2
The fourth time it happens, Harry is in the middle of Defense class and Ron is standing a few feet from him. Their wands are up and pointed toward each other. Ron’s stance is relaxed, his eyes sharp and he shows no signs of fatigue although they’ve been going at it for at least a quarter of an hour.
Harry thinks often that this was one of the only benefits of living on the run for most of last year—they had plenty of time for duelling practice, and now the act comes as easy as breathing. He thinks that he could probably close his eyes and he would still be able to feel the magic around him enough to sense what Ron is going to throw his way.
Harry used to love this class. He loved the thrill it gave him, the rush of living in the moment and having to act in a split-second to avoid getting hexed or cursed. But that was Before. Now the hum of defensive magic nearly makes him nauseous. He hates the sounds of whizzing spells, and the bright jets of light.
Ron winces when one of Harry’s comes too close and singes the sleeve of his robe.
“Sorry,” Harry mutters, and Ron grins at him.
“C’mon, you can do better than that, mate!” Ron says playfully, and then—he must see something in Harry’s expression, because the glee slides off his face and he instantly lowers his wand.
Harry can’t breathe. He feels the blood draining from his face, and his hands begin to tingle, and he has a sudden itching need to run, or hide, or—
“Hey,” Ron says gently, shoving his wand in his pocket and stepping over to Harry very slowly. “You alright, Harry?”
Harry takes in a wheezing breath and shudders. He shakes his head. He can’t really see the classroom around them, not anymore. He can only see Sirius with that look of surprise painted over his face, falling backwards into the veil, one hand outstretched toward Harry.
“You can do better than that!”
He must make some sort of strangled, whimpering sound then, because he faintly registers in the back of his mind that the classroom has fallen silent around them.
“Shit,” Ron says. He scans Harry from head to toe and then stares into his eyes, searching hard for something (Harry has no idea what) but then after a moment Ron’s gaze finally softens and he reaches down, carefully prying Harry’s wand from his tight grip. Ron sets the wand down on the desk beside them and curls a hand around Harry’s shoulder.
“He—he was right—there,” Harry chokes out. A desperate, aching sadness wells up in his heart. He rubs at his chest and makes that same, strangled sound.
“I know. I know, Harry. Fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot, I…” Ron hesitates. When his grip tightens on Harry’s shoulder, probably intending to guide him over to a seat, Harry flinches.
Ron’s face pales and he lets go of Harry in a flash.
“Shit,” he says again. He looks around the room then, a desperate hint to his gaze. “‘Mione—”
Harry hunches over, pressing his palms hard into his eyes. He doesn’t want to see another flash of green light. He doesn’t want to watch another person die in front of him. If he opens his eyes it’ll be Hermione this time, or Ron, and it’ll be Harry’s fault.
When the arm comes sliding around Harry’s waist a moment later, hoisting him up and helping him out of the classroom, and the faint scent of vanilla tickles his nose, Harry immediately knows that it is not Hermione or Ron beside him.
“...Draco?”
“Bunch of useless idiots,” Draco spits once they get out into the hall, sounding angry, and Harry cringes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, miserable.
Draco’s voice immediately goes soft. “Hush, Potter,” he says. “You’ve nothing to worry about. Just hold tight, that’s it—” Harry stumbles over his feet, nearly falling, and Draco’s grip tightens, hoisting him even closer— “and we’ll go somewhere nice and quiet, where there’s no rogue spells flying about, and no idiotic Weasels lurking around the corner—”
“Hey!” Ron’s voice pipes up indignantly from somewhere behind them, and Harry looks over his shoulder, spotting his two best friends hurrying behind them, their faces white, although Ron’s has begun to redden considerably. “Malfoy, you bloody prat! Where are you taking him?”
“It’s alright, Ron,” Hermione says, her voice quiet but firm. She tugs Ron to a stop and murmurs something in his ear that makes all of the anger drain from his face.
“Oh… really?” Ron says. Hermione nods furiously and gestures toward Harry and Draco.
Harry, suddenly feeling embarrassed, turns his face toward Draco, pressing his cheek to the soft silky fabric of the boy’s robes. He can feel himself shivering, and he doesn’t know why.
“Breathe,” Draco murmurs to him, his arm steadying around Harry’s waist. Harry forces in a shuddery breath and then exhales, his shoulders jerking.
“I’m—I’m s—”
“That better not be another apology you’re trying to force out,” Draco says warningly, and Harry falters.
“That’s what I thought.”
Ron’s voice rings out incredulously behind them again. “But, Hermione it’s sodding Malfoy—”
“Quiet, Ronald. Honestly. All it takes is one look at them together, you can see it, look how he’s—”
Harry doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation. His friends appear to have come to a halt in the middle of the hallway to continue bickering while Draco has continued moving further ahead with Harry. They don’t stop until they’ve gone up a few flights of stairs, moving slowly, Harry gasping for breath and clutching Draco’s robes, and then Draco finally tugs Harry into a small storage room that smells faintly of dust and cleaning solution.
Draco’s arm leaves Harry for just a moment then, and he feels completely, utterly adrift.
He has no idea where they are, or how they got here, or why he’s so cold and he can’t breathe right. He keens, a pained sound erupting from his throat, and his legs wobble. He’s moments from dropping to the ground when all at once Draco is back, his arm returned to Harry’s waist and they are moving further into the room until they sit down in a dusty armchair and Harry finds himself sprawled over Draco’s lap. His face is pressed into the crook of Draco’s neck, right where Harry likes it.
“Absolutely ridiculous,” Draco mutters, and Harry’s heart drops. He rears back, tries to get away, but Draco’s arms tighten around him.
“I’m s—”
“Not you, Potter. Hold still, would you? Quit squirming.”
Harry, feeling confused, can’t help but squirm about a bit more.
Draco hisses and then his hand is winding through Harry’s curls, getting a good grip and then pulling tight.
Harry goes limp.
Draco uses his other hand to trace slow circles all around Harry’s back, and with each drag of movement, Harry feels himself slump further forward, his body sinking completely against Malfoy’s. He makes little sounds of contentment here and there, and his breathing slowly goes back to normal.
“That’s it,” Draco murmurs. “Just needed some peace and quiet, that’s all. Didn’t you?”
“Draco,” Harry mumbles.
“Yes, I’m here. Hush, Potter.”
Draco’s hand releases Harry’s curls for a moment but it’s alright because then he does that other thing Harry likes, where he wraps his palm around the nape of his neck and squeezes firmly.
“Hnnnnn.”
“There you go.” Draco’s voice has gone low, throaty, and he sounds pleased. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”
Harry floats.
Warm goosebumps travel down his spine and all over his body. Soft and pliant in Draco’s hands, he thinks that if he were a cat he might purr. As it is, he continues making soft little sounds of happiness, pressing his face as close as he can into Draco’s chest and taking in great inhales of the scent clinging to his robes.
They smell expensive, like some kind of spice Harry would pronounce all wrong, and he loves it. It reminds him of a chest he opened once this past summer in the attic of Grimmauld Place. He had found dozens upon dozens of perfectly preserved coats. They had looked expensive, and reminded him far too much of Sirius. He had carefully put them away, closing the chest tightly and leaving it for another day.
Harry wonders if maybe Draco would like to have one of those coats.
“Now, tell me, Potter,” Draco says quietly, after some time has passed and Harry is fully relaxed—nearly asleep—and he can’t quite remember what he was so upset about.
“Hmm?” He rasps, trying to lift his head, but Draco’s hand is still pressed to Harry’s neck and he doesn’t allow even a bit of movement.
“Why on earth are you still in that bloody course?”
“Hm?”
Draco sighs. “Defense. Why did you enroll this year? You’re clearly miserable.”
Draco’s words swirl arout in Harry’s mind and he sifts through them sluggishly. “Er...what?”
Draco sighs again, mutters something incomprehensible under his breath, and finally lets go of the nape of Harry’s neck. He slowly helps Harry into a more upright position, until Harry feels a bit more alert and finds that he can look the other boy in the eye. Harry glances around the room then, taking it all in, and glances at Draco, his eyes travelling down until he finds himself perched on the boy's lap.
“Erm,” he says, very eloquently.
“Answer me,” Draco says patiently, his eyes liquid like molten silver on Harry. Harry squirms, tries to put some appropriate distance between them, but Draco’s arms keep him trapped in place.
It’s quite a nice feeling, if Harry is being honest—even without the fog of fear or confusion weighing on his mind. So he quits struggling and then tries to think of an answer.
“Er… Sorry, what was the question?”
Draco reaches up, winds his fingers through Harry’s curls again and tugs, a little too hard this time, punishingly, and Harry whines. He tries to slump forward, to collapse against Draco again, but Draco won’t let him.
“I want to know why you are forcing yourself to take Defense this year when you so clearly abhor it,” Draco says. He stares at Harry right in the eye. “Tell me now, Potter. And don’t lie. You should know—you weren’t the only one studying Occlumency in fifth year, but you were the only one who failed miserably at it.”
Harry gapes at Draco in shock, who smiles back at him, wide and sharp, like the Chesire cat.
“What? What do you… I don’t… er… what?”
Draco laughs. The sound is rich, and warm, and Harry goes perfectly still. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the other boy laugh like this before. He thinks that he might be willing to do anything to hear that sound again.
Draco softens his grip on Harry’s curls and instead wraps both arms around Harry’s waist, drawing him a little closer and helping Harry to feel a little bit more secure in his spot.
“Let’s make it easier, then,” the blond boy says with a hum, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, preparing himself for another difficult question. “Do you at least enjoy the class?”
“No,” Harry blurts out instantly, and then frowns. “I mean, er. Of course I like it, erm…”
“Well,” Draco says. He smirks. “So you don’t enjoy it, then. Do you want to quit?”
“Yes,” Harry says. He frowns again and shakes his head bemusedly. “Erm, wait no… that’s not…”
“Harry,” Draco says, and Harry’s entire thought process comes to a grinding halt. He gapes at Draco.
He had somewhat resigned himself to the fact that Draco would be calling him ‘Potter’ for the foreseeable future. It was better than Scarhead, at least (or Potty). So Harry’s completely unprepared now for how perfect it sounds. He had never put any thought into how it would make him feel—how the sound of his given name on Draco’s tongue would make his heart skip a bit and his entire body tremble.
Draco, for his part, flushes. He scowls at Harry’s look of wonderment.
“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, his tone unreadable. “Just had to get your attention. And now—now that I have it, tell me.”
Harry’s thoughts drift reluctantly back to the topic and he frowns.
“Don’t lie to me, Harry.”
“I hate it,” Harry blurts out, and then claps one hand over his mouth in dismay.
Draco hums, and his eyes flash triumphantly. His hand travels up Harry’s back to the nape of his neck again and squeezes firmly once—like a reward. Harry gasps, shudders, and his face heats. It is a sensation that he doesn’t know he’ll ever get used to. His eyes flutter shut.
“Good,” Draco nearly purrs. “So good. Thank you for being honest. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Harry doesn’t respond. He’s still basking in the warm, comforting feeling of Draco’s palm curled over the nape of his neck.
“So what are you going to do, after we’re done here?”
Harry frowns at that, his brow furrowing. He doesn’t want to be done here. He wants to stay in this room on Draco’s lap for the rest of the day, at least, or perhaps for eternity.
Draco laughs. He sounds pleased again. “Focus, Harry. Come on. You know what you’re going to do. You’re going to go to McGonagall and tell her you want to drop the course. Aren’t you?”
Harry stiffens, and his heart floods with a feeling of shame. He sits up slightly and shrugs Draco’s hand away.
“N—no,” he shakes his head after a moment. “I have to… I have to take it, Draco.”
It’s hard to get the words out. He would prefer not to think at all, or talk, but Draco is relentless.
“Why?” The boy responds, his tone sharp.
“Because…” Harry hesitates, glancing around the room like he will find the answer written on the wall. All he finds is a carton of abandoned cleaning supplies, dusty with lack of use. “Because, er…”
“Spit it out, Potter.”
“I have to,” Harry finally says. “I have to, I just… it’s Defense, that’s my—” he hesitates again. “It’s my best subject, see? Everyone expects me to, and Ron, er—after school, if I want to make auror training with him—”
Draco makes a strangled sound, and Harry falls silent.
“Auror training?” he says, aghast. “You can’t be serious.”
Harry shrugs.
“Don’t tell me that’s still your plan after Hogwarts.”
Harry shrugs again. “‘Course it is,” he says, a little defensive. “What… what else am I supposed to do?”
The soft, easy fog of the past hour has finally begun to fully lift, and Harry is sad to see it go. His more difficult feelings are returning, feelings of guilt and shame, feelings of responsibility, of obligation, of pain and fear and duty and—
“Don’t do that,” Draco says sharply. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the Boy-Who-Lived, aren’t you? I doubt there’s anything you can’t do. You can do whatever you want after school. You’ll be able to get any job, go anywhere, travel…” Draco trails off, for a moment sounding horribly bitter, and then he clenches his jaw and his expression clears. “So don’t tell me you’re going to be an auror just because that’s what you were raised to be.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Yes, it is,” Draco says.
“No, it’s—”
“Dumbledore’s dead, Harry.”
Harry flinches.
“He is,” Draco presses, one hand still tracing comforting circles on Harry’s lower back. “And so is Vol… Voldemort. There’s no great bloody war to fight, and you have absolutely zero life-threatening quests left to be sent on. Isn’t that right?”
“Er… I suppose,” Harry says, frowning at Draco. “But—”
“And you are miserable in that class.” Draco’s voice has gone soft again, and he is now speaking to Harry very gently. “Aren’t you? Why would you go on torturing yourself? You’ve been tortured enough, haven’t you?”
Harry is speechless. He turns over Draco’s words in his mind.
He wouldn’t call it torture. He had been excited to have the chance to return to Hogwarts for one last year. One last year where there was nothing to worry about, no basilisks or dementors or visions or psychotic murderers. It’s just that—even though Harry knows that the castle is safe, and that there’s nothing to worry about, he can’t quite get himself to believe it.
“Haven’t you spent enough time being what we all needed you to be?” Draco asks, after Harry has been silent for a long time. “Why don’t you just be what you want to be, now?”
Harry’s throat feels thick. He tries to swallow, but it hurts. He tries to climb off Draco’s lap, but the boy is watching too closely, and his grip tightens at Harry’s slightest movement.
“Don’t run away,” Draco says softly, reproachingly. “Answer me. That’s all you have to do.”
Harry shudders. “I don’t know,” he croaks. “I don’t, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know,” Harry says again, insistent, shaking his head. His throat aches, and his words come out shaky. He thinks of how it felt to sit in Dumbledore’s office that night, after he watched Snape’s memories and learned exactly what he was meant to do to end the war. “There’s nothing I… there’s nothing I want to be. There’s nowhere I want to go. Nothing I want to do. I never had a bloody plan, Draco.” Harry grimaces and ducks his head. “I honestly don’t think I wasn’t supposed to… make it this far. I never planned to survive the war.”
Draco’s expression shutters.
“So… I suppose I did in the end, and that’s all… well and good,” Harry continues, feeling slightly nervous, “but I just… I don’t know what to do with myself, now.”
“Bollocks.”
“What?” Harry lifts his head and stares at the other boy, startled.
Draco’s face, which a moment before had been perfectly smooth, is now contorted in anger. “I said bollocks, Potter.” He glares at Harry, who cringes.
He’s not as much a fan of this side of Draco. He wants to go back to being held, and pet, and praised. He wishes the boy would stop asking him such difficult questions, making him think about things that make his heart ache and his hands tremble.
“But, it’s true—”
“No it’s not,” Draco glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone wants something. Even you. The perpetually-selfless, never-once-been-selfish, perfect, pretty, honest and kind Saint Potter. There has to be something you want. It’s—”
“Well I don’t!” Harry snarls.
He feels horribly overwhelmed at the conflict of condescension and praise in Draco’s tone. In a rush of movement he shoves at Draco’s chest, hard, until he’s scrambled off the boy’s lap and is standing, his fists clenched, and his chest heaving. The cold, hard reality of the world he lives in comes crashing back around him, and he feels the weight of it immediately press on his shoulders. He scowls at Draco.
Draco seems vaguely pained. “Potter—”
“I don’t want anything,” he growls. He retreats further back when Draco stands up from his chair and makes to come closer. “I don’t want to be an auror. I don’t want to be at Hogwarts. Everywhere I go in this fucking castle, I see the faces of those who gave their lives for me. I never wanted that. I never asked for it.”
Harry is aware that he is now shouting, that his face is red and his body is filling with a loud, charging energy, but he is too worked up to stop it now.
Draco’s lips part, and his mouth turns down in concern. “I didn’t mean—”
But Harry is on a roll now, and he talks angrily over the blond boy. “I didn’t want my parents to die, I didn’t bloody well want to grow up with the Dursleys, and I didn’t want to spend my childhood sleeping in a cupboard!”
Harry’s breath shudders. He didn’t mean to say that last part. He falters for a moment and glances up at Draco, who is staring back at him wide-eyed and speechless.
“I didn’t want any of it,” Harry says, forcing his voice to be a little quieter. He takes in a deep gulping breath and then exhales. He relaxes his fists. “I didn’t want a piece of Voldemort in me. I didn’t want to die, but I had to. And I didn’t want to come back, either. But… I had to do that, too.”
“Harry,” Draco says, his eyes glassy, and he reaches out one hand, like he wants to pull Harry back into his grasp, but Harry steps back again.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Harry, wait—”
It’s suddenly so important to Harry that Draco understands this, that he doesn’t think that Harry is lying. “I don’t,” he says, cutting the other boy off. “It’s too much. All of it’s too much. I don’t want to have to think, or talk, or breathe. I don’t want—I don’t think I even want to be a—I don’t want to be al—” Harry chokes, his breath catching, and a few tears escape the corners of his eyes and spill down his cheeks.
This is the closest he’s coming to admitting it—this sick, dark, hungry feeling that has been festering in him since the night he found out he was a horcrux.
Harry has tried to push it down, to forget it, to fill that gaping void in his chest with the thought that he still has Ron and Hermione, that he’s alive, that he survived everything that Voldemort did to him, but it hasn’t been enough. Nothing has been enough, and he’s been getting worse. And the only thing that has really helped has been Draco’s soft hands winding through his hair, tugging on his curls, squeezing at the nape of his neck, telling Harry that he’s good and he’s safe and he doesn’t have to worry about anything.
“Stop it,” Draco says, his words hoarse. His eyes are bright with horror. “Don’t say it, Harry.”
Harry’s shoulders hunch. He curls into himself and he blinks rapidly, letting more tears loose. “But I just don’t, I don’t. I don’t, Draco. Please.”
For a long, tense moment, the room is utterly silent around them.
Harry tries to control his hitching breathing, to reign in the anxious, tingling magic that has spread all over his skin, and he almost misses Draco’s next words. He’s too busy thinking that he’s fucked everything up. He’s finally shown Draco exactly how much of a freak he is, how the war broke him and he’s stuck in the past while everyone else around him is moving forward onto bigger, better things.
He waits with bated breath for Draco to sneer at him, to scoff or make fun, to walk past Harry and leave him alone to rot in that storage cupboard.
“Okay,” the blond boy says quietly, instead. He stays right where he is, fixing Harry with a long, searching gaze. He makes no moves to leave. “Okay, so we’ve established what it is that you… well, what it is that you don’t want.”
Harry nods once, jerkily.
“Good,” Draco breathes. He smiles very softly. “That’s good, then. Thank you for telling me.”
Harry blinks again. He stares at Draco uncomprehendingly. He tries to ignore the quiet thrill of warmth that starts at the top of his head and trickles slowly through the rest of his body.
“Now,” Draco goes on. “Here’s what I have to say about all of that.”
“Draco—”
“Hush, Potter. It’s my turn to speak. And you know what? I think that, for someone who ‘doesn’t want to think anymore,’ you seem to be doing an awful lot of it lately.”
Harry stops short, his brow furrowing.
“See—you’re doing it even now,” Draco says, that same soft smile still wavering at the corners of his lips. “Aren’t you?”
Harry frowns. He tries to think of a good response, a smart rebuttal to Draco’s statement. And then he thinks with a faint horror that Draco probably has a point.
“Erm,” he says.
“Yes,” Draco says. “Quite.”
They stare at each other for another few moments.
“Well,” Draco says then. “How about this. You say that there’s nothing you want. So, do you want to know what I want?”
“Yes,” Harry says instantly. He thinks that there is perhaps nothing in the world that he wants more.
Draco’s mouth twitches, and his smile deepens. His eyes grow molten. “Good. Then to start, what I want is for you to come back over here to me,” he says. He slowly steps backward and sinks down into the chair.
Harry looks down at Draco sitting in the chair, his legs splayed. He swallows thickly. He can’t see why the blond boy would allow this sort of thing, again, after everything Harry has just said to him and after how he’s been behaving, like a petulant child. “But, Draco—”
“Shhh,” Draco says. “I’m not done. Don’t interrupt.”
“Sorry,” Harry says, his mouth going dry.
“I want you to come here,” Draco repeats, ignoring Harry’s latest apology. He points to the floor between his spread knees.
Harry immediately opens his mouth to protest, but very quickly shuts it at the threatening look Draco gives him.
“You’re going to kneel, and be quiet, and do exactly as I say,” Draco says, when he’s sure Harry’s not going to interrupt again. “And we’re going to sit here for as long as it takes for you to tell me what you want.”
Harry frowns. He thinks about it, although he knows he’s not supposed to, and he opens his mouth yet again to voice his concerns. He had thought he made it very clear to Draco that he didn’t want anything.
“You said you wanted to know what I want,” Draco reminds him, speaking rapidly, like he knows exactly what Harry’s thinking and he knows that if he gives Harry a moment too long, he will start to pace and shout and think too hard again. “This is exactly what I want, Potter. Now—are you going to give it to me?”
Harry stares at Draco with his mouth slightly open.
“Answer me, please,” Draco says.
“Give you… erm…” Harry struggles over his words. He feels a hot flush spread up his chest and over his cheeks.
“Are you going to give me what I want?”
Draco smiles hopefully at Harry, and Harry melts. All of his misgivings disappear.
“Yeah, okay,” he breathes. “Anything.”
Draco’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch, and a brief look of relief flashes over his face, and then he crooks his finger at Harry, beckoning him closer. “Come here then,” he says, almost teasingly.
Harry nearly stumbles over his feet hurrying to complete Draco’s request. He crosses the room in a half-second and then wavers.
“Kneel down,” Draco says quietly.
Harry’s legs buckle. He is a second from banging his knees hard against the wood panels but Draco lurches forward, catching him round the waist and lowering him very slowly the last few inches.
“There you go.”
Harry shivers. Draco’s voice is all liquidy-smooth again, and low, and he sounds very pleased.
“Draco—”
“Quiet.”
Harry’s mouth snaps shut. Above him, Draco hums and arranges Harry so that he’s knelt comfortably on the floor between Draco’s legs, his head pillowed on the other boy’s thigh.
It’s nice. It would be so much nicer though, Harry thinks, if he were on Draco’s lap instead. Or if Draco would pull on his hair a bit, or squeeze his neck. He blinks up at the blond boy entreatingly, his eyes hopeful, and in the back of his mind he feels himself already slipping again, his thoughts going fuzzy and all of the fears and worries melting away.
“I don’t want to hear another word from you, Potter. Not unless it is to ask me for something that you want.”
Harry blanches, his lips turning downward. “But I—”
“Harry,” Draco tuts, practically pouting, and Harry falls silent, his eyes widening. Draco’s lips are pink, and they look soft, and Harry has a wild, fleeting thought of what they might feel like dragging right over the sensitive skin of his neck. He shivers.
“I thought you wanted to do what I want,” Draco says, dragging Harry away from his suddenly lascivious thoughts. “Or isn’t that what you said, just now?”
“...Yes,” Harry says, albeit reluctantly. “But I just—”
Draco lets out a puff of air in frustration, but his eyes are sparkling, like he and Harry are playing some kind of game that only Draco knows the rules of. He reaches out and winds his fingers through Harry’s curls and tugs once, lightly, barely enough for any sort of effect, although Harry’s eyes sink shut anyway and he makes a strangled sound.
“Mm—Draco—”
But in the next moment Draco withdraws, releasing his grip on Harry’s curls. When Harry groans in protest and opens his eyes, the blond boy is smirking down at him.
“You… you can’t just—” Harry stammers, feeling shorted but not sure why. He presses his cheek harder into Draco’s thigh, rubbing against the soft fabric of his robes.
Draco’s eyes widen, and he is the one to make a strangled sound this time. He clenches his jaw hard, and his hands flex. But he does not move. He just sits there, staring down at Harry—like he is waiting for something.
Harry very nearly whines. He squirms on the floor, his knees aching slightly, and he shuffles closer to Draco, wrapping one arm around the boy’s shin.
“Draco,” he manages to say, his thoughts jumbled, and his tongue thick. “Draco, please…”
“Hm?” Draco feigns a noise of surprise. “What is it?”
Harry hesitates. “You… please. Please, can’t you just—”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco hums. “Why should I?”
A deep red blush spreads over Harry’s face, and his cheeks feel hot. He stares up at Draco in confusion. He doesn’t quite understand why the other boy isn’t just…
“Tell me what you want, Harry,” Draco says, now sounding a bit impatient, his voice so low and rough that it makes Harry shudder.
“Draco,” he says, squirming in place again. “Draco, please.”
“No, I’m not giving you the easy way out this time. Be good, and tell me what you want.”
Harry exhales heavily, shifting closer, grabbing a handful of Draco’s robes. His vision swims. “...I want, I want—please—”
“Tell me.”
“I want—you.”
Both of them freeze. Draco lurches back slightly, seeming surprised. Two bright spots of red colour his cheeks. He stares down at Harry with a look of wonderment. “Oh,” he says softly.
“I want you,” Harry repeats, starting to feel desperate (now that he suddenly knows exactly what he wants and he thinks he might die if he doesn’t get it right fucking now). “Please, Draco. Please. I want you. I want you to—please, can you—touch me. Please.”
That seems to be enough for Draco, at least for now. He leans forward and winds his hands (both of them this time, to Harry’s sheer, startled delight) all the way through Harry’s curls. He grips tightly.
“hnnnng—!”
Draco shifts closer, nearly cradling Harry in his arms. Warm breath ghosts across Harry’s face. “Is that all?” Draco murmurs. “Is that all you want, Harry?”
Harry groans and shakes his head, as much as he can with how tightly Draco is gripping his hair.
“No,” he protests, his voice thick. “More, please Draco—”
Draco’s eyes darken. “You want more?”
“More, harder, please please please—”
Draco’s eyes flash, nearly silver in the dark room. His grip tightens once more in Harry’s curls and he yanks up, forcing Harry’s head back and exposing the column of his throat.
“Ngh, Draco—!”
“Shh. Quiet, I said. You’re not very good at following directions, are you?” Draco murmurs, curling over him, dark eyes drinking in every inch of Harry like he might disappear at any moment. Harry shudders, his mouth filling with saliva, his eyes half-lidded.
“No I can do it, I can, please Draco—” he chokes, words cutting off when Draco pulls harder yet again, and sharp tingling pain-pleasure is hot all over Harry’s scalp, and his eyes threaten to spill over with new tears.
“Can you?”
“Hnnnn.” Harry squirms. He tries to duck his head, but Draco’s grip is too tight.
“Answer me.”
“I can,” Harry says, breathless, not even humiliated one bit by the fact that his words have begun to sound like whimpers. “I can be good Draco, please let me—”
“Then tell me what you want,” Draco says.
“I want, I want—fuck—Draco please—”
“Tell me.”
Harry shudders. “I want, so much— don’t stop, but—please, my neck? Please, Draco, I want it. Like when you… like last time. In the library, I need it, can’t you give it to me—?” Harry runs out of coherent words and instead lets out a high, needy whine.
Draco makes a noise sort of like a growl, and the room fills with sharp, hungry tension. Keeping one of his hands coiled tightly in Harry’s curls, Draco drags his other hand down, curls it around the nape of Harry’s neck and squeezes hard. Harder than he has before.
Everything goes blissfully quiet.
All of the tension slips out of Harry in a fraction of a second. He goes completely lax, his body slumping forward, and only Draco’s grip on his hair and his neck keeps him steady. Harry’s eyes drift shut and he exhales in one giant gust of relieved breath.
Finally.
“Well. Look at you,” Draco says after a while, very very gently, like he doesn’t want to disturb Harry’s newfound state of calm.
Harry opens his mouth, tries to force his lips into some sort of response, but Draco only has to squeeze his neck a bit tighter, and any thought that had a chance of forming is gone yet again. He blinks dumbly up at Draco and then closes his eyes.
They sit like that, silent, curled around each other, Draco’s hands on Harry and Harry’s hands gripping tightly at Draco’s robes, unwilling to be separated. And the next time Draco speaks, Harry is not certain if it’s been minutes or hours or entire millennia that he’s been here, knelt quietly at Draco’s feet.
“So there are things that you want.”
Harry hums in acknowledgement.
“You want… me.”
Harry hums again and his eyes flutter open. He shifts closer to Draco. “You,” he responds raspily, nodding in agreement. “You, please.”
“Alright then,” Draco says, and for the first time, Harry hears a bit of a tremor in the other boy’s tone. A bit of uncertainty.
“Want you,” Harry mumbles, making sure to say it again, so that Draco doesn’t have to worry. So that he knows exactly what Harry wants.
“Mm.” Draco falls silent for a while. His thumb rubs soft circles on the inside of Harry’s neck. Harry tries not to keen, to squirm needily at the feel of it. He’s trying to be good.
“And…” Draco pauses. “You don’t want to be an auror, do you?”
“No,” Harry says.
“And you don’t want to take Defense anymore.”
“No.” Harry shudders.
He can’t even fathom the idea of stepping foot in that classroom again. Not while the sound of spells flying and the taste of magic in the air makes him nauseous. He frowns, shifting slightly, trying to sit up, his thoughts growing sharp and dense and frightened—
Draco tuts and increases the pressure around Harry’s neck for a moment, until Harry makes a strangled sound and sinks back down to his knees, pressing his cheek to Draco’s thigh.
“Stop that. You don’t have to think about it anymore,” Draco says. “Alright?”
Harry parcels through Draco’s words and then nods slowly. “Okay,” he says.
“And… let’s see…” Draco mutters to himself for a moment, thinking out loud, and Harry decides that he doesn’t need to listen, and he lets himself sink down again until he’s floating in a swirl of unattached thoughts, and his head feels fuzzy.
“Well,” Draco finally says, after a long time. “I suppose we can talk about the rest later. When you’re thinking more clearly. How does that sound?”
“Yeah, okay,” Harry mumbles. He shifts on the wood floor, his knees aching a bit more now, although the pain of it is quite nice, and helps remind him where he is.
“Good boy.”
Harry sucks in a choked breath and a full-body shiver wracks through his frame. He turns and presses his face into Draco’s thigh, mouthing desperately at the fabric of his robes.
Draco curses. He tugs lightly on Harry’s curls, arresting his movements, and Harry whines again in protest.
“Hush,” Draco murmurs. He sounds faintly frustrated, like he wants nothing more than to let Harry keep doing whatever it is that he’s doing. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Alright? Just… just relax. Merlin,” he adds a moment later, under his breath, when Harry squirms again and stares up at Draco with wide, disappointed eyes.
“Want you,” Harry begs. His voice is throaty, thick with unshed tears. “Draco, please.”
Draco sighs heavily. He stares at Harry consideringly for a long moment. “Come here,” he finally says, gently, tugging upwards on Harry’s curls.
Harry moves eagerly, clambering up onto the blond boy’s lap. He leans in close and presses his face right up against Draco’s collarbone, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He hums and squirms happily, trying to get comfortable.
Draco swears again. He wraps one bracing arm around Harry’s back, keeping him still, and keeps his other hand clutching at Harry’s curls. He seems just as interested in keeping Harry as close as possible. His lips brush against the top of Harry’s head, and he sighs.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “That’s good. Just stay right here, Harry. Just stay right here and don’t worry about a single thing. I’ve got you.”