"I don't know what I'm doing," Harry whispered, more to himself than Draco. "I don't know why it feels like this."
Draco didn't move. He just looked at him—really looked. "Feels like what?"
Harry let out a shaky breath. "Like I've been holding my breath for years and suddenly I can breathe. But at the same time… like I'm about to drown."
It wasn't poetic. It was raw. Honest. And it left him feeling bare.
Draco didn't respond with a smirk or a sarcastic comment. He just nodded slowly, gaze softening. "It's not just you, then."
Harry turned his head, searching Draco's face. "What?"
"I've been… losing my mind since we got back here," Draco said, voice quieter now, less guarded. "Trying to fit into something that doesn't fit anymore. Trying to be someone I'm not, just so no one looks too closely."
Harry swallowed again, but the lump in his throat didn't move.
"I wasn't supposed to feel this about you, Potter," Draco added, bitter amusement in his tone. "But you looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn't just some name tied to everything awful."
"You're not," Harry said, the words slipping out without thought.
Draco blinked at him.
"You're not just that," Harry continued, voice barely audible. "I don't know what you are to me yet. But it's not that."
The intensity simmered between them, heavy and real. Harry's fingers flexed at Draco's side, clenching his shirt again as if to ground himself. Because it was too much.
Too much heat. Too much closeness. Too much truth.
He turned his face again, eyes pressed shut. "Can we just… stop for a second? Just breathe?"
Draco nodded immediately, easing off without letting go completely. He stayed close, forehead resting lightly against Harry's.
Neither of them could speak.
They just breathed—quiet and synchronized.
And in that moment, the intensity wasn't just about lust. It was about understanding. About a shared ache. Two people tangled up in everything they'd lost, everything they couldn't say, and everything they were terrified to want.
And yet… they stayed. Together. Holding on.
Even when it hurt.
The world outside Harry's room felt distant, muffled, as if he were trapped behind thick glass. The weight of the night pressed heavily on him, but not in the way he expected. His body was numb, drained beyond exhaustion, yet his mind was spinning with a haze of raw, tangled emotions. He lay cradled in Draco's arms, his cheek pressed against Draco's chest, but the comfort that should have soothed him barely registered.
Harry's breathing was slow, almost mechanical, his limbs heavy and limp. He had never felt so completely spent—not just physically, but down to his very core. It was as if every fight he'd ever fought, every burden he'd carried, and every moment of loneliness had finally caught up with him all at once. He felt empty and full at the same time—like the world had been stripped bare and left him exposed in the most terrifying way.
His eyelids fluttered, but sleep still felt like a distant shore he wasn't quite ready to reach. He was too tired to think, yet the quiet hum of his heartbeat and the faint warmth of Draco's body beneath him kept him suspended between consciousness and oblivion.
Draco, meanwhile, was wide awake, his sharp eyes watching Harry's every small movement. The boy in his arms looked vulnerable, fragile in a way that pulled at something deep inside Draco. He could see the exhaustion etched on Harry's face—the pale skin, the faint dark circles under his eyes, the way his breathing hitched slightly now and then.
A twinge of guilt pricked at Draco's pride. Maybe he'd pushed too hard, too fast. He'd never intended for Harry to be this drained. The weight of that realization settled in his chest, heavy and uncomfortable.
But beneath the guilt, there was something else — amusement, almost teasing in its edge. Watching Harry, usually so guarded and fierce, now laid bare like this, was a strange kind of privilege. It was like seeing a rare crack in an otherwise impenetrable fortress, and Draco couldn't help but savor the moment, even if it unsettled him.
He tightened his arms gently around Harry, careful not to disturb him. The softness of the moment was a stark contrast to the intensity of what had passed between them. Draco's mind replayed every touch, every whispered word, every glance. It was a mess of feelings — desire, protectiveness, frustration, and something quietly hopeful.
Harry stirred slightly, pressing closer instinctively, as if seeking reassurance. Draco's lips twitched into a small, almost reluctant smile.
"Don't worry," Draco murmured softly, voice low enough that only Harry could hear. "You're safe."
But Harry was too spent to respond, and so he drifted again into that fragile sleep, his body finally surrendering to the exhaustion that had claimed him.
Draco stayed still, watching over him. For all the chaos that had defined their tangled connection, this moment of peace felt like a fragile truce between two worlds that rarely made sense.
And somewhere deep down, Draco knew this was only the beginning.
Harry's eyes blinked open, heavy lids fluttering like reluctant curtains in the morning light filtering through the curtains. His body protested every small movement—a dull ache radiating through his muscles reminded him sharply of the exhaustion still coursing through him. The night's events left him raw and tender, every nerve ending somehow alive and sensitive.
He wanted to move away, to get up and shake off the lethargy clawing at him, but his limbs were sluggish and uncooperative. Instead, as he began to shift, a sudden, firm yet gentle pressure held him in place. Draco's arms tightened subtly around him, pulling Harry closer as if anchoring him in the fragile space between sleep and waking.
Harry froze, the warmth of Draco's body pressing into his back more intensely than before. The sensation was oddly grounding, easing the ache and stirring a complex storm of feelings within him. The memory of what had happened hours ago—the whispered confessions, the tender touches, the stolen kisses—came flooding back with vivid clarity.
He didn't pull away. Instead, Harry allowed himself to be held, breath catching slightly as his eyes found Draco's. The other boy was already looking at him, pale face illuminated by the soft morning glow, dark eyes shining with an unreadable mix of amusement, concern, and something deeper—something Harry couldn't quite name but felt in the pit of his stomach.
Their gazes locked, an electric current passing silently between them. For a moment, the world narrowed down to just those two pairs of eyes, neither wanting to break the fragile connection but both feeling the weight of unspoken emotions thickening the air.
Harry's cheeks flushed, a warm bloom of color rising as the realization struck him: Draco hadn't pulled away; he had stayed, close and deliberately so, even after everything they'd shared. The boldness of it unsettled Harry more than he expected, making his heart stutter in his chest.
Words stumbled on the tip of his tongue, but none came out. Instead, he swallowed hard and looked down briefly, unable to hold the gaze any longer. Yet the closeness, the undeniable physical contact, and the silent intensity of that glance did something profound inside him—it made Harry feel seen, understood, and… safe.
Draco's voice broke the silence, low and rough. "You're mine, Potter."
The words sent a shiver down Harry's spine, not from fear, but from an aching need that flared in response. It wasn't a demand or a threat—it was a claim, tender yet possessive, and it echoed something Harry didn't even realize he wanted to hear.
"I—" Harry began, but his throat tightened, and he gave up trying to form sentences. Instead, he shifted closer, nestling his head against Draco's shoulder, seeking the comfort of that steady, protective presence.
Draco smiled softly, a rare vulnerability flickering in his expression. "I won't let go," he murmured, his hand moving to gently brush Harry's hair back, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns that made the ache in Harry's chest dull.
Harry's muscles, though stiff, began to relax under Draco's touch. The pain lingered, but it was tempered by a warmth that seeped deeper than physical closeness—something more intimate, a quiet promise in the silent space between them.
Neither spoke for a long time. The room was filled only with the soft sound of their breathing, the subtle thump of Harry's heartbeat syncing slowly with Draco's steady rhythm.
After a while, Harry risked lifting his gaze again, eyes meeting Draco's once more. This time, there was no shame or hesitation—just an honest vulnerability that surprised even him.
Draco's smirk returned, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. "Looks like I'm the one who's got you flustered now."
Harry's blush deepened, a reluctant laugh escaping him. "Maybe."
The playfulness between them eased the tension slightly, but beneath the surface, the intensity remained—a potent mix of desire, uncertainty, and unspoken questions about what this meant for them going forward.
Draco shifted, tightening his hold just a fraction, fingers curling around Harry's arm like a silent promise of steadfastness. "You don't have to be afraid," he said quietly. "Not with me."
Harry's heart wrenched at the sincerity in Draco's voice. For all their history, all the walls they'd built around themselves, this moment felt like a breakthrough—a fragile, precious step toward something real.
He wanted to believe it. Wanted to lean into that warmth, to let go of the doubt and fear that still lurked in the shadows of his mind.
"I'm here," Harry whispered, voice barely audible.
Draco's smile softened even more, and he pressed a light kiss to the top of Harry's head. "I know."
The ache in Harry's muscles didn't disappear, but the heaviness in his chest lifted just a little, replaced by a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, they could face whatever came next—together.
Draco's smirk was the first thing Harry noticed after a few minutes of quiet comfort. It was that familiar, almost maddening curl of his lips—the one that suggested he was about to stir things up again. Harry's breath hitched, his heart already pounding at the anticipation.
"What now?" Harry whispered, not sure if he wanted to ask or just prepare himself.
Draco's eyes glittered with mischief, dark and unreadable. "You think you're done with me just because you survived the night?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it—an unspoken challenge.
Harry blinked, caught completely off guard. The idea that Draco might want to push things further, when he himself was still feeling vulnerable and raw, made his chest tighten. But beneath the surprise, a spark of excitement ignited—one he didn't expect but welcomed.
Without another word, Draco shifted slightly, his fingers trailing lightly down Harry's arm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Harry's body tensed involuntarily, the mixture of nerves and desire twisting inside him like a storm.
"You're so easy to rattle, Potter," Draco said with a teasing lilt, his smirk deepening as he saw Harry's flustered expression.
Harry's cheeks burned. "I'm not rattled," he protested weakly, though his voice lacked conviction.
Draco chuckled softly, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush against Harry's ear. "Sure you're not." Then he pressed a deliberate kiss to the shell of Harry's ear, warm and slow.
Harry froze, the shock of the contact flooding his senses. His heart jumped painfully, a desperate ache blossoming between them. He wanted to pull away, to regain control, but something in Draco's eyes—something steady and raw—held him rooted in place.
"I'm not done with you," Draco murmured, voice husky, fingers tightening their grip on Harry's arm. "Not yet."