A/N: Written in about fifteen minutes and is shameless. Ph3ar me, why don't you. I was in a fit of slash and I needed to vent! And, voila! This is the result.
Feedback: I'd choke you with a tie for it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; plain and simple.
Dawn
Five minutes til dawn and Harry is taking a shower and trying to wash away burns and scars; touches and kisses; nods and smiles. The night was long, too long, actually, and Harry wonders how the period from one o'clock in the morning to four fifty-five in the morning could have seemed like days on end and not just three hours and fifty-five minutes. Time dragged on like a drunk old man. Especially last night.
It was the candle that gave him away and it was the skin under Draco's robes that made him stay. Lust was not a factor he usually welcomed, but in the case of the one with the half Dark Mark and the tortured heart then yes, love could wait. Unresolved sexual tension was in the air; it was hanging like a weeping willow, yes sir, and the love was being bottled by a manufacturer and being stored on a shelf. Harry explored. Draco opened. And not necessarily in that order.
Four minutes til dawn and Draco is running his forefinger lazily against the crook of his neck; there's a red spot there, once Draco heard his American nanny call them 'hickeys'. He knows what caused it: a crash-and-burn of lips that were harsh and wanting and Draco had gasped. He never gasped in instances like those. Pansy made him roll his eyes when she tried and Blaise made him laugh because it tickled and Zacharias made him think he could do it but Harry, Harry did it. Harry sucked and made that burn and the next morning–the same morning–it's still there. Funny, Draco thinks, that Voldemort doesn't come running down, breaking my door open and demanding to know if I've been fraternizing with the Potter boy. Because he has. In a personal way.
Three minutes til dawn and Harry strokes a couple of fingernail marks on his forearms, as a result of the crazed and aroused Draco Malfoy–the one Harry created. Draco dug his nails in too deep while he writhed and moaned under Harry, and now the half-moon cuts are there to stay. They sting. They do, and Harry fleetingly wonders whether it feels like a Dark Mark. He could just ask Draco. His poisoned apple.
Two minutes til dawn and Draco runs a hand through his white-blondeness, feeling the silky strands and forgetting it's his hair not Harry's, because Draco ran a hand through hair other than his the night–morning–before, and it was bliss to his fingertips. "Silk," he had crooned into the inlet of Harry's collarbone, "Copycat." It's a juvenile term and Draco likes it. Copycat. His fingers twitch.
One minute til dawn and Harry walks down the same corridor Draco is, unbeknownst to both of them of course. Harry checks his watch. Draco checks his skin where a watch is supposed to be. Harry wrinkles his nose. Draco sets his mouth into a smirk. Harry's shoes click and Draco's shoes make invisible indents in the stone floor. Harry checks for Draco. Draco checks for Harry.
Dawn and Harry and Draco meet at the same corner where they are both turning. Dawn and first sunlight is dappling in through the window before them. Harry touches his half-moons. Draco brushes his love bite. Both of them look at each other.
"Morning," Harry says quietly, tilting his head so he can look cocky and because he wants to smile without looking too genuine. Without looking too eager. Without exposing too much.
"And you," Draco replies, jerking his chin up the slightest bit because it's sexy and the girls like it and the guys like it, and he knows it makes Harry squirm. Plus it doesn't let the passerby understand too much about the Potter-Malfoy Secrecy.
One minute after dawn and Harry retraces a patch of stubble he'd shaved off earlier that is still bumpy. It's on the lower left of his chin and it's making him fidget. Two minutes after dawn and Draco is annoyed by the movement of Harry's hand so he replaces it with his own. Three minutes after dawn and Harry leans forward so he can recapture again and again a pair of cinnamon-blazed lips. Four minutes after dawn and they're out of the not-so-crowded corridor, five minutes after dawn and they're in the Slytherin dungeons, six minutes after dawn and Harry knows he's going to have to iron his tie again. And again.
And again.