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As Harry tips the bottle once more, he's never hated himself more.
It feels like he's the only one there. The struggling aurors, pinning arms and chest, prying at jaws and teeth, seem to disappear until it's just Harry and the valiantly struggling body held down before him. Bare feet slap the wooden desk, and the sound reminds Harry of a war drum.
"Harry, c'mon," Ron huffs through gritted teeth, arms and legs in a complicated knot to restrain their victim. One of his hands squeezes around a jaw, the same manner that one would use to force open a snake's mouth.
The pounding of the feet stops, and Harry finally focuses. Gray eyes glare up at him, unable to look away for the hand clamped tightly in his hair, keeping his head pulled severely back. A slender, bare chest rises and falls quickly, breath raspy in the strained – and no doubt raw – throat.
"Alright, Malfoy. Here were go. Just swallow like the bitch you are," the third auror says, and Harry fiercely wants to reprimand him, but now is not the time. Instead, he lowers the rim of the phial toward Draco's mouth, anticipating the well-timed jerk of his head that's caused them to spill half the contents. His pale neck, shoulders, and chest glisten in the faint light with the evidence of their failed attempts.
Just swallow it, please, Harry thinks, but, of course, when is it ever that easy with Draco? At the last second, he jerks his head (which must hurt tremendously – his hair fisted so tightly that the glove squeaks callously) and more potion drips down his chin and slides down to his chest. It's a super-concentrated batch of veritaserum, eventually added to water when it became obvious that it would be harder than anticipated to get it down Draco's throat. This way, he can pour more in all at once and hope at least some of it gets swallowed.
Harry, despite the twinge in his stomach, has had enough. Thoroughly frustrated, he pushes his compassion and guilt aside and slides a hand around the top of Draco's throat, gripping so tightly that Draco's nostrils flare and his eyes widen. Panic. He's smart enough to not waste oxygen flailing, but his muscles, all so taut that Harry imagines they could snap, twitch violently.
Crouching in closer, Harry pours the rest of the potion (too much, probably) into Draco's mouth, and then quickly clamps a hand over it. Only then does he loosen his grip on Draco's throat, which Harry immediately feels convulse in an involuntary swallow.
After a moment, Draco's body jerks in a different way. Less defiance and more reaction. His gray eyes lose their sharpness under too much water and warm liquid trickles from his nose over Harry's hand. At first, Harry mistakes it for snot, but it takes him only a second to realize that it's veritaserum.
"Let him breathe, mate!" Ron says, tugging at Harry's elbow. He immediately lets go, realizing that he'd been the only one left holding on. Immediately, Draco splutters, trying to cough and inhale at the same time, which makes him cough harder. He shakily rolls over, accidentally rolling over the edge of the desk and landing on all fours. It doesn't seem to faze him any, though Harry starts to rush forward, only to be held back by a hand clamped on his shoulder. Ron shakes his head sagely, and Harry turns back to watching Draco, who's leaning forward on his knees and forearms, face hidden against the carpet as he coughs in painful-sounding fits between sharply gasped breaths. Harry feels absolutely horrible, and shifts his gaze to the lithe muscles rippling across Draco's back every time he attempts to breathe. The weight of Ron's hand burns on his shoulder despite also being an anchoring touch. This feels surreal.
Ron begins the interrogation when Draco's coughs have mostly subsided and he's pulled his face away from the carpet, leaving two darker blotches behind that Harry knows are from Draco's eyes watering. He hardly hears the questions, and can barely understand the answers, Draco's voice is so… wrong. It's tight with unadulterated rage and utter loathing, but that’s nothing new. It's the rasp of it, the way it keeps breaking, sounding more like a croak than anything, that he hears more than the actual words.
Harry fixates on a string of spit connecting Draco's mouth to the ground. Notices the gleam of spilled potion on his shoulders, some paths streaking his back, left by rivulets.
When Draco speaks, his answers are laconic and terse, words hissed low and bitten short. He doesn't look up at any of them, simply stays on the ground, most of his weight on his forearms. Harry wants to go to him. To apologize. To admit that there were easier ways, but that they'd been too impatient. This is too important. (He won't know until later, when Hermione gives him a look between annoyance and outright anger as she reminds him that Draco is an Occlumens – perhaps one of the best still alive – and nothing he said under veritaserum will actually hold up to the Wizengamot, that this is all for nothing.)
By the time they leave, Harry can see the purpling bruises all over Draco's skin: where he had been pinned, where Ron had prized his mouth open, and where Harry had squeezed his throat. All for some answers that, he realizes too late, Draco would probably have just given them.
What would Draco tell his son? What kind of enemy had they just created for the Ministry? These are the questions Harry thinks of, wondering what he would tell Albus if he looked like that after aurors had raided his home. Wondering how safe he would feel if those who swore to protect the wizarding world were the only people left to fear.
He focuses on the slope of Draco's spine, elegant and harsh at the same time, but definitely beautiful. Draco is all seamless skin and sunless luminance, sharp and graceful angles.
Harry spares a moment to consider what might have been – what he's always wanted – but as they turn to leave, he knows that it's all over. Every hope, no matter how fleeting, he may have ever felt spark in him is quashed. If Draco would at least look at him, even a stony glare, Harry might convince himself that forgiveness, though far from easy, remains possible.
Draco doesn't look at him, though. He keeps his eyes focused straight on the ground. Harry watches from the doorway to Draco's study, his body aching and his mind screaming to go back in. But what can he say? At this point, he must realize that he could only cause more pain and humiliation.
"Harry, let's go!" Ron calls to him from down the hall.
Knowing exactly the opportunity he's closing the door on, Harry walks away. It feels a lot like drowning in icy water.