Samsara's Curse (Drarry Slowburn)

CAT AND MOUSE

A/N: Small smut warning.

Draco woke up the next morning with a groan, stirred from slumber by the rays of sunlight bleeding through a gap in the drapes. Even after eight years of waking up to the night sky, his body had readjusted fairly quickly to be awakened by sunlight. His eyes fluttered open, wide with wonder, at the glittering constellations stippling his canopy.

If I could give you the entire night sky, all the stars included, I would.

He smiled, slipping his hand over to where Harry had slept, but he found only a painful absence. Draco sat up, hoping that he would at least be in the room. He was not. Even with all the practice Draco had in not letting his feelings get the better of him, Harry had still managed to blindside him.

Draco contemplated going back to sleep, but he knew he would just lie awake for hours, feeling like he was covered in a layer of grime and regret. He opted for a shower, though he knew it wouldn't make him feel any cleaner.

The water gently scalded his shoulders, which maintained a heaviness with all that was weighing on him. Day four, he thought.

He wasn't sure how much longer his sanity would last. Part of him wanted to run away and never look back, but the other part was painfully falling in love. Meanwhile, Harry only ever seemed to dig his heels into the idea of a relationship when he meant to drag them back out again, once the prospect had been trampled over.

Draco felt trampled over.

He wasn't someone Harry wanted. Harry didn't sleep beside him out of desire, but out of convenience. That must've been it.

He would've stayed, otherwise.

Then again, Draco couldn't recall what he expected. He might've escaped Azkaban for his crimes, but the public's distaste for him never went unnoticed. Maybe Harry . . . he shut his eyes, trying to force back tears, to no avail. Maybe Harry hates me just as much as everyone else.

Tears were falling freely now. His face was already wet from the shower, making his sorrow indiscernible, aside from the strangled sobs that escaped him.

Draco let the water wash away the suds on his skin, but it failed to wash away the confusion he felt. It didn't make any sense. If Harry truly hated Draco, he wouldn't have kissed him. Right?

He wouldn't have cared for him in a time of need—wouldn't have charmed the canopy. Draco was still unable to guess why he would do something like that.

Was it just to mess with my head?

A fiery wrath coursed through him as Draco switched off the water. He yanked on his borrowed robe, not caring that the silk clung to his skin. He tied it with vehemence and set off to face Harry.

He did not expect to find him right outside the bathroom door, about to knock.

Draco's heart lunged out of his chest.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Harry said apologetically. "I . . . I heard crying. Are you okay?"

Draco frowned, shooting a lethal glare Harry's way. It was things like this that infuriated him. It was so incredibly hard to hate someone that was so kind, but it felt like all Harry's kindness came from a place of pity—not love. It was possible, though, that Draco simply didn't expect anything more.

"Don't ask if you don't care," Draco pleaded, voice strained and hoarse.

Harry was dumbfounded as he watched Draco brush past him and walk away. "What? What makes you think I don't care?" he asked.