Harry's heart was heavy. He had learned so much about Malfoy during the war, how his family drove him to obedience, how his parents had given him up to the dark lord as an offering, how Voldemort had coerced him by threatening his parents' lives. He'd always thought Malfoy was a prat, but he didn't think he was evil. He'd been used, over and over, by people more powerful than him. He was given no choice about the path he walked, and then he lost everything.
He returned to his room from the Gryffindor showers, grateful to have scrubbed the filth of a hundred mucky potion supplies from his skin. The eighth-year students had been granted solo dorm rooms, and he enjoyed the privacy of his own secured space for the first time in his life. His room contained the usual four-poster bed with privacy curtains, an easy chair, a desk, and a little magical sanitary pot in the corner for those times when creeping downstairs for a pee in the midnight chill was unappealing. It was everything he needed, all perched at the top of the tower above the rest of the Gryffindor residents. His view was spectacular. He could see all the way to Hagrid's hut and the forbidden forest beyond. Sometimes late at night he could catch glimpses of strange creatures rising up from the tree cover, only to dart away in a blink.
He shed his robe, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. His room was not neat by any stretch of the imagination. He reveled in the chance to keep his space as messy as he wanted, to sleep naked when he wanted to, and to wank in peace when the moment felt right. He climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, sighing contentedly at the sensation of smooth sheets on bare skin. He closed his eyes and reached down, running his fingers languidly across his groin. His member awoke at the touch, perking up a bit, then a bit more.
He knew that Malfoy wasn't evil, as few people truly understood. He knew what it meant to be a prisoner to other people's expectations. To feel powerless to go against the decisions of others. But the war had taken the fight out of the blond Slytherin. He had seen the suspicion in Harry's eyes tonight, a suspicion that was as habitual as it was unsubstantiated. In the old days he would have shot back at Harry with a cruel gibe or a hex. But tonight he had just seemed defeated. Tired, annoyed, distant, and defeated. He had taken Harry's suspicion and simply moved on without retaliating. Something was gnawing at him, eating away at his focus and his spirit. Although he would never admit it to anyone else, he missed Malfoy's spirit. And he missed being the focus of it.
He gasped as he came, his pulls rapid and short. His stomach muscles contracted, pulling him up off of the pillow as his hand filled with the familiar warm, wet stickiness. Sighing with relief he laid back and enjoyed the spreading glow in his abdomen. He patted his hand across the bedside table until he found his wand, then cast a clean-up charm. It was the little things, the little conveniences that sometimes made him most grateful to be a wizard.
