If I Needed You

"If I needed you," he said, "would you come back?"

Draco stared at him. His silhouette was rubbed against the darkness of the room, slender shines polishing the tip of his nose and the borders of his glasses. He snow outside, luminous and unpolluted, crept into the room and scattered light along the edges of everything. He couldn't see Harry's eyes or expression, just the gloss on his firm mouth, and whole-heartedly wished he had not confronted him. "You will never need me. That question will remain unanswered."

Draco thought of what he had once been told. He could not remember who had told him, but the words stood out boldly in his mind, as though encroached upon his thoughts, lingering and true: You can't live like there's always going to be a tomorrow. And he hadn't for a brief time; he had indulged himself and lived like there was no tomorrow. It meant no consequences, no hurt, no time to think — he had forgotten his identity with the boy he had hated so and had massacred himself in the process.

"But I do," he said, and Draco saw the pearly-white shine of his knuckles. "I do, Draco."

Draco loathed how he said his name — as though trying to assure himself he knew the boy before him, knew his identity and did not fear it. It was a form of intimidation that Draco despised. Knowing this, perhaps, made Harry step forward. There was a spasm in Draco's stomach as he saw Harry in such an idealistic light; face half-shadowed and eyes bright and blue in the incandescent melancholy of the snow light with a gaunt cheeks and a pinched, sad mouth.

"You're very skinny," Draco said randomly. He reached out and touched Harry's face with a pale hand. He could feel the prominence and see the whiteness of his cheekbone against the translucence of his skin. "And ill."

"Thanks," Harry said sarcastically. He tucked his hands into Draco's back pockets and breathed onto him. The warm breeze scorched Draco's neck. It was as though walking out of your room in the morning; cold, spine vibrating and posture poor, warmth flooding your groggy body and little quakes engulfing the cold defiance of your temperature. (It was so in the Malfoy Manor anyway, which had hot hallways and rooms that were not insulated and chilly.) "You are, too. We all are. Fast metabolisms and underfed."

"Or it could be Granger and her spew fast," Draco said. It was true. Draco received more death glares than usual if he touched more than a morsel of his meal. Draco had told Harry it would be a tragedy if Hermione found out the house-elves ate whatever was left over from their feasts, and when she did it was nothing less.

"S-P-E-W," Harry said absently. His head was now buried in Draco's shoulder. Draco did not respond. The smell of Harry's hair, of boy and winter air and snow, was strong in his nose; he could feel Harry's fingers tracing his hipbones lazily and his body limp and relaxed against Draco's own. Draco stiffened. "Draco," Harry muttered.

"Don't," Draco said, "talk." He felt Harry's lips rub against his skin whenever they parted to speak. Harry seemed to take this a different way, despite Draco's stern voice, and began to nip at the moist skin on his neck. Draco put his hands on Harry's shoulders, but the boy did not stop, and Draco wasn't sure he wanted him to.

The night darkened and Draco could only feel; Harry's warm breath on his neck, his soft and wet mouth, his cold hands. They were sweaty, quick, and merciless. His skin burned as Harry's nails scraped it, fingernails leaving red bruises along sensitive areas and dampness on his victimized neck — but Harry's mouth never so much as brushed against his own, nervous as it planted kisses along his jaw. Draco was uncomfortable and submissive, yielding to Harry's longing. It was a kindness that Harry would have never anticipated and did not recognize until long after he was done.