(Not) In Control

[Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes and honestly, it's basically just porn.]  

~*~

The agonised hopelessness rolling off of Harry as he sits slumped on the sofa creeps over Draco, cocooning him in the sort of powerlessness that makes one's whole existence feel utterly inutile.

Draco's gaze never leaves Harry's hunched figure even as he splashes a rather obscenely large amount of whiskey into a tumbler and walks over, pressing it into Harry's limp hand, trying and failing yet again to catch his eye. When Harry knocks back the whiskey like it were merely pumpkin juice, Draco simply takes the glass from him and brings back another large helping of the smooth amber.

Harry holds the tumbler with both hands, his expression vacant, head bowed, fierce, viridian eyes filled with pure, unfiltered anguish as he stares emptily at the floor. Draco's stomach churns as he once again takes in the shapeless, damp patches of stickiness on his robes, the colour blending into Harry's maroon uniform.

Wordlessly, Draco kneels and starts unlacing Harry's heavy, dirty boots; there are splotches off blood on them as well and Draco presses his lips tightly together, trying not to acknowledge the queasiness rising in him. Throwing the boots under the coffee table, he peels the stained, sweaty socks off, briefly squeezing Harry's large, square feet with both hands before he feels one sturdy, grimy hand gentle over his hair.

Looking up, Draco's breath catches sharply in his throat as he watches the fat tears spill over and streak down his grimy cheeks, some catching on the rim of his glasses. His lips tremble and his face starts to crumple and despair climbs up Draco's throat like bitter bile as he straightens up, standing on his knees and holding his arms out.

"Harry," he whispers, cradling Harry's head as it descends onto his shoulder, Harry's quiet, heart-wrenching sobs moist and hot against Draco's neck. "No. Harry, no, please—please don't cry--" Draco sifts desperate fingers through Harry's dirt-caked, blood streaked hair, "Ssshh. Don't, just don't do this to yourself, Harry. Please."

"He can't be older than four," Harry's voice is rough and wracked with the sort of agonising guilt that slowly eats away at one's insides, "barely four—gone—whole family—g-gone."

"He's...you saved him, Harry," Draco tries tremulously, tightening his arms to a chokehold around Harry's neck, "At least you saved him, you saved a child--"

But Harry just shakes his head vigorously, sobbing great, heaving sobs into Draco's shoulder, bent over at the waist as he clings to Draco. It's with some effort that Draco swallows his own tears – he'll never get used to this, never know how to deal with it when Harry cracks like this.

Albeit rare, these unmitigated breakdowns render Draco almost paralysed with shock and fright when they occur, and although he's had over seven years, he's still not managed to learn how to efficiently deal with them, still hasn't learnt the right things to say; and each time, Draco feels severely incompetent, not to mention thoroughly ashamed at the way his own throat closes up.

"Harry, please," he whispers against Harry's tear-moistened cheek, pressing his trembling lips over and over onto his face in small, desperate kisses, "It's not your fault, it was not your fault."

Ten minutes of Draco kneeling on the bare floor, just holding Harry, and a third helping of whiskey later, Harry sits there, pink-nosed and sniffling, Auror robes shrugged off and strewn messily over the sofa, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, smudged, tear flecked glasses abandoned on the coffee table. Draco sits pinned to him, one leg thrown across Harry's lap, one arm around his shoulders while he rubs warm circles on Harry's chest with his other hand.