fic: how to succeed in adulthood, while kind of trying; R (part ii)
Title: how to succeed in adulthood, while kind of trying
Summary: it's not easy being an adult, and it's definitely not easy dealing with slytherins in muggle clothing and children with wands. but harry's handling. kind of.
Word Count: ~15700 total; this part: 5028
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of JKR and Bloomsbury.Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: ...none?
Notes: thanks to erica for the beta - any and all mistakes are our own. cracky title and summary are all my fault; the good parts are rachel, clearly. (collab with imprint_of_doe)
His N.E.W.T-level 7th-years are getting far too much enjoyment out of watching him get his arse handed to him by Draco. Which just isn't on, for one thing.
So he thinks, fuck it, with the loudly-exclaimed spell-saying and elaborate wand movements. Draco isn't playing fair. Why should he?
'Dalton, hold my wand,' he says, passing the wand to the student nearest him. Dalton, though looking very confused, obliges. In the split second that it takes for Draco to slightly lower his own hawthorn wand, Harry has Summoned it from his hand.
Draco looks highly upset. Harry smirks, slow and effortlessly Slytherin.
'The fu-' and then he remembers that he's in front of students, hello, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, they are so calm that Harry almost doesn't expect the 'Accio wand!' that the blond throws his way.
Almost.
But he does, and after waving his hand, (he's showing off, just a bit) Draco's wand mocks him, stuck to the wall by a sticking charm. Only the magical signature of the one that cast it can release it.
It's pretty genius, really.
Draco tries to Stun him, but Harry casts a shield up, and it falls to waste.
Serpensortia, Harry thinks, and then there is an obnoxiously bright-green snake winding around Draco chest, its fangs poised at Draco's neck.
Draco freezes, though he still manages to glare at Harry with all he's worth.
'Bite the human?' the snake hisses, and, trying ever-so-hard not to grin at the look on Draco's face, Harry tells him no.
'Duel over,' he says, and lets Draco's wand back into his hand.
'And that,' he comments, turning back to the class, 'is why you never underestimate your opponent.'
'Even if they seem like they duel like shit?' Macnair asks? (She's actually an entertaining girl, nothing like her long-deceased uncle, so Harry has learned to not cringe at her name.)
'Language,' he chastises. 'But yes. Especially if they seem like they duel like shit.'
The students are gossiping as they leave, Slytherins mingling among the Gryffindors in a way they never would have when Harry and Draco were their age. Harry almost wishes it had been like that for them, but then, he's not sure it would have been for the best, what with Draco taking the Dark Mark and Harry having to kill his master.
'Had to make me look bad, didn't you? Bloody show off,' Draco grumbles as he crosses the classroom again, lips pursed in disapproval.
Absentminded, Harry responds without thinking. 'You never look bad, and, besides, I guess it just shows you need to practise a little, eh?'
Draco is silent for a moment, and Harry glances over at him, wondering why. He finds the blond staring at him, calculation and something else in the grey eyes, and lifts an eyebrow. 'What? You do need to practise if you don't want to be shown up again. It's embarrassing, Draco. You're a professor and you fight like a sixth year.'
A pink flush rises up the man's neck. 'Excuse me, Potter, for not living up to your expectations. I was trying to teach them a lesson.'
'A lesson in what, letting your guard down? And what's with the "Potter" bit?'
Draco huffs and polishes his wand, removing Harry's fingerprints from the wood. 'Nothing. Just drop it.'
He frowns and faces his partner. 'Draco.'
'Prepare for the second years, will you?'
'Draco, could you look at me for a moment?'
But the blond has his head down, scratching at a sheet of paper with a quill with every bit of his concentration. Well, every bit that's not focused on ignoring Harry.
The second years are filing in, though, and Harry turns to face them, frowning in such a way that an inquisitive Hufflepuff asks if he's quite alright. He is, he assures them, and proceeds to pull out the Grindylow he's captured to teach them about. He distracts himself from worrying about Draco while explaining about the creature's horns and habits, and wishes he could just Vanish them all and force the answer from his colleague.
Instead, he'll have to wait, and somehow Draco will close himself off even more in that time, Harry knows it. He regrets that it's inevitable.
-scenebreak?-
Harry doesn't know how he does it, but a week later, Draco has still managed to-to do whatever the fuck it is that he's doing.
Oh, it seems fine, on the surface. He still calls Harry by his first name, no 'Potter.' He talks to him some at dinner, about their students and lesson plans. They plan, and plan, and plan and classes go without a hitch, and students love it and Harry has never been happier with his teaching before, but. But.
It's all detached. And he cannot tell how he can tell, but he can and Draco.
Draco is different, somehow. They don't talk anymore, not in the way they would, and before, when Harry would zone out during all that planning, Draco would be fine with it, despite the eye-rolls and complaints and comments on lazy Gryffindors. Now he gives a too-polite, 'Please pay attention, Harry.'and okay, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.
But.
After dinner on Friday, Harry approaches him very calmly and asks that they talk.
In actuality, Harry follows Draco to his rooms, using those spying skills that he's ever good at, and locks the door with a spell when Draco finally notices him.
'Wha-Harry, what are you doing here?'
And he can see the surprise in Draco's eyes, the careful shutters coming down over eyes that had been clear for just a moment. Harry doesn't like the shutters. They're keeping him out and keeping Draco in.
'Last week, after our duel, what happened?'
Draco stares at him, swallows, pastes a sneer in place. 'I don't know what you're talking about, Pot-Harry. After the duel you taught the second years about Grindylows or something. Is this a quiz to see how much attention I was paying to your lesson?'
Harry grinds his back teeth together and narrows his eyes. The hand around his wand squeezes and a few deep-green sparks shoot out the end. Draco's gaze falls to watch them flutter to the floor. 'No, Draco, this is me wondering what the hell your problem is. This is me wanting to know why you've closed yourself off. This is me being concernedabout my partner. I'd appreciate a little honesty from you.'
'I'm a Slytherin-we don't do honesty, in case you'd forgotten.' But Draco has turned away, is tugging at his tie as if it's choking him.
'You want to tell me, though. I know you do.'
'You know nothing.' There's a snarl in his voice, and it reminds Harry of a wounded animal.
Harry locks the door to Draco's bedroom with a flick of his wand and disarms the other man, tucking both wands into the waistband of his trousers. Draco turns to face him, glowering, and there's a memory in his eyes that Harry wishes he could see.
'Talk to me, or you're not getting it back until the next lesson when you need it.'
'Talk about what, Harry? I don't understand what you want.'
But he does. They both understand.
'Draco. I want to know what I said that upset you. If it was about you needing more practise, I was teasing you, and if you feel you need it, I'll be happy to help,' he offers, hands splayed at his sides helplessly. He wants to cross the room and smooth Draco's hair back, wants to push Draco's hands aside from where they're still fumbling at his tie. But he can't.
'It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding,' Draco grinds out. He abandons his attempt at the tie.
Cautiously, Harry leans against the arm of a chair and surveys his partner cautiously and coolly, thinking back to his words. He wishes he had a Pensieve here.
'Was it that I compared you to a sixth year?'
And there it is. Draco jerks back slightly, just slightly, before he regains his composure, arms crossed over his chest protectively. Harry's insides hollow as he remembers their own sixth year, the evidence of which is being covered at the moment by Draco's arms. He remembers more of Draco's sixth year, arguably the worst year, and he thinks he knows.
They've not brought up the past. It's nearly taboo for them. They're moving on, forgetting.
But it won't go away.
'Ignoring it won't suddenly make it disappear, Draco,' he says quietly.
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Harry keeps speaking, 'You-wewere kids. We made mistakes, really stupid ones.'
Draco looks into Harry's eyes, finally, and oh, look, there's emotion. Exactly what he's been waiting for.
'You?' He laughs, a hard bark. 'You made no mistakes that year. You were perfect and wonderful-The Chosen One, meant to kill the Dark Lord and save the fucking world. I was worthless, couldn't even do a "simple" task. I cried my woes to a melodramatic ghost in a girl's bathroom. I let Death Eaters into the school. Wedidn't make mistakes. I did. You could do no wrong. You still can't.'
'No one was badly hurt.'
'Oh, and that suddenly makes it better?' Draco's voice is mocking. Harry hasn't heard it that way for a while, not towards him.
'You know I didn't mean it that way. And you say I did everything perfect?' Harry takes a deep breath, steeling himself. 'Look at your chest. There's a very prominent reminder against that.'
Draco says nothing for a minute or so, before, 'That was different.'
'No. It wasn't.'
Draco is silent.
'I'm sorry about this comment, I really am, but you can't exactly hide forever. Especially not at Hogwarts. What are you going to do? Avoid the Room of Requirement? Get nervous whenever you enter a bathroom? Pretend the Tower doesn't exist?'
'Shut up, Potter.'
'I won't. And don't call me Potter. We've moved past that.
'So here's what's going to happen-you will go back to normal. We will teach. There will be laughter. I will not may pay attention, and I will duel unfairly and you will scowl and call me a lazy, bastard Gryffindor. You will scare the children; you will come to me if you need to talk about anything pre-Voldemort-death. And you will stop cringing at the name, hell.'
'Then stop saying it.'
Draco scowls, and all is right with the world.
Well.
Mainly.
-scenebreak?-
The system works. Harry makes sure to bring something up from their own school days at least once a day, if only to remind Draco that it's there, to prevent him from regressing. It's only natural that he begins questioning about Harry's life after Hogwarts, Harry's friends, and Harry asks in return.
It's late, and they each have a stack of essays to grade. Draco sits at his desk in his office, quill in hand, thoughtfully reading through each page and making frustrated noises and violent marks. Harry sprawls sideways in an armchair, his own pile on the floor next to him, absently marking the pages as his legs swing in the air. Draco's office is comfortable, a fire dancing in the grate, magically lit torches flaring lumos-bright light for them to work by.
'So Granger and Weasley are getting married when?' Draco asks, scratching out what looks to be a whole three lines with red ink. Harry is privately amused at his partner's precision-he knows most of the students hope they get Harry as their grader.
'Next June, I think. Not quite sure about the exact date, to be honest, but I've got months to prepare. Do you think that if Lewis didn't go into detail about the most common places to find a Grindylow that I should dock him a few points?'
'Dock him a grade, Harry; that was a point we specifically asked them to cover.'
'He mentioned it. He covered it. It was just… brief.'
Draco looks up at him, and Harry snorts at the look on his face, smiling. 'Fine, fine. But yeah, next June.'
'Who are you planning to take, or do you have any idea yet?'
Harry pauses and frowns thoughtfully at the paper. 'Huh. I hadn't thought about it, to be honest. Do you think I need to know this far in advance?'
He shrugs and stretches out cramped fingers; Harry can't help but watch, his mouth suddenly dry as he remembers a dream he'd had a few days ago. His plans to ignore the dreams-for the most part-are… well, they work occasionally. He still can't control what he thinks at times.
Those times are becoming more and more frequent, if he's honest. At least once a class he gets the urge to touch Draco, to watch his partner without being interrupted, to leave the room and jerk off like one of his students in a loo. It's ridiculous. He can't remember being this attracted to him when they were younger, though, if he's honest, he's always had strong feelings for the blond. Hate transformed easily into lust, though, which is now further tinged with friendship.
And Harry can't help it at all.
At half eleven, Harry stretches out in his armchair and places the last essay from his pile back on the floor with the others, sleepily staring up at the ceiling and listening to the scratching noises made by Draco's quill, the soft mutters of what idiots their students are, the crackle of the wood in the hearth…
He feels the hand on his shoulder even through his shirt. Draco's hands are cold, his fingers long, but his breath is warm as he leans over Harry. 'Oi, wake up, idiot. You're not sleeping in my armchair. You'll have a bloody sore back tomorrow if you do.'
Harry's eyelashes flutter open and he fights a yawn, staring up at Draco's eyes. They're flickering with shadows from the dying fire, embers lighting up the angles of his face, highlighting lips and eyelashes and cheekbones. Draco shakes him lightly, and Harry closes his eyes again, shaking his head and reaching out a hand to latch onto Draco's belt loop. ''m tired. Don' wanna move.'
Draco snorts and attempts to pull away from Harry, who tightens his grip. Harry imagines he hears the blond swallow before the low, soothing voice is coaxing him. 'C'mon, Harry, I'll help you up to your rooms. Put a little effort in, please?'
Effort. Harry needs to put effort into it. If he's going to dream about Draco in both waking and sleeping moments, maybe he needs to acknowledge that, maybe he needs to act on that.
So he pulls.
He pulls at the belt loop, as hard as he can in his mainly-asleep state, and Draco lets out an, 'Oof!' before tumbling down on Harry. He feels nice, all soft and warm and Draco-smelling.
He puts his head up and oh, he's kissing Draco Malfoy.
He thinks that Draco freezes, but that's rather insignificant, obviously, because Draco's lips are as pouty as they look and apparently Malfoys actually do breed well because, Merlin, this is bloody brilliant, this is.
His head is starting to cramp, so he moves his hands up to grasp Draco's hair-that's nice-and eases them down with his head, never moving his lips.
Then he falls back asleep.
-scenebreak?-
He wakes up in his own bed.
When he gets down to the Great Hall for breakfast and sees Draco, he feels like there's something he should remember.
'Mornin', Draco,' he says, grinning. 'How was your night?'
Draco looks at him strangely. 'It was well. You?'
'Okay, I suppose. Thanks for getting me to my room, if that's what you did. Can't really remember much after I finished the papers.'
Clearing his throat, Draco sets his fork down. Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry feels like he's done (or said) something wrong, but he's not sure what.
'What's wrong?'
'Oh, nothing. Just a bit tired.' Putting his cup of coffee up, he adds, 'Working on that.'
Harry nods, but keeps looking at Draco, feeling like he's missing something vital.
'If you stare at me any longer, Harry, people will start to think that something is going on. Wouldn't want that.' Draco grin is sudden and cheeky and Harry flushes red.
'Of course not,' he mumbles, getting back to his porridge.
That cleared any thoughts of possible-relationships. Really, as if Draco would actually want him.
And yet.
Harry wants Draco to want him because, fine, he admits it, he wants Draco. More than is probably healthy.
It's certainly not healthy for his sleeping habits-the dream last night had been the most innocent one of the lot, just a kiss, dimly lighted, comfortable, warm. Harry thinks that, if he ever does find himself involved in a successful relationship, he wants that to be a part of it as well. Lust is all well and good, but…
He sighs. It's not what he and Draco are destined for, at least.
And no matter how many times he tells himself this, nothing can be done. As weeks go on, Harry notices little things, like the way Draco always looks at the back of the classroom before his gaze moves to the front. And Harry notices the trousers his partner wears, the jumpers, the occasional ties-the days when Draco wears ties are worst, because the dreams have taken to this particular item of clothing almost obsessively.
Halloween morning dawns bright and early, light spilling into his bedroom from the east-facing windows. He stretches out with a yawn and, as usual, takes note of the persistent problem under the sheets. He really wishes he could somehow get Draco back for this, but that would be admitting that he feels something, wants something, and he can't do that.
Rejection has never suited him well.
But it's in their fourth year class, where the students are beginning to learn about the Unforgiveables, that Harry realises a contradiction in himself. He's watching Alyssa Marcini, one of the Gryffindors, volunteer to fight off the Imperius Curse, when it hits him.
He's a Gryffindor. Yes, the Hat thought about putting him in Slytherin, but ultimately he ended up at the table across the Great Hall. And he's been acting more Slytherin than Gryffindor, these past few weeks. Slytherins might care about their own self-interest and fear rejection, but a Gryffindor is supposed to be courageous.
He can be self-interested and courageous if he wants to-he can be both.
Draco takes the practical for this part, casting Imperius on Harry as a demonstration, explaining the way Harry throws it off. That he attempted to make Harry pirouette around the room and throw his robes over the chandelier amuses both of them. He turns his wand to Marcini, coaxing her along, while Harry watches him.
He nods, decided.
He's not a coward, and he'll go after what he wants.
'As I'm sure Miss Marcini will be able to tell you, the Imperius is not a pleasant feeling. You lose your entire sense of self; your mind and body belong to the caster of the spell. The stronger the... passion that the other witch or wizard feels, the more difficult it is to throw off the spell.'
A black-haired boy by the last name of Alecio raises his hand and Harry barely refrains from groaning. His questions are rarely appropriate.
'Yes?'
'How many times did you cast Imperio when you were a Death Eater, Professor Malfoy?'
Not bothering to lift his head from the paper that's he's reviewing, Harry lets out, 'Twenty points from Ravenclaw, Mr Alecio.'
'That's not fair!' the boy complains. 'You can't honestly be standing up for him, Mr Potter. He's a Death Eater, sir.'
'Another ten for talking back, and because I'm Professor Potter. Shall we continue? I hear you were hoping for your House to win. It'd be a shame for you to get a hundred points docked in one class.'
Alecio scowls rather impressively, but quiets.
'Thank you. If you would continue, Professor Malfoy?'
Later on that evening, during the Feast, Draco comments, 'You sounded an awful lot like Severus earlier.'
Harry freezes. With all his talk of 'facing the past,' Snape has always been a sore spot.
He tries to smile and shrugs. 'Imagine if he'd heard you saying that.'
'He'd cut my bollocks off and spell them to my forehead.'
Harry cringes. He prefers Draco's nether regions right where they are, thank you, and fucking hell, he's hard again.
-scenebreak?-
He firecalls Hermione that night.
''Mione, I need your advice.'
'Hello to you, too, Harry. How ever was your Halloween?'
'I think I'm falling for Draco and I need ways to woo him,' he blurts out.
Well. That's Gryffindor, in its way-when in doubt, ask Hermione.
One of Hermione's eyebrows rises. 'Do you.'
Belatedly, Harry realises that Hermione and Draco would have gotten along terribly well under different circumstances.
'You don't sound shocked. Why aren't you shocked?'
'Why would I be shocked?'
Harry gapes. Not very adult-like, but that's usually more difficult around Hermione
'Oh, honestly, Harry. You've been flirting with Malfoy since-third year?'
'What? Of course I haven't! I hated him.'
'Sure you did, dear.'
'I did. I just-mainly started now. Why do you think that?'
'We'll finish this later. Ron is here and I doubt that you want to explain your undying love of "Ferret-Face" to him. He's still hoping to set you up with Dean.'
Harry snorts, but is still mulling over Hermione's admission.
They chat about the mundane, about the wedding, about how Ron's Great Auntie Muriel is considering letting Hermione wear the goblin-made tiara. Frankly, Harry doesn't care that much for the details, but he listens patiently nonetheless, smiling. At least his two best friends are happy, as they deserve.
He ends the firecall soon after, lying back on the rug and staring up at the ceiling above him. He thinks back to what she'd said. Has he really been flirting with Draco since third year?
It's true their relationship has always been intense, and from a certain view point it could look like a version of pulling pigtails…
And he admits it. He has. All the stalking sixth year… half of his motive had been unknown to him at the time.
Now he's working with Draco, in close quarters, and dreaming very active dreams. He's aware, oh so aware, of just how attractive he finds his partner, aware of just how much he wishes Draco could return his interest.
He sits up, then, and frowns thoughtfully at the robes he'd tossed over the back of a chair. Draco had tried to make him strip today, though it was only for a bit of a laugh. Harry decides to take this in a positive light, and tries to recall anything else he can twist into evidence of mutual attraction.
He's aware that it's desperate, but at this point he really doesn't fucking care all that much. What little pride he has is being pushed aside by desire and something warmer that is less about sex and more about Draco.
Hermione hadn't given him advice, but, then, she wasn't the one interested in a relationship, or the one that knew Draco in the same way he did.
Nodding resolutely, Harry gets to his feet, grabs a bottle of firewhiskey from the cabinet in his room, hides it under his robes, and finds himself standing at Draco's door some minutes later. His partner lets him in with a mildly surprised lift of his eyebrows, but gamely summons tumblers for them both as they take their respective seats.
'Firewhiskey, Harry? Any special occasion?' Draco asks, watching as Harry pours some into his glass.
'Maybe,' Harry admits, and smiles over the rim of his glass. He's gratified to watch Draco's eyes widen, just slightly, before the other man cocks his head curiously. 'A toast, to what has been and what might come?'
Draco gives him that strange look again, but repeats the words, all the same.
It doesn't come to him until after the first drink is finished and Draco is refilling the glasses, but it comes. And the end of the night, he walks out of the room far more sober than Draco. Sure, he'd taken a few sips every now and then, to keep up the charade when Draco is closely looking, but mainly-mainly, he wordlessly charms the glass to periodically empty.
Steels himself.
And he talks, under the disguise of 'drunk confessions.'
'Y'know, Her-Herman-Mermonynee!' he exclaims, sloppily grinning at his 'accomplishment' and continues. 'T'was talkin' to her, I was. Sh-can you believe, she said, Hermanfanny, she told me-that I've been flirting with ya since-since third year. S'crazy, her. Real crazy.'
'Kinda-kinda hot for a bloke, Drake.'
''Member sixth year, when t'was sta-stalking you? Think I liked ya even then. Know, righ'? Think 'Hanmyne co-correct.'
'Had a dream last night abou' suckin' you off. D'ya like that, Draco?'
'Can-can I fu-fuck-shh, don't tell no one-you some-something, no, sometime? Be nice, bein' inside you.'
'Yer fucking pretty, y'know that, Draco?'
Before he leaves, he Conjures a Sobriety Potion and convinces Draco to drink it. In the morning, the other male will remember everything.
Everything.
He thinks he might vomit. It's all nerves.
-scenebreak?-
Harry opens his eyes the next morning, blinks once peacefully, and then his insides turn to glass and he remembers. 'Shit,' he groans, rubbing hands over his eyes. 'What the hell was I thinking?'
But he knows what he was thinking. He knows oh so well.
He's slow to get ready that morning, taking his time in the shower, straightening his tie obsessively, tying his shoes by hand. Harry dreads appearing at the breakfast table as if nothing had happened. Or should he act as if something did happen? He stands up and grabs his wand, leaves the room, muttering to himself all the while.
He realises that taking his time was a bad idea when he enters the Great Hall and discovers that Draco has beaten him to the table. The other man looks bad-for him-with dark circles under his eyes and mussed hair.
It's the hair that really strikes Harry though, as he slowly makes his way to his spot. Draco's hair is never messy. That he'd forgotten to do it, or had messed it up by running his hands through it, says almost more than Harry said last night. He winces at the memory of the 'drunk' words he had slurred as he drops into his seat. His neck and face feel too warm; he knows he's blushing a horrendous shade.
It's a moment, in which he sits immobile, before he turns slowly to face his partner, who is staring with astonishing attentiveness at the margarine. But then Draco is lifting his eyes to Harry's face, and they're both glancing away as if someone's cauldron has exploded and called their attention.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry thinks, taking a deep breath and unclenching his jaw. Why am I such an idiot? Why didn't I wait for Hermione to help?
He startles when he reaches out to pour himself a cup of orange juice-a hand had brushed against the side of his thigh, light, tentative. He barely manages to catch the goblet before it tips over.
Harry turns to stare at Draco, who is tentatively grimacing at him. 'Er… sorry for startling you.'
He can't help it-he snorts. After all of it, he gets that as a response.
Draco flushes, gently pink, and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. He looks like he'd like to disappear into the floor, drop through it like a ghost, and Harry reaches out, sets a hand on his forearm as if to prevent it. 'How're you feeling?'
The blond lets his free hand drop to the table and frowns at Harry. 'Like shit, obviously. Do you have any idea what that damn firewhiskey did to me?'
Harry's eyebrows lift in amusement. 'No, I wasn't aware the alcohol could actually be active.'
Draco rolls his eyes, leans slightly closer, until Harry's breath catches in his chest. 'Potter, I swear on Salazar's grave, if you ever do that to me again, I will curse your nose off. You'll look like the Dark Lord after I'm through with you. See how many admirers you gather then.'
He bites back a laugh and shakes his head. 'What, precisely, do you mean by "that?" Can you elaborate?'
'The getting me pissed on a school night that,' Draco responds, adding air quotes for good measure.
Harry contemplates, bites his lip, and dives. 'So, not the part about me spouting off, er, decidedly embarrassing things to you-about you?'
Draco freezes for a moment and then glances at Harry again. His hair is falling in his eyes; Harry wants to push it back for him. He keeps his hands on the table in front of him.
'What do you think?'
'I thought you were under the impression that I don't think at all?' His voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but. If you hate me, just tell me. Please. I can't stand it. I want you too much. I want you. I want you. I want you.
'Even you could have figured out a smoother way to tell me, Harry. But,' and fuckfuckfuckfuck, that's not good, fuck, 'I need to think about that. You just-fucking sprung it up on me, Harry. I need to think about what I'm going to do. Do you understand?'
Harry deflates.
'Yeah. I understand,' he whispers, before not-so-subtly turning to engage Filius in conversation.
I don't understand. I don't. I don't. I don't. I want you, I want you, I want you.
Please, want me. I want you to want me, too.
-scenebreak?-
That night, he really does get drunk.
Summary: it's not easy being an adult, and it's definitely not easy dealing with slytherins in muggle clothing and children with wands. but harry's handling. kind of.
Word Count: ~15700 total; this part: 5028
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of JKR and Bloomsbury.Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: ...none?
Notes: thanks to erica for the beta - any and all mistakes are our own. cracky title and summary are all my fault; the good parts are rachel, clearly. (collab with imprint_of_doe)
His N.E.W.T-level 7th-years are getting far too much enjoyment out of watching him get his arse handed to him by Draco. Which just isn't on, for one thing.
So he thinks, fuck it, with the loudly-exclaimed spell-saying and elaborate wand movements. Draco isn't playing fair. Why should he?
'Dalton, hold my wand,' he says, passing the wand to the student nearest him. Dalton, though looking very confused, obliges. In the split second that it takes for Draco to slightly lower his own hawthorn wand, Harry has Summoned it from his hand.
Draco looks highly upset. Harry smirks, slow and effortlessly Slytherin.
'The fu-' and then he remembers that he's in front of students, hello, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, they are so calm that Harry almost doesn't expect the 'Accio wand!' that the blond throws his way.
Almost.
But he does, and after waving his hand, (he's showing off, just a bit) Draco's wand mocks him, stuck to the wall by a sticking charm. Only the magical signature of the one that cast it can release it.
It's pretty genius, really.
Draco tries to Stun him, but Harry casts a shield up, and it falls to waste.
Serpensortia, Harry thinks, and then there is an obnoxiously bright-green snake winding around Draco chest, its fangs poised at Draco's neck.
Draco freezes, though he still manages to glare at Harry with all he's worth.
'Bite the human?' the snake hisses, and, trying ever-so-hard not to grin at the look on Draco's face, Harry tells him no.
'Duel over,' he says, and lets Draco's wand back into his hand.
'And that,' he comments, turning back to the class, 'is why you never underestimate your opponent.'
'Even if they seem like they duel like shit?' Macnair asks? (She's actually an entertaining girl, nothing like her long-deceased uncle, so Harry has learned to not cringe at her name.)
'Language,' he chastises. 'But yes. Especially if they seem like they duel like shit.'
The students are gossiping as they leave, Slytherins mingling among the Gryffindors in a way they never would have when Harry and Draco were their age. Harry almost wishes it had been like that for them, but then, he's not sure it would have been for the best, what with Draco taking the Dark Mark and Harry having to kill his master.
'Had to make me look bad, didn't you? Bloody show off,' Draco grumbles as he crosses the classroom again, lips pursed in disapproval.
Absentminded, Harry responds without thinking. 'You never look bad, and, besides, I guess it just shows you need to practise a little, eh?'
Draco is silent for a moment, and Harry glances over at him, wondering why. He finds the blond staring at him, calculation and something else in the grey eyes, and lifts an eyebrow. 'What? You do need to practise if you don't want to be shown up again. It's embarrassing, Draco. You're a professor and you fight like a sixth year.'
A pink flush rises up the man's neck. 'Excuse me, Potter, for not living up to your expectations. I was trying to teach them a lesson.'
'A lesson in what, letting your guard down? And what's with the "Potter" bit?'
Draco huffs and polishes his wand, removing Harry's fingerprints from the wood. 'Nothing. Just drop it.'
He frowns and faces his partner. 'Draco.'
'Prepare for the second years, will you?'
'Draco, could you look at me for a moment?'
But the blond has his head down, scratching at a sheet of paper with a quill with every bit of his concentration. Well, every bit that's not focused on ignoring Harry.
The second years are filing in, though, and Harry turns to face them, frowning in such a way that an inquisitive Hufflepuff asks if he's quite alright. He is, he assures them, and proceeds to pull out the Grindylow he's captured to teach them about. He distracts himself from worrying about Draco while explaining about the creature's horns and habits, and wishes he could just Vanish them all and force the answer from his colleague.
Instead, he'll have to wait, and somehow Draco will close himself off even more in that time, Harry knows it. He regrets that it's inevitable.
-scenebreak?-
Harry doesn't know how he does it, but a week later, Draco has still managed to-to do whatever the fuck it is that he's doing.
Oh, it seems fine, on the surface. He still calls Harry by his first name, no 'Potter.' He talks to him some at dinner, about their students and lesson plans. They plan, and plan, and plan and classes go without a hitch, and students love it and Harry has never been happier with his teaching before, but. But.
It's all detached. And he cannot tell how he can tell, but he can and Draco.
Draco is different, somehow. They don't talk anymore, not in the way they would, and before, when Harry would zone out during all that planning, Draco would be fine with it, despite the eye-rolls and complaints and comments on lazy Gryffindors. Now he gives a too-polite, 'Please pay attention, Harry.'and okay, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.
But.
After dinner on Friday, Harry approaches him very calmly and asks that they talk.
In actuality, Harry follows Draco to his rooms, using those spying skills that he's ever good at, and locks the door with a spell when Draco finally notices him.
'Wha-Harry, what are you doing here?'
And he can see the surprise in Draco's eyes, the careful shutters coming down over eyes that had been clear for just a moment. Harry doesn't like the shutters. They're keeping him out and keeping Draco in.
'Last week, after our duel, what happened?'
Draco stares at him, swallows, pastes a sneer in place. 'I don't know what you're talking about, Pot-Harry. After the duel you taught the second years about Grindylows or something. Is this a quiz to see how much attention I was paying to your lesson?'
Harry grinds his back teeth together and narrows his eyes. The hand around his wand squeezes and a few deep-green sparks shoot out the end. Draco's gaze falls to watch them flutter to the floor. 'No, Draco, this is me wondering what the hell your problem is. This is me wanting to know why you've closed yourself off. This is me being concernedabout my partner. I'd appreciate a little honesty from you.'
'I'm a Slytherin-we don't do honesty, in case you'd forgotten.' But Draco has turned away, is tugging at his tie as if it's choking him.
'You want to tell me, though. I know you do.'
'You know nothing.' There's a snarl in his voice, and it reminds Harry of a wounded animal.
Harry locks the door to Draco's bedroom with a flick of his wand and disarms the other man, tucking both wands into the waistband of his trousers. Draco turns to face him, glowering, and there's a memory in his eyes that Harry wishes he could see.
'Talk to me, or you're not getting it back until the next lesson when you need it.'
'Talk about what, Harry? I don't understand what you want.'
But he does. They both understand.
'Draco. I want to know what I said that upset you. If it was about you needing more practise, I was teasing you, and if you feel you need it, I'll be happy to help,' he offers, hands splayed at his sides helplessly. He wants to cross the room and smooth Draco's hair back, wants to push Draco's hands aside from where they're still fumbling at his tie. But he can't.
'It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding,' Draco grinds out. He abandons his attempt at the tie.
Cautiously, Harry leans against the arm of a chair and surveys his partner cautiously and coolly, thinking back to his words. He wishes he had a Pensieve here.
'Was it that I compared you to a sixth year?'
And there it is. Draco jerks back slightly, just slightly, before he regains his composure, arms crossed over his chest protectively. Harry's insides hollow as he remembers their own sixth year, the evidence of which is being covered at the moment by Draco's arms. He remembers more of Draco's sixth year, arguably the worst year, and he thinks he knows.
They've not brought up the past. It's nearly taboo for them. They're moving on, forgetting.
But it won't go away.
'Ignoring it won't suddenly make it disappear, Draco,' he says quietly.
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Harry keeps speaking, 'You-wewere kids. We made mistakes, really stupid ones.'
Draco looks into Harry's eyes, finally, and oh, look, there's emotion. Exactly what he's been waiting for.
'You?' He laughs, a hard bark. 'You made no mistakes that year. You were perfect and wonderful-The Chosen One, meant to kill the Dark Lord and save the fucking world. I was worthless, couldn't even do a "simple" task. I cried my woes to a melodramatic ghost in a girl's bathroom. I let Death Eaters into the school. Wedidn't make mistakes. I did. You could do no wrong. You still can't.'
'No one was badly hurt.'
'Oh, and that suddenly makes it better?' Draco's voice is mocking. Harry hasn't heard it that way for a while, not towards him.
'You know I didn't mean it that way. And you say I did everything perfect?' Harry takes a deep breath, steeling himself. 'Look at your chest. There's a very prominent reminder against that.'
Draco says nothing for a minute or so, before, 'That was different.'
'No. It wasn't.'
Draco is silent.
'I'm sorry about this comment, I really am, but you can't exactly hide forever. Especially not at Hogwarts. What are you going to do? Avoid the Room of Requirement? Get nervous whenever you enter a bathroom? Pretend the Tower doesn't exist?'
'Shut up, Potter.'
'I won't. And don't call me Potter. We've moved past that.
'So here's what's going to happen-you will go back to normal. We will teach. There will be laughter. I will not may pay attention, and I will duel unfairly and you will scowl and call me a lazy, bastard Gryffindor. You will scare the children; you will come to me if you need to talk about anything pre-Voldemort-death. And you will stop cringing at the name, hell.'
'Then stop saying it.'
Draco scowls, and all is right with the world.
Well.
Mainly.
-scenebreak?-
The system works. Harry makes sure to bring something up from their own school days at least once a day, if only to remind Draco that it's there, to prevent him from regressing. It's only natural that he begins questioning about Harry's life after Hogwarts, Harry's friends, and Harry asks in return.
It's late, and they each have a stack of essays to grade. Draco sits at his desk in his office, quill in hand, thoughtfully reading through each page and making frustrated noises and violent marks. Harry sprawls sideways in an armchair, his own pile on the floor next to him, absently marking the pages as his legs swing in the air. Draco's office is comfortable, a fire dancing in the grate, magically lit torches flaring lumos-bright light for them to work by.
'So Granger and Weasley are getting married when?' Draco asks, scratching out what looks to be a whole three lines with red ink. Harry is privately amused at his partner's precision-he knows most of the students hope they get Harry as their grader.
'Next June, I think. Not quite sure about the exact date, to be honest, but I've got months to prepare. Do you think that if Lewis didn't go into detail about the most common places to find a Grindylow that I should dock him a few points?'
'Dock him a grade, Harry; that was a point we specifically asked them to cover.'
'He mentioned it. He covered it. It was just… brief.'
Draco looks up at him, and Harry snorts at the look on his face, smiling. 'Fine, fine. But yeah, next June.'
'Who are you planning to take, or do you have any idea yet?'
Harry pauses and frowns thoughtfully at the paper. 'Huh. I hadn't thought about it, to be honest. Do you think I need to know this far in advance?'
He shrugs and stretches out cramped fingers; Harry can't help but watch, his mouth suddenly dry as he remembers a dream he'd had a few days ago. His plans to ignore the dreams-for the most part-are… well, they work occasionally. He still can't control what he thinks at times.
Those times are becoming more and more frequent, if he's honest. At least once a class he gets the urge to touch Draco, to watch his partner without being interrupted, to leave the room and jerk off like one of his students in a loo. It's ridiculous. He can't remember being this attracted to him when they were younger, though, if he's honest, he's always had strong feelings for the blond. Hate transformed easily into lust, though, which is now further tinged with friendship.
And Harry can't help it at all.
At half eleven, Harry stretches out in his armchair and places the last essay from his pile back on the floor with the others, sleepily staring up at the ceiling and listening to the scratching noises made by Draco's quill, the soft mutters of what idiots their students are, the crackle of the wood in the hearth…
He feels the hand on his shoulder even through his shirt. Draco's hands are cold, his fingers long, but his breath is warm as he leans over Harry. 'Oi, wake up, idiot. You're not sleeping in my armchair. You'll have a bloody sore back tomorrow if you do.'
Harry's eyelashes flutter open and he fights a yawn, staring up at Draco's eyes. They're flickering with shadows from the dying fire, embers lighting up the angles of his face, highlighting lips and eyelashes and cheekbones. Draco shakes him lightly, and Harry closes his eyes again, shaking his head and reaching out a hand to latch onto Draco's belt loop. ''m tired. Don' wanna move.'
Draco snorts and attempts to pull away from Harry, who tightens his grip. Harry imagines he hears the blond swallow before the low, soothing voice is coaxing him. 'C'mon, Harry, I'll help you up to your rooms. Put a little effort in, please?'
Effort. Harry needs to put effort into it. If he's going to dream about Draco in both waking and sleeping moments, maybe he needs to acknowledge that, maybe he needs to act on that.
So he pulls.
He pulls at the belt loop, as hard as he can in his mainly-asleep state, and Draco lets out an, 'Oof!' before tumbling down on Harry. He feels nice, all soft and warm and Draco-smelling.
He puts his head up and oh, he's kissing Draco Malfoy.
He thinks that Draco freezes, but that's rather insignificant, obviously, because Draco's lips are as pouty as they look and apparently Malfoys actually do breed well because, Merlin, this is bloody brilliant, this is.
His head is starting to cramp, so he moves his hands up to grasp Draco's hair-that's nice-and eases them down with his head, never moving his lips.
Then he falls back asleep.
-scenebreak?-
He wakes up in his own bed.
When he gets down to the Great Hall for breakfast and sees Draco, he feels like there's something he should remember.
'Mornin', Draco,' he says, grinning. 'How was your night?'
Draco looks at him strangely. 'It was well. You?'
'Okay, I suppose. Thanks for getting me to my room, if that's what you did. Can't really remember much after I finished the papers.'
Clearing his throat, Draco sets his fork down. Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry feels like he's done (or said) something wrong, but he's not sure what.
'What's wrong?'
'Oh, nothing. Just a bit tired.' Putting his cup of coffee up, he adds, 'Working on that.'
Harry nods, but keeps looking at Draco, feeling like he's missing something vital.
'If you stare at me any longer, Harry, people will start to think that something is going on. Wouldn't want that.' Draco grin is sudden and cheeky and Harry flushes red.
'Of course not,' he mumbles, getting back to his porridge.
That cleared any thoughts of possible-relationships. Really, as if Draco would actually want him.
And yet.
Harry wants Draco to want him because, fine, he admits it, he wants Draco. More than is probably healthy.
It's certainly not healthy for his sleeping habits-the dream last night had been the most innocent one of the lot, just a kiss, dimly lighted, comfortable, warm. Harry thinks that, if he ever does find himself involved in a successful relationship, he wants that to be a part of it as well. Lust is all well and good, but…
He sighs. It's not what he and Draco are destined for, at least.
And no matter how many times he tells himself this, nothing can be done. As weeks go on, Harry notices little things, like the way Draco always looks at the back of the classroom before his gaze moves to the front. And Harry notices the trousers his partner wears, the jumpers, the occasional ties-the days when Draco wears ties are worst, because the dreams have taken to this particular item of clothing almost obsessively.
Halloween morning dawns bright and early, light spilling into his bedroom from the east-facing windows. He stretches out with a yawn and, as usual, takes note of the persistent problem under the sheets. He really wishes he could somehow get Draco back for this, but that would be admitting that he feels something, wants something, and he can't do that.
Rejection has never suited him well.
But it's in their fourth year class, where the students are beginning to learn about the Unforgiveables, that Harry realises a contradiction in himself. He's watching Alyssa Marcini, one of the Gryffindors, volunteer to fight off the Imperius Curse, when it hits him.
He's a Gryffindor. Yes, the Hat thought about putting him in Slytherin, but ultimately he ended up at the table across the Great Hall. And he's been acting more Slytherin than Gryffindor, these past few weeks. Slytherins might care about their own self-interest and fear rejection, but a Gryffindor is supposed to be courageous.
He can be self-interested and courageous if he wants to-he can be both.
Draco takes the practical for this part, casting Imperius on Harry as a demonstration, explaining the way Harry throws it off. That he attempted to make Harry pirouette around the room and throw his robes over the chandelier amuses both of them. He turns his wand to Marcini, coaxing her along, while Harry watches him.
He nods, decided.
He's not a coward, and he'll go after what he wants.
'As I'm sure Miss Marcini will be able to tell you, the Imperius is not a pleasant feeling. You lose your entire sense of self; your mind and body belong to the caster of the spell. The stronger the... passion that the other witch or wizard feels, the more difficult it is to throw off the spell.'
A black-haired boy by the last name of Alecio raises his hand and Harry barely refrains from groaning. His questions are rarely appropriate.
'Yes?'
'How many times did you cast Imperio when you were a Death Eater, Professor Malfoy?'
Not bothering to lift his head from the paper that's he's reviewing, Harry lets out, 'Twenty points from Ravenclaw, Mr Alecio.'
'That's not fair!' the boy complains. 'You can't honestly be standing up for him, Mr Potter. He's a Death Eater, sir.'
'Another ten for talking back, and because I'm Professor Potter. Shall we continue? I hear you were hoping for your House to win. It'd be a shame for you to get a hundred points docked in one class.'
Alecio scowls rather impressively, but quiets.
'Thank you. If you would continue, Professor Malfoy?'
Later on that evening, during the Feast, Draco comments, 'You sounded an awful lot like Severus earlier.'
Harry freezes. With all his talk of 'facing the past,' Snape has always been a sore spot.
He tries to smile and shrugs. 'Imagine if he'd heard you saying that.'
'He'd cut my bollocks off and spell them to my forehead.'
Harry cringes. He prefers Draco's nether regions right where they are, thank you, and fucking hell, he's hard again.
-scenebreak?-
He firecalls Hermione that night.
''Mione, I need your advice.'
'Hello to you, too, Harry. How ever was your Halloween?'
'I think I'm falling for Draco and I need ways to woo him,' he blurts out.
Well. That's Gryffindor, in its way-when in doubt, ask Hermione.
One of Hermione's eyebrows rises. 'Do you.'
Belatedly, Harry realises that Hermione and Draco would have gotten along terribly well under different circumstances.
'You don't sound shocked. Why aren't you shocked?'
'Why would I be shocked?'
Harry gapes. Not very adult-like, but that's usually more difficult around Hermione
'Oh, honestly, Harry. You've been flirting with Malfoy since-third year?'
'What? Of course I haven't! I hated him.'
'Sure you did, dear.'
'I did. I just-mainly started now. Why do you think that?'
'We'll finish this later. Ron is here and I doubt that you want to explain your undying love of "Ferret-Face" to him. He's still hoping to set you up with Dean.'
Harry snorts, but is still mulling over Hermione's admission.
They chat about the mundane, about the wedding, about how Ron's Great Auntie Muriel is considering letting Hermione wear the goblin-made tiara. Frankly, Harry doesn't care that much for the details, but he listens patiently nonetheless, smiling. At least his two best friends are happy, as they deserve.
He ends the firecall soon after, lying back on the rug and staring up at the ceiling above him. He thinks back to what she'd said. Has he really been flirting with Draco since third year?
It's true their relationship has always been intense, and from a certain view point it could look like a version of pulling pigtails…
And he admits it. He has. All the stalking sixth year… half of his motive had been unknown to him at the time.
Now he's working with Draco, in close quarters, and dreaming very active dreams. He's aware, oh so aware, of just how attractive he finds his partner, aware of just how much he wishes Draco could return his interest.
He sits up, then, and frowns thoughtfully at the robes he'd tossed over the back of a chair. Draco had tried to make him strip today, though it was only for a bit of a laugh. Harry decides to take this in a positive light, and tries to recall anything else he can twist into evidence of mutual attraction.
He's aware that it's desperate, but at this point he really doesn't fucking care all that much. What little pride he has is being pushed aside by desire and something warmer that is less about sex and more about Draco.
Hermione hadn't given him advice, but, then, she wasn't the one interested in a relationship, or the one that knew Draco in the same way he did.
Nodding resolutely, Harry gets to his feet, grabs a bottle of firewhiskey from the cabinet in his room, hides it under his robes, and finds himself standing at Draco's door some minutes later. His partner lets him in with a mildly surprised lift of his eyebrows, but gamely summons tumblers for them both as they take their respective seats.
'Firewhiskey, Harry? Any special occasion?' Draco asks, watching as Harry pours some into his glass.
'Maybe,' Harry admits, and smiles over the rim of his glass. He's gratified to watch Draco's eyes widen, just slightly, before the other man cocks his head curiously. 'A toast, to what has been and what might come?'
Draco gives him that strange look again, but repeats the words, all the same.
It doesn't come to him until after the first drink is finished and Draco is refilling the glasses, but it comes. And the end of the night, he walks out of the room far more sober than Draco. Sure, he'd taken a few sips every now and then, to keep up the charade when Draco is closely looking, but mainly-mainly, he wordlessly charms the glass to periodically empty.
Steels himself.
And he talks, under the disguise of 'drunk confessions.'
'Y'know, Her-Herman-Mermonynee!' he exclaims, sloppily grinning at his 'accomplishment' and continues. 'T'was talkin' to her, I was. Sh-can you believe, she said, Hermanfanny, she told me-that I've been flirting with ya since-since third year. S'crazy, her. Real crazy.'
'Kinda-kinda hot for a bloke, Drake.'
''Member sixth year, when t'was sta-stalking you? Think I liked ya even then. Know, righ'? Think 'Hanmyne co-correct.'
'Had a dream last night abou' suckin' you off. D'ya like that, Draco?'
'Can-can I fu-fuck-shh, don't tell no one-you some-something, no, sometime? Be nice, bein' inside you.'
'Yer fucking pretty, y'know that, Draco?'
Before he leaves, he Conjures a Sobriety Potion and convinces Draco to drink it. In the morning, the other male will remember everything.
Everything.
He thinks he might vomit. It's all nerves.
-scenebreak?-
Harry opens his eyes the next morning, blinks once peacefully, and then his insides turn to glass and he remembers. 'Shit,' he groans, rubbing hands over his eyes. 'What the hell was I thinking?'
But he knows what he was thinking. He knows oh so well.
He's slow to get ready that morning, taking his time in the shower, straightening his tie obsessively, tying his shoes by hand. Harry dreads appearing at the breakfast table as if nothing had happened. Or should he act as if something did happen? He stands up and grabs his wand, leaves the room, muttering to himself all the while.
He realises that taking his time was a bad idea when he enters the Great Hall and discovers that Draco has beaten him to the table. The other man looks bad-for him-with dark circles under his eyes and mussed hair.
It's the hair that really strikes Harry though, as he slowly makes his way to his spot. Draco's hair is never messy. That he'd forgotten to do it, or had messed it up by running his hands through it, says almost more than Harry said last night. He winces at the memory of the 'drunk' words he had slurred as he drops into his seat. His neck and face feel too warm; he knows he's blushing a horrendous shade.
It's a moment, in which he sits immobile, before he turns slowly to face his partner, who is staring with astonishing attentiveness at the margarine. But then Draco is lifting his eyes to Harry's face, and they're both glancing away as if someone's cauldron has exploded and called their attention.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry thinks, taking a deep breath and unclenching his jaw. Why am I such an idiot? Why didn't I wait for Hermione to help?
He startles when he reaches out to pour himself a cup of orange juice-a hand had brushed against the side of his thigh, light, tentative. He barely manages to catch the goblet before it tips over.
Harry turns to stare at Draco, who is tentatively grimacing at him. 'Er… sorry for startling you.'
He can't help it-he snorts. After all of it, he gets that as a response.
Draco flushes, gently pink, and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. He looks like he'd like to disappear into the floor, drop through it like a ghost, and Harry reaches out, sets a hand on his forearm as if to prevent it. 'How're you feeling?'
The blond lets his free hand drop to the table and frowns at Harry. 'Like shit, obviously. Do you have any idea what that damn firewhiskey did to me?'
Harry's eyebrows lift in amusement. 'No, I wasn't aware the alcohol could actually be active.'
Draco rolls his eyes, leans slightly closer, until Harry's breath catches in his chest. 'Potter, I swear on Salazar's grave, if you ever do that to me again, I will curse your nose off. You'll look like the Dark Lord after I'm through with you. See how many admirers you gather then.'
He bites back a laugh and shakes his head. 'What, precisely, do you mean by "that?" Can you elaborate?'
'The getting me pissed on a school night that,' Draco responds, adding air quotes for good measure.
Harry contemplates, bites his lip, and dives. 'So, not the part about me spouting off, er, decidedly embarrassing things to you-about you?'
Draco freezes for a moment and then glances at Harry again. His hair is falling in his eyes; Harry wants to push it back for him. He keeps his hands on the table in front of him.
'What do you think?'
'I thought you were under the impression that I don't think at all?' His voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but. If you hate me, just tell me. Please. I can't stand it. I want you too much. I want you. I want you. I want you.
'Even you could have figured out a smoother way to tell me, Harry. But,' and fuckfuckfuckfuck, that's not good, fuck, 'I need to think about that. You just-fucking sprung it up on me, Harry. I need to think about what I'm going to do. Do you understand?'
Harry deflates.
'Yeah. I understand,' he whispers, before not-so-subtly turning to engage Filius in conversation.
I don't understand. I don't. I don't. I don't. I want you, I want you, I want you.
Please, want me. I want you to want me, too.
-scenebreak?-
That night, he really does get drunk.