Something We Can't Control (Or, How to Cure First Day Jitters)
This was written for the lovely coolbreeeze to mark the occasion of her birth. Of course, since it's me, it's late as hell, but it's here. It picks up just a bit after the end of You Align My Stars, and stands alone. Hope you enjoy it; if you do, thank her for having a birthday, otherwise it may never have been written.
All recognizable elements belong to their respective owners. JK Rowling and company own Harry Potter, The Limousines own Wildfires, and I own very little of consequence. No copyright infringement is intended.
"I can't do this," Harry whines, and he burrows further into the now-familiar armchair next to the hearth in Draco's rooms. His chair, if he's honest, and the notion that he's spent enough nights in this room to have a designated chair does quell the panic for a moment.
"You can, and you will," Draco says, voice so full of irritating calm that Harry considers throwing something at him. Except he has nothing to throw, and Draco is smiling that little smile and using that fond tone that simultaneously make Harry's insides go to mush and make other parts of him sit up and take notice.
Harry huffs.
"They're going to eat me alive," he says, irrationally.
"They're eleven, Harry," Draco says, still not looking up from his book. "They're terrified."
"One of them will plummet to the ground and I'll be sacked on my first day!" Harry is conscious that he sounds like a complete wanker, but he's truly terrified, and somehow whinging about it makes him feel less like he's going to choke on his fear.
"Longbottom fell from his broom on his first day, and that was what, sixteen years ago?" Draco says, still reading. "And you're only just replacing Madam Hooch tomorrow. So clearly you'd have to have more than one student plummetin order to get sacked your first day."
Harry glares. And fumes. And does his damnedest to will away the urge to go sit on Draco's lap and demand that he make this okay. Because Harry is not a child, and he can handle himself.
Really.
As if reading his mind, Draco finally puts the book down, gets up, and comes to stand in front of Harry, nudging his knees apart with his own. Harry automatically reaches up to rest his hands on Draco's waist, marvelling at how the touch never fails to soothe him, and how much he's still savouring touching.
After accepting McGonagall's - Minerva's (Harry will never get used to that, he's certain) - offer, he only returned briefly to Grimmauld Place, long enough to fetch his things and tell a surprised and extremely pleased Ron and Hermione that he was, at long last, going to work. They were so pleased that they didn't even flinch when he told them he'd been spending time with Draco. Ron just clapped him on the shoulder and said something akin to it's about time, and Hermione raided his closet, determining that his wardrobe was unfit for both teaching any sort of public appearances at all (adding an especially with Draco Malfoy under her breath), and made him go shopping.
It all went downhill from there. Or uphill, really, if Harry's honest. He just likes to pretend to be irritated. It permits him the illusion that he's even a little in control of his life where Draco Malfoy is concerned. Emphasis on illusion, of course.
Several more weeks at Hogwarts with Draco proved equally as magical as the first few nights, but also led to Harry spending an extremely awkward holiday meal at Malfoy Manor with Narcissa Malfoy's eyes on him through each of the seven very painful courses. And then, to add insult to injury, Draco came to the Burrow with Harry where he fit in like he'd been there for years. Molly doted, Arthur chatted...Harry even thinks air kisses were exchanged with Ginny, though he also thinks he may have hallucinated that bit out of sheer shock.
All too soon, however, the holidays ended, and Harry found himself back at Hogwarts, this time with an official title, an official class schedule, and an official wave of panic that has been hitting him about once an hour for several days. He has whined, yelled, actually panicked to the point that Draco has made him sit and put his head between his knees, and hidden in his rooms. Once, in a rather dramatic (and childish, he'll admit now) effort, he told Draco he was going back home, packed up his few belongings, and Apparated back to Grimmauld Place.
Of course, once he got there, and the crushing, empty, Draco-less silence closed in on him, he went straight back to Hogwarts. He wanted to be annoyed when he found Draco sitting in his own chair, right where Harry had known he would be, but all he could feel was buoyed. When Draco peered up over whatever book he was reading to smile indulgently at him, Harry had done something else he's been doing a lot of lately: he'd laughed. Hard.
He's learning, even in the midst of each panic attack, that the fear is better than the paralysis, and with Draco there to provide a calm in the middle of the storm, it's all just a bit more bearable.
Or it was, until tonight. It's the night before his first class, and he's sure he's done for. He's sure he'll forget how to fly himself. He's sure one of his first year students will end up careening into the Forbidden Forest, never to be seen or heard from again. And Draco, the gorgeous, irritating, calm bastard, is sure that everything will be absolutely fine.
And Harry knows he's right, which makes him even more irrational.
Still, as he stares up into grey eyes that look back at him filled with equal parts concern and amusement, he has to take several long, even breaths in an effort to quell the panic in his chest.
Bloody hell, Potter, you killed Voldemort. Get it together, they're eleven-year-olds with training brooms.
He gulps more air and tightens his grip on Draco's hips. Draco reaches out and brushes his fingers over Harry's jaw, dragging the tips through several days' growth with mock-disapproval.
"You'll have to shave, too, Professor Potter," Draco says lightly.
Harry pulls a face at him and sighs, turning his face into the caressing fingers just a little. Draco's face turns serious, and he tugs at Harry's arm.
"Up," he says, in an uncharacteristic show of ineloquence.
Harry reluctantly rises in a display he knows is basically only slightly more mature than a child being deprived of a shiny toy, complete with wordless huffs and only stopping just short of stomping his feet. He's slightly mollified by Draco's lips on his, but they're gone too soon, and he's being pulled to the door, into the corridor, and to the now-familiar staircase up to the Astronomy Tower.
He stomps on the urge to tell Draco he doesn't want to look at the stars tonight, that he just wants to go to bed and not get up until his lessons tomorrow are over. But the hand gripping his is firm and warm and reassuring, and surely whatever Draco will say up here will be just as reassuring. Harry's counting on it. Besides, he reasons, if Draco somehow isn't reassuring, the Astronomy Tower is very high, and jumping off of it will definitely assure he doesn't have to face his students in the morning.
So he follows, obediently, and keeps his mouth shut.
The stars still press in on him, but they don't suffocate him anymore, and he almost feels at peace with the light-dotted blackness as Draco pulls him towards the rail when they reach the top. Instinctively, Harry seeks out the familiar arch of Draco's constellation, and he hears a low chuckle next to him as Draco's eyes follow his.
"Whoever would have thought I'd be Harry Potter's security blanket when he's afraid of the dark," Draco teases, but there's not an ounce of mockery in it.
Harry elbows him in the ribs all the same.
"I'm not afraid of the dark, wanker," he says stubbornly, and tries without much success to scowl. "Hating the stars and being afraid of the dark are two completely different things, and yes, I am quite aware of how insane that statement sounded, thank you very much, so you can just keep your comments to yourself."
Draco laughs, and the sound is no less perfect in Harry's ears than it was the first time he heard it on his first day back at Hogwarts. Something about that laugh, so open and unguarded and warm, wraps itself around Harry like a cloak, shielding him from everything that's cold and unforgiving in the night air. He shivers, and Draco moves to stand behind him, draping himself across Harry's back and wrapping his arms around his waist.
"Cold?" he murmurs into Harry's ear.
Harry shakes his head, because he's not, but he wraps his hands around the forearms at his waist, because he doesn't want Draco to pull away either.
"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," is whispered against his neck, and Harry realises he must be gripping just a little too hard, although he doesn't let up very much.
He doesn't really hate the stars anymore, not as long as he's with Draco anyway, but he doesn't relish the idea of being alone against their crushing weight ever again, either.
"Good," he says, voice so soft that he doesn't know if Draco hears him. "I don't want you to."
He feels Draco's mouth curve into a smile against his neck, and he smiles too, both at the intimacy of the sensation and the fact that something so honest and a little bit desperate coming from him can make Draco Malfoy smile. He gasps when Draco's tongue flicks over the place where his shoulder and his neck come together, and hisses when the lick is followed by a bite, and suddenly he doesn't care if Draco had a mountain of soothing words in mind when they came up here, because none of them can anchor him like this.
He turns, huffing at himself when his movements cause Draco's mouth to come free from his neck, but his disappointment is short-lived and easily brushed aside when he looks into Draco's eyes. They gleam silver-grey in the moonlight, bright and unblinking and peering at Harry with such undisguised affection and lust that he feels himself blush, but he refuses to look away. If the stars are Draco's anchor, then Draco is Harry's, and it may be a bit weak, and it may be a bit soon, but it's the first anchor Harry's had in nearly a decade. He's not about to squander it.
Those tiny lines, the ones Harry never thought would exist on a flawless Malfoy face, crinkle up around Draco's eyes, and Harry is lost in Draco's smile and his eyes and he never wants to be found.
"Stop thinking and kiss me," Draco whispers a breath away from Harry's lips, and Harry is helpless to resist the command, even if he wanted to.
Which he doesn't. Not even a little.
There is no gentle preamble, no hesitation as Harry closes the sliver of empty space between their lips. He kisses Draco with the same desperation that made him hold on so tight a moment before, and the now-familiar surge of white-hot desire courses over his skin like a flame. Harry parts Draco's lips with the swipe of his tongue, and Draco hums into Harry's mouth. Harry can feel Draco still smiling, something he's realised happens a lot between the two of them even when they're kissing.
He's thought it through time and again, knowing without a doubt that he's never spent so much time smiling while he snogged anyone before in his life. He asked Draco about it once, as they lay tangled together under mounds of blankets and clad in layers of jumpers against the drafty winter air in the highest room at the Burrow over the holidays, and Draco grinned at him and tightened his arms around Harry.
"This is the first time in my life I've had everything I ever wanted, Potter. It would be wrong if I didn't smile like the smug bastard I am, wouldn't it?"
It was, Harry thought at the time and still does, the most perfect thing anyone has ever said to him in his life. He's made certain Draco's not the only one smiling when they kiss ever since, and Draco understands.
Draco always understands.
Which is why, when Draco spins him and walks him back away from the rail of the Tower to a corner, their lips still pressed together and tongues still entwined, Harry isn't surprised. And he isn't surprised when Draco fumbles in the pocket of his jeans to pull out a cloth that he Transfigures into a makeshift pallet on the floor with a wave of his hand and a muttered whisper against Harry's lips. And he isn't surprised when Draco manages to pull Harry to kneel with him on the soft blankets, never stopping their kiss for more than a breath or two.
When Draco finally does pull away, Harry presses their foreheads together, watching Draco's fingers deftly undo the buttons of his shirt in a sharp contrast to Harry's fumbling ones against the far-less-complicated zip on Draco's jumper. Their breaths are visible where they mingle in the cold night air, prompting Harry to whisper a warming charm that settles over both of them like a protective bubble.
"Nice work, Professor," Draco says, and Harry snorts.
"Shut up," he says, and kisses Draco again.
Shirts and jumpers slide away in shadowy piles, and Harry's fingers aren't any more graceful as they undo Draco's belt and the buttons on his trousers, but the end result is no less gratifying. They curl together beneath the blankets, kissing and touching, quiet but for the occasional moan or ragged breath as fingers find sensitive patches of skin and lips seek out those places that were made just to drive a man mad.
It may be minutes or an hour before Harry finds himself breathless and panting, curled up one one side with his legs entwined with Draco's. He reaches up to push moonlit-blond hair behind Draco's ear and trailing his fingertips back over his face. So beautiful, he thinks, mesmerised by pale skin and kiss-shiny lips.
"You're not half bad yourself," Draco murmurs, smiling against his fingers, and Harry realises he must have spoken aloud.
Harry smiles shyly, as he always does when he's caught staring or when he says something overly sentimental he hadn't intended to voice, and he knows he's blushing, but he doesn't care. He shifts, wrapping his arms around Draco and tugging until he's flat on his back and Draco is hovering over him, resting between Harry's drawn-up knees. Harry groans when Draco slides his hips so their cocks rub together, pushing his weight into the action so the friction is nearly more than Harry can bear. He does it again, and Harry arches up into him this time, and it's Draco's turn to groan, and Harry smiles. Sometimes he gives as good as he gets.
They slide together in what has become a familiar way, fingers gripping at shoulders and kisses punctuated with groans and pants and the occasional mix of profanity and encouragement that only makes sense to them. Harry slides his hands up and down the smooth, soft skin of Draco's back, revelling in every caress and breathless moan and the electric sensation of his skin pressed against Draco's that will always put him in mind of a spreading wildfire.
"More," he whispers into Draco's mouth. "More, please."
"Anything," Draco whispers back. "Everything."
Harry nods, pleading with his eyes since words seem to have failed him, and letting his knees fall farther apart. Draco reaches for his trousers again, this time pulling a small phial from another pocket that makes Harry smile. Something else he's learned about Draco Malfoy is that the man is never caught unprepared. For anything.
Draco kneels between Harry's parted knees and pours the contents of the container slowly, almost teasingly slowly, onto Harry's belly. It's cool against his heated skin and he hisses, until Draco runs his fingers through it, leaving shiny streaks over Harry's torso with warm fingers, and the promise of what's to come overwhelms him. Draco's fingers leave trails of oil in their wake all across Harry's chest, and Draco studies them as he drags his hand over and over, letting his nails rake over Harry's ribcage.
Harry, for his part, is writhing with every touch, arching when Draco's fingers slide across his nipples and all but crying out when they drag over his hips.
"Please," he hears himself say. Whimper. "Draco."
He's whining, he knows it, and he doesn't give a damn, because he wants so much more right this second. Draco smiles lazily, and this time when his fingers slide down over Harry's thighs, they keep going, and when Harry feels them start to circle at his entrance he gasps in relief. Relief that's short-lived though, because in the next moment Draco slides a finger inside him ever so slowly, and reaches down to stroke his own cock with his free hand at the same time, and Harry is sure he's going to come right this second.
He can't reach Draco, can't touch him, and he knows Draco's doing it on purpose, because he likes watching Harry fall apart. Likes watching him feel, he says, and Harry can't fault him for it, because the feeling of feeling is one he's not grown tired of yet. He closes his eyes, scrambling for anything to hold off the orgasm he knows will come too soon.
"Harry," Draco whispers, just as he always does.
Harry shakes his head, just as he always does, and he can practically hear the smile on Draco's face, the desire in his voice.
"Harry," he says again. "Watch me."
And just like they always do, Harry's eyes fly open almost of their own volition, because it's a far stronger man than he who could resist that request from this man. Draco is staring back at him, eyes wide and soft. He cuts a beautiful shadow against the night sky, and Harry thinks perhaps the stars have just always been lacking Draco Malfoy to make them beautiful, because they glow blurrily around his body, casting an almost-luminescence over the pale skin. Harry's eyes follow the sinuous movements of the muscles in his shoulder and arm, falling on the hand that's closed around his cock at the same time Draco slides another finger into him, curling and stretching and sliding in time with his strokes.
"Gods, Merlin, fuck," Harry breathes, unable to look away from Draco's hand as it slides up and down his shaft, coating it in what's left of the shiny oil that's pooled on Harry's belly.
"Alright," Draco smirks, pulling his fingers free and shifting, pressing against Harry's entrance and then into him slowly.
Harry gasps, fighting the urge to shut his eyes again and canting his hips up to meet Draco's slow thrust. Draco gets the message, because he always does, and he begins moving straight away. He reaches up and links his fingers with Harry's holding them above Harry's head and pressing down. Harry thinks he should feel trapped, but he feels safe. He thinks he should be panicked at being held down, but instead of struggling against it, he finds himself arching his body so he meets Draco's thrusts with his own, levering himself against their clasped hands.
Draco kisses him again, and it's messy and ragged, and broken with chants of oh fuck Draco yes more, and just like that Harry, and moreharderfasterfuck, and once, how did I ever live without you. Draco never wavers, not even with that last, but he slows his tempo for a moment and matches it with a kiss that feels different to Harry, sort of like the desperation in his own kisses from before, and Harry is grateful. Draco needs him too, and it's been a long time since Harry felt needed.
They stare at each other for a moment, panting, chests pressed together in a sticky mess of sweat and oil, speaking volumes without a word before Harry presses his hips up again and Draco moans and resumes his rhythm, matching Harry's upward thrusts with his own, and Harry sees stars with every push inside him.
"Fuck, not- oh - going to last - fuck -" he pants.
Draco kisses him again, harder, and reaches between them. When his fingers wrap around Harry's cock, Harry cries out and comes almost immediately.
"That's it," Draco whispers as he continues to stroke inside Harry and tighten his fingers around his cock. "Let go."
Harry shudders and writhes, and Draco's thrusts become erratic with every spasm of Harry's muscles. Harry digs his nails into Draco's shoulders, holding on for all he's worth as he rides out his own release at the same time he wants nothing more than to see Draco's. Sweat is beaded on Draco's forehead with exertion, and he glistens in the moonlight as he arches, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief as he comes with a muffled groan, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Look at me," Harry whispers, pleads even, and just as his own always do, Draco's eyes open and look straight into his as he shudders.
Draco slumps forward, his head falling onto Harry's shoulder. It's silent in the Tower except for two sets of gasping breaths and eventually a whispered cleaning charm, and Harry thinks they might as well be the only two people in the castle. Suddenly he laughs.
"Was there something funny about that?" Draco says, his voice muffled by Harry's neck.
"Nothing at all," Harry says. "I was thinking that I only came up here with you because I figured whatever you had to say would make me feel better, or at least calm me down. I had no idea this is what you had in mind."
Draco snorts, but still doesn't move. Harry pulls the blankets more tightly around them against the chill and rubs his back absently, smiling when Draco sighs softly and buries his face a little deeper into Harry's shoulder.
"Thank you," he says, more softly.
"For the sex?" Draco says, lifting his head to study Harry.
The night sky frames his face, and Harry watches as the shapes become clear against the darkness, just as they always do when he's looking at the stars with Draco.
"For the sex," he says, kissing Draco softly and smiling into his mouth. "And for the stars."