The Scent Of Malice | drarry

twenty four | fractures

Draco's head remained remarkably un-kicked-in, but Harry grew pale and wan when he was told what had happened, and he dropped the brown paper bag he'd been holding behind his back loudly to the floor.

"Sometimes, Malfoy," he said, his eyes brimming with tears and his glasses fogging up slightly, "I wonder why I bother. I really do. You're unbearable."

And with that, he turned and ran from the room, unable to see or hear anyone or anything that wasn't his pain.

Hermione stared at the blonde, who was fixed to the spot, his expression of amusement slipping slightly. "Go after him, you prick!" she snapped. "Accio Harry's robes - here you go, take these with you. It looks like it's raining quite heavily."

Before Draco could protest, Granger thrust the bundle of very Harry-scented black material into his arms and shoved him towards the portrait. Too tired to argue, he obeyed.

The worst part, he thought as he walked, the worst part was that he'd almost let the Weasley bitch do what she wanted. Just for half a second, he'd considered it.

Was it just a habit now, to hurt Potter? Or was it still what he actively wanted, no matter what else he wanted alongside it?

Draco wished he didn't remember the night before. More than that, he wished it hadn't been the best of his life.

Has Potter always been so angelically beautiful? he wondered before he could bite the thought back. Harry was fit, sure, but words like exquisite had begun to flit through Draco's mind, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

And oh God, those words he'd moaned against Draco's mouth. He'd never felt so captivated, so adored in his life.

So why did he still fantasise about all the pain he could inflict on the other boy? He knew he had Harry's heart now, however he wanted it. Why not just accept it?

I wouldn't know how, even if I wanted to.

Something in his intuition told Draco to head to the lake to find Harry, so he forced his way down the rain-slicked stone steps, breathing heavily as he did so. It was disorientating to fight through this much water, and certainly the last thing Draco's trembling body craved as he came down from the previous night. He groaned inwardly as he realised he could be looking for Potter all evening.

"If the fucker isn't down at the lake I'll leave him to it," Draco resolved, but in the end his instinct was right and Potter was indeed by the lake.

He was a picture of misery, his figure hunched completely over, and clearly racked with sobs. His shirt and trousers clung to his skin and Draco wondered if he was allowed to enjoy the sight just a little.

"Granger asked me to give you this," said Draco quietly when he reached the other boy, shoving the armful of now-sodden robes at him and flinching at the brief skin contact as though he'd never touched him before. Which, he supposed, he probably hadn't. Not like this, anyway, not so neutrally.

He cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did so. "About that Weasel thing, Potter - it wasn't how it sounded. I didn't explain properly."

Harry squinted up at him, his expression of unbridled fury evident even through the wall of rain. "It's never how it sounded, is it, Malfoy?" he asked cuttingly, though he made no effort to pretend he wasn't sobbing. "It's never your fault, never your decision."

For once Draco let him speak, shivering hard in the downpour. He'd never felt so miserable.

"And you know what, fine, maybe this wasn't your fault. But what is your fault is your reaction. You fucking laughed when you told me about it-"