Archive of Our Own ^beta

It happened really, oddly enough —or perhaps suitably enough— at the trial. 

Before Harry could give Malfoy his wand back.

He was still keyed up and running on the adrenaline of scrutiny from testifying for a literal Death Eater and he just wanted to slink back home —back to that den of ugly, haunted memories— and perhaps just. Rot. A little. Hide away in Sirius' room —in sheets that needed to be washed but would then lose the scent of the one person who was supposed to well and truly be family. Not the surrogate family that had taken him in by chance, though that wasn't fair. For later it had become choice. 

But Harry still felt —he always felt like that sort of love was conditional. Like he was balancing on the edge of a blade and he didn't know how to keep his balance. That one wrong move would send him tipping over the edge and he would be abandoned once more. And well, he wouldn't have death to blame that time. He'd only have himself. Because he'd already served his purpose hadn't he? Wizarding Britain was safe once more. No one needed Harry's presence anymore. 

So he wanted to go home, and curl up in old, dusty sheets and look through the photographs and cry a little and rot. 

Before he could do that though, he had to give Malfoy his wand back. 

And he was getting to it.

Half awake and perhaps half mad if he had adopted anything from his Godfather —late Godfather. And even with his glasses perched really rather haphazardly on his face, his vision was still foggy. And everything was already so pale and pristine in this official ministry building and the Malfoys were a little worse for wear after well —everything. So they sort of blended in a little. 

And his vision was already fuzzy— seeing double like he was drunk or something. Actually, getting drunk sounded like a decent idea. But, priorities. He had to return the wand. He was actually rather fond of the wand, or the wand liked him. He didn't know. But it wasn't his and he was just —he was tired. So, on he carried, foggy eyed and sleepy and perhaps just this side of delirious, he walked right into a conversation he was —he was quite sure— not meant to hear. The tail-end of it though, which was a relief. But his dizzied vision was still enough to see that bare brush of a pale palm against dark fabric —like the fabric was too expensive and precious to touch— and the quiet murmuring of the words, "It's going to be alright, darling." And something in his brain just. 

Turned off. 

It was probably such a normal thing. Such a mundane thing. Harry still remembered the over the top and frankly ridiculous pet-names Aunt Petunia had for Dudley. And it shouldn't be anything. It should be so normal. Such a normal thing. Something children probably even grew to resent. Harry shouldn't be having a breakdown over it. 

And it's not like —Mrs Weasley was very open with her affections. Her sweetness. The almost too much of her love. It smothered him, and sometimes all Harry wanted was to be smothered beneath it until he couldn't breathe. And sometimes —sometimes Harry wanted to claw his way right out of his skin before the weight of that love could settle upon it. Sometimes he would flinch away from the slightest brush of a touch. Some times an idle word of affection —distracted, and short and not quite meant— would cause his eyes to sting. 

There was just. Something that ached so very fiercely seeing that —hearing that. Watching a child tower over his mother, crouched a little, spine bent, as he all but glowed —even through the pallor of his sickly looking skin— at the simplest act of kindness from his parent. And something in Harry's throat burnt fire at the sight. 

He'd had Sirius for so very little time. And he loved his Godfather dearly. He truly did. Yet a part of him knew, deep down, that Sirius —maddened from his years in Azkaban— looked at Harry and saw Harry's father. Saw James. Saw his best friend. He did not see Harry Potter the child. He saw Harry Potter, James Potter's son. 

Harry hadn't minded much then, so desperate to hold on to any scrap of family he had. He still didn't mind much now, ever fond of what little time he was allowed to spend with his Godfather. 

But Harry —Harry wanted. He wanted so desperately, perhaps a little pathetically, to be something to someone. Be somebody to someone.

Wizarding Britain's saviour. Black and Potter fortunes to his name. The Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The boy who would be regarded as hero until and long after his death. And he broke listening to a parent call their child a simple endearment. He broke, wondering if he could ever be someone precious to a person. Be someone loved and held and be someone other than his name. He just wanted to be a boy. 

He blinked almost violently, eyes aching with how hard he'd squeezed them shut, vision buzzing a little before settling into that default fog it had taken up as of recent, when he noticed the eyes settling heavy on him. 

Without thinking, he shoved Malfoy's wand into his chest —too hard, firm with the jutting of bone and not the lithe muscle Harry had felt pressed to him barely long enough ago to matter when they'd been fleeing the Room of Requirement— and mumbled a distracted, "Thanks," before turning on his heel and leaving. 

His chest was caving something painful, and his breaths were coming too quick, and his heart had ticked up to a step beyond rapid and there was a gentleness that had been in Narcissa's eyes that was brunt into his corneas. A knowingness he didn't want to take the time to assess. 

It was still in his head, the ugly, beautifully intriguing thought of being called darling by someone. Intentionally. Not just somewhat included in the hubbub of a full house. 

It was still on his mind when he was dumped. 

It was still on his mind when he received the letter, being invited back for Eight Year. 

It was still on his mind when —of course— him and Malfoy were put in the same room, because it never worked any other way. 

"Erm," Harry tried —again— because he had to try. Because that was what he did. Because he reached out and fixed. Because he was expected to reach out and fix. It had already been two weeks of static, itchy silence. And like he had everytime Harry had tried within the past two weeks, Malfoy turned on his heel and fled the room everytime Harry so much as opened his mouth. 

As awful as Malfoy had always been, he was —amusing. He was lively, even if that liveliness was at the cost of someone's feelings. He was snarky. He was funny, which Harry wasn't actually allowed to think. 

And he was healthy. 

Rich little pureblood kid? Yeah Malfoy used to nearly glow with health and whatever assortment of products he no doubt used to keep his skin glowing with that healthy —pretty— shine. 

But his eyes were dull and glazed over and seemed to stare through Harry —whenever Harry could manage to catch his eyes— and his cheekbones were more prominent —too prominent— and the angle of his jaw looked like it could cut and his snowy skin was still the colour of snow —that had melted and been urinated on and stomped over— and his hair was limp and sort of chalky and Harry. 

It was over. 

The war was bloody fucking over. 

And Malfoy had done wrong. Malfoy had made his choices. 

Malfoy had been a child just like the rest of them. 

Malfoy sacrificed just like the rest of them. Granted his family put him in that position in the first place. But then, that was it, wasn't it? It was his family. It was his name. Sometimes, Harry couldn't help wondering what might've been of him if he was born anything other than Draco Malfoy and thought he might have been different. He thought they all might've been different if they didn't have the weight of name; the weight of title attached to them.

Or, he liked to think so at least. 

But the past was the past and Harry had fucking died, so. New life, new him, right?

And now Malfoy looked like he was going to die, drawn and pale and shaky; and Harry's heart clenched, oddly enough, for Narcissa.

Narcissa who lied to Voldemort for her son and watched her husband be sentenced to Azkaban and would settle a hand just barely hovering above her son's shoulder, like he was too fragile to touch, and would call him darling in the most beautifully heartbreaking voice. 

And Harry was trying. He was really fucking trying because all he could ever do was try, try, try. And Ginny was still processing the grief of losing Fred and couldn't really handle a relationship right now, especially not with Harry Potter and Hermione and Ron were helping each other through their own traumas, and trying to find footing in their blossoming relationship and there was no more war left to fight, so Harry was —once again— on his own. He no longer had use; no longer had purpose. He was just a boy again. Exactly what he'd wanted, right? To be a boy; a child? And the cost felt so grave. 

How history repeated itself. 

Sighing, something he wouldn't admit was a little wetter than it need be; a little more broken than it need be —he scrubbed a hand over his face, up underneath his glasses and grabbed his cloak. And the map. Hermione would probably skin him if she knew what he was up to. His Stalking Malfoy days were supposed to be long behind him. 

───

Finding the kitchen was easy. 

Stealing from the kitchen was even easier. 

Tracking Malfoy down was startlingly difficult. 

Harry followed the map blindly, vision never actually having cleared since the hearings, and put one foot in front of the other. The map seemed to take him deeper into the castle than he'd ever been —through dim, cold corridors that seemed to laugh as he passed by. 

Despite seven years in this bloody place, Harry still didn't know everything about this castle —about this one place he'd ever been allowed to simply be. But that wasn't true either; he'd always had to be someone at Hogwarts too. 

No matter where he went, he'd always had to be someone.

He didn't really even know what he was doing, but then, he'd always been a little obsessed with Draco Malfoy, hadn't he? 

And he'd always been the one to fix things. And Malfoy was very much, very undoubtedly broken at the moment. So Harry would fix himself. Perhaps this project might teach him how to fix himself. 

He'd just felt so very empty as of recent. So very empty. So maybe he was looking to feel something. Anything. And Malfoy was good at making him feel stuff. Was good at making his blood boil and his vision glaze over into red and his fingers twitch with the need to reach out and hurt. Malfoy was good at provocation and staying just far enough out of reach for Harry to get his hands on and shake him senseless. Malfoy wad good at drawing Harry's anger out —a plot more difficult than most would assume. 

By living with the Dursleys as long as he had, Harry had been forced to learn to put a lid on his temper. Because lashing out made it worse. 

And he was strong now; he had stature now, a place in the world. And still, a pathetic little part of him curled into his chest at the thought of confrontation; at the thought of pain. 

But with Malfoy? Who wasn't ever afraid to lord it over Harry and sneer down his pointy, little nose and make a mess of Harry's life whenever it fit his fancy? Oddly enough, Harry had never feared the confrontation then; had never feared the hurt. 

A part of his brain summed it up to Malfoy being a pitiful little coward. Another part of his brain —the part he usually ignored— felt ridiculously sure that Malfoy couldn't hurt him; wouldn't actually hurt him. Despite every fucking thing that had happened, he had always somehow known that Malfoy wouldn't hurt him. 

So here he was, seeking him out again. Praying, in whatever little part of his heart still believed in hope, that he might get to feel something.

Hurt? Anger? Pain? 

Anything besides the cold, aching hurt and the ghosts that haunted him. The daunting heaviness of reality. 

Blinking back from his thoughts, he glanced from the door in front of him —old and a little cracked and looking like it might honestly crumble at any moment— to the map. Surely enough, Draco Malfoy was scribbled neatly on the other side of the door.

Taking a deep breath and steadying himself for what was to come next, Harry entered. 

The door creaked softly, shutting with a gentle click when Harry pushed it back into place, leaning against it and just —taking in the extent of the little haven he'd wandered into. 

There were large windows along the entire back of the room, wrapping nearly two thirds of the way around and mimicking walls. It should've made the room unbearably bright, but —Harry realised with a bit of a start— they were even further down than the dungeons. So the only light that broke through was filtered and silky; misty and scattered around them like mystery, breaking in the beams of sun strong enough to light the inside of the room. 

Surprisingly enough, it was near spotless in this room that should've been moulding and moth eaten from lack of use. It was clean and it was —cosy looking. Warm, with a low table in one corner parchment, inkwells and a number of quills spilled haphazardly over its surface. An easel stood near, tall and proud and blank.

Secret, in the little nest looking nook in front of the fire, piles of blankets and too many cushions and pillows and another small table stacked high with books.

Gorgeous, where the broken boy sat on a bench, ivory fingers skimming the ivory keys of a piano so grand, grand pianos had to have been named after it.

Haunting, in the music that filled the room and echoed through it like ghosts beating against the gates of hell for release; crying and screaming and clawing their faces bloody. Wailing and begging and so very desperate for the sun. But the sun could not reach them. Not here. Not so far under the earth; under the water, settled in where the dead breathed and the living's chests stalled —their hearts stilling behind bone meant to protect, wrapped around their most precious parts. 

The music swelled and ceased —like pause before crescendo and cold, dark, story eyes settled directly on his still cloaked form. 

Harry realised —when the emptiness intensified; there was something so intensely jarring about seeing eyes once so expressive dead and dull and unfocussed. Malfoy was a bully, he was a death eater, he had attempted murder. 

Malfoy had always been one of the most animated people Harry had ever known. And now his eyes looked empty and dead and Harry was so tired of things changing and breaking and fucking dying.

He nearly wanted to start tap dancing, break out in some sort of ridiculous jig to see some sort of expression in those eyes. But there was nothing, and when the plate nearly fell from his hand, Harry realised Malfoy couldn't actually see him. And that hurt more somehow.  

Because Malfoy was staring right at him —unseeing. And he was in his own little haven that he'd probably cleaned and put together himself. And in this handcrafted refuge of his, Malfoy's guards should've been down. He should've been comfortable. He should've at least looked hurt; maybe even angry. 

He looked as empty as Harry felt, head cocking the slightest bit. Hair —that he'd been letting grow, it seemed— tilting with the motion and falling into his left eye, obscuring the scrutiny that wasn't actually scrutinising Harry. 

Grey eyes blinked and the music started once more. 

Harry shuffled in closer on instinct, light and quiet on his toes. He'd had to learn how to be quiet, how to be sneaky. How to be invisible.

He felt bad; felt like an intruder and yet. This was what he did wasn't it? What they did. Had always done. Found each other in moments when they should've run. His mind flashed back to the washrooms that day and —for a creepily absurd moment— he wanted to see Malfoy's chest. See the scars; the grooves he'd personally cut into probably, previously perfect skin. A permanent mark on someone who'd always been so very untouchable. 

Harry shook his head of the thoughts, grip tightening on the plate in his hands. He'd not noticed the sling yet; the trembling. He'd not been arsed to remember he hadn't eaten in a while, too busy obsessing over Malfoy. 

Malfoy whose fingers were too pale and too bony and too —too just not right flowed over yellowed keys like water, and Harry —felt. He didn't know what, but it was better than the empty and Malfoy was humming something soft under his breath and the melody that fell from the keys was something Harry had maybe heard in his dreams. Had heard in his nightmares. Had heard in his memories and the futures he crafted for himself when his imagination decided to exist. 

It was warm, despite the obvious tragedy. It was warm, despite Harry's hindbrain, the instinctive part of him that could have his wand from holster to fingertips in seconds —the part of his mind that kept him alive— recognised it as mourning. As madness taking over. As the loss of life. As the loss of love. 

He lowered himself to the ground so very cautiously. His eyes were itching and burning something hot and Harry didn't want to think too hard about why that was. He let the little plate of pilfered food rest near his folded knee, let his head rest against the seat. Almost near enough to feel the heat of Malfoy's thigh. 

And then when Malfoy started singing —something soft, barley a melody to the words, nearly spoken and breaking over themselves as he spoke them more than sung them? Harry wrapped his hands around his core and pulled his knees close and bit into the bench that tasted of fabric and the scent of the carpets in Malfoy manor and cried until he couldn't breathe through anything, hot tears searing down his skin, and hopefully cutting grooves into flesh as living memory of what he had seen, of what he had done. He cried, silent and muffled, like manifestation of his crimes that would never see the light because he was a hero, and heroes did no wrong. He cried until he couldn't even see the memories, the ghosts, the nightmares flashing through his mind in a non-stop reel —that never let him be. That crawled it's way under his skin, and tugged down like needles drawing skin tight over him; like a suit of flesh that hid the hurt hiding underneath. 

He could only focus on the words, soft and hard at the same time. Like it was supposed to be kind, but Malfoy was too angry to gentle his voice. And that funny, fuzzy, swelteringly hot feeling that crawled from his stomach up his throat cooled, if oy just a little. Like the gentlest of breeze wafting over skin. Like the tickle, the tease, the promise of breath over skin before a kiss. Because Malfoy's eyes were dulled, but he still felt. 

It could've been anything, this song —anyone. It could've been a parent calling to child; a friend to friend; ; siblings; even a lover's quarrel. 

"With bird song, I'm reminded of dawn

With bird song, I hear the rustle of fawn

With bird song, I see in the clouds every wrong

With bird song darling, I sit here and yearn. 

"I yearn for you, I live for you

I mourn your life and death, love

I mourn you even as you draw breath, love

I mourn you as I chase my own death, love

"I love you even through the morn, hon

I love you even through the death of dawn, hon

I love you even when the sun runs, hon

I love you even in the light of fear

"And in darkness is when I dare

Hope for a kind touch

Will you touch me kindly, darling? 

Press a hand to my cheek

Can I ever be enough

Can I ever be—" and then the keys were clanging in an abrupt, ugly sort of song and the way his voice curled so preciously around precious words were stalled and those hands —too pale and too sharp and too delicate— were slipping high to tug hard on his scalp and for one terrifying, heart-stopping moment, Harry thought Malfoy would let his nails scratch over his face. Scratch over his skin. 

The reality was worse. 

The reality was worse in that Malfoy was drawing his sleeve up and his forearm was too small, too pale, too bony, too sickly looking, too —scarred. His forearm was too scarred, old and fresh, scrabbled over and white, ragged lines and beeding blood scratched over dark, dark ink and Harry was. Harry was the one who fixed things right? Harry was the one people depended on to fix things —to fight their wars. 

And Harry felt bile climb high and acidic in his throat. And Harry was —for probably the first time in his life— a coward. 

He fled the little music room he still wasn't sure how Malfoy had found, the ring of the plate clanging behind him. 

In hindsight, he deserved the book that came flying at his face. 

But then, Harry had never quite understood the meaning of hindsight in the first place. 

Still, Madam Pomfrey was going to blow her top when Harry walked to her with blood dripping down his nose and a bone probably fractured somewhere there —the book had collided with his face really quite harshly. So much for Malfoy never actually hurting him. But then, Malfoy was hurting himself, so who was Harry— and that was not the train of thought he should be following. Harry couldn't —Malfoy was an adult. And he was— Harry.

Madam Pomfrey he reminded himself, shaking his head and wincing at the taste of blood at the back of his throat. He said as much, reaching for the first thing he could find —a t-shirt in desperate need of washing— to stall the blood flow. "Madam Pomfrey's going to murder me," though it came out nasally and congested as Harry hung his head to let the blood flow. 

"Do I look like I care about the matron pottering about after dear old Potter?" And Malfoy's voice was ice and venom and everything cold that sent shivers down Harry's spine. But there was emotion there. Not positive ones, mind. But feeling anything at all was better than feeling nothing. Harry was so very happy to be serving some sort of purpose. Desperately so. Pathetically so. He should've been embarrassed. He was really too pleased to be embarrassed. He was doing things. 

"Well, you're the one who injured me, so," Harry shrugged —an awkward movement, seeing as he was still bent over, holding a shirt to his nose. And this was Malfoy. The only way to communicate with Malfoy was through sarcasms nd jabs and riling him up until he was ready to punch Harry. 

And Harry honestly didn't think he would've minded. Pain was a feeling. And feeling stuff was better than being numb. Maybe Malfoy would even feel good enough about it to sing about it. Maybe Harry could sneak back in. Hear the lovely way his mouth curled around vowels and those special little names Harry had never been called. Harry had always found fascination in Malfoy's accent; harsh and haughty and delicate in a way a man's voice probably shouldn't have been. 

"I should've done worse," Harry blinked when Malfoy spoke, startled out of his thoughts. "I thought we'd settled into some sort of truce?" Had they? "I stay away from you and you stay the fuck away from me!" Harry was not aware of this apparent truce they'd formed. He hardly found it fair. "We finish this year in peace and we never see each other again. And I catch you spying on me?!" In the grand scheme of things, Malfoy had every right to be mad. Harry knew that, of course. 

In the grand scheme of things, Harry was always much too happy being a martyr. If he had to sacrifice himself for a broken boy to feel, he would do so gladly. If he broke a little in the end, perhaps it might be worth it. The weight of punishment always stung so beautifully. Maybe he might even feel something at the end of it. Perhaps regret, but again —negative emotions were better than no emotions. 

"I don't even know what you're talking about, Malfoy," because it would anger him. Because anger was one of the first steps towards acceptance. Or maybe he read something like that in a book somewhere once. More likely he heard it. He didn't much read. 

He had presence of mind enough to dodge the plate flying at his head this time. He wasn't quite sure whether or not Malfoy had put a silencing charm on when he'd stormed in. Harry hoped he did. He didn't want to imagine what would happen if the others heard glass shattering from the room he shared with Malfoy. 

"You should be above lying at this point." Harry wasn't above much of anything, actually. Not as of recent. Not since —well, Harry wasn't above lying at least. 

"You can't even prove it was me," because denial was the name of the game with Malfoy. Rile him up until he exploded. 

"That statement alone is proof enough," but Malfoy had eased back down to annoyed, voice dry. There was a really rather angry vein throbbing in his forehead though, and he bounced back and forth on his feet as though there were springs in his shins.

Harry realised Malfoy was making an active effort to reel his emotions back in, and was then scrambling to do everything he could to stop it. Which involved a bit of physical scrambling actually. Which involved —with the state of his side of the room— a bit of tripping. Which involved —attempts at— smothered cursing and blood gushing anew. 

There was the distinct sound of annoyed tutting, and Harry should've been, at the very least, wary of Malfoy's wand being trained at his face. He blamed brain damage for the fact that he was actually sort of giddy. He'd hit his head rather hard on the edge of his trunk, and then smacked his already —more than likely— broken nose against it. 

He blamed loss of blood —for he had lost quite a bit of blood. He didn't know books could be quite so deadly—for the fact that he actually giggled —something high and broken and manic— swaying forward and clenching his teeth hard at the crunch of bone readjusting. He didn't know why Malfoy knew how to set his nose. Didn't really want to think about it, because the fog of his vision was veering towards dreamy, and really, the trembles had started in full and when he got like this, he forgot things sometimes. 

"Boy-Who-Lived dies braining himself on undone laundry," and Malfoy's voice was sort of bouncing around inside his head with the ringing of grinding teeth, and for all his efforts towards making Malfoy eat, Harry had very much forgotten he himself had not eaten in —well, probably days at this point and he'd just cried himself dry not an hour earlier so he really couldn't be blamed when the only perch he found was Malfoy's —too small— wrist, fingers wrapping around it too easily as he tried to keep himself from falling forward into Malfoy who was crouched in front of him.

It worked. In no way. 

Harry still ended up stumbling because Malfoy hissed something startling when skin brushed skin and then both of them were in a pile on the floor and Harry's chin had to be digging to harshly into Malfoy's chest which was rising and falling too quickly. And Harry wanted to help, he really, really did. 

But his vision was foggy and his face smarted something awfully and his head spun from blood loss and his fingers were too weak to even tremble anymore, and Malfoy —for all the weight he'd lost and his ice exterior— was so invitingly warm. 

Harry couldn't be paid to feel you whether he fell asleep or fainted. 

"You're crap at taking care of yourself."

"Pot, meet kettle," Harry replied promptly, even as his voice cracked around the words, mouth heavy and voice croaky from misuse. He turned on his back and pulled the covers right over his head and went right back to hiding, ignoring the heavy feeling of whatever treatment —heavy drugs, really— Madam Pomfrey had pumped him full of. She was very cautious with what she administered to him after Harry had broken into her supplies and near overdosed on dreamless sleep back during sixth yet. Harry had to have been in terrible condition if she was desperate enough to give him the good stuff. 

He wasn't —Harry was the one who was supposed to take care of people. Harry was the one who sat beside the hospital beds and kept vigil. Harry was the one who protected. Harry needed that role. Was nothing without it. If Harry didn't have a mission, he was nothing. 

He —he wasn't the one who vigil was supposed to be kept for. Not by anyone; not Ron or Hermione and definitely not Malfoy of all people. He was —they were. People had better things to do. More important things to do. Harry wasn't some child to be coddled. He didn't need someone to —fucking spoon feeding him porridge and calling him darling. 

But the blanket was being ripped off of him and he was blinking in the light, still foggy and fuzzy —even moreso without his glasses— and Malfoy was crouched in front of him, hand fisted in the front of Harry's shirt. Probably to keep him from running. Not that he could; Harry would've tripped over his own feet if he so much as attempted to stand. 

"You had a plate of food with you when you were spying on me," Harry wanted to correct his choice of wording, because he hadn't been spying, not really at least —Malfoy didn't give him the chance. "So why the hell is Madam Pomfrey telling me about how severely dehydrated you are and of the worrying lack of content in your stomach?" the words were bitter even as his voice raised in crude approximation of Madam Pomfrey's voice. 

"You had to eat," because Harry's brain wasn't back at a hundred percent yet, and whatever it was Madam Pomfrey had pumping through his system was worrying —or it would have been, if it wasn't pumping through his system. But his tongue was loose and his mind was numb and Malfoy was an awful person, but —especially now, with his vision in that dreamy awake half state— he was really quite pretty, wasn't he?

"I had to eat?" Malfoy looked like he was rolling the words around in his mouth and Harry really just wanted to reach out and —poke his face. So he did. Malfoy froze for a second, like a fairy's wings in crispest winter, before tugging Harry's hand away from his face by the edge of his shirt sleeve; something alarmingly gentle about the movement. "You're —are you mad? Is your obsessive little hero mind so set on saving people that you've forgotten about taking care of yourself?!" Malfoy sounded rather incredulous, and his voice was raising to levels that bordered shrieking, and the was a shallow dimple that appeared in his cheek when he frowned hard enough, and Harry was reaching out to poke it again, nodding solemnly the whole while. He didn't bother asking why Malfoy even cared. Knew he most likely didn't. Probably just didn't want Madam Pomfrey charging Harry as his task.

"Yes," he said instead —because apparently this stuff worked better than Veritaserum— pouting a little when Malfoy tugged his hand away again (by his sleeve). "But I'm accustomed to it, anyway." And he recognised that wasn't a good thing to say —that he shouldn't really have said that. But it was true. The Dursleys didn't starve him so much as they forgot to feed him. For days at a time. The longest he'd ever gone without physical food was a week and a half.

And sure, a logical part of his brain knew he was safe at Hogwarts. And that same logical part of his brain reminded him safety was an illusion and someone would take his food away again if he got too comfortable, so it starved him sometimes. Just for about a week at a time. 

He'd have to be have been veering towards two weeks if he was already in passing out territory. 

"You're accustomed to it?" Again, Malfoy was doing that weird echoey thing Harry didn't understand, and didn't really much like either. There were so many words. Malfoy could afford to use his own; why did he have to steal Harry's? "What does that even mean, Potter?"

"Oh," he often forgot Malfoy didn't actually know. No one did really. He hadn't wanted anyone to. "My aunt and uncle didn't like to let me eat. Said it was wasted on me, you know?" He shrugged, hand climbing —very earnest in its mission to touch Malfoy's dimple. "Kinda trained my brain to not need food too often." Malfoy let his finger stay this time when it reached out to press at the dimple, deeper now as Malfoy's frown became frownier. 

"And your friends?" 

"Mmm?" Harry was much too distracted by the dimple. It was a very pretty dimple. Heavy too. Harry felt like he was barely poking at Malfoy's cheek, but it weighed a tonne. 

"Do your friends know?" He spoke so slowly, enunciating so clearly that Harry's finger pressed to his face moved with the exaggerated movements. It delighted Harry actually, feeling the movement beneath his finger. There was the tiniest little freckle hiding in the shadow beneath Malfoy's bottom lip. 

"O'course," because it was true and because he wanted Malfoy to talk more. Really, high Harry shouldn't have been allowed to hear Malfoy speak. He'd always had such a pretty voice.

"Then where are they now?" 

"Grieving," Harry said simply, with inflection meant to make the word mean obviously. The dimple sunk deeper with Draco's frown. Harry felt his own eyebrows draw together, tongue poking out a little as he traced from the sink in skin to the downturned corner of Malfoy's lips. He looked so very upset for some reason. "Everyone's still grieving, Malfoy. But not me though. Uh uh. I don't even feel anything anymore," and Harry —with the drugs clouding his mind so completely— couldn't understand why his voice cracked the way it did in that statement. 

And Malfoy looked so sad. 

Harry wasn't accustomed to sad Malfoy. He was accustomed to angry Malfoy. Or even a grinning Malfoy, despite those grins usually being cruel. Thinking about it, Harry had only really seen one —maybe not happy, but softer sort of smile. Nostalgic. Sweet.

It tugged at a memory Harry preferred to keep hidden away, and —with his inhibitions lowered abysmally— he said, "Say the word darling." 

Malfoy looked at him like he'd grown a second head, finally reaching up to tug Harry's hand from his face —still holding him by his sleeve. Which was very annoying, because Harry's wandering finger had reached all the way up to below his eye, and just a little further, we would've been at the edges of Malfoy's hair. 

"I can't even begin to comprehend where you brain has gone, Potter. And I am choosing to believe that whatever concoction that matron has you on is messing with your already scrambled head. I am going to leave before you say something else you will regret and then blame me for it later, despite it being not fault of my own." And then his hands was gone from where it was still clutched at the front of Harry's shirt —not touching him, but the proximity of his hand had been warm and he was getting up from the crouch he'd been holding for, really an impressive amount of time and Harry wasn't even —he couldn't feel anything with regards to the tears now trekking hot and abrupt down his face —he was that numb— or the way Malfoy's face was screwing up, or even the way he seemed to be steeling himself for something. 

He just heard himself mumble, "Okay," and felt the motion of his body turning over to stuff his face in a pillow.  And then he heard the press of shoes to stone and the sound of swishing robes and the opening —closing?— of a door. 

It was followed, almost startlingly quickly by the doors slamming back open, but Harry couldn't draw himself up enough to see what the ruckus was about. Didn't care enough to see who was charging into the sick bay so impatiently, probably going to see someone who they cared about deeply with how loudly the doors had banged opened.

But then the scent of apples and winter and wildflowers was filling up Harry's nostrils, and Malfoy was crouched in front of him again, and his eyes were grey and alight with that fire that Harry had missed and he looked oddly healthy , oddly alive for a freak moment. 

And then the word, "Darling," was ground too harshly and too quickly and with not nearly enough delicacy as Harry wanted a word like that to be said with and Malfoy was gone again and Harry's tears were drying like magic on his skin. 

Madam Pomfrey didn't let him go until after dinner, sitting him down and watching him eat, a hard edge to her words, hair sticking out of her bonnet at odd angles, a desperate sort of pain behind her eyes that looked like they might gloss over with tears. 

"You will eat and report to me every, single day at every meal time exactly what you've eaten. For the next month. I will make it mandatory for the entirety of your final year if you miss a single meal. Is that understood?" Her voice was harsh and her voice was warm and watching the glow of tears, Harry realised —after Mrs Weasley— Madam Pomfrey was the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother. 

Shocking them both, overcome by emotion, or maybe the residual high of the drugs that were only just starting to flush from his veins, Harry folded over and pulled her into a hug, holding her close and pretending he couldn't feel the tears tracking warm lines down his face. 

And then there were hands on his back, small and firm and real from the years of work she'd done with them, rubbing up and sliding back down in a way that was grounding; that settled Harry into his skin in a way he hadn't been in so long. 

He sort of wanted her to never let go. 

"I'm sorry," and it was a pathetic excuse of an apology, but Madam's Pomfrey's arms tightened around him and he felt like maybe he wasn't fucking something up for once. "I'll remember to eat and check in with you. Thank you." 

"Thank you for listening to me, sweetheart," and for all the grounding the hug had done, Harry was immediately left untethered again; left floating on his own feet when he wandered back to the Eight Year common room. 

Hermione and Ron were pressed on the couch closest to the fire, heads ducked together as they whispered softly, laughing at something. Their heads snapped up at his entrance, probably being able to sense him at this point honestly, and they separated with inviting little smiles, patting the space between them. And for the first time in so long, Harry broke immediately and nearly ran to press in between them. Feel their warmth and heat and nearness. The steady support he could forget too easily existed when he was running away in his mind and thinking of all the reasons why they didn't actually love him. 

But they did. They loved him so very much. And Hermione's head was pressure and home on his shoulder and Ron's arm was slung across the back of the couch and there was no conversation for quite a while; like they could —because they could tell he was a little shaken and not quite ready to speak yet. 

He'd missed this. 

He'd actively avoided this. He avoided them when the dark thoughts were running rampant and making him believe that they felt themselves indebted for some awful reason —like Harry himself wasn't the one indebted— and that they only tolerated him because they were good people and thought they had to. 

"You want to tell us where you've been now, mate? And why Malfoy looks ready to murder someone —again?" Ron asked, adding the word on like an afterthought. Harry honestly wasn't sure why Malfoy was on a murder rampage again. Sure he'd invaded his privacy and found his safe space and been nailed in the face with a book, but his anger had already been ebbing by the time Harry nearly split his face clean in half. 

Harry shrugged, trying to sink farther into the sofa and into their warmth simultaneously.

Hermione sighed, shifting instead so her chin was perched on Harry's shoulder. "You've not been harassing him again, have you?" 

"No," Harry defended immediately, despite that being exactly what he'd been doing. "I may have just —well, I hadn't eaten in longer than I thought I had and may have stumbled and hit my face against my trunk and bled on him a little. He had to drag me to Madam Pomfrey." 

"You bled on Malfoy?" Ron seemed much too delighted by this situation. Hermione smacked his shoulder, which Harry would've crowed victory to if she hadn't hit him just as hard after. 

"Harry," and the word was admonishment and worry at the same time. "I thought you were getting better at remembering to eat."

"Malfoy willingly dragged you to Madam Pomfrey?" Ron still seemed much too shocked about that information. Like Malfoy might've left him to bleed out on their room floors. Yet, instinctively, Harry knew Malfoy would not want him defending his honour. 

"Probably just didn't want to be found with me unconscious in there and get blamed for it," he grumbled, folding his hands over his chest and sinking even further in the plush cushions behind his back. 

"What Malfoy did and did not do is not the point right now," Harry missed Hermione's warmth as soon as it left his side, sighing and shifting to look at her head on. "Harry, how long was it this time?" Harry was suddenly uncomfortable, straightening up a little and tugging at his shirt. To lie or not to lie. 

"Over a week?" A compromise. Nearly two weeks. Which counted as over a week. 

"Harry!" Sometimes, Harry wondered if that was the only word she knew. Ron was always quiet at confession times, but his arm that had been slung across the back of the sofa adjusted so it was slung around Harry instead. Silent support as Hermione tore him apart for his bad habits. Harry didn't mind, because it was just worry. And it was warm, being worried over. "What did Madam Pomfrey say?" She finally asked after a truly impressive tirade that had the happy, lazy swirls in Harry's tummy doing their little summersaults. 

"She wants a detailed report of everything I eat at every mealtime," and that seemed to soothe Hermione, who was already fussing over a piece of parchment on the table where she'd probably been doing homework before Ron came to distract her, and trying to work out a schedule for him. 

"How bad was it really this time, Mate?" Ron asked, quiet and intent, eyes trained on Harry's nose that was still swollen and red. 

"Very," he answered honestly; evasively. 

"You know you can't run when it gets bad, right? You know that's when you're supposed to depend on us, right? Especially when it gets bad." There was an almost dark sort of implication there that worked to settle everything that had been unsettled in Harry's chest. 

"Yeah," he said, even softer, voice cracking a little around the wofd. Ron's hand tightened around his arm, squeezing hard, veering towards painful and tethering Harry back to where his brain had been ready to bounce away like one of those little bouncy balls Dudley had gotten for perhaps a Christmas once —and he'd slammed it into the floor with such force, and Harry had sat stunned, watching the way it bounced around the house in a way that was completely uncontrollable and neverending. His brain felt like that sometimes.

He had to be chained back in forcefully. 

Malfoy's back was almost distressingly straight when Harry walked into their room, at nearing one in the morning. He hadn't realised just how long it'd been since he'd taken the time to speak with Ron and Hermione.

Malfoy being there at all was disquieting. Harry didn't know whether to leave or try to engage in conversation again and make Malfoy leave. He'd done enough for today. He didn't want to make Malfoy more uncomfortable. The memories were a bit choppy, like a damaged cassette, but Harry could remember some of the admissions he'd unwillingly made in the hospital wing. 

He was honestly still a little confused at Malfoy having left instead of trying to milk him for secrets to use against him. Malfoy had never much been one for honour. 

Harry turned, choosing the path of truce, and heading straight for his bed. 

There was a wrapped plate of food sitting there. And Harry was realising that yes, he was indeed hungry. Madam Pomfrey had made sure he had dinner, but even then, it'd had to be limited. Harry knew well enough. He couldn't have anything heavy after not having eaten for that long. 

Malfoy seemed to know as well; there was a single slice of toast, slathered with what was probably peanut butter, a small heap of what looked like chopped strawberries and yoghurt and a teacup that looked charmed to sit still. 

Harry picked up the plate, balanced the cup carefully on the edge of it, and dragged his own chair over to Malfoy's desk, placing the plate hesitantly between them. "Did you eat?" Part of his brain was screaming at him to tell Malfoy to stay the fuck out of his business. The weaker part of him was unbearably touched. 

Malfoy ignored him. 

Sighing, Harry reached out to pull him in by the shoulder; make him look him in the eye. The moment Harry's hand even brushed his shoulder, Malfoy was flinching so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Harry grabbed his arm to steady him, which he realised might've been counterintuitive when Malfoy was stiff as board beneath his palm. 

Harry pulled back gently, hands raising in surrender. "Sorry," he said softly, nudging his chair back a little, remembering the way Narcissa's hand had only just brushed Malfoy's shoulder. If it was possible, Malfoy's back went even straighter. 

Harry nudged his chair back even more, giving up on subtly to give Malfoy his space; give him room to breathe. "Sorry," he said again, still soft, when there was enough space for two chairs between them. "I'm sorry, Malfoy," and this apology was for more than just charging into his space headfirst. It was for so much more than that, and it was genuine, but there were still only so many words he could use. Words were never his strong suit. 

Malfoy remained silent, staring stonily at the spine of one of the books on his messy desk. Which was odd in itself —Harry had expected it to be unnaturally neat. But his books were stacked in a way that was slightly haphazard and there were multitudes of parchment sprawled on top of each other, and there were ink stains on his too pale hands, and there was something so very endearing about the sight of it all. Something soft about it, despite the harsh cut of Malfoy's features. 

"Did you eat?" Harry tried again, still soft. In his efforts to give Malfoy space, he'd shifted so the back of his chair was against the wall and he was on the side of the desk; a perfect vantage point to see the shifting of Malfoy's facial expressions. It eventually settled on something both bored and exasperated, head finally raising to look at Harry. 

And it looked —for a moment— like he was about to say something that would probably upset Harry. Not that Harry would've been too upset. He'd gotten used to ignoring most of what came out of Malfoy's mouth. It was, however, intriguing. Malfoy wasn't really one to mince his words. "You should eat," he settled on, after what seemed like much deliberation, shoving the plate over a little in Harry's direction. And he was being so painstakingly conscientious of —well, of Harry's feelings that all Harry could do was let out a heavy sigh, and slump against the side of the desk, propping his cheek up on his palm. 

"I will," Harry said, also choosing his words; also being meticulous in the way he spoke. It wasn't something he did often, but Malfoy was trying, and he was going to meet him halfway. "But will you tell me first if you've eaten something?" 

"You're not my keeper, Potter," and there it was. Harsh, snappy, defensive. Harry could've smiled. 

"Neither are you mine," Harry nudged the plate closer to him, making his point. Malfoy's shoulders slumped in defeat. 

"I had dinner." He picked up a quill, and pulled one of the many parchments scattered across the desk towards him, flipping one of his textbooks open to a page he'd had marked by another book. "Eat, now."

"Alright," Harry conceded quietly, pulling the plate closer to him. He unwrapped his plate and bit into the piece of toast, feeling it crunch between his teeth, still warm somehow. The straight, taut line of Malfoy's shoulders loosened the slightest bit. 

Bite by bite, Harry ate the food, slowly, methodically, watching Malfoy become just the slightest bit more frantic as he flipped between books. Eventually, he had to ask. "What are you doing?" His eyes were heavy at this point, and the tea was warm in his stomach, and he was pretty much lying on the table now, folded arm cushioning his head as he watched Malfoy try to pull his hair behind his ear, only for it to come loose again, and for his fingers to reach up and push it back. His thumb brushed his cheek, leaving behind a dark brush of ink. 

"Trying to decipher these runes," Harry was almost sorry he'd asked, because he didn't take Ancient Runes. But then Malfoy was saying something, trying to explain whatever it is he was searching for, words rapid, tongue wrapping around his vowels in a way Harry was still maybe just a little obsessed it, voice soft even in its excitement and Harry just —slumped a little further against his arm, feeling the tilt of his glasses, and pressing the eye squished up against his forearm close, watching Malfoy over the top of his glasses with his opened eye.

There was something so very comforting about it, just watching someone, listening to them speak without expecting answer, just existing in a sort of liminal space, completely free of any and all expectation.

Hermione and Ron dragged him to breakfast in the morning, and Harry went willingly, knowing he'd worried them and working to soothe. 

They knew the rules too, that he had to be careful building back up to his normal amount, even if Hermione hadn't gone and gotten briefed by Madam Pomfrey. 

With the new students actually pouring in rather spectacularly, there wasn't really room at the House Tables for the Eighth Years, and they weren't even technically in Houses anymore, so all the Eighth Years sat at a single desk parallel to the High Table; as such, it was easy to account for everyone who was and was not there. 

Malfoy was most definitely not at the table. 

Harry inhaled his breakfast, checked in with Madam Pomfrey as quickly as he could, and fished his map out to find Malfoy. 

He was in his music room again, and Harry couldn't help the slightest ticking up of his mouth, scrambling towards the kitchens. Sure, this hadn't exactly panned out the way he wanted last time. But hey, second time's the charm, right? 

The House Elves had made the loveliest scones this morning —with lemon and blueberries and there was fresh cream and strawberries and Andromeda had mailed him a packet of tea that might actually appeal to Malfoy's princely taste buds and Harry wasn't even sure why he was taking all of this so seriously but. Well, he wasn't sure, so he couldn't give a reason. 

He nearly tripped over himself in his haste to get to the music room, so —well, so much everything really that he hadn't assumed for a second his presence mightn't be wanted. 

"Get out," Malfoy's tone was dry and bland, and Harry blinked, watching the door slam itself in his face. 

"Huh," he blinked again and kicked the door open, catching it with his knee when it tried to slam again. 

"Potter, whatever plans you've concocted in your saviour programmed brain, understand I am not interested. Get out of my room or I will hex you out," Malfoy said in his lazy drawl Harry hadn't heard in so long; he was lying in front of the fire, flat on his back on his numerous cushions Harry had no idea how he'd procured, book floating above his head. 

"I brought you food," Harry tried, shrugging despite Malfoy not being able to see him. 

"Well aren't you a darling little thing?" And oh fuck Malfoy needed to never do that ever again. Malfoy needed to do that again right now. Even sarcastically. Harry wasn't able to do much more than squeak an embarrassing sort of sound, knees nearly locking together and throwing him down completely. Malfoy sighed and grabbed at his book, closing it gently.

"I do no need your presence to eat," but he was sat up, drawing a knee up to perch an arm on. "In fact," and his head tilted with the words, hair following the motion, "I am very sure it will make the meal much sourer." 

Laughter bubbled out of Harry's throat —despite his legs feeling so very unsteady— intensifying when Malfoy's eyes widened. He took that as invitation, finally crossing the threshold into Malfoy's room pushing the door closed with his back, hearing it shut with that soft little click. 

"And here I thought you weren't such a prat anymore; thought war was supposed to change people," he sat carefully, folding his legs under him and setting the plate close to Malfoy before sliding back a bit, leaving a fair amount of space between them.

"That was your mistake, Potter," and yet, there was so very little fire there. Harry didn't know what was happening anymore. "You should know better by now than to make assumptions of people's characters," and that definitely sounded a lot more pointed. 

"Assumptions are what fuel the world," Harry didn't actually know what he was saying. He'd never had a conversation before with Malfoy that wasn't throwing taunting comments at each other and seeing which one of them would snap first. 

"Assumptions fuel gossip, Potter. You of all people should know that," Harry watched him break off the edge of a scone, and shove it in his mouth. Which shouldn't have looked as elegant as it did. 

"Me of all people?" Harry asked, a little distractedly actually, because Malfoy had one arm stretched behind him now, leaned back and lithe like a feline. "What does that—" the words were cut off when the whatever-it-was collided with his face. 

"Don't read the papers do you, Potter? The Prophet always has new assumptions that fuel the gossip that end up with you actually being the son of the Dark Lord who hated his father and killed him, that's why you were strong enough to do it."

Harry snorted in spite of himself, picking the paper up from where it'd fallen in his lap and skimming over the different articles about him.

"Seems I'm dating three women at the same time, as well," Harry mused, looking at the different pictures of himself and some random students he'd brushed too close to while trying to get past them. "And that I'm a werewolf?" 

"Well, no one's actually ever seen you on a full moon, have they?" Malfoy's legs were folded under him now, cup cradled in his long fingers. Porcelain against porcelain.

Harry blinked, a harsh, violent sort of thing, eyes going back to the paper. "There was a full moon just last night, you prat," he snapped, glancing through the rest of the article. 

"And who saw you?" 

"You did." 

"Tut tut darling, I'm a death eater, remember. I can't be trusted. Who's going to take my word for it?" 

Harry nearly choked on nothing but air, shoulders hiking high, face ducking low to hide behind the large, long pages of the newspaper. His face burned and his ears burned and he could feel the flush climbing all the way down to his chest. He was not moving from behind the paper. He refused to. He was not going to look Malfoy in the eye. 

But there was a clatter of a plate, a murmur of a goodbye, and by the time Harry had worked up enough courage to peer over the edge of his paper, Malfoy was already gone. 

He didn't know whether or be sad or pleased that Malfoy was apparently fine with him being in his precious room. 

It seemed, now that he'd opened this particular can of worms, it was impossible to shove them back in. 

Before he knew it, there was a game going on; who could get food to the other first, which turned into realising Malfoy had a rather sensitive stomach and he usually won because Harry had to be more careful choosing meals. 

But Malfoy woke late and Harry usually slept early, so Harry usually won at breakfast. Which they'd usually have in the music room, and maybe argue over something. But the argument had gone rather a little too long this morning, and they were both scrambling to the Potions classroom, Malfoy looking unfairly more put together than Harry as they tried to get to class on time.

But they hadn't made it, and Malfoy was scowling at Harry like it was his fault as though Malfoy hadn't been the one to start this morning's argument —fried eggs versus scrambled, and which was better for breakfast— and Harry was gearing up to glare right back because it hadn't been his fault. 

But Slughorn was clearing his throat and there was an uncomfortable amount of eyes on them, wary and intrigued as though waiting for the spells to start firing and everyone was paired off this morning and fuck they really had chosen a bad morning to be late. 

Harry jumped a little, but decidedly did not scream when Malfoy grabbed him by the edge of his robes and tugged him over to the last remaining desk, front and centre. Harry was hyper-aware of the way their skin did not brush in the slightest, yet heat seemed to lick up his arm.

Malfoy yanked him down into his seat so hard, Harry nearly stumbled right out of the stool, but managed to steady himself. His shoulder nearly brushed Malfoy's, and this was the closest they had been since the Fiendfyre, and Malfoy was nearly unbearably stiff beside him. 

So Harry tried to shift away a little, to make him more comfortable, and nearly fell out of his stool —again— when Malfoy's hand fisted into the side of his robes and kept him close. 

Confused, Harry glanced around to see what had Malfoy so uncomfortable if it wasn't his closeness, only to be met with no less that twenty different pairs of eyes on them, Hermione's included. Harry winced a little, turning back to the front and watching Slughorn watch them. He straightened his back and stared the man down, daring him to say a single thing. Which he didn't do often —abuse his saviour status. But he didn't share many classes with Malfoy and it was odd seeing him subdued like this; seeing the lifeless glaze form over his eyes blocking out every emotion that might have once existed. 

Slughorn cleared his throat and the lesson continued as it should —a revision on the Essence of Insanity. Harry hated that potion, back going straight and face smoothing out into something impassive, watching Slughorn's mouth move without actually hearing any of what he was saying. Harry hated this potion, and hated anything to do with insanity in general, but he gritted his teeth, and pulled out a piece of parchment and made note of the ingredients there anyway. 

Malfoy watched him quietly the whole time, before clicking his tongue and taking Harry's quill away. "Go gather the ingredients for me, I'll make the potion."

"But—"

"Your protests are heard loud and clear. They're also ignored. I quite like this jumper and have no interest in it being ruined." Malfoy's words were dismissive, but there was an edge there Harry couldn't place. Sighing, he got up to fetch the ingredients. 

Hermione grabbed him at the cabinet, and Harry wondered how he hadn't seen this coming. "What are you doing? I thought you agreed to leave him alone. He's not harassing you, is he?" 

Harry sighed, peeling Hermione's hand from his arm and holding it, instead, in his own. "He didn't do anything 'Mione. I'm the one who got carried away and bumped into him after breakfast," he has done all of those things; he had gotten carried away with Malfoy during their breakfast argument and he had —literally— bumped into Malfoy, after breakfast, on their way to the Potions Lab. He'd tripped over the hem of his robes. "I didn't do anything. He didn't do anything. It's fine."

She still looked incredulous, but sighed, squeezing Harry's hand, "Just be careful, okay?" Harry nodded, trying to swallow down the spike of annoyance, watching her retreat as he gathered his own ingredients, and walked back to their desk, setting the tray down near his elbow and slumping into his seat. 

"My, aren't you a wonderful thing? Did you stop in France on your way back from the cabinet?" Malfoy didn't even look up from where he was scribbling into parchment, but Harry's stomach warmed and his back slumped and he was suddenly so unbearably tired. 

"Sorry," quiet, verging on thready, the word fell from his lips and he chose to bury his head against his arms and breathe for a moment.

Sometimes the worry was the loveliest thing; a reminder that Harry was loved. A reminder that there were people who cared. 

Sometimes the worry slipped under his skin and dug trying to bleed him out from the inside. So slowly, so subtly that no one else would notice it until he dropped dead. 

Sometimes the thought of being brushed against; the thought of being even looked at left him jumpy and alert and rendered his breath shallow and swift and his heart would beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest and he couldn't —do anything. He couldn't do anything when he got like that, and he couldn't explain it to anyone and he just couldn't. 

He let his hands push into the base of his nape, hiding his face in the little pocket created between his forearms. Unconsciously, he allowed his fingers to climb high there to tug, leaning in to the press of his own nails, yearning for something to ground him; someone to ground him. To grab the ball bouncing through his brain and colliding with his thoughts and shattering the good in the memories. He just wanted it to stop for a moment. 

He didn't know when the class had come to an end, just felt the gentle tug at the corner of his sleeve that could've only been one person, and followed it blindly. 

He was so tired. 

His eyes burnt.

His throat burnt.

His chest burnt. 

He was so, very tired. He didn't really care where Malfoy was pulling him, as long as he didn't touch him; as long as he didn't let their bodies so much as brush; as long as he was a long line of warmth that remained steady —neither creeping close nor straying far. 

And he managed to maintain that balance with impeccable accuracy. Just close enough for Harry to sense his presence. Not close enough for any part of them to touch. Harry couldn't handle the feeling of touch right now. Wouldn't have been able to stand the barest whisper of that burn. Usually soothing —now it was sweltering, threatening to tear his skin and leave the rise of boils in its wake. 

The lights dimmed, faded into something foggy and dreamy and perhaps akin to the muggle's understanding of magic. Something about this room veered towards the cusp of being heavenly, and it had been so long since Harry believed in angels, in a —in something more. 

But his tired eyes found the strength to glance up, and Malfoy was pale and pretty and seemed to float on his feet, so elegant was his stride —and Harry believed, for just a moment, that maybe the angels did exist. And Harry believed, for more than a moment, that even the angels made mistakes. That's who their corrupter was, wasn't it? They're corrupter was a fallen angel —such a pure being fallen from grace who never had the decorum to pull himself back up. 

But Malfoy looked like benediction and beauty and the determination Harry knew burnt like a solid stone of coal in his chest would be enough to restore him to the lofty ranks he once sat in. 

It was quiet, in the music room, Malfoy's hand having left his robes since they'd entered; allowing Harry free reign to go wherever he pleased. Harry chose to trail behind him like a lost puppy, sinking to the floor beside the piano bench Malfoy had taken residence at, and letting his forehead rest at the very edge of it. 

When the music started, Harry's eyes slid shut and he allowed it to wash over him. 

There was so much to be said and done. There were so many apologies that had to be made. There was so much atonement to be fulfilled. And Draco Malfoy had never been a good person, and Harry doubted he ever would be. Not completely at least. 

But when the mourning and the grief and the desperation of keys being pressed with just too much fury washed over him, Harry began wondering what exactly a good person was. Because was Malfoy really such a terrible person for having wanted to please his parents? His family? 

Harry didn't know, but he was beginning to think that maybe he should stop thinking. Because some people deserved pardon and made new lives with that forgiveness. 

Perhaps all Malfoy needed was someone to forgive him. Perhaps Harry's pardon would give him what he needed to climb back to his loft in the skies. 

And perhaps the lingering burn of a touch just at the corner of his temple where hair met skin was all Harry needed to sleep. To rest. To forget about the world for just a little while and ease the aching in his chest that plagued him always. 

Either Harry had never been very subtle, or he'd never actually paid attention to the way Malfoy spoke before, too focussed on the sound his his voice rather than the words that poured out of his lips. 

Which, in all honesty, he was probably both. But! There had to be more to it.

Because Malfoy was either toying with Harry, or was a bloody oblivious fool. And if he called Harry a darling thing, or a wondrous thing or an enchanting little thing again, Harry was going to— well, Harry wasn't quite sure what he was going to do, but he was going to do something. 

And the something he'd finally decided to do, after Malfoy had forced him to the edge of breaking, and he really had; he'd forced Harry's hand. 

It had been the day Harry had finally gotten the energy to get back up on a broom, stronger than he'd been in a while, fuller; genuine smiles tugged at his lips easier and he'd gone out to join in a quick play match with some of the younger students. 

He'd caught Malfoy in one of the window seats a little ways from the library after, knees tucked up tight against his chest, and head bowed into his book, leaning gently against the stained glass of the window. And Harry's breath had caught in his throat; probably long enough for him to have died and been resurrected and sent full speed ahead into his new life; and there was just something so preciously unsettling about seeing Malfoy so incredibly soft and unguarded. Harry's legs had —well, they'd given out really, and he'd stumbled into the cushioned nook beside Malfoy, the seat too small for them to not be touching at all despite Malfoy being curled up the way he was. 

And instead of flinching away or hissing or scrambling to get away from Harry and very much nearly braining himself, he'd stretched his legs out straight onto Harry's lap, and Harry had reached out instinctively to wrap a hand around his ankle, steadying his feet there, thumb just barely brushing against ivory cool skin beneath the hem of his trousers.

Malfoy's face had taken on a bit more roundness since their game of who could feed who first; and his hair wasn't quite as chalky as it'd been at the begining of the term, longer pieces falling almost near his upper lip and glowing with that faint shine of health. And his cheekbones were still prominent, but Harry wasn't scared of his blood being drawn should he dare to pass a finger over them someday. His book was angled just enough to see the brush of hair over his eye, and the way he'd pull it back behind his ear, and the way it'd fall back into his face anyway had Harry just positively mesmerised, thumb brushing an unconscious pattern across hidden skin. 

And that's when Malfoy had struck.

"You're rather lovely, aren't you?" He'd said it so easily, with his casual grace —the grace of a panther who could claw the strings from your throat without getting a single drop of blood on himself— head never even tilting up from his book. 

Harry, because he also was graceful, sputtered something unintelligible that, if one tried really hard, and the did the equivalent of squinting, but with their ears perhaps sounded vaguely like what and felt the nails of his fingers dig into where they'd been scraping gently over Malfoy's ankle. 

"I'm sure you've probably just made those children's entire year," and really, that hadn't helped any, because it just solidified the fact that Malfoy had been watching him. 

So Harry decided to fight fire with fire. 

If Malfoy thought it was amusing to break Harry like this, play with his mind and use those delicate little words that burned as much as they soothed, Harry would play his game. 

Because it had become apparent, throughout Thier game, that Malfoy chased touch as much as he avoided it, and Harry had never been anything if not reckless. 

It was the smallest little things, mindless touches that Harry introduced first. Or maybe it was inserting himself in Malfoy's space just a little bit more. 

Not enough that he would be uncomfortable, of course. But just enough that it was both noticeable and not. It was walking just a little closer in the corridors, shifting a little closer at Malfoy's desk when he was doing homework, resting his head more firmly on the piano bench when Malfoy played —still weary of taking a place on that seat. 

It was his nails running gently across Malfoy's knee in Potions —something that started purposeful and cautious, and evolved into something so soothingly natural. And running a finger up Malfoy's arm, settling it on his shoulder for the briefest moments and feeling him shiver with it. Or letting his hands wander onto skin, tracing those idle little patterns up Malfoy's ankle, his shin when Harry was especially sleepy —drowsy under the song of the piano. 

And Malfoy bit back for every advance Harry made, bold in a way that made him tremble. 

"Yes, of course darling," when he was feeling especially snarky. And "Yes, dear," when Harry claimed that he'd gotten the food first so Malfoy had to carry the dishes down the the kitchen. Or the, "Sweetheart," he would get when Malfoy was especially ired. 

His personal favourite, and the one that probably did the most damage in revealing exactly the extent those little words had on him was when Malfoy had tilted his chin up, fingers cold where they brushed beneath the skin pulled taut below his jaw, and gripped, forcing Harry's head up, thumb brushing so very gently over the swell of his cheek, the edge of his little finger brushing against Harry's chin —a whisper of a promise Harry couldn't quite understand. 

"Tired aren't you, darling?" And Harry was. He'd been in that sort of half asleep state where he'd nod off and blink back awake, nearly nodding off on Malfoy's shoulder where he'd been keeping him company while he finished his homework. "Lovely little thing like you, we should get you to bed," and all Harry could do was nod desperately, trying so hard to lean into the heat of touch on his face, and sway straight into those words as they fell from those pretty pink lips. "Precious thing." 

Oh that was so —that was. Harry sighed out a sound that should've been embarrassing, but the gentle caress of that thumb over his face was so soothing, and Malfoy's palm was so warm, and his words were so sweet and Harry wanted. 

"To bed with you, now," and Harry felt like a ghost on his feet, trailing after Malfoy wanting words and touch and warmth and loving that there was absolutely nothing expected of him in return.

Harry didn't want to go back to Grimmauld Place for Christmas. Harry didn't want to go to the Burrow for Christmas. Harry didn't want to stop in at Andromeda's for Christmas.

Harry didn't want to eat, sitting at their table and staring at the plate Hermione had prepared for him. It was the day before they were supposed to break for Christmas, and Ron and Hermione insisted they eat with him this morning and the Christmas Cheer was in the air and everyone was touchier and huggier and smilier and declaring their undying love and the unbreakable bonds of family and Harry couldn't fucking stand it. 

It felt fake. It felt so fake. It felt like show —like theatre. Like Harry's mind had been picked from his body and shoved into a frumpy sock puppet and there were strings attached to his shoulders making him dance for everyone and the fucking bouncy ball was like a bouncy cannon and those precious few moments he'd kept of the little bits of light he still had was being destroyed and he felt smothered under the weight of the love despite how genuine he knew all of it was and he could not fucking breathe— 

The clang of cutlery rang out behind him; the shattering of glass. The still soft, more innocent part of Harry winced at the thought of wasted food. The part of Harry that had forgotten how to feel didn't care. He just needed to be away from the everything that slipped beneath his skin and set fire to the flesh there.

He was in the music room before he'd even blinked proper, chest heaving and vision blurring, settling back into that fog that had started clearing and Malfoy was a beacon of light sprawled against dark, navy pillows and Harry zeroed in on him like one of those missiles seeking heat he'd been taught about. 

Malfoy didn't so much as grunt when Harry collapsed on him, long cold fingers reaching up into his hair to tug gently, his other hand settling low on Harry's back, slipping beneath his jumper and scraping there. His right leg hooked behind Harry's knee, and Harry melted. He inhaled the crisp scent of winter apples and wildflowers, allowing himself tether to the world by way of an angel seeking to earn his grace once more. It was the most Malfoy could do to hold him down short of rolling over and pinning Harry with his weight —but that would've been too much and Harry would've felt trapped and his breaths would've escalated again and—

"Won't you breathe for me, darling?" 

Obviously Harry had seen their dynamic changing the past few months, but he still couldn't wrap his head around the intensity of it all. 

It was just —Hermione and Ron were amazing. They were perfect. They were so very wonderful and loved Harry so much. Harry felt like he had to claw at himself and make himself dance, perform tricks to deserve such pure unwavering love. He felt like he'd disappoint them if he ever showed them these broken splintered sides of him. He never wanted to see them disappointed. 

But Malfoy was —where Ron and Hermione had been with Harry through everything, every step of the way, Malfoy had as well. In a sense. Always on the other side. Malfoy had always been that person who could draw the absolute worse out of Harry. And Malfoy was the one holding him now and tethering him back to the earth when he felt like a helium balloon climbing into the atmosphere waiting to pop when he climbed to high —never in control of his demise. And he would just watch the people and the buildings and world float so far away from him screaming and crying and pleading for help and everyone would just ignore him. Some might even point, make a spectacle of the lost balloon. But none of them would save him. 

There was something about that —about the person who could make him the worst version of himself also being the one to still the ball bouncing inside his head, and see the pathetic little things he'd wanted most and act upon them without even a hint of derision or amusement. 

There was something so —something that allowed the everything inside him to shatter and disintegrate; be swept away with the wind. Allowed him to stand with a clean pallette and rebuild his world how he saw fit. It was like being given grace. It was blessing. It was heavenly. 

Malfoy had seen the most bitter, the most awful, the most pathetic parts of Harry. And he held him, and he carded a hand through his hair, and he played his piano to calm Harry down, and he reminded him to eat, and he called him by those precious, precious words that left Harry dizzy and dazed and floating —such a pretty feeling.

"Dance with me," and it was a dumb request. A stupid request. Harry didn't even know how to dance save that one waltz he'd had to learn for the Yule Ball. But there was a story niggling at the back of his brain —one Sirius had told him that had left him a little flustered and a little bamboozled and a lot wanting. 

Apparently his dad used to whisk his mum away to dance when he was overwhelmed about something. It always calmed him down —or well, made him laugh because Harry's mother could not dance for shit. And James was the best dancer in Hogwarts. 

And Harry did not exactly know how it would aid him with the roles reversed, because as surely as he knew the moon would shine on him tonight, he knew Malfoy was an excellent dancer. 

So when his request was heeded without even hitch in breath? Harry didn't actually know what to do —hiding his face against the column of that pale, perfect neck, and allowing Malfoy to maneuver him as he pleased, humming ever so quietly beneath his breath. 

"What would you do if I ever asked you to sing for me?" Harry asked, quiet. A slight tremble to his voice. They weren't dancing as much as they were swaying, taking steps small, enough that even Harry couldn't manage stepping on Malfoy's foot.

"I suppose you'd have to ask to find out," it barely broke from the hum of Malfoy's voice —soft and hypnotic and gentle. It was an invite, but also not. At least, not yet. 

"How much do you regret?" Because Harry always had to make things difficult for himself. But then, this was Malfoy and —strangely enough— Harry could always get an honest answer from him. Or well, an answer at least. That didn't involve lies. The absence of a lie was not the absence of deception, but Harry actually didn't much care. 

"Most of it." 

"Most?" Harry wanted to know those precious few things Malfoy didn't regret. Those things he still stood proudly upon. Malfoy had always been a prideful creature. Vain thing that saw beauty, that saw lofty elegance only in the gold of coin and the opinions of abusers who sat high. 

"Nothing that aided my mother will ever burden me with regret." 

Somehow Harry knew the answer would involve Narcissa. Still, Harry smiled, a little giddy with the knowledge. "Will you let me meet her, someday?" 

"You've already met her, darling. Or has your memory failed you so soon?" There was only the barest hint of amusement there, overlayed with a trace of something Harry couldn't quite describe. There was a lot about Malfoy Harry couldn't describe.

Harry breathed out a sigh, tilting his head and letting his cheek rest against Malfoy's shoulder, eyes peeking out at the fractured bits of light clawing their way through the large windows in the still early morning, the sun doing its hardest to warm despite the cold. His hand that was resting on Malfoy's other shoulder dipped low, reaching for Malfoy's arm, holding the cloth covered flesh so delicately in his own. Their swaying stopped, the humming stopped. Malfoy's eyes were on him with an intensity Harry hadn't felt in a while —an intensity that had gentled since their game began, but the weight of it now burned. Scorched him and Harry savoured the pleasant pain of it. The beautiful pain of it. 

"Is this one of your regrets, too?" And really, he expected to be slapped, or stabbed or perhaps shown the door as he cradled Malfoy's forearm in his palms and bared scarred skin. 

"It is a taint." 

"So you tried to get rid of it?" This was the most hesitance, the most defensiveness that had surrounded them since their game began in full. Harry brought the arm up high and pressed his lips to it —another crossing of boundaries they hadn't yet entertained. Malfoy was shaking beneath him, beneath the press of his lips, and Harry made no attempt to gentle his touch, letting his fingers dig deep, pressing his face against the length of it, Malfoy's fingers just barely brushing his hair. 

"I did not want to be tainted." But his voice had softened, cracked and splintered like the breaking of a glass window in church when the angels' song had risen to crescendo. 

"But what if I told you it was beautiful?" 

"Then I would know with certainty that you are a liar." 

Harry hummed, something casual and sweet, lips ticking up where they were still pressed to raised, scarred over flesh. 

"What are we doing?" He finally asked, letting Malfoy's hand go and falling into his chest, hands finding their way under the hems of his jumper and settling on skin that should've been warmer; it was perfect. "What are we? What is this?" Malfoy's hands were high on his neck, climbing into the hairs there, settling soft and scratching. Harry shivered and sunk deeper into his hold. 

"I'm afraid that's a question for you to answer," and they were twirling around again, warm in the heat of the fire and the fractured light fighting it's way beneath the depths. "But I would go out on a limb and say we're not enemies anymore." 

Harry smothered a laugh, pressing his face more firmly against Malfoy's chest and just breathing him in. Breathing this in. Enjoying the peace he'd been allowed here. 

"Will you spirit me away for Christmas?" The hand on the back of his head tugged gently, pulling Harry's face from his chest and forcing their eyes to meet for a moment. 

"I'm sure you have commitments. You can't actually run from them. And you shouldn't. I've seen the way you interact with them. Their love for you verges on disgusting," it should've come across as rude; Harry laughed something freer than he had in so long. 

"Fine. Before Christmas then. Just for a little. I need to run away for a little while," a confession that would've been impossible anywhere else. A confession that was so easy with Malfoy. With a hum and a sway and a few giggles that should've been beneath Harry, they toppled into the pile of cushions and blankets and pillows in front of the hearth. 

"Planning to skip class this morning, are you?" 

"I'm a hero," Harry whispered, staring down at grey eyes that were so soft; that reflected the firelight and the glow in Harry's own eyes and that traced his fingers when they walked up the edge of his jaw to brush those loose blond strands behind his ear. And because they'd already crossed enough boundaries for today, Harry leaned forward to press the barest brush of a kiss to his forehead; pressing in there to say, "I can do whatever I want."

Malfoy did actually whisk Harry away for Christmas, a feat much less dramatic that he had previously assumed it might've been. 

Lucius was still in Azkaban, but it wouldn't be for long. He could be released fairly early if he was well-behaved. 

Only the worst of the worst had gotten the severe punishments. 

Nevertheless, it was warm at Malfoy Manor. Subdued, sure. And there lingered still the aura of the one who had taken residence there for two years, but Malfoy and his mother had done well ridding it of the evilness that once floated through its halls like smog. 

Narcissa had the oddest little smile on her face when Harry walked through the doors, a mere step behind Malfoy. And then her arms were opened in an obvious gesture for embrace so, extremely confused, Harry walked right into her arms and held on. She was warm beneath his fingers, her robes were soft, her forehead pressed just at the edge of Harry's jaw and she smelled almost like Malfoy, but maybe sweeter. 

"It's a pleasure to have you here, darling. Even if just for a little while," her arms were tight around his back, and her vowels were so very crisp and Harry held her just a little tighter, finding such strange comfort in a stranger's embrace —an embrace that neither suffocated him nor left him unsteady on his feet. An embrace that made him feel safe. 

"Thank you for having me, Mrs Malfoy." Both of them ignored the way his voice cracked. 

Harry was given a room, though he snuck into Malfoy's often, just to sit with him, be with him, feel his presence. Bask in the reason he chose to run away in the first place.

He was usually long asleep before Malfoy was so much as on his back, but it was fine.

───

Meals were quiet and peaceful, dishes that Malfoy didn't fuss over in the slightest, just sat and ate with soft smiles and soft conversation and so much warmth. Harry had never thought of the Malfoy family as especially warm, not when they could look so ice cold at first glance, but they were. 

They may not have been the red hot warmth of the Weasleys —of screams and chaos and breaking furniture and chatter at volumes that whispered with the threat of hurt; of too many people all squished together underneath each other. The Malfoy's were a more delicate sort of warmth —their love shining through their eyes, their facial expressions, their little actions. The way Malfoy poured and fixed his mother's tea, or pulled out her chair, or took away her plate before even the elves could. He was incredibly attentive, even if he didn't much touch his mother. They seemed so very comfortable around each other, in each other's space. And Harry somehow managed to never feel like intrusion. 

───

Malfoy's playing was something that eased heartache and dulled chaos and doused panic. Malfoy's playing was what settled Harry into his skin when he was fragile and fraying and falling apart. 

The way Narcissa played was love, was ease, was passion. The way Narcissa played had the warmest little feelings bubbling up in Harry's chest, leaving him nearly tipsy, definitely incredibly giddy.

It was such habit, sitting at the foot of the bench rather than the actual bench when Malfoy played that Harry had just laid himself down on the floor, leaning against the base of the sofa Malfoy was perched on, letting his cheek rest against Malfoy's thigh. 

He really —there weren't quite words to describe this particular heady-ish sort of feeling. There was peace, and his vision would go a little hazy and his mind would float away, tethered only subconsciously by the long, lithe fingers scratching through his hair. 

"Aren't you a beautiful thing?" Malfoy whispered, leaning low, thumb brushing just over Harry's brow. Harry nodded blindly, turning his forehead against Malfoy's thigh instead and pressing into the heat on his face. Malfoy hummed out something pleased and Harry's stomach flipped something fierce. "So lovely."

Whatever noise Harry made was only enough for Malfoy to hear, and he didn't even want to think about how embarrassing it was, but there was the barest hint of nails pressed to the edges of his hairline, and a kiss being pressed to his head and Harry slumped; just broke like the strings that had been manipulating his body and making him dance for affection had finally been cut. 

───

The day —well, night— before Christmas found Harry and Malfoy wandering through the gardens on the grounds with nothing but the light of stars and the smile of the moon lighting their way. 

"Will you miss me?" Harry asked, teasing,  turning to walk backwards and track Malfoy's expression. 

"Much the opposite, darling," his breath fogged in the air and his words were soft as birdsong; he reached a hand out to tug Harry from bumping into a tree. "My heart will finally be at peace with you far from here." 

Harry pouted and huffed, turning his back to Malfoy, making his way further into the garden. 

"I thought you were getting nicer."

"I thought we talked about making assumptions of one's character." 

Harry laughed, skipping away and tilting his head back to look up at the dancing stars. It was so much lovelier than Grimmauld Place —hidden out somewhere in the modern world and feeling the effects of pollution. Here, Harry could smell the sweetness in the air, taste it cloying on his tongue. He could see the stars in the sky, an idea coming to him as the brush around him seemed to thicken. 

"Teach me about the stars," Harry said, keeping his voice at the low murmur it'd been at since the beginning of their walk. He'd turned back around, so he wasn't privy to what exactly he'd stumbled upon when Malfoy grabbed him by the front of his jumper before he could fall, tripping on a ungrounded root perhaps. 

"Absolute disaster of a wizard," but it was fond and it was warm and they were so very close, the clouds of their breath mixing between them. And then Malfoy was steadying him, warm against Harry's back after flipping him around.

Perhaps heavenly was still the most perfect metaphor for Malfoy; for this relationship they'd been building —the brush had cleared into a lovely little circle, wildflowers growing in sprigs and bunches, glowing even from beneath the shallow blanket of snow. The moon seemed brightest here, shining down on the wooden swing that swayed gently in the breeze, vines and blossoms crawling up its ropes. 

Harry didn't know if he gasped or giggled, leaning forward from Malfoy's warmth to go to the suspended bench. Malfoy followed behind at a leisurely pace, long elegant steps, graceful like a lithe cat. 

The seat was mercifully dry when he dared perch on it, hands clinging only to the base of the ropes —not wanting to disturb the blooming blossoms. 

Malfoy had no such hesitance, fingers wrapping long and strong around the ropes, sinking beneath flower and vine, lithe body arched over Harry so his hair was floating free. 

He glowed under the light, like a true angel. Like something divine, and Harry wanted. He'd been wanting. For so very long. 

But right now, he needed. 

"Draco," it was the softest his voice had ever been, hands leaving the swing to press against Mal—Draco's hips, cold fingers fighting to press beneath warm, warm skin. 

"Harry," and something about that; about his name. His given name —the only title that had ever been dedicated to him and him alone. It was only two syllables, and they sounded like sin on his tongue. It was two syllables, and it was solace; an invocation and a plea and maybe even command. 

And what was Harry to do except obey? 

With only the slightest tug, Draco was falling into him, still holding his weight up, but the lips brushed and their eyes met for the barest of moments and Harry needed this like he needed food and drink and salvation. 

Gentle wasn't exactly a word he would associate with them. Gentle was the only word he could think of when their lips brushed —something as soft as Draco's words and just as sweet. Chaste. Innocent almost. 

Harry tugged harder, and hands were on him Draco's head tilting just so to slot their lips just where they needed to be. 

Gentle had flown from his vocabulary. 

Draco's hands were on his neck, climbing into his hair and one of his knees had found perch beside Harry's thigh and Harry's hands had climbed until they were nearly on his chest, still tracing skin beneath cloth, feeling the raise of scars he'd inflicted himself. 

When his nails dug deep, Draco tugged harder and Harry gasped around the tongue prying and searching and absolutely devouring, taking Harry and breaking him and rebuilding him as his own. 

He wasn't breathing when they finally broke away; or maybe all he could do was hold on and breathe, head tilting backwards to watch the stars as teeth scraped against his skin, saliva cooling in crisp air, heat on his throat biting down and marking and —

The sound could've come from either of them, but it was covered by heavy breathing and the fog of need and Harry's hands went all the way up through Draco's jumper, finding his face and pulling him back in and connecting their mouths and tasting him, licking against him, pulling him in until the swing creaked nearly dangerously and threatened to drop them both. 

But Draco was pressing in nearer and harder and all thought that might've once occupied Harry's brain had fled like the place was on fire and this right here was the blessing of angel and it was the touch of light and it was beauty and salvation and divination and everything. 

Draco pressed against him and trembling as he tried to press them as close as humanly possible was everything. He was Harry's peace and Harry's chaos and Harry's silver lining and his guardian angel. 

And sure, he'd have to go face the red hot, searing, beautifully indulgent joy of the Weasley's in the morning. And he'd have to explain where he'd been. And he'd eventually have to get them all to see this good he saw in Draco. 

But right now, he could kiss this man who'd settled him into his skin and stitched all his fraying pieces back together and be content to be held under the moonlight.