Fic: Two To A Tent

Title: Two To A Tent
Author: mayberry_rose 
Gift Fic For: jtsbbsps_dk 
Prompt #9: In summary, the lovely – though anonymous – prompter asked for it, and here it is. It is 8th year at Hogwarts. There’s an explosion, and a lot of denial. Nightmares and forced friendships abound, and Ron is not a git all the time. With handholding, House Unity, an unexplained smell and a tent, what more could you ask for?!
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy (with a side of Hermione/Ron)
Rating: R
Summary: The War is over, and Harry has learned a lot – camping is awful, nightmares are worse, and Malfoy is a git.
Warnings: Copious amounts of fluff, a little swearing, masturbation and a tiny bit of boy-love.
Disclaimer: Surprisingly enough, I do not own Harry Potter. All mistakes are mine alone.
Word Count: 7,594
Notes: I’m new to LJ, and this is my first fest – it was such a fun fic to write! Thanks go to the awesome dysonrules for the beta *huggles*


The spell sails through the night air in a silver arc; the explosion is tremendous.

The very foundations of the castle rock. In the darkness, Harry jerks awake.

There is a moment of limbo – of perfect, suspended silence. Then Neville snores, and someone downstairs screams, and all bloody hell breaks loose.

---
The Great Hall is full of students and professors, confusedly milling back and forth, when Harry arrives. He’s spent the last hour outside, in the chill night air, attempting to set trackers on the idiots who threw an Implosion Hex at the East Wing of Hogwarts’ third floor.

McGonagall, crazy old bat that she is, stands up in front of the student body. She seems to have inherited that old twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye as she surveys her young charges. She smiles.

“Students, Professors, Ghosts, your attention please. As you all are well aware, an attack has been perpetrated upon Hogwarts tonight. I can inform you that this has most likely been carried out by dissident Death Eaters –“

The noise in the Hall swells, rising on a wave of frightened chatter and conjecture. Harry shivers, transported back to the War by the fear in the air.

Then McGonagall’s voice, amplified by a Sonorous Charm, booms through the Hall. “Silence!” she demands, and a hush falls at once. “However,” she continues determinedly, “minimal damage has been caused, and the grounds of the school have been secured. I would ask the Prefects to lead the students from their houses back to the common rooms, and the 8th year students to wait behind. Thank you.”

The eighth years wait, talking amongst themselves, as the younger students leave the hall. Harry glances around his classmates, seeing – as always - only the missing faces. He feels suddenly very old.

McGonagall surveys the group, this strange mix of adults that she can barely recognise as the children they were when first she taught them. She sighs.

“Well, students...” she begins, “...I’m afraid that, as most of you know, the blast destroyed the rooms in which you have been staying. For the duration of the time it will take to repair the damage, you will have to be housed elsewhere. As you all know, we are still short on space as we restore the damaged parts of the castle. So, I’m afraid the only place we have to house you is the antechamber off the Great Hall.”

The eighth year students glance at each other in silent dismay, but follow McGonagall through the door. The stone room is of modest size, with a few small windows on the left side, and filled with... Tents.

“I’m sure you are familiar with the concept of magical camping, which we shall be using to maximise space. You shall be sharing, two to a tent.” McGonagall smiles at her young charges as, suddenly and unerringly eight years old instead of eighteen, they inch towards their friends. Her eyes twinkle.

“However, in the spirit of Inter-House Unity, you will be sharing the tents in mixed-house pairs.”

The eighth years stare at her in horror and Harry swears he sees her smile. McGonagall is definitely enjoying this.

“I have taken the liberty,” she says smoothly, cutting off the beginnings of their protests, “of assigning these pairs. Miss Granger, you shall share with Miss Parkinson; Mr Nott with Mr Weasley; Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter...”

Bugger.

Harry gapes at his Headmistress, registering Malfoy’s quiet howl of protest. He barely hears the rest of the allocated pairs, picturing as he is another stay in a bloody tent. But this time – this time, with Draco sodding Malfoy. Wonderful.

---

As it turns out, Harry isn’t the first one to notice. He’s busy complaining voraciously to Ron about their partners when Zabini backs out of the tent he is supposed to share with Neville, looking mutinous.

“There’s only one bloody bed!” he announces to the room at large. All the students freeze, aghast, and then hurry as one to their own assigned tents. Sure enough, Harry – after a brief tussle with Malfoy to see who goes inside first – stands frozen in the doorway of the tent, staring in disbelief at the one and only bed. It’s big enough – the room is magically enlarged, with a small desk on the left side of the bed, a wardrobe on the right and another flap at the back that presumably leads to a bathroom – but Merlin. Harry feels a surge of horror at the idea of sharing a bed with Draco Malfoy.

“Right,” says Malfoy with steely determination, “I’m not putting up with this.” Harry takes a few judicious steps sideways as the boy behind him pulls out his wand, aiming at the bed and muttering a Severing Charm. They wait.

Absolutely nothing happens.

Scowling, Malfoy tries again with another charm, then again, and again... Harry sniggers, and Malfoy turns on him with his wand raised. “What’s so funny, Potter?” he snaps. “Can you cut it apart?”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Harry tries. He finds that every one of his spells is absorbed.

“Very clever, aren’t you, Potter?” Malfoy says smugly. Harry scowls.

”Didn’t see you do any better, Malfoy,” he retorts, turning on his heel to leave the tent. Then he distinctly hears Malfoy mutter the words, “No wonder, Four-Eyes.”

“What was that, Malfoy?” he asks, low and dangerous, and Malfoy smirks in a way that can only mean trouble.

“Nothing at all, Speccy,” Malfoy retorts sweetly, and Harry scowls, his fingers itching to go for his wand. Taking a deep breath, he resolves to take the moral high ground. He turns again to leave, taking the high ground, taking the high ground...

---

As it happens, Zabini wins ten Sickles off Neville for betting that Harry would throw the first punch. Neville wins five of them back betting on how long it would take McGonagall to intervene, because sure enough it can’t be more than five minutes after Harry and Draco tumble out of their tent in a whirl of kicking and scratching and snarled expressions of loathing that she returns, furious.

She strides up to where the boys are still fighting – with Harry landing an impressive left hook on Malfoy’s jaw – and whips out her wand. Suddenly, a spell keeps the two apart.

“Mr Potter, and Mr Malfoy...” McGonagall booms, “...kindly control yourselves.” She turns away for a moment, dismissing the watching crowd. Then Harry feels the shiver of magic as McGonagall steps closer and he knows that her next words are for him and Malfoy alone.

“The pair of you,” she says, “are almost grown men.” Her voice is angry, but – worse – also disappointed. “You have fought in a war – largely on the same side, may I add – and you have had to see and do things that most of your peers cannot imagine.” For a moment, there is a glimmer of understanding in her eyes.

It disappears quickly with the words, “And yet here you are, setting an appalling example to your own peers and to the younger students by persisting with an idiotic schoolboy rivalry. Now, I am going to release you, and you are going to shake hands and apologise like reasonable adults. Are we agreed?”

Harry nods sullenly and watches Malfoy do the same. At once his limbs are free to move. He stares at Malfoy, only steps away.

“Sorry, Potter,” the boy mutters resentfully. Harry returns an equally reluctant, “Sorry, Malfoy.”

But then Malfoy looks up at him through his fringe and reaches out his hand. Harry is suddenly, starkly reminded of the same hand being presented to him at the age of eleven, and wonders for a moment what would have happened had he taken it. Almost smiling, he does so now; Malfoy’s palm is cool against his hand and when the handshake is over he stands still and catches Harry’s eye, with Harry’s hand still clasped in his own.

---

Malfoy, the infuriating git that he is, is taking up pretty much all the space in the bed.

They haven’t talked much since their reluctant truce, but Harry knows that McGonagall is perfectly capable of inflicting some serious consequences if they don’t try to get along. Her punishments are nothing like Dumbledore’s; he finds himself almost missing those lemon drops.

Malfoy snuffles a little in his sleep and Harry scowls. There’s nothing much to hate about Malfoy, now; he fought for the Light during the War and even Harry has to admit to a grudging respect for his intellect. The fact that Malfoy never took the Dark Mark, and that he was publically cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot in the first, mad rush of trials after the War, mean that almost everyone seems to have forgiven him his crimes.

Still, just because he has to get along with Malfoy now doesn’t mean he has to like him, and it doesn’t mean he has to wake Malfoy up to ask him to move. The fact that Malfoy is asleep with his lips parted and bruised-looking, exhausted circles under his eyes has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Worn out by his thus-far-interrupted night’s sleep, Harry curls up in the bed as far away from Malfoy as possible. He doesn’t sleep for a long time.

---

Harry jerks awake. Sobbing breaths tear at his throat as he struggles to sit up, feeling blindly for his glasses. The chill night air breaks in waves over his overheated skin; he shivers.

“Potter?”

Malfoy’s voice is tentative, almost concerned. He is suddenly kneeling beside Harry, all mussed blond hair and bare chest, and resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asks and Harry is almost too shaken to respond. He manages to nod, but Malfoy’s face is disbelieving. He moves his hand around to the back of Harry’s neck and the cool palm feels so good against his fevered skin that his head spins all over again.

A brief wave of nausea washes over him and the next thing he knows Malfoy’s hand has moved again. Disorientated, he wonders at this new, helpful Malfoy. Malfoy’s hand skims over his cheek and then it’s resting on his forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, Potter,” he hears, Malfoy’s tone stern on top but tight with concern below.

“M’fine,” he mumbles, mostly in the interest of placating Malfoy, but also because Malfoy’s other hand – and how many bloody hands does Malfoy seem to have? – is rubbing slow circles on his back, beside his right shoulder. And it helps.

“Like hell you are,” Malfoy says flatly. He moves away for a moment. Silent and shaken, Harry mourns the loss of the warm body beside him – and the warm hand on his back – until he returns, pressing a cool glass of water into Harry’s hand, and orders him to drink.

It helps a lot. At first Malfoy has to hold the bottom of the glass to steady it in Harry’s shaking hands, but after a few deep gulps he finds himself almost able to breathe properly again.

“Okay?” Malfoy asks tentatively, as he takes the glass from Harry.

“Better, thanks,” Harry says quietly. There’s a moment of awkwardness. Malfoy’s hand, rubbing circles on his back, stills. “Do you – do you want to go back to sleep?” he asks, and Harry nods. Malfoy shuffles over to the other side of the bed, pauses for a moment, and lies down.

Harry does the same. The seconds stretch into long minutes in the darkness as he stares up at the tent roof.

“Malfoy?” he whispers, and Malfoy turns to look at him. “Thanks.”

The boy half-smiles. “Welcome,” he whispers back and turns away to face the wall. There is a pause, the seconds marked by the ticking of Harry’s watch lying on the bedside table.

“Potter?” he hears, murmured into the darkness. “Does this happen often?”

“Em, yeah,” he replies, awkward, feeling himself start to blush. He knows it doesn’t make sense, but talking about the nightmares still makes him feel weak and embarrassed.

“How much-?” Malfoy starts. “I mean how -?”

“Every night,” Harry says quietly, anticipating the question, and Malfoy whistles under his breath.

“Merlin,” he whispers. He sounds taken aback. “Have you tried – potions, or spells and stuff?”

Harry nods, then realises that Malfoy can’t see him. “A few basics,” he answers, “but nothing helped, so I kind of stopped trying.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, softly. “Alright.” There is silence again in the tent. Harry can hear Malfoy breathing.

“Night, Potter,” he hears. He smiles.

“Night, Malfoy.”

---

The nightmares come again the next night, and the next. Each time Malfoy wakes him up before anything too frightening happens – he starts to wonder if Malfoy ever sleeps. When he asks, Malfoy smirks.

“I’m a light sleeper,” he whispers, and hands Harry a glass of water. Harry drinks in silence and smiles at Malfoy, and then they both go back to sleep.

Oddly, their silence in the night disappears during the day. Harry starts actually talking to Malfoy.

At first they stick to safe topics, like school and subjects and professors. Then they start branching out to talk about other things, and he finds that Malfoy isn’t that much of a git after all – he’s almost as clever as Hermione and somehow manages to be funny to talk to as well.

The second morning, Malfoy is sprawled on the bed finishing his homework while Harry frantically searches the room for his Charms textbook.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, apropos of nothing, “how much money would you put on the Cannons winning the Winter League?”

Harry turns round and looks at Malfoy, really looks at him. Then he starts to laugh until tears come to his eyes. Malfoy stares at him in bemusement and then starts sniggering a little as well.

“What’s wrong, Potter?” he asks at last, and Harry slowly brings his own laughter under control. “About ten Knuts,” he says.

When Malfoy sniggers, he feels the same rush of confusing, amusing affection for the boy that made him laugh in the first place.

“C’mon,” he says, offering a hand to pull Malfoy to his feet. “Ron will never let me live it down if we’re ten feet away from the Great Hall and we’re still late for breakfast.”

---

That afternoon, Harry is in a better mood than he has been for a long time. He may be living in a tent, but life is good. An owl arrived that morning with a letter from Bill and Fleur, who seem to be doing well. He managed not to fail his Charms test. Malfoy walked past him in the halls earlier, surrounded by a crowd of Slytherins. He winked at him and pulled a hideous face behind Pansy’s back, which for reasons Harry still can’t quite explain he found hilarious. And he has hardly any homework tonight. Yes, life is good.

Harry grins, stretching lazily back on the bed. He catches another whiff of that smell, that dusky, oaky scent that he keeps smelling lately – ever since he moved into the tent, actually. It makes him smile.

“Catch, Potter!” Draco yells, appearing through the tent flap and throwing a vial towards him. Harry watches its smooth arc then reaches out to catch it at the last second before it disappears over the side of the bed.

“What is it?” he asks casually, examining the unmarked bottle and the purple liquid swirling about inside. Malfoy doesn’t answer at once, shrugging off his robes, and if Harry didn’t know better he’d say he was blushing.

“What does it look like, Potter?” he replies, a little sharply. “Honestly, didn’t you learn anything about Potions in your first seven years of school?”

Harry grins and shakes his head, watching Draco roll his eyes.

“It’s a Dreamless Sleep Draught,” he says simply. “You idiot.”

Harry’s gaze snaps back from the vial to Draco’s face, stunned. “But, aren’t these really rare? How’d you get it?”

“Never you mind, Potter,” Draco retorts smartly, and then falters. “I – I thought it might help.”

Harry smiles, touched, and impulsively stands up to throw his arms around Draco’s waist in a brief hug.

“Thanks,” he whispers with his head turned into Draco’s neck. He pulls back a little, embarrassed, when he realises that he’s hugging Draco Malfoy, but Draco doesn’t seem too offended. In fact, he’s smiling at him, looking a little dazed. Harry has never seen Draco smile like that before.

The flap of their tent swishes open and Neville pokes his head through, looking worried.

“Guys,” he asks, seemingly oblivious to their proximity and the blush now definitely staining Draco’s cheeks, “Have you seen Trevor? I left him in my tent and he’s gone again, and I’m really worried that Crookshanks is going to eat him.”

“Em... No, Nev,” Harry replies, unable to tear his eyes away from the curve of Draco’s lips and the movement of his throat as he swallows. “Haven’t seen him.”

And then Draco seems to shake himself and his gaze focuses in on Harry and the wretched expression on Neville’s face. If possible, he’s blushing all the more as he reaches for his robes, tugging them on as he says, “No, but I’ll help you find him if you like.”

“Thanks, Draco,” Neville says, smiling sincerely, and Harry feels a pang of guilt and goes to help as well.

---

The next afternoon, in the library, Harry is frantically trying to finish an essay he completely forgot he had to do. Busy musing on how good he feels after a full night’s sleep (the Dreamless Sleep Draught is everything it promises to be), Harry manages to swallow part of the feather on his quill. He coughs, guiltily recalling Hermione’s lectures about not chewing the end of it... and almost jumps out of his skin when a strong hand pats him on the back.

“You know, there is food in the kitchens, Potter,” a voice says, deadpan, and Harry smiles through the coughing fit. Malfoy. Uninvited, the boy sits down beside him at his usual essay-I-haven’t-started-due-tomorrow table at the back of the library, and picks up the pages in front of Harry.

“Actually,” he says a few moments later, “The Kappa is indigenous to Japan.” Harry whips round, staring in horror at Malfoy and the essay he has almost finished on kappa habitats in Peru. “You’re kidding,” he breathes, and Malfoy shakes his head solemnly.

“Sorry, Potter,” he answers. “It’s true.” Harry keeps staring at Malfoy, horrified... And then he sees the corner of the boy’s lip turn up. His eyes widen.

“You lying git,” he yells, and Malfoy bursts out laughing. “Oh, Potter,” he gasps, “Your face...” For reasons Harry doesn’t understand, the sight of Draco Malfoy laughing – with his flushed face and shining eyes, and his white-blond hair dishevelled – makes him laugh as well. It takes them at least five minutes to pull themselves together and then Harry catches Draco’s eye and they start sniggering all over again. The librarian is giving them a disapproving glare and that only makes it worse.

“Oh, Merlin,” he hears Draco choke out through the laughter, “Granger approaching.” He glances up and, sure enough, Hermione is walking over to their table.

“Hi, Harry, Malfoy,” she says politely enough, sitting down across from them. “What brings you to the library?”

Harry pulls a face. “Em... That Kappa essay,” he mumbles, hoping to avoid a lecture about the fact that he should have had it finished weeks ago... And, thank Merlin to Draco and his decision to start talking to Hermione about Arithmancy, he does.

Harry plucks his essay out of Draco’s grip and gets back to work on his last paragraph, pretty much ignoring Hermione and Draco’s light argument about some theory he’s never heard of... Until, that is, he hears Hermione laugh lightly and say to Draco, “So, you and Harry seem to be spending a lot of time together. What happened, are you friends now?”

Harry panics. “Not really,” he says, interrupting Draco. “I mean, we have to share a tent, that doesn’t mean we’re the best of mates.”

He glances over at Draco for support, noting with surprise that his eyes are wide and his lips are pressed together in a tight line. If Harry didn’t know better, he would say he looked almost... hurt. But the expression changes quickly, replaced by a sneer that Harry realises he hasn’t seen on Draco for a while.

“Hardly, Granger,” Draco says smoothly, his voice hard and cold. “I wouldn’t be friends with Potter if we were the only two people on earth.” Then he stands quickly, shrugging his bag on to his shoulder. Harry is left gaping as Draco stiffly bids Hermione goodbye, ignoring Harry entirely, and storms out of the library.

“For God’s sake, Harry!” Hermione snaps. “You’re such an idiot.” Then she stands up as well, gathers up her books, and leaves.

Harry is left alone, staring at the scratched wooden surface of the desk. Merlin, he thinks, what was wrong with them? He thought Hermione hated Malfoy, he thought she’d be angry if he admitted that they are, he supposes, kind of friends now. He thought Malfoy would understand that and back him up, not get snappy and storm out, as if – Oh, Merlin. As if Harry had really hurt his feelings.

He thinks he might have made a huge mistake.

---

Harry scowls, fiddling with his half-nibbled quill. It’s his least favourite time of the week – double Potions, last thing on a Friday afternoon. And, to make matters worse, he sits beside Malfoy, who has spent the last few days ignoring him almost entirely. It’s somehow worse than before they were ever friendly, because at least then they bickered and fought and he always knew just how to get Malfoy’s attention; now, Malfoy leaves the tent before Harry wakes up in the mornings, and isn’t usually there when Harry goes to bed. He won’t listen when Harry tries to speak to him, in class and at meals, to tell him he’s sorry and he didn’t mean it and he wants Malfoy to talk to him again. Part of him thinks that Malfoy is being such a git that he might be better not talking to him at all.

But – confusingly – Malfoy keeps leaving the vials of Dreamless Sleep on Harry’s side of the bed, and when Harry wakes up in the middle of the night Malfoy is fast asleep beside him, stubbornly not touching him but close enough that Harry doesn’t feel... Alone. He tries to ask Hermione about it, but she just tells him (quite sharply, in fact) that there are some things he needs to figure out for himself.

---

Suddenly, Harry straightens, shocked. It’s that smell again, that dusty, oaky, oddly familiar scent. He breathes in a lungful, and another, almost smiling as his head spins.

Suddenly, his smile freezes – with horror, he notes that familiar heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. Harry forces down a blush, trying to shuffle his stool away from the smell.

Experimentally, he moves closer to Malfoy. Mistake. It hits him stronger than ever and Harry is pretty sure that all the blood in his body is relocating to places that he shouldn’t even be thinking about in Potions class. He shifts uncomfortably, trying to relieve a bit of pressure or maybe move himself away from that smell, maybe leaning this way could...

“Potter,” Malfoy hisses. “Stop fidgeting.” At least Malfoy is speaking to him, but Harry is almost definitely blushing now, and for some reason he thinks the sound of Malfoy’s voice just made his trousers a little tighter – but, he reassures himself, that’s ridiculous. It’s Malfoy, after all, the pointy git, and what with the shared living arrangements lately Harry hasn’t had a lot of ‘alone time’. It’s only to be expected.

Merlin, though, he keeps catching snatches of that smell. He never thought a scent could be arousing – never thought about it before, one way or the other – but every time he smells it things get worse and worse until he finds himself wriggling uncomfortably on his stool, biting at his lip to keep from making noise. In an attempt to distract himself he rests a hand on the desk, tapping away with the tips of his fingers until...

Malfoy’s fingers close around his wrist, dragging his hand off the desk into the space between them. Harry panics, about to snatch his wrist back... And then realises that it would require pulling his hand, and therefore Malfoy’s hand, dangerously close to his crotch. School robes aren’t exactly form-fitting, and he’s very deliberately sitting forward so that his lap is out of sight under the heavy wooden desk, but Harry doesn’t exactly want to draw attention to the fact that he is sitting in Potions class with a hard-on and Draco sodding Malfoy practically holding his bloody hand.

“Malfoy,” he mutters instead, with deceptive calm, “get your hand off me or I will cut it off.”

Malfoy glares at him, grey eyes flashing silver. “I warned you, Potter,” he snaps quietly, “but you kept fidgeting, and you kept distracting me, and now you can bloody well deal with the consequences.” Harry scowls viscously and turns back to face the front, achingly tense and frustrated. He glares at the table for a moment, forcing himself to breathe normally.

Unfairly, Malfoy’s restraining hand isn’t doing anything to calm him down. In fact, he thinks as the slim, pale fingers shift and brush against his wrist, it could almost be making it worse – but no, that’s ridiculous. Ridiculous.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s mouth is beside his ear, and Harry almost jumps out of his skin. “Are you going to sit still now, Potter?” he whispers, and his hot breath traces the shell of Harry’s ear. His cock twitches. Definitely blushing now, he hisses a “Yes” to Malfoy and snatches his hand back, moving as far away as he can without attracting attention.

Harry barely manages to sit through the final five minutes of Potions. When the lesson ends he stands at once, thanking the Gods for whoever thought to make school robes so loose and flowing (and paying lesser homage to those Gods which had decided to have Malfoy go to the library with Blaise after class, and make the plans in front of Harry). He decides that either a cold shower or a good few minutes of alone time is very, very definitely in order.

---

The tent is empty when Harry gets back, having ruled out the toilets or the Prefects' bathroom as not nearly private enough. He shrugs off his robes, tossing them on the chair, and sits down on his side of the bed. Merlin. His hard-on from Potions has diminished only the tiniest bit, and his breath is coming in rough pants. Trust bloody Malfoy to get me this worked up, he thinks, and then pretends he didn’t think it (because even if he was getting worked up – which he’s not - it’s got nothing to do with Malfoy. He’s a teenage boy, for Merlin’s sake, and this stuff happens to everyone).

A little awkwardly, Harry toes off his shoes and slips off his glasses, lying back on the bed. He should imagine someone, he thinks, just to help himself along – and besides, there is a niggling little voice in his head telling him that he is getting all kinds of worked up, and it has everything to do with Malfoy. And if he gets off thinking about girls, then doesn’t it just prove the voice wrong?

Deciding on Ginny, picturing her vibrant red hair and slim, tanned fingers, Harry sighs a little as he runs his fingers up and down the insides of his thighs. He shifts, surprised, when he finds that he’s actually too close for that already. He palms his cock through his trousers with a soft moan, and rests there for a moment, enjoying the friction.

A couple of soft rubs later he can feel a damp patch seeping through his boxers and wastes no time undoing the button of his trousers and sliding down the zip, but somehow – in his mind’s eye – the hands that wriggle his trousers and boxers down his hips become paler and more solid. When he moves his head (eyes still shut) the figure that is bent over him has short, white-blond hair.

He tries to stop at that point, even turns his head to the side to get rid of the images, but when he breathes in it’s that smell again, and it goes straight to his cock. He finds that, almost of its own volition, his right hand is wrapped around himself, gripping far too hard to even pretend it’s Ginny. It slips up and down, stroking firmly, making him gasp, and if he didn’t know better he’d say there was a name mixed with that gasp, a name like –

“Potter?!”

Potter? No, he meant to say – he meant to say - Oh, Merlin. Harry forces open his eyes, one hand firmly gripping the base of his cock, and meets those of Draco Malfoy. The other boy looks shocked, his pale mouth open in a perfect ‘o’. It takes a moment for him to gather his thoughts, to collect himself, to calm enough to choke out,

“What the bloody hell – what are you doing, Potter?!”

Harry starts searching for an answer, but realises – to his horror – that Draco’s shocked presence hasn’t changed anything. He was about to come, and – oh, Merlin – his breathing is laboured, and the muscles in his stomach and thighs are twitching, and Draco’s gaze is firmly fixed on his flushed, aching, leaking cock and he is still about to come, whether Draco is standing there as a witness or not.

“Get out, Malfoy,” he manages, his voice rough and lower than he’s ever heard it, but Draco stays, staring. Oh, God. Harry can’t even pretend that some part of him isn’t getting off on the attention, and his balls are starting to tighten and the weight of Draco’s gaze – still fixed between his legs - might well be all it takes.

“Draco!” he snaps, one last attempt, practically yelling. “Get out! Right now!” Draco startles, his eyes flicking up to meet Harry’s for a moment more before he turns and stumbles out of the tent.

Harry stays frozen, panting, for barely a few seconds before the haze descends and he starts stroking himself, firmly and almost desperately, tracing his fingers over the head and spreading the clear fluid along the length. It’s warm and slick and wet, and his balls are heavy and swollen and when he turns his head again, into what – oh, Merlin, oh, Merlin – is Draco’s bloody pillow, one breath of that smell is all it takes. Harry comes so hard he’s afraid he’ll black out, arching against the shivers of pleasures dancing down his spine and just about everywhere else as well. He sinks back into the mattress, shaking.

---

Dazedly anxious, Harry only rests for a moment before he fastens up his trousers again, sitting up unsteadily to look for his wand – and not a moment too soon. Draco storms back into the tent, looking flushed and angry. “Where the hell do you get off?” he snaps, and Harry has to fight down an entirely inappropriate urge to say, ‘On your bed. Clearly’.

A moment later he’s glad he didn’t, because Draco looks furious enough. “We have to share this bloody tent, and I should not have to walk in on things like this just because you’re an idiotic pervert who doesn’t know how to use a Locking Charm!”

The pervert comment stings a bit and Harry scowls. “You can’t use a Locking Charm on a tent, you stupid git. And don’t pretend you don’t do it too.”

“Don’t do what?!” Draco practically yells. Harry finds himself blushing.

“You know,” he says, moving his hand up and down suggestively, and Draco gives a low howl of outrage.

“You,” he snaps, “are absolutely disgusting. If you must, go shag the ginger bint, but don’t you dare lie there and fanaticise about her on our bloody bed! You’re an inconsiderate, arrogant twat, and -”

“Well,” Harry yells back, “at least I’m not a stuck up prick who has no need to wank because no one would ever want to shag him!”

He knows instantly that he’s gone too far.

Draco’s face abruptly changes. He turns on his heel and walks out of the tent, pausing in the doorway. “Here’s your fucking potion,” he says quietly, taking another vial of Dreamless Sleep out of his pocket and throwing it on the bed so hard it bounces. “And you’ve got come on your jumper.”

Harry is left sitting on the bed with the vial beside him and the sinking knowledge that Draco was probably – almost definitely – right. And not just about the jumper.

---

Draco starts awake and immediately closes his eyes again. He thinks his retinas might be scorched, and it takes a good ten seconds before he dares crack open one eye to squint at the mass of ginger before him.

“Merlin, Malfoy, get the hell up,” the ginger blob hisses. “Harry needs you.”

Those words push through his confusion and he sits up, dazed. “What’s wrong with Potter?” he whispers, and Weasley (for Weasley it is, the scary ginger git) grabs Draco by the elbow and practically hauls him out of bed. As they stumble out of the tent (Fight with Potter, went to Pansy’s tent, Draco thinks, waking up a little), Weasley answers him with one word: “Nightmares.” Panic tightens around Draco’s chest. He walks faster.

---

Draco has seen Potter angry in his dreams, and he has seen him lost and he has seen him afraid, but he finds himself unprepared for this. He crawls tentatively onto the bed where Potter is tossing and turning, lost in nightmares, with the blankets twisted around his legs.

Potter is inconsolable. He sobs as Draco pulls him closer, clinging to Draco in his sleep, his skin warm and clammy. Draco fights down the panic spiralling in his chest and cradles Potter’s head in the curve of his shoulder, moving a hand down to rub the usual circles on Potter’s back. He even catches himself whispering in Potter’s ear and moving his hand away from the back-rub for a moment to smooth the sweaty hair from Potter’s forehead.

Potter starts awake. “Draco,” he whispers, eyes wide and cheeks tear-stained. “Draco.”

Draco hugs Potter tighter, unexpectedly rattled at the use of his first name. “Yes, Potter,” he whispers, “I’m here.”

“You were dead,” he hears, gasped against his chest, and he freezes.

“What?” he asks, uncertain, and Potter pulls back to look at him.

“You were dead. Voldemort killed Ron and Hermione and Ginny b-but he killed you last, and we’d had a fight -” Draco hushes him, but Potter ploughs on, “ - and I said stupid things and they didn’t even make sense and I n-never told you I was sorry, and - and he killed you.”

“It’s alright, Harry,” Draco whispers, still stroking his back. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry buries his face in Draco’s neck, and Draco waits with patience he didn’t know he possessed until the shuddery sobs fade into infrequent, hiccupping cries. Harry is relaxed against him, more than half asleep on his shoulder.

His attention is suddenly diverted to Weasley and Granger – he’d forgotten them and, thinking back, doesn’t even know if they’ve been present in the tent. They seem to be arguing, gesturing towards him and Harry, but when Weasley catches his eye he stops and walks towards him. Granger storms out of the tent.

“Malfoy,” he whispers shortly, “Hermione wants to take Harry to the hospital wing or something, but I said you’re the best thing for him. So you’d better bloody look after him.” He looks longingly after Hermione. “And I’m not going to get laid for a week because of this, so you’d better be bloody grateful.”

Draco nods, somehow touched, and whispers, “I am. Thank you.”

Weasley turns to leave, and then turns back, frowning. “Also, Harry is my best friend,” he states, “and if you break his heart I will break both your legs.”

Draco gapes at him. “Em... You do know we’re not, you know, shagging or anything? Merlin, we’ve fought constantly for years; we’re barely even friends,” he admits, and when he sees the soft look on Weasley’s face he feels compelled, after checking that Potter is asleep, to whisper, “I really don’t think he likes me.”

Weasley’s expression softens further and he actually smiles at Draco. “Look at him, Malfoy. Harry obviously likes you. Bloody hell, you could shag him now and he wouldn’t object.”

Draco looks up at Weasley sharply, appalled. “Oh, great plan,” he snaps. “Take advantage of him when he’s feeling like shit. Thanks for the advice.”

He shifts uncomfortably when he feels Weasley look at him – really look at him – and then smile. “You know, maybe you’re not so bad. For a Ferret-faced git.”

For some reason Draco smiles back, and feels somehow lighter. “Same to you,” he answers. “You know, for an inbred carrot.”

“Look after him, Malfoy,” Weasley whispers, turning to leave. “I mean it.”

Draco is left holding Potter, still stroking his back. He finds himself watching Weasley retreat, feeling strangely like he just passed some sort of test, and wondering if the Weasel isn’t an awful lot cleverer than he ever gave him credit for.

---

In the morning, Draco starts blearily awake, first noticing the warm body in his arms and then the warm arms wrapped around his own waist. The light from the outside, shining through the window, is painting sunrise colours on the tent wall. He smiles.

Then he panics. The memories of yesterday and walking in on Potter, of fights and nightmares and intelligent Weasleys, all return in a rush and make him slightly dizzy.

Merlin.

Draco thinks he might fancy Harry Potter.

With this realisation comes a whole new level of panic. He can’t fancy Potter; he’s not gay, and Potter is the bloody poster boy for the Light while he’s a kind-of ex-Death Eater, and Potter’s not gay, and - and Potter’s a git.

Then, Potter stirs. He leans forward, nuzzling his head against the curve of Draco’s neck like the world’s weirdest kitten, then leans back again. He shakes his head a little, opens deep green eyes and smiles sleepily at Draco – and suddenly it doesn’t matter how many problems there are with fancying Potter, Draco is doing it anyway.

“I’m dreaming again,” Potter whispers unexpectedly. “Right?”

Draco stares at him blankly. “Er, no,” he whispers back. “All real.”

Potter stares at him, and Draco takes a deep breath. “Do you remember last night?” he tries. “You had another nightmare...”

Potter’s eyes widen. “Oh, Merlin,” he whispers, and Draco is a little concerned now.

“Did you take the Dreamless Sleep?” he asks, and Potter nods immediately.

“But the Battle was three months ago last night, so...” He trails off, looking unhappy and – Draco feels a rush of guilty elation at recognising it – a little nervous underneath.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” Potter whispers, meeting his eyes. “It was stupid. I mean, it didn’t even make sense, I just – I didn’t mean it.”

Draco smiles, lightheaded. “That’s okay,” he whispers. “Why are we whispering?”

Potter laughs, tipping his head back, and his hair is wild and dark and the sunlight warms his skin. And suddenly it seems the most natural thing in the world for Draco to lean into his childhood enemy and cup his chin in his hand, and kiss him. And so he does.

---

Harry is kissing Draco Malfoy. Harry is kissing Draco Malfoy. Harry is – Harry is bloody panicking.

Draco is holding onto his chin and pressing their lips together, and when Harry gasps in understandable surprise Draco licks at his bottom lip and then slips his tongue inside his mouth.

And that is wrong on so many levels, and fantasising about someone accidentally is one thing but kissing them is quite another, and then Draco pulls back with swollen lips to tuck a strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear, and Harry realises something that sends him reeling. He thinks he might fancy Draco Malfoy.

Harry freezes for a moment, panicking. Merlin, he can’t fancy Draco; he isn’t gay, and most of the Weasleys still expect him to marry Ginny, and Draco isn’t gay, and – and Draco is a git.

“Okay?” Draco whispers, looking genuinely concerned, and when Harry nods dazedly he leans in to kiss Harry again. And yes, it’s still wrong, but Draco’s tongue is exploring his entire mouth now and tangling with his own and stroking a spot on his tongue, and it feels a million times better than amazing. And he thinks he might fancy Draco after all.

Then Draco is pulling back, and Harry hears the words, “So, do you... You know, like me now?”

And he realises with a peculiar kind of horror that he just said them. He closes his eyes, wishing briefly but passionately to disappear, but when he opens them Draco is looking down at him with an actual, honest-to-God smile on his face. And then Draco leans down to him, blushing, and whispers, “Yes, I do. Quite a lot.”

Harry, oddly, feels like he’s just caught the Snitch in the most important match of his life and is flying victory laps around the pitch. “Good,” he says. “Me too. Em, not, you know, liking myself. Liking you.”

He feels indescribably stupid, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind because he’s grinning at him, flushed, and leaning in to kiss him again. Harry, kiss-drunk and smiling, decides that he’s discovered that Draco Malfoy is actually a terrible, insatiable sex maniac, or some kind of mythical creature that subsists on kissing Harry. But, oddly, that’s alright.

That smell, oak and dawn and Draco, tangles around him, and he finally realises what he has suspected for a while – that it was Draco all along.

---

A few days later, Harry and Draco are curled up in bed, with the wardrobe pushed up against the tent flap. Draco insists that Malfoys don’t cuddle, but seems oddly willing to stroke Harry’s back when Harry rests his head just so on his shoulder.

“Well, looks like I’m stuck with you, Potter,” Draco says with a haughty sigh, folding his arms behind his head. Harry manages to tear his eyes away from the play of muscles beneath Draco’s smooth skin long enough to ask, “And why is that?”

“You see,” Draco replies, “I have a theory. You don’t have nightmares when I’m sleeping with you – shut up, Potter, you pervert. Not like that. You don’t have them then, and you didn’t have them the nights before we got together when I slept right beside you. So...”

“So--” Harry smiles, “--you’re my own personal Dreamless Sleep. Why does that mean you’re stuck with me?”

“Well, we can’t have the Saviour of the Wizarding World driving himself insane with these nightmares, or becoming addicted to Dreamless Sleep Draught. Even you should know you can’t take it too much. Merlin, imagine – Potter the junkie, living in a cardboard box in Knockturn Alley, creeping out at night to steal from innocent children and old ladies -.” He breaks off, sniggering, as Harry pokes him hard in the stomach.

“My point is, that wouldn’t be on. Bad for morale. So, if I’m basically the only thing stopping the nightmares, then I guess I’ll be forced to stick around. Repelling nightmares. With my stunning good looks, stellar wit and sparkling personality.”

“So, you’d be prepared to make that sacrifice?” Harry grins, sliding a hand around the back of Draco’s neck to play with the downy hairs at the nape, sensing that he’s maybe a little more serious about this than he sounds. “Spending every single night, for the rest of your life, in bed with me?”

“It will be a great trial, I must say,” Draco answers shakily, his eyes slipping a little out of focus as Harry leans in until their lips are inches apart. “Awful, really. It’s a good thing I’m so selfless.”

“And noble,” Harry adds, leaning forward until he can feel the warmth of Draco’s breath tickling his lower lip. “Don’t forget noble.”

“And so noble--” Draco sighs, feeling his mouth curve up into a lush-lipped smile as Harry intertwines their fingers, “--that I’m quite prepared to make such a dreadful sacrifice for the cause.”

“Quite,” Harry whispers, and kisses him.