Warnings: slash, au, not reviewed by a beta
Disclaimer: I don't own them and am making no money of my use of them.
Author's note: First off, sorry this took so long. I actually struggled through writing song lyrics to go with this chapter only to decide that they would be more appropriate later. Next, if anyone would be interested in being a beta for this story I would greatly appreciate it, and if you have a good grasp of British English that would be even more appreciated! I would like to stay true to the book in that sense, but I need some definite help. Last, this is probably my least favourite chapter, and eventually I hope to alter the beginning to make it less cliché but for now…I hope you enjoy! Constructive criticism is, as always, more than welcome!
Draco sighed as strong arms wrapped protectively around his waist. Someone was nuzzling his neck, and he stretched to the side to accommodate their slow appraisal. Warm lips were replaced by a warmer tongue that drew lazy patterns across soft skin- followed by cool breath tickling the heated flesh. He knew he should say something, break away from the loose embrace, silence the soft moans of appreciation his body was unconsciously awarding the presence at his back; instead, he leaned into the warmth of a solid chest- entwining his fingers with those of the other man. The other's response was to trail their tangled digits upwards- lifting the hem of Draco's shirt in the process, until short finger nails were mirroring the earlier movements of a fiery mouth. Draco shivered as his partner began a slow grinding together of their bodies, and nails were replaced by callused fingertips. He arched his back even as another kiss flashed through his hormone- addled mind- soft lips, callused fingertips, the hands of a quidditch player. His focus shifted. A quidditch player's hands, strong tan arms, messy black strands prickling the side of his face- suddenly he was seeing red and gold- remembering a young man with piercing green eyes- outfitted in house colours, as he dove recklessly after a taunting speck far below them.
"Harry."
"Here I was just heading in to wake sleeping beauty up, and dream me seems to have already done the honours." The statement was followed by a knowing wink and Draco closed his eyes as heat (of the vibrant red-hued variety) trailed up his neck and blossomed across his cheekbones- contrasting strongly with his pale skin and locks and clashing horribly with mustard yellow pyjamas that Harry swore he had bought because they made his green eyes standout fetchingly. Personally, Draco suspected that a certain Weasley and Christmas had been involved; after all, Harry seemed more of a boxers for bed sort of chap.
"I thought I'd get some food. Want anything?"
"Sure."
Having received an acceptable answer Harry began to shut the door before apparently having second thoughts. Another wink punctuated an amused parting comment about him not being on the menu and the formerly receding blush returned with a vengeance.
Unfortunately for Draco, dinner was an exceedingly unsavory affair consisting of cooling chicken broth and orange juice. Harry had ordered himself Chinese take-out and was busy lounging in a navy bean bag chair he had placed near the bed to "keep Draco company" (Which really meant watch the blond struggle with muscles sore from lack of use and various healing wounds in uncomfortable silence.). Harry didn't know it but his charge was a classic example of masculinity when it came to food. The injured man eyed the egg noodles being lazily twirled around the tip of a chopstick with something akin to jealousy, and Harry, encouraged by the small show of emotion, slowly lifted the offending tidbit to his lips- letting his eyelids snap shut in mock bliss at the greasy taste of cheap and easy sustenance.
Sighing in defeat Draco abandoned what reminded him of youth, snowball fights, stuffy noses, and doting mothers to lean back into the mountain of feather pillows Harry had piled behind his back.
Harry contemplated a little more good-natured teasing of the blond but decided against it- instead waiting for the other to initiate conversation.
Draco fiddled with the edge of the bed's sheets- wrapping the soft cotton around his fingertips as he searched for a suitably casual topic to talk about- one that would not lead to discussing the faint memory of a soft kiss and the sharper recollection of an unsettlingly intimate dream.
"You still play Quidditch." It wasn't a question- just a quickly blurted attempt to ease the somewhat tense silence, but the very edge of Harry's lips curved upwards in genuine fondness for the topic.
"Occasionally. After graduation I was offered a place as reserve seeker for the Chudley Cannons, but I had different priorities at the time. Still, it would have been nice." His smile widened, and he closed his eyes briefly as if imagining the wind rushing through his hair, the cling of sweat-soaked cloth, the deafening cheer of fans, and sometimes the sweetly addictive taste of victory.
"You don't." Though the words formed a statement- the subtle inclination of Harry's head and the training of now opened eyes on the other implied an inquiry.
"I haven't in a long time. I never imagined playing professionally. You're right though; it might have been nice." Neither man was deceived into thinking that the admission was just about Quidditch; a world without Voldemort- without names, and scars, and school houses deciding your fate- a world where a young man could simply be a man and not the embodiment of hope, or values even he did not always believe in…it would have been nice.
Harry's smile disappeared and he moved closer to the bed until his crossed forearms were resting against the mattress and his chin upon them. Draco fought the urge to physically shy away from the disconcerting gaze of green orbs. They had specks of brown that were swallowed up by the overpowering emerald at larger distances- almost like a canopy of pine needles with a few lone branches peaking rebelliously through.
"Where would you be now, if not for the war?"
"That's easy. I would be sitting in Malfoy Manor right now- drinking port and chatting with a blue-blooded, and properly vapid, blonde- probably French. My mother always wanted me to marry a French girl. She said they were the only ones who still appreciated the subtleties of good manners and breeding. It may have helped that she was French herself. What about you? Where would Harry Potter be without his scar?"
The smile was back; "Maybe I would still be here, with you," and he was leaning close- so close that their lips almost brushed. Draco could feel the black- haired man's breath- inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. As if on its own accord his heartbeat sped up, and his own breathing reflected it. Then, Harry was laughing- the sort of laugh that started deep in the pit of your stomach and bubbled up until escaping into the world to ring with loud and wild abandon. It was a real laugh- a cherished rarity. Swiftly he pressed their lips together and then retreated from the room- eyes shining mischievously
"What sort of game have I gotten myself into…"
My sincere thanks to Cianna Greenwood, Morniea Inglorion, Ashes of Stars, and XXmaybe-memoriesXX for taking the time to review!
