Delicate, H/D NC-17
Title: Delicate
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Rita/Harry, Harry/Draco
Word Count: 4,805
Warnings: Violence, sex, strangeness.
Spoilers: HBP.
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Harry Potter.
Summary: Drowning in his own sea, Harry finds a purpose in taking care of an invalid Draco Malfoy, and coming to terms with something he's never really had: a life.
Note: Yes, I know. Rita/Harry. Really, it's not as painful as it sounds, promise.



. . .

And why do you sing Hallelujah,
If it means nothing to you?
Why do you sing with me at all?

We might live like never before,
When there's nothing to give.
Well how can we ask for more?
We might make love in some sacred place...
The look on your face is delicate.
- Damien Rice: Delicate

. . .

Draco was standing on the edge of the highway, staring out at the sky. The sun was setting in yellows and oranges, and it was almost done, at this point. A black sky was rising over the horizon. Draco was dressed in black and blue and when he turned to look at Harry, his eyes were blank.

He said something, but the wind snatched his words, and he was gone.

Harry stared at his ceiling. It had been the same ceiling for years; he was used to seeing this ceiling. The cracks looked like a rocking horse, and made him pain longingly for a mother to give him such gifts. He turned and his sheets tangled around his ankles; when he pulled them off there were welts around his feet.

He got out of bed and walked the five steps to his bathroom door, but the mirror didn't say anything different about his body. He was just as tired looking, with just as many bruises and spots as he had had the day before. His nose was still broken, but it only hurt a little bit, right now. It would hurt more later, once he thought about it.

There was music coming from outside, but Harry shut the window and leaned against the pane. His nose hurt being pressed against the cold glass like that, but he didn't move. It really wasn't worth the effort.

One welt on his thigh itched, and he looked at it. Without his glasses, it could almost pass for a Dark Mark. He smiled and gazed back out the window at the shop downstairs, and he watched an old woman argue enthusiastically and without heat. She walked away happily, the clerk looked satisfied, and he did not bother to count the money in his hand.

Draco.

Harry glanced at his bed; he was almost tempted to fall back asleep so he could dream about the pale-haired boy. He wanted to see him again. He was dying, in fact, to see him again. Harry felt desire crawl up through his throat; it tasted of spiders and vanilla on his tongue. Strange, he thought, and turned back into the bathroom to piss. He would have thought it would taste like blood.

. . .

When Harry found Draco, both of the other boy's eyes were white and he had scars cut into his wrists and thighs. His back was a long wound, trailing around and into his spine. Harry was not sure Draco could even move, with pieces of himself missing like that. Harry lifted Draco up into his arms and looked down at the bodies on the floor.

People always thought death was dramatic and painful. The truth was, death was just pitiful. Harry had stopped caring at a certain point and it was almost boring now, watching the pale faded flattening that came into their eyes. They just fell over, really. Sometimes they screamed beforehand, and sometimes they didn't.

They all asked, Harry, does it hurt every time when you kill them? What they meant was, are you okay? They didn't ask, why did you kill them? He thought that was ironic. He was murdering people in Dumbledore's name, and they smiled and patted his back and said, good boy, Harry, good boy.

At first, he wanted to go to their homes. He even did - he went to Gregory Goyle's house and stood outside and listened to his mother cry and watched Goyle look at the fireplace until the fire went out. Then Goyle shut the curtains and went to bed and the crying stopped, finally. It echoed in Harry's head for weeks.

So when the reporters asked, when Rita sniveled and pushed too close and her breasts rubbed against his arm, when they sniped, "how did it go," he just shrugged and smiled and let them think what they wanted. He would be their hero. He would be everyone's hero.

Harry clutched Draco to his chest and pressed his face into Draco's hair. He wasn't even blonde anymore; they'd cut his hair off and what was left was brown from dried blood. Draco didn't look like Draco without his hair; he looked too innocent and too normal.

Harry wished Draco had been born with brown hair, and Apparated home.

. . .

Draco couldn't stand anymore. Draco couldn't see anymore. Draco couldn't even really breathe anymore, sometimes, and Harry made up the cot next to the bed so he could sleep next to the boy all the time and not worry about Draco dying in the middle of the night without Harry knowing.

He did all he could, really. He spelled all the surface wounds off. He couldn't fix the blindness, though. He wasn't sure even a registered Healer could. They'd destroyed his eyes, scarred them and burned them and made them so they weren't even eyes anymore. Harry could fix that; he could make them clean and clear again, and they could look out at the world, pale and grey, once more.

But Draco still couldn't see, because what he had were just the imitations of eyes. Really, Harry could have just wrapped a blindfold around Draco and it would have been the same sort of thing. But Harry liked to pretend.

And Draco couldn't walk, not yet. He tried, the first day, but his knees had been broken and even when Harry fixed them, they wobbled, atrophied and unsteady. Draco gave up after he collapsed the second time and curled back in bed. Magic was not perfect. It could not fix a broken soul.

. . .

"You could sleep in another room, you know." Draco's voice was hoarse; he'd been asleep until just a second ago.

Harry turned over and watched the moonlight fall on Draco's face. Draco had not opened his eyes; but his face was turned in Harry's direction. The moonlight was lying in white blocks on the white sheets and Draco's white, white body.

"I could."

"I'm not going to die, not anymore. I think I should go to St. Mungo's. They might fix me."

"They think you're dead." Harry shifted onto his side and stared at the doorway instead; it was less beautiful and it didn't make him feel guilt twining through his stomach. Draco was right. Draco might be able to get better if it weren't for Harry keeping him hostage.

"Does everyone think I'm dead?" Draco's voice was very, very soft. Harry couldn't hear the pain in it.

"Yes."

"Including my mother?" There was a pause. "Harry? Including my mother? Please don't go back to sleep. Does my mother know?" Draco's voice was angry, almost, except he didn't really know how to be angry anymore, and it hurt to try.

"Your mother is dead."

"Oh."

They both moved at the same time, and the rustling of the sheets and the heartbeats in both of their ears made everything else fade away. Harry stared at the wall for a bit longer, waiting for Draco's breathing to even out, and stop hitching with every fourth inhale. It didn't, and neither of them slept.

Draco, Harry thought, didn't even have a day. He just had one unending night.

. . .

When people came over, Harry did not let them into most of the house. He had the living room separated from everything else by a wooden, glass-paneled door. He hated having it closed, because he couldn't hear Draco moving about the house, but he needed to, when Ron or Hermione or Dean or Rita visited. Especially Rita.

He closed the door behind him and she smiled, oily and fake. Her clever fingers wrapped around the collar of his shirt and she pulled him up close against her shorter body. Her fingers delved into his trousers and made him hard and Harry closed his eyes tight, pressing his face against her neck, kissing the age-lines on her collarbone absently.

Draco, he thought, was perfectly smooth, everywhere. Except for the scars. But even the scars were shiny and smooth.

Rita's mouth was on him then and his eyes flew open and he stared through the glass to see Draco sitting at the kitchen table, carefully eating a bowl of cereal and running his fingers against the texture of the table. Her tongue did something beautiful and Harry threw his head back and in the sparks of pain as his head his the wall, he came, imagining Draco's fingers exploring him that way.

She smiled and kissed his stomach and left, never looking behind her, mouth still tasting of Harry and wanting nothing more than to add it to the book she was writing about him.

. . .

Draco was trying to learn Braille, but it was taking him a long time. Just getting from the bedroom to the kitchen or living room took all his energy, and he would sit in his wheelchair and look straight again, hands hanging off the side of the chair. After some time, he would lift one reluctant hand and stroke it over the sheets of paper Harry had bought, with all the letters on it. A, B, C, he would mouth, and his smiles were always bitter when he could read words. Apple. Banana. Cherry.

. . .

"Harry," Ron said, patiently, "Hermione and I were talking and..." They looked at each other, and Harry almost told them to shut up. He didn't want their love in his house. It was breaking the windows.

"Maybe you should see a therapist?" Hermione suggested delicately, eyes on Harry's. He did not look away until she did, when her guilty brown eyes dropped to her lap. "My mother has worked with some very nice ones -"

"I don't need a therapist," Harry said softly. "I really don't."

Ron tugged at his hair and pressed one hand to his wife's stomach; her baby was invisible but it comforted him to think that he could feel the living presence underneath. And Harry's house was so devoid, these days; it scared him. He wanted to leave. "Harry," he said, instead. "You never leave the house anymore."

"I get attacked when I do."

"But Voldemort is dead, and it's time to go on."

There was a pause and Harry looked at the wood paneling on the wall for a while. Ron and Hermione left after a couple minutes, but Harry did not watch. He locked the door behind them and went back into the kitchen, where Draco was asleep on the table, his pale hair tangled around his fingers and one palm against his mouth.

Harry lay one hand on Draco's nape and felt the pulse fluttering, sweet and regular. For a moment, Harry was jealous of the life in Hermione's womb; it would be almost perfect to feel that sort of life writhing within himself. He just wanted someone to take care of.

Draco's face turned and Harry rest his forehead on the boy's, then went to make dinner. The noise of the moving dishes woke Draco up, and his yawn was the cutest thing Harry had ever seen. He had to look away.

. . .

Draco was sitting on the couch in the living room, and Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that his pants were on backwards. Draco's face was tilted back and the fire in the fireplace was blazing hotly. The flames reflected against Harry's glasses, so he took them off and watched Draco become a blur.

"Don't you have a job?"

"Yeah."

Draco's upper lip twisted. "Why don't you ever go to it and leave me in peace?"

"They pay me to stay out of the way." Which was true. The Ministry had arranged a large monthly sum to be deposited at Gringott's for Harry, just so he would shut up and stay away from the papers.

"Why, Potter, one would almost think you were famous."

They both smiled at that, and Harry touched Draco's hand. Draco did not pull away, but his face tensed. They stayed like that, and then Harry moved closer, pressing his face into Draco's chest. Draco's heartbeat was racing, faster than anything Harry had ever heard before.

"Was it you that killed my mother?"

"No." Harry did not want to answer the next question, but he did anyways, before Draco got up the nerve to ask it. "It was your father."

Draco did not move underneath him. His voice was a whisper. "Did you kill my father?"

"No. Do you want me to?"

"Yes, please."

"Alright."

. . .

In the dream, Draco is standing by the highway again, but this time he's covered in blood. Harry can touch him, but Draco can't feel anything. Harry wraps his arms around Draco and buries his face against him, but Draco does not move, and he does not react.

The blood soaks into Harry's clothes, leaving him warm and wet.

. . .

Rita stood in the doorway to the kitchen and watched Draco eat an apple. Then she turned away from the glass paneling and prodded Harry with her toe, so he would wake up. "Harry," she said, "Harry. You've a rat in the house."

Harry blinked groggily, then fury came over his face. "Obliviate," he said, and she hadn't even realized he had his wand, yet.

She stared at him stupidly. "What are you doing with your wand, Harry?"

He set it down and pulled her up against him, feeling her tired breasts rub across his chest. He watched Draco for a second as Rita stroked him into hardness, and he was sure to make a loud noise when Rita pushed him inside of her. Draco froze and looked in his direction with sightless eyes.

"Do you like that?" she asked softly, and rubbed her face on his neck. He kept his eyes trained on Draco's, and grunted in response. She kept repeating the question and her cunt slid around him, hot and wet, enveloping him. Harry was almost disgusted, but he was trembling, inside.

Draco slid his hand against his groin, touched briefly, rubbed across the soft material of his pajama pants, touching the as-of-yet invisible erection.

Harry kissed Rita hungrily and did not care, for once, about the chalky taste of lipstick, or the rough texture of her tongue, because her eyes were tightly shut and his were wide open and when he came, it was a choked sob and a spasm that ripped through him, and Draco was frozen with his apple against his white, white teeth, and his hand pressing against his crotch.

. . .

"I'm amazed, Potter. You have sex?"

Harry took a sip of his tea and smiled at Draco, even though Draco couldn't see it. "Yes, Draco, I have sex."

Draco's voice sounded wistful. "Is she pretty?" Draco had not yet learned to completely mask his emotions from his face, so when Harry looked at him for a long time, he could tell exactly what the boy was thinking.

"No," Harry said quietly, "she's not very pretty."

Draco laughed and sneered at the same time. "Might as well be a Muggle, if she's not gorgeous."

Harry smiled again and took another sip of his drink. The he leaned across the table and pressed his mouth to Draco's for one second, before going into their bedroom and shutting the door. He was hard again.

. . .

Sometimes, Harry thought he saw Dumbledore. It wasn't a conscious thing; it was just that sometimes when he saw shadows moving strangely, he thought, Dumbledore.

It was only a problem when Dumbledore started speaking to him.

Harry looked away from the shadows and the whispers and pretended he couldn't hear a thing.

. . .

Mostly, Harry fucked Rita because she liked it, and it was new to him. She was his first, and he found it interesting, the way their bodies fit together. He didn't like her arms or her thighs, but he was addicted to her knees and the smooth curve of her hips. Her chin was too pointy and her eyes were squinty and she always looked just a little bit fake, but Harry liked that, too, sometimes.

Sometimes.

Harry remembered that sometimes, he was only a kid. He checked his birthday off every year but lately, it hadn't felt like any real date. He was just checking off another day. And then he realized, he was still a teenager. For no real reason, he felt terribly, terribly sad.

. . .

"When I was fifteen, and you hated me and I hated you and we didn't talk so sociably, as we are doing now, I read about this curse. It takes something from someone and gives it to someone else. I tried it on a House Elf, and I could do House Elf magic for a week, until I reversed the spell. I felt guilty - mum was about in a fit of anger that the Elf was useless, and father - I didn't tell father. I bet he would have been proud.

"And earlier this year, I stole Snape's life. I shouldn't have, because he was nice to me. He was the only one. And that's why. He didn't even look sad about it. And the words were so easy. But I had to live, Potter, I had to live. I had to live.

"And now, I'm a kept pet. What do you want with me, Harry? Do you just want me to fuck you? I know you watch me; I can feel it. I apologized already for getting your bed messy that one night, I can't help being male. ...do you just want me around to watch and study? I hate that you study me. I hate it. Why won't you let me go? I just want to go home. I know the Manor must still be standing. It will always stand. Just let me go home.

"Pot - Harry. God-dammit, Harry, I know you're there, I'm blind, not senseless. I can feel you. I can fucking feel you and god-dammit, answer me, I just want to go home."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

. . .

The Manor was still standing. Harry didn't know how that was possible, because the Manor should not have even been Plottable - it was supposed to be a mess. Draco smiled and touched the black rocks in the outside garden. "Mother loved this place."

"You loved her?"

"She was my mother," Draco said, and his voice was hard and angry. Then his face softened and he ran sightless eyes over the building. "You'll have to say the spell to get in, I don't have a wand."

"Okay."

"Aut vincere, aut mori."

"Grim, a bit. Aut vincere, aut mori," and the words tasted like ash on Harry's tongue.

Draco smiled in his direction. "We like our little games, don't we, Harry." His eyes were cold; but then, these days, they usually were.

. . .

Dumbledore was standing in the shadows when Harry walked past the Grand Ballroom, but Harry ignored him.

. . .

Harry liked watching Draco move around in his wheelchair. It was almost graceful, the way Draco's forearms flexed and pushed, and Harry could find himself watching Draco's fingers for hours at a time as he traveled through the world. He wanted to watch Draco walk again one day, but Draco had not yet tried again, and Harry knew that if he could walk, he would leave.

Draco wheeled through the Manor effortlessly; though Harry did have to Levitate him up the Grand Staircase. Draco's face was carefully neutral during this practice, though it did darken a bit every time his wheel caught on a piece of ceiling. Finally, after getting stuck a fifth time, Draco paused and turned in his seat to stare at Harry's shoulder. "Tell me what it looks like, now."

Harry bit his lip and looked around. "The Grand Staircase... doesn't actually exist anymore. The boards are hanging everywhere and the drapes from the huge front windows are draped over it like old furniture. The glass is shattered and everywhere, and there is dust creeping over the entire floor." Harry glanced outside. "There isn't much of a lawn left, just piles of black and green rubble. There's blood all over the checkered marble floor." Harry could see his reflection in a shattered glass mirror behind them, and he was startled when he realized his pale he was, how thin. His knuckles were white from gripping the back of Draco's chair.

Draco was nodding, slowly, then continued wheeling on, ignoring the pauses and bumps it took him to get to where he instinctively knew his room was.

Draco's room fared much better. It had been torn apart by the Ministry, but with a barely voiced spell, Harry repaired most of it. Draco wheeled in, over the blood red carpeting, and collapsed off the chair. Harry froze, staring down at the boy, but he did not try to move him.

Draco rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. There was an odd smile on his face, and then he pushed himself up, shakily. Apprehensively, Harry reached out with one hand, palm out. He didn't know if he would push Draco away or hold him up. But Draco tottered the other way, hands outstretched in front of himself.

When his shins hit the bed, he stumbled and fell onto it, palms catching his fall. He climbed up and situated himself, finding the front and back by patting it with his fingers carefully, wary of broken bits. But Harry really had fixed everything.

Draco looked up at Harry and smiled. "When have you been practicing?" Harry asked quietly, and moved closer.

Draco kept smiling, and then closed his eyes. His hands deftly found the hem of his black shirt and he pulled it slowly over his head, revealing the scarred white chest. Harry's breath caught in his throat and for the first time in a long time, he felt like every particle of him was really there, really focused on something. His heart almost stopped beating from surprise, and he said, "Draco?"

The other boy lifted his hips up and pulled his pants off and Harry's eyes tracked the half-hard cock that lay between Draco's legs. Then Draco dropped the clothes on the floor and lay back, spreading his legs and tilting his head back.

"Take me."

. . .

When he thinks back on that moment, Harry does not remember too much. He remembers Draco's taste - but he will always remember that, the sugar vanilla candy taste of Malfoy that comes from drinking sugar with tea. Draco always tasted like that.

He remembers the soft, slow motions Draco made, hips lifting and dropping and when Harry whispered against his throat, are you sure, are you sure, Draco mewled like a kitten and pushed down.

And the feeling of silk sheets running over his body, trapped in between he and Draco until he shoved them off the bed and then it was just Draco, bare, nude, red cock displayed perfectly and proudly. Harry's body quivered and he touched it and he felt like, yes, this was what he was meant to be doing with this boy. This was it. This was it.

And Draco arching off the bed, wincing at first, then relaxing, then stiffening, then biting one wrist because ohmygod, he said, ohmygod, he whispered and his throat worked hard to swallow, but he was gasping too much and his eyes were squeezed so tight.

And Harry licking a wet trail down to Draco's navel, the hot steam of his mouth drying it instantly. Draco bucking up and squeezing around Harry; Harry feeling as if he might come just from watching Draco move. His body shifted over the ice white bedspread and he was almost a ghost; he was so beautiful.

And then - a tightening, and Harry grabbing Draco's hair in his fists and drawing the boy's mouth to his, and their tongues twined around each other as Harry thrust, thrust, thrust into Draco, and the feel of Draco's cock rubbing on his stomach, trapped between them, hard and dripping, and Draco whining helplessly and moving frantically, like he was trying to escape and get closer at the same time.

And coming, pushing deep into that beautiful sweet heat, with Draco's semen cooling on his stomach and his own running over their connected bodies, and whispered, ohgod Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco, until the word became a worshipful chant and he wasn't even speaking anymore, just mouthing against his new lover's neck.

. . .

"Why did you save me? Why not Neville?"

Harry dried the pan he was working on and set it down carefully. He had been waiting for this question for the last three months. He was amazed at Draco's resistance. "Neville was already dead when I got there."

"I thought I heard his voice."

"Draco, you were unconscious when I found you, practically in pieces."

Draco sneered, pushed away from the kitchen table. His arms crossed over his chest and he hugged himself tightly. "Fuck you."

"Why?"

"Just fuck you. You should have let me die." And the Draco started shuddering all over, every bit of him trembling like a flower, his eyes closed tight and his mouth screwed up. "You should have let me die."

Harry knelt before his lover's feet and laid his head on Draco's shoulder. "Breathe. Breathe."

Draco only started inhaling when Harry wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, and then he just started crying, arms still wrapped around himself. It took a while for Harry to realize that Draco was saying, "mum, mum, mum, mum" over and over again with each sob.

. . .

Dumbledore was standing in the hallway when Harry came home from the grocery store. His arms were dropped by his side, and he was staring through the window at Draco, who was poised on the couch reading a book with his fingers. Harry smiled at the sight, and tried to shove past Dumbledore.

"You can't ignore me forever, my boy." Dumbledore's voice was soft and whispery, as if being dead carried all the strength of his throat away in the wind.

"Why not?" He pushed his key in the lock and did not look at Dumbledore.

"Harry Potter, look at me."

He did, resting his head on the doorframe.

"I'm dead, Harry. I'm dead. And it's okay. Let me go." Then Dumbledore smiled that same old understanding smile, the one that said, I know it's not okay right now, really, but things will be okay, and then life will go on. It will be okay, the smile said, and Harry felt as if his entire body were drowning.

And then Dumbledore just faded. He vanished into the sky, and Harry pressed his head so hard into the wood a splinter lodged itself against his flesh and bled sluggishly.

Opening the door quietly, Harry set the groceries down on the floor and walked over to Draco, who had looked up in his direction expectedly. He sat down next to the boy, wrapped his arms around him, and began to cry.

And Draco, being Draco, and understanding that pain is pain and that sometimes, pain will always be pain, buried his fingers in Harry's tangled black hair, pressed his mouth to Harry's fading pink scar, and whispered, over and over again, it will be okay.

It will be okay.

It will be okay.

It will be okay.

It will be okay.

It will be...

. . .

Draco licked his lips nervously; a habit Harry had tried to break him of, but couldn't. He was sitting outside in the sun, and the direct heat was making him anxious. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, sounding unsure himself.

Harry looked around, squinting into the sunlight. It seemed like forever since he'd really been outside, and he smiled at the street vendors who carefully tried not to stare at the wheel chaired boy and wonder where he'd come from.

Harry leaned down and laid his cheek on his lover's pale, scruffy hair. It had almost grown back to chin length, and Draco no longer looked like he might keel over at any moment. Harry was ready. "It's the only way you'll get better."

Draco nodded, swallowed, and licked his lips again. "To St. Mungo's, slave," he said hoarsely.

The black haired boy smiled and Apparated, and the surrounding people shook their heads and wondered what on Earth was going on with that strange Potter boy, these days, to be hanging out with such a strange pale man.

. . .

Harry does not dream about Draco anymore, because he does not need to.

FIN.