Perfect Storm

Disclaimer/Claimer: These are* not* my characters, they belong to JK Rowling. The lyrics belong to Brad Paisley. However, the scenario and storyline is 100% *mine*, and this writing belongs to me.

[This is a perfect instance of me hearing a song and instantly creating a scenario in my mind for a character of mine – technically JKR’s character, but you get it. Obviously, what I hear in this song is Harry talking about Draco. I did change the lyrics from feminine to masculine.]

“If he was a drink, he'd be single barrel bourbon on ice
Smooth with a kick, a chill and a burn all at the same time
He's Sunday drive meets high-speed chase
He ain't just a song, he's the whole mixtape
He's so complicated that's the way God made him
Sunshine mixed with a little hurricane
…
And he destroys me in that t-shirt
And I love him so much it hurts
I never meant to fall like this
But he don't just rain, he pours
That boy right there's the perfect storm
…
I know how to make him laugh or blush or mad at me
But that's OK, there ain't no one more beautiful angry
And he loves just as deep as he goes when he's down
The highs match the lows, can't have one without the other
And I love him just the way God made him
Sunshine mixed with a little hurricane”

- Perfect Storm (By: Brad Paisley)

Draco whirled around and glared at Harry, his eyes like smoke and slate. Energy crackled off him, and the brunet couldn’t help but rise to him, not letting him lash out in his fury. So he didn’t want sympathy – too bad. Harry couldn’t stop the fierce protectiveness that made his chest hurt and the respect that made his fingers tremble.

“It’s not pity, you stupid berk,” he whispered harshly, his voice hoarse. Lunging towards the blonde, he sunk his hands into that dandelion fluff hair and pulled him forward, kissing him. Straining against him, almost violent, Draco bit and pushed at him, trying to break free but giving as good as he got at the same time. His lips were chapped from the cold, but they were warm and familiar, and Harry laughed, deep in his chest where the heavy feeling of joy and sadness churned. He focused on turning every bite and nip into a nibble, softening the growling creature in his arms until he stroked Draco’s neck and hummed.

The proud man struggled, still not surrendering, but he slowed, listening when Harry whispered, “It’s not pity, Draco. How could I? I’ve never met someone as strong as you.”

He stood against the brunet’s hold another moment before gradually loosening his hold on his anger, gripping Harry’s shirt with one hand. His own button down shirt was rumpled, the collar sticking up on one side, hair still staticy with magic. He had dark smudges under his eyes, but now they were a soft pewter, looking at Harry from under thick, pale lashes.

“I’m not strong, Potter. I’m terrified,” he murmured, lips barely stumbling over the words. The whisky and tears hadn’t brought down his mask, so Harry would have to do it himself.

Thumbing Draco’s bottom lip, Harry smiled and rested his forehead on his lover’s, saying, “But you’re still here, Draco. Despite everything – all the bastards who tried to make you run, and even the fights we still have to win, you’re still here. You’ve been through hell, literally,” here he stopped and ran his other hand over the blonde’s side, feeling the raised skin of a crisscrossing scar on his ribs, “but you haven’t run away. That is strength.”

For a long time there was only the sounds of the rain as the drizzle started up again and their breathing in the room. Harry could hear a thundering pulse, but wasn’t sure whom it belonged to, so close were they to each other. He knew that Draco might not let him win so easily the next time he was feeling vulnerable, so he intended to enjoy the moment of minor success. Asking the Room for a bed, he edged them both over to it, pressing his partner down into the softness.

Instead of fighting, Draco relaxed like a cat afraid of getting wet – which is to say, not that much. Instead, his eyes darted away from Harry’s face, down to the – silk? – sheets, eyeing them like he thought they might grab hold of him.

So he doesn’t believe me, Harry mused, moving so they were lying next to each other in lieu of hovering over Draco like some kind of predator. The dark fabric looked like water across the blonde man’s skin, making his flesh look glass-like and blown like so much sugar into graceful shape. There were tiny white lines on his hands, and the young lord took one up, touching a deep mark that looked like a bit of coral. It was on the web of fat between thumb and forefinger, tendrils of scar reaching under the thumb. The shadowy Mark wavered under his fingertips when he let them drift down, and he glanced up at the ash eyes watching him.

Draco looked ready to bolt, but held himself still, his face frozen stiff and leaving only his eyes moving. They were so expressive. Though, to be honest, that was probably the alcohol instead of any degree of trust between them. It stung a little, but Harry could understand the need to protect oneself from being hurt. 

His hands got even gentler, bringing up the arm to kiss the Mark. This time the skin flinched under his lips, and Draco tried to jerk away. Holding him still, the brunet kissed it again, meeting his lover’s eyes and moving up his arm. He felt the bumps of other scars and kept going until Draco was shivering. Then he smirked where the blonde couldn’t see him and attacked.

Skittering his fingers across Draco’s ribs, he grinned in delight when the blonde arched off the bed, shrieking in indignation. Limbs flailing, he shouted, “Potter! No, stop! Harry-” choking, unwilling laughter was dragged from him, and he spasmed.

A foot hit Harry’s chin and he was knocked off the bed, laughing through his grimace as he sat up. Draco panted, scowling over the side of the bed at him, his face flushed and beautiful, dark eyes exasperated.

“That was rude,” he scowled, reclining back into the pillows and refusing to let Harry back up until he apologised.

Taking a pale foot in hand, he looked up to see a wand pointed at him, amused grey eyes watching carefully.

“Have a care, Potter,” Draco murmured, two spots of color still in his cheeks. His hair was mussed, and he seemed brighter, even if just a little. Of course he knew what Harry was trying to do, but he had apparently decided to allow it. Rather, he was leaving himself open to being persuaded.

Baby steps, Harry allowed, starting to rub the arch of the foot. One massage later the two of them were facing each other, lying on their sides on the bed. Harry bent at the waist, snuffling into the blonde’s abdomen and letting the air rush from him. Thin fingers carded through his hair, and he took in a warm breath, hissing in pleasure subconsciously. The scent of Draco filled him, and his arms tightened.

“Easy there, lover boy. Unless ya want an asphyxiated boyfriend over here,” the teen grunted, but didn’t move to unwind them. His leg moved until his calf was between Harry’s legs, and he loved the warmth. The bespectacled brunet had heat like a furnace pouring out of him, and the Head Boy just wanted to soak it in like a snake in the sun.

It had taken him a long time to admit, even to himself, that he fancied the Boy Who Lived, Wonder Boy, Harry bloody Potter. He was still more comfortable calling him Potter, but when it was just the two of them he often slipped up and called him by his Christian name, which he knew gave the stupid berk a bloated, fat head. He was always asking Draco to use it all the time, and refused to call him ‘Malfoy’ in public.

Don’t get him wrong, Draco resented being pushed into something he wasn’t totally comfortable with, but at the same time, he couldn’t really dislike the way Potter doted on him. He also might have loved the way it felt to hear him say his first name, though that would never cross his lips upon pain of death. Truthfully he knew it was a weakness of his that he couldn’t trust himself enough for the kind of closeness Harry was asking for, but he was trying.

The whisky was making his head thick and hot, but he’d been sloshed worse than this every day at the Manor over break, so he had some experience with seeing a slight blur around things. Rather, he didn’t enjoy the wandering thoughts. After a dry spell it was always worse, and it was just reiterated by the nausea and rubber taste to his tongue. 

Still, the collection of hard liquor he had in his room would have put a pub to shame, and the Jack Daniels in his sock drawer probably spoke of an unhealthy need, but he hadn’t dipped into drink for weeks. It had just been a bad day, and he appreciated more than words - specifically words from his proud mouth - could say that Harry didn’t call him out on getting pissed.

It actually made a very silly part of him warm when the Boy Who Never Drank took a glass to make him less like a lush and more human. Sure Potter had had one or two benders, but he wasn’t like the rest of their age group, all of whom all took any opportunity to get legless drunk. Mind drifting from serious topics, he luxuriated in the smell of cinnamon and coffee that Potter gave off along with his marvelous heat. In contrast, Wonder Boy’s hair was soft and cold, and he pressed his heated face into it, digging his chin in when Harry laughed against his stomach.

“Tha’ tickles, ya twat.”

Smiling, Harry nosed into the button down shirt and blew on his lover’s midriff, accepting the knee to the hip as payment when the skin wriggled and jumped against him.

“I’m warnin’ ya’, Potter.”

“Alright, alright, yeh delicate flower,” Harry chuckled, enjoying the hard pulls that Draco made with his hair. He loved provoking the blonde, but he loved the silly feeling of a snitch in his chest even more, as a wiry arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close.

“Sleep already.”

Giving in, Harry tucked an elbow under his head and wrapped his other arm around the Slytherin’s hips. It felt like a vaguely familiar position, but he didn’t remember ever sleeping like this before.  

Strange.