Window

When he presses his forehead against the cool window pane, when he sees the pale shadow pass by the frosted glass of their compartment, it almost seems as if it will be alright, as if that weight in his chest will finally lift, as if he could somehow find that connection he thinks he used to share with Ron and Hermoine, as if he could, for once, feel happy without that familiar stone of dread weighing somewhere in the back of his mind. He prefers the glass that encloses him in the train carriage, caught between radiating cold on one side and frost on the other, to the warmth, noise, companionship and familiarity that is caught between. He doesn't want to be irritated, he really does want to join in on whatever they are talking about, he really does want to include himself. He gives a reassuring smile that feels tight on his face when Hermoine leans over to squeeze his knee, a look of concern on her face, because how could he explain what they were doing to make him miserable, what they weren't doing to make him feel connected. He's thought about it, to be sure, but if he cannot describe to himself what has gone wrong inside his own head, how can he explain it to her? He thinks that this feeling of apathy, of disappointment, might stem from behaviors long ingrained and nearly forgotten, from the structure of their relationship that now seems beyond repair, beyond change.

He lets the conversation fade in and out around him, lets his eyes slide closed and pop open over and again, his forehead against the cool glass pane. It is nearly too dark to see, and the forests they pass are only shapes in the black. His eyes travel over the textured darkness, and he thinks that he can see a town far in the distance. He watches the reflection of the compartment in the cold window, the pale shadow that goes by again and again. What does he want, to pass by their compartment so often, drawing hostile stares from Ron, Hermoine and Ginny. They have never forgiven him for what he said to them at the end of their fourth year, although Harry has long forgotten that it even mattered.

The pale shadow reappears beyond the frosted window, beyond the warmth and companionship of the compartment, and presses its palms against the glass, fingers spread wide. Harry thinks that he can almost see a slim nose pressed against the pane, grey eyes peering through the frost, a slight smile curling lips that are far too red for such fair skin. It is only his imagination, of course; he can't see anything through the opaque glass, but his heart beats a little faster regardless, almost in spite of the noises of disgust and anger that those long fingers inspire throughout the cabin, almost in spite if he was capable of an emotion so bitter and contrary.

The shadow stays still for thirty seconds before it vanishes again, and Harry doubles that before he slides from his cool refuge, past the tangle of knees and elbows to the other side of the glass. He thinks that Ginny might have looked to him, questioning, something like betrayal in her eyes, as if she knows how badly he wants to chase that pale shadow, wants to catch it and demand reasons for all the things he couldn't explain to Hermoine or even to himself. Ron looks to him hopefully, as if expecting an invitation to go pound the snot out of that unwelcome intruder of his warm carriage, and his eyes falter only the smallest bit when Harry passes him by. Ron understands that there are some things Harry must do by himself, and only gives Ginny a comforting smile as Harry disappears from the car.

The smothering heat vanishes from Harry's mind the moment he steps into the corridor, breathing the cool air for what feels like the first time in years. He has the desire to touch everything, to run his hands over the walls and the lacquered wood and the opaque glass leading to all other compartments, students, friendships, warmth, and familiarity. His breath comes up in barely concealed laugher, and then he does run his fingertips along the paneled wood that shakes with the rhythm of the train beneath him, and he doesn't know where to go, where the shadow has gone, but he follows his fingertips anyway, as if searching for the residual warmth from his silver phantom, until he passes to the last compartment in the train and a pair of pale hands yank him inside.

Harry doesn't struggle as a warm mouth is pressed against his own, already recognizing a taste that he had imagined a thousand times before, sweet and soft and warm, and he is shocked to discover that he imagined correctly. They must have done this before, in abandoned classrooms or in high stone corridors, over noxious potions, because he knows this taste, and he kisses Draco Malfoy back hungrily, taking the boy's pale face in his hands as Draco's fingers push his jumper up to find warm skin underneath. He traces ghostly patterns on Harry's stomach, gray eyes flickering a warning to keep quiet, lowering his mouth to Harry's collarbone, hot breath that makes Harry arch almost before he really feels it, makes him press into Draco's body.

His arousal is frightening in its immediacy, and he gasps for breath, for control, anything to ground him in a reality that contains more than a pale shadow that strokes his suddenly bare skin in the moment before he wills himself to let go and they sink down, still locked together, and Draco is straddling Harry on the soft red seat, roughly tangling his fingers in Harry's hair, licking Harry's neck with belying tenderness. His body is strange under Harry's hands, angular and thin, none of that female softness that he thought he had wanted all this time, and Harry tries his best to touch Draco everywhere, to become accustomed to this alien body so opposite his own, bony where he is finally gaining muscles, nearly colorless skin where his own is dusky. Draco licks his lips where Harry's tongue has touched, and they stay eye to eye for a moment, panting into each other's mouths; Draco looks as though he wants to speak, but as long moments pass his mouth curves further up until it almost looks as if he is smiling, not sneering or smirking, but smiling, and that is when Draco starts to move downward.

Draco's hair is soft under his hands, thinner than Harry expected, and he gasps and twists as Draco licks his chest, his stomach, kisses no less fierce for their awkwardness, kisses that become nearly painful, too much all at once, and when Harry moans, softly, unable to help it, Draco looks up with the oddest expression in his eyes, wide and vulnerable. He twists two fingers under the waist of Harry's trousers, and strokes the soft skin there where hip and thigh meet, kneeling between Harry's legs and looking up into his face as Harry stares back, and Draco hesitates for only a minute before hooking both hands into his pants and pulling them down, leaving Harry exposed.

He has never thought about his skin before, but now Draco makes him love it, and he feels smooth and warm under those long, pale fingers, and Harry begins to forget six years of hot words and hostile stares, begins to forget six years of oppressive friendship, of looks that were always understanding, always pitying, looks that always knew what he was thinking even when they couldn't understand, they couldn't know what it was like, and memory dissolves into an outstretched hand, rejected in an instant, and the world evaporates into that hand that now wraps itself around his hip, and grey eyes that lock with his in an instant, flickering with uncertainty, before they lower and all he knows is soft, wet heat and the tongue that flickers gently over the head of his cock and vanishes as he is taken deeper and he arches and his fingers dig deep into Draco's hair and he doesn't notice as Draco winces and frowns and is inexperienced as he begins to suck Harry's cock, slowly and then with gathering confidence, and it is when the world begins to disappear in halos of light and his body loses contact with the seat underneath him that their hands link together and Harry can't keep himself from crying out as he comes, shaking.

Draco climbs back onto the seat, wiping his face, pursing his lips thoughtfully. His face is flushed, his lips reddened, and Harry turns towards him without thinking and rests his head on Draco's shoulder. They stay like that without speaking, and Harry watches Draco's chest move up and down as he breathes, and looks at their hands, still entwined together. The train moves underneath them, rushing towards the world that exists outside this silver shadow and a boy who, suddenly, feels the weight of dread inside his chest lift. He squeezes Draco's hand and feels an answering pressure, and when he closes his eyes it is as if this moment has been frozen, marked only in time by the rocking of the carriage as it hurdles along in darkness, the forests that pass by only shapes in the night, an outstretched hand that has finally been grasped.