Twelve Steps

Chapter Ten

"Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

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"What, did you get a bad one?"

With an effort, Draco dragged his eyes away from Potter's lips and up to his questioning eyes. "A bad what?"

"Sweet, of course," Potter said. Indicating the box, he took the opportunity to snatch another chocolate, which he began to chew laboriously. "Mmm, cherry cordial."

Has the man no shame?

To keep himself from replying with a horribly inappropriate reference to Potter's sexual savoir-faire, Draco stuffed another mound of chocolate into his mouth. Unfortunately, it too was a cherry cordial, which he found himself loath to swallow.

"Haw you go-ah coconuh yeh?" he gurgled, letting the last remnants of cherry juice slide back and forth along his tongue. Strangely enough, Potter seemed to be able to decipher his garbled words; he shook his head mutely, still too occupied with the task of ingestion to speak. The cherry left a bitter aftertaste in Draco's mouth, and he found himself neglecting the array of chocolates in favour of studying a glob of lemon crème that had landed on Potter's chin.

All right, he thought, trying to reason with his recalcitrant hormones. I might possibly be attracted to Potter because of his close proximity. His very close proximity. I can't see any other possible reason--

Allowing his back to rest on the frame of the bed, Potter closed his eyes as he held a silent communion with the gods of chocolate. A sliver of tongue appeared between his teeth.

Very well, so he's not the worst looking male I've had the misfortune to encounter. After Snape, I really wouldn't want to hold my aesthetic tastes up to close scrutiny...

Potter's mouth formed an 'o' of contentment as he sucked on yet another chocolate. One leg was tucked beneath him, wrinkling the sheets, while the other splayed out across the bed in feline languor. "This is wrong," the other man murmured in mid-chew, "on so many levels."

Sifting through the half dozen dark chocolates that littered the bed, Draco selected a round one that resembled the Coconut Cauldrons that his mother had sent him, once upon a time. He slid it through his half-clenched teeth and promptly grimaced at the concentrated flavour of mint.

"You look like you've just swallowed a Ton Tongue Toffee," Potter observed, his eyes flickering open in order to fish another chocolate out of the box. Whilst Draco had gathered his empty wrappers in a neat pile beside the container, Potter's sketched out a haphazard foil trail from the box to the lazy fall of his arm across the bed frame. Draco's gaze followed the path and then slid back up to the other man's collarbone, where Potter had been remiss in attaching the uppermost buttons of his pyjamas.

"I was thinking about my mother," Draco admitted, and then promptly wished he could Obliviate his words. How does he manage to wheedle these unseemly confessions out of me?

But Potter only said, "I think about mine as well. What she'd think of me." In the lengthening shadows of the evening, Draco could not read the other man's countenance. His glasses drew fluid lines of charcoal across the panes of his face, outlining the curve of a cheek against the dusk. Only his eyes were clearly illuminated behind the lenses, and their green-flecked depths were ambiguous. Was he brooding about his family? Basking in the aftermath of dessert? Mulling over how best to jump his roommate's bones?

Or is he pitying the fallen Malfoy?

Suddenly Draco thought he might have gleaned a hint of what had provoked Potter's bizarre behaviour of late. Potter was torn between the conflicting desire to throw off the shackles of the past and the fundamental duty to cling to it. As a whole, Draco now abhorred and detested his parents, but the instinct to defend and cherish their memory was so ingrained that he could not bypass it.

Disinclined to conduct a history lesson on the Potter and Malfoy family heritage, Draco endeavoured to change the subject. "If you find a coconut, Potter, it's mine."

Potter's enthusiastic chomping ceased, and there was an audible gulp as he swallowed. "Um," he mumbled. "Er, sorry, but..."

Draco had already persuaded himself that his avid interest in Potter's Adam's apple was an entirely commonplace appreciation of the male form, so he did not chide himself for staring this time. "Potter," he said slowly, spreading his words out into a low drawl. "Was that my Coconut Cauldron that you so blithely inhaled?"

Shifting from his lackadaisical sprawl into a seated position, Potter licked his lips apprehensively. "Er, I think they call it a haystack here...and there's usually only one per box."

"That's an absolute travesty, Potter. A haystack? Do all Muggles grow up on farms? And putting only one coconut into an entire box of sweets is ridiculous."

Potter shrugged. "If there were more, then it wouldn't be so special, would it?"

Snorting, Draco made as if to peruse the remainder of the chocolates but once again caught himself staring at Potter.

There was a brief span of time where neither man moved, except to blink. Again, Draco was aware of a certain thickness to the air; an invisible curtain hanging between them. His brain willed his muscles to move, but they recoiled at the notion of plunging forward into the murk. He looked at Potter through his lashes, but the other man was little more than a lanky silhouette against the wall.

Suddenly Potter moved, sliding forward on his knees until his face was inches from Draco's. The mattress wobbled, mimicking the tenuous nature of the link between them. Then Potter murmured, with a deliberate curl of his lip, "I've still got a piece stuck in my teeth..."

It was an invitation that Draco couldn't ignore. The tension melted like the snow on their boots after a winter's day on the Quidditch pitch. He tuned out the voice of denial that chattered within him. What had he left to lose, anyway?

Draco lunged forward to meet Potter's lips.

"Ow!" he howled, his cheekbone colliding with the jutting metal frame of Potter's glasses.

Well, logistics were always the weakness of my plans, he thought, jerking back. Potter did likewise, scuttling across the bed to the relative safety of the nightstand. Whilst berating himself for his impetuous leap into enemy territory, Draco began to knead the sore spot with his index finger. Trust Potter to inadvertently bungle even the simplest of movements. How that dratted Gryffindor ever won a Quidditch game is beyond me, as clumsy as he--

Somehow, distracted by the pinpricks of pain on his cheek, he had failed to notice Potter's return. It was heralded only by a warm puff of breath that dissolved the sting like a salve, and suddenly he was nose to nose with Potter. The other man had set his glasses down on the nightstand, and his eyes were squinting, as though trying to adjust.

Conscious thought eluded Draco as Potter's lips descended over his own. There was nothing hesitant about the way Potter's tongue fought its way in to explore his mouth. His own slithered in hesitantly at first, as though he might defile the other man with his touch. Potter arched forward in response, a sinewy arm snaking around his shoulders to twine in his pale hair.

Emboldened, Draco began to quest for the stray bit of coconut. His tongue flowed over the roof of Potter's mouth and the smooth caps of his teeth in a deluge. Assaulted by the mingled flavours of buttery coconut, dark chocolate, and a faint tang of lemon, all semblance of poise evaporated. A sound rose from deep in his throat.

This time, Draco did not moan in agony.

By the time they separated, both men were short of breath. Potter's hand lingered on Draco's shoulder, clutching at the bunched fabric of his pyjamas; it was the only thing that kept the oversized sleeve from sliding down his arm. Without the outer shell of glasses, his eyes looked small and forlorn. The faint buzz of conversation from the hall made them both jump involuntarily.

Potter heaved a little sigh and murmured, "Draco." The name still fell awkwardly from his lips, its timbre slow and foreign. Draco couldn't decide if it pleased him or not.

"Potter," he said, gently detaching Potter's hand from his shoulder and smoothing the rigid fingers out across his own palm. "Let's not Bludger this thing to death with words."

Potter gave a nod so faint it was almost imperceptible. Leaning forward, he ghosted his lips along Draco's injured cheek as if to say, 'See? No words.'

The room was silent as they stood, hands still clasped, abandoning the chocolatey mess they had made of Draco's sheets. Even his thoughts respected the still perfection of the moment when he led Potter to the other bed. As Draco sank into the sheets beside Potter, their bodies melding together in an unbroken line, the other man did not broach the issue of Draco's honour. For his part, Draco dared not move until Potter's breathing had settled into a steady rhythm. His arm, slung loosely around Potter's waist, strayed little even after he had joined Potter in slumber.

Potter's sleep tonight would be without nightmares, but perhaps he would dream.

* * * * *

In the small hours of the night, a sound jarred Draco out of the formless haze of dreams.

His eyes opened onto a vista of black. There was a heavy pressure on his knee where Potter's leg draped across it. During the evening, they had shifted so that Potter was now curled around Draco in a half-moon, his breath fanning Draco's hair out onto the pillow. Draco's head fitted into the crook of Potter's neck as though it belonged there and, for the moment, he was too snug and warm to forego the shield that Potter created between him and the bracing chill. Briefly, he wondered if it had been Potter's whimper that awakened him. But Potter did not stir.

I am using him, he declared obstinately into the swath of darkness. He felt Potter's arm tighten around his chest, claiming him in sleep. I am exploiting his presence; that's all. And he is using my body to ward off his nightmares. So it's mutual, then, isn't it?

He had almost drifted off when the noise came again; louder, now, and more distinct. Reluctantly he rose, shedding the dead weight of Potter's roving limbs. Wrapping his arms around himself for warmth, he peered down at the bed. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could barely make out the contours of Potter's still form beneath the folds of the sheets.

"Potter," whispered Draco, "there's someone in our room."

Potter grunted, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

Fine, I'll take care of it myself. Potter wouldn't know how to dispatch a squadron of escaped Death Eaters without his wand, at any rate. The bloody fool would probably try to reason with them!

Conscious of the fact that Potter might begin screaming if he vanished for any length of time, Draco tiptoed toward the bathroom with his hands gripping the walls as a guide. Aiming for stealth, he was somewhat perturbed when sweet wrappers crunched beneath his socks. Luckily, it seemed not to disturb whoever had invaded their privacy, for the noises only intensified as he inched closer to the door. A mournful tumult streamed past his ears; it sounded as though some form of torture was ensuing. Strangled choking noises were intermingled with the occasional sob, and now and again he could make out a hacking cough.

Death Eaters don't weep, he thought groggily, and Snape isn't due here until tomorrow. If Dobby is in there, I'll throttle him. Free elf, my arse!

The carpet of wrappers crumbling under his probing feet, he stumbled into the bathroom door and tugged it outward to reveal the intruder.

"Shit!" Draco exclaimed, his stomach turning flip flops at the sight that greeted him.

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