"Are we talking about it?" Harry asked awkwardly when he went downstairs to find Malfoy the next morning. He'd woken to an empty bed and a matching odd, empty feeling inside, as if something was missing.
Malfoy scowled at him. "About how terrible your hair looks this morning?" he said, by which Harry presumed he meant No, and then all but stamped over to him. "You've got a black eye," he said, scowling all the harder. "Hold still. I'm not great at healing magic, but people will think I hit you."
You did hit me, Harry didn't say. Instead, he held still, while Malfoy grabbed his chin with one hand and cast a clumsy healing spell with the other. It didn't feel much better, the flesh beneath his skin aching. "Did it work?"
Malfoy let go of him, and shrugged, his face pinched. "The bruise has gone," he said, and then turned away.
The bruise might have gone, but the pain still remained. And it was Friday, Harry realised. The day they would celebrate their wedding, before going off on honeymoon. It wasn't exactly what he'd dreamed of, as a child. But then he'd never really dreamed of anything much as a child, other than a blinding green light. It probably hadn't helped that he'd slept in a cupboard, he thought grimly.
Fuck Malfoy, Harry thought, feeling himself get a headache. If he wanted to be like this, then that was up to him. It wasn't like Harry was marrying him for real.
^^^^^^
They decided to get ready for the party in the Ministry, rather than back at Harry's, as had been the original plan. Kingsley had offered them a suite of meeting rooms he used for important guests, and Harry had agreed without asking Malfoy, thinking that Malfoy could do whatever the fuck he liked, as far as Harry was concerned.
It had been an arse of a day so far. Malfoy had been monosyllabic, and what monosyllables he'd come out with had been rude. Every time he said anything, anyway, all Harry could hear was him saying I really hate you, Harry, and how he'd obviously meant it. Well, I hate you too, Harry thought firmly, trying to remember how hating Malfoy had felt, and only managing to feel like complete shit instead. Disliking Malfoy was easy, but hate slipped away, every time he reached for it. Besides – he didn't want to hate Malfoy any more.
Harry had demanded to see Zabini again, to get some evidence that the arse-face had actually been doing some work on the bonding potion, and that had only made him feel worse. Zabini had been almost polite, clearly unnerved by Harry's genuine anger, and had assured him that they were working on a solution and could almost guarantee that in a week or so they'd be able to make a temporary magic bridge between him and Malfoy. Could almost. Temporary. It wasn't what Harry had wanted to hear. He wanted to be shot of Malfoy, not to be gearing up to smile at him in public. He'd had enough of Malfoy's unpredictability, his pointy face, his hair, his fucking Dark Mark, and the way he looked at Harry in the dark, and turned him on, and then punched him in the face and told him how much he hated him.
"I was only trying to help!" he burst out at Malfoy, in a temper, in front of a clearly bewildered and suspicious Robards, who was drilling them on possible escape routes from the Ministry if they found themselves under attack.
"Shut the fuck up," Malfoy said, and turned his back on Harry, which really helped him cheer up and feel a lot more enthusiastic about the evening ahead.
Harry and Malfoy dressed, by unspoken agreement, in separate rooms in Kingsley's guest suite. Harry took the main, over-furnished reception room and Malfoy the boardroom leading off it, with a large, central table and too many gold ornaments. He'd only managed to pull on his horrible robes, and was just sitting staring in sadness and disbelief at his horrible shoes, when Malfoy entered his room without knocking. Malfoy was already in his own horrible robe and shoes, and he didn't look horrible at all: he looked elegant, and put together, and Harry remembered how to hate him, for just a fraction of a second, before the moment passed.
"Here," Malfoy said, and he chucked something over at Harry, as if it was nothing.
Harry caught it automatically. It was a ring. "Oh," he said, remembering, and fumbled in his bag for the ring Hermione had owled over first thing that morning. He tossed the box over to Malfoy, who opened it with a frown and held the ring inside it up to the light. It was silver coloured, so Harry supposed Hermione had gone for the platinum option after all, and ring-shaped, and Harry didn't know what else to say about it.
"Looks new," Malfoy said, clearly unimpressed, and walked over to Harry, briefly touching Harry's hand as he slid the ring on. It shimmered, oddly as he did so, shrinking down to fit his finger perfectly.
Was it an issue that the ring was new? Harry felt even more hacked off than he had before. Malfoy knew about his parents. "The only thing I have from Mum and Dad is the blanket I was wrapped in when Voldemort killed them," he said coldly. "Sorry I can't pass over any heirloom jewellery. I'll be sure to bear it mind, next time my parents are murdered."
Malfoy flinched, his face going tight. "Yes, all right. The ring's . . . fine," he said, which wasn't an apology, but he looked more hacked off with himself than Harry, and he gave another long, odd look at his finger. "Well, go on then," he said, waving his hand at Harry impatiently.
Harry looked down at the ring Malfoy had chucked at him. It felt solid and warm, and oddly heavy, even though it was just a slim band of metal. When Harry looked closer, it wasn't a solid piece: it was twist upon twist of intricate metalwork, like vines coiling around a central hollow. It seemed to shimmer as he looked closer, odd lights glinting as he rotated it between his fingers.
"Don't lose it," Malfoy said, a strange awkwardness to his fucked-off tone. "It's probably worth more than your entire bank vault." He folded his arms, clearly waiting for something.
Harry sighed, and forced himself to his feet to copy Malfoy's earlier movement. This ring was too tight, though, rather than too large, and it stretched out as he pushed it down his finger.
Malfoy gave a heavy sigh. "You're still too fucking trusting for your own good," he said disagreeably, staring at Harry's finger. "What's wrong with you?"
"It's just a ring," Harry said, not sure what else to say. He did trust Malfoy, even though right now he itched to push him over in a muddy field and stamp on him.
"Yes, and no one ever cursed a ring before," Malfoy said with heavy sarcasm. "What a novel and completely unheard-of idea."
"Is it cursed?" Harry asked, sitting back down on the nearest chair and giving his horrible shoes another glare, before pushing his feet into them. They looked even worse on his feet than off them, in his opinion.
"Well, there's always the possibility it'll suck out one of my organs to give to you, if you need it," Malfoy said, and when Harry looked up at him in surprise, Malfoy was smiling nastily. "The Malfoy family has always been very overprotective of its women."
"Um, what?" Harry said.
"It's probably best not to think too hard about who wore it last," Malfoy said, turning his face away to give the wall a death stare. "Father certainly didn't intend me to give it to you, either way."
"I didn't ask you to give it to me!" Harry snapped, goaded by this show of bad faith. "You can have it back when this is over."
Malfoy's face closed down at that, into a cold mask. "Right," he said, his mouth very set. "Right, I'll leave you to finish getting ready." He shot Harry a mean look. "Remember to brush your hair, please. It's not just you you'll be letting down tonight." And on that unpleasant note, he stalked out of the room and all but slammed the door behind him.
Harry felt a bit like something significant had just taken place, but he was buggered if he knew what it was. All he knew for sure was that he felt upset by it, and so angry he was trembling, and in less than half an hour he had to appear at a party where he had to pretend he was madly in love with Malfoy, rather than just plain mad.
^^^^^^
The party was too bright, and too loud, and altogether too jolly for Harry, who felt like stabbing someone in the eye. Himself, for preference, so he wouldn't have to ever see the press photos of the 'happy' event.
Malfoy soon left him to it, striding off with a determined smile to work the room with practised skill. Where had he practised it, and who with? Not for the first time, Harry felt an odd disconnect between the Malfoy he thought he knew, all bad grace and boasts, and this new Malfoy, who could charm a room of strangers despite apparently being in an even worse mood than Harry. It was stupid of Malfoy to have left him, Harry thought, and entirely what Robards had told him not to do. Remain within touching distance at ALL TIMES! he'd said, with heavy emphasis. Everything Malfoy did was stupid. Well, Harry wasn't going to go chasing off after him, like a neglected puppy. If Malfoy wanted to make himself vulnerable to attack, then that was his lookout. Harry felt entirely capable of looking out for himself, magic or no magic.
What should he do, though? Harry wondered. He didn't want to mingle, and he definitely didn't want to talk to the elderly witch who was drawing near him, a glint in her eye and the feathers in her enormous hat quivering with excitement. So he dodged, making a beeline for the buffet. If he stuffed his face with sandwiches, then at least he wouldn't have to make small talk for a while.
It was a good choice. Ron was lurking by the buffet, though he nearly choked on his egg mayo sarnie when he caught sight of Harry in all his glory.
Harry drew back his robe to display his shiny, pointy shoes, and that nearly finished Ron off.
"Mate," Ron said, when he'd drawn back from the brink. "Mate."
Harry grinned, for what felt like the first time in months. "Been here long?"
"Ages," Ron said.
"At least ten minutes," Hermione said, creeping up behind Ron, who nearly lurched face first into a silver tray of poached salmon. "Why aren't you smiling, Harry?" she asked, giving him a very severe look and folding her arms, before clearly thinking better of it.
"You're not smiling either!" Harry protested, shuffling his feet to hide his horrible shoes.
"I'm not the one who's just got married," Hermione said. Harry had only managed to pick up a plate so far, but Hermione reached over to take it off him. Harry tugged back for a moment, but then considered that the press were out in force, and it might look a bit undignified if he had a public fight with one of his best friends over some crockery. "Harry," Hermione said, when she'd managed to snatch it away, "go and be nice to Malfoy."
Ron shuddered, and stuffed another sandwich in his gob. "I don't want to be nice to Malfoy," Harry said, standing his ground. "I don't like him very much right now!"
"Do you ever like him?" Hermione asked, sounding at the end of her patience. "Go! Shoo!"
Harry gave in. As he turned and walked away from his friends, though, he heard Ron say, "Shouldn't we have warned him Ginny's here?" and Hermione make a frantic shushing noise.
Ginny was here? Great, Harry thought. That was all he needed. He really did need to talk to Malfoy now, to warn him. Malfoy had always disliked her, and he'd shown a strange, almost jealous aversion to her in recent days. If he was suddenly confronted with her without warning, who knew how he'd react? Harry straightened his back, raised his chin, and strode out towards where Malfoy stood, surrounded by reporters, his mother by his side. His mother. Ugh. Harry forced his features into a relaxed smile and hoped he didn't look like he wanted to be sick.
Malfoy half-turned at Harry's approach, and for a split second his features registered something bleak and suspicious, before reverting back to smoothness. "Er, hello," Harry said, and then, thinking this lacked enthusiasm, took another step closer to Malfoy and tucked his arm into Malfoy's, tilting his head an irritating fraction upwards to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. It was the faintest of movements, and his lips barely brushed Malfoy's skin, but Malfoy went instantly red. Someone was taking a photo; more than one someone. Harry remembered that this was the whole point of this event, to show their love in public so everyone would fuck off and leave them alone while they got themselves sorted, so he made another attempt at a smile. Malfoy's obvious embarrassment made it easier to achieve, this time.
Narcissa's face was a cool, blank mask. "Hello, Harry," she said. "We were just talking about how unexpected it was that you turned out to be my son's love match."
It was Harry's turn to go red now; he could feel his cheeks explode with heat. "Um, yes, I suppose it was," he said. Several of the guests had their notebooks out, and QuickQuills hovered above his head, controlled by distant wands. "Still," he said resolutely, "we're very happy."
Someone went awwwww, and there were sounds of laughter at that – warm, and friendly, rather than mocking. It seemed that people were happy for him, Harry realised. It made him feel uncomfortable. He'd grown so used to thinking of the press as a force for evil, he'd forgotten they were made up of real wizards and witches too.
"Harry, it's well known that you recently came out as bisexual," a very thin reporter wearing bright-red robes with bright-yellow shoes said solemnly. "What my readers want to know is – how about you, Draco? Have you always known you liked men, or is this a recent development?"
Harry could feel, rather than see, Malfoy's sudden panic at this personal question. And Harry was a decent human being, who didn't want to get in the way of Malfoy's future, heterosexual happiness, so he gave Malfoy's arm a faint squeeze and said firmly, even though the question hadn't been aimed at him, "That's not really relevant, is it? All that matters is the present. Mal— Draco's married to me now."
Malfoy gave him a look of limpid relief, and then smiled. "All I need is Harry," he said, his voice clear and sincere. Harry didn't know how he managed it. He wasn't sure he could lie so convincingly.
They stayed in their group for a few minutes longer, before Narcissa laughed a tinkly, frozen laugh and said, "Let's not monopolise the happy couple," and Malfoy smiled a chilly smile back at her and nodded.
As Malfoy guided them across the floor and over to another over-excited knot of reporters, Harry whispered, "Ginny's here," in his ear.
"So?" Malfoy said, but he didn't sound very pleased, and in their next set of informal interviews he was mushily romantic about Harry in a way that felt almost like punishment. It wasn't his fault his ex was here, Harry thought, and felt even more annoyed about the whole business.
The Atrium of the Ministry was overfull, an hour in to the party. Harry and Malfoy could barely squeeze through the crowds. In a sense, this was good, because by mutual unspoken agreement they'd been able to avoid bumping into both Malfoy's father and Mrs Weasley so far, but bad, too, because once they did bump into someone they didn't want to see, they couldn't escape.
"Hello, Harry," Ginny said, giving him a sympathetic smile and completely ignoring Malfoy. "How are you bearing up?"
Harry presumed Ron had told her the real state of affairs. She'd have taken him aside immediately to check him for hexes, otherwise. "Um, fine," he said, while Malfoy bristled by his side. "Very happy, as you can see."
Ginny laughed. "Oh, Harry," she said, and reached over to squeeze his arm; Malfoy watched her, as if he hated her. "I am sorry." And then she lowered her voice so that she was barely audible, and hissed at Malfoy, "Pull yourself together, dickhead. Or do you want a photo of you scowling at me to be front-page news?"
Malfoy immediately forced his features into a very, very wide smile. "And how are you?" he asked, forcing the words out round the smile. It didn't look very natural.
"I'm fine," Ginny said. "Thank you."
It wasn't at all awkward. And it definitely wasn't awkward, either, when someone powered through the crowd towards them. Someone who was short, and blonde, and astonishingly beautiful, really, even Harry could see it. "Draco," Astoria said, and shot a look of unvarnished dislike at Harry, "I've been trying to get through to you for ages. How—" She broke off, her eyes widening, when she caught sight of Ginny, and she put a hand in front of her mouth. "Oh!" she said, and then went bright red. "I-I-I-I am such a fan!" She started frantically patting down her robe – this one was embroidered with tiny fairies and even tinier flowers – and made a tiny noise of despair. "I didn't bring a quill! How can I get your autograph now?"
Malfoy cleared his throat, and Astoria shot him an impish look. "You have a quill I can borrow, don't you, Draco, dear heart?" And then, when Malfoy just rolled his eyes, she turned on Harry instead. "Hello," she said, the dislike still bleeding through. "Do you . . .?"
Harry hoicked up his robes – he was wearing his Auror uniform trousers underneath, with their capacious pockets – and pulled out a self-inking quill. Beside him, Malfoy let out a snort that was suspiciously close to a laugh.
"So dignified," Malfoy murmured, and Harry elbowed him in the side, making him snort again. It was definitely a laugh this time, though.
"That time when you and Valmai pulled off that amazing reverse Porskoff Ploy, and then launched immediately into a full Hawkshead Attack Formation, destroying the Harriers!" Astoria gabbled, snatching the quill from Harry without looking at him and offering it to Ginny. "Oh my goodness! You are my favourite player. I am so honoured to meet you!"
Ginny had gone a bit red, and she was smiling in a way that Harry knew meant she was really pleased but trying not to show it. "Thanks," she said, "but do you have any paper?"
Astoria waved this question away as if it were a stupid one. "I hope you don't mind signing me," she said, undoing the fastenings at the top of her robe and pulling it down to expose rather a lot of cleavage. "Just here," she said, pointing to the swell of one of her breasts, and looked up at Ginny from under her eyelashes.
Ginny went even redder, but signed her name with a flourish, and handed the quill back to Harry without looking at him.
"I'm Astoria," Astoria said, toying with the open neck of her robe. "Astoria Greengrass."
"Yes, I think I read something really unfair about you in the papers recently," Ginny said, her tone warm. "Don't you think the press should be better regulated? The lies they tell!"
Astoria and Ginny both glanced back at Harry and Malfoy, and then at each other, sharing a look that clearly indicated they'd both suffered by being linked to famous – infamous – men, and they were really quite hacked off by it. "Can I get you a drink?" Astoria asked Ginny coyly, eyes shining as she reached down and did her robe back up.
Ginny caught a strand of her hair and twiddled with it. "Yes, all right," she said, and smiled, following Astoria as she weaved deftly through the crowd.
Harry stared at their retreating backs. Had Astoria just . . . come on to Ginny? He knew he could be a bit dim when it came to romance, sometimes, but that had seemed pretty blatant to him. He turned to say something to Malfoy, and got stuck at the look on Malfoy's face. Malfoy hadn't been staring at Astoria and Ginny's retreated backs; he'd been staring at Harry, his expression odd and strangely possessive.
Malfoy blinked, clearly startled to have been caught looking, and he wrinkled his nose, cheeks flushing a soft pink. He started to say something, and then faltered, gaze sliding away from Harry's face and back again. He firmed his mouth. "Thinking about Astoria, indeed," he said, and rolled his eyes. "Come on, husband, let's do what we're here to do," he continued, and pulled Harry off to a fresh knot of people before Harry could properly react.
Thinking about Astoria . . .? Malfoy had not just referred to their previous private and hugely embarrassing conversation out loud, had he? And all right, Astoria had shown more interest in Ginny than Malfoy, to be fair, but that didn't mean much, Harry thought gloomily. She was gorgeous, and pure-blood, and Malfoy had planned to marry her. He couldn't stop the doubts from lingering, even as he told himself that it was nothing to do with him whether Malfoy married Astoria, once he'd got himself free of Harry, or not. Clearly, pure-bloods married for more complicated reasons than simple affection, and Harry wanted nothing to do with this twisted way of looking at life.
The rest of the party went relatively smoothly, apart from a sticky moment when Robards, who was there more to patrol the room than be a guest, spotted the ring on Harry's finger. Harry managed to extract him from the party before he started shouting, Malfoy following close behind them and making unhelpful snide remarks as they walked. Robards insisted on conducting immediate magical scans of the ring, and the conclusion he drew – that the ring was so thick with magical protection spells that it was almost more spell than ring – only served to embarrass them all.
Some of the spells were new.
Harry tried not to think about that too much, feeling prickles of jealousy at the idea of Malfoy proposing to Astoria. Did he want to protect her that much . . .? But it was nothing to do with him, he reminded himself fiercely as Malfoy scowled first at Robards, and then at the floor, and finally at nothing at all.
It was just before midnight when Kingsley made a short, formal speech about how happy they all were for Harry, and for Malfoy, and he wished them bon voyage as they set off on a new, exciting journey. Everyone cheered, and threw enchanted confetti, which followed behind them in a cloud as they left the Atrium and escaped back into the lift, back up to Kingsley's office. It was going to be a new, exciting journey all right, Harry thought with deep sarcasm – all the way back to Harry's house, where they would have to hide for while, 'on honeymoon', until Robards and Kingsley deemed it safe enough for them to return to public life. It wasn't that he'd wanted a holiday, really. He knew he'd be harassed in the wizarding world, wherever he went. And while a Muggle break appealed, Robards had vetoed it immediately, on grounds of safety – he couldn't spare a bodyguard to send with them, he'd said, reminding Harry that his absence had left their tiny Auror department one man down, and making him feel shit and guilty all over again.
Kingsley arrived in the office barely a minute later, and he handed them a large, shiny silver key. "Portkey," he said briefly. "Set for midnight. Safest way to get home right now. We don't want anyone checking the Ministry Floo logs and finding out you just went back to Downing Street. All you need to do is lie low for a week. Try not to worry, Harry," he added, and gave him a kind look. "You did a good job tonight. We'll expect you back here bright and early next Saturday. Blaise'll pull through, and we'll find out a way to get you both sorted and back to normal, I promise."
Back to normal. Could Harry ever be back to normal, after being almost bonded to Malfoy? He didn't think it would be helpful to say this, though, so he just nodded, took a firm grip of the key with one hand, and Malfoy with the other, and waited for the Portkey to activate.
^^^^^^
"Well, this is going to be fun," Harry said, meaning the opposite, when they were safely back at his. It was a big house, but he didn't relish the idea of being stuck there for days with only Malfoy's company. He trusted Malfoy, but . . . he wasn't sure he trusted himself when he was around Malfoy.
Malfoy hadn't said anything yet.
"This one's on you," Harry said as he collapsed on to the sofa, thinking he'd better get it in there early. "It was your bright idea to tell the press we were going on honeymoon."
Malfoy shot him a look of dislike and sat down beside him, but as far away as he could get without actually sitting on the arm of the sofa. "Are you trying to make me the bad guy here?"
"You are the bad guy," Harry said, and then winced as Malfoy's face turned sour. "Oh come on, you know I didn't mean it like that. Although –" he couldn't seem to stop himself – "you weren't exactly the good guy during the war, were you?"
"Thank you for pointing that out," Malfoy said, utilising his best Narcissa ice-cube voice. "I would never have realised it without you." His lips had gone very pinched. "You do know that I'm trying, don't you?"
The words Yes, you're very trying, were on the tip of Harry's tongue, and he swallowed them back with difficulty. He supposed Malfoy was trying. A bit.
"We're only going through with this ridiculous fake happy-ever-after crap for the press to keep you safe. Don't think I'm stupid enough not to have noticed," Malfoy said into the tense silence. He was staring at his hands. "See how I'm going along with it and not complaining?" Malfoy frowned a bit, and then turned to Harry and rolled his eyes. "Apart from now, of course," he added, and gave a bittersweet half-smile.
"No, you have loads of enemies," Harry pointed out, to be helpful and reassuring. "I'm sure nearly all of them would enjoy this opportunity to catch and torture you. So let's not play Safety Top Trumps, shall we?"
"What's that?" Malfoy asked, his brow wrinkling.
"A Muggle game," Harry said, and then launched into a long-winded explanation that had Malfoy's face glazing over with boredom.
"Fascinating," Malfoy said when Harry ground to a halt. He couldn't remember ever actually playing the game, now he came to think of it. He'd watched it played plenty of times though, in the school playground when he was a child, and wished he had some friends who'd play it with him. A group had let him join in, once, but after only thirty seconds Dudley's friends had noticed, and had stomped in and stolen all their cards. They'd never asked Harry to play with them again. "What I meant to ask, though, is . . ." Malfoy hesitated. "How's your face?"
"Dazzlingly attractive," Harry answered. And then, when Malfoy didn't laugh: "Um, it hurts a bit still, but it's not too bad."
Malfoy pressed his lips together into a thin line. "All right, I'll have another go. Hold still," he said, and shuffled a bit closer to Harry on the sofa, leaning forward and gently touching Harry's uninjured cheek with one hand, while swishing his wand with the other. A soft magic gently kissed Harry's sore cheekbone, and he almost instantly felt better.
"Thanks," Harry said awkwardly, and Malfoy removed his hand from Harry's cheek and sat back.
"So, the party could have gone worse," Malfoy said after a beat.
Harry nodded. It was true enough.
Malfoy seemed to be working himself up to say something. His fingers were fidgeting in his lap, and he kept half-screwing-up his face.
"What is it?" Harry asked when he'd had enough of the tension in the room.
Malfoy jumped, and then seemed to deflate, his shoulders curving inwards. He rummaged in the pocket of his robe and drew out a small velvet bag. "Mother gave me this. Said she'd had second thoughts. I think . . . you should look after it."
Harry took the proffered bag between finger and thumb and, fearing the worst, opened the drawstring at the neck of the bag, peering in. He could only see darkness. He didn't much like the idea of sticking his hand in, but Malfoy was giving him an odd, impatient look, so he hoped very much that Narcissa wouldn't actively try to curse him and shoved his hand in. As he'd suspected, the inside of the bag was much larger than the outside, and his questing fingers touched the tops of a long row of vials.
Oh.
Malfoy had, by the looks of it, been given a large stock of Dreamless Sleep. Which he had, in turn, handed over to Harry to look after. "So, are you trying to make me the bad guy here?" Harry asked, trying to work it out in his mind. Did Malfoy want Harry to give him the Dreamless Sleep, meaning that Harry couldn't then complain about it? Or did he not want Harry to give him the Dreamless, meaning that any nightmares would be Harry's fault?
"Might be a nice change of pace," Malfoy said sweetly. "See the world from a different perspective, that sort of thing."
And . . . if Harry gave Malfoy the Dreamless, then he would also be making sure that Malfoy didn't need any more 'interesting' ways of going to sleep. Like . . . warm milk, for example. Or counting sheep. Which meant, in a way, that if he and Malfoy did any more fooling around, as Malfoy had crudely labelled it the night before, that, too, would be Harry's decision.
Malfoy caught Harry's eye and raised his eyebrows. "Well?" he said. "It's bedtime, scarhead. What's it to be?"
"I . . . think I'm going to go and brush my teeth," Harry said, shoving the bag in his pocket as he got to his feet. He felt his face overheat as he did so, and so he didn't turn back, just headed straight for the stairs and for cold water. Lots of cold water.
Once he'd reached the bathroom, he pulled the bag out of his pocket again. Did he need to hide it somewhere? No, he thought. If Malfoy wanted to take the fucking stuff, then he should be allowed to take it. So, instead, he placed the bag in the cupboard, next to the toothpaste, where Malfoy could find and ignore it if he so chose.
Harry gave himself a quick wash at the sink, trying not to think about anything much. Malfoy was a tosser, and just because he'd healed Harry's cheek, it didn't mean anything. He'd probably just healed it so he could 'accidentally' punch it again.
The punch had definitely been an accident, though. The look on Malfoy's face, when he realised that he'd done it, had been too horrified to be fake.
Harry was so busy thinking about not thinking about anything that he'd left the bathroom and walked over to the bedroom before he realised he hadn't changed into his pyjamas. Malfoy was already inside, and Harry blinked at him, something inside doing a funny twist at the sight of him sitting calmly on the edge of the bed. The bedroom was, as usual, in darkness, but the hall lights cast a soft, warm glow that poured in through the open door.
"Well, come in, then," Malfoy said.
Harry did, leaving the door wide open behind him, because Malfoy was going to go straight to the bathroom now, right? He was going to go straight to the bathroom, and put on his unnervingly normal pyjamas, as if he was a normal human being, and take a vial of Dreamless, and . . .
Malfoy stood up, walked towards Harry and – didn't walk past him. Instead, he caught hold of Harry's wrist and cast a gentle cleaning spell, lights glimmering on low as he did so. He let go immediately, and took a step back, before half-turning and starting to take his clothes off.
Harry blinked, mouth going dry as Malfoy kicked off his shoes, toed off his socks and then tugged his robe over his head and off. He turned to Harry, a glint in his eye, his hair a ruffled mess. All he was wearing under his robes was a pair of boxer shorts – white, and very tight. There was a distinct bulge at the front of them, and Harry couldn't stop himself from staring.
"Going to sleep in your clothes, or something?" Malfoy said, very casual, and lay down on the bed on top of the covers, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Harry. The Dark Mark was there, an obvious, horrible stain, but Harry decided that tonight he wouldn't let it bother him. Fuck it.
Harry swallowed hard and managed to regain enough hand/eye coordination to take his shoes and socks off, although the robe presented more of a challenge, and he nearly managed to pull his head and glasses off as he hoiked it over his head. Malfoy sniggered, and Harry decided that it would be best not to look at him. It took him longer than it should, too, to unbutton his shirt and pull it off, his belt produced unforeseen difficulties, and his trousers conspired to get stuck and try to trip him over. In the end, he triumphed, though, and stood up, flushed and embarrassed, wearing only his black boxers. They hadn't seemed that tight when he'd put them on that morning; now they felt obscene.
Malfoy stared at him, and then, when he didn't move, made an impatient gesture. "Come on, then. Don't keep your husband waiting on his wedding night," he said, and grinned a sharp, feral grin, which didn't encourage Harry at all.
Harry made it over and up on to the bed without stumbling. Malfoy reached over and plucked off his glasses. "I've always wanted to know what it's like to have the advantage on you," he said airily. "How blind are you?"
Harry shrugged. The world was only faintly out of focus. He'd never thought his eyesight was that bad, really. "Very," he said, and reached out to jab Malfoy in the cheek. "Whoops," he said. "Didn't see you there."
"Very funny," Malfoy said, and then reached out and, very casually, placed a hand on Harry's thigh. "Let's make this clear," he said, and slid his hand a bit further up Harry's leg as he spoke, until the edge of a finger was almost, almost, nudging up against Harry's balls.
Harry held his breath.
"You're convinced that we can get out of this bond, yes?" Malfoy asked, his voice low and hypnotic, not moving his hand.
Harry nodded sharply.
"Well. Then, the future is all mapped out for me, as far as I can see," Malfoy continued, his tone rawer. "I'll get to marry the lovely Astoria, and you'll get to marry your job, and we can all live happily ever after. Until then, though . . ." He made a humming noise and slid his hand a fraction further up towards Harry's crotch, his finger a barely there pressure against the fabric stretched across Harry's balls. "Never let it be said that a Malfoy shied away from new experiences." He shot a tight look at Harry. "Well?"
The lovely Astoria. Jealousy prickled at him again, even as he acknowledged it was completely fucking stupid to feel that way. Especially right now, given the circumstances. Harry would have been angry, too, at the suggestion he was such a loser that only his job would marry him, if it weren't for how turned on he was feeling right now. "I don't want to complete the bond," he said, to make it clear.
Malfoy froze. "Yes, I got that," he snapped.
"But, all right," Harry managed to get out, his face overheating again. It seemed to do that a lot these days, now he had Malfoy in his life.
"All right?" Malfoy repeated carefully, as if he hadn't quite understood.
Harry nodded, and his eyes dropped to his crotch, and to Malfoy's hand, so tantalisingly close.
Malfoy moved his hand up tentatively, knuckles grazing Harry's balls, and then palmed Harry's hard-on through the thin fabric. Harry swallowed hard, feeling all the blood in his body drop to his crotch. His cock was swelling even harder as Malfoy gently rubbed it through the fabric, and he could feel himself starting to sweat. The cotton was a rough graze against his sensitive skin, and he could feel the heat of Malfoy's fingers, the scratch of his nails as Malfoy dragged them along his shaft.
Malfoy didn't seem to be quite sure of himself, his movements tentative, but then Harry wasn't quite sure of himself either. Was he really lying there, letting Draco Malfoy rub his cock through his boxers? Wanting Malfoy to? Because, oh God, he was really, really into this. It was as if all the anxiety of the past few days had wound themselves up into a vibrating knot inside him, and each movement of Draco's fingers was plucking at this knot, setting his nerves on fire. He was burning with it: the need to let his body take over, let his whirring brain finally rest. And it . . . didn't mean anything, did it? Malfoy had said as much. So he could just lie back. Enjoy it. God. Malfoy's fingers were still moving, rubbing in circles against the fabric covering the head of Harry's cock, setting his skin on fire.
Harry tried to think through the burning of his brain. He should be touching Malfoy too, right? Only, he couldn't seem to make his hand move, could only lie there panting as he sort of hoped Malfoy would pull down his boxers and actually wank him off and sort of dreaded it all at once. There seemed to be a big difference between this clothed touching and actual skin on skin. But . . . if he didn't have more than this, Malfoy's awkward, teasing fingers, Harry thought he was going to actually die of frustration. He needed more. He wanted more.
Harry tugged Malfoy towards him, which made Malfoy grunt, and their hips collided. Malfoy let out a hiss, tugging his hand from out between their crotches to grab hold of Harry's arse and pull their groins together.
Oh. Now that was more like it, Harry thought as he ground himself against Malfoy's hard-on, Malfoy grinding himself against Harry right back. It was a bit awkward, to slot themselves together without banging their heads together, and hard to get the rhythm right. But there was something raw, primal about rubbing himself against Malfoy like that, feeling Malfoy groan against his neck as their cocks knocked together through the thin fabric. Harry could feel his boxers getting wet with pre-come, wasn't sure if it was his own or Malfoy's. He tried not to think too hard, but his brain wouldn't switch off. Kept reminding him it was Malfoy trembling against him. Malfoy's hard cock he was grinding against. It was blisteringly awkward, and somehow that almost made it hotter. Being able to see Malfoy as they bucked together; the silence in the room apart from their gasps; the way Malfoy's fingers were digging hard into Harry's skin. Harry burned to reach down between them and drag off Malfoy's boxers and then his own, but didn't dare. So he just kept on jerking his hips, breathing hard against Malfoy's neck. Grinding, and grinding. Feeling the sensations build and squirm inside him until he was close – so fucking close – but still not there.
Malfoy was gripping Harry's arse with all his strength, shoving their dicks together, but the angle wasn't perfect. It was difficult to get the right amount of pressure, wrapped awkwardly together on their sides. Harry was almost there, almost, but – God. He shoved at Malfoy, rolling him on to his back and pressing him down into the bed. It felt amazing, Malfoy's cock a hard, swollen bar beneath him, and Harry rocked his hips hard against it, and again, Malfoy's head falling back and his mouth simultaneously falling open.
Harry shifted, trying to get the angle just right, perfect, there, there, and Malfoy groaned, hips bucking up as Harry ground down. "Yes," Malfoy hissed. "Like that," and Harry kept going, working his hips hard, slow, starting to feel his balls throb, his cock throb. Everything seemed to throb in time with the movement of his hips, his heart pounding, and finally he was coming. He kept thrusting through it, his boxers growing wet with come.
He started to slow, his orgasm fading, and Malfoy reared up to switch positions, pressing him hard down into the bed, making Harry choke as he was overstimulated. It was all too hot, too much. Malfoy was inexorable, a hard press against him for a handful of aching, delicious seconds, and then Malfoy shuddered, and Harry felt his crotch grow even wetter. That was Malfoy's come soaking through his boxers he realised, and his heart pounded with the knowledge of it.
He felt loose, relaxed, despite the pounding of his heart. It was strangely pleasant to lie there like that, bodies tucked together, despite their sweaty skin, the wetness between them. He felt something inside him unwind, just a fraction, and he could breathe more easily, despite Malfoy's weight against him. It was odd, and disconcerting, but Harry felt warm and sleepy, and he didn't want to think about it too deeply right now. He could always stress out tomorrow, when he was more awake.
Malfoy rolled off after a moment, pushing himself upright and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached for first his wand,and then Harry, to cast a quick cleaning spell over them both and turn off the lights. But then, to Harry's annoyance, instead of then lying down and turning his back on him, ready to go to sleep, he carried on sitting there. Was he planning on sitting up all night, or something, like a twat? Harry felt all of the warm, relaxed hormonal bliss sod off again, leaving only worry. It was an irritated worry, though. "What's wrong?" he asked, trying not to sound annoyed. He knew what was wrong. Malfoy knew that he knew what was wrong. But they were still going to have to have the sodding conversation, weren't they?
Malfoy didn't say anything, his back a curve of disdain in the darkness.
"I know you don't want another nightmare!" Harry said, trying to be sympathetic but not managing it. "But I don't know what you expect me do about it." He winced. He did know what Malfoy expected him to do about it, didn't he? Now they'd had their fun, Malfoy was probably hoping that, sleepy and sated, Harry would be fine about drugging him up. Wouldn't mind sleeping next to a living corpse for a bit. Was . . . that the plan all along? Harry thought, suddenly feeling manipulated and dirty. To use Harry's baser instincts against him like that? Although – Malfoy had seemed to enjoy it too, so it couldn't have been that bad. This thought failed to make him feel any less angry.
"No," Malfoy said, his voice a quiet, chill drop down Harry's spine. "I suppose not." Silence hung.
"You know," Harry said, overcome by tiredness and unpleasantness, "I think it's much more cowardly to rely on a potion than to be afraid of your own dreams."
This went down about as well as expected, the silence poisonous and ringing.
"It's not the nightmares I mind," Malfoy said bitterly, suddenly fierce, "it's the waking up."
Harry considered this admission that Malfoy preferred to dream of Voldemort killing his parents than have Harry be a decent human being and try to comfort him, and found it left him winded. "Fine. Go and take your fucking potion, then," he said. "See if I care."
Malfoy shot up and off the bed like a rocket, slamming out of the room and across the hall, returning shortly after with a vial in his hand. He got back into bed, ripping the bung out of the vial and throwing it on the floor, before knocking back the potion and throwing the glass vial away from him. Hard. It hit the wall with a smash as Malfoy slumped on to the bed, back towards Harry, already falling asleep. During all this, he hadn't looked at Harry once.
Harry lay there, the light from the hallway still bleeding into the room, and felt very flat and tired. His anger had melted away into something worse, a gnawing sensation in his chest that seemed to tangle up his throat and threaten to choke him. All of a sudden, he couldn't stand to be in the room any more. Not there, next to Malfoy, who was dead to the world, and who didn't care.
He pushed himself out of bed and grabbed his glasses, shoving them on his nose, and made his way to the bathroom, where he pulled on his pyjamas. Then he headed back out to the hallway and, without thinking about it, down to the living room. There was the guest room he'd offered Malfoy, and a dozen or so other bedrooms he could sleep in, but he didn't want to sleep in those. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, damn it, and if he couldn't sleep there, then . . .
Aware that he was being ridiculous, Harry stamped into the living room and threw himself on to the sofa. It was too short, and the light was still on, and he couldn't turn it off without Malfoy. But he shut his eyes, turned his face towards the back of the sofa, and tried very hard to fall asleep.