AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! Enjoy!

Harry was only four the first time the Dursleys were brave enough to dump him with a babysitter, convinced that he was finally old enough to understand the seriousness of their threats should he decided to tell anyone about what happened at home. He wouldn't, and he wouldn't have even as a younger child, but that didn't seem to matter. He was four, and they were gone.

He'd been left with their neighbor at the time. She was a very pleasant woman, though rather boring, but she usually had her two granddaughters to babysit and didn't consider Harry that much of an additional burden. He'd been trained to be helpful—and he spent quite a lot of time not thinking very hard on the impact that that'd had on him, thank you very much—so she'd usually welcomed him.

Harry was not very good at making friends, as he'd only ever been around the Dursleys for the majority of his life. But, the granddaughters had easily gotten bored with their grandmother's lack of toys and he'd been included for sheer entertainment value at first. He was new, and different.

For nearly a year, Harry had spent at least two days a week over at Mrs. Haufman's. He'd been outnumbered, but also very eager to please, so he'd been taught how to play the serving role in all their favorite games. For dress up, he was their stagehand. For princesses, he was their servant boy. When they played house, he was always the dog or the husband who spent all day at work. He'd never minded, really, because he'd been thrilled to just be acknowledged and included but his favorite game, by far, was beauty spa.

It had become a favorite of the girls very early on when they realized that Harry was teachable. They'd demanded that their grandmother teach him all the intricate braids and hairstyles that they usually had to beg and plead her to do. She'd been glad to give up the torch, so to speak, and Harry had been a quick learner.

Unlike Mrs. Haufman, his fingers were young and nimble rather than arthritic and he could easily braid the girls' hair a hundred different ways every single day to fulfill his role as a hairdresser. For Christmas that year, the girls had gotten a huge set of spa supplies Harry had never even heard of. Together, they'd discovered what bubble bath did and exactly how many drops of scent could be added before it made their eyes water and they'd gotten rather good at it. Included in the set, however, had been about twenty different colors of nail polish.

Here, was where Harry really shined. Mrs. Haufman absolutely despised the smell of nail polish so the girls were dependent on him if they ever wanted their nails done, and they'd refused to learn to do it themselves. So, nearly every other day, Harry found himself in the bathroom as the girls sat on the counter and demanded their toenails each be a different color. Truth be told, he'd rather enjoyed being good at something.

He'd thought playing spa was a universal childhood experience, like playing doctor or learning to swing on a swing, but apparently he'd been wrong. Draco was looking at him like he'd just casually mentioned worshipping Satan, though the blond was often overly dramatic.

"What, you've never played spa before?" Draco did that thing with his eyebrows that made them look like agitated caterpillars, which was a clear indication of doubt. Harry couldn't really blame him, though, given how well trying to teach Draco rugby had gone. Still, spa was significantly less dangerous.

"Come on, it isn't scary. I'll show you." He half led, half dragged Draco to the room of requirement. Honestly, he wasn't sure where else he could get a Muggle bathtub, and the ones in Hogwarts were certainly too big and not nearly private enough. His desire for privacy had everything to do with setting the right atmosphere for the game, and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he and Draco had kissed four separate times now.

"Why can't we just go to the normal bathrooms?" Harry rolled his eyes, but kept directing the blond towards their destination. Maybe he was an insufferable git, and maybe he was helplessly annoying at times, but Harry would be damned before he let this opportunity slip away.

"Just trust me." Draco huffed, but didn't say anything more. It was progress, believe it or not, and Harry was starting to believe that Draco actually did trust him a little bit. He wasn't stupid, of course. He knew that first kiss had been a naked, drunken mistake and he knew it was wrong to want that vulnerable, human Draco back when they had yet to even talk about it.

But, he also knew that that second kiss—and third, and fourth—had been completely intentional. They may not have ended up naked and cuddling in an alcoholic haze afterwards, but they'd still kissed—or even made out, on one occasion—so Harry knew it wasn't shame that was holding the blond back. Draco wasn't talking to him about it because he didn't want to, not because there was nothing to talk about, and Harry was sick of that detached, aching distance between them.

By the time they stepped into the room of requirement, Harry already knew what it would look like. Draco frowned at the small, Muggle style bathroom and the bath/shower combo right next to the toilet, but was instantly distracted by the astonishing display of nail polishes and bath products on the counter. His eyes were wide, and Harry had to snicker.

"Have you never even taken a proper bath before, hon?" It was slightly sarcastic, and a little bit sassy, but Draco's head snapped up at the pet name and Harry instantly took it back. Shit. He'd never seen so much emotion in Draco's face before and he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing yet.

"Never mind, just pick something you like from this row and this row." Draco obeyed, keeping his eyes warily on Harry over his shoulder as the Gryffindor began to run the bath. Not too hot, not too cold, just a few degrees above Draco's normal body temperature.

"What the fuck is Santa's Sleighbells?" Harry had to laugh, as the room had clearly given them Muggle products. It was some vanilla concoction that Draco ended up actually picking above the rest, but that didn't stop him from bitching about it.

"I'm just saying, if it's vanilla call it fucking vanilla! Who is even supposed to know what Santa's Sleighbells smell like?! You know what they probably smell like? Fucking metal! Not vanilla, not coconut cookie or cinnamon and sugar, fucking metal!" Harry just rolled his eyes and began pouring liberal amount of the bubble bath into the water.

"You know when I said I wanted us to be able to talk about things? The smell of sleigh bells wasn't what I meant." Draco stuck his tongue out at him, but merely went back to the counter.

"What's nail polish?" If they hadn't already spent so many years establishing how different they were, Harry might have done a spit take at that question. As it was, he didn't bother to even roll his eyes.

"It's like paint that you put on your nails to make them pretty. It usually lasts about a week, but you can put a clear coat on top to make it last longer. It isn't toxic or dangerous—don't look at me like that, it isn't! And don't worry, I won't paint your fingernails and I'll take it off your toes when we're done if you're worried about it. Now pick a color." Surprisingly, Draco didn't argue or make any snide remark about being told what to do. When Harry reached back for the bath salts, he was pleased to see Draco actually narrowing down his options and seriously considering a color. The black that Draco finally handed over made Harry smile.

"I should have known." It would look good—and not just because he thought everything looked good on the blond—but he kept that thought to himself for the time being. Instead, he gestured towards the tub. Draco merely crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Come on, Malfoy, if we can share a bed naked and feel each other up in closets, I think we can handle this. Get in, and tell me if the temperature is okay." For a second, it seemed like Draco might fight him on it. Harry was prepared to turn around or offer privacy once Draco agreed, but he was not prepared for the blond to just start undoing his buttons.

"Hey, hey," He turned, making a point not to look in the mirror, but Draco laughed at him. Audibly laughed.

"Oh stop it, you twit. You said it yourself, I think we can handle this." Cautiously, Harry turned back around and tried not to stare as Draco slid his shirt off and folded it neatly on the counter. Socks, shoes, belt, all of it went and then those long, pale fingers were working open his pants and Draco was down to just his boxers.

"See something you like?" Harry flushed and looked away, but not before he caught the glint in Draco's face. It wasn't happy or angry as much as it was… smug. Draco knew exactly what he was doing, and he was relishing it.

"What if I do?" By the time he'd gathered himself enough to say that, though, Draco was sinking into the bubbles and letting out a long, slow breath. "Is the temperature okay?" A nod was all he got, but he cast the stasis charm on the water all the same and watched as Draco slowly relaxed back into the warmth. He looked uncharacteristically peaceful, and Harry found himself smiling as he sat on the edge of the tub.

"You doing alright in there, sweetheart?" Again, the pet name just slipped out but this time Draco didn't even open his eyes. He hummed low in his throat, and leaned his head back against the cool porcelain. God, it was so addictive to see him like this. Harry didn't need the alcohol or the nudity—though he didn't mind them, necessarily, in the right context—but he'd been craving this ever since that night. This softer, less guarded version of the Malfoy heir.

"I need your foot, sleeping beauty." That, apparently, was enough to get Draco's eyes open but Harry didn't take it back. This version of Draco was so much less reactive and so much more open that Harry didn't mind a little rebuke here or there because he knew it wouldn't escalate into a full blown fight. He felt a little braver, knowing that Draco was letting down his guard bit by bit.

"Which?" Harry shrugged and settled a crisp, white towel in his lap as he balanced himself on the edge and leaned back against the wall. He was facing the blond in his position, but Draco's eyes were quickly slipping closed.

"Either, whichever you prefer." Draco lifted his right foot out of the water and let Harry towel it dry. This was a routine that Harry knew. It was old, but he knew it. Like riding a bike, he took the file to smooth the edges of Draco's nails and maneuvered the toe separators into place. When he glanced to check Draco's expression, though, those silver eyes were trained on him.

"What is that?" Ah, that was a fair question. The separators felt weird—Harry knew from experience—and he hadn't explained those in advance.

"It's just foam, but it keeps your toes from touching or smudging each other while the nail polish dries. Is it too uncomfortable?" Draco shook his head, but those fucking hypnotic eyes didn't waver.

"You can put your leg in the water, you know. If you need to balance." Harry stilled. He'd considered doing that, and that was the way he'd always done it before because sitting so he straddled the edge of the tub gave him the most steady surface to paint on, but he hadn't wanted to cross that boundary. Two little girls in swimsuits that he practically considered his cousins were very different from an unacknowledged makeout buddy. Draco had offered, though, so Harry paused and rolled up his right pant leg.

"You're sure?" Draco nodded, eyes still completely focused, and watched as Harry repositioned and eased his foot into the water. His toes touched Draco's knee and he recoiled, but then there was a hand on his ankle. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Draco guided his foot down into the water and tucked it easily in the space between the bottom of the tub and the back of his thigh. It was miniscule, as far as physical contact went, but Harry still had to suppress a full body shiver.

"Hey," For a tiny fraction of a second, Draco's eyes were warm and vulnerable. "Are you going to paint my nails or what?" Harry nodded and grabbed the bottle of nail polish, arranging Draco's foot back on the towel in his lap. Draco's hand stayed on his ankle, though, and slowly began massaging into the joints. It was enough to make his head spin.

"That smells awful." Harry shrugged, still trying to process the warm tingling sensation all over his skin.

"Yeah, you get used to it though. Some people really like it, like gasoline, but I've never been one of those."

"What's gasoline?" Harry glanced up, sure for a second that Draco was fucking with him, before he remembered.

"It's a Muggle thing, don't worry about it. The point is that people are weird." Draco hummed, working his thumb absentmindedly into Harry's calf below the water.

"Indeed they are." For a good ten minutes, they sat in silence as Harry carefully painted Draco's nails. Of course he had to pick a dramatic color that would show every single mistake, but Harry couldn't really be mad because the black suited him. Draco's hand was still on his leg, but now his fingers were rubbing gentle patterns like he'd forgotten he was doing it. After the first coat, Harry grabbed a lotion—Santa's Sleighbells, of course, because he couldn't have conflicting scents—and began massaging Draco's foot.

"Draco, can I tell you something?" The hand on his leg didn't pause, but Harry could feel those eyes on him again. Damn, as much as he loved being the center of Draco's attention he hated the way a mere gaze could make him squirm.

"I'm listening." And he was. It wasn't immediately obvious because his eyes were on Harry's hands and his voice was low, but he was paying very close attention.

"I used to hate you, and I still do sometimes, but I think we were always meant to be together, in some sense of the word. Maybe as enemies, maybe as friends, maybe as something else, but I think we were always supposed to end up as that 'something else' together." Draco didn't say anything, and a few beats of silence passed before the blond let out a low hum.

"Yeah?" he finally mumbled, his voice low with relaxation. "And when did you come to that conclusion?" Draco's fingers smoothed gently up and down Harry's leg like a reassurance, but Harry still had to swallow hard before he felt steady enough to speak. Even if he'd started it, emotional confessions like this were not normally his thing.

"The first Quidditch match we played against each other." That made the blond's eyebrows raise, but he didn't scoff or roll his eyes.

"That soon? Wasn't that First Year?" Harry finished the second coat and went back to massaging as Draco continued to stroke his calf.

"Yeah. Like I said, I wasn't sure what we were meant to be exactly. Maybe enemies, maybe not. I just knew we were meant to be something together. I only believed it more with every Quidditch match we played in." Draco hummed again, which Harry was beginning to realize was becoming a habit, but he also didn't really mind. He liked it, actually. It was a sweet, quiet kind of acknowledgement that offered no argument or judgement but instead just the reassurance that he'd been heard.

"What made you so sure?" Harry shrugged, working his thumbs into the ball of Draco's foot.

"The way we flew together. It was always competitive, of course, but even then there was a sort of unspoken understanding, I think. I could predict you and match your movements in a way I've never been able to do with anyone else. At the time, I thought it was because we were both seekers. Then, I thought it was our rivalry. But I played against other seekers and I started being able to predict you outside of Quidditch and I realized it wasn't the position, it was you."

Draco nodded, chewing his lower lip. He looked like he had something to say just weighing on his chest, but Harry wasn't going to pressure him into sharing if he didn't want to. Still, he was prepared to wait in their comfortable silence until Draco decided whether or not he was going to speak.

"You know that night? After the party? The first time we kissed?" Harry nodded, but it was hardly necessary because there was no way he could have forgotten it. "I thought about doing something like that, or letting something like that happen, off and on for years before the war. I only did it now because I know my father will never find out." His voice was small, suddenly, and Harry had the overwhelming urge to hug him but he was wet and they were talking so he didn't move. Instead, he just swallowed and nodded.

"Would your father not have liked me?" It was a reasonable question, in Harry's mind. They both knew that Lucius' Azkaban sentence had been a blessing and a curse to the younger Malfoy, and they both knew how important the man's opinion was to Draco. They talked about Lucius like he was dead, now, and Harry supposed that maybe some coherent message might have been able to get through the damage from the Dementor's Kiss, but he doubted it. Was that what let Draco feel safe enough to do this now? Besides, this was the first time Draco had ever shared something so personal while sober and Harry was going to grab onto every thread he could reach.

"No, he wouldn't have liked you," Draco snorted, sharp and derisive. "But that wouldn't have stopped me. His opinion meant a lot to me and my family, of course, but if that was all I would have been able to convince him. It's your gender that he would have hated." That made Harry still. He forgot, momentarily, that he was supposed to be massaging Draco's feet or applying a clear coat and he forgot to breathe.

"Your dad didn't know you were gay?" Draco squeezed his knee, but kept his eyes on the water. His entire body looked tense, the opposite of how it'd been only minutes earlier, and Harry was overcome with the overwhelming urge to comfort. This was uncharted territory, though, so Harry very carefully went back to massaging Draco's arch. Draco sighed.

"He had his suspicions, but he made sure that part of me would die in darkness. If anyone had found out, let alone any of the pureblood families, he would've…" Draco stopped, his voice catching in his throat, and just shook his head. "Well, it wouldn't have been good for me."

The blond looked close to tears and Harry couldn't take it. He scooted down the edge of the tub, easing Draco's foot back into the water. Screw the clear coat, the polish could come off immediately if that was what it took to make Draco's face look a little less like a kicked puppy.

Biting his lower lip to keep from saying anything he might regret, Harry removed his leg from the tub and kneeled outside of it, guiding Draco to turn sideways and lean back against the porcelain. Only then did Harry set down the bottle of nail polish and the towel. He slid his arms over Draco's shoulders and hugged him as tightly as he could, burying his face in the junction of Draco's throat.

"I'm so sorry, Draco." He was, though he knew that didn't help. Still, it got the blond to breathe and then pale, pruney hands were grasping at his own as if he might let go. Deliberately, he nuzzled closer and felt tears on that beautiful face.

"It's okay," Harry whispered, though that was clearly a lie. "You're safe now, Drake." Somehow, that pet name was a thousand times more intimate than any of the honeys or the sweethearts Harry had used before. Draco choked, crying audibly now, but Harry just held him. This was the Draco he'd wanted to see—not necessarily in pain, but vulnerable and emotional the way he never was with anyone else. This was his Draco.

"My aunt and uncle never knew I was gay, either." It was a confession, but it felt like nothing in the face of what Draco had just admitted. "They hated me enough for being magical—a freak, as they called it—and I didn't want to give them any more ammunition. By the time I'd realized myself, I'd already cut ties with them." Though that was all true, it didn't feel like enough. Draco was shaking in his arms right now and Harry felt like he deserved more of a confession than that for what he'd shared.

"I never told Ron or Hermione," he tried again, his voice lower and right against Draco's ear. "Because I thought they might think of me differently. 'Mione guessed, though, and it took a lot of long nights talking with her for me to even be okay using the word gay—let alone to describe myself." Draco was crying steadily and Harry was maybe starting to cry himself, but it didn't matter. Kneeling there, with his arms around Draco and the smell of vanilla in the air, it was a tolerable kind of vulnerability.

They stayed there, sitting like that, long after they'd both calmed down. Harry traced patterns over the blond's chest, and Draco intertwined their fingers. Quietly, they breathed in the sweet smell of the bubble bath and the steam from the water as they both seemed to lose themselves in thought. It wasn't until Harry's knees started to cramp that one of them spoke.

"Will you paint the rest of my toes?" He nodded, wordlessly pulling away and correcting their positions to what they'd been before. Draco offered his left foot, and sighed at the coolness of the nail polish. Harry was unbelievably careful. Even in the low light, he didn't want to make any mistakes and he coated the nails with practiced perfection.

"You're so focused… It's like you're creating a piece of art..." Draco mumbled.

"You're the masterpiece, Drake, I'm just the spa technician." Again, that pet name seemed to sink deep into both of their chests. To Harry, it felt like honey sliding down his throat and making his insides warm, but he couldn't tell how Draco felt about it.

"You're unbelievable." But it came out sounding more like reverence than annoyance. There was something building between them that Harry recognized from the last time they'd ended up groping one another in a closet. And the time before that, and the time before that. He could feel that same tension zapping in the air between them and it was just as enticing as it'd been the last time except…

Except, this time, fear churned in his gut. His fingers pressed and circled deftly into the arch of the blond's foot, but he was using it more to keep the distance between them than to provide any kind of spa experience. Draco seemed to feel his anxiety. As if he could smell it in the air, Draco palmed his calf and slid his hand up—slow, but not hesitant—to Harry's knee. There, he began to draw little patterns.

"Tell me what you're thinking." It wasn't a request, but the softness of Draco's voice was still so new that it sounded timid to his ears. Draco's touch was gentle, but every swirl of his fingers was deliberate. Harry could feel the intention behind it, and the subtle vulnerability that Draco was offering him with that tone and this easy contact. An olive branch, Harry thought. This was the first time Draco had ever been the one to reach out with that first, tentative little bit of information, though, and it felt important.

"I want this," Harry whispered, keeping his eyes on his thumbs as they slid and sunk into pale flesh. "With you. I'm just…" His voice faded out without his direction. Rather than make a joke out of it, Draco merely curled his fingers a little more tightly into the muscle of his thigh. It was reassuring. Which, apparently, was something that Draco was incredibly skilled at conveying nonverbally. Was that something he'd had a lot of practice in?

"I'm not going to try to guess, if that's what you're waiting for." Still, Draco's voice was low. It was surprisingly intimate and Harry was still shocked at how much just a change in volume could shift their dynamic. Draco squeezed his leg.

"I have this thing…" Which wasn't wrong, technically, but Draco narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in a way that suggested that he knew it wasn't the whole truth. "It's complicated, and I don't expect you to deal with it or worry about it. I just… I can't have sex. I'm not a virgin, don't look at me like that, I just—" He stopped. Draco had pulled his foot back into the water, once against smearing the nail polish everywhere, and was kneeling with his stomach pressed into the Gryffindor's knees. The wetness of his skin began to soak into Harry's pant leg.

"I'm not looking at you like anything." And he wasn't, honestly, which only made it worse in Harry's mind. He'd been ready for rejection or maybe even for Draco to laugh but he hadn't been prepared for this unaffected kind of acceptance. Taking a deep breath, he made himself focus.

"Don't get me wrong, I can do everything else—and I have, in most cases. I'm not a virgin and I'm not asexual or straight or anything. I just can't do actual sex. It's complicated…" But Draco was taking his hands and looking at him with those deep eyes that seemed to see his very soul. The blond planted a gentle kiss on the back of Harry's hand.

"Stop," he whispered, ghosting over the words as he kissed each knuckle. "Stop panicking, stop trying to justify yourself, and stop looking at me like I'm going to stab you in the back. I get it. Honestly, I understand so much more than you probably think I do. Believe it or not, I'm not a huge fan of that kind of thing either." Harry could only gape. He was aware that his expression looked ugly and he could feel the anxiety slowly giving way to utter confusion in his veins but he could only sit there, speechless. Draco glanced at his expression and smiled.

"We all have our limits and we all have our reasons. But that doesn't mean all those other things are off the table…" At that, those slim hands shifted down to his thighs and Harry was hyper aware of the warmth through his clothes.

"Right, other things." He echoed it like it was a foreign concept, but he felt the familiarity in his bones. His body knew what it felt like to kiss Draco and knew exactly how good the blond could make him feel. So fucking good…

Now that there was no fear of having to stop it from going too far, Harry felt strangely free. Draco looked lighter too—though maybe he was imagining that—but it didn't matter because that one little detail seemed to be the last straw that was keeping them apart. The next thing Harry knew, Draco was out of the tub and in his lap.

Their lips crashed together but it wasn't the violent, desperate affair that it'd been before. This time, it was fervent and needy in all the right ways and it didn't feel like Harry might lose this intimacy if he paused to breathe. Draco was pliant, whimpering in his lap, and it felt so familiar…

This was so easy. It was nothing like the awkward, wanting-to-throw-up-from-nerves kiss he'd shared with Cho and it was definitely not like Ginny because it didn't feel like a battle. There was no struggle for power—Draco gave it willingly, effortlessly—but the way the blond kept sliding their lips together and the way his hands held tight to Harry's shoulders could steal the breath from his body.

It was times like these that Harry desperately wished he could Apparate within Hogwarts' grounds. He couldn't, though, and even if he'd been legally allowed to he doubted he had the mental clarity to keep from splicing them both.

The tiny bit of attention Harry could spare was spent trying to stay balanced on the edge of the tub. Every other ounce of focus he possessed was on Draco and the delicious drag of his body against the wet material now clinging to Harry's chest. On the third roll of their hips together, Draco pulled away.

"Drain the tub." Harry yanked the drain out and wrapped a towel around Draco. Draco whined at the unnecessary drying but he'd given up control the second he'd kneeled beside Harry in the tub. Shushing the blond as gently as possible, Harry began to move his hands. He took his time drying every inch of the blond and learning his body through the safety of the towel barrier, relishing in the little huffs and groans he could draw with a well-placed squeeze.

That patience evaporated the second Draco placed his lips on Harry's throat. The jolt of electricity that shot through his nervous system was so intense that, for a second, Harry wondered if the Slytherin had wandlessly hexed him. But it was a good shock, he decided. It curled pleasantly in the tips of his fingers and it felt warm on his skin. God, he needed more of that.

Draco pulled on whatever clothes he could find but they were both soaked and very obviously flushed. Harry did his best to look put together. It was half-hearted, though, because Draco seemed to think he was taking to long and began to suck at his pulse point again. Instantly, they were half-walking, half-running back to the Eighth Year dormitory, pausing only to dodge a few Hufflepuffs who were studying near the fireplace. They slid noiselessly into Harry's room. It was closer, and that was the only reason.

Then, as if they'd never stopped, they were kissing and muttering locking charms between touches and Harry barely remembered to cast a silencing charm on the room as Draco quickly undressed again. There wasn't any showmanship or drama as they collapsed back onto the bed together. At this point, they didn't need it.

The bed felt like just another extension of all the broom closets and dark corners that they'd found themselves in before now—just as intimate, but just as rushed. Vaguely, Harry knew that that wasn't true and he could have slowed this down but he didn't want to. Draco was impatient and the feeling was contagious.

His clothes vanished and he gaped, looking quickly for some kind of intruder before he noticed Draco's hand at his waist, curling around his wand. Fuck, the thought of their magic being that compatible was heady in his mind. He pushed it to the back burner, though, as Draco rolled his hips.

They clashed in a mess of tongues and teeth and limbs. His body knew this routine and seemed to expect the quick, one-off hand job that usually came with their frantic closet meetups. Or maybe it was the sudden rush of relief from having his only anxiety about this fade to silence. Either way, he felt damn near intoxicated by the blond in front of him.

Hickeys appeared all over that gorgeous pale throat and Harry only felt a tiny bit of guilt whenever he pressed down on a particularly dark one just to see the reaction. Every time, Draco hissed but sank into the touch. The buildup felt excessive, but then again it just felt right. It felt like them.

Their bodies rutted against each other, their lips kissing until they were light headed and their hands touching every inch of skin they could reach. Harry felt drunk on the sensation of sheer closeness between them. Part of him ached to make it last but the larger part of his brain reassured him that they could—and would—do this again.

They both finished rather quickly, and Draco spelled away the mess without even thinking. Harry was caught in the feeling of sharing the same air and the same heartbeat and he barely noticed the whispered the 'Merlin Harry'. They collapsed together down onto the mattress and, to Harry's utter surprise, it was Draco who splayed out on his back and lifted an arm in offering.

Harry cuddled in against him, placing his head on the blond's chest, but it was just so… much. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had held him and then he was crying—which was ridiculous, of course, but he couldn't seem to stop. Draco didn't pull away or even try to question him, though.

To the blond's credit, he didn't even need to see Harry's face to understand immediately. Gently, Draco combed his fingers through his hair and held his hand over his heart. Draco also let him cry, even when Harry was sure it'd gone past the point of being cute or endearing, and just murmured little reassurances every few minutes. He felt surprisingly little judgment from the blond, even for crying into the chest of his former enemy.

When Harry finally managed to calm down, his eyes were aching and his entire body felt heavy. Honestly, he could have fallen asleep right there. But, Draco wasn't content to let that happen.

In one last act of intimacy, the blond lifted his chin. Their eyes met—green against silver—and Harry felt more than understood the silent conversation in which Draco reassured them both that he was okay. Satisfied, the blond pressed lips together.

"Goodnight, Harry." Even now, his first name sent a pleasant little wave of warmth through his body. He hummed in quiet acknowledgement—exactly the way Draco had done earlier—and snuggled back into the blond's warmth.

"Goodnight Drake."

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