Chapter Text
Like most everything between them, it starts with a fight.
Lucky that it’s nothing compared to the duels they had throughout eighth year and Auror training. Those were brutal, each slash of their wands savage and cruel. Not for practice, but for revenge. It took years—years of hostility, of inquiries at work, of pouring their hate into each other—before they exhausted their animosity, carving out a fragile truce.
Now, as partners, and sometimes friends, their fights are less frequent, though no less intense.
There’s just something about Draco. Something in the fierce set of his mouth, the intensity of his quicksilver gaze, all his honed edges. It grates, rakes across Harry’s skin like hot coals, overwhelming his every thought whenever Draco’s near.
Hermione calls it an obsession, Ron says nothing and simply shrugs. But Harry knows it’s just the way things have always been, and always will be, between him and Draco.
It’s never a question of if they will fight, only when.
And fight they do, every chance they get.
Presumably, fights at duelling practice are acceptable. After all, they’re Ministry-sanctioned. Then again, the Ministry hasn’t accounted for (has never seen anything like) the explosive magicks between Harry and Draco.
Even so, Chambers refuses to pair them with anyone else.
Mostly because they’re an even match, much to their own annoyance; and partly because everyone else refuses to duel either of them.
Harry always plays by the rules, but is incredibly powerful, his spells unintentionally shattering Protegos and bones and egos with ease. Draco fights dirty, as rules are for lesser men, and knows spells (or creates his own) that the others can only dream of.
It’s what makes them such formidable partners—and, according to everyone in the DMLE, what makes them such insufferable arseholes.
It began like any other practice: warm-up drills, stretches, teams of two. Reese and Boot, Thomas and Hall, Cooke and Wright, Potter and Malfoy. The trainees formed an outer ring, watching the more experienced duellers.
Predictably, Harry and Draco fight the hardest, and the longest. They’ve been at it for over an hour, the rest of the Aurors clearing out ages ago.
“Is that all?” Draco sneers, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose. “Pathetic.”
Every muscle in Harry’s body screams as he tries to catch his breath, and he doesn’t want to give Draco the satisfaction of seeing his pain. He straightens, his spine protesting with several pops, and says, “Just thought I’d give you the chance to win for once.”
There’s a growl and a blue tongue of flame whips through the air, catching Harry around the ankle. Before his back hits the ground, he sends three jets of vivid scarlet light at Draco. Too slow to deflect them all, Draco hisses as a gash opens along one sharp cheekbone, blood dripping down his neck.
Harry has one moment of triumph, then his wand is wrenched out of his grasp and flies straight into Draco’s palm. Scrambling to his feet, Harry launches himself at Draco, using his shoulder as a battering ram. With a sickening crash, they slam into the wall, Draco dropping both wands with a gasp.
They tumble to the floor in a mess of snarls and fists. Harry can’t tell whose hands are whose, clawing at any flesh he can reach and he hears, more than feels, his shirt being shredded into tatters.
“Enough!” Chambers bellows. Harry’s arms and legs lock together, and he feels Draco go rigid beside him.
“As much as I appreciate your weekly exhibitions of Muggle boxing, you have to learn to control your temper.” Harry opens his mouth to protest, and Draco must do the same, because she holds up her hand, silencing them. “Both of you.”
Chambers’ wand slices through the air, and Harry’s limbs relax as she cuts their invisible chains. She ignores them both as she marches from the room, muttering under her breath about how little she’s paid to ‘babysit overexcitable toddlers pretending to be men’.
Harry’s not bothered, she’s said far worse, and it’s all he can do to keep breathing as he lies on the sticky practice mat. It’s possible Draco’s cracked at least three of his ribs—he winces, so maybe four. But even with all that, he’s elated, slightly giddy. Almost punchdrunk.
There’s nothing like duelling Draco.
With everyone else, he’s got to hold back, has to keep his power in check. And Draco would flay Harry alive if he ever held back. They push each other in a way no one else can—and Harry revels in it.
“You know she only stopped us because she didn’t want any harm to come to the Ministry’s Golden Saviour, or whatever they’re calling you these days,” Draco says, not winded at all—bastard—and disdain drips from his every word, as though Harry asked for either the reprieve, or the nickname.
“Give it a rest, Malfoy,” Harry says tiredly. He wants (truthfully needs) a hot shower and a cold pint. Given the choice, he’s much less excited about arguing with Draco.
“Coward.”
The word hits him like an Imperio, and Harry reacts instinctively, his reluctance forgotten. He rolls to his side, catching Draco’s joggers in his fist as Draco twists away. A loud ripping sound echoes around the cavernous room, but Harry’s already moving, using his knees to trap Draco, who struggles in vain against Harry’s much broader chest.
“Get off me,” Draco snarls between gritted teeth, thrashing and cursing.
Harry grins, exhilaration ricocheting inside his chest as he pins Draco’s wrists above his head. “Only if you ask nicely.”
Managing to free one hand, Draco bucks his hips at the same moment he hits Harry in the face with a wandless Stinging jinx.
“Fuck,” Harry cries, scrabbling at his streaming eyes.
Draco takes advantage of his momentary blindness and punches Harry in his already aching ribs. With a gasp, Harry falls to his back, and Draco switches their positions with ease.
So that he’s holding Harry’s wrists between his long fingers, pinning Harry to the mat.
“Now it’s your turn to say please,” Draco purrs, his lips turning up into a feral smile.
Gods, how Harry hates that smirk. It sends his heart racing, makes his hands clench into fists. It reminds him of all the ways Draco is still Malfoy.
And always, always, he loses control.
They’re close enough that Harry can feel Draco’s warm breath, his sweat-darkened hair brushing Harry’s jaw. Draco’s clothes are just as mangled as Harry’s—his torn joggers low on his hips, his once white vest spotted with blood. It’s hanging loose, ripped at the seams and exposing his collarbones. Deep purple bruises blossom on Draco’s scarred chest, and Harry finds his eyes drawn to the muscles flexing under Draco’s pale skin. Draco’s strong, but Harry’s stronger. If only he could—
In the span of one breath, everything changes.
Draco shifts his weight, the slightest arch of his back, and Harry can suddenly feel the hard line of his cock. It presses against Harry’s thigh, and heat—like the blistering crescendo of an Unforgivable—tears through him.
His own cock thickens under the tantalising insistence of Draco’s hips, and all Harry’s remaining energy bleeds away as he bites back a desperate moan. It catches in his throat, and he unconsciously tenses his legs, trying to will away his erection. Battered from the fight, his muscles seize.
There’s still time. He can get away, pretend nothing’s happened.
Harry has never wanted to do anything less.
And then, Draco’s eyes flutter shut, his dark lashes eclipsing the rosy pink of his cheekbones. His breath comes in short, harsh gasps as Harry’s muscles contract, as his thigh strains upward.
Right between Draco’s spread knees.
Time slows, every second a lifetime, and Harry won’t…can’t stop now.
When Harry pushes harder, grinding his sore leg against Draco, it’s deliberate. And when Draco’s mouth falls open on a whimper, Harry groans quietly, trying to rein in his arousal.
It’s hopeless. Everything about Draco, from his feverish skin to the desperate rocking of his hips, drives Harry to the edge of insanity.
Harry’s close (much too close) to coming already, and it’s been less than a minute. Yet, he still needs more.
Draco’s evidently distracted, and it’s nothing at all for Harry to slip his hands free. He reaches for Draco, for his wrists, his hips, his waist. Any part of him that Harry can touch.
As they writhe against each other, Harry loses himself.
Carelessly, wholly and unequivocally, Harry lets himself fall into Draco.
“I’m going to—” Draco’s moan cuts off with a gasp.
“Fuck, Draco,” Harry whines, the sound unbidden and raw. “Please.”
Draco’s going to come, and Harry’s begging for it. He wants to feel the warmth of Draco’s release on his skin, wants Draco to come because of him.
With a harsh cry, Draco’s eyes fly open, and he comes—and comes. Harry can’t look away from his awed expression, the soft fall of hair against his forehead, the long line of his neck.
The thought’s unexpected—gorgeous.
Draco is beautiful, and Harry is furious at himself for taking so long to see it.
As quickly as it had changed, everything falls back into place.
The cold sneer returns and Draco rises swiftly, avoiding Harry’s gaze as he strides across the room. With awful finality, the door to the changing room slams shut as Harry lies, aching and frustrated, and still struggling for breath on the sticky mat.
~
“We need to talk.”
“No.” Draco’s jaw tightens, his knuckles going white on the handle of his locker. “We really don’t.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“And?”
“And we need to talk,” Harry says again.
“I think I made myself clear the first time.”
A blotchy flush rises up Draco’s neck and Harry’s stomach lurches—a flood of memories: the cutting edge of a smile, greedy hands, fire licking up his spine. But before Harry can say anything, Draco stalks to the showers. And Harry’s thisclose to losing his temper.
Two weeks.
Two sodding godawful, never-ending weeks.
Draco’s been avoiding Harry for an entire fortnight—Harry’s ready to pull his hair out, and curse Draco into tiny, tiny pieces.
Admittedly, Harry’s also impressed. They’re Auror partners for fuck’s sake, and Harry can’t figure out how they can work in the same bloody office while not seeing each other.
Then again, Draco’s stubborn and clever and a complete arsehole. It’s not surprising that if he wanted to avoid Harry, he would find a way.
Fortunately for Harry—and his prick that he’s wanked raw every night this week—duelling practice was mandatory, so Draco had no choice but to show up.
Unfortunately for Harry—and his prick that Draco seems to have a personal vendetta against—Draco was in a particularly foul mood, his hexes striking with startling precision and ferocity.
Now, Harry’s a mess and it feels like someone’s taken a hammer to his bones. He wants to crawl into bed, sleep for a week, and forget that Draco Malfoy is gorgeous and untouchable and has a cock that Harry very much wants to suck.
So naturally, Harry follows Draco to the showers.
Steam spills from under the foggy door, and it cracks against the wall as Harry throws it open.
At the sight of Draco under the pounding spray, Harry’s heart lodges itself somewhere in the vicinity of his throat and his cock throbs painfully. He hasn’t forgotten, not for a second, the rosy blush on Draco’s cheeks as he frotted against Harry. And now…now, all Harry can see is pink.
Pink lips, pink nipples, and a pretty pink cock that Harry wants to fall to his knees for.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Draco hisses.
Draco’s glowering, his mouth set into a flat line, his burning gaze fixed on Harry’s face, but his soapy hands never leave his hair.
Draco makes no move to cover himself and lets Harry look his fill. And look Harry does.
Honestly, he never wants to stop looking.
“I told you—” Harry rasps, then clears his throat. “We need to talk.”
“No,” Draco says flatly, turning his head under the hot water. Soap sluices down his chest, bubbles trapped in the dark blond hair around his soft cock, and Harry can’t stand it for another moment.
“Fine.”
If Draco doesn’t want to talk, that’s alright with Harry. Harry’s shit with words, and he can think of far better things to do with Draco’s smart mouth.
It doesn’t matter that Harry’s in his joggers and vest, that they’re at work, that this is the worst idea Harry’s ever had. He pushes Draco against the wall, crushing their mouths together as hot water cascades around them.
Harry expects it to hurt, anticipates biting and bruises, the sharp tang of blood in his mouth.
He’s wholly unprepared for the hushed moan falling from Draco’s lips, the sweet curl of his tongue, the hands pulling him closer—and closer still.
Possessive hunger roars in his veins.
And Harry knows hunger. Before this moment, Harry would’ve said that he understood hunger better than most. But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for this.
It’s violent, desperate, endless…this ache inside him. Harry could spend five, ten, a hundred years sating himself on Draco and it wouldn’t be enough.
The world shifts beneath his feet, and Harry’s barely grasped this new reality when the thwack of a door wrenches them apart.
Draco’s eyes are wild and dark, his hands press against Harry’s chest—when he once couldn’t pull Harry close enough, now he pushes Harry away.
“Oi!” Cooke shouts. “Malfoy, you in here? Robards wants to see you.”
“Coming,” Draco says, not even sparing Harry a backwards glance as he wraps a towel around his hips and runs from the shower.
Harry doesn’t miss the irony, and he doesn’t find it funny in the least.
~
It doesn’t really matter whose fault it is (it’s Draco’s).
And it doesn’t really matter that they’ve been fighting more than usual (every day this week).
And it doesn’t really matter that they owe the entire DMLE unlimited pints on pub night (Boot and Thomas were especially smug).
What matters is that Harry is trapped in a shower with Draco, and he’s worried that he might actually lose his mind.
Healer Cassidy hands them each three bars of soap—blue, orange, purple.
“Alright, gentlemen. You have to wash in order—neutralisation, decontamination, protection. Orange first, then blue, and finally purple. Understand?”
Draco nods with a melodramatic grimace, and Harry rolls his eyes. No doubt Draco’s skin has only ever been touched by the finest French soaps money can buy. Harry’s not fussed—usually he gets whatever’s cheapest at Tesco—he’s much more worried about what will (or won’t) happen once Healer Cassidy leaves.
“And, it’s very important that you do not come into contact with each other—at all. It’s too risky.”
Harry wants to scream, ‘Then why the fuck are we in the same bloody shower?!’ But he doesn’t. He just nods and smiles, hoping he looks less deranged than he feels.
“That won’t be a problem,” Draco says, and Harry scoffs.
Because it may not be a problem for Draco, but it will certainly be a problem for Harry.
They’ll be naked.
More importantly, Draco will be naked. Very, very, very naked.
And Harry’s not exactly ready for that. Not after last week—and whatever the hell that was.
With a grating thud, the door shuts behind Healer Cassidy, leaving Harry and Draco alone.
It’s…awkward. Or, at least, it feels that way to Harry. Draco’s probably too busy worrying about his fragile skin to consider their current predicament.
Draco strips his ruined robes off methodically, his back turned towards Harry, who is trying, and failing, to look anywhere else.
“Shouldn’t you be undressing as well? Or are Saviours incapable of undoing buttons by themselves? Are you waiting for someone—”
Harry sighs, toeing off his boots, and not watching Draco’s whipcord muscles tighten under those miles and miles of pale skin. “Have you ever tried just not being a total arsehole?”
“Why don’t you go first?”
“Y’know—” Harry growls, wrenching his robes over his head, dropping them onto the floor. “This is your fault.”
Draco sneers. “Of course it is. Because you’ve never done anything wrong a day in your life.”
“Pretty sure that wasn’t my Bombarda—”
“If you hadn’t shouted at me—”
“Only so you’d dodge that AK!”
“Spare me. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
And on and on it goes.
Orange bubbles pool around their feet as they argue.
Draco refuses to back down, even though it was his curse that caused the crate of potions to explode.
Harry refuses to listen to anything that isn’t an apology for getting them into this mess.
It’s difficult enough on a normal day for Harry to form a coherent argument, much less when he’s presented with a very soapy and very naked Draco. So Harry mostly scowls and snorts and washes the mess of potions out of his hair while Draco carries on about the injustice of it all.
He also tries very hard to ignore the fact that his cock has taken notice of his fight with Draco. That’s new—okay, new-ish—and Harry didn’t know he was turned on by arguing with Draco until now.
Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to think about it.
“Robards put me in charge for a reason.”
“Yeah,” Harry mutters, “cause you’re a git.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that a promise?”
Draco goes still, blue soap clutched against his chest, and says, “Don’t.”
Annoyed and horny and desperately hard, Harry wants to tell Draco that he very much started it, but bites his tongue instead. Reminding Draco of the time he came on Harry’s leg doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not when they can’t touch each other without risking serious injury, and there’s no doubt it’ll end in a fight. Or—
Harry’s so focused on the soap, and the inappropriately heartbreaking curve of Draco’s arse, that he doesn’t notice what he’s doing until he catches Draco staring. Fingers wrapped loosely around his cock, Harry’s thumb is moving gently over his slit.
“I—” Harry starts, but Draco interrupts him.
“Don’t…” His eyes flick to Harry’s, then back down to his hand. Draco’s voice is rough as he says, “Don’t stop.”
Every nerve in Harry’s body sings to life. After so many weeks of impatiently waiting, of wanting and wanting and wanting, Harry’s overwhelmed by Draco’s sudden attention. It’s all Harry can do not to reach out and grab Draco, to touch every faded scar, every delicate line of his beautiful chest.
“Harry.” It’s honey-sweet, so quiet that Harry can barely hear it over the rushing water. “Don’t stop.”
Harry’s eyes lock on Draco’s rapt gaze as he languidly strokes his throbbing cock. It feels deliciously wrong, and so, so, so right.
“Faster.”
As Harry’s fist closes tightly around his ruddy cock, he imagines Draco’s light-handed touch, those deft fingers that handle a wand so efficiently. The same thunderous hunger hits him—Harry’s darkest, and most hidden, desires nearly knocking him to the ground. His plea for moremoremore comes out as a dizzying groan.
“Like that,” Draco murmurs, his blue-tinted fingers drifting down his abs, into the downy hair around his jutting erection. “Just like that.”
Harry’s not going to last long. It should be embarrassing, but somehow he knows it’s exactly what Draco wants. And Harry wants to give it to him. There’s nothing Harry wants (needs) more.
Even more than his own release, Harry wants to please Draco.
“Does that feel good?”
“Fuck—yes,” Harry moans as one hand finds his peaked nipples and the other deftly twists around his cock, liquid fire pooling in his belly.
“Oh, Harry. Please…” Draco says, a soft sigh as his voice breaks on Harry’s name. “Come for me.”
It’s that—his name on those pink lips, with the hottest please he’s ever heard—that sends Harry toppling over the edge. Crying out, hand moving furiously over his cock, Harry comes. And the force of it finally drops him to his knees.
Harry’s on his knees for Draco, and though he’s never been here willingly before, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
~
They don’t talk about it.
Even if Harry wasn’t sure Draco would hex his prick off for bringing it up (and he’s very very sure), he wouldn’t know what to say.
‘Here’s your tea…and how about a blowjob?’
‘Can I take you to dinner—and to bed?’
‘Do you think Robards would let us be partners and partners?’
It sounds so fucking stupid in his head, and Harry knows it would be just as ridiculous to say the words out loud. He can already see Draco’s sneer, hear the derision in his voice as he says, ‘Not a chance, Potter’. Draco probably wouldn’t even consider it, because it’s Harry, and it’s them, and there’s no end to the list of reasons why it’s a bad idea.
Unfortunately, them is all Harry can think about. It’s everything Harry wants—boyfriends and dinners and blowjobs and Draco all to himself.
And, now that Harry knows exactly how good he and Draco are together (in and out of bed) it’s a hundred, a thousand, a million times worse than he could have imagined.
When Robards gave them their newest undercover assignment, Harry thought it would be the perfect opportunity. He and Draco were going to a swanky retreat for absurdly rich people as husbands. Harry would get to touch Draco as much as he wanted, and he would get to show Draco what he was missing by dating other people who weren’t Harry. Draco was sceptical, but Harry jumped at the chance, and Robards assured them he couldn’t trust anyone else.
And if there’s one thing Draco could never resist, it’s praise.
So, they kiss and hold hands and share a bed and Harry’s never been quite so happy—or so miserable.
As always, Draco appears unfazed, and plays his part flawlessly. He laughs at Harry’s jokes, puts his hand on the small of Harry’s back, looks at Harry like he hung the bloody stars in the sky. At night, lying next to each other, Draco’s fingers tangle with his and Harry struggles to breathe properly.
It’s one of these nights, after three pints and the lingering warmth of Draco’s hand on his thigh, that Harry decides he’s had quite enough, thank you very much.
Draco’s in the shower, and Harry’s thoughts haven’t left the bathroom since the door shut with a muted click. It’s all Harry can think about, because he can recall with perfect clarity what Draco looks like with hot water cascading across his smooth skin, over his taut muscles, and down his long, long legs. Harry’s mouth waters and his dick hardens and he might actually go mad if he doesn’t get to see Draco right now.
There’s no way to be sneaky about it, and he doesn’t even try. Harry pulls off his too tight joggers, leaving them with his shirt on the floor for Draco to complain about later. Goosebumps erupt on Harry’s arms when he opens the door to the hot and humid marble-laden bathroom. It’s the picture of excess, like it was made for Draco.
Draco doesn’t say anything when Harry walks into the shower, but his eyes are dark, tracking Harry’s every movement.
Every step is slow and deliberate—so painstakingly careful—though Draco must know what Harry’s thinking. And not just because Draco’s the one person who’s always been able to see through him. Harry’s cock is thick, hanging heavy between his legs. Once he’s close enough, he spontaneously reaches for Draco, wanting nothing more than to feel.
“What are you doing?” Draco asks, inching back under the fall of water.
“I thought—” Harry clenches his jaw, swallowing the truth and pulling his hand back. “We’re married, remember?”
“There’s no need for the charade in here. No one’s watching.”
Draco’s words have a biting edge, and Harry doesn’t need the reminder that Draco will never be his, not really.
But he’s petulant all the same. “Then why’re we in the same bed?”
Draco’s eyes flash. “If you’d rather sleep on the floor, that can be arranged—”
“That’s not…fuck, Draco.” Harry wants to punch something (mostly Draco), instead he scrubs at his damp face until stars burst across his vision. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what exactly?”
“Turn my words around,” Harry says, gesturing wildly. “Make everything a fight.”
“Feel free to fuck off and leave me alone if it bothers you that much.”
They glare at each other. Harry doesn’t want to give in, and Draco knows it. Draco won’t apologise, and Harry knows it. It’s always been like this. The push and the pull, the tension between them fraught, ever-present, and tight as a bowstring. Digging in their heels, not caring about the fight, only about besting the other.
It goes against his every instinct, but Harry surrenders. He chooses Draco, maybe for the first time ever.
“Turn around,” Harry murmurs.
“Why?”
“Just…trust me.”
Silently, Draco arches a brow, and Harry grabs the shampoo, pouring it onto his hand.
Draco turns, still silent, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief.
The shampoo’s glossy and smells faintly of lemongrass as Harry rubs his palms together. “May I?”
There’s no hesitation as Draco tips his head back. Harry’s mastered Death, and yet, he’s never thought of himself as especially powerful. Now, with Draco’s silky hair slipping through his fingers, Harry feels like he’s got the world in his hands.
Draco hums—contentedly, Harry thinks—as he scratches his nails along Draco’s scalp.
“Like that?” Harry whispers, his lips at Draco’s ear.
“Mmm,” Draco murmurs, leaning further against Harry’s chest.
Harry takes his time, massaging Draco’s neck and shoulders, letting the thick, white lather collect in his hands. It’s rare to see Draco like this, relaxed and defenceless. Harry’s thoughts drift to lazy mornings in bed and evenings curled up on the sofa, to Draco letting his walls down once and for all.
To Draco letting Harry love him.
For a long moment, Harry lets himself believe it’s possible. And when Draco steps away, rinsing his hair under the hot water, Harry feels momentarily bereft.
It’s agonising, to have Draco so close and not have him. Not even a little bit. Harry can’t stop from drawing him back, pulling Draco flush against his chest.
“We can’t,” Draco sighs, his arms wrapped around Harry’s.
It’s true. Harry knows it deep in his marrow but he wants to argue, wants Draco to finally give in.
Harry wants Draco to choose him.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re at work, and we’re not—we’re not…”
Each other’s, Harry thinks.
“What if we pretend?” Harry asks, pressing a gentle kiss against Draco’s shoulder. “Just for tonight.”
In his arms, Draco stiffens. “Of course. That would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s not—”
“A secret Death Eater lover you can hide away when it suits you,” Draco laughs, cruel and bitter. “No need to tarnish the Golden Boy’s reputation.”
“Draco, I—”
He twists out of Harry’s arms, storming out of the bathroom before Harry can finish his thought.
“—love you.”
~
Life goes on, relentless and miserable.
Harry says nothing, merely fits his love for Draco around the ache in his ribs and pretends he’s not falling apart every minute of every day.
As far as Harry can tell, no one’s fooled—least of all Draco—and still, nothing changes.
Until everything does.
Robards must’ve known how bad it would be because he calls Harry into his office after everyone’s left for the day, handing Harry the letter with a sympathetic smile.
It doesn’t help.
Harry rages all the way to the lifts, and if he knew where Draco was, Harry would tear through every iron-clad Ministry ward to reach him. As it is, it takes him less than five minutes to track Draco to the changing rooms.
And Harry can’t stop himself, can’t think past his anger, pushing Draco against the lockers and growling, “What did you do?”
Draco lifts his chin, brazen and just this side of arrogant. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”
“Then what the fuck is this, Malfoy?” Harry enunciates every word, shoving the crumpled parchment into Draco’s chest.
Not even glancing down, he says, “It appears to be a transfer request.”
It hits Harry like a Reducto, ripping his heart open with stunning brutality as he stumbles back and away from the cold defiance on Draco’s face.
Harry doesn’t want to (really, can’t) believe it, but it’s all there, in Draco’s perfect script. He’s read it twelve times and still…it knocks the air from his lungs.
“Why?” Harry whispers, his voice hoarse.
“You know why,” Draco says calmly, but his stormcloud eyes give him away.
Agony whips through Harry, jagged and unforgiving. Like nothing he’s ever felt. Or maybe…it’s something more familiar, more intimate. Something only Draco can provoke—fury and longing coalescing in his veins.
A snarl rips from his throat. “Coward.”
Harry wants it to hurt, and vindictive pleasure flares in his chest as Draco flinches.
“Your plan was to what? Sneak away in the middle of the night?” Harry crushes the evidence of Draco’s betrayal in his fist. “You’d honestly leave without saying a goddamn word?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Fuck you,” Harry spits, and the muscles in Draco’s jaw jump.
Draco’s composure is maddening.
Because he’s always been a fighter, unapologetically so—it’s one of things Harry both loves and hates about him. Harry wants him to scream or throw a punch or pull his wand. Harry wants Draco to do something…anything. Anything but stand there silently, not fighting for Harry, not fighting for them.
“So, that’s it?” Harry asks—somewhat desperately, hoping he’s wrong.
Draco nods, his indifference more excruciating than any curse.
Numbly, Harry walks away. One, two, three steps to the door, and he can’t break down, not until he’s alone.
Except…Harry can’t let Draco leave like this. He can’t let Draco go, can’t let this be the end.
“I love you,” Harry whispers, and Draco stifles a gasp. Harry turns around, says more loudly, “Draco, I love you.”
Draco’s eyes fall shut on a sigh, and when he opens them again, inescapable torment reflects in his dark irises. “You don’t love me.”
“Yes, I do.” Harry steps closer, breathing in the sweet lemongrass scent that will only ever remind him of Draco. “I love you—have loved you for years, in fact. I just didn’t realise it.”
Draco shakes his head. “No, Harry—”
“You visit your mother’s grave every month, on the thirteenth, because that was the day she died and you miss her, even when you deny it. You hate caviar, but eat it anyway because you think it makes you look sophisticated. You take your tea with four sugars, like a madman, and you’re a total prick until you’ve had at least three cups. You’re moody and unreasonable and impossible to get along with. No one makes me as crazy as you.”
Harry takes a deep breath, forces himself to hold Draco’s stunned gaze.
“But you bring me coffee every morning, you hex the paps that hide in the shrubs by my flat, and you do all the paperwork without complaining. When you smile at me, I can’t see anyone else. You’re thoughtful and smart and beautiful and impossible not to love. No one knows the worst and best parts of me like you.
“If I’m wrong, if you don’t—if you can’t…” Harry can barely get the words out, can barely speak around the dread that’s choking him. “Tell me you don’t love me.”
If Harry thought he was unlovable, damaged beyond repair, nothing could be further from the truth—and his voice breaks right alongside his heart as he says, “Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll walk away.”
Draco takes an unsteady breath, and in the space between one second and the next, Harry sees it.
The Quidditch pitch and the dungeons, the astronomy tower and the Room of Requirement, years of inflicting pain on each other—every insult, every jinx, every scar, the evidence of their inexorable hold on one another. And then, their future: every hug and every kiss, every night tangled in soft sheets, every morning wrapped tightly in each other. Fighting and loving and choosing each other every day.
Harry can see it all so clearly, and he wants it. Harry wants Draco—for the rest of his life.
“I don’t love you.”
Draco walks away, and hopelessness pulls Harry to his knees.
~
It hurts.
Everything hurts in a way Harry never thought possible. So much more than he can bear—searing, the merciless edge of a knife.
Curses explode overhead, bodies fall to the floor, and Harry can’t remember why he’s here, with the ground shuddering beneath him—he can’t think around the wrenching ache in his chest.
“Harry,” a sobbing voice. “Harry, please. Stay with me.”
Draco?
But that…it can’t be. It’s wrong.
Draco was leaving, he was going to leave Harry.
If there’s one thing Harry knows—could literally never forget—it’s that Draco’s leaving.
Might already be gone.
But then, Harry’s flying, or at least, it feels like he is. And the wind tears at his flesh and he’s so distracted that he can’t think beyond the pain.
Fuck—it hurts.
And if Draco knew how much it hurt, he wouldn’t be asking Harry to keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t be asking Harry to do anything other than let go.
“Draco,” Harry gasps, his throat filled with flames. “I—”
Then, everything goes dark.