Chapter 14: Abandoned, but not Alone

Harry stares at the tarpaulin — numb.

He can hear the rain pounding against the tent, can faintly hear Hermione's voice calling, crying, looking for someone who's already left.

He can't hear the sound of his own thoughts, and that's a good thing, because he doesn't want to.

Slowly, or maybe so quickly it's only been a minute since Ron left, Harry realises he's cold.

Harry turns, thinking he'll try and sleep, or grab a blanket and charm it to stay dry on his watch, wanting to do anything other than nothing — because doing nothing will make him feel the acid from Ron's words, eating away at his insides.

But as he moves, he sees the only other person standing in the tent with him, which is odd because Harry could have sworn he was alone, but seeing him, seeing that torn expression of hesitation and pity in those guarded grey eyes, brings everything crashing down in a wave of Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy.

Had Ron been right, is Draco Malfoy all Harry cares about? Harry wants to say no, that Malfoy is just a small piece in a very large, fragmented puzzle, but a part of him fears that he will be lying, that while the most important thing right now is a war, somehow Malfoy has become important too.

Harry takes a breath, gaze tracing over the way Malfoy wearily watches him, his jaw a hard frame of angles, and the tightness around his eyes so strained Harry wants to smooth away the creases.

"Well?"

Harry jerks in surprise, and he isn't sure if it was him who spoke, or Malfoy.

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to send me away?" Malfoy's question is so low Harry almost misses it, and he frowns in return.

"No." He wants to add, 'why would I do that?' But he can't, his voice is too thick right now, and he has a feeling he knows what Malfoy will say, anyway.

There's a flicker of something sporadic, maybe relief, across Malfoy's face, and it takes him several seconds too long to mask it before Harry sees.

At that moment, Hermione bursts back into the tent, hair stuck to her face and dripping streams of water over her jacket. Her bottom lip is chewed raw with worry and her eyes are red, and she barely holds in her sadness as she stutters out, "he's g-gone. Disapparated."

She stands there, drenched, as though trying to make sense of her situation. But Hermione Granger is lost, her logic has escaped her, and the boy Harry knows she is in love with has deserted her. He wants to hug her, tell her that it's okay, that Ron will come back, but he can't. Because if he does that then he is acknowledging the burning hot hole filled with guilt and betrayal which brews in the pit of his stomach. If he does that then Hermione might fall to pieces, and there will be nothing stopping Harry from following her.

Hermione goes into the kitchenette, her actions sharp and shaky as she mechanically makes a pot of tea, tears sparkling on her cheeks. It hurts Harry to watch her, so without a word he steps up behind her, gently moves her aside, and makes the tea for her.

He knows Malfoy is watching him, but he can't find it in himself to care.

It is later that night, when Harry is curled on his bunk, wondering whether this is what he deserves for dragging his friends into this, when Malfoy's quiet voice travels up from below.

"It's not your fault."

Harry's eyes fly open in the darkness, even though he can't see anything, not because he is surprised by what Malfoy has said, but because of what he hasn't. Lingering in the blackness between their mattresses, the rest of Malfoy's sentence hangs like a stagnant, unspoken breath; it's mine.

It's not your fault, it's mine.

And Harry just squeezes his eyes tightly closed, trying to decide whether that's true or not. Yet, when exhaustion finally claims him, the last thought he knows is that even if it is true, somehow, he doesn't care.

When Draco wakes up, he is shocked to find that he has risen before Potter, who's hand drapes over the side of the bunk, and nearly hits him in the face as he gets out of bed.

His surprise evaporates, however, when he sees a note on the table. It's in plain sight, so evidently Draco is allowed to read it, not that it would have stopped him if he wasn't. Next to it, there is a small, fake looking galleon, and Draco recognises it as the thing which Potter took out of his pocket all those days ago, right before he'd left.

The writing is neat, belonging to Granger he presumes, and his guess is confirmed once he realises it is written on some bizarrely textured, lined muggle paper. He scowls, glances over at the still-sleeping form of Potter, and then reads:

I've gone to find Ron and bring him back. When the time comes, I'll be in touch. Stay safe and good luck. Love, H.

Draco places the note back where he found it, a strange heaviness in his chest at the thought of Potter waking to find that now both of his friends have left him.

There's a steaming mug of tea under a stasis charm on the table, and Harry, now that he's read the note, knows it must have been left there by Malfoy. Because Hermione's gone, and all Harry can do is stand there in a pair of hole-ridden socks and stare at a bloody hot beverage.

His chest feels like it's about to cave in at any moment, and he thinks that whoever comes in to find the ruins of Harry Potter's torso, Malfoy, no doubt, will see that half of his heart has been torn away. It's strange, Harry thinks, how people always go on about soul mates sharing the same heart, but maybe they've been right all along. Because he, Ron and Hermione have always been soul mates, in that weird, round-about way that only the closest of friends are, and it has taken losing them for Harry to realise it.

He raises his hand to move the fake galleon from the table to the pocket of his jeans, but his fingers slip, and the coin drops to the floor. Harry bends to pick it up, and something splashes his hand. Maybe the tent has a leak, he muses as he stands and places it carefully in his pocket. But then he feels the same wetness on his cheek, and when his fingers come up to swipe it away, he sees that he's shaking.

Harry clenches his jaw at the same moment Malfoy comes into the tent, bringing a sharp chill and the smell of fresh rain with him.

"Hey," Malfoy says as soon as he notices Harry standing there. His face is full of wary uncertainty, and it takes Harry a few seconds to liken the expression Malfoy gives him to something one would give a person who is about to have a mental break down.

Harry swallows, and now the mug of tea makes sense.

"Hey," Harry's answer is much too late, and his voice cracks at the end. He hopes Malfoy will brush it off as the effects of sleep, but he knows the blond is more skeptical than that.

It is the strangest, politest greeting they have ever shared, and Malfoy hovers by the entrance of the tent like he's hesitant to come any closer.

If Harry weren't still feeling paralysed over the absence of his two best friends, he would have said something more, perhaps even tell Malfoy to stop acting like he's a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But right now, all Harry finds himself capable of doing is going back to bed.

Draco watches Potter settle on the bunk, something stuttering uncomfortably in his chest, and it makes him miss the fluttering thing.

Draco thinks he should probably just turn away and leave Potter to mope, but for some reason, he can't, and before he can stop himself his feet are taking him towards their bunk.

And slowly, oh so slowly, as though the rungs on the bunk ladder will scald his palms, Draco climbs up to where Potter lies facing the wall. The vulnerability of his position touches Draco somewhere suspiciously near the heart, and he swallows.

Maybe, after everything, Potter finally feels like he's alone in this, and Draco has never before considered that The Boy Who Lived needs to be around other people more than anything else — that he needs things like validation and affirmation. Draco has always believed that Potter had everything, that he was content with fame and nothing more, but within the last two weeks Draco has learned how wrong he was.

Potter puts on the face of a hero, he wears it because it's the mask which suits him best, the facade people are counting on him for. But beneath that, Potter is withering from the weight of his fame, because he is just a boy — no different from Draco — a boy who's two best friends have walked out on him in the midst of a war. And Draco just aches for him.

Maybe that's why Draco's inhibition flees to an untouched corner of his mind, a chamber he won't seek to look in. Not now, not when the shivering lines of Harry Potter's shoulders are just begging to be held.

The memory of Potter comforting him is the only confirmation Draco needs. But as Draco edges forward, angles his weight on the bunk alongside Potter, he knows he's doing this because he wants to, and not because of some unpaid debt of condolence.

Draco reaches his hand out to tentatively brush Potter's bicep, and immediately Potter goes still. The touch isn't enough, it's not what they both need, so Draco bends closer until his chin rests on Potter's shoulder, and he gets a mouthful of soft, unruly hair.

Draco's knees come to lean against the back of Potter's thighs, but Potter's still too tense, as though the trembling will begin again at any moment — so Draco does something incredibly insane, but right.

He pushes his entire body against the length of Potter's, and wraps his arm around Potter's torso, pulling him roughly back into his chest, into some sort of warm, urgent half-embrace.

And then Potter just melts, relaxes into Draco's arms as though it's something he's been wanting to do for years. Draco's left arm is still awkwardly contorted above his head, but he hardly feels it, all he feels is Potter, and as he lowers his head even more, all he smells is Potter too.

And it's wonderful.

Delicious, masculine and like fresh forest wood — Draco can't get enough of it. He squeezes Potter, relishing in the heat of his body, as if by doing so this moment will never end. Draco wouldn't mind being stuck in the limbo of time if it meant he'd never have to relinquish Harry Potter from his arms. It's warm, comfortable, and peaceful, and even though this moment will end, Draco knows it'll be burnt into the forefront of his mind forever.

But then something unexpected flares to life in his abdomen — hot, needy desire. Draco freezes, the realisation that he is becoming horny from hugging The Chosen One dragging his inhibition back from that forgotten place, and leaving him feeling like a complete fool.

There's no way Potter wouldn't have felt it against his lower back — the pulse of a rapidly forming hard-on, which does not die away no matter how much Draco wishes it would. Fuck. This can't be happening — can't be possible — but it is. And as panic begins to seep into Draco's being, he realises something he's probably been trying to bury for days — that his attraction for Harry Potter runs deeper than a few shared meals and late night conversations. And no amount of hate will ever be enough to hide the truth again.

Draco's heart is racing, pounding so fast it hurts, and he knows Potter must be able to feel it as well as the erection Draco hasn't been able to diminish — so why hasn't he jerked away in disgust?

It must be coming, it's unavoidable, and the thought of it sends a pain so strong through Draco's chest that he gasps and flinches away.

The oncoming rejection sends him nearly falling over the railing, before he steadies himself and scrambles down the bunk ladder, needing to get out — needing to get away, as far away as possible.

He hears Potter sit up, hears his voice, muffled and croaky, call his name. But Draco doesn't stop, not even when he hears the bunk creak under Potter's descending weight.

The denim around his crotch is tight and uncomfortable as Draco bursts out of the tent, and the light of day is so harsh that he is left dazed for several seconds.

But he has to move, has to run, because there's the sound of the tent flap moving, and Potter yelling desperately for him to wait, and any moment Draco will be laughed at, will fall to his knees with the brunt of rejection —

A hand coils around his wrist, strong and sweaty, despite the way it holds on as Draco tries uselessly to pull free. Potter doesn't let go even as he spins Draco to face him, and Draco sees the determination, the tell-tale signs that maybe Potter feels just as flustered as Draco does.

But suddenly, nothing else matters besides this, because Potter's other hand lands on Draco's shoulder in a searing hot vice, urging him closer until Potter's intentions become as clear as the bright blue sky which spreads out above them.

And Draco can only widen his eyes as Potter leans forward.

Harry's mouth crashes against Malfoy's, and it's clumsy and wet and practically a shout out to the world about Harry Potter's inexperience — but Malfoy lets out this low, sort of keening noise and then every care Harry could or could not give just drops away into nothingness.

Malfoy's lips are as warm as the rest of him, and while they are unmoving and hesitant to begin with, sometime within the last few weeks, Harry has vowed to himself to crack every code the stern exterior of Draco Malfoy has to offer, and right now Harry needs to explore and taste and devour.

So he conveys this to Malfoy by entwining his hand into pale hair which is so startlingly soft and digging his fingers into Malfoy's scalp — and just like that whatever control Malfoy has been clinging onto snaps.

And then it is rough, unrelenting, and exhilarating, like everything always is between them, and briefly Harry wonders if everything in their lives has been leading up to this moment, if fate has played out the way it has just for them to end up here. Every taunting comment and snide remark, every glare and every curse, has brought them where they are now. And if that's the case, Harry is thankful.

Because Malfoy's lips, dragging over his own and prying them apart, is better than anything Harry can remember, and fuck, he's ruined — from this day on nothing else will ever be as good as snogging Draco Malfoy.

Lips against lips — harsh and intoxicating pressure.

Tongue against tongue — Malfoy tastes like apples and protein bars, and it's delicious.

Teeth against teeth — eager and vigorous and impatient.

Kissing Malfoy is maddening, and Harry knows he is addicted to it.

The hand in Malfoy's hair slips to his jaw, glides over pale skin dotted with stubble, and reaches back to grip Malfoy's neck, to bring him closer, closer, closer — because nothing is enough — Harry needs to feel Malfoy, all of him, so he grabs his hips, presses their bodies together, knows that Malfoy will be able to feel the arousal Harry doesn't care about hiding anymore.

Malfoy's lips break away over a gasp which quickly turns into a moan, and Harry just wants to swallow that sound, because he's never heard anything so dizzying and erotic.

But then everything just falls apart.

Malfoy, as though brought back to his awareness by the sound he's just made, wrenches away, stumbles backwards, and Harry can only stretch a hand out and pretend that he's about to grab Malfoy and pull him back in, and then everything will be okay again.

Malfoy's eyes are a mixture of lust and rage, their colour darkened by the pink in his cheeks, and his lips are red and swollen — lips which Harry just craves to have back on his own.

But then Malfoy's swiping the back of his hand over his mouth and spitting, "Dammit, Potter — I'm — I'm not gay!" His voice is gravelly with anger, and it reaches Harry's ears through a haze of shock and hurt.

Harry's panting, his throat suddenly dry, and he stares at Malfoy as he tries to come up with something which won't make him out to be an idiot, "Yeah? Well — neither am I."

Harry fails, because he does feel like an idiot, and even though he thinks what he said is true, it doesn't seem to stop him from wanting to launch himself at Malfoy and continue what they started. Malfoy just looks at him strangely, his heated gaze both assessing and suspicious, and Harry's brains must be addled, because then he blurts, "It doesn't matter."

Malfoy's eyes seem to blaze for a second, and the mouth which Harry kissed only a moment ago now appears unreachable. "What doesn't?" He hisses.

"That we're not gay — it doesn't matter." Harry doesn't know what he's saying, and apparently neither does Malfoy.

"What the fuck are you talking about? Of course it bloody well matters!"

"It doesn't," Harry insists, desperate for Malfoy to agree.

But Malfoy just looks like Harry threw a bludger at his head, "Shut up," Malfoy seethes, "You must be out of your fucking mind — or — or your grief's gotten to you, or something."

"I'm — what? I'm not grieving. This isn't about —"

"You've been abandoned, Potter. Of course you're upset." Malfoy's tone turns patronising, and Harry's feels indignant rage spike down his spine.

"I haven't been abandoned! Ron and Hermione are coming back." He says it strongly, with as much conviction as he can, as though daring Malfoy to argue.

"Really? When? Because Weasley looked like he'd rather dunk his head in a bucket of acid than stay here."

Harry glowers at him, his fists balled, and he wonders where the last few heavenly minutes have disappeared to, and how he can go about getting them to return. "Can we go back to the gay talk, please?"

Malfoy's eyes flash and his lip curls, "No! What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter!?"

"Nothing's wrong with me — I'm just sick of you trying to avoid the problem!"

"Oh, it's a problem, is it?" Malfoy sounds dangerous, and Harry is confused because Malfoy is the one acting like it's a problem, so why should he be so affronted?

"Only because you made it one!"

"Alright. Now it's a solved problem. Done. Dusted. Now we never have to talk about it again." Malfoy begins to stalk past Harry, heading for the tent, but Harry blocks his way. "Move, Potter."

"No. If you're staying with me then you're going to have to talk about it," Harry tells him, enjoying being this close to Malfoy again.

Malfoy's eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, "Is that so? Going to make me, are you?"

"Yes," Harry says it easily, because it's true, he will make Malfoy talk about it whether it's the last thing he does, but as soon as the word leaves his mouth the frown seems to drop from Malfoy's face and his cheeks turn pink again and god — Harry just wants to kiss him.

But he won't, even though his lips are so dry and his whole body is just begging for him to reach out and ensnare Malfoy in his arms and never let him go — Harry resists. Malfoy's staring at him oddly, and it's a mixture of that weary hesitance from this morning and the lust which deflated only a few minutes ago.

"What?" Harry asks.

"Why aren't you upset?" Malfoy is all expectancy and stern grey eyes, and Harry clamps his lips down over his automatic denial. Because he is upset, and the only thing which is stopping Harry from losing the threadbare grip on his sanity is the person standing in front of him — and maybe that's because the same person has coerced Harry into insanity long ago.

"Because," Harry replies, urging his voice out from the hard knot which it has become, "Because you stayed."

And just like that Malfoy lets his composure slip, and Harry is granted with several seconds of unguarded emotion — shock, warmth and then fear — before Malfoy gets a hold of his stony apathy, and succeeds in shrugging past Harry and out of sight.

The searing heat in Draco's chest is almost as bad as the one in his groin. He screws his eyes tightly shut and tries to push all thoughts of Potter and gayness out of his mind, but the three words 'because you stayed' are relentless with their insistence, and Draco knows trying not to think about Potter always results in dead ends full of messy hair and emerald eyes — so he gives up, and lets it consume him.

And Draco just knows he is a dead man, that the disease which is Harry Potter will be the one he dies from, and the most fucked up part of it is that Draco doesn't give a damn. All he can do is pretend nothing's happened, as though Potter's mere presence doesn't make his palms sweat with the need to run them through Potter's hair. All he can do is pretend he isn't glad now that he has Potter to himself, that his two best friends have left — left him to Draco. All he can do is pretend it doesn't make him selfish or deranged or gay.

But in a sense, Draco doesn't know what he is, or who he has become, or who he even wants to be. The only constant in his life is Harry bloody Potter.

Draco releases a pent up breath of vexation and decides to make the rest of the day as normal as possible.

But normalcy, he soon realises, is something which fled from him years ago.

Draco has always been the kind of person who prefers to bury unpleasant experiences, and while his encounter with Potter's lips was the complete antithesis of unpleasant, he will still do what he can to avoid bringing it up in conversation. Potter, however, is the total opposite. Potter is the type of git who has a one tracked mind when it comes to discussing something he wants resolved, and as the day wears on, Draco begins to understand what Granger warned him about — about Potter being either all in, or not at all. Because throughout the afternoon Potter seems to have made it his life goal to bring up the one thing Draco doesn't know if he would rather forget all about, or remember forever.

Draco almost wishes Potter would just get on with it and say whatever he is practically bursting at the seams with the need to say, but he doesn't. Potter just goes about it in this infuriating, subtle way, laced with blatantly obvious hints and references, such as after a dinner of burnt baked beans by the fire, he makes a pointless observation about the two beetles scuttling away from the sparks, suggesting they might both be male. Draco grinds his teeth, huffs, and almost spills the leftovers of his unappetising meal onto the ground in his urge to get away.

But as Draco throws himself onto his bunk and delves into Granger's book of wizarding fairytales, he can't decide which it is he's running from — the truth of what might be hidden beneath the surface of his sexuality, or the nearly uncontrollable desire to push Potter against the hard twigs and snog him senseless.

Draco groans, realising they're probably the same thing, and forces himself to become engrossed in the tale he finds most fascinating — the one about the three brothers.

He fails, and by the third page he puts the book down, formulating some half arsed excuse which will enable him to sit next to Potter again, and heads back outside.

Harry is both unsurprised and pleased as Malfoy's footsteps crunch in the first of the season's snowfall as he comes to sit beside Harry. Harry feared he scared Malfoy off by his beetle talk.

Harry shuffles over a fraction instead of enlarging his heat and drying charms, because there isn't a single part of him which will protest against Malfoy's warmth right now, and he knows the other boy will be a perfect distraction from the locket he holds in his palm, and the pain which threatens his thoughts whenever he thinks about Ron or Hermione. It's the locket which he traded his friends for, and he doesn't bother hiding it from Malfoy, because he isn't going to lose anybody else, especially not Malfoy and this strange, new budding companionship. Harry knows Malfoy's staring at it, and without a word he angles his hand so the moonlight glints off the glistening green stone embedded into its front.

"Is that…." Malfoy doesn't finish, but Harry knows what he is going to say. It's impossible to be near something so tainted by dark magic and not feel it's aura like an unsettling presence.

Harry nods, swallows, and looks at Malfoy's shadowy profile through the corners of his eyes. "You know about Horcruxes?"

Malfoy blinks, and the crease which Harry has come to associate with deep thought and confusion makes an appearance across the bridge of his nose. "Vaguely. I… I read about them once — a long time ago." Malfoy's voice drifts with the accompaniment of a far off memory, and the pale column of his throat dips with the movement of his adam's apple as he swallows, and Harry feels warmth beginning to seep through his stomach just as Malfoy continues, "Is it — is it really part of — him?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and he looks away from Malfoy as though he's been doused in cold water, "a piece of his soul."

"It's what you're looking for, then — more of them?" Malfoy shifts closer, and when Harry turns back to him his face is sketched by the contrast of light and dark, of wonder and disbelief. Harry nods again, but before he can say anything, Malfoy's jagged tone of curiosity cuts through the air, "How many are there?"

Harry looks at the locket, trying to distance himself from the evil it tries to make him feel, and thinks about what Dumbledore would have wanted him to do right now — if that even matters. He supposes it's too late, that Malfoy is with him in this now, with him while his two best friends aren't, and whether big or small, that's got to mean something. So Harry clings to what it might mean, and while there should be a part of him which worries about what Malfoy could do with this information, it is as though it exists in the dormant times of yesterday, a time which Harry doesn't even know if he wants to return to.

So he says, "Six. I destroyed one in our second year," He purposefully leaves out the bit about Malfoy's father, "Dumbledore got one last year. And… this is the third."

There is an uncomfortable, heavy silence brought upon by the mentioning of their late Headmaster's name, and briefly Harry wonders if Malfoy is thinking about the haunted face of a wizened man before he'd fallen to his death.

But maybe, piece by piece, Malfoy is recovering from the torment of his past actions, because he speaks a lot quicker than Harry anticipated. "Second year? Honestly?" Malfoy sounds impressed, and Harry can't help but feel a little bit smug.

But then Harry's modesty gets in the way, and he tugs on his hair, "Yeah, but I er — I didn't know what it was."

Malfoy snorts, "Figures. So you're really going to do this — find all of these — these things?" Harry doesn't miss Malfoy's aversion to calling them what they are, and perhaps it is similar to the way he refuses to call Voldemort by name. Still, the part of Harry which has been desperate to save Draco Malfoy rears its head at the obvious distaste in his tone. There's fear buried there too, and Harry thinks that's a good thing, because you'd have to be mad not to be scared of something like this.

"Yes," Harry tucks the Horcrux back into his jumper, and notes the way Malfoy eyes his action with reproach, as though this will make him less inclined to sit so close to Harry in the future. Harry hopes this isn't true. "Ron and Hermione, too." He says it just to be sure, to let Malfoy know that no matter what, he has no doubts that his friends will return. And lingering after his last syllable, there is an unspoken addition of, 'and you as well.' Malfoy detects it, because he makes a strangled noise and purposefully glares into the forest.

Harry sighs, thinking the Horcruxes might have changed things, made Malfoy not want to be here anymore. The idea creeps its way into Harry's mind and stays there, nagging and stinging him. Maybe his discomfort shows on his face, and Malfoy just wants to distract him, because suddenly the Blond is listing off the key skills for Occlumency, none of which he says Harry possesses, and what Harry will need to do to get the hang of it before he dies of old age. And Harry smiles, because he knows, undoubtedly, that this is Malfoy's way of saying, 'hey, I'm in,' even if it is decorated with jabs at Harry's intelligence and his magical capabilities, and sounds as if Malfoy would rather be anywhere else.

Harry is nearly overwhelmed by a wave of affection for the boy next to him, affection which loosens his tongue and makes him blurt, "There's nothing wrong with it, you know."

Malfoy breaks off mid sentence, "Wrong with what?" And despite his snappish response, his glare tells Harry he knows exactly what is being talked about.

"With being gay," Harry tells him, his face awfully blasé compared to the way his heart thuds erratically. Harry doesn't know why he is so concerned about Malfoy understanding this, but for some reason it is just important.

"What? You think I don't fucking know that?" Even in the blackened air of night, Harry can still see the pink tinges which climb onto Malfoy's cheekbones, and it makes his wavering resolution a little bit firmer.

"Well, that's good. I — er — wasn't sure," Harry leans forward and grabs a handful of snow, which immediately melts after coming into contact with the warming charm on his skin. But he can't help himself, so he continues, "Why is it a problem, then?"

"It's… I —" Malfoy growls and stands abruptly, muttering to himself about 'bloody persistent bastards' and 'fucking nosy scarheads,' and Harry grins into the darkness.

But just before Malfoy reaches the tent, he swivels around, his fingers twitching at his sides and a frustrated mask plastered across his features. "My friend — Zabini — he — he liked both. It was never a problem." And then he storms off, tent flap swinging violently behind him, leaving Harry to blink in the aftermath and wonder why Malfoy has always called his friends by their surnames. He thinks about what being a friend entails, and whether it should mean wanting to snog the hell out of them. But mostly he wonders if he and Malfoy are friends yet, and if there will ever come a time when they will stop calling each other by their last names.

And with a flush, Harry imagines what it might feel like to have Malfoy's given name purposefully slip off his tongue. Familiar, wrong — but intimate.

"Draco…"

It is the next day, and Draco freezes in the middle of splashing icy river water on his face, but when he looks over his shoulder, Potter is still standing there, lips sealed shut as if he hasn't spoken at all. Draco narrows his eyes, wondering if the thumping in his chest is making him delusional.

"Come on," Potter says with an enthusiasm which makes Draco skeptical, "we don't have all day."

Draco's frown deepens — because they do have all day — and he is disgruntled by the fact that entering Potter's mind seems like it will be more strenuous on Draco than Potter himself.

"Fine," Draco grits out, "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Potter replies, relaxing his shoulders.

Draco sighs, steps forwards, and casts.

And is assaulted by images which shouldn't possibly be so vivid, so enticing.

Potter standing on a rocky cliffside with Albus Dumbledore, the dark and roiling ocean sending waves against their ankles.

A young boy, black-haired and calm, and wait — it isn't Potter — it's someone else who makes Draco want to yell and recoil, someone who, even so many years younger, causes a pit of dread to open up in Draco's stomach. Voldemort's child-like form tells Potter's memory he can speak to snakes, and then the scene dissolves, and it is Potter and Dumbledore in a candle-lit office, the word 'Horcruxes' hanging between them like a curse.

Weasley and Granger's faces, laughing and smiling, are briefly shoved into Draco's mind with sickening force, before being replaced by Potter himself, pacing and screaming — crying. Throwing object after object into the walls, relishing in the cracks and splinters, and then a face, lined with years of humour and shrouded in stubble, a face which Draco knows from months of Azkaban wanted posters. Sirius Black. And Draco feels Potter's loss like a punch to the gut.

A grey stoned corridor — Hogwarts — and Draco watches as Potter moves slowly, his back to the walls, as he follows a fast-walking memory of Draco's sixteen year-old self. Feelings, suspicion and fear and worry, flood into Draco's mind, and he knows they are not his own, but recollections of Potter's, and it makes him want to pull away with sudden urgency, because he knows what's coming, what happens next. The bathroom door looms before them, and Draco doesn't want to see this again, doesn't want to be on the receiving end of Potter's guilt-ridden thoughts about the scars Draco wears across his chest.

But surprisingly, Potter skims past the scene full of water and blood and misfired curses, and lands on a different, more recent one. A moonlit room and the melody of a piano, and Draco watches himself through Potter's eyes, shocked by the sense of admiration and longing he feels. The image rapidly crumbles away and Draco is brought bodily into the feeling of kissing himself, of Potter's desire. And the experience is so strange, so uncomfortable, that Draco is nearly overwhelmed by the memories of Potter's feelings. His own hair is soft through Potter's fingers, and he is scared by the way his memory self reacts to Potter's kiss — greedily, hungrily, like it is a replacement for air —

Draco breaks their connection with a gasp turned growl, and almost trips in his haste to put distance between them. "Fuck — are you even trying to block me out?"

But when he looks up, Potter's grinning, "I told you I was bad at it."

Draco rolls his eyes and glares, "Is this a game to you, Potter? It's no wonder Snape got fucking sick of you."

Potter's amusement disappears, and the angle of his jaw hardens. "Let's go again."

Draco flashes Potter what he hopes is a dark and irritated look, but his face feels too hot from the misinterpreted meaning behind Potter's words for him to be too hopeful. "Fine… Legilimens."

Potter's shaking fists, a white tomb standing on the hillside, and the need to be alone. The sunny day morphs into one of clouds and greyness, spread out above a street packed with houses which all look the same. Potter's lying in the garden bed, arms crossed beneath his head, and when he sits up in a rush and is grabbed by an oversized, puce-coloured man from the window, Draco immediately is greeted by the beginnings of a hazy black wall, blocking him from whatever Potter suddenly doesn't want him to see. Draco digs deeper, trying to get past the barricade, but Potter is demonstrating annoying adeptness for a skill he swore he was terrible at. The wall starts to trickle away, Potter mustn't be able to hold it any longer, and Draco presses on —

And is drawn back into the memory of kissing Potter, of tongues gliding against eachother and lips welding into one —

"Fucking hell! You can't just — you can't just do that when the bloody Dark Lord is trying to get into your head!"

"Oh, don't you start on that!" Potter shouts, and Draco is startled to see him suddenly enraged, as though someone else is standing in Draco's shoes, being yelled at by The Boy Who Lived.

"What the hell's your problem?" Draco asks lowly.

"Nothing —" Potter throws his hands up, cards one through his hair, and scuffs his foot across the snowy ground. Frustratedly, he turns back to Draco, understanding clear in his eyes, and as if he's just made some big discovery, Potter says, "you."

"Me? It's my fault, is it? That the great Harry Potter can't learn Occlumency?" Draco's voice is sarcastic, but Potter is used to it, and he just shakes his head.

"No, it's you. I can't concentrate — can't focus — because of you."

Draco's heart speeds up, hammering against his ribs with the need to get out and be near Potter's. He chokes with his oncoming desire, eyes narrowing, too heavy beneath their lids, and watches as Potter's resolution shines with startling clarity — watches as Potter steps closer, green eyes brimming with determination as they fall on Draco's lips…