Delicate

This ain't for the best;
My reputation's never been worse, so
You must like me for me...
Is it chill that you're in my head?
Is it too soon to do this yet?
'Cause I know that it's delicate...

- Taylor Swift, Delicate

* * * * *

They still fight a lot. All the time, in fact. Harry wonders if they'll ever stop. A part of him, the small voice in the back of his head that sounds like it's still eleven years old, insists they'll be enemies forever. That that's the way it should be.

Harry knows better, though.

It started after a full day of glaring in the halls and passive-aggressive comments as they'd walked to shared classes, until eventually they'd come to blows in the middle of a first floor corridor. Looking at it now, Harry can't help but notice that not once did either of them reach for their wands or clench their fists, expecting a punch. No, they were just yelling, flushed and panting and angry.

Harry's so tired of being angry.

After McGonagall had broken them up and assigned them each detention (which was nothing compared to the look on her face or her soft sigh of disappointment), they'd trudged through the rest of their classes and have now spent every minute after reorganizing the trophy room.

The watch on his wrist says it's midnight and Harry thinks he might fall over if forced to work any longer. Draco doesn't look much better. Although, the bags under his eyes are often deep, his steps frequently weary, and Harry wonders if he isn't the only one with a tendency to roam the halls at night, running away from enemies that are no longer there.

No words are exchanged on their way back, but when Harry drops heavily onto the couch in front of the fire, Draco mumbles something like fall asleep out here and you really ought to go to bed, you know.

Harry simply smiles in response and drags a weighty blanket over his drawn-up knees. Draco mutters to himself before finally coming to some sort of conclusion and lowering himself lightly next to Harry.

They sit there a while, together and apart. Harry watches as light from the crackling flames throws shadows across Draco's face, and finds himself noticing—not for the first time—just how pretty Draco is. Harry knows that though Draco may appear fragile, the ferocity of the strength that lay within him could rival even Harry's own.

Rival. How long had Harry called him that as an excuse to glare at him over breakfast or ram into him in the halls? How long had he pretended to despise Draco in order to secure himself a place in his life?

And how long had Draco been doing the same?

Harry thinks he's starting to understand why, at least. He thinks it's deliberate, how Draco seems to move closer the later it gets, how they're practically touching already when Harry decides to half-heartedly drape a bit of blanket over Draco's thighs. He can feel Draco's glance as though it's burning him, and maybe it is; it's suspiciously hot in this room. Instead of meeting it, Harry tips his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes.

They're still closed when he feels Draco gently grab the blanket, the rush of cold air against Harry's legs as it's lifted sending a chill throughout his body. They're still closed when Draco shifts towards him one final inch, pressing their thighs and shoulders together, leaning into Harry's side. They're still closed when he feels rather than hears Draco's small, ragged sigh as it flutters across his cheek, and then the solid weight of his head is lying atop Harry's shoulder, soft hair pressed against his neck. They're still closed, and Harry can't breathe.