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This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.



As he gets up, the candlelight flickers over his features, the shadows settling into the lines bracketing his eyes and mouth before smoothing them away. Before me stands the boy I thought I knew at sixteen and the man I know today.

He’s leaving; I hate it when he leaves.

He’s going back to them, his perfect wife and his perfect family, while the darkness and the horrors it conceals wait to reclaim me.

He doesn’t look at me as his clothes are pulled on; he never looks at me. Only when he wants to hurt me, have me beaten and shamed, will he look at me, eyes as hard as the stones they are so often compared to.

He rarely wants to hurt me nowadays.

Now when he looks at me he will glance over, his eyes will slide off me and look to the side, as if he has seen something that makes him uncomfortable, like a cripple making him feel guilty for being whole.

I’d rather he looked at me with hate, with the knowledge that he will hurt me and enjoy it, and I will let him, than anything akin to pity.

I am Draco Malfoy, a pure-blood wizard from a noble family that can trace its lineage back centuries; I am intelligent, attractive and privileged. I should be envied, admired, not pitied.

That is something that Harry Potter has never understood.

I am certain he finds me not completely without merit. After all, I’m not Voldemort, am I?

He has never complained about my looks, nor has he mentioned certain skills I possess in anything but breathy exclamations, and he barely even glances at the expensive champagne before pouring it over my body and licking it off, tasting my skin along with it.

It has been years, whatever this is between us, and while he always leaves he has never left.

He is fully dressed and heads towards the exit, pausing like always with his hand on the door handle, half his body already past the threshold. It is old, this dance we do, old and familiar as time itself. He will stop, wait, already half out of the world we created by accident many years ago.

I wonder if this is the reason he always comes back. For in that moment, when he is poised between two worlds, I display the need that I once despised him for engendering in me. Now I am too tired and it has been too long for me to care.

He has seen me at my worst; I don’t have a best.

“Next time?” Two little words that say so much, that mean so much. Will there be a next time? A next place? Will you still want me? Will you be able to put aside the disgust and contempt you feel for me? Will I care if you don’t?

You turn slightly in the portal, look at me with eyes that refuse to see and incline your head imperceptibly.

I lie naked and exposed in the bed, protected only by the evidence of our meeting; when the door closes I wait for the darkness to reclaim me.

It doesn’t bother me, this darkness; it did once, before he became a part of my life, before he was my life.

I know he will return; he said he would, and he always does what he says. So I sit and wait in a bed gone cold, the darkness prowling, stalking me like the lion he personifies, moving in to smother me in all that is lost and all that could have been.

I sit, and wait choking on darkness until he comes to save me once again.