Temptation on the Warfront

7

Tears contour the edge of his face like burning hot tracks, and Draco can't stop shivering, can't shake away the thought that Harry Potter has his arms around him, is  hugging  him. It's mental — it's wrong — and Draco doesn't think he will have a single scrap of pride left, not after  this .

Draco goes rigid. He doesn't know this feeling, doesn't know this strange, intoxicating combination of warmth and comfort. It's foreign, and it makes him feel trapped, like there's no where to go other than forwards, and that in itself is frightening, because whenever there has been a way out, Draco has always taken it. He struggles, tries to push Potter away, but Potter, like the stubborn bastard he is, won't let go, and somehow it just makes Draco want to cry harder.

So he does, and he sobs as his hands come up to shove at the other boy's chest, but Potter's arms are now locked around him, and Draco's squirming only brings their cheeks closer together. Potter's face is rough with stubble, and it grazes Draco's skin.

Potter's hair is soft, though, Draco can feel it at the corner of his eye, smudging his tears, making him tremble with the urge to simultaneously brush it away and pull it closer, grip onto something that will ground him to reality, to the suffocating air of the bathroom.

What is this feeling? Why does it feel as though something hot and angry and dangerous is about to break out of Draco's chest?

Why isn't he trying harder? Pushing Potter away, screaming at him, doing something — anything, to get the Boy-Who-Lived away from him?

Why doesn't he fight?

Instead he succumbs, lets his grief encase him like a cocoon. And he doesn't care that Potter sees him break down, sees the aristocratic traits of his Malfoy name decompose. He only gives in, clings onto his enemy's shirt, curling his fingers into the fabric like iron vices, until he is closer, closer, too close, and Potter's body is hard and unyielding, his shoulder bony beneath Draco's chin.

And then Draco realises — this is an embrace. And the only other person who has ever done this to him is now dead.

Draco's heart clenches and he takes a guttural breath, but all he gets is a mouthful of rain and sweat and something spicy, and it's so good that it's distracting — so Draco inhales, again and again and again, until all he knows is that smell, the smell which he suspects belongs to Potter. The smell which should make him nauseous but instead makes him think that he'll be okay, that if he concentrates hard enough on it he'll be able to breathe without feeling like there's a knife in his chest.

But that knife is still there, and as his rational side begins to resurface from being smothered by Potter's scent, it shouts at him, tells him that he needs to move, tells him his anger needs to burst forth, because if it doesn't, he just might break.

And then Draco thinks of The Order's promise, the reason why he's here — here in Potter's arms — and every ounce of his pain and fury swirls into a torrent of lies lies lies.

He flinches back, and when Potter grabs his shoulders to still him, everything explodes.

Draco forces what strength he has left into thrusting his weight against Potter's torso, and there's a series of muffled grunts and deep, ragged exhales before Potter is thrown onto his back, his hair splayed over the tiles, with Draco's knees on either side of his hips. Draco's hands circle around Potter's neck, and Draco has no idea what he's doing, he only knows why; and that's because someone needs to pay, someone needs to deal with the wounds of a broken promise.

But his growl dies in his throat, because Potter's eyes are shining, penetrating, and they are not the eyes of a man who is an inch away from his death. They dig into Draco's soul, and they are green, so green, that it nearly hurts to look at them. His hands slacken, but Potter doesn't move, he only stares, resigned, knowing, and Draco gives a disgruntled sob of desperation, because Potter should be scared. But he isn't.