They cling to each other because they have no-one else. There is a sense of profound, horrifying, overwhelming loneliness that brings them together every night, the need for warmth and emotion that the deaths deprived them of. They are alike, there two young men, alike and yet so different.
Sirius. Dumbledore. Ron, Lupin. Arthur and Molly Weasley. McGonnagal. Moody. All dead, all buried. And Harry feels so abandoned, so alone and so cold, and the icy hatred takes over him and makes him insane. He prowls the room he rents like a caged animal, sometimes screaming, sometimes sobbing, sometimes staring blindly at one spot on the wall. And then he goes to him again – to the only person that makes him feel alive and puts some warmth into his cold heard.
Draco often thinks he has nothing to live for. His father dead. Mother murdered. He has no-one else. Defeated, crushed, unfeeling, he hates himself for being unable to continue to live, and yet the grim reality is that he has lost all his friends and acquaintances. No-one remembers his birthdays anymore. There's no-one. No-one at all. He wakes up and goes for walks, he reads and watches TV, he cooks and eats. And yet he feel dead. Like he's in a dream that isn't really happening, a haze, a mist that he is going through without really caring where he is going.
And then comes the night. He opens the door and lets the dark-haired man in. He tries to remember when hatred turned to love - he cant. Does it matter, anyway?
Harry's face is dark and grey, his eyes bright and yet dull, with nothing in them. Fathomless pools of molten emerald. The mop of black hair, unkempt and tousled. The thin body – when has Harry eaten for the last time? White hands – when had he gone out in the sun last? Harry is shaking from the cold outside, his eyes are huge and encircled by dark shadows. His lips are pale and dry, slightly parted.
Draco leans into Harry, for a moment just basking in the closeness. The blond then looks up, right into the green eyes, and sees the first spark of emotion in them. He kisses Harry, ever so sightly – it is barely more than a brush of lips. Harry shakes even more violently, now with both excitement and coldness.
Harry's long-fingered hands wind around Draco's small waist, pulling the blond closer.
They don't speak – they don't need to.
They help each other undress, all the time staring at each other, almost challenging one another to stop, to flee, to admit this is wrong. Neither does.
The silk sheets are soft under Harry, caressing him like rose petals. Draco slides on top of Harry, silver-grey eyes wide with hunger and with a fierce need.
They cling to each other because they have no-one else. They are all that links them to the past, and it is only them, this, that makes them stay sane. They make love, and there is no rush or hunger – they hold onto one another, hands caressing thighs and backs, fingers running almost carelessly through hair, lips mapping out chests.
And they they start to feel. Warmth spreads through they bodies, fingers leave red-hot trails on their skins. Harry feels exhilarated, suddenly and frighteningly so, and this contrasts so sharply to the bleakness of the last twenty-four hours. He starts to gasp a little, ravelling in this one chance he has to experience emotion.
Draco's perfectly manicured fingers run down Harry's back, and the blond loves the way the excitement is building up in him. He thinks its ironic that his former enemy is the one person who can give this precious gift to him, but he doesn't really care. He hardly cares for anything now, apart from this.
Harry's eyes grow wide as they reach the peak of pleasure, and they topple off it seconds apart. The languid, golden pleasure engulfs their bodies and minds, and they collapse into each other, experiencing love and hatred and excitement and exhilaration and fear at the same time. These moments of afterglow are like drugs to them, and they know neither would be able to survive without the other.
'I've no-one,' Harry says, suddenly, and his voice shakes. He hadn't spoke for a while now. 'Except you.'