everything matters
nsfw
Draco did a lot of screaming and shouting in his youth, and then none for a very long time, because it reminded him of who he used to be, and the things he used to have to do, and what had been done to him. He'd had an easy choice of career—so much of him was already unspeakable, why not all?
.
He was assigned to the Death Room, which…well.
Draco got to work early, stayed late, and didn't think about Potter, though he showed up from time to time, spiriting away behind the veil, returning days later looking worse—much worse—for wear. Draco wasn't privy to the details. It wasn't his experiment and never would be, considering their history, of which books had been written: The Immortal Pauper and The Prince of Death, In the Pale Shadow of the Saviour, etc.
Draco kept his head down. Didn't ask questions. Didn't carry silent questions around. Thinking about Potter beyond the veil—well. Draco didn't.
But Potter was thinking about him, and told him so one night. He'd been late: Unspeakables were called in from other rooms because Harry Potter was late to his own resurrection. Eventually, though, he tumbled back into life—banged up, eyes blazing, mouth wearing that demented, hyena grin that no one ever seemed to noticed except Draco. He was laughing but it didn't sound like him. No one seemed to notice that either.
Draco went up to him when the others had cleared out. He'd been awake for forty-eight hours already, give or take, waiting for Potter to show up.
"What's wrong with you?" Draco said, borrowing his father's loftiness.
"What's wrong with you?" Potter shot back.
Nothing, Draco had meant to say. What he'd said instead was, "You were late."
Harry didn't ask what it was to Draco because he already knew.
"I need…I just need to anchor, Malfoy," he said. "Anchor to life."
Sex would've done but from the moment they touched it was more. In the middle Harry said finally.
~
When Draco came, he screamed out something terribly, terribly true—this blaring, bleating, fearful scream. And he couldn't be mortified, because he was in some deep, distant part of himself, without shame or language. He remembers Harry's face: lit up, hesitant. Awful fucking face. Awful fucking man.
"Again?" Harry asked, shaky-voiced.
Draco rolled his eyes.
.
They don't do it this way often because it rips them both to shreds. But when the emptiness yawns through Harry, or the dust becomes darkness, coating everything, they'll do it then: Draco tied down with undyed jute like stinging nettles. Harry touching him. Barely touching him. It makes him furious, Harry's skimming, and sometimes he calls him names, sometimes he tells Harry he hates him, sometimes he repeats it, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, until the fury stops pretending it's not just fear. Draco bargains. Jewels, galleons, riches untold, if only Harry will let him come. Harry doesn't want jewels, galleons and riches untold. He doesn't want Draco's heart either—not then—but Draco always ends up offering it.
Draco pleads like he's pleading for his mother's life: dripping tears and snot, blind with terror. No, no, no. That's all Harry can say. No.
(Sometimes they have to stop here to just fall apart in each other's arms.) Nothing works. That's what Draco thinks. Nothing works. There's nothing I can do. Nothing, nothing, nothing, no fixing anything, no changing it either, nothing works. Wherever I go, they'll be laughing me through the gates.
His cock feels like his heart, and Harry won't touch it, and Draco's lost—he thinks don't you want me? You are part of me, why don't you want me? What are you doing to me? What have you done?
Harry puts on his hyena smile, and Draco shouts his soul into every corner of the room, knows it to be the sound of his love, Harry's sound, who tells him "come on, darling, come for me," and Draco babbles at Harry, begging for a kiss. Harry kisses him, and Draco comes like everything, absolutely everything matters.
In the moments that follow he comes back to himself all at once, as if passing through a veil, glad to be alive
