AN I do not own HP or any of the characters! Smutty, but no lemon. Warnings for slight internalized homophobia!
If Draco Malfoy was grateful for anything, it was the separate locker rooms that each house had near the Quidditch pitch. Not only did it mean that he never had to race to get to the showers before someone else, but he also never had to deal with other houses gawking at his left forearm and trying to see through a glamour charm that wasn't there. Regardless, he appreciated the solitude. The other Slytherins—like him—had no desire to bond with the other houses, especially not on such a personal level.
Blaise was late, however, so Draco lingered in the hot spray. Normally, the Slytherin keeper was right behind him, but Draco assumed he'd gotten caught up with Pansy and was just being obnoxious so he didn't worry. It took a lot to make him worry whenever Blaise was concerned, given their history.
"Malfoy." Draco whipped around, nearly slipping on the wet tiles. There was no way. This was the Slytherin locker room, first of all, and Gryffindors were not supposed to be able to get in—especially not Gryffindor Quidditch players. Sure enough, though, when the steam cleared a bit, Draco found emerald green eyes and messy black hair.
"Potter, what the bloody hell are you doing in here?!" Harry glared at him. For a split second, Draco felt the urge to cover himself despite the fact that he'd never been modest before—but then he noticed. He could see emerald eyes. There were no glasses fogging up on Harry's face and the way he squinted told Draco that he was nothing more than a pale blur to the other seeker. At least fate was partially on his side.
"Hello to you too. Zabini got knocked by one of the practice bludgers when we were cleaning up so he sent me. Said there was something you needed him to do?" Draco could not believe his ears. He stumbled, before remembering that Harry could barely see him, and glared. Neither had much affect, however, because Harry was apparently blind without those stupid glasses.
"Blaise sent you?" He didn't try to hide his disbelief, but Harry merely rolled his eyes again. The dark-haired boy hadn't been playing in the match so he was dressed in his usual school uniform but, Draco noted, he'd stripped it down to just the white button up and slacks. It was hot as hell in the locker room, no doubt due to Draco's impossibly long, scalding shower, but the moisture in the air clung to Harry's shirt. With a complexion that dark, it was no surprise that Draco could soon see glimpses of his chest through the wet, white fabric.
"I wasn't thrilled about it either, believe me. But he was being carted off on a stretcher and wouldn't stop screaming about helping you so Pomfrey assigned me. Can we get this over with?" Thank Merlin Harry couldn't see him very well, because otherwise he would have noticed the distinct downward rush of blood or the flush spreading over Draco's body. He turned his back to the Gryffindor in an effort to control himself.
"Let's not and say we did." Internally, Draco swore over and over again because Blaise just had to get hit with the bludger before coming to help. All of the other Slytherins had left by now, too. Draco paused to consider his situation. Realistically, he could fix it himself and he'd done it before but he would be in pain for weeks because of it. Blaise and him had a rhythm, now, and it was seamless enough that Draco only felt the pain for an hour or two after but, even when one of the other Slytherins stepped in, it was still better than doing it himself. At least then he didn't tense and hurt the muscle more.
"Can't. Wish I could, but Blaise refused to calm down until I made a wizard's oath so we're doing whatever it is he normally does for you." Draco swore, verbally this time, and Harry noticed but didn't say anything. Of course Blaise had sent Potter, and of course he'd made it virtually impossible for this not to play out exactly how he wanted. Fucking Slytherin. He had his doubts about the severity of the injury or Blaise's mental state because, even now, the boy was a devious son of a bitch. Blaise was going to pay for this.
"Well, looks like you're stuck here then, Potter." Harry couldn't leave the room until he'd done it, and Draco knew that. There was, however, nothing stopping the blond. He turned the water off and wrapped his towel around his waist, making a move for the door, but Harry caught his wrist. The wrong wrist. Instantly, Draco crumpled with a strangled half-scream and he hit the cement with a thud.
"Fuck don't touch me!" he tried to snap, but Harry was staring down at him down with a puzzled expression on his face and Draco knew exactly where those eyes had landed. Harry was wearing his glasses now, presumably because the steam was clearing and Draco was at least partially dressed, but those emerald rings were honed in completely on his right shoulder.
"What's wrong with it?" Harry gestured, but Draco was already flinching away and trying to scramble to his feet. Of all people, the Chosen One did not need to know about his personal issues and Blaise could go to hell for trying to set this up. The boy wonder was intrigued now, though, and those eyes had become focused again. Draco swore.
"Nothing I can't handle, just don't fucking touch me." That time, it came out more as a snarl and Harry took a step back, which Draco deeply appreciated. Distance was good. More distance was better—preferably at least a couple floors—but any distance was good. He'd made it into a sitting position, thankfully, before his shoulder had refused to pull him up any farther, and he glared at Harry from the cement. The Golden Boy frowned.
"Fine, don't tell me. Nothing a little episkey can't fix." Harry raised his wand, but immediately Draco grabbed for his own and managed to yell protege before ducking. The spell bounced off with a sickening crackle.
"Did you just… block a healing spell?" Draco kept the shield up, but let himself catch his breath before he looked back up at Potter. Merlin, the Gryffindor looked so concerned all of a sudden that it made him want to throw up—why would Harry, of all people, care what he did or didn't do?
"Don't use magic on me." Harry held up his hands, clearly trying to show that he wasn't a threat, but Draco was unconvinced. Taunting was one thing, but a spell? He shook his head as anxiety shot through his system again at the mere thought. Slowly—very slowly—he let down the shield.
"I won't," Harry reassured. "But tell me why?" It was clear that Draco was not going to get out of the locker room, let alone off the floor, without answering at least a few questions. He desperately didn't want Harry to try to use the spell again. Even if Harry was shit at dueling, he was fast. Draco didn't want to try his luck with a shield again, so he sighed and lowered his own wand to show a truce.
"There… are people. They do checks and, if I have any magic on me—let alone spells—they get mad." He could see the wheels turning in the Gryffindor's mind. Or, at least, trying to turn. The explanation didn't make much sense without context, which was why Draco felt secure enough to give it to him, but it was clearly not going to be enough. Harry was looking at him like he was the snitch, now, and it was very unsettling.
"Okay. Is this what Blaise usually helps you with?" Fuck, of course! Potter was only here because of the damn wizard's oath and if Draco could manage to satisfy that, then he could escape. Surely, that would distract the Gryffindor enough for at least a little while?
"Yeah, I can pop it back into place by myself but it hurts a lot more. Can we just get this over with?" The Golden Boy nodded, and offered him a hand up which he grudgingly took with his left. He sat on one of the benches, and directed Harry to stand behind him.
"You have to put your hand here," Draco lightly put his own over the ball of his shoulder joint. "And then you have to—"
"I've done it before." Harry was surprisingly serious, despite still standing a good foot away from him, but Draco waited for the rest of that explanation. When it didn't come, he turned.
"When?"
"In school, before I came to Hogwarts. A kid in gym class dislocated his shoulder and I learned to pop it back in for him because he didn't want to go to the nurse." Draco nodded, even though that felt like a lie. He wasn't going to push, though, because Harry wasn't pushing him on the no magic thing so he figured they had a tentative truce. Wordlessly, he turned back to his original position.
Harry stepped up behind him, but Draco only knew because he saw his shadow move. His body tensed without his instruction. He prayed that Harry just wouldn't notice, but then there was a hand on his bare skin and Draco flinched so violently away that there was no way to recover from it. Harry gaped at him. Without another word, Draco settled back into place on the bench and faced forward again.
"You really don't like to be touched…" He frowned, which must have been enough of a question because Harry kept going. "With the whole Hippogriff incident, you wouldn't let anyone touch you, not even Madame Pomfrey. I thought you were just being dramatic, but…"
"No, I really don't to be touched." Harry nodded.
"It's okay, I don't either." Draco had so many questions about that one little sentence, but before he could ask Harry had turned them—still without touching. They faced the mirrors, now, and Harry met his eyes very calmly. Slowly, he reached out to hover his hand over Draco's good shoulder.
"You make the contact." For some reason, the idea of reaching up for Harry's hand didn't feel as horrible as the idea of just randomly bracing for the touch, so he did. He barely touched the hand, but he pressed it down onto his own shoulder. Finally, he didn't flinch. They repeated this with the other shoulder, but Draco was shocked by how gentle Harry was about it. Honestly, he'd expected their rivalry to flare up like a bad potion and he'd expected nothing but pain from this encounter, but Harry was actually being incredibly careful.
"You're so tense…" It wasn't supposed to sound so fucking sultry—Draco was sure—but it did. He squirmed on the bench but Harry was touching his bare skin, now, and there was no going back. One of the thumbs massaged experimentally into his muscle.
"Yeah, well that's what happens when you don't like being touch—fucking hell Potter!" Harry stiffened, but kept his hands exactly where they were on Draco's shoulders.
"Sorry, did I hurt you?" All Draco could do was shake his head. Harry did it again, and Draco couldn't have explained the tingling jolt that it sent down his spine if he'd tried. It felt good, though, so he let Harry keep doing it to both shoulders.
"Were you tense because it hurts, or because you don't trust me?" Draco shrugged. It wasn't like Harry could blame him for either option, especially since they were both true. Regardless, though, he was currently focused on the hands massaging his shoulders and carefully dancing around any of the muscles that were in pain.
"Why are you doing this?" Harry squeezed a bit tighter, sending a shiver through his body that couldn't have gone unnoticed, but Draco tried to focus on the conversation. Even if being massaged was incredibly distracting, he had to remember that it was Potter he was dealing with. Potter, who could slam his shoulder at any moment and eliminate the competition.
"Because it'll hurt less if you aren't so tense." Draco snorted, but let him continue. Blaise had gotten good at relocating his shoulder—both from years of practice, and because they'd been so close for so long that Draco could tolerate his touch—but he'd never relaxed for it. Honestly, Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd relaxed. He knew this was a horrible idea, and he hadn't expected Potter, of all people, but that didn't mean that he—
"Shit!" Draco bit into the crook of his arm to muffle a scream at the sudden pain blasting through his body, but just as quickly it was over. His mouth wanted to swear, and his body was obviously confused by the distinct lack of pain because he was shaking and sweating like he had a fever, but Harry kept his hands on those pale shoulders until Draco was breathing again.
"That was mean." He sounded like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but Draco didn't care.
"True, but it hurt less didn't it?" Draco would not nod—he refused to admit that Harry had somehow managed to be better at it than Blaise, and on his first try—but his silence was answer enough. The Golden Boy merely smirked at him in the mirror. Harry hadn't taken his hands off of his shoulders, Draco realized, and he stared back into those emerald rings through the reflection. It was a question, but Harry didn't answer it—rather, he kept his hands completely still.
"Malfoy, can I ask you something?" Draco shrugged, because he could always just refuse to answer if he didn't like the question. "Why do you play Quidditch? If this happens as often as Blaise says, and it's clearly painful, why play at all? I mean, do you even like Quidditch?"
"No, I love Quidditch," Draco jumped, more at the force behind his own words than at anything Harry had done. "It's my sanity, and I'm not going to let something stupid like this stop me." Harry merely nodded, as if he hadn't expected anything less. Suddenly, it all felt far too personal. If his father had walked in at that moment, Draco was sure he wouldn't have eaten or walked straight for days, because Harry's hold on his shoulders almost looked protective, now. He glared in the mirror, even though his gut churned at the idea of changing their current situation.
"You're touching me." Again, Harry just nodded and calmly met his eyes in the mirror. How the hell was the Gryffindor so calm?! Personally, Draco felt like he was going to pass out if he so much as moved wrong and Merlin forbid if Harry moved wrong. The hand on his left shoulder smoothed into a flat palm, though, and brushed down to his collarbone.
"You're not stopping me." He wasn't wrong, but Draco couldn't make himself move. His body felt stuck, like the heaviest immobilization charm in history had just been cast on his limbs, but his voice didn't seem to work either. It buzzed in his throat, but refused to do anything more than hum or squeak as Harry's hands began to roam. Slow, careful touches. Harry was clearly being very intentional, and it showed. The Gryffindor seeker knew exactly what muscles were sore on his body and exactly how to reach them, which was both infuriating and incredibly nice. Draco blinked to make sure he was comprehending the situation, but it felt almost intimate. Like Harry knew him in a way the other Slytherins couldn't, just because they played the same position in Quidditch.
"Draco, you're shaking." He was, quite obviously now, but he couldn't make it stop. He'd been hoping that Harry wouldn't notice or, at the very least, that he wouldn't comment on it but apparently neither were going to happen.
"It's Malfoy." Draco bit his lip, feeling the last name curl off his tongue like poison, but he had to say it. He had to, before this entire thing collapsed in on them. The effect was immediate. Harry tensed, and let go without so much as a word of warning—ignoring, hopefully, the way Draco swayed without his support. Before he could even try to lighten the mood or backtrack, Harry was gone.
"For the best…" he mumbled, but that didn't stop the stinging in his chest. He felt like he'd just been slapped, or even hexed for how strong it was. Just a wizard's oath. Harry had fulfilled the oath, so he'd left and there was nothing more to it because there couldn't be. Draco shook it off and stood, hissing at how relaxed his body was. Traitor. But, there were places to be and things to do, and someone had to get revenge on Blaise once he was out of the hospital wing so Draco quickly dressed and slipped away.
The next time they fought, Draco honestly expected to see something different in Harry's face. Even if he was just more pissed off, that would have been enough. There was nothing, though. Just the same, cold kind of anger that felt impersonal and forced the longer they clung to it. He even dragged Granger and Weasel into it, hoping for some kind of reaction, but, when the wands came out, Harry didn't cast a single spell.
"Harry, hex him!" The Golden Boy refused, though, and Draco thought he saw a flicker of curiosity but then it was gone. Harry would shield himself, he soon learned, but wouldn't duel. It was infuriating to say the least and Draco would have kept escalating it just to see some kind of reaction if Harry hadn't promptly stepped up and punched him square in the face. Draco recoiled, but it was enough.
Harry had remembered what he'd said about magic on his body. Even when they were fighting, Harry had thought back to Draco's worry over the healing spell and hadn't cast a single thing. That didn't mean, of course, that Harry wasn't pissed or that he hadn't lashed out. But, somehow, the sting of the punch was lessened by the sheer fact that Harry had remembered, and cared.
He let that simmer, content to just observe, until the next Quidditch match. It was Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw, so Draco didn't have to worry about playing or about resetting his shoulder, thankfully, but he watched Harry play with renewed interest. They both gripped their brooms in very similar ways, right down to flying with a dominant left hand. Neither of them were left-handed, but Draco had always thought that was a quirk that he alone had been graced with. Interesting.
After the match, Draco dismissed Crabbe and Goyle with wave of his hand, and whispered a quiet 'mind your own damn business' to Blaise when he asked. It didn't matter, though, because the rest of Slytherin let him go without so much as a glance. Thus, he managed to situate himself outside of the Gryffindor locker room. He leaned against a tree, content to stay exactly where he was until he deemed it safe to enter, but he passed the time by counting Gryffindors.
The Weasley twins were first to leave, looking devious. They barely shot him a glance but, when he didn't return it, they evidently decided to spend their energy elsewhere. Angelina left, ignoring him except for a glare. At least half of the substitutes for the team left, having not needed to shower at all, and the Weaselette came last, though why she'd been in there Draco had no idea. When he was sure that it was down to just Harry and the Weasel—who wouldn't leave without the seeker—Draco slipped inside.
Interestingly enough, there really weren't any wards up. He had to wonder how many barriers at Hogwarts actually did exist between the houses, and how many were just assumed because of disputes and such. Regardless, though, he wound his way through the ruby walls and golden lockers until he heard voices. The Weasel was standing, already partially dressed, near one of the benches where Draco could see a dirty uniform in a heap of red and brown. He was yelling back towards one of the showers.
Draco didn't have much time to enact his plan, so he slipped past the Weasel on silent feet and darted for the showers. There wasn't a lot of choice, really, so he quickly stripped off his outer robes and his sweater before ducking into the shower beside Harry—not close enough to see anything over the half barrier, of course, but close enough to be seen. Harry nearly screamed, but then caught himself.
"Harry? You ready yet?" Draco made a shushing motion with his finger over his lips, and Harry stuttered, clearly not sure if he should trust the blond or cry for help while it was still nearby. He ultimately decided, though, because he kept the water on.
"You go on without me, Ron, I'll meet you guys in the library." The Weasel left with little complaint, and Draco got the impression that Harry often stayed behind on his own to bask in the warm water. Yet another way that they were similar… As soon as the door closed, though, Harry whirled on him.
"What the fuck are you doing here!?" Draco held up his hands, as if showing his truce, but Harry was clearly pissed. Just because of that one comment? Honestly, it was just a last name and Draco didn't understand what the big deal was but Harry was upset, so he put on his best diplomatic face. He was good at negotiating, right?
"Lower your voice, Potter, before all of Gryffindor comes running. I'm here for the same reason as last time." Harry glowered at him, but didn't scream for help so Draco was willing to consider that progress.
"Your shoulder is fine, you didn't play." Okay, maybe it was slow progress.
"Not the exact same reason, you git. I owe you for last time and I don't like being in someone else's debt." Harry paused, and Draco could see the thoughts on his face but he couldn't study them hard enough to read them. Pity, considering he was usually quite good at reading people. Of course Potter had to be the exception to everything—every rule, every standard, every norm—so naturally he would be the exception to Draco's usual skills as well.
"At least get me my towel?" Draco complied, and kept his back turned until Harry sat on the bench in front of him. Honestly, he'd been expecting this to be much harder. He'd prepared an entire argument in his head with a hundred different reasons for why this had to happen, but Harry merely settled down onto the bench and waited.
Harry jolted the second Draco touched him, and the blond swore. He quickly removed his hands, waiting for the Gryffindor's breathing to return to normal, and kicked himself because they'd literally just talked about this last time. Potter didn't like to be touched either.
"Sorry, forgot." Draco held his hands, hovering just over Harry's shoulders, and let the dark-haired boy reach back and ease them down. That was easier, it seemed, for both of them. Once he had his hands on the darker skin, though, Draco's muscle memory took over. He remembered, in an almost terrifying amount of detail, exactly what muscles Harry had worked and exactly how he'd done it. Draco was not good with emotions, but he was very good with patterns. His hands followed Harry's example, even though it'd been almost a week ago, to such an exact degree that he caught himself trying to relocate the Gryffindor's shoulder—which was not dislocated. Thankfully, Harry didn't comment on it.
What Harry did do, however, was vocalize exactly how he felt. It had started innocently enough with little huffs or a sharp intake of air if Draco pressed too hard too quickly, but now the Gryffindor was practically moaning. He shuddered as Draco worked back towards his neck, and keened into the contact. Fuck. Even if Draco had been completely straight—which he was, of course, if anyone asked—the effect of Potter's little mewling whines would not have been lost on his body. As it was, Draco cursed the tightness in his slacks.
"You're soaked." Draco jolted, glancing down defensively at his crotch before realizing that Harry meant his clothes. He'd been standing too close to Harry's shower, and the steam had combined with the spray to drench his clothes all the way through. His shirt was dripping, he realized, but he merely nodded.
Harry continued to moan and shiver as Draco massaged the muscles in his shoulders and his back, working down to the line of the towel and back up. Not a centimeter lower, he told himself. The Gryffindor leaned back against his legs, wordlessly trusting Draco not to let him fall, but continued to vocalize. Fuck, it wasn't fair! Draco struggled to hide the evidence of his shameful arousal as Harry wriggled under his touch, groaning and mewling like a goddamn pornstar despite their situation.
"Jesus Draco…" He didn't correct Harry, that time, and merely bit his lip. This felt far too personal and far too terrifying but he couldn't stop himself. His hands kept going, working past the point of exhaustion because his mind wanted to hear those little desperate sounds over and over again until he could engrave them in his memory.
"Hey Draco…?" Harry's voice was floaty and distant, like he wasn't entirely present in his body, but Draco heard him and the first name so he squeezed a bit to show he was listening. "Can I ask you something?" He hummed, trying not to agree or disagree and just see what Harry wanted. That, however, was apparently not satisfactory because Harry turned on the bench and grabbed for him to get his attention—nevermind the fact that his hands landed on the back of Draco's thighs.
"Yes?" His voice was shockingly steady. Merlin, Harry's face was level with his crotch now and there was no way that the Gryffindor had missed his erection—even without his glasses—but those emerald eyes didn't seem scared or disgusted. Harry gripped a little harder, digging his nails in a bit through the cloth of his slacks and pulling him closer.
"Why are you still wearing your clothes when they're literally dripping?" It was a valid, innocent question but the way Harry rolled over the S's was far from innocent. Fucking Parseltongue. If Draco hadn't known better, he would have thought it was intentional.
"Because…" But Draco didn't have an answer. His brain refused to come up with one, let alone a retort, when Harry's face was so close to his aching erection. The Gryffindor smirked, though, as if that was exactly the response that he'd been hoping for, and dug his nails in a bit more forcefully.
"Hey Draco?" Draco hummed to show he was listening, but couldn't manage words. "Have you ever been kissed before?" The blond shook his head before he even realized what he was doing but Merlin. Somehow the combination of Harry's breath on his crotch and the sting of Harry's nails on his thighs was like pure bliss to his nervous system. He felt like he could overdose, if he tried.
"Hey Draco?" Again, he hummed, but it was much more distracted this time and cut off when Harry innocently nuzzled at his belt. "Can I kiss you?" He should have said no. Draco knew that, he really did, and he knew exactly what he was risking by even standing there like that with Harry Potter, of all people. He should have said no—because he was rational, and smart—but he nodded.
Instantly, the grip on his thighs tightened and pulled until he was in Harry's lap, clinging to broad shoulders to stop himself from falling to the ground. Harry tangled a hand in his hair, but cemented the other on his hip. Under any other circumstance—hell, under this circumstance—a touch that possessive and that dominant would have shot terror into his chest but he wasn't given time to panic. The hand in his hair guided him closer.
When Harry kissed him, Draco really had no idea what to expect. He'd seen enough to guess at the motion, and he'd certainly heard enough from Blaise to guess at what it would feel like, but he was not prepared for how gentle Harry would be. Their entire relationship was rough and angry, so Draco expected nothing less. They were rivals, after all. And yet, Harry's lips were so soft and so tentative that Draco barely registered them at first.
"Relax, Drake…" Maybe it was the nickname, or maybe it was the fact that Harry had whispered the command against the hollow of his throat, but Draco couldn't help himself. His body relaxed, whether he wanted to or not. Quickly, he found himself following Harry's lead and then their lips were moving, finding a rhythm that Draco hadn't even known he had.
"Hands to yourself, Potter." Harry laughed, and then Draco laughed when he realized what he'd said, but neither removed their hands. Thank Merlin, Draco thought. The Gryffindor's hand had wound securely around the back of his neck, with the other harshly gripping his left hip. He didn't mind the touch, though, and he honestly liked the sentiment behind it. Secure, rather than suffocating.
"Potter…" The dark-haired boy broke away, only to attach himself to Draco's neck. He sucked long and hard, leaving little kitten licks and feather-light kisses along his skin in between hickeys. So not fair. Draco groaned at the heat that stirred in his gut, but Harry merely laughed and continued his attack as the blond squirmed and whined low in his throat. Merlin, it was amazing. It must have been some kind of dark magic, honestly, because Draco had never felt more alive.
"Hold still, Drake." He obeyed, letting Harry's grip on his hips tighten and restrain him. But then he realized why Harry had said that, and flushed with humiliation. He'd been rutting his hips against Harry's, pressing their erections together like a fucking animal, and he felt shame prickle beneath his skin. Quickly, he stood and tried to flee. Harry caught his wrist, though, and refused to budge.
"Hey, take a breath. I wasn't telling you to stop." Draco wanted to throw up, though, and tears were starting to burn behind his eyes so he wrenched his wrist away and made a dash for the closest form of shelter he could find. He huddled, curling into the tightest ball he could manage, and tried to shrink down into the corner of the shower stall. Fuck he was so stupid! His father had told him for years what would happen if he gave into something like that, but he had to go and do it with Harry fucking Potter!? Merlin, they were going to crucify him for even daring to think it, let alone do it.
"Draco?" He jolted, immediately trying to scrunch smaller at the voice, but Harry stayed where he was. If it had been any other situation, Draco would have marveled at their appearances. Harry, wrapped in only a towel below the waist and starting to bruise, was the picture of vulnerability, and yet Draco was the one on the floor in tears. He could only shudder, though, and drag in a pathetic amount of oxygen as if that might help.
"Here, I thought you might want this." Harry reached out, but not to touch him. In his hand, was Draco's wand. Draco snatched it before his mind even registered what was happening, but he immediately felt a little bit more steady with the knowledge that he could defend himself. Nevermind the fact that Harry wasn't attacking him, or that that wasn't the kind of thing he needed to defend against. Still, it helped a bit.
"Can I sit?" Harry motioned to the ground in front of him, but waited for Draco to nod before he plopped down on it. He was still clad in only a towel, but Draco found himself slowly forgetting that fact as he let the full significance of what he'd just done hit him. He'd kissed Harry Potter. Or, rather, Harry Potter had kissed him but he'd still allowed it. Encouraged it, even. He'd rutted against the Chosen One like some kind of animal in heat and his cheeks burned even thinking about it.
"Hey Draco?" He didn't lift his head, but Harry apparently assumed he was listening. "You know it's not a bad thing, right? To trust people, to be gay, or to do whatever else you're ashamed of. It's not a bad thing. You're not broken, or wrong, and I know I can only say so much but… can I do anything?" Slowly, Draco shook his head. Harry couldn't do anything because he wasn't the one who'd fucked up. If another student had seen…
"Draco?" He looked up that time, but only enough to see Harry's bare feet on the tile. "Do you want me to leave?" Again, he shook his head. Honestly, he hadn't expected that response but something told him that, if Harry left, he would sit there and cry until another Gryffindor found him. At least this way, he would have some excuse for being there.
"Do you want to know something that might help?" He nodded, refusing to speak for fear that his voice would just shatter. "Breathe in for five seconds, hold for three, and breathe out for five more. Do you want to try it?" Wordlessly, Draco tried to suck in a deep breath and he watched Harry's chest rise as he did the same, but the sudden rush of oxygen made him choke. He coughed, but Harry merely kept breathing. Eventually, he was able to get into the same rhythm as the Gryffindor, and then he was able to do it without coughing. It was slow, but it helped.
"I used to get panic attacks as a kid," Harry explained, keeping his voice low. "Breathing like this was the only thing that ever helped. It still helps, even now. To this day, it's what I do during Quidditch matches when I need to focus on finding the snitch."
"Giving your secrets to the competition, Potter?" To Draco's utter relief, they both laughed at that. Harry laughed like it was mildly funny, but Draco laughed like he was on the verge of losing everything and laughter was the only thing that felt good anymore.
"Can I touch you, Draco?" He nodded, expecting a hug or maybe a punch because this had all been some dirty trick, but Harry merely took his hand. Gently, he interlaced their fingers and squeezed.
It was the single most grounding touch Draco had ever experienced, and he almost started crying all over again. After maybe thirty seconds, he uncurled a bit. Another thirty seconds, and he managed to sit up straight enough to see Harry's face. He kept breathing, following Harry's very deliberate example, and waited until he felt like he could move before tugging on the hand that was holding his.
"What do you want me to do, Drake?" Back to that nickname, but Draco didn't give himself a chance to panic because he tugged again. When Harry didn't immediately move, he took matters into his own hands. He scooted closer. Even if it terrified him, Draco moved so that they were touching and swung his leg over to straddle Harry's lap, relishing in the way the Gryffindor's hand caught his thigh, almost guiding him back into place. Slowly, he settled and let Harry's arms curl around him.
"Harry…" Draco wasn't sure what that was, honestly, if it was a question or a statement or just some kind of plea, but he felt Harry respond beneath him. Muscles tensed and shifted. At first, Draco thought the Gryffindor was going to push him away but then he felt fingers in his hair and he relaxed again, letting Harry play with the shortest strands at the nape of his neck.
"That's the first time you've called me Harry." It was, and Draco hadn't even noticed his mistake. Honestly, though, it was too late to go back on it now because he'd made out with the Gryffindor, panicked in front of him, and was now voluntarily asking for contact so a first name was hardly a milestone.
"Yeah, well today is the first time for a long of things, apparently, so don't feel too special." Harry laughed against the side of his neck. His voice didn't have any venom or anger, and it wasn't an insult, really, but somehow Harry laughing at it just made it that much better. Because it was a lie, and they both knew it. The Gryffindor was damn special—Draco had never even willingly touched someone before, let alone everything else—but somehow denying it made it a little easier to bear.
"I'll be sure to keep my ego in check, then," Harry chuckled. They could have kept talking, and Harry could have asked a thousand different questions about what had just happened. But it was nice to just sit there, Draco decided, so he settled in a little more comfortably. He'd never really been one for physical contact, and yet laying there like that with Harry's breath on his neck and Harry's arms around his shaky frame, it felt good. Good in a way that didn't make him want to scream or run away in fear.
"Hey Harry?" He had to. There was something deep in his gut that wouldn't let him leave it alone, no matter how hard he tried. Harry merely perked up a bit, though, and hummed.
"Mhmm?"
"You're not gonna… tell anyone. Right?" A smile pressed against his skin, and Draco instantly could breathe a little easier. He wasn't sure, yet, if he liked the effect that Harry had on him but the relaxation and the calm was certainly a nice byproduct. Again, Harry started to play with his hair.
"Of course not. Are you gonna tell anyone?" Draco stopped. He hadn't even considered the fact that Harry was risking something by being here like this, too. Did people know that Harry was gay? He'd certainly never heard that rumor, but he had heard the one that he and Cedric had been hooking up during the Tournament. Like everyone else, he'd dismissed it, though.
"No, of course not. But does that mean that you and Diggory…?" Harry laughed, shaking him with the motion and the sound until it felt like Draco was laughing too.
"That's a story for another time, Drake," he laughed. "All of that can wait for another time."
Thanks so much for reading! Please, please review I know it's a lot of extra work but it really does mean the world to me! :)