To Temper a Dragon

AN: Just a quickie.

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The rain was particularly loud to the ear under the patchy roof of a forgotten Hogwarts tower. It leaked through the slats of the tiles up above and it came down to drip in slimy puddles over the stone floor. On top of being wet, it was cold. The type of seeping, penetrating cold that made it hard not to shiver even knowing that it wasn’t all as bad as it could have been.

And worst of all? Crying went hand and hand with shivering, trembling, being numb with that hollow pain that ate a hole right through the gut and left nothing but a mess behind.

Chilled as he was, Draco could still feel the tears that were sliding down his cheeks, mixing with the rain that dripped into his hair—dirty from the grime that was sluiced from the roof—and slid down his neck like filthy snakes over his skin. Draco clutched his knees and tried to deal with just breathing, but the panic choked him, and the pain, it numbed him, made him want to rip out his hair...or go for a walk straight out a window.

White knuckles ached through the pervading numbness as his hands clamped like vices in the material of his pants. He was so close. So close. But the Dark Lord didn’t care for ‘almost’. He sobbed, so desperately wanting to be wrapped up in the warmth of his blankets, tucked into his bed, but he couldn’t stand it, being in that dorm around everyone else. Pretending he was okay, watching them all together and going through the motions, trying not crack up where he would be seen.

The thought of being drawn and quartered, of having his broken mask ripped from him gave him nightmares, made him sweat and tremble and eat holes in his own stomach with worry. That was why he couldn’t be down in his bed, safe and sound. And that was why he couldn’t be in the girls bathroom in the second floor. Because Potter had seen his mask crack there and had crucified him for it. He couldn’t afford to be caught like that again. He just...couldn’t.

That was the reason why his heart leapt up his throat when a gruff voice reached his ears. Draco’s hand scrambled for his wand in the wet material of his robe and he cursed with a blank mind as his hand tangled in the material, costing him precious seconds.

When his eyes finally snapped up he regretted it. If his heart hadn’t called it quits on him before it certainly did then as he saw just who it was that had stumbled upon him.

Draco shuddered and opened his mouth to scream a curse as his pulse roared in his ears but his wand was out of his hand before he could even think of countering Potter. Draco tried to push to his feet, his shoes slipping on the slimy lichen that grew on the rocks and his legs feeling like uncoordinated lumps of wood under him after so long in such a cramped position.

But before he could so much as aim a half decent punch at Potter’s jaw, two faint words slipped past his lips that took all the fight right out of him.

“Sorry. Draco.” And in that cold and empty and wet tower Draco knew that he meant them. Harry Potter was standing in front of him, a little wet from the rain that dripped onto him, two wands clutched tightly in one hand, a ragged piece of parchment and his indivisibility cloak in the other. And Harry Potter was apologising. To him.

Draco slid back down the wall, curling in on himself, willing that aching numbness in his gut to return but all he felt was the sharp pain of those words piercing him over and over and over again. And Draco felt those damnable tears slipping down his cheeks again and for the life of him didn’t know why.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” Cut. Slice. Stab. Words, words, words. Draco couldn’t stop the tears. Couldn’t understand....

“I’m sorry for the position you’re in.” Stab. Burn. Pain and wet, wet tears.

“And I’m sorry, Draco—“

“shut up. Shut up. SHUTUP.” Draco screamed. “I don’t want to hear...” His voice fought for room beside his heart in his throat choking him into submission until the only sound he could make was a gargled sob.

And then there was something equally as incomprehensible as the gaping chasm of pain that pierced his foggy mind. There was warmth, and sensation in his cold numbed body. Fingers, heat, a tentative hand pressing against his shoulder, along his collar, up his neck.

“What—“ Draco rasped, his voice thick with emotion.

Harry didn’t seem keen to explain himself. Instead he continued to explore, his eyes dull behind thick frames but focused. “Just—“

He didn’t seem to know what to say, but his fingers were plenty expressive as they trailed over the white wetness of Draco’s shirt and the marble chill of his damp skin. Draco’s knees were still drawn up tight to his body but Harry parted them with his free hand, and Draco let him.

“I’m sorry, Draco. Forgive me.” He whispered, leaning in close, until the water that had been dirtying Draco platinum blond hair fell into Harry’s bedraggled locks instead.

“What does it matter, Potter? You hate me.”

“No.” Harry whispered, and he seemed very hard pressed to form words for his admittance. “I don’t hate you Draco. And I need you to forgive me.”

Draco cut in harshly. “For almost killing me?”

“Yes, Draco, I need you to forgive me for almost killing you.” And he was begging, his hand scrabbling against the chill skin of Draco neck and jaw and in the wake of Harry’s touch Draco felt a slow burn awake. And he didn’t hate it. And he did forgive him then, for nearly stealing away the life that he had been so pathetically scrambling to preserve. And Draco didn’t know why, except that it was enough that Harry was here, in this dark, cold and wet tower, asking to be forgiven.

Draco looked up, and gave a curt nod and Harry’s composure seemed to resolve before his very eyes, like a man being built from a granite mountain. Only there was a smouldering heat about Harry that made Draco ache for more.

Their wands were laying crossed on the floor by his feet, Draco realised. But his hands reached instead for the warmth of Harry’s fingers as they trailed over his cheek.

“Can I see?” Harry whispered, and there was a blazing Gryffindor mannerism about the way that he asked the question that Draco nearly laughed despite being thoroughly confused. There was a familiarity there that offered comfort. Only Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to reconcile with the fact that the familiarity was not mired in his customary hatred for the man that crouched in front of him.

“What?” Draco whispered, not at all certain why he bothered to keep his voice down.

“The scars...the ones that...” Harry swallowed thickly, clearly unable to say the words.

Draco only nodded. Harry looked at him like a frightened animal for a moment, as though he wanted to bolt and Draco would not have blamed him if he had, but as bitter acid began to gather in the back of his throat, thick with resentment for the inevitable departure Harry came unstuck.

And there it was again, that flare of Gryffindor bravery as he slipped his hand from Draco’s and to the buttons on his shirt—running was not an option for lions it seemed—and Draco had to wonder if he was beginning to admire that quirk rather than despise it.

Harry’s breath was warm against the hollow of his neck as Harry peeled away his shirt, hands trembling and Draco thought it was a miracle that he wasn’t shaking under that touch. But it was so warm, so hot, that it simply melted him into a calmness he couldn’t remember ever having felt.

Those fingers pulled up his undershirt and glazed over his damp skin. There were faint scars, a tepid pink that was barely visible in the lacklustre light that filled the shambled tower room. Despite that Harry’s fingers found each and every mark, tracing over them with flinching hesitance.

“I...” Green eyes looked at him with guilt so powerful it hurt and Draco found his heart beating in his throat again, this time for a reason that was entirely apart from fear.

“It’s fine.” Draco murmured, trying to will Harry into understanding. The other man couldn’t possibly know what it meant for him to be warm like this but he knew then that he couldn’t bare to be so cold again, not that night at least, not so soon. He couldn’t have Harry bolting on him.

Harry leaned into his chest, seeming to crumple to him. Draco thought he felt the word ‘sorry’ whispered against his skin but he found that his heart was beating far too loud in the confines of his chest for him to hear anything at all.

And then Harry was looking at him again, those intense green eyes fixed entirely on him, burning him, warming him.

“You’re frozen.” He said, his voice unwavering. “Merlin, Draco, how long have you been out here?”

Draco shrugged. He wasn’t quite certain that he could have answered that even if he had bothered to think properly about what Harry was asking of him. As it was he could only admit to himself that he had long passed the point of caring about himself.

Well, physically at least. At heart he was still a coward, perpetually afraid, jumping at his own shadow, and weighed down by that much darker presence that suffocated him in ways his shadow never could—the Dark Lord.

Draco shivered and unconsciously scraped his hand against the burnt black skin of his left forearm, clawing viciously at skin that was already heavily wounded as a result of this self-same habit. Warmth closed against him with all the force of a bludger to his solar plexus and Draco felt his breath rush from his lungs. His wrists were pulled into a fierce one handed grip and Harry’s other hand was kneading his skin, close, close, closer—almost touching that black mark that painted the pale flesh of his arm so ominously.

The need to cry out for Harry to stop was nearly crippling but when he opened his mouth the only sound he could make was a pathetic whimper that somewhat resembled Harry's name. And then there were fingers pressing tentatively against that part of his arm, stoking his shame and it was like the chill lifted from his body entirely. Draco groaned, his heart felt light as a bird.

Harry was panting into his neck, his breath fluttering through Draco’s not-so-platinum locks, making him squirm. He looked up again, a brilliant smile on his lips and Draco returned it with a watery grin of his own, hardly believing his reality in that moment.

“What?” He asked, a little of his swagger back in his voice.

Harry laughed softly. “I wasn’t sure that wouldn’t split my head open. I’ve never touched a Dark Mark before, y’know.” Harry said, breathlessly. Draco stared at the grinning man before him with slack-jawed incredulousness.

“You...” But before Draco could form the words there were lips pressed against his, sealing those words in and making Draco see stars. The kiss was half adrenalin and half heat and Draco let it happen with all the resistance of a drowned man. When Harry’s tongue touched his he allowed his own to caress the wet muscle that invaded his mouth and moaned low in his throat.

When Harry pulled away, his head dropping to Draco shoulder again, he let out his breath in a hiss.

“What was that?” He asked, his head spinning frantically with implications, none of which made the least bit of sense to his muddled self.

“Was that okay? I mean...” Somehow Draco had the feeling that Harry wasn’t really talking about technique. He felt Harry’s fingers digging into his sides, pressing against ribs and holding tight.

“It’s fine.” Draco let his hands come up and brush along either side of Harry’s neck, curling into his hair, trying to explain without words just how fine Harry’s mouth on his had been. Harry looked up, a small hopeful smile on his lips and Draco marveled at how someone could blatantly and fearlessly show his every emotion so openly.

And then Harry was whispering to him, and Draco felt the thoughts chased from his mind as Harry’s words wormed their way into his brain, seeping warmth into him like liquid gold.

“Good, because I suspect sorry would have lost it’s meaning if I had to apologise for that one.” Harry rubbed his hands lightly over Draco’s sides before drawing his hands away and bracing them on the wall to Draco back on either side of him. “Or this one.”

And then Harry kissed him again.

And Draco surrendered himself. Surrendered completely and utterly to the exquisite melting heat that was Harry.

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AN: So it's been a while since I've written HP fanfiction, but I was having terrible writer's block so I thought I'd get back to my roots a little. I'm hoping that Harry and Draco were still IC but I've lost the feel for them I think, or they've changed. Anyways, this is just a compilation of a couple ideas I had and threw it together in the setting of HBP cause it was my favourite book by far.

- Incessant_Darkness