and violence henceforth (mentalistecbm) wrote,
and violence henceforth

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fic: how to succeed in adulthood, while kind of trying; R (part iii)

Title: how to succeed in adulthood, while kind of trying
Summary: it's not easy being an adult, and it's definitely not easy dealing with slytherins in muggle clothing and children with wands. but harry's handling. kind of.
Word Count: ~15700 total; this part: 5457
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of JKR and Bloomsbury.Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: mutual wanking, but this is slash, so that's a requirement, isn't it?
Notes: thanks to erica for the beta - any and all mistakes are our own. cracky title and summary are all my fault; the good parts are rachel, clearly. (collab with imprintofadream)



Winter holidays arrive, and Draco still isn't done 'thinking.' Things have gotten back to normal, in their way, but nowhere near how they had been.

God, Harry feels so fucking stupid.

He sleeps at Grimmauld Place, but spends most of his days with Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys. He floos Seamus and visits Dean; Neville and Luna show up at the Burrow on Christmas Day.

Draco sends him an owl. Happy Christmas, Harry, with a tie attached, in Slytherin colours. He tries to smile at the humour of it, but oh, he wants to be there with Draco, near him, with him. He wants to be wanted, and he wants to be wanted by Draco Malfoy.

Which is fucked-up in far too many ways to be counted.

'Alright, Harry, what's up with you?' Ginny asks, sitting across from him on the grass as they watch the smaller children race around on brooms. Teddy, being the oldest of them all, and determined to get a spot on a Quidditch team in three years when he is finally eligible to sign up, flies with determination and a grace on the broom that he surely does not have on the ground.

Smiling, he turns to address Ginny, 'What do you mean?' Mind still on his godson.

'Unless someone is actively talking to you, you walk around all forlorn and lovesick. Spill, Potter.'

'It's nothing. Really.' It would be his luck to get the one female almost as persistent of Hermione.

'I don't buy.'

'Drop it, Gin. Please.'

She narrows her eyes and scrutinises him for a moment before sighing.

'Fine. But only because it's Christmas, and only because I have a hot date tonight,' she grins.

Grateful for the subject change, Harry asks who.

'Blaise Zabini.'

'Good for you, Gin. I'd never imagine a Weasley to go after a Slytherin, but who knows?'

'I'd never imagine a Potter to fall for a Malfoy, either,' she says lightly, before raising a knowing eyebrow and walking away into the home.


He springs up and follows her inside, stopping her in the kitchen. Thankfully, Molly is playing Celistina Warbeck at great volume in the living room, as is traditional, so their conversation is private. 'How'd you know?'

'Harry, you work with him. You smiled at the tie he sent like it was a new puppy. And, honestly, even when you were dating me in school? Malfoy was your priority.' She rolls her eyes and hops up onto the worktop, grabbing an apple from the bowl there.

Sighing, he leans next to her. 'Well, since you know. Any suggestions?'

Gin shrugs. 'I don't really know the whole story. I'm assuming you've either not told him or that he's turned you down, from the way you're acting.' She crunches into the apple and holds it out to him.

He shakes his head, pushes it back toward her, and admits, 'He said he had to think about it.'

Ginny blinks at him. 'When did he say this?'

'Halloween,' he mutters, nearly inaudibly. 'He's been… a little bit off since then.'

She snorts and gestures hopelessly with the apple. 'He's such a Slytherin. Probably looking at it from every angle before he makes his decision instead of doing what'll make him happiest.'

'But how does he know I'll make him happiest?' And he's aware that he's defending Draco when he'd previously been in the same camp Ginny is now occupying. He's aware that he's that far gone.

'How does he know you won't?' she argues.

He has to duck to avoid getting clobbered by the flying apple.


Grimmauld Place is more crowded than it is on most nights when New Years Eve comes around. Most of the kids are with Molly and Arthur, leaving parents free to socialise and drink. Harry smiles at his guests, pushes alcohol on them, focuses mainly on their happiness.

Because, sap that he's turning into, Draco isn't here and he has nothing else to do, really. Besides, he hasn't really been drinking much since the night after Draco put him off.

George and Angelina are leading a rousing burst of song in his drawing room while he stands back and watches, fondly remembering, wishing Fred were here as well even though he knows his house probably wouldn't be standing if he were. Hermione and Ron are sprawled in an armchair being… well, Harry can't look at them right now. Happy as they are, he still has a tendency to be jealous at times.

Dean and Ernie, arguing and being loud; Charlie and his boyfriend playing some kind of drinking game with Fleur, Seamus, and Parvati; Bill discussing some of the plants he's seen with Neville; Luna, Ginny, and Blaise making headway… Everyone else is, well, mostly coupled up.

He sighs and turns to answer the door when the wards alert him to another visitor walking up the path.

And then he's staring at the apparition in front of him—maybe he has had a little to drink—and staring at the scarf wrapped securely around his neck, at the coat buttoned all the way up, at the pink cheeks and perfect hair and hands shoved in pockets. 'Harry. You mind if I come in? It's bloody freezing out here.'

He steps aside to let Draco through, fumbling to close the door behind him twice before he manages it. 'Draco.'

The blond looks down the hallway toward the noise and lifts an eyebrow at him. 'You have guests and you didn't invite me? For shame, Harry, it's as if you've changed your mind.'

'I haven't,' he blurts, and cringes. 'Er…'

Draco laughs, exuberant, and unbuttons his coat. Inside Harry's house. The images don't take much to race to the forefront of his mind.

'Do you mind if I crash the party, Harry? It's pretty pathetic to be spending New Years' with your Mum, don't you think?' Draco is grinning, and Harry doesn't think he's ever seen this much—joy come from the other wizard.

Draco Malfoy must be a holiday person, odds of all odds.

'No. I don't mind,' Harry finally stammers out, taking the coat from his guest. He doesn't smell it, he convinces himself. Of course not.

'Good. Walk me, will you? I don't feel safe without protection around so many Weasleys.'

Harry snorts at this, but when they rejoin the midst, he notices that though they all throw looks toward Draco, they're more exasperated than angry and a few greetings are even called across the room.


What the bloody fuck?

Draco makes his way over to where Ginny, Luna, and Blaise lounge around, drinking lagers, and though the handshake with Zabini is expected, the hug that he gives Luna and the wink he receives from Ginny are not.

He makes his way over to where Hermione and Ron sit, and purposely squishes himself in between them, half on Hermione's lap. It's the only way that he'll be able to have a serious conversation without the two attacking each other anymore than they already have. They should have expected it, really, all of them, how the couple would act when they finally paired up. Seven years of foreplay and sexual tension tends to build a bit of passion.

'What's with the bloody camaraderie? And how did he even know about this? Who gave him the damned coordinates?'

'One would think that you'd be complaining less, Harry.'

'Don't change the subject!' he hisses to Hermione, who looks far-too-calm. 'Do Malfoys even crash parties?'

'Dunno why you're asking us, mate. Aren't you two best friends now? I'm sure he'll explain.'

He looks, appalled, at the poorly-disguised amusement on Ron's face. Not Ron, too. 'Oh, come on. Please just tell me. I'll end up looking like a right fool for the rest of the night, and I doubt he'll drink in my presence ever again.' He pauses. 'Why do you even know all this?' he exclaims, very close to losing it. Draco. In his home.

It'd be much better if he were naked, an unhelpful voice at the (not-so) back of his head mentions, and Harry avoids groaning. It would be. But that's not the point.

'Harry, everyone knows. And, well, what we do with that knowledge is our business.'

'You threatened him, didn't you?'

'On a few counts, possibly,' Hermione replies lightly. 'Now go on and mingle. You're being a terrible host, interrupting your guests from serious discussion.' It's nice to see her joking so easily at the obvious swelling and redness of her and her fiancé's lips, and Harry grins slowly, a brief respite from his Draco-obsessed thoughts.

'Serious discussion. Right,' he says, getting up. 'Please take the most enthralling debates to your own house, please.'

He walks over to where Draco has migrated to the drawing room with George and Ang.

He suspects that the blond must be at least a tad inebriated.

'Oh, you should see the kids at Hogwarts now. Think they're all smooth, with their sudden nose-bleeds. Summon the other half of the candy, make them take it and—bam. Problem solved. They all think that Wheezes' was created at their arrival to Hogwarts. Classics.'

Harry stands in the doorway, blinking.

Some major plot has been going or, or the Muggles have finally realised that certain pigs can fly, because this just isn't on.

Draco turns then, smiling, and waves Harry over. 'Harry! I notice everyone else has a drink. Mind helping a mate out?'

And Harry lets his feet guide him into the kitchen, feeling utterly confused and lost and a little betrayed by his friends. Nosy buggers, the lot of them.

He's grumbling under his breath as he reaches up for another crystal shot glass when the hands settle on his hips, long fingers slipping through belt loops. The crystal slips from his hand and smashes against the work top. 'Shit,' he breathes, looking over his shoulder.

This is too close for friends. This is too close for thinking. It's still not close enough, not really, not for Harry. Draco lifts his eyebrows slowly, surveying the broken glass, and pulls Harry backward; he stumbles, inelegant, ungraceful, and his back is up against Draco's front. Too warm, his heart is beating too fast, this is too sudden.

He breaks away, turns to face his partner with his hands out in front of him. Draco laughs and reaches out for them, and, oh, god, he's not just tipsy. He's hidden it well.

'Harry, Harry, where are you going?'

'I… but… What do you want, Draco? Do you know? Can you honestly say you'd be doing this if you were sober?' And why are these words falling out of his mouth? Why isn't he giving in, leaning in, kissing Draco for all he's worth?

Draco shrugs. 'I don't know if I could do this sober.'

Harry sighs and shakes his head, wanting things to be different. 'Not like this. If you can't do it sober, you shouldn't do it at all.'

'Drunk actions are honest thoughts,' Draco parrots, laughs again, takes a wobbly step forward.

But Harry is decided. His chest feels like it's filled with lead, but he steps back again, and Draco's eyes are narrowing. 'Not like this,' he repeats. He turns and leaves the room, feeling the surprised fire of Draco's gaze on his shoulders all the way out.


He just can't get over it. He wants to yell, threaten, plead, 'Why? Why did you have to fucking do it that way? Why? I want you, and you can't even touch me without being drunk—why?'

It hurts more than he cares to think.

He feels betrayed by his friends—'Couldn't you have made him sober? Why like that, why like that?'—but after a week and countless owls, he knows that he cannot rightfully rest the blame on them. They'd set it up for him to show up, not to get completely buggered beforehand.

He blames it on McGonagall for about an hour, for hiring Dra—Malfoy—but no, Draco, because it hurts too much not to say—in the first place, but then she looks at him sternly, as if she can see through his fucking soul, and he rethinks the fault.

So he rests it on Draco. And Merlin if it doesn't show in their classroom.

He duels, brutally, with curses just on this side of legal, and Draco gives as good as he gets, glaring at him the entire time as if to ask 'why?' but he has no right; that's Harry's question. Their upper years have learned not to say a word when Professor Potter decides that today, he's going to fucking see how many spells he can use to disfigure dear Professor Malfoy or that today, it'd be a fantastically brilliant idea to cage Professor Malfoy with venomous serpents.

One day in early February, Harry walks into the room before Draco and, with a flick of his wand, sets the board to say, 'VOLDEMORT.'

Leaning against it, he watches the reactions as his students walk in. Every single face cringes and shows a modicum of horror.

Draco is fucking angry.

He seems to forget that there are other students in the class as he walks up to Harry, and spits, 'Are you fucking serious? What in the world possessed you to do something so—stupid, Harry?'

'The only way to stop history from repeating itself is knowledge,' he replies, on beat, voice calm. 'Do you remember the war against Grindelwald ever being mentioned beyond in passing? And look what happened.'

Draco stares at him in disbelief for a second before backing up and shaking his head. 'You know what, Harry? I don't even fucking care.'

A part of it had been to aggravate Draco, but only a very small part. He really means what he said about knowledge.

So he begins.

'Many of you have heard of You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord. Most of you don't call him by his name—Tom Marvolo Riddle. The name Lord Voldemort is an acronym from those letters. How many of you think you can say the name? None of you? Pity.

'You've also, of course, heard of Albus Dumbledore, a previous headmaster of this school and one of the greatest Light wizards in Britain. He defeated the Dark wizard Grindelwald, among many other accomplishments. Say his name.'

The class does, and he nods. 'You can say the name of one great wizard, but not another. It's fear. Dumbledore told me once that fear of a name only increases fear of a thing itself. And it's alright to fear the past, to fear history—if only because you fear it happening again. It is not alright to ignore it. Let me tell you of a time many would rather forget. Let me tell you of a time many people cannot forget, because it cannot happen again. Let me tell you of the war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.'

He goes on, tells them about Voldemort's rise to power the first time, about the Chamber of Secrets, about the Death Eaters. He tells them about their fourth year, the imposter who taught them, glosses over the resurrection of Voldemort—he won't go into personal detail about himself. He talks up until the bell, when Voldemort has barely risen. He'll continue the lecture starting with more details on the Order of the Phoenix tomorrow. He releases them.

Draco waits until the last student is gone and then locks the door firmly, turning on Harry. His face is pink, his jumper pulled off to reveal the shirt underneath, his hand shaking. 'What the fuck is your problem?'

'I don't have a problem.' Harry calmly flicks his wand at the windows, dimming the lights a bit for the next class.

'Yes, you obviously do. Are you going to go into detail about specific Death Eaters again, Harry? Like Barty Crouch Junior? Are you going to mention names, point fingers, let the kids go, "Hey, Professor Malfoy was a Death Eater!" Are you going to conveniently forget that Severus Snape may have saved the war effort? What about that, Potter?'

'I wasn't going to name names, no. And I wasn't going to forget Snape. I'm sure the kids are smart enough not to blame you. I mean, you didn't kill anyone.'

'Oh, I didn't, no. But I almost did, or have you forgotten that? I'm not just talking about Dumbledore. I'm talking about Ron, and Katie Bell, and Bill Weasley. Those people almost died because of my actions, as a Death Eater. And people will take that into consideration, Harry.' Draco pushes a hand through his hair and tosses his wand down on the desk. Sparks shoot out of the end when he does so, but he ignores them and stares at Harry. 'You should have talked this over with me.'

'Oh, because we're talking so much lately,' Harry snaps back. Truth be told, he'd not forgotten those things. He just wasn't planning to mention them. It didn't mean the kids couldn't look things up, or ask questions.

Draco whirls around and takes a deep breath. Harry can hear him counting quietly under his breath before he lets it out, turns around, shakes his head. 'Whatever, Harry, do what you want to, like you always do. I don't give a damn, but McGonagall might when one of those students writes home crying to mummy about the scary stories being told in class. We're Defence Against the Dark Arts, not History of Magic, just so you know.'

'Really? Could have sworn that it was Transfigurations,' he replies off-handedly. 'What was it that clued you in?'

He doesn't care. He doesn't, not really.

He turns to erase the name off the board, as they have second-years next, and he'd rather not have yet another child faint in his classroom, when Draco lets out a growl and—shit—pins him, forearm against neck, against the wall.

'I don't know what your fucking problem is, but if we have to cancel the next class, Potter, we're talking it out.'

Harry says nothing, choosing to level his stare with Draco's eyes.

With a sigh, Draco removes his arm and backs away. Harry starts to head back toward his seat, but then Draco grabs him under his armpit and drags him out of the classroom, locking it on the way out. With a flick of his wand, a sign appears on the door that declares it postponed.

'Wingardium Leviosa,' Draco spits out, and the goblin permits them entrance.

Harry figures that he should probably argue, when they start to go up the revolving staircase up to McGonagall's office, but cannot quite find it in him to care.

Harry also figures that he should be shocked to find the Headmistress already there. But again, he does not really care.

"Sit down. Have a biscuit." She conjures a plate, along with two cups of tea, looking at them from behind her glasses.

They sit. Harry takes a biscuit.

'What seems to be the problem, gentlemen? Everything has been going so well.'

'It is most likely Potter's fault,' Harry hears a familiar soft voice say. 'It must be terribly difficult teaching others if you never learned much yourself.'

Harry scrambles out of his seat and to the far end of the room, panic clear on his face, just as McGonagall chastises, 'Severus, that is completely unnecessary.'

Snape lays in a portrait that hangs side-by-side next to Dumbledore's, the latter of whom is watching Harry with a curious eye under his spectacles.

'I—no,' he whispers. He tries to open the door, but it won't fucking budge. 'Why won't it open?' He turns to face the other occupants of the room, 'Why won't the door open?' he demands, his breaths coming out in short gasps and he can't breathe and he's back there, all over again, going through everything.

'Please,' he says, low, eyes wide, heart pounding a crescendo against his chest. 'Please let me go. Can we—anywhere else—just no.'

The other portraits have now turned their attention to him, but the only two that he can focus on are hanging above Minerva's head.

He doesn't dare even glance at Draco.

There's been a reason why he's always avoided coming up to this room at all costs, and had he not been so caught up in his stupid, idiotic, pointless anger, he would have realised this.

He tries again, and this time, the passage opens.

He runs, and he doesn't stop until he has exited the building altogether and pauses at the very edge of the Forest.

Harry is well aware that he has not been acting like the sophisticated, mature adult that he should, but he can't, because it's all because of him, all of it, and he doesn't deserve it. Not at all.


He doesn't know how long he's been out here. All he knows are the memories playing through his head, especially concerning the two men in the portraits, two men he respects. On the day when he was reliving the war for his class, they're sprung upon him.

And. Well. He's seen Dumbledore in his portrait, talked to him, in that moment right after the war. But Snape… he hadn't been up yet. Maybe because nobody had really decided what to make of him until Harry had given his testimony.

He should feel at least a little reassured. Snape might be dead, but his caustic humor and hatred of Harry still lived on in that portrait. He snorts. That's not any consolation at all. The man is dead, and he died after living the most unforgiving life of anyone Harry has ever known. He still wishes there were some kind of poetic justice, but then… he had killed Voldemort. Just, not soon enough.

How many people had died because he wasn't fast enough with finding the Horcruxes? How many people wounded, families torn apart, scars of all kinds administered?

Harry shakes his head against his knees, aware that his eyes are squeezed shut, aware that maybe his robes are getting a little damp. He doesn't care. He just wants to forget.

He reminds himself of what he'd said to his class. He can't allow himself to forget, and he hates that more than he hates anything else. He can't forget the sight of Fred Weasley surrounded by his family, can't forget the look in Snape's eyes, can't forget that Teddy has no parents because he was too slow. And that night, the battle.

Everything was so hectic, so loud. And Voldemort's voice, asking the castle to turn him over, is clear. It echoes in his mind, in his nightmares. He'd died that night anyway. Why had he put it off? So many people died in the meantime. Ron and Hermione knew about the Horcruxes. They could have destroyed them.

But he hadn't known about the piece inside him, the last piece, until it was too late. And when he'd walked into this very Forest, knowing what was to come, he'd felt so peaceful. Maybe because he knew Voldemort would die now either way, and he was able to leave it all behind, abandon the guilt.

He squeezes his legs closer to his chest, his breath too loud in his ears. Tangible reminders still tear him apart. Every time he Apparates to the Burrow or Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, for instance, he has to shut down a part of his mind still expecting Fred to shadow his twin.

He takes a deep shuddering breath, trying to calm himself, and opens his eyes to stare sightlessly at the trees around him. He knows the number of dangerous creatures in this Forest. He knows that if he really wanted to find it, the Hallow in this Forest is probably still here.

Harry shakes his head, trying to push everything away again, and finally hears the leaves crunching. He turns to look over his shoulder, expecting a thestral, and instead sees Draco leaning against a tree, arms crossed, eyes glued to Harry. 'Do you mind explaining what you meant to accomplish by running out here like that?'

His eyes close, shoulders hunching. Too soon. He lurches up and begins walking away. He's unsteady, he notices, and then he's immobile. Draco stomps around in front of him, wand in hand, and surveys his face. 'You look like hell. You're going to scare half the students to death walking in like that.'

If he wasn't under the Body Bind, he would flinch. Something of this must show in his eyes; he watches as it hits Draco, and the spell lets him go. 'You don't think—'

'I do, alright? Everyone who died that night? My fault. You may have nearly killed in the war, Draco, but I did. I did.'

'Bollocks, Harry. The one person you killed—and only because you had to, I might add—was the Dark Lord, and you didn't even Avada. If you hadn't, far more people would have been dead by now.'

'If I'd just... gone a little faster, if I hadn't hesitated as much—anything, something could have saved a limitless number of people. Fred wouldn't have died, Remus... god, if I'd actually fucking listened to Snape in fifth year, Sirius would have never died.

'But no. So you may not understand, Draco, and I don't expect you to, but this—the fact that they needed to rebuild Hogwarts, the fact that there was a Battle in the first place—my fau—hmph.'

Harry cannot exactly speak anymore because, fuck, Draco's mouth is on his, fingers in his hair, the other hand on his hip, pulling him closer and, oh, that's one to get him to stop wallowing.

When Draco moves away and two steps back, breath heavy, Harry takes two steps closer.

And then he'skissing Draco, because fuck if Gryffindors remain impassive.

At one point, though he's not quite sure when, Draco ends up against the nearest tree, and Harry is putting all his bloody emotion into the kiss, grabbing, clawing, open-mouthed and biting, tongue—tongue—and Merlin, is this brilliant.

When they finally pull away—for breath, damn it, couldn't it be something more important?—Draco is flushed and even better-looking than he is on a normal day.

'I—er, thought that—that may convince you.'

Harry nods, but his eyes are on Draco's mouth.

'Did it work?'

He grunts and leans back in for another kiss.

He wants me, he wants me, he wants me.

It's obvious that they want each other, because, Merlin, Harry can't help himself and Draco is making a noise that just travels right down and makes it all the more obvious. Heat builds up between them, and Harry nearly swears he can see their breath rising as steam in the cold February air. Then again, he might just be seeing things; he wouldn't be surprised, not when Draco's hand is pushing up the bottom of his shirt and trailing over the sensitive patch of skin just above his trousers. Because he has to be imagining that as well, has to be. Draco is…

Draco is sliding his tongue against Harry's, is pulling at Harry's hair, is—oh, holy fuck—is grinding against him and pushing his robes aside and fingering the top button of his trousers.

'Yes,' Harry gasps, 'fuck, fuck, fucking yes, Draco.'

He's pushing forward, eager, oh so eager, and hell if he's going to let Draco show him up in this. He kisses Draco's neck, just above his collarbone, drinks in the resulting gasp with a satisfied smile as his hands slowly brush down Draco's back. The other man shivers, and, oh, that's nearly as good as the hand dipping beneath his pants, tentative fingers brushing against his erection. If he hadn't been sure before, he is now. He most definitely is now.

'Harry—' And Draco's voice is low, so low, deep, rough, like he wants to be, filled with lust and—'Fuck,' dragged out in a moan. 'Please, please, please…'

Harry reaches around to the front of Draco's trousers, traces the buttons, trails his fingers down, up, down. Grins at the sudden grip on his own cock, tight, telling him that he had better stop teasing.

So he stops teasing.

Holding Draco in his hand like this, panting against his neck, pushing forward into Draco's hand himself… He can barely believe this is really happening. He starts laughing, just a little, because they're outside in the Forbidden Forest, in February, leaning against a tree and wanking each other off.

Not that he doesn't appreciate it, because he really—'Draco,' he groans, breath catching in his chest when the other man does something that sends a spike of pleasure down his back. He reciprocates, not to get back at him, just to share, and, yes, Draco is thrusting forward into his fist and gasping for breath. Harry likes this, oh does he like this.

They don't really plan to fall in pace with each other, to coordinate their actions. Their minds are blank, are full of each other, only each other, of feeling, of sensation. Dirty words spilling forth, hips pumping, thumbs brushing over sensitive heads… And then Harry is crying out, feeling his orgasm rip through him, pressing his mouth into the side of Draco's neck to muffle the sounds in his throat. And it's this pressure, it must be, that pulls Draco over the edge with him, Harry's name falling like a litany from his mouth.

Exhausted, pleased beyond rationalisation, Harry chuckles and kisses Draco at the corner of his jaw, on the side of his mouth, finally, slowly, giving a silent 'thank you, thank you, oh, Merlin, thank you' with a final, thorough kiss.

Draco pulls away, lazily smiling, reaching up to run his fingers down the back of Harry's neck. 'Mmm, next time, I think we should try that inside, without the clothes. Agreed?'
Harry nods, stepping back, looking down, and—well, he's not hard, he did just have the most spectacular release, but he will be, probably, soon. And he can't say he minds at all when Draco cleans them up, when Draco is buttoning his trousers up, taking his time, keeping his gaze locked with Harry's.

'We've still got to talk,' he warns.

But the words don't scare Harry anymore, not when they're coupled with the light pressure of Draco's fingers squeezing his own, just once, just enough.

'I know.'

'You have some type of residual issues with Severus, and are a hypocrite for not telling me, even after I told you most everything of mine.'

'I know.'

'You've been a right shit these last weeks and I deserve to hex you. You don't listen, you're stubborn and hot-headed, and have this tendency to do very, verystupid things and make assumptions.'

'I know.'

'And even with all that, I think I'm falling for you.'

Harry blinks. 'Oh.'

'Yes, oh. Merlin help us,' Draco says, rolling his eyes, but his hand squeezes Harry's, once, twice, and there's a smile playing right at the edge of his lips, swollen red from his—Harry's—mouth.

'I want you,' Harry says simply.

'Somewhere, in between the whole wanking thing, I vaguely realised that,' Draco replies dryly. But the tone of his voice becomes completely ineffectual when, oh, he leans forward and once again, kisses Harry.

It's warm and slow and wet and full of promise, and Harry flushes, light and—exaggerations aside—perfect.

He could get used to this.

'Oh, come on,' Draco sighs when he pulls his head back. 'We already canceled one class; can't skip another.'

Nuzzling—since the fuck does he nuzzle?—his nose into Draco's neck, he murmurs, 'We could always lie. Claim some terrible, terrible Dark hex was cast upon us that required us to shag each other senseless until the next full moon.'

Draco pushes Harry back, and grabbing his hand, drags him back to the school.

'Damned Gryffindors. Not one iota of common sense, I swear.'

'I'll have you know—' Harry complains, happier than he has been in ever-long.

'Yes, yes, you're a teacher and so forth. A natural genius, magical prodigy and whatnot. I don't care. I know you're short, but is it that hard to keep up?'

'Best you remember that. And I am not short.'

So he's not being the best adult right then, arguing with Draco about his height and his lack of a lack of common sense, but that's okay.

Not like anyone's watching, and fuck it all, Draco wants him.

And that's all that he can really find in himself to care about.



Tags: collab, fic, harry/draco, why i should never choose the titles

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