Chapter Forty-Eight
It had been a few days since the argument—the one that had pushed them both to the edge of their tolerance, to the edge of their feelings for each other. Since then, things had shifted. Harry felt the change in the way Draco looked at him, in the way their conversations had become more... honest. But it wasn't all smooth sailing. Far from it.
They had gone from snapping at each other to silently acknowledging the tension that buzzed between them. It was a strange, uneasy balance, like a taut rope that could snap at any moment but held them just close enough to each other to keep them from pulling away.
Harry was sitting in Draco's study, flipping through an old Quidditch magazine, though he wasn't really reading it. His mind kept drifting back to that kiss, to the way it felt to finally let go of all the walls he'd been hiding behind. But it was complicated. Always complicated. Especially when Draco had the power to both infuriate him and make him crave more.
The door creaked open behind him, and Harry didn't have to look up to know who it was. He could feel Draco's presence the way the air shifted around him. There was no mistaking that confident stride, the coolness in his demeanor, the fire that lurked just beneath the surface.
"You're still sulking," Draco observed, his tone sharp but laced with something that made Harry's pulse quicken. "You're going to hurt your brain trying to overthink everything, Potter."
Harry finally looked up, locking eyes with Draco. He wasn't sulking, but it was true—his mind was a whirlwind. "I'm not sulking," Harry replied, standing up and walking toward Draco. "I'm just... figuring things out."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Figuring things out? About what?"
"About us," Harry said, feeling his stomach flip at how casually he said it. It wasn't just the kiss anymore. It was everything. All the years of animosity, of hate, suddenly feeling like a distant memory. The way Draco made him feel now was different. More intense. Less safe. But Harry couldn't push it away.
Draco's lips curled into a knowing smirk, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something almost vulnerable. "Us," he repeated. "Is that what this is?"
Harry's chest tightened. "What do you think this is?" he shot back, suddenly feeling a bit defensive, like his heart was being laid bare, exposed. He wasn't ready for this conversation, but at the same time, he couldn't avoid it anymore.
Draco took a step closer, and Harry could smell the faint trace of cologne on him—intoxicating, and strangely comforting. "I think," Draco began slowly, voice low, "we're both too stubborn to admit that we're in too deep."
Harry's breath caught in his throat, his mind racing. Too deep? Was Draco saying what he thought he was saying?
"And I think," Draco continued, his voice softer now, "that you're scared. And that I am too. But neither of us wants to walk away." He reached out, his fingers brushing against Harry's arm, sending a jolt through him. "You think this is a game, Potter? Think again. This... whatever this is... it's real."
Harry swallowed hard. Real. That word—real—had never felt so terrifying, so final. But it also felt like the truth. "I don't know what to do with that," Harry admitted, feeling the weight of it.
"You don't have to do anything with it," Draco said, his voice more insistent now, his fingers lightly grazing Harry's skin, sending heat coursing through him. "Just let it happen. Let me happen. Let us happen."
Harry's mind screamed at him to resist, to run, to push Draco away. But his body—his body was already betraying him. The heat that coiled in his stomach, the way his pulse quickened with every word, every glance—they weren't lies.
He leaned forward, his lips meeting Draco's with a fierceness that surprised even him. No more games. No more walls. It was just them, and for the first time, Harry wasn't fighting the way it felt to have Draco in his arms.
When they broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily. Harry's hands were tangled in Draco's shirt, his chest heaving as though he couldn't get enough air. "What does this mean?" Harry whispered, the question hanging between them like a delicate thread.
Draco's lips curved into a small, almost amused smile. "It means," he said, his voice dripping with mischief, "that you're mine. And I'm yours. Whether you like it or not."
Harry's heart skipped a beat, the words landing somewhere deep in his chest. He wasn't sure what to say to that, wasn't sure how to respond. But there was a part of him—a growing part—that didn't need to say anything. He didn't need answers. He just needed Draco. And Draco needed him too.
Before he could fully process it, Draco's lips were on his again, more insistent this time, more demanding. Harry didn't hesitate. His hands roamed, pulling Draco closer, needing him closer.
The clothes came off faster this time. No hesitation. No barriers. Harry's back hit the soft cushions of the couch, Draco hovering over him, his gaze intense and full of desire.
"Draco," Harry gasped as Draco's lips trailed down his neck, his fingers tracing fire along Harry's skin.
Draco's voice was low, his breath hot against Harry's ear. "Don't say anything else. Just let me have you."
Harry's response was a moan, his body already surrendering to the pull of Draco, to the heat between them that neither of them could ignore anymore.