No Words
~•~
Malfoy had nodded at him after breakfast, their usual sign to meet that night. He'd not looked at Harry when he'd passed, quicker than usual, but not quick enough for Harry to miss the way Malfoy's wand arm was raised as if to deflect a hex.
Eight days since Harry'd cast the Sectumsempra on him, and they hadn't once touched or talked or even looked at each other.
The ice in Harry's chest crept into his throat, a sick coldness that he'd struggled to keep down all those days. Kissing Ginny had barely melted the edges. And Malfoy must have heard. About Ginny. About the kiss.
~•~
He was standing at the battlements, hair stark white against the night. They'd been meeting here for months, close to the stars, to kiss, fuck, but never talk. They'd exchanged more words in that sodding bathroom than up here.
"Potter." Malfoy's eyes were on the lake. He always knew Harry by the sound of his steps.
It seemed all right to put his hands on Malfoy's hips, to pull him close and unfreeze the ice in Harry's chest. But all Harry could think of was a hand going limp, a wand rolling over tiles, warm blood painting the gushing water red.
"Make me come," Malfoy said, quietly as the wind. Heal me.
Harry slammed him against the moss-grown stones of the castle's wall, ripped his trousers open and shoved his silk pants down to get at heat, slick and hard in his palm as he tossed Malfoy off, too fast, too clumsy, but he needed, needed to have Malfoy come by the touch of his hand.
"I didn'–"
Malfoy groaned as he thrust into Harry's fist.
"I'm sor–"
He kissed Harry, a mess of spit and lust, piercing his mouth, biting him with teeth so sharp like everything was sharp about Malfoy.
Clutching at Harry's hair, Malfoy's head fell back, then he spilled over Harry's fingers and shirt. So incredibly warm and alive, alive ... Forgive me. Harry couldn't help frot against Malfoy's twitching dick. When he came his spunk felt like melted ice-water, wetting his pants.
They slid down the wall, a tangle of legs and arms holding the other close. Malfoy's chest was white as snow with a silvery path cutting across. Harry traced it with trembling fingertips.
"Will you kiss her again?" Malfoy's voice was dull, like slate.
Harry put his lips where his fingers had been. He couldn't speak, couldn't say a word – not with all of him filled to the brim by this burning wish: to slice Malfoy open again so he could reach his beating, broken heart. And kiss it. Make it whole.