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Draco Malfoy couldn’t remember a time when he was held. As a child, he found more emotional reprieve from the house elves than his own parents. His tears would provoke no more than a frustrated growl from his father and an exasperated “not now, darling,” from his mother. And presently, with everything that had attributed to the absolute hell that was his sixth year, not much had changed.
He’d found himself sobbing alone in the abandoned lavoratory on multiple occasions, arms wrapped around his knees, praying that he could somehow hold himself together. It was a rotting feeling, facing everything alone. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he could much longer.
It came as genuine surprise the day he opened the bathroom door to find none other than Potter in his usual spot, a heap of robes and muffled sobs on the floor. He froze, unsure of what the fuck to do. Would it be smarter to leave unnoticed? Or ready his wand for a defensive brawl? He didn’t quite have the energy for the latter, and when Potter’s green stare snapped upward, he knew he’d be caught. Red-rimmed and desperate, Draco had never witnessed such a vulnerable state from the boy in front of him.
He should’ve been angry at Potter for interrupting his own bout of self-loathing, or perhaps glad that his enemy was suffering. But all he felt was an awkward pull toward his defeated figure, like he finally wasn’t alone.
Potter snapped him from his reverie: “Fuck.”
The word sounded tired, as if he was inconvenienced by his presence but unwilling to fight it. And in that moment, Draco Malfoy sensed something he’d never felt before resonating through the air between them: a truce. He decided to test this boundary, stepping forward and cautiously closing the distance between them.
Potter didn’t hex him. He didn’t even reach for his wand. His brow creased, curious, but never narrowed. And that’s when Draco Malfoy decided to try something new, perhaps from his own desperate grasp for sanity. He gulped once, a testament to the spike of nervousness that rang his mouth bone dry. And without further ado, Malfoy took a seat next to Potter.
He said nothing, evaluating the change of routine skeptically before leaning his head back against the wall. “Is this the part where you insult me?”
Draco held his stare for a moment. He’d never noticed how soft those eyes were albeit their vibrancy. Sharp but honest. Pure.
“Nah. I’m not quite in the mood.”
Harry’s brow relaxed, and he allowed his eyes to fall shut. Draco didn’t move. His gaze was somehow involuntarily locked on Potter’s face, admiring subtle details that he’d never been so close to notice. He watched as Potter gave in, shoulders slumping with the conscious decision to believe that Draco wasn’t there to terrorize him. Slowly, he let his guard down.
They didn’t speak for a while, but Draco knew that something between them would never be the same. Potter’s tears resurfaced, gliding seamlessly down his cheeks as Malfoy wondered why the fuck this caused his stomach to deflate, as if Potter’s sadness had created some kind of irreparable hole in it.
“It’s your Godfather, isn’t it,” Draco gently pried, examining the waters while trying to make himself feel whole again. He’d been privy to the events at the Department of Mysteries last term; it was his father after all who had led the ambush.
Harry didn’t answer, but the way his head fell, eyes scrunching shut as if to block out the pain... it was all the confirmation Draco needed. His throat croaked as another round of sobs escaped, and it was evident that Potter was no longer holding back. Draco paused, unable to think straight, his head swimming in everything that was Potter, so raw and open before him. His stomach swooped, the remains of the unhealed wound throbbing as Potter cried.
Suddenly, Draco had an idea.
It was stupid, and reckless, and foolish, but so was sitting in a loo alone with Harry fucking Potter. Sometimes you just have to take chances.
Draco raised an arm, resting it around Potter’s shoulder. It was an awkward gesture, but when the boy continued to cry harder, Draco knew it hadn’t been in vain. His thoughts floated to his own experiences, and he came to realize quickly that he and Potter were not far unlike each other. Had Harry ever been held? Without parents, who had been there to comfort him? His friends were nowhere to be found at the moment, and that let Draco know that he was battling far more on his own than he’d let on.
And, damn, if the pain in his stomach didn’t soften at the touch.
Draco’s fingers sparked as they gripped Potter’s bicep. They tingled as he gently traced the lines of his arm, grazing up and down in the way he’d always imagined someone doing for him.
And then, the unthinkable occurred: Potter shivered. He shivered, and then he leaned against Draco, resting his head against his chest. His breath cought, frozen in his lungs at the sudden contact. It felt good, so fucking good, and Draco realized he’d never felt so whole before.
This didn’t make any goddamn sense. None of it did. His body was reactionary, and he swore he didn’t tell himself to rest his cheek against Potter’s messy mop, to breathe in the scent of his hair and revel in how unexpectedly clean it was.
Potter continued to sob, and for once Draco didn’t care that his robes would probably leave stained with snot and the like. This feeling, this completeness; it sent Draco reeling. Was this what he’d been missing all these years?
His other arm instinctively crept forward, wrapping around Potter to rest by his other hand. His stomach lurched, but this time it was expanding, a balloon that had been patched. It swelled and sent waves of something- he couldn’t quite identify the feeling- along every inch of his being. His heart began to race, and it only continued to rapidly pulsate as Potter responded by gently rubbing his head against his chest.
Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. This felt so right, so perfect, and as the butterflies swept through his veins he came to the sudden unsettling conclusion that this was far different than being held by your parents or close friends.
Because even in their minimal contact, Blaise and Pansy’s touch had never felt like this.
“Fuck,” was Draco’s thought on the matter, and although he was puzzled beyond comprehension he didn’t dare move. Because Harry felt so right- oh my god- Harry...
The Boy Who Lived himself chose that very moment to lift his head, meeting Draco’s nervous gaze. Their faces were only inches from each other, and Draco could feel the soft puff of his breath against his lips...
Goddamnit, he couldn’t think, couldn’t process, couldn’t function...
He didn’t know what he was doing. He could blame it on the intoxicating feeling that was holding someone who needed to be held. Except that person was Potter, who’d somehow inevitably became Harry...
Their eyes held a hypnotizing trance, and Draco felt his whole body go numb as he leaned forward. So whole, so right...
His eyes shut. Harry’s did too. And in the next second Draco’s lips were pressed against his. The moment was short, but infinite in its own right.
Draco felt every fiber of his being simultaneously rip apart and then weave back together. It was a metamorphosis, an insanity that grounded him into another world entirely. An existence in which he wasn’t alone. In which kissing Harry Fucking Potter was everything he’d never knew he needed. A world where he could be happy. A world where-
Reality came crashing down on him, and in one sudden motion he’d ripped himself away.
“Fuck, Harry, I’m so sorry.” His words were a whisper, an apology that echoed in the silence. Harry was heaving, trying to catch his breath, and Draco couldn’t help but notice how attractive it was... how fucking beautiful he was...
And how wrong it was. This wasn’t fucking normal. He’d gone from comforting him to wanting him and it had all happened so fast that Draco hadn’t even had time to properly convince himself of his own insanity.
“You called me Harry.” The air was thick, and his words hung in the few inches that still remained heavily vacant between them.
Draco couldn’t speak; he couldn’t fucking think. His heart hammered against his ribs, an intense counterpart to the elation that still filled his belly whole. He settled on a nod, a quick jerk of his head born of nerves and necessity.
Harry’s gaze was gentle, green eyes boring into him, past his insanity, straight through to his goddamn soul. He’d never felt so open, so vulnerable. It was fucking terrifying, but somewhere in the corner of his mind, he felt exhilarated. That was the part of him, the small section that held onto the feeling of wholeness, that kept him from bolting out the door.
Draco watched as the space between Harry’s eyebrows softened. He then tilted his head, eyes searching every piece of Draco’s face, and raised his hands to cup his cheeks.
An involuntary shudder traveled down his spine. His hands were so smooth, perfectly molded to the curvature of his face.
Harry’s stare flickered down to his lips, a foreshadowing that stole Draco’s breath. He felt it hitch somewhere in the back of his throat as Harry suddenly lurched forward, slicing the air and destroying any and all separation between them. His lips crashed into Draco’s, a tidal wave that swept him under and ironically left him feeling like he could finally breathe.
This kiss was urgent, and heated, and it wasn’t long before Harry’s lips separated and invited him inside. Draco’s head swum. This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be fucking happening. He’d never been kissed like this before, wasn’t even sure if he was doing it right, but fuck it.
Harry’s sharp inspiration tickled his nose as Draco allowed his tongue to sweep forward. It tangled with Harry’s, a chaotic dance that broke his skin into the most exciting form of goose flesh. Harry grasped him for dear life, sliding his hand back to knot within strands of his hair, and, Merlin, it felt so right...
Draco felt a part of him stir, a raveled mess of hormones and desire and fucking passion from down under. He’d never felt this, never fucking dreamed he could experience this. What a twisted fucking sense of humor someone had, for Harry Potter to pull this from him.
The greatest part was, he didn’t care.
When they did separate, panting and worked up from a knotted mess of passion and adrenaline, Draco didn’t mind that it was Harry across from him.
He wasn’t bothered one bit by the way Harry eventually settled into his arms, wrapped snug into an embrace that patched him unbroken. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been happier.
It was nice to hold, and to be held in return. But what was even better was to experience both of these things with Harry.