*
"His hair's the same as yours," Harry whispers with closed eyes, his fingers weaving through Draco's hair, the touch gentle yet distant, as if Harry much rather be stroking the Malfoys' young gardener.
For the last minutes, Draco has been watching Harry as he talked to the blond man. Smiled, laughed, painted pictures in the air with his strong hands, hands that Draco loves to draw such sweet pleasure from his skin. Harry even petted the runty cat – Dopey, the gardener calls it.
He shakes his head, makes Harry loosen his grip, for it disgusts him to think of where those hands have been (where his thoughts have been, his eyes). Harry's his, his alone. All his life Draco had to share, and he will not share Harry. Even after Azkaban, Mother still talks more to the gardener than to Draco, discussing soils and fertilisers and rainbows shimmering in the dew on the roses. She will secretly cast Orchideous spells on the flowers, colouring them a bright, brilliant white which nature alone will never bring forth. Then she praises the gardener for the splendour of the Manor's roses, and Draco hates how his brother blushes and glows under her loving gaze. Draco wants her to look like this at him, and if not her, then Harry, his Harry (midnight black hair, his scar a beautiful rose-coloured mark, his eyes sparkling and green like the grass of the Manor).
As he waits for Harry to look at him, Draco notices movement out of the corner of his eye. He presses his cheek against Harry's while he gazes out of the high living room windows. From the left, first his huge calico cat, then the Manor's caretaker walks the gravel path towards the workshop. As a child Draco had been hiding in the copse of elms close-by, watching his older brother, who's since grown into this sombre, dark-haired man who cares for the Manor and the Manor grounds (not the gardens, though, for he has a black, a Black thumb, the caretaker claims). Draco'd been enthralled with him, the one whom Father spoke to with a soft, contended voice, the one who still today is allowed into the Library for quiet games of chess. Father only ever brought Draco into the Library to teach him spells, dark ones, Unforgivables. Often Draco hears Father talking to the caretaker – not like to an equal, never this, but like he was a friend, and with a secret pride, unacknowledged but undeniable. Only once did Father talk to Draco so, this one night when he told Draco he had to take the Dark Mark, for the family's sake, for the sake of his mother's life (Lucius's own life, of course, went unmentioned). There are days when Draco thinks that for all his failings during the war, he saved their lives, saved their fucking petty lives, and still … Father plays chess with the Squib caretaker. Mother talks roses with the Squib gardener. And he –
He's got Harry who shares the caretaker's dark looks. There's traces of Black blood in him, four generations deep, but still evident in the fierceness of his gestures, in the strands of his wild hair, wispy and strong at the same time. How Draco loves to be touched by him, all of Harry's attention focused on him alone, his hands caressing Draco's skin, his cock dripping with need for Draco, admiration and love so plain in his green eyes, which are all Harry's, none of the Black in them.
With a kiss Draco silences what else Harry means to tell him – about gardeners and their grey eyes which are so like Draco's, Harry says. Claiming him with lips and tongue and teeth, wanting him, all of him. Harry's body melts against him and Draco can feel how hard he is, how eager. For me, all for me, he thinks and pulls Harry away from the window, where he can still see the gardener, his pale naked skin glistening with sweat as he turns over the Manor's fertile earth for another patch of roses.
*