There were plenty of missteps and half-wins, but by the end of it, the Chudley Canons actually fucking won the World Cup. Their first ever Cup. The team itself, with their savior spotting Seeker, had really stepped up to meet his measure, but of course, of fucking course, it'd been Harry's doing. All the long hours of magically-enhanced practice had paid off, and he was nothing more than a blur across the pitch as he caught Snitch after Snitch. His entire body ached by the end of it, but his heart fell into his gut when they won the final match, because again, again, it'd been too easy.
Too easy, he thought as his teammates rallied around him on the pitch. Too easy, he thought as his friends rose a raucous chorus of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' in the receiving room. Too easy, he thought, as he trudged up the steps to the one Muggle bar he knew hours later. He was deep into his fourth glass of whiskey when something pierced through his numbness.
"Can't say I'm surprised," came Draco's voice as he dropped into the barstool beside him. Harry was past acknowledging him, though, as he finished off the last of his fourth glass. "Reckon you might actually go for Auror now?"
Harry snorted, clinking his glass back down onto the bartop as he finally turned a withering stare over to the blond. Who wasn't even looking at him, but waving down the bartender. He ordered them both fresh drinks before finally turning a smirk Harry's way.
"Reckon there's still a job for Aurors now that I've killed Voldemort?"
He didn't miss the wince on Draco's face, but couldn't be bothered to care. Couldn't care about much of anything as the emptiness of his win yawned in his chest. I won the World Cup. I should be celebrating.
"Guess not," Draco allowed with an empty laugh.
How sorely he regretted turning the Resurrection Stone over to Hermione all those weeks ago. He'd have given anything to talk to Sirius, or Remus, or bloody fucking Tom himself if any of them could give him anything resembling guidance in this situation. He was at rock fucking bottom, and wasn't of a mind to get Draco in bed any more than he wanted to go home.
"Not in the mood," he muttered as he accepted his fifth drink, decidedly throwing it back. Too much alcohol can kill you, right? Imagine me, surviving two Avadas and being done in by liquor.
"No, I imagine not," Draco murmured, but when Harry turned a scowl at him, it immediately slacked at the expression on the blond's face. His immaculate face. It was almost…
"Don't look at me like that."
His expression didn't twitch in the slightest. Harry felt warmth that had nothing to do with the whiskey rise to his cheeks, and he had the sudden urge to lash out. Draco really hadn't done anything, but still, he pictured slamming his goddamn fucking compassionate face down onto the bartop. Didn't get a chance to before he was speaking again, though.
"Come back to mine. If you wanna drink yourself to death, at least do it where someone can clean it up."
Harry snorted, and made to flag the bartender back, when Draco caught his wrist and held it down. That shocked him back to his senses, somewhat. He'd never reached for him first.
"Please," he intoned over the general noise of the bar. Now he was fully back to his senses – as much as he could be. Are Malfoys even capable of begging? Harry eyed him suspiciously.
"Fine."
Draco passed a hand nervously through his hair as Harry fell back onto his couch, eyes screwed shut and head leaned back. What the fuck am I doing?
Getting water for the miserable git, it seemed, as he conjured a glass and sent an Aguamenti into it. Thankfully, the brunette didn't argue when he offered it to him, instead deciding to chug it clumsily, spilling ravines of it down his cheeks. And just as clumsily wiped it away as he leaned his head back again.
"What did I really say, the first night I was here?" he drawled slowly. Not quite as drunk as he'd been then, but still out of sorts. Draco forced a laugh as he came to sit beside him, steadying his tilting glass to refill it.
"You said you were lonely," he said quietly. And laughed a bit more genuinely when Harry groaned.
"I'm–" A hiccup. "Offing myself tomorrow."
"Not on my watch," he replied under his breath. A beat, studying Harry's face, before he continued. "You called me gorgeous."
Finally, Harry lifted his head off the back of the couch to frown at him blearily. "You are gorgeous."
Draco couldn't help but smile. "I guess you must be right, or I'd be out of a job."
Harry hummed noncommittally as he laid his head back, lifting a hand to scrub at his eyes and accidentally discarding his glasses. Draco plucked them off the couch and carefully tucked them into his pocket.
"Sorry for crying," he slurred. A heavy sigh as he tilted slightly sideways. Draco shifted towards him, steadying his shoulders with his hands to keep him upright. "Dunno why I'm like this."
The picture of he and Sirius suddenly rose to the forefront of Draco's mind so forcefully he nearly choked, but he swallowed it back. "Reckon I do."
Harry huffed a laugh, not opening his eyes. "Do you now?"
Draco hummed, unwilling to explain. To dredge up Harry's tumultuous past and his losses, but uncertain if he'd even remember this in the morning. With a thick swallow, he expounded.
"You… Lost a lot." Harry's shoulders tensed as his hazy eyes shot open to the ceiling. "You really should consider therapy, Harry."
A corner of the Cup champion's lips twitched as he studied the stucco ceiling of Draco's flat.
"Izzit gonna bring'm back?"
Draco deflated slightly, his hands on Harry's shoulders sliding down to the insides of his elbows.
"No, I s'pose not."
Fuck me. Fuck! Harry's agony was definitely tugging on the accursed little seed of his infatuation. Beckoning it to blossom again. Stop it.
"Harry, I–" Stop it. Don't say it. The brunette lifted his lilting head to blink at Draco. He gaped for a moment, considering how drunk he was, and decided he'd most likely not remember this tomorrow anyway, but he really shouldn't–
A sick, masochistic sort of compulsion pulled Draco's lips onto Harry's. He felt him tense, then relax, then reciprocate as that whiskey-saturated mouth opened to him.
Stop it.
He couldn't. Couldn't even begin to contemplate the thought of pulling away from this kiss. Because this kiss, this kiss… Wasn't like the others.
The first time, he'd been driven by lust. The second by sympathy. But this one… It played too many of his cards, face-up. Not that Harry would likely even remember this, but still, for his own sake, his own sanity–
Draco tore himself away, suddenly realizing he'd taken the Seeker's face in his hands and plunged his tongue down his throat. And green eyes blinked back up at him.
Fuck.
He cleared his throat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood.
"Come on. Let's get you into bed, I'll not have you sick on my couch."
A corner of Harry's flushed lips curled into a smirk, and Draco internally cursed himself again. He's so bloody beautiful, I could fucking kill him.
"Sick'n your bed's fine, though?"
He rolled his eyes and hoisted the Savior up off his couch by his wrist.
"Just come on."
Harry wasn't the least bit surprised when he awoke to the mildest hangover of his life. Sure, his head was thumping and his mouth was sandpaper and his stomach was watery, but he knew exactly where he was. Knew whose arm and leg was slung over him.
He squinted against the gathering daylight, gritting his teeth against the burning of his limbs and the compounding agony of his head, but foggy memories of the previous night served themselves to him. And his heart beat wildly in his chest as they returned.
None of the conversation, none of the words, but Draco had kissed him– not so unusual, but the ghost of the memory of that kiss washed over his lips, and he stuttered in a gasp. Never, in all his life, had he been kissed like… That. Not Cho or Ginny or any of the nameless faces he'd shared his bed with after the war.
Holy shit. He didn't know what to make of it, but it meant… Something. It certainly meant something.
Draco chose this moment to groan and pull Harry closer, bury his face against his back. He was immediately reminded of the morning he'd awoken to Draco's tattered back, and with a mere reflex, he felt his own Disillusionment lift off his skin. And winced.
Goddammit, I'd hoped that'd stop happening. His wandless magic had always been a terror, but now it was a downright menace. He lay debating the benefits of just ripping himself from the sheets to wrap something around himself or just laying there hoping Draco would fall back asleep as he once had, when his time ran out.
Fuck.
He froze beneath the sheets, in Draco's arms, as the blond nuzzled his nose sleepily against his back and pressed a kiss to his spine. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he awaited the inevitable.
"Scarhead?"
FUCK!
He didn't move. Didn't speak, only squinted his eyes against the blinding dawn and hoped against hope that they'd both fall back asleep. Of course, his wandless magic wasn't of any help in this situation.
He felt Draco's face move away from his back. Felt his arm over him go tense, the gentle exhale he gave over his skin.
"Don't," he began gravely, cursing his unmitigable magic, the circumstance, the inevitability of it all. "Just don't."
Harry curled into himself, which he knew would only bare his scars to Draco even clearer, but his head was pounding too hard, his cringe curling in his gut too fiercely for him to care.
"O-oh," he heard him stutter. And then the arm around his waist was retracting to trace over his back, over the many lines Vernon had etched into his skin for anything and nothing at all. "Sorry," he breathed, retracting his touch. And despite how vulnerable he felt, despite the overwhelming humiliation he felt at having his childhood abuse laid bare, he missed Draco's touch. Missed it like he'd been denied his birthright.
"'S fine," he choked out. And curled into himself further. "I saw, so you might as well. Just–"
"Shut up about it, got it," Draco said a bit more clearly. And after a bit of hesitating, wound his arm back around Harry's waist to pull them together. Harry could've wept at the contact. Again.
His breath hitched in his throat as kiss after kiss was pressed to his shoulder, his neck. And again, the memory of that kiss surfaced in his mind. He thought to ask about it, truly he did, but couldn't find the Gryffindor in him that acted without thinking. Harry was thinking a right bit more than he was used to, he reckoned.
