through this part of London, why would he? These are the streets I roam.

As always, your world and mine are polar opposites – they never touch, but sometimes, they collide, sharpening their edges even further.

I'm shivering in the cold and feel your stare on me and maybe this might just be a sign that I have finally gone insane. Even though some would argue I've always been that, at least a little. Not quite to the extent of my Aunt Bella, perhaps, but insane enough to never know when to shut my mouth and stand down – or open my mouth and stand up. I tend to get it the wrong way.

„Malfoy,“ you say, looking at me with those striking eyes of yours.

Hallucinations don't speak, do they? Maybe you're a ghost my mind made up.

But I highly doubt my brain is able to come up with something that is so much you, so... undeniably Harry Potter.

If I hadn't hit rock bottom years ago, I'd be ashamed you see me like this.

„The Savior,“ I say.

Even now, after all those years, I can't stop looking at you.

Pansy used to tell me that you're not actually that handsome. Not like Blaise is, or Cedric Diggory was. But to me, you're perfection. I don't know why, but you are the kind of perfect that makes me want to lick your spit from my skin. The kind of perfect that makes me sick and needy and shameless.

Of course, that was before. Now, shameless is my middle name.

„What are you doing here?“ you ask and that earns you a sneer. I wasn't aware I still know how to do that.

„What do you think I'm doing here?“

You look at me and I know you know. No one is that oblivious.

„Why?“ you ask.

You want to know why, Chosen One? Why I'm at a dirty street corner, selling my body until it's used up, until it gives in?

„Take a guess,“ I say.

„I thought they'd let you keep part of your fortune.“

You look shocked. Of course, you don't understand what it's like to be me. To be one on the wrong side, one everyone hates now. The only people seeking me out are those, who get a hard-on thinking about fucking a Death Eater. I am still surprised how many men get off on fucking me until I can't even cry anymore. I'm not sure whether it helps I'm pretty – or used to be pretty – or if they don't even take a look at me, only interested in the faded, scarred mark on my forearm.

I like muggle customers better.

„That is true. It was enough for a month, give or take.“

You look at me, horror on your face.

I want you to leave. Maybe I'm not quite over any shame. Maybe you seeing me like this does remind me of what I've become.

But you don't leave. You just keep standing there.

„Do you want to fuck me or what? That's ten sickles. A blowjob would be five.“

You frown at me, hands shoved in your pockets. I stare you down. It's easy to be bold when there is nothing left to lose anymore. A lesson I've learned after the war.

„Can I buy you dinner?“


I remember a moment in fifth year when I thought, maybe, just maybe, you could want me.

It's been only us in a deserted corridor after we were the last ones to leave Potions. I bested you once again and that pissed you off. It made me smug. The heat in your green eyes made me want to press up against you, slip my fingers under your shirt and touch you.

„Why so bitter, Potter?“ I asked you and you only looked at me and that in itself was a thrill, my blood singing.

„People wouldn't hate to see you succeed if you wouldn't be such an asshole all the time,“ you said and that made me laugh. I didn't care about people. I only cared about you.

„You and I both know that I don't do nice.“

You almost smiled. It knocked the air out of my lungs.

„I'd love to see you try for me.“

After you said it, you looked so incredibly shocked. I think to this day, you probably have no clue where that came from. It made me hard, right in that corridor, an empty classroom to our right, the faint voices of students above us. I don't know if you saw it.

„Make me,“ I said. Your eyes darkened a little.

Before you could answer, the bell rang and students started pooling in the corridor.

I thought about you, what you said, the whole day.

At dinner, I tried to catch your gaze across the Great Hall. You wouldn't look at me.

It made me furious. I was barely able to keep from throwing dishes, maybe send my fork your way. I sat over my chocolate pudding, sulking, when I caught you looking at me. You were so quick to look away. Almost blushing.


You're not blushing now. You look at me with your dark brows drawn together and I want to scream at you.

But I'm not going to refuse a free dinner.

I'm not going to refuse you.

I wish that would be more of a confession. It used to be. Now, refusing isn't really part of my vocabulary anymore.

You let me eat and I know that you're wondering how the Malfoy-Heir is eating like a pig now. Believe me, Chosen One, you would be too if you hadn't eaten in two days.

I tried working in a brothel, one that isn't the cheapest of the cheap, with warm rooms and toilets and food. But they don't want a Malfoy. No one does.

„If you like, you can sleep at mine,“ you say when we're both finished and my stomach is hurting a bit, not used to so much food at once.

My skin is crawling.

„As I said. Ten sickles.“

I never know whether I like when clients want to take me home. It's warmer and more private and I get to sleep in a real bed for a change. But it's also more dangerous.

In the comfort of their own homes, men feel like they own you completely. Like they can do anything to you and get away with it. Which, sadly, is the truth when it comes to me.

Things would be different if I still had my wand. But it's been broken for years now, since the Wizengamot decided I am not fit to carry one anymore.

„I didn't mean it like that,“ you say and now you're blushing just a little. „Just to sleep. You look horrible.“

I blink at you. I haven't looked in a mirror for a long time, but when I run my hands down my torso, I can feel ribs and hipbones. Sometimes it feels like I could touch my empty stomach through the thin skin.

„Why would I sleep at yours?“

You look at me like I'm daft. Which is rich, coming from you of all people.

„Because I assume you don't really have a place to sleep?“

„I don't need your help, Potter,“ I tell you.

You're nice enough not to point out that I need any help I can get.

„It's up to you,“ you say and leave.


I don't come with you. I can't.

But you come back for me. The next day, after another terrifying night in the cold, you're there again, leaning against the dirty brick wall. You smile at me and when I just frown at you and keep my mouth shut, you start filling the silence with your words.

It becomes a ritual. You seek me out and stay with me. Talk to me. You always bring something to eat. You pretend it's leftovers, things you don't want. But I know better. I know you make them just for me and it hurts on so many differnet levels.

When you are with me, I can't take clients. That means you spending all those hours next to me really is bad for business. And yet I can't bring myself to tell you that, to tell you I need this time you spend with me to work, to tell you to leave me alone.

It's always been like that with you. You fuck me up in the worst way because I can't say no to you.

„If you could choose anything, what would you be doing?“ you ask me one day. I'm shivering. Winter is approaching in fast steps and I try not to think about it.

First, I want to flip you off. Or say something sarcastic. But your eyes are so open that I can't.

Instead, I say: „I'd be a writer.“

Your eyes shine.

„You'd be a good one.“

I look at you wryly.

„How would you know?“

You shrug, not a care in the world. I know that's not true, but somehow, you always give off that impression.

„Don't know. It just seems very... you.“

„You don't know me,“ I tell you and in the same breath, I wonder whether that's true.

„I'd like to though,“ you say and I look at you.


Your eyes are fixed on me.

„I don't know. I just do.“

To use your words, this answer is very... you. You never think all that much. I wish you could teach me to do that.

I cross my arms, unable to stop the shivers shaking my body. You watch me.


The jacket you hand me is warm and worn and I know it will smell of you.

„I don't need your rags, Potter,“ I snap, feeling humiliated and aching to take the jacket, bury my nose in it. Smell you.

You give me a cheeky smile.

„I know. But I'd love to see you wearing it.“

At my stare, your smile turns shy.

I save you from your embarrassment by putting on your stupid jacket.


I try my best to keep it clean, but after a week or two (on the streets, it's easy to lose count), your jacket doesn't smell like you anymore. It smells like cold and dirt and the spunk of other men.

When I realize that every last trace of you is gone, I start crying.

That's when you come find me.


Your gaze is so worried.

„Are you okay?“

I just look at you, biting down hard on my bottom lip. You step a little closer.

„Draco? Are you hurt?“

I close my eyes. Without my permission, my head moves up and down. A nod.

How could I not be hurt? I've had a cock up my ass three times already today and no matter how often I do it, it never really stops hurting. Because that's the whole point for most of the people fucking me – to hurt a Death Eater.

You step closer still. Part of me wants you as far away as possible, wants to hide from you. Never wants to have any hands on this body that's supposed to be mine ever again.

Another part wants to fling myself at you, hold on tight, breathe you in, melt into you.

You hug me carefully at first, then hold on tighter. I allow you to. When I feel you slowly drawing back, I can't let you go. So you don't. You keep holding me tight, stroking my back, whispering: „It'll be okay.“

My hands claw at your jacket – a new one, since I stole and defiled the old jacket.

You murmur something under your breath and I feel the pain in various parts of my body numbing, fading. My body goes lax in your arms and I rest my head on your shoulder. It must have been years since someone held me.

„Draco,“ you say and I think about the many, many years I kept saying your name, hoping you'd respond by saying mine.

„Come with me,“ you plead, but I shake my head.

You sigh. It's the sound of someone hurting.


I'm bleeding when you find me on your doorstep. I hope you don't see it. The bruises on my face I can't hide, but maybe the old jeans and your jacket cover the rest of the mess I am.

You pull me inside, hold my face in your hands, ask me what I need.

I can't talk. My throat is so hoarse and my face hurts and I can't even look you in the eyes.

„I've got you,“ you say when you realize I'm not going to speak anytime soon.

You lead me upstairs, past a shouting portrait. Every step hurts.

„Do you want to take a bath?“ you ask me. I don't react. I can't say anything.

You take my silence as a yes and turn on several tabs.

I wonder whether you want to have me here. After years of pining for you, wishing you'd notice me, touch me, I now hope you find me too repulsing to do so. I couldn't stand having your hands on me. You being the one causing me pain would end me.

„I'll get you some clean clothes,“ you say and leave me alone for a moment. I turn to the bath tub.

When was the last time I took a bath? It must have been when I was still living at the Manor. Years ago.

„Here, that'll do for the moment,“ you say, glasses fogging up as you step back into the bathroom.

You place a pile of clothes and a towel on the closed toilet lid. Then you stand there, shifting your weight.

Me heart sinks.

„I'll be downstairs if you need me,“ you say.


It's heavenly to feel clean again. I don't want to leave the bath tub. The water is greyish-red now. When I make myself get up, I notice something sticky between my thighs. I'm still bleeding.


After a moment of indecision, I carefully remove the clothes from the toilet, wrap the towl around me like a cape and sit down, waiting for the bleeding to stop.


After not dying in your bathroom, I slink downstairs. You're sitting on a ratty couch, looking at me as I walk in.

„Hey,“ you say. Your clothes look ridiculous on me – they're too big and all wrong for my body. I never want to take them off.

„Do you want to eat something?“

I hesitate. Then shake my head. I'm afraid I might vomit and also... I'd like to delay having to take a shit for as long as possible.

„I've set up the guest room for you,“ you say.


The first night at Grimmauld Place Number 12, I sleep for fourteen hours. After that, I hardly find any sleep at all. The darkness is full of shadows and dark figures. I keep thinking about hands on me.

It takes you a half a day to pick up on the fact that I try not to sit down, that I can't really take a deep breath, that I try to move my left wrist as little as possible. You spend quite an impressive amount of time trying to convince me to go see a healer, but I refuse to. In the end, you sit me down and cast a dozen or so healing charms. They don't make me whole again and the can't knit together everything, but they do take the edge off.

I decide that I want to eat again.


I keep telling you that I'll leave as soon as I find some place to work that is not dark alleys. You say I'm welcome to stay as long as I need to.

It takes you some time to work up the courage to also tell me that you don't want me to go back to selling myself.

I don't speak to you for days after that.

Every day I spend in your house, I'm wondering why I'm here. I thought you must want to fuck me afterall. Maybe when I'm healed. But I am now, physically at least, and you still won't touch me.

After a while, I decide to simply not question it any longer.

I read your books. All the stories you didn't care for, the stories that are wasting away in your library – I devour them.

You ask me if I'd like you to get me paper, or maybe something you call „laptop“ so that I can write. I tell you no.

You work as a teacher, I learn. Not at Hogwarts, but here, in London. You give workshops for duelling, Defense Against the Dark Arts and many more things I've forgotten.

You tell me that you used to teach our fellow students back in Hogwarts, when Umbridge failed to. I'm not even surprised. I don't ask you why you never taught me. We hated each other. Sometimes, I wonder if we still do.

But no. You don't hate me anymore. I don't know what I am to you. Maybe your charity project.

Since I've got nothing to do all day but think about the past and sometimes scream into my pillow when I can't stand it anymore, I start cooking for you. You don't like to cook, even though you're good at it. When I ask you, you tell me your muggle relatives used to make you cook for them and often didn't let you have anything of what you've prepared.

So now, I cook for both of us. I make sure you always get the best pieces. I'd rather die than tell you that though.

Sometimes, I notice you looking at me and it makes me think that maybe, my very first guess has been right afterall. You want me. I've had so many men looking at me with that gleam in their eyes, there is no mistaking it.

And yet, you don't do anything about it.

It makes me twitchy, uneasy. I don't do well with waiting for bad things to happen.


It's one night after dinner when I can't take it anymore.

You keep looking at me when you think I don't notice, your eyes sweeping over my body and I don't know what to feel. I've wanted for you to look at me like that for so long. I spent hours wanking, arm thrown over my face, sometimes biting down on it to stifle my moans, imagining you wanting me.

But I've grown since then. I know now that want is the opposite of affection. And I find that I prefer you liking me over you wanting me.

Still, I haven't forgotten what I am. You took me in, did so much for me and never asked for anything in return.

It's about time you get what you paid for.

We're sitting on the couch, you going over some of your lesson plans while I pretend to read. I feel your gaze on me again, then you quickly look away. It seems like you're still shy about this, like you were at Hogwarts. Maybe that's why you don't dare to make the first step.

Well, then I guess I'll be the man so you won't have to be bold.

I put my book down and crawl up to you. You blink, eyes wide, staring at me as I climb on your lap.


I push your hair back. I've been aching to touch it for years. Decades.

I kiss your neck and let my hands wander to your fly. Your breath catches as I unzip you. You're hard already and I try to decide how to get you off while trying to keep from trembling. My body wants me to run.

I tell it to shut its stupid mouth. I've been fucked by the most disgusting men. It's ridiculous that I'm squirming now at the thought of you inside me. I've wanted that for so long. Dreamed about it.


Your hands are on my hips and your breath is hot on my neck. My hand slips into your boxers. You don't wear anything sexy. Your shorts are a little faded and cover all of you, but when I wrap my hand around you, I know you have nothing to hide.

You're leaking already and your hands grip my hips tighter. I tense, body going rigid. I can't help it and hate myself for it.

You notice immediately. Of course you do. You let go of my hips. Tilt your head back, so you can look at me.

I don't meet your gaze.

„What are you doing?“

I bite my lip.

„Don't you want to fuck me?“

Your cheeks heat, but you don't look away.

„That's not the question.“

I look at you in confusion.

„What is, then?“

„Do you want to sleep with me?“

I take a deep breath. Repeat the word in my head that I've become so accustomed not to say.


You don't get mad at me. You simply push my fringe back and say: „I'd like to cook for you tomorrow.“


When the most biting cold of winter slowly fades, I get a job. It's at a bookshop and at first, my coworkers don't like me much. I couldn't care less. For the first time ever, I have a real job.

The day I recieve my first paycheck, I cry.


I move out of Grimmauld Place two months later. You try not to show it, but I know you're upset about it. You want me to stay.

I try to explain to you that I can't. That for once in my life, I want to be strong on my own. Want to build something just for me.

You understand.


The air is almost warm when I ask you out.

Your smile could light up the moon.


I obsess over what to wear. Pansy tells me it doesn't matter – you'll love anything on me. But I'm not so sure.

I have never been on a date before and I want ours to be good.

You meet me at the restaurant I picked out and your shy smile makes a sphere of warm, swirling light glow in my chest.

„I was afraid you might stand me up,“ you say as we sit down.

I roll my eyes.

„Still think I'm up to something, do you, Potter?“

You just grin.



We kiss on our second date. You took me to the movies and held my hand and then, you walked me home and kissed me in front of my door.
Your tongue tastes like popcorn and peppermint and you. I can't get enough of it.

After that, I'm at your place all the time – except for the nights. We kiss on your couch, crumpling up your lesson plans. We kiss in your kitchen, me sitting on the counter, your hands pulling me closer, my hands cupping your face.

You never ask for more. I think you know I'm not quite ready to give that yet.

I try to build a life of my own. I'm working and writing and hanging out with Pansy.

And kissing you.

I miss you whenever you're not with me. When I see you laughing with someone else, I'm so jealous that my insides clench.


We spend your birthday together.

I bake a cake for you and talk to all your friends. Some of them like me. Others don't. You keep your arm around my waist.

I think I'm in love with you.


I wait in your bedroom for you, only in my jeans. When you walk in and see me half-naked, you stop and stare.


I smile at you.

„Finally. I've been waiting forever.“

You're still staring. I think you can't quite believe what your eyes tell you.

It makes me uneasy, you so far away, just looking. I hold out my hand.

„Come here.“

You do.

I scoot back on the bed a little, lie down, you hovering over me. You trace my cheekbones as if they'd be fragile. I tilt my chin up and we kiss. Your clothes come off and you're so gorgeous beneath them, I think I'll make you walk around naked all the time. You kiss my neck and my body sings.

„I've waited so long for this,“ I sigh, running my fingers through your hair.

„Me too,“ you say, voice breathy.

Your hands rest on the waistband of my pants. I put mine over yours and together, we push them down.

„I need you,“ I whisper, my fingers gripping your shoulders. You're so strong and warm.

„Anything, darling. Anything you want.“

Your voice is wrecked already and sweet desire is pooling in my belly.

„I want you inside me,“ I say, arching my back.

You kiss down my chest, tongue flicking over my nipples. I close my eyes, my mouth open. Your hands on my hips are hot.

When you open me up, you're careful.

„You don't need to,“ I tell you. I'm not afraid of pain. I want you so much.

But you shake your head, a second finger slipping inside me. I moan. You kiss the hollow of my hips.

„Fuck, Draco,“ you groan when I arch my back, not able to keep my hips still anymore.

„I'm ready,“ I say, feeling like I might die if you don't fuck me right now.

You sense the urgency in my voice and lift my leg over your shoulder, lining yourself up. You look into my eyes when you push inside me and I can't breathe, can't look away. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I think, one day, I'll tell you how often I touched myself, thinking of you.

You pull my arms up, lacing your fingers through mine.

„You're so tight,“ you say, wonder in your eyes. My eyes flutter shut and my legs wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

You kiss me messily as you up your pace and I can't think anymore.

„So good, Draco,“ you say, your mouth dragging over my jaw.
Your hand grips my thigh, lifting it a little higher. With the next thrust, you hit that sweet spot deep inside me and I shout.

„Fuck,“ you say, your rhythm starting to become erratic. I try to meet your thrusts, but my hips are stuttering. You keep them still with a firm hand and it makes me impossibly harder.

„Come for me, love,“ you say and just like that, I do.

As your name leaves my lips and I clench around you, you follow me over the edge and I can feel you come inside me. I hold you tight as you collapse on top of me, not minding your weight pressing me into the mattress. My hands card through your hair and I don't think I ever want to leave this bed again.

Carefully, you lift yourself up and pull out of me, leaving me empty.

When you scoot away so not to crush me anymore, anxiety is flaring in my chest. I grip your wrist. Don't you dare leave now. Your cum is running down my thighs and I can feel you on me, inside me still. I've never felt this vulnerable ever before.

You pull me close, meeting my slightly panicked gaze with one that makes my heart ache. You pet my hair, then kiss my lips.

„I love you,“ you say and I believe you.

I blink at you, thinking that maybe, this is a dream. Finding that I don't care.

I touch your brow, trace the bridge of your nose with my fingers. I touch all the places on your body I spent years dreaming about touching.

„I love you too,“ I say and you smile. You already knew I do.


You ask me to move in with you again on a cold winter day.

I'm naked in your bed and you're still a little fuzzy from me riding you until you were screaming my name. I usually prefer it when you do all the work, take control and toss me around a little, but I know you like it sometimes, me showing you exactly how much I want you, watching your eyes flutter shut when you can't hold back anymore.

„Your house is always so cold,“ I complain as I pull the covers over us.

You grin.

„That's why I need you here.“

„I'm here almost every night,“ I tell you, my eyebrows raised.

You reach out and trace the shape of my mouth with your finger. Once you told me that my mouth is the prettiest one you've ever seen. You couldn't stop thinking about it after you first saw me on that street, you said.

„That's true. So, why not make it official?“

I look at you as you study my face. You're pretty sure of yourself in that moment, but there is a lingering nervousness on your features.

„You want me to move in again?“ I ask.


I hesitate. I want to live with you. I basically already do. But I can't help but think of the last time I've lived here with you. I was hurting and battered and unable to touch you.

You seem to read my thoughts.

„Only if you want, darling. We could look for another place together, if you'd prefer that.“

I know you're doing that just for me. You don't want to leave your godfather's house. You like it here. But you would, for me. To make me happy. I reach out and push your fringe back. Trace your scar.

„No need to. I like your house.“

You beam at me and sit up, pulling me with you, hugging me tight.


I pretend I'm annoyed with you, but we both know I'm not. Not one bit.

„You'll move in with me,“ you say, a little dumbly. Grinnig so much that your dimples show.

You rest your forehead against mine and I think that really, I don't care where we live.

In the end, you are my home.

I think you always will be.