HAPPY H/D HOLIDAYS, DM_P!
Author: furiosity
Recipient: dm_p
Title: He Dreams in Monochrome
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco; Draco/OC
Summary: The line between love and possession is so vague that no one knows where it cuts deepest.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Established relationship, infidelity, angst, (imagined) violence.
Epilogue compliant? No.
Word Count: 5100 words
Author's Notes: Happy holidays, dm_p! I really hope this is to your liking. :) Thanks to my beta, who must remain unnamed for the nonce.
{He Dreams in Monochrome}
Harry couldn't breathe. His heart's sluggish thumping echoed in his ears.
This is my own fault.
He had followed Draco to Diagon Alley in hopes of finding out what he was getting for Christmas. He should have stopped when Draco headed down Knockturn Alley, but he'd been too curious. He hadn't thought Draco still shopped here. He certainly hadn't thought Draco had ever shopped in wizarding London's red light district. For he had tailed Draco straight to it: a tiny knot of alleyways festooned with light displays so garish and lewd, even George Weasley wouldn't stock them. Beneath the light displays dwelt the barely legal wizarding sex trade.
He can't be Christmas shopping here -- we have enough toys to open a sex shop of our own.
Then Draco had ducked into a building, and Harry had hesitated outside its door. LOVE HOTEL, the overhead sign had read, the letters painted beneath giant Asian characters. Harry had adjusted his Invisibility Cloak, glanced around to make sure no one would notice a door opening by itself, and entered a cramped little reception area -- desk, fireplace, two chairs. Harry had just managed to catch a glimpse of Draco's boots disappearing up a narrow staircase ahead.
A warm, cloying scent had permeated everything -- was this a novelty perfume shop of some sort? A diminutive Asian woman had sat at the desk, frowning at Harry -- no, at the open door, Harry reminded himself. It had swung shut behind him, and the woman had shrugged, returning to her fashion magazine. Intrigued, Harry had followed Draco up, stepping cautiously. Ascending, he had heard two voices.
"Have you been waiting long?" Draco.
"No, I just got here myself." A male voice Harry hadn't recognised.
The stairs had ended then, and so had Harry's confusion.
He stood now at the top of the stairs, clutching the flimsy railing, watching Draco kiss another man. Draco's hands caressed the stranger's shoulders, fingers flexing against a fancy-looking travelling cloak. Draco's pale fringe brushed against the stranger's face just the way it always did against Harry's, soft and wispy, smelling of his cedar-wood shampoo. But now, Harry was six feet away, and Draco was still kissing the stranger. The kiss spoke of intimacy and barely restrained passion; the two would break apart now and again, exchange grins, and then come together again, as if they couldn't stand being separated for too long. Harry knew that feeling, recognised the way Draco's eyes glowed with the smile that was supposed to be Harry's alone.
Harry felt lightheaded, but he couldn't stop looking. Confusion sought to overwhelm him; his iron grip on the railing was making it shake precariously. A vicious, dark thing inside Harry wanted him to rip the railing away and charge, swing and splinter it against Draco's head. Thwack. It made him sick, how easily he could imagine it -- that he would even imagine it in the first place. This was Draco. Harry loved him.
Draco, who was kissing someone else the same way he always kissed Harry. Harry felt like retching. If he didn't get out of here, he would reveal his presence sooner or later. He didn't want to be seen like this, freshly betrayed and ready to crumple. He dragged his gaze from Draco's smiling, lying mouth and walked far enough down the stairs to Disapparate without being overheard.
{.}
The sound of the grandfather clock in their bedroom had always annoyed Harry, but right now it was all that kept him calm. The clock's rhythm filled the whole world, reverberating through the room's stale air, through the Manor's empty corridors, through the sleet-splattered dead-branch forest outside. On and on it flowed in Harry's mind, travelling all the way to London, to Draco.
Time to go, you son of a bitch. Time for you to come home and face me if you can.
After getting out of the Sex Village, he had decided to take the train home instead of Apparating. His mind was too full of what he'd seen to focus on long-distance Apparition. He'd been here for nearly an hour already, sitting uselessly on the bed -- their bed. Draco would be returning soon. What would he be like? Would he even be able to look at Harry? Would guilt lurk at the corners of his eyes, like it had when he'd been ordering the elves to destroy Ginny's unopened letters? Partly because of the letters, Harry had never even supposed that Draco might cheat on him: Draco Malfoy was unreasonably, pathologically jealous. He didn't like it when Harry even mentioned Ginny in passing, even though Harry had left Ginny for Draco and never looked back. He hadn't cheated on Ginny -- he had refused Draco's advances until he could stand to refuse them no longer. He had left Ginny even before his and Draco's first kiss, which had happened here in this very bedroom four years ago. Our bedroom.
Harry couldn't think clearly; the image of Draco and the stranger from the love hotel superimposed itself over everything in his mind. Here he sat on the edge of the bed he and Draco shared, feeling like an intruder, an unwanted guest. He was drenched in sweat, and it made him feel filthy. A shower might soothe his nerves or at least distract him a little, and Harry had never needed a distraction quite this badly. He opened the underwear drawer and realised at the last moment that it was Draco's side of the bed. His stomach began to churn: on top of Draco's neatly folded pants lay the silver ring Harry had given him two years ago. He had never seen Draco without it. It seemed Harry had got so used to the idea that Draco never took it off that he hadn't even noticed the missing ring when they'd met this afternoon. He fought off a wave of nausea.
Harry slammed the drawer shut and rolled across the bed to his own drawer. He wouldn't get anywhere like this, letting everything feed his confused rage. He would shower and calm himself. He had to, before facing Draco again.
When he came out of the shower, not much calmer but feeling less dirty, Draco was in bed, naked underneath the duvet cover. Harry's ring glinted on his hand as always.
"Hi," Draco said, smirking. "You took an awfully long time in there."
Harry shrugged, his stomach knotting. "It was an awfully long day." How was it that even after what he'd seen, he wanted to climb in next to Draco, to run his hands down those pale shoulders, to make them both gasp with delight?
Is that even real? Does he really like it when I touch him or is he just pretending?
"Aren't you going to take a shower?" Harry asked, pausing in the doorway.
"I showered earlier," Draco replied, stretching. "Want to come and check?"
Fury bit into Harry's insides -- you fucked someone else and took a shower afterwards, how fucking thoughtful of you -- but he lifted the towel and pretended to dry his hair. Draco hadn't looked away -- he hadn't even blinked. As if he was completely certain he had nothing to worry about. Which meant... which had to mean... Harry felt like someone had told him his glasses were too weak and given him new ones. How could he not have guessed this earlier? Tonight wasn't the first time Draco had done this, and it wouldn't be the last.
For how long? For how long had Harry been deceived and unable to see it? Weeks? Months? Years? Harry wanted to vomit again.
"You're taking a very long time to consider my offer, Potter," Draco drawled. "Are you interested or not?"
"Not really, sorry," Harry muttered, walking back into the bathroom to hang the towel. "Like I said, long day." It was taking all of his reserve to behave as though Draco hadn't just betrayed him.
"Don't apologise," Draco said as Harry got in bed. "You work so hard protecting everyone's innocence from those pesky Dark wizards." Draco patted Harry's backside under the covers. "Only an ungrateful cad of the worst sort would hold it against you."
Draco's tone was teasing, but Harry felt cold all over. How could Draco say that so calmly? He was probably glad he didn't have to put on a show for Harry after just having fucked someone else.
Harry wanted to grab Draco by the throat and demand answers, but he had no proof of anything except a kiss. What he had seen was proof enough for Harry -- he knew there had been more than kissing between Draco and Mr Love Hotel -- but Draco might well invent an excuse so brilliant that Harry will have no choice but to believe it, or pretend to. He might even say that the man had threatened to hurt his parents if Draco didn't have sex with him. Hermione had told Harry about a client of hers who had said that very thing and even got her lover to "admit" it. The Overseeing Committee for Wizarding Marriages had granted her half of her former husband's estate as a result.
No, Harry was going to find more proof. He didn't want Draco to have even the slightest means to make himself look good. Harry wanted him to hurt. His mind did, anyway. His heart didn't, but his blind, stupid, reckless heart was how he'd let himself be deceived in the first place. Harry wasn't going to listen to it anymore.
{.}
A week had passed since Harry's unexpected trip to Knockturn Alley. He had thought the betrayal would get easier to think of with time, that at least his rage would subside. Instead, he spent every waking moment obsessively going over Draco's behaviour, trying to pinpoint the precise time he'd started cheating on Harry. Every time Draco had picked a fight over something insignificant and stormed out, he had no doubt headed straight to Mr Love Hotel. Every time Draco had seemed distracted and preoccupied at meals, he had been thinking of Mr Love Hotel. That trip to visit Draco's parents in France had probably been a lie, too. And that time Draco had left the house on Sunday in robes of deep plum but returned in plain black ones.
God, Harry had been so bloody stupid.
Did it amuse Draco? Did it make him feel powerful, to lead Harry by the nose like this? Why did he do it? Why? If he hated him so much, if Harry bored him so much, why hadn't Draco just dumped him? That would have hurt, but not like this.
"You might want to clean that up," Dawlish advised him, walking by.
Harry looked up. His Dictaquill had dripped a puddle of ink onto the report due first thing tomorrow morning. The rage that seethed within him constantly spiked, and Harry grabbed the parchment off his desk, crumpling it in his fist, letting the ink seep through his fingers. It stained his skin in feathery little lines, just like blood. "Dawlish," he called, desperate to distract himself somehow.
Dawlish poked his head around the corner of the cubicle. "Yeah?"
"Do you know what a love hotel is?"
Dawlish scratched his head. "Asian, innit? People go there for privacy of the clandestine sort, if you know what I mean. I heard they opened one in the Sex Village a couple of years ago, but I've never seen it."
"So it's not the same thing as a brothel?"
Dawlish shook his head. So much for Mr Love Hotel being a prostitute. It shocked Harry that he had been considering forgiving Draco if it turned out he'd been paying a prostitute. That felt less personal.
"Thanks, Dawlish," Harry said. "I'd better get started on that report."
{.}
"I do love you," Draco murmured as Harry set the mug of tea down on his bedside cabinet.
Harry wanted to throw the tea into his face. Draco had been very ill all weekend; his fever had only broken earlier that morning. And even in this state, he had the gall to lie to Harry.
"Yeah," Harry said. "You too." He turned to leave, but Draco seized his wrist. His hand was too warm, and Harry had to suppress the urge to wrench his arm away. Still, it was a lucky thing Draco had fallen ill so soon after Harry found out about the cheating. It meant Harry didn't have to explain why he didn't want to have sex lately. "What is it?" he asked.
"I'm not dying or anything," Draco said, looking up into Harry's face. "Don't get so worked up."
He thinks I'm afraid he's going to die.
Harry wanted to sneer, but he smiled instead. "If you drink your tea, I'll believe that," he said, still stunned by Draco's presumption.
It would be so delightful if he could say something like, Actually, I just feel really bad that I have to tell you this when you're ill. But I've decided to get back together with Ginny and I'm leaving tomorrow. It shamed him how much he wanted to see the look in Draco's eyes -- Harry dumping him to go back to Ginny was what he'd always feared the most. He had never said so, of course, but Harry knew.
That escape route had vanished years ago; Ginny was a Longbottom now. Besides, Harry wasn't even sure if Draco would really care. Perhaps he was waiting for Harry to dump him so he wouldn't have to do the dumping. Draco had never liked getting his hands too dirty.
Ginny is a Longbottom now.
Oh. Oh.
How long had it been since the wedding? A year and a half. A year and a half since the only rival Draco had ever feared became inaccessible -- at least to Harry, whose sense of honour would not allow him to interfere in a marriage. Which Draco knew very well. Harry could never go back to Ginny now that she was married.
A year and a half, then.
A year and a half.
{.}
If I outright refuse to have sex with him, he'll wonder what's gone wrong. I could never get enough of him before.
Harry sat on the bed with his back to the wall, his hands stroking Draco's naked back mechanically. Draco's tongue was tracing words on Harry's neck, filthy things like fuck me raw and sweet things like you smell nice. Harry was supposed to guess them, but his heart wasn't in it today.
Do you do this with him, too?
It wasn't special anymore. Nothing was.
But Harry's body didn't think anything was off; still he wanted to disappear into Draco's embrace, to hold him down and make him writhe, to steal his every kiss.
"Mmm," he said as Draco waited for his guess. "I lost track, sorry."
Draco pulled back and gave Harry a long look. "You've been acting strange these last couple of weeks," he declared. "What's going on?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," Harry said, assuming a look of boredom. "Work, more work, steamy love affair with Dawlish, yet more work..."
"Har har," Draco said, scowling. "You're so witty."
Harry forced a grin. "Learned from the very best, didn't I?"
"Wanker."
"Prat."
"Mop-head."
"Spaghetti-brain."
"Four-eyes."
"Princess."
"Are we going to fuck or not?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Harry murmured, reaching for the lube. "Turn around for me." I can do it if I don't have to look at your face.
And Draco made all the right noises at all the best times, but Harry thought he could smell the other one between them; it was as though slick filth coated Draco's skin, and Harry's fingers kept losing their grip. He wanted to flip Draco around and choke him, make him tell the truth.
Why, Draco? Why?
Harry's nightmares had returned. They were black and white and gray like old films, and in them he felt Voldemort's vile essence burning in his scar. He hurt Draco over and over again, punishing him the only way he knew how, curses flying from his wand faster than thoughts. Crucio. Sectumsempra. In Harry's nightmares, blood was always black. He woke from them sweat-drenched and panting, but Draco never woke with him.
Why?
{.}
Three weeks after he'd discovered Draco's affair and after some creative misappropriation of Long-Term Investigations Branch resources, Harry knew the name of Mr Love Hotel -- Albert Campbell. He was three years younger than Harry, and his family operated a chain of magical sports equipment warehouses. He had attended Durmstrang. There was nothing special or interesting in his background -- just another bored rich kid, a pure-blood. Was that it? Was that sort of thing still important to Draco? Harry had spent hours at his desk after everyone else had left the office, poring over the scant information he had and trying to construct an explanation that would help him understand.
Was it Harry's fault? Was he doing something wrong? Was it that he worked long hours and didn't spend much time with Draco outside their bedroom? But he always invited Draco everywhere, with little success. Was it that Draco almost never topped? But Harry offered often enough, didn't he? The questions jostled one another in his head, but no answers ever came. He still didn't even know how long it had been going on.
"Anything come of that Sex Village lead?" Dawlish asked Harry, pausing by his desk. "Experimental Charms wants to close out the year and they need their All-Knowing Eye back."
"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head. He plucked the All-Knowing Eye -- a small, oblong whatsit disguised to look like a clump of dirt -- off his desk and hefted it in his palm. "It didn't turn out to be Lestrange after all. I'll take this back to them after lunch."
"Good man," Dawlish said. "I'm taking off now -- have a good Christmas, Potter."
"Yeah, thanks. You too."
Christmas. Draco usually travelled to France and spent the holiday with his parents. It had never occurred to Harry to wonder if he really did that. There was no way for him to find out. He couldn't exactly walk into the French version of Malfoy Manor and demand to know if Draco had been there every Christmas for the past four years: Lucius and Narcissa didn't approve of their son's choice of partner. Perhaps Draco's parents didn't even know about their son's choice of partner. They had cut themselves off from British wizarding society, after all. Draco wrote them every day and saw them at least four times a year. Whatever version of Draco's life they believed needn't reflect reality at all.
"When do you leave for France?" Harry asked over breakfast the next morning.
Draco set his teacup aside. "I'm not going this year. My parents are on a cruise."
"Thanks for telling me," Harry muttered.
"What's with you? Aren't you happy I'll be home?"
"I'd be happier if I didn't already make plans to spend Christmas at the Burrow," Harry said. There was no point asking Draco if he wanted to come, too. "As you well know."
"I'm not asking you to cancel your plans," Draco said very patiently. "Though I didn't realise they were so important that you'd be so cross at the mere suggestion that something might interfere."
"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it," Harry said. Then, in a deliberately light tone, he added, "I haven't seen Ginny since August."
Draco pushed his plate away. It clanged against the butter tureen. "Is that the main attraction of a Weasley Christmas for you?"
"What if it is?"
"Do you want us to be having a row at Christmas? Is that it?"
Harry was so close, so close to hurling his breakfast plate at Draco, along with everything he knew. It would get it out of his system, at least, release the anger that had gnawed so deep into his guts for weeks, festering. But he wasn't ready for that conversation yet: he wanted to have all the facts first. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've had a rough couple of weeks at work."
Draco just stared at him coldly. The sight repulsed Harry -- the nerve of him, acting all high and mighty when he nances off to fuck Campbell every Wednesday -- but he kept a rein on his temper. Not ready yet. "You know about the Sex Village, right? In Knockturn Alley?"
The bastard didn't even look away. He shrugged. "I've been there a few times."
"Someone reported seeing Rabastan Lestrange go into one of the brothels," Harry continued, quelling the urge to shout. "We threw five men at the stakeout operation but came up with nothing. Old man Robards is really pissed off about it."
It's a bit disturbing how easy it is to lie to your face now that I know you're nothing but a lying snake yourself.
"I see," Draco said. "Your boss is pissed off at you and you're taking it out on me."
"Yeah, well," Harry mumbled. "I never said I was perfect."
Draco, suddenly brightening, got to his feet. "Suck me off and I'll forgive you."
Harry used to think Draco's insistence on using sex as penance was cute, if ridiculous. Now he wondered if it was all that mattered to Draco.
{.}
Harry was surprised to find Draco at home when he returned from the Burrow late on Christmas Day.
Oh, right. Campbell's probably spending Christmas with his family like a normal person.
Draco half-sat, half-lay in the drawing room armchair, a glass of brandy at his elbow and a photo album on his knees. He was staring into the fireplace, and Harry's heart beat faster despite the anger churning in his gut. With that faraway look in his eyes, that serene expression, Draco was breathtaking, and Harry never wanted him out of sight. Draco's betrayal stung all the worse because Harry still loved him so much.
"I'm back," he said softly.
"How was the Weasley Christmas Extravaganza?" Draco asked, turning to look at him.
"It was all right. We drank eggnog and listened to Celestina Warbeck, as usual. Your presents are in the sitting room." Mr and Mrs Weasley got Draco presents every year since he and Harry had moved in together. Draco never opened them, nor did he ever reciprocate.
"Joy," Draco said. "Yours is under the tree. I looked for mine this morning, but I guess you're too used to me not being here at this time of year."
Oh, fuck. Harry had forgotten to buy Draco a Christmas present. "Um," he said, flushing. "I have it picked out... I... I forgot to go and get it." He had actually given it no thought at all.
"Oh. What is it? I promise I'll act surprised when you give it to me."
"Book," Harry blurted. "It's a book."
"What about?"
"J-Japanese. Runes." Was it Ancient Runes that Draco liked or Arithmancy? Harry could never remember.
"The Japanese had runes? How fascinating. I look forward to reading this book of yours." Draco pushed the photo album away and approached Harry. "But in the meantime, you'll do. Strip."
I'll do? Does it even matter to you who's fucking you? "I--"
"...had a long day at the Weasley Christmas party?" Draco asked, eyebrow raised.
He was in no place to use that accusing tone. He had no right. But Harry still had the strength to play along, if only barely. "Don't be an idiot," he began, but Draco slammed him against the wall, making the portraits there cry out in surprise.
"Too slow," Draco breathed into Harry's ear, tugging his robes up, mouth latching onto Harry's neck. Harry reached for him, undoing his dressing gown belt with fumbling hands, and soon they were on the floor, naked, Draco squirming as Harry prepared him using the lube from the pocket of Draco's cloak that hung nearby.
Did you put it there for me or do you keep it there for him?
Then Draco was on top of him, rocking back and forth gently. It always drove Harry crazy when Draco did this, and right now he didn't care about Albert Campbell or love hotels or any of that rot; he had Draco, naked, chest flushed pink, lips parted as he leaned down to kiss Harry's mouth.
Then he whispered, "Do you think about it when we fuck? What it's like when I fuck him?"
Harry's heart slowed abruptly, and his grip on Draco's thighs tightened. He knows I know. He's known for ages, maybe. "Get off me." All his pent-up fury streamed from him in waves, and the firelight began to flicker ominously. If Harry were to hold a wand right now, he could have razed the Manor with pure, raw magic.
"No." Draco pulled him up and clamped his legs round Harry's back.
Challenge glinted in his eyes -- he's not sorry at all -- and Harry didn't know what to do. He felt too vulnerable like this, naked, his cock balls-deep inside Draco. Too confused.
"Why?" he asked, letting his palms rest flat on the floor. It helped a little, but still the urge to break everything dominated him.
"What's he got that you don't?" Draco leaned in, but Harry turned his face aside. How long had Draco known? How long had he been playing with Harry -- again? A fresh wave of hatred rose in him, making the floor vibrate strangely. Draco shuddered, as though enjoying himself -- did he not know Harry was a fraction away from destroying them both? Did he not understand--?
"Nothing," Draco continued. "Absolutely nothing. It's just a spot of fun. I'll grow tired of him eventually. But you." Draco licked Harry's ear, slowly. "I'll never grow tired of you."
"Is that supposed to make it okay?" Harry tried not to pay attention to what Draco was doing, but it wasn't working. Torn between lust and anger, he wanted both to murder Draco and to tell him to shut up and move.
"Why wouldn't it be okay?" Draco whispered. "I'll always choose you in the end; isn't that enough?"
Always? So what you're saying is there'll be others after Campbell?
Harry was suddenly so numb he couldn't even feel pain anymore. The blind rage had retreated, and a vengeful sense of purpose emerged in its stead. "Yeah?" He lifted one heavy arm and slid it round Draco's waist. "How about I'll find someone else to fuck, too?"
Draco's legs around him clenched. "Don't you dare--"
It was so perfectly absurd that Harry laughed. "But Draco, I promise I'll choose you in the end. Isn't that enough for you?"
"You're not funny," Draco snarled. "Here, let me off--"
"I don't think so," Harry whispered, leaning over until Draco was on the floor, beneath him where he fucking belonged. Draco's jealousy had bizarrely assuaged his quiet anger, though it proved nothing. Their relationship had always been about possession to some degree, and if he couldn't be the only one for Draco, then he wanted out. But he would have one last fuck from Draco.
Draco cried out when Harry slammed into him, but Harry was past worry and doubt; his rage -- a howling, black thing without shape -- returned in full bloom. He fucked Draco like it was the end of the world, and soon Draco was writhing, moaning his name, clawing at Harry's back and arching up into him, out of control. Harry came with a violence he hadn't known before, and after he was spent, he felt empty and useless, like a bad Christmas cracker. Draco clung to him, stroking his hair, whispering words Harry didn't understand. They lay on the floor, shivering, arms around each other, the fireplace dying behind them.
"Are you going to leave me?" Draco whispered, his lips dry against Harry's chest.
Harry rolled off him and flopped onto his back, too tired to move any further away. "Will you stop seeing Campbell?"
"Why does it matter? It's only sex. Must you be the Chosen One whatever you do?"
"Don't be absurd," Harry mumbled. He felt horribly alone. "You don't want me fucking anyone else. What makes you special?"
"I want to do whatever I want. It makes me happy. If you love me, you'll want to make me happy, won't you?"
"A relationship isn't about what you want. It's... what we both want. I'll never be happy with you cheating on me." Harry's answers sprang to mind as though he'd thought about them before. Maybe he had. He didn't remember anymore.
"So for us to go on, I must meet your standards. Who cares what I like, right?"
"Fine," Harry said. He was done with this, done with Draco, done with them. It wasn't worth any more effort. Not for this price. "If that's how you see it, I'll be gone by tomorrow."
"No. You can't." Draco's hand closed around his.
Harry pulled his hand away. "Watch me."
"One little affair and that's it? Love is over?" Draco sounded like an offended child.
Harry closed his eyes. "Whatever." The weight of yesterday's world upon his chest was crushing.
He expected Draco to say something cutting, but there was only silence. He lay there, trying to memorise the feel of the rug against his skin, memorise the ghost of Draco's last kiss. Tomorrow, he would go back to Grimmauld Place with its cobwebs and its loneliness. But he would keep his pride.
He heard Draco leave the room, wanting despite everything to open his eyes and call out his name, to tell him he didn't care. But he did care. He didn't want to be Draco's favourite lover. He wanted to be the only one, and if that really meant he didn't love Draco, then he didn't.
Minutes later, he heard footsteps and felt soft, heavy fabric against his skin, the smell of it familiar and haunting. The duvet cover from their bed. Harry opened his eyes. Draco was sitting next to him, pale and oddly small in one of Harry's old dressing gowns. Harry stared at him, wanting to memorise this, too. He even wanted to listen to that stupid grandfather clock upstairs one more time.
When Draco spoke, his voice was stiff, as though he were holding back a scream. "The only way you'll stay is on your terms."
"Yes." Was it sick that all Harry wanted was to pull him down and hide them both from the world? Was it weakness? Love? Both?
Yes.
"Then stay."
{end}
Recipient: dm_p
Title: He Dreams in Monochrome
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco; Draco/OC
Summary: The line between love and possession is so vague that no one knows where it cuts deepest.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Established relationship, infidelity, angst, (imagined) violence.
Epilogue compliant? No.
Word Count: 5100 words
Author's Notes: Happy holidays, dm_p! I really hope this is to your liking. :) Thanks to my beta, who must remain unnamed for the nonce.
{He Dreams in Monochrome}
Harry couldn't breathe. His heart's sluggish thumping echoed in his ears.
This is my own fault.
He had followed Draco to Diagon Alley in hopes of finding out what he was getting for Christmas. He should have stopped when Draco headed down Knockturn Alley, but he'd been too curious. He hadn't thought Draco still shopped here. He certainly hadn't thought Draco had ever shopped in wizarding London's red light district. For he had tailed Draco straight to it: a tiny knot of alleyways festooned with light displays so garish and lewd, even George Weasley wouldn't stock them. Beneath the light displays dwelt the barely legal wizarding sex trade.
He can't be Christmas shopping here -- we have enough toys to open a sex shop of our own.
Then Draco had ducked into a building, and Harry had hesitated outside its door. LOVE HOTEL, the overhead sign had read, the letters painted beneath giant Asian characters. Harry had adjusted his Invisibility Cloak, glanced around to make sure no one would notice a door opening by itself, and entered a cramped little reception area -- desk, fireplace, two chairs. Harry had just managed to catch a glimpse of Draco's boots disappearing up a narrow staircase ahead.
A warm, cloying scent had permeated everything -- was this a novelty perfume shop of some sort? A diminutive Asian woman had sat at the desk, frowning at Harry -- no, at the open door, Harry reminded himself. It had swung shut behind him, and the woman had shrugged, returning to her fashion magazine. Intrigued, Harry had followed Draco up, stepping cautiously. Ascending, he had heard two voices.
"Have you been waiting long?" Draco.
"No, I just got here myself." A male voice Harry hadn't recognised.
The stairs had ended then, and so had Harry's confusion.
He stood now at the top of the stairs, clutching the flimsy railing, watching Draco kiss another man. Draco's hands caressed the stranger's shoulders, fingers flexing against a fancy-looking travelling cloak. Draco's pale fringe brushed against the stranger's face just the way it always did against Harry's, soft and wispy, smelling of his cedar-wood shampoo. But now, Harry was six feet away, and Draco was still kissing the stranger. The kiss spoke of intimacy and barely restrained passion; the two would break apart now and again, exchange grins, and then come together again, as if they couldn't stand being separated for too long. Harry knew that feeling, recognised the way Draco's eyes glowed with the smile that was supposed to be Harry's alone.
Harry felt lightheaded, but he couldn't stop looking. Confusion sought to overwhelm him; his iron grip on the railing was making it shake precariously. A vicious, dark thing inside Harry wanted him to rip the railing away and charge, swing and splinter it against Draco's head. Thwack. It made him sick, how easily he could imagine it -- that he would even imagine it in the first place. This was Draco. Harry loved him.
Draco, who was kissing someone else the same way he always kissed Harry. Harry felt like retching. If he didn't get out of here, he would reveal his presence sooner or later. He didn't want to be seen like this, freshly betrayed and ready to crumple. He dragged his gaze from Draco's smiling, lying mouth and walked far enough down the stairs to Disapparate without being overheard.
{.}
The sound of the grandfather clock in their bedroom had always annoyed Harry, but right now it was all that kept him calm. The clock's rhythm filled the whole world, reverberating through the room's stale air, through the Manor's empty corridors, through the sleet-splattered dead-branch forest outside. On and on it flowed in Harry's mind, travelling all the way to London, to Draco.
Time to go, you son of a bitch. Time for you to come home and face me if you can.
After getting out of the Sex Village, he had decided to take the train home instead of Apparating. His mind was too full of what he'd seen to focus on long-distance Apparition. He'd been here for nearly an hour already, sitting uselessly on the bed -- their bed. Draco would be returning soon. What would he be like? Would he even be able to look at Harry? Would guilt lurk at the corners of his eyes, like it had when he'd been ordering the elves to destroy Ginny's unopened letters? Partly because of the letters, Harry had never even supposed that Draco might cheat on him: Draco Malfoy was unreasonably, pathologically jealous. He didn't like it when Harry even mentioned Ginny in passing, even though Harry had left Ginny for Draco and never looked back. He hadn't cheated on Ginny -- he had refused Draco's advances until he could stand to refuse them no longer. He had left Ginny even before his and Draco's first kiss, which had happened here in this very bedroom four years ago. Our bedroom.
Harry couldn't think clearly; the image of Draco and the stranger from the love hotel superimposed itself over everything in his mind. Here he sat on the edge of the bed he and Draco shared, feeling like an intruder, an unwanted guest. He was drenched in sweat, and it made him feel filthy. A shower might soothe his nerves or at least distract him a little, and Harry had never needed a distraction quite this badly. He opened the underwear drawer and realised at the last moment that it was Draco's side of the bed. His stomach began to churn: on top of Draco's neatly folded pants lay the silver ring Harry had given him two years ago. He had never seen Draco without it. It seemed Harry had got so used to the idea that Draco never took it off that he hadn't even noticed the missing ring when they'd met this afternoon. He fought off a wave of nausea.
Harry slammed the drawer shut and rolled across the bed to his own drawer. He wouldn't get anywhere like this, letting everything feed his confused rage. He would shower and calm himself. He had to, before facing Draco again.
When he came out of the shower, not much calmer but feeling less dirty, Draco was in bed, naked underneath the duvet cover. Harry's ring glinted on his hand as always.
"Hi," Draco said, smirking. "You took an awfully long time in there."
Harry shrugged, his stomach knotting. "It was an awfully long day." How was it that even after what he'd seen, he wanted to climb in next to Draco, to run his hands down those pale shoulders, to make them both gasp with delight?
Is that even real? Does he really like it when I touch him or is he just pretending?
"Aren't you going to take a shower?" Harry asked, pausing in the doorway.
"I showered earlier," Draco replied, stretching. "Want to come and check?"
Fury bit into Harry's insides -- you fucked someone else and took a shower afterwards, how fucking thoughtful of you -- but he lifted the towel and pretended to dry his hair. Draco hadn't looked away -- he hadn't even blinked. As if he was completely certain he had nothing to worry about. Which meant... which had to mean... Harry felt like someone had told him his glasses were too weak and given him new ones. How could he not have guessed this earlier? Tonight wasn't the first time Draco had done this, and it wouldn't be the last.
For how long? For how long had Harry been deceived and unable to see it? Weeks? Months? Years? Harry wanted to vomit again.
"You're taking a very long time to consider my offer, Potter," Draco drawled. "Are you interested or not?"
"Not really, sorry," Harry muttered, walking back into the bathroom to hang the towel. "Like I said, long day." It was taking all of his reserve to behave as though Draco hadn't just betrayed him.
"Don't apologise," Draco said as Harry got in bed. "You work so hard protecting everyone's innocence from those pesky Dark wizards." Draco patted Harry's backside under the covers. "Only an ungrateful cad of the worst sort would hold it against you."
Draco's tone was teasing, but Harry felt cold all over. How could Draco say that so calmly? He was probably glad he didn't have to put on a show for Harry after just having fucked someone else.
Harry wanted to grab Draco by the throat and demand answers, but he had no proof of anything except a kiss. What he had seen was proof enough for Harry -- he knew there had been more than kissing between Draco and Mr Love Hotel -- but Draco might well invent an excuse so brilliant that Harry will have no choice but to believe it, or pretend to. He might even say that the man had threatened to hurt his parents if Draco didn't have sex with him. Hermione had told Harry about a client of hers who had said that very thing and even got her lover to "admit" it. The Overseeing Committee for Wizarding Marriages had granted her half of her former husband's estate as a result.
No, Harry was going to find more proof. He didn't want Draco to have even the slightest means to make himself look good. Harry wanted him to hurt. His mind did, anyway. His heart didn't, but his blind, stupid, reckless heart was how he'd let himself be deceived in the first place. Harry wasn't going to listen to it anymore.
{.}
A week had passed since Harry's unexpected trip to Knockturn Alley. He had thought the betrayal would get easier to think of with time, that at least his rage would subside. Instead, he spent every waking moment obsessively going over Draco's behaviour, trying to pinpoint the precise time he'd started cheating on Harry. Every time Draco had picked a fight over something insignificant and stormed out, he had no doubt headed straight to Mr Love Hotel. Every time Draco had seemed distracted and preoccupied at meals, he had been thinking of Mr Love Hotel. That trip to visit Draco's parents in France had probably been a lie, too. And that time Draco had left the house on Sunday in robes of deep plum but returned in plain black ones.
God, Harry had been so bloody stupid.
Did it amuse Draco? Did it make him feel powerful, to lead Harry by the nose like this? Why did he do it? Why? If he hated him so much, if Harry bored him so much, why hadn't Draco just dumped him? That would have hurt, but not like this.
"You might want to clean that up," Dawlish advised him, walking by.
Harry looked up. His Dictaquill had dripped a puddle of ink onto the report due first thing tomorrow morning. The rage that seethed within him constantly spiked, and Harry grabbed the parchment off his desk, crumpling it in his fist, letting the ink seep through his fingers. It stained his skin in feathery little lines, just like blood. "Dawlish," he called, desperate to distract himself somehow.
Dawlish poked his head around the corner of the cubicle. "Yeah?"
"Do you know what a love hotel is?"
Dawlish scratched his head. "Asian, innit? People go there for privacy of the clandestine sort, if you know what I mean. I heard they opened one in the Sex Village a couple of years ago, but I've never seen it."
"So it's not the same thing as a brothel?"
Dawlish shook his head. So much for Mr Love Hotel being a prostitute. It shocked Harry that he had been considering forgiving Draco if it turned out he'd been paying a prostitute. That felt less personal.
"Thanks, Dawlish," Harry said. "I'd better get started on that report."
{.}
"I do love you," Draco murmured as Harry set the mug of tea down on his bedside cabinet.
Harry wanted to throw the tea into his face. Draco had been very ill all weekend; his fever had only broken earlier that morning. And even in this state, he had the gall to lie to Harry.
"Yeah," Harry said. "You too." He turned to leave, but Draco seized his wrist. His hand was too warm, and Harry had to suppress the urge to wrench his arm away. Still, it was a lucky thing Draco had fallen ill so soon after Harry found out about the cheating. It meant Harry didn't have to explain why he didn't want to have sex lately. "What is it?" he asked.
"I'm not dying or anything," Draco said, looking up into Harry's face. "Don't get so worked up."
He thinks I'm afraid he's going to die.
Harry wanted to sneer, but he smiled instead. "If you drink your tea, I'll believe that," he said, still stunned by Draco's presumption.
It would be so delightful if he could say something like, Actually, I just feel really bad that I have to tell you this when you're ill. But I've decided to get back together with Ginny and I'm leaving tomorrow. It shamed him how much he wanted to see the look in Draco's eyes -- Harry dumping him to go back to Ginny was what he'd always feared the most. He had never said so, of course, but Harry knew.
That escape route had vanished years ago; Ginny was a Longbottom now. Besides, Harry wasn't even sure if Draco would really care. Perhaps he was waiting for Harry to dump him so he wouldn't have to do the dumping. Draco had never liked getting his hands too dirty.
Ginny is a Longbottom now.
Oh. Oh.
How long had it been since the wedding? A year and a half. A year and a half since the only rival Draco had ever feared became inaccessible -- at least to Harry, whose sense of honour would not allow him to interfere in a marriage. Which Draco knew very well. Harry could never go back to Ginny now that she was married.
A year and a half, then.
A year and a half.
{.}
If I outright refuse to have sex with him, he'll wonder what's gone wrong. I could never get enough of him before.
Harry sat on the bed with his back to the wall, his hands stroking Draco's naked back mechanically. Draco's tongue was tracing words on Harry's neck, filthy things like fuck me raw and sweet things like you smell nice. Harry was supposed to guess them, but his heart wasn't in it today.
Do you do this with him, too?
It wasn't special anymore. Nothing was.
But Harry's body didn't think anything was off; still he wanted to disappear into Draco's embrace, to hold him down and make him writhe, to steal his every kiss.
"Mmm," he said as Draco waited for his guess. "I lost track, sorry."
Draco pulled back and gave Harry a long look. "You've been acting strange these last couple of weeks," he declared. "What's going on?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," Harry said, assuming a look of boredom. "Work, more work, steamy love affair with Dawlish, yet more work..."
"Har har," Draco said, scowling. "You're so witty."
Harry forced a grin. "Learned from the very best, didn't I?"
"Wanker."
"Prat."
"Mop-head."
"Spaghetti-brain."
"Four-eyes."
"Princess."
"Are we going to fuck or not?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Harry murmured, reaching for the lube. "Turn around for me." I can do it if I don't have to look at your face.
And Draco made all the right noises at all the best times, but Harry thought he could smell the other one between them; it was as though slick filth coated Draco's skin, and Harry's fingers kept losing their grip. He wanted to flip Draco around and choke him, make him tell the truth.
Why, Draco? Why?
Harry's nightmares had returned. They were black and white and gray like old films, and in them he felt Voldemort's vile essence burning in his scar. He hurt Draco over and over again, punishing him the only way he knew how, curses flying from his wand faster than thoughts. Crucio. Sectumsempra. In Harry's nightmares, blood was always black. He woke from them sweat-drenched and panting, but Draco never woke with him.
Why?
{.}
Three weeks after he'd discovered Draco's affair and after some creative misappropriation of Long-Term Investigations Branch resources, Harry knew the name of Mr Love Hotel -- Albert Campbell. He was three years younger than Harry, and his family operated a chain of magical sports equipment warehouses. He had attended Durmstrang. There was nothing special or interesting in his background -- just another bored rich kid, a pure-blood. Was that it? Was that sort of thing still important to Draco? Harry had spent hours at his desk after everyone else had left the office, poring over the scant information he had and trying to construct an explanation that would help him understand.
Was it Harry's fault? Was he doing something wrong? Was it that he worked long hours and didn't spend much time with Draco outside their bedroom? But he always invited Draco everywhere, with little success. Was it that Draco almost never topped? But Harry offered often enough, didn't he? The questions jostled one another in his head, but no answers ever came. He still didn't even know how long it had been going on.
"Anything come of that Sex Village lead?" Dawlish asked Harry, pausing by his desk. "Experimental Charms wants to close out the year and they need their All-Knowing Eye back."
"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head. He plucked the All-Knowing Eye -- a small, oblong whatsit disguised to look like a clump of dirt -- off his desk and hefted it in his palm. "It didn't turn out to be Lestrange after all. I'll take this back to them after lunch."
"Good man," Dawlish said. "I'm taking off now -- have a good Christmas, Potter."
"Yeah, thanks. You too."
Christmas. Draco usually travelled to France and spent the holiday with his parents. It had never occurred to Harry to wonder if he really did that. There was no way for him to find out. He couldn't exactly walk into the French version of Malfoy Manor and demand to know if Draco had been there every Christmas for the past four years: Lucius and Narcissa didn't approve of their son's choice of partner. Perhaps Draco's parents didn't even know about their son's choice of partner. They had cut themselves off from British wizarding society, after all. Draco wrote them every day and saw them at least four times a year. Whatever version of Draco's life they believed needn't reflect reality at all.
"When do you leave for France?" Harry asked over breakfast the next morning.
Draco set his teacup aside. "I'm not going this year. My parents are on a cruise."
"Thanks for telling me," Harry muttered.
"What's with you? Aren't you happy I'll be home?"
"I'd be happier if I didn't already make plans to spend Christmas at the Burrow," Harry said. There was no point asking Draco if he wanted to come, too. "As you well know."
"I'm not asking you to cancel your plans," Draco said very patiently. "Though I didn't realise they were so important that you'd be so cross at the mere suggestion that something might interfere."
"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it," Harry said. Then, in a deliberately light tone, he added, "I haven't seen Ginny since August."
Draco pushed his plate away. It clanged against the butter tureen. "Is that the main attraction of a Weasley Christmas for you?"
"What if it is?"
"Do you want us to be having a row at Christmas? Is that it?"
Harry was so close, so close to hurling his breakfast plate at Draco, along with everything he knew. It would get it out of his system, at least, release the anger that had gnawed so deep into his guts for weeks, festering. But he wasn't ready for that conversation yet: he wanted to have all the facts first. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've had a rough couple of weeks at work."
Draco just stared at him coldly. The sight repulsed Harry -- the nerve of him, acting all high and mighty when he nances off to fuck Campbell every Wednesday -- but he kept a rein on his temper. Not ready yet. "You know about the Sex Village, right? In Knockturn Alley?"
The bastard didn't even look away. He shrugged. "I've been there a few times."
"Someone reported seeing Rabastan Lestrange go into one of the brothels," Harry continued, quelling the urge to shout. "We threw five men at the stakeout operation but came up with nothing. Old man Robards is really pissed off about it."
It's a bit disturbing how easy it is to lie to your face now that I know you're nothing but a lying snake yourself.
"I see," Draco said. "Your boss is pissed off at you and you're taking it out on me."
"Yeah, well," Harry mumbled. "I never said I was perfect."
Draco, suddenly brightening, got to his feet. "Suck me off and I'll forgive you."
Harry used to think Draco's insistence on using sex as penance was cute, if ridiculous. Now he wondered if it was all that mattered to Draco.
{.}
Harry was surprised to find Draco at home when he returned from the Burrow late on Christmas Day.
Oh, right. Campbell's probably spending Christmas with his family like a normal person.
Draco half-sat, half-lay in the drawing room armchair, a glass of brandy at his elbow and a photo album on his knees. He was staring into the fireplace, and Harry's heart beat faster despite the anger churning in his gut. With that faraway look in his eyes, that serene expression, Draco was breathtaking, and Harry never wanted him out of sight. Draco's betrayal stung all the worse because Harry still loved him so much.
"I'm back," he said softly.
"How was the Weasley Christmas Extravaganza?" Draco asked, turning to look at him.
"It was all right. We drank eggnog and listened to Celestina Warbeck, as usual. Your presents are in the sitting room." Mr and Mrs Weasley got Draco presents every year since he and Harry had moved in together. Draco never opened them, nor did he ever reciprocate.
"Joy," Draco said. "Yours is under the tree. I looked for mine this morning, but I guess you're too used to me not being here at this time of year."
Oh, fuck. Harry had forgotten to buy Draco a Christmas present. "Um," he said, flushing. "I have it picked out... I... I forgot to go and get it." He had actually given it no thought at all.
"Oh. What is it? I promise I'll act surprised when you give it to me."
"Book," Harry blurted. "It's a book."
"What about?"
"J-Japanese. Runes." Was it Ancient Runes that Draco liked or Arithmancy? Harry could never remember.
"The Japanese had runes? How fascinating. I look forward to reading this book of yours." Draco pushed the photo album away and approached Harry. "But in the meantime, you'll do. Strip."
I'll do? Does it even matter to you who's fucking you? "I--"
"...had a long day at the Weasley Christmas party?" Draco asked, eyebrow raised.
He was in no place to use that accusing tone. He had no right. But Harry still had the strength to play along, if only barely. "Don't be an idiot," he began, but Draco slammed him against the wall, making the portraits there cry out in surprise.
"Too slow," Draco breathed into Harry's ear, tugging his robes up, mouth latching onto Harry's neck. Harry reached for him, undoing his dressing gown belt with fumbling hands, and soon they were on the floor, naked, Draco squirming as Harry prepared him using the lube from the pocket of Draco's cloak that hung nearby.
Did you put it there for me or do you keep it there for him?
Then Draco was on top of him, rocking back and forth gently. It always drove Harry crazy when Draco did this, and right now he didn't care about Albert Campbell or love hotels or any of that rot; he had Draco, naked, chest flushed pink, lips parted as he leaned down to kiss Harry's mouth.
Then he whispered, "Do you think about it when we fuck? What it's like when I fuck him?"
Harry's heart slowed abruptly, and his grip on Draco's thighs tightened. He knows I know. He's known for ages, maybe. "Get off me." All his pent-up fury streamed from him in waves, and the firelight began to flicker ominously. If Harry were to hold a wand right now, he could have razed the Manor with pure, raw magic.
"No." Draco pulled him up and clamped his legs round Harry's back.
Challenge glinted in his eyes -- he's not sorry at all -- and Harry didn't know what to do. He felt too vulnerable like this, naked, his cock balls-deep inside Draco. Too confused.
"Why?" he asked, letting his palms rest flat on the floor. It helped a little, but still the urge to break everything dominated him.
"What's he got that you don't?" Draco leaned in, but Harry turned his face aside. How long had Draco known? How long had he been playing with Harry -- again? A fresh wave of hatred rose in him, making the floor vibrate strangely. Draco shuddered, as though enjoying himself -- did he not know Harry was a fraction away from destroying them both? Did he not understand--?
"Nothing," Draco continued. "Absolutely nothing. It's just a spot of fun. I'll grow tired of him eventually. But you." Draco licked Harry's ear, slowly. "I'll never grow tired of you."
"Is that supposed to make it okay?" Harry tried not to pay attention to what Draco was doing, but it wasn't working. Torn between lust and anger, he wanted both to murder Draco and to tell him to shut up and move.
"Why wouldn't it be okay?" Draco whispered. "I'll always choose you in the end; isn't that enough?"
Always? So what you're saying is there'll be others after Campbell?
Harry was suddenly so numb he couldn't even feel pain anymore. The blind rage had retreated, and a vengeful sense of purpose emerged in its stead. "Yeah?" He lifted one heavy arm and slid it round Draco's waist. "How about I'll find someone else to fuck, too?"
Draco's legs around him clenched. "Don't you dare--"
It was so perfectly absurd that Harry laughed. "But Draco, I promise I'll choose you in the end. Isn't that enough for you?"
"You're not funny," Draco snarled. "Here, let me off--"
"I don't think so," Harry whispered, leaning over until Draco was on the floor, beneath him where he fucking belonged. Draco's jealousy had bizarrely assuaged his quiet anger, though it proved nothing. Their relationship had always been about possession to some degree, and if he couldn't be the only one for Draco, then he wanted out. But he would have one last fuck from Draco.
Draco cried out when Harry slammed into him, but Harry was past worry and doubt; his rage -- a howling, black thing without shape -- returned in full bloom. He fucked Draco like it was the end of the world, and soon Draco was writhing, moaning his name, clawing at Harry's back and arching up into him, out of control. Harry came with a violence he hadn't known before, and after he was spent, he felt empty and useless, like a bad Christmas cracker. Draco clung to him, stroking his hair, whispering words Harry didn't understand. They lay on the floor, shivering, arms around each other, the fireplace dying behind them.
"Are you going to leave me?" Draco whispered, his lips dry against Harry's chest.
Harry rolled off him and flopped onto his back, too tired to move any further away. "Will you stop seeing Campbell?"
"Why does it matter? It's only sex. Must you be the Chosen One whatever you do?"
"Don't be absurd," Harry mumbled. He felt horribly alone. "You don't want me fucking anyone else. What makes you special?"
"I want to do whatever I want. It makes me happy. If you love me, you'll want to make me happy, won't you?"
"A relationship isn't about what you want. It's... what we both want. I'll never be happy with you cheating on me." Harry's answers sprang to mind as though he'd thought about them before. Maybe he had. He didn't remember anymore.
"So for us to go on, I must meet your standards. Who cares what I like, right?"
"Fine," Harry said. He was done with this, done with Draco, done with them. It wasn't worth any more effort. Not for this price. "If that's how you see it, I'll be gone by tomorrow."
"No. You can't." Draco's hand closed around his.
Harry pulled his hand away. "Watch me."
"One little affair and that's it? Love is over?" Draco sounded like an offended child.
Harry closed his eyes. "Whatever." The weight of yesterday's world upon his chest was crushing.
He expected Draco to say something cutting, but there was only silence. He lay there, trying to memorise the feel of the rug against his skin, memorise the ghost of Draco's last kiss. Tomorrow, he would go back to Grimmauld Place with its cobwebs and its loneliness. But he would keep his pride.
He heard Draco leave the room, wanting despite everything to open his eyes and call out his name, to tell him he didn't care. But he did care. He didn't want to be Draco's favourite lover. He wanted to be the only one, and if that really meant he didn't love Draco, then he didn't.
Minutes later, he heard footsteps and felt soft, heavy fabric against his skin, the smell of it familiar and haunting. The duvet cover from their bed. Harry opened his eyes. Draco was sitting next to him, pale and oddly small in one of Harry's old dressing gowns. Harry stared at him, wanting to memorise this, too. He even wanted to listen to that stupid grandfather clock upstairs one more time.
When Draco spoke, his voice was stiff, as though he were holding back a scream. "The only way you'll stay is on your terms."
"Yes." Was it sick that all Harry wanted was to pull him down and hide them both from the world? Was it weakness? Love? Both?
Yes.
"Then stay."
{end}