Waking Moments (A Drarry FanFiction)

Chapter One

   Harry wakes.

His heart races and for a moment he can't remember where he is. He's been so used to the business of the Burrow, and before that months of camping, to wake alone in a dark bedroom seems strange. But as his heart slows and he slips his glasses on his face, he knows he's back at Hogwarts, in his own room in the Eighth Year dorms. He's safe.

But the dream had tried to convince him otherwise, dredging up memories of the horrors he had witnessed in the school's corridors only a few short months ago. His friends strewn dead on the cold and bloody flagstones, cries and howls in the air, ash and salt on his tongue.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake it off, but it's always with him, lingering like smoke saturated into fabric.

He wouldn't want to forget, he knows that, he wouldn't want to disrespect those he loved by banishing them from his mind. But he hopes one day he might be able to tuck their memories away somewhere safe, somewhere away from his nightmares. He can't remember the last time he had a good night's sleep.

Resigned to his wakefulness, he swings his legs out of bed, finds his slippers and wand, and heads out the door to take a piss. Maybe after that he can hang out in the common room, if none of the other Year Eights are there. He doesn't feel like talking much, he'd rather just be alone with his thoughts.

This is scuppered though when he pushes open the boys' shared bathroom, and sees a pair of legs sticking out of the nearest shower cubicle. Someone was sat down, and after all he'd been through, it took Harry less than a second to taste the tang of coppery blood in the air.

He races over, grabbing either side of the cubicle walls to steady himself for the sight that greats him upon looking down. "Alright Potter?" slurs Draco Malfoy.

Harry sucks in a breath and drops to his knees. Draco's shirt is undone, revealing a glimpse of a toned chest, and he's barefoot below his jeans. His skin is startlingly white against the blackness of his shirt, and his eyes are bloodshot. He has a mostly drunk bottle of fire whisky in his right hand, and he salutes Harry with it before clattering it down next to a bloody razorblade discarded by his hip. On his left forearm, above his wrist where his Dark Mark tattoo rests, there are several careful cuts, slowly dripping crimson onto the white tiles of the shower floor.

"Fuck, Malfoy!" Harry cries, seizing his hand and pointing his wand tip at the gashes. "Episkey!"

Malfoy just smirks drunkenly at him as the cuts heal. "Relax Potter," he says, taking another swig from his bottle, apparently not fussed that Harry caught him self-harming. "Not trying to off myself, just-" he wiggles his arm in front of Harry's face. "Making some improvements."

Harry catches his wrist again to inspect Draco's skin closer. There are several healed over lines on top of the tattoo where he has obviously done this before, and Harry lifts his eyes to look into Draco's. They're grey beneath the bloodied lines. He's not sure he really knew that before.

"Don't do this," he says, and for some unfathomable reason runs his fingertips over the textured skin under the mark, feeling the old razor scars.

Draco blinks and looks down at where Harry is touching him. "Makes the pain stop," he says thickly, and Harry suspects that the bottle in his hand had been pretty much full when he'd started on his bender.

Harry swallows, and closes his hand around the tattoo. "I know you're hurting," he says. "I know you've been through a lot. But this...this can't be good."

Draco smirks and leans in. "Are you worrying about me Potter?" he asks with a hint of smugness.

"There's been enough blood," Harry replies evasively. "Enough pain. I know we're not...Well, we're us. But I don't want to see you hurting yourself anymore." He means it, he's a little surprised to realise. Draco Malfoy's been through enough.

During his trial over the summer, Harry came to understand the misery his former school rival had been forced to endure, the pressure he'd been under to save his family from Voldemort just as much as the rest of them had fought to save the ones they loved. Harry feels like he sees a lot more in Malfoy now, which is probably why he's still holding onto his arm, rubbing his fingers over the scars.

Malfoy smiles sadly. "I'm always hurting," he says with a resigned heaviness. "But that's okay. It should hurt. Don't you hurt?" And he surprises Harry by reaching out and touching his fingers to Harry's chest, where his heart sits under his t-shirt.

Harry looks down at the hand. He should swat it off, but he finds he doesn't want to. "Yes," he says softly. "All the time."

Malfoy sags back down, removing his hand to grasp at the bottle again. "See," he says, downing another mouthful. "We're not so different after all."

Harry gives him a tight smile. "Maybe not," he sighs. "Okay, I think we should probably get you to bed, even if you're not bleeding anymore you're still freezing."

"Not sleepy," Malfoy argues, a large yawn betraying him.

Harry crouches and slips his arm around Malfoy's back, under his shoulders, and hefts him up. "Come on," he says, encouraging Malfoy reluctantly up.

"Can I keep the bottle?" he asks.

"Sure," Harry lies, hoping once he's tipped Malfoy into his bed, he'll pass out and Harry can stash the stuff somewhere out of reach.

They make their way shakily out the door, back into the corridor of the boys' dormitories. Harry considers waking Blaise Zabini, thinking Malfoy might be less humiliated in the morning if he had a friend to put him to bed, but then he remembers that he's dealing with former Slytherins and that would probably just make things even worse.

So Harry carries on down the hallway, until he reaches Malfoy's room, and eases the door open. "Come on Malfoy," he says, shuffling him inside towards the bed. But Malfoy stumbles, unsurprisingly considering how much he's had to drink, and trips down onto the bed, bringing Harry with him to land in a tangle of limbs, the fire whisky slamming on the wooden floor with a thump.

"Mmm hello," says Malfoy saucily, and touches Harry's face.

Harry jerks back in shock. What just happened? "You're drunk Malfoy," he says, pulling away.

"So?" he replies, letting his hand fall and rest on Harry's bicep. "I got you into bed, not gonna let you go now."

Harry blinks. Is Malfoy...hitting on him? "You don't know what you're saying," he says slowly. "You're drunk, you'll be embarrassed in the morning."

Malfoy shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe just relieved. Maybe sore and well fucked." He grabs Harry's t-shirt and yanks him closer, but Harry is sober and stronger so rips free, staggering back to his feet.

Malfoy sighs and looks up at him with big, silvery eyes. "Sorry," he says. "Bit drunk, shouldn't have done that."

"Yeah," agrees Harry, his mind whirling. "It's okay though, I won't tell anyone, we can forget about it."

Draco angles himself up onto his elbow. "Don't care who you tell," he says. "And you can forget if you want, I figured you wouldn't feel the same – a man's gotta try, hasn't he?" He falls back into his pillows and closes his eyes. "Life's too short Harry."

Harry?

Well, he isn't wrong, life is most definitely too short, life can be plucked from you at any moment. But Harry isn't sure how to feel about another man coming on to him, let alone Malfoy. He's not repulsed though, which is a bit surprising.

"Go to sleep Draco," he says, trying out the name, but from Draco's breathing, he might already be out.

Harry shuts the door quietly, but before he goes back to his own room he stops by the bathroom again. A quick flick of his wand washes away the traces of blood, and he picks up the razorblade from the shower floor, turning it over in his fingers. He decides that instead of throwing it away, he's going to hold on to it. It's silly, Malfoy could probably just get another one, but Harry places it on his bedside cabinet when he finally returns to his room, and looks at it glinting in the sliver of moonlight slicing through his curtains as his eyes droop, sleep claiming him once more.