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mildlunacyUm. Nothing like a nice, relaxing bit of not-quite-porn to break things up a bit. This is why I'm here. This is what I do. This is what's important.
Hello, my name is Reena. I write gay porn instead of doing homework. *curtsies*
Disclaimer: not mine.
Author's Note: Written to Chad Kroeger's "Hero", on repeat. Not exactly recommended when you're half asleep.
Dedication: To Slytherlynx, with heartfelt appreciation for her amazing sanity. Here's some angsty blow-job fic for you, eheheheheh. Back to basics, man.
And they say that a hero can save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles
Watch as they all fly away
--Chad Kroeger
- The Sound of Wings -
The only time Draco Malfoy pondered the meaning of existence had been the first time he had Potter's cock in his mouth.
Most of his mind had been occupied with disintegrating into formless screams, but some part of him flew free, feeling magnanimous. Potter might have Draco on his knees, because this-- this felt like victory. This felt like capturing some unnamable vastness and holding it still as it beat within his mouth. Some part of Draco's mind was quiet and satisfied; who knew these things could be so simple?
Potter hadn't even struggled that much. Potter hadn't struggled at all.
He was salivating so much he might've choked on his own spit, and his head spun so much he had to hold on to Potter's hips not to sway sideways.
Draco wasn't on his knees for long.
He could feel the sweat creeping into the folds in his eyelids, the hair sticking to his temples, the backs of his thighs cramping with strain. He couldn't breathe enough, couldn't get enough, couldn't even feel his toes. His left leg had fallen asleep some minutes or hours ago, and there was a roaring in his ears. Potter could have been screaming for him to stop, and Draco wouldn't have known; that was how he liked it.
::
The first time Draco Malfoy sucked another boy's cock, it was the evening after the first battle.
The blood still swam behind his eyes when he closed them, and all he could hear anymore were the screams of his friends-- his Housemates-- everyone he'd known better than to trust. He'd barely been able to see Potter walking towards him through the same fog of rage and futility that had kept him alive; kept him from moving.
It had been dawn, and the sky was the perfect blue Draco never remembered having noticed before. Had the sky ever been that blue over Malfoy Manor? Had his father ever noticed? What would his father say if Draco had asked him, back then? Draco didn't want to think of it.
The wind was cold, cold enough to slip beneath his skin, and down his bones, and between his ribs.
Draco had stood still and watched as Parkinson and the others said their parts and cast their curses. They'd all been well-trained. This should go off without a hitch, shouldn't it?
He'd watched and waited for his moment, because there was going to be only one, and Draco knew better than to miss it. He'd leaned against the tallest tree within speaking distance and waited, watching the blue of the morning sky slowly darken. Perhaps it was only this blue on days like this, or perhaps it was something about the Forbidden Forest. Draco knew there must be thestrals and centaurs and all sorts of Dark Creatures nearby, unknown and invisible to him, all of them waiting for their moment along with Draco. Some of them were undoubtedly waiting for Draco, and that thought kept his back straight and his skin prickly with apprehension more than any of the foul curses flying back and forth directly in front of him.
It was a good day to get what he wanted, he thought, watching as just another black-clad form strode purposefully across the field. None of the curses or spells seemed to hit him, but Draco hadn't needed that to know who he was. He'd known because of how everyone had stopped and looked, the way even the wind grew still for a moment, then suddenly turned violent. Somewhere at the other end of the clearing, there was a high, brittle laugh.
Draco had known, but he didn't look. He'd cocked his head and looked up at the sky instead, seeing a formation of dark shapes flying past him and disappearing beyond the treetops.
::
When Draco Malfoy weighted Potter's cock on his tongue, he had a fleeting memory of those birds as they moved swiftly forward, vanishing. He hadn't been looking when the first blood was spilled; not really. He had been waiting, and that was a different sort of thing altogether. There was nothing to see until his time had finally come.
The night before, he'd thought about it for the first time: actually losing. Everything being over. Draco didn't think he would die-- didn't think he could die, really-- but the world as he knew it could end, he was forced to admit that. It could be over for them. Everything could stop, just like that, under a sky that favored those with dirty blood and garish colors and pointless, stupid courage.
Maybe Potter would die, too. Maybe there would be an explosion of white light, something huge and blinding, something Draco would forget because remembering was out of the question. He'd read about that in books, and though he'd remained skeptical, some part of him was tight with wordless dread. The year the war had started in earnest, Draco had woken up and realized he was living out his nightmares and there was no end in sight.
He was alone and nothing helped for quite long enough. Nothing. The Gryffindors and the Mudbloods were pale and drawn and twitchy as hell, but that didn't amuse him as much as he'd expected. Worse yet, they ignored him.
And the worst part of all was, Potter was still The Boy Who Lived. He was going to live and Draco was going to die, and it wasn't fair, but--
--Draco didn't think so.
He thought Potter would crumple in a heap, wasting away to a pile of dust before his eyes. Potter would look at him then, one last look, and he'd be sorry, but it would be too late. It had been too late from the start, for Potter and his sort.
He'd raised his eyes to the sky because he'd already known what he was going to see. Potter would be bright, maybe brilliant. Maybe he'd be blinding. Potter would be something far away from him, something like a sun; nothing like a sun. And Draco would hate him so much he'd be frozen with it. And then Potter would rise onto the battlefield and Draco would stand and wait for the moment to pass.
::
When Draco had found him, Potter looked half-dead. Draco's job was nearly done for him: Potter was covered in blood and dirt and sadness, and his eyes were so empty, Draco could see himself in them. It was the way he was swaying on his feet; the way he mouthed Draco's name; the way he'd nodded at the wand dangling limply from Draco's own hand. They each told him everything he'd wanted to know. Ever the hero: has to give the old school irritant another go, does he. For old times' sake. Wrap things up nicely.
"Well, well," he drawled, stepping slowly forward. Potter's face held no expression, and some part of Draco flared to life, seeing that. He wanted something which was at the tip of his tongue. Perhaps it was just to make Potter bleed, and perhaps it was to wipe the blood off that mouth before he spoke to him. It made Potter look defeated, which was all wrong because it was a lie, and that wasn't good enough now. "If it isn't The Boy Who Wouldn't Die."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be, Malfoy? Or someone else to be there with? A Dark Lord to service, maybe?"
Potter sounded tired more than anything, and this was no fun at all anymore. Draco knew when to switch tactics.
"So tell me one last thing, then," Draco said with his dry mouth, fist curling around his wand. This was his moment, and he was going to play it to the hilt.
Potter had tilted his head sideways, watching him. Draco licked his lips.
"Are you a hero, Potter?"
It had startled Draco to hear Potter croak like that. He supposed that was meant to be a laugh. Draco wondered where everyone was and why in the bloody hell he'd thought it was such a great idea not to look.
"You know the answer to that, Malfoy. Ask a better question, come on."
Draco took a breath. "What do you want?" He felt pretty stupid, asking that, and he had no idea where it came from, but he didn't have time to think. It seemed to be working, anyway.
Potter's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. They watched each other, and Draco noticed Potter's chest lifting and falling, lifting and falling. Something about that movement would've been calming, in another situation entirely, if they'd both been completely different; if Draco was someone who was allowed to notice the flat expanse of the other's chest.
Quite incidentally, he'd looked up at the sky above them just then, and the sun had hidden behind a cloud. All he could see was a pale bluish-grey. Draco hated the cold, fickle British spring with a passion he'd usually reserved for losing and Potter.
"Today to be over," Potter said at last.
"And...?"
"And-- love, I suppose."
Draco coughed dryly, his chest constricting. There was something obscene about hearing that word spoken between them in any context; possibly simply that word having any relation to Potter.
"You'll never have it, Potter," he said. His hands were cold, curled into loose fists in his pockets. These were good trousers. Draco could remember that particular shopping trip that last summer very well. His father had told him they'd fit, and they did.
"You think so?" Potter didn't sound defensive, just mildly curious, sod him. Nothing he could say mattered now-- none of it had ever mattered, had it. Draco bit his lip, weighting his options.
"I know so," Draco snarled, shoving him. Potter looked startled, but Draco wasn't watching for a reaction. There was a rushing in his ears, and suddenly, he felt a surge of pure raw power.
Draco latched on to the juncture of Potter's neck and shoulder with his teeth, still not biting as hard as he knew Potter wanted him to. There was a slick cascade of epiphany glazing his mind, making Draco almost dizzy with sheer exhilaration. And now he knew that most of the blood hadn't been Potter's: the skin was smooth and unbroken and only slightly tinged with metal and smoke and curses. It was a good taste; Draco also knew he could get used to it, so he pulled away.
And then Potter's hands were in Draco's hair, holding him tight, pulling hard and making his eyes smart with tears in reflex. He'd pushed Draco down onto his knees before he'd been ready, insistent and unbelievably strong. Unstoppable. Potter was panting so hard his legs shook-- or maybe that was Draco.
Draco choked on a breath. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
"No fucking way," Draco hissed, right before he'd started to mouth the dirty fabric of Potter's trousers, lapping up the filthy taste and smell and texture like he'd never have enough.
Potter only gasped and thrust his hips sharply forward, and the rushing sound in Draco's ears just got louder. His lips were curling around the shape of Potter's cock through his trousers, moving up and slowly descending, as if Draco thought to learn everything Potter wouldn't want him to know. The cock kept pulsing, beating with life even through the extra layer between their skin, and suddenly Draco couldn't get enough. It wasn't Potter, somehow. It was the most powerful feeling Draco could remember, and he wasn't going to let go until the ride was done. This couldn't be Potter; this was just skin and a heartbeat and blood, all this blood, rushing and beating and impossible to stop.
The first time Potter came that night, the wetness spread sluggishly, soaking through the dirt-crusted jeans. He'd curled inwards as much as he could, bent over Draco, with his hands digging into the other's shoulders. For the first time in a while, Draco wondered if Potter was saying anything, not that it was important. His concentration was elsewhere.
Draco pulled back slightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smirking in a way he wouldn't have believed himself able to, on his knees in front of Harry-fucking-Potter.
"You okay?" he croaked, regaining the use of his throat as he gulped for air. He'd meant that as a taunt, but in the end he'd just said it like he meant it. He was too distracted to even care anymore and Potter wouldn't notice anyway.
Potter hadn't answered, and that was just how Draco wanted it.
::
The first time Draco felt free was when he realized Harry Potter was screaming as he came down his throat.
His own eyes had rolled back and all that kept him from coming in desperate bursts on Potter's dirty shoes was a certain lack of coordination. He'd needed the use of his hand to cling to Potter's bony hips. He'd needed to concentrate on reducing Potter to a splat of blood and spit on the floor at Draco's feet.
Nearly the whole of Draco's existence had narrowed down to the continuing assault of sensation; to that thick, heavy cock being shoved against the back of his throat, sliding effortlessly past his teeth and smoothing down his tongue. If he'd been thinking about something which was outside the confines of his mouth at some earlier point, that was then. Now, it's all he could do to remain conscious. He was pretty certain that someone was making enough noise to shake their soul loose, and it wasn't only Potter.
Nothing had prepared him for this.
Not for the distant knowledge that Potter's wand had spilled from slackened fingers, clattering to the ground; not for the fact that this wasn't enough to tear Draco's mouth from Potter's cock.
Gasping and swallowing his own spit compulsively, some part of Draco was still aware that somehow, things had managed to shift when he wasn't looking. This was it. This was his moment, the one he'd been waiting for.
And yet, Draco wasn't waiting anymore.
His fingers clenched roughly as Draco came so hard, his mind was wiped clean entirely. There was only this and only now, to fuck with everything.
No matter what it all meant, he wanted more.
At the precise moment he came, jerking against Potter's skinny legs as if struck by bolts of miniature lightning, Draco's eyes squeezed tighter than they'd ever had before, and he saw the perfect blue.
::
Afterwards, Draco thought he could feel the moon come out, casting bright shadows on his back. He felt too tired and fuzzy with dreams to have a problem with the world, which might have been over for all he knew. He supposed Potter was asleep, his head lying heavy on Draco's ribcage, his eyelashes unmoving against bare skin. Potter's heartbeat was all that remained in the silence, and Draco wasn't sure if he was awake himself, which was fine by him.
"I think I have it," Potter muttered thickly against his chest, and for a moment Draco had absolutely no idea what the hell the bloody wanker was on about.
"What?" It was meant to come out sharply, but in the end he just whispered it against Potter's hair. Sleepily, he thought that was really fucking annoying.
"What I want," Potter said simply.
Draco had no answer to that he was prepared to give, and he was too tired to properly insult anyone, even Potter.
"Bloody well shut up, will you?"
Potter sort of laughed weakly. It was ticklish, and Draco squirmed, snorting a bit. He had to admit Potter was warm, though they'd have to get up any minute now.
Draco closed his eyes, paying no attention to the distant sound of wings in the gathering dark.
~~
Hello, my name is Reena. I write gay porn instead of doing homework. *curtsies*
Disclaimer: not mine.
Author's Note: Written to Chad Kroeger's "Hero", on repeat. Not exactly recommended when you're half asleep.
Dedication: To Slytherlynx, with heartfelt appreciation for her amazing sanity. Here's some angsty blow-job fic for you, eheheheheh. Back to basics, man.
And they say that a hero can save us
I'm not gonna stand here and wait
I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles
Watch as they all fly away
--Chad Kroeger
- The Sound of Wings -
The only time Draco Malfoy pondered the meaning of existence had been the first time he had Potter's cock in his mouth.
Most of his mind had been occupied with disintegrating into formless screams, but some part of him flew free, feeling magnanimous. Potter might have Draco on his knees, because this-- this felt like victory. This felt like capturing some unnamable vastness and holding it still as it beat within his mouth. Some part of Draco's mind was quiet and satisfied; who knew these things could be so simple?
Potter hadn't even struggled that much. Potter hadn't struggled at all.
He was salivating so much he might've choked on his own spit, and his head spun so much he had to hold on to Potter's hips not to sway sideways.
Draco wasn't on his knees for long.
He could feel the sweat creeping into the folds in his eyelids, the hair sticking to his temples, the backs of his thighs cramping with strain. He couldn't breathe enough, couldn't get enough, couldn't even feel his toes. His left leg had fallen asleep some minutes or hours ago, and there was a roaring in his ears. Potter could have been screaming for him to stop, and Draco wouldn't have known; that was how he liked it.
::
The first time Draco Malfoy sucked another boy's cock, it was the evening after the first battle.
The blood still swam behind his eyes when he closed them, and all he could hear anymore were the screams of his friends-- his Housemates-- everyone he'd known better than to trust. He'd barely been able to see Potter walking towards him through the same fog of rage and futility that had kept him alive; kept him from moving.
It had been dawn, and the sky was the perfect blue Draco never remembered having noticed before. Had the sky ever been that blue over Malfoy Manor? Had his father ever noticed? What would his father say if Draco had asked him, back then? Draco didn't want to think of it.
The wind was cold, cold enough to slip beneath his skin, and down his bones, and between his ribs.
Draco had stood still and watched as Parkinson and the others said their parts and cast their curses. They'd all been well-trained. This should go off without a hitch, shouldn't it?
He'd watched and waited for his moment, because there was going to be only one, and Draco knew better than to miss it. He'd leaned against the tallest tree within speaking distance and waited, watching the blue of the morning sky slowly darken. Perhaps it was only this blue on days like this, or perhaps it was something about the Forbidden Forest. Draco knew there must be thestrals and centaurs and all sorts of Dark Creatures nearby, unknown and invisible to him, all of them waiting for their moment along with Draco. Some of them were undoubtedly waiting for Draco, and that thought kept his back straight and his skin prickly with apprehension more than any of the foul curses flying back and forth directly in front of him.
It was a good day to get what he wanted, he thought, watching as just another black-clad form strode purposefully across the field. None of the curses or spells seemed to hit him, but Draco hadn't needed that to know who he was. He'd known because of how everyone had stopped and looked, the way even the wind grew still for a moment, then suddenly turned violent. Somewhere at the other end of the clearing, there was a high, brittle laugh.
Draco had known, but he didn't look. He'd cocked his head and looked up at the sky instead, seeing a formation of dark shapes flying past him and disappearing beyond the treetops.
::
When Draco Malfoy weighted Potter's cock on his tongue, he had a fleeting memory of those birds as they moved swiftly forward, vanishing. He hadn't been looking when the first blood was spilled; not really. He had been waiting, and that was a different sort of thing altogether. There was nothing to see until his time had finally come.
The night before, he'd thought about it for the first time: actually losing. Everything being over. Draco didn't think he would die-- didn't think he could die, really-- but the world as he knew it could end, he was forced to admit that. It could be over for them. Everything could stop, just like that, under a sky that favored those with dirty blood and garish colors and pointless, stupid courage.
Maybe Potter would die, too. Maybe there would be an explosion of white light, something huge and blinding, something Draco would forget because remembering was out of the question. He'd read about that in books, and though he'd remained skeptical, some part of him was tight with wordless dread. The year the war had started in earnest, Draco had woken up and realized he was living out his nightmares and there was no end in sight.
He was alone and nothing helped for quite long enough. Nothing. The Gryffindors and the Mudbloods were pale and drawn and twitchy as hell, but that didn't amuse him as much as he'd expected. Worse yet, they ignored him.
And the worst part of all was, Potter was still The Boy Who Lived. He was going to live and Draco was going to die, and it wasn't fair, but--
--Draco didn't think so.
He thought Potter would crumple in a heap, wasting away to a pile of dust before his eyes. Potter would look at him then, one last look, and he'd be sorry, but it would be too late. It had been too late from the start, for Potter and his sort.
He'd raised his eyes to the sky because he'd already known what he was going to see. Potter would be bright, maybe brilliant. Maybe he'd be blinding. Potter would be something far away from him, something like a sun; nothing like a sun. And Draco would hate him so much he'd be frozen with it. And then Potter would rise onto the battlefield and Draco would stand and wait for the moment to pass.
::
When Draco had found him, Potter looked half-dead. Draco's job was nearly done for him: Potter was covered in blood and dirt and sadness, and his eyes were so empty, Draco could see himself in them. It was the way he was swaying on his feet; the way he mouthed Draco's name; the way he'd nodded at the wand dangling limply from Draco's own hand. They each told him everything he'd wanted to know. Ever the hero: has to give the old school irritant another go, does he. For old times' sake. Wrap things up nicely.
"Well, well," he drawled, stepping slowly forward. Potter's face held no expression, and some part of Draco flared to life, seeing that. He wanted something which was at the tip of his tongue. Perhaps it was just to make Potter bleed, and perhaps it was to wipe the blood off that mouth before he spoke to him. It made Potter look defeated, which was all wrong because it was a lie, and that wasn't good enough now. "If it isn't The Boy Who Wouldn't Die."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be, Malfoy? Or someone else to be there with? A Dark Lord to service, maybe?"
Potter sounded tired more than anything, and this was no fun at all anymore. Draco knew when to switch tactics.
"So tell me one last thing, then," Draco said with his dry mouth, fist curling around his wand. This was his moment, and he was going to play it to the hilt.
Potter had tilted his head sideways, watching him. Draco licked his lips.
"Are you a hero, Potter?"
It had startled Draco to hear Potter croak like that. He supposed that was meant to be a laugh. Draco wondered where everyone was and why in the bloody hell he'd thought it was such a great idea not to look.
"You know the answer to that, Malfoy. Ask a better question, come on."
Draco took a breath. "What do you want?" He felt pretty stupid, asking that, and he had no idea where it came from, but he didn't have time to think. It seemed to be working, anyway.
Potter's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. They watched each other, and Draco noticed Potter's chest lifting and falling, lifting and falling. Something about that movement would've been calming, in another situation entirely, if they'd both been completely different; if Draco was someone who was allowed to notice the flat expanse of the other's chest.
Quite incidentally, he'd looked up at the sky above them just then, and the sun had hidden behind a cloud. All he could see was a pale bluish-grey. Draco hated the cold, fickle British spring with a passion he'd usually reserved for losing and Potter.
"Today to be over," Potter said at last.
"And...?"
"And-- love, I suppose."
Draco coughed dryly, his chest constricting. There was something obscene about hearing that word spoken between them in any context; possibly simply that word having any relation to Potter.
"You'll never have it, Potter," he said. His hands were cold, curled into loose fists in his pockets. These were good trousers. Draco could remember that particular shopping trip that last summer very well. His father had told him they'd fit, and they did.
"You think so?" Potter didn't sound defensive, just mildly curious, sod him. Nothing he could say mattered now-- none of it had ever mattered, had it. Draco bit his lip, weighting his options.
"I know so," Draco snarled, shoving him. Potter looked startled, but Draco wasn't watching for a reaction. There was a rushing in his ears, and suddenly, he felt a surge of pure raw power.
Draco latched on to the juncture of Potter's neck and shoulder with his teeth, still not biting as hard as he knew Potter wanted him to. There was a slick cascade of epiphany glazing his mind, making Draco almost dizzy with sheer exhilaration. And now he knew that most of the blood hadn't been Potter's: the skin was smooth and unbroken and only slightly tinged with metal and smoke and curses. It was a good taste; Draco also knew he could get used to it, so he pulled away.
And then Potter's hands were in Draco's hair, holding him tight, pulling hard and making his eyes smart with tears in reflex. He'd pushed Draco down onto his knees before he'd been ready, insistent and unbelievably strong. Unstoppable. Potter was panting so hard his legs shook-- or maybe that was Draco.
Draco choked on a breath. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
"No fucking way," Draco hissed, right before he'd started to mouth the dirty fabric of Potter's trousers, lapping up the filthy taste and smell and texture like he'd never have enough.
Potter only gasped and thrust his hips sharply forward, and the rushing sound in Draco's ears just got louder. His lips were curling around the shape of Potter's cock through his trousers, moving up and slowly descending, as if Draco thought to learn everything Potter wouldn't want him to know. The cock kept pulsing, beating with life even through the extra layer between their skin, and suddenly Draco couldn't get enough. It wasn't Potter, somehow. It was the most powerful feeling Draco could remember, and he wasn't going to let go until the ride was done. This couldn't be Potter; this was just skin and a heartbeat and blood, all this blood, rushing and beating and impossible to stop.
The first time Potter came that night, the wetness spread sluggishly, soaking through the dirt-crusted jeans. He'd curled inwards as much as he could, bent over Draco, with his hands digging into the other's shoulders. For the first time in a while, Draco wondered if Potter was saying anything, not that it was important. His concentration was elsewhere.
Draco pulled back slightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smirking in a way he wouldn't have believed himself able to, on his knees in front of Harry-fucking-Potter.
"You okay?" he croaked, regaining the use of his throat as he gulped for air. He'd meant that as a taunt, but in the end he'd just said it like he meant it. He was too distracted to even care anymore and Potter wouldn't notice anyway.
Potter hadn't answered, and that was just how Draco wanted it.
::
The first time Draco felt free was when he realized Harry Potter was screaming as he came down his throat.
His own eyes had rolled back and all that kept him from coming in desperate bursts on Potter's dirty shoes was a certain lack of coordination. He'd needed the use of his hand to cling to Potter's bony hips. He'd needed to concentrate on reducing Potter to a splat of blood and spit on the floor at Draco's feet.
Nearly the whole of Draco's existence had narrowed down to the continuing assault of sensation; to that thick, heavy cock being shoved against the back of his throat, sliding effortlessly past his teeth and smoothing down his tongue. If he'd been thinking about something which was outside the confines of his mouth at some earlier point, that was then. Now, it's all he could do to remain conscious. He was pretty certain that someone was making enough noise to shake their soul loose, and it wasn't only Potter.
Nothing had prepared him for this.
Not for the distant knowledge that Potter's wand had spilled from slackened fingers, clattering to the ground; not for the fact that this wasn't enough to tear Draco's mouth from Potter's cock.
Gasping and swallowing his own spit compulsively, some part of Draco was still aware that somehow, things had managed to shift when he wasn't looking. This was it. This was his moment, the one he'd been waiting for.
And yet, Draco wasn't waiting anymore.
His fingers clenched roughly as Draco came so hard, his mind was wiped clean entirely. There was only this and only now, to fuck with everything.
No matter what it all meant, he wanted more.
At the precise moment he came, jerking against Potter's skinny legs as if struck by bolts of miniature lightning, Draco's eyes squeezed tighter than they'd ever had before, and he saw the perfect blue.
::
Afterwards, Draco thought he could feel the moon come out, casting bright shadows on his back. He felt too tired and fuzzy with dreams to have a problem with the world, which might have been over for all he knew. He supposed Potter was asleep, his head lying heavy on Draco's ribcage, his eyelashes unmoving against bare skin. Potter's heartbeat was all that remained in the silence, and Draco wasn't sure if he was awake himself, which was fine by him.
"I think I have it," Potter muttered thickly against his chest, and for a moment Draco had absolutely no idea what the hell the bloody wanker was on about.
"What?" It was meant to come out sharply, but in the end he just whispered it against Potter's hair. Sleepily, he thought that was really fucking annoying.
"What I want," Potter said simply.
Draco had no answer to that he was prepared to give, and he was too tired to properly insult anyone, even Potter.
"Bloody well shut up, will you?"
Potter sort of laughed weakly. It was ticklish, and Draco squirmed, snorting a bit. He had to admit Potter was warm, though they'd have to get up any minute now.
Draco closed his eyes, paying no attention to the distant sound of wings in the gathering dark.
~~