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Harry’s hands tremble as he presses them against the cool stone of the corridor wall, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. He’s drowning in it, in everything—the too-bright torches, the echo of his own footsteps, the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing against his ribs.
He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. In, out. In, out. But the air won’t go where it’s supposed to, and his heartbeat stutters, frantic, panicked—
A voice cuts through the haze, sharp and familiar.
“Potter?”
Draco.
Harry forces his eyes open, only to find Malfoy standing a few feet away, eyebrows drawn together in something that looks suspiciously like concern.
“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry grits out, but the words lack their usual fire. His voice shakes.
Draco doesn’t move. If anything, he tilts his head, like he’s assessing him. “Are you having a panic attack?”
Harry’s first instinct is to deny it—except he can’t breathe properly, and Draco’s looking at him like he already knows. He must, must recognize it, must have had one himself, because instead of mocking him, Draco’s voice drops into something calm. Steady.
“Listen to me,” he says, stepping closer. His tone is different from the usual drawl—firmer, edged with something undeniable. “You need to slow your breathing, Potter.”
Harry shakes his head. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Draco’s voice is quiet but unwavering. “You’re going to listen to me, and you’re going to do exactly as I say. Understood?”
Harry’s whole body shudders, but something in Draco’s tone—commanding, certain—makes him nod.
Draco steps even closer, close enough that Harry can see the fine scar on his left wrist, the pale curve of his throat as he swallows.
“Good,” Draco murmurs. “Now. Breathe in for four.”
Harry tries, but his chest still feels too tight. He gasps instead.
"You're doing good, Potter. Breathe for me," Draco doesn’t falter. He reaches out—slow, deliberate—and presses two fingers to the pulse point at Harry’s wrist. His touch is shockingly cool.
“Focus on my fingers,” Draco instructs. “Feel them. You’re real. I’m real. Now—breathe in.”
Harry does. The air shudders into his lungs.
“Hold.” Draco’s fingers press a little more firmly. “Three… four… Now out. Slow.”
Harry exhales shakily, pulse still erratic, but Draco’s voice doesn’t waver.
Again. And again.
And with each slow count of one, two, three, four, something inside Harry starts to settle.
Draco’s fingers don’t leave his wrist, grounding him. He doesn’t pull away, even when Harry’s breathing finally evens out, when the tension in his muscles starts to ease.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching him. “There you go,” Draco murmurs, softer now. “See? You just needed someone to tell you what to do.”
Heat floods Harry’s spine, pooling low in his stomach. He doesn’t have the energy to bristle at the words.
Draco must sense it, because his lips curve into something knowing. His fingers linger a second too long before he finally lets go.
“I’ll walk you back to your dorm,” Draco says, still watching him. “Just in case.”
Harry swallows. Nods.
He doesn’t know why Draco stayed. Doesn’t know why he listened. But he does know one thing—
He isn’t drowning anymore.
The next time it happens, a explosion rattles through the corridor like thunder. It isn’t real—not real real, just a prank gone too far, set off by a group of younger students who don’t know better—but Harry’s body doesn’t care.
His ears ring, his chest tightens, and suddenly, he’s there again—war-torn Hogwarts, screams in his ears, the acrid scent of burning stone filling his lungs. His heart lurches into overdrive, and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s running.
He doesn’t stop until he’s curled into himself in the dark, the walls of a broom closet pressing in on all sides. His breath is ragged, sharp gasps escaping his lips as his hands shake violently in his lap. His fingers tangle into his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself, trying to—
The door creaks open.
A sliver of warm torchlight spills into the closet, and Harry flinches back, heart hammering against his ribs. But then—
“Oh, Potter,” Draco sighs.
Harry freezes. Blinks up at the silhouette in the doorway.
Not an attacker. Not a threat. Just Malfoy.
Harry wants to tell him to leave. Wants to shove him away and deal with this alone, the way he always does—but then Draco steps inside, closes the door behind him, and crouches down.
It’s happening again. The same thing as before.
Only this time, Harry is already half undone, trembling, teetering on the edge of collapsing completely. And Draco—Draco doesn’t hesitate.
“Come here,” he murmurs, voice low and even.
Harry doesn’t move. Can’t. But then Draco reaches for him, cool fingers brushing against his wrist, and something in Harry shatters.
Before he knows what’s happening, he’s sagging forward, face burying itself in the curve of Draco’s shoulder. And Draco—fucking Draco—lets him. More than that, he guides him, shifting so that Harry ends up sprawled across his lap, legs tangled together, Draco’s arms firm around him.
Harry’s mortified. Or he should be. But Draco’s fingers are already in his hair, carding through the thick mess of dark waves with a slow, deliberate rhythm, and—Merlin help him—it’s grounding him in a way nothing else has.
“Good,” Draco murmurs, voice like silk. “Just breathe.”
Harry shudders, exhaling into Draco’s robes.
The hand in his hair doesn’t stop, fingers dragging through the strands with an ease that shouldn’t feel as calming as it does. But it does.
“You’re safe,” Draco says, the words sinking into his bones. “No one’s attacking. You’re here, with me.”
Harry lets out a choked noise, somewhere between frustration and relief. But Draco doesn’t comment on it. Just keeps touching him, the strokes through his hair languid, soothing.
He has no idea how much time passes before he finally comes back to himself.
But when he does—when his breathing evens out and his heartbeat settles—he realizes exactly where he is.
His entire body stiffens.
He’s on Draco Malfoy. His face is pressed into Draco’s neck, his fingers curled into the expensive fabric of his robes.
And Draco?
Draco is looking down at him with an expression that’s far too knowing, far too smug, and Harry wants to die.
“Well,” Draco drawls, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “This is getting to be a habit, isn’t it, Potter?”
Harry jerks back like he’s been burned, heat flooding his cheeks. “I—fuck off—”
Draco doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. He just raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking over Harry’s still-shaky hands. “Mm. No, I don’t think I will.”
Harry glares, still too dazed to put real force behind it. “You—”
“Shhh.” Draco’s fingers tighten briefly in his hair, a barely-there tug that sends a shiver straight down Harry’s spine. “You liked it a second ago.”
Harry nearly chokes. “I did not—”
Draco hums, unconvinced. His fingers resume their slow, methodical strokes. “I think,” he says, voice deceptively soft, “you like it when someone takes care of you, Potter.”
Harry’s entire brain short-circuits.
Draco smirks. “You just don’t know how to ask for it.”
The third time is happens Harry is outside, flying by himself. The snitch flutters just ahead, glinting gold in the afternoon light. Harry leans into his broom, wind rushing past his ears as he chases it, a familiar thrill flooding his veins. It’s the one thing that still makes sense, the one place he can breathe without feeling like the world is pressing in on all sides.
The chase takes him lower, sweeping dangerously close to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The trees stretch up like skeletal fingers, shadows pooling beneath them. He barely notices—until something deep within the woods howls.
The sound rips through him like a curse, primal and shattering.
His breath vanishes.
His fingers go numb on his broom.
He’s not at Hogwarts anymore. He’s in the war again, running through the rubble of the castle, hearing the howls of monsters, of Fenrir Greyback, of Death Eaters—
His body seizes up. The world tilts.
Then he’s falling.
He crashes through brambles, the sharp sting of thorns cutting into his arms. He gasps, but his lungs refuse to work, refuse to let in air, and—
Draco isn’t here.
That thought is what breaks him. Because Draco has always been there. He’s always had Draco’s voice, Draco’s hands steadying him, but this time—this time he’s alone.
The panic consumes him. And then—blackness.
***
When Harry wakes, the sky above him is navy blue, flecked with stars. His entire body hurts.
It must have been at least an hour since he fell. Shit. Ron and Hermione would have been looking for him, expecting him to be back by now.
His limbs feel leaden as he forces himself upright, and the moment he gets to his feet, the world tilts sideways. His head pounds, his limbs are stiff with cold, and his uniform is covered in dirt and scratches. He starts dragging himself toward the castle, shivering.
He barely makes it to the entrance before slamming straight into Draco fucking Malfoy.
The impact nearly sends him sprawling again, but Draco’s hands snap out, gripping his arms before he can fall.
For a moment, Draco just stares at him. And then—
“What the fuck, Potter?” Draco’s voice is sharp, his grip tightening as he takes in Harry’s disheveled state. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish?”
Harry blinks, still dazed. “What—”
“I looked for you on the pitch. You weren’t there. And then I found your broom—on the ground. Without you. Do you have any idea how that fucking looked?”
Draco is furious. More furious than Harry has ever seen him.
Harry tries to shake him off. “I’m fine, Malfoy—”
“You’re not fine,” Draco hisses, dragging him forward. “You’re frozen, you look like you’ve been through a bloody hedge maze, and you weren’t breathing when I found you—”
Harry stills.
Draco had found him.
Draco must have gotten there late, seen him unconscious in the brambles, tried to wake him, and—
Fuck.
Harry looks away, too drained to fight as Draco practically hauls him toward the hospital wing.
Thankfully, when they arrive, Pomfrey is nowhere to be found. But that doesn’t stop Draco from pushing him onto the nearest cot and immediately summoning a cloth and healing balm.
Harry watches in disbelief as Draco kneels beside him, fingers cool and careful as he starts tending to the scratches along his arms.
“You’re insufferable,” Draco mutters, dabbing at a cut on Harry’s temple with ridiculous gentleness.
Harry flushes.
It’s unfair, how soft Draco’s touch is. How his long fingers smooth over Harry’s skin like he actually cares.
Harry shifts, heat creeping up his neck as Draco fusses over him, murmuring under his breath about recklessness and idiots who don’t know how to take care of themselves.
By the time Draco is finished, Harry is pink-faced and jittery, barely able to meet his gaze.
Draco notices. Of course he does.
He tilts his head, smirking. “Something on your mind, Potter?”
Harry clenches his jaw. “No.”
Draco’s smirk deepens. “Oh? Because you’re looking at me like you want something.”
Harry glares. His face burns.
Draco leans in slightly, voice dropping into something smug and knowing. “You know all you have to do is ask.”
It’s infuriating. It’s unfair. And it makes Harry want to crawl out of his own skin.
But Draco is right.
Harry does want something.
His throat tightens, but his body is still aching, still exhausted, still raw from everything. His pride screams at him not to say it, not to give in—
But he does.
His voice is quiet when he finally speaks.
“…Hold me.”
Draco’s expression flickers—just for a second. The smirk slips. His gaze turns sharp, assessing.
Then, slowly, Draco shifts, climbing onto the cot beside him. He moves with deliberate ease, not saying a word as he slides an arm around Harry’s waist and pulls him in.
Harry exhales sharply.
Draco is warm. Solid. And when his grip tightens, holding Harry firm, something inside Harry unravels.
Draco doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make a joke.
He just holds him.
And Harry lets himself breathe.
This time its midnight. The panic sets in fast, clawing up Harry’s throat before he can stop it.
It’s late. The castle is quiet, but his heart is pounding, his breath shallow and uneven. He doesn’t even know what triggered it this time—maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
But he knows where he needs to be.
With shaky hands, he yanks out the Marauder’s Map, unfolding it on his bed. His eyes scan over the names until—
Draco Malfoy.
He’s in the Room of Requirement.
Harry doesn’t hesitate.
He moves on autopilot, barely registering the journey through the empty halls. His hands still tremble as he presses a palm to the familiar stretch of wall, pacing three times. The door appears, and he pushes inside.
Draco is standing near a massive bookshelf, flipping through a book, candlelight casting gold along his sharp features. He stiffens the second Harry steps inside, silver eyes widening in surprise.
“Potter?” His voice is sharp, wary. “What the—”
Harry doesn’t wait for him to finish.
He stumbles forward, and Draco moves instantly. The book is forgotten as he strides toward Harry, pulling him in.
Harry expects him to push him onto a couch like before, but instead, Draco sits down in an armchair, tugging Harry into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Harry shudders, but it’s not enough.
Not this time.
A frustrated whine escapes his throat as he squirms, sliding down until he’s not in Draco’s lap anymore but between his legs, his head resting on Draco’s thigh.
Draco stiffens.
For a long moment, he’s completely silent, probably shocked out of his mind, but then—his fingers move.
Slowly, carefully, they thread into Harry’s hair.
Harry exhales shakily, the tension in his chest easing as Draco’s fingers stroke through the thick, dark strands, over and over. The sensation is grounding, a steady contrast to the lingering panic.
But it’s still not enough.
He needs more.
The words tumble out before he can stop them, muffled against Draco’s thigh. “Pull my hair.”
Draco stills.
“What?”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, face heating. He doesn’t want to say it again. He can’t—
Draco’s voice cuts through his hesitation, low and commanding.
“Say it louder.”
Harry swallows. His body is thrumming, breath uneven for an entirely different reason now.
He forces himself to say it, voice barely above a whisper.
“Pull my hair.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Draco hums, amused and far too pleased with himself.
And then—his fingers tighten.
The tug is firm, just enough to send a sharp thrill through Harry’s spine, just enough to make him gasp.
Draco chuckles, low and knowing.
Harry melts.
Draco does it again.
This time, it’s deliberate—slow, firm fingers tangling in the thick mess of Harry’s hair before giving a sharp, controlled tug. Harry's breath hitches, his whole body reacting as warmth spills down his spine, a shiver following in its wake.
Merlin.
He feels boneless, the remnants of his panic dissolving into something else entirely. His limbs are heavy, his breathing slower now but still unsteady, though not from fear.
Draco hums, his free hand settling on Harry’s shoulder, pressing him down just enough to keep him where he is. “Better?”
Harry doesn’t know how to answer.
His entire body feels flushed, a deep, overwhelming heat blooming under his skin. Draco's fingers keep playing with his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp between slow tugs, and it's too much and not enough all at once.
He should move. He should say something.
But instead, he tilts his head just slightly, wordlessly pressing into Draco’s touch like some starved creature.
Draco exhales sharply, his fingers stilling for the briefest moment before resuming their slow, deliberate motions. He shifts, leaning down slightly until his breath ghosts over the top of Harry’s head.
“You’re full of surprises, Potter,” Draco murmurs, voice too smooth, too controlled. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Harry makes a noise—half frustration, half embarrassment—but doesn’t move. He can’t move. His body is betraying him, craving more than he should be asking for.
Draco chuckles, but his fingers don’t stop. If anything, he gets bolder, fingertips tracing the curve of Harry’s skull before giving another sharp, controlled pull.
Harry’s breath shudders.
And Draco notices.
Of course he does.
There’s a beat of silence, thick with something unspoken. Then, a single, knowing word from above.
“Interesting.”
Harry scowls, weak and humiliated, but still doesn’t move away. His face burns as he mumbles into Draco’s thigh, voice barely above a whisper.
“Shut up.”
Draco just smirks.
Draco doesn’t listen, of course. He never does.
Instead, his smirk deepens, the arrogant tilt of it practically radiating self-satisfaction. His fingers flex in Harry’s hair, slow and deliberate, as if he’s testing something, waiting to see how far Harry will let this go.
And the worst part?
Harry lets him.
He stays right where he is—his body loose, his head still resting on Draco’s thigh, his breath steadying only because of the fingers threaded in his hair. The panic is gone, replaced by something else entirely, something dangerous and heavy that pools deep in his stomach.
Draco hums thoughtfully, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “Didn’t peg you for the type, Potter.”
Harry clenches his jaw. “I swear to Merlin—”
Another sharp tug.
Harry’s words die in his throat, his breath catching hard.
Draco laughs.
It’s quiet, just a huff of amusement, but it burns—not because of the mockery, but because Draco knows. He knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly what kind of reaction he’s pulling from Harry, and he’s enjoying it.
Smug bastard.
Draco leans down, close enough that Harry can feel his breath ghosting over his ear. His voice drops, slow and drawling, his amusement barely contained.
"Ask me again, Potter."
Harry's entire body tenses.
He should say no. He shouldn’t give Draco the satisfaction. He should shove himself upright, make some sarcastic remark, regain some semblance of control over the situation.
But he doesn’t.
Because the truth—the horrible, undeniable truth—is that Draco is right.
Harry wants it.
And that realization is terrifying.
He exhales sharply, hands clenching into fists against the fabric of Draco’s trousers. His pride is screaming at him, but his body is still buzzing, still craving the grounding pressure of Draco’s hands.
Draco waits, patient and infuriating.
Harry grits his teeth, his face burning, but in the end, he gives in.
Quiet. Humiliated.
“Pull my hair.”
Draco laughs again, low and knowing.
Then he does exactly that.
Draco had fully intended to wake Harry up, to shove him off and leave before this could get any more ridiculous.
But then Harry made a soft, contented noise as Draco shifted him in his arms—barely more than a sleepy hum—and something in Draco melted.
So instead of pushing him away, Draco let out a quiet sigh and adjusted his grip, standing smoothly with Harry gathered up against his chest.
“Fucking hell, Potter,” he muttered under his breath, but there was no real heat behind it.
Harry barely reacted, his breath warm against Draco’s collarbone, his fingers twitching where they clung to Draco’s robes.
Draco carried him over to the couch, settling down onto the cushions before pulling Harry with him, guiding the other boy’s weight until he was sprawled across Draco’s chest.
Harry sighed again, his entire body going boneless, his arms loosely wrapped around Draco’s waist. He nuzzled in without hesitation, as if this were something they did, as if this—the warmth, the closeness, the way Harry fit against him like he belonged there—was normal.
It should’ve been alarming.
It wasn’t.
Draco exhaled, letting his fingers thread lazily through Harry’s hair again.
He didn’t think about it when he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the messy strands. He didn’t think about it at all.
It was a simple gesture—barely a brush of lips, just the lightest press of warmth—but the moment it happened, Harry stirred.
Draco felt it before he saw it—the slow, heavy shift of Harry’s body, the way his breathing changed.
And then—
Soft lips, warm and careless, pressing against his throat.
Draco froze.
It wasn’t a kiss, not really. More like—heat, breath, the sloppy drag of a barely-conscious mouth against his skin.
Draco swallowed hard, his entire body locked in place.
"Potter—"
Harry made a quiet noise of protest, burrowing further into him, lips brushing against Draco’s pulse again.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut.
Fucking hell.
He should push him off. He should.
But then Harry sighed against his neck, loose and sleepy and pleased, and Draco’s grip tightened.
He let out a slow, measured breath, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.
…He was so fucked.
It had been days now since Harry had come to him. Draco was furious and seething.
It happens late at night, when Draco has long given up expecting it.
He’s in the Room of Requirement again, a book open in his lap, but he isn’t reading. He’s stewing—frustrated, restless, his thoughts looping in circles he can’t seem to break.
Because Harry isn’t coming.
Days have passed. Days of avoiding each other in the corridors, of pretending not to see each other in class. Days of Harry sitting at the Gryffindor table with his friends instead of—
Draco clenches his jaw.
Instead of him.
And then there was that Ravenclaw.
Draco’s fingers tighten around the book, the memory still burning in his mind. The way Harry had laughed—genuine, bright, like nothing was wrong at all. Like he hadn’t spent weeks crawling into Draco’s lap, trembling under his hands, trusting him to—
A sharp knock at the door.
Draco’s head snaps up.
For a moment, he thinks he imagined it.
Then it happens again—soft but insistent.
Draco is moving before he can think better of it, his pulse a dull, angry thrum in his throat. He crosses the room in quick strides and yanks the door open, already scowling, already—
His breath catches.
Harry is standing there. All huge green eyes and messy black curls and that damned lightning bolt.
Disheveled, hesitant, his hands clenched into the sleeves of his jumper. His face is flushed, his lips slightly parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
For a long moment, they just stare at each other.
And then Draco—furious, relieved, possessive—grabs him by the wrist and pulls him inside.
The door slams shut behind them.
Draco doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask—he just moves, backing Harry toward the nearest chair before sitting down and tugging him down, pulling Harry into his lap like he belongs there.
Harry lets him.
He exhales sharply as he settles against Draco, his body tense at first but slowly relaxing, melting into the familiar hold.
Draco grips his waist, his fingers tight.
For a moment, neither of them move.
Then Draco leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of Harry’s ear, his voice low and furious.
"Don’t fucking do that again."
Harry swallows. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t try to move away.
Instead, he shifts slightly, tilting his head just enough that Draco can feel his breath against his throat.
Soft. Tentative.
Like he wants something.
Draco narrows his silver grey eyes.
“You ignored me for days,” he says, his grip tightening. “Now you just show up?”
Harry makes a quiet noise, his fingers curling into Draco’s robes. “I didn’t know if I should…”
Draco exhales sharply. “That’s not good enough.”
Harry huffs—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and then buries his face against Draco’s neck.
"I missed you."
Draco freezes.
His breath stutters in his throat, his body going utterly still.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he tilts Harry’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze.
Harry’s eyes are wide, hesitant.
Draco’s are sharp. Calculating.
And then—
Draco smirks.
"Prove it."
Harry’s breath shudders.
Then, without thinking, he leans in—pressing his mouth to Draco’s.
And Draco—smug and victorious and so fucking gone—lets him.
The kiss is messy, hesitant at first—Harry pressing against him like he’s not sure if he’s allowed, like he’s waiting for Draco to stop him.
Draco doesn’t.
Instead, he tightens his grip on Harry’s waist, pulling him closer, guiding him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, teasing Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth just to hear the way Harry’s breath catches.
And then—like something clicks—Harry melts.
He exhales a shuddering breath and opens up for Draco, hands fisting into Draco’s robes, his entire body pressing closer, desperate for more.
Draco groans, something smug and satisfied curling in his chest as Harry chases the kiss, as he tilts his head to give Draco more access.
It’s addictive.
The heat, the way Harry clings to him, the quiet, needy noises he makes when Draco licks into his mouth, when he slides a hand up Harry’s spine to tangle into his hair—
Draco tugs.
Harry gasps into the kiss, his whole body tensing for half a second—before he shudders and goes limp, his weight sinking against Draco like he needs it.
Draco smirks against his lips.
"Yeah?" he murmurs, breathless, giving another slow, deliberate tug.
Harry whimpers.
Draco grins.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at him—Harry’s pupils are blown, his lips kiss-swollen, his breath coming in soft, uneven pants.
It’s a good look on him.
Draco slides a hand up his thigh, gripping just hard enough to make Harry focus.
“You’re not running away this time, are you?” Draco murmurs, his voice a teasing drawl.
Harry swallows, his fingers still curled in Draco’s robes. “Not this time.”
Draco smirks. “Good.”
Then he pulls him back in.
The second kiss is different.
It’s slower, more deliberate—Draco takes his time, teasing Harry, pressing soft, lingering kisses against his lips before pulling back just enough to make Harry chase after him.
Harry makes a frustrated noise, his hands tightening in Draco’s robes, and Draco laughs—a low, smug sound against Harry’s lips.
“What do you want, then?” Draco murmurs, trailing a hand down Harry’s spine, pressing just hard enough to make Harry arch into him.
Harry shudders. “You know what I want.”
Draco hums, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the small of Harry’s back. “Say it.”
Harry flushes. He ducks his head, breathing uneven, and Draco can feel how hard he’s trying to hold himself back—to fight the instinct to let go, to ask for what he needs.
Draco tilts his chin up, forcing their eyes to meet.
“I told you last time, didn’t I?” he says, quiet but firm. “If you want something, ask.”
Harry swallows, his face burning.
But then, after a long, shuddering breath—
“Hold me.” Harry eyes flick between his, searching for something before he licks his lips and says in a barely audible whisper, "And don't let go."
Draco stills.
Something hot coils in his chest, something possessive and dangerous and so fucking satisfying—
Because Harry came back.
Because Harry wants him.
Because despite everything—despite their past, despite Harry’s pride, despite all the ways this shouldn’t work—
Harry is choosing him.
Draco tightens his grip, shifting them until Harry is fully straddling him, his arms wrapped around Harry’s back, holding him close, keeping him there.
Harry exhales against his throat, his body softening completely as he sinks into Draco’s hold.
“Better?” Draco murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to the side of Harry’s head.
Harry nods, burying his face against Draco’s neck. “Yeah.”
Draco smirks. “Good.”
Then he tightens his hold—just to hear the way Harry shudders against him.
It becomes a routine, a quiet certainty in the chaos of eighth year.
Whenever the world presses too hard on Harry’s chest, whenever the nightmares come too close or the weight of everything he’s lost feels unbearable—he goes to Draco.
Sometimes he finds him in the library, pretending to study. Sometimes in the Room of Requirement, like before. Once, he nearly dragged Draco out of the Potions classroom by his wrist, too overwhelmed to care if anyone saw.
And every time, Draco is there.
No questions. No judgement. Just steady hands and quiet reassurances.
Some nights, they just sit together, Harry curled into Draco’s side, Draco’s fingers absently running through his hair. Other nights, when it’s bad, Draco will hold him tight, grounding him, murmuring soft words against his skin until Harry can breathe again.
It’s intimate, in a way Harry never expected.
More than the soft kisses, more than the teasing smirks and whispered demands—it’s the way Draco just knows. The way he never pushes, never forces Harry to talk if he isn’t ready. The way he stays, even when Harry has nothing to offer but silence and shaky breaths.
And it terrifies Harry—how easy it is to trust him.
So, one night, he tries to pull away.
He gets as far as the door before Draco sighs behind him.
"Running again, Potter?"
Harry freezes. His hands curl into fists.
Draco steps closer, stopping just behind him. “You can leave, if you really want to.” His voice is quiet, careful. “But you don’t have to.”
Harry swallows. “I don’t—”
"Don’t what?" Draco interrupts, voice sharper now. "Don’t want this? Don’t need me? Because we both know that’s a lie."
Harry exhales, shoulders tight. “It’s not—fair.”
Draco scoffs. “Fair?” He steps even closer, his breath warm against the back of Harry’s neck. “Since when has anything in our lives been fair?”
Harry closes his eyes.
A beat of silence.
Then—softer, quieter—
"Stay."
It’s not a command. Not an order. Just a request. A choice.
Harry exhales. His heartbeat is a steady thrum in his chest.
He turns.
Draco is watching him carefully, his usual smirk absent, his expression open, waiting.
Harry lets out a breath—and steps back into his arms.
Draco’s exhale is barely audible as he pulls Harry close, wrapping him up in warmth and certainty, in something solid and real.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Harry doesn’t feel the need to run.
He stays.