"He smiled understandingly - much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey." -The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
"I want that git out of here as soon as possible!"
"He needs our help! We can't just leave him to fend for himself; he has nowhere to go!"
Draco blinks open his heavy eyelids and finds that he's in a stranger's bed watching Potter, Weasley, and Granger argue.
"Harry, I know you feel bad for him, but we can't risk having him here," Hermione whines, ever the annoying voice of reason.
"He's a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake! He's dangerous!" Ron yells, a prime example of the opposite: impulse and emotion before reason.
"Dangerous? He doesn't even have a wand!"
And then there's Harry, a perfect mixture of the two.
"His foul mouth's enough of a weapon, don't you think?"
"Ron, please. This isn't the time."
"Look, I'll find somewhere for him to go. I just need a few days."
"Well, we don't have a few days! You're so concerned about saving him, you're forgetting about the, the...things!"
Ron whispers the end of his sentence as if the word, "things" is a decent choice of vocabulary that's supposed to mean something. Deciding he's heard enough of their bickering over him, Draco clears his throat and sits up. All three of their heads whip around immediately and before he can do anything, the mudblood points her wand at him and shouts, "Incarcerous!"
"Hey! What the hell are you doing!" he cries, struggling against the thick, black ropes that have coiled around his wrists.
She ignores him and turns to Harry, who looks torn between snapping at Hermione and praising her.
"If he's going to stay here, he's going to have to be restrained. I don't trust him."
"Good call, Hermione. He'd probably strangle us all in our sleep," Ron adds furiously.
"No, because that would require touching all of you. I doubt there's any spell powerful enough to wash that kind of filth off my hands," Draco interjects, just to see Ron's face contort in anger. He lunges at Draco, but Harry holds him back.
"I don't believe this. We let him sleep in our bed, use our potions, and the minute he wakes up, he insults us!"
"Hermione, can you take him into the other room for a bit?"
"I don't know, Harry. I really don't think it's a good idea to leave you alone with him..."
"I'll be fine. Unless he turns out to be a giant snake - I don't know, do you hear him talking in hisses?"
"Might as well be!" Ron adds, but the other two ignore him.
Hermione smiles worriedly and concedes without words to take Ron into the hallway, leaving Harry and Draco alone in this tiny, plainly-decorated room.
"How much of our conversation did you hear?" Harry asks gravely.
"Why do you want to know?"
"I want to know because we need to discuss this. But, if you heard us, then you already know where to start."
After a moment of contemplating Potter's words, Malfoy wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face.
"What is that horrid stench? Is Granger right outside the door?"
"Knock it off, Malfoy. This is important," Harry reprimands irritably.
Draco frowns and lets his eyes run the expanse of Harry's body, sizing him up. He's wearing baggy hand-me-downs, like always, and it's extremely unflattering.
"Fine. I heard your little conversation. The Weasel wants me out of here, Beaver Teeth thinks I'm dangerous, and you, always the hero, want to help me. What a surprise. Well, I'm not too keen on sticking around, either, so if you release my arms, I'd be happy to leave."
"You aren't going anywhere until I find out what to do with you. I will not have your death on my hands."
"I'm not an object! If I want to leave, I'll do whatever the fuck I please!"
"Are you listening to me? You'll die out there!"
"I'm not incompetent, Potter. I am perfectly capable of being on my own, without my mother and without you."
"That's not the whole point, Malfoy, although I'm sure you wouldn't last two seconds out there by yourself. The problem is I brought you here and now you know where we are. Ron and Hermione aren't the only ones who don't trust you," Harry elaborates after a drawn-out sigh.
"You're just going to keep me here until I die, then? So I can grow old surrounded by a billion seashells and hideous color schemes?"
Harry's lips twitch upward for a brief second, but he tries to cover it up with an overcompensating frown. Draco hears the echo of a rock thudding at the bottom of his stomach; he can't tell if Harry finds him amusing or childish and wretched. Probably the latter.
"You leave when we leave. Simple as that."
Exhaustion grasps him with its firm, demanding hands. He can tell without a mirror that he must look like a wreck. His slim, toned figure is now sharp with jutting bones and he's worried he could probably feel his spine through his stomach, but he hasn't tried yet.
"Do you have any food in this place? It's sort of been a while."
"Hermione left something by the bed. I think it's still hot."
Turning to his left, Draco sees a small bowl of greyish glop and, after a lot of fumbling, takes it into his hands, frowning at it distastefully.
"Ugh, what is this? This isn't food. This is goop."
"It's oatmeal, and you'll eat it or you'll starve. We didn't have a lot of time to prepare anything because you were unconscious, which we fixed, by the way. You could be a little more grateful."
Draco purses his lips grandiloquently, an expression he knows Potter's all too familiar with, and starts shoveling the tasteless substance into his mouth as quickly as possible, considering his hands are still tied together.
"There's more in the kitchen," Harry says, making Draco look up at him somewhat guiltily. If he had shown manners like that in front of his parents, he would definitely have been scolded. Yet, Harry acts as if all is normal. Draco supposes it is normal for someone who hasn't eaten for a week to suck down food like this, but Harry's acceptance is still discombobulating. It takes a moment for his thoughts to clear away enough for Draco to see Harry's face, which is shaped around weary, almond-shaped eyes and set above strong, muscular shoulders. He's calm and collected, waiting patiently for a response.
Draco twitches and prepares to stand up and walk into the kitchen to get more food for some reason, then thinks twice. Even if he were allowed out of this room, he couldn't possibly pass up an opportunity to watch Potter wait on him, so, Draco holds the bowl out for Harry and, unsurprisingly, Harry takes it. He returns shortly with more oatmeal and a cup of water, which he points to after placing both of them on the table and says, "Drink. You passed out yesterday."
Draco doesn't argue. He eats the oatmeal and swallows the water in one huge gulp. For the first time in about a week, he feels full.
"I'm going to go talk with the others. Hermione's cast enchantments on the room, so you can try to leave all you want, but it's a waste of energy."
The now-empty glass in his hand reflects Draco's sickly features and he's disgusted with the way he looks. His hair is ratty, he hasn't showered in ages, and his cheeks are so hollow they make him seem like a skeleton with a minimal amount of flesh.
"I need more water."
He doesn't look up at Harry until he sees a familiar length of wood being extracted from his pocket and pointed at Draco's glass. The dark, polished Hawthorn bark is unmistakeable. Wizards can recognize their own wands as though they are physical extensions of themselves and when he sees his wand in Harry's hands, it's like seeing him hold an arm of Draco's that's been amputated.
"I'll be taking that before I leave."
"No, not necessarily. A deal's a deal. You'll have to win it back, fair and square."
Draco's temper starts to burn, a tiny flame flickering from an ember that's been a part of him ever since he met Harry.
"But it's my wand! It chose me at Ollivander's! I'm the one it's loyal to, not you!"
"Not anymore. Wands will change loyalty if they're won outright."
"That doesn't excuse the fact that it chose me! It probably doesn't even work for you!"
"It works just fine, actually. I'd prefer my own, but that's not really possible anymore."
"Why not?"
"It's a long story."
"Well, what wand do I get, then?"
"None until you leave," Harry states firmly as he walks toward the door. "All right, If you need anything, just, er...yell, I guess."
Through narrowed eyes, Draco watches as Harry leaves, his huge T-Shirt rippling around him. Then the room is quiet and Draco is alone. There are certain times when Draco likes being alone (which is a common occurrence as an only child) and certain times he doesn't. Recently, he's hated it. He has too many thoughts and nothing he can use to block them out. Having Harry and his friends around counts as much as a rock sitting in the corner. Or a crummy seashell, in this case.
Pansy was good at distracting him, although she was too dull and slow-witted for his tastes. At the end of the day, she served only one purpose to him, much to her dismay: She was a body willing to open up to him intimately, exposed skin under sheets on nights when he felt troubled. He always kept her close enough to feel as if she was wanted, but at enough of a distance that she knew almost nothing about his private life and never tried to find a reason as to why he occasionally came into her dorm room seeking sex.
Draco misses those nights. The world seems disturbingly unfamiliar now that the things with which he regularly comforted himself are gone. He almost wants to go back to before Hogwarts, when he was ignorant of life's true intentions and the malevolence that dwells in the very fabric of human nature - when all he thought about was how many hours he had left to play before bedtime and his only wish was for days to be longer, unencumbered by simple things like needing to sleep. Now he wants to sleep all the time, just to get away from the eventualities that plague his conscience: He will be caught, he will be killed, and he will be alone. One of those eventualities keeps dragging behind him like a stubborn shadow, unable to be shaken off.
Harry comes back and, much to Draco's surprise, casually undoes the ropes bound around his wrists with a simple counter-curse. Then he sets some robes, a towel, and a plastic bag at the foot of Draco's bed, scratching the back of his neck nervously afterward.
"You should, er...take a shower. Here's some clothes. There's a bathroom through that door, right there."
Harry indicates a door with his hand, but Draco's busy looking at the clothes and the bag full of toiletries. He finds that he doesn't have it in him to fight against any of it, and he even feels the urge to thank Harry, but the second he tastes the words on his tongue, he's repulsed by them. Alternatively, he asks a question.
"What did they say?"
Harry drags his front teeth over his bottom lip, calculating what his response should be. Draco knows from this observation that Harry will be omitting information, which is something he wouldn't expect Harry to be good at, but he accepts it because he knows he'd do the same.
"They aren't happy. None of us are. But, we've agreed that it's best you stay here for a bit until we can work something out."
"Will Granger be tying me up again?"
"No, although she definitely would have done if I didn't convince her otherwise. You just have to stay in this room. That's the deal."
"And what if I don't agree with this 'deal'?"
"Then tough shit," Harry says, distracted as he moves to look more closely at a book on the bedside table. Draco watches his eyes glisten with something he can recognize as grief and Harry takes a cautious step backward, palpably trying to take his mind off whatever it is. Draco realizes he's never seen Harry show any emotion other than anger before and it's almost embarrassing, as if he's walked in on something he shouldn't be able to see. It makes his own eyes water when it finally hits him that Harry's affected by all these stories the Death Eaters and his father have told him - that they're not just stories, they're real things that have happened to Harry, things he has to deal with every day. He stares in disbelief, wanting to keep his questions to himself, but letting himself ask them, anyway.
"How do you do it?"
Harry looks puzzled as his absent gaze falls from his memories to Draco.
"How do I do what?"
"How do you deal with everything that's happened? Don't you ever get upset, throw things, cry, any of that?"
In the moment that it takes Harry to formulate a proper response, Draco wants to look at the book and see what's causing him to act like this, but Harry's expression is so conflicted that he can't rip his gaze away. He has the urge to pinpoint every feeling Harry is experiencing and figure out why he's experiencing it. He could use legilimency, of course, if he had a wand, but he's never been as good a legilimens as he is an occlumens.
"At first, when you lose someone you love, it feels like the world shouldn't keep moving like it is. It feels wrong to look around and see people having a good time, carrying on with their business when your own world's been torn apart. But, eventually, you start to understand there are things in life that try to break you, and these things happen to everyone. You just have to find something that keeps you from being broken."
Harry's mint-green eyes swim with squares of light that have reflected off his glasses and Draco's throat feels tight; no one's ever bothered to relinquish anything so obviously personal to him, and he can tell that he doesn't have to go through the struggle of letting Harry in on his worries or troubles because Harry understands completely without having to hear them out loud. Harry has discovered loss much more than Draco has. His life began with it.
Draco continues looking at Harry with his mouth open slightly, not knowing what to say. He's got plenty of old insults lined up in the back of his brain, but that seems childish now. Both of them are adults. Both of them have faced the harsh realities of this war and are suffering together from a sworn distance. Harry sighs and moves toward the door again.
"I'll try to bring you some tea when you've finished showering."
"Okay."
Then he's gone and the room is empty again. Draco's aching body screams to be graced with hot water, but curiosity is overpowering. Before getting up, he takes the pile of things Harry gave him into his lap and looks at the book that had caught Harry's attention. Written on the cover in an unintelligibly messy scrawl is some kind of message, which he gives up on trying to read after looking over the words five times, and underneath is the signature of Sirius Black with a sketch of a paw print right next to it. Instantly a memory resurfaces: His father laughing coldly as he told Draco about the big, black dog on Platform 9 3/4 and who he actually was; Draco laughing, too, and thinking, I hope he gets caught. It would serve Potter right.
He's been so consumed by his feud with Potter, he never bothered to understand the person with whom he was feuding. But, he's beginning to, whether he likes it or not.
The shower is roomy and so much more elegant than the rest of the bathroom that it seems out of place. The faucet is a phoenix, which is irritatingly fitting, although he's not even sure whose house he's in. He just knows it has to be an Order member's. The tiles are goldish-beige and every here and there, one of them is decorated with a mermaid or a seashell. Deciding to take a bath instead of a shower, he lies back in the tub and holds his hands under the phoenix's beak, exhaling noisily as he feels the soothing heat tumble over his fingers. That's when he realizes that his arm is healed. He can probably thank Granger for that.
He's only left with bruises and sore muscles now, uninjured for the first time in weeks. It's incomprehensibly strange to him that Harry and his friends would go through so much trouble to make sure Draco was all right because he knows he would never do the same for any of them if it required any effort. Honestly, if Voldemort had the power to bring his father back to life in exchange for Harry Potter, he'd definitely consider handing him over. It's easier to imagine a world with his parents in it, no matter what would be happening outside of his manor. Yet, he's positive if he actually had to kill Harry himself, he wouldn't be able to do it. He's ashamed to admit that he's all talk in that department. He couldn't kill if his life depended on it.
The tub fills with water and steam floats away from the surface, fogging up the mirror and leaving condensation droplets on the painted tiles. As he looks down at his naked body, his worries are confirmed: his ribs are more visible than they've ever been and the small bit of muscle he worked hard to develop has disappeared. It's sickening. He hopes sincerely that no one has to see him like this anytime soon, but of course no one will. There's not a single person on Earth who wants to see him like this.
He sits in the bathtub for about twenty minutes, until he's choking on the humidity and decides he feels unclean sitting in his own filth, which makes him take a shower right afterward. He chooses colder water this time, to balance out the hot. The effect is equally as relaxing. Part of his normal routine would be to wank at this point, but the entire situation is too exhausting to think about anything like that. Just trying to put a face to a body in his imagination is tiring right now, not to mention he's been having all sorts of problems sticking to fantasies that strictly involve women. But, he can't think about that now. He's got more pressing issues than his elusive sexuality.
The next few hours are horribly uneventful. Draco has a difficult time being bored and usually likes to sleep through it, but he isn't tired enough to do that. The best option he has is to look through the book with Sirius' signature on it, which frustratingly turns out to be a cookbook written completely in French. He's been to France a few times, but he's never bothered to learn the language because most people there speak English, anyway. The most he can make out are the words, "oui" and "hors d'oeuvres", which don't help him understand the book at all.
He closes it irritably and sits back in bed, staring at the ceiling with the blankets drawn up around his neck. It's cold in the room, as though the owners haven't cast any sort of heating charms around the place, and the feeling of being encompassed by warmth is extremely pleasant. He wonders if anyone will bring him dinner or if they'll make dinner at all, but he's pretty adamant that they will. This is Potter and his friends, after all. They'd probably even feel bad for Voldemort if they found out he had some kind of troubled childhood or something that caused him to be how he is. The thought of Voldemort as a child is so ridiculous, it makes Draco laugh out loud. It's better to imagine that he came into the world as he is.
Someone knocks at the door only a few minutes later and Draco wraps himself more tightly in the blankets, never having changed into more than his shorts. When he doesn't respond to the person's knocking, Hermione comes in, her face glowing with sweat. She's extremely cautious, her wand held out at Draco as she drops a plate of food on the bedside table.
"If that's more oatmeal, I'm not eating it. Pigs are served better than that."
Hermione narrows her eyes at him, her dark lashes forming two straight, dark lines on either side of her nose.
"You're in no position to refuse food. Being spoiled at a time like this will get you killed, so you'd do well to eat what we give you and not complain about it."
Draco freely looks at every inch of Hermione as she walks backward to the door. She's skinny but curvy, perfectly in shape in his mind, and he smirks when he notices her shirt is sloping downward a bit, revealing the tiny bit of cleavage she has.
"Might want to pull up your shirt," he says with a wink, only because he knows it will drive her crazy. And it does. She scowls deeply, looking down at her chest before pulling the shirt up much higher than it needs to be. When she's gone, he indulges himself in another laugh. At least two of them are still fazed by his behavior.
The night passes by as uneventfully as his day. He brushes his teeth, which feels incredible after about a week or so of having to scrape at them with his fingernails (he shivers just thinking about it), and gets into bed. While his body relaxes enough for him to sleep, he looks at the ceiling and frowns, knowing he'll be seeing a lot more of it while he's here.
The room looks different when his eyes blink open. His forehead is dripping with sweat and he's screaming at the top of his lungs, terrified, but he has no idea why. So, he shuts his mouth abruptly and tries to slow his breathing in order to calm down. He's almost in a state where he can foresee going back to sleep when the door opens loudly, making him jump, and Harry runs in with his wand held out, looking around the room frantically.
"What's wrong? Why were you screaming? I thought someone had gotten in," Harry interrogates breathlessly.
Ron and Hermione follow within seconds, their wands held out in the same manner until they all decide in unison to lower them, realizing there isn't anyone but Draco in the room.
"What's going on? I heard screaming. Is someone in the house?" Hermione rambles to Harry, who shakes his head.
"No one. It's fine. You two should go back to bed."
Draco can feel his cheeks start to burn; Potter is a lot smarter than he thought.
"But, what happen-" she trails off, noticing Harry's warning expression. Then, she switches her eyes over to Draco, and there's that look again. So, she feels bad for him, too? Fine. She can feel bad all she wants. Her opinion means nothing to him. She could bend down and kiss the soles of his shoes and he still wouldn't care. He says all of this over and over again to himself, even crossing his arms indignantly, but there's an underlying notion that comes to mind after Hermione leaves with Ron, a confused, understanding look on her face: So, this is what it's come to. The only feelings anyone has for me are purely of pity.
"Accio peppermint tea."
A tin box zooms into Harry's hand as he's standing there across the room from Draco, looking exhausted. He takes a teabag out of the box and walks over to the bed, just like in Draco's dream, dropping it into the empty cup on the table.
"Aguamenti callidus."
Hot water pours from the end of Harry's wand into the glass and when it's full, he steps back silently and awkwardly. Almost everything he does is awkward and it's starting to drive Draco up the wall.
There's a moment after Harry leaves in which Draco thinks he wanted him to stay. Maybe it's the loneliness lingering in the empty corners of his bed, or the frigid air that sews goosebumps into his forearms. Maybe he's still asleep. All he knows is as he lies down again, he imagines Harry is lying there next to him, sharing the burdens Draco can't carry on his own, holding him like his mother did when he was little, refilling his tea and continuing to restrain any judgement, which is all that Draco wants in the world right now. It's a nice fantasy, enough to relax him into sleep again, but when he wakes up in the morning, his hand is gripping a cotton sheet instead of a warm body. The room slowly starts to feel like a prison and not anything close to a safe haven.
He barely has time to get up and change before Harry walks in with a plate of fruit, crackers, and cheese. He's not cautious around Draco like he should be and that bothers him, probably because Harry now knows how pathetic Draco truly is.
"I brought some coffee, too. I don't know if you want any," he remarks, and Draco's eyes dart over to the cup in Harry's hand.
"I don't care for black coffee," Draco snaps, which is only kind of true. He certainly doesn't prefer black coffee, but after going so long without it, he would even drink coffee with grinds still floating in it. He just likes to be difficult when Harry's involved: his little bit of resistance.
Harry sighs, but summons a tiny, ceramic pot of sugar and an unopened carton of half-and-half. Draco's actually surprised this time. He didn't expect this kind of treatment from someone who's supposed to hate him. Maybe Harry really does think Draco will die in this war.
"Two sugars and a dash of cream."
The words fall out of Draco's mouth as a demand, though not harshly. Harry surprises him again by stirring two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of cream into the cup of coffee, an action so incredulous it makes Draco eye him distrustfully.
"How do I know you haven't poisoned it?"
Harry grabs the cup and takes a sip from it. Draco watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and, out of nowhere, instantly pictures Harry on his knees, his plum-colored lips clamped around Draco's cock so entirely that it disappears into the back of his throat; his Adam's apple bobs again as he pulls back, except this time he's swallowing Draco's come, not coffee.
There couldn't be a worse time for this, Draco chastises himself as he feels his face heat up. His pants are tight now: his first erection in a concerningly long time. But, of course, Harry doesn't notice. Thank Merlin.
"See? Not poisoned. Now, drink up. I need your help today with a potion. You're good at potions, aren't you?"
Draco's too embarrassed to sneer properly, but he does his best attempt.
"What makes you think I'd want to help you? Make the potion your damn self. I seem to remember you being quite skilled, according to that pathetic excuse for a Potions teacher."
"That was different."
Every time Harry opens his mouth, Draco's gaze is drawn to his tongue like bugs to bright light. It's alluringly slick and red, like the rest of his mouth. Does he have any idea that the way he talks can affect people like this?
"Have Hermione help you. I've got more important things to do."
His cheeks fill with hot coffee until it burns and he has to move the liquid around before he can get it down his throat. Even though he's covered in a full-length cloak that oddly fits him well, he shifts uncomfortably, worried Harry will figure out why his cheeks are so red. For now, he can blame it on the coffee steam.
"Like what? Sitting in bed and sleeping? Trying to read a cookbook written in French? You don't even speak French, do you?"
"No, and I don't care to. It's a useless language. Everyone in France speaks English, anyway."
"I've never been to France."
"You're not missing that much, unless you like wine. That's pretty much all the French are good for." I wonder what kind of things Potter's likely to do when he's drunk. "They're ridiculous people, using all kinds of things for wand cores. I mean, honestly. Kneazle whiskers? That's something Loony Lovegood would do."
"You shouldn't call her that. She's a really nice girl."
"She's mental."
"I don't care. She doesn't deserve the kind of treatment she gets. People hide her clothes before it's time to pack up at the end of the school year, tease her relentlessly, call her names. It's rubbish. She just wants friends, you know? She just wants to be like everyone else."
It's annoyingly impossible to block out Harry's whining and just focus on the way his jaw moves to form certain words, or the way his hair falls after he runs his fingers through it. He wishes he could cast Silencio without a wand. Harry would be much easier to deal with that way.
"Merlin, you're irritating."
"Why? Because I'm not a royal dick to everyone I meet?"
"Yes, that's exactly why. You ignore all the traits in people that should be annoying. You only focus on reasons to like someone and disregard any reason you find not to like them. Probably why you've stuck with Weasley for so long. I know I wouldn't be able to."
"And you only focus on reasons not to like someone. So, I guess we're both close-minded. Tell me, do you have any real friends?"
Of all the insults Harry has dealt him, this one stings the most, because it's agonizingly true. He doesn't have any real friends. He doesn't even know if he's ever wanted them. He's always been better at pushing people away than letting them in. Draco scoffs and crosses his arms, but is unable to look anywhere near Harry.
"Of course I do. That's ridiculous."
"So, you have people who spend the holidays with you?"
"Well, no, but -"
"People you tell all your secrets to, no matter how embarrassing they are?"
"No, but I -"
"People you can depend on no matter what?"
When he blinks, he can see his parents waving goodbye to him through a window of the Hogwarts Express. His mother looks worried. His dad looks expectant.
"You know, I don't have to answer any of your stupid questions!"
"Have you ever thought it's because you act like a condescending arsehole all the time? I could be wrong, but I'm trying to believe you're not entirely selfish. Maybe there's room in there for a few friends. Don't you think?"
Draco is on Harry before he has time to sort out his emotions. Anger and jealousy pound in his increasingly-loud heartbeat, propelling him forward as he grabs Harry's collar and pushes him against the wall. His breathing is ragged and audible, coming out of his nostrils in a discordant pattern.
"I've had enough of this! You think you can say whatever you want and no one will call you out on it because you're the precious Boy Who Lived! Oh, all hail the great Harry Potter and his great friends! He can be a huge cunt and it's just fine because he's famous! Well, I've news for you, knobhead! You're no better than anyone else!"
He and Harry lock eyes challengingly, waiting for the other to make the first swing, but just as quickly as he felt anger rise up inside him, it dissipates with their uncomfortable proximity, like a physical object clattering to the ground before he can catch it. He spends the next few seconds struggling with everything in his being to keep staring Harry down intimidatingly, yet when he starts to think about the gentle shade of moss in Harry's irises and his shocked, dilated pupils, Draco's resolve fails. His eyes slip to Harry's soft, round lips and he immediately wrenches away, moving over to the bed again.
"Leave me alone," he spits, not bothering to look at anything but the wall. Harry stares at the back of his head for a few minutes and Draco waits until he hears the click of the door shutting that will mean Harry has escaped, and when he does, it's as though something intangible of Draco's has escaped with him.
That night, he finds himself reliving his argument with Potter in a nightmare he's positive he'll remember in the morning.
Instead of walking away, he leans forward, abandoning the usual careful thought processes, kissing Harry as though it's punishment, licking Harry's bottom lip as his way of saying, "Fuck you!" and "This is what you get!" in not so many words.
But, something's wrong. The stillness of Harry's mouth as he moves his own against it makes his heart throw itself out of his chest and shatter like that stupid glass cup that's sitting on the bedside table would if he threw it against the wall. It shatters without noise and without notice, leaving a giant hole between his ribs that aches and bleeds into his robes. As though stung, he pulls away abruptly and wipes his mouth, humiliated tears burning his eyes.
He doesn't allow himself to cry, even in his dream, and tries to pretend, despite all the emptiness that's so recently settled into his bones, that he was never quite complete to begin with. As he sniffs angrily, pushing away the kind of sadness he knows is crippling, that pathetic, grovelling part of him surfaces again and makes him wish he were the kind of person who would fit into Harry's life.
Spotting the halfway-empty mug of coffee on the table, he smacks it onto the floor with an impulsive, satisfying flick of his wrist. But, it doesn't make him feel any better.
And in the morning, he pulls the blankets up to his chin to escape the perennial chill that haunts his new room, stretching his arms out and touching every unused corner of the bed, which confirms the reality of his being completely alone. Loftily, he re-imagines Harry's body beside him, coming in to forgive him for something that only happened in his subconscious, willing to wrap his arms around his shoulders, to let Draco put his head on his chest and listen to his pulse. Then, made-up Harry is offering him another cup of coffee, after repairing the mug that hasn't actually been broken, as if he's offering to go back to their first day at Hogwarts, or the day Draco was born - whenever all of this started. As if he wants to save Draco from becoming what he's worked so hard to be.
"Not everyone can be saved!" he yells out loud, his fists sinking into a pillow, letting out the last of his anger until he over-exerts himself and falls onto his back, ready again to succumb to sleep, his ever-faithful solution.
