Before The World Was Made DRARRY

Chapter Twelve

Draco watched in detached silence as they boarded up his shop with magical wards. The life and home he'd built for himself, erected brick by brick to make himself whole, was shattered and ruined by someone he didn't know. His eyes lingered on the closed sign in the front entrance as Potter apparated them away. The aurors had decided that the personal nature of the theft and destruction called for defensive measures. Draco wasn't to be let out of Potter's sight until the culprit was caught. Not that he could leave Potter's sight if he had wanted to.

Potter's role, now, was chiefly that of bodyguard to Draco, despite the fact that he had also been targeted by the suspect in question. But Draco found it best not to point out the obvious when it came to aurors.

They arrived back in Grimmauld Place, somewhat worse for the wear, in the bedroom they'd left that morning. The rumpled duvet, the disarranged pillows, and the discarded clothing from the previous night painted the picture of a sordid evening. His mind wandered back to the feel of Potter's skin, his hair between Draco's fingers, and the taste of him. The heat within him rose, steady and constant and not at all like the burning, raging flame from the previous times. This fire was lasting, settling in the bones-roasting embers rather than a flash fire.

"You all right?" Potter asked, his hand on Draco's back, at the place where the heat began.

Unaccustomed to answering these kinds of questions, Draco turned to Potter and studied his face. Open and compassionate, it was a Potter Draco had dreamed of in his youth, the Potter he'd wanted by his side. A friend, a loved one-not the enemy.

"Why do you care about me at all?" Draco asked, blurting out his raw thoughts without thinking. He caught his tongue at the last second, but the damage had been done. Exhaustion and stress wore on him, it was clear. He never spoke without thought. Not anymore.

Potter's face was a warzone of emotions, anger, hurt, and disbelief chasing themselves behind his eyes. He had never been good at hiding his feelings. Everyone knew that.

Draco expected a snappy retort, a condemning remark, or even a dismissive comment. But Potter never did what was expected.

"Why won't you let me?"

"What?" was all Draco could muster.

"You've been fighting me every inch of the way, and I just don't understand," Potter said. His hair was wilder than usual, his shoulders square. He was ready for a fight.

"My apologies, Potter," Draco said, "I was unaware you wanted to be forcibly bonded to your childhood rival via cursed ring."

Potter laughed a short, half-disbelieving sound. "No," he said, "it's more than that, and you know it. The ring is your excuse to ignore what else is going on here. I know a bit about bonding magic too. It can bind the body and the spirit, but not the heart. Not really. No magic can manufacture real love. Not even love potions. They're only the best approximation of love magic can offer, but the person always knows, deep down. It doesn't feel like this, it doesn't feel-"

Draco advanced, his throat tight, "feel what?" he taunted, trying for sneering. His voice fell short, breaking slightly. Potter gave him a hard look.

"Right."

Draco shook his head and turned away, walking toward the wall. Distance was what he needed. Lots of it.

"I know you can feel it too," Potter said, refusing to let him pull away. "I just don't get why you're so determined to deny it? This is what you were after when we were kids-me, my attention, my-"

"Don't," Draco said, turning. His entire body felt aflame with a different kind of tingling. It was the vibrating of fear and fury. "You don't know what I wanted then, and you don't know it now."