Escape

Escape

I.

Harry loves Draco.

He's kissing Draco too, his back pressed painfully against the rough wood of the desk, Draco's hands clammy against his stomach and burning lips smothering his so he can't even hope to breathe.

Harry's own hands are fisted against Draco's shoulders, tangled in the simple cotton of Draco's shirt.

And this is how it is:

Draco will give Harry what he wants, as long as Harry doesn't try to kiss him back or make a sound when Draco touches him.

Harry thinks it's ironic since he doesn't even know what he wants.

But that's irrelevant, so Harry acquiesces to Draco's wishes and tries to suppress all of himself when Draco is there for him.

But today, Draco decides to be different.

He nibbles Harry's tongue, sharp little teeth that accentuate Harry's taste buds.

Harry moans.

Instantly Draco stops, looking at him through narrowed eyes. "You forget yourself Potter," he says slickly. "We had an agreement; we had terms."

Of course, the contract.

Silly me, thinks Harry as he curses himself, watching Draco walk out of classroom as cloaked and calm as he came.

Harry knows he's nothing to Draco. Maybe a game of some sort. It doesn't matter to him either way, as long as Draco will give him feeling like he did today. Harry can feel sweat dripping from his forehead, down his neck, and to his collarbone; he absently wonders what he'd be like if Draco nibbled his collarbone, just the way he'd nibbled his tongue.

Harry stands up, wipes away the sweat from his brow and leaves the dusty old room.

He doesn't notice that the desk has fallen apart on its own legs.

II.

It is late when he reaches the Gryffindor common room, late enough that he's had to avoid Filch twice already.

Hermione and Ron are there, though not quite as anxious and worried as Harry thought they would be.

He guesses they've grown tired of always worrying and fussing about him like mother hens. Ron is singing a Chudley Cannons' song, and Hermione peers at him dazedly over an enormous book on the NEWTs.

"Harry," she says, still managing to sound relieved. "We thought Mrs. Norris ate you."

Harry flashes them a grin. "Nah," he says. "I'm just skin and bones."

She smiles at him tiredly. "You haven't been around much, Harry," she says. "Is there anything you'd like to share?"

"Malfoy hasn't been bothering you has he?" asks Ron, raising an eyebrow. "He was glaring at you yesterday in Potions." He shudders. "Greasy prat."

Harry wants to tell him Draco isn't greasy at all, that his hair is actually snowflake-soft and smelled like pine needles. He doesn't, however.

"No," Harry replies, tensing slightly. "Not at all."

"Is there something you need, Harry?" Hermione asks now, looking concerned. She sets the book down on her lap. "You look so pale. Even Malfoy has a better flush than you do."

Harry can't help notice the cigarette peeking out of Hermione's cloak pocket, the yellow butt almost hidden in the heavy fabric. He smiles inwardly upon remembering Hermione's lectures about how smoking would kill you. He had actually listened to those, and never touched a cigarette.

Except Draco, because he is just like a cigarette, and kissing Draco gave Harry the same addictive and dangerous quality as smoking one.

"No," Harry says, knowing he is repeating himself. "I'm fine."

And he flees from their sight.

III.

Harry has to wait for almost half an hour before a Slytherin comes to portrait, drunken and slurring his speech.

The Slytherin then ducks his head, secretive as ever, and murmurs out quick words.

It sounds something like "I hate Potter."

Harry slips in, manages not to get his cloak stuck doing so, and rushes to the seventh-year boys' dorms.

Draco's gauzy curtains are pulled so tightly shut that they overlap. Harry yanks them open with no measure of quiet.

Draco appears to be still sleeping, a sardonic half-smile gracing his face. His covers are only pulled to his waist, and Harry can see the dark wine-colored fingerprints where he had gripped Draco's shoulder.

Harry has always thought Draco was perfect, and hated him for it. Now he realizes Draco's left nipple is slightly higher than the other, that there is a tiny scratch on Draco's neck.

Harry sees scars as the markings of a memory. Sacred, almost. So he digs his nail into Draco's upper chest, right below the nipple, and slashes a clear-cut line diagonally down to Draco's stomach.

Don't forget me, Draco.

It is then when Draco opens his eyes and looks at him blearily. He is not even surprised.

Draco is bleeding now, dark red that looks like spilled paint. As cliché as that sounds, Harry thinks, it's true.

"What do you really want, Potter?" asks Draco as he swipes at the blood with his fingers and licks them.

Harry suddenly wishes he wasn't Harry, but instead the drops of blood on Draco's stomach.

"Escape," says Harry, bending down to curdle his own tongue in the taste of Draco's blood.

There is a lapping silence before Draco replies.

"That," whispers Draco breathily, "That is not mine to give."