#abbycadabra

Draco doesn’t know what Potter tastes like, because all he can taste is his own blood. Potter nips at his raw lip, and this time Draco doesn’t try to analyze whether that’s proper behavior or not, because he’s already moaning and deepening the kiss. His hands slide into Potter’s hair, pulling him closer before yanking him away and running his tongue along Potter’s jaw line. Potter’s sweat, Draco now knows, tastes a lot like everything else about Potter. Salty and hot and bitter.

He tried to stop being angry about it. He tried to accept it. He tried forgetting about it. He tried hiding from it. None of that worked. Because Draco was always there. He was always nearby, always within reach. Always so close, with his thinning wrists and dark circles under his eyes, never giving Harry a reprieve from the reminder that this was really happening. And truth be told, Harry couldn’t bear to be away from him. Sometimes Harry just had to reach over and touch him, to smooth back a piece of his hair or pick an invisible piece of dust off of his jumper, just to make sure he was still there. When it came right down to it, Harry couldn’t stop being angry for one reason: there was nothing else to be. Absolutely nothing.

Today, day forty-five, Harry notices the new bruises on Malfoy’s neck, and Harry smiles, thinking of all the others that he can’t see.

Harry crawls past Malfoy’s kicking legs, and presses himself against Malfoy’s thigh as he wraps his fingers around Malfoy’s neck, and yes, yes, Harry thinks, this is fear, this is what he’s looking for. Isn’t it?

“We had words, and then we fought.” Dumbledore fixes him with an unblinking stare, blue eyes focused and lips pulled into a frown. “Is there anything else, Harry? Are you sure that’s all there is to tell?” Harry doesn’t like the suspicion in Dumbledore’s voice. His hands clench as he says, “Quite sure, Professor.” Dumbledore watches him for a second longer before relaxing. “Since you apparently have a fondness for going up to the cliff, Harry, I assume you know of the protective barriers there, that keep students from doing silly things like throwing pebbles into the lake. Or each other.” Harry blinks at the Headmaster’s abruptness. “Yes, I know of them.” “Well, there are also wards that are embedded in those charms that alert us to any significant disturbances to the barrier.” He pauses, eyes riveted on Harry. “There was a very significant disturbance last night.” Harry understands the implication in Dumbledore’s tone, and his fists coil tighter. The scabs on his knuckles rip and tear and bleed, and it hurts, but it doesn’t, not really. His eyes flick to Malfoy and he asks, “How is he?” which is better, Harry thinks, than asking, ‘Did I win?’

“At least I’m doing something. I’ve repotted two already and you’re still on your first.” Potter has his hands covered in soil to the elbow, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, fine scratches all along his arms and face, and Draco finds all of it wildly unnecessary. "Why should I even bother if I know you’re going to do it anyway?” Potter avoids looking at him as he scoops more dirt from the bag of potting soil resting beside their rose bushes, Draco’s still untouched. “You don’t know that I will.” “Oh, but I do,” Draco drawls, tongue sliding over the cut in his lip from days ago. He likes the tangy, metallic taste of raw skin. “And you are.” White to black. “Besides, the whole point of this punishment is so that we’ll get along. Dumbledore doesn’t really want us to do any of this physical labor. He’d probably just lock us up in a room together without our wands if he could get away with it.” “It’ll never work,” Potter says, setting his third newly potted rose bush to the side. “You’re too much of a prat. I’d kill you.” Potter’s voice is not light, and he is not smiling, and it’s unsettling, a bit, but it doesn’t bother Draco.

“If you’re so eager to stay away from the Death Eaters, then why not go all the way? Why not help the Muggles, when they’re all that’s left of our side? You can’t stay neutral forever! There’s still a war to fight, Malfoy. Maybe we don’t have to keep running. The Muggles—” “Would cut us up like little lab rats, Potter,” Malfoy cut in. He hadn’t moved, but his back was rigid on the settee, eyes burning into Harry’s and hands curled into fists at his sides. “There’s no co-existing with Muggles. You either hide from them, or you dominate them. The human race has never been one for willing submission or cooperation with those more powerful than itself.” He looked away and said acidly, “Anything more powerful than themselves that the Muggles can’t make submit, Potter, they break.” Realization dawned on Harry. “So you want us to keep running? To run and hide? Until when, Malfoy? Until they win or lose? Forever?” Malfoy held his gaze for a long time. Finally he looked away and said, softly, “Until we die, Harry.”