The Fifth Night:
He liked it less and less all day long: no Harry in classes; no Harry at supper. And the Gryffindor lot only poked heads together and whispered amongst themselves, making it highly difficult to eavesdrop. Draco hovered offsides and downwind, his ears stretched wide for a name-drop or details, hoping to grab one or the other of them and ask a few pertinent questions, but the opportunity never came. After, the pestilential Gryffs all rushed off to their bloody Common Room as one herd and not even ruddy Granger emerged to immerse herself in the Library stacks, as per her usual wont.
Draco knew that for fact because he was stationed a few yards down the corridor from the horribly Hufflepuffian cow of a coloratura who guarded their door. But there wasn't a soul stirring after curfew had come and gone, not even a Gryffindor mouse.
He didn't bother with the Pitch that night, electing instead to head straight for his dorm room and his fourposter after his extended lurking session. Some vagrant sixth sense advised him Harry wouldn't be there, either; he'd be wasting his time, waiting about. Draco climbed into bed earlier than usual instead, only to lay tossing and turning, thinking up all manner of horrid thoughts—some rather decidedly worse than his workaday nightmares.
Harry ill, Harry feverish. Harry injured, Harry in danger. Harry with his lips dry and chapped from sickness; Harry, delirious, lonely.
Harry, alone and lonely, somewhere. Cast away—damaged—needing a helping hand. A caring hand, rather.
Harry, landed in the Infirmary, as he'd been so many times before (Draco didn't like to recall the occasions he'd sent Harry there directly, over the years; left him shuddering, that, but at least he'd no intention of doing it again)—but Harry! Harry!
Harry. In...the...Infirmary. Of course!
"Bloody hell!"
With a stifled gasp, Draco was up, donning slippers and a hastily thrown cloak about his PJs and gone from the silent dungeons like a gale through the moors.
Harry!
He hadn't wanted to admit it. Hadn't dared to allow his active mind to dwell too often or too much on Harry. Potter. Harry Potter. Like a drumbeat in his blood, a jolt through his chest, a harpoon that tied him to earth, no matter how hard he flapped his bloody great wings, seeking freedom. Harry, Harry, Harry.
Harry was exactly, precisely why he'd returned to Hogwarts; Harry was the sole reason he was alive to do so. Harry—even just the image of him, last spring, all banged up and spare-boned face swollen—had consumed Draco alive from the inside out; had eaten him up for years on end, like a wasting illness. No—the exact opposite! Harry sustained him, the scrubby bugger; was life and excitement and brilliance and all Draco could ever desire—to wank to, to trail after—to resent—to want. All, in truth, a disgruntled late-bloomer of an angsty teenage Veela could ever envision within 'the' perfect mate; all a newly disgraced though grudgingly exonerated Malfoy heir could hope to befriend—or more, mayhap, one day—through sheer happenstance. Oh, but—
Fucking hell. Harry in the Infirmary! That was unbearable!
It was the oddest feeling ever: raptures tainted with terror.
Harry was kind, and he was fit. He was thin—too thin, which Draco hated, incidentally, as it left him fretting and wanting always to stuff second helpings down that pretty throat—and he was difficult to second-guess and Draco's lips needed Harry's lips something fierce. Required them. His cock ached, his chest hurt, and his swift feet fair flew over the uneven flagstones, up repaired staircases and down endlessly, ridiculously winding corridors, and there was no way he'd be stopping his barmy bolt through Hogwarts castle until he'd determined once and for all if Harry was indeed ensconced safely in the Infirmary, as every speck of Veela intuition screamed he must be.
Key being 'safely'. If Madam Pomfrey had him in care, then it couldn't be too terrible, could it?
If there were something wrong with Harry, Draco would just die. Right on the spot, flat out. There'd be nothing left to live for—he was that far gone.
What a fool, not to realize it, ever so much the sooner! What an arse, to deny it!
Oh, gods, let it be alright! Draco prayed fervently—it was a measure of his fear that he prayed at all. What had prayers done him last year—or the year before, for that matter? But yet—
Let him be alright—let Harry be well and just as tiresome as ever—just as saintly and golden and gorgeous, or so Draco's silent rosary went, ticking over Potterly attributes like beads of amber—and he ran. Rushed with nary a thought to curfew or consequences. Like the bloody wind.
The Infirmary door was warded fast shut, as well it should at this late hour. Draco couldn't very well knock Madam out of her bed, either. That wouldn't do at all, and he'd get nowhere near his goal, which was to see if Harry was—was still breathing the way he should be, still resident in the world.
Draco berated himself, pacing frantically before the adamantine ornate lock: of course and without a doubt, Harry was well enough. Logically, naturally—of course. The Gryffs would've been beside themselves with grief; nay! The entire world! And he'd know, Draco would—deep inside, where his heart was rattling as he panted from his all-out scramble, up stairs and down corridors—he'd know. He'd be left a mere half of himself, maybe less, and be fading fast. Such was Veela.
So, er, Draco noted again, kicking it petulantly, the door to the Infirmary was closed. No entry. Right…but. So what? The Infirmary boasted windows, and Draco Malfoy possessed wings. Wings, wings, glorious wings! No need for a broom; he could just fly to Harry!
Draco, having done with all that bloody, exhausting thinking, after that one final brilliant deduction, and really only feeling and wishing to be left in peace to do so, dove through the closest open hall window sideways and at a full frantic gallop, only to find extremely abruptly himself one storey below where'd he'd just emerged and falling fast. The wind screamed in his eardrums and practically tore his fluttering wings open by sheer main force, as if it wanted Draco to join with it—a creature of the air.
"Salazar! Fuck me!" he shrieked, and instantly went at the business of using those unwanted wings of his, double-quick time. "Fuck. Me! Oh—my—sodding Salazar!" he croaked weakly, having leveled at last. "That was too bloody close!"
Had been a narrow squeak, but he was still all in one piece and rising.
A thermal! Draco grinned merrily as he flew-flail-fumbled across it, vastly pleased.
And there—there, again with the steady flap, the upwards thrust.
"Finally, for fuck's sake!" Draco heaved a heady sigh of exhilarated relief, huffing with effort. The business of vertical left his shoulders burning but the pain was perhaps pleasant, now he was more accustomed; a good solid work-out after hours of anxious inactivity. Too, he'd stabilized and was even propelling his person in the direction he needed to be heading, surging forward on wings of steely determination toward his one most excruciatingly important goal; banking and turning close and tight 'round the curves of Hogwart's walls, his breath coming fast and sharp between his parted lips, teeth chattering with the chill and the excitement. And chanting to himself, only half-aware of his own voice, reedy and froggy both with fear and effort. "Come on, come on, come on!" he urged his body. "Just a little bit more, alright? And fa-faster!"
It was chilly, it was stygian dark when the clouds sailed the wrong direction across the face of Old Man Moon and it was ruddy confusing, what with all the intervening ruddy towers and protuberances Hogwarts boasted. He had to worm his way through the air to locate the bank of windows he knew faced the south side of Hogwarts. Even so, he knew them all well, from past years and Quidditch, long ago—and, too, the Veela lent him an unexpected favour. The smell of Harry could be discerned, ever so faintly.
Draco followed his instincts, fiercely.
The Infirmary window he chose at attack was a bit tricky, presenting a logistical quandary. He had to grapple with the exterior latch (he'd forgotten his wand in his hurry) to open it, all whilst still flying in place, and it was rusted almost fast-shut, the horrid metal. Very tricky indeed but he still managed, gritting his teeth and breaking off a few talons as he dug into the wood, splintering the frame to kindling and all the while squawking softly to himself in an excited burble. Incidentally picking up a bloody scrape down the surface skin of one palm, too.
No matter. Hurt like the sodding dickens; meant not a thing to a determined Veela.
Bloody and unbowed; in fact, feeling quite triumphant, Draco ducked under the stone of arching lintel and gained the Infirmary proper, his wings—lovely wings—folding down upon themselves neatly. Cast immediately a quick wandless silencing charm on the noisy wet sound of his own gasping, when he realized it echoed. Shut his eyes then and breathed deep, willing the incipient beak his proper human nose and mouth had become during flight to subside, so he wouldn't frighten Harry with the mere sight of him when he found him. Flexing his fingers as well, so the bloody, broken talons would retract and he'd look alright all 'round—like a proper Wizard again and not an overwrought Veela. He was not Grandme're, no. She'd been beautiful, even like this. He was only a poor frantic Creature, bedraggled and pop-eyed and likely ugly as sin—bloody, dusty, wind-burnt, but…. But, Draco reasoned, if this was what it required to actually fly to Harry's side, Draco would accept it.
He would.
He must. And when he dared peek at his hands and press them carefully to his Malfoy nose, sorting out his state and condition, he was pretty much himself again—except for those sodding useful wings of his. Which Harry, oddly enough, seemed entirely too entranced with most times, the idiotic twat.
Harry—who thought flying to be the ultimate freedom; who believed Draco to be a lucky sod, what with having the means to do so completely unfettered.
Harry!
Now—next, to locate Harry, and see, with his own eyes, that his—his Harry was alright. Just as he'd endlessly assured himself Harry absolutely was. Likely suffered a chill, the stupidhead—the fool hadn't worn a cloak over his robes on any of the three nights they'd met and he'd no wings to warm him with feathers, the berk! Or could be his gut, falling foul of the Ogden's at last. Certainly the Ogden's had been potent!
And not his Harry, either, technically, but that didn't matter at the moment. Draco could sort that later, when he'd time. Attempt to sort that, rather.
He set out with a great air of determination, searching, but Draco hadn't recalled the Infirmary being such a rabbit warren. It must've been expanded after the war. There were tiny rooms everywhere and a million faceless doors before them, all shut, none marked 'Potter, Harry'. He methodically opened every one until he realized he still possessed Veela senses. And, if it was Harry for him (and it certainly seemed to be; Harry was all he dreamt of; the only one he could imagine in any proximity to his dick or his arse or his bloody anything, bits-wise) then Draco concluded he could simply, er, 'feel him out', or ah, er, sense Harry's presence, just by—just like…this!
He closed his eyes. He concentrated, coming to a halt, spinning slowly in place. His wing tips lifted at his back, the misty grey catching the intermittent moonlight and glowing pewter.
And Draco tried the breathing thing again, for real. Not gasping, not panting, not holding his lungs taut in painful reserve out of sheer nerves and anticipation. In and out, like a normal person.
Closing his eyes and concentrating for all he was worth, for his heart would lead him there—to Harry. Utterly gagworthy drivel; yes, it was and worthy of Witch Weekly's serialized tales of romance, yes, but true enough, all the same, as Draco found himself miraculously poised before yet another blandly white-painted door, shut tight but thankfully not locked against his entry.
He didn't bother to knock.
"Harry?"
Draco was through it and by the bedside of his Harry in a split-second's time, bending down, his ruffled wings dragging heedlessly behind him. The feathers were damp and tangled at the ends, and they were a bit bedraggled yet with effort. He folded them as close to his spine as he could, not wanting his mate to see him so—
So poorly, by sheer comparison.
"Harry?"
Was sleeping the sleep of the just, little git—precious prat. And seemed healthy, as well, though p'raps a little paler than normal…but then that could be the moonlight, too. It had emerged, triumphant, casting the scudding clouds well out of the sky. It lit up Harry's slumbering face like a bleeding spotlight—and his open-necked pajamas…and the hand that lay half-curled upon the coverlet.
"Oh, Harry, you idiot," Draco breathed, and laid his hand—the bloody one, because he wasn't thinking at all—upon Harry's marked brow and his tumbled hair. Smoothed the surly, contrary tendrils back and away from damp skin and dropped a quiet kiss square upon the scar that had fascinated him for more than a decade. Edged a hip onto the tiny gap of mattress the narrow cot was furnished with so he could allow his knees time to realign themselves and (a decided plus, here) have a real chance to feel Harry's warmth seeping over and through to his taut thigh, currently budged up close by and right next to him, where all Harry's warmth belonged. In theory—and now in practice. "Harry," he whispered, mindful of the Infirmary's code of 'no unnecessary noise, boys!' "Harry, I'm so glad. I've missed you so; can't tell you how much. Dreary; it's been very dreary."
He said more; poured out words he couldn't quite recall in his relief. Would like be distraught later, had he comprehended that it was he, Draco Malfoy, confessing them—and to Harry Potter. But Draco didn't heed a whit of that, only pressed his leg harder, bent his neck farther, and murmured more idiotic soppy things. Generally made a ruddy fool of himself altogether, there in the haven of the Infirmary—till Harry stirred at last, shifting the hand Draco had grabbed and clutched and tossing his messy head about upon the pillow.
Familiar green eyes cracked opened, just a slit. Unguarded, which was strange to Draco—he stared, reeling back.
"Draco?"
He'd been just in the midst of delicately licking away the tiny smear of dried blood he'd carelessly left upon Harry's brow when he heard it—that beloved voice. He smiled foolishly down at Harry; he couldn't halt the spread of the smile, either, ridiculous at it likely was, to be where he was, as he was, beaming like a loony. But—he was so desperately relieved to hear Harry's voice at long last, t'was a balm to his pointy Veela ears.
"You prick, Harry!" In truth, Draco was so relieved, he was bloody furious. "You could've simply told me you didn't feel well! I was beside myself when you didn't come to the Pitch, idiot—imagining all manner of horrible, terrible—next time, you thoughtless twat, you must inform me first!" Draco glared at Harry, seeking to impress this simple fact upon him. "Common damned courtesy, Harry—get some!"
"Arr-um?"
Harry blinked up at him, slowly, and then squinted, casting a wandering hand over to the bedside table for his specs. Draco located them easily and gave them over, watching fondly as Harry settled them in their rightful place.
"Mmmfph?"
The eyes that met his were keen and green-black in the dim light, no longer dazed with sleep, and chock full of curiosity behind their protective lenses. Draco sighed at the sight of them, feeling both excessively pleased and…a bit curious, himself. Harry looked well enough, if a tad tired. Healthy, with no obvious holes or wounds. Was there truly something else wrong with him—something Draco didn't know about?
"Harry?"
The question was poised on Draco's lips but Harry nipped in first—as was par.
"What're you doing here, Draco?" he asked, struggling up on his elbows against the mound of thin medical-issue pillows. "Didn't you receive my note?"
"What note?" Draco blinked, taken aback. "I've no note, Harry."
"I sent it off to you two days ago," Harry replied. "Informed you I couldn't make the Pitch that night—or last night either, obviously. I'm involved in this sleep-therapy spell treatment with Madame every week. Didn't you know?"
"No…" Draco swallowed. "No one told me that—and I didn't receive any stupid note, either!" He stifled his natural ire at that slip-up in favour of his building curiousity, which was rampant, much like Harry's. For a moment they eyed each other, sizing each other's state and condition. Then Draco cleared his throat. "Er, why, exactly? Are you truly ill, Harry? Is there something really wrong with you—your body? Because I can call in better Healers than even Madam—top-notch ones, I mean, the best Galleons can buy, Harry—and we'll get you fixed right up, don't worry—so please, please. Just say what's wrong with you and I'll go and floo—"
"But I did, " Harry protested, feebly thrashing his elbows and knees in an effort to sit himself up even higher, presumably so he could rest against the headboard. "I did say, Draco. That's what I don't understand. You should know—should've known."
"I should?" Draco questioned that but then he was busily, capably taking over for Harry instantly, sliding a hand behind his mate's shoulders and another 'round his waist. Hauling him upright gingerly and plumping pillows about his person, cocooning Harry with all manner of soft things. His wings ached to join in, to enfold Harry altogether and bring him close to Draco's still too-rapid heart, but…likely it was too soon for that. Never might be too soon for that, still and all, he nurtured hopes, did he not? If Harry had thought to send him a note—even he'd never received it—well, that was a hopeful turn of events, wasn't it?
"Better?"
"Oh—er, yes, thanks," Harry treated him to a careless grin before he returned to that so-serious expression he could assume upon occasion: the one that said he meant to get to the bottom of a mystery. He stared at Draco's creased brow intently, taking in the concern his visitor couldn't be bothered to disguise. "Um, I really did try to let you know, Draco. Was an Owl, actually—not just a note. Said I'd meet up you tomorrow night, on the Pitch. Really, Draco—no lie."
"Huh," Draco humped his shoulders slightly. "Well, I didn't receive it, then."
"Wonder what happened to it, then? I gave it straight over to Ron and them to send off to you. I swear I did; I'd jotted myself a note to be sure to remember to send it." Harry blinked, a slow scowl dawning. "Hmmm. That bears looking into, what?"
"Doesn't matter, Harry," Draco said impatiently, brushing it off. "Really, not." He'd nobly ignore the matter of the failings of the ginger-haired git for the moment; Harry's overall health was far more important and he'd still no answer to his question. "It only matters that I know of it now. Now at least I can do something about it, Harry, whatever it is that's ailing you. For starters, we can transport you to St. Mungo's, at least—locate a specialist for you. I'll Owl my Mum, too. She knows everyone there is to know, y'see, and people still speak to her, even if not me—"
Unbeknownst to Draco, his voice was rising, on level with this new fever of concern in his blood. Harry was ill—Harry must then be coddled and cured, stat. And he held the means to do so—more than the Weasel did, or even Madame Pomfrey. He'd wealth, and his Mum still had connections, and there must exist an expert on the planet skilled in—in?
"You;ve still not said, Potter! Why are you here? What's your diagnoses, Harry?"
"Draco! Quiet down, will you?" Harry shushed him, flapping a cautionary hand. "Shhh! Pomfrey'll hear!"
"Oh, but, Harry—!"
"Calm yourself, nitwit! I'm really alright, alright? This is just some leftover business, this not sleeping well. Or, um, much. But Madam says insomnia's normal, after all that—last year; you know—and I'll be well very soon, she also said. Promised me it, even. It'll work itself out, trust me."
"But what precisely is wrong with you, Harry?" Draco demanded. "Tell me! Tell me exactly. Details, damn it!"
Harry looked away abruptly, lifting his chin and treating Draco to an adorable twist of those very nice lips of his. He seemed at the most a tad irked, actually—certainly not in fear for his life. Draco sighed impatiently and concentrated on absorbing every word, for picking over.
Reluctantly—or so it seemed, Harry faced him. He seemed a bit hesitant, but still squared his shoulders.
"It's nothing big, alright? It's just a sleep disorder, Draco. Common enough; I bet lots of students here have them. Only just what they call 'persistent insomnia', left over from Voldemort being in my head all those years," Harry grimaced. "I mean to say, it's chronic now, but I'll be fine, in the end. That's why I'm here, to make sure I am. Pomfrey's this whole regimen she has me follow. Er—Draco?"
"But—that's brilliant, Harry!" Draco was practically bouncing off his awkward perch on Harry's cot, he was so damned glad to hear it. "I mean—that's nothing! Sleeplessness? Nightmares? Pfft! I've the same bloody—Dreamless, Harry. That's the cure! We can use the milder formula on you, since you're smaller than me. I swear, Harry, you'll be sleeping like a baby, least most nights!"
But this was excellent! Draco exulted. This sounded nothing so much as a natural outgrowth of those wicked nightmares he knew they both suffered through and if Pomfrey could manage to dispel them medically—magically—and Harry was really just as sound as he'd ever been, both of mind and of body, all was once again right with the world. Draco could begin to breathe normally again and not feel so damnably despond—
"I'll talk to Madam, as soon as possible, Harry. We can p'robly begin dosing you up tomorrow—no! I'll fly and fetch it right now! One shot won't harm you—"
"Draco," Harry eyed his visitor's excess of high spirits patiently.
"Thoug," Draco reconsinder, cocking his head to give Harry a once-over, "I should like halve it for you. Seeing as you're a good stone less than me."
"Draco!" Harry jabbed him in the upper arm familiarly. "Oi, Draco. Enough, already, okay? Dreamless aside, I want to know how ever did you manage to make your way in here? The Infirmary's always locked up at night—like Gringott's, or as bad as. Madam doesn't allow visitors past eight o'clock. Er…mostly. She's pretty bloody strict, too."
"Um, well…"
Draco grimaced, recalling his insanity. A brief bout, but highly worthwhile, as far as salutary learning experiences went.
"Um. Flew, but that's not important now, Harry. There's something—I mean, the other," draco gulped, halted and then restarted his speech, grimly. "Harry! What else I wanted to say to you? It's—and likely you know it already, but I should still tell you, I think; make it completely clear—no mistaking, so—I mean, there's Weasel, and I'm certain he'll likely tell you differently, but this is the truth, Harry, and nothing but—"
"You did? You flew here? But, Draco, that's super!" Harry smiled to beat the bloody band. He clapped an encouraging hand on Draco's shoulder and patted him. Hard. Draco hissed a bit, ducking; he'd slammed that entire side of his body into something gritty and quite adamantine on the way 'round the outside of a random tower wall and his feathers were still jangled in their sockets, ruefully recalling the impact. His very muscles felt bruised; he was likely black-and-blue and if Madam had a Pepper Up lying about unspoken for, he'd be scarpering away with it before too long. "Oh—I—erm," Harry turned a suddenly stricken gaze upon him. "Did I just hurt you? Sorry!"
Draco scowled fiercely at him, flapping a peremptory hand.
"Harry! Harry, I'm talking to you! Listen, will you please?"
"What?" Harry was startled. His eyes went wide and Draco leant closer, unable to prevent himself. "What is it, Draco?"
"Harry, look at me." When he did, Draco flushed and instantly glanced away. "Er, listen, rather. This may come as a surprise to you, but—but I."
"…Yes?"
"I…ah. Ah."
"…Yes? What, Draco? Out with it."
"I'm, ah, enamoured of…someone. A bloke."
"O…kay?" Draco wasn;t looking at arry so he'd no idea what Harry's face revealed; his voice was only just curious. "Go on."
"He's a—well, he and me, we've only recently begun speaking. Civilly." Or so Draco informed the wall.
"Mmm-hmm."
"And I find I'm quite attracted to him—which is a shocker, let me mention. Wasn't expecting that."
"Alright."
"Ah...so, this person, this chap, he doesn't know how I feel. Understand?" Draco risked a glance at Harry, seeking some sort of response, as he'd not received much to go on. Harry was nodding, quite calmly.
"Go on, I'm listening, " he urged, clearly having no clue as to what Draco was implying. Draco's scowl made a reappearance.
"Harry, I'll come right out it—it's you. I'm enamoured of you. Er, with you. You, personally, that is. Yes, I, um," Draco had to pause to swallow, as his throat had turned to sandpaper mid-sentence, apparently, "am. Definitely."
There. Draco was miserable, but there—it was done, kaput, finished, over with and out there, flat on the table. Unavoidable, irrevocable—humiliatingly straightforward. And to use the word 'enamoured'—how incredibly lame!
Draco grimaced, more at himself than Harry. He couldn't even manage the word 'love'; could barely think it, even! He couldn't!
"You may've noticed."
There was no point to it, that's what. A few flying lessons a relationship did not make, any more than the odd chat whilst in class or on the way there. And Draco was a practical sort of person at the core. He knew. At the very outer utmost, Harry might consider himself to be Draco's friend, nothing more.
"But—I. I hadn't thought so, so I'm telling you now. And…I'm sorry about that, if that's of any help."
"Ah…"
Draco's nimble eyeballs skipped right over the flabbergasted look on Harry's face and turned to examining the coverlet draped over Harry's legs; it seemed much the safest choice of view. Not that he'd much left to hide.
"I mean to say, it's nothing," he added wistfully, as now he'd started spilling, he couldn't seem to stop. "I mean, it's my nothing to deal with, not yours, Harry. Don't regard it—"
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"I, er…I see, Draco. That's, um—that's. Well."
Harry sounded very strange, as if he'd in haled some of the vapours from one the nastier portions. Draco sighed, bowing his head even more deeply in his gathering misery. He didn't wish to witness Harry's reaction to this unwanted, unasked-for, entirely off-the-cuff confession, even if he'd felt horribly compelled to make it known. True enough, Harry might remain his…friend, even after, but that meant not a bleeding thing when it came to matters of the heart.
Not a fucking, fucking thing.
"Um, Draco?" Harry's voice seemed very hesitant but at least it sounded the way it should. Draco glanced up and then immediately away again—this time to search the room for that spare Pepper Up he was in need of. "Er, question?" Perhaps Draco would be needing it for more than simply bruised muscles.
"Draco." Harry levered his person up fully, lounging back against the mound of second-rate pillows. He reached out a warm palm, only to lay it gently along the furrows etched across Draco's brow. "Did you happen to, ah, hit your head, recently? P'raps when you were on your way here? Not just bang up your ribs, I mean, but, er-um—your head, too? Around the temple area, maybe? Because, if so, there's charms—I can call Madam for you, straightaway. Concussion's not something to mess about with, Draco—it affects you more than you realize. Causes all sorts of strange fugue states and even alters personality—"
"NO!" The scowl Draco wore went from glum to fierce, instantaneously. "No, I did not, Potter! And I'll thank you to keep those sorts of insinuations to yourself. I'm in my right mind, okay? Fully cognizant! I know what I'm saying to you, damn it! I know what've I said, more like. It's just—it's only. Hell, Harry, I only had to say that you," he blurted the last, practically all in one breath. "Had to! And I did—and it's done, now. So, er...shut up! Don't mention it again, please? And I—I'm done with talking, I think. It's late—you're in need of more sleep, aren't you? Loads more. And I should be shifting off back to the dorms, as well, before we're both cast in the suds. Overstayed my welcome already," he added bitterly. "Like that's something new."
"Whoa!" Harry grabbed at the slippery strands of Draco's tumbled hair, possibly to stall his sudden move to bolt. "Wait a tick, Draco! I didn't mean—I don't want—hold up! Don't leave yet, git!"
Draco flinched, even as he revelled in Harry's rough touch. His scalp tingled and he could feel the swell of his silly prick between his legs perking up again, interested. Always interested, when it devolved down to Harry.
Bugger, but he was a mortally slow git, a real emotional retard, blurting that out—even if his relief had been insanely freeing. Even if he'd not been quite able to contain himself, what with the feel of Harry's leg against his, and having his pash lying in a real bed, right under his nose, wearing only thin Infirmary-issue PJs and those not very made, either. Thin, the fabric was, and oft-washed, too. If he peered—and he had been, out of the corner of his greedy eyes—he could make out the shadows of Harry's nipples through the awning stripes.
Draco gulped. Teasing glimpses of nipples aside, he had some backpedalling to manage and right smart.
"I mean to say…no, Harry, I haven't hit my head, thanks, and no, I didn't mean to just come out with it—not that I could really help myself and—and yes, alright? That was true, what I just said, Harry. Potter. Whatever. And not what you wanted to know, clearly. For which I'm sorry—very sorry. My apologies, okay? But, um—there it is, yeah? And as for me, I'll just be…leaving. Take myself off, then. As you're apparently healthy enough."
"Wait up!"
Draco, babbling, half-rose from Harry's cot in aid of something urgent—the departure, the scuttling retreat he had to make, maybe—until Harry's other hand yanked fiercely at Draco's wrist and tumbled his person right back down again—and into an ungainly sprawl. All over the mattress this time, smothering Harry's warm body like a lid on a pot. His stubby, slight and above all enthrallingly fit body, clad only in half-buttoned PJs and a very thin, very wrinkled duvet. And feathers—for Draco's feathers were perforce all over the length of Harry's thrashing body, and they were finding naked bits of skin, here and there, as cloth rucked and rumpled this way and that.
"Come down here!"
His nearly naked body, the same one that Draco wanked to, like religion, every damned night and morning. Yearned for.
Gah! Fuck me! Draco's mind went mildly ballistic—all that warmth and hardness and softeness and all beneath him, intimately. Fuck. Me!
"Harry!" is what he said, though, aloud. "Harry."
He did struggle; feebly, yes, but to give himself some credit, he was actively fighting pretty much everything overwhelming his senses, from Harry's grip to his own inclinations—and failing, miserably.
"Wait just one sodding moment here, git," Harry ordered him, frowning his puzzlement at Draco's tortured face. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest that Draco's weight was crushing him flat—or that there were feathers everywhere. "You're saying—you honestly telling me—you care for me, Draco? Is that it? You're—er, you're serious?"
"…Yes!" Draco hissed, and felt his nose do something odd (and likely beakish and ugly as sin) for a brief split-second. Then the sensation faded away, for which he could only be grateful. But his wings set up a great flap and bustle, and he had to raise his voice to ensure Harry heard him. "Yes, alright? And it's not just care, git—wishywashy wet word, that one! It's fucking love, Harry—and I can't help but feel it, alright? That's it in a nutshell, Har—Potter. Sorry," he smarmed, struggling harder. "I'm bloody sorry, okay? About that. The whole mess—so inconvenient." Draco gritted his teeth, snarling down at Harry, as otherwise he'd mouth-rape him and then where would they both be? "Of me."
"But, I—you," harry gasped."You never said!"
Draco growled at him. "Why would I, Harry? Think about it, git—why ever would I?"
There was little pause and Draco hurried to fill it up.
"Now, seeing as you're alright; that there's nothing to be concerned about here; all is swimming, ship-shape even—I'll be off now—catch you later—or not; whatever you like. I—I'm sure I'll understand completely if you don't want anything further to do with me—and why every would—?"
"Arsehole! Berk!"
Veela were strong, physically. Draco had actually managed to gain an upright position in the flurry of natter, though Harry clung like a bloody limpet to his pinioned wrist.
"Let go, Har—Potter. I'm leaving."
"STAY PUT!" Harry roared, wiping out the furious whispers still echoing round the small private room with trademarked Gryffindor volume. Lee What'sIt, that Quidditch announcer once, years ago, couldn't have bettered Harry even with his magical amplifier cranked up to the highest volume! "Down, boy! Damn it, Draco! Don't go!"
"Shh! Silencio, moron!" Draco begged, desperate. "Be quiet! You'll have Pomfrey down on us, git!"
Oh, and Draco so did not require a detention, not on top of everything else! He was in the midst of being rejected and a detention would be just too much, damn it! Abominable! Had his Harry absolutely no sense of timing, at all?
"Kiss me."
"What?" Draco, busy with being caught up in the whys and whatnots of how he seemed to love even Harry's flaws, was startled.
"Oh, fuck it!" Harry hissed in return, eyes snapping with quick temper. Draco paused in his reverie, lured by the sparkle and glitter of a Harry afire. "Merlin's bollocks! If you want something done, you have to do it yourself, right?" He grabbed Draco by the shoulders and hauled him down again—for the second time, like a nearly drowned man—so he went sprawling all over Harry, wings flapping uselessly and stirring the air. "Fine! Whatever! I'll do it, git, if you're too afraid of your own stupid shadow to bother. For pity's sake, Draco, wen you tell someone you like them, you snog them right after—oh! Oh-ommmph! Fssshnrrrgle! Ngh!"
"Mmm-hmmm," Draco purred happily, several moments after that sort of behaviour. "Yes, my sentiments exactly. And don't ever—ever, Harry!—dare say I'm afraid. I'm not afraid; I'm cautious—there's a difference, you know? Please do, for the future. Slytherins are cautious. We don't like impetuous people."
"Nnnnhh!" But Harry wasn't minding, he was snogging, and that was more than alright with Draco's Veela bits.
Indeed, never let it be said Draco Malfoy lacked courage, despite his small…issues. Or a sense of stick-to-it-tiveness. He stuck to Harry quite courageously, and despite the other boy's uncontrollable twitching and flailing. With saliva and perspiration and certain other bodily fluids acting as a form of primal glue.
"Are you planning to explain it to me now, Harry?" Draco murmured some immeasurable time later, playing happily with Harry's hair. Harry smoothed his wings in return and it was sheer heaven. "How this even happened? It would be nice to have some idea what goes on in this uncombed head of yours, seeing as you're pretty much inscrutable and I can't seem to quite read you, no matter how I try. I'd no clue you were even interested in men, much less me."
"Veela." Harry seemed to feel that one word did the trick, explaining all; Draco scoffed at him. "You know. Veela."
"Hah." Draco took advantage of the pause in snogging to inhale. "Yes, so? And…?"
"Your paternal grandmother was a Veela, right? I mentioned a while back I was reading up about Malfoys, didn't I? Did you not ever wonder why, prat?"
"Er…no?" Draco shrugged. "Should I have?"
"Brainless." Harry grinned fondly, nonetheless. "Because I felt you. I felt you, always there, hovering over me. Months and months now. Dreamt of wings and flying and fucking whilst flying—fucking strange, that. Disturbing."
"Fucking hot, Harry!" Draco gasped, overcome by acrobatic visions that seared his inner eyeballs. "We must do it, sod it! We must do it very soon! I can fly now, you know? Really very well, if I do say so myself. Bet we can manage if we practice, Harry."
Harry snorted. "Yes, Draco. In any case, you were what I dreamt of, waking and sleeping. Draco Malfoy. Which was very weird and odd, or so it seemed to me, yeah? You follow? Given everything. So…er, I did my research, right? Hermione's not the only brain gadding about in Gryffindor."
"Good," Draco pronounced, vastly pleased. "Glad to hear, Harry. Never thought you weren't smart, for the record, just a bit…thick. But I'm pleased you took the time to look into it, the Veela. For the children's sake, naturally. I'd hate for them to be only foolishly brash and not possess at least some sense of self-preservation—"
"Git! Come here, git!" Harry giggled, and drew Draco close again, and it was just as enthralling as any bloody manner of flying, wingéd or no. "Ridiculous git! Blathering on about children; we've not even shagged yet! Speaking of…kiss me again, hmm?"
The mention of shagging rather shortcircuited Draco's brain. He growled, but in a very pleased manner.
"Oh, yes….yes, Harry."
And there was no fear. Draco was most definitely flying, in as much as he'd been earlier with his great huge wings—maybe more so. Farther, higher, faster.
This time, he'd get it right, from the very start. Draco was certain.
Finite.