fic: harry/draco
I made myself write fic before Deathly Hallows - HD before DH, that's what the title of this fic was for a long time. :D
Title: there are things we never will define
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Notes:
photogene kept me from convincing myself that this didn't make sense, t.s. eliot provided lovely poetry, and the shins provided a title. feedback is my crack.
The sun is shining and the rain is coming down in sheets and you think it feels like the world is coming to an end. Hermione smiles at you like you're a small child, indulging you your insanity, and you realize you've spoken aloud. You have a fleeting urge to explain about hyperbole and metaphor (though where the academic terms came from, you can't be sure), because you're not crazy.
Not yet.
Anyway, you think, if Hermione has to ask then she doesn't understand. For the last seven years you've been surrounded by people like you, people who get you, but recently the first ten years of your life have come back to haunt you and you feel like you're back at Privet Drive, nobody understands you and you're screaming at the top of your lungs.
Sometimes you wake up in the early morning and your throat is rubbed raw. On those mornings, no one will quite look you in the eye.
Today is one of those mornings; Hermione avoids your eyes and flinces when your voice catches a little and Ron glances at you when he thinks you're not looking. Still, no one ever speaks about it and sometimes you think you might explode from the force of everything that everyone is not saying. Hermione's researching ways to kill Voldemort but no one ever says kill and Ron's reading about horcruxes but no one ever mentions immortality, and still no one knows if Hogwarts will reopen, so even though you're of age, they won't let you join the Order. Your very existence is sanitized.
Despite the weather apocalypse, you're lying on the roof of Grimmauld Place, it's absolutely filthy and the dirt feels gritty beneath you. The rain feels like little bullets against your skin; you fling your glasses somewhere to the left and don't hear them land. The rain drowns out the sound of everything and the sunlight is blinding you.
You realize that you're useless until anyone actually decides to do something (and even then you're to be protected), that's why you can practically drown yourself in the rain and your own melodrama without so much as someone wondering where you are.
You conjure red sparks with a flick of your wand and they fall limply to the ground, extinguished in the rain.
(Melodrama, you think. Melodrama.)
*
On your way to breakfast one morning, you nearly trip over Draco Malfoy in the drawing room, and you wonder if maybe someone forgot to tell you something.
You have a spectacular argument with Hermione in the kitchen, and when you yell, "Couldn't you at least have told me?" your voice breaks and she flinches.
A smooth drawl interrupts Hermione's excuses. "Contrary to popular belief, Potter, the universe does not actually revolve around you." Malfoy's standing in the kitchen doorway, paler than the last time you saw him but still surrounded by an aristocratic air. His eyes flick derisively over your rain-spotted clothing (it's been raining every day this week and you can't get enough of it) before continuing, "I'd get something for your throat, if I were you."
Hermione's voice tightens into a whisper when Malfoy saunters out of the kitchen. "Harry, you've had so much stress lately-"
"Right, and this won't cause any stress at all-"
"-and Ron and I didn't want to bother you, we know you're really upset about Dum-" Hermione stops herself on the last word, like you're going to jinx her for saying it. She presses her lips together into a tight line before continuing. "Anyway, Snape said-"
You've been staring into the fire on the opposite side of the room, but at this you turn to stare at Hermione. "Snape? Snape? Don't tell me you actually trust him, Hermione, you know he-"
She interrupts you again. It feels like neither of you have been able to complete a single sentence. "Harry, you know that the Order trusts him, they've at least told us that much. Moody questioned him with Veritaserum the night he returned, remember?"
You're unable to form an answer to this and Hermione barrels on regardless. "So, Snape said that it's perfectly safe, Dumbledore offered him protection and the best Aurors in the world are going to keep Voldemort from looking for him." She pauses and glances at the doorway of the kitchen. "Look, Harry, he's done horrible things to us in school, but this is the only protection he has right now."
Inexplicably, you find yourself asking, "What about his mum?"
Hermione looks at you blankly, and it's clear that she didn't expect you to give in so easily. "I expect she's been protected as well," she says uncertainly. "Harry - well, it would be really nice if you could be civil to him." She gives you a pleading look as she leaves the kitchen.
*
Not two days after your own argument with Hermione, you find Ron in the same situtation. They're standing in the library, or what serves as a library in this place, and for a minute you wonder why they're arguing if Ron knew about Malfoy in the first place. Then Ron says something about Mudbloods and Malfoy's behavior and you realize he agreed to the protection, but not to the civility.
"Hermione, this is just like spew."
"S.P.E.W.," she says shortly, looking at the titles of the books without turning around. "And what is that supposed to mean, Ronald?"
"It means you're predisposed to helping things that don't want to be helped! Merlin, Malfoy's spent six years treating you like scum - worse than scum - and you act like he's never once in his life called you a Mudblood!"
"It's called being civil," she says, fiercely pulling a book off the shelf.
Ron rolls his eyes as he catches sight of you in the doorway. "You're unbelievable."
"Besides," Hermione continues, turning to glare at Ron, "Snape said that he asked about Dumbledore's protection willingly. I had nothing to do with this."
"See, Potter?" a voice in your ear asks, and you whirl around to see Malfoy leaning against the wall, smirking like all hell.
"What do you want?" you sneer, for as much as you had pitied him as you wondered about Voldemort's punishments, now he has nothing to worry about and is just as irritating as ever. Besides, your dreams have been reflecting those of fourth year and all you can see when you sleep is Dumbledore surrounded by jets of green light.
Malfoy's smirk never wavers. "Stop blaming Granger. Just because you have a personal vendetta is no reason to take it out on her."
"Right," you raise your eyebrows, unbelievably surprised at Malfoy's protection of Hermione. "I'll take it out on you instead."
Malfoy's eyes turn cold and sharp. "You've already done that," he says icily. "And I think I've had my fill of Dark magic for now, thanks."
A cold ball of fury forms in the pit of your stomach; it feels like the type of emotion you used to feel around Ginny, but it's changed. You're angry at Malfoy for bringing it up, but mostly you're angry at yourself for an unknown spell and Dark magic and chalk-white, bloodstained flesh. The air feels charged as you glare at Malfoy from the opposite side of the hall, unable to direct your anger into your painfully dry mouth.
Your fingers dig into the sides of your jeans, and Malfoy stands there, pale and cold. You have no more anger to direct to Malfoy, and you stand there hating yourself in silence. It feels as if the weeks of suppressing your emotions and watching Ron and Hermione do the same has finally caught up with you, and your inability to say anything just makes you hate yourself more.
Eventually, he disappears down the hall and you sag against the wall with something like relief. Your hate for Malfoy is gone, and you feel strangely bereft.
*
You wake up drenched in sweat, which is nothing new. The air in the room feels close and sticky, and Ron's snores cut through the silence like a knife. In the dark, you make your way down the stairs and press your face against the large windows in the drawing room. It's raining steadily and rolls of thunder rumble far off in the distance.
Barefoot, you walk outside through the wet grass and you're instantly soaked. It's different, though, and it feels like relief rather than danger. For some reason, rain makes you feel alive.
You're dangerously on your way to melodrama again, for the commotion of Malfoy's arrival has only dimmed your feelings of uselessness. Now, without any hatred of Malfoy or annoyance at Hermione, you feel again like nothing matters.
As you turn back to the house, a pale spot in the window surprises you, and when you get closer you realize that it's Malfoy. You watch him from beside the gate leading up to the door and he looks back, cocking his head slightly as he realizes the downpour. He mouths something and you can't hear what he says, so he rolls his eyes and opens the door just enough to look out.
"Come the fuck inside, Potter."
"Why?" you yell back over the sound of the rain.
Malfoy steps out onto the covered front step. "Because if you catch something and die, it'll somehow be my fault. I don't want to invoke the wrath of Granger." He grins, flashing his teeth. "Or worse, Weasley."
You try so hard to detect derision in his voice, but either the rain is too loud or it's just not there. You want so much to hate him, but something has gone missing, so you shrug and step inside the house. Malfoy looks surprised to see you obeying his orders, and you inwardly smirk at your ability to unsettle him.
"What are you doing up this late?" you ask. It's none of your business, but the air is already crowding your esophagus and it feels like you're suffocating slowly.
"Wanking over you," Malfoy says with a smooth smirk.
You narrow your eyes and feel a flicker of old hatred. "Funny."
"Isn't it?" Malfoy asks, tilting his head a little to the left.
You shake your head and turn around, wanting to move and feel cool air on your face. "I don't have time for this. Merlin, Voldemort's trying to kill us and you're suddenly trying to be civil and have some twisted kind of conversation?" The words come up suddenly, spilling out of your mouth backed by quiet indifference.
Malfoy's mouth twists like he's trying not to laugh; you can see the pale pink line in the corner of your eye. "Stop being so melodramatic, Potter," and he continues, but all you hear is melodrama, melodrama, melodrama echoing in your head like the sound of a beating drum.
You pace the length of the drawing room, portraits eyeing you and muttering between themselves, and the beat becomes your footsteps.
Malfoy's still talking and you hear him say Dumbledore, and you've never liked it when Hermione and Ron censor themselves but hearing Malfoy say it is five hundred times worse.
You see green light behind your eyelids again and Dumbledore's body falling off the Astronomy Tower, and your hatred is all for Snape but Malfoy is the only one available. "Shut up," you hiss, clutching the handle of your wand inside your pocket. "I don't care if you wouldn't have killed him, you're a Death Eater, you're just like your father-" The words keep coming and you hardly notice when Malfoy draws his wand.
"I am so tired of being civil to you," he manages from between clenched teeth, and his wand arm shakes.
"Is that what you call it, then?" you ask, sarcasm dripping from your voice because you're so fucking happy, so incredibly happy in a way that makes your stomach twist with fear because suddenly, Malfoy's anger makes it okay to hate him again. You smile with all the niceties gone, "Go on, curse me if it'll make you happier."
Malfoy flicks his wand and you're thrown backward onto the floor, one arm twisted behind you and popping in a way you're not sure is supposed to happen. You gingerly wave your wand with the injured arm, and suddenly Malfoy's on top of you. It feels like it was the magic because it happens so fast, but you didn't say a spell so you can't be sure.
Malfoy's hot breath is in your ear and you're punching at his upper body because you've lost your wand, trying to kick against his legs but he's pinned you down.
Killing into kissing, you think idly, and then blink because you have no idea why you thought it.
The bare skin of your lower back where your shirt has ridden up is starting to burn from the rough carpet and your arms are sore from fighting against Malfoy's struggles, so it feels a little like he's read your mind when he suddenly stops fighting. "This is childish," he smirks from above you, still pinning your legs to the floor.
"I agree," you say a little breathlessly; Malfoy's taller than you and his chest is crushing yours a little painfully.
His eyes have seemed to stop radiating anger and almost immediately you feel your own anger leave you. It's not fair, this odd effect he seems to have on you. It's as if whatever emotion he has, you must match it.
You regard him warily. "Are we being civil again, then?"
Malfoy smiles slowly and there's a little something off in his eyes. "In a way," he says almost hesitantly, and as he's leaning closer and closer your mind starts to sing an old rhyme from childhood, potter and malfoy sitting in a tree,
you can feel his calm and controlled breath on your neck,
k-i-l-l-i-n-g,
and there's still remnants of anger in his eyes,
k-i-s-s-i-n-g,
and despite all your melodrama, the stuff that makes you think in bad poetry, it feels as unpoetic as a single moment could possibly be.
*
You wake up screaming in the middle of the night and Malfoy looks startled, possibly because no one has told him this happens to you. You tell him that it happens sometimes, maybe more in gestures than in words, a hand on his shoulder, a shake of your head.
He says, "Get a grip."
"Bugger off." You don't want to fall back asleep.
"Okay."
"I don't mean for this to happen, you know."
"Obviously. I daresay you've got enough attention already."
You don't want to go back to sleep. You bury your face in your hands and concentrate on clearing your mind, like fifth year Occlumency lessons, until your deep breaths coincide with the feel of Malfoy's shifting body and his hands sliding down your chest.
In the morning, Malfoy finds you on the roof. It's raining again, that's no surprise, and your eyes are closed but you can feel him looking at you.
"What do you do out here, Potter?" he asks, casting scourgify at the dirty roof before lying down beside you.
You shrug and open your eyes. Your glasses are blurred because of the rain, and Malfoy looks like a blurry spot of white. "This."
"Granger thinks you're devising ways to kill yourself."
"She would," you mutter, and then you turn and squint at him. "You talk to Hermione?"
He nods, a pleased expression on his face. "I do it to annoy Weasley."
For some reason, you find yourself touching his hand, the one that isn't shielding his eyes from the rain. He moves it away and you do it again, that not saying things habit forming a barrier between the two of you.
He turns to look at you, an odd expression on his face, and says, "Come off it, Potter, the romantic streak isn't like you."
You almost laugh, that's how far off the mark he is. "Who said anything about romance?" The words come unbidden, and once again you find yourself saying things you don't mean to say, fueled by the unless hours of keeping them inside. "I have been trapped in this house for weeks, unable to do anything useful for anyone because I'm always being protected, unable to join the - the others against Voldemort," you rush on because you can't trust yourself to keep secrets, "and every time I want to actually do something, Ron and Hermione tell me I'm too stressed and it's not good for me, and sometimes I don't even have any nightmares, I just scream because I'm so fucking trapped."
You break off, breathing deeply, and sit up. "I think I've been so concerned about being melodramatic that I forget how much of it is true."
Malfoy doesn't say anything, but he puts his hand on your shoulder and it's almost the same.
*
In October, it snows in London. You're in London because you can't go back to Hogwarts, but some things have changed and it looks like there might be a lead on a horcrux.
The snow is falling softly and the air feels so cold that everything might freeze, inch by inch. It feels like the world is ending and you say this to Malfoy, leaning against his shoulder exactly the way he hates.
"The world is ending, Potter," he says, and he blinks snow from his eyelashes.
You clutch his hand tightly and he glares at you because he hates it, but it's cold and you have no gloves.
"The world has been ending since the beginning of time," you say, because it sounds like it makes sense even if it sort of doesn't.
Malfoy breathes frozen breath against your hair, you think it's a laugh, and you know he must have read the same book that Hermione had quoted at you once.
"This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper," he quotes softly, and it sounds like poetry even if you're not sure what it is.
And you realize, Malfoy understands.
Title: there are things we never will define
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Notes:
photogene kept me from convincing myself that this didn't make sense, t.s. eliot provided lovely poetry, and the shins provided a title. feedback is my crack.
The sun is shining and the rain is coming down in sheets and you think it feels like the world is coming to an end. Hermione smiles at you like you're a small child, indulging you your insanity, and you realize you've spoken aloud. You have a fleeting urge to explain about hyperbole and metaphor (though where the academic terms came from, you can't be sure), because you're not crazy.
Not yet.
Anyway, you think, if Hermione has to ask then she doesn't understand. For the last seven years you've been surrounded by people like you, people who get you, but recently the first ten years of your life have come back to haunt you and you feel like you're back at Privet Drive, nobody understands you and you're screaming at the top of your lungs.
Sometimes you wake up in the early morning and your throat is rubbed raw. On those mornings, no one will quite look you in the eye.
Today is one of those mornings; Hermione avoids your eyes and flinces when your voice catches a little and Ron glances at you when he thinks you're not looking. Still, no one ever speaks about it and sometimes you think you might explode from the force of everything that everyone is not saying. Hermione's researching ways to kill Voldemort but no one ever says kill and Ron's reading about horcruxes but no one ever mentions immortality, and still no one knows if Hogwarts will reopen, so even though you're of age, they won't let you join the Order. Your very existence is sanitized.
Despite the weather apocalypse, you're lying on the roof of Grimmauld Place, it's absolutely filthy and the dirt feels gritty beneath you. The rain feels like little bullets against your skin; you fling your glasses somewhere to the left and don't hear them land. The rain drowns out the sound of everything and the sunlight is blinding you.
You realize that you're useless until anyone actually decides to do something (and even then you're to be protected), that's why you can practically drown yourself in the rain and your own melodrama without so much as someone wondering where you are.
You conjure red sparks with a flick of your wand and they fall limply to the ground, extinguished in the rain.
(Melodrama, you think. Melodrama.)
*
On your way to breakfast one morning, you nearly trip over Draco Malfoy in the drawing room, and you wonder if maybe someone forgot to tell you something.
You have a spectacular argument with Hermione in the kitchen, and when you yell, "Couldn't you at least have told me?" your voice breaks and she flinches.
A smooth drawl interrupts Hermione's excuses. "Contrary to popular belief, Potter, the universe does not actually revolve around you." Malfoy's standing in the kitchen doorway, paler than the last time you saw him but still surrounded by an aristocratic air. His eyes flick derisively over your rain-spotted clothing (it's been raining every day this week and you can't get enough of it) before continuing, "I'd get something for your throat, if I were you."
Hermione's voice tightens into a whisper when Malfoy saunters out of the kitchen. "Harry, you've had so much stress lately-"
"Right, and this won't cause any stress at all-"
"-and Ron and I didn't want to bother you, we know you're really upset about Dum-" Hermione stops herself on the last word, like you're going to jinx her for saying it. She presses her lips together into a tight line before continuing. "Anyway, Snape said-"
You've been staring into the fire on the opposite side of the room, but at this you turn to stare at Hermione. "Snape? Snape? Don't tell me you actually trust him, Hermione, you know he-"
She interrupts you again. It feels like neither of you have been able to complete a single sentence. "Harry, you know that the Order trusts him, they've at least told us that much. Moody questioned him with Veritaserum the night he returned, remember?"
You're unable to form an answer to this and Hermione barrels on regardless. "So, Snape said that it's perfectly safe, Dumbledore offered him protection and the best Aurors in the world are going to keep Voldemort from looking for him." She pauses and glances at the doorway of the kitchen. "Look, Harry, he's done horrible things to us in school, but this is the only protection he has right now."
Inexplicably, you find yourself asking, "What about his mum?"
Hermione looks at you blankly, and it's clear that she didn't expect you to give in so easily. "I expect she's been protected as well," she says uncertainly. "Harry - well, it would be really nice if you could be civil to him." She gives you a pleading look as she leaves the kitchen.
*
Not two days after your own argument with Hermione, you find Ron in the same situtation. They're standing in the library, or what serves as a library in this place, and for a minute you wonder why they're arguing if Ron knew about Malfoy in the first place. Then Ron says something about Mudbloods and Malfoy's behavior and you realize he agreed to the protection, but not to the civility.
"Hermione, this is just like spew."
"S.P.E.W.," she says shortly, looking at the titles of the books without turning around. "And what is that supposed to mean, Ronald?"
"It means you're predisposed to helping things that don't want to be helped! Merlin, Malfoy's spent six years treating you like scum - worse than scum - and you act like he's never once in his life called you a Mudblood!"
"It's called being civil," she says, fiercely pulling a book off the shelf.
Ron rolls his eyes as he catches sight of you in the doorway. "You're unbelievable."
"Besides," Hermione continues, turning to glare at Ron, "Snape said that he asked about Dumbledore's protection willingly. I had nothing to do with this."
"See, Potter?" a voice in your ear asks, and you whirl around to see Malfoy leaning against the wall, smirking like all hell.
"What do you want?" you sneer, for as much as you had pitied him as you wondered about Voldemort's punishments, now he has nothing to worry about and is just as irritating as ever. Besides, your dreams have been reflecting those of fourth year and all you can see when you sleep is Dumbledore surrounded by jets of green light.
Malfoy's smirk never wavers. "Stop blaming Granger. Just because you have a personal vendetta is no reason to take it out on her."
"Right," you raise your eyebrows, unbelievably surprised at Malfoy's protection of Hermione. "I'll take it out on you instead."
Malfoy's eyes turn cold and sharp. "You've already done that," he says icily. "And I think I've had my fill of Dark magic for now, thanks."
A cold ball of fury forms in the pit of your stomach; it feels like the type of emotion you used to feel around Ginny, but it's changed. You're angry at Malfoy for bringing it up, but mostly you're angry at yourself for an unknown spell and Dark magic and chalk-white, bloodstained flesh. The air feels charged as you glare at Malfoy from the opposite side of the hall, unable to direct your anger into your painfully dry mouth.
Your fingers dig into the sides of your jeans, and Malfoy stands there, pale and cold. You have no more anger to direct to Malfoy, and you stand there hating yourself in silence. It feels as if the weeks of suppressing your emotions and watching Ron and Hermione do the same has finally caught up with you, and your inability to say anything just makes you hate yourself more.
Eventually, he disappears down the hall and you sag against the wall with something like relief. Your hate for Malfoy is gone, and you feel strangely bereft.
*
You wake up drenched in sweat, which is nothing new. The air in the room feels close and sticky, and Ron's snores cut through the silence like a knife. In the dark, you make your way down the stairs and press your face against the large windows in the drawing room. It's raining steadily and rolls of thunder rumble far off in the distance.
Barefoot, you walk outside through the wet grass and you're instantly soaked. It's different, though, and it feels like relief rather than danger. For some reason, rain makes you feel alive.
You're dangerously on your way to melodrama again, for the commotion of Malfoy's arrival has only dimmed your feelings of uselessness. Now, without any hatred of Malfoy or annoyance at Hermione, you feel again like nothing matters.
As you turn back to the house, a pale spot in the window surprises you, and when you get closer you realize that it's Malfoy. You watch him from beside the gate leading up to the door and he looks back, cocking his head slightly as he realizes the downpour. He mouths something and you can't hear what he says, so he rolls his eyes and opens the door just enough to look out.
"Come the fuck inside, Potter."
"Why?" you yell back over the sound of the rain.
Malfoy steps out onto the covered front step. "Because if you catch something and die, it'll somehow be my fault. I don't want to invoke the wrath of Granger." He grins, flashing his teeth. "Or worse, Weasley."
You try so hard to detect derision in his voice, but either the rain is too loud or it's just not there. You want so much to hate him, but something has gone missing, so you shrug and step inside the house. Malfoy looks surprised to see you obeying his orders, and you inwardly smirk at your ability to unsettle him.
"What are you doing up this late?" you ask. It's none of your business, but the air is already crowding your esophagus and it feels like you're suffocating slowly.
"Wanking over you," Malfoy says with a smooth smirk.
You narrow your eyes and feel a flicker of old hatred. "Funny."
"Isn't it?" Malfoy asks, tilting his head a little to the left.
You shake your head and turn around, wanting to move and feel cool air on your face. "I don't have time for this. Merlin, Voldemort's trying to kill us and you're suddenly trying to be civil and have some twisted kind of conversation?" The words come up suddenly, spilling out of your mouth backed by quiet indifference.
Malfoy's mouth twists like he's trying not to laugh; you can see the pale pink line in the corner of your eye. "Stop being so melodramatic, Potter," and he continues, but all you hear is melodrama, melodrama, melodrama echoing in your head like the sound of a beating drum.
You pace the length of the drawing room, portraits eyeing you and muttering between themselves, and the beat becomes your footsteps.
Malfoy's still talking and you hear him say Dumbledore, and you've never liked it when Hermione and Ron censor themselves but hearing Malfoy say it is five hundred times worse.
You see green light behind your eyelids again and Dumbledore's body falling off the Astronomy Tower, and your hatred is all for Snape but Malfoy is the only one available. "Shut up," you hiss, clutching the handle of your wand inside your pocket. "I don't care if you wouldn't have killed him, you're a Death Eater, you're just like your father-" The words keep coming and you hardly notice when Malfoy draws his wand.
"I am so tired of being civil to you," he manages from between clenched teeth, and his wand arm shakes.
"Is that what you call it, then?" you ask, sarcasm dripping from your voice because you're so fucking happy, so incredibly happy in a way that makes your stomach twist with fear because suddenly, Malfoy's anger makes it okay to hate him again. You smile with all the niceties gone, "Go on, curse me if it'll make you happier."
Malfoy flicks his wand and you're thrown backward onto the floor, one arm twisted behind you and popping in a way you're not sure is supposed to happen. You gingerly wave your wand with the injured arm, and suddenly Malfoy's on top of you. It feels like it was the magic because it happens so fast, but you didn't say a spell so you can't be sure.
Malfoy's hot breath is in your ear and you're punching at his upper body because you've lost your wand, trying to kick against his legs but he's pinned you down.
Killing into kissing, you think idly, and then blink because you have no idea why you thought it.
The bare skin of your lower back where your shirt has ridden up is starting to burn from the rough carpet and your arms are sore from fighting against Malfoy's struggles, so it feels a little like he's read your mind when he suddenly stops fighting. "This is childish," he smirks from above you, still pinning your legs to the floor.
"I agree," you say a little breathlessly; Malfoy's taller than you and his chest is crushing yours a little painfully.
His eyes have seemed to stop radiating anger and almost immediately you feel your own anger leave you. It's not fair, this odd effect he seems to have on you. It's as if whatever emotion he has, you must match it.
You regard him warily. "Are we being civil again, then?"
Malfoy smiles slowly and there's a little something off in his eyes. "In a way," he says almost hesitantly, and as he's leaning closer and closer your mind starts to sing an old rhyme from childhood, potter and malfoy sitting in a tree,
you can feel his calm and controlled breath on your neck,
k-i-l-l-i-n-g,
and there's still remnants of anger in his eyes,
k-i-s-s-i-n-g,
and despite all your melodrama, the stuff that makes you think in bad poetry, it feels as unpoetic as a single moment could possibly be.
*
You wake up screaming in the middle of the night and Malfoy looks startled, possibly because no one has told him this happens to you. You tell him that it happens sometimes, maybe more in gestures than in words, a hand on his shoulder, a shake of your head.
He says, "Get a grip."
"Bugger off." You don't want to fall back asleep.
"Okay."
"I don't mean for this to happen, you know."
"Obviously. I daresay you've got enough attention already."
You don't want to go back to sleep. You bury your face in your hands and concentrate on clearing your mind, like fifth year Occlumency lessons, until your deep breaths coincide with the feel of Malfoy's shifting body and his hands sliding down your chest.
In the morning, Malfoy finds you on the roof. It's raining again, that's no surprise, and your eyes are closed but you can feel him looking at you.
"What do you do out here, Potter?" he asks, casting scourgify at the dirty roof before lying down beside you.
You shrug and open your eyes. Your glasses are blurred because of the rain, and Malfoy looks like a blurry spot of white. "This."
"Granger thinks you're devising ways to kill yourself."
"She would," you mutter, and then you turn and squint at him. "You talk to Hermione?"
He nods, a pleased expression on his face. "I do it to annoy Weasley."
For some reason, you find yourself touching his hand, the one that isn't shielding his eyes from the rain. He moves it away and you do it again, that not saying things habit forming a barrier between the two of you.
He turns to look at you, an odd expression on his face, and says, "Come off it, Potter, the romantic streak isn't like you."
You almost laugh, that's how far off the mark he is. "Who said anything about romance?" The words come unbidden, and once again you find yourself saying things you don't mean to say, fueled by the unless hours of keeping them inside. "I have been trapped in this house for weeks, unable to do anything useful for anyone because I'm always being protected, unable to join the - the others against Voldemort," you rush on because you can't trust yourself to keep secrets, "and every time I want to actually do something, Ron and Hermione tell me I'm too stressed and it's not good for me, and sometimes I don't even have any nightmares, I just scream because I'm so fucking trapped."
You break off, breathing deeply, and sit up. "I think I've been so concerned about being melodramatic that I forget how much of it is true."
Malfoy doesn't say anything, but he puts his hand on your shoulder and it's almost the same.
*
In October, it snows in London. You're in London because you can't go back to Hogwarts, but some things have changed and it looks like there might be a lead on a horcrux.
The snow is falling softly and the air feels so cold that everything might freeze, inch by inch. It feels like the world is ending and you say this to Malfoy, leaning against his shoulder exactly the way he hates.
"The world is ending, Potter," he says, and he blinks snow from his eyelashes.
You clutch his hand tightly and he glares at you because he hates it, but it's cold and you have no gloves.
"The world has been ending since the beginning of time," you say, because it sounds like it makes sense even if it sort of doesn't.
Malfoy breathes frozen breath against your hair, you think it's a laugh, and you know he must have read the same book that Hermione had quoted at you once.
"This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper," he quotes softly, and it sounds like poetry even if you're not sure what it is.
And you realize, Malfoy understands.