Hermione's physical health was touch and go for the first week and a half of her time in the cottage. Draco had stocked the shared bathroom with a large supply of pepper up, pain, and anti-nausea potions, but she struggled to take them on time, which resulted in many hours spent hugging a porcelain bowl while in her bed. Every aspect of her recovery felt like torture during that time. When she was taking all of the medicine Draco supplied for her, she felt numb. Not the same type of beautiful oblivion she had craved for so long and had managed to obtain with Dragon's Breath, but merely a numbing of her physical pain. Her mind was as sharp as it had been while attending school, and she was, unfortunately, acutely aware of the inner despair she had so desperately tried to bury under years of alcohol and drug abuse.

Years of repressed emotions hit her like a tsunami, fast and ruthless. There was no holding back the memories once they began. The loneliness. The shame. She wasn't worthless, but over the last nine years she had made herself that way. She allowed herself to succumb to the pressures of her new life. She had lost herself in the mix of fame and fortune and along the way had simply forgotten how to be Hermione.

As she tried to process the maelstrom of self-loathing and physical discomfort, Harry did his best to comfort her. He would crawl into bed and hold her as she cried until her body could not expel a single tear more. He would wake in the middle of the night when the night terrors returned in full force, causing her throat to go raw from screaming for relief from her demons.

It had been years since she'd had a nightmare; she had simply forgotten that they had ever been apart of her life. That had been one singular blessing of the vices she collected over the years—they allowed her to become so numb that even her dreams weren't plagued with reminders of the past.

Draco was ever present, but he kept his distance. Watching in the shadows, waiting patiently until his assistance was needed. He never pushed, nor judged. In retrospect, it should not have surprised Hermione because he was technically here to do a job, but his kindness was still startling. One night, it had been Draco by her side when she awoke from her night terror. Harry was running out of steam and desperately needed a good night's sleep, so when the demons called her home and pulled screams from her sleeping form, it was he that sat on the edge of her bed, stroking her sweat soaked curls from her face as she fought an invisible Bellatrix for the umpteenth time. And when she finally woke, tears streaming down her face and the scar on her neck throbbing as a painful reminder—as it always did when the recurring dream visited her—he knew just what to say and do to calm her down. He spoke in soft tones, rooting her back in reality. Reminding her that it was just a dream, and that her foe was long gone. Not an ounce of the evil witch remained in the physical realm, but her spirit was still as vivid as ever in Hermione's mind. Draco's hand that had been stroking her hair dropped to her shoulder, and tentatively his thumb stroked across the pink scar, soothing the ache that ran deep into her bones.

Even there, in her punch-drunk twilight state, Hermione felt a spark ignite between them. It didn't kick start her heart the way Harry's touch did. No, this was different. It was equally as exhilarating, but instead of riling her up it had the complete opposite effect. It soothed her wild and calmed the madness in her soul. His melodic tone and touch was the sedative needed to ease her back to sleep. The sensory memory of his hand on her skin and the soothing resonance reminded her of simpler times, like when her mother would wrap her in a warm blanket as a child on cold winter nights. The pressure of her mother's arms around her, combined with the glowing heat of the wrap fresh from the dryer provided a comfort she had tried to replicate in the years since she had lost her, but every attempt Hermione made paled in comparison to the way Malfoy's presence soothed her that night.

He had curled up on the bed next to her, keeping only a hand on her arm, letting her know he was there if the dreams tried to overwhelm her again. The next morning when the sunlight on their faces woke them up, Draco had thankfully followed her lead on not discussing what had happened between them, and they fell back into the routine of merely coexisting in the tiny cottage.

It had been several days since that confusing night, and although Draco did not repeat his night-time visit, the confusion she felt about his demeanor only grew. He wasn't the bully she grew up with. At times he was even… kind. He was supportive. Always willing to listen should she choose to talk to him.

While her body physically no longer craved alcohol or Dragon's Breath, the hunger to lose herself in a vice-induced bliss still felt as strong as it had been when she first woke up in the cottage. If given the opportunity, she would happily drown herself in a vat of wine or liquor. She would have gotten down on her knees for Charlie for just a single pill. Something to pull her mind away from the present and just enjoy the total numbness. Which, she suspected, is why Draco had yet to allow her to step foot outside the cottage.

Instead, her days were filled with reading the Muggle and magical books that lined the meager bookshelf, playing cards with Harry, or watching old films on tape that they had uncovered in a trunk in what had become Draco's bedroom. Without the use of magic from anyone in the house, it also meant the tasks of cooking and cleaning had to be done by hand—without the ease of spellwork.

Hermione had never been gifted in the kitchen, as Harry fondly pointed out one night when the chicken casserole she had spent hours working on came out of the oven blackened on top but ice cold in the middle. Neither wizard had been able to salvage the meal, and thankfully Draco had taken the initiative to take the rental car to the closest Muggle village to purchase dinner from a local pub.

Since that night, Harry always volunteered to help cook dinner when it was Hermione's turn. While he would never admit to her that he did it because he was afraid of the concoctions she would make, they all knew his offer to help was not simply because he enjoyed cooking.

The soft, crooning melody of a Frank Sinatra song crackled from the ancient radio on the window sill, serenading Harry and Hermione as they worked side by side in the kitchen. The cupboards and refrigerator were growing bare, and Draco offered to go collect groceries as he had some post to send to a client in the U.S. With the wizard gone, it was the first time she was left entirely alone with Harry since her visit to Grimmauld Place two weeks before. On a cutting board in front of her, a large pile of fresh green beans lay, and she picked up the vegetables one by one and snapped off the ends, preparing the simple vegetable as she had seen her mother do hundreds of times before.

"Harry?"

Harry was across the tiny kitchen sitting at the dining table, where he held a medieval-looking potato peeler in one hand and a poorly peeled potato in the other. He had nicked his knuckles on more than one occasion since Hermione assigned him to this task. He had forgotten how bloody tedious peeling potatoes by hand was, as it had been several years since his aunt and uncle forced him to make a Sunday dinner.

"Yeah?" Harry glanced over his shoulder.

Hermione looked back at her pile of green beans, making sure to avert her gaze from his so he couldn't see the hesitation so plainly written on her face. They hadn't really talked about what happened between them over the past nine years since this all started. How could they? They were always within earshot of Malfoy, and while his presence was growing on her, she wasn't exactly keen on rehashing her abandonment issues with him around. So while he was absent, she figured she might as well seize the opportunity presented to her. "How have you been? What have you been up to… I mean aside from… well, this?"

Harry immediately looked back at the potato and peeler in his hand, his thumb stroking across the silver handle, trying to distract himself from how fucking terrible it felt for her to ask that. How had he been? Hermione was supposed to be his best friend. She was supposed to know exactly how he'd been because she should have been right by his side during the last ten years of newfound fame, but instead he got too bloody wrapped up in the whole rigmarole of turning his name and image into an internationally recognized icon—or whatever the bloody fuck Aurora called it. He couldn't very well remember half the time. He just showed up to the appointments she set and went about his life as best he could to stay afloat.

"Just work, I supposed. Not really much time for anything else," he began as he rolled the half peeled potato in his palm before dragging the metal peeler across its rough skin. "Ministry meetings, photoshoots, interviews… the same nonsense they've had me do since 1998."

"That's it?" Hermione pressed. Snapping the last of the green beans, she picked up the colander of prepared vegetables and moved to rinse them under the sink, casting only a fleeting glance in his direction as she passed by. "I mean, don't get me wrong. Work must be nice—I haven't been hired to do… well much of anything in ages. But, don't you get out and have fun?"

Harry snorted, unable to hide his amusement with her question. Having fun was a concept Harry hadn't thought about in ages. Sure, in his daily life aspects of his job were fun, but purposefully going out with the sole intent of leisure? No, that luxury was not one he had been afforded in a long time. "'Mione, I cannot remember the last time I did anything other than work," he admitted.

"Really?" Hermione asked, her brows lifting in surprise. "I guess I just assumed–you're all over the papers and magazines globe-trotting."

"Convenient photo opportunities. Aurora's always been keen to make me look far more interesting than I truly am." Harry tossed the peeled potato in the faded mixing bowl on the table before he set the peeler down and turned to look at Hermione at the sink. "I'm more of a homebody now–or rather, I'd prefer to be. I spent all that money to restore Grimmauld Place, and I barely get to use it. I'm just so tired of traveling and sitting in those Ministry meetings where I'm expected to just smile and backup Kings. Don't get me wrong, I love the bloke, and I'll do whatever I can to help but… how much am I really helping by just showing up?"

A slow smirk fell across Hermione's lips as she listened to Harry ramble about what had befallen his life since the war's end. As fucked up as her own time had been, it brought a small sense of ease knowing that despite the pretty pictures that graced the magazine covers, Harry was not enjoying his gallivanting around the globe like some playboy bachelor. He was still the same Harry. The same boy who dreamed of family and finding his place in a world that felt so foreign and wondrous—or at least she hoped that he was.

"Well, I suppose there is one silver lining to becoming a social pariah," Hermione teased as she turned off the sink and shook the colander so the excess water dripped off. "I don't have to deal with all that bullshit anymore." Tucking the bowl against her chest, she glanced over her shoulder to her friend with a playful smile, hoping it would be enough to let him know that while yes, the fact was that she was on the outskirts of what their society deemed as proper, she could still poke a bit of fun at her situation.

Harry's surprised laughter caught in his throat as he watched her move across the kitchen to the stovetop where the frying pan was already warming up with a bit oil for her dish. Reasonably, he knew what she said was true. Hermione did not have to deal with the job-related headaches he'd developed over the years. He knew her job assignments were dismally low, and recently Ron had begun to make it his life's mission to ensure she never found employment again. But it was a bitter pill to swallow when she spoke so candidly about it. It wasn't that people were just unwilling to employ her, it was that she had a problem—an addiction that made it really bloody difficult to have her back their brand or image.

"You're not a pariah, 'Mione," Harry tried to defend.

"No, Harry. I am. If you think otherwise, I don't think you understand what that word means."

"I wouldn't go as far as to use that term," Harry began as he rose from the table with the bowl of potatoes, and he moved to set it on the counter top in front of the spice rack. "You've just… taken a break from it all, and I'm here to help you find your way back," he explained as he seasoned the potatoes.

"That's one way of putting it," Hermione scoffed, glancing over her shoulder to Harry before back down to the pan in front of her. "Although I think that many would disagree. I'm not the same girl I was ten years ago. I've done things that even you—the great Harry Potter—would blush over."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Harry turned around, leaning back against the counter as he watched her work at the stove. Emerald eyes ran the length of her figure. She was still thin, but even now he could tell she was starting to put on much needed weight. Her hair looked less stringy than before, her curls returning to the wild luster that they had held in her youth, reminding him of better times, as well as the boyhood crush he had. "I'm not exactly innocent, contrary to what Aurora would have people believe."

A soft blush crept up the apples of her cheeks, and Hermione bit her bottom lip. That was a topic she was not entirely sure that were ready to broach—at least not yet. "Speaking of Aurora, what does the master manipulator think of you being here with Malfoy and me? If I remember the contract correctly, you're breaking more than one rule—at minimum. I'm sure there have been additions since I've faded out of the spotlight."

Harry's brow furrowed at her question, as he had not actually given much thought to what his agent would think of this since it had all happened so quickly. He'd known he needed to get his friend help; the rest hadn't really been important. "To be honest, I don't really care what she thinks," Harry explained as he pushed off the countertop and made his way towards her. "Nothing was as important as being here with you."

The pink blush crept down her neck at his words, the small fluttering in her belly returned, and she curled her fingers tighter around the wooden spoon she held. His declaration shouldn't induce these feelings—this adolescent beating of butterfly wings in her tummy or the way her heart skipped a beat. This was Harry, her former best friend. Sure, at a singular point in time she thought she might have feelings for him, but now was definitely not the time for her to forget just how pissed off she should still be with him. "Oh..." was all she could manage to reply before she cleared her throat to try to rid herself of the lump that had suddenly formed.

Lost in her thought, Hermione didn't notice Harry's approach from behind until she felt hands on her hips. She sharply inhaled as she felt his fingers curl around her hip bones, and even through the soft cotton material of her joggers, she could feel heat radiating from his skin and sinking into hers. "H-Harry?" Hermione squeaked in surprise, and when his thumbs slid beneath the hemline of her tank top, brushing across her skin, she felt the same wave of magic that she had the night they kissed. Except this time, there was nothing to dull its effects. No drink, no drug. She felt every ounce of its energy as it coursed through her veins, filling her soul. It felt just like the first time she held her vinewood wand in Ollivander's. Breathtaking, warm, and tingly. It felt like home. Like she had been missing something for her entire bloody life, and his touch reminded her what she needed most in the world.

Harry froze, his stuttering breath ghosting over the side of her neck as the electrical current of magic sparked between them. His fingertips ached to join his thumbs on her skin, desperate to see if the rest of her would feel the same. It was like he had just touched a ball of pure energy that kickstarted his heart into an unsteady rhythm. A sane man would turn and run, but Harry had never truly been sane, had he? He ran towards danger and the unknown, and this—whatever the fuck this was between them—was absolutely one of the most dangerous things he had ever encountered. Even unspoken, it promised to bring so much heartache and pain if they weren't careful.

"I… uh… I just need you to move over a bit," Harry whispered, gulping down his hesitation as he slowly guided her petite frame to the side, his hands still firmly planted on her hips, and he leaned in. His chest pushed against her back, and he was sure she could feel his heartbeat tattoo into her as he reached out with one hand to pluck a soft spatula from the utensil jar.

He didn't want to move; he wanted more than ever to press her up against the counter and steal her breath away in a kiss, but this consuming feeling between them was not going to be satisfied at a single kiss. He would want more, and with Draco returning to the cottage at any moment, he doubted it would be a good idea to give in to these feelings. He slowly took two steps back, separating their bodies, and the hand still left on her hip trailed across her skin. He watched her shiver at their departing contact, and inside his ego soared. If he could make her do that with just an innocent touch, he couldn't imagine what her reaction would be if he did ever get the chance to act upon these feelings.

"Thanks," he murmured before turning around to move back towards the bowl he was working on, his free hand moving up to twist the tips of his hair as he tried to clear his mind from his impulsive lust-filled haze.

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself quite yet to speak without squeaking. Her body ached at the loss of Harry's body heat, and the small voice in the back of her mind begged her to cross the room and return to his arms. Her eyes drifted closed, and she took a heavy breath, rooting herself back in the moment. It was nothing—this was nothing. Harry didn't want her, not like that. He'd just needed the spoon. That kiss they'd shared was a mistake. It was an accident—but dammit, she wanted to make a hundred more accidents with him if it meant she got to feel like this every bloody time. Pushing down the tidal wave of confusing feelings, Hermione cleared her throat as she pushed the sautéing green beans around the frying pan. "Thank you, by the way."

Harry glanced across the room to the witch as he stirred the potatoes around, making sure they were thoroughly coated before he dumped them onto a baking sheet. "For what?"

"For all of this… for still believing I could be saved from myself," Hermione elaborated before looking over her shoulder to him. Brown eyes twinkled in the artificial light of the kitchen as she smiled at him. "I've been meaning to say it but didn't really know the right way…so, thank you for everything. Even if you did hire Malfoy to help."

Draco made it back to the cottage just as dinner had finished cooking. Keeping true to his promise, he refrained from using magic to bring the grocery bags inside, and while Hermione set the table, he and Harry made quick work of putting his purchases away. The weekly shopping trip took a bit longer than usual, as he'd made a small detour on his way to the grocer's. Hermione had been making progress, and he figured it was high time they started phase three of her recovery: physical exercise.

If her reaction to the pair of hiking boots was anything to go by, he had a feeling this newly incorporated part of her treatment was going to go over like a petrified hippogriff. She was never keen on any sports while at school—he could remember her showing up to the Quidditch matches but never really enjoying the sport—but surely there had to be some sort of physical activity the witch enjoyed. Besides shagging, of course.

During dinner, a small discussion was held on Hermione's first trip outside the cottage, and Harry's plans for the following week—as he had received an owl just before they sat down from Aurora. She had booked a last minute photoshoot for an upcoming article on the ten-year Battle of Hogwarts Memorial Gala that the Ministry was hosting the next winter. Draco couldn't help but notice the odd interaction between Hermione and Harry over the course of their meal. The way he would watch her through his thick black lashes, only to look away when she glanced up to him. Or the way Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin when their hands touched as they both reached for the salt shaker. While the behavior was strange, Draco simply wrote off the abnormality on each of them settling into their newly rekindled friendship.

After dinner, Hermione excused herself to go shower while he and Harry cleaned up the kitchen. He was exhausted, and the temptation of pulling out his wand to magically clean the mess was great, but he'd made a promise to Hermione that he intended on keeping. That was how he found himself standing next to the raven-haired wizard with a dishtowel, hand drying the plates, utensils, silverware, and pans that Harry hand washed.

The pair worked in comfortable silence, only the melody of classical Muggle music filling the room from the antique radio. Draco reached over and took the dripping plate from Harry's soapy hand as he leaned against the counter with his right hip. He could feel Harry's eyes linger on him despite the fact he refused to meet his gaze. From the moment Hermione walked out of the room, the tension between them increased tenfold. It was as if when she was around, she provided enough of a distraction for Harry not to focus his energy on figuring out what had happened between them so many years ago.

"Why did you never respond to my owls, Draco?" Harry finally asked when the sound of the running water from the shower could be heard, knowing he would have plenty of time to pull the answers he wanted from the flaxen haired wizard.

The use of his given name on Harry's tongue made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Pausing his motion of drying the dish, Draco finally lifted his eyes to Harry, and a slow smirk splashed across his lips "Took you long enough, Potter." Draco laughed. "I've been waiting for you to ask me this since I found you in her room two weeks ago."

"Did you think I wouldn't?" Harry pulled his hands from the soapy water, and he turned to face Draco, his hip pressing into the cold tile of the countertop as he leaned over and took the kitchen towel from Draco's hands and used it to dry his own. The dishes could wait until this was settled.

"I'm not sure, if I'm being honest." Draco only offered him a lazy shrug as he crossed his arms over his chest. "It's been eight years. A lot has happened since then."

Harry's eyes rolled toward the ceiling as he exhaled a heavy puff of breath. Of course a lot had happened since then, but it didn't really change the fact that it did happen. They shagged. They had something going between them, no matter how fucked up, and he just left! With no fucking word. No owl. No phone call. Nothing. Not even a bloody email once the Roost was up and running. Just radio silence. And perhaps that was the part that bugged Harry the most. "But clearly you haven't forgotten what happened either."

Draco cocked his head to the side, a single brow lifting in amusement, and he nodded. He wouldn't have been able to deny that he'd thought about their couple of months together if he wanted to. The memories from that time in his life often rolled through his head as he lay in bed during those lonely nights in New York. "Of course I didn't. I would never try to say I did."

Harry lifted a brow, ruffling his already artfully disheveled hair before he twisted the tips of his black fringe, emerald eyes dropping away from Draco to look at the wooden floor as he tried to collect his thoughts. The fact that Draco hadn't forgotten did more to his ego than the fair wizard realised. It wasn't as if Harry spent years pining over him—far from it—but in the back of his mind, he'd always wondered why Draco had left so abruptly. Was it something he did? Something he said during their stolen nights together? "I owled you. I know you got the letters because they never came back," Harry started, lifting his eyes from the drab flooring once he'd righted his run away feelings. "So why didn't you respond?"

"What a loaded question, Harry." Draco ran his tongue over his lips before biting the corner, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling in thought. "I… I don't know. It was eight years ago." Pushing off the counter, Draco began to pace the kitchen, his long legs carrying him across the small space in the blink of an eye. "What would you have wanted me to say anyways? 'Thanks for the shag, Scar-Head. I'll wank to the memories while I hop across the pond to figure out my own shite'?"

"Ideally, no. That explanation is far from what I was—am—looking for, but it would have been better than the silence I received." Harry sighed, dropping his hands. He stuffed them in the front pocket of his jeans.

"Silence was the best thing I could offer you then," Draco returned.

Harry winced at his words, and he looked away from the wizard, turning his attention to his sock clad feet. The best he could offer? No, the best he could have offered was not bloody running. Or, at the very least, letting him know why he disappeared. "So… it was a mistake? Was I a mistake? Is that why you left?"

Draco's eyes widened, and he stopped pacing. The momentary shock of Harry's question caught him completely off guard. Was the reason he left England Harry-bloody-Potter? How fucking self-centered was the boy wonder? Hadn't ten years afforded him enough time to pull his head from the clouds? And just as suddenly as he froze in the centre of the room, Draco burst out laughing. His hands carded through silky blond hair, pushing it back on his head. "You honestly think I left England because we fucked a couple of times?"

Harry immediately bristled, a small frown tugging on the corners of his lips. "First off, it was more than a couple times," he defended, "And I don't know why you bloody left! I'm trying to bloody figure it out since you ignored me all these years—"

"Harry, stop." Draco lifted his hand towards Harry when he cut him off. "I didn't leave because of anything you did. I left because… I needed a change of scenery. My mum died, my dad was as good as dead in Azkaban, and the Ministry let me off but gave me a fine that was almost as big as the amount in my parents' vault," Draco began. He was sick and tired of being so bloody vulnerable all the time, but he owed Harry this. Or at least it felt that way, because he had ignored the wizard's inquires. He hadn't even bothered to read the letters, often just disposing of them with an Incendio the moment they appeared. He couldn't bring himself to figure out what Harry wanted back then, not when everything felt so bloody wrong and broken. "I was confused, and I didn't think my leaving would matter."

"So what we did—was it a mistake?" Harry questioned, his brow furrowing. "You were confused and shagged me and then ran?"

Draco sighed with a quick shake of his head. Merlin, did he have to spell out everything for him? Crossing the room, Draco approached Harry cautiously, careful to give the wizard all the notice he needed to tell him to fuck off. Reaching out, he placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, using the touch to pull his attention fully to him. He didn't want to repeat himself again. He needed Harry to understand that his leaving had nothing to do with what transpired between them. "No. It was not a mistake. It was probably the only right thing I did back then," Draco said softly, yet firmly. Grey eyes leveled with Harry's green. The same eyes he would get lost in so long ago. Part of him wanted that back. To let them swallow him whole and make him forget his past mistakes. Make him forgive himself for his transgressions. "Me leaving wasn't about you, Harry. I didn't have a chance here. I couldn't go anywhere without someone knowing… what I was. What my family had been. I made too many mistakes, but I can assure you finding you that night in the White Wyvern was not one of them."

Harry's mouth felt dry. His proximity to the wizard made his entire body turn aflame. He hadn't been this bloody close to Draco in a long time. They'd kept their distance the previous two weeks, and rightly so. This thrumming of magic between them was still as strong as before, but worse now was the fact that he felt something similar with Hermione. This magnetic pull, this unexplainable draw. Like a moth to a flame. Harry wanted so bloody desperately to burn if it meant he got to feel like this. "So… why didn't you respond?"

Draco felt his hand on Harry's shoulder, his fingers pressing softly against the thick muscle of his trapezius. He knew he should pull away, but that spark between them kept him rooted in place. "I needed some time to gather my thoughts. Figure out what kind of man I wanted to be now that the war was over."

Harry nodded, understanding that sentiment all too well. "And how's that working out for you?" he breathed, taking half a step closer to Draco.

"Brilliantly." Draco smirked. "I think I might be halfway there already." When Harry chuffed in response to his joke, he tugged lightly on Harry's shoulder, guiding the wizard closer until their hips grazed one another. At the contact, Harry gave him a hungry, half-lidded look that nearly undid him completely. The feverish need ignited low in his belly, and he debated breaking his own rules and pulling those full lips against his. "Tell me, Potter. Was it a mistake for you?"

"What?" Harry gulped, his eyes flickering between Draco's lips and the consuming grey eyes that turned his mind to mush. From this distance, he couldn't help but wonder if Draco would taste the same as he had before. Would his touch feel as heady, knowing that there was also something sparking between him and Hermione? Because even despite his need to figure out what was happening between him and the witch, his body clearly craved the smoky, barrel-aged whiskey kisses that he had shared with Draco long ago.

"Shagging me. Was it a mistake?" Draco breathed.

"No… it was confusing," Harry admitted, his pink tongue darting out to run across his bottom lip. Merlin, why would he asked him something like that at a time like this? "I—uh… I had never been with a bloke before you. Not after either."

Draco pressed the tip of his tongue against his canine tooth as his smirk broke into what his friends would call a shite eating grin. He knew Harry had been with women—hell, he'd been with several since their short-lived fling ended, but knowing that he alone still held the sole claim to turning the boy-wonder bent was more than a little arousing. "Hmmm… shame."

"Why's that?" Harry gulped.

"Because if memory serves me well…" Draco began, his voice dangerously low, like the sound of lightning cracking in the distance, warning of an incoming thunderstorm. His right hand moved from his side, and he brushed the back of his knuckles across Harry's stubbled jaw. Molten silver eyes dropping to look at the wizard's mouth, and he dragged his thumb just beneath Harry's bottom lip. "You had a very talented mouth."

All of the reasons for him to keep his distance from Draco suddenly vanished, and Harry reached up, his fingers curling into the cropped locks on the back of Draco's head, and he pulled the wizard down to him. As their lips crashed against one another, the consuming magic overtook his senses, the frantic need to devour every inch of Draco taking hold.

Draco's body easily molded to Harry's, his hands sliding around the wizard's middle, and he pulled him tight as he backed him against the counter. His mouth slanted to the side as his tongue breached Harry's lips and made its way into his mouth. He didn't ask for permission, instead he took everything that he wanted, leaving no stone unturned as his hands forged paths across the expanse of Harry's muscular back. He'd nearly forgotten what this felt like—the snap of energy, the thrilling tingle of his kiss. It was nearly too much. Better than any drug he'd ever taken. He felt Harry's heart thump wildly against his chest, encouraging his own wicked behaviour.

And just as quickly as their kiss began, the sound of the bathroom door opening at the end of the hallway made Draco pull away from Harry's mind-altering kiss. He took two purposeful steps back, blown pupils dilating in the soft light of the kitchen, and he dragged the back of his hand across his kiss swollen lips, as if trying to hide evidence of what just occurred. "I… I'm going to bed." Draco finally spoke, his voice thick and rough with a forbidden need. He didn't bother to wait for Harry's reply; instead, he turned quickly on his heel to do what he did best—run and hide.

Harry stayed frozen, his hands bracing himself against the countertop as he took deep and steady breaths to slow his runaway heart. His eyes were wide, staring unmoving at the spot Draco had been standing in moments before. He knew he shouldn't want this—whatever it was between him and Draco. Hell, he wasn't even supposed to want whatever he felt earlier with Hermione! He was supposed to be here for Hermione; they were here to make her better! But as he stood in the kitchen, his lips kiss swollen, and his mind racing, his heart couldn't help but wonder if he was allowed to explore the feelings he had for both of them without losing himself to madness in the process.

Author's Note:

Sorry this took so long to post. Not entirely sure what happened. Thank you for all your lovely reviews!

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