Underneath

Waking up this morning thinking

This can be real

They say there is nothing love can't heal...

Can't you see?

That I'm stuck here,

Underneath

Harry is outside, in a cave of green. He looks upwards at the light, filtering through the branches in a green haze and dappling his surroundings with moving patches of warmth. He's been coming to the mulberry tree since first year, seeking refuge behind the glossy emerald of drooping leaves. The fat purpley-black berries are the ones he likes, the ones that stain his fingers a dark purple, showing in the creases of the skin, and darkening where an especially over-ripe fruit has burst.

He reaches for another berry mechanically, thinking about the awful summer. He used to masturbate out here, slipping a hand warily into his pants, keeping an ear cocked for the sound of footsteps, thinking of tangled black hair, pale skin with crawling tattoos and the fleeting promise of safety, as his hand moved smoothly, and his hips jerked off the ground, panting into the warm summer air. There's not much point, now. The dead don't come back to life, the missing don't reappear. There is nothing more than he can do but eat mulberries and wish for something better.

A slight rustling behind him makes him flinch. Not wanting Hermione or Ron to see him with tear-stained eyes, he doesn't turn around.

"Go away. I'll be up later," he calls, dreading being forced into conversation about inanities, like school, and Quidditch, and -

"These ones are better, Potter," comes the familiar drawling voice, the voice that raises hairs on the back of Harry's neck, making him turn and snarl at the intruder.

Before he can utter any one of the myriads of insults that spring to his lips, Malfoy passes him a handful of small berries, the white barely flushed with pink.

"Are you mad, Malfoy? These aren't even ripe yet!" he says, turning the berries over in his hand.

Malfoy flashes his teeth, the smile looking more like a snarl, and the challenge is evident in his eyes. Harry picks through the selection again, choosing the palest berry he can find. Meeting Malfoy's eyes, he places the berry in his mouth. It bursts between his back teeth, and a rush of sourness sweeps over his tongue, cutting through the saccharine presence of the previous fruit.

"And another," Malfoy says, nodding at the fruit Harry still clutches in one damp hand. He moves around so that he's standing behind Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist. Harry is slightly concerned by this development, but before he can shrug Malfoy's encircling arms off, or slug him in the jaw, Malfoy has slipped a hand teasingly under the waistband of his pants. Another wave of bitterness registers, passing across Harry's tongue, and his cock twitches in Malfoy's hand.

Slow gentle strokes change tempo, skin rubbing against skin. Harry's breathing roughens, the remaining berries in his fist pulped as he squeezes his eyes closed, feeling the rush from the base of his spine.

He opens his eyes scant minutes later to the feeling of a roughened tongue licking the mulberry juice from his wrist. Draco pulps a ripe berry into the smooth flesh of Harry's inner arm.

The resultant irregular bluish-purple blotch will make Ron wince in sympathy and ask Harry if he saw Madame Pomfrey about the bruise. Harry will rub the back of his hand across his bruised lips and say nothing.