The Changing Lights by lazywonderland

chapter twelve

This chapter contains a TRIGGER WARNING for brief mentions of sexual assault (nothing graphic) and implied rape.

Draco woke up at a quarter after nine Sunday morning, groggy and exhausted and with itchy red eyes, but feeling quite content all the same. Maybe it would have been more prudent to keep that contentment at bay considering what - or rather, who - had caused it, yet he couldn't find the energy to be upset. Not when he felt better than he had since ... well, he couldn't really remember the last time he'd felt this good, actually. When he was fifteen, perhaps.

The pre-Dark Mark era, as he'd come to think of it. Because the summer between his fifth and sixth years, his childhood had ended.

A note had been charmed to hover above his bed, so he wouldn't miss it. Draco plucked it right out of the air and read, in Potter's untidy scrawl: Wanted to get back before Ron wakes up. Hermione'll probably make us spend the day in the library - maybe I'll see you there. Thanks for letting me stay a while.

Draco had to bury his face in his knees, eyes closed, nails digging into his shins. He absolutely hated the way his chest fluttered at the sight of Potter's handwriting, and the way the words themselves stained his cheeks with a deep blush. What was the use, he thought, of being so fastidiously rational if he couldn't even manage to take his own advice?

I'm not stupid enough to let myself fall for you, he'd told Potter. He frowned, irritated with himself. What was the use, indeed.

Of course, he hadn't fallen for Potter. It was nothing so tawdry as that. But he also couldn't say with any real conviction that he hated him anymore, either. Hadn't he admitted that last night, just after asking Golden Boy himself to stay a little longer? To sleep in his bed?

The inescapable truth was that Potter's presence had somehow become ... pleasant. Enjoyable, even. Loathe as he was to admit it, Draco adored having Potter's eyes on him. He loved the hunger he saw there, and as Potter had so coyly pointed out, Draco loved the way Potter seemed to radiate life and passion and powerful magic. For Draco, whose world had once burned bright with the warm glow of family, was now as cold and desolate as his father's cell in Azkaban.

A knock came at his door, and Draco, feeling suddenly naked even beneath his pyjamas, hastily snagged the first thing he saw: a jumper on the floor beside his bed. Potter's jumper, which he had apparently forgotten when he'd left while Draco was still sleeping.

"Come in!" Draco called, tugging it over his head and shivering as soon as the smell of it enveloped him. It was strong enough to make it feel as though Potter was on top of him once again, pressing him into the bed and breathing obscenities into his ear.

The door opened and Pansy strolled in already dressed for the day, eyes stuck on what was presumably the front page of today's Sunday Prophet.

Draco's stomach sank.

"What now?" he said, trying to keep the ambivalence out of his voice. Pansy looked up, questioning, before her face cleared up.

"Oh, this," she waved the paper, "no, it's nothing, I was already down for breakfast. What else could they possibly do to your family, Draco, really?"

He pulled his legs in to make room and Pansy sat down immediately, an eyebrow raised as she took in his appearance.

"That jumper is dreadful, Draco," she drawled. "Have you always had it? I've given you how many of mine, and you decide to pull out an old raggedy thing like that? Honestly. Shall I fetch you something else?" She started to stand up but Draco stopped her with a hand on her arm.