The Price of Light | drarry

thirteen | mortality

June 2002

Being in love comes surprisingly easily to Draco Malfoy.

It's evident in the way he carries himself, the lustrous glow of his eyes despite the lack of sunlight to reflect it, the way he hums to himself as he performs the tasks they need to survive.

It makes him look softer, gentler almost. Like there's a lull of something inside him where once there was fire and noise.

And Harry can't get enough of him.

He kisses him every chance he gets, holds his hands longer than necessary when passing him food, runs his hands down his back when they bathe. There are days when he feels he really might overflow with all the feeling he has for Draco Malfoy, and the only way to relieve the torrent inside him is by touch, as often and as sweetly as he's able.

Because, as Draco remarks to him one night as they sat side by side watching the embers burn down, "We could die tomorrow in an instant and we might not even know."

The constant impending reminder of their mortality hangs over Harry like a dark cloud which might burst with thunder at any minute. He'd prefer not to feel its time-bomb presence so often, but it seems the only way it can be avoided is when he's on top of Draco, or underneath him, his mind fogged with ecstasy at the contact.

As a result they have sex often - at least twice a day, and then again in the night time. Sometimes it's just for something to do, as much as anything else, though the emotional closeness derived from it is incomparable to anything else on earth.

But their mortality is always there, in the back of their minds, taking up just enough of their hearts to hurt.

And it's even more present now, as it becomes clear that Harry's feet aren't healing like they ought to after his incident with the embers.

"That's the price we paid for our light that day," he shrugs, examining the angry-looking wounds, which have begun to seep and need changing more frequently than either boy can spare swathes of his robe.

"If we need to go anywhere, I'll carry you," Draco insists, but it sounds feeble even to his own ears.

Both of them know that, strong as Draco might be, there'd be no way he could ever outrun a group of Aurors with Harry in his arms. They'd both be dead quicker than they could get up, let alone run.

So for the foreseeable future, they're stuck in the same small radius of forest, and the days are beginning to drag further out, while the shouts grow closer.

"I feel so fucking useless," Harry admits one afternoon as Draco bathes his feet for the fifth time that day. "We're sitting ducks, Draco, you know that? Completely helpless. And it's all my fault! Me and my useless fucking feet!"

"Hey, no, shh," Draco shakes his head, sluicing cool water over Harry's ankles with practiced hands. "Don't upset yourself like that. I'll take care of you, see? You don't need to walk."

Harry looks up at him, green eyes watering. Their images are reflected before them in the water like a celestially beautiful painting, one which one could stand over and stare into in awe as the blonde reaches down to cup the brunette's face with a gentleness that could stop anyone's heart.

"I could love you for lifetimes," he whispers, but Harry shakes irritably out of his grasp, unplacated.

"We should have had lifetimes!" he explodes, rage pouring suddenly out of him with wilful abandon. "Why aren't you angry about this, Draco? I should be kissing you for the last time in eighty fucking years, not any day now!"