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Nothing Like the Sun	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 35148 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Chapter Seven—Stubbornness

            “Come in.”

            Potter’s voice was low and exquisitely modulated. Of course, Draco thought as he stepped into Potter’s home again, if he hadn’t heard Potter shouting at him that morning, he never would have appreciated how exquisitely modulated.

            There were some compensations for what he had gone through already. Not many, but some.

            Draco turned around in the kitchen. Potter had shut the door and come up to him. His voice was silent now, but his face was the equivalent of it, completely bland and smiling. His work face, Draco reckoned, the one he presented to superiors and criminals and witnesses and co-workers who weren’t as close to him as his friends. The wall down which all their blows and sobs and attempts to hurt him would slide.

            Draco fit none of those categories, and he was already tired of looking at the blankness. He reached out and took Potter’s shoulders in his hands, not hard and not for long, but long enough that Potter couldn’t get the term “casual contact” to fit it.

            Potter reared his head back and stared at Draco. Draco held his hands up before Potter could shrug them off and gave a shrug of his own.

            “I didn’t have much lunch,” he said, turning back to the kitchen. “Any chance that you could make me a cup of tea, and maybe some scones or toast?” He smiled over his shoulder at Potter. “Nothing fancy. You won’t find me demanding when it comes to food.”

            Not with the kind of demand I’m going to make on your powers of tolerance.

            Potter stared at him again, then visibly shook himself and moved on into what Draco was sure was another mask, the kind host. “Of course,” he said, stepping past Draco and waving his wand in circles as he Summoned the things he needed to make tea, sugar, cream, butter, and what looked like some of the oldest scones in the world. “Is this good enough?”

            Draco took one of the kitchen chairs, not saying anything until Potter looked at him again. Then he nodded. “It’ll be fine.”

            Potter muttered something under his breath before he turned away. Draco cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?” In truth, it sounded like Potter had called Draco “Your Majesty” and confessed something about the difficulty of pleasing him, but Draco couldn’t be completely sure and preferred to hear everything clearly.

            “It doesn’t matter,” Potter said, with some of the roughness Draco had heard in his voice that morning in the office, and began to bang the tea together.

            Draco settled back and sighed. “Strange as it might sound to you, Potter, I actually do prefer my hosts be willing to have me over.”

            Potter kept his back turned as he continued making tea. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “You would have continued banging on my door whether I was willing or not. Go somewhere else if you want someone who’s happy to have you there.”

            Draco rolled his eyes. A wonderful beginning. And he couldn’t even deny what Potter had said, because it was true.

            “Fine,” he said. “I do apologize for making you uncomfortable and making a nuisance of myself when you would prefer that I go away.”

            Potter glanced cautiously at the kettle under his hands, as if it might explode, and then back at Draco. “But that isn’t the same thing as apologizing for forcing yourself into my life. Or the kissing lesson the other day.”

            “No.” Draco focused on Potter. He stood hunched with his head bowed, as if he expected a blow from above. His hair still tumbled in a way that made Draco itch to touch it, though, if only with a comb. “Why don’t we go into the drawing room and eat our tea?” Draco added, conjuring a tray to hold the cream, butter, and scones.

            Potter said, “Huh?”

            Draco grinned. “Are you always this charming around uninvited guests? I meant that the drawing room is more comfortable, and we could sit on the same couch while we had our tea. You might relax more.”

            Potter turned to face him. “And I meant, it’s your tea. Not mine. I’m not hungry.”

            “Uh-huh,” Draco said, eyes half-lidded. Potter might have had lunch, true, but it was four in the afternoon, and Draco thought he could eat. “Then come with me and sit with me as I sip the tea and crunch the scones.”

            Potter’s head went up fast enough that Draco thought he’d probably hurt his neck. “The scones I make are not crunchy.”

            “They are when they’re old,” Draco said, although it surprised him that Potter had made these rather than buying them. Draco hadn’t pictured him doing anything but his job and casual dates and maybe running, the way he had been the other day when Draco found him. “Come on,” he added, standing up and giving a dramatic flex of his back. “These chairs hurt my arse. What did you buy them for, your pet snakes?”

            “Shut up,” Potter said, but it was half-hearted. He finished the tea and brought the kettle and the cups floating out, while Draco carried the tray. Potter raised his eyebrows at that, but didn’t say anything as he poured the tea into two cups.

            Draco sat down on the large couch where he’d sat before, with Potter kneeling in front of him, to practice the kissing lessons. Potter started to sit down on the chair nearest the fireplace, but Draco cleared his throat for nearly a minute, and Potter stood up and faced him, clutching the kettle now as if it might save him from drowning.

            “Sit with me,” Draco said softly, extending his hand. “I promise that I’m not going to try to kiss you. If that’ll make you feel better,” he added. Sometimes, Potter was such a bundle of contradictions that Draco thought he might feel insulted by statements like that, as if Draco doubted his skill at sex.

            I don’t. I do doubt that anyone took the time to teach him anything.

            Potter watched him in silence. He wasn’t trembling, Draco saw, but poised on the balls of his feet. He had hair hanging in his eyes, his head bowed. His hands had fully closed around the kettle now. If it burned him, he gave no sign.

            Draco kept his hand extended and his eyes on Potter’s. There was no magic flying around at the moment, no shouts, but this felt like the most crucial moment of all.

*

            Just to sit with me?

            That hadn’t been what Harry had expected. He had thought Malfoy might want to lecture him again, or see more memories, or practice kissing. This seemed—weird. Well, normal, but weirder than usual for all that.

            And Harry had a hard time making his feet shuffle the short distance to the couch.

            He pushed himself to it, finally, when Malfoy’s arm began to shake. Harry might cause Malfoy mental pain beyond all bearing, but at least he could avoid causing physical pain. And it seemed that Malfoy was stubborn enough that a little physical pain wouldn’t drive him away immediately.

            Even though he wouldn’t be feeling it if not for me.

            Harry settled onto the couch beside Malfoy, shaking his head. His lovers had tried to stick it out for his sake, but when the pain became too much for them, when it happened constantly, then they ran. Harry had hurt Malfoy with the letter and the last memory in the Pensieve and by trying to push him away. Why wasn’t this the last straw? Where was Harry going to find his boundaries?

            “Good.”

            Harry started and glanced up. For some reason, he had thought Malfoy would drop his hand once he saw that Harry had no intention of taking it, and lean back, and go on drinking his tea. But he had turned and put his hand on Harry’s knee—to the right of an ugly scar that curled around the kneecap, although with the cloth and the glamours that wrapped Harry’s legs, he couldn’t know that. Harry froze, trying to remember whether Malfoy had seen that scar when Harry had made his clothes transparent at the Manor or not.

            “Listen,” Malfoy said, his voice so low that he sounded closer than he was when Harry glanced up and measured the distance. “I want to put my arm around your shoulders and lean on you. Or have you lean on me,” he added quickly. Harry had felt something change in his own face, in his own eyes, and hoped that it wasn’t the cause of Malfoy’s words, but suspected gloomily that it had been. “Nothing else for right now. No kisses, no touches that you aren’t comfortable with. I just want to hold you.”

            “That’s ridiculous,” Harry said, and laughed. He expected to see Malfoy wince, but Malfoy just went on looking at him. “I mean—what the fuck?”

            “It’s so ridiculous to want to have human contact that extends beyond sex?” Malfoy inclined his head. He might have been bowing to someone or something, except that Harry was no one to bow to, and he couldn’t accept that Malfoy might believe he was. That didn’t happen. “It seems to me that you’re the one who’s ridiculous in the way you forget basic concepts, in the way that you think everything goes back to your scars and your mouth.”

            Harry shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, although when he thought about it, he had to admit that maybe he did. Holding someone just to hold them belonged to people like Ron and Hermione, not to him, and he’d stopped thinking much about what other people did in the bedroom, surrounded by his own failures.

            But he didn’t have to admit it aloud, or to Malfoy. He said, “I meant that you can’t want to hold me.”

            “Why not?” Malfoy sat there with one hand flung along the back of the couch now, and the other on his teacup, which he held to his mouth.

            And damn it, he had once again put Harry in the position of having to explain what should be self-evident. Harry waved a hand, and snarled when Malfoy looked at him and made no attempt to stop him from flailing it around. “Because you should want to hold someone who brings you pleasure.”

            “It’s true that you’re difficult and prickly so far, and haven’t brought me as much pleasure as I imagine that you could,” Malfoy said in a considering voice. “But right now, this is what I want.”

            “Whether or not I do?” Harry challenged him.

            He expected Malfoy to smile. Frank would have been laughing by now, at the sheer inherent silliness of something like this. Harry didn’t want to laugh anymore, he felt tears prickling his eyes, but he already knew how misaligned most of his fundamental responses were with normal human ones.

            “You don’t understand,” Malfoy said. “I won’t do it unless you want me to. You have to say I can. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. I’m no saint. You know that already. I can’t stop my desires, even if the other person doesn’t always desire the same things. But I can stop myself from acting on them.” He examined Harry critically. “I wonder if you’ve been the victim of someone who didn’t stop.”

            Harry couldn’t breathe. He wanted to get off the couch and move away from Malfoy, but it seemed that he couldn’t do that, either. He clenched his hands. “I haven’t been raped,” he whispered. “Stop implying it.”

            “You think you raped other people, though?” Malfoy seemed to ride the changes of the conversation as smoothly as if he was on a broom, ducking his head a bit to peer into Harry’s eyes.

            “Yes,” Harry said. “They didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t stop. I didn’t notice.”

            “If unenjoyable sex qualifies as rape, then I’ve done my fair share.” Malfoy set his teacup down on the table and held his hand out again. “Fine. We won’t talk about what might have happened to you. I’d like five minutes of silence, anyway, to think and rest my brain. You’re exhausting.”

            Harry looked pointedly at the door.

            “Rest with you.”

            Harry could hear a soft little whistling sound in the room, and it took him forever to identify it. Himself. He was breathing, panting, like he had a hole torn in his lung.

            He buried his face in his hands, and spent a long time wishing. But either his magic wasn’t as powerful as he’d always thought it was or he didn’t have any shooting stars handy, because when he looked up again, Malfoy still sat there, and his hand was still extended. Shaking with the strain again, but there.

            Harry wanted to yell. The foulest insults he could come up with, all directed at Malfoy’s parents and that nasty little Mark on his left arm. Maybe that would get the great fool to back off.

            But Malfoy sat there, quiet and deadly poised, and Harry’s breath and spit dried up in his throat. It seemed, incredibly, that Malfoy really wanted to hold him, and wouldn’t stop sitting there until he either had to leave because it was late or Harry moved under his arm.

            Harry closed his eyes. They burned and stung, of course. He couldn’t be normal and just decide what he wanted like any person. He had to sit there and shake as though someone was hunting him, as though someone was trying to hurt him.

            He didn’t think Malfoy was. The great git was trying to help, by his lights. Well, and take what he wanted, but he had also talked about his desires to heal Harry and cuddle with Harry as though that was part of what he wanted.

            “My arm’s getting a bit tired.”

            Harry looked up, hoping that circumstances had taken the choice from him, but no such luck. Malfoy had his mouth closed now and his eyes fixed on Harry. His arm was still out, trembling from the strain, but waiting.

            For Harry, if he wanted to creep under it.

            Harry wished Frank was here. He could explain to Malfoy exactly why Harry had had too many chances already and shouldn’t be given another one. Harry would do his best to discourage Malfoy, but it wouldn’t be enough, he knew it wouldn’t. Malfoy would go on making offers, and Harry would go to him because he was weak, and Malfoy would be hurt in the end.

            Because he was so weary he had no choice but to give in, Harry crept beneath Malfoy’s arm, and leaned his head on his shoulder. His whole body shook. He thought he would weep, but he didn’t. The sharpness and stinging stayed around his eyes. He closed them, so that Malfoy would have less of reflected weakness to look at.

            Why couldn’t I just keep everything to myself? Why couldn’t I keep it casual? It must have been something I did, but I don’t know when I made the mistake.

Maybe letting Malfoy close enough to see that something was abnormal at all. That must have roused his curiosity…

Except that even Harry’s intellect, which he knew wasn’t the sharpest one that had ever existed, faltered on the idea that Malfoy would do everything he had done because of curiosity.

It made no sense, and he lay there, arm heavy as a quilt across his shoulders, shudders melting into relaxation that he knew he didn’t deserve and was only happening because of his own weakness, words frozen in his head.

*

            While being this close to Potter would be more pleasant if Potter relaxed, Draco couldn’t say that he didn’t like it.

            In an odd way, of course. As Potter leaned against him and made tiny, desperate whimpering noises into his neck, Draco caressed the back of his right hand and noticed the lack of a Blood Quill scar. His fingers could still trace the letters, but a glamour covered them from sight—a sophisticated one, one that Potter must have spent time studying. His words about private lessons now made more sense.

            Draco hadn’t missed Potter’s near-panic when Draco touched his knee earlier, either. He had wondered for a moment if Potter had somehow injured himself between that morning when they were together in Draco’s office and now, but then he rejected that thought. It was more likely that another scar lay there, and Potter was afraid of offending or repulsing Draco if he touched it.

            That’s why he uses the glamours. Draco never remembered him doing so a few years past, when Potter still seemed to have a regular succession of wizard lovers. Now, he probably thought himself too ugly to be exposed to the sight of others a majority of the time.

            Draco wondered what he could do to change that. Well, he had already kissed the scar on the back of Potter’s hand. Perhaps more of the same would be required—in time.

            For now, though, Draco turned his attention back to the whimpers and pants Potter was pressing into his neck, and ran his hand slowly, gently up the side of Potter’s shoulder. Potter immediately tensed, hard enough that Draco winced. “Hush,” he whispered into Potter’s ear.

            Gooseflesh immediately spangled the nape of Potter’s neck, which Draco could see where Potter’s jumper had slid down. Draco blinked, surprised. Did Potter have sensitive ears? Maybe. Or maybe the simple gesture of someone speaking comforting words to him was rare enough to produce a strong reaction.

            Draco eased back and to the side; the couch was so big that he still had plenty of room between himself and the arm. He coaxed Potter with him, and Potter was so busy hiding his face that he didn’t realize what Draco was doing at first. When he did, he started in Draco’s arms like a nervous Crup.

            “We can’t—we can’t lie down,” he said, voice squeaking as if Draco had tried to seduce him.

            But wasn’t everything Draco did now part of the same, slow seduction? Draco reckoned it was, if one wanted to think of it that way.

            He stroked Potter’s arm, and watched the same gooseflesh spring up in the wake of his fingers, saw Potter shift as if to protest, and smiled a little at him. “No, we can’t. That would be hard on a couch. But what’s wrong with leaning this way?”

            Potter swallowed a couple of times. Draco saw him rejecting responses that he probably knew wouldn’t get him the rejoinder he wanted. Draco waited him out, reaching up now and then to toy with Potter’s hair. Potter blushed, but showed no other reaction, lost in his search for words.

            Draco sighed out his irritation. Sooner or later, he would touch Potter and Potter would be focused utterly and absolutely on his fingers, with no way to think about anything else. But that wasn’t true right now.

            “I don’t want to do anything that reminds me of sex,” Potter whispered finally.

            Draco paused. That objection made sense, and he could feel the long shivers that ran through Potter, violent action barely subdued into remaining there against Draco’s side. “All right,” Draco said, and sat up again, although he contained Potter within the circle of his arms when he tried to move away. “Then let’s sit here and cuddle.”

            Potter whipped his head around. The shivers subsided for the first time that Draco could remember. Instead, Potter looked as if he would choke with laughter.

            “Cuddle?” he repeated. “A word like that is in the vocabulary of a Malfoy?”

            Draco sniffed. “Of course it is,” he said. “Or did you think that I booted my lovers out of bed the moment I was done with them?” He touched Potter’s arm again. Potter considered him with bright eyes, and then reached out and pulled his sleeve down, covering the bare skin Draco had touched before. Draco pulled it up again. Potter pulled it down.

            Draco let it stand this time, but leaned back against the couch, and considered Potter with eyes that he knew were liquid. “What did you think I did?”

            Potter rubbed his face hard enough that Draco thought he would take off his nose. “I don’t know, exactly,” Potter finally snapped, when he seemed to realize that doing that wouldn’t get rid of Draco. “I never had reasons to consider your prowess in bed before this week.”

            Draco laughed softly, and curled his other arm around Potter’s waist when Potter began those shivers again. “Well, I know the word cuddle, and I know how to do it.” He paused. “Which is more than you do.”

            “I can so cuddle,” Potter snapped, then tried to fold his arms. He could only do it awkwardly, because of the way Draco was holding him. “I just don’t usually do it because I hurt someone.”

            “How can you hurt someone by holding them?” Draco asked, curious how Potter’s lovers had justified that particular complaint.

            Potter’s smile had a sharp malice that Draco might have liked if it had been directed against someone other than Potter himself. “I squeezed them too tightly. And being held by someone who raped you isn’t comforting.”

            “Tell me who used that word,” Draco said calmly. “And then we can go and talk to them, and they can explain why they didn’t bring word of what you did to the Aurors.”

            Potter narrowed his eyes. “Because they care about me more than I deserve, and didn’t want to do that.”

            “I heard some true things about you,” Draco said softly. “They aren’t above gossiping. They just don’t always gossip about the same things. You didn’t rape anyone, Potter. That’s your exaggerated sense of guilt and the fact that your lovers were arseholes talking.”

            “They didn’t act that way.” Potter sat up straight and still in Draco’s hold, and watched him as if he was estimating Draco’s magical power so he would know how much trouble he would be to arrest. “You’re lying.”

            Draco rolled his eyes. “What’s more likely, that none of your lovers, who were arseholes enough to hurt you for their own comfort, ever gossiped, or that I’m lying? What investment could I have in lying about them?”

            Potter wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering. Draco was sure he had done the same thing for the last year, perhaps minus the shuddering. Or had he denied any sort of hug to himself, strong in the knowledge that he didn’t need it or didn’t deserve it? Draco could picture that happening. “Because you keep saying it’s them, not me. That I didn’t do anything.”

            “I didn’t say that,” Draco said. He kept his voice low and clear. “I know that you kiss horribly, because you showed me, and you are scarred, and you did want to have casual sex at first. But that doesn’t mean that you raped people, that you never deserve love again, that you don’t need a wizard lover, or that you’re worthless as anything but a mouth to come inside. And for right now, to hold you is what I want. Can you tolerate that?” If Potter couldn’t, then Draco would let him go, but it hadn’t escaped his notice that Potter had sat with him, so far, making no move to withdraw even though he could have. He was Draco’s superior in magical power and knowledge about how to defend himself.

            It’s not like working in the Potions Division provides a lot of experience in escaping crazy criminals.

            Potter swallowed. “I want it,” he whispered, and Draco knew then that he had misunderstood the shivers. “I just don’t want to think about what will happen to you if I let it happen.”

            “Let me worry about that,” Draco said firmly, and pulled Potter into his arms, arranging him so that Potter was leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder, the way Draco had started to position him before they got pulled into this discussion. Then he wrapped his arm around Potter’s shoulders, kicked his legs out so that he was comfortable, and sighed as he stroked Potter’s hair. “There. Now, let’s be quiet for a while, and warm.”

            No problem with that. Potter was like a blazing blanket, draped over him. Draco closed his eyes and listened to Potter breathe.

*

            Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had sat like this with a lover.

            And that was disturbing, both because it might imply that Malfoy was right and because Harry was sure at first that he must have. What about all the close moments he had shared with Frank? With Ginny, before they learned that he wasn’t right for her and never could be? With Jacquelyn, in some ways the slowest of all his courtships?

            But no, he couldn’t remember it.

            He relaxed despite himself, because Malfoy was warm, and near, and breathing as softly and steadily as though he considered all of this a closed issue and of course Harry would do whatever he wanted from now on. Harry shut his eyes and swallowed. The shivers that made him want to break away and do something had subsided now, but he thought they could return at any time.

            But they didn’t. And the longer they sat there, the more Harry felt the tension drain out of his muscles, and the more he noticed about Malfoy.

            Malfoy wasn’t actually all that big and intimidating, although he had sure as hell seemed like it in his office this afternoon. He was slender, but not skinny, other than on his hipbones, one of which was poking Harry right now. Harry shifted before he thought about it, and Malfoy moved his legs, and then they were slumped closer than before, but also more comfortable than before.

            Harry realized that he was holding his breath, his heart kicking in his ears. He released the breath, and Malfoy chuckled and shifted closer, his mouth right on the lobe of Harry’s ear. But he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t move further, except to stroke his hand up and down through Harry’s hair.

            It—was weird. Harry had complained, even if without words, and it had resulted in a change that was for the better, and Malfoy didn’t seem hurt. Harry hadn’t caused him pain.

            Harry could feel something teetering in his head. That was a bad sign, one that he would ordinarily have gone running to escape, but there was no escape this time, and he had to sit there and wait for the wall to collapse. Malfoy didn’t help by being all slow and steady and calm, so that Harry felt as though he was skittering around inside a cage that wouldn’t tip over no matter how hard he ran.

            The wall fell.

            And the thought was there, running down the alleys of his mind, so present that Harry could no longer have escaped it even if he wanted to.

            Maybe I didn’t cause him pain because not everything I do can cause someone pain.

            Harry choked, and kept on choking. He could feel Malfoy’s hand on his hair move to his back, patting and then slapping. Harry dug his fingers into the couch and pressed down. Malfoy immediately reached over and picked up his hands, peeling back his fingers with such delicate care that Harry was sure he had used the same technique on Potions ingredients.

            “You’re all right,” Malfoy said, inescapably, his eyes on Harry’s as though he knew all the thoughts there and could quiet and tame them. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not as bad as what you’re thinking.”

            “That’s a tautology,” Harry muttered, but shut up when he heard how weak and stupid his voice was. He bit his lip savagely and bent over, hands on his knees. He couldn’t withdraw as far as he wanted to, though, because Malfoy was still there, wrapped around him, confining him. Harry drew a breath, and it didn’t feel constrained. “I—you kept saying, before, that I didn’t always hurt you, and that I was being patronizing for fearing what I could do to you.”

            Malfoy cocked his head. “Yes. I’m not helpless, and you acted as though I was, or at best, a child who couldn’t make my own decisions.”

            “I heard you say that, and I tried to believe it,” Harry said. “Mostly because you wanted me to so much.”

            Malfoy’s eyes twitched, and a peculiar smile curled along his mouth. “Of course. God forbid that you believe it because it’s true.”

            Harry shook his head, determined to fend off the argument that he could feel getting ready to happen. “But that’s what I mean. I didn’t feel it, I didn’t think it was true, no matter what you said. But this time, I did. When I shifted around and you moved your leg and you weren’t angry at me for wanting you to move it.”

            Malfoy paused, his hands still on one of Harry’s, his eyes huge and filled with an odd shadow. “So small a thing,” he said. “No one else would even notice it at all. If you had brought it up a week from now, I’m not sure I’d remember it.”

            Harry flinched a little, because he knew what he might seem like to Malfoy, and he didn’t want Malfoy to have to look at such a pathetic thing. But while that thought stung him, so did the realization that he’d come to, whether he wanted it or not, and he bowed his head. “I don’t always cause you pain,” he whispered. “So that must mean there are other times when I won’t, either. I just have to find them.”

            Malfoy nodded. “Good,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Now. Can we cuddle some more?”

            Harry blinked. He bit his tongue, though, because nearly all the things he could have said were mockery or would come out that way. And he wanted to see what it felt like, to be held by someone, at least when he was less tense than he had been the first time.

            “Sure,” he said, and leaned back on the couch, and waited to see what Malfoy would do.

            What Malfoy did was peer very hard into his eyes for a second, and then nod, as if Harry had passed some test by agreeing. He slid his arm around Harry’s shoulders again, drawing Harry towards him. Harry shut his eyes, accepting that Malfoy wanted to be near him, might enjoy the sensation of Harry’s hair rasping past his ears—in fact, probably did, or he would have moved away—and sighed out a tension that had confined him more than Malfoy’s embrace.

            Now that he was leaning close and not thinking constantly of what was going on inside his own head, he was free to notice other things. Like the way Malfoy’s heartbeat skipped along beneath his ear, never steady, in contrast to the way his chest rose and fell. Like the way Malfoy’s hand moved on the side of Harry’s neck, fingers rasping and tickling where they could reach skin, rasping and catching where they touched cloth. Like the way Malfoy’s hair was soft and generous, reaching out and enfolding everything on the side of Harry’s face.

            Harry closed his eyes. Just this once, he didn’t have to be aware and alert of all the possible paths out of the room, or all the injuries he might inflict without trying.

            Just this once, he let himself go, and was at peace.

*

            Draco stamped the smirk out of his face. The last thing he needed now was for Potter to glance sideways, take it the wrong way, and bolt free.

            He had thought Potter was a cuddler, and he was. He might be inexperienced at it, but from the manner in which he melted against Draco’s side, he wanted more of it.

            And it would be Draco’s pleasure to provide.

            Potter’s shoulders weren’t any bonier than anyone else’s. His eyelashes, which Draco could see from the side, and from above when Potter shifted his head on Draco’s shoulder, were longer than normal, though. Draco fluttered his fingers gently above the lashes, and they quivered and prickled. Potter opened his eyes.

            “You do have remarkable eyes,” Draco whispered.

            Potter’s shoulders lifted, but fell back down with a little sigh. His face twitched. “Thanks,” he whispered back.

            Draco smiled and leaned his chin on Potter’s forehead. “We’ll get you to accept a compliment yet,” he said.

            “Oh,” Potter said, and Draco had to blink at the humor he heard underneath the surface of his voice, “that’s not a compliment that bothers me. It’s just such a common compliment. Everyone who wants to date me starts by praising my eyes. Even you said something about them, in the Sapphire Rose. Excuse me for thinking that you would come up with a more original one.”

            Draco tried not to show how those words affected him, though he supposed Potter could hear part of it, in the heartbeat underneath his ear. He trailed his fingers through Potter’s hair again, and down his neck. This time, the gooseflesh that followed his touch came more slowly, as though Potter had had time to think about things and decide that he liked the way Draco stroked him. Draco curled his fingers under so there was no chance of his nails scratching Potter and whispered, “I can come up with something more original.”

            “It shouldn’t start with how my hair is like blackest coal, either, or the darkness between the stars,” Potter warned him. “Or with how I strike as quick as lightning, just like my scar.”

            Draco had to wait to speak, because—well, because. “People say that?”

            “All the bloody time,” Potter said, letting his head droop and burying his nose in Draco’s robe, so that his words came out muffled. Draco could make them out as easily as though they had spent months together. “That’s another reason for being wary about compliments. The vast majority of them are stupid.”

            Draco touched Potter’s head again, moving so that his chin was resting more firmly on Potter’s hair, and Potter was curled more into his side. Potter made a sound that Draco couldn’t interpret, but he breathed more slowly, and didn’t shift away. That made this hug a success, as far as Draco was concerned.

            “I can think of something to say,” Draco said.

            “Well, say it then.” Potter’s voice was low, so soft that Draco spoke as if to the voice of his own thoughts.

            “Hearing your name reassures me.”

            A pause, and Potter rustled his hair as if he would lift his head and confront Draco. Draco laid a hand on the back of his neck and stilled him again. Potter grunted, then said, “What does that mean? It reassures you because you know that a hero is on the way, and everything is going to be all right again?”

            “Merlin,” Draco said. “You are hard to compliment.”

            “Yes,” Potter said, the first time Draco had heard him say something that blunt without stopping to apologize for it. “And you aren’t the sort to require a hero. So, what does it mean?”

            Draco sighed. “I mean that it reminds me that there’s someone in the world who survived dying. Who survived the Dark Lord. Who survived the war and Dumbledore and Professor Snape and even me being irritated with him, on the days when I want to assign myself that much importance. It—it meant more when I didn’t know how much your lovers had damaged you. I thought you were supremely confident and had everything. A survivor, not a hero. That’s the way I saw you.”

            The silence that settled between them made Draco’s mouth go dry. Then Potter said, “And now?”

            “More complicated than I thought,” Draco said, and made his voice as grave as he could. “Deeper. The survivor has other things to survive. It doesn’t mean that you’re going to frighten me away.” He drew back and sank both hands into Harry’s hair, pulling a little and working his way down towards Harry’s neck. He knew a lot of blokes who liked having their hair pulled, and so far, he knew nothing much about what Harry liked. He knew what didn’t work, what disgusted him, what frightened him, but that wasn’t any kind of basis to stay with him.

            Harry reached back and caught his right hand. He was sitting up again now, his gaze so solemn that Draco stopped teasing. He didn’t pull his hands back, though. Harry was only squeezing his wrist a little, not forcing him away.

            “What?” he asked softly, his lips barely moving.

            Harry said, “I wonder if it still isn’t best for you to back out. I know you have the determination to carry this through—I don’t doubt that, now—but is it really going to be worth enough to you? You’ve told me why you wanted to be with me, but it’s going to take so much patience, so much work…Really? This is what you want?”

            Draco half-closed his eyes, because what he could feel in them right now would do Harry no good at all. “I thought we had a talk about you presuming to know what I think and feel better than I do,” he murmured.

            “I didn’t mean that,” Harry muttered. “If you like, I’m protecting myself with this, more than you. I want to know that you aren’t going to quit on me halfway through the process, and walk away to find someone more accommodating.”

            Draco could hear the unspoken words this time as clearly as he could the other times. Like they did.

            Draco sat up and drew Harry with him, until Harry was nearly straddling his lap. Draco slid his hands into place around Harry’s cheeks and made sure that he couldn’t look away.

            “I can’t promise that I’ll always be here, because no one can promise that,” Draco told him soberly. “I could be taken out by a rival Potions brewer who wants my position tomorrow.”

            “And I thought I had the dangerous job,” Harry muttered.

            Draco smiled, but not enough to allow the words to distract him from the conversation. “But I can promise that I don’t want to give up. You’ve shown me your scars, and they haven’t disgusted me. You’ve shown me your memories, and they just made me want to know where the fire has gone. You’ve kissed me, even, and that wasn’t enough to make me back off.”

            “Yeah, but…” Harry hesitated, then gave him a fleeting smile. “It’s like the difference between acute and chronic disease, isn’t it? It might be okay when you’re getting a series of shocks and acute pains for the first time, but that doesn’t mean you can endure for a long time. I might not drive you away, but I might wear you down.”

            “And you don’t want to take a chance on something that’s not forever,” Draco murmured, sliding his fingers up and along the bottom of Harry’s cheeks.

            “Every time I started dating someone, I thought about what it would be like to stay with them for the rest of my life,” Harry said. “I thought Ginny was the one. I realized she wasn’t after we broke up, but I didn’t think it was impossible for me to form a bond that would last.” He grimaced. “Until I realized that I’m not built that way, and it was easier to accept it than keep agonizing about it.”

            “I don’t know if I’m built that way myself,” Draco offered. “But I’m willing to take the chance, and you are, too.”

            Harry laughed quietly. “Who else but you would take a chance on me?” he asked, reaching up to cradle Draco’s wrists.

            Draco shakes his head. “You’re worth more than they made you feel you were,” he said. “Now. Can you lean back?”

            Harry watched him for a second with quickening eyes and a mouth that opened to ask questions. But then he shut his eyes and nodded. He slumped back against the couch instead of asking anything, spreading his legs and arching his neck back as if he was offering his throat up to be eaten.

            Draco swallowed, wondering if Harry noticed how hard he was, how hard Harry made him. But maybe that was something to call to his attention later, considering what Draco wanted to do right now.

            He slid out from under and on Harry, which took a minute and made Harry laugh without opening his eyes. Then he knelt down in front of the couch, the way Harry had yesterday when Draco was kissing him. Harry swallowed but still didn’t open his eyes. Draco reached up and lightly touched his chest, his fingers resting over Harry’s heart.

            The heartbeat increased until Draco almost expected to see it leap out of his chest. Harry shifted his weight, but quieted and sat still when Draco hushed him. Draco stood up and reached out to place his hands on Harry’s shoulders.

            Harry’s eyelids jerked then, although they still didn’t open. “What are you doing?”

            “Learning you,” Draco whispered to him. “The kind of casual touches that I like.”

            As he had thought, just saying he liked it was enough to make Harry shut up and give in. He rolled his head back and lay there, his face going slack as Draco caressed his shoulders, learning the curve of his shoulder blades, and then knelt down and lifted Harry’s legs. When he tickled the back of his knees, Harry snorted.

            Draco was smiling as he knelt further and pulled one of Harry’s socks off.

            In an instant, Harry threw his head up and held it there as if he’d been poisoned, glaring. “Don’t,” he whispered.

            “Because your toes are so ugly?” Draco ran his fingers along Harry’s foot, watching the way it flexed, admiring the muscles that trembled beneath the surface.

            “Yes, damn it,” Harry snarled, and tried to rip his foot away from Draco. Draco only moved with it, and took it in his hands again when Harry stopped moving. Harry shook his head furiously, but it was his hands that concerned Draco, digging into the couch hard enough to tear open the cushions; he wasn’t trying to kick Draco in the jaw or hit him with a spell or do something else that might have forced him back. “Look. Look at my ankle.”

            Draco raised his eyebrows and bent his head a little. “It’s a very nice ankle,” he said after a moment, wondering what Harry wanted him to see.

            Harry twitched his foot sharply to the side, and Draco made out the round scar on the side of the ankle. He thought it looked like something made with the end of a hot poker. Draco looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Yes?” he asked.

            “Shit.” Harry buried his head in his hands. “Fine, maybe that isn’t so bad. Maybe you can bear that. But I showed you all the scars that lie under my clothes. Don’t tell me that you don’t value beauty. I—I know that you do, because you’re so beautiful yourself.”

            Draco leaned back on his heels. Unexpectedly, he found that he was grinning, and the words he spoke next spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “My, how shallow you think beautiful people are. I’m surprised that you want to date them.”

*

            Harry clenched his hands in his lap again. He could see the laughter in the back of Malfoy’s eyes, and he knew that Malfoy wasn’t laughing at him; he was inviting Harry into the humor, not shutting him out, like the invitations that he kept extending for Harry to touch him and be with him and smile at him—

            What’s the harm in accepting it?

            Because it would just end up the same way it always did, with Frank and all the others, Harry thought. With misery on his side and pain on the other. Frank hadn’t betrayed him in gossip, Harry was sure of that, but they’d seen each other a few times since them, and Frank had held his eyes and shaken his head each time, to tell Harry that his wounds hadn’t healed yet.

            If Malfoy was more generous than the rest, more accepting, more reaching, then that was all the more reason for Harry to want to protect him.

            “I’m here,” Malfoy said, and slid his fingers along Harry’s ankles, over the scar and then onto the one that still had the sock on. The jolt that burned through him made Harry start to sweat. Malfoy was there, and his eyes didn’t move, and he repeated again, “I’m here. I’ll go, but only if you send me away, not if you just flail at me and expect me to reject you.”

            Harry shut his eyes. The wall in his mind had still fallen, he found when he reached out. If Malfoy said that he wasn’t in pain, if he could do something Harry wanted just because Harry wanted it and not complain about it, then maybe that was real.

            And maybe some of the other things Harry had thought were wrong, too.

            He became aware that his breath was rushing out, rustling out, that he couldn’t get enough air, and he gasped.

            The next instant, Malfoy was off the floor and beside him, tracing his fingers through the sweat on Harry’s cheeks, and Harry turned and buried his face in Malfoy’s shoulder, shuddering. Malfoy hummed to him and closed his fingers gently on the back of Harry’s neck, picking up a fold of flesh and holding it there. His other hand slid over Harry’s shirt, hovering, then pressing down, as if searching for something.

            It finally came to rest, on the ugly round scar that the locket Horcrux had burned on Harry’s chest. Harry swallowed, shuddered, and looked up. Malfoy just gazed back at him calmly, and shook his head a little, as though to refuse all the kinds of things Harry wanted to accuse him of.

            “I’m here,” he said.

            Harry closed his eyes again. The words hammered and beat in his head, and the beat was steadier, stronger, than the low, remembered beat of the other words that followed him around all the times, the ones that reminded him about how he hurt people.

            Harry reached up, slowly. Nothing happened. He slid his arm around Malfoy’s neck, and pulled him closer, until Malfoy’s head was bent into his and Malfoy’s breath fell on his ear.

            And still nothing happened. There was no cry of pain or rejection. Malfoy’s hand settled more firmly on Harry’s scar, but it was—it was hard to see that as something that Malfoy had either planned or hated.

            Harry shuddered, and gave in. Maybe it was another wall falling, although it didn’t feel like that. Maybe it was that he had finally started to trust Malfoy. Maybe it was just that he was so goddamn tired.

            But one thing had to change.

            “Draco,” he whispered.

            Malfoy rippled from head to foot, like a surprised eel. But before Harry could sit back and push him away, he said, “Yes, Harry?”

            Harry dug his head further into Draco’s chest—he had to be Draco, to hold him like that—and murmured, “Will you stay here with me for a little while?”

            And Draco held him, just like that, for as long as Harry could bear the warmth and the melting sensation and the collapse of the steel that had gone up his spine for so long.

*

delia cerrano: I don’t think Harry would be very susceptible to student-teacher roleplay.

CareLessLover: Thanks! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.

SP777: Draco, unfortunately, learns something in the next chapter that will set them back a few steps.

Clau: Thank you! I hope this story continues to ring true for you.

Not that I know of. It might be similar to depression or low self-esteem, but Harry doesn’t have a lot of the symptoms of those.

polka dot: Harry thinks so, too. But Draco likes the challenge and the ability to make Harry acknowledge him.
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Nothing Like the Sun