HAAAAH!

Kant can suck my writerly cock because I just wrote the H/D I've been obsessing over for months now. Fuck you, Kant. Fuck you, Kreines, fuck you quantum fucking physics, because Harry just nails Draco's ass.

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Right for the city and the high wall, parched with thirst and grimy with dust, still they fied on, with Achilles wielding his spear furiously behind them. For he was as one possessed, and was thirsting after glory.

*

Summer, in Corfu. Hot and dry in a way that English summers aren't, at least not at Hogwarts or at Privet Lane or even the Malfoy Manor. Days, baked like the mountains with their flanks of dusty olive trees and nights full of the sea.

Two by land, two by sea, and Harry comes by both night and day. They've done it in his boat, rocking on the ocean, in the olive groves, underneath the lemon tree in the backyard, but they've done it quite a few times in Draco's bedroom. There are lamps in the walls, even a generator on the grounds, but Draco likes it best with the lights out, with the sea blowing through the curtains and the tiles in the sea-mosaic in the floor glittering up at them like so many eyes. After doing it so much in closets, against walls, and on floors, there's something wonderfully decadent about doing it in a big, soft bed with pillows and blankets and moon-white sheets. They don't even have to keep quiet because the old man, the caretaker, thinks Harry is some boy from the village. It's faintly shameful that the young master would let some Muggle do him like this, but Lucius has said that it's all right.

Harry does, though, have to creep out at dawn to keep up the fiction he's a fisher-boy from the village. Also has to remember not to speak in front of the caretaker -- he doesn't know enough modern Greek to get away with it, and he's got a terrible accent. Says nothing in the presence of the caretaker. Even makes strangled little noises like a true mute.

The fisher boy, the fisher-king.

Draco knows about Arthur and the legends of Old Britain, and he wonders if this makes him Morgan to Hermione's Guinivere. Nasty little Mud-blood.

If you go back far enough, every pure-blooded family in Britain is related. Morgan had a whole batch of sons; some of them must have sired children, legitimate or bastard. It's eminently possible that he's related to her in some vague, distant way, but then, so is Harry, probably. So that works.

But Arthur wasn't supposed to marry Guinevere, not originally. He was supposed to marry one of the Celtic princesses from the north, en-route to be betrothed by some accounts, but then he saw Guinevere standing in her father's court and fall in love with her in the torch-light of the high hall.

As though anybody could fall in love with Granger. Dishwater eyes, that nasty hair, those arms and legs that are too long for her flat chest. And Weasley's no Lancelot either. It's a good thing Hermione will end up marrying Harry because her and the Weasel's children would just be absolutely hideous. Freaks of nature -- acres of densely freckled skin, balls of kinky, carroty red hair. Would combine Granger's nastiness with Weasley's stupidity.

He saw Granger down in the village the other day. Had armfuls of books and this absolutely hideous pink dress. Pink -- girls with hair like that have no business wearing pink, and she'd looked a little surprised to see him. Does she know about him and Harry?

Probably. Granger's uncommonly sharp. Obsessed with Harry too, and Harry can't hide anything from that girl, not that he even tries very hard. He's under the firm belief that Hermione doesn't know anything about this, about him or Weasel, but Draco knows better. His real competitor was never Weasel, but Granger, who has sharp little claws and is an expert in the game of catch and kill in order to play for keeps. Weasel tried to beat the shit out of him, but the Mudblood wouldn't do anything so tacky or as unprofitable as try to fight him out-and-out.

She wants Harry for herself, and Draco revels in rubbing it in her face. Who knows how long this summer will last -- it certainly won't, but he's going to make her remember that she's not the only one. Nobody knows what fall will bring, but the little bitch is never going to forget this summer when he was the one with what she wanted.

Nobody knows what fall will bring.

Father sent him away from England.

England will be a dangerous place this summer, he'd said, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder. I need to make sure that you'll be safe; you're my heir, and you need to be safe no matter what. You're my hostage against Dumbledore.

Draco had been tempted to say something like, "Have you been reading Muggle writers again?" but refrained, wisely.

The summer has, after all, been spectacular. Long lazy days with no supervision but that old man who's grateful that he got to pocket the abortion money that Lucius sent in case Draco knocks up a local girl. As far as Petros is concerned, Draco can bugger himself silly as long as he doesn't do a fertile woman.

"Do you just not like girls?" Potter had asked him one night.

"Only the right sort of girls," he'd returned, then rolled over to find a new, cool spot on the sheets. "You're the one who should worry -- Granger has her heart set on you."

Harry had blushed, but then, he'd surprised Draco. "She might be the right sort of girl."

"What, one that'll tolerate you sleeping with her friends? Her male friends?"

"You're not her friend."

"That makes it better?"

"Yes."

And Harry had kissed him, full on the mouth, with lips that were cool and sweet from wine.

They don't talk about Draco beating Ron -- Draco's not sure what he'd say, actually, if Potter ever asked him about it, but he trusts in Potter's ability to delude himself enough to make him feel safe.

Potter had followed him to Greece, although Draco didn't know it until one day when he was coming back from the village and saw Petros kicking somebody out. He thought it was a beggar, and then he saw the black hair and the disproportionately long arms. Harry'd grown his hair long and shaggy to cover the scar and had gotten rid of the glasses and had gotten tan beyond all belief, but he'd recognize those elbows anywhere.

"Who is this?" he'd asked Petros just as Petros finished throwing Potter into the dust.

"Some boy from the village who came up looking for you. He says he knows you, that you owe him." Petros was frankly contemptous, then added, "At least that's what I think he said."

"Oh?"

"He said it in Homeric Greek. Can you imagine that? The balls of him, like he was Hector, some hero out of the epics."

Yes, Draco agrees. He's Hector; I am Achilles, and I will drag his body behind my chariot. I haven't got a Patroclus for him to kill, but I'll destroy him anyway, break him so thoroughly that the story will end with his funeral, and my own death will slip by, vaguely, as a compilation of various, half-remembered stories.

Harry has been studying Homeric Greek this summer; Draco has no idea why Potter is bothering to learn it manually when he could just cast a translation spell whenever he wanted to read it, and Potter hasn't really bothered to explain it to him.

He likes to read it aloud to Draco sometimes, and Draco will listen to him declaim to the high ceilings and the sound of the sea out beyond the windows. Harry once re-enacted a speech of Ulysses for him on the beach -- that's who he identifies with in the Iliad. The wily general, the survivor. He wants to get home to Ithaca and his sweet wife, and he's even named his boat Calypso. The balls of the bastard.

Afterwards, he'd made Harry take him in the mouth, right there on the beach, in sight of the road. Harry'd gotten so hard, gotten so frustrated that Draco had laughed and refused to touch Harry afterwards and Harry had been reduced to touching himself and coming all over the helpless, innocent bushes while Draco laughed himself silly.

Harry'd fucked him that night. He'd made Draco get down on his knees, on the floor, and oil himself up in front of the mirror until it ran and dripped down his thighs. Made Draco slip fingers in himself and fuck himself in front of the mirror until he was wide and ready for Harry, and then he'd made Draco put his hands, palms-down, on his bare thighs and hold perfectly still and watch as Harry entered him from behind. Harry slipped halfway in, then reached in front and pulled Draco the rest of the way in a quick, sudden movement of his arms, and Draco remembers feeling tears in his eyes, crying out because it hurt so much.

"You fucker," he'd whispered when he felt Potter start moving. "Stop. I'm not ready, I -- "

"That's your fault, isn't it," Harry had growled, one hand on Draco's shoulder, the other on Draco's hip, moving Draco back and forth on his cock. "You had a chance, you didn't take it. You shouldn't have left me high and dry on the beach."

And then, he'd moved his right hand up Draco's thigh so it was slick with oil, and then Draco remembers crying out again when Potter's hand fastened around his cock, it'd felt so good.

"Move for me," Potter had whispered in his ear like a lover. "I want to know how good this feels for you. You little slut -- how does it feel now?"

Draco had closed his eyes for a moment to collect his willpower, then opened his eyes so he could see himself smiling in the mirror. "As good as it feels when I fucked your mouth on the beach today." He gasped as Harry slammed into him, hard, all the way, and Draco then said, with gritted teeth, "As good as when Petros broke your ribs, beating you that time he found you alone in my room. As good as when I beat the shit out of Ron. As good as --"

He remembers Harry's hands gripping him cruelly then, so hard that Draco felt like his hips would break under those strong fingers, and Draco also remembers smiling into the mirror as Harry fucked him and drew blood with each stroke, laughing as Harry moved, helplessly, shuddering and moaning, towards orgasm.

The relationship is crowded sometimes, with Granger and Weasley and his father and the future. At other times it's the loneliest thing in the world.

That's when Draco loves it the best. That's why he can love Harry this summer, he suppose, because, well -- make no mistake about it. He loves Harry, he really does, and he knows Harry loves him, but after this summer, it'll all go away like the morning sun burning off the fog. It'll be as if it never existed. Maybe it could have gone on if it'd stayed the way it had been at Hogwarts, but when Harry came to Greece, Draco fell in love with him, and everything changed.

And when Draco opens his eyes, he's kneeling in front of the mirror, oil dripping down his thighs and Harry fucking him with narrow-eyed concentration, and Draco smiles as he lets the pain slick into pleasure because he knows it'll come to blood and tears soon enough.

*

The quote is, of course, from Butler's prose translation of the Iliad.

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