Neither of them moved. Not immediately. The room felt painfully still — the only sound was the quiet thud of their heartbeats, loud and trembling in their ears.
Harry's hands had unknowingly curled into Draco's shirt, clutching the fabric between his fingers. His lips tingled, the warmth of the kiss still lingering, confusing and terrifying in the best way. His eyes, still closed, fluttered open slowly, only to find Draco still leaning over him, a faint breath away, his gaze unreadable and sharp.
Draco's chest rose and fell in uneven patterns, and he wasn't trying to hide the storm behind his grey eyes. He didn't smirk. He didn't taunt. He just looked…
Honest.
Then, softly, so softly it nearly broke Harry apart, Draco whispered, "Can I…? I mean — can I continue?"
It wasn't about arrogance. It wasn't about a game or control. There was something raw in his voice. He was asking because he needed to know — not just whether Harry wanted it but if he wanted him. The Draco who was still healing. The Draco who had fought his way back to some version of normal and still felt utterly, gut-wrenchingly alone.
Harry's throat tightened. He should have said something. But words failed him — again. Instead, he nodded, just once. Quick. Desperate. Almost shy.
And Draco saw it. Saw everything in that tiny nod — the permission, the longing, the buried ache.
Their lips met again, slower this time. Draco's hand moved to the back of Harry's neck, thumb brushing his jawline gently. Harry melted into the touch, arching ever so slightly into the kiss. There was no rush, no claiming, just… a need to feel. To hold. To be held.
It ached. For both of them.
Because it wasn't just about the kiss. It was about everything they'd kept buried — the late-night glances, the unspoken words, the arguments and history. The war. The loss. The loneliness.
Draco kissed like someone afraid he'd never be kissed again. Harry kissed back like someone who had finally found what he didn't know he was searching for.
Draco's hand moved down Harry's arm, grounding himself. His mouth opened just enough for a breathy sigh to pass between them. And when Harry responded with a shaky inhale, it was all the answer Draco needed.
It was slow. It was hesitant. But it was real.
And it was theirs.
They didn't speak much that night. They didn't need to. They lay there, barely touching after the kiss faded, the air still charged, fingers ghosting over the other's sleeve now and then. Until sleep eventually took one, then the other.
For the first time in a long time, neither of them felt alone.
The silence between them was deafening—thick with everything unsaid and everything too loud to ignore.
Draco's hand still rested lightly on Harry's chest, his thumb brushing over fabric like it was fragile skin. His silver eyes were locked on Harry's face, searching—not with malice or mockery, but with something softer, something terrifyingly real.
"You haven't said anything," Draco whispered, voice hoarse.
Harry's throat bobbed. "I don't want you to stop."
That was all it took. The tension that had held Draco upright melted, and he leaned in—not rushed, not desperate, just… certain. His lips found Harry's again, gentler this time. The kiss wasn't urgent. It was a question, an answer, a slow unraveling of all the walls they'd spent years building.
Harry's hand rose hesitantly, brushing against Draco's jaw, then settling at the nape of his neck. His fingers tangled in soft strands of pale hair, grounding him. Draco responded with a sigh, shifting closer, their bodies aligning naturally.
There was something sacred about the way they touched—tentative, reverent. Every movement spoke of restraint, but also of yearning too deep to ignore.
When Draco pulled back, just slightly, his forehead resting against Harry's, he murmured, "I don't want this to be a mistake."
Harry exhaled, their breath mingling. "It won't be. Not if we don't let it."
Draco closed his eyes for a second, visibly grounding himself. Then he leaned in again—this time pressing kisses to Harry's cheek, the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Harry's hands trembled as they slid beneath Draco's shirt, feeling the warmth of skin beneath. He'd never felt something so fragile, so real.
"I never thought," Draco muttered, "you'd let me in."
"I didn't think I would either," Harry whispered honestly. "But… here you are."
Clothes didn't fall away in a frenzy. They were pushed aside slowly, like petals unfolding under moonlight. Touches were careful, fingers trailing over old scars and fresh nerves. There were gasps, but none from surprise—only from the overwhelming weight of closeness.
Harry's heart thudded wildly as Draco's lips moved along his collarbone. Every brush of skin made him feel dizzy, like he was falling, not into darkness but into something warm and terrifying and bright.
Draco paused, breath hitching against Harry's skin. "You can tell me to stop. I mean it."
But Harry only cupped Draco's face in both hands and looked him dead in the eye. "Don't."
Their mouths met again, more confident now, synced in a rhythm neither had known they needed. They shifted together, limbs tangled and breathless, chasing something wordless—something that felt like peace.
When they lay there afterward, tangled in sheets and each other, neither spoke for a long while.
Harry broke the silence. "I don't know what this means."
Draco didn't flinch. "We don't have to define it tonight."
"But we will eventually?"
Draco nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah. We will."
And for the first time in a long time, Harry believed it.
It started slow—like the world had been holding its breath around them, and now, finally, it exhaled.
Harry's lips were soft beneath Draco's, warm and slightly parted. Neither moved at first. They just lingered there, caught in the gravity of each other, as if a thousand unspoken things had to be passed through a kiss before breath returned. The kind of kiss that spoke of longing built over years—resentment turned fascination, rivalry twisted into something deeper, messier, needier.
Draco's hand cupped Harry's jaw, thumb brushing over the line of his cheek. His other hand still pressed lightly against Harry's wrist, pinning him to the bed, though not harshly. It wasn't control. It was grounding. A silent plea: Don't pull away.
Harry didn't.
Instead, his fingers curled in Draco's shirt. His chest rose and fell too fast, and the heat pooling in his stomach was almost unbearable. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss without thought—just instinct. Pure and breathless instinct.
Draco made a low sound in the back of his throat, one that made Harry shiver. There was nothing refined about how he responded now. He kissed Harry like he needed to memorize the shape of his mouth—slow and searching, and then, suddenly, desperate. Their noses bumped, teeth scraped, breath mingled.
When Harry gasped, Draco took the chance—his tongue sliding in, hesitant for a second, before Harry met it, and it wasn't hesitant anymore.
It was a fever. A tangle. A breaking point.
Hands wandered. Harry's fingers found Draco's back beneath his shirt—bare skin, warm and alive. Draco trembled, slightly, from the contact.
"You—you should tell me to stop," Draco whispered against his mouth, voice hoarse.
Harry's eyes opened, stormy green and dark with want. "I can't."
The confession cracked something open. Draco surged back in, kissing him harder this time—his body fully pressed to Harry's. Their legs tangled. The bed creaked softly beneath them. Harry's head fell back against the pillow, mouth parting again when Draco's lips moved from his to his jaw, then to the skin just beneath his ear.
Harry's breath hitched. He gripped Draco's waist. "Draco—"
"Say it again," Draco murmured, lips brushing down his throat. "Say my name."
"Draco."
It wasn't just a name. It was a surrender. A request. A vow.
And Draco answered it with reverence and fire. He kissed down Harry's neck slowly, tracing the path with his mouth, his tongue. He lingered at the curve of his collarbone. Harry arched slightly beneath him, panting now.
Every move was gentle and exploratory… yet full of need. Fingertips brushed over fabric-covered skin, testing boundaries but not rushing. The air between them shimmered, thick with want and tension, and something more fragile—trust.
Their eyes met again.
Neither said it out loud.
But they both knew—
This meant something.
Harry lay still beneath him, chest rising and falling like waves caught in a storm. His lips were swollen, his skin flushed, and his eyes—those bloody green eyes—looked like they were trying to find something to hold onto. Draco hovered above, barely holding back, barely breathing.
The air around them was thick. With heat. With tension. With something Harry couldn't name.
It had started as something impulsive, yes. A collision of frustration, loneliness, and unanswered questions. But now—it felt like it had cracked something deeper open. Something terrifying.
Harry's hands were still curled in Draco's shirt, but his grip was loose, trembling. He couldn't look away. He didn't want to. But the look in Draco's eyes… it made his chest ache. It wasn't just want. It was something more fragile. Something that asked Harry to feel.
And that was the problem.
The moment Draco shifted slightly, brushing his nose along Harry's jaw like he couldn't help it, Harry's breath hitched. He turned his head to the side, eyes fluttering shut.
He wanted to stay like this. He wanted to disappear into the feeling. But something inside him pulled tighter. A string wound so tight, it might snap.
Draco noticed. Of course, he did.
"Harry…" His voice was low. "What is it?"
Harry swallowed thickly. He couldn't answer—not right away. Because it felt like the weight of everything was pressing down on him all at once. The war. The losses. The way his chest tightened every time someone asked if he was okay. The ache of pretending he wasn't falling apart.
And now—this.
This unexpected, infuriating, electric thing between him and Draco Malfoy of all people.