It was like losing his mind. Like something had blown up in his mind and he was waiting for all the pieces to fall back down again and they were taking their sweet time.
Draco was holding him, stroking his hair and talking to him, his voice soft and soothing, and warm with amusement. It would take too much effort for Harry to concentrate on what exactly he was saying, so Harry just let Draco's voice wash over him as he struggled to catch his breath.
Finally, though it took more effort than anything Harry could remember, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to Draco's. Then, he drew back and blinked.
"You're crying," he whispered shakily.
"I'm not."
"I can taste it."
"It's the sea salt." Draco rubbed the back of his hand over his face and Harry felt his stomach drop a little bit. He was crying, no matter how Draco tried to deny it. He looked terrified, and Harry wondered tenderly how stupid Draco thought he was.
Feverish promises of thousands of dark spells? Please. But he'd play along, because he wasn't scared anymore. After all, he'd promised that he wouldn't be scared, wouldn't be angry, if only Draco came for him. And Draco had.
Draco, however, looked terrified, and Harry took his face in his hands and kissed him gently. His body felt lazy, slow, and very heavy, and he stretched a bit, his eyes fluttering. "Mmm," he breathed, kissing Draco again. Then he lowered his head on Draco's shoulder. "Everything's gonna be alright."
Though he didn't say anything, Draco's chest shuddered a bit, and Harry sighed, slipping his hand into Draco's. "Don't be scared," he murmured, a bit incoherent and not quite recovered from the strange almost painful (though in a hot, sweet sort of way) sensation of coming in Draco's mouth.
"I'm not scared."
"Liar."
"Harry, I lied, there aren't any -"
Harry kissed him firmly, muffling the words with his lips. He did not want to deal with that, he did not want to hear it. "C'mon," he said suddenly, pulling away.
"Where?"
"Shower. We're covered in salt."
"Shower," Draco repeated, his tone rather dull.
"Of course."
"You go first then. I'm sorta tired..."
Harry grinned, rolling his eyes, and tugging his hands. "Together."
"Excuse me?"
"'Malfoys do not shower with others'," Harry recited, his grin becoming even more impish. He tugged on Draco's hand.
It didn't take much convincing, really, and Harry was glad. He needed to distract Draco somehow, and it seemed only fair that he distract the other boy in nearly the same way he had been distracted moments before.
It was certainly the longest shower he'd ever had, though it seemed to be over too fast, with more splashing and giggling than any other he remembered. It was also the most erotic shower he'd ever taken, with the streaming water, the whimpering moans, the way Draco whispered his name, barely heard over the pounding water. It was strange, and very dreamlike, the details burned into his memory, every moan and whisper and kiss, and afterwards, when they lay together tangled up on the bed and still damp from the shower, Harry was so exhausted that he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
Harry was sleeping. Draco studied his face carefully in the moonlight spilling through the window, and then slipped from the bed. His clothes were scattered all over the floor and he dressed silently before leaving the room.
Knockturn Alley was not the cleanest of places by day, and by night, Draco decided, it was worse. Dirt, by day, sometimes glimmers like there are diamonds hidden beneath. In the darkness, it just shimmered with an oily sheen, like the rainbows skimming the surface of polluted waters.
The people there didn't change, however. In Diagon Alley, there was a distinct difference between the people that wandered the streets in daylight, and those who skulked in the darkness. In Knockturn Alley, the ones who wandered in the darkness were the same who skulked in the daylight.
They wouldn't harm him, however. Everyone in Knockturn Alley recognized him as a Malfoy, and would not risk the wrath of his father for all the world.
They did not speak to him, though a few nodded, their eyes skittering away from his. They did not tip their hats as they would have for his father, but Draco didn't care. He couldn't care less about the scum in the corners and doorways of the alley.
There were a few shops that did business only in the dead of night, shops Lucius had never taken Draco to. He knew they were there, however, and he could only hope that they could help him now.
He finally found the store he was looking for, a squat little building with a thick sort of grease on the window to keep out the light. Not that there was much light spilling onto this area of the alley.
The door creaked, announcing his presence, and Draco glanced around nervously, trying not to show it. After all, the people who frequent places like this would not respect anyone who showed fear.
"Mr. Malfoy," he was greeted, by a shopkeeper he did not remember having seen before but who had evidently seen him about with his father. "Is your father about?"
"No," Draco replied coldly. A Malfoy is never warm. "I wanted to inquire about a spell."
There were places that sold dark spells, and this was one of them. It was an illegal practice but hard to trace, and a few places still made a go at it. They charged a lot, and only desperate people willing like paid the high fee, but Draco was desperate.
"What sort?" asked the shopkeeper.
"The sort that'll keep someone alive who's going to die."
"How d'you know he's going to die? Prophecy? Dream? It depends on that."
Draco took a deep breath. He couldn't give too much away, if they found out that it was Harry Potter he wanted to save, they'd laugh in his face. "He nearly died as a child and was saved by a spell his mother cast for him but she cast it when she was already dead so it's gonna run out on his birthday."
The shopkeeper looked wary. "Never heard of nothing like that," he said.
"Right," Draco said absently, thinking hard. "A spell to ward off death then."
"What sort of death? Need to be specific."
Frustrated, he snarled, "An immortality spell? Anything?"
Snickering, the shopkeeper replied, "If living forever was as easy as a single spell, everyone would do it."
"If a mother sacrificed her life for her child, invoking an ancient spell that was incomplete, would there be anyway to finish the spell?" Draco asked, nearly panicking. "If... if someone else were to sacrifice themselves, something, would there be away to finish it?"
"We don't deal with spells like that," sneered the man. "Doesn't sound like the Dark Arts are what you ought to be looking at."
But Dumbledore had searched all the other options and none of them were viable! Draco closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists. "Right," he said, in a tightly controlled voice. "There's nothing here for me then?"
"Nothing I'd help you with. Things like this, spells like that... they don't happen often. Only once, that I can recall." His eyes were narrowed, shrewd, and Draco knew he'd said too much. The man knew.
"Right," he said again, backing out of the shop, never taking his eyes from the calculating look on the shopkeeper's face.
There were other options, options that would cost more than his money, but Draco was getting desperate. He went farther down the alley, towards and old building with boarded up windows and concrete walls to keep out any hint of sunlight. His father had told him what it was once, long ago.
A 'pleasure house' of vampires for stupid mortals who liked flirting with the gothic and somehow sexy idea of vampirism and death.
He snorted even as he opened the door and stepped inside.
He'd never met a vampire before, and certainly wasn't prepared for the pale, pristine creature that met him at the door. Male, and every hair was perfectly in place. Icy blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and a wicked sort of smile, Draco instantly felt almost bland-looking, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way. He didn't much care for the feeling.
"Pretty," the vampire cooed, running strange eyes over him. They reflected light like a cat's.
"Umm, hello," Draco replied, shifting uncomfortably. "I just had a question..."
"Nothing comes for free in here," replied the vampire.
Draco licked his lips and said, after a pause, "Well, I only have one question. How much money would that cost?"
"Oh, honey," purred the vampire. "We don't take cash payments."
"Then what -" he stopped talking abruptly because the vampire ran one cool finger down the side of his neck, tracing his vein. "Oh."
"Only one question?" asked the vampire.
"Only one," Draco whispered.
It grinned. "Won't kill you, only one question. Won't even hurt, if you don't want it to."
There was naked hunger in the vampire's eyes, a type of hunger that was basic and instinctive and not at all human. The creature may have looked human, but the eyes gave it away, and Draco shivered. He was desperate, however. "I want it to hurt," he said.
Penance, he supposed. He had failed Harry and that's why he was here, brought low enough to beg favours from the undead. He deserved to burn and he deserved to hurt, because it was his fault that he was here.
He was taken into a small room to the side, and the vampire poured him some wine, pressing it into his hand with a sharp, animalistic smile. "Drink," it hissed.
Draco did, quickly, wondering if it was to calm his nerves or make his blood somehow taste better. And then the vampire had one hand on the back of Draco's neck to support it, the other tangled in his hair to hold him still, and two fangs were driven into his skin.
It hurt, more than just the puncturing of skin. The lips of the creature were slammed against his torn skin, sucking blood from the wounds, the tongue flicking restlessly against his flesh, drawing blood from his body, and it burned. Gray spots danced before his eyes and Draco's lips quivered though he did not make a sound. He forgot how to scream, forgot how to move, forgot everything except what it felt like to have his life pulled from his body by a monster.
And then, rather dreamily, he wondered if all dying felt that painful and unnatural.
The vampire pulled away and licked its lips, before saying nonchalantly, "Ask your question then, my lovely boy."
Draco's legs were shaking, about to give out underneath him, and he swallowed heavily in an attempt to make things come into focus again. "I know this boy," he said hazily, trying to collect his thoughts.
"I could taste him on you."
Draco blinked. "Oh. Well. He's going to die, on his birthday."
"The Boy Who Lived."
He blinked again. "What?"
Smiling almost gently, the vampire shrugged. "The walking dead have a different taste than those who are merely mortal. He is not supposed to be here."
"He was supposed to die when he was a baby," Draco acknowledged.
"He will die soon."
Draco shook his head. "My question. I wanted to know if there was anything you could do to save him."
Laughing, the vampire said, "There are some things the undead cannot even touch and the magic that protects your boy is more ancient even than we are. There is nothing we can do for him."
And Draco, strangely, though he had been thinking before that even an undead Harry was better than none at all, was relieved. If he had let this creature have Harry, Harry wouldn't have even be human any longer, and he wouldn't for anything make him a monster like that. Better the victim of death than the cause.
He left the building in a dreamy, weak haze, and only barely made it back to the hotel.
Harry was up and waiting for him, pacing the room in a panic, and when Draco stumbled blindly through the door, he was there to catch him before his legs gave out from weakness.
Draco fell against his chest, unconscious, and missed when Harry smoothed his hair back, inspected the dried blood on his neck and the marks of healing puncture wounds, and sighed.
"Stupid boy," he whispered, carrying Draco to the bed. "What have you done?"
He crawled under the covers and held Draco against his chest, running fingers through his hair, and holding him until dawn, when he finally fell asleep.