Staggered

Draco is thrown violently from his dream and onto the floor, wincing at the impact to his spinal column. His protest dies in his throat when he hears anguished yells from the bed. Alarmed for long enough to check, he realises Harry is merely having a nightmare, not being attacked by a hundred Dementors, as he first thought. Muttering darkly, he climbs back in and pokes Harry sharply in the chest.



“Potter!” he hisses, “Wake up,”



Harry continues to writhe and twist under the sheets, eyelids closed and twitching rapidly. His mouth forms silent protests and sweat beads along his forehead, a few drops trickling down his left temple. He lets out a huge sigh and manages a brief respite before it starts again.



“Severus, please, no don’t, not that, no! I won’t lose you, not again, just stay with me, please, God, please don’t leave me again!” Harry cries loudly, dry sobs issuing from his mouth with each wracking gulp of air.



“Harry,” Draco says firmly, “You’re just dreaming.” He wraps his arms around the thrashing body and rests his chin on Harry’s head, gently shaking him awake.



“What? Oh God, no,” Harry groans, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face.



“Shh. You were having a nightmare, but it’s over now.” Draco murmurs, quashing the unwelcome urge to kiss the sweat-dampened hair.



“It’s not over though, is it? Because this is the nightmare. In my dreams, he’s alive, always alive and...”



Draco is startled when a leg slides over his own, Harry shuffling forward imperceptibly, barely enough to touch their chests together. Draco squeezes his eyes shut and orders his body not to respond to the gesture but even as the notion forms, he feels the slow hardening begin.



He tries to push Harry away, wriggle backwards, roll over, anything to avoid the inevitable mortification he will undoubtedly encounter in the morning but Harry is gripping him tightly around the waist now, and fuck, is he imagining it or is that an erection being pressing insistently to his own?



No doubt is left in Draco’s mind when a hand trails lightly down his spine and firmly cups his arse, pulling him into the feverish heat, throbbing and grinding and—Oh God—this is so inherently wrong and Snape’s going to kill him, but—



“Shit!” Harry recoils like he’s been flayed and backs up against the headboard, panting.



Shocked by the sudden departure of flesh and warmth, Draco pulls the sheet up around his chin and tries to think of something to say that won’t make the situation untenable.



“Potter...”



“Don’t. I’m sorry, okay?”



“I’m not,” Draco shoots back before he can stop himself, his hand falling tentatively into the space between them. But for all that it is a few inches, it might as well be miles because Harry is lying on his back staring resolutely at the ceiling. Draco’s eyes trace the firm outline of his profile, perfectly silhouetted against the pale moonlight.



“I just-- wanted to feel something,” Harry sighs, misty breath testifying to the coldness of the room.



Draco would dearly love to tell him flippantly that he was feeling something, but doesn’t think his particular brand of sarcasm would be appreciated right now.



With excruciating slowness, he inches his hand towards Harry’s and gently strokes his thumb across the callused palm. He hears a sharp intake of breath and feels a weight shift against the mattress, thrilled to think Harry is moving closer and utterly discouraged when instead he pulls away and rolls onto his side, breaking the tentative contact.



After a few moments though, Harry’s hand returns, firmly grasping Draco’s wrist and guiding it around his waist.



Draco complies without hesitation, stretching himself sinuously along the length of Harry’s back. He touches his lips to the nape of Harry’s feverish neck, tasting sweat and need as his cock rapidly fills.



Draco fights the urge to moan when Harry does, reacting to the soft, hard, soft, hard kisses Draco is alternating between Harry’s neck and the sharp curve of his shoulder blade. Draco’s fingers slip into the waistband of Harry’s pants and tighten around his cock, squeezing his shaft. A thumb swipes the head of his leaking slit and Draco’s clothed erection nudges Harry’s arse cheeks, feeling impossibly solid nestled between them. Harry instinctively pushes back against him, encouraging and daring as he mouths the words to banish the restrictive garments.



Draco nearly comes when Harry does that; it’s so fucking good to feel his cock rubbing the crease of Harry’s arse; to be touching him like this instead of hating and wanting. It doesn’t matter that he’s had to wait so long and he doesn’t care that it wasn’t him Harry was calling for in his sleep because right now, he’s Draco’s, and damn Severus; Draco isn’t giving this up for anyone and nothing and no one could make him.



Growling with the frustration of a man denied many long years, he hoists himself onto an elbow and twists his face to bury it in Harry’s neck, teeth and tongue and lips, demanding and biting and sucking. His hand grips Harry’s cock with a renewed vigour and he pumps him almost brutally, intuition alone guiding his own swollen shaft until it squeezes between the cheeks of Harry’s arse.



***



Harry grunts and clenches his buttocks, baring his neck to the sharp nips and soothing licks. Opening his eyes, his vision is obscured by fine, blond hair where it should be black and greasy, but he’s too lost to care; so close to forgetting who it isn’t and yet there’s that breathy moan again, and another, hot against his ear, the panted ‘Uh, uh, uh’ is all Draco, hot behind him, hot for Harry, and Harry’s breathing harshly now, in through his nose and out through his mouth, but the pillow throws up that awful, cloying beautiful smell and he’s coming; coming for Draco and coming for Snape and somewhere in the middle of it he feels Draco stiffening too; crying out his release as he fucks harder and stills before bathing them both in warm, viscous fluid.



Harry takes a deep shuddering breath as the last waves roll through him, the sticky remnants of their pleasure returning him to his conscious mind.



***







Draco releases him reluctantly and eases his softening cock from the slippery warmth, breath held in anticipation. His head tumbles into the pillow and he stares at the messy dark hair beside him, willing Harry to move or say something.



An entire geological age seems to come and go, although Draco admits privately that might be a slight over-exaggeration, but all the same, Harry isn’t speaking and Draco’s heart plummets into his stomach because this is not how he wanted this to end. He envisioned muttered words of appreciation, or small moans of contentedness or even a fucking verbal remonstration but not this; not endless impenetrable silence.



Needing to break the tension, Draco gropes the floor for his trousers and finds his wand. Pulling himself up to sitting, he performs Scourgify; starting with Harry out of courtesy. The ear-piercing shriek simultaneously sets off several car alarms, causing Draco to drop his wand in alarm.



“What the fuck was that for?” Harry yells, vigorously rubbing his groin through the sheet.



“It was a simple Scourgify, Potter. I had thought you might appreciate the gesture but obviously you would prefer to wallow in come.” All too easily, Draco retreats behind a stony mask.



“You practically gave me an enema! Not to mention what feels like half my skin being removed with a cheese grater!” Harry fumbles the window ledge for his glasses, one hand still soothing his abused genitalia.



“Merlin, anyone would think...”



“Just shut up, Malfoy.” Harry snaps. “And for fuck’s sake, start learning how to control your wand.”



***







Heavy rain lashes at the window, rattling the thin glass in its unstable frame. Harry thinks the sky looks angrier this morning than it did last night and the darkened clouds do nothing to tempt him out of the warm bed. Draco’s side is empty, and apart from a rather tender chafing on the inside of his thighs, there are at least no visual reminders that anything untoward happened between them. Harry tries not to think about it and a violent clattering from downstairs tells him Draco’s doing the same, without success.



With a heavy sigh, he vacates his Snape-scented sanctuary and dresses mechanically, taking one last look around, in case he isn’t invited back.



He finds Draco in the kitchen, rage finally subdued, sitting at the table and flicking through the Prophet.



“Table looks much better,” Harry comments, pulling out the recently repaired chair he had sat in, before it had burnt to a crisp.



Draco shows no sign of being aware of his presence and continues to speed-turn the pages. He’s going so fast there’s no way he can actually be reading the articles so Harry doesn’t feel bad about interrupting.



“Look, about last night-‘



“There’s no breakfast. The toilet is in the yard, it’s the small green shed with a key in the door,” he says, not breaking eye contact with the newspaper. At the mention of toilets, Harry’s bladder suddenly protests, apparently remembering he hasn’t evacuated it for a very long time.



“Draco-“



“Do you seriously think I want people to know either, Potter? That I fucked the Boy Who Lived?” The paper is slapped harshly onto the table and all at once Harry finds himself subjected to an intense silvery glare.



Mentally shrugging, he tries to defuse the situation with humour. “You didn’t technically fuck me...”



“Oh grow up.” Draco sneers, “The details are hardly relevant.”



Harry supposes he’s right. It doesn’t matter what they did, just that they did it and now some kind of resolution has to be achieved. Which would be easy, if he could just work out what sort of resolution he wants, and if it wasn’t Malfoy it was needed with.



“Can I come back? Tonight maybe?”



Draco narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What for?”



“I don’t know, just, I kind of like this place, I want to go through some more of his stuff, if that’s okay. I could bring dinner?” he says hopefully.



“I have things to do tonight,” Draco sniffs, returning his gaze to the abandoned newspaper.



“No, you don’t.”



“Yes, I do! I can’t hang around here babysitting you.”



“So cancel. Or I can come alone, I heard the unlocking spell, you know.” Harry’s bullshitting but he’s desperate.



“Fine!” Draco says, throwing his hands up in frustration, “I’ll be here at six.” He draws himself up off the chair and stands at the old butlers’ sink, staring out of the window.



Harry has the opportunity to be covert in his appraisal of the lithe frame that lends itself to fine lines and slender muscles. It doesn’t bother him that Draco is taller than he is, or that his skin is as pale and as smooth as the finest porcelain when his own is rough and tanned, or that Draco’s white-blond hair is neatly slicked back, as wildly different as it could possibly be to his own dark unruly mop of waves that stick out in all directions no matter what he tries to do with it. They are, and always have been, polar opposites. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem so annoying anymore.



“Thank you, Draco,” Harry says, and means it.



***



Harry is sick of talking to people. He’s had enough of interviews and paperwork and explaining for the millionth time what happened during the final battle. Isn’t it enough he managed to defeat Voldemort without having to relive the horrific memories on an almost daily basis? Apparently not. The Ministry wants blood, and they’re determined to have Harry’s.



But something has changed since yesterday. Nothing so tangible he could put his finger on it; more a shift in his subconscious mind that drip-feeds a salient mix of reassurance and anticipation throughout the day. Possibly it feels like hope, he’s not sure because it’s been a while since he felt it but it gives him the strength to tell the snooty little quill-pusher in the Auror department to fuck off.



He thought he wanted to be an Auror, but the more time he spends at the Ministry, the less respect he feels for the machinations of government. The job itself would be exciting enough but for the sheer level of bureaucracy required; it’s enough to set his dormant scar throbbing.



For now though, Harry is happy to be at Hogwarts, helping out with the plans for renovation, discussing ways in which the heavily damaged wards can be repaired and spending an inordinate amount of time in the dungeons. He goes there every day, sometimes all day if he can. It is both painful and comforting to sit in the abandoned Potions classroom, at his old workbench, staring at the front as if concentrating enough will bring the man back. Harry hates how often he used to wish he wasn’t there. Now he can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be. Except perhaps Spinners End.



Harry is calmer when he lands outside the terrace. The houses look no less imposing in their decaying state than they did this morning but now they afford him a peculiar sense of belonging. Draco’s reaction to his arrival, however, is rather less welcoming.



“Potter. Don’t just stand there, you’re letting all the heat out.”



Draco seizes his wrist and drags him through the door, shutting and warding it behind him. A little excessive perhaps, but Harry of all people knows old habits die hard.



“I brought dinner,” Harry says, holding up a white plastic carrier bag as evidence.



Draco wrinkles his nose and sniffs the aromatic air. “What is it?”



“Curry. Another traditional British Muggle fare. S’good food, you should try it.”



“I have had curry before, Potter.” Draco says testily.



Harry rolls his eyes and moves past him to the kitchen, starting a thorough search of the cupboards. Draco follows as far as the doorway and watches warily.



“Er, are there any plates?”



“No.”



“Oh. Well I guess we could eat out of the containers then, or shall I transfigure something?”



“Are you planning to use cutlery tonight? Surely even you aren’t uncouth enough to attempt rice with your fingers?” Draco says, in a tone that clearly indicates he believes Harry to be more than capable of such an atrocity of etiquette.



He collects two battered cups from the draining board and sets them down on the table.



“Uh, Draco, do you think that’s a good idea?” Harry asks nervously when a wand is produced.



“It’s just a simple transfiguration charm, Potter, stop being such a pansy.”



***







For all his bravado, Draco is actually rather nervous about attempting the charm. Just this morning, he’d accidentally turned a photo frame into the disembodied head of a Mackled Malaclaw with long blond hair. It had shocked him rigid to see the grotesque hybrid of his father and a giant lobster determinedly attempting to pincer the finer features off his face. The incident had heavily reinforced the notion that he should seek help with his magic, and sooner rather than later. Still, he’d be buggered if he was going to let Potter know that.



“Draco? What’s wrong with your nose?” Harry says, swiftly closing the gap between them.



“My nose? Why should there be anything wrong with it?” Draco retorts, quickly becoming aware that he is rubbing it protectively. Damn, that Malaclaw had had fast reflexes.



“It doesn’t hurt then? Because you’re cradling it like it hurts.” Harry’s practically standing toe to toe with him now, gazing up with a questioning concern that does nothing to put him at ease. Draco loses even more composure when Harry threads his fingers through Draco’s, easing them away to better observe. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, he tries to turn his head away but his chin is caught and cupped in warm palms.



“Keep still, I’m trying to see...”



“There’s nothing wrong with my nose, alright!?” Draco protests, placing both hands on Harry’s chest and half-heartedly pushing him away.



Harry holds up a conciliatory hand. “Sorry!” he says, not looking remotely sorry at all.



Draco is about to tell Harry just where he can stick his chicken masala when an insistent tapping distracts him. A harassed-looking owl hovers outside the kitchen window, and Draco forgets all about food as he rushes to let it in and retrieve the letter tied to its leg.



Harry breaks a bit of the Naan bread and holds it out, but the owl gives him a disdainful hoot and exits the window in a flurry of feathers. Harry shrugs and pops the rejected savoury in his mouth.



Draco’s face darkens by degrees as he reads the letter, eventually folding it carefully and pocketing it.



“You’ll have to enjoy dinner alone.” He announces, reaching to close the window.



Harry’s brow crinkles in disappointment as he looks down at the excessive amount of food he’s brought. Draco spares him a fleeting glance and stalks towards the door.



“Merlin! Don’t cry about it, Potter. I’ll be back soon. There’s whisky in the cupboard under the sink.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving Harry with a distinctly withered appetite.



***







Taking advantage of Draco’s first ever generous offer (well, apart from rescuing him from pneumonia in the graveyard) he retrieves the bottle of scotch and pours a healthy slosh into one of the untransfigured cups still sitting on the table.



It’s strong; much stronger than he’s used to, and it licks a fiery path to his stomach. Harry’s eyes widen a little at the effect it has, deciding to take both bottle and glass into the sitting room. The settee is just as uncomfortable as it was the day before, but he doesn’t mind now because the alcohol is warming him up nicely, numbing certain feelings, in fact banishing most of his conscious thoughts altogether, save for two.



Snape and Draco. Harry is assailed with a terrible guilt at having encouraged Draco to touch him in Snape’s bed. The man’s scent was still on the bedclothes and yet Harry accepted, hell, encouraged sexual comfort at the hands of someone he’s pretty sure hates his guts. He wonders briefly if a pattern might be emerging.



It doesn’t matter though, he tells himself, because Snape’s dead and even if he wasn’t he’d hardly be likely to care what Harry was getting up to. Though he might have something to say about it if he’d caught them in his bed. Which, really, would be how likely if he were alive? Because then they wouldn’t have been in his house and in his bedroom, would they?



Endless circular thoughts crowd his head. The more he drinks, the more disjointed and random they become and he barely notices when the door creaks open and a sopping wet Draco crashes through it.



Cursing a blue streak, Draco immediately strips his wet clothes off, having decided against attempting a drying spell. Harry is only distracted from his maudlin thoughts when a saturated sock smacks him on the side of the head.



“Oi! What was that for-bloody hell, did you all shower with your clothes on or something?” Harry can see three semi-naked Dracos swaying in his vision and they’re all sporting heads of waterlogged hair, fine blond strands slicked down.



“Or something, Potter. It’s pissing down out there. How have you not noticed?”



Draco observes the whisky bottle on the table, considerably less full than he remembers it being. Harry is clutching a cup to his chest and looks defensive.



“Just had a glass or two,” he protests feebly. “There’s another mug in the kitchen, help yourself.”



“To my own whisky?” Draco snorts, “Thanks very much.”



***







Shaking his hair in disbelief as much as to dispel some of the water, Draco retrieves the other mug and takes to the armchair, pouring himself a healthy tot.



“Where’ve you been?” Harry says, trying to stop his eyes from crossing.



“None of your business. Why haven’t you eaten dinner?” Draco asks, waving a hand in the direction of the abandoned curry.



“None of your business,” Harry mimics and takes another liberal gulp.



Draco sneers at him and upends his glass. Merlin, how good it feels slipping smoothly down his throat like that, spice and liquid silk. He’s just starting to relax when he remembers he’s naked save for the boxers. At least Harry seems to be more interested in the bottom of his glass than Draco’s state of undress.



“It would never have worked,” Harry mutters, stroking his glass fondly.



Draco isn’t sure he wants to know what the pissed up Potter is referring to, but his curiosity is piqued.



Grudgingly he asks, “What wouldn’t have worked?”



“Ginny and me.” Harry says in a sigh. “She’s like a sister.”



“Right. So nothing to do with the fact that you’re a raving poof then?” Draco says with what he considers to be an admirable degree of tact.



Harry laughs unexpectedly; a rich, mellifluous sound that goes straight to Draco’s cock. He damns it to hell and retrieves a cushion to cover his groin.



“Well, yeah, I guess there’s that. And the fact that I’m obsessively in love with a dead man. A dead man who was my Professor. A dead man whose only passionate thoughts about me were probably ones of murder.”



“Always did like to take the easy option, didn’t you?” Draco smirks, ignoring the sharp stab of jealousy in his chest.



“Are you accusing me of going after the unobtainable?” Harry’s voice is hard-edged, and Draco thinks he’s being serious until a loud guffaw escapes his lips. Part of Draco wants to join in but the Malfoy part of his brain reminds him he’s still a Malfoy and this is still Potter, and it’s bad enough he’s sitting here in his underpants drinking whisky with the man, without lowering himself to sharing jokes. But Harry doesn’t hear Draco’s internal dialogue and he’s laughing louder than ever; the ringing tone bouncing off the books.



“Oh God,” Harry manages between gasps, “Dead --Professor --who only ever came close to --smiling at me when I was-- scrubbing out his cauldrons or chopping --Shrivelfigs for him! What the fuck is wrong with me?”



Evidently Harry isn’t too worried about what might be wrong with him, because he carries on giggling but eventually it turns a little desperate, so Draco tops up his glass and puts it back in his hand.



“Drink.”



“No, we have to have a toast first. Go on, you do it, make a toast.”



Harry is still smiling and staring expectantly at him and Draco clenches his jaw but raises his mug in salutation.



“To friends loved and lost, now departed from this world, to whom we owe our lives and still hold dear in our hearts,” he pronounces, feeling rather pleased with himself.



“Here, here!” Harry enthuses, downing the generous content in one go.



Draco watches him fumble his cup back onto the table and attempt to rise. The phrase ‘hollow legs’ springs to mind, but he can’t remember if that applies to someone good at holding their drink or not. In Harry’s case, he’s willing to bet not.



“Gotta go,” Harry slurs, using the armrest as a bargaining device for extra leverage.



“Potter, I doubt you could Apparate to the kitchen, let alone all the way- where is home?”



“Hogwarts of course,” Harry says, sounding put out, “Always Hogwarts. Need my help don’t they? Castle’s still in a bloody state...not had time to do much though...Ministry...interviews...”



Harry’s mouth seems to have become as useless as his legs and he flops back onto the sofa with a huff.



Draco rues his preposterously bad luck and relinquishes his drink. “Come on, you bloody lightweight. You realise you’ll have to stay here again tonight? McGonagall will have a fit if you roll in like that.”



“No, she’s fine with it, honestly,” Harry says enthusiastically, as if it’s a good thing, but Draco hears the underlying sentiment; it wouldn’t be the first time Harry has stumbled home blind drunk this past month.



Draco pulls him up and manoeuvres a hand around his waist to steady him. With painfully slow progress they navigate the stairs, Draco having to stop on each step to prevent Harry head-butting the wall.



Finally, they make it to the bedroom and Draco sets about the secretly rather satisfying task of undressing him. Every so often, Harry gazes up from his perched position on the bed, unmasking his green eyes and making Draco feel distinctly edgy. He’s very glad when the bulk of clothes are shed and Harry is as vulnerable as he is in his underpants.



Draco shoves him backwards, amused at how easily he topples, and rolls him into the waiting bed. Harry moans appreciatively as his head hits the pillow and in seconds, the alcoholically fuelled snoring begins in earnest.



***



Sometime during the night, Draco stirs and tries to turn over, but a heavy weight is pressed against his ribcage and a muscular leg is nestled snugly between his own. The unexpected presence propels him from a dozy slumber to fully alert in a scant few seconds.



Harry has unconsciously managed to insinuate most of his body around Draco’s, and his sleepy murmurs sound like whispered seductions against Draco’s ear. He tries to crane his neck without dislodging the warm slack lips that are sending frissons of guilty pleasure skating down his spine with each breath, eventually giving up in favour of swivelling his eyeballs to the window instead. It’s still dark outside, but birdsong can be heard and Draco knows it won’t be long until the sun rises.



Another day, full of deception and not-quite-lies, of watching the man beside him silently falling apart . Draco didn’t want to care that Harry’s hurting but he does, and curses himself for being as weak as Father always said he was.



He cheers himself up by glaring at the dark messy hair he doesn’t dare disturb, now shifted to rest against his armpit. You’re pathetic, he tells Potter in his head.



As if he heard the non-verbal remonstration, Harry takes a deep shuddering breath, dislodging an arm that had become wedged between them. Draco holds his breath in anticipation, exhaling noisily when Harry’s hand snakes across his stomach, fingers unfurling to draw idle patterns on his navel.



Merlin, how he wants that hand to seek out his treacherous cock. And how disgusted he is with himself for thinking such a thing. What would father think if he knew of Draco’s perversion? What would Crabbe and Goyle say? Well, not Vincent, because he’s dead and-- the realisation hits him with the force of a sledgehammer. He’s dead and Draco isn’t. Draco, with blood still pumping through his veins, with his life force firmly intact, is bemoaning his luck at having Harry bloody Potter draped suggestively across him.



Heart thumping in his chest, so loud he’s sure it will wake Harry, he forces his arm to work and raises a hand, tentatively running his fingers through Harry’s hair, stroking the soft tendrils and rubbing them between his fingertips. He’s not going to feel guilty for wanting this and he’s not going to think about the consequences. He’s alive and that’s enough.



Harry is arching into the touch and Draco is thrilled when a fingertip skims his ribs, tracing each one in turn until it reaches a stiffening nipple, teasing the sparse hairs around it. He tightens his hold and guides Harry’s head back, far enough to confirm he’s actually awake. Hungry green eyes puncture his wavering resolve and Draco can’t help but lower his head to kiss Harry’s sleep-swollen lips. Harry opens his mouth and moans, briefly tasting the air with his tongue before it meets Draco’s halfway and slides past, both muscles leaving the familiar warmth of their own mouths to explore the escalating heat in the other.



Harry’s leg slides further up his thighs, a knee pressing urgently against his balls. Draco’s about to grasp Harry’s hips when the kiss ends abruptly and in one smooth move, Harry slides on top of him, lowering his weight with crushing restriction and pinning Draco’s arms over his head. His lips are brutally compressed once again, heated and desperate as their chests mould together and their hips fuse, erection grinding against erection.



Harry’s eyes flash wildly, grunts spilling throatily as they rut against each other with increasing urgency. Draco wriggles out of Harry’s stronghold on his arms and forces his hands down the back of Harry’s boxers, roughly pulling his cheeks apart, scratching his nails across tender flesh to elicit even louder approval.



Harry drops his mouth to Draco’s neck and sinks his teeth into it, and Draco pleads for more; more biting, more claiming, simply more, as he grips the thrusting hips covering his own and digs his fingers into the flesh there, dragging their cocks repeatedly together. Draco hears a sibilant name whispered like a prayer against his collarbone, a name that isn’t his, but he can’t think about that now because he’s going to come, lashes of fire streak through him, centred in his tightening balls and erupting between them with muted splashes. Harry whimpers and moves faster, and Draco wants to see his face, see how he looks as he releases the culmination of pleasure to mingle with that already spilt.



“Look at me,” he says. He feels Harry’s lips leave the abused flesh of his neck as he raises his head, but his eyelids are shuttered against the birthing sun, screwed up tightly in concentration and impending orgasm. Draco wants more.



“Don’t close your eyes,” he whispers, and it’s almost too late to say it because the wracking pulses are struggling to escape into the non-existent space between them. For a moment, he thinks Harry didn’t hear or is ignoring him, but then two slits of green are just visible, and Draco’s shocked at the turbulent storm of conflict there. Even as Harry’s cock jerks violently and Draco’s stomach is painted with his seed, he knows Harry is thinking of Severus.



This does nothing to improve the after-glow. Harry collapses heavily, ragged breaths against the hollow of his neck, blissfully unaware that Draco is furious and fighting the urge to throw him across the room.



A fearful battle is raging in Draco’s head. He tells himself he’s got what he wanted; rough, dirty sex with Harry Potter. What does it matter if Harry’s mind is elsewhere? Draco’s got his body, if not his heart and fuck, he doesn’t want that anyway, does he? The demons inside him are warring and when Harry’s hand tenderly combs his hair, the anger refuses to be contained.



“Get off me Potter,” he hisses, shouldering Harry away and pulling the sheet up to hide his flushed face.



Harry looks stung and confused. “What’s the matter?”



Like you don’t already fucking know, Draco wants to shout but keeps his lips glued together, taking the opportunity to shun Harry further by turning his back. The door mocks him with its presence; an escape route he just can’t find the energy to use.



Draco feels the bed dip as Harry sits up and dares to stroke a finger over the knobbles of his spine. Draco flinches at the touch but makes no sound of protest.



“Please, Draco, tell me what’s up. Did I do something wrong?”



Oh God, he sounds so dejected and hurt and it makes Draco feel sick and twisted with loathing and need.



Unable to stand it any longer, he flees the bed and Summons his clothes from the sitting room. They are still damp and creased from the night before, and yet strangely smoking a little from the effects of such powerful spell casting.



“Get dressed, Potter.”



“What? Why? For fuck’s sake, Draco, you can’t just throw me out!” The concern has rapidly transformed into irritation but Draco refuses to see the evidence of that on Harry’s face.



“I’m not.”



Disbelief keeps Harry frozen for a few seconds longer before he gets up and starts to dress.



“Draco-“



“Shut up. Just shut up.” Draco mutters, angry with himself, and with Harry, but most of all, with Severus.



They finish dressing in silence, Draco finally turning to stare into blindly trusting eyes for the first time since he saw them full of despair, longing and torment.



Grabbing Harry’s arm roughly, Draco Apparates them away.



***



More soon!!