Love Under Will
Part One: Prologue
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R for language, frequent sexual situations, and angst
Disclaimer: I don't own anything here, except the writing. No profit is intended except the sheer joy I get out of constructing this story.
Note: Info on points raised throughout the story will always be chapter-specific; look at the end of each chapter for notes as necessary.
To my wonderful, beloved RQ Babes, for sticking with me and upholding me through the trials of the last year, and for letting me badger you all into reading, first the HP series, then this fic�and for being simply the best group of friends imaginable�I dedicate Love Under Will. To Franzi, my Beta-reader and nonpareil editor, I throw myself at your feet in humble gratitude. This piece wouldn�t be what I envisioned it being without you. To readers to come�I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I am enjoying throwing my heart and soul into writing it. --Aja
And follow we this joyful birth. Transeamus.
--Benjamin Britten, the Ceremony of Carols
For the 5th night in a row, Draco Malfoy couldnt sleep.
He looked over his shoulder. He could have sworn he heard something in the darkness behind him, but as he spun around, the noise vanished. "Lumos," he muttered, his eyes glittering in the wand-light. The glow illuminated only the empty corridor behind him. He turned his attention back to the astronomy tower door, a bit nervous, but outwardly as steady and composed as ever. His father had once said Draco had poise under pressure. It had been a rare, rare compliment, but he had been right: Draco did have poise. He had it now, and the pressure was on. Not because he was sneaking out of the dorm after hourshe did that all the time. Getting caught for it, howeverthat was usually Potter's department.
Potter.
Tightening his lips, Draco pushed the door open. No one. In the spring and early fall the tower was a horrible place to go to be alone; it was usually full of foolish boys and girls trying to neck under the stars. Now that the cold of winter had swept through Hogwarts, however, it was always empty. Slowly, cautiously, Draco climbed the stairs, listening for Filch, Mrs. Norris or anyone else who might love to catch him out of bed, like Peeves. Draco had a very lithe, cat-like walk that served him well; it was almost like having a built-in invisibility cloak, and sneaking around Hogwarts was a very easy thing for him. He pushed the door to the astronomy tower open without a sound. Satisfied that he was alone, he went to his favorite spot, a thick armchair covered with a funny, gauzy material, like silk but transparent, almost star-like. Sinking into its depths with a heavy sigh, he gazed up at the domed ceiling and the immeasurably black sky beyond it. In the corner he heard a tiny cat scratch of movement, and then
Silence.
Draco yawned and brushed the fine, silvery threads of his hair away from his eyes. He wanted someone to talk to, to confide in, but thanks to his father's "connections" the only people he would really consider close to him here (Pansy Parkinson didnt counthe had stopped counting her among the genus homo sapiens years ago when she had eaten a slug on a dare from Millicent Bulstrode) were the sons of Lucius' old friends Crabbe and Goyle. Rotten bunch of lugs, they were. Sometimes he wondered how he had managed to retain his intellect after being around them for so long. He glanced down at his wand and muttered casually, "Nox." The wand went out and he was left alone with shadow and moonlight.
He was a good wizard, he thought. A very good wizard, almost as adept with a wand as That Granger Mudblood, and far more clever than The Boy Who Kept Getting Lucky. He had a good chance at being Head Boy. Snape had told him this confidentially one day after a particularly stimulating potions lesson in which he had humiliated Potter by mixing a brew of Cod's Wallop that made one's opponent feel as though their entire body was asleep. Dracos draught had been perfect, but Potters was watery, and while he fumed and tried frantically to regain use of his wand arm by swinging it awake, Draco experienced only a mild tickling all over that he rather liked. Draco had watched him with a smirk mixed with disdain, inwardly marveling at how, even when he was furious, Potter managed to seem so calm and controlled.
Draco swallowed and clenched his fists distractedly. He loathed Potter Potter. He always had. He hated the cool, composed expression he always seemed to wear. He hated the Look, the one Potter reserved just for him, his dark green eyes flashing and then becoming still, as though sinking in the bottomless depth of his anger. He hated Potters goodness: hated his loyalty, his bravery, his reckless abandonment. They were all Dracos own traits, traits that went forever unnoticed because he had no one at Hogwarts to show loyalty to, nothing to be brave about, and nothing to be won as a rule-breaking Slytherin. He hated the respect Potter commanded from everyone who knew him, and most of all, the respect Potter would never know he commanded from Draco himself. No one refused the friendship of a Malfoy. No one. But Harry Potter had refused his, and in his most private thoughts Draco respected him for this. Of course he hated him for it, too. Potter had not only rejected Draco on the day they had met, but chosen Ron Weasley over him, a Weasley, the name Dracos family despised more than any other. Draco would never forget itand he had vowed that day to make sure Potter never did either.
However.
Draco's pale amber-gray eyes flickered with intensity, and he drummed his fingers noiselessly against the arm of the chair. However. Things had changed. No; things had never changed. He had just only now awakened to what had always been. He had always known that he and Potter, since their first year, had continually sought one another out. He knew that he possessed an uncanny ability to decipher whatever plots Potter was devising with Granger and Weasel, and to know whenever Potter entered a room and wherever he was in it. And he knew that the power of a single glance between Potter and himself was enough to send a shiver through everyone around them.
He had always accepted this enmity as completely natural, even as destiny. Nothing went deeper within him than the animosity he felt for Potter Potternothing except the satisfaction of knowing that Harry Potter felt exactly the same way about Draco Malfoy. Draco knew that, apart from the Dark Lord, Potter despised no one on earth more than him, and every malice-laced comment, every narrow glare Potter shot him rested with Draco as proof of his power over The Boy Who Lived. He was absolutely Potters equal, and Potter knew it. Draco was never happier than when he was under Potters skin. He was his enemy: it was where he belonged.
But now Draco knew he had made a mistake.
Looking back, understanding how it began, he was surprised that it hadnt started differently, more aggressively. So far, everything about their history together had been aggressive; although he and Potter had never actually had an all-out physical fight, their confrontations on the Quidditch field were brutal. He relished playing Potter even though he knew Potter was the best player he had ever seenthe sheer act of meeting him in the air and meeting Potters gut-wrenching stare as they circled one another was enough to give him the biggest adrenaline rush of his life. Once in a dive for the Snitch he had body slammed Potter across the sky only to find himself blocked by the Firebolt an instant later as Potter veered and cut him off with a curse and an about-face so masterful it left Draco breathless. No one could bring it on for Draco in Quidditch like Potter. Childish jealousy and the stupid pranks he had pulled on Potter as a second and third-year aside, playing against Potter was the most stimulating thing Draco did at Hogwarts. And he loved it.
And yet, in all that time he had never realized&God. How could he have been so blind?
He shifted uncomfortably in the gauzy chair, which seemed almost to float beneath his thin body, and thought back over the past week, wondering for the thousandth time how he and Potter had come this far&