Hot Chocolate
Draco smiled faintly at the small wastepaper basket beside his desk, now filled with empty coffee cups of various brands and sizes. They hadn’t held coffee, though.
Harry had stayed true to his word and there’d been a cup of hot chocolate on his desk almost every morning from that day on. When there wasn’t one, it came later in the day and was usually accompanied by Andrea, an ingredient delivery, or on one occasion the Auror himself. Draco still wasn’t sure where they stood but he liked the hot chocolate. It was never the same one and never from the same coffee shop, though sometimes Harry would repeat a drink but customize it somehow like the bit of orange he’d added this morning. Refreshing.
If Draco was being completely honest—which he usually wasn’t—the hot chocolate didn’t mean much anymore. Yes, it was sweet and somewhat creepy that Harry had remembered his go-to comfort drink from their time at Hogwarts, but it was no longer special or unexpected when one appeared on his desk every day. Instead, what got to him was the dependability.
For three weeks now, Harry hadn’t missed a single day’s hot chocolate. The timing varied occasionally and, whenever it wasn’t waiting for him on his desk when he arrived, Draco heard the little voice in the back of his mind pipe up. He forgot, it would whisper. He forgot about you. He doesn’t care anymore, and why would he? You’re a—
Draco usually cut the voice off there because he didn’t want another breakdown to happen at work. But Harry hadn’t forgotten. Not once. And it was ridiculous because it wasn’t even like the man was personally delivering it each morning but it… was doing things to Draco’s mind.
His lonely, overworked brain began clinging to every drink delivery as evidence that Harry could be trusted. That made no sense, of course, because spelling a cup of hot chocolate to him each day was hardly a test of character, but his brain latched on. The effort, it insisted, was what mattered. It was the fact that Harry had clearly gone out of his way to put thought into each drink selection, to often customize them, and to cast the stasis charm at least with his own magic. Did he know how quickly Draco would drown himself in that magic? How eagerly?
Draco hoped not. But hoping and denying didn’t change the fact that every sip of hot chocolate was a small, persistent reminder that Harry was paying attention to him. ‘Cared’ about him still seemed like too much of a stretch, even if the man himself had said it. Attention, though…
Harry Potter’s attention had always been Draco’s drug of choice.
“Draco, darling, I can tell how focused you are and you know I would never doubt you for a second, but did you mean to burn that mouse claw?”
He rolled his eyes at her, but smiled. Rather than admit to any mistake or wrongdoing, he just tossed the burnt claw into the trash and began heating another over the small flame. Andrea hadn’t meant any harm. And, thanks to her, the potion hadn’t been harmed either.
Since they’d gotten coffee and since the Gatherer had begun wearing an absolutely ridiculous looking rubber hat that resembled a muggle swim cap, this was their new norm. She’d traded her sarcasm and threats for extravagant claims of grandeur and lavish compliments—though they were still rooted in banter, and Draco was still very much allowed to insult her in response—which was honestly kind of nice. He hadn’t realized how much a compliment (even a fake one) could boost his self-esteem.
Or maybe it was just nice to have the old Andrea back.
Harry had decided to go for a run. It was a habit he'd picked up right after the war as a way to get himself out of the house more and he didn't do it very often now but sometimes it was appealing. The ache in his legs and the burn in his lungs grounded him.
He could still remember the first time he'd ever pulled on running shoes and made for the door. He'd practically moved in with Aidan by that point as a way to avoid Grimmauld Place so it shouldn't have surprised him when the man saw his shoes and raised an eyebrow. The first few times went without comment, probably because Aidan was trying to judge how serious he was (or wasn't) about the habit.
By the time it became an almost daily thing, Aidan hadn't praised him for getting exercise or for getting out of the apartment or even for putting some sort of muddled effort into his own wellbeing, he'd just quirked his brow and asked:
What are you running from, pet?
Harry could have cursed him then, and likely still would. Even now, he didn't have a solid answer to that question or any of the emotions that reared up in response. He remembered how quickly he'd sunk into that role—pet—and how easy it had been to serve and empty his mind of everything except Aidan's commands. It had been what he needed at the time. Slowly, with months of distance after the breakup, Harry had come to a place where he could admit that it'd been a coping mechanism. Not good for him, necessarily, but effective enough.
However, the thought of it now made him cringe and the thought of someone forcing that servitude on Draco—no. He cut himself off. It hadn't been forced on him then, he'd begged for it. And just because it was no longer what he wanted—had never been what he wanted, truly—didn't make the entire concept wrong or disgusting. Aidan hadn't broken him down and made him into a slave, he'd just given Harry the mould and let him stuff himself into it until he couldn't take it. Until it didn't help anymore. Or, at the very least, until the benefits no longer outweighed the cost.
But Draco would never be 'pet'. This was all entirely theoretical and probably a little unethical but it was just a name, right? It wasn't like Harry was intentionally crafting long, explicit sexual fantasies about the blond, it was just a... thought exercise.
Regardless, Draco would never be 'pet' in Harry's mind. Never 'slave' or 'servant' or any variation thereof because Draco was not the kind of person who was meant to serve a purpose. Not just a purpose, at least. He was a git sometimes, but he was too intricate and too valuable to ever exist as something entirely utilitary.
Nothing derogatory either. Because, although he would have paid good money to see the look on Draco's face if Harry called him a slut, it didn't seem right. It didn't fit the feel that his mind had decided to attribute to the blond. Harry wasn't protesting, though, because he happened to agree. They'd passed more than enough insults between them as kids, Harry hardly wanted to add to the list.
And besides, his brain added, you want to worship him.
That thought was quickly dismissed, but the sentiment behind it stayed. He couldn't help admitting that there was a bit of truth to it because, honestly, if Draco ever did submit to him, Harry would be blown away by the sheer trust. Honored, he thought, or admiring. Draco would be absolutely gorgeous when he let himself slip. If he let himself slip.
Things like 'sweetheart' or 'love' felt closer to the mark, but they were too common, too everyday, or too easily made to sound sarcastic. Harry might use them, but not for this. Praise, too, was something he heard quite often whenever he went to the club; things like: 'good boy', 'precious', or even 'perfect'. Again, they were things that Harry might say but they weren't specific enough and—crucially, when it came to Draco, he thought—they couldn't be used when one misbehaved.
No, he needed something that wouldn't change depending on behavior. Something complimentary but not so complimentary that Draco would outright reject it like Harry was sure he would balk at 'my world' or 'my everything'. Animal themes weren't uncommon and Draco definitely didn't fit his idea of a 'pup' or a 'bunny' but maybe 'kitten'...?
No, Draco would only ever be a snake in his eyes or a dragon maybe but neither of those had cute, smaller versions that might lend themselves to being used as a term of endearment. Harry tried to imagine a baby snake being 'cute' the same way a kitten was, but he couldn't. Any time he thought about Draco on his knees or breathing deeply or letting his eyes flutter close, there was a distinct softness that came over his features that just couldn't fit with anything that had scales. There was only one word for it, honestly, and—
Beautiful. Merlin, that was it because the thought of Draco relaxing and letting go of that sharp, poised way of being that seemed ingrained into him was... beautiful. And Draco was just vain enough that he would allow it, Harry thought.
Beautiful.
This was one of Draco’s least favorite alternatives to the depression. It was better than when everything hurt, but just barely. He wanted to crawl out of his body and disappear into the atmosphere like a ghost. It was uncomfortable and everything about his body felt wrong. Too stiff, too tight, too achy, and too aware.
That was the crux of the issue: nothing was truly wrong and he wasn't even in pain, he was just frustratingly aware. It was particular to his lower back this time. The muscles there twinged with just the slightest discomfort—not pain, Draco might have even preferred pain—but something off that no amount of shifting, stretching, or twitching would fix. Like the pressure that builds up in a joint before you pop it. Except you can't pop muscles.
He couldn't do anything about it and even the things he did try didn’t even scratch the surface. They never did. He twisted and thrashed on his bed but the movement didn't do jackshit and somewhere between the futile leg kicks and the meaningless hip twists, his frustration started to sour into anger.
Draco hated his body.
It felt like a prison that he was trapped in and it was his only constant, unavoidable vulnerability. It was scarred and imperfect and the only thing it was good for is receiving pain. Hunger pain, emotional pain, but especially physical pain. Draco twisted again and pain radiated up his leg as he accidentally kicked the wall. For a split second, it distracted him.
But then the awareness was back and exasperation was building in his chest and it was like an itch that he just couldn't scratch except the itch was tucked deep in the very center of the muscles themselves. He dug his nails into his thigh and it calmed momentarily. But then the itch was back and it was inside his foot this time and Draco fought the urge to just amputate the limb entirely.
Everything felt annoyingly uncomfortable. Like looking at a picture when you knew proportions were just slightly off or like the deep, visceral, bodily reaction to hearing nails on a chalkboard. He hated it. His jaw clenched tight enough to hurt his teeth and he realized (not for the first time that night) that his entire body was curled tight, holding the tension. He couldn't release it or relax though, even if he wanted to.
It felt like the tension was the only thing guarding him from those unpleasant sensations. His own hair tickled his arm as he curled tighter into a ball but that pissed him off too and he ended up scratching his arm until it was bright red. It still wasn't enough. All over his skin little twinges of that itch taunted him and he scratched them as hard and as fast as he could. It wasn't fast or hard enough.
This, he thought. This is why I never let myself feel physical sensations.
‘Let’ was a strong word, but… They were fucking uncomfortable, for one, and they made him want to tear his way out of his body and leave it behind. His body weighed him down—literally, and in life. It was a physical manifestation of all the parts of him that he wasn't, from the tattoo on his arm to the excess fat clinging to his stomach.
He hated it.
All this pent up frustration and anger built in his chest with nowhere to go and he fisted the blanket but even that didn't help. His hands struggled to squeeze as tightly as he wanted and they began to refuse which just infuriated him more. What's the point of having a body if it won't even do what it's supposed to? It was the same reason he never exercised anymore because it just emphasized how weak he felt and how angry he was at his own body.
He felt the shot all the way down but it didn't burn necessarily… Instead, it was almost prickly—like the pop of Muggle carbonation in your mouth, except it was on your insides.
Draco was not in a place to be making smart decisions. He knew that, and if he hadn’t already known that he would have been able to guess by the empty bottle in front of him and the way his feet tingled whenever he stood up—not to mention the way he kept over or underestimating distances somehow. He’d managed to almost completely shatter his only non-plastic mug when he’d tried to gently set it in the sink because his brain insisted that it was farther away than it actually was. Weird, right?
If he was being logical (which he was not), Draco knew he was drunk. He’d taken three shots in quick succession because goddammit he was twenty two years old and he could do shots if he wanted to do shots! And he did want to.
The only problem was that he hadn’t drank in over a month, since before he’d gotten assigned to the case with Potter. Somehow, that had lowered his tolerance. He’d thought it was genetic, but apparently it had just been ingrained in him since he’d stared drinking at age fifteen. Regardless, what he would have needed to even feel it before was now enough to get him drunk. Or tipsy, at least.
There was actually a special, super secret second problem that Draco was avoiding classifying as a ‘problem’ because drunk Draco insisted there was nothing problematic about it in the slightest. His hands felt weird and his face was hot but he was full of good ideas and how had he never thought of these before? Honestly, most of them sounded like genius solutions.
Solution number one was to talk to Potter—the git—and say all the things he was normally too emotionally constipated or too fucking scared to say outloud. Merlin, sober Draco was such a coward. Right now, it felt like he could even admit to being attracted to the Auror without breaking a sweat. The teeny-tiny sober part left in his brain whispered that it wasn’t a matter of ‘could’ it was a matter of should, but he ignored that vehemently.
Vehemently was a good word. From the Old French veement meaning ardent or impetuous and— ...why did he know that? God, he was such a nerd. No wonder Potter dismissed him as the resident potions expert and nothing else.
Frustration brewed deep in his chest and, for a moment, Draco considered letting this drunkenness spiral into self-destruction. It would hardly be the first time. But, a very small but very loud part of him screamed that it didn’t have to and that he could have the Gryffindor’s attention if he was just brave enough to demand it.
Draco was not brave, but he was intoxicated.
He attempted to write four different letters before either glaring at his illegible penmanship or scrapping the whole thing entirely. Why send words on a page when he could just talk? Everything felt heavy and, when he took in a deep breath, it felt like his entire body was being filled to the brim. No wonder his handwriting was utter shit.
He was so aware of his body but not aware at the same time and it was fine this way, when everything was slowed down to a speed he could process at and anything nonessential was filtered out. It was okay this way, he decided, because he was just fuzzy enough to ignore anything he didn’t like. And focus on anything he did.
Like the ghost of Harry’s hands on his wrists or the slow, curling heat in his gut that was definitely completely unrelated.
Okay. He needed to talk to Harry. It had nothing to do with anything he was currently feeling and everything to do with a very calm, logical desire to enlighten Harry on a few specific things. Definitely a logical decision.
Draco managed to scribble out a very messy, incomprehensible request for a visit and sent it off to the Auror. Hopefully it would be legible. With nothing else to do, Draco kicked his feet up onto the couch and took another swig of his drink. He would just wait for Harry to show up. Not because he was drunk and didn’t really want to get up, but because it was the logical, polite thing to do after summoning someone via owl.
Definitely logical.
Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor. The alcohol dampened the discomfort in his body but it didn’t make it disappear and every twitch or twist threatened to give him carpet burns. He wasn’t opposed to the pain… per se. But the air was heavy against his body and he pressed himself as flat against the floor as he could manage. It wasn’t enough, but maybe if he could just disappear..? That sounded nice. Comfortable, even.
The owl hit him mid-step and sent them both barreling into the nearest patch of shrubs. Harry raised his arm, not sure yet whether he was planning on healing or hexing the bird, but it flew off before he could even get a good look at it. The letter it’d been carrying was in a patch of mud a few feet away. Of course.
Well, letter was a strong word for the wilted scrap of paper he’d peeled from the ground. Was it a sticky note? The pale yellow was a similar enough color but it was messy—and it had been messy before the mud puddle, which was saying something.
Harold,
Come
D
Well. That was… Harry wasn’t sure what to even call that. Vague. There wasn’t even a period after the demand which, come to think of it, was incredibly out of character for Draco Malfoy who (presumably) was the ‘D’ who had written this. He couldn’t remember the last time Draco had stooped to such informalities, even during the trials—
What if Draco was hurt?
Pure, absolute panic flooded through Harry’s veins. It was enough to halt him in his tracks and he stumbled, suddenly trying to remember how to breathe. Vaguely, he felt his hand curl around his wand and he knew he was Apparating but even that felt strange and unfamiliar in the wake of such core, devastating fear.
Magic tugged at his naval. The pull of Apparition—he knew that, and yet it refused to register. His mind helpfully conjured images of Draco lying bloody and broken on a flooded bathroom floor, rasping and twitching against the pain.
I did that.
No, thoughts like that weren’t going to help Draco right now. Harry blinked and reached for the apartment door he would’ve been able to recognize anywhere. Apartment 23. He didn’t knock—didn’t even consider knocking—and it occurred to him that he hadn’t acted this rashly in the face of panic since during the war. Strange.
Now wasn’t the time, though. With a gulp of oxygen, Harry twisted the knob and felt the wood give under his weight. The wards welcomed him easily as the door swung open.
Draco quite liked the floor, thank you very much. It was not dignified or Malfoy-esque but it was solid in a way that nothing else seemed to be and it welcomed him, promising to not let him sink any lower. Ironic, he thought, considering that this was nowhere near rock bottom for him. Somehow, the fact that he was waiting for Harry (the git) made everything more intense because he was painfully aware that this silence would be ripped away from him soon. Hopefully. If Harry actually came, that was.
Harry might not come, Draco realized, but if he didn’t then… what? Then Draco would be a mature adult and own up to the fact that he’d essentially drunk texted his coworker on a Thursday night? Unlikely. The alcohol didn’t let much of his usual self-hatred through its protective veil and Draco was grateful. He had the rest of his life to hate himself and regret everything he’d ever done.
Vaguely, Draco heard the door open. Which was weird, he thought, because he was sure he’d locked all four deadbolts before reaching for the nearest bottle of alcohol. Could deadbolts be magically opened? Hadn’t the shopkeeper in Knockturn Alley assured him that these were laden with defensive charms to resist the typical alohomora? They’d never had a problem before now… He wasn’t that worried, though, because the wards were 90% Harry’s magic so of course they would let him in.
Harry.
Harry was here.
For a second, Draco considered lifting his head and offering a snarky greeting, but that seemed like a lot of effort. The carpet had already engraved a permanent mark on his face. It would be a shame to ruin that, right? Besides, it wasn’t like he wasn’t visible from the front door. Unless the spectacled git really was half blind. But, then again, Draco couldn’t remember if the Auror still wore glasses and a big part of him thought not so maybe he’d switched to contacts?
A voice said something. The words didn’t even brush against the veil of alcohol, but Draco knew the voice itself anywhere. Harry. So he had shown up. Maybe the knowledge that Draco had managed to summon the Savior himself with just a poorly written note went straight to his head and maybe that voice was getting louder but then—
Oh god, hands. There were hands on his back touching him and then on his wrist, squeezing over his pulse point and Draco could feel hot, frantic breath against the back of his neck. The hand on his waist drifted, then cupped his jaw. It was so warm and so strong and god yes it was turning his head and forcing him to look up into deep, mesmerizing eyes.
Scared eyes.
Draco blinked, leaning more of his weight into the hand on his face and relishing in the way it immediately caught him. He knew those eyes—green like the malachite crystals set in Draco’s childhood headboard—but why were the pupils blown so wide and why did they look so emotional?
Panicked.
“W’as wrong?”
At the sound of his voice, those eyes darkened. After a second, Draco realized that their darkness didn’t scare him (he’d never even considered flinching away) and that he rather liked being the recipient of their intensity. The eyes flicked around the room, taking in the empty bottle on the floor beside him. They narrowed.
“Are you drunk, Draco?”
Merlin the sound of his first name from Harry Potter’s lips was pure serotonin in his veins. He closed his eyes, leaning more into the hand still holding his face as he tried to stomp down enough of the drunkenness to get his voice back.
“A little.”
There! That sounded more normal. Draco opened his eyes, expecting Harry to be pleased that he’d answered verbally, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer anger in the Gryffindor’s face. It curdled Draco’s sense of accomplishment and turned his lungs to stone. A knot—sharp and painful—began twisting itself in the pit of his stomach and he wanted to get away but he couldn’t make himself move.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Draco!?”
The volume, more than anything else, set off alarm bells in his mind. He’d fucked up. Harry was angry because of him and even though he had no idea what he’d done wrong—
“You drunk owled me?! With everything going on, you had the nerve to send me a vague summons out of nowhere and not even explain why?”
The hand holding his face pulled away, dropping his head unceremoniously onto the carpet. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get his limbs in motion. He couldn’t run or hide—he knew that, and trying to do so would only worsen his eventual punishment—but he couldn’t just lay there either so he curled. First his knees, drawn up to his chest. Then his arms, curled up over his head as if he can protect his skull.
“You fucking asshole!” Harry yelled, and Draco felt the anger from them all the way down in his bones. “I thought you were dying or something! I couldn’t stop picturing you lying in a puddle of your own blood and I… Jesus Draco, you scared the shit out of me!”
Scared? Yes, he thought, scared was a good word to describe what was currently happening in his body. Everything had stopped. That uncomfortable awareness from before was gone and everything had disappeared except the racing of his heart and the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks.
He was hyper aware of Harry across the room. The man’s breathing was fast and ragged, his magic was seeping out and making the air thick with it, and every miniscule sound of movement sent a jolt of adrenaline through Draco’s body. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t run—he couldn’t run—and he absolutely deserved this.
“Hey.”
The voice was softer now, almost gentle. In the aftermath of the yelling, it felt agonizingly quiet and yet the contrast made it like a beacon reaching out to him through the chaos. Draco ached to lift his head and respond to it, but he didn’t dare. He curled tighter, hiding his face.
“Hey,” it came again. “What’s wrong? What—”
Harry went silent and Draco wished he could have seen the man’s face to gauge where this situation was headed but he couldn’t make himself take the risk. Here, buried in his own limbs, he was safe. Or, safer at least.
“God, Draco, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think… Hey, listen to me, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?”
Draco did not believe that for a second, even if he really wanted to and even if something deep in his chest panged in response to those words. How many times had he lied awake at night begging to hear that phrase? But it didn’t matter now. Because even if Harry said it and even if he made his voice all soft and tentative like that, Draco wasn’t stupid enough to believe him.
“Hey,” Again, like a gentle brush against his eardrums. “Hold out your hand. This will help.”
Draco knew why he did it. The idea of angering Harry again by refusing what sounded like an order (whether it was meant to be one or not) was infinitely worse than whatever pain or punishment was about to come. He uncurled ever so slightly and exposed his left hand.
Instantly, he felt the magic. At first, he thought Harry might have used a spell or a charm on him to calm him down but then his fingers closed around wood and he realized he was holding Harry’s wand.
Harry had just given him his wand.
That didn’t make any sense because Harry knew now that Draco was capable of using this wand and of even using Harry’s own magic as a way to circumvent his own restrictions. Why would Harry arm him? And even if the Auror was confident in his own ability to perform wandless magic, why would he take the risk? Why arm a Death Eater?
Against his better judgement, Draco squeezed the wand and felt the immediate, resounding pulse of magic pass through his body. Harry’s magic. Merlin, it felt good—like a hundred healing charms when he had no wounds in the first place. He squeezed again and finally dared to lift his head.
Harry was sitting a few feet away on the floor with his back against the front of the couch, taking slow, visibly deep breaths. His arms were crossed to hug around his middle—self-soothing, Draco thought before he could stop himself—but the moment Harry saw him looking he uncurled and neutralized his body language. He crossed his legs (criss cross applesauce, Draco’s brain suggested) and placed his hands flat on each of his knees. Palms up.
Open, Draco thought, and non-threatening.
“Hey,” Harry said again, but this time his tone had slipped a bit into that lower, slightly more confident register. “You’re okay.”
It wasn’t a question. Draco felt the statement settle over him like a heavy cloak and it calmed his heart rate, letting oxygen flow freely into his lungs. Harry said he was okay, so he would be okay. There was no choice or option implied in that statement—it was a statement, a fact—so Draco let himself accept it and breathed into the sudden stillness. After a few beats of silence, he nodded.
“Good,” Harry acknowledged but fuck if that didn’t sound like praise. “Can I get you anything? Water? A blanket? Your baseball bat?”
Vaguely, Draco was aware enough to find it funny that Harry’s solution to scaring him was to supply him with weapons. He found it even more hilarious that it was working. It was probably just the calming effect that Harry’s magic had on him or the release of being able to exude magic freely for once, even if it wasn’t his own, but Draco felt strangely steady. Not that he was complaining, of course, but it made the situation that much more bizarre.
“No, it’s okay.”
Harry gave him a small smile and nodded, which Draco’s brain interpreted as evidence that he’d given the correct answer. That was a normal thing to want, right? He supposed it was probably the fear and adrenaline but he felt shockingly sober after what had just happened. Sober, and extremely aware of Harry’s presence.
“Alright, just let me know if you change your mind or want anything else, okay? Are you okay to talk about it right now? Or would distance, more neutral meeting grounds, and full sobriety help?”
Logically, Draco knew that those were all good points and that the fact that Harry had even considered them—let alone that he was suggesting them—did things to his brain. But he also knew that this conversation would not go well once he’d had time to overthink and fill himself with regret. His brain was far too eager to assign blame.
“Now, please.”
The fact that he’d said ‘please’ didn’t even register until he saw the way it made Harry’s expression soften. He supposed that was fairly out of character for him. But he could pass it off as an effect of the alcohol, if he wanted to, and there was no reason why Harry would interpret it as coming from a different, more agreeable Draco so he didn’t take it back.
“Okay,” Harry agreed, keeping his voice low and calm. “Can I go first?”
Draco nodded.
“Alright, I would like to apologize. I know better than most how easily loud voices and swearing can trigger the panic and I should have anticipated that that might happen. I’m sorry that I yelled and that I didn’t try to control my emotions.”
Draco nodded again because he was still very new to this whole ‘actually apologizing’ thing and he didn’t know what the proper response was. ‘I accept your apology’ felt far too formal and, given their last conversation, might have been a slap in the face to Harry. That wasn’t what he wanted. The memory of their last conversation spurred him on though because he remembered that this was about taking turns.
“I’m sorry I drunk owled you.”
Harry started to nod, but then stopped and his expression shifted into an almost regretful smile. He’d made no move to get his wand back, Draco realized, and he didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with the idea that he was at Draco’s mercy. Granted, Draco hadn’t really given him a reason to think he was a threat.
“I accept your apology, Draco, but that wasn’t what made me emotional. Would you like to know what did?”
In the back of his mind, a voice piped up and warned Draco that this was very likely a trick question. This was the kind of thing that his father would ask before whipping out a new torturing curse or before slamming the head of his cane into Draco’s gut. A false sense of security. But his curiosity had always gotten the better of him when it came to Harry Potter so Draco nodded slowly.
“I appreciate you trusting me to explain, Draco,” That was weird, but it was not the primary focus right now so Draco ignored it. “For the record, and for the future I suppose, I generally have very good control over my emotions. It’s a practiced skill and I’m not perfect, of course, but it is something I tend to pride myself on now, especially with work. There are two exceptions. First, and primarily at work, is when someone gets hurt unnecessarily. An example of that would be my last assistant, who decided they didn’t want to completely fill out a scene report and, because of that, two junior Aurors almost died. I was very angry then.”
Harry paused, looking up at his face, and Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that the Gryffindor was looking for something. Either he didn’t find it, or he was content with what he did find because he continued.
“The second situation in which I find it difficult to control my emotions is when someone I care about is in danger. And yes, I know that you weren’t in danger. You didn’t say that you were, and it was premature of me to assume that you were. But my first thought was that you were hurt, and I was angry at myself for not protecting you. That anger came out unfairly at you. I’m sorry, Draco.”
This sounded like a well practiced speech and, for a second, that made Draco doubt its sincerity. It was horribly genuine, though. A painful, soul-bearing kind of honest that made Draco feel like he’d just been trampled by centaurs.
He swallowed hard and tried to process what Harry had just said. Good control over emotions. Two exceptions. One, when someone gets hurt unnecessarily, and two, when someone he cares about is in danger.
I was angry at myself for not protecting you. That anger came out unfairly at you.
Draco did not know what to do with that kind of honesty but suddenly his own apology felt shallow and superficial. He took a deep breath and averted his eyes to the floor.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
That, it seemed, was at least closer to the right thing to say. Harry’s expression relaxed and he gave Draco a small smile that made his head spin. Draco squeezed the wand again, feeling the rush of Harry’s magic as it bent to his will which was still mind-blowing, and realized that Harry hadn’t even glanced to the stick. He seemed utterly unconcerned with their current power dynamic. Did Harry… trust him?
“So,” the Gryffindor broke in. “Why did you owl me, Draco?”
Because I couldn’t get the memory of your touch out of my mind, because I wanted to tell you all the things I know I shouldn’t, because I thought you might play with my hair again and distract me until I don’t hate my body as much…
“I was bored.”
Harry smiled again, which only confused Draco more. Why was Harry happy about that? He’d essentially just admitted to using the Auror as a source of entertainment while intoxicated and most people were at least a bit annoyed by that, weren’t they?
“I don’t think that’s why you did it.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry flexed the fingers of his right hand and Draco’s eyes immediately flew to the movement, but only then did he realize that Harry was smiling. The Gryffindor looked pleased that he’d gotten the reaction he’d wanted. Draco wasn’t sure how he felt about that—good, his mind insisted—but he was curious about what Harry thought he knew so he just raised his eyebrow again and waited.
“I think you know things,” Harry finally relented, still smiling. “Subconsciously, maybe, but you do. I think you’re lonely and touch-starved—don’t glare at me, it’s not a stain on your character or anything—and I think you feel connected to me. Maybe we are connected. That would explain the whole wand/magic borrowing thing, at least. Or maybe we’re just finally approaching being friends. What do you think?”
I think that I can feel your heartbeat in the air and that your magic is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I think that I’ve never depended more on the rise and fall of another person’s chest than in this moment and that I would do anything to earn that smile.
“Friends perhaps,” Draco replied, struggling to keep his voice even. “It is a bit of a shift from our age-old dynamic, so it makes sense that it might feel strange.”
Harry smiled once again, sending a wave of warmth through Draco’s body.
“My apologies for the discomfort. I suppose I’ll have to make up for it with more hot chocolates?”
Hot chocolate and head rubs and skin-to-skin contact and kisses and—
“Get some sleep, Draco. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”
Draco nodded and handed back the wand reflexively, not realizing the sudden weakness should have made him nervous until it didn’t. Harry rewarded him with a squeeze of his shoulder. Then there was a glass of water in his hand and a voice prompting him to drink. He heard the front door close just as he finished the last of the water and a pang of loneliness threatened to spread through his nervous system.
I’ll see you in the morning.
There was no need for loneliness. He would see Harry in the morning, after all, so why worry about it now? The buzz of Harry’s magic was still thick in the air and it settled in his lungs like concentrated amortentia. It was sweet, but firm somehow. Some type of wood, he realized, mixed with a flower he’d never smelled before but knew he would spend the rest of his life seeking out.
Draco decided that moving to the bedroom (where the magic would be fainter) was not necessary. He intended to move to the couch and he grabbed the blanket from it, but then his limbs gave out and deposited him back onto the carpet. This time, it didn’t dig into his skin or threaten to give him rug burn if he moved, though. Now, it was soft and solid beneath his body. He wrapped himself in the blanket.
A hand, strong and steady, cupping his jaw and wordlessly asking him to look up. Fingers, light but determined, searching his wrist for a pulse. The absolute panic in Harry’s eyes and the way it had softened into a smile once the hard part of their conversation was done with. Harry’s hands in his hair… On his waist… Rubbing, holding, caressing him and calming the constant tension in his chest…
Draco slept on the floor that night.