Inspired by Halrloprillalar's "Visited" and my own need of Draco's POV on this fic. If you want to read "Visited", just comment and I'll send you the url, because I can't seem to figure out how to insert a url here.
Visitor
"Draaaco."
Just her voice drives him mad. He doesn't know what to think sometimes of this girl... woman... thing he's married, but he's kind of stuck with her. Fucking politics and formalities and fathers who know nothing about their sons' opinions, priorities, likes, or dislikes. And pureblood Produce-an- Heir mentality that does nothing to justify this misery because yes, it is possible for two wizards to have a child, but his father insisted on his counterpart being a girl and Draco's after all just daddy's little boy who does everything daddy says because otherwise he'll be locked in the fucking closet until one of the damnable house-elves takes pity on him and—
Goddamn him to hell he fucking hates being this, being Draco Malfoy: A Married Man.
Doesn't even dare to imagine what he thinks about it. Because surely he knows, those things get to the papers when you're Draco Malfoy. So why doesn't he say anything?
Doesn't matter. Warm body that's not curvy and pale but firm and tanned under his hands, full red lips curved with pleasured sighs. For him, escape. Something away from her. From this world he's living in, narrow- eyed bigotry and pureblood ridiculousness and how unbelievable that he's thinking this, the son of Lucius Malfoy who'd no doubt flay him alive if he ever admitted to sleeping with the Boy Who Lived.
It's all very detached, and that's painful, the way he shows up, comes and goes. Wants to stay, see the green eyes happy and content beyond the orgasmic fuzz, wants that body curled snugly against him, dark haired head resting on his chest and not someone else's not a girl's not a muggle's boy but his.
He used to tell himself it was a habit. Bad, bad habit to be broken quickly, and after a week of confusion and tanned skin and soft lips wrapped around him, he told himself enough was enough. It had to stop, was what he told himself.
He didn't show for three whole months, and when he could take no more, when he came back into that apartment and that boy, those eyes and mouth and hands, he still tried to tell himself that this was a passing fancy. It won't last long.
He doesn't try quitting anymore.
He hates it sometimes. Coming there and seeing him and knowing, simply knowing he's nothing but a visitor, a guest in Harry's life and not a permanent thing, not always there like he wants to be.
Sometimes he thinks about it. Getting divorced, heir or no heir. Coming up to the green-eyed man he'd been lusting after since he was twelve and kissing him in public, in fucking Times Square in front of everyone, in front of Potter's Gryffindor friends that hated Draco very passionately, and rightfully so in his humble opinion. Tell everyone, the Weasleys and Granger and the rest of Potter's little friends, Dumbledore, his Father, Voldemort to fuck off because he's snogging his honey. See the smile spread on the tanned face and get the sloppiest, most wonderful and feeling-filled kiss of his life.
See bloody murder in his father's eyes as he kills the Gryffindors and all the muggles then tortures the Boy Who Lived Through So Much Crap into dementia.
And he can't pay that price; would rather see those eyes filled with mindless passion tinged with pain than see them empty.
Doesn't know what Harry thinks about it all. If he realizes how impossible this is, how they can't ever be together in public because Draco would die, he'd die if anything happened to Harry.
"Malfoy?"
"What?"
"Do you... will we... um."
"What, Potter?"
"Nothing."
Sigh against his neck and he Disapparates, back to his bedroom, HIS because she's sleeping somewhere else since their one obligatory fuck, and he thinks maybe this is wrong, maybe it's not enough for Harry. Maybe he's hurting the Gryffindor like this, mindfucking his thoughts without meaning to. Thinks he might be doing more damage than good, to the both of them. But he's a Slytherin, and therefore a coward, and that's why he can't stop, can't, and he can't admit his feelings because it'll be too much either way, whether Harry Potter feels the same or not he'll still be screwed and there'll be no coming back to that room and those eyes and that mouth.
"Perfect Fucking Potter. Hate you for making me feel like this. Hurts so much." He murmurs into the pillow that distinctly doesn't smell of Harry. Hurts hurts hurts fucking shit it hurts so much so alone die without you would you without me? Hate you hate you hate you so fucking much-
"Love you. Love you, you fucking bastard." He whispers, and no one's there to hear or reply.