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Harry hadn't realised what was wrong at first.
Well, in his defence, he's done a lot of stupid shit in his lifetime.
The point is: Harry is daft, to say the least. He does a lot of shit before he thinks, and that's the fucking root of most of his problems. So, yeah, he hadn't realized exactly what the fuck was wrong at first.
The only thing he knows is that they were really, truly going at it. He and Draco hadn’t been able to have sex in a bed in nearly THREE weeks, which they normally fight tooth and nail to prevent. He blames it on Ron and Hermione being more overbearing than usual because they finally told him that they're dating, (as if he didn’t know already) and they’re scared he’s going to feel like a third wheel or something. And Draco’s more panicky about being caught than usual.
But today, Ron and Hermione were on a date at Hogsmeade, ‘It’s not a date, Harry, you can come, too, if you want.’ And Neville left to go ‘help’ Hannah Abbott with something in the Greenhouses. So his room was empty.
And, fuck him – he jumped on it so fast it’s ridiculous
Harry was in no state of mind to fucking breathe, let alone think.
Draco's eyes, confined in hooded lids, looking down at him all drunk with attraction, and Draco's mouth, plush from the making out and the biting and the heat.
Harry was a gone man, no room in his brain for anything other than Draco Draco Draco. Unpredictably murmuring, "I love you," right before it all went blank.
Draco's movements stilled.
Not that Harry noticed.
Draco's awfully still, and awfully quiet, and Harry still doesn't know what the issue is because he doesn't remember, because he's fucking sex drunk, and he can barely spot an issue at all, for crying out loud.
He's a bit more clear-headed once he's gone soft, Draco having pulled out and was sitting up on the end of bed, arms crossed over his chest tightly, thinking. Harry's just now noticing the hard-on in Draco's lap, or more like a semi by now, he lifts his head off the pillow, "Want me to help you with that?"
"What?" Draco grumbles, kinda low, and Harry raises an eyebrow at him. "No. I'm okay."
"You're okay?," Harry repeats, amusement lacing his tone. He smiles at Draco, settling down on his side, leaning over to kiss at the meat of Draco’s shoulder. "You’re turning down head? Am I awake?"
Draco doesn't respond. He's not even looking at Harry, opting to glue his on the footboard, worrying his lip between his teeth. And Harry's mellow with the afterglow, wants to kiss and cuddle up, but he doesn't get to, because Draco leaves the bed and walks into the toilet, locking the door for the first time that Harry's ever been around.
Harry stares at the closed door. The come on his stomach starts to dry so he grabs his wand, spells it clean and he thinks, he lies back down, staring at the ceiling, trying to pinpoint Draco's sour mood.
They had been having sex. Good sex. The best sex. Draco had been kissing him. Biting him. Running his hands through his hair. Harry had said I love you. Harry had come, hard and sweet and–
Harry had said I love you.
His whole body tenses up with the realisation, his eyes just about bursting out of their sockets. Slowly, he checks the bathroom door – locked, very much locked, he scrubs both hands down his face, groaning loudly at his own stupidity.
And, well– It's not like he hasn't thought about it. It's not like it came entirely off base. Harry has been thinking about it, is the thing, has been finding himself smiling for entirely too long after Draco's done something stupidly sweet or been irrevocably Draco, grinning softly at the side of Draco's head until he remembers to look down. Finds himself being a lot softer during sex, to the point where it's barely even fucking anymore, as had been their original deal. Harry finds himself making love to Draco, holding him close and tender and coaxing out soft, mellow sounds out of him, not animalistic and rough groans, his fingers lingering a little too long on the little bit of extra skin on Draco's hips and the hair at the back of his head. Finds himself unable to stop thinking about him, to the point where everything he does boils down to oh, Draco would like this and oh, Draco would laugh at this. Oh, I wish Draco was here to do this with me.
And he knows Draco thinks about him, too. Sometimes, Draco will tell him about some dumb shit his mother said – or he'll grab books from the library and snacks that he says he knew Harry would like, little things like that. Harry knows he's not crazy. He doesn't know if it's love, but if the shoe fits…
With all of that being said, never in a million years would he say that to Draco's face.
He wants to. God fucking knows he wants to, as he proved mere minutes ago, but he knows that Draco has an issue with love and affection.
Draco's never been loved unconditionally like he deserves to, he doesn't know what it's like to be told he's loved, and he doesn’t know how it feels to love and to be loved, all at the same time. Harry knows. And he wants to change that.
Draco's wanking in the toilet. Harry can hear the noises, but he can't find it in himself to be aroused, and waits until after the flush of the toilet to sit up on the bed, staring at the door in expectation.
The door unlocks, and Draco steps out, sparing him a single look before bending down to pick up his pants, stepping into them wordlessly. Harry watches him until the silence becomes unbearable.
"Draco…" he begins, sitting up more on the bed. Draco doesn't turn around; he merely hums in acknowledgment, back towards the bed as he shuffles through their clothes for his trousers. "I didn't…"
"You didn't what?" Draco snaps when Harry trails off, glancing at him briefly.
Harry was gonna say he didn't mean it, but realised last minute that he couldn't, even if he tried.
"Come to bed," he says instead, fingers digging into the sheets when Draco scoffs. "Please. Come on."
"I'm not– I've got somewhere to be," Draco says, buttoning up his shirt and shrugging under Harry's stare.
"Like fuck you've got somewhere to be."
"Don’t you have somewhere to be?" Draco looks at him. "I’m sure Granger and Weasley will be back soon."
He knows he looks as betrayed as he feels – he can feel it in the slump of his shoulders, the slope of his eyebrows, the working of his jaw. He lies back down on the bed, sighing heavily once his head hits the pillow. “So, this is how you’re gonna go about this? You’re gonna act like a fuckin’ child, like a fucking prick?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Potter,” Draco murmurs, and there it is. Potter. Draco hasn’t called him Potter in a very, very long time, and Harry feels like kicking himself when it slowly registers they might as well be on square one all over again.
“If this is about what I said–"
“Can’t you just leave it?” Draco snaps, shoving one of his shoes on and regarding him with raised eyebrows, an irritated tone. “Learn when to shut up, for fuck’s sake.”
“We can’t just–"
“Leave it!”
Harry looks at him for a beat longer before he gets out of bed, dragging a hand through his hair as he steps into his pants – discarded and kicked towards the foot of the bed, when they were still on talking terms. Harry and his fucking big mouth. Draco being fucking Draco.
He pauses to look at Draco, or rather the back of his head, and finds him with his hands on the windowsill, staring out of the window, thoughtful. Harry carefully creeps up behind him, wrapping both arms around his torso, Draco’s tense, and cold, and unfamiliar.
“Gonna see you tonight?” Harry murmurs against the back of his neck, leaving tiny little kisses on Draco’s skin, trying to coax him out of his shell. It’s easier said than done, apparently, even though Harry’s done it millions of times before, Draco subtly moves away, putting an inch of distance between their pressed bodies.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard. “We’ll see.”
Harry stares at the side of his face. “We’ll see? Weren’t we gonna sneak down to the lake tonight?”
“Why did you ask me in the first place if you don’t care about my answer?” Draco says, all clipped and annoyed, angrily ripping a cigarette out of the box out of his pocket, ripping away from Harry and heading towards the door. Harry’s shocked, to say the least, but he knows trying to calm Draco is futile when he gets like this, so he opts to give him what he wants, no questions asked.
“Alright then, see you later.” he mutters, but not before moving towards him and leaning in for a kiss on Draco’s mouth – all pouty and soft and so inviting.
Draco senses Harry’s face so close to his and he dodges the kiss, leaning his head away and occupying his mouth with the cigarette, leaving, slamming the door behind himself.
******
It’s been a week.
A week and no sign of Draco; Draco’s obviously avoiding him, he’s not showing up in the spots Harry knows where to find him, he’s purposely not meeting Harry’s eyes when he does see him and tries to make eye contact, he’s not even showing up at meals. Nothing. Harry’s been on edge for seven consecutive days, zoning out, while subconsciously looking for Draco, jumping at any flash of blonde hair, burying his face into his hands when he finds out it’s not Draco every single time. Ron keeps giving him shit for it, and Hermione looks like she wants to ask while also looking at him all concerned, and Harry wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.
Sooner or later, Draco’s gonna come up with some top-notch excuse to see him again – be it that he’s horny, be it that he’s bored, anything other than the truth.
Until then, Harry is planning on losing his mind a bit more with each passing day.
He misses Draco. He misses wrapping his arms around his body, he misses hugging him from behind and Draco being tall enough to rest his chin on top of his head with barely any stretch, he misses Draco’s smile and Draco’s laugh and the sparkles in his eyes when he looks at Harry, the ones he’s probably blissfully unaware of, the ones Harry has never mentioned in fear of Draco trying to conceal them. He misses his stubbornness, and he misses him griping about how he doesn’t like it when Harry presses his chest against his back in bed – only for him to start nudging at him after he moves away, pulling him back flush against his body, burying his nose in the crook of Draco’s neck, filling his senses with his scent.
Harry hasn’t even thought about the sex. If they were on talking terms, Draco would call him a gay loser or some shit, and would have promptly kissed the life out of him. Harry is not projecting.
It all becomes too much, to make a long story short. Harry is lying on his bed one night, trying to sleep, Ron snoring irritably a few feet away – it becomes too much, and he’s getting up and sneaking out in the middle of the night before he can even think about mulling it over.
He’s at Draco’s door in no time, knocking gently so he only wakes Draco, because he’s the lightest sleeper ever. He knocks a little harder now, wishing it was Draco’s fucking face. Okay, that might be a lie, because he’s fucking in love with Draco after all, and there it is, he’s said it for the first time ever, even in his own head, a non-hypothetical statement, a definitive answer. I’m in love with Draco Malfoy, and I know it’s not gonna come back to bite me in the ass.
Harry listens to the rhythmic tap, tap, tap – his gut twists with every passing second the door doesn’t open, and in a brief moment of inexplicable paranoia, he can’t help but wonder whether he somehow fucked up and this is someone else’s door. He figures if he had to choose to take an awkward situation for anything in the world, Draco would be a strong contender.
The door opens, and Harry almost falls into the room when it does. But he doesn’t instead he falls right into Draco, who catches him.
“Shit!” Harry hisses, as loud as he can without running the risk of waking anyone up, watching as Draco stares down at him, bleary and sleep-ridden eyes wide in disbelief. “Sorry! Hi?”
“Harry?” he whispers, briefly checking to see if his roommates are still asleep Harry shouldn’t preen as much as he does at the sound of his first name instead of Potter. “What are you doing here?”
He sounds so incredulous that Harry would laugh under any other circumstances. Instead, he gulps, worrying his lip between his teeth as he looks at Draco’s face, illuminated by the moonlight coming in through a nearby window. “I wanted to see you. I fuckin’– I needed to see you, Draco.”
Draco stares, dumbfounded and conflicted and God, his lip’s between his teeth, too, “Why?” he says, reluctant to even utter it, like he doesn’t want to know the answer. “Why are you here?”
The way he says it makes Harry think he’s been worrying about it, been thinking about when Harry would give up and turn up at his door or why he would.
“I just wanted to see you,” he confirms, a bright beaming smile and all that sappy shit. “Can I come in?”
“Fuck, Harry,” Draco says gnawing at his lip in that way of his, looking like he knows he should say no – but he doesn’t. He stares at Harry, and his eyes take on that sparkly quality of theirs whenever he truly stares at Harry, and he pauses, sighing at the ultimatum he’s presented with. To let Harry in or not to let Harry in. “Blaise is asleep.”
Harry stares back. “I’ll be quiet.”
The standoff is brief, but it’s there; Draco watches him, and Harry watches back, and Draco eventually sighs before opening up the door further, walking away from it without even checking to see if Harry’s going to follow. Harry is, in fact, following him, which proves a lot more difficult to do without assistance; but he manages, stumbling into the room and almost breaking his toe in the process, huffing at Draco’s harsh shush before he pointedly shuts the door.
Draco’s not even looking at him as he tugs Harry onto his bed, shuts the curtains, casts a silencing charm and merely stares at the quilt with his arms folded over his stomach, his eyebrows upturned with worry, one hand’s fingers tapping on the opposite bicep. That’s another thing Harry missed; his little mannerisms, the ones that give away his nerves, or his excitement, or his happiness. His love.
“What are you doing, Harry?” he eventually sighs, looking at him with the slope of his eyebrows so deep it creates shadows under his eyes; he doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t hug him. It’s not what are you doing here, it’s what are you doing, and Harry can’t help but think it makes a difference. “It’s two in the morning. Are you crazy?”
Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. “Maybe.”
Draco watches him for a beat, sighing heavily before he shifts on the bed, tucking his knees up against himself, and finally looking into Harry’s eyes, finding Harry’s eyes already on him.
“Well, what?” Draco begins. “What is it? What do you want? You wanna fuck or something? Because I'm not in the mood.”
“Is that a real question?” Harry hisses, reminding himself to be at least a little quiet, just in case. As much as Draco’s hurting him at the moment, he really doesn’t want to be the reason Draco gets questioned the next morning. “You fucking– You know why I’m here. Not a single owl. Nothing. You’ve been going so far to avoid me you haven’t been showing up at meals, for fucks sake. It's been a week.”
“Did I miss the memo that we were boyfriend and girlfriend or something?” Draco’s eyebrows raise, and it makes Harry so much angrier. “I don’t know what you want from me, Harry. You’re not my mother– I don’t need to tell you where I am every second of every day.”
“How can you fucking say that? Am I really crazy for thinking–"
“For thinking what?” Draco snaps, but it’s urgent, and it’s like he’s begging for Harry not to say it, even though it could easily prompt the dreadful answer.
“Do you even think at all, Potter? Do you ever take a moment to live outside your little bubble and see how the real world works?”
“Don’t call me Potter,” says Harry, holding Draco’s eyes in his. “You know I don’t like that, that’s not yo- us, anymore.”
Draco keeps eye contact for a second before he has to look down, crossing his arms over his chest defensively, teeth shiny and sharp over his lip. Harry faintly hopes it’ll start bleeding with the way he’s gnawing at it, so he can kiss it better. “What do you want?” Draco murmurs, defeated.
It’s sobering. Harry shuffles a bit until he’s right next to Draco, his toes touching the shins of Draco’s buckled up knees, and waits until Draco looks up at him uncertainly through hooded eyelids. “Missed you,” he says simply, fingers carefully touching the outside of Draco’s bare elbow, and Draco lets him, although his skin is burning hot with it. “Kept thinking about you. You ever think of me?”
Draco focuses on his mouth, and Harry would let him if he took a chance and did it. Draco just gulps, and then, barely audible: “Did I think about you…” he scoffs, but it’s light, the gush of air barely able to ruffle a feather. “You don’t even have to ask.”
Harry smiles, so fucking soft he feels like punching himself, and promptly leans in, so slow it hurts, Draco softly dodges it, turning his cheek towards Harry’s face, eyes glued back on the quilt.
Harry lets him, sighing a breath on the side of Draco’s face. He lowers his head, giving him his space, and Draco moves back, rubbing both of his hands over his eyes.
Harry crosses his own arms over his chest. “Have you been thinking about it?”
“About what?” He knows.
“If I say it, you’re either gonna hex me or deck me in the fucking mouth,” Harry smiles bitterly, finally regarding him. For once, Draco is looking. “What I said. You know.”
Draco purses his mouth, and Harry knows it’s because his lip is wobbling. He watches as Draco lets his head fall into his hands, choosing not to reach out to him just yet; he gives him his space, holding his arms close to his chest to prevent himself from touching.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’ve been thinking about,” he laments, shoulders slumped, hand trying to hide the wobble of his lip by pressing against it; Harry’s seen this enough times to know what it is. “I have been thinking about you, for one. You know that.”
“Is that enough?”
Draco buries his face back into his hands, letting out a shaky, uneven breath – a futile attempt at calming himself. Slowly, Harry shuffles forward so that he’s closer, but still not quite there, watching Draco push his fingers into his skin, push the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, push himself over the edge to speak.
“Why did you have to go and do that?” Draco breathes, trying to let out a wet laugh with it, but it sounds pathetic. It tugs at Harry’s heartstrings. “We were so good… It was so good.”
“I didn’t say it to– to ruin it, I said it because–" Harry stops himself, forcing a few breaths into his body. He’s being too loud. “I said it because I meant it.”
Draco flinches, and it’s like a sword goes through Harry’s stomach. “Don’t fucking say that.”
“I can’t exactly take it back, can I?” Harry says, his own voice starting to shake all over the place. “That’s not how it fucking works.”
“Since when do you know how it fucking works?”
“You!” Harry hisses, as loud as he’s granted. “I learned because of you! Draco, I lo–"
“God!” Draco groans into his hands, his shoulders tense with it. “Can’t you take a hint, Potter?”
Harry slumps his weight forward onto his knees, staring straight ahead, over Draco’s shoulder. Draco’s head’s still in his hands, unmoving. Slowly, he swallows, observing his palms. “So. This is it?”
Draco sniffs, his voice stuffy and wet when he speaks. “I don’t want this to be it.”
Harry digs his nails into his own hand, the need to wrap Draco up in his arms getting the best of him. He sounds so small, so desperate. Harry doesn’t like it. “It doesn’t have to be it,” he says, as soothing as he can manage with all this distance between them. “I just don’t know if this is enough anymore.”
Draco doesn’t speak.
“Can you give me more?”
Something about it hits home, because Draco’s sighing out a tremulous breath, his shoulders shaking with it, some extra wetness covering the bags under his eyes. It’s miniscule, but it’s there. “I don’t know,” Draco whispers, and Harry figures it doesn’t have anything to do with the Slytherin that’s sleeping soundly, not even 15 feet away. “I want it to go back to how it was.”
“What? No communication? Not me opening my big dumb fucking mouth?” Harry says, reaching out to softly wipe his thumb under Draco’s eye. “Don’t cry, baby.”
“Baby,” Draco scoffs, but his fingers loosely wrap around Harry’s wrist, trapping his hand on his face. Slowly, Draco sniffs and shuffles closer, letting Harry put the same careful hand on the back of his head, stroke his hair, rub a thumb into his scalp. “Since when do you call me baby?”
Harry contemplates giving him an answer, but Draco’s looking at him, and his thoughts get all twisted up. “You want me to tell you?”
Draco gulps, but he says nothing. He looks at Harry – at his eyes, his mouth, his nose, the bobbing of his throat – and Harry looks back, and all he sees is Draco, the love of his life, his baby, with his beautiful glossy eyes, the slope of his cheekbones– And if it wasn’t a definite way to earn himself a kick to the balls, he’d say it all a million times over.
When Draco speaks, it comes as a surprise. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you…” he trails off, his throat sounding constricted beyond belief. Harry watches him carefully, thumb stroking over Draco’s cheekbone, feeling it wet and rough under his fingertips. He doesn’t elaborate, but Harry knows.
“Are you kidding me?” he laughs, sweet and tender, and Draco worries his lip between his teeth again – nervous. “That's why you’ve been freaking out? You want a list?”
Draco doesn’t laugh.
“Well,” Harry begins, soft, clearing his throat and everything, “I love how stubborn you are, for one. Makes me wanna deck you in the teeth half the time, but…” he pauses as Draco laughs, a wet little thing under his breath. Harry’s heart fills with sunshine. “I love it. Love when you get emotional because of your big ass heart and try to hide your face so I don’t notice.”
“Fuck you is what I get,” Draco mumbles, but the dusty pink of the tip of his nose says otherwise.
“God, I love…” Harry tries it, he doesn’t think Draco’s going to kick him in the balls right now. “I love your eyes. I think you’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
And he's right, Draco looks away at that, lips sucked into his mouth.
“I love–" Harry begins, but doesn’t finish, because Draco’s planting both of his hands flat on Harry’s cheeks and kissing him, sweet and open-mouthed and tender – and Harry fucking sighs because he’s missed it, because it’s been a fucking week and it’s all he’s been able to think about, how time stops when he kisses Draco, how an electric current passes through him whenever Draco’s tongue shyly swipes along his bottom lip.
When he pulls back, Draco rests his forehead on the side of Harry’s head, warm tears passing onto Harry’s skin like they’re one, and Harry truly believes it. He swipes his thumb under Draco’s eyes again, letting him unload, letting him get used to the feeling.
And then, quiet, ever so quiet: “Say it again.”
Harry watches him – watches him look up through heavy eyelids, the tiniest gap between his lips as he waits, eyebrows furrowed as if he’s waiting for rejection. How could he ever get it? The concept of not loving Draco with everything he has makes Harry go a little crazy, if he’s completely honest – it’s absurd, it’s comical.
Draco senses his shock, and he puts a hand over the one Harry has on his cheekbone, sniffing quietly. “Say it again.”
Harry does. “I love you,” he says, watching as Draco’s eyes close with it. “I love you,” he says again, quiet, because it’s only for Draco to hear; it’s only for Draco to internalise, for Draco to believe and blossom over. “I’m so fucking in love with you,” he says for good measure, and Draco laughs against his skin, hushed and noiseless – Harry can’t help but kiss him again, closed-mouthed and slow. Again, he whispers, “I love you,” and he could say it a million times over, because words mean nothing; but Harry knows what he feels in his chest in the off morning when he gets to wake up next to Draco and sees him all bleary and grumpy, bathing in sunlight, and he knows what he feels when he sees him out in public and, despite not being able to touch him, is so stupidly and utterly proud, it fills his whole body with it. He could say that and a million things more, but if he can’t ever make Draco see what he does to his heart, to his brain, to his stomach – Harry figures it might as well be pointless.
But Draco lies down with him, face burrowed close into his neck, asking him to say it again all throughout the night – and Harry thinks he sees it in him, too.