Draco comes to dinner as requested, wearing his haughtiness like a mantle, as if the reason he decided to join them is because he has deigned to do so, and not because of Harry. He makes small talk with his mother and Harry, keeps his expression light, and is in general, a wonderful dinner companion.
It's all a lie, and Harry knows it.
Despite the outward appearance of obedience, Harry knows Draco is tweaked about the whole situation. He thinks it goes deeper than Draco just being a cheeky sub, especially since whatever they are to each other has yet to take shape. He's not coy, not aloof, not trying to draw Harry's attention in that way. It's not about balking against the Dom/sub dynamic. Harry doesn't even think it's about him, per se, but more about Draco's acceptance of himself. And their conversation earlier makes it perfectly clear to Harry that Draco doesn't know who or what he is, so he's relying on the self-preservation tactics he's used in the past.
Harry knows if he waits, if he ignores it for now, Draco won't be able to stand it. The temptation to throw his carefully constructed mask in Harry's face will be too much for him, and Draco will instigate something. Because if nothing else, Draco is a hopeless instigator.
Which is totally fine with Harry.
It will be a perfect opportunity to make things plain once and for all.
Draco listens with impressively faked interest as Narcissa goes on about Neville's impending arrival. Harry knows Nev's extremely low on Draco's list of people to ever see again, but the smile at her words isn't false. Draco may not want Neville in his home, but he's pleased to see his mother so animated.
A point in Draco's favor.
Harry makes a concerted effort to catch Draco's gaze every so often through the meal, catch it and hold it warmly. It's genuine on his part, partly because Draco is just so lovely to look at, and partly to make his point. The façade drops once or twice, but Draco's been trained to conceal his true emotions since he was born. He crumples under extreme stress, as attested by the war, but this—this is more of a political arena. The sort of thing Draco's used to. Managing himself in the cold face of others, calculating someone's true agenda, while hiding his own. Harry kind of wants to shake him and tell him that this is personal; it's not politics. He's not trying to committee Draco into his bed.
Narcissa excuses herself, refusing dessert, claiming to need time to make arrangements for Neville's arrival. Nev's not coming until Friday, and here it is, Tuesday evening. Her excitement is easy to detect. She spares a kiss on the cheek for each of them before gliding out of the dining room in her usual regal fashion, except for a hint of breathlessness as she goes.
Draco's still spooning trifle into his mouth, holding back on the sigh of pleasure Harry's sure he wants to make but doesn't.
Dabbing at the corner of his mouth, he says, "You don't have to stay for me. I'm quite capable of finishing a meal by myself."
"I was thinking of spending some time in the library this evening." Harry places his napkin on the table, he lets out a groan of contentment. "My luck I'll probably fall asleep in there. I ate far too much. Please forward my appreciation to Cook."
Draco rests his hands on the tablecloth as his eyes latch onto the arrangement of flowers in the middle of the table. "You did this for me, didn't you?" he asks, hands clenching into fists. "You asked Cook to make all my favorite things." He swallows hard as his eyes dart to the side. "This is some sort of reward for doing as I'm told, isn't it?"
Harry stands up from his chair and moves to Draco's side, placing his right hand on the back of Draco's chair, and his left on the table next to Draco's. Close enough to touch, but Harry doesn't, because the boundaries of touch have yet to be liberated. He chooses to answer the question by not answering it.
"Thank you for coming to dinner. Your mother was pleased, as I'm sure you could tell. It made her happy."
Draco keeps his stare focused on the small centerpiece. "What about you?" His voice is quiet, tone low and soft.
"What about me?"
"Did—did it make you happy?"
The question is unexpected.
Harry's index finger stretches to draw a lazy circle on the tablecloth, still so close but not touching. Draco tenses, as if he is anticipating the contact.
"Yes," he replies with same amount of softness. "It did. But it would be better if next time you meant it. I can appreciate the effort you made. I know you did it for her, and not for me."
Draco's breath catches and he turns his face upward to look at Harry, his eyes a mixture of surprise and wonder.
Harry slips his hand from the table. "Good night, Draco."
OOOOO
Draco barrels into the room, stomping across the floor like a man on a mission. His angry strides take him right past Harry; Draco doesn't even look at him, just tears across the rug until he comes to a stop at the reading table against the back wall.
Harry's glance peeks over the book in his hands. Draco's braced his hands on the table and is staring up at the painting on the wall. It's an image of the Manor in winter, coldly regal in all its glory, with the swirl of magical snow dancing about the landscape. Draco's mouth opens and then shuts on a snap. He does it twice more before the words finally come, as icy and frigid as the painting's subject.
"I know what you're doing."
Harry flips the page, keeping his eyes on the text. "I'm in the library. Reading," he drawls. "Well spotted. Ten points to Slytherin."
Draco huffs and shakes his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees the bob of Draco's throat and the hang of his head. With a jerk, Draco flips around to face Harry, bracing his hands behind him on the table. His body leans forward, almost accusingly.
"You're trying to seduce me."
Harry snorts and sits up from his reclining position on the chaise, placing the volume of Rumi's collected works on the side table. He doesn't respond, instead taking in the way Draco's practically vibrating with restrained emotion. Harry scoots back, getting more comfortable. He adjusts his dressing gown, pulling it out from where it's bunched up beneath him. He's aware that Draco's getting an eyeful of his bare chest as he does so, but he blinks twice at Draco and says calmly, "I'm not trying to seduce you, Draco."
"Of course you are!" Draco hisses in return. "I'm not stupid. Don't think I don't know what all your alluring alpha posturing is all about." His eyes narrow and the point of his chin thrusts out as he continues, "And here you are, half-naked, lounging about on the furniture. It's so obvious, it's pathetic." The tirade is delivered with the same high-handed affront Harry remembers from his youth. 'My father will hear about this' could be tacked on at the end, and he'd be right back at Hogwarts.
Harry wants to smile at the infantile indignation, but decides instead to play it straight. After all, that's what he wants. For Draco to understand that this isn't a game, it's simply who he is.
"I know you want me." The statement is gritted out through Draco's clenched teeth like it pains him to put voice to it. "Do you deny it? That you want to get me into your bed?"
The amusement is gone in a flash and the truth pours out of Harry like water. His eyes harden and he lays Draco flat with a stare. "Yes, I want you. But I'm not trying to seduce you. That's not how I do things. I won't chase you, I won't beg. I don't subscribe to manipulative falsehoods to get you where I want you. I'm not trying to seduce you because I don't have to."
Draco's gray eyes blow wide with either shock or arousal, possibly a bit of both. He splutters, but can't manage a coherent retort.
Harry rises from the chaise with a whisper of satin as the dressing gown drags on the upholstery. Draco tracks every move as Harry crosses to stand in front of him. His face morphs into a shell of disdain.
"I see. What, the Dom snaps his fingers, and the su—I'm just supposed kneel for you?" Draco's furious gaze cuts through to Harry, slicing over his skin. "You don't think this is pursuit? Throwing yourself at me and making me—" He stops, swallowing the last of his words.
"No," Harry says, his lips pursed into a tight line. "This is me, showing you what I have to offer. Openly, honestly. I can't help it if you're responding to that. I haven't made a move toward you. If I had, you'd already be in my bed and this conversation would be pointless. I don't need to pursue anything. You'll either come to me, or you won't. It's as simple as that."
Draco's eyelids slam shut and his head jerks to the side. "Why did you have to show up here? Why is this my life?" He opens his eyes and turns a haunted gaze on Harry. "How is this my life now?"
"I don't know," Harry says softly. "But I'm here, and this isn't going away. Not until we confront it."
Anger seeps back into Draco's words. "Confront it? There's nothing to confront! You've realized there's a convenient toy within your reach, and you just want to fuck with it to pass the time."
Harry reels back at the vehemence that rolls off Draco. His hands are clenched around the edge of the table so hard, they've gone white, and Draco's shoulders are trembling under the force. He's holding back so much, trying so hard to keep his cool, and losing it slowly by precious seconds. He lashes out to ease the growing pressure within, keeping himself at a set simmer in order to prevent the whole pot from boiling over.
"I want to fuck you, there's no doubt. I want to put my hands and mouth on you and make you beg for it. I want to tie down and spread you open with my tongue. I want to slide my cock into your body and fuck you so hard you forget your own name." Draco pales at the blatant declaration, but then Harry watches as the blood slowly creeps back, flushing high on his cheeks. His pupils dilate until only a ring of gray is visible, and there's a growing bulge at the front of his trousers. "I want all of that and more. I want to talk to you, laugh with you, spend time with you. In bed and out. It's true I don't know why I'm here, but it's pretty clear that you're a part of it. And if it didn't feel right, I'd know, because there's no way my magic or my conscience would allow me to stay if it wasn't." Harry shoulders out of the dressing gown, dropping it to the floor with a swish. "I'm not perfect," he says, running his hands over the circular-shaped scar on his chest, "but I'm a good man. And this is what I have to give you. A scarred body and a reshaped soul that is as demanding as you think it is. I know what I want, what I need. But if you aren't the least bit interested, tell me, and that's the end of it."
Draco opens his mouth, and Harry waits to hear the kiss-off, because Draco's made it plain that he's unwilling to recognize or admit to his own needs.
"I'm not perfect either." Draco's hand ghosts over the front of his shirt. "Blaise used to lament the fact that you left your mark on me. It irritated him. He talked about actually branding me before the end."
Harry's eyes snap to Draco's face at that. "Show me."
Draco's breath falters and he licks his lips. This is a tipping point, a weight on the scale. Harry knows the command in his voice resonates in the sudden stillness of the room, and he waits. Waits to see if Draco is going to obey, because if he does it's one step closer to closing this gap between them.
Slowly, Draco's fingers unfurl from the table's edge and drift up to undo the buttons of his shirt. It takes what seems like ages before he pulls back the fabric to reveal the thin, whip-like slashes on his chest. Harry's heart slams against his ribcage like a Bludger. His mouth goes dry as he sees Draco, bleeding out on a bathroom floor, and remembered fear clogs in his throat. But there's a chance to change all of that, to reinvent the dynamic of Harry and Draco. One that will be as passionate and powerful, but infinitely more satisfying.
Draco merely has to ask for it.
Harry reaches up and traces the edge of Draco's shirt with his index finger, careful not to touch, trailing up the fabric until it reaches the collar. He pulls his hand back and looks Draco in the eye. "Thank you," he says, voice full of praise and awe. "I know how hard it must be to bare even a little of yourself to me."
Draco rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and his lashes flutter. "I—I honestly don't think about it much anymore. It's just another mark, I suppose."
Harry's eyes flick down to Draco's chest and he inhales sharply before meeting Draco's gaze again. "Think about what I said. I mean it, I won't chase you. The choice has always been yours." He steps back and retrieves the dressing gown from the floor. "And Draco, when I mark you again, it will be because you want me to."
OOOOO
Draco stumbles forward once the door shuts behind Potter, bracing himself with one hand on the table. The gasp that escapes him is entirely involuntary. He's panting like he's run from here to Hogwarts and back, double time, with a hippogriff strapped to his back the entire way. He blinks twice, unable to see or think of anything beyond two crystal clear factors. One, Draco can still feel Potter's body heat, hovering over his skin like that first tingle of magic you get when you hold a wand for the first time. Nervous, exciting, and an altogether visceral rush that strangles out all other feeling. And two, Potter said 'when', not 'if'.
When.
The thought is simultaneously terrifying and arousing, and the blood rushes to his cock in a painful surge, making sweat break out across his hairline and blurring his vision like he's been knocked in the head by a Thestral. He snorts against Potter's absurdly arrogant declaration, but there's a thrum within him that shaking its head and forcing him to look closer. No, it's not arrogance that Potter's throwing around, it's a deep-rooted confidence. One that bleeds capability. One that's got Draco's cock pulsing to beat the band, eight to the bar, a four on the floor jive of whenwhenwhenwhen.
Now he's thinking about it. Imagining it. Fantasizing about what exactly Potter might do, because if he's shown Draco anything at all since he's been here, it's that Potter is nothing like he imagined. It's overwhelming now, this physical reaction, and Draco sinks to his knees, slips his hand in his trousers, and pulls one off right there on the goddamned rug.
He's still panting, still blinded, with the blissed out tingle of stars behind his eyes and the half-formed plea of the word "Harry" on his tongue. He hasn't come that hard in ages. It's with a slow and growing horror that he realizes Potter didn't even have to lay a fucking finger on him to do it.