Harry's life ended when he was four. And then it began again in carnage and destruction and ruin rather than the peace be had known.
Just old enough to remember bits and pieces. Old enough to remember wild hair and green eyes and a sly grin. Old enough to remember scars and chocolate and the smell of warmth in the burning hearth and the feeling of warmth wrapped around him at all times.
He was old enough to remember the littlest glimpses of what his life was. He wasn't old enough for those glimpses to be enough for him to hold on to.
He was old enough to remember the magic. Barely. Though, he usually thought it was a dream.
He wasn't shocked when the letter came. Not as shocked as he could have been, because the letter only pieced things together for him.
His aunt's distaste for him and his uncle's eagerness to serve her. His cousin's shameless, mindless following of everything his parents did.
He was not shocked, perhaps not as much as he was sceptical. Wondering if this was some sort of practical joke. But then, if his . . . guardians wanted to make him hurt, practical jokes were not their poison of choice. He winced a little, straightening up and feeling the pull on his chest, his ribs; the barest amounts of skin there pulled just tight enough to cover the jut of bone but not cushion it.
He was still a sceptic, skimming the words on rich cream paper in the safety of his little wardrobe. His one safe space, despite the horrors it housed. But the Dursleys would not have wasted this type of money on parchment. On an envelope. On the glimmering green ink that looked like velvet pressed so delicately against the ivory of the paper still held in his fingers.
His fingers, the seemed to tingle some as he drew his hands across the page. Tingle in the way they had that time he'd made his hair regrow overnight —again and again and again. Tingled in the way it had that time he went to sleep with glasses broken in half and woken to them mended; not perfectly mind, but viable enough to be worn. He'd felt it when he was most upset with Dudley's antics and had seen his new toy break apart in his very fingers; or when his fear spiked to the same heights as the pain and the fireplace would roar.
The tingles usually meant he would be hurt more.
But his eyes skimmed the words and skimmed them again and the bottom of his feet were cut from the glass shards he'd been made to walk over when he'd dropped a glass. Dropped it because his fingers had been trembling; because he'd not had more than the water pilfered from the tap when he was allowed to use the washroom, in nearly five days.
He let his eyes skim the bareness of his little wardrobe, and the too large clothes and the too small shoes and the cracks in his glasses and the way his hair was wild and matted because he was not allowed soap and he thought about the gleanings of warmth he still saw in his dreams.
His dreams which were few and far apart now, separated so completely by the nightmares; the night terrors that struck him silly more often than not.
When was the last time he'd closed his eyes without fear?
He looked to the letter again, to the words written in elegant script and expensive ink; glimmering even in the dull of the single bulb in his wardrobe.
With the too large clothes on his back, and the too small shoes on his feet, Harry pressed his hand to the locked door, and prayed for the tingles to come.
And they did.
He heard the softest click of lock, and —hesitantly, carefully; holding his breath and daring for a moment to hope, despite knowing he shouldn't hope. Should never hope. Hope was a cruel, cruel thing— he pushed at the door huffing out the quietest little breath when it pushed open at his touch.
With the letter stuffed in his pocket, and nothing but the clothes on his back and the shoes on his feet, Harry left the Dursleys behind.
He'd had no plan of course. Just a letter and too much hope despite promising himself he'd never dare to hope again.
He'd not realised how long he'd sat in silence just contemplating. But then, his sense of time was incredibly skewed. The only reason he knew the time at all back in that house was because of what meal he'd be forced to prepare and the light coming through the windows.
The holiday times were the worst; summer especially when the Dursleys were out more often than not. He'd sit there in silence and crawl into his mind. So far away into his mind. So far away that he didn't realise he'd crack if he spent too much time there. But he did. He spent all of his time there, chasing the whisps of flaming hair and the warmest eyes he'd ever seen and the barking sound of laughter and chocolate.All problems could be solved with chocolatehe remembered. But he didn't know who he remembered it from.
But the sun was climbing in the sky and it was warm and Harry's magic tingled a little as he walked, so he followed the tingle.
He didn't know how long he'd been walking either, following the gentle tugging that had begun; the gentle tingle and escaping into his mind.
His feet ached; burned from the slices and bits of glass he'd not been very successful in extracting. His thighs hurt, bruised legs rubbings against too stiff denim. His stomach ached —yearning for both food and drink. His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. The sun beat down on him the longer he walked, in a way that made his clothes stick to his skin.
Harry had never felt more free, revelling a little in the ache and chasing ghost stories in his head. No one paid him any mind and he paid them none, following the tingling in his skin blindly.
He'd not realised his exhaustion. The way he had begun to shake. The way dehydration and malnutrition and pushing his frail, eleven year body in a way it was not meat to pushed had him on the verge of collapse.
He'd just felt the harsh tug of his core to a pub, and smelt the grease and the ale, felt the wringing of too well known nausea when he breached the doors and then he saw black.
The scent was what woke him.
Stark, sickening. The scent of Dudley's favourite toys after Harry had gotten his hands on them. The scent of too clean and too much and it was too bright and too white and too—
"Hullo deary," and Harry had no idea who this woman was —blond and plump and smelling vaguely of berries— smiling down on him with a cheerful look that was so fake Harry could sick up just looking at it.
The look of his teachers when he'd come to school with a bruised face. The sound of the matron when he'd collapse from exhaustion during school and assure her it was nothing. It was the look of parents when Harry was waiting for the Dursleys to come pick him and Dudley up from school. It was a sympathy that was cruel, because they would express it. But they would not act upon it.
It wasI'm so sorry but this is a you problem.
Harry smoothed his features out, because expressing his distaste would get him in trouble.Don't look at me like that when I'm talking to you, boy. You earned this.Harry didn't think he'd earned any of it. But then, he didn't know. He didn't know much of anything. Maybe he had earned it.Monster that he was.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Harry said simply, staring straight ahead and not daring to meet her eyes. Don't you dare look at my face boy."Where am I?"
"St Mungo's," the fake-cheery lady said sweetly; in a voice that was probably supposed to soothe but scratched instead. Scratched in a way that made Harry want to claw at his ear. She said it like that was supposed to explain everything to Harry. She seemed to catch on to his blank expression. "The hospital, deary. I'm sorry, but there are a few questions we need to ask you."
Harry could see it in her. See it in the way he had seen it in well meaning teachers and strangers he'd stumble upon when walking home from school after the Dursleys had kicked him from their vehicle, or purposely left him there under the pretence of having forgotten. He knew the story to go with at this point. Figured it out after having read too much in the library. Spiriting himself away and hiding his small enough body between the shelves. Falling into stories. Into his mind. Chasing ghosts that he'd dared hope might be kind.
"I ran away from my orphanage again. My own fault. I'll go back. If you tell them they'll be upset again and kick me out." The fear and desperation was easy to fake. It always was, perhaps because it wasn't fake in the slightest. "Once you don't tell them they'll think I was sulking somewhere again and I'll only be punished instead of kicked out." Harry had never heard of St Mungo's Hospital, but adults were gullible when they wanted to avoid trouble. And this nurse —she looked like a nurse— was already wearing that guilty, contemplative expression that meant Harry would get away with it. But then she straightened up and sighed —something that sounded an awful lot like resignation. Harry pleaded desperately with the tingles for a distraction.
Something fell off a cart somewhere, and by the time the nurse had turned her head, Harry was gone. Being Dudley's favourite toy came with its advantages.No one could catch Harry with how quickly he could run.
When Harry found himself inside a department store, he concluded that he was most definitely in some magical place somewhere and maybe the letter hadn't been fake at all. Now barefoot, Harry —with the help of his magic— retraced his steps to the pub. His stomach rumbled something awful, and —finding a fountain during his trek— Harry had some water, hoping the hospital had fed him some and the water would tide him over for a while.
He wasn't actually that far from the pub, and he was conscious enough to read the sign this time. The Leaky Cauldron.The sign continued, saying they had vacancies, which Harry suspected meant the pub also had lodgings. Important to note if he intended to remain there until September. He'd no idea of the date, but his birthday had only just passed.It was still early August.
As it probably had last time, the door creaked and a bell jingled when Harry pushed himself inside, and the scent assaulted him once more. Along with the undertones of grease and food and Harry's stomachlurchedwith the need to be fed. But he could control himself. He'd had to learn if he actually wanted to be fed.Even if only occasionally.
Some heads turned, and there was quiet murmur, but no one actually said anything. No one really acknowledged his presence. Which was good, but he didn't exactly know what he was supposed to do now.
The tingles pulled his eyes to a corner, and he watched a giant man tap what looked like an umbrella against a wall. Harry watched, intrigued as it opened up and swallowed him.No one was faster than Harry.He launched himself straight through, colliding with the man and then taking off, the burn of having brushed against someone —even through clothing— making his skin burn.
Find a corner, he pressed his back to it, sunk down and curled into the smallest ball. He wanted to crawl from his mind. His mind that housed the most beautiful ghosts and the most awful realities. Realities and memories that circled now. The times he'd brushed against Aunt Petunia to lay breakfast on the table, and felt the burn on his neck; bacon and its grease —straight from the pan— still gurgling hot pressing to his skin and burning. The ache in his wrist when his fingers had touched Uncle Vernon's passing the mail some morning. Wretched, blasted thing. Don't touch me boy.
He'd touched him. The man was a giant. He could crush Harry with the barest press of his fingers. He could crush him; break him. Harry had touched him. Harry was a monster. Harry was vile. Harry was —"Hello?" The most beautiful woman Harry had ever seen in his entire life —not that he'd been allowed the luxury of glancing at many people— was looking at him. Realising his eyes had reached her face, Harry lowered his gaze immediately, focusing on her dress. Fine and shimmering and too good to be looking at someone; something like Harry. Like precious metal in the hands of a grubby, undeserving thief. Harry was a thief, stealing comfort just looking at her dress. Stealing —he didn't know what he was stealing, but he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to view someone so lovely. He let his eyes fall straight to the ground, looking at the wet muckiness of it and eventually looking at his bare feet.They would probably get infected.
He yelped when a hand brushed barely against his shoulder, scrambling back and covering the skin with his own palm and fighting tears and looking back to the woman becausewhat if she was hurt?He looked to her fingers, hoping against hope he had not singed her with his skin. Had not ruined someone so beautiful.
He dared —dared—to glance up for the barest hint of a second, and he saw the pain there. Registered it with claritythe fact he'd hurt herand tried to scramble even further into the alley, turning his eyes to the ground once more.
He heard a sound —a sigh; the rustling of fabric— and then the woman was crouched in front of him, the hems of her too wonderful dress touching the filthy floors.Harry's fault.He ruined, he ruined, he ruined. Filthy—awful—wretched—"Are you alright, darling?" Harry blinked violently, looking —unthinkingly— at her face. Delicate like porcelain, soft lines and the devastating cut of her jaw. Upturned nose and subtly painted lips. She was pale like moon, and her eyes were blue, but not quite. Like water in the sun. Like the ocean looked in those books with the glossy pages when Harry tilted it and the light caught it just right. Her hair was blonde and fell like silk around her shoulders. Her smile was something soft and precious and the hand —the hand Harry had touched with his filth— was pressed against her skin. Against her face.
She radiated warmth like the ghosts Harry chased in his head. But she was so very real.
"Where are your parents?" The only thing Harry could do was shake his head, not harshly; not enough to dislodge her eyes. Her eyes that settled on him and were warm and kind and real andlies.It was all lies. Adults were liars. They were terrible liars. They didn't care. They never cared. They would look at him with their sympathy alwayswantingto and never actually doing anything about it.
"Have you none?" And her voice was even gentler now. Like that time Harry had sat and watched a little girl try to coax a cat to her; one of those times Harry had been left at school —one of the first times and he'd not yet known the exact path back to the house. Still looking at the floor —he would taint this too lovely woman were his gaze to fall on her again— he nodded; a slight movement. But then there was more rustling fabric and —keeping his eyes ground level— Harry looked in her direction. To see her shoes. She's stood up again.
Harry cursed the burn of tears. He knew better than to cry. He knew better than to have fallen for the lies of comfort.He knew better. He knew better. He knew—
"Would you like to join me for a meal?" Harry's head snapped up again, and he had just barely presence of mind to stray his eyes at the last moment, looking past her head rather than at her face. He saw the movement of a palm being offered. "It's such a bore, eating alone."
Harry didn't believe her. He didn't want to believe her. He knew he shouldn't believe her. But there was warmth to her and her smile was something precious and she wasoffering Harry her handlike he wouldn't ruin her with his filth and he was so very hungry. "Are you lying?" He asked, because he couldn't not because he'd rather be physically hurt for his rudeness than be tricked into believing the lie of the too beautiful woman.
"No."
He did not take her hand, but he did follow her.
She did not speak until they were seated with meal. A pasta dish that looked and smelled more divine than anything Harry had ever seen in his life. And it broke his heart into every possible piece when he knew he could not eat it all.
Especially not when it will have been his first meal in a week. He'd rather her ire at wasting than be left on his own when he vomitted.
"Would you like to tell me your name?" Harry watched her hands only, taking the same fork she did and trying to twirl his pasta the way she was doing.
"Harry," he said quietly, looking at his plate, and taking such care in not allowing the tines of the fork to scratch against a plate that looked worth more than the Dursleys' entire house.
"Do you have a last name, Harry?" And he was watching her hands again, fine and delicate and pale; nothing at all like his chewed down, grubby fingernails. But she was feeding him and her voice was kind and soft and she was warm and she wasn't making Harry look at her face and he shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't speak to strangers but—
"Potter."
He watched, wide eyed as her fork clattered, ringing out against the expensive plate. Watched the slight shake of her hand as she righted her utensil.
"And your parents are dead?" It should have been harsh. Harry didn't think anything could sound harsh coming out of her mouth.
Harry nodded, watching the tremble in her fingers stop as she set her fork down and pick up a glass instead. Harry had only just taken his first bite and he could groan with how lovely it was.
"Are you about eleven, darling?" Again, something wonderful and awful tingled in the pit of his stomach; but it was not —what he had assumed until now— his magic, this time. It was something much more special than that.
"Yes," Harry said quietly, wanting to use his words for her.Answer me when I ask you a question boy.
"Would you like to go somewhere else with me when you've finished your meal?" Still soft, but there was maybe —an urgency there now?
"Okay," Harry answered, because he was selfish and didn't want to leave the lovely lady yet.
She'd taken him to a bank.
Or, she'd called it a bank. Harry had never actually been to a bank, but he didn't think there were goblins in banks usually. But then, there wasn't magic usually. Or lovely, beautiful ladies who fed him and didn't flinch from his touch and called him darling.
When he stood behind her in front of the counter, it took everything in him not to flinch or yelp or send her straight to the hospital when she pressed a hand to the sink between his shoulders and pushed him forward. "We've come for blood confirmation," she said. Still soft, but firm. Commanding. She seemed someone who demanded respect with nothing but her eyes.
Harry had no idea what that was, but the gentle press of her hand on his back was dizzying and it burnt in the most beautiful way so he didn't see the surprise on the goblin's face.
In a little room in the back, she sat next to him as the goblins pulled a drop of blood from Harry's finger and let it fall on a piece of parchment. Harry watched, huffing a harsh breath of disbelief when a tree climbed from his blood, and he saw the names appear there. So many names. Too many names. James and Lily Potter. Sirius Black —there was a golden line etched between his names and James'. That line clawed into a new bunch of names, most of them other Blacks. All of it crawled down into two single lines.
Harry's own name sat under the one beneath James and Lily Potter. And a strange, almost funny name under the other. The one beneath the Black line. Beneath one Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy.
The woman's hand was on him again, pressing gently to his shoulder that made Harry want to shiver under it.
"We'd like to go to his vault, please. We've no key, but you see the proof of truth with your own eyes." Harry had no idea what was going on. Didn't want to do much other than sway more into the precious, precious touch on his shoulder.
"As you wish."
Harry was sure this was all some strange, awful dream now. One he never wanted to wake up from.
"Of course, I would have treated you myself, but I fear you might think it favour in future. So you will use your own riches. But know, Harry, anything you wish, it is yours."
Harry had no clue what she was on about, but the barest tips of her fingers were settled in the sink between his shoulder blades, and she smelt lovely, and Harry was weighed down with gold and too many clothes and his stomach was fuller than it'd been in yearsand he felt safe.He felt safer than he'd ever felt in his life.
"Who are you?" He finally had presence of mind to ask, pulling himself out from his drifting, and glancing just barely enough at her face to see her painted lips tug into a soft, little smile.
"The simplest answer is that I am your aunt." Harry's blood stopped ice cold in his veins, and he ripped himself from her side so abruptly he nearly stumbled, still unaccustomed to shoes that fit.
"No," Harry said; cold, bitter, edged with a manic sort of fear. "No because I have one aunt and I refuse to believe you could be anything like her. I—" but she had been warm and she had fed him and she had told him she would not lie when Harry asked her if she would. And she touched him without making it seem as though he was some sort of wretched filthy monster. And Harry didn't know what to do now.
"I am not your aunt by blood," She said, crouching again, and tilted her head to catch his eyes, looking elegant despite the fact she should have looked like a chicken with the way Harry avoided her gaze. "Not in the traditional sense. Your father," and Harry couldn't help but meet her eyes then. Because he knew nothing about his family besides the ghost of warmth he chased in his sleep. "And my little cousin performed a very frowned upon blood magic to tie our lines together completely. So we are family by magic, and we are family by law. But no, darling. I am not your aunt by blood."
Harry blinked, looking deep, deep, deep into her eyes and trying to understand. His father knew magic? His father and her little cousin? Blood magic? Tie their lines together? They were still stopped in the middle of the street, but everyone simply walked around them, parting like the Red Sea in a book Harry had read. "But why?" Because there was nothing else he could ask.
"Because they'd always wanted to be brothers, and nothing was stopping them from achieving that. They loved each other like that. A special type of bond."
And Harry could see it; feel it with an assuredness. The dog, the bite of barking laughter, the silver-grey-blue eyes that glimmered just like hers.
"You'll keep me?"
"Yes, Harry."
"And you don't think I'm a monster?" The question seemed to baffle her, eyes widening in a manner that should not have been as delicate as it was. And then her hand —small, clean, pale; delicate and safe and warm— was settling on his shoulder again, thumb brushing against the skin of his shoulder, exposed from his still too large shirt.
"I think you are someone so very precious. I think I should have tried harder to find you after my cousin's death. I think I should have thought it strange when my husband told me Dumbledore was the one who housed you when I had inquired. I think there are many mistakes I have made. But no, Harry Potter. I do not think you are a monster."
And Harry wanted —needed. He didn't even know what he needed, but his eyes stung and his fingers twitched and she had fed him and touched him and treated him like a child and offered him her hand and called him darling and —Harry realised, pressing his head into her shoulder and inhaling the soft sweetness of her that he'd never been hugged. Not in his memory. Not, he was sure, since he was four. When his parents; when his family had died so very tragically. Harry had not been held gently since then. Harry had not realised how much he'd yearned to be held gently.
He didn't know when he'd made it to the truly luxurious house he woke up to find himself in. Or even when he'd fallen asleep.
And somehow, he'd only just now noticed that his bruises were gone, that his feet were not cut up and aching. Sitting up and stretching, he groaned a little when his back popped, palming around for his glasses —which he found shiny and new and perfectly fixed.
He pressed them to his face and was sure he felt a gentle warmth there. Smelt it in the air around him and wondered how much he was intruding. She said she'd had a husband. Harry wondered where the husband was.
Harry wondered wherehewas. "Oh," it was soft and Harry snapped his head quickly over to the sound of it, scrambling off the couch and standing with his hands behind his back, eyes on the ground, tracking the brush of her dress rather than her steps because he could not see her feet. "I'm so happy to see you awake, darling. Would you like a cup of tea?" Harry didn't know how to answer, fiddling with his trembling fingers behind his back.
Again, that gentle rustle of fabric Harry was becoming too familiar with, and he was met again with her eyes—impossible to describe. But her hand was on his shoulder and Harry could smell the flowers, gentle and mild, that had been burned into his nostrils when he was allowed to press his grimy face to her neck and he was torn between wanting to rip himself away in efforts to protect her and sway further into that dizzying cocoon of safe she seemed to encourage.
"You're allowed to sit on the couch, Harry. And you're allowed a cup of tea if you wish. And you are allowed food whenever you should desire it. And I am sure there are more things you would seek my permission for, but I am not a mind-reader. Ask and it shall be, darling. I am not afraid of you. You are not any sort of monster. I have welcomed you into my home because I want you here. I want you to be here, Harry." Tentatively, letting his hands fold in front of him in active attempt to protect his core rather than expose it —something he'd never been allowed; keep your hands behind your back, boy. You deserve this. Don't try to hide from it.— and looking into her eyes. Let his gaze trace her face, looking for any sign of malice. He'd gotten good at finding signs of aggression. He saw none now.
"Am I allowed to take a shower?"With soap he didn't ask, seeing the twitch in her lips and knowing he'd done something wrong. He flinched when her hands tightened minutely on his shoulders.
But she shuffled, and picked herself up in a movement so graceful Harry could gawk, and —still with her hands resting on Harry's shoulder— said, "Come along, darling." And there was a darkness to her voice that was so unnervinglysafe that Harry floated in front of her, gliding rather than walking as she guided him.
She took him to a room with a tub that was as large as the swimming pool he'd seen but wasn't allowed near, filled with gently steaming water and bubbles and what looked like flower petals, an assortment of what was probably soap lining its edge.
"You make take as long a bath as you would like. You may use anything you want. It is all yours.It all belongs to you,"Harry turned on his heel so quickly he knocked into her, craning his neck to stare at her so hard his eyes hurt a little.
"I—"
"It's yours, darling. I'll send you a towel and fresh clothing, alright? Enjoy your bath."
Harry sat on the floor in front of her on folded legs, eyes already blinking closed to the feeling of fingers carding so very gently through his washed—with soap— hair, still damp. Harry's hair had always grown rather quickly, and he knew he was due for a haircut. But he didn't want a haircut and he had a feeling that if he asked, she would let him keep his hair.
"I chose a bedroom for you," she said, having had Harry turn around to brush now the front of his hair. Probably set it to rights. Perhaps to make him look as put together as she always did. "Unless you'd like to choose your own?" But Harry shook his head, vision foggy despite his glasses perched on his nose. And he was safe and warm and he smelt lovely and his hair wasn't matted and he was being a given and bedroom and he should be so very freaked out, but he didn't have to capacity to be when this felt like such a dream.
"It's fine," Harry said, syrupy slow, back warmed by firelight and heart warm by kindness he knew was rare. He would hurt anyone who even looked at this woman wrong, and it was a violent promise. But it was promise all the same. He had so many questions to ask. But he would ask them tomorrow. After he'd gone to bed.
If he woke up here and not in a cupboard. If this hadn't all been some terrible, wonderful dream after having retreated too far into his mind. If he was broken and this was the result, he wanted to break more.
It had not been a dream, yet nearly a month later it still felt like one.
Narcissa —for he had eventually learnt the lovely woman's name— was so very kind to him. Showered him in little gifts, and fed him, and answered his questions, and read with him the library, and allowed him any sweet he could think of.
She was patient with him; with his jumpy mannerisms; with the way he still avoided her touches more often than not, but was so very gentle when he didn't flinch away.
They'd done his Hogwart's shopping —which also hadn't been a dream— and gotten him more clothes and things than he could ever need. And some part of Harry wanted to buy everything and another part felt like he deserved nothing. But that part of him was getting better.
She'd gently coaxed the tale of the Dursleys from him, understanding enough without prying harshly. And then, she'd told him stories of his Godfather, most of which included his father and then, eventually, his mother.
And as much as it ached, not having had them. Harry was happy to add the stories to his ghosts and chase them in his dreams.
Because the world was a cold, cruel place and he'd been given the slightest bit of warmth. He would guard his warmth. He would treasure it. He was not a changed person, he simply had something worth protecting now.Someone worth protecting.Someone who would curl up with him in front of the fire in the evenings and read to him and tuck him gently into bed.
The week before he was meant to be at Hogwarts, he stumbled into the dining room for breakfast, dishevelled and wrapped up tightly in a dressing gown, to see two pairs of near identical eyes and blond heads blinking at him.
Neither of them were the head of blonde he knew and immediately his eyes flickered, back straightening, head bowing as he just stood there for a moment. Waiting, not breathing, steeling himself for the pain. The bruises. The new scars that would be added to the ones that had faded by now due to the ointments Narcissa had left him.
"Oh, Harry darling," Harry flinched in place, not raising his head. It had been a trick. It was all a trick, he was going to be kicked out now. He had been —some sort of placeholder or something. He was a ball of nothing.
But that hand was feather light on his shoulder and the scent of flowers —mild and perfect— was at his back and he dared to meet her eyes. Still warm and gentle and maybe even amused.
"Who're you?" It was the boy who asked, around the mouthful of whatever it was he had been eating, sitting up a little in his chair. Harry remembered his name was Draco. "Mother, who is that? What's he doing here? Is he in my dressing gown?" Harry had to smother a snort actually, because he wasn't in the boy's dressing gown. He was in his own. He'd bought it with his own money.
He never thought he'd have his own dressing gown. He never thought he'd have his own money.He said nothing, shuffling to hide behind Narcissa.
"This is Harry, darling. He's your uncle's godson. He'll be staying with us."
"Which uncle?" Draco asked, though it was closer to a screech.
"The dead one, darling," Narcissa said easily, starting towards one of the chairs. Harry followed behind her meekly, taking the seat next to her and folding his hands in his lap. His eyes, however, flickered to the boy's father, even as Draco kept up with his screeching.
"Whichdead uncle? I feel I've hundreds at this point. And why is he here? And —" dark grey eyes —like stormclouds; the truly devastating ones— settled on him and assessed, even as his son continued his screeching. And then they turned to Narcissa. Within the expanse of a heartbeat, those dark eyes had softened something strange and looked at Harry once again, nodding once.
Draco continued his screeching and Narcissa made up Harry's plate.
The week before he was meant to be at Hogwarts was a game —a dreadful game really— of trying to hide from Draco and avoid his father, though he wasn't really that bad. He'd raise a brow every time Harry stumbled upon him in his endeavours to hide, but wouldn't say much of anything.
In fact, Harry had stumbled upon him just then, shutting the door behind him and pressing up against it. Lucius was sitting in the chair behind the desk of what must have been his study, looking at a piece of parchment.
As it had done the few times Harry had barged in on him in odd corners, he raised one pale brow, nodded at him and looked back down. They both pretended they weren't hearing Draco's screeching, seeking Harry out.
"You're not upset I'm here?" Harry asked on a whim, knowing he need only shout and Narcissa would protect him.
Lucius made a grumbly sound in his throat, and looked back up at Harry past his glasses. "My wife is fond of you," he said, as though that explained everything, and scratched something into his parchment.
"Did you know my parents as well?" Harry asked, because he hadn't been expecting an answer before, but thought he might get one.Anything you want, Harry. You need only ask.
"Not as well as Narcissa. Sirius wasn't much fond of me. Spirited her away often to gripe, I'm sure. And where Sirius was, your father was."
"She said they did some sort of blood magic to connect the family lines?" Because Harry was getting answers, and where Narcissa was happy to go on a tangent about her baby cousin, Lucius' answers were simple and clinical.
"Yes. Wildly experimental and plenty illegal, but in the end, I suppose it worked."
"Why?" Harry couldn't help but ask, leaning off the door and approaching his desk.
"Well, I assume it might've simply been to prove they could," and there was a bitterness there, but there was also a grudging amount of amusem*nt.
"Are you going to kick me out?" Harry let himself crawl into one of the leather chairs and peer over at whatever it was Lucius was looking at, not having expected him to lower the paper for Harry to see easier.
"Hurt my wife or hurt my son, I will do worse than kicking you out of my house," and there was promise on his tongue. His easy threat of a child should have been terrifying. It was oddly warm to Harry.
"Can I avoid him at least?" Because Harry would hurt himself before he hurt Narcissa. He yelped a little when both himself and the chair rearranged themselves beside Lucius behind his desk.
"I never said to be nice to him," and then he let Harry sit and read through his work with him, teaching him the intricacies of making connections and keeping them.
"I may not be able to harm you, Draco. But I swear to you, if you get any closer, I will shred your favourite jumpers."
There was a whole other bench in the compartment, why did he choose to sit near Harry? Harry had observed him enough over the past week. He was snotty and bratty and got any and everything he wanted. He was disgustingly like Dudley. Except, he'd not hurt Harry yet. And he'd look at Harry with curiosity rather than disgust, so they had been living in an odd sort of truce.
The urge to run was still bitingly present. But he'd told Lucius he wouldn't hurt him. And he wasn't exactly sure what exactly the parameters of hurtwere, but he had to be careful.
Even if he got kicked out, he just didn't want to lose Narcissa.
But Draco was very much inside his space. And he wasn't soft and gentle and kind the way Narcissa was and he was too close and Harry did not want him that close.
And then he was insulting a Weasley and Harry had ample reason to ignore him, because he would not be friends with a bully. He'd faced enough of those in his life.
And then they were both in Slytherin and Draco waspoutingall but dancing around Harry for his attention and the headache building in his temples was so unbearable that Harry had used a jinx he'd learnt in Lucius' study to swaddle Draco in a blanket him and essentially tie him to his bed.
The rest of the Slytherin House had applauded him. Draco —when he had finally escaped— had looked at Harry with such a profound sense ofhurt and betrayal—with a face that had Narcissa's softness and Lucius' eyes and Harry felt bad.
Harry had felt terrible actually. Because well, he was the one that had barged into his house, wasn't he? Could he really blame Draco for his curiosity?
So he'd sighed, and he'd dropped himself on Draco's bed and had said, "Ask your questions." He truly was not prepared to get nearly a lapful of the boy —who'd launched himself over the bed and seemed much too comfortable in Harry's space. But he smelt like Narcissa and he looked so much like Narcissa that Harry couldn't help his softening expression.
Because he was safe.
He was annoying, and chatty and had appalling sense of personal space and was a complete and utter brat and liked to flaunt his riches and was a bullybut he was safe. Because he reminded Harry of the house —mansion— which was quickly becoming home and well, he wasn't actually that bad.
And that was when it started.
Harry wasn't stupid.
He could see the odd glances sent his way. But Draco really was just that oblivious to everything.
His tongue never tired of weaving the wildest tales, and with Harry's attention, he really couldn't care about anyone else.
Not even Ron Weasley.
And really, he wasn't so awful once one became accustomed to the nearly screechy quality of his voice.
But Harry wasn't stupid. He wasn't immune to the stares and the snickers and the fact that —essentially— Draco was the one being bullied now. What with everyone making fun of his non-stop mouth behind his back. And howPotter must be so fretfully annoyed having to deal with him all day and even Ron Weasley's habit of calling him aFerret. Which Harry wanted to argue was just as bad as Draco having called him a Weasel. But really, Harry didn't care about anyone else much. And Draco really wasn't that bad.
Harry had spent only a week with him, a month with his mother and he could feel the warmth in that house. Even from Lucius —with his stern face and connections and pension for chiding Draco on his mannerisms. Even he cared deeply. And they entrained him so happily. Sitting and reading as he spoke, or Narcissa brushing his hair the way she had brushed Harry's.
And none of their peers actually stopped to listen to what Draco was saying. He wasn't always prattling on about his riches and family.Though there was abundance of that, of course.
If they took the time, they would hear him speak of the books he'd read and the lessons they'd learnt and the music he'd been introduced to and his love of flying and his love of the stars.
And that was their first year, really. Draco following Harry around, more often than not in his space, and chattering away like the world would fall away if he didn't stop speaking for a moment.
And it was —a little after Christmas, they'd just come back out for the term— that niggling little thought that helped Harry figure it out. They were both up, huddled in Harry's bed, Draco perched nearly on him because he still didn't understand the concept of personal space; Harry was reading one of the new books he'd gotten for Christmas. He'd always read for escape, but now —with nothing to escape from— he read to keep little facts in his head to see if Draco could reference them as easily as he seemed able to. So Harry had begun reading the most obscure books he could find.
He was reading and Draco was perched pretty much on him, chin jutting nearly painfully into Harry's shoulder as he looked past him into the lake, words slurring at this point and absolute nonsense coming out of his mouth and Harry had finally snapped, ready to send him to bed.
And Draco had panicked. He had panicked so furiously that Harry was the one who had to hold him, urging him to breathe and calm down.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked eventually when he felt Draco's breath evening out against his chest.
"I'm not ready to go to bed yet," but Harryknewhe was half asleep. Could feel it in how deep and even his breath was.
So Harry sighed, and picked his book back up and tried to ignore the weight of Draco draped heavily against him.
But then Draco started speaking again, until he finally drifted off.
It had clicked in Harry's brain. The way Draco's eyes would dart around the classroom when they were set to take notes and the teacher wasn't speaking. The way his knee would bounce and his fingers would near shake on his quill and he'd glance up at even the barest hint of sound, seeking it out like someone possessed. Seeking it out with a wild look in his eyes.
Draco was afraid of the silence.
Harry sighed and read aloud instead.
It was a little after that, that thetouchingwell and truly started.
When Draco wasn't so concerned with running his mouth, content to sit and listen to Harry read, he'd found other ways to amuse himself. This usually involved Harry's hands. Draco would just —take them.
Scratching against Harry's nails, or fiddling with his fingers, or drawing idle shapes in the centre of his palms —either ignoring or straight up just not hearing the way Harry's voice would hitch nearly dangerously.
Because Narcissa pressed a hand to his back, and she would press a hand to his shoulder, and she'd hugged him —that one time in the Alley and at Christmas— and she'd even brush his hair. But she really wasn't —her and Lucius both— quite touchy. She more used endearments. And yes, she often had a hand on Harry's shoulders but it wasn't much other than that. And Harry loved it, he adored it in every possible way.
But he'd never been touched like this. He'd never been touched simply for the sake of being touched —Narcissa's touches were a source of comfort; calm. This was just —well Harry didn't even know what it was, but it was strange. It was addicting. It burned in the most beautiful way.
Draco's fingers were long and cold and his nails were just long enough to scratch against Harry's skin and it was the most wonderful sensation —the draw of nails against his skin, tracing formless shapes.
Harry had to force himself not to shiver; not to tremble under the gentle drag of cold fingers in the heat of the fire and the silence of night.
And then it had escalated.
By second year it was pure instinct when Malfoy was near, for Harry's hand to land in his lap upturned, no matter where they were, or what was happening.
And then work started piling up, and Harry needed both of his hands for the —truly— ridiculous amounts of homework he had to do that Draco seemed to finish miraculously quickly, so Draco had taken to drawing little shapes on his knee instead.
Harry was very ticklish on his knee. He had not known this. And then Draco did a strange thing where he pinched his fingers together, so they met at one point and spread them across Harry's knee in a quick motion, nails digging into the fabric of his pants.
Harry actually folded over the table at that, hands coming around him as though to stop the fluttering in his stomach, breath punched out of his lungs and knee jerking up at the motion. He'd bloody whimpered at the strange, beautiful sensation. And then Draco had looked at him, grey eyes wide and curious, and he'd done it again.
Harry managed to keep the whimper in that time; his knee jerked so high up it banged into the table, drawing the eyes of their peers.
But Harry couldn't care less, because his heart was racing an odd beat and his lungs wouldn't take in air properly and Draco had just hummed and gone back to tracing lines on his knee, climbing onto his thigh but never going very far. He'd nudged Harry's paper back in front of him and corrected the ingredients for the potion he was supposed to list from memory and still his nails dragged across Harry's knee.
Another evening in the common room, and Harry was reading quietly, in front of the fire, waiting on Draco. Who'd disappeared, though he had no clue where. His back was pressed to the arm of the sofa, one leg tucked under him, his other knee bent and spread out a little.
He let his voice raise —slight, but loud enough to be heard— when he sensed Draco coming. And it really was an odd thing, just knowing he was in a room without even having to look up. But Harry knew. Could feel him, could smell the scent of wildflowers and winter that seemed to follow him around.
But he was on really a rather interesting paragraph, so before he could shift to make space for Draco to sit, Draco was sat. And his hands were on Harry's ankle, crawling under the cuff of his trousers, and just sitting there for a moment, warm and cold and really wildly perfect against Harry's shin.
And then he was leaning forward, chin perched on Harry's knee, as he —essentially— hugged his shin. Which was fine. It was okay. It was a little maddening, but he had Draco draped over him all the time anyway. So this was fine.
Until he felt the scrape of nails; a barely there touch at first but then it became so much more present. Nails dragging up the skin of his shin and pulling back down in a sensation that made Harry want to stretch his knee out even more just so Draco would press his nails to him more.
And it was a startling realisation, and he wouldn't let anyone else touch him like this; ever. But he —well, he trembled when Draco did it. And it never seemed like Draco knew what he was doing. He could just never keep his hands still. Playing his his quill, or his sleeves or Harry's fingers. His hands were always moving.
In fact, he looked almost bored, cheek pressing to Harry's knee, eyes nearly glazed over as they stared into the fire. He turned his head then, and Harry could've sworn his heart stopped for a moment —silver eyes flashing nearly gold, the smallest little noise coming from his throat, questioning —curious as the why Harry had stopped reading.
Harry cleared his throat and continued reading.
If Harry having his upturned palm waiting for Draco had become habit, finding a way to sit with one of his knees bent was addiction.
Folding himself on the bench in class in such a way that the edge of his heel rested on the bench and Draco's hand would just —wrap around his ankle. Third year now, and Draco's hand would just —wrap around his ankle like some sort of bracelet.He'd hit his growth spurt proper and he'd stopped slicking his hair back and his voice was cracking a little and he had the hints of pimples around his forehead and chin and his hair had grown out and his his fingers had gotten longer —long enough to wrap completely around Harry's ankle, and just sit there; warm soothing weight.
Innocent in a way only Draco's touches could be. Innocent in the way he'd tilt his head and look at Harry, face scrunched almost adorably in confusion when Harry's brain just left him and he stared.
Stared at Draco and stared at the hand on his ankle and stared at the hair in his eyes and stared at Draco's other hand. Then he would feel the drag of nails up his skin and he'd want to cry —because it was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.
When he was zoning out to truly absurd extents —like when they'd just won a Quidditch match and Draco was laughing, that wide genuine grin Harry so rarely saw, hair sweat slicked and combed back, uniform clinging to him a little, hand wrapped all the way up on Harry's elbow because his arm guards were stil on and Harry was still replaying that feeling; that image over and over again in his head in the common room— Draco would do that thing where he pinched his fingers together and spread them wide on Harry's knee —like how a jellyfish swam— and he'd watch Harry fold in half and shudder. He'd watched the tremble rock through Harry's entire body as he tried to figure outwhy the hellhe reacted like that to such a simple touch. He'd just watch him with a smug little look Harry couldn't even begin to discern.
It was euphoric actually, those special little touches.
And then they'd had their first row.
Well, not their first. Not by a long shot. But this was their first proper row. Their first true argument like this. The one that had them both huffing, and avoiding each other and Harry couldn't —he couldn't lookat him. Or well, it was the opposite really.
Draco wouldn't look at Harry.
They'd made themselves seem so inseparable that people were actuallyscaredof getting in the middle of them. So they still sat together in classes, and at meals and in the common room.
But Draco would sit so far he was probably hanging half off the bench, and he'd sequester himself away in his bed than spend any time with Harry in the common room. And he ate so quickly at meal times that by the time Harry had decided what he would eat, Draco was already gone.
And his skin tingled while he was near. Leg reaching to tug itself up, or hand upturning itself for Draco to play with and being met with cold nothingness.
It was so awful that Harry tried to drag his nails over his own skin, and it just —it wasn't right.He couldn't do this.
He didn't even know why Draco was being like this.But he did.
It was Harry's own fault really. He'd come out at the end of third year because it had just felt right. Felt like it was the time. And he'd gotten his first hug from Draco then —and it was an entirely new sort of euphoria. Because really, nothing was going to correct the malnourishment of Harry's youth. So Draco was taller and ever slightly so broader and when he pulled Harry in —when he had pulled Harry in that day in the locker room just before their final game of the season. Harry had been swallowed so completely into him —into the scent of wildflowers and frigid winter even with summer just on the horizon and he'd broke; just a little. Breaking his own rule —his rule of not touching, because even after all this time, he was wary of touching; of harming; of tainting. But he'd clung to Draco and he'd cried and he'd been okay. They'd been okay.
Hell even Lucius had wrapped an arm around his shoulders for just a moment when he told them —his equivalent of a spine crushing hug.
And then Harry had gotten himself involved with a seventh year boy. Which Draco had warned him about. Griped and groaned about him being so absolutely awful.
And then he'd been right —the guy was a right prick. And Harry had barely gotten himself out of that disastrous situation in one piece.
And then he'd blown up at Draco when he had the nerve to yell at him —"I told you so, didn't I? That stupid head of your just never listens to me!"
And Harry had gotten even angrier. And now Draco hadn't touched him in a week and he missed the scrape of nails and the gentle warmth and the press of Draco on him —against his side; a leg thrown over Harry's; a chin on his shoulder; shoulders pressed together in the library;a hand wrapped around his ankle.
So Harry broke his rule again. And broke in general.
It wasn't until nearly midnight that he managed to pry himself from the fire, throat nearly dry with how long he'd been reading, praying silently for Draco to come sit with him. And he hadn't come. And he wasn't there. And he was angry. And he had told Harry. And he'd only wanted Harry to be safe andf*ck.It was up to him to fix it.
So tentatively, carefully, quietly, he went to their room. And then he froze, standing outside of Draco's drawn drapes, bouncing back and forth on his toes.
"Icanhear you out there." And Harry could truly, honestlycry.Because Draco hadn't uttered so much of a word to him in the week they'd been fighting. And sure, he'd not opened his drapes, but he was waiting on Harry. So, with one final breath, he crawled into Draco's bed.
Who was sitting against his headboard, legs folded and head tilted up, arms crossed against his chest.
Shuffling in quietly, Harry crawled over to him, and ever so carefully —so gently, so very hesitantly, pressed his forehead to Draco's thigh, body folded in prostration and whispered his apology, body held stiffly in wait of response.
Or, he wasn't sure who had frozen more, because Draco didn't even seem to be breathing, and the air was still, and Harry was going to pull away but then —but then the touch of that hand he'd been yearning for, for an entire week. That he hadn't gone a single day without in —well, in three years, really— was pressed to his head. Nail, only just long enough to trace, to scratch, to leave an indent if pressed hard enough, pressed against Harry's forehead; the barest trace of a touch and still he shuddered under it, breaking so quickly when the long fingers crept into his hair and scratched against his scalp and tugged —gently; just once.
"It's not going to stop you from not listening to me in the future," and his voice was cold but his touch was fire and Harry sort of wanted to fold into him and be held, but Draco had told him and Draco had warned him and Draco had done everything but bring f*cking photographic evidence and Harry had thanked him by blowing up at him.
"I know, and I'll apologise then, as well," Harry's voice was still at a whisper, head tilting to look up at Draco, pressing his cheek against his thigh. The finger, the nail dragged down his face, his cheekbones, dragged to the perimeter and down the bolt of his jaw, hand splaying to rest there, thumb just below Harry's lip. Harry sort of wanted to kiss it, whisper his apology into skin.
Those eyes were looking at him, at his own hand spread across skin so much darker than his own and the intensity in itburnedHarry and made him shiver all the same. Wanting and fearing in the same breath. And Draco's touches had always been so innocent —idle little things that held no meaning but Harry could map like scars on his skin. Forever imprinted into his flesh. Harry would draw the lines sometimes, scrape his own nails against himself and yearn for that peace it brought.
But it was never the same; would never be the same.
And Draco usually looked uninterested; bored. Like he hadn't even registered the movement of his own fingers. But the way he looked at Harry now, and the way his thumb inched up ever so slowly —right where Harry wanted it. It was bliss and it was devastation and Harry pressed the barest of kisses; the slightest pursing of his lips and whispered there —against the promise of flesh, eyes locked so securely on Draco's. "I'm sorry I didn't listen," and Draco's thumb was still pressed to his flesh, tracing the curve of his lower lip as Harry spoke, tugging it ever so slightly and pressing into the wetness of flesh. The rest of his hand had tightened, the press of nails sinking into his skin —the cut of his jaw, and the height of his cheek and the dip of his neck. And Harry really truly did not know how he'd gone an entire week without this. How he'd even managed a single day.
His throat was dry, and he watched Draco track the swell of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, thumb ducking from his lip to press against it. Harry swallowed again to feel the pressure and turned his face back against Draco's thigh, trying so very hard to escape that dark, torturous gaze. "I'm sorry, Draco." And Draco had to have felt the words more than he heard them, because Harry could feel the burn of his gaze on his throat and the flexing of muscles on his on his neck and the drag on nails down his flesh.
He shivered with it, tilting more when Draco's fingers dipped just barely under the hem of his shirt, drawing those mindless, maddening swirls on his shoulder. "I really want to murder him." It really shouldn't have shot through Harry like flame, warming him all the way down to his toes.
Harry pressed his face more firmly against Draco's thigh, neck arching on its own when he felt the scrape of those nails climb back up, into the shorter hairs at his nape. He gasped —the sound nothing more than breath and punched out of him— when Draco's hand fisted there andpulled,baring Harry's face.
He leaned over, so close their noses could've brushed —their nosesdidbrush— and his promise was violent and it was was beautiful and his eyes were so dark, night encircled by the the barest hint of moonlight. "Anyone hurts you again, and Iwillkill them."
And then he was gone, hand gentling, and other knee bending to act as perch for his book. That was how Harry fell asleep —with the image of Draco's face too close to his own, and his hand in his hair and his voice washing over him and the ghost of a tug at his scalp.
Draco was more. . . protective after that.
Possessiveeven. He played with Harry's hands all the time, sure. He never held Harry's hand. He still didn't. But his fingers would circle so beautifully around Harry's wrist and he'd tug him everywhere and Harry was drunk on that burn.
He'd had his first sip of firewhisky that Christmas break. And this was so much better. So much more satisfying. So much easier to feel the haze crawling into his eyes.
He'd just —let Draco drag him anywhere. As long has he never let go. And he didn't. He never did. Legs pressed together at meals and hand on his knee during class, and fingers wrapped around his wrist between classes, and the weight of his head on Harry's thigh, pulling the other leg over him like some sort of crappy blanket and letting his nails drag higher and higher on Harry's skin. From his knee straight down to his ankles.
And Harry's voice quivered as he read to him every night in front of the fire, and Draco would just press his nails deeper and Harry f*ckinglovedthat. And he shouldn't have. But he loved the press of nails into his skin, hard enough to leave indents.
And then, the clothes had started.
It had happened —the first time— so incidentally; so innocently. It had been cold and Harry's jumpers had gone to the wash so he'd just taken one of Draco's. One of the simple school appointed jumpers —a Slytherin one. And he should've expected to have been caught, because it was loose in the shoulders and reached, really, almost nearing mid-thigh and the sleeves covered his hands nearly entirely. And really, Harry should've expected it. Because Draco was slender —but the bloody f*cker was so damn tall.
And well, even if theylookedlike the school appointed jumpers, Draco's were so muchsofter.And they smelled so much better. And the next thing Harry knew, Draco himself was tugging Harry into his jumpers in the morning and he was buttoning his own shirts up Harry's chest, and he was tying his own tie around Harry's neck and wrapping his own scarf —and f*ck, it was the scarf that did him in. Because whatever the f*ck cologne Draco wore, it was addicting to levels Harry didn't even know possible.
And Draco was absolutely delighted. Because no one would notice the sag of the shirt unless they were looking too bloody close, and too-large jumpers were cute right now and no one would ever know it was Draco's tie or Draco's scarf.
But Draco knew. And Harry knew and he knew it wasn't normal and he allowed it anyway, because the scent of Draco was intoxicating and he was wrapped up in it so wonderfully and he was stopped between classes by some older Ravenclaw boy.
And the intention was clear in his eyes, and Draco's hand was locked around his wrist like a vice —until it wasn't. Until it was slung idly around Harry's shoulder, so long it hung really near Harry's stomach, patting him idly there, hand fisting in the jumper —his jumper— for a spilt moment but Harry felt it and he knew and Draco knew and Harry was falling into his side, pulling his scarf —Draco's scarf— just a little higher and he was high and dizzy and letting it happen because he could. Because the boy in fourth year had been no one special and a game until he was obsessive and creepy and pulling Harry into things Harry didn't want. And he had been going along for a little while, because well —it was a game and the person he wanted was the one whose arm was slung around his shoulder and whose scent he was drowning in and who's clothes were wrapping him up and whose fingers were drumming idly on his chest, chin resting on his head because Harry was just that f*cking easy, letting himself be pulled in like this.
But the Ravenclaw boy's eyes were so wide, and really, he looked ready to piss himself and Harry should not have taken any sort of sick pleasure in that. But he did. He loved that. Loved it more than he should. Loved it a concerning amount really.
And their mouths were moving, both the boy's and Draco's and Harry was paying absolutely no attention to anything except the rumble against his back, and the fingers drumming against his chest and then his knees were shaking at the brush of lips against his forehead.
It wasn't the first time, and Harry was sure —was praying— it wouldn't be the last. Harry was also praying that Draco got himself a f*cking brain, because normal people —boys at least— did not justkiss each other's heads but Harry was selfish and also didn't really care. Because he had Draco in a way no one else could have him. And that was —truly— enough.
And then the boy was fleeing and Draco was tugging him along again, hand still slung over his shoulder; except it had crawled under Harry's jumper — under hisshirtand was drawing the loveliest little patterns against his skin with the most beautiful scrape of nails.
It was more often that Draco fell asleep on Harry than the other way around.
But Draco was the one reading this time, and Harry was leaned against his side, settled so peacefully into the crook of his neck, breathing in wildflowers and winter that was so much better in the actual winter.
And Draco's voice reverberated in his throat and his arm was wrapped around Harry, idly playing with the hem of one of Draco's shirts and then it was dipping under and this was unexplored territory now, but there wasn't even the slightest hitch in Draco's voice as his thumb dragged up and down Harry's side.
He only held him tighter, dragged him closer when Harry squirmed a little —ticklish and something else; something he couldn't exactly give name to, but something— entire palm slipping under Harry's shirt and just. Just resting there, warm and steady around the curve of Harry's waist and Harry was half asleep and Draco's voice was steady and vibrated so beautifully against Harry's cheek and his hand was so so very warm and Harry was dizzy, heady, intoxicated —drunk as he pursed his lips the slightest bit and kissed Draco's neck, stomach swooping and flexing at the tightening up fingers round his hip —burning like Harry was treading across the sun. Letting himself be engulfed in flames just so he wouldn't be cold.
And then he was melting so beautifully when Draco's voice cut for just a moment, head ducking down to press a kiss to Harry's brow.
The Malfoys threw a party for Draco's sixteenth birthday.
Though, it fell closer to Harry's birthday; in between them both, really —seeing as Draco's birthday was during the term.
The Malfoys threw a party for Draco's birthday, and seeing him in school attire was already maddening, but seeing him dressed like this? In black velvet molded to his skin, and lengthening hair combed just so— barely, purposely falling into his eyes and watching him adjust the cuff around his wrist was so —so f*cking attractivefor some reason.
And then his eyes were on Harry —leant against his doorframe— darkening in that way they sometimes did; dead of night set aglow by the barest moonlight.
And that's who he was really; black suit flowing like water against him and skin so pale he looked like a dream. A very wet one. But also a very precious one. Like one of the ghosts Harry still chased sometimes. And he was sweeping into Harry's space, long fingers pressing against his jaw, shutting Harry's mouth with an audible click.
"Like what you see, do you?" But Harry's jaw was still held shut, so he raised a single eyebrow.
Draco's hand stayed where it was, left one raising to brush against it Harry's eyebrow. And then his right hand was lowering, splaying itself on Harry's mostly covered neck —because his collar came up really quite high— but the buttons were being undone and Draco's hand was splayed against skin and Harry felt it like a brand. Long and slim and wrapped around his neck.
Harry felt it like a brand; wanted it to burn into his skin like a brand —the press of Draco's hand. The shape of it. He wanted to wear it like a f*cking necklace and Draco's eyes were on him, black as the abyss, and his hand was tightening infinitesimally around Harry's neck and his breath caught, body pressing up on his toes on instinct he didn't even know existed, begging with his eyes for Draco's hand to tighten.
And it did.
So gently. So perfectly. So wonderfully.
He leant down, pressing his lips to Harry's brow where he'd just had his thumb, and Harry leaned into that too. Felt the shift and the weight of Draco's head resting against his; breaths just this side of laboured as they puffed against Harry's face, fingers flexing against the column of his throat.
"Ruin me," and it was a plea on his tongue. It was good as begging. "Ruin us." Draco would finish it for him. If Draco finished it for him. If— the scrape of teeth dragged across his skin, nipped gently; harshly at his ear.
"Will you let me?" But Harry couldn't breathe with the way his chest was burning.
"I never wanted a quiet, sensible sort of—" his breath caught on the word and he was speaking in riddles; they both were. Were speaking in quotes. Were speaking in a language they had crafted between themselves. And Draco's hand was tightening so beautifully around his throat Harry didn't know why he couldn't breathe anymore —whether it was his own incapability to function or Draco cutting his breath.
But the burn of teeth was dragging across him and Draco's nails were pressing in, in a way that would leave grooves in Harry's skin and f*ck did he want that.
"Are you asking to be devoured?" His voice was so soft, deceptive. His voice was carnage so sweet as his left hand scratched into the nape of Harry's head and fisted his hair and tugged— so hard it burnt and Harry could collapse just from the weight of his eyes.
If this was to be his death, he would be satisfied.
And it might just be —what with the way Draco's hand was so tight on his throat it was going bruise and Harry nearly whimpered at the very thought of it. It was sick —how much he wanted to see the print of Draco's hand on his skin.
And then Narcissa was calling for them, and Harry's collar was being redone, Draco bending the press a breath of a kiss to the centre of his throat.
It had, in fact, bruised, and Harry was very grateful it was the summer holidays. Because he'd spent much too long perched in front of the mirror in his room, tracing across the faint bruises there.
It was a girl that broke them, oddly enough.
Draco had been gone for too long, and Harry was waiting in front of the fire and he should've been warm but he was so cold and where the f*ck was Draco?
And then he'd stumbled in, wide eyed and a little bit frazzled, walking over to Harry as though in a trance, falling on him in a way Harry expected. Looked forward to, really.
But he seemed unfocussed, and he smelt too sweet and there was the barest smudging of red against his jaw.
Harry's thumb found it, and pressed into it so hard Draco actually winced, before pressing even harder into the touch. So hard that Harry's nail would either break skin, or the pressure would leave a bruise.
And Draco was nearly pleading, voice cracking as he said, "Take it away, please. Get rid of it." And he sounded breathless, dazed in some awful sort of way; shaken and he was scrambling up, pressing into Harry and pressing his face into Harry's neck and then his teeth were on him —something he'd never done before. But he smelt too sweet and there was a smudge of red on his jaw and he sounded shaken in a way Harry had never heard him.
And Harry's neck was arching to give him place, and he was sighing into the wet comfort of teeth pressing into his neck and biting. But something was wrong and he would wear any of Draco's bruises with pride, yearned for them, really. But something was f*cking wrong and he smelt too sweet and there was a smudge of red in his jaw and —
"What happened, love?" And Harry was allowed to call him that. Harry was allowed to call him anything he wanted. Harry was allowed everything. But Draco's smell of wildberries and winter was covered in the scent of sugar and there was a smudge of red on his jaw and when Harry pulled him away, holding his jaw so delicately in his palms, there were tears in his eyes. "What happened?"Harry asked again; so much softer. So much more dangerously.
But Draco was shaking his head and trying to burrow back into him and he was trembling and there was a smudge of red on his jaw.
"She f*cking cornered me. And tried to touch me and I didn't know what to do she was —she was.She tried to touch me," he breathed, hand climbing to press on the already forming bruise they'd created. "Harry she—" and it was Harry's mouth on him now, Harry's teeth pressing so hard into his skin the smudge of red was a smudge of blood and Draco sighed out a noise so beautiful Harry could cry. He bit him even harder when he felt the brush of fresh tears against his thumb, tasting the bite of iron and something sweet that was Draco entirely when he ran his tongue across the vicious bruise that would blossom into the most beautiful of bruises —stark against Draco's pale, pale skin.
"Shower," and they were both a little breathless and Draco followed him so mindlessly and they'd never even pressed their lips together, but she should have known he was off limits. Harry didn't even care who she could be. Harry didn't care and Draco knew better than to tell him. Because if he ever found out —well, he would relish in the spill of blood.
And Draco was a prefect, bloody perfect student he was, and Harry had no qualms locking them in his —very earned— bathroom, stripping him bare and setting the clothes he'd been wearing to fire.
Draco shuddered when Harry lead him into the water. When Harry tilted his head. When Harry pressed his thumb —purposely forceful— in the the already blossoming bruise, pressing in harder when Draco rocked into where he was sat at the edge of the bath.
Harry had perhaps indulged too much in a lovely baths after the first bath he'd had in the manor. And Draco was a prefect and well, if Draco was a prefect Harry had access to anything he wanted and he'd stored too many lovely things in here not to make use of them.
So he summoned his little vials, and drew his fingers through Draco's hair where his head was pressed against his lap and scented the water and picked the petals from the flowers and let Draco relax into the tub, rolling his own trousers up so he could rest —still— between his legs.
It was the most beautiful kind of precious, letting his hands press into his shoulders, and pouring water over Draco's head, ignoring the way his trousers would be soaked, and scrubbing his hands through Draco's hair and pressing his soap slicked thumb to Draco's jaw and rubbing away the smudge of red, pressing down into the hurt of it and tightening his legs around Draco's shoulders at the little sound be received in reward.
"Harry?"
"Yes?" Harry replied, voice barely audible as he worked his hands over the back of Draco's neck. Feeling the slide of it and smelling more of himself than Draco in his own bath oils and loving that. Loving that Draco smelt like him and missing the wildberries and cold, frigid, beautiful winter.
"Wash it away and make it hurt."
"Stars, hide your fires," Harry murmured in response, because when they got like this there was only one way they could speak. The only way they could speak was to let others speak for them. Say they words they couldn't, despite their actions screaming their stories.
"Let not light see my black and deep desires then," and oh, Harry didn't have words to describe the way his heart clenched when Draco answered him so very easily. When he knew exactly what Harry had said. When he gave him everything he needed. Harry let his fingers trail up Draco's neck, thumb resting on that beautiful bruise again. And Draco winced and Draco pressed into his thumb and Draco whimpered a sound so divine Harry was sure he'd died. "Let it only be you."
There was no doubt in anyone's mind after that incident.
Harry never found out who it was, and he didn't bloody care. Because Draco belonged to him and he was Draco's and if anyone so much as brushed against him, Harry would murder. And he would enjoy every second of it.
And still, their lips did not connect until their last day.
Their last night at Hogwarts, and Harry was sat on the couch and Draco was draped over him and he was reading in the quiet, the warmth of the fire cold against the warmth of Draco pressed long and sublime against him.
And they were going home in the morning, and the future was a terrifying thing and Draco's hand was pressed feather light to his throat —just resting there— and Harry's hand was scraping against the skin near his hip, fingers having gotten under the hem of his jumper.
And it was quiet, and people had been terrified of them all year; of even getting too close to either of them. And the Malfoys more than likely knew there wassomethinggoing on at this point because Harry couldn't remember the last time either of them had slept in separate beds and they were warm.
It was quiet and the fire was raging and Draco was a line of warmth against his body, hand resting on his neck, cold nose pressed to his cheek and then he was turning Harry's head and their breaths were mixed there, the silence stilling and the fire leaning close with a perverted sort of interest and then Draco was asking, "Life and death are one, aren't they?" Lips nearly brushing his, eyes reflecting the abyss and the light of hope shining behind like salvation.
"Just as you and I are one."
And Draco's lips were on his and there was no gentleness to be found. Not when it was them. Never with them. Because they were war and violence and Draco's teeth digging into Harry lips and drawing blood for him to suckle at and tongues sliding together in a dangerous dance of blades and the tug of hair and the press of fingers to a throat and the loss of breath.
It was heady intoxication and sounds not meant to be heard and warm wet sliding of tongues. Gasps ringing and out and unintentional and absolutely maddening gentling, Draco sucking Harry's bottom lip into his his mouth and nibbling there so gently. Only to bite hard, Harry gasping at the sensation and pulling Draco even closer in a flurry of limbs at the push of a tongue too deep, brushing against his palate and making demands Harry was all too happy to oblige. His body pushed into the hand on his throat and tried to lean into the press of nails on his scalp and his own nails were digging grooves into Draco's waist, knees pulling him even closer by the hips.
And there was breaking, connection only by a fragile string of spit, but mouths not being able to leave skin. Biting, marking, bruising, tasting.
Testifying. Worshipping when Harry pulled him back up and covered his mouth and allowed it to possess him.
It was death and rebirth and the culmination of years of want and need and pleading and understanding each other in a way none else could understand.
It was beauty and devastation and an eclipse of the moon as it was covered so wholly by the sun.
It was ending and it was beginning.
