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Harry didn't even know exactly where he was – it wasn't his bed, he was pretty sure of that – but it was somewhere soft and dark and, fuck, he could sleep for a thousand years. Ten thousand.
He didn't dream. Not at first. He woke up once, found food and water by the bed. His body ached with a savage fatigue and the rawness of his grief made him flinch away from any kind of thought. He couldn't eat, but he let water trickle down his parched throat, bringing a delicious coolness that soothed him enough to sink back onto the pillows and sleep again.
After what seemed like a long, long time, he rolled over onto his back and thought about opening his eyes, but it was too much effort. He just lay there, dozing off again, until he felt the mattress dip with the unmistakable weight of a person.
He wondered for a moment if they had come to kill him again, and decided that he didn't much care if they had. But he opened his eyes anyway.
Draco Malfoy was sitting near Harry's hip, looking towards the window. Only a little light filtered in, but Harry could see the sharp, haughty angles of his face, and a smoky smudge of dirt streaked along his jaw.
Harry lay there, waiting, but Malfoy didn’t speak or move, just sat, his skinny shoulders a tense line.
Harry’s tongue felt thick and oddly dry. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
Malfoy didn’t respond for a minute, then wet his lips. “It’s all over.” His voice sounded as if he hadn’t spoken for a long time.
“Yes.” Harry hadn’t actually thought of it like that, but Malfoy was right. “Yes, it is.”
Malfoy just sat, staring at him. Harry looked around for his glasses, but he didn’t know where the hell he had put them. Then Malfoy bent to scoop them up from the floor. “Here.” He passed them over and Harry slipped them onto his nose and propped himself up on his elbows.
Something that was not quite a smile pulled at Malfoy’s mouth. “We’re alive. We’re both still alive.”
“Yeah. We are.” Harry rubbed one eye. It felt sore and gritty. “I was sleeping. Why are you here?”
Malfoy’s eyes were silvery in the dim light. “To… to say thank you.”
“What?” Harry laughed, it was so surprising, and a sharp pain flared somewhere in his ribs. This all seemed so surreal. Like a dream. Maybe it was a dream.
Malfoy’s hand moved under the thin sheet Harry had wrapped himself in. Underneath Harry was just wearing boxers and the same filthy t-shirt he’d had on for two days now. Or was it three? Malfoy’s fingers were cool and smooth, and they trembled slightly as Malfoy slid them under the hem of Harry’s shirt.
“What are you doing?” Harry just lay there. He didn’t know why. Malfoy’s fingers brushed along his stomach, raising gooseflesh as they went. It must be a dream. Or maybe Harry was still dead. Maybe coming back – Riddle’s death – maybe all that had been a dream.
“Saying thank you,” Malfoy told him, and his cool, careful fingers slipped under the elastic of Harry’s boxers and eased them down around his thighs. Harry wasn’t expecting his cock to stir like this, hopeful and undeterred. Hadn’t ever expected to feel desire shivering in his gut again. Not after everything that had happened. But Malfoy’s hands were skillful and sure, and Harry felt a slow, undeniable heat trickling through him.
Harry made a sound, something between a ragged moan and a sigh, and Malfoy looked as if he hadn’t quite been expecting that to happen. Harry saw him swallow, his Adam’s apple rising in his narrow throat, and then Malfoy pulled the sheet back, and they both looked. Harry’s cock was flushed and hard, thrusting impatiently upwards, the waistband of his boxers pushed down under his balls. And Malfoy’s pale hand was wrapped around Harry’s shaft, holding it almost tenderly.
“Fuck. What—?” Harry managed to say, but Malfoy was bending forwards, lips parting and tongue sliding out and fuck, he swiped his tongue over the head of Harry’s cock and Harry’s body was jerking up towards the shocking, electric thrill of it, the wetness and the warmth, and the silky glide of Malfoy’s tongue over his slit.
“Uhhhhh,” Harry said, and then after that he didn’t know what he said, only that he made a lot more noise than he would have expected. He flopped back against the pillows, while Malfoy crouched over him on the narrow bed and did impossible, wonderful things with his mouth, then his tongue, then his lips and tongue at the same time. It was like nothing Harry had ever known, nothing, and he thought he might stop breathing when Malfoy sank all the way down so that Harry was buried in tight, wet heat. Harry cried out with how good it felt, a raw sound of need, arching his whole body towards Malfoy’s mouth.
Malfoy pulled off and looked at him breathlessly, then pushed Harry’s t-shirt up to splay his hand over Harry’s chest where his heart was beating, strong and incessant. His eyes ran over Harry’s face hungrily, as if memorising what he saw there, then his head dipped down again and, oh god, this time Malfoy moaned around Harry’s cock.
Merlin. Harry could let himself enjoy this, in a dream. It was fine. It was OK to scrabble at Malfoy’s hand, to twine the long fingers between his and hang on for dear life. It was OK to clutch at the pale hair and babble a stream of incoherent praise. It was all OK. Malfoy didn’t falter, didn’t stop sucking, not even when the waves of pleasure tightened into a dazzling, unstoppable bliss and Harry bucked up into his mouth, again, again, again, again, feeling like it would never end, like he would be coming in the sweet, lush heat of Malfoy’s mouth forever.
And oh, god, then he was so tired. He was floating. He tried to keep his eyes open but they kept falling shut. He felt Malfoy pulling up his boxers and then the sheet twitching over him again, cool and gentle. He opened his eyes to see Malfoy watching him, his face serious as he carefully slipped Harry’s glasses off and placed them somewhere. Harry didn’t know where, and he didn’t care. What a strange dream this was. He wondered why his subconscious had summoned Malfoy, of all people, to come and look after him, but then decided he didn’t care about that either.
A deep peace spread through Harry’s body, easing his aches, smoothing away the sharp edges of his grief like balm. He let go completely, allowed exhaustion to drag at his limbs, pulling him under.
When he woke, hours later, Malfoy was gone, of course. As if he had ever really been there at all. There was more food and water by the bed and Harry fell upon it. There was also a note from Hermione, but he would read that later. He felt hollow, and his hands shook as he tore at the bread, but he could also feel his blood beating in his veins.
What was it Malfoy had said in the dream?
It’s all over.
We’re still alive.
*
The next time he saw Malfoy it was September 1st, in the Great Hall. Harry didn’t know why his eyes kept flicking to where Malfoy sat at the depleted Slytherin table; force of habit, maybe. At first Malfoy was just sitting silently, apparently brooding over his glass of pumpkin juice, but then he reached for a peach from the array of fruit heaped on a platter in front of him. Harry felt his cock stir under his robes at the sight of Malfoy’s white teeth taking small, neat bites of the rosy flesh.
He looked away with some effort. This was ridiculous. Enjoying a fucked-up dream when he had been half-delirious after the battle was one thing. Leering at Malfoy in real life was taking it too far.
Harry carried on eating, Malfoy’s splash of bright hair like a beacon in the corner of his vision, tugging at his attention all the while. Tomorrow he’d know better, and sit with his back to the Slytherin table.
He let his eyes wander to Malfoy one last time, and found with a start that Malfoy was gazing back at Harry. Harry couldn’t pull his eyes away. Not quite yet. Malfoy’s face was unreadable. He took a final bite of the peach, then dropped the stone onto his plate. He held Harry’s gaze as he wiped the corner of his mouth with his forefinger, then slowly, deliberately, licked his finger clean of juice.