Chapter Text
“I’m going to get my scars removed,” Draco announces on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.
His fingers are trembling on the hot surface of his porcelain mug, knuckles turning white as he holds it tight, trying not to burn himself as he feels his friends’ eyes on him.
Pansy drops her teaspoon, and Blaise makes a soft sound at the back of his throat.
“Are you fucking serious?” Theo blurts out, spraying biscuit crumbs all over Draco’s kitchen table and making Pansy glare at him in disgust.
“Yes,” Draco replies, his resolution becoming stronger as he stares at his hands and notices the frayed line of a scar peeking from under the cuff of his robes. It intersects one of the blue veins on his wrist and a part of Draco thinks that it almost looks pretty, in a weird kind of way. But he’s probably the only person on earth who thinks that. He pulls the cuffs down and clears his throat. “I think I need to get rid of them in order to move on.”
“But…” Pansy argues, tilting her head and reaching for Draco’s hand, rubbing her thumb soothingly over his knuckles. “It’s going to be an incredibly long and painful process, darling. Millie said that when she got rid of the scars on her arms, it hurt like hell. And hers were small ones from a hex. Are you sure you want to go through that with yours?”
“Draco can take it,” Theo points out, winking at him as he helps himself to more biscuits. Sometimes, Draco wonders if Theo only comes to visit him for the cakes and biscuits Draco bakes.
“You’ve become really good at casting a Glamour on your face,” Pansy points out, waving her hand to motion at Draco’s porcelain skin, devoid of any evident imperfection. “I could help you with makeup if you’re worried about your magic failing. You know there’s that new foundation I bought in Paris that works wonders on scars.”
Draco shakes his head. He can hide the damage on his face, but his magic is not strong enough to cast a Glamour all over his body, and makeup won’t do miracles.
Draco lifts his gaze, looking at Blaise and finding him staring back, his eyes dark and intense in that calculating way that never fails to send a shiver down Draco’s spine.
Blaise doesn’t say anything, even after Theo has demolished all the biscuits and Pansy has spent a good twenty minutes talking about all the products Draco could use to conceal his scars.
It’s when Pansy is already out of the door and Theo has disappeared through the Floo that Blaise stands up and looks Draco straight in the eyes.
“Who are you seeing about the scars?” he asks, his voice deep but velvety.
“The best Healer out there,” Draco replies with a little shrug. “I’ve been on the waiting list for over six months.”
“Let me guess,” Blaise starts with a raised eyebrow.
“Harry Potter,” Draco replies, feeling a little bashful for no reason, his cheeks heating at the sudden thought of having to take his clothes off in front of Harry. For numerous sessions.
“Pansy’s right; it’s going to hurt a lot,” Blaise says nonchalantly. He probably knows Draco’s not very good with pain, what with his propensity to freak out at the tiniest injury. But Draco is determined this time. He will withstand the pain if it means that he gets to have a new body, one people will not find disgusting anymore.
“I know,” he replies simply, and Blaise seems to consider his answer for a moment before he fishes a small card from the left pocket of his burgundy robes and hands it to him.
“This is a friend of mine who used to be an Unspeakable,” Blaise explains. “He can teach you how to cast a stronger Glamour. It might cost you a lot, but it’s a second option.”
“Thank you,” Draco replies, feeling a little awkward about it.
He knows himself.
He knows the amount of magic required to maintain a Glamour for hours and hours all over his whole body would be too much for him. He’s already struggling to keep the one on his face when he’s in public for more than a few hours. It would drain him, and for what? So that he can pull once and finally lose his virginity to a stranger and then run away before midnight like that silly Muggle story?
No, Draco wants it all.
He wants to fall in love. He wants to date someone, to be kissed and touched. To feel wanted. He wants to stop being ashamed of his body, of the deep scars that have disgusted the handful of people who have seen them.
Draco wants to be loved for who he is.
So, he takes Blaise’s little card, scrunches it up into a ball and bins it after he’s gone.
He finds Weasley at the usual pub that evening, an orange Muggle hoodie and a pair of jeans making him look like a welcoming flame in the middle of the Leaky.
“Weasley,” Draco says nonchalantly, sitting down and contemplating whether it’s worth getting the other man all hot and bothered just for the sake of stealing one of his chips. Draco picks one up and watches a deep frown appear on the freckled face.
“Buy your own bloody chips, Malfoy,” Weasley says. Draco smirks, but Granger is soon placing a soothing hand on Weasley’s shoulder as she sits next to her boyfriend and offers Draco her own plateful of chips.
“How are you doing, Draco?” she asks, passing Weasley a beer and sipping her own coke. “What’s new in your life?”
“I’m okay, thanks,” Draco replies casually. “Nothing new.”
He feels a little nervous at the thought of what he’s going to do in the morning. He doesn’t want to tell them. None of the Gryffindors know about his scars—only Draco’s closest friends and his parents do, but Father is still in Azkaban and won’t get out for ages (thank Merlin for that), and Mother is living in France and never wants to set foot in England ever again. So that leaves Pansy, Blaise and Theo.
“Where’s Harry?” he asks nervously, and he notices straight away Weasley’s eyebrows going up and Granger’s furtive look as she casts a strong Muffliato on them.
“Harry’s having one of his hairy episodes,” Weasley replies evasively, and Draco feels like shit for not remembering. He bought a calendar with the moon phases, for crying out loud. “He’s probably moping on his own under a thick duvet right now. You know what he’s like—he never wants anyone around during a full moon.”
The thing is, Draco is not supposed to know.
He'd sort of stumbled upon the secret that Harry Potter is a werewolf five years ago.
Draco had been fixing Walburga's portrait after Harry had mentioned that he couldn’t get it off the wall and it was making his life a misery. And Draco had gotten a bit offended because Harry hadn’t even considered asking him, a magical portrait restorer. Weren’t they supposed to be friends? But then Harry had sheepishly confessed that he didn’t think Draco would want to set foot in that house—in his house—because it would remind Draco of the life he’d left behind and because he had been there as a child and still remembered it with dread. Draco went all soft at that admission, and he simply told Harry he would come and have a look at the portrait in the morning.
The portrait had turned out to be a real nightmare, and not just because Walburga was the devil incarnate. Draco had to admit defeat and tell Harry he needed to do more research on how to get it unstuck, that he needed to check his books at home. But the breakthrough had come a lot sooner than he expected, so Draco decided to Floo straight to Harry’s house, and found the wards still open for him.
He found Harry lying on the sofa under a huge pile of blankets, weak and teary as he started sniffling and telling Draco that he didn’t want him to see him like this, that he was a mess and an utter wreck. Draco got worried. Harry never got sick. He knelt on the floor by Harry’s side and checked his temperature with a spell, finding him feverish. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed, and Harry let out a pitiful sob when Draco placed his cool palm over the burning skin of his forehead, feeling Harry trembling against him.
Draco had considered taking him to St Mungo’s straight away, but then Harry asked to just have some company, insisting that it was nothing serious. Draco made him tea and toast, and he read for him while Harry sniffled pitifully and smiled shakily at him.
After a couple of hours, knowing full well that it was none of his business and waiting for an evasive reply or no reply at all, Draco asked, “Harry, what’s up with you?”
“Full moon,” Harry replied, green eyes boring into his. “I’m a werewolf.”
Harry had probably expected him to jump in alarm and scarper. He most likely expected a disgusted look on Draco’s face. But Draco was not the prejudiced teenager he used to be what now felt like a million years ago. So, he took Harry’s hand from under the blankets and held it for a good ten minutes before he said, “Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry you've had to carry this secret by yourself. How long has it been?”
“Five years,” Harry replied after a moment. “I was turned right after the war.”
“Is...is that why you limp a bit when you’re tired?”
“The wolf bit me on the inside of my thigh,” Harry explained softly. “Sometimes, the scar still hurts.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Draco promised, and Harry simply nodded. Then, his eyelids drifted shut, and he hummed in contentment as Draco placed a tentative hand on his back and rubbed soothing circles on it until Harry fell asleep.
Draco still hasn’t told anyone. It’s Harry’s secret, and he considers himself lucky for being entrusted with it. For being Harry’s friend.
He knows only a handful of people are aware that Harry is a werewolf. Knowing Harry, he probably considered telling the whole world, but that would mean losing his job at the hospital and getting even more in the spotlight, which Harry abhors.
“I spoke to Pansy yesterday,” Granger says after removing the Silencing Charm. “She told me you’ve been offered a job in the Hague as a restorer for a very prestigious wizarding museum.”
“Yes,” Draco replies, mentally cursing Pansy for being such a blabbermouth.
“Are you going to take it?” Weasley enquires, curiosity painted all over his face. “How long would you be going away for?”
“A whole year,” Draco replies with a sigh, “and I really don’t know if I am going to accept. I need to think about it.”
Pansy said he has nothing keeping him here. That they can all go and visit him once he’s moved to the Netherlands. That it would be an amazing opportunity for his career and Draco should consider it.
He knows that she’s right, but at the same time, what he truly craves is an anchor.
Someone or something that would keep him here. Someone who would be truly upset to see him gone.
Draco doesn’t think that person exists.
Harry looks a mess the next day.
Draco catches Harry's reflection in the waiting room mirror, the dark shadows under his eyes and his black hair a right mess, even more so than usual.
Draco adjusts the sunglasses on his nose. He then fiddles with the hem of his slouchy beanie, dragging it down over his ears and making sure his plait is still nicely tucked inside and hidden from view. He hopes that no one recognises him.
“Mr Black?” the receptionist calls all of a sudden, and Draco nearly doesn’t react, remembering only after a moment that he booked his appointment using his mother’s maiden name. “Is Mr Black here?”
“Coming,” Draco replies, standing up and ignoring the raised eyebrow he receives when the witch stares at the dark lenses of his specs despite the downpour outside. It’s a cold, early October day, and sunshine feels like a distant memory.
The nametag on the receptionist’s bosom says Esme, but Draco thinks she looks more like a Margaret. Maybe a Margery. Esme gets the wand out of her sleeve and casts a spell on Draco that makes him squirm and let out a little yelp.
“What was that for?” Draco asks in alarm.
“I’m just checking that you’re not hiding any illicit potions or Dark artefacts under your robes,” Esme replies matter-of-factly. “No need to get your knickers in a twist, lad.”
“Why would I hide something nefarious to see a Healer?” Draco asks with a frown, and the witch lets out a little huff.
“Healer Potter is rather popular,” she explains, a word that sends a shiver down Draco’s spine.
Harry’s popularity always seems to come at a high price.
“Right,” he replies with a grimace.
“Healer Potter will be ready for you in a few minutes,” Esme announces with a thin smile. “You can wait in the examination room and fill in this form for him in the meantime. Just a few questions to inquire about your general health and to find out whether there are any potion ingredients you are allergic to.”
“Okay,” Draco replies, his hands trembling anxiously when he takes the clipboard and enters the small room on jelly legs.
That’s it, he thinks.
This is happening.
There’s a bed in the middle of the examination room, a typical hospital bed with white sheets and a raised back. However, when he approaches it, Draco notices little Snitches on the bedsheets, zooming around and pulling tiny tongues out every time Draco pokes one with his fingers. He smiles at them, the thunderstorm in his stomach abating for a moment as he takes in the room after removing his sunglasses and hat.
The walls are light green, a relaxing pattern of leaves and hummingbirds on the wallpaper. Draco can hear them chirp softly if he closes his eyes and focuses on something other than the sound of his heart beating madly in his ears.
He’s so nervous and scared. He doesn’t know if he’s more worried about showing Harry his scars or about the pain.
He takes a seat on the bed, perching on it precariously as he looks at the potted plants sitting on Harry’s desk, at the tiny cacti and cheerful succulents. Then, he spots something among the vases and silver frames with an assortment of Weasley faces smiling at him.
A photo of him.
Draco has the same photo in his bedroom, tucked behind the picture of his twenty-sixth birthday, just in case Pansy happens to rummage through his things and asks too many questions about why on earth Draco keeps a picture of Harry Potter on his chest of drawers.
Draco has thought of various excuses over the years.
It’s a happy memory of the first time Draco managed to beat Harry to the Snitch.
They’re friends, so it’s fine.
Draco looks fucking hot in it.
What he will never admit out loud is that Harry looks radiant, that his smile reaches his green eyes and sets them alight in a way that never fails to make Draco’s heart flutter. That Harry’s looking at him in a way that makes a storm of butterflies wreak havoc in Draco’s stomach every single time. That he can’t help but wonder if Harry’s ever noticed that Draco looks back at him in adoration, a completely besotted grin on his face.
He had no idea Harry had the same photo. He wonders how he got a hold of it, since Blaise took it. He’s trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Harry has a picture of him on his desk at work, when the door suddenly opens with a bang, startling Draco and nearly making him fall off the bed.
Harry freezes when he sees him, his exhausted face looking older as he frowns and pauses for a moment before closing the door behind him.
“Draco?” he mumbles, taking a step towards him, then casting a furtive glance at his desk and then at the sheet of parchment in his hand. “I was supposed to see a patient right now. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, I’m jolly good, thank you. Marvellous, really,” Draco replies quickly, the nerves making him speak at a million miles per hour. “Such a good day outside for October. How about yourself?”
“Getting there,” Harry replies with a grimace. Draco knows what he’s referring to.
Draco hasn’t got a clue why on earth Harry is at work if he’s still clearly feeling unwell. He knows Harry’s condition is supposed to stay a secret, so he wonders if he’s back at the hospital so soon to avoid suspicions.
“I wanted to bring you the biscuits I made yesterday, but Theo and the gang popped by unannounced and managed to scarf them all down,” Draco explains, watching a little smile finally dance on Harry’s lips.
“I bet they were bloody amazing, that’s why,” he replies, and Draco feels warmth spreading through his chest, something that he keeps hidden and cherishes like a secret garden. Harry never fails to make his heart beat faster, to make him feel a bit special. “How come you’ve decided to visit me at work? Has something happened?”
“Oh,” Draco replies, snapping out of his thin bubble of happiness to remember the reason why he’s here. “I’m your four o’clock appointment.”
Harry frowns, looking at the list of names on his parchment.
“You’re Mr Black?” he asks, and then his eyebrows go up in realisation, only to immediately knit in concern. “Have you hurt yourself? I’m specialised in scar removals, but I can cast a Diagnostic Spell on you—”
“Harry,” Draco interrupts him, heart in his throat as he grabs his wand and decides that maybe the best way to do this is to rip the plaster off and get straight to the point. “I’m here for my scars.”
He casts the spell to remove the Glamour on his face and sees Harry’s face fall.
Harry’s mouth opens and goes slack, his bottom lip wobbling as he takes a step closer and lets out a tiny whimper at the back of his throat.
“Wha—” Harry starts, shaking his head, then tilting it as his eyes roam all over Draco’s scarred features. Harry looks so lost and distraught; Draco’s never seen him like that before. He was expecting Harry to be coldly professional or maybe struggling to hide his disgust, but this—Draco wasn’t ready for Harry’s heart to break right in front of him.
“Healer Potter, I have something for your five o’clock appointment,” a young wizard in dark green robes announces, barging in without even bothering to knock on the door. “Oops, sorry! I didn’t know you were busy. My bad. I’m still learning. I’ll just…leave the parcel here and come back later, I guess.”
Harry completely ignores him, and Draco’s mind registers for a moment that the Trainee Healer has left a little parcel on the bed where he’s sitting. It’s perfectly square, wrapped in plain brown paper with Muggle Sellotape securing it.
“Draco…” Harry starts, his fingers shaking when he takes another step closer, eyes moving down, towards Draco’s neck, probably following the line of a scar. “Are those scars…”
“From the war,” Draco replies, feeling shaken by Harry’s reaction, watching his face pale and eyebrows crease as realisation hits him.
“Did I…” Harry mumbles, his voice a mere whisper before he finds the courage to ask, “Did I do that to you?”
Time seems to freeze for a moment.
Draco doesn’t know what to say.
He assumed Harry knew; that his eye was trained enough to detect an amateur Glamour; that he must have put two and two together after asking Draco a million times if he wasn’t too warm wearing long robes even on the hottest summer’s days. But he realises Harry really had no clue.
Draco takes a deep breath, his fingers moving on the bed, knocking against the parcel. He takes it and hands it to Harry, to find something to do, to bring his mind back to the present.
Harry didn’t know about his scars.
He wonders what he’ll say when he sees his chest.
“I don’t want you to feel bad about them,” Draco says softly, finding the courage to lift his gaze and meet Harry’s. “Besides, a couple of the ones on my face are from the chandelier that fell on me at the Manor.”
“I covered you in scars!” Harry blurts out, loud and desperate, his hands clutching the parcel Draco offered him with too much force, crinkling the paper and breaking it where it’s thinner. “Look at what I’ve done to you!”
“Harry, you’ve apologised so many times already,” Draco points out, remembering their hushed confessions in the dark, after the war, when everything still felt so raw and terribly painful, when everyone’s wounds were still open and bleeding. “I know you didn’t know what Sectumsempra would do. I’ve done my fair share of shitty things, and you’ve forgiven me—”
“I fucking hurt you,” Harry cries out, ripping the paper and shredding it to pieces, making them rain onto the linoleum floor. Draco has spent enough time with Harry over the years to know he’s always fiddling and demolishing things with his hands when he’s nervous, as if his fingers had a mind of their own. “Snape s-said it wouldn’t scar…I—I was stupid enough to believe him…”
“Harry,” Draco says, getting off the bed and placing his hand on Harry’s arm, feeling it shake under his palm.
He wants to take it all away.
This was a mistake.
He wasn’t meant to hurt Harry in an attempt to feel better about his body.
“Why did you not tell me?” Harry asks, his voice cracking, eyes so green and sorrowful that Draco wishes he had kept his secret. Why did he not ask someone else to get rid of his scars? A random Healer with no connection to his wretched past would have been so much better.
But Draco just wanted someone familiar to look after him when he was at his weakest. Someone who knew him and wouldn’t judge. Someone Draco loved and trusted.
And yet, he didn’t want to hurt Harry like this.
“Harry…” he mumbles, shaking his head.
“It’s been ten years since the end of the war. We—we’ve been friends for so long. I thought we were f-friends…”
“We are,” Draco insists, taking Harry’s other hand and squeezing it, his fingers sliding over the smooth surface of the box in his hand. It feels very warm to the touch, strangely smooth. Draco barely has the time to register that something is wrong, terribly wrong, his stomach turning and head spinning when a flash of light erupts from the box in their joint hands.
Harry lets out a scream, and Draco’s breath gets caught in his throat.
The box is vibrating; Draco’s hands stick to it, unable to let go.
Harry makes an animalistic sort of sound, and Draco cries out in pain.
Then everything goes black.
Draco feels so cold, as if his body were frozen.
He can’t open his eyes, but he feels the pinprick of a thousand needles all over his skin and something tugging hard at his left wrist, as if there were ropes digging into his flesh. His lips part on a whimper as he tries to move his limbs, to wiggle his fingers in an attempt to get rid of the pain, to find a source of warmth, anything to chase the cold away.
He hears a distant sound, his name being called. A familiar voice, laced with desperation, that gives him the strength he needs to pry his eyes open.
He squints as the blinding lights hurt his eyes, then turns his head, finding a pale green wall in front of him. Stiff, white bedsheets. The distinctive smell of dittany.
He’s at the hospital.
Still confused, Draco feels that thing continue tugging at his wrist. He looks at it, but there’s absolutely nothing. He turns his head the other way, and the room comes into focus, a group of Healers trying to keep another person down, the screams coming from the other bed, loud and furious, his name being called over and over again.
“Draco! Let go of me, you wankers! DRACO!”
Draco tries to get up, struggling immensely because of the unbearable pain on his skin, his legs protesting as he stumbles out of bed and lands on unsteady feet.
He’s so cold, so incredibly cold that it almost feels like his skin is covered in icicles.
“What are you doing?” a witch calls, realising Draco is approaching the other bed, where he somehow knows he will find solace. The invisible force pulling at his wrist is leading him there. His magic is thrumming in his veins, the whirlwind getting stronger as black, messy hair comes into view, and Harry’s green eyes finally meet his. Draco knows that he needs to get to Harry, to touch him and feel him.
“Draco…” Harry whimpers, right hand stretched towards him, trying to pull Draco close while the Healers keep him down.
“Don’t let them touch until Jenkins has examined them,” someone says behind Draco, and panic rises in his chest.
They can’t keep them apart.
He has to be with Harry now.
Someone shouts, “Petrificus Totalus!”
Draco’s body goes stiff all at once, his mouth open on a cry that never leaves his lips. He doesn’t even have time to despair, though, because he immediately feels the familiar warmth of Harry’s magic undoing the invisible ropes that bind him, beckoning him closer.
“Is he using wandless magic?” someone shouts. “Find a way to stop him!”
The Healers are suddenly thrown to the floor, an incredible force pushing them away from Harry’s body.
A wrinkled hand wraps around Draco’s wrist, only to be burnt with sizzling magic, leaving Draco free to move again, to finally reach the bed on unsteady feet. He places his knee on the mattress, his fingers gripping the headboard for support. And then he feels them, Harry’s hands reaching for him, pulling him down onto his waiting body with a relieved sigh that sounds almost like a moan.
The solace is immediate.
Warmth spreads through Draco’s body as he sinks in Harry’s arms, his body wrapped up tight, safe and soothed by Harry’s hands all over his back, around his waist.
“I’m here,” Harry whispers in his ear, sounding almost delirious. “I’m here, Draco. They’re not going to take you away from me again. You’re safe. Shhh…”
Draco doesn’t even realise that he’s crying, little sobs escaping his lips, until Harry wipes the tears away and presses Draco’s face against his chest, humming and rocking him until Draco calms down.
“Hmm,” Draco whimpers, eyes closed and mind full of cotton wool.
“You’re safe now,” Harry repeats.
Draco believes him, his mind drifting pleasantly, floating like a feather as he feels himself sinking back into blissful sleep.
When he opens his eyes again, all Draco can feel is warmth.
There’s a body pressed against his back, a solid presence keeping him grounded as Draco takes in his surroundings.
A room at St Mungo’s.
The strong smell of potions and the noise of monitoring spells, humming like bumblebees in Draco’s ears.
A hand is pressed against his chest, where Draco’s heart is picking up pace, the words I must not tell lies engraved in the flesh.
Harry.
He’s cuddling in bed with Harry.
They must have slept together. They’re in a hospital bed.
Fuck.
Draco suddenly goes all stiff, cursing mentally as he hears Harry’s regular breathing hitch in his throat, followed by a deep sigh. Harry nuzzles the back of Draco’s neck, a contented moan slipping out of his lips as he presses even closer, legs bracketing Draco’s thighs, Harry’s groin against Draco’s bum, rocking unconsciously into him.
“Draco…” comes a soft sound from behind him, and Draco’s cheeks are already on fire, wondering what the fuck he’s doing in bed with Harry.
“Mr Malfoy,” someone suddenly says, making both Harry and Draco jump up to a sitting position, their bodies disentangling and moving apart on the small bed. “Wait, don’t move. Stay where you are.”
They both freeze, their thighs and shoulders still touching but eyes clearly avoiding meeting.
Draco thinks this would have been embarrassing anyway, but with an audience, it feels downright mortifying.
“What’s going on?” Harry asks, looking for his glasses and finding them folded on the bedside table. Draco takes in the room, different to the one he was in a moment ago when he went to see Harry to get his scars removed. He notices the darkness outside the window and wonders with dread what time it is.
How long has he been unconscious?
His memories are blurry.
Snitches on bedsheets. His photo on Harry’s desk. Harry’s surprise when he undid the Glamour. The parcel.
“Shit,” he blurts out, and the witch raises an eyebrow at him. She’s wearing bright yellow robes and a triangular hat on her head. The nametag pinned to her robes reads Healer Jenkins. She must be in her late eighties, her half-moon specs thick and gold-rimmed, shiny in a way that Draco finds almost mesmerising. Draco clears his throat before he says, “The box. We both touched that box, and then…”
The witch nods, and Harry lets out a startled gasp, then covers his face with his hands and groans.
“What was it?” Harry asks, almost demands, his leg starting to jump on the bed, a jittery mess that makes Draco even more anxious than he was before. “If they hurt Draco, I’m going to—”
“It’s a bond,” the witch replies serenely, flicking her wand to Summon a red box. It’s lacquered in a way that makes it shine and reflect the artificial light in a fascinating manner, the surface so smooth that Draco can see his own face reflected in it. He can spot a dark, floral pattern on it, vines stretching and moving in the most hypnotising way.
“What is that?” Harry asks, tilting his head to peer at it.
“It’s a cursed box,” Healer Jenkins explains. “Your five o’clock appointment was under the impression that you would open it in front of her and get bonded with her, but apparently, you decided to thwart her plans and got bonded with Mr Malfoy instead, which is most peculiar.”
“Peculiar? Why?” Draco asks, wondering immediately if it has to do with his Mark. People always assume the worst: that he is corrupted beyond salvation. They think Draco still has the Dark Lord’s magic running through his veins, that he’s going to curse them just by looking at them or shaking their hand.
“Well, you see,” the witch continues after making a soft noise that sounds almost like mirth, “this particular type of magical artefact only works under certain circumstances.”
“Meaning?” Harry asks, leaning against the headboard and folding his arms on his chest.
“It’s supposed to bind fiancés,” the witch replies.
Draco’s jaw drops.
He remembers Mother mentioning this kind of thing. The old pure-blood tradition of using bonds to cement freshly made marriage arrangements. She even suggested the possibility of having to use one with him, were Draco to finally agree to marry Astoria despite his homosexuality.
Draco had frowned upon the idea—both the arranged marriage and the bond. He was not going to marry a woman, and he most certainly wasn’t going to use some Dark artefact to get acquainted with his spouse and to find the motivation to have sex with her.
“Is it…” Draco starts, wetting his lips and trying to find the right words, feeling Harry tense next to him. “Do you think it shouldn’t have worked because I’m a man?”
“Oh, no,” the witch replies, waving her hand dismissively. “This kind of curse works on people of any gender.”
“What, then?” Harry asks, sounding out of patience—or out of luck, Draco thinks bitterly.
They’re bound together for Merlin knows how long.
He knows what the ultimate purpose of a bond is, but there is no way that can apply to them, since they’re both men and can’t conceive together.
“Well,” the witch says, “the magic contained in the box is supposed to be activated by strong feelings between both parties. It’s not the usual Binding Spell used for newlyweds to get them to spend time in bed together in order to conceive a child. It will not make you feel sexual attraction towards each other or make you crave intimacy. It just has negative effects if you are kept apart.”
“Oh,” Draco breathes out, relieved by the notion that the burning need he feels to touch Harry is caused by the attraction he has always felt towards him, by the love he’s spent years trying to hide.
“So what’s the purpose of it?” Harry asks, sounding concerned and a little faint. Draco turns to look at him and finds him paler than usual, the freckles on his nose standing out. He looks even more exhausted than before.
“It’s supposed to be a kind of proof, if you like,” Healer Jenkins explains, making the box turn with a flick of her wand. “If the people’s magic binds them together, then it means there’s something between them. Strong feelings would lead to a stronger bond, let’s say. Wixen used to verify if the other party’s feelings were requited or not by using this type of spell.”
“B-But…” Harry starts, and Draco feels his heart sink.
Draco bound them together.
It’s because he’s in love with Harry.
Draco’s feelings were probably so strong and intense that they overpowered Harry’s chaste friendship and got them stuck together with magic.
He feels his heart in his throat, panic rising in his chest as he dreads the moment he will have to confess it to Harry in front of this stranger. It’s going to be beyond mortifying. It’s going to be the end of their friendship.
It’s going to break Draco’s heart to pieces.
Harry takes his hand, and Draco’s breath gets stuck in his throat.
Harry’s fingers squeeze his, his hand warm and solid. Draco dares to turn and finds Harry’s wobbly smile, reassurance in his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Harry murmurs, rubbing his thumb soothingly on Draco’s skin. “There’s always a way out with bonds.”
“That’s true, but I’m afraid this one will take a little longer than usual to untangle,” the witch announces, breaking the little bubble of happiness that was blooming in Draco’s chest. “I’ve only ever read about this type of bond. I’ve never really come across one before in my years of experience as a Healer. I have a feeling the witch who gave it to you must have found it in some remote place that sold ancient artefacts. The Aurors are questioning her as we speak to try to find out more.”
“What kind of symptoms are we to expect? I know we are probably not supposed to spend time apart, but I can definitely feel that there are some underlying side effects,” Harry says, sounding professional and competent in a way that makes Draco feel proud for no reason and a little horny for a whole different set of reasons.
“If you were to part, you would feel extremely cold, to the point of risking hypothermia,” the witch starts listing, checking the notes she has taken on a piece of parchment. “You were both shivering, and there were icicles all over your skin when the Healers split you up before my arrival. They thought they were doing the right thing in keeping you apart, but they were clearly wrong and caused you a great deal of harm. Your magic core could be compromised if you spent too long away from each other at the early stages of the bond, but its hold will relent over time. I am still not sure about other possible consequences, so I will need you to keep track of anything unusual for me.”
“Merlin,” Draco breathes out. His skin is still sore and red.
“I will give you a special ointment that should get your skin back to normal within a couple of minutes,” the witch says reassuringly. “And I would like you to keep in very close contact, at least until tomorrow morning. Try to always touch, even just an inch of skin, for the first twenty-four hours of the bond. The power of the curse should gradually become weaker with time.”
“How much time?” Draco asks feebly.
He has an important restoration project due in a week.
Harry has his job.
He has to keep on touching Harry.
How on earth is he going to keep on pretending to have platonic feelings for Harry if they have to constantly be with each other?
Merlin’s saggy balls…
“I have no idea,” the witch replies with a little shrug. “It could be a week; could be a month. I genuinely don’t know how long it will take me to find out how this particular Binding Spell works. The best I can do is to suggest that you stay together to prevent it from causing any damage to your body and your magic.”
Harry hums, his fingers still interlaced with Draco’s, his foot moving closer under the blanket that someone must have thrown over their joined bodies while they were asleep. Their feet touch, and Draco feels a little spark on his skin, wondering if it’s the bond or just his fragile little heart reacting to this tiny intimacy.
He wonders how Harry feels, bound to Draco, of all people.
“One last question,” Harry asks, his thumb stroking Draco’s skin slowly. “What’s the name of the witch who gave me the box?”
“Romilda Vane,” Healer Jenkins replies after checking her notes. Harry groans and shakes his head. The name rings a bell, but Draco can’t put a face to it. “Your trainee Healer wrongly assumed that your assistant Esme had checked the parcel, so unfortunately, it got past your usual security checks. He is also being questioned by the Aurors, but the poor sod looked absolutely heartbroken. I think it was a genuine mistake on his part. As for the witch, she booked the appointment under a different name.”
“I see,” Harry replies, looking at their joined hands. Draco can see from the corner of his eye that Harry is chewing his lips, white teeth sinking into his soft flesh and almost drawing blood. He squeezes Harry’s hand and waits for green eyes to meet his.
“We’re going to be alright,” Draco says, even though he can’t be sure.
Draco doesn’t know if he can trust Healer Jenkins yet. He can never trust anyone that easily, not anymore.
He doesn’t even know if he can trust himself around Harry, but he’s going to try.
“Can…” Harry starts, turning to look at the woman. “Can we go home or do we have to stay here overnight?”
“You’re free to go, but I will have to check on you in the morning,” Healer Jenkins replies, Summoning a fresh sheet of parchment and offering it to them. “If you could kindly write the coordinates of the place you will be staying tonight, I will come and visit tomorrow at nine.”
Draco looks at Harry, a question in his eyes.
He knows Harry doesn’t like Grimmauld Place. Draco has heard him say countless times that he should find a new place to live, somewhere that doesn’t contain so many painful memories of his past. A bright house that doesn’t creak and moan every time he sets foot in it, as if protesting about the fact that he isn’t a Black. A cottage with a lovely garden. A house by the sea. A place to call home.
Harry has been struggling to live at Grimmauld for a while, but after Kreacher’s death, his feelings towards the house have soured even more.
“I should probably check on my cat,” Draco points out, watching the tension seep out of Harry as the decision is taken away from him. “Mine is probably easier for now.”
“Yes,” Harry confirms, nodding once, then twice. “Let’s go to yours.”
Harry’s never been there.
They usually meet at the pub after Harry’s shifts, or on the Quidditch pitch every Saturday afternoon. Luna often invites them over for dinner, and sometimes Pansy and Granger organise movie nights or dancing soirées where their groups of friends merge, albeit a little like oil and water together.
But Draco has never invited Harry over. The only people who visit him are his three closest friends; not even Mother has ever been invited to his cottage in Godric’s Hollow.
Draco jots down his address and the Apparition coordinates, knowing full well that the Healer will be bound to confidentiality and won’t be able to share his address with anyone. He wonders if he left the house in a decent state before leaving. The portrait he is currently working on was singing at the top of his lungs when Draco left it in his studio, but he remembers casting a strong Muffliato to avoid scaring the cat.
“Can we swing by my place first so that I can get a few things?” Harry asks, and Draco nods, still in shock at the realisation that he is bound to Harry and has to spend the night with him.
Salazar, they will have to share a bed.
Draco has never slept with anyone. Only with Pansy those few times they both got a bit tipsy and didn’t want to risk Splinching themselves, but that surely doesn’t count. They slept head to toe and Draco woke up with a mouthful of Pansy’s socks once.
Harry untangles their hands and gets out of bed, but as soon as their bodies split, Draco feels like an electric shock shaking his body to the core, something tugging hard at his left wrist. His magic starts pulsating, painful needles prickling his skin that feels terribly cold and stiff.
“Fuck, sorry!” Harry calls, grabbing Draco’s hand straight away and pulling him closer across the bed. The relief is instant, making Draco gasp as his body relaxes.
It feels like sinking into a hot bathtub after a day spent playing outside in the snow.
“Oh, gods…” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut as Draco rubs his cheek against Harry’s chest, relishing the pure ecstasy of feeling Harry’s fingers on the small of his back, sneaking under his robes to touch bare skin and to make Draco moan, low and unguarded.
“Fuck, that feels nice,” Harry mumbles, his voice slurred.
“Ehm, gentlemen,” Healer Jenkins says, making them both jump. “I suggest you take this elsewhere.”
“Sorry,” Draco blurts out, his cheeks on fire as he straightens his robes, leaning into Harry as he checks his wand is still in his pocket.
“Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Harry says, nodding once at the Healer. “Thank you for your help.”
“Yes, thank you,” Draco says, his mind still floating, magic purring when Harry runs a hand down his back, stroking him over the soft fabric of Draco’s robes.
“My pleasure,” Healer Jenkins says with a smile. “Wait, don’t forget the ointment for your skin. Apply it once all over your body and then take a warm shower to rinse it off.”
Draco swallows loudly.
He has to put ointment all over his naked body and then shower whilst bound to Harry.
Oh, fuck…
“Alright, we’re going to be off, then,” Harry announces.
Harry takes Draco’s hand and looks him in the eyes, waiting for Draco to be ready for him to take them to Grimmauld. He gives a curt nod, and then feels Harry’s magic, something sizzling in his veins in the most enticing way. Draco has done this before, but it has never felt this intense. He wonders if it’s because of the bond or if it’s just Harry’s magic.
Grimmauld Place is dark when they Apparate there. There’s an eerie creak coming from downstairs, a clock striking the time somewhere within the house. Draco feels the pull of its magic, that unpleasant prodding reminding him that he’s a Black and he belongs here. Goosebumps erupt on his skin, his fingers automatically clutching Harry’s.
His palm is smooth, the tip of Harry’s fingers a little calloused from the frequent Quidditch practice. Harry’s hand is bigger than his, warm and comforting.
Draco never thought he would get to hold it, but this feels like cheating.
He has spent countless days and nights dreaming about Harry taking his hand under the table at the pub. About Harry crashing into him with his broom and then landing on the pitch on top of him, lips brushing against Draco’s as their fingers interlaced before Harry closed his eyes and leaned down for a breath-taking kiss. He imagined Harry holding his hand on the way to the town market on a Saturday morning, for a romantic walk on the beach, while watching a scary film at Pansy’s, before walking down the aisle.
But not like this.
“I’ll be quick,” Harry says, completely unaware of the storm in Draco’s stomach. “I just need some clean clothes and a toothbrush.”
They climb the stairs, still hand in hand, and Draco looks around. He remembers the house from his last visit, but it somehow looks more depressing, the light even dimmer, the shadows longer. He feels a sense of unease, wishing to be elsewhere, but then they reach the landing, and Harry’s bedroom appears in front of him, an explosion of colours and ordered mess, like an oasis of life in the dead grip of the house.
Harry Summons a bag, then starts filling it with clothes and things he thinks he might need, muttering under his breath while he shrinks a small trunk and fits it inside, making a few books fly from the shelves and swirl around before they get reduced in size and find a place in the bag.
The whole process lasts less than five minutes, and Draco is seriously impressed by Harry’s packing skills. It always takes him ages to decide what to take for a simple overnight stay.
Harry looks at him, a smile finally dancing on his lips as he squeezes Draco’s hands and stares at him expectantly.
“Ready to go?” Draco asks, then he takes a deep breath as soon as Harry nods. “My house is under Fidelius. I live at number four, Elm Grove, Godric’s Hollow.”
Harry’s eyebrows rise, his lips parting at the familiar name of the village where his parents died. Draco has never told him he lived there. He didn’t want to cause more heartache.
Harry squeezes his hand tight and then shuts his eyes without a word.
Draco feels a pang of guilt, but then Grimmauld Place creaks, the clock chiming again in the most ominous way, so he closes his eyes and focuses on his own home and takes them there.
When his eyes open, Draco finds Harry with his mouth agape. He’s staring at the light blue walls, at the pale furniture and big windows that will make the cottage bright when morning comes. His green eyes widen when Shiro jumps from the armchair and scarpers under the sofa in fear, completely unused to strangers visiting the house. Harry peeks under the furniture to catch a glimpse of the white cat, but Draco pulls his hand.
“What?” Harry asks.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Draco warns. “He’s going to scratch your face if you get too close. Just give him time, and he will come around.”
“But I’ve been waiting for ages to meet him,” Harry complains with a pout, and Draco’s heart threatens to melt at that unguarded expression. He wonders when Harry started to feel so relaxed in his presence. He can be so serious and reserved with other people, even with their friends, but with Draco, sometimes he shows a softer, less cautious side. Harry kicks his shoes off, then gets rid of his socks and stands on Draco’s cream carpet with his toes wiggling in the most adorable way. “Wow, it’s so ridiculously soft.”
“Would you like something to eat?” Draco asks, trying to find something to keep his mind busy. His skin still hurts, sore and sensitive like it did that time he fell asleep in the sun.
“I think we ought to put the ointment on first,” Harry says, pointing at Draco’s hands and face. “Your skin is all red and looks rather painful.”
Draco notices that Harry’s face doesn’t look as awfully red as his own hands, but Harry’s skin is a warm brown compared to Draco’s milky-white, and his magic is stronger. Draco wonders if Harry feels the bond as strongly as he does.
“Okay, let’s go to the bathroom. I don’t want to get the carpet stained,” Draco says, pointing at the stairs and leading Harry towards his newly decorated bathroom, blue tiles with patterns of seahorses adorning the walls as a windchime made of seashells tinkles melodiously next to the open window.
He takes a deep breath and wonders how on earth they’re going to do this.
“Obscuro,” Harry casts on himself, and the solution seems so simple that Draco calls himself stupid for not thinking about it as the magical blindfold covers Harry’s eyes. “Keep your foot or one of your hands against mine while you undress.”
It's a slow process, and Draco is glad for the blindfold because he feels so utterly embarrassed at being completely naked right next to Harry, careful not to touch him with his hips or, Merlin forbid, with another body part. It takes him a good fifteen minutes to cover himself in ointment, but the feeling is mind bogglingly amazing, the relief so sweet that Draco has to bite back a moan.
Draco puts his clothes back on, grimacing at how oily his skin is and wondering if it will stain his robes. He chose his favourite ones to go and see Harry for his appointment, wanting to look nice. Draco suddenly catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his long hair all over the place and the scars stark against the flushed skin of his face.
His Glamour is gone.
He completely forgot about revealing his scars to Harry. He wonders how many people saw him like this, what they must have thought. They must have found him repugnant.
He quickly casts a Glamour, hiding them again, realising Harry has already seen them, so it won’t make any difference, but still feeling the need not to be on display.
“Draco?” Harry asks, sounding confused.
“Your turn,” he tells Harry after casting his own Obscuro.
Draco is glad for the blindfold, because the sound of Harry’s clothes sliding against his skin as they end up in a pile on the floor is so sensual and tantalising that his cheeks are probably on fire. Harry keeps his foot pressed against Draco’s, but then he moves and their hips touch as Harry lets out a debauched little whimper when the wet sound of the ointment on his skin fills the room. Draco bites his bottom lip, trying to think of extremely distracting and pure thoughts.
Theo’s pet duck, Benedict Quackerbatch.
The sunset over the summer fields at the Manor.
Dumbledore’s braided beard.
“I’m done,” Harry announces, “but I desperately need to pee. Do you mind?”
Draco mutters something that probably sounds like an odd gurgle and lets Harry take his hand and lead him towards the toilet. He realises it’s just a bodily function, that he needs to empty his bladder too, and besides he’s spent years in a boarding school, surrounded by other boys who had zero boundaries.
Yet, it feels so overwhelming to hear Harry’s feet pad on his bathroom floor, to lift the toilet seat and let out a relieved sigh as the distinctive noise fills the bathroom. Draco thinks his ears are going to start smoking.
“Err…” he mumbles, feeling a lot like Harry for once, not sure what to say.
“Mind if I take a shower first, since I’m already naked?” Harry asks casually, and Draco nods, wondering how the fuck they’re going to do this. “If you sit on the toilet while I shower, you can hold onto the tub and I can lean against your hand with my leg—wait, let me try this.”
Draco’s shoulders stiffen as Harry places his warm hands on Draco’s waist and positions him on the toilet, making him unceremoniously sit down. He then hears the curtains being pulled, the sound of the water hitting the porcelain of the bathtub and Harry climbing in. He keeps his hand where Harry placed it, even though his position is not the most comfortable, but the sound of the water is making him ridiculously desperate for the loo.
“Harry, I need to urinate!” he declares, feeling like he’s sinking so low that there’s no way up. This is so embarrassing.
“You can take the blindfold off,” Harry replies serenely, the smell of Draco’s citrussy shampoo filling the room. “I’m behind the shower curtain anyway. God, this feels brilliant.”
Draco removes the spell, then he fumbles with his trousers, letting go of the bathtub for a moment and immediately feeling the pull on his wrist. He quickly relieves himself with a sigh and then flushes the toilet, making Harry yelp when the water turns too hot all of a sudden.
“Sorry!” Draco calls, washing his hands in the sink and then sitting back down on the toilet seat, placing his hand where it desperately wants to be, the bond pushing him to touch Harry again. “Do you feel something tugging at your left wrist when we’re not touching?”
“Yes, but it’s my right one,” Harry replies, making splashing noises as his silhouette appears behind the curtains when he moves a little closer to it. Draco decides to close his eyes to avoid fainting at the sight of a very naked and wet Harry Potter. “I’m done. Could I please have a towel? Sorry, I forgot mine downstairs in my bag.”
“Towel!” Draco shouts out, jumping to his feet and reaching for the cabinet where he keeps his fluffiest and softest towels. He feels cold as he takes only a few steps away from Harry, the bond pulling mercilessly at his skin until he can finally go back. He keeps his eyes closed while Harry climbs out of the tub. He Summons his bag and when Draco opens his eyes, he finds Harry wearing a blue t-shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms, looking all soft and loose in Draco’s bathroom.
Draco wonders if he’s dreaming.
“Wow, I feel a million times better,” Harry says. “Come on, jump in. You must feel all sticky with that ointment still on.”
The word sticky suddenly does something to Draco’s guts, a low blow he was not expecting as he quickly asks Harry to turn around while he undresses and climbs into the tub.
It’s not easy to try to touch Harry while he washes himself, and he wonders if they’ll have to go through this palaver every single day or if it will get easier tomorrow.
Once they’re both clean and fully dressed, Draco takes them back downstairs and makes a quick dinner, warming up some leftovers from the night before, while Harry prepares a salad right next to him.
“I like your house,” Harry announces candidly, looking around the room while they eat, socked feet touching under the table. Draco can’t help but imagine that Harry is playing footsie with him, and then feels like a colossal moron for even thinking about it.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, stabbing the salad with too much force.
“It’s very cosy and bright,” Harry says with a smile on his lips, watching in amusement as Shiro gingerly strolls past the table, completely ignoring him as he heads for his food bowl and starts eating his own dinner. “It feels like a home.”
“It’s certainly very different from the house I grew up in,” Draco points out, because he wanted the exact opposite when he bought his little cottage. He felt like he needed something completely different.
“It’s different from mine, too,” Harry says, and Draco feels a pang in his chest.
He knows about Harry’s past, the little snippets that Harry had revealed when he was a little drunk at the pub and it was just the two of them. He knows there’s a lot more Harry hasn’t said, but what Draco has found out is enough to paint a very bleak image.
“I’m sorry,” Draco says, the only thing he ever finds to say when they talk about it.
Harry shrugs.
“Nothing we can do about it,” he replies, putting the last forkful of salad in his mouth before he yawns. “I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered.”
“Yes, I’m exhausted,” Draco replies, sending the plates to the sink to deal with them tomorrow.
It suddenly dawns on him that they’re going to sleep together.
He’s going to sleep with Harry.
What if Draco gets hard?
What if he has one of his Harry-related dreams and says something extremely compromising in his sleep?
“I don’t snore,” Harry says, probably realising Draco is having a little panicky moment. “At least, I don’t think so. Feel free to give me a nudge if I do. I’m happy to sleep on either side of the bed; it makes no difference to me. But I must warn you that I still have nightmares, so I apologise in advance if I wake you up with a scream.”
“I have those too,” Draco confesses, and they both stare at each other.
Draco thinks it’s strange how they ended up with similar lives, even though they had entirely different childhoods and fought on opposite sides of the war. And yet…
“Shall we go?” Harry says with a soft smile, taking his hand and crossing the kitchen barefoot.
Draco assumed he was going to be the one leading the way, but he’s secretly glad Harry is being so proactive, because his knees are about to give way and his heart won’t stop beating like mad.
They brush their teeth in silence. Draco notices Harry’s toothpaste smells like cinnamon, and wonders what it would taste like to kiss his lips. He tries to shush that thought straight away.
“I’m already in my pyjamas,” Draco points out when they’re standing a little awkwardly in his bedroom. He wonders what Harry normally wears for bed, if he’s already in his sleeping wear or—
“I usually sleep in boxers and a t-shirt,” Harry admits with a shrug, unceremoniously pulling his trousers down and throwing them on a chair next to the bed. Draco feels his own cheeks warm up, trying to think more cooling thoughts as Harry quickly lifts the duvet and climbs into bed, waiting for him to move. Draco realises he didn’t even catch a glimpse of Harry’s scar, the one the werewolf left on his thigh. He wonders if Harry got it removed.
The bond pulls at him, and Draco shivers as the cold seeps into his skin, so he finally moves and places his wand on the bedside table before he lies in bed next to Harry.
“I forgot to turn the light off,” Draco mutters after a moment, and he reaches for his wand, but Harry has already dealt with it without the need to reach for his own. “Fucking show-off.”
Harry laughs, that relaxed and cheerful laugh that he reserves for his friends and that never ceases to make Draco’s stomach do a little backflip.
They’re friends.
Draco needs to remember that. They’re friends, and he will probably only have to survive this close to Harry for another day. He trusts the Healer. It’s only going to be a matter of hours, and then he can continue pretending that he doesn’t have a crush the size of Hogwarts on one of his best friends.
Draco can do it.
“Good night, Draco,” Harry whispers, moving his elbow so that it’s resting against Draco’s, their feet touching under the duvet.
“Night,” Draco murmurs, and then he closes his eyes.
It always takes him ages to fall asleep, especially after a stressful day, so he prepares himself for a long wait.
He tells himself a story like he always does when he can’t sleep. He imagines a dark-haired painter who falls in love with his model, a blond wizard without a future who could become famous thanks to the paintings but refuses to pose for anyone else. They confess their feelings for each other and then make love in the studio among the oil paint and the half-finished portrait of the model lying naked on a bed full of rose petals. Draco feels desire stirring in his body and calls himself a moron for falling into his own trap.
Harry mutters something in his sleep and moves, and Draco stills, breath caught in his throat.
Harry’s curls are so close, soft and smelling faintly of Draco’s shampoo.
Draco knows Harry is asleep, so he dares to turn and look at his serene face. He studies the dark freckles peppering Harry’s nose and cheeks, the beautiful shape of his soft-looking lips, his dark eyebrows and the scar on his forehead. Harry’s eyelids flutter, and Draco wonders if Harry is dreaming.
“Draco…” Harry murmurs, and Draco lets out the tiniest of gasps.
He turns around in bed, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.
Harry is dreaming of him.
He tells himself it’s probably because of the bond.
There’s no other possible reason why he should be saying Draco’s name in his sleep. Unless he’s dreaming of the war…
Harry suddenly moves, his chest pressing against Draco’s back, arms circling his waist to pull Draco closer as he buries his nose in the back of his neck, humming in contentment. His hand rests where Draco’s heart is beating like a mad tambourine.
Thump thump thump.
Draco thinks he’s screwed.
There’s no way he can survive this.