Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note:Thank you, thank you to Sansa for the fabulous beta work and to magichelmet, mimiheart, and alurker for the incredible help with the horse stuff. I'm at capacity on botany research (NOT a field I have any ability or knowledge in) and these wonderful ladies really, really helped!
Also, thank you all for such lovely, lovely reviews. I do wish I could respond to all of them properly, but I have not had the time as of late. Please know that your kind words are much appreciated. Just a reminder, my usual posting schedule is a chapter every three to four weeks.
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Harry lay on a thick bed of grass. He was naked, which no longer came as a surprise, as he'd had this same dream for several weeks now. He delighted in the way the sun-warmed grass comforted his bare skin. Trees and birds and swaying vines of jasmine surrounded him. He smiled. Had it not been for the low hum of longing that curled deep within him, he could lie there forever, content. But he was waiting for someone to join him, a lissome presence that was as familiar as it was foreign.
The perimeter stretched taut as the person Harry waited for drifted in and ghosted around him. Harry's stomach squirmed and his muscles twitched as an indefinable ache became more pronounced the closer the person came. He yearned for release from the longing, the ache.
The person drew closer. Harry shuddered and begged with the curve of his mouth, the flush of his cheek, and the sprawl of his legs. A long-fingered hand skimmed his bare chest before dropping down and cupping his balls. Fingers curled around his cock.
"Yes," Harry whispered, relaxing a bit as he urged the hand to move more, to touch more, to do more.
The hand responded. It stroked Harry's cock up and down, up and down. Harry tried to move into the hand making him feel so good, but his limbs were heavy with sleep and dreams.
The person curled up against him while the hand continued its languid strokes. A fall of soft blond hair swished over his chest, making his nipples harden. He heard himself moan and gasp. The being liked that, its amusement voiced in the silent ripple of muscle.
He didn't know who the person was. He knew it wasn't Pammy. She didn't have blonde hair, and she smelled of gardenias, not the mix of grass and sunshine and earth that scented Harry's dream. Cho Chang, maybe? No—she'd smelled of ripe melon. Cecilia, perhaps?
Before Harry could think on it anymore, soft, dry lips teased his. The touch was electric—not at all like kissing Pammy or Cho or Cecilia. Harry wanted to cry out, wanted to know who was kissing him, but didn't dare. He didn't want to wake up. Not yet.
"Harry," the person whispered, teasing him. Harry couldn't make out the voice. It was too soft, too breathy. "Harry," it said again as its hand pulled harder and faster. "Harry," it groaned before there was a bright flash of light and exquisite pleasure rushed through him, cresting in effervescent waves.
As the last wave washed over him, Harry woke, sticky and panting. It was the middle of the night. He was in his dorm room. He could hear Ron snoring and Blaise rolling over. Harry groaned. It was the third time that week that he'd had a wet dream—three more to add to the growing list he'd begun to accumulate over the last several weeks.
"Fuck," he whispered as he tried to clean himself up without getting any on the sheets or his green throw. "Bloody, bloody fuck," he muttered, embarrassed that he was having wet dreams like some pubescent. He hadn't had dreams like that in years. He didn't understand why he was having them now. It wasn't like he wasn't meeting girls and snogging them silly.
After the first cottage party, Harry had been brave enough to go to others. He'd met Cho Chang at one, who'd been visiting a friend at Collenton. They'd hit it off and had spent the night snogging in the cottage rose garden before she'd rushed off in tears, wailing about a boy named Cedric.
Then he'd met Cecilia, a friend of Hermione's. He liked Cecilia best, so far. She didn't giggle and didn't seem made of spun sugar. Best of all, she didn't cry when he kissed her. Pleasantly buzzed, they'd engaged in some mutual groping the week prior at the Halloween party at the cottage. It had been nice, Harry decided. But . . . something was missing.
Cold stickiness roused him from his musings. He had yet to wipe away the evidence of his dream. He pulled off his shirt and tried to lift his arse so that he could slip his pajama bottoms down and clean himself up with his shirt. The lifting up idea was a poor one. He hissed in pain and landed heavily on the bed. Draco hadn't been kidding when he said he'd be sore after his first few riding lessons. He could bear it, though. After all, he'd lived with far worse. No, the almost unbearable aspect of his riding lessons was the constant arousal he had while riding. The bobbing up and down, the sleek undulation of the horse's muscles as she trotted and cantered, was nearly enough to drive him insane. He hoped—no, fuck, he prayed—that he would get used to it soon so that he didn't have to jolt off of the horse and scramble for the changing rooms in order to toss off before Draco noticed how fucking hard he was.
Harry had almost dozed off again before the cold stickiness splashed across his stomach reminded him that he still had something to do. Before he could attend to it, though, his bed curtains were snatched back as a familiar pale blond head stuck through.
"You okay?" Draco asked, not paying attention to Harry's frightened gasp.
"Y-yeah," Harry stuttered, shifting slightly and pulling his blankets a bit higher, having a vague sense of how Ron must have felt.
Draco frowned. "You didn't sound it," he whispered. "I heard you. Moaning and hissing over here. Are you still sore from the lessons?"
Harry was mortified. Draco had heard his wet dream—his disgusting, adolescent, glorious wet dream. "Uh, yeah," Harry said eventually, his eyes wide and round with apprehension.
Draco made a noise in the back of his throat before going back to his bed.
Harry relaxed. Thinking Draco had gone back to bed, he pulled his pajama bottoms down in front and wiped himself clean, tossing the shirt to the side. He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his sweaty hair, ready to try to go back to sleep.
"Roll over," Draco whispered as he climbed into Harry's bed with a tube of something.
Harry started in fright and nearly rolled off the bed.
"Shh! You'll wake everyone else, too. Now roll over."
"What? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you in my bed?" Harry demanded in a furious whisper.
"I'm tired of listening to you moan and groan. Lower back and upper thighs, right? They're the worst when you first start riding. Looks like the hot showers aren't working. Time to take more drastic measures. Now. Don't make me ask again. Roll over."
Harry thought this a very strange request, and almost said so, but who was he to say whether this was strange behavior? Draco didn't seem the least bit concerned, so why should Harry think anything of it? He sighed and rolled over, still tense beyond measure. Before he could settle in, Draco straddled his legs and cool hands slicked with something that smelled of cinnamon began kneading at the base of Harry's spine. It hurt like hell, and he tried to wiggle away.
"Stop that," Draco hissed, kneading with more insistence than before.
"It fucking hurts, you wanker," Harry spit out, still trying to get away not only from Draco's hands of pain, but from the absurdity of the ridiculous situation.
"Course it does. Your muscles are all knotty. But it's got to be done. Mum comes tomorrow and I want her to see how far you've come. Uncle Severus has a lovely Chestnut mare that I think you'll like riding."
"I've only had three actual lessons, you know."
"Yes, well whose fault is that? I can't believe you told Hagrid that you wanted to know all about taking care of the horses first. That's what he's there for, Harry. He gets paid a bloody lot so that we don't have to worry about grooming and mucking stalls and things."
"I wanted to know," Harry murmured. "Mr. Hagrid has been very nice to me—letting me visit whenever I want. And it seemed a nice way to get to know Eloise."
Draco snorted. "Right. And the fact that Buckbeak's stall is next to hers has nothing to do with it whatsoever."
Harry twisted around, wincing as he did so. "So what if I like Buckbeak? Mr. Hagrid said I might be able to ride him some day."
"Lie back down," Draco admonished. "You're undoing my work."
Harry grumbled but did as he was told.
"You're not ready for him, Harry. I'm serious about that. I mean, if little old Eloise can scare you, Buckbeak would throw you in an instant."
"How many times must I tell you? I wasn't scared! She was about to chuck me in the pond," Harry hissed furiously.
Draco chuckled. "She was bending down for a drink of water."
"Well, it didn't feel that way to me."
"Of course it didn't."
Silence lapsed between them as Draco concentrated on a particularly stubborn muscle, leaning into it all the harder the more Harry winced and tried to wiggle away.
"So, you and Cecilia," Draco began conversationally. "You seem to get on quite well."
Harry nodded. "I suppose. She's invited me to go skiing over the winter holiday."
Draco's hands stilled for a moment. "Going to go?" he asked, both his voice and his hands a bit rough.
"Hey, watch it," Harry said, as he twisted away in pain. "And no, no I don't think so. I don't know anything about skiing to begin with and . . . I don't know. She's all right I suppose, but there's nothing there. I mean the kissing's good, but it still doesn't feel like it should." Like it does in my dreams, Harry added to himself.
"Not this rubbish again. How many times must I tell you, Harry? There's nothing magic about kissing."
"Then why do people do so much of it? Why does Ron stagger around as if struck dumb after he and Hermione snog?"
"Ron? You're using Ron as an example?"
"Shut it. I know what I'm talking about."
"Whatever."
"Besides, what about you and Patricia? She seems quite taken with you. And, er, you seem to like her quite a bit, too," Harry said, feeling a pang of something indescribable—it wasn't very pleasant, no matter what it was.
"She's all right, I guess. Won't marry her or anything. She's just a bit of fun, just like I am for her. No promises. No declarations of undying love. You should take lessons."
Harry rolled his eyes. Silence returned. The constant kneading lulled him. He relaxed. It wasn't hurting so much anymore and the cinnamon cream was warm and soothing.
Just before he slipped into sleep, Harry started and opened his eyes. He cast his gaze about the room, noticing how the moonlight glinted off the packed valises. Everyone was leaving for fall holiday the next day. "Are you sure it's okay for me to go with you over the holiday?" Harry asked in a soft murmur. His eyelids were drooping again.
"Stop asking that. Mum wouldn't hear about you not coming. I've held her at bay as long as I can, by the way. She complains that your letters aren't sufficiently informative."
"That's not true. I tell her all about my classes, the friends I've made, that Neville and I have been made Professor Snape's assistants, my little garden that I got to plant in the back of the school, Mr. Hagrid—everything. How much more informative could I be?"
"Girls and social calendars. That's what's missing from your correspondence, you berk. Now stop twisting around. I don't want to have to tell you again."
"This is weird," Harry mumbled as made himself relax, reminded again that it was the middle of the night and his best friend was straddling him while rubbing his lower back and thighs.
Draco let the comment go. He didn't see what was particularly weird about it. Harry needed a bit of massage. Draco was his best friend. That's what best friends did. The fact that he'd never been so familiar with Ron or Blaise didn't enter into the equation. Harry was special.
"Besides," Draco continued as if their previous conversation about Severus Snape hadn't been interrupted, "you've not seen Uncle Severus's house. It's nice, though a bit old and stuffy. It's the grounds that are the real treasure. Go figure."
"I'm looking forward—OW!—Christ that hurts, Draco," Harry muttered.
"Sorry. That one was a bit more twingy than I'd anticipated. You'll thank me for it tomorrow. Besides, Uncle Severus won't let you ride over holiday if you can't prove some basic competence on a horse, and no way could you ride tomorrow this stiff."
Harry tried to quell the hysterical laughter that bubbled up, but a few silent giggles escaped. The idea of being stiff while riding a horse meant something entirely different to Harry than it did Draco. It was such a mortifying thought, that Harry found it hilarious.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing," Harry said. "You, er, tickled me."
"Oh. Sorry about that," Draco said, making his strokes harder than before.
" S'okay," Harry mumbled, letting go the last of his tension.
Harry couldn't stop the drowsy feeling from washing over him again. He found his mind wandering, as it so often did when he was right on the edge of sleep. The rhythmic kneading lulled him and brought him closer to the edge. Harry slipped off and tumbled into dreaming. He was back on the soft grass again. He could smell the jasmine. A familiar sense of arousal tickled and teased him. Dreamy haze, thick as gauze, cradled him. Warm, long-fingered hands reached out. Harry took a step closer before a terrifying sense of falling overtook him and jolted him from sleep.
He woke with a start and gasped as he remembered where he was and what was going on. Fuck. This was getting out of hand. What the fuck was wrong with him? How could he be thinking of such things while Draco was—was giving him a bit of a rub-down?
"That hurt?" Draco asked, frowning at Harry's gasp.
Harry panicked. "Um, no. Sorry. Er, tickled . . . it, uh, tickled."
"When'd you get so sensitive?" Draco asked, pressing harder.
"I think that's enough," Harry said as he rolled over, dislodging Draco in the process. "I feel loads better. Thanks."
"I'm not done yet."
"Well, I say you're done. This is weird, Draco. I don't . . . I mean . . . Look, I'm fine, okay? Feeling much better."
"Don't be such a prude, Harry. It's just a bit of a rub-down. If you'd feel better about it, you could always pay me I suppose," Draco joked.
Harry made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. His face burned with embarrassment. The night was getting worse and worse, what with Draco's unintended innuendo. "It's not that. I just mean I feel fine now."
"You sure? You look awfully tense still."
"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. Feel great. Thanks," Harry stuttered, terrified that Draco might discover that he was half-hard. He did not want Draco to get the wrong idea.
"I'm not so sure," Draco began, but Harry interrupted.
"Leave it. I'm fine," Harry hissed.
Draco shifted backward and climbed out of bed. "Barmy wanker," he muttered under his breath as he shuffled back to his bed. "Night," he called as he settled under his blankets.
"Night," Harry said, praying that he wouldn't have any more dreams.
Neither Harry nor Draco noticed that Ron was awake and had seen the whole thing. Ron sighed. He'd put it off long enough. He wasn't leaving for break until later that afternoon. It was time to have a long overdue talk with Draco.
&&&
Draco woke. The dorm room was unusually quiet. He sat up and looked around. Blaise was gone. His bed was made and his luggage no longer sitting at the foot of his bed. Both Ron and Harry's beds were made, but their luggage remained. Harry, he knew, was tending to his botany project. Draco yawned and stumbled from the bed, passing Ron on the way to the shower.
"Morning," Draco mumbled.
"Morning," Ron replied. He caught Draco's shoulder with his hand, stopping Draco from going further. "Do you have a minute? After your shower, I mean."
"Yeah, sure. Everything okay?"
Ron nodded, though his pensive expression said otherwise. "Just need to talk to you."
"Give me a few minutes, then."
Ron nodded again and wandered over to his bed.
Draco watched him go, wondering what in the hell was going on.
&&&
Freshly showered and dressed, Draco sat in the small club chair near Ron's bed.
Ron was perched on his bed, staring hawk-like at Draco.
Draco stretched out his legs and propped them on the edge of the bed. "What's going on, Weaselbee?" he quipped as he folded his hands behind his head, hoping to break the odd tension.
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't call me that anymore. I was eleven, and that wasp was bloody huge and out for death," Ron grumbled as his face flushed with embarrassment.
Draco shrugged, an amused smile playing at his lips. "It was a bumblebee, Ron, and you were wearing that awful yellow and black jumper. The name fit."
"Yes, well I'd be careful if I were you. There's loads of stories I could tell, lots of names I could call you, ferret face. Speaking of which, has Harry heard about the killer ferret? You know. The little white one, three weeks old, I think, who crawled up your trouser leg for a bit of biscuit you were taunting it with? Right nasty beast that little ball of fur was," Ron said with a snigger.
"You've made your point. What do you want?" Draco snapped.
"Touchy this morning, I see. Not enough beauty sleep?"
"If you must know, I didn't sleep particularly well last night."
"I'll bet," Ron muttered under his breath as he stalled for more time, hoping divine intervention would strike and give him the perfect way to open the "Have you ever thought you might be gay?" conversation.
"Ron, seriously, what did you want to talk to me about? My mother will be here soon and I've got to get down to the stables to help Harry saddle Eloise. Berk won't cinch the saddle right—he's afraid he's hurting her."
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Ron said, leaning forward with such ferocity that Draco lost his foothold and pressed himself to the back of the chair.
"You want to talk about Eloise?" Draco asked, bewildered by Ron's odd behavior.
Ron rolled his eyes. "No, you idiot. Harry. I want to talk to you about Harry."
Draco's back stiffened. "What about Harry?"
"Nothing bad," Ron said as he groaned inside. Not the best way to open the conversation. He was going to have to take a more indirect approach. "Er, looking forward to the break? Isn't Harry going with you?"
"Yes and yes. What's your point?" Draco asked as he crossed his arms across his chest.
Ron nodded and bit his lip, ignoring Draco's question. "I'm going home. Charlie's going to be there. Been a long time since I've seen him. Did you ever meet my brother Charlie?"
Draco's eyebrows shot up as he tried to figure out what Ron was getting at. "Yeah, Ron. I've met Charlie. What's that got to do with Harry?"
Ron pressed on. "Do you know about Charlie. Er, have I told you about Charlie? David's coming as well. Um, you know, about Charlie and David?"
Draco pursed his lips and stared at Ron.
"I just meant, well, I mean Charlie and David are together. Did you know that?"
Draco sighed. "Yes, Ron, I know that Charlie and David are partners. I know that Charlie is gay. What's got into you?"
"You know they met at school, right? This school."
"Yeah."
"Well, they were friends before. You know, uh, special friends."
"Okay."
"What do you think of that? Finding a special friend like that. At school."
"I really haven't given it much thought, Ron," Draco said as he stood, tired of the strange conversation. "I'm going now."
"Wait! I'm not done yet."
Draco turned and tapped his foot.
"How long have you known Harry?" Ron blurted, floundering for a proper transition.
Draco reeled from the abrupt topic change. "What's that got to--, oh never mind. Since I was eight. Why? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Just . . . please, Draco. Just . . . this is important, okay?"
Draco rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. "Fine," he said, flopping into the chair again.
"You've been friends the whole time, right?"
Draco glanced to the side and shifted in his seat a bit. "More or less," he hedged.
"Best friends?" Ron pressed.
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Harry's a good guy, isn't he? I mean, you—you seem to care about him. A lot."
"I do. Look, I don't have time twenty questions, Ron. What the hell is going on?"
Ron squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "It's okay, you know, to have—to have a special friend, Draco. I mean, you know that, right?" he asked, his eyes still closed.
When Ron opened his eyes, he saw that Draco's head was tilted to the side and he was staring at Ron with unguarded curiosity.
"Just what are you saying, Ron?"
"I—I—look, I just mean, haven't you ever thought . . . well, maybe you haven't thought about it . . . and then Harry . . . I mean . . . he . . . I—I—"
Quick as lightning, Draco darted forward and leaned close to Ron.
"Do you want a special friend, Ron?
"What?" Ron croaked, as his brain stopped working for a moment while it processed what Draco was asking.
"Is it Harry?" Draco pressed, relentless.
"Draco, you've got it all wr--"
"It is Harry, isn't it? Is that why you freaked out when he caught you wanking?"
"No, I—I'm not talking about--"
"Is that why you and Granger haven't done it? She's your beard, isn't she?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Ron screamed, "Not me, you bloody idiot. I'm not talking about me. You! I'm talking about you! You want a special friend. You want Harry."
Draco fell back into the chair, his eyes wide. "That's—you're—now, look here—how could you—that's a load of—I'm not gay!" he sputtered.
"You sure about that?" Ron asked in a near-whisper. "I wouldn't care. Blaise wouldn't either," he added.
"Why would you think that? Why would you think that I was gay?" Draco demanded.
Ron sighed. "You and Harry. It's just . . . look, Draco, I grew up with five brothers. Sometimes, depending on Dad's assignment, quarters were tight. Add to that that we're a close family. But I gotta tell you, mate, I've never been as close to my brothers as you are with Harry."
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
"Last night. I saw you."
"What did you see, exactly?"
"You giving Harry a massage. In his bed. In the middle of the night. After he sprayed his pants, of course."
"What's wrong with—wait, wait. Sprayed his pants? Have you lost your mind? You've got it wrong. I've been giving Harry riding lessons. He was in pain. What are you doing listening, anyway? Just what kind of perverted sod are you?"
Ron held back a snigger, but only just. "Yeah, he was in pain, all right. And as Harry so kindly pointed out at the start of term, this is a small room and velvet hangings don't muffle that much sound."
Draco opened his mouth to argue again.
"Five brothers, Malfoy. Five older, randy brothers. I know what I heard."
"That's just ridiculous," Draco sneered. "You just don't understand. You misheard him. And what does it matter, anyway? So what if he had did? What's that got to do with me being gay all of sudden?"
"It's not all of sudden! You're very possessive of him. You touch him all the time and, by the way, you're about the only person he tolerates getting that close. You get all growly when he's attentive to someone else. Add to that the first cottage party when you nearly bit Pammy Smythwick's head off. Oh, and of course, there's the Jordan factor."
"Fucking Christ, Weasley! Not this shite again!"
Ron reached over to his nightstand and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a photo. He smacked it into Draco's hand. Before he could say anything, though, Draco started in.
"What's this prove, then? Just because I have my arm slung around Harry's shoulders does not make me gay!"
Ron's eyes narrowed. "That's not Harry."
"Of course it is. See? Clearly a cottage party. Harry's wearing that--" Draco brought the photograph closer to his face. "Well, I don't know what ghastly thing he's wearing—how the hell he made it out of this room in that I'll never know."
"It's not Harry," Ron said a bit louder.
"Get your bleeding eyes checked. Yes it is!"
Ron ripped the photograph from Draco's fingers. "It was taken last year, Draco. Last year! Harry wasn't here then. This is Jordan, you fucking idiot! Look at the date stamp in the corner."
Draco's face twisted into a sneer as creative expletives gathered in his throat, and then he saw it. The date. The picture had been taken a year prior. It wasn't Harry in the picture. Fuck. It wasn't Harry in the picture. It wasn't Harry whom Draco had his arm around.
"I'm not gay," Draco murmured as his fingers clutched the sides of photograph and his eyes searched in vain for some sort of trick.
Ron sighed. "Draco--"
"I'm not gay! Look, you just don't get it. You don't get the friendship Harry and I have. You're just jealous."
"Then explain it to me. Fuck knows the two of you do enough to keep his past hidden. What, was he some sort of juvenile delinquent?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Maybe not, but I know this. You can dress him in all the fancy clothes you like, teach him all the unwritten 'rules,' but he didn't come from money or a family that used to have it. He's got some sort of tortured past, I'm sure of it. What I can't quite figure out is what role you play in all of this."
Draco looked away, unnerved by Ron's perception. "None of your business," he grumbled.
Ron sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Look, I don't think any less of him for it, and I doubt anyone else has noticed, but there's something weird between the two of you. If you say you're not gay, then fine. But there's something there."
Draco bit the inside of his cheek and pulled at the fraying edge of the chair cushion. "He . . . he grew up next door to me. He's an orphan or sorts. His parents died when he was a baby. His family . . . they . . . they didn't treat him well."
"So he was abused," Ron surmised.
Draco bristled. "I didn't say that."
Ron gave him a look that made Draco's eyes slide to the left while he slunk further down in the chair. "Yeah, he was," Draco said.
"So what happened? What did you do? Did your mum know?"
Draco made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. "There was an incident when we were both eleven—right before I came here. A man, an associate of my father's," Draco bit out with venom and anger, "tried to kidnap me—both of us, maybe. At least, I think he did—that's what mother always said. Anyway, he was . . . my father was . . . he wasn't a good sort, I suppose. Harry gets that, you know?
"Anyway, Mum sent me here, to keep me safe. I didn't see Harry for a long time and then I did. And Uncle Severus noticed—he noticed that things weren't right for Harry, that they'd never been right for Harry. That he had no one to help him. So we decided to help."
"So you brought him here," Ron said.
Draco shrugged. "He needs looking after, and he understands me—more than anyone I know. He needs to know that he's cared for, that someone else understands him. I do."
Ron nodded. He was convinced he was right now more than ever. But Draco—and Harry—would have to figure things out on their own. He'd done what he could do. "I understand. Well, I suppose I should be off." He stood and collected his luggage.
Draco stopped him. "You can't tell anyone what I told you."
Ron nodded. "Course. I understand."
"And, Ron? I'm not gay. Really," Draco said. His eyes searched Ron's, willing him to believe him.
Ron saw so much fear in Draco's eyes, so much uncertainty. Maybe Draco was right, but . . . well, it wasn't for Ron to figure out. He nodded. "Wouldn't matter if you were, mate," he said, as he patted Draco on the shoulder and turned to leave. "See you," he called out, wondering what the future was going to bring.
&&&
Ron was a fucking idiot, Draco thought as he stormed through the halls and made his way outside.
He wasn't gay, he assured himself over and over as he fought to get the photograph out of his mind. "They look nothing alike," he muttered under his breath as he kicked at a small stone he'd decided was in his way.
Draco didn't like boys. He didn't. And he especially didn't like Harry—not like that. They were close, like brothers. That was all. Ron, as he always did, had just gotten it wrong. Draco was going to prove it.
He made his way to the stables and small riding ring. Mr. Hagrid was helping Harry mount Eloise as he approached. His mother was there, cooing and fussing and driving Harry crazy from the look of things. Draco would have laughed if his stomach hadn't dropped when Harry turned and gave him a wave.
"Mother," Draco said as he stood beside her, his gaze locked on Harry. "Heels down, toes in!" Draco snapped, startling everyone. "How many times must I tell you that?"
Harry rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that looked to Draco like, "Fuck you." Nevertheless, he dropped his heels and turned his toes in a bit, before taking off.
"Draco. What's got into you?" Narcissa admonished.
"He needs to learn, Mother," Draco said as he continued to stare at Harry, filing away every detail, assessing every feature, and cataloguing the differences between Harry and Jordan. His mind was coming up with far more similarities than differences. Draco took a shaky breath, continuing to stare, sure that he was right.
"He needs riding clothes," Narcissa said idly as she watched Harry ride. "Those jeans won't last long. He'd look quite dashing in a proper riding costume, don't you think?"
That was the last thing Draco wanted to think about. He ignored his mother in favor of bellowing at Harry to tighten up on his reins.
"He's got a good seat," Narcissa commented as Harry pushed Eloise into a slow trot.
"What did you say?" Draco gasped.
"His seat. On the horse. What has got into you?"
"Nothing. I just—I thought you said something else." Draco turned back to his narrowed-eyed assessment. But it wasn't long before he was swept up in simply watching Harry ride. For all his hesitancy, Harry belonged on a horse—the way he moved with Eloise was breathtaking. He'd be a natural at posting, Draco wagered. His legs were good and long, he was slender and not too top heavy, and moved with such natural grace. Draco's lips curled into a sly smile of appreciation as Harry jostled and swayed with Eloise's every movement.
When he found his gaze dipping lower—still appreciating everything he saw—Draco panicked and looked away. He did not like boys. He was not gay. Harry was nothing like Jordan. Draco just needed to pay a bit more attention. Yes, there it was, Harry's legs were longer than Jordan's. His skin was paler. Creamier. Softer looking. Fuck!
"That horse is far smaller than Severus's horses. I worry that Harry won't be able to handle either of them," Narcissa murmured.
"He'll be fine with Moraea, and I'll be with him," Draco said, never taking his eyes from Harry's form.
"You seem awfully cross, today. Critical, too. And with the way you're staring at Harry with that scrunched up face—very low brow, by the way, my dragon—it's no wonder the poor boy is hesitant. I would be too if you were shouting at me about my heels and toes."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Draco snapped as he continued to stare. "He's too thin. We need to fatten him up," he declared. "Can't we make him taller, as well? Isn't there some vitamin or something that will make him grow? And his hair—it's too long. It needs a good cut. Can we see about straightening it or something? He looks like a damn girl."
"Draco! Language. Have you and Harry had a row? Is that what this is all about?"
"Must you interfere at every turn? It's none of your business," Draco snarled. Harry was facing them now—his cheeks pink with cold and exhilaration, his lips curved in a soft smile. He looked just like Jordan did after they'd . . . they'd—Draco made a choking sound in the back of his throat and turned away. "I've got to pack," he said as he stormed away, not paying attention to his mother's calls.
&&&
"If you don't want me to go with you, there are less dramatic ways of telling me," Harry roared as he stalked into the dorm room and slammed the door. "What was all that shite at the stables? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Draco tensed. He kept his back to Harry. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play stupid. I had to console your mum for nearly half an hour. She thinks we've had some sort of row. Is that what you told her?"
"Of course not," Draco muttered, but even to him it didn't sound particularly convincing. "You know my mother, she's just reading too much into it, is all."
"So the fact that you were staring at me as if I were a rotting bit of flesh baking in the heat, I imagined that? She imagined that? Fuck, Eloise imagined that? Is that what you're saying?"
"Don't be so disgusting," Draco said as he closed his valise.
Harry snorted. "Right," he said in a low voice as he stomped over to his bed and opened his luggage, tossing things out, not caring where they skittered.
"What are you doing?" Draco asked, whirling around at the sound of shoes smacking the stone floor.
"What does it look like? I'm unpacking. I've got quite good at knowing when I'm not wanted," Harry said with a sneer as he turned to face Draco.
Draco stopped breathing for a moment. Harry stood there, breathless, his eyes blazing and his cheeks flushed with anger and hurt, his hair wild, and with several buttons of his shirt undone. Draco almost cried when he was gripped with overwhelming desire to know what the hollow of Harry's throat tasted like.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut as his knees buckled. "Bloody hell," he swore, before he caught himself.
"Draco, you okay? What's wrong?"
Harry's voice sounded frantic. And far too close. Draco opened his eyes and staggered backward in surprise—all he could see was Harry's huge, green eyes. All he could feel was the electric burn of Harry's hands gripping his forearms.
"Draco? You okay? Are you ill? What's wrong?"
Draco stepped away from Harry and turned his head to the side. He swallowed. "I've got a monster of a headache. I've had it all day. Er, woke up with it. Sorry," he murmured, thinking one might not be too far off.
"Don't be stupid," Harry said as he dashed around the room, searching for his discarded shaving kit. "I've got some Paracetamol tablets around here somewhere."
"I just took some," Draco lied, realizing that he had to fix this. Soon. "I'm going to be fine. Sorry for barking at you at the ring. You—you looked good. On the horse, I mean."
Harry sighed and sat on the floor. "I can stay, you know. I've got loads to keep me busy. If you want this time to spend with your family, I mean."
And that Draco would not abide. No matter the weird, terrifying sensations rushing through him at that moment, Draco would never let Harry think for one moment that he wasn't a part of their family. "Don't be stupid, Harry. Not my family—our family."
Harry looked down and blushed. "Don't say things like that."
"I'll say what I like, thank you very much. Let's get you packed again."
"I—I think I should stay."
"No," Draco snarled. "You're coming and that's final."
Harry bit his lip and nodded.
Draco looked away and swallowed. He was freaking out over nothing, he told himself. Ron had mucked everything up again. Causing confusion where there didn't need to any. Draco would sort it out and that would be that. There was no reason to ruin anyone's holiday. No reason at all.