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All the Proud Shall Be	By : ladycat Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 5061 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Harry wakes very slowly.

He's groggy, his mind clawing its way from sleep with difficulty. Memories or
dream fragments, he doesn't know which, flash before eyes that are still heavy
with sleep, telling him a story that makes no sense. He wipes at his eyes,
grimacing at the grit he clears away. He doesn't understand what's going on,
but he at least knows where he is: Madam Pomfrey's distinctive lavender and
sage scent is as well known as a muggle doctor's disinfectant. But ... if he's
in the infirmary, why does he still hurt? Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have let him
sleep without giving him something for the ache in his throat or the queasy
twist of his belly, right? Then again�several memories coalesce into something
he can recognize and understand. The knowledge jolts him, and makes him think
that maybe it was sleep Madam Pomfrey concentrated on. Not the little aches and
pains.

It's then that his brain informs him that there's something very warm lying on
top of him. It's not a blanket with a self-warming spell, either. Those spell
try, but they can never really mimic the delicious heaviness that pours warmth
through the pores of your skin, instead of just radiating against you. Or the
steady rise and fall, underscored with a basso thud that Harry's body is trying
to match.

There's another person in his bed.

Harry waits for the same kind of mindless terror, the no, no, don't touch!
he felt so strongly before�but it never comes. The
body lying half on top of him is comfortable, deliciously so. Legs are tangled
with his own, a face is tucked into Harry's neck,
while an arm is carefully arranged so that it doesn't touch the light blue film
painted over his chest. Long white fingers are bunched in the sheet that covers
his waist, the breathing slow and steady and familiar�and Harry knows why he
isn't afraid.

"Draco."

The slow breaths don't speed up; Draco's been awake for some time, probably.
His hand begins to travel up Harry's chest, carefully skirting any fading
injuries. "You sound like shit," he says. Elbow hovering in the air
so as not to disturb the blue paint, Draco places cool fingers against Harry's
throat and strokes gently. It feels incredibly odd, but good. "Are you
feeling any better, at least?"

Memories start to gel. Harry remains quiet while his brain sorts through
everything: from the unexpected meeting Friday night, to the awfulness of
Saturday�except, it isn't as repugnant as Harry thinks it should be. It's still
bad. He knows it's only the potion that's kept the horrific nightmares
away. The immediate horror Harry thinks he should remember has faded, dulled
into the kind of ache he bears for Cedric and Sirius. In fact, Harry thinks he
could possibly go down to classes today if he had to. He's intensely grateful
he doesn't, have to, though not nearly as grateful as he is that the
all-consuming emotion he remembers from yesterday is gone. Mostly, he feels
sleepy and content to do nothing at all for a very long stretch of time. It's a
reassuring kind of feeling.

Whatever Snape wants for this potion, Harry will give it to him.

"I'm okay, I think," he says slowly. His voice sounds a little less
gravelly this time, though it's still barely recognizable. Speaking hurts a
great deal. "Er, no, I'm not. But I'm not as bad as I could be. Should be?
I think I'm babbling."

"You are�and you probably shouldn't. Madam Pomfrey said that your throat
will hurt the longest."

Madam Pomfrey discussed Harry's injuries with Draco? That doesn't make any
sense and Harry blinks. Are there still traces of the potion inside him? That
would explain why his thinking still feels ... sideways. "Er. I am in the
infirmary, right?"

He can feel when Draco smiles against his shoulder, the skin bunching and
moving in patterns that are sweetly familiar. "Yes."

"And it's, um, probably Sunday morning?" Sunlight shines through the
white curtains, making the entire room feel like a bright, airy cloud. It
always reminds him of flying and it's one of the things that makes
his frequent stays in the infirmary tolerable. "Monday
at the latest?"

"No, it's Sunday. I think it's past noon, so it may not be morning any longer.
Still Sunday, though," Draco adds, just in case Harry's forgotten already.

Harry wants to Draco what he's doing here, but he doesn't know how to.
"Er," he starts�and then realizes he actually doesn't care why. He's
just glad he's here. Harry swallows back the half-formed question and ends up
coughing slightly.

Draco immediately sits up and reaches for a cup of water, helping Harry drink a
few cool swallows before setting the cup down again. He's very careful as he
puts on Harry's glasses for him, concentrating so as not to put out an eye or
jab Harry too hard. Harry tries to smile in gratitude, but as sight returns his
jaw is too busy dropping.

Draco is covered in bruises.

One large, mottled green one covers most of his stomach, patterns of yellow and
purple-edged blue travel up his torso and down his right arm. There are red,
twisted lines on that arm, old scratches�or half-healed ones�like someone raked
their fingers down the length of Draco's forearm. A thumb-shape mars the clean
line of his neck, smaller red marks on the other side making it very clear just
what was done to him. His lower lip is puffy, a hint of darker pink where it's
cut. One eye is nearly swollen shut, still the black of a fresh bruise.

Harry makes a strangled noise. He can't stop hunting for new bruises, new hurts
to catalog. He's already on his knees, staring at the greenish bruises that cover
Draco's stomach. He grips Draco's pajama bottoms,
frantically certain that Draco's hurts don't stop at the draw-string edge. He
needs to see every bruise or cut or scrape�except there's a hand on his arm.
It's warm and when Harry tries to ignore it and tug anyway, it exerts a little
bit of pressure, stopping him.

"I'm perfectly fine," Draco says, trying to smile as much as his
split lip allows. "You know I don't respond well to magical healing, we've
talked about it. Anyway, it doesn't hurt. It just looks hideous."

The tiniest, most insignificant of tremors in Draco's voice when he says �hurt'
makes Harry see red. Adrenaline slams through his system, mixing with Madam
Pomfrey's magic in a burst of green-gold light that flutters behind Harry's
eyes.

Draco catches his hand before it connects with Draco's skin, holding it.
"Do you think I'm lying to you, Potter? It doesn't hurt and I'll heal, end
of�"

A low, rumbling noise cuts Draco off�it takes Harry a moment to realize that
it's him growling. Draco tries to roll his eyes and brush it off, but he
doesn't object anymore when Harry tugs at his pants and that's much more
important. Harry tries to be gentle as he lays Draco's body bare, but his hands
shake a little. The front of Draco's thighs are fine,
with only light bruising on the shins, as if he'd been kicked. On his back,
though... There are dark, mottled bruises right above the kidneys. Harry
touches those almost reverently, knowing how much they'll hurt, while his eyes
sweep over the even, regular lines that travel down to Draco's legs. As if he'd
been shoved into a chair, or a table, or ...

Harry isn't aware that he's only half-dressed and Draco is now fully naked. All
he knows is that Draco is hurt. Someone hurt him,
beat the crap out of him�and Harry wasn't there. He couldn't stop it then, and
can't make it better now, not if Madam Pomfrey can't.

"What happened?" he asks. His voice sounds even stranger than before.
It's still hoarse and hurting, but the roaring in his ears, the deafening thud
of his own heartbeat, twists the sound further. Draco makes no move to stop
Harry from touching him or to cover himself back up.
Gooseflesh rises over his skin�there are freckles on his belly, very faint
because of the bruising, but Harry can see them�making hair so fine and pale
that it's nearly invisible reach up to meet Harry's touch. "Who did this
to you?"

"I already said, I'm fine," Draco says�or starts to. The look Harry
gives him stops him mid �fine'; he swallows, for the first time looking just
the smallest bit nervous. "It's nothing, Harry. Just an
... altercation at the Halloween feast." Draco's eyes don't rise from the
fingers fitfully stroking over his navel. "I said some things."

"What things?" In his mind, Harry is making a list. Finally, all the
training and new spells Dumbledore has been teaching him will have a use. One
Harry would not feel the least bit of remorse for afterwards.

"It's not important," Draco tries, clearly intending to bluster.
"I'll be better in a day or two, and you're certainly not leaving
the infirmary, so I'll keep you company and�"

"Draco!"

Draco winces. Anyone else�literally anyone, including his father�and Draco
would have blustered, lied, and manipulated his way out of answering. With
Harry, all those skills seem to melt away, leaving a sixteen year old boy who
doesn't even know how to ask the right questions, let alone provide any of the
answers. It hurts Harry to see Draco like this. But it's useful, so Harry
maintains his glare even as Draco says, "Yes?"

"Tell me."

Draco fixes him with a glare Harry doesn't believe for an instant. "It's
irrelevant. It happened, it's over, and�" Draco licks his lips, squirming
lightly under the weight of Harry's gaze. "All right, fine. I don't know
what I said. Happy now? The punch was spiked and I
drank a lot of it and I don't remember what I said."

Harry rests his hand very, very gently on Draco's chest, stroking him the way
he would a cat. The roaring is still there, but distant: Draco is very
upset�his lips a thin line, eyes darting here and there, hands fisted to stop
their trembling. All signs that Harry's learned to understand
instantly�and if Draco is upset, then Harry instinctively moves to calm him.
That's the way it works, always. When Draco is upset, Harry pushes his own
problems aside as irrelevant. So he strokes, careful not to press too hard and
inadvertently hurt Draco, and stays as calm as possible. For
Draco's sake. "So you got drunk. And you said something you don't
remember. Okay. Do you remember what it was about?"

Draco swallows, and then tilts his head, his expression bored and slightly
annoyed. "What it was about?" he drawls. "If I don't
remember what I said, how can I possibly remember what it was about?"

He wants to scream and rage, demanding that Draco tell him right the bloody
hell now. He can't, though, so he tries to stay calm. "Because
you're lying to me."

Anger bleeds into the fear, but doesn't eclipse it. "I am not!"

His heart is beating too fast, and it takes so much effort to stop himself from panting, but Harry does it�he has to, or Draco
won't tell him anything. Eyes locked with Draco's, Harry leans forward just a
little bit and says, "I always know when you're lying."

"Please, you can't possibly�" Draco breaks off abruptly, because he
knows that Harry never lies to him. Ever. Harry needs
the freedom to not lie to someone, and he knows Draco knows that Harry
has chosen him. Sometimes he thinks Draco carries that burden like its an honor. "Always?"

Harry nods.

Any hint of bluster or defiance vanishes into a kind of fear and wonder that
makes Draco look very young. "Oh."

Air settles between them, so heavy that individual particles are practically
visible. Harry stares at them, trying to give Draco the space he needs�but he's
not patient, can't be when Draco looks like this. "What did you say,
Draco?"

Draco turns his head, light highlighting the pointed edge of his jaw. "I
really don't remember what I said, exactly. Besides, I'm hurt, you shouldn't
try and make me�" Another soft growl cuts him off. "Right.
Um. It was about you."

Almost, Harry gives in to his desire to shake Draco until the information he
wants falls out. "You've said just about everything about me before,
Draco. Called me every name in the book, wizard or muggle.
I can't imagine it was anything worse."

Shifting, Draco gives a hollow, unamused little laugh. "Insulting you is
one of my favorite pastimes and I'm just letting you know now that I absolutely
refuse to give it up. You're a brilliantly easy target, and I was upset."

Draco's hand is creeping up Harry's side to press against him with a
hummingbird's strength. It's a request, one Harry understands immediately�but
he hesitates. How can Draco want that? He looks like a toy after
Fluffy's gotten through with it! Except as the seconds stretch, Draco's eyes
grow dim and dull in unhappy acceptance�however much Harry can't understand it,
Draco does want it. And what Draco wants is up to Harry to provide.

Making soft noises under his breath, Harry slowly eases himself down onto Draco's
body. His arms dig under warm, bruised flesh to wrap around neck and back,
holding Draco as tightly as he dares. Draco inhales slowly when Harry first
lets some of his weight rest against him, shivering as their bodies touch, his
muscles tense. Too tense and Harry freezes, afraid that he's hurt Draco or done
something wrong�then oofs as Draco's arms wind around his back, pulling
him down firmly so they lay pressed together. A sharp hip presses into Harry's
belly, while his shoulder digs awkward against Draco's bruised neck. He wants
to rear back, re-attempt his landing so it's smooth, gliding down instead of
half-falling. He doesn't, though. Draco is clinging to him, mouth pressed
against Harry's collarbone, body warm and growing pliant against him. Moving
isn't possible.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Harry lets his fingers tangle into silver-gilt locks,
stroking until Draco relaxes again. Freeing Draco's face, Harry curls around
him a little more tightly, trying to reassure while getting Draco to talk to him.
"Why were you upset?" he coaxes quietly.

"You were gone, you prat, and I knew�no. It doesn't matter." It
matters. It matters a great deal, but Draco is speaking too quickly to
interrupt now. "It's all rather pathetic, really. I knew the drinks were
spiked, but I kept drinking them. Pansy was trying to get me to dance even
though I refused every time, the harpy, and then � And then Zacharias Smith
came over and said something I also really and truly don't remember,
except that it made me furious. More angry than I've ever been in my life and you've
made me plenty angry before. I said something back. I wish I knew what, because
he turned white so it was clearly devastating. The next thing I remember, we
were screaming at each other about you, and ... and your housemates heard us. Decided to defend your name."

The entire world freezes. Harry can feel the exact moment time stops, immovable
and solid and wrong. Everything is wrong. The whole world has gone
insane, using boys for wars their fathers couldn't finish, and Gryffindors
attacking someone. Physically, not just tossing hexes and a few jinxes that
will wear off without any lasting harm.

Harry knows it was probably ten against one, if not more,
because he used to be one of those who dreamed of giving it to Malfoy just one
time, back when he was Malfoy, not Draco. Harry can't even blame the
ones who did this to Draco, not really, even though he wants to. Wants to hate them. They've been pushed and prodded by an
expert who got drunk and was worried and forgot to play his part. The
opening had to be too good to resist, Harry knows that, but can't forgive them
for it. Can't forgive them for hurting Draco, even if it's not that bad, not
irreversible, even if Harry understands. He does understand, and Draco will get
better, and Harry doesn't know how he can explain to his friends that they've
got it so badly wrong. Dangerously wrong. Because Draco isn't
the enemy. He never was.

Draco is Harry's. He is everything Harry wants and needs and Draco
hasn't said �no' even once, and that makes him Harry's. And nothing, not even
his best friend who has more cause than anyone, is allowed to hurt what's his.

He hears Draco whisper his name, voice cracking slightly.

Time starts again.

"I'm sorry," Harry says because he has no idea what else to say.
�I'll hurt them for you' is a lie because Harry doesn't want to hurt them. Much. �I wish I could make it better' is more accurate, but
just as useless. Harry can't do anything to help Draco, not if Madam Pomfrey
can't.

All he can do is hold Draco as tightly as his bruises allow and bury his nose
in fine, cool strands of hair. So he does for a very long time.

"It's okay." Draco's hands unclench from around Harry's back,
flattening and smoothing themselves against Harry's
naked skin. "I absolutely forbid you to let go, and I expect to be
coddled�but it really doesn't hurt that much anymore."

That sparks another flare of anger, because what he means is it hurt a lot
worse before and it still hurts now and Harry remembers the red marks on
Draco's neck. "Who tried to choke you?"

Draco tenses. "Choke? Potter, you're so melodramatic."

That isn't an answer. Harry tightens his fingers in Draco's hair, the fine
strands pulling taut. "Who?" he grounds out.

Draco makes a noise in the back of his throat, body arching up�and then goes
utterly limp. "Zacharias Smith. But�but I don't remember that well. I
could be wrong."

He could be. That's okay. Harry intends to verify and then personally express
just how unamused he is. The anger is still there, dangerous as it dances up
and down his spine�but Harry is tired. Exhausted, really, and the memory of the
day before is mixing with the anger, making it darker and scarier. He's almost
grateful that he doesn't have the energy to do more than acknowledge that he
has quite a few Gryffindors to beat up when he gets out of here. As for
Zacharias ...

Harry shifts himself so that he slides down Draco's body, eyes level with
Draco's shadowed neck. Tilting an unresisting chin upward, Harry studies the
bright red thumb-prints framing Draco's Adam's apple, finger prints curling
around the circumference of his neck. The marks are still bright and raw enough
that it should be possible to see the finger prints, so Harry can use them like
muggle policemen do, hunting down the perpetrator. Since he can't, Harry leans
forward and brushes his lips against them.

Draco inhales. "What are you doing?" The question probably wanted to
be accusatory, but mostly it sounds uncertain.

"Making it better." Harry has no idea what
he's doing. There's been too much in the past few days, even the parts he's
slept through, for him to think coherently about anything. All he knows is that
Draco is hurting because of him and even though the memories of yesterday are
distant and muted, the events are still there in his mind, changing him
from who he was into who he is now. And if he thinks about it too closely�

Harry doesn't want to think anymore. Kissing Draco feels good,
the salty-clean taste of him pushes everything else from his mind except
tasting more of Draco. It's simple and clean and he thinks it makes Draco feel
good too.

So he does it again.

He kisses every bruise, even delicately licking the cut in Draco's lip. He
sucks on the unmarred part of Draco's neck until a pink bruise, totally unlike
all the others, rises up on his skin. Harry moves over every part of Draco's
body, arranging the compliant boy into whatever position he wants. He tastes
torso and belly, arms and back, the dimple right above Draco's buttocks and the
fragile skin behind his knees. No part of Draco is safe from Harry's
explorations, but he doesn't think Draco minds very much. It's not worship, not
really, although Draco wears the expression of a blissed-out sultan as he
reclines on Harry's bed. Harry doesn't want to put a name to what he's feeling,
because that will cheapen it. It just is.

When he works his way back up to Draco's neck, he licks the mark he made until
Draco gasps and squirms a little. Lifting his head, he finds lips parted
expectantly for the kiss Harry gives him, slow and thorough. It's unnaturally
quiet in the infirmary. The room feels curiously closed, as if it's divorced
from the rest of Hogwarts, hanging suspended in its own little bubble of time
and space. Given the castle, it isn't an unrealistic guess.

Harry concentrates on kissing Draco until the other boy is breathless and dazed
and gasping into Harry's mouth�and then he kisses him some more. His body rocks against Draco's, eliciting a soft moan that sounds
so good, Harry has to repeat the move just so he can hear that hushed, airy
sound again. It's beautiful, like Draco is. Even when covered with
bruises caused by Harry's friends defending his honor.

He cups the back of Draco's head, tilting him to that perfect angle, while his
other hand trails distractedly down Draco's body. He's not really searching for
anything, or he doesn't think so�but when he finds a very hard cock amongst
wiry curls, Harry makes a pleased noise into Draco's mouth and starts stroking.

Immediately, Draco jerks, tearing his mouth away. "Harry�what�you
shouldn't�"

"Shhh. You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't, Draco. Not eve you." The hoarseness in his voice doesn't sound
so raw anymore, instead darkly sexy and hopefully compelling enough that Draco
will stop objecting. Draco hasn't tried to move yet, anyway. Not that Harry
will let him. He nips the joint of Draco's jaw, placing wet kisses up the line
of it to find an ear to nibble on. "Let me."

"But I should�"

Harry growls, a low, annoyed sound that makes Draco shiver and buck into his
hand. "Don't. Let me."

This isn't the first cock besides his own that Harry's handled, but this is
different than the fumbling around he did with George. That was two boys who
happened to be horny and friendly, George willing and oddly patient as they
explored each other behind the Burrow. This is Draco, and that makes
everything different. Harry rubs a thumb over the head, pleased to find
dampness pooling there already. Draco's cock is hot and comfortably heavy in
his grip, just long enough that Harry can flick his wrist the way George taught
him, which always feels so good when he does it to himself. Draco's sharp cry
is a very pleasant reward.

Draco trying to twist away from him, though, isn't. "Harry, I
shouldn't�"

Harry bites Draco's ear, hard enough to make him yip. He sits up just so
he'll look more imposing as he glares down. Draco looks amazing like this, long
and pale and stretched before him�at least, he does so long as Harry doesn't
look at the discomfort in his expression or focus on the bruises for too long.
"What's going to get you to let me do this?" he asks.

"What? Harry, you're getting me off."

"Clearly." He's not entirely certain why
Draco's so upset about this. After all, it's Draco who's getting a decent
(Harry hopes) hand-job�but watching the way Draco's eyelids flutter over
red-rimmed eyes gives him an idea. "Did you sleep last night?"

The change of topic seems reason enough for Draco to let his mouth fall open,
pink lips and red tongue and wet-shiny teeth and Harry wants to lick over every
part of it. He doesn't, though. He wants Draco to answer him.

"Er, no, not really," Draco replies hesitantly.

Harry decides that no, he better not ever tell Draco that he looks cute like
that. Not if he wants a repeat. "Well, you need to sleep. I won't have you
watching me while I sleep, either. That's just a bit creepy, Draco, and
I want to go back to sleep soon. I think Madam Pomfrey said I'd be tired a lot,
and I am." He isn't all that tired, but he's fairly certain that if he
lies down and closes his eyes again, he'll fall asleep easily enough. It makes
a good excuse, at least.

"So?" There's the barest hint of challenge in Draco's question and
Harry knows he's right.

Smiling, he leans down to kiss Draco's mouth. "So, you'll be nice and
relaxed when I'm finished with you and very good to cuddle with while we both
sleep. Now be quiet."

Another kiss and Harry starts moving his hand again. He watches this time,
fascinated by how flushed Draco's cock is. His hand moves up and down, faster
now that Draco's not objecting, occasionally swiping a bit of precome off the
tip, using nimble fingers to spread the stuff so his grip becomes slick. Draco
bucks under him, making the prettiest sounds as he's worked closer to
completion. The same flush from his cock spreads over his face, down his neck
to his chest, where the bruises look particularly dark against a full-body
blush. Harry tightens his fist, tugging a little harder and faster. He doesn't
know if this is what Draco prefers�something he very much wants to find out�but
he's fairly certain Draco is enjoying it regardless.

He wants to see Draco come. He wants to see what Draco's face looks like and
everything about this, so that he'll never lose the memory.

"Oh, God," Draco whimpers. His hands are fisted in the bed sheets,
his entire body straining as he gets closer, face screwed up into something
that represents both pleasure and pain. Possibly more pain, Harry decides,
growing concerned. Draco strains and writhes under him, gasping out staccato
bursts of air. His cock is throbbing, finally becoming red with need�but he
does not come. Harry leans down again, brushing his lips against Draco's and
almost gets a nose smashed into his glasses when Draco lets out a sharp cry,
head whipping back and forth. Harry can taste the desperation there, bitter and
acrid, and with his ear so close to Draco's mouth, he can hear the
just-barely-audible whimpers that come from the middle of Draco's throat.

Draco clearly wants to come. And can't.

Frantic, Harry wracks his mind for any possible reason why a sixteen year old
boy shouldn't be able to come when getting a decently passable handjob. It
shouldn't be possible�unless Harry's doing something wrong? Unless Draco doesn't
really want this and he's preventing himself from finding release
because he wants Harry to go away, stop touching him?

Draco whimpers again, louder this time, and the forlorn ache in his voice makes
Harry wince. No, Draco definitely wants this, the note
of pleading is clearly for more, not less. He's frantic, storm-grey eyes wide
and fixed on Harry, desperate and pleading for the release he can't seem to
reach�

On his own.

Oh.

Harry blinks, hand slackening its grip as he processes that thought. Another
pained moan from Draco shakes him out of his surprise and back to his task.
Leaning forward to brush his lips over cheek and jaw, and the soft skin of
Draco's earlobe, Harry whispers, "It's okay. Come
on, it's okay, Draco. I�come for me."

Draco moans, a low broken thing that makes Harry's belly tighten and his own
cock throb with need�but then Draco's coming. Finally coming, back arched with
a bow-string's tension, Draco's eyes squeezed painfully tight while legs jerk
and spasm as his cock pulses once, then twice before spilling all over Harry's
waiting hand. Harry watches, entranced. He tries to memorize absolutely
everything because this is something he never, ever wants to lose. He doesn't
dare even blink as Draco slumps back onto the bed, breathing too hard to say
anything. Yet as soon as he can, Draco blinks back into focus and looks
cautiously up at Harry.

The look is intensely erotic. More so than watching Draco
come, or even the feel of wetness drying over his fingers. Because Harry
knows exactly what that look is asking. He sees it every D.A. class when his
students look to him for approval, and now Draco's looking up at him. Not about
a hex or a curse cast properly. About this.

It's a terrifyingly heady feeling. "Good," Harry says dumbly.
"That's�good."

Draco's smile�so shy, so achingly uncertain�slays Harry. He's mindless and
dazed as he fumbles for his wand, cleaning Draco and then himself�he doesn't
even remember his own release, focused as he was on Draco's�with a
mumbled word. Draco remains totally pliant as Harry slides back into bed,
pulling the covers over both of them. A second later, Harry remembers to take
off his glasses. As he settles back down, he gathers Draco against his body,
cradling him.

"Um. You," Draco begins.

"Go to sleep," Harry tells him.

"But you�"

"Ah ah." Harry waits, smiling when Draco obediently goes
still. "No. Sleep now, Draco."

Draco turns in his arms, nose brushing Harry's. He's so close that Harry can
see every detail even without his glasses. There's a surprising amount of
not-grey in Draco's eyes, and Harry loves to find each multi-colored bit. He
counts the blue flecks today. He's passed twenty by the time Draco blinks,
long, pale lashes fluttering against his cheek as he exhales. Slowly, Draco tucks
his head underneath Harry's chin. He snuggles closer, as if he's cold.
"I'm glad you're back," he whispers. It's not what Draco wants to
say, Harry knows, but that's okay. Harry understands.
- 6
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All the Proud Shall Be