Archive of Our Own ^beta

If looks could kill, Harry Potter would be six feet underground.

Draco throws back another shot of vodka and hisses through his teeth as the alcohol hits the back of his throat. The stuff is bloody awful, but Draco isn’t downing shot after shot because he enjoys the taste. Rather, he’s hoping his vision will blur and his brain will shut off before Harry’s questing hands find their way fully beneath that girl’s top, because they are definitely moving in that direction.

Draco’s almost embarrassed for him. Sure, Harry isn’t the only one nearly fucking on the dance floor. It’s that sort of club — the sort with sticky floors, filthy toilets, and graffiti on the walls. But the drinks are cheap and the music is loud and all of Draco’s friends are there. They don’t go every week, but more often than not, one or two of them from their old group will tire of drinking beers and smoking joints on the sofa, or get the itch to dance, and they’ll all pile into the Knight Bus and hit the clubs in Knockturn Alley.

Draco simply wishes Harry wouldn’t find someone new to fawn over him every single time they went out. Why couldn’t he just have fun like the rest of them? Did he always have to pull?

A body presses against Draco’s left side, doused in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and edged with liquor.

“Keep staring like that and someone will think you’re plotting to curse Harry Potter,” Pansy says, gesturing to the bartender for two more of whatever Draco is having. He snorts, because she’s going to be disappointed.

“They’d be right,” Draco grumbles and accepts the fresh drink from Pansy, pinching the shot glass between his fingers. “Someone call the Aurors because I’m this fucking close. It’s inconsiderate. How do you think Ginevra feels? It’s barely been six months since they broke up officially and he goes around sticking his tongue down the throat of some slag he just fucking met.”

“I think Ginevra is dealing with it perfectly fine,” Pansy says, tilting her head towards where Ginny Weasley has two arms wrapped around Luna Lovegood’s shoulders, nose buried in her neck, lost in a cloud of yellow hair.

“Still inconsiderate,” Draco grunts and swallows the shot while Pansy carries on rolling her eyes at him.

“Merlin, Draco. You are so fucking transparent. And slow down, would you?” She snags his raised hand out of the air as he attempts to signal the bartender once more. “You’re a thousand times more obvious when you’re sloshed, you know. You’ll be on the floor with arms warped around Potter’s ankles before the end of the evening, at this rate.”

Draco scowls at her. She isn’t supposed to say that sort of thing out loud. They have rules about that. The only way they can manage their odd camaraderie with their former classmates is if they keep some things between them. It’s how they survived Eighth Year, all of them crammed into quarters together. But once they got past the regular duelling, fist fights, and shouting matches, and started drinking and sharing in the mutual suffering of being the odd members out at Hogwarts, things began to thaw.

But since then, Draco’s crush on Harry has got a bit out of hand. Draco’s friends from school all know Draco is gay and that he thinks Harry is fit. Hell, everyone knows Harry is fit. He’s long since grown out of the gangling, knobby-kneed boy Draco grew up hating. He’s taller, for one. And he’s gained the wiry sort of muscle that lingers just beneath the skin, the sinews twisting every time Harry holds his wand or reaches up to get something off a high shelf, shirt rucking up at his waist. Harry doesn’t treat Draco with the same animosity as before. They joke around in a way that might be misconstrued as flirting, if Draco wasn’t… well… Draco, and Harry wasn’t straight — which he is.

Any lingering daydreams that Draco may have entertained are quickly dashed, because Harry's hands are definitely under that girl’s top now, and he’s snogging her senseless, her hands buried in his messy raven curls. And even though the music in the club is blaring, Draco would swear he can hear them. Draco’s face burns hot as something slimy twists in the pit of his stomach. He wants to scream, wants to cry. Wants to walk right up to them and tear them apart because it isn’t fucking fair! He should be the one kissing Harry under the pulsing lights. But Harry doesn’t even notice him. Not in that way. So, instead of doing any of the horribly embarrassing things he wants to do, Draco grabs the drink from Pansy’s hand and swallows it.

“Hey!” she squeaks, then punches him in the shoulder. “You’re a disaster. Come on.” She tugs the empty glass from his white-knuckled grip, peeling his fingers back one by one. “Let’s dance.”

Draco lets himself be pulled reluctantly away from the bar and his view of Harry, into the crowd of people swaying on the dance floor. Half their group is already out there, but he doesn’t see any of them. He even loses Pansy a moment later as the heaving mass of bodies absorbs him.

Draco loves to dance, and the three — or was it four? — shots of vodka send heat coursing through his veins, and his limbs are loose. It’s easy to let go and lose himself to the music, to move with the crowd. He sways back, unsteady from the drinks, to lean against another solid body behind him. He turns slightly, eyes half lidded, to catch a glimpse of a tall, pale man with a sharp jaw, dark hair, and darker eyes looking back at him with one eyebrow raised. Draco closes his eyes and melts against the man as a hand trails across Draco’s abdomen, the other curling around his hip and tugging at his belt loops.

The bass thumps in Draco’s chest and he lets it guide him, head hanging, hips moving, hands in the air. He shouts the words to the parts of the song he knows along with the rest of the crowd, his voice lost in the roar.

Draco brushes the hair from his forehead as the sweat beads at his brow. The bloke is still curled around him, keeping him standing, and he doesn’t push him away. Draco can’t see Harry anymore, maybe he already left with that girl. But it’s fine. Draco’s fine. He’s having fun, and he doesn’t need stupid Harry Potter.

****

It’s almost three in the morning when the music cuts out abruptly to a round of boos and hisses, while the bartenders shoot yellow and red sparks from the tips of their wands to indicate last call. Draco is already two steps past drunk, and would have kept dancing if they didn’t turn the lights on. He blinks against the sudden brightness. What was once a magical place, filled with writhing bodies guided by the heavy beat, is far less charming when illuminated by the harsh light of reality. The floor is littered with trash; cups, napkins, and a few stubbed out joints. The bloke Draco’s been grinding against for the last hour isn’t nearly as pretty as he looked in the dark. Although that didn’t stop him from inviting Draco back to his flat with a whisky-soaked whisper against the shell of Draco’s ear.

“Sorry! He can’t!” Pansy says, swooping in just in time to snag Draco by the elbow and yank him away. “He has to walk me home. Protect me from predators and what not.”

Draco feigns an apologetic smile and waves goodbye as he trails after Pansy. Once out of sight, he wraps an arm around her waist and tucks his chin against her shoulder. “Thanks, love.”

“You’re welcome,” Pansy says. “You’ve clearly got your vodka glasses on if you’re rubbing against that numpty. You can do so much better.”

Draco grumbles in response, tripping alongside her and out into the cold air. He shivers as the late November wind whips against his sweat-damp skin, but neglects the warming charm because it helps to clear his head. At least it isn’t raining.

Lovegood and the girl Weasley are already outside, clasped hands swinging between them as Lovegood hums the tune to a song Draco really likes. Blaise comes tumbling out after Draco and Pansy, shouting to Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas about how in Spain the clubs stay open until dawn. Granger is helping Weasley dig through his pockets to find his wand, which he fears he may have left in the toilets, until Granger extracts it from beneath his pant leg, tucked into his sock. They’d broken up during Eighth Year, thank god. Draco couldn’t stand one more second of the bickering. And anyway, Granger wasn’t a half-bad study buddy in school, so long as Weasley wasn’t around distracting her with nonsense about the bloody Cannons or trying to copy their notes.

“I need food. Fried. Or at least greasy,” Pansy declares to no one in particular, and Blaise lets out a whoop of agreement.

“There’s the chippy two blocks that way,” Lovegood says, removing herself from the tangle of Ginny’s arms long enough to point to the left. “And oh look, Harry’s here just in time. That’s his favourite.”

Draco clamps down on his urge to spin in the direction Lovegood is nodding at the last possible second and manages to glance casually over his shoulder. Sure enough, there is Harry, sans fawning slag, jogging in their direction. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he looks flushed and sweaty, and so fucking lovely Draco nearly groans.

It’s bloody ridiculous that Draco should respond as though he’s been hit with a Jelly Legs curse every time Harry appears. It isn’t as if Harry is running around in leather trousers with his shirt off. He’s just a bloke in dark denim and a cotton shirt with the sleeves bunched at the elbows. His trainers are red high tops with scuffed toes and greying laces. But there’s something about the pink in Harry’s cheeks, the shine in his eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses, the mussed and tugged curls at his forehead. He has the same look about him that he wears after ten laps around the Quidditch pitch, after a jog, a hot shower, after he gets laid.

Draco scowls at him, to which Harry grins, shoulders bunched at his ears as the wind whips around him. Draco takes off towards the late night wizard-run takeaway window they regularly frequent after the clubs.

“Nice of you to join us,” Draco drawls as soon as Harry pulls up next to him. “Just mention food and Harry Potter comes running.”

“Wait? We’re getting food?” Harry’s eyes light as he spins to the face the rest of the group. He keeps pace with Draco, walking deftly backwards, hitching every third step. “The chippy window?”

There is some indistinct drunken hooting and hollering at Draco’s back.

“Yes,” Harry says, pumping his fist at his side. He turns around to face forward and bumps Draco’s shoulder with his own. “Will you get the chicken so I can get the fish?”

Draco rolls his eyes, though his heart does a backflip in his chest. “If you’re planning on pilfering from my plate, think again.”

“I’ll buy,” Harry says. “C’mon. You never finish and end up giving it to me, anyway.”

Draco scoffs and gives Harry a rough shove. Harry squawks but barely stumbles, regaining his footing and falling back into step beside Draco. Draco already planned on ordering the chicken, even though he prefers the cod simply because Harry can’t resist stealing some. Draco likes to share his food with Harry, not only because Harry is a bottomless pit who never seems to eat enough to satisfy him, but because he likes to give things to Harry, things that encourage him to grin and lick his lips and make that lovely humming sound he’s prone to when he’s pleased.

Draco is thrilled when they approach the takeaway window together and Harry orders for him, handing over a fistful of coins without even blinking. It’s only chips, and they cost barely six sickles, but it makes Draco’s chest puff, leaving him light and buoyant.

Harry hands over the carton, snagging a chip as soon as Draco grabs it, then grins as Draco clucks at him and bats his hand away. Draco settles with his food next to Pansy on a rickety picnic table between the chippy and a closed discount potions shop, dusting away the crumbs of a previous customer. To his horror and delight, Harry sinks down beside him.

“Oi, make room,” Weasley says, causing the whole table to rock as he drops like a lead weight at Harry’s right.

Harry scoots over until his thigh presses hot and hard against Draco’s. Draco knows it doesn’t mean anything, knows they’re all squished together, knocking elbows as they eat and talk, limbs liquor-loose. But Draco’s brain misfires anyway, the nerve endings in his thigh sparking to life. He tries not to stare too closely at the way Harry’s mouth moves when he talks, or the vibration of his laugh, because at this close a distance, it’s bound to make things worse.

Draco doesn’t finish his food, his stomach too busy tying itself in knots over the sound of Harry’s voice and the heat of his body next to Draco’s. Harry smirks when Draco pushes the half-full carton over to him, and plucks one from the box, biting it with a wink.

Fucking hell. Draco thinks he needs to lie down before he does something stupid.

Fortunately, Pansy declares herself sober enough to stumble the rest of the way home, and Granger offers to walk with her, because her place is only a block further, and she wants to see the new sofa Pansy just bought, which, if Draco weren’t so drunk on vodka and Harry Potter’s proximity, he would have found rather suspicious. But then Harry extracts himself from Draco’s side and gets to his feet, accepting a hearty back-slapping hug from Weasley.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Lovegood sings, kissing Draco on the cheek.

“Later, ferret,” the girl Weasley says and throws him a two-fingered peace sign as she tugs Lovegood away.

Blaise follows after Thomas and Finnegan on the promise of another drink at their shitty flat in Shoreditch. Thomas insists they take the Tube, which Blaise adores, and because Finnegan thinks it’s hilarious to watch him try to figure out the Oyster card. And then all that’s left are Draco and Harry.

“Need an escort home?” Harry says. “Might be dark wizards about.”

Draco rolls his eyes as Harry waggles his eyebrows at him. “Oh, that’s funny. You’re funny.”

Draco starts walking in the direction of home. It isn’t close, but it’s walkable so long as the weather isn’t shit, and Draco is far too drunk to Apparate.

Harry jogs after him to keep pace. “You think?”

“Not particularly,” Draco says with a sigh. “But it’s amusing that you assume I need some Auror dropout to protect me.”

“I dunno,” Harry says, spinning his wand between his fingers. “I’m still pretty handy with a stinging hex. Care to find out?”

“No wonder they kicked you out. You aren’t supposed to hex civilians,” Draco huffs and Harry laughs, which sends a tingle running down Draco’s spine.

They do this now — the gentle ribbing and teasing. It lacks the cruelty of their school days and is almost like being friends, though Draco isn’t sure he’d call Harry a friend. He doesn’t rightly know what they are. But Harry lets him poke at him over the way he snorts when he laughs, or how he’s always stealing off Draco’s plate, or Draco’s personal favourite, Harry’s constant string of simpering girls. Not that he’s surprised by them. Harry is famous and fit; of course girls like him. Draco likes him too, though not only because he’s famous and fit, but because he has this really great smile, and he smells like the forest laced with something sweet, and he does things like standing up for Draco when he’s harassed in the streets, and even offered to let Draco stay at his place after Draco’s vaults were seized and it was impossible for him to find a job.

Pansy says he shouldn’t have accepted. That it was totally masochistic, moving in with Harry while being in love with him, but Draco couldn’t help it.

Even if they aren’t exactly friends, Draco knows Harry now. He knows what he looks like in the mornings before his shower, knows that he likes his toast almost burnt, knows that despite that, he’s actually a decent cook. He knows Harry prefers light beer, and hums along with the wireless, even though he’s tone deaf. He knows that Harry has nightmares as often as Draco does, and sometimes, when Draco wakes in a cold sweat, stumbling to the kitchen for a glass of water, he finds Harry already there, staring out the window into the night.

The worst of it is that he also knows what Harry sounds like when he fucks, because sometimes Harry brings those girls home. Harry prefers to go to theirs, probably because it gets a bit exhausting always needing to Obliviate parts of their memories so they don’t remember where he lives. But sometimes Harry drinks too much and takes them home anyway, and Draco has to listen to it through the ancient walls of Grimmauld Place, has to hear what Harry sounds like when he’s buried deep inside a woman’s body, has to know the gasping moan he makes when he comes.

Pansy insists Draco needs to cast the silencing charm that Harry is too big of an idiot to do himself, and save himself the suffering. But Draco doesn’t. He lays in his bed, face burning and cock hard, because Draco thinks he deserves this. Even though it hurts. Especially because it hurts.

Draco turns to Harry then, suddenly curious. “So, what happened to your friend?”

“My friend?” Harry asks.

“The bird you were snogging at the club? Gods, have you already forgotten her? You’re such a dick, Potter.”

Harry rolls his head on his neck as he sighs. Then he shrugs.

“Did you scare her off with your horrible kissing?” Draco asks with a snort.

Harry glares at him, but there is mirth flickering behind his eyes. “I’m not a horrible kisser.”

“You are,” Draco argues. “Why else would they all run off before morning as soon as the liquor wears off?”

Draco meant for it to sound lighthearted and teasing, but it didn’t. It sounded like a cruel jab, and he immediately wants to swallow the words back down, but it’s too late because Harry is already frowning.

“Maybe I’m the one who asks them to leave,” Harry says.

“And why would you do that? Don’t you like them?”

They take the next right and Harry hops over an overturned bin.

Harry shrugs again, hands stuffed back into his pockets. “They’re alright. Just not what I want.”

“And what do you want?” Draco asks, squinting into the blinding lights of a cab as they cross the road.

Harry’s pace slows, and when Draco glances at him, it is to find Harry looking back at him, brows drawn low as his eyes flick across Draco’s face. He wants to fidget when Harry looks at him like that.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Harry says, but then he sighs, mussing his hair with one hand, and it’s gone — whatever strange tension Draco would have sworn existed, if only for a second.

They finish the walk in relative silence, dodging the erratic late night traffic, circumventing a few drunks, weaving worse than they are. Draco hisses as he steps in a puddle, dousing the hem of his trousers, and Harry chuckles, but stifles it at Draco’s sharp glare.

The blurry edge of drunkenness eases and Draco shivers as a gust of wind cuts through the thin cotton of his shirt. He reaches for his wand, but before he can pull it from where it is tucked safely into the waistband of his jeans, he feels Harry’s warming charm slide over his shoulders like a cloak.

Draco blushes as it curls around him. “Thanks,” he says.

“Sure,” Harry replies. “You’re so skinny I bet that cold cuts right to the bone. And I’ve seen what happens when you try to cast while drunk. I don’t fancy taking you to Mungo’s when you catch that excuse for a shirt on fire. Again.”

Draco plucks at the front of his shirt, a gauzy, long-sleeved thing with too many buttons undone. “I did that once, for the record. And it was hardly my fault. Lovegood’s party punch at the Weaslette’s birthday was practically flammable. And I happen to recall you nearly falling off the balcony and busting your arse, if it weren’t for Granger’s aptly timed cushioning spell. And I’m not skinny, Harry, I’m lean. Better that than short and stumpy, like you.” He ruffles Harry’s hair, forcing his fingers to pull away quickly rather than twisting the curls between them.

Harry hums. “I’m just slouching so you don’t feel bad about me being as tall as you now.” Harry straightens his shoulders so that they are nearly eye to eye as they walk. Draco does the same, lifting his chin so he can look down his nose at Harry.

“Nice try, shorty.”

They turn the final corner onto Grimmauld Place, a narrow lane lined with dim streetlights and shadowy townhouses. It’s quiet in the predawn, though the city still stirs and rumbles in the distance.

Harry takes down the wards to Number Twelve with an absent wave of one hand, and Draco’s chest bloody aches because it’s just so hot when Harry doesn’t use his wand. It makes Draco crazy. Makes him want to push Harry up against the door and snog the living daylights out of him, to show him what he’s missing, that Draco can do it a thousand times better than some silly girl in the club. But he doesn’t. Draco’s very good at pushing aside the need to kiss Harry.

He follows Harry up the steps and through the front door. The foyer is dark, and Draco lights the lamps with his own wand before Harry can do it, because he can’t fucking stand to watch him do anymore wandless magic.

“You want tea? Beer?” Harry asks, floating towards the kitchen and hovering in the doorway.

“No,” Draco says. “I’m going to bed.”

Harry nods and disappears into the kitchen. Draco jogs up the stairs without looking back, because if he does, he’ll follow Harry, and watching Harry do domestic things fucks Draco up almost as much as the wandless magic.

Draco slips into the toilet and locks the door behind him. He turns on the cold tap, hoping the chill will chase away the arousal simmering in his gut and ease the persistent tightness in his chest. He briefly inspects himself in the mirror. His hair is a tousled mess, tangled and sweaty, and he’s definitely missing one of the buttons on the front of his shirt, probably where that bloke was tugging at it. There’s a grease stain on the cuff from the chips. He tugs it over his head and tosses it into the hamper, along with his trousers and pants.

Draco keeps his shower perfunctory, refusing to allow his fingers to linger over his own body. He efficiently scrubs the sweat and liquor from his skin, then sneaks back to his room before Harry finishes downstairs.

Harry gave Draco the room across the hall from his. He said it belonged to his godfather’s brother a million years ago. In truth, it reminds Draco of his own room back at the Manor, with its mahogany four poster, silk brocade wallpaper, and dark, plush carpet. Draco has very few personal items aside from his not insignificant wardrobe, as what he was able to carry was all he was allowed to take the day his parents were arrested, the Manor locked, and Draco left to fend for himself.

Draco suffered a few weeks on Pansy’s hard old sofa until Harry found out and came to his rescue. Typical heroic Gryffindor. And after sleeping in this bed for nearly four months, it’s almost starting to feel like home. Draco feels safe here, though the house is dark and dusty and reeks of mildew in certain places. Half of it stays locked up because Harry only exists in a few rooms: the kitchen, the sitting room, and his bedroom. And while those rooms are only a touch less dust-caked than the rest, they are warmer, somehow. As if Harry’s presence causes the magic in the house to soften and glow around him.

Draco doesn’t bother stumbling in the dark for pyjamas, and slips between the sheets naked, sighing. He tries to close his eyes, but sleep eludes him, as it so often does. Draco stares up at the ceiling, bathed in blue moonlight. He traces the crown moulding with his eyes, settling on the places where the wallpaper meets it at the corners. It’s peeling a little in one place. Though his gaze remains on that curling bit of paper, his ears strain in the buzzing silence until he hears the creak of the third stair from the landing. And then the sixteenth as Harry reaches the second floor. He listens to the squeak of the rusted hinge on the door to the loo, and the squeal of the taps as Harry turns on the shower. The pipes whistle and clank in the walls.

Harry showers in water so hot it leaves the mirror fogged for half an hour after he’s finished and all Draco has to do is pass through the hallway to drown in the scent of his shampoo and soap, lingering on the steam. It’s nothing fancy, the generic stuff he buys on sale at the shops. But to Draco, it smells like Amortentia. Draco has caught Harry stepping from the toilet once or twice, the towel slung low on his waist as he shuffled back to his room, skin pink and nearly steaming. Draco wanted to touch him so bloody bad he had to clasp his hands tightly behind his back to keep from reaching out. Draco’s fingers curl in his sheets at the memory.

The taps shut off a few minutes later, and the door creaks again. Draco can just make out the soft padding of Harry’s feet on the hardwood in the hallway, followed by the groan of his bedroom door across the hall, then the click of the lock. And that’s it. Draco can’t hear Harry anymore. He sighs.

Draco stares at the ceiling a while longer, worrying that curling bit of wallpaper in his mind. Eventually, his eyelids grow heavy, and he’s drifting.

Draco dreams about Harry sometimes. It’s almost worse than the nightmares because, at least when he wakes from those, he knows he’s safe. Waking from dreams about Harry hurt a thousand times more because that means Draco has to see him in the kitchen making burnt toast and coffee and not kiss him, not wrap his arms around Harry’s middle and press his nose against the base of his neck, where his hair curls sweetly. Draco thinks he prefers the nightmares.

****

Draco wakes to a soft rapping on his door and starts, lurching in his bed, clutching his sheets.

The door swings open.

Draco can’t really see anything, but the moon is still high in the sky and casting its silvery light through the curtain. He can see Harry’s outline at the threshold, his messy hair, the whiteness of his t-shirt, the glint of his glasses. But Draco would know Harry even in the pitch black.

Draco pushes himself up onto his elbows and runs a hand through his hair. Sometimes Draco shouts in his sleep, nightmares nipping at his heels, and Harry will knock on his door and ask him if he’s alright — which is so much worse than him just telling Draco to shut the hell up. Harry cares for people like that, wants to protect them, and when he acts that way towards Draco, it’s as if Draco’s chest is being torn open and his ribs pulled apart, because that isn’t the sort of thing people do for him. They don’t check on him or care for him. Certainly not people like Harry, who is good and kind.

But Draco doesn’t think he was even dreaming yet. He is missing that lingering cold pit of dread in his stomach or the twist of terror that usually propels him from bed after a nightmare.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asks, because Harry remains standing there in the doorway, halfway in and halfway out.

Draco tugs the sheet up to cover his chest, suddenly feeling very exposed, and he thinks he sees Harry track the movement with his eyes.

Harry exhales a noisy breath, and now Draco is starting to get worried. “Harry, what is it?”

Harry steps through the door and closes it behind him with a quiet click. He’s in the clothes Draco sometimes sees him wearing in the mornings — grey joggers and a white t-shirt, stretched at the neck and frayed at the hem. His feet are bare and make hardly any sound as he crosses the floor towards Draco’s bed.

“I can’t sleep,” Harry says, his voice low and rough, dragging like gravel against the silken silence.

“So you thought you’d come in here and make sure I suffer along with you?” Draco replies, rubbing the sand from his eyes with his fist.

Harry huffs a laugh, but his mouth is pulled down at the corners. Draco frowns.

“Yeah, something like that,” he says. And then he sits on the bed.

Of all the things they do, this isn’t one of them. Harry never comes into Draco’s room and sits on his bed at night. He doesn’t lay down next to Draco, stretched out atop the covers, head on the rarely used second pillow. So Draco doesn’t understand why he’s doing it now. Harry clasps his hands over his chest, gaze fixed on the ceiling above.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Good for you, Potter. A first for everything,” Draco says with a sigh, and drops back onto the pillow. He traces the lines of the brocade on the wallpaper where they meet with a spiderweb decorated in dust. Draco tries to relax his muscles, to sink down into the mattress, but he can feel the space between his right shoulder and Harry’s left. He can count the exact number of inches between their hips, like a chasm, narrow but so very deep.

Does Harry know Draco’s naked under the covers? And if he did, would he still willingly lie next to him? Draco thinks probably not. He tightens his grip on the sheets.

“I know, right?” Harry chuckles and it’s too intimate to hear that sound in the dark like this. “Sometimes I try very hard not to think at all. But other times, I can’t help it.”

“And what is it you’re thinking about that has you waking me an hour before dawn?”

“Kissing you,” Harry says.

There is a sudden and violent roaring in Draco’s ears and a flush burns its way from his face, down his chest.

Harry turns his head on the pillow, a rustle of soft curls against the cotton, but Draco keeps his eyes glued to that spiderweb stretched across silk brocade.

Draco’s throat clicks as he swallows. “Why?” he rasps.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Draco’s heated flush burns away so fast it’s as if he’s been dunked in an ice bath. Draco snarls. “I’ll not be the test subject for your sexuality crisis, Potter,” he says, but his heart cries out in protest. Because Harry could, if he wanted. Despite the words that Draco just spat, Draco would let him. He’d let Harry do anything he wanted, even though it would hurt more afterwards.

Harry shifts next to him, rolling fully onto his side to face Draco. Draco chances a look at him, a quick flick of his gaze, and he has to hold his breath because it isn’t fair. Harry is in his bed, with his head on Draco’s pillow, looking lovely, and talking about kissing him. Draco wants him so badly it hurts.

“I’m not having a sexuality crisis,” Harry says. “I’ve kissed boys. Men. Whatever. That’s not —” He sighs again.

Draco frowns at the spiderweb in the corner, because he didn’t know that. He’s suddenly desperate to know who Harry’s been kissing, and if he liked it or not. Were they gentle or rough? Did they hold his face between their hands and pepper kisses across the bridge of his nose? Or did they tug his hair and fuck his mouth with theirs? Which did he like better?

“This isn’t that,” Harry finishes.

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know, I just — I keep thinking about it. Do you ever think about it?”

Draco bites into his lip until it stings.

Yes, he thinks about it. He has thought about it near constantly for the better part of a year, perhaps longer, if he allows himself to be entirely truthful. But instead, all Draco does is shrug, because if he tries to say the words, they’ll come out begging. He swallows around the knot in his throat.

“Could I — could we try? Just to see? If it’s rubbish, I’ll stop. I promise. And we won’t have to talk about it ever again,” Harry says in a rush.

Draco has to squeeze his eyes shut tight against the tidal wave of aching longing. He doesn’t know what’s worse, never kissing Harry, or kissing him and then having to live the rest of his life knowing what it feels like and that he’ll never get to do it again. But even then, there is no real debate because he’s going to let him. Of course he is. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts when Harry takes it away, or when Draco inevitably has to watch Harry kiss someone else, because he wants to know if it compares to his fantasies, all the times he’s kissed Harry in his mind. He can have this, just this once.

Draco nods slowly, with all the reluctance of a man approaching the gallows. He licks his lips. There is a rustling, and when Draco opens his eyes, Harry is hovering over him, propped on one elbow. He’s staring down at Draco, gaze flicking across his face in that intense way he always does, and Draco’s hand moves of its own volition. He brushes a wavy lock of hair from Harry’s brow and tucks it behind his ear. Then he tugs the glasses from his face. Draco thought it would make it easier to look at him, that Harry’s eyes would go fuzzy and it would be better that way. But as he tosses Harry’s glasses blindly onto the bedside table, clattering as they knock against the lamp, he knows he’s made a mistake. Because without the shield of the lenses, Harry’s eyes seem impossibly bright. Draco shuts his own, because it will be better if he can’t see the hesitation on Harry’s face, or worse, the disappointment.

Harry’s minty breath wafts over Draco’s face. His hand splays across Draco’s jaw, thumb resting in the hollow beneath his cheekbone. And then, soft lips press warm and hesitant against Draco's. He can’t restrain the whimper that wrests itself free from his throat as Harry tilts his head, parting his lips and slotting their mouths together. Draco’s stomach leaps at the gentle lick of Harry’s tongue against the seam of his lips, a request, an invitation that Draco gladly accepts. He opens beneath Harry’s lips, and when Harry’s tongue brushes against his own, he groans, the sound loud enough to echo in the silence. His stomach cramps to the point of pain, a hand shooting up to bury itself in Harry’s hair, twisting the curls around his fingers before firming his grip to tug lightly, preventing Harry from pulling back too soon.

Harry inhales sharply through his nose, shifting so they are pressed chest to chest, with one elbow propped on either side of Draco’s shoulders. Harry’s mouth is hot and wet, his tongue skilled, and Draco feels as though he’s been set aflame. His head swims, but isn’t sure if that is because he’s stopped breathing or an effect of Harry’s kiss. Is this what that stupid girl felt while kissing Harry on the dance floor? Certainly one didn’t have to love Harry the way Draco did to go weak in the knees over this.

Draco lets Harry kiss him into the mattress, shifting so Harry’s knee settles into the space between Draco’s thighs. Draco tries to keep his body stock still. All he really wants is to wrap his arms and legs around Harry like a limpet, but he can’t do that. Because this is only an experiment for Harry; a half-drunk need to feel someone warm and alive pressed against him in the dark, and Draco can understand that. He wants that too. He wants to give that to Harry.

Draco is too lost in sensation, mind warring over the possibility that this might all be some wonderful dream, and doesn’t notice when Harry’s weight shifts, his hands moving to grab the covers Draco is no longer gripping in white-knuckled fists. Because then Harry is ripping aside the blankets, and Draco recoils from their kiss, panic exploding across his sluggish, lust-drunk brain. He needs to warn Harry, to tell him to stop and to apologise, because that layer of fabric is the only thing between them, and if cast away, it won’t just be an experimental kiss.

But it’s too late. The cool night air causes goosebumps to spring forth on Draco’s skin, and he freezes, mouth hanging open.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry groans.

Harry kicks away the duvet and throws a leg over Draco’s hips. He drops his weight to press down against Draco’s very naked, very hard cock, and Draco gasps. Then moans. And Harry replaces his mouth and swallows every one of them.

The soft cotton of Harry’s joggers scrapes like sandpaper against Draco’s oversensitive flesh, but Draco doesn’t care, because Harry is kissing him with tongue, and biting at his bottom lip. His hips are rolling with Draco’s and it almost looks like sex. Gods, Draco thinks he might come.

He’s about to tell Harry that, to tell him to stop or slow down or something before Draco makes a fool of himself, but then Harry pushes back onto his knees, his lips trailing downward, nipping at Draco’s jaw, sucking a mark into the hollow of his throat.

Draco’s hands, both buried in Harry’s hair, tighten and Draco gasps at the scrape of teeth, his back arching.

“Harry, I —” he says, voice hoarse. “Please, I’m —”

But whatever Draco hopes to say is lost to a moan as Harry drags teeth across Draco’s nipple, soothing it with a hot swipe of his tongue. He drops biting kisses down Draco’s chest, hands following in their wake. When he reaches Draco’s hipbones, he splays his fingers wide, curling around the cradle of his hips to press his fingertips into the flesh of Draco’s arse, and Draco rocks into them without even meaning to.

Harry hisses out a breath, dropping his head to press his brow against the space next to Draco’s navel. Each exhale gusts across the wetness beading at the tip of his cock. Harry is so close and Draco cannot believe this is happening. He believes it even less, certain he’s dreaming, when Harry lifts his head, looks straight at Draco, and says, “Can I?” His eyes flick down to Draco’s cock and he sucks his lip between his teeth, releasing it slowly, pink and slick. “Please?”

Draco nearly groans because bloody hell, that one is going in the Pensieve. He is going to relive that every day for the rest of his fucking life.

Draco nods, because the enthusiastic shouted yes! won’t even form, as his lungs have officially stopped taking in air. But that’s apparently enough for Harry because he shifts, smoothing his right hand over Draco’s stomach, to loop around his cock. The next thing Draco knows, Harry is tipping forward and curling his tongue around the tip, swiping away the precome gathered there. Draco gasps at the same time Harry hums out a moan, and then Draco is enveloped in tight, wet heat, as Harry takes him down all at once.

“Oh fuck,” Draco curses, eyelids snapping open to fix resolutely above him.

He hears Harry’s shaky inhale as he pulls back, flicking his tongue across Draco’s slit, causing Draco’s hips to twitch, then swallowing him down to the hilt.

It is some sort of miracle that Draco doesn’t come the second his cock hits the back of Harry’s throat because god damn, he is close. Harry’s mouth is just so warm and sweet and his grip on Draco’s thighs is on the right side of too rough. It’s almost possessive the way he runs his nails against Draco’s skin, and Draco wants nothing more than to wrap his thighs around Harry’s neck, and fuck up into that perfect mouth, the one he’s spent hours imagining on him.

Draco tries not to think, but every time Harry drags his tongue up the underside of Draco’s cock, swirling across the tip, only to take him down again, Draco can’t bloody help it. Because Harry’s done this before. There’s no question in his mind. Draco’s been someone’s first blow job before. And yeah, he came, but only after a not so gentle request that they cover their fucking teeth, and reminded them that the idea wasn’t actually to suck Draco’s cock like they wanted to tear it off.

Not only was Harry kissing men behind Draco’s back, but he was sucking their cocks, and maybe more? The familiar hot coil of jealousy that took up permanent residence in the pit of Draco’s stomach sparks and hisses, emitting flames. Because why not him? Harry knows Draco fancies blokes, is openly gay. He has to notice the way Draco’s eyes follow him, doesn’t he? Sure, Draco insults him, calls him an idiot and a dolt and squib. But Harry has to know that he was only saying those things because that’s just what they do. They tease and poke fun, and try to keep it from veering into cruelty.

Why did Draco have to wait until they were both drunk and stupid and hidden under the guise of darkness to have this?

Draco’s lust and jealousy twine together, burning hot in his abdomen. And when Harry’s fingers trail lower, skating past Draco’s perineum, only to hesitate at the crack of his arse, Draco’s thighs fall open, splaying wide because yes, of course yes. He wants this. Even just once, he wants it. And Harry must want it too because he sits back on his heels and strips off his t-shirt and kicks away his joggers, tossing them to the floor next to Draco’s bed.

Draco wants to look, wants to see him, but he knows if he so much as catches a glimpse of Harry naked between his legs, he’s going to come. So, he keeps his eyes squeezed shut tight, fluttering open only to fix on that damned corner with the peeling wallpaper as Harry pushes one slick finger inside Draco’s body. He didn’t even hear him conjure the lubricant, and Draco swears, if Harry did that wandlessly and without a word, he’s going to die. He’s going to bloody die, because that means Harry does unbelievable, impossible magic in bed and that is the hottest thing Draco has ever heard and it will kill him.

The stretch stings just a little, though barely enough to make Draco grit his teeth. But Harry, damn him, drops kisses onto the insides of Draco’s thighs, worrying a soft place between his teeth until Draco gasps, and he chuckles, a distracting vibration as a second finger joins the first. Draco hisses at that, and Harry’s responding hum is nothing but apologetic.

Draco is torn because he wants to hurry him along, to get him past the preparation and straight to the part where Harry puts his cock in him, hopefully before Harry changes his mind or realises what a monumentally bad idea this is. But another part of Draco never wants it to end. He wants to linger there where he has Harry’s undivided focus, where there is no one to draw his attention away to more important things. Draco feels bathed in warmth and light like this, with Harry’s eyes on him and hands on his body, in his body. It’s enough to make Draco’s head spin as horrible, embarrassing, plaintive little sounds spill from his lips.

And then Harry does something so wonderful and so terrible — he flips his wrist, palm up, and curls his fingers with purpose. Colours explode across Draco’s vision and a tortured sound tears straight from his chest and out of his mouth. Draco’s back arches like a bow, hips rolling against the flat of Harry’s hand where it is splayed across his belly to keep him from lifting off the mattress.

“Harry, god,” he whimpers, and Harry repays him by doing it again. And again.

The blunt tip of a third finger hovers against Draco’s body. Draco knows he can take it, doesn’t mind the burn, especially not when the pain is inflicted by Harry, who Draco’s obsessed with and who seems keen on easing the sting with such sweet, soothing gestures. But Harry spreads his own knees wide, lowering himself back between Draco’s thighs, and then, just as that third finger breaches Draco’s stretched hole, he swallows Draco’s cock, straight down to hilt.

Draco barks out a surprised curse, both hands fisting in Harry’s messy curls as he rolls his hips up, cock slipping down Harry’s throat.

He doesn’t mean to do it, and expects Harry to reel back, sputtering and gagging, but he doesn’t. Harry simply opens his throat and takes it. So Draco does it again, and his only punishment is that wicked twist of Harry’s fingers against his prostate.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Draco groans, grinding his hips as he fucks Harry’s mouth, the fingers in his arse stretching him wide and causing sparks to light at the base of his spine. His gaze flick down to catch only the slightest glimpse of Harry between his legs, clumped lashes lowered and splayed across the crests of his cheekbones. Wetness gathers at the corners of his eyes, and Draco longs to brush it aside with his fingertips. But that would be too tender of an acknowledgement, so instead, he plants his heels on the mattress and fucks up into Harry’s throat harder, shutting his eyes and relishing the vibration of Harry’s responding growl.

The bastard bloody likes it, and that is almost too much for Draco to stand. He wants to pull away and demand Harry tell him who’s done this to him. To know who stroked his neck with gentle fingers as they shoved their cock down his throat that first time. Was it someone he met at the club when Draco was only twenty paces away? Did Harry follow a stranger home and let them take him like this? Draco can’t imagine it, won’t imagine it because it should belong to him. Harry should belong to him. And not just for some drunken one-off. Did that person know a damned thing about Harry besides the drivel they read in the papers? Did they know that Harry’s socks never match because he insists on laundering them like a Muggle and the machine always eats one? Did they know he drinks his tea with so much milk and sugar it turns white? Did they know that he sleeps with the light on half the time and hates to be left alone, even for one night? Because Draco does. He knows everything about Harry. Hasn’t he earned it?

Draco runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, combing them through the tangled curls, tugging lightly as Harry hums around his cock. It is a wonderful torture as each roll of his hips has him pressing against the back of Harry’s throat, only to sink down on those skilled fingers.

If it weren’t for the pain of the stretch, Draco would have come straight down Harry’s throat. As appealing as that sounds and as badly as he wants to paint Harry from the inside, he also wants more. He has one shot, and bloody hell, it is going to hurt once it is over. He might as well make it worth it.

“Harry,” Draco groans. “Please.”

He doesn’t have to say the words. The whimpered plea is enough to have Harry pulling off his cock, tongue swiping across the tip as he went, making Draco’s hips buck as another pathetic mewl drips from his lips. Harry removes his fingers slowly, carefully, one hand flat against Draco’s belly to keep him still. That gentle, soothing gesture is the only thing preventing Draco from surging up and crawling into Harry’s lap because he can’t bear the emptiness. He can’t allow the fog of lust to clear even the slightest bit or else he’ll be lost.

But Draco needn’t have worried because as he opens his eyes, it’s to see Harry sitting back on his heels, still positioned between Draco’s spread thighs, slicking up his cock with one wet fist. Harry hisses through his teeth, muscles in his abdomen clenching and flexing, as he runs the palm around the sensitive tip, glistening in the low light.

Draco swallows hard. Because this is really happening. Harry is naked in his bed, is going to fuck him. Draco would hear that incredible sound Harry makes just before he came first hand, instead of through thin walls and marred by someone else’s moans. This belongs to Draco, and though he may not be able to keep it, he could have it once.

He can’t resist the urge to touch, stretching out an arm to run long fingers over the top of Harry’s thigh as Harry tips forward, cock still in hand. Harry braces himself, planting one palm beside Draco’s head. Draco’s hands trail across Harry’s stomach to his chest to count the thumps of his heartbeat against his ribcage.

Draco’s gaze flicks up to Harry’s face, hovering over his own, brows drawn together and eyes searching Draco’s. There is a question there, but Draco can’t get his lungs to work properly or his swollen mouth to form words, so instead, he curls his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. Harry melts into it, sighing, his tongue swiping past the seam of Draco’s lips to tangle with Draco’s. Draco loops one calf around Harry’s waist, the blunt tip of Harry’s cock pressing against him. He tilts his hips up in encouragement.

Harry’s lips hover an inch from Draco’s as he pushes in. Draco’s mouth falls open on a silent gasp. It feels as though he’s being split in half. Even Harry’s careful ministrations weren’t enough to prepare him for this. Harry pauses but Draco will have none of it, because he doesn’t care if it hurts; this pain is nothing compared to what comes after. He wraps both thighs around Harry’s hips, locking his ankles at the small of Harry’s back, and nudges him gently. Harry’s tongue swipes across Draco’s bottom lip, followed by a nip, and then he’s pushing in, bottoming out in one long, relentless slide.

“Oh fuck,” Draco keens. But Harry kisses the curse from his lips as he rolls his hips, pulling out half way, only to thrust all the way back in. Draco tightens his legs around Harry’s waist and moves with him.

His hands are back in Harry’s hair, though he doesn’t remember putting them there. He thinks he’s addicted to the feel of it, so soft and wild, catching on the tangled curls as he winds them around his fingers.

Harry has one elbow still braced beside Draco’s head, but his other hand is gripping Draco’s arse, lifting his hips from the bed to drive harder into his body. Draco hopes it bruises, hopes Harry will leave impressions of his fingerprints on Draco’s skin so that when the alcohol and the lust wears off, he’ll have proof that it wasn’t a dream, that Harry actually wanted him enough to touch him there, to hold him that way.

Harry shifts slightly, hiking Draco’s arse up higher, then snaps his hips forward with a grunt. Explosions burst along every vertebrae of Draco’s spine simultaneously and he gasps, fingers tightening in Harry’s hair.

“There?” Harry asks, lips brushing against Draco’s as he speaks.

“Yes, yes, there. Right there,” Draco whimpers as his body trembles. Harry drives in again, and he cries out — an embarrassingly desperate sound that cuts through the silence like a knife. “Don’t stop.”

And Harry doesn’t stop. He snaps his hips again and again, driving into that sensitive bundle of nerves that has Draco lighting up like a live wire. He can’t stay still. He’s practically writhing, undulating beneath Harry’s body like a wave, seeking friction and heat.

Draco can feel Harry’s eyes on him again, the heat of his gaze like candle light flickering across Draco’s face. He doesn’t want to know what Harry sees there, is terrified to look directly into that dark stare and realise that he’s been utterly transparent. He can’t hide like this, not when Harry’s buried so deep inside his body. He prays that the darkness is thick enough to cover the sheen on his eyes, the flush on his cheeks, all the obvious tells that Draco is besotted, desperately in love when he isn’t even allowed to be in lust.

Draco tugs at the hair in his fists, pulling Harry down for a kiss, because that means he doesn’t have to look at him. Harry’s pace doesn’t falter, and he returns Draco’s messy kiss with enthusiasm, chasing his tongue, biting his lips, swallowing his breaths.

It’s too much. Draco’s cock drags against the cut of Harry’s stomach with each thrust, the hard ridges of muscle smeared with wetness, and Draco’s going to come. The sweat prickles at his brow, under his arms, and at the small of his back. Little “ohs” spill from his mouth, one after the next, but he can’t stop them. He isn’t ready. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready, but the burning in his gut and the tingling in his spine are growing persistent, and he can’t hold it off any longer.

“Harry, I’m going to —”

Harry’s hand on his arse tightens. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Come for me.”

A tortured moan rips itself from Draco’s lips. Why did he have to say it like that? Why did he have to hold Draco with such possessive hands? Kiss him so hungrily? Because Draco was going to come for him, as he always he did. It didn’t matter whether he was alone in his bed, or in the shower, back pressed against cool tile. It didn’t even matter if Draco was wrapped up in someone else, if another man bit kisses into his throat, because it was always for Harry.

And at Harry’s command, Draco shatters. His stomach pulls tight, muscles clenching as his back arches, mouth falling open in a silent shout. Every single nerve ending lights up all at once, crackling and sparking as pleasure shoots from his centre to the tips of his fingers and toes. His brain goes entirely offline, lost in a fog of aching sensation.

Harry fucks him through it. He sucks marks into Draco’s neck, worrying the skin between his teeth, hips snapping relentlessly against Draco’s body.

Draco is liquefied, loose and lost. He’s making terrible sounds, pathetic little whimpers and mewls because it feels so bloody good to be fucked like this, hard and purposeful. His orgasm lingers, tinging the edges of his vision with dancing light.

“Jesus, Draco, fuck,” Harry groans and then stills.

Draco feels the throb of Harry’s cock in his arse, pounding in time with his heartbeat, as a warm wetness spreads inside of him. He sighs.

Harry goes boneless on top of him, cock slipping from Draco’s body. He tucks his nose into the space between Draco’s shoulder and neck, where he fits perfectly. Where he ought to stay forever.

But he doesn’t.

Harry eventually pulls back and rolls away, flopping down next to Draco. He cards a hand through his hair and grins up at the ceiling.

“I think I like kissing you,” he says.

Draco nearly chokes. He knows Harry is teasing, knows that it’s a joke, because that is a thing they do. But he feels like crying. He has to press the heels of his hands against his eyes to keep the stinging tears from spilling over.

Harry moves next to him, a whisper of skin against the sheets. One of Harry’s hands wraps around Draco’s wrist. He tugs gently, but Draco just presses harder against his eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?” Harry asks.

“Fine,” Draco replies, though it sounds thick.

Harry tugs harder on Draco’s wrist, trying to pry his hands away from his face. “Did I hurt you?”

Draco wants to say yes. Yes, you hurt me every fucking day and I’ll let you for as long as you want, just please don’t leave, please don’t kick me out, please let me have this sometimes. I promise I’ll be good to you. Just let me prove it. But what he says is, “No. I’m fine.”

Harry’s hand drops away. The warmth of his body against Draco’s side is suddenly gone, leaving him chilled. The mattress shifts as Harry gets to his feet. There is the sound of footsteps on hardwood as Harry collects his clothes from the floor. “I’ll go, I guess? If you want me to?”

Draco doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Because if he speaks, Harry will hear the way Draco chokes around the lump in his throat.

Harry sighs, mumbles a “goodnight,” and then the door is clicking shut behind him.

Draco does cry then, silently. He’s had practice.

****

The next morning, Draco wakes feeling hungover, even though he knows the alcohol has very little to do with it. His body aches in places, and there are bruises scattered across his hips, teeth marks on his neck. He winces at the soreness as he runs his fingers over them, still tangled in his sheets, staring up at that damned bit of wallpaper. He wants to scratch at it, that place where it is peeling. Wants to rip it from the wall in strips until the destroyed paper falls all around him in tatters.

He doesn’t, of course. He gets out of bed and dresses carefully. It’s Sunday, and normally Draco would wrap himself in his favourite blue dressing gown and flounce around the house for the morning. He and Harry sometimes make breakfast together, joking over eggs, while Draco does the crossword in the weekend Prophet. But he can’t bear the thought of being so exposed around Harry, if Harry is even home.

Clad in trousers and a casual button up, Draco gives himself a quick fluff in the bathroom mirror, then he quietly descends the stairs towards the kitchen.

Harry is home. Draco can hear him moving around the kitchen before he even reaches the bottom of the staircase. The rich scent of coffee and the hot smell of the toaster oven hovers in the air.

Harry turns when Draco steps into the kitchen, his eyebrows hitched up as he scanned Draco from head to toe, landing on the probably dour expression on his face.

“Hey,” he says, tone casual and careful all at the same time. He’s dressed too. Rather than the joggers and t-shirt he usually sports on weekends, Harry has on some worn jeans and a soft jumper — Draco’s favourite. It’s green and brings out the colour of Harry’s eyes and looks unfairly fit on him, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, muscular forearms flexing.

Draco has to look away. He goes to the coffee pot, which has barely enough in it for a half a cup.

“Yeah, sorry about that. That’s all we have,” Harry says with a wince. “I left it for you.”

Draco sighs, pouring the dregs into one of the chipped mugs Harry set on the counter for him.

“Your toast is burning,” Draco says, nodding to the toaster oven, where smoke was beginning to curl from behind the little glass door.

“Fuck,” Harry hisses. He burns his fingers trying to pluck the blackened bread from the oven, to which Draco rolls his eyes, because for a wizard as powerful as Harry Potter, he forgets his magic all too often.

Harry slumps against the counter, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Want to go get breakfast?”

Draco looks down into his mug and shrugs. He does need coffee. “Sure.”

Harry nods and goes to retrieve his ratty red high tops that Draco thinks are so stupidly childish but makes his heart skip a beat all the same. He’s still sitting on the bottom of the staircase lacing them up when Draco steps into the hallway, bundled in his coat and scarf.

Outside, the scent of rain lingers on the chilly air and Draco sucks in a lungful. Harry follows him out the door and wards the building behind him. He turns to where Draco waits for him on the stoop.

“Genie’s?” Harry asks.

Draco nods and Harry holds out his hand, where it hovers in the air as Draco stares at it. Harry frowns and curls his fingers, withdrawing the hand and letting it drop to his side. Draco turns and Apparates away.

He lands in the alleyway next to their favourite place for brunch. Genie’s is a Muggle spot, but Harry likes their eggs benedict, and Draco thinks the coffee is quite good, and he fancies their spinach and mushroom omelette.

Harry appears at his side a moment later, still frowning, but he follows Draco into the bustling little cafe. Unlike the wizarding places, Harry doesn’t get special treatment and they have to wait for a table. They stand side by side in the cramped lobby, Draco looking anywhere but at Harry while Harry’s frown darkens, a storm cloud gathering around him as he leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Draco can’t bloody stand it and excuses himself to the loo, where he splashes cold water on his face and glares at himself in the mirror for far too long. Now that his scarf hangs loose around his neck, he can see a red and purple mark left by Harry’s teeth on the side of his throat, and he scowls. He buttons his shirt all the way to his chin and shucks the scarf and coat. It’s too much in the humid air of the restaurant, anyway.

Harry is seated when Draco returns, and he finds him tucked into a table for two beside the window. His hands are curled around a mug of steaming coffee, and an espresso cup with a perfectly foamed top sits on the table in front of the empty chair. Harry’s eyes flick away from the rain that has begun to pummel the glass to look at Draco as he sits.

“I ordered your usual for you while you were gone. And a cappuccino, too. Hope that’s okay,” Harry says.

Draco’s hands ball into fists on the table and he glares daggers at the design in the steamed milk. Minutes pass in that uncomfortable silence.

Harry shifts in his seat. “I can’t help but get the feeling that you’re mad at me about something.”

Draco sniffs and takes a careful sip of his coffee. It’s bloody perfect. He pushes it aside. “Why would I be mad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Ice floods Draco’s veins, the echoed words like a punch to the gut. He drains half his glass of water and rearranges the placement of the knife and fork in front of him.

Harry leans in, elbows on the table. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”

Draco’s palm smacks against the wood of the tabletop, rattling their dishes and causing Harry’s coffee to slop over the rim of his mug. “Shut up,” he hisses, and Harry falls back, eyes wide.

A waitress appears a moment later and drops their food in front of them, then scurries off, likely sensing the tension between them in that way that servers always do. Draco doesn’t blame her, he wants to run away too.

Draco pushes his eggs around on his plate for a few minutes while Harry watches him through his lashes.

Harry’s fork clatters to the table and he sits back with a huff. “Okay. Enough. Talk to me. I can’t take it. “

“You can’t take it?” Draco snaps as indignant anger swirls and cracks like a whip against his ribcage. “You can’t take it? Did everybody hear that?” he says loudly, spinning in his chair. “He can’t fucking take it.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry asks, hands raised in surrender. “I get it. Things are weird now. But I’ll do whatever you want, to go back to how it was. I just want things to be normal. Like when we were friends.”

“We were never friends, Potter.”

“Oh, it’s back to Potter now, is it? Great.” Harry says with a huff.

“I’m not your bloody plaything.”

Harry stills. “What?”

Draco crumples his napkin in his fist. “You can’t just — just do what you did, and expect things to go back to normal. You can’t just give me things and then take them away. How long until I’m out on my arse? How long until you tire of me?”

“I wouldn’t — it isn’t like that.” Harry shook his head.

“Then what is it like? Please, tell me what it’s like.” Draco’s tongue clicked over every consent, spitting the words at Harry with venom.

“I like living with you,” Harry says with a helpless shrug. “I like… having you around.”

“It’s convenient, is it?”

“It’s less lonely,” Harry corrects. “Don’t you think? Wouldn’t you be lonely, too? If I wasn’t around?”

It’s like being doused with cold water, placing his bare hand on the hob, being split from groin to throat with a sharp blade — like nothing at first, and then blinding pain.

“I can’t do this.” Draco pushes his chair away from the table. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Draco, wait.”

Draco throws his coat over his shoulders and knots his scarf around his neck, pulling it tight with a hard yank. “Draco, wait. All I’ve done is wait. Forever I’ll wait. And I would have been fine with it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Draco shakes his head and tosses a few crumpled Muggle pounds from his pocket onto the table. It isn’t enough, but it’s all he has. He spins on his heel and stalks out of the restaurant, only glancing back as he passes by the front window to see Harry sitting there, a look of lost confusion pulling at his handsome face.

****

Draco Apparates back to the house, slamming the door shut behind him hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

Should he pack? He thinks he probably should, and before Harry tells him to go, because Draco can’t bear it. That tiny modicum of control might be the only thing keeping him from falling apart, stitched together with fraying thread as he is.

He races to his room and starts ripping things from drawers and shoving them in suitcases unearthed from the depths of his closet. He hears the front door bang shut again, and then furious footsteps on the stairs. Draco rips the entire drawer out of the dresser and dumps the whole thing into the nearest suitcase, shaking loose the last of his socks. He tosses the drawer to the floor, where it lands with a crash.

Draco’s bedroom door swings open on its own, practically flying off the rusty hinges and Harry storms through it a second later. He grabs Draco by the shoulder and wrenches him around. Harry’s face is flushed red, his eyes absolutely blazing, and god damn it all, Draco should be furious. He is furious, but he loves Harry, even like this. Especially like this; so beautifully alive, his magic whirling around him, cracking and snapping viciously.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry asks.

“What’s wrong with me?” Draco shouts back, his voice shrill and tinged with hysteria. He shoves Harry hard, sending him stumbling back a step with the palm of his hand. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He gives Harry another rough push, but Harry braces against it, barely budging.

When Draco raises his hand to Harry again, Harry snatches it out of the air, holding him tightly by the wrist. It only serves to fan the flames of Draco’s anger, sending it licking through his veins, and before he realises what he’s doing, Draco has his wand out and pressed against Harry’s throat.

Draco pulled his fucking wand on Harry Potter.

The expression that flashes across Harry’s face makes Draco sick to his stomach because he knows that look all too well. Betrayal. Disappointment. It makes him want to hurt Harry more. A hex is on the tip of his tongue, but then Harry’s face goes hard and the wand is wrenched from Draco’s white-knuckled grip, snapping into Harry’s outstretched palm. He tosses the thing aside with a clatter and it rolls beneath the bed.

Now Draco doesn’t just want to hex Harry, he wants to hit him. Draco’s hands ball into fists and he’s ready to step back and swing, but Harry’s faster, he’s always fucking faster. Harry has Draco by the wrist again as he lunges forward, sending Draco stumbling back a step. Harry goes with him, sweeping a foot behind Draco’s ankles and for one horrible second, Draco is flailing in mid air, certain he’s about to land on his arse on the floor, but before he can even throw out a hand, he’s sprawling backwards over the bed. Harry clambers atop him and pins both Draco’s wrists over his head, knees on either side of Draco’s ribcage. Draco tries to move, tries to twist and yank away, but Harry just holds him tighter, pressing his wrists harder into the mattress.

“Fucking stop!” Harry growls. “Jesus Christ, Draco. Just stop.”

Draco has the sudden urge to spit in his face. Because Harry doesn’t fucking get it. The damned tears are already burning behind Draco’s eyes. He has to blink rapidly and bite down hard enough on his lip to draw blood in order to keep them from spilling free.

Harry lowers his face, gaze boring into Draco’s. “If you didn’t want it, you could have said so,” he says in a harsh whisper. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn't think —” He sucks in a shuddering breath as his eyes flutter shut.

Draco takes it as an opportunity and tries to wriggle away, but Harry grunts against the onslaught, tightening the cage of his knees and firming his grip on Draco’s wrists.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, throat bobbing, his voice thin and strained.

“Are you, Harry? Are you sorry? What are you sorry for?” Draco lifts his head to hiss the words close enough to Harry’s face that he would feel Draco’s breath.

“For taking advantage.”

Draco snorts and drops his head back to the mattress. “As if you could ever take anything from me that I wouldn’t just fucking give you.”

Harry’s face does something complicated. His brows drop low over his eyes and his mouth screws up to one side as he shakes his head. Harry releases his hold on Draco’s wrists and sits back. “So what is it? Why are you so angry with me? I don’t understand.”

The lost, dejected expression painted across Harry’s face makes Draco’s traitorous heart ache and it makes him so bloody furious he has to grind his teeth until his jaw creaks to keep from screaming.

What the hell is Harry worried about, anyway? It is ludicrous to even consider that Harry Potter would give two shits that Draco Malfoy is upset with him. Harry could easily carry on with his merry life, surrounded by his loads of friends and admirers. He probably wouldn’t notice Draco was gone after a day or so. He’d be back to snogging girls in clubs and getting his photo taken for magazines. It has to be easy to move on when he is so loved by everyone. Draco doesn’t matter. Harry shouldn’t even care.

But that anger, that constant simmering fury in Draco’s gut that boils over whenever Harry shows him kindness, does nothing to make Draco stop wanting him. It is like some sort of cruel joke, a punishment inflicted upon him, because it only makes Draco want him more. Even now, as the heat of rage licks through Draco’s veins, he can’t stop staring at Harry’s mouth, he can’t stop aching to touch him.

Draco surges up, clamping one large hand around the back of Harry’s skull, fingers digging into his neck, and smashes their mouths together. Their teeth clack and when Harry gasps in surprise, Draco shoves his tongue between Harry’s lips.

He didn't mean to do it. He meant to punch him or slap him, or throw him to the floor and walk right the fuck out. But Draco’s body has long since stopped listening to his brain; apparently only taking orders from his pathetic, damaged, torn-to-pieces heart.

Harry tries to push back, palms at Draco’s chest and Draco’s name muffled on his lips. But Draco snarls, refusing to loosen his grip.

Draco pours everything into that kiss, all the years and bloody fucking years of hate, jealousy, and gut-wrenching yearning. He feels that disobedient tear escape the corner of his eye and slip free, cutting a stinging, salty trail down his cheek.

Harry’s scrabbling hands at Draco’s chest still for a moment, fisting the front of his shirt, crumpling the cotton. And then, with a sharp yank, the fabric is torn aside, buttons ripping free from their thread. The heat of Harry’s palms against Draco’s already feverish skin is enough to make him moan. Draco sits upright, clambering into Harry’s lap as Harry’s hands loop around his waist, running beneath his ruined shirt to press against his shoulder blades, dragging fingernails down his spine.

Draco is frenzied, untethered, nipping and licking and rocking into Harry’s lap with desperate abandon. Harry matches his fire with gasoline, encouraging the rolling of Draco’s hips with both hands on his arse, fingers pressed between his cheeks and straining the seams of his trousers.

“Just once more,” Draco begs between punishing kisses. “I need it. Please, just once more.”

And he does need it, because he’s going to lose this. He’s going to lose this place that almost feels like home, this person who makes his heart ache, because Draco couldn’t fucking behave, just like always. Draco couldn’t act the way he was supposed to, couldn’t hide it well enough, and he’s ruined everything.

Harry almost gives in to him. He sags against Draco’s body and kisses him back. He lets Draco suck and tug his lips with his teeth. But then there are hands around Draco’s wrists again, gentle this time, peeling Draco’s fingers from where they curl around the back of Harry’s neck, sticky and clinging.

Harry pulls his mouth away and Draco nearly whines.

Harry is looking at him again. Draco knows it, though he keeps his lids shut tight. Harry releases his wrists and holds Draco’s face between his hands. Draco can feel the trails made by Harry’s eyes as he takes in Draco’s blotchy cheeks and tear tracks.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Harry says, sincere, like fucking always.

Draco almost laughs at the absurdity of the statement.

“You want this?” Harry asks. “You want me?”

Draco has to wet his lips to get them to move. He opens his eyes with great reluctance. “Yes,” he admits, the words hissed between clenched teeth. “Yes, I bloody want you. All the fucking time, I want you.”

Harry’s fingers on Draco’s face twitch. “All the —”

“Shut up,” Draco snaps. “Don’t fucking talk.”

Harry studies him a moment longer, then he takes a deep breath, chest puffing enough to strain that stupid green jumper Draco loves. The air seeps from him, and when the last of it whooshes from Harry’s nostrils, Harry places a hand against Draco’s cheek and kisses him.

Harry tips Draco backwards off his lap and spreads him over the mattress, Draco’s head settling into the soft down of the pillow. It starts slow as Harry slots their mouths together, tongue sliding between Draco’s lips while Draco waits, tense, for the moment he pulls back. But as the kiss builds, the burning in Draco’s belly flickers to life again, and he melts into it.

Harry keeps doing stupid things like flexing his fingers on Draco’s waist to ease his bruising grip, when all Draco wants is for him to hold on tighter, to mark him and own him and take what’s bloody his. And when Harry dares to pull away to fucking breathe, Draco decides he’s spent quite long enough at Harry’s mercy, allowing him to set the pace.

Draco lifts his hips, pressing the hardness in his trousers against the zipper of Harry’s jeans. Harry’s eyes darken, and Draco exploits that millisecond of distraction to hook an ankle around the back of Harry’s knees, using the leverage to roll them.

Harry gasps as his back hits the mattress. Draco tears at the button on Harry’s jeans, then his own, rolling away just long enough to shuck them and shove Harry’s to his knees. He settles back across Harry’s hips, shirt still hanging from his shoulders, hair a mess, panting, and eyes burning. He doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him, but he’s hot all over and is certain that if Harry doesn’t touch him soon, he’s going to burst into flames.

Harry watches him with wary eyes, one hand floating in the air, inches from Draco’s fevered cheek. Draco has revealed himself completely, he knows that. His desperation and infatuation are so clearly written across his face that he is certain Harry could see it with his eyes closed. But Harry is hard, isn’t he? That means that he at least wants Draco enough to fuck him, and that can be enough. It’s all going to fall apart anyway. How much worse could it get?

Draco lowers his chin and drops his face into that outstretched palm, and Harry’s fingers curl around his jaw without hesitation. Draco turns his head, pressing his parted lips against Harry’s fingertips, then darts out his tongue to lap at the middle one, wrapping his lips around it. He grips Harry’s forearm with both hands, holding him in place, and sucks Harry’s fingers into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the digits, tasting salt as his mouth floods with saliva. When he tugs Harry’s fingers from between his lips, they are wet and glistening.

Harry is flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Draco tracks those breaths, visible beneath Harry’s ribs where his shirt is rucked up to his underarms. Draco lifts his hips, pushing up on his knees and biting his lip, willing Harry to understand. And Harry does, because he sits up, forehead at Draco’s abdomen, and slick-fingered hand at his arse.

Draco focuses on the humid air Harry huffs across his skin, rather than the ache in his belly or the gentle way Harry presses his fingers into Draco’s body. It’s easier this time than last night, maybe because Draco’s still loose, or maybe because his body welcomes Harry whenever he wants to come back.

Harry tilts away, eyes flitting up to Draco, who can’t even imagine how foolish he must look, flushed and desperate. But Harry moves his fingers inside of Draco, and Draco chokes out a groan. Harry pulls out, only to press back in, scissoring his fingers as Draco bores down on them.

Harry’s movements are sure but teasing, sweeping across Draco’s prostate often enough to keep him moving, but not enough to bring him to the brink. It’s so fucked up, but Draco likes it like that. He can’t bear the bland rutting or the slow, gazing into each other’s eyes nonsense. He likes it hard, likes it rough, likes it intentional. And the twist of Harry’s fingers inside Draco’s body, the way he rolls Draco’s nipple between his teeth until Draco keens, is embroiled with purpose. Draco grinds down as Harry buries a third finger in his arse.

“I knew you’d be like this,” Harry says, lips skating across Draco’s chest. “Exactly like I imagined.”

Draco would have hesitated, would have demanded to know exactly what Harry imagined and when, if Harry hadn’t dragged the pads of his fingers across Draco’s prostate, hard enough to have him doubling over with a moan. Draco has to clamp both hands on the headboard behind Harry to keep from collapsing.

Draco’s knuckles turn white and the wood creaks under his hands when Harry curls a fist around Draco’s aching erection, pulling it slow and languid. Draco fucks into that hand and pushes back onto Harry’s fingers with liquid rolls of his hips, chasing pleasure from all angles. He can barely breathe, catching each inhale in little sips. Harry tilts his head back, looking up into Draco’s flushed face, and Draco releases his death grip on the headboard to fist into Harry’s hair.

“Are you going to fuck me, Harry?” Draco asks, his voice a rasp as he flicks his tongue across Harry’s parted lips.

“That’s what you want?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and it comes out with a hiss. “Don’t you want me, too? Just like this? Riding your cock.”

Harry’s eyes turn glassy as Draco speaks the words, but Draco doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed. He raises himself up on his knees, hovering over the jut of Harry’s erection, where it’s escaped his unzipped jeans. Harry’s fingers slip free, a slow, tantalising drag until Draco is left empty and aching. Draco lets his knees skid on the mattress, thighs spreading wider as the tip of Harry’s cock presses against his opening, but not enough to penetrate.

Draco curls forward as Harry’s questing hands squeeze his arse to settle on Draco’s hipbones. “Tell me you want to fuck me,” he whispers against Harry’s lips.

“God, I want to fuck you,” Harry breathes.

Draco groans. He lets his knees slide further, and one of Harry’s hands darts out to wrap around his own cock as Draco settles on top of it. Draco rolls his hips, easing Harry’s tip inside his body. It goes easily and painlessly, but he takes his time, circling his pelvis and sinking down slowly, watching as Harry’s eyelashes flutter and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.

Draco has to sit up straight and brace himself with a hand on Harry’s chest to keep his knees from going out and impaling himself too quickly, however much he wants this. He wants Harry to feel this, wants to see him fall apart beneath him. But fuck, it’s too good. Harry is big and hard and so damned hot inside of Draco’s body and Draco knows this is going to ruin him for ages. Maybe forever. Because Harry’s hands are the exact right size to hold him, his voice the most perfect, hypnotising timbre, and his eyes, even behind his glasses, glitter in the late morning sunlight.

It’s different now, without the cover of darkness or the guise of nighttime. But the edges are just as soft, because Harry exists in rose-tinted lighting, no matter the time of day — at least in Draco’s mind. Draco laments not taking the time to strip him naked, though he looks debauched and gorgeous with his shirt bunched up on his chest and his jeans at his thighs.

“Draco, please,” he groans as Draco finally eases all the way down, until there is nothing between them and Draco can feel Harry’s heart beat in time with his own.

Draco tilts his hips, rising up enough to get leverage, only to sink back down. A whip of heat lashes through his belly and his eyes roll back in his skull. Harry’s hands span wide across the tops of Draco’s thighs as Draco fucks himself on Harry’s cock, pressing bruises into the skin with his fingertips. Draco’s cock hovers and bobs between them, flushed red and dripping at the tip.

Draco catalogues Harry shamelessly, commits him, lost in his lust, to memory with his eyes and his hands. He rubs his palms over Harry’s chest, scrapes fingernails between the valleys of his rib bones, presses thumbs into the place where his sternum gives. And Draco could almost convince himself Harry is as gone as he is, with the way his eyes shine and his cheeks burn.

Draco’s self control breaks sooner than he’d hoped, and the slow, languid shifting of his hips gives way to a desperate rocking and grinding, chasing his pleasure. His mind is sick with it, lost between the reality that Harry is fucking him, and the desperate clambering thoughts that try to convince him that it’s more than that. The Harry in Draco’s imagination wants this, and not just because he needs to bury his cock somewhere warm and tight and willing, but because he wants Draco. That Harry wouldn’t be afraid to know that Draco desires him as much as he wants to care for him. He wouldn’t hate that Draco imagines nights on the sofa in front of the wireless, making out in clubs, bending him over the table and fucking him if he ever burns Draco’s toast. Draco wants to be invited into Harry’s room, between his sheets, wants to gaze at his ceiling for a change, to know if his wallpaper is peeling like Draco’s, exposing whatever dark, dirty, unseen thing lurks beneath.

But when Harry smooths both hands, fingers spread wide and palms flat, down the plane of Draco’s lower back to grip his arse, controlling the rocking and rolling of his hips, Draco chokes out an anguished moan. Deep inside of him, Harry’s cock grinds against his prostate and oh. Oh no. He’s going to come.

“No, no, no,” Draco murmurs, mostly to himself, though he can’t seem to slow down. “Not yet.”

Harry doesn’t heed his pleading, and snaps his hip up, meeting Draco’s stuttering movements with force. Draco can do little more than grind and roll and beg as Harry fucks him hard. It’s almost too much from this angle, because even though Harry is beneath him, Draco has never been so happy to relinquish control. Harry’s hands are warm and sure as they hold him, locked around his hipbones, guiding him. Even through the obscene slap of skin on skin, Harry whispers to him, gentle, encouraging words, that draw the orgasm out of Draco gradually, like pulling at a thread until he unravels.

Everything turns to white light and buzzing static as Draco draws closer to the edge. He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, though he’s certain he’s speaking. He moans Harry’s name like a prayer and thinks he might not even need Harry’s hand on his cock to come. But the second Harry wraps his fist around that weeping, aching part of him, slamming against Draco’s abused prostate one final time, Draco explodes with a shout.

“Oh god, fuck!”

He feels his pleasure rip from him, torn and frayed at the edges as it leaves him clambering for air, quaking as Harry chases his own orgasm. Harry sends Draco toppling backwards as he plants a hand on either side of his head, fucking him hard. Harry holds him tight as he spills himself inside Draco’s body. Draco kisses Harry as he comes, guides his clumsy tongue and tastes his gasping breaths, like licking honey from a spoon.

But it doesn’t last, because then Harry’s lips are gone, trailing down his jaw to settle at his throat. Draco isn’t sure if the reason he can’t suck in any air is because Harry is a lead weight resting on his chest, or if he’s panicking, but he thinks it might be both.

Draco mourns the loss of the afterglow, because wouldn’t it be nice? To lay there next to Harry and watch the afternoon light slant as it shifts into evening, to curl around him like a comma and doze contentedly until they wake, naked and sticky and tangled together, only to fuck slow and languid once more.

Harry rolls away, and when Draco opens his eyes again, it is to stare straight up at that curled bit of wallpaper. He doesn’t have to look at Harry to know he’s running restless fingers through the knotted curls. He can hear their silken whisper against the pillow. Harry’s exhale is weighty, and Draco knows what’s coming before Harry even opens his mouth. He holds his breath.

“We need to talk.”

Draco squints at the ceiling to ease the burning behind his eyes. “Save me the humiliation, will you?” Draco says on a sigh. “I need a day. I’ll be out Tuesday morning.”

“Tuesday?”

“Wednesday at the latest. I have arrangements to make. Be reasonable.”

“You’re leaving? Where are you going?”

Draco huffs, and though he meant for it to sound like a laugh, to play it all off like a joke, it rasps and drags through the quiet room. He glances at the scattered suitcases and drawers ripped from the dresser and abandoned on the floor. “Well, I can’t stay here.”

Harry turns onto his side, a shifting of the mattress next to Draco. “Why?”

“Why?” The word explodes out of Draco, all the weight of his hurt slamming it between them like a gauntlet. He rounds on Harry. “Do you even think before you speak, Harry? Or are you just that stupid? I can’t be your friend, or roommate, or bloody sidekick. I can’t see you every day, can’t listen to those fucking slags you bring home when you’re drunk, moaning and gasping.”

Harry’s face twists, sickened and surprised. “You could hear that?”

Draco scoffs and looks away, crossing his arms over his naked chest. He wishes they weren’t on top of the covers so he could pull the sheets up to his chin and cover his body because he feels flayed open and exposed like this.

“Jesus, Draco. You should have said something.”

Draco sits up, snagging the first article of clothing he can find on the floor, which happens to be an over-sized jumper, and pulls it over his head. It is long enough to cover his softening cock and most of his body, but hangs loose around his neck and off one shoulder. He tugs at it with a growl, then drops his hands to his lap in exasperation. “What was I supposed to do, bring it up over coffee in the morning? Oh, please, stop fucking those silly girls. Fuck me, instead!”

Harry blinks at him, then pushes up on one elbow. His clothes are still tangled around him and Draco nearly reaches out to start buttoning him up. He can’t think when Harry is unclothed. Can’t think when he’s in his bed and looking at Draco like that.

“How long?” Harry asks quietly.

Draco wants to demand Harry explain what the bloody hell he means, but there’s no point. Draco knows. How long have you been in love? How long have you suffered like a fool?

“Since before yesterday?” Harry presses.

Draco shrugs and looks away.

“Since you moved in?”

Draco scowls at his own hands, tangled in the hem of the jumper.

“Since before that?” Harry whispers like a secret. And when Draco shuts his eyes in defeat, he hears Harry exhale. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The laugh that worms its way out of Draco’s throat isn’t really a laugh at all, but a strangled, sad little thing that has more in common with a whimper. “Tell you, Harry Potter, that I, Draco Malfoy, fancy you?”

Harry sits bolt upright. “You fancy me?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Draco drops his head into his hands. He counts the seconds of each inhale and exhale, trying desperately to steady himself, to keep his vision from swimming and his head screwed on straight.

Harry continues to sit there, unmoving, and Draco wants to scream at him. He’s going to fall apart, of that there is no doubt, but he can’t bear to do it in front of Harry, not when Harry’s come is seeping from his arse and he can still feel the ghost of his hands against his skin.

“I —” Harry starts. Draco can hear him shift next to him, wiggling back into his jeans and adjusting his jumper. Draco thanks Merlin for small mercies. “I think about you, sometimes. A lot of times. I didn’t think —” Harry halts again, then growls in frustration.

“Didn’t think what, Harry?” Draco says with an exasperated sigh. He really ought to get back to packing. And he needs to call Pansy, and also procure at least a case of vodka because fuck, this is going to hurt as soon as he allows himself to feel it.

“I like your coat,” Harry says.

Draco lifts his head from the cradle of his palms, face twisted in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

Harry’s sitting up, legs crossed and eyes fixed resolutely on the wrinkled bedclothes. “The blue one, with the silver buttons up the front.”

Draco glances at the garment in question, hanging over the back of the chair where he’d thrown it in a huff.

“I noticed it when you first started wearing it. I thought it was nice.” Harry frowns and shakes his head. “Not like I wanted it. Not really my style, but it looked nice on you. And then I started noticing other things. Like, this part of your neck is always showing.” Harry points to his own throat, that shadowed hollow at the base that Draco had buttoned away and hidden in the toilets at Genie’s. The place currently marked by Harry’s teeth. “And also, your shampoo smells really good, and I like the way your voice sounds, and your trousers are unfairly tight in the arse and while I suppose I’d noticed those things before, I couldn’t be sure. But yeah, I — I think I was into it. Into you.

“So I tried liking those things on other blokes. Because I like them. Blokes, I mean. But it’s just…” Harry cards a hand through his hair and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You can solve the Sunday crossword.”

Draco blinks rapidly, utterly lost. “What?”

“Hermione can’t even finish that one. And making breakfast with you is fun, even though you can’t poach an egg to save your life. And I like that you get along with my friends, and don’t get weird when people recognise me in the streets. I was being honest when I said that it’s a lot less lonely in this stupid house since you moved in. So, if you want to stay, you can. And maybe we could still… do this.” Harry gestures to the space between them. “And maybe next time we go to the club, you could come dance with me instead of someone else, and maybe we could have dinner somewhere, just the two of us.” He sighs. “If you wanted. We could do things like that.”

Draco speaks slowly, his mind trailing uselessly behind his heart, trying to understand if it has any cause to beat so bloody hard. “Those aren’t things that roommates do.”

“Probably not, no.” Harry says. “But they could be things that we do.”

Draco shifts, uncoiling slightly and tugging his sleeves over his hands, worrying a loose thread. “What else could we do?”

“Whatever you want.”

Draco licks his lips and waits for Harry to meet his eyes. “I want a lot of things, Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, a small crooked smile curling the corner of his lips. “Me too. We might have one or two in common.”

“It’s not like I have a bloody list,” Draco says with a scoff, which is a blatant, flat out lie. Because he does have a list. He has dozens of lists, all stacked neatly in his mind and of which he adds to daily, accounting for all things he would like to do with, for, and to Harry Potter. But Harry doesn’t need to know that, not yet. He looks so uncertain, so tentatively hopeful and Draco is sure that if he were to be truthful, and grab Harry by the face and shout at him that he fucking loves him, has loved him for so long, will do anything to keep him, that Harry might run.

Draco’s heart hammers in his chest, a bubble of pure elation rising and expanding beneath his ribcage, large enough to choke him. He has to roll his lips around his teeth to keep from smiling too wide, because he thinks Harry just gave him permission to do other things, not just sex and breakfast. But maybe Draco could be allowed to hold his hand in front of their friends, or steal that jumper he likes so much and wear it when Harry’s not around.

It’s Harry who moves first, reaching out one hand to fist into the front of Draco’s jumper and tug him close. Draco moves to kiss him, he’s only a breath away from Harry’s lips, when Harry smiles.

“I can’t believe you fancy me.”

Draco groans, his face heating. “Oh my god, shut up.”

“Have you been doodling my name in notebooks? With little hearts and everything?”

Draco scoffs. “Ugh, never! More like cursing you from across the room for being such an embarrassing prat.”

“Is that how you talk to people you fancy?”

“Yes, actually.”

Harry’s grin widens and his eyes flick up to meet Draco’s. “Damn, you really have fancied me for a long time then, huh?”

Draco scowls and opens his mouth to snap back, but Harry covers it with his own, kissing away Draco’s indignant sounds.

“It’s okay,” Harry murmurs against Draco’s lips. “I won’t tell.”

Draco hesitates, eyes fixed on Harry’s lips. “You could… if you wanted. Tell people, that is. About us.”

“Yeah?”

Draco shrugs, flippant, though his heart bangs against his ribcage and there is a tightness in his throat that makes him want to squeal like an idiotic girl, because Harry wants him and Draco can’t fucking believe his luck. And sure, Harry isn’t confessing his undying love or promising anything, but it’s a chance, and Draco isn’t going to squander his opportunity to show Harry how bloody good it can be.

“Yeah,” he says, and kisses him.

****

They try again for brunch. Breakfast is long since passed. Draco laments his lost omelette, though they both agree they wouldn't be able to show their faces at Genie’s for at least three weeks.

“We could go to that place in Notting Hill,” Harry suggests, tugging his coat from the hook. It’s a ridiculous thing, quilted with a big furry hood. He pairs it with mittens and it’s totally embarrassing how much Draco still thinks about fucking him while he wears them.

“Sure,” Draco says idly, not really paying attention.

Harry tugs one of the mittens onto his hand. “You know I can feel that, right?”

“What?” Draco says, averting his eyes and focusing on doing up the silver buttons on the coat Harry is so fond of.

Harry chuckles. “You staring at me. Like bloody daggers, that.”

“I’m not staring at you,” Draco lies with a scoff.

Harry raises one eyebrow. “No?”

“Never.”

Harry snorts and shakes his head. “I used to think you wanted to hex me.”

“I do,” Draco says, weaving his scarf around his neck. “Often. Alas, that isn’t all I want to do.”

“Oh yeah? What else?” Harry leans in, batting his eyelashes in a way that is probably supposed to be silly, but is unfairly fetching. Bloody hell, Draco really is gone on him.

Draco steps up, looming over Harry, exploiting their minor height difference to the best of his ability. He threads his fingers through the messy curls at Harry’s temple, then drags them back across his skull. He tightens his fist and gives them a little tug. “I could show you. Tell me, Potter, how attached are you to brunch?”

“We could make it lunch,” Harry says with a grin. “Or even dinner.”

Draco smirks back at him. “We could do that.”