Temptation on the Warfront

19

"What happened to your lip, mate?" Ron asks, his eyes landing on Harry from across the crackling glow of the camp fire. The tattered locket lies beside him, the piece of Voldemort it contained now destroyed, and amongst the three of them the atmosphere has lightened.

"Er — just Malfoy being a bastard."

Ron nods as though this is a piece of factual information worthy of an encyclopaedia, and then gazes into the fire, the flames making his hair appear twice as vibrant.

Hermione, however, doesn't stop staring at Harry, until he squirms and purposefully admires a piece of dirt beneath his fingernail. He gives up, hisses at her, "What?"

Hermione blinks, shakes her head a little, her bushy curls bobbing on her shoulders as she replies, "nothing... You look quite well, Harry, considering..." She trails off, clears her throat, waiting for him to fill in the gaps. Harry doesn't know what to say to her, doesn't know what he can tell her that won't give away his newfound lust for Malfoy.

Hermione Granger is an observant person, to the point where it sometimes makes Harry uncomfortable, and all he can do is try and act as normal as possible and hope that he passes for someone who most definitely isn't gay, and who is glad his two best friends have returned.

Hermione's wrong, though, Harry doesn't feel well at all. He feels testy and restless, wondering what the hell happened with Malfoy an hour ago, and why, despite its near violence, it left him so hot and bothered, aching for more.

He gets to his feet, figuring he'll try and sleep it off, and eager to get away from Hermione's continual curious glances, he says, "Wake me up when you want," and disappears into the tent.

The lights are off, and Harry fills with disappointment after fumbling around for a while and realising Malfoy has moved whatever it was he was hiding on the table.

He sighs to himself, chucks his coat and jumper in a random direction which he knows will annoy Malfoy in the morning, Hermione too, and then swaps his jeans for sweatpants. Then he just stands there in the darkness, thinking this is probably why Malfoy chose the bottom bunk, so Harry could break his leg on the way up to the top without a light.

He decides to cast lumos, which he wouldn't normally do for fear of waking the dragon, but right now he isn't particularly concerned about ticking off Malfoy. The softness of Harry's wand light illuminates the bunk, and Harry's eyes immediately fly to a sleeping Malfoy, hair strewn all about the pillow, one arm bent up above his head.

Harry's mouth goes dry and his heart begins to speed up, because seeing this is a painful reminder of what can't be possible anymore, what ended just as Malfoy was willing to give in. It's a shitty, inconvenient truth, to know that there isn't the slightest chance of Ron and Hermione finding out without Harry having to scrape pieces of Malfoy off the tent in the aftermath.

Harry knows this undoubtedly, but it still makes him want to scream in frustration, still makes him unable to move from where he stands, fighting every inch of his body which begs for him to have one last touch, one last taste.

He loses the battle, and with a glance over his shoulder at the tent entrance, Harry extinguishes his wand and slips into bed with Malfoy.

Draco jerks awake as a warm body moulds around his own. A familiar calloused thumb swipes under the hem of his shirt, and Draco lets out a startled gasp, "Potter?"

Potter doesn't reply — and Draco knows it is Potter, because it sure as fuck isn't Weasley — he only clamps his lips over the junction between Draco's neck and shoulder, sucks and licks at the flesh until Draco has to snap his teeth shut over a groan. "What the fuck are you doing?"