Warnings: Flangst. EWE.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.
Notes: A million thanks to Iwao and Marianne, for beta-reading this for me and assuring me it did not in fact read like a medical examination :)
Between Dreams and Miracles
Draco began dreaming about Harry long before they got their first assignment together.
They were just simple things at first; nothing major. As a fourth year, Draco used to dream Harry shook his hand on the Hogwarts Express. That he picked him over the Weasel. They'd still end up in different houses, and Draco's heart would clench miserably during the Sorting ceremony with the looming threat of estrangement, but it wouldn't last. Harry would still sit next to him in Potions every week, and his thigh would press warm against Draco's as he leant in closer to copy his notes.
By sixth year, the dreams became different—they increased in intensity to match the growing fear and desperation in Draco's life. They'd meet in darkened classrooms then, in hidden alcoves, and Harry would place a gentle hand on Draco's lower back as he whispered, "You can change sides, you know," in his ear. Draco's muscles would tighten almost painfully under his skin, and he'd flush a little when Harry leant forward to catch his eyes.
"Please," Harry would say softly, "For me," and something fragile would flutter in Draco's chest—something dangerous, and Draco was never a risk taker but he'd welcome it anyway.
Harry would reach a hand up, caress Draco's lower lip with his thumb, and mumble, "The Order would still have you. I'd always have you," and Draco would angle his head, just a bit, and press his lips to Harry's in a chaste kiss. He'd feel a light puff of breath against his lips right before Harry kissed him back, but Harry would kiss him back, and it'd be sublime.
And sometimes Draco would change sides in those dreams.
Outside them, he didn't.
Harry speaks for him at his trial. He speaks for a very long time, saying things like Draco was brave and had been under duress, that everything he did, he did for his family, that the war couldn't have been won without him.
Draco doubts it. Without him, Harry would have found another way, and he doubts Harry really believes a word he's saying. It's probably the life debt speaking, but still, Draco's throat feels thick, as if he were about to cry, and he can't help falling a little in love with every new word because no one, no one has ever said those things about him.
Not even Mother.
After the trial, Harry doesn't speak to him.
He stares at Draco across the courtroom for a moment too long, and Draco hopes. He hands Draco back his wand with a curt, "Malfoy," and Draco nods, as if he'd been expecting this all along. As if he'd always known Harry would keep his wand for him.
And then Harry walks away.
Draco's heart aches miserably with the looming threat of estrangement, and this time it's real. And when the girl Weasel slips a hand around Harry's waist, something caustic tries to claw through Draco's chest.
He doesn't let it.
He clenches his fists and determinedly pushes it back down. But Salazar, he hates himself more than ever.
After the war, Draco would dream they joined Auror training together.
He'd apologise to Harry on their first day, and Harry would chuckle quietly at him. "You don't need to explain that to me, Draco," he'd say. "I always knew. I know you better than you know yourself."
And in Draco's dreams, he would.
They do start training together.
Draco's mother shakes her head, appalled. "But haven't we had enough of them, dear?"
"I have to do this," Draco tells her, and eventually she agrees it might be good for the family.
It might restore their credibility.
It might help, at least.
It never seems to matter that this is not why Draco is doing it.
So he and Harry start training together—along with Granger and the Weasel—and Draco doesn't talk to him for a whole year. Not even once. He has no idea how to approach him. He has no idea what to say, or if Harry would even want to know about the dreams, but he guesses Harry wouldn't.
It doesn't once occur to him that he could be wrong about that.
So Draco talks to Granger instead; she's surprisingly accepting of him.
When they come back from their holidays, Harry is even colder to him, and Draco has no idea how to fix that. Their eyes meet occasionally, across the room, but Harry's gaze is guarded now and there's a small frown between his brows. Draco can't read him anymore.
A small piece of his heart dies in his chest every time, and Draco knows, deep down, that he should have tried harder to talk to Harry. Only he never knew what to say or how to act around him, because Harry has always been far too important to risk.
In their second year of training, Draco dreamt he got invited to Harry's birthday.
Candles would be blown, gifts would be opened, and Draco would wait until the first people started leaving before cornering Harry up against the wall. "I have a present for you as well," he'd murmur into Harry's ear.
"Shh," Harry would hiss anxiously. "Not here."
Draco would ignore him. When their lips met, slow and tentative, Harry's fingers would sink deep in Draco's hair to pull him closer. Harry's mouth would open for him. Harry would hum happily against his lips, melt against him, spreading his legs in invitation, and it'd be just as hot and wet and brilliant as his dreams back in sixth year.
Across the room, the girl Weasley would pale in shock and drop the two drinks she'd been holding. Draco would glance over, and find her holding onto a table for support.
And his happiness in that moment would be downright vicious.
Draco never gets invited to Harry's birthday, but he does go to Granger's in their final year. Harry is there as well, of course, but he seems intent on pretending Draco doesn't exist.
And that, at least, is nothing new.
It's what he's been doing for a couple of years now.
The girl Weasel catches Draco staring as she brings back drinks for her friends. She narrows her eyes suspiciously, and leans in close to whisper something in Harry's ear. Harry looks up.
Time seems to slow down—stop—as he scans the room.
When his eyes finally find Draco's, he turns away, shaking his head furiously at whatever the girl Weasel is saying.
Draco can't read lips, but it's clear as day Harry is denying something.
Denying him.
He concentrates hard on the cracked plaster on the wall. He knows the room is hot, uncomfortably hot with so many people, but he feels cold inside, almost as if his heart had been replaced with an icicle. It's a mad thought, but some even crazier corner of his brain suggests it might not be an impossibility, and he wants to—needs to—hold onto a table for support.
There are no tables nearby.
Instead, Draco stands up straighter, and schools his features perfectly blank; Granger looks at him a bit too knowingly, but thankfully doesn't comment.
In Draco's dreams, they'd be paired together for their very first assignment.
They'd have to follow the ringleader of a potions' smuggling operation all through London. Tailing people would turn out to be incredibly boring work: lots of sitting around in the dark, with nothing to do but watch and wait; lots and lots of free time that Draco would gleefully fill by, among other things, ogling Harry's delectable arse.
And eventually Harry would catch him at it. Draco's throat would feel parched, but Harry would just wink playfully back at him before mouthing 'later' and go back to work.
They'd be partners after that—both at work and under the secret softness of Draco's silk sheets. They'd work well together. Always. And Draco quite liked it like that.
But in real life, that's not even remotely close to how it goes.
"… am I boring you, Auror Malfoy?"
Draco blinks.
He knows Robards is talking to him. He knows he's been speaking for a while. He knows he's missed most of the actual explanation because his mind was still trying to come to terms with Robards' first two demented sentences: Auror Granger is on her honeymoon, as you well know. You'll be working with Potter on this case. It's like he's stuck in a Pensieve memory containing nothing but those two lines. They replay endlessly, again and again.
"Is there a problem, Malfoy?" Robards snaps.
Draco swallows. His mind feels muzzy and slow but he says, "No, sir, of course not," just like he's supposed to—like a professional; like the bloody consummate liar that he is, even though he's so far from all right it's almost frightening.
"Well, go on then." Robards waves him off with an irritated frown, and Draco walks calmly out of his boss' office.
Inside, he's breaking faster than a pane of glass hit by half a dozen Diffindos.
He has to go find Harry now. He's supposed to talk to him, brief him about this case he knows nothing about because he was too caught up in his own panicked ruminations to even think about paying attention. They've been working together for two years, and Harry has never once talked to Draco and how, how exactly are they going to solve a case without speaking?
Draco is pretty sure that's not possible.
But somehow, it works.
Harry alternates between grunting and snarling at him, and Draco is afraid he might have torn a permanent gash in his tongue from biting down on it so often. It's frustrating, and from the outside they must look laughable—or pitiable, depending on the day—but still, it works. They're both apparently good enough at this job for communication to become secondary.
At least until Harry jumps in front of a Crucio and Draco…
Draco sees red.
There's yelling. There's so much yelling, and he's only vaguely aware of shoving Harry into a wall once they're back at the Ministry once the case is closed. He's gone so long without talking, really talking to Harry, that now he can't seem to shut up. He just gets louder and louder, and he's pushing Harry back and telling him he's a bloody stupid prick with a massive death wish and a ludicrous hero complex, because he is.
"The fuck is wrong with you, Malfoy?" Harry shouts, jostling him, and Draco winces.
He braces himself for a punch that never comes.
Instead, Harry lets go of him as if he's burning and hides his face behind his hands. Mumbles, "Why does everything have to be so sodding difficult with you?"
Draco is pretty sure he loses it after that.
He's so cross, so confused, so incongruously turned on, and the next thing he knows, he's kissing Harry. It's harsh and angry and demanding, and not even close to how it was in his dreams, but still sublime, Draco thinks. Sublime.
Except Harry isn't kissing him back.
Harry is just standing there, unmoving, until Draco starts to pull back.
Something wild flashes in his eyes then. He grabs Draco by the hair and drags him close.
"Let go of my fucking—" Draco starts, but the rest of his sentence is obliterated by Harry's mouth.
"You bloody impossible ponce," Harry says between hard kisses, "of course you'd be worried about your stupid hair."
Draco laughs a bit hysterically as Harry delves into his mouth, dragging his tongue along Draco's teeth as if trying to taste every available inch of him. Draco's knees feel weak, and his nails are digging into Harry's shoulders, and Harry is moaning into his mouth. They're still in the middle of the bloody Ministry where anyone could walk in on them, and it's all so impossibly deranged, and yet, Draco loves every second of it.
He reaches down, fumbling with the button on Harry's jeans. It's such a tiny thing, it slips between his fingers twice; takes forever to unhook without seeing, but Draco doesn't mind as long as Harry keeps doing that thing—that marvellous thing—with his tongue. He dips his fingers past the waistband of Harry's pants, and Harry gasps out, "Fuck," when Draco's hand wraps around his cock.
It fits perfectly into his hand, full and heavy, and Draco finally looks down.
He watches through wide, incredulous eyes as the head of Harry's cock disappears rhythmically beneath his fingers. He catches the glint of the first drops of precome, wipes at them with his thumb.
He licks his lips before falling to his knees and then… he waits.
He waits for Harry to push him off. To tell him he doesn't want this. To call him a freak, a poof, a deviant.
Except none of that happens.
Harry just stares down at him, breathing hard, his eyes half-lidded and dark. So dark Draco would never guess their colour if it weren't already burnt into his mind—green like Slytherin, green like the glowing sparks of Morsmordre, like the acres of grass in the Malfoy estate.
He takes Harry's cock into his mouth and bobs his head a few times, experimentally, gazing up at Harry the whole time. There's something stormy and unreadable in Harry's eyes, and Draco can't seem to look away from them. His own cock is impossibly hard, pushing against the fabric of his trousers, and he wonders momentarily if he could come just from this. If he could come in his pants like a teenager having his first time just from watching Harry getting closer. From knowing he's the one doing this to Harry, from turning Harry into this mess of a person who can only speak in strings of swear words.
Merlin, it seems possible.
Harry's cock twitches, hard and hot between his lips, and Draco slips a hand into his own pants. He slides up and down on Harry's cock, all the while grinding hard into his own hand, and doesn't think about how he'd like to do this again and again and again until they simply can't anymore.
Harry doesn't touch him.
Harry hisses and moans somewhere above him, and Draco can hear the dull thud of his fist hitting the wall when Draco goes deep on him, another muttered, "Fuck," every time the tip of his erection hits the back of Draco's mouth. It's a manic dream, it's exhilarating, and Draco is trying his best not to come just yet because he wants to make this last.
He wants to be able to remember this.
And Harry doesn't once touch Draco. Not even when he spills down Draco's throat, besting him by only a few seconds.
"God, I hate you," Harry breathes out, slumping down against the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up. As if the whole world were crumbling around them. "I really fucking hate you."
Draco licks one last strip up Harry's gorgeous cock before he stands.
He feels shaky.
He feels as if his wings might melt to ashes this close to the sun, so he sneers at Harry.
"I can assure you, Potter, the feeling's entirely mutual."
It's still the closest to love he's ever been.
Draco dreamt that night that he'd wake up in Harry's bed, stirred awake by the soft spicy scent of Harry's deodorant. He dreamt he'd blink his eyes open slowly, sleepily, and Harry would be there to run gentle fingers through his hair—to kiss him—and Draco's heart would for once beat at the right pace.
Draco wakes up in his own bed, under sheets that don't smell like Harry because Harry has never been there. When he goes back to work on Monday, he gets partnered with Bones. He tries—he looks for Harry—but he can't seem to find him anywhere.
"Didn't you know?" Bones tells him eventually. "He's on sick leave. Bad case of Black Cat Flu, apparently." She grimaces. "Will probably be gone for a few days."
Harry is gone for a full fortnight.
Draco wonders if the girl Weasley is looking after him now. If she's bringing him hot soup and tucking him up in his bed. If Harry has fucked her yet.
He only stops wondering because it hurts too much.
When Harry comes back, he's looking everywhere but at Draco.
"Malfoy," he says curtly when their paths cross.
And Draco nods back at him. "Potter."
In Draco's dreams, Hermione would drag him out for a pint at an old Muggle pub every Friday evening. As usual, the Weasel would trail behind her, dragging along a very reluctant-looking Harry. And Harry would look stunning—so spectacularly fit in his torn jeans and leather jacket that Draco's lungs would simply refuse to cooperate for a while, and he'd be left breathless.
Harry would sit across from him, sneaking glances at Draco out of the corner of his eye—probably under the impression that he was the paragon of subtlety. He'd shift uncomfortably in his seat whenever Draco talked, and eventually excuse himself to go to the loo.
Draco would follow him.
He'd walk in on him washing his hands, and Harry would look up, bemused and wary.
And Draco would talk.
He'd tell him everything. He'd tell him about the dreams and how he'd been in love with him for years. He'd tell him that there was no one else he wanted to spend his life with, that only Harry mattered. He'd confess he'd been far too scared, weighed down by his parents' expectations, by the war, by his own guilt. Far too terrified all along to ever really fight for what he wanted, but he'd be ready to do so then.
"Took you long enough," Harry would say, and he'd smile at him—his real smile, the one that was a bit crooked around the edges and made Draco's insides melt like butter—and Draco would breathe out, and for once welcome the respite of honesty.
Much to his dismay, Hermione does take to dragging him out for a pint every Friday evening, and the Weasel trails behind her, dragging along a very disgruntled-looking Harry. Harry looks downright mouthwatering in his torn jeans and green Converse trainers, and Draco's heart stops beating in his chest.
Harry sits across from him but never looks at Draco, though he does shift uncomfortably whenever Draco talks, and eventually excuses himself to go to the loo.
Draco is desperate enough to contemplate following him, but he doesn't.
He remembers Harry's cold gaze during training, his words after that botched-up blow job in the corridor along the north wall on Level Two, and decides he can only piece his heart back together so many times before the cracks finally start showing. He still hates himself for never knowing what to say or how to act around Harry because Harry has always been far too important to risk.
But by now, Draco is quite used to living with that.
He figures he might as well continue to do so.
Draco would dream Harry went to Pansy's wedding—to Longbottom, of all people—on his own.
Pansy would look dashing in her too short dress, and Longbottom would look… well, some people were just beyond redemption. But Draco wouldn't care, because Harry would sit beside him at the ceremony, and whisper 'so, your place or mine?' as the couple held hands and the high wizard spoke the words of the bond.
In real life, Harry brings the she Weasel with him.
They stay near the back of the room, talking animatedly the whole time. Draco knows this because he's been watching them—because he can't take his eyes off Harry. No matter how much he tries to look away, his eyes keep focusing on the way the she Weasel pats Harry's shoulder as she speaks. On the way Harry slips an arm around her shoulders to guide her to her seat.
Harry looks up then, briefly, and Draco can't read him at all—but he figures the strong set of his jaw as his eyes meet Draco's can't mean anything good.
It doesn't last, anyway. As soon as the she Weasel starts talking again, Harry turns away.
He manages to corner Harry after the ceremony, waits until he's alone to tug on his sleeve.
Harry spins around angrily. "Oh for—What the hell do you want this time?"
Draco tries to find the words, but they're elusive. He holds on tight when Harry tries to free his arm.
"Malfoy," Harry warns him, his voice tight and edgy, "let go."
"No, I…" Harry pushes him back with so much strength Draco's skull collides painfully with the wall, and for a moment he's almost deafened by the persistent silence of his brain flatlining. He can't let that stop him. "Stop avoiding me," he says.
"No. You stop," Harry snaps. "Stop following me. Stop fucking watching me."
He looks like one of the Furies, intense and stalwart in his might, and all Draco can do is kiss him. He surges forward and kisses him, and Harry's mouth parts for him as if it were that easy. As if there were no thought behind it, no real alternative. And it's just as hot and gentle as it's always been in Draco's dreams.
And it doesn't last. It doesn't take long for Harry's brain to catch up with him, for Harry to push him back, push Draco off him yet again.
"You don't get to…" He rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. "You can't just do this. I'm not your bloody plaything, Malfoy."
Draco's fists clench helplessly by his sides. He suddenly feels very, very small. "It's not like that. It's not—" he tries. He can't force out the words. They never make it past his lips, they resist him
"God, you're… Just stop doing this to me, all right?" Draco wants to laugh at the sheer amount of desperation in Harry's voice. "Just leave me the fuck alone."
And so Harry leaves.
Draco chokes back a sob.
He lets his head thunk back against the wall. It hurts, but not at badly as the shattered remains of his soul, so Draco reckons he should probably welcome it.
In dreams, Draco would eventually be reassigned as Harry's partner.
Robards' Patronus would wake him in the wee hours of the morning one Thursday. "Auror Potter's partner has been injured," its thready voice would say, "we need you to take his place on the field."
And Draco would grab a fresh set of robes and Apparate away.
What happens is actually close to his dreams. Williamson lands himself in St Mungo's, and Robards summons Draco in the middle of the night. Harry is right there when he arrives, standing by Robards' desk. He looks tense, and normally they wouldn't send him back into the field, but they're horribly understaffed these days, and Hermione is on maternity leave and…
And it's Harry. The boy who keeps refusing to die. Of course they're sending him back.
"… armed and dangerous, so keep that in mind," Robards is saying. "Do not take unnecessary risks. Do not engage them until back-up gets there, do you understand?"
Draco does. He understands perfectly. Harry, apparently, not so much.
A flash of light and a small cry is all the warning he gets before Harry races forwards, before spells start flying all around them and Draco is forced to leave cover or leave Harry on his own—and he can't do that, he could never do that.
He brings up his Shield Charm and takes off after Harry, slinging a couple of Confringos over his shoulder. He doubts any of them hit, but at least they'll keep them busy—distract them while he catches up to Harry.
It doesn't work that way.
There's a blast of white light headed straight for Harry, and Draco knows that shade—he knows it well; he remembers it from sixth year. There's no time to counter it, and Harry's looking the other way. Harry hasn't even noticed the curse flying towards him.
So Draco puts on a burst of speed and tackles him to the ground.
It stings like a thousand needles trying to crawl their way through his skin. It stings so much it takes Draco several seconds to register the cracks of Apparition around them, and he's only faintly aware of Harry dragging him behind cover, all the while mumbling, "You bloody idiot…"
Before the world swirls into a muted grey, Draco thinks he can hear Harry say, "Please don't die."
Draco dreamt Harry would be there when he woke up.
"Thank Merlin you're fine," he'd say. "You've been in a magical coma for days."
Draco would put his hand on Harry's thigh and feel Harry's muscles tighten under his skin.
Harry would lace his fingers through Draco's and lift his hand to his lips. "Don't ever do that again," he'd mumble into the back of Draco's hand. "Don't ever leave me."
And in his dreams, Draco wouldn't.
Instead, Draco wakes up alone. He only knows he's in St Mungo's because it reeks of healing potions and disinfectant—the smell so strong it's beginning to make his nose itch. He's only alone for a few minutes before Harry walks in, holding a mug. He looks tired. He's still wearing his uniform, and there are black smudges under his eyes. Dry blood splattered on his chest. Draco's blood.
He pauses awkwardly by the door. "You're awake."
"Potter." Draco's voice sounds soft, far away. It sounds as if he's speaking through a mouthful of cotton. He feels oddly at peace. "Is she your girlfriend?"
Harry walks closer, sitting on the chair by Draco's bed. "Is who my girlfriend?"
"The…" Her. "Weasley," Draco says desperately, and Harry freezes. Holds onto his mug as if it were a lifeline. "Ginevra."
"I don't have a girlfriend." Harry bites his lip, looking down into his mug. "Ginny is just… a good friend. That's all."
"Good. She can't be your girlfriend. You can't…" You can't leave me. No one will ever love you like I do. Fate dictates we belong together. "I fancy you."
Harry looks up. "You're drugged, Malfoy," he says slowly.
"I really am, aren't I?" Draco hesitantly puts his hand on Harry's head. He cards his fingers through Harry's hair, and it's impossibly soft against his skin. Much, much softer than it looks, and Draco really must be off his face on painkiller potions for any of this to seem even remotely normal. "But I still like you a lot."
"And you're such an arse." Harry shifts a bit closer then. He rests his elbows on Draco's bed, and stares fixedly at Draco for what seems like hours. Draco tries so hard to put everything he's feeling into his eyes—right there, for Harry to see. And he has no idea if that works, but eventually Harry crosses his arms and buries his face in Draco's blankets. "That's all you ever had to do, you know? Assaulting me in dark corridors is hardly conducive to getting a date with me." Harry's body shakes a little, as if he were laughing—or crying—and so does his voice when he speaks again, "All you ever had to say was that."
"So does that mean I'm getting that date now?"
"You get all the dates you want," Harry says tiredly. "Just please try not to jump in front of more lethal curses anytime soon, yeah?"
Harry's eyes are dry when he looks up, and Draco really wants to kiss him, but his back hurts too much to move.
It doesn't matter.
Harry will lean in to kiss him, and it'll be nothing like the dreams—it'll be awkward, and somewhat uncoordinated, and Harry will laugh at him as their noses bump against each other. But it'll still be sublime.
And this time, it won't have to end.