Waking Moments (A Drarry FanFiction)

Chapter Three

   Harry wakes.

The dream of death at Hogwarts grips him again, and he fights to slow his breathing. He likes to think they're getting easier, less heart-breaking, but if it's not Fred, it's Tonks. If it's not Snape, it's Colin. Sometimes Neville doesn't get the sword out of the flaming sorting hat quick enough, and he's reduced to a smouldering pile of bones. Sometimes it's not Molly who gets in the killing shot, but Bellatrix.

And sometimes, Draco loses his grip on Harry and slips from the broom, getting swallowed up by the flames in the Room of Requirement, his screams resonating in Harry's ears.

This is the vision he's trying to shake now, but nausea grips him too, not just fear, and he can't seem to free himself. "Draco's fine," he mummers to himself. "He's alive, he's okay."

It's been weeks since the incident in the bathroom, and Harry understands now he can't shift this gnawing sensation growing in his heart. He and Draco are civil in lessons and at meal times, but they haven't really spoken and Harry isn't sure how much he remembers from that drunken haze. But Harry remembers everything, as does his cock, which now wakes him regularly with wistful thoughts of soft blond hair and pale pink lips.

Maybe they should talk. But how would he start a conversation like that? Harry argues with himself. "Hey – you know how you said you wanted to get me into bed? Well now I can't stop wanking over you." Hmm.

He gets up, seeing the time is just gone two in the morning. He finds his slippers and his wand before putting his glasses back on. The nights are chillier now, so he throws on a jumper too over his pyjamas, and creeps quietly outside. He checks the bathroom, pretending he isn't hoping to see a pair of legs sticking out of the shower cubicle again. He doesn't like the idea of Draco hurting himself in the slightest, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't half hopeful of recreating their solitary rendezvous.

He takes a piss, washes his hands and splashes water on his face, before wandering down to the common room. He thinks of possibly sourcing some food from the House Elves, maybe curling up in front of the fire with a cup of hot chocolate.

The Eighth Years had been given their own, new section on the fourth floor for a unified house, and Harry still found having everything on one floor strange after Gryffindor's spiralling tower. But there was a sense of comradery here that made him glad they hadn't all been put back in the regular four houses. The couple dozen of them that had wanted to come back to school to study for their NEWTs shared something important; they were survivors, and Harry finds after everything that his old house loyalty and pride seem a bit defunct when they all literally fought for their lives together this summer. He guesses he's still a Gryffindor at heart, but he's happier now that they all seem to just refer to themselves as 'Eighth Years'.

The best aspect of their new common room is that it has large, glass doors which open out onto a wide balcony that overlooks the school grounds. Before he goes on the hunt for something to eat or drink, Harry decides to step out and look at the night sky for a while, maybe clear his head from thoughts of lost friends or the now-persistent longing for Draco Malfoy.

This might have worked, if Draco Malfoy hadn't already been standing on the other side of the doors.

Harry stands there in shock, hand on the glass pane as he stares dumbly at Draco leaning on the stone railing. Should he leave? Has he seen him?

"Stalking me, Harry?" Draco asks, answering his questions.

He's not sure what to say, how to defend himself when he's sure his guilty thoughts are splashed all over his face. "Sorry," he stutters, moving away. "I just-"