(no subject)

[__serpiente]

Draco closed his eyes, resting his chin on his knees. He ignored the ache in his stomach from not eating, and the ache in his back from sitting by the pond all day, and the ache in his heart from the day's date. Today was his mother's birthday. She would have been twenty-five - again - and they would have had a grand party with that string quartet she loved, and after everything was over, she and Draco would have had extra peppermint sticks on her balcony.

Except none of that would ever happen again.

The ache in Draco’s chest throbbed, and he made a noise that could be considered a sob, only Malfoys did not cry while curled up in a ball alone by the side of a lake. Of course, Malfoys didn’t spend their summers taking Muggle Studies to become an Auror while living with Weasleys. But he was still very much not crying. It didn’t count as crying if there were no tears.
*
The sun was slung low in the belly of the sky, gradually turning to a warm, faded orange that bled outward into the horizon, caressing the tops of trees and the hills in the distance. Twilight was lazily moving in from the opposite direction, soaking up the dying light of day as Harry watched from the Burrow's kitchen window, his hands busy with the washing-up, his mind following the sunset down the dusty brown road that led through the wood and to the swimming hole.

Malfoy had been gone all day, since before most of the household had been awake. Harry had seen the path of his footsteps in the wet grass when he himself got up to take an early-morning piss, but those had gone away with the coming of the sun, and now that it was setting again with no sign of a return, he was getting distinctly worried. It was a strange thing, this worrying about Malfoy - a foreign thing. Harry found himself wondering whether the other boy had eaten at all since his departure, whether he had taken clothes that would be suitable for the considerable coolness of dusk. Mrs. Weasley would be proud.

Sighing, Harry put down the soapy plate he was holding. The dishes could wait another hour or two, but his curiosity to know where Malfoy had gone apparently could not. Rummaging through the hall closet, Harry found an old army jacket of Ron's that had patches on the elbow and the word RON stitched across one of the pockets in magenta thread. He shrugged it on, chuckling a little at how it hung on him, reaching almost to mid-thigh. After a moment he located another jacket that looked like it might fit Malfoy, sort of, this one leather and bearing a few disconcerting scorch marks; a relic of Charlie's, no doubt. As an afterthought, Harry snuck into the pantry and nicked a few biscuits and a pair of Butterbeers to put in the pockets of Ron's coat.

He was surprised how easily he could navigate his way to the pond in the almost-dark - but then again, he'd made this particular journey many times when the night was blacker than Voldemort's heart, with Ron and Hermione and a bottle of Firewhisky. The bottles clinked cheerfully in his pockets as he walked, and somewhere to his left an owl hooted as if in greeting - probably Hedwig on one of her nocturnal hunts. At last Harry came to the top of a modest rise, and a little way down, in the clearing the eldest Weasley's had made so many years ago, he could see Draco sitting with his arms around his knees, his hair almost glowing in the dark.

"Hullo," he called softly.
*
Draco shuddered a bit as a breeze brushed softly over his bare arms. He’d have to go inside soon, wouldn’t he? The sun was beginning its decent below the horizon, and there was a slight chill to the air, and he was sure Pansy and Daphne would be out soon to scold him for not eating. But he simply couldn’t gather up the will to move, and instead gazed through his lashes over the pond at the pink sky, waiting for the first star to make its appearance.

He was surprised, actually, that he hadn’t been hunted down earlier. But Pansy probably knew it to be his mother’s birthday - she’d come to enough of the celebrations to recognize the date - and informed the others. Molly would probably have a steaming plate of food left from supper for him when he finally ventured back inside. He’d have to thank her in the morning, since there was no way he was setting foot in the house until everyone else was in bed. He had no desire to be seen in such a vulnerable state.

Fate, of course, was not on his side, though. Because Harry’s soft greeting cut through the air not a minute later. Draco turned his head enough to peer solemnly over at him. …What in the world was he wearing? Obviously one of Ronald’s jackets, the way it hung off him. And…he was carrying another. For him. Draco’s stomach twisted in a not entirely unpleasant way. It was rather thoughtful, even though Draco had known how to cast a warming charm since he was seven.

“Hi,” he called back, mentally kicking himself for allowing his voice to crack as it did.
*
"Here," said Harry, tossing the jacket toward Draco, "I brought this for you." He allowed himself to smile crookedly at Malfoy, not sure yet whether he would want him to stay. "Oh, and this," he added, fishing out one of the Butterbeers and three chocolate biscuits. "Mrs. Weasley would have my head if I let you die of starvation."
*
Draco slipped the jacket on, hugging the soft leather to his body. Warming charms were brilliant and all, but really, nothing could beat good, worn leather. The corner of his mouth lifted the slightest bit as he continued watching Harry. “Three chocolate biscuits and a Butterbeer is going to save me from starvation?” he asked, a bit amused. He wasn’t going to starve to death any time soon, but really, only three biscuits? Harry was rather…adorable. In an annoying, Gryffindor-ish way.

“You can, you know…sit down. Or something. If you want,” he offered mildly.
*
"Might not save you from starvation, but they'll hold you over long enough to snark at me until I find you more food," Harry replied, flopping down on the bank in a way that was rather less graceful than he would have liked. It was a nice enough night, if a bit chilly for July, and he lay back with his hands behind his head to watch the stars. Astronomy class seemed an eternity ago, Harry reflected, but that was okay because he wasn't really picking out constellations anyway - he was watching the fall of moonlight on the water, and how it reflected back onto Draco's angular face.
*
“I could ‘snark at you’ with my dying breath, I’ll have you know,” Draco informed him, tucking himself further into his jacket. It smelled a bit like sulfur and ashes, but it was warm and soft and Harry had given it to him, which made it ten times better.

Even after Harry had stretched out next to him, Draco remained curled up, watching him. He obviously didn’t know why Draco had spent his day out here, alone, without a word to anyone. Pansy was better at keeping her mouth shut than he gave her credit for, sometimes. Slowly, joints crying out in protest, Draco laid down next to Harry, moving his eyes up to the sky.
*
Harry thought he could have fallen asleep like that, tucked inside Ron's coat, watching the universe spin by incredibly slowly, or so it seemed. He could hear Malfoy breathing beside him, sniffing occasionally, probably searching in his trouser pockets for one of his stress-relieving fags. Harry was many things, but he wasn't as stupid as Draco had always given him credit for, and he knew that Draco hadn't spent the bulk of his day alone by the pond because he was all sunshine and roses. The smell of shortbread wafted over Harry, and at length he rolled over onto his side, watching the smoke slip out of Draco's mouth and dissipate in the cool air. "So," he ventured, making Draco jump a little, "are you going to tell me what's wrong, or am I going to have to snog it out of you?"
*
“Promise?” Draco asked as coyly as he could muster, which was a little pathetic, actually, and took a long drag from his cigarette. He let the smoke out slowly, ignoring the look Harry was giving him, searching the sky. Finally, he lifted his hand, pointing with the glowing end of his fag. “That’s Draco. The constellation. My…my mum used to point it out whenever it was visible, and we were eating our peppermint sticks, and she’d tell me I was her dragon.” His voice wobbled, and he tried to cover it up with another drag. “It’s her birthday.” His whole body trembled in one fierce shiver, and he wrapped the jacket tighter. “Are you going to share those biscuits or not?”
*
"I hope you like pocket fluff," Harry said, handing over three of the five biscuits, and then the fourth when Draco glared at him. "They're a bit linty, sorry." The last he kept for himself, and chewed slowly while he thought about what he could say to Draco that wouldn't make him sound trite and a complete idiot. Harry popped open one of the Butterbeers and handed that over too, and for a time they sat side by side, watching the quick dart of bats in the air overhead. "I won't," he said quietly, "I won't insult you by telling you I know how you feel. But I do know how it feels to miss someone." Harry squinted up at the stars, watching how they turned to thin ropes of light when his eyes slid slightly out of focus.

"And I won't bore you by telling you how I've spent my whole life missing people, one way or another. I'm pretty much a walking tragedy. It gets easier, though...gets easier, even if it isn't better. It just becomes part of what you do." He could hear Draco swallow beside him. Harry hesitated for a moment, and then reached over to take the cigarette. He took a long drag on it, and handed it back to Draco as he blew the smoke out and watched it form intricate curls in front of him.
*
Draco held the cigarette numbly, fingers trembling so violently that he could barely get it in his mouth when he felt the need for a drag. He didn’t want it to get easier, he didn’t want his mother to be gone at all, but he had no choice in the matter, did he? It was done, it happened, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His eyes burned. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Until he finally settled for rolling over and pressing his face into Harry’s chest. He could feel the tears building behind his eyes, he could feel himself breaking down, and it was just one more item to add to the list of things in his life that he couldn’t control.

“Goddamn it,” he swore in between gasping breaths, trying not to let the tears fall. It didn’t work.
*
"Oi," said Harry dumbly, quite taken aback at the prospect of his once hated enemy sobbing on his chest. A bit of frenzied snogging was one thing, but he didn't know whether to be amused or horrified or tender, even as his arms went around Malfoy's shuddering form and he found himself whispering, "Hey, it's alright. It's okay, Malf - I mean, Draco." He'd never been very good with crying - every time Hermione did it he and Ron looked at her as though she was a particularly virile Flobberworm. But comforting someone wasn't so bad, really - he noticed that his hand was idly stroking Draco's hair (something that Draco was probably going to murder him for when he'd calmed down a bit) , and with his other arm he was pulling Draco firmly against him, feeling the fierce thump of his heart.

Harry even had the presence of mind to offer Draco Ron's sleeve to wipe his nose on, and when the other boy declined he continued to hold onto him, and watch the moon, and wait until Draco had cried himself out.
*
Draco clung to Harry, choking and crying and cursing himself for near ten minutes, until the last bit of tears soaked the front of Harry’s jacket, and he was limp from exhaustion. It was horrible, he hated crying, especially in front of other people, especially in front of Harry, who’d nearly seen him naked, who’d made him come in his trousers on the Hogwarts Express, who’d come in his own trousers on the Hogwarts express, and who he wanted to make come many more times, oh Merlin, he wanted to disappear. But Harry was so warm, and his hand was stroking Draco’s hair, and Draco wouldn’t bring himself to move from his embrace.

Instead, he shifted, slowly resting his hand over Harry’s stomach. “Sorry,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and turning his head, so his cheek rested over his heart and he could feel it thumping soothingly in his ear.
*
"S'okay," Harry replied, hearing the rasp in his own voice. He felt suddenly tired, heavy, as Draco must. It had been a long day, and he should have been tucked up in his bed in Ron's room, dreaming about flying, and Mrs. Weasley's cooking, and Auror training, come September. Instead, he was outside in the middle of the night with Draco Malfoy's head on his stomach. Harry fought the desperate laughter that was bubbling up inside of him at the absurdity of it all.

"I think there's something seriously wrong with me. Aside from the fact," he added, for even in the dim silver moonlight he could see the pink coming back into Draco's cheeks and he knew that meant Draco's capacity for sarcasm had been restored, "that I am a scarhead and a git and a horrid dresser, I think there is something deeply wrong with me. Considering the fact that even though you got bogeys all over the front of my jumper, and you ate most of the chocolate biscuits, and especially that right now you look a right mess, I still want to kiss you."
*
That warm, fluttery feeling from when Harry gave him the jacket returned to Draco’s stomach, and he peered up at him with a small smile. “Yeah?” He shifted up again, moving closer to Harry’s head. “May be something wrong with me too. Because even though you are a scarhead and a git and a horrid dresser, I’d rather like to kiss you too.”
*
"Oh, believe you me, there's loads of things wrong with you, Malfoy." Harry's tone was wry, but he was smiling all the same. And before Draco could deliver the expected scathing retort, Harry turned Draco's face toward him and kissed him as softly as he knew how.
*
Draco nearly whimpered, closing his eyes and leaning helplessly into Harry’s lips. Merlin, but Harry made his head swim. His hand slowly moved from its resting place on Harry’s stomach to slide around and grip the back of his neck, twisting gently into his hair. Warmth spread throughout his entire body and he couldn’t help the quiet moan that somehow slipped out. He wondered for a moment when, exactly, he’d started feeling so desperately comfortable with Harry, and then his tongue darted out to taste the other boy and he remembered.
*
Harry reflected that, in general, he liked snogging. He liked snogging with Draco especially, even though, yes, there were awkward moments where their teeth bumped, and exciting moments where they (sort of) accidentally bit each other, and vaguely embarassing moments where they drooled just a bit too much, because Draco, he had discovered, was bloody brilliant with his tongue.

The thing about Draco's tongue was that it was so clever, so wicked and so quick. It did interesting things on the roof of his mouth, and danced against his own, and sometimes it strayed from his mouth to ghost around his ear, or down his neck. Every now and then Harry thought about where Draco's tongue had learned it's tricks, which wasn't a route he liked his mind to follow, but mostly Harry thought about all the other places it could be employed in a pleasurable manner, which made him lightheaded, and very, very hard.
*
Draco was, of course, not oblivious to this. In fact, he relished in it, sweeping his tongue through Harry’s mouth, tracing the curve around the back of his top teeth, and teasing the soft fleshy underside of his tongue. He loved what he could do to Harry with only a touch. And he loved to feel it pressed against his thigh as he pressed against him.

What he did not love was interruptions. Especially ones caused by his own body. Because just as he was sliding his hand from the back of Harry’s neck, down his throat, down his chest, and almost to his waist, he yawned. Widely. He froze for a second, completely mortified, then pressed his forehead against Harry’s neck. “Fuck. I’ve just made an utter fool of myself.”
*
Frozen mid-snog, Harry blinked at Draco, his mouth half-open. And then he gave a great shout of laughter, which startled a disapproving owl from the branches of a nearby tree. "No-one's ever yawned when I snogged them before," he chuckled, when he'd stopped laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. "Was it really that boring?"
*
“Perhaps if I pretend I don’t exist, the ground will swallow me,” Draco said during Harry’s laughing fit. Even after he’d regained control of his voice, Draco still didn’t look up, content to just lay there and wish for the earth beneath him to split open. “I’m completely mortified,” he informed Harry, quite seriously. “And if it helps any, I’m not bored. Far from it. But I’ve just had a crying fit, which I don’t often do, and that seems to have worn me out. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to just…die now.”
*
"Die all you want," Harry replied lightly, getting to his feet and extending a hand to help Draco up, "but for the love of Merlin, at least do it in the house. It'll save us from having to levitate you all the way back up there when we find your corpse in the morning."
*
Draco reluctantly took his hand and stood, grumbling under his breath about his body and awful timing and how the entire world is against him. When Harry moved to let go, he tightened his grip, looking off in the general direction of the house. “I couldn’t possibly die in the house, Molly would be horribly upset. I may inadvertently bleed or something.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to just suffer on a little longer.” Though he didn’t seem to be suffering much as he laced his fingers comfortably through Harry’s.
*
It was a terribly girlish thing of his heart to do, Harry thought later, for it skip a beat like that when Draco held his hand. Terribly girlish, and probably also not terribly good for one's health and such. Nevertheless, girlishness or not, he could not quite stop the slow, easy grin that spread across his face. "Malfoy," he said, with just a touch of incredulity, "Draco Malfoy. Are you holding my hand?"

When Draco gripped his hand tighter still and looked away, and made some inane comment about full moons and teenage boys, Harry continued to smile to himself, and began to walk with Draco in the direction of the Burrow. As they came around the last bend in the road, and the slanting and utterly familiar silhouette of the house came into view, a light on in the window of the south-facing gable, Harry could not help asking again, "So does this mean you like me?"
*
“No,” Draco replied promptly, finally looking over at Harry. “My hand was cold. I actually can‘t stand you. Speccy git.” As if anyone would believe that. Besides, didn’t they already have this conversation in his journal before summer holiday started? Before they could reach the doors leading into the kitchen, Draco tugged on Harry’s arm, drawing him into a soft kiss, just a gentle brush of lips, really. “Sleep well, Potter,” he murmured, taking a step back and loosening his hold on Harry’s hand.