Chapter Text
The Dark Lord is holding court in the drawing room and there are Death Eaters in the hall… loud and vulgar and, frankly, terrifying, but if Draco slips out of the drawing room through his mother’s parlor, and then up the back staircases, there are only three dark passageways between him and the safety of his bedroom.
He is at the end of the second passage, the noises in the downstairs hall becoming distinct again… only a few doors, really, from his bedroom... when he feels rough hands grab him.
He is strong, but the hands are stronger. With horrifying suddenness, he finds himself face down, the hard stone of the floor digging into is cheekbone.
Robes, trousers, and pants are all swept away. He feels it then… something hard pressing against him. Fury turns to terror and revulsion gives way to a searing pain.
He can separate the sensations… his cheek against the rough floor, scraping minutely back and forth, burning… something warm and wet trickling down his leg that a more detached part of his brain identifies as blood… and the rhythm, terrible and insistent, each thrust sending red and yellow starbursts to smash into the backs of his closed eyelids.
He isn’t sure if it was a well-placed Silencio or simple self-preservation that keeps him quiet. It’s better not to know, he thinks.
He gives in to the sensations, moving with them, letting them carry him, like one does when swimming in a heavy sea: don’t fight, breathe only when your head is above water.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Realistically, it can only be minutes… but it is the beginning and the end of his existence.
There is a final thrust, a groan that is not his, and a moment of absolute stillness. The hands release him as suddenly as the grabbed him.
And Draco is left, empty and alone, in the passageway that leads to his bedroom.
~*~*~*~
He puts extra effort into his appearance the next morning. He glamours his bruised and scraped cheek. He spells his eyes clear and hides the deep shadows… removing all evidence of a night spent curled in his bed, hurting and unable to sleep, with tears leaking from his eyes.
He’s had his moment of weakness; it must be over now.
His dark shirt and trousers… his robes… they will hide the telltale bruises that have blossomed on his arm… on his hip.
He takes pains to walk and sit as normal.
Draco doesn’t know his attacker, and it is possible—unlikely, but possible—that his attacker doesn’t know his victim.
There was no light. And Draco hadn’t made a sound.
It may be that he really is the only one who knows that he was raped in the dark halls of his own home… and if this information is something that Draco still keeps for himself, he is not going to give it away.
“Good morning, darling,” his mother says, as he enters the dining room. He leans in to kiss her cheek. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you, mother.”
She smiles up at him. If she knows he is lying, she gives no indication. Narcissa Malfoy sits at the head of the table, looking every inch the gracious hostess… not like her husband is in Azkaban… not like her home is overrun with Death Eaters… not like she is terrified.
Knowing perfectly well that he is more than likely about to sit down to breakfast with his attacker … probably a man he has known since childhood… Draco takes his seat. He forces himself to eat his eggs, to spread marmalade on his toast, to drink his tea. Just like any other morning.
No one is watching him closely… no one is acting oddly at all. But, then, he isn’t either.
Had they been waiting for him to leave the drawing room alone and slightly sickened by the antics of the Dark Lord? Had the attack been motivated by lust… or retaliation? Draco can’t recall anyone he has, personally, slighted but there are a great many people angry with Lucius Malfoy at the moment.
Or had he simply been a body in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Had they really thought they could get away with it?
Draco bites into his toast and bits of orange-flavored bitterness spark against his tongue. Well, they have, haven’t they?
The Dark Lord does not leave his rooms until late morning and breakfast table conversations are refreshingly light: his mother and Antonin Dolohov are at the far end of the table discussing roses, and Antonie Pucey, his uncle Rodolphus, and a few others are discussing the favorites for the Quidditch World Cup.
“It’ll be Egypt and Portugal this year,” Draco says, joining the conversation on Antonie’s side. “Portugal’s too good. There is no way Romania can beat them.”
Rodolphus is still arguing for Romania when another voice joins in, suggesting that the Jamaican team, which isn’t completely out of the running yet, might take a place in the World Cup.
Antonie scoffs. Draco starts to comment—when has Jamaica ever won at an international sports event?—but the mention of Jamaica brings to mind Blaise; his mother was born there.
Blaise… Draco takes a moment to wonder if his attacker was, somehow, encouraged by the idea that he had spent the last half of fifth year snogging Blaise in secluded corners all over the castle. Their relationship wasn’t exactly common knowledge… but it wasn’t a secret either.
Antonie could have gotten it from his brother. He could have told someone… Draco forces himself not to look around the table… not to study the men sitting there. It could have been Antonie. Draco does risk a glance at him, thinking of hands, hard and cruel, thinking of pain. He shifts in his seat… and wishes he hadn’t.
Antonie’s younger than the others, maybe even more his friend than his father’s; he was a Seventh Year, Head Boy, top marks, excellent family connections, the undisputed king of Slytherin house the year Draco first came to Hogwarts. He had already achieved every goal Draco had set for himself.
Draco wants to trust him… and knows that would be foolish.
He swallows and takes Antonie’s side again. “It’s true that Jamaica has an excellent keeper,” he says, “but that’s not going to be enough to beat Egypt.”
If Jamaica somehow manages it, though... Blaise will be thrilled; he has a special place in his heart for the country his mother still calls home.
He tries to let the memory of Blaise be a comfort. He fails.
Blaise always wanted to be completely open about their relationship… to walk through the halls, hands clasped, light and dark. Draco thinks of Blaise’s hands … he thinks of his lips, soft and gentle against his own. The thought of touching… kissing… of the more that was always there, a treasure trove of imagined delights being saved for when they were just a little older… just a little more ready… It turns his stomach now—as surely as it would turn Blaise’s.
If he learns the truth.
Which he won’t. Draco will make sure of it.
Antonie drops his napkin on the table and rises. His plate disappears in the magic of the house elves. “See you later, Draco,” he says, striding from the dining room.
Draco takes a sip of tea, forcing it down past eggs and toast that are suggesting they might make a reappearance.
He refuses to consider the real question: Will they—or someone else—try again? Will they succeed?
Draco will not be afraid to walk down the halls of his own home. He is not afraid!
It’s a lie. But Draco is actually rather good at lying… especially to himself.
~*~*~*~
The Dark Mark is a relief. It turns a frightened child into a member of the most powerful… most feared group in the Wizarding world.
He holds out his arm for the Dark Lord. He watches, expressionless, as lines of black twist and burn through his flesh, forming themselves into the skull and snake. He doesn’t utter a sound.
Other things have hurt worse.
~*~*~*~
Now Draco lives and breathes lies.
He lies about his ability to kill Dumbledore.
He lies to Blaise when he flings out, in sharp, cutting words, that their relationship meant nothing to him… that he was merely passing time before moving on to other things. Don’t touch me. I’m a Death Eater. I don’t have time for schoolboy crushes.
The last bit is unfortunately true. What is also true is that when Blaise… kind, gentle Blaise… reached out to touch him, he flinched away, his breath coming short. Draco can’t let Blaise—or anyone—touch him now.
He lies to his mother about his eating and sleeping habits—they don’t exist, but he assures her that he sleeps soundly and that he’s eating well.
He lies to Severus… I’m fine. I don’t need your help.
He lies about his ability to bring the Death Eaters into the school… until that awful moment when he isn’t lying anymore, and he turns a werewolf loose among his classmates. When he lets Death Eaters into his school to torture and maim. That ends with Dumbledore dead and Draco running for his life.
He lies about preforming the Cruciatus curse on First Years… as if he could really point his wand and torture a child.
He lies for Ginny Weasley once, saving her from something far worse than a Cruciatus.
He lies for Harry Potter. Draco can think of no possible way in which he would ever not know Harry Potter. Nor can he think of any circumstance where he would turn him over to the Dark Lord to be murdered… slowly and painfully… to be gone, forever, from his life.
The fact that he needs Harry Potter in his life bothers him… so he ignores it.
~*~*~*~
Draco Malfoy hates Harry Potter. This is his favorite lie. One he repeats, if only to himself, over and over as he sits in his cell… in Azkaban… waiting for his trial. Waiting to be told that he will spend the rest of his life behind bars.
He can’t imagine any other option.
He isn’t being poorly treated. He could be… there isn’t anyone who would care. But he is in one of the holding cells on the ground floor, not in the bowels of the prison, surrounded by the damp and dark, nor yet in the towers with dementors endlessly moving past him in their slow, menacing circles.
He is fed, he is clothed, and the light that comes into his cell is natural and tinted with salt and seaweed. His guards are human and they are not unkind.
Nevertheless, his second favorite lie is that he’s not terrified.
~*~*~*~
Harry Potter does not tell lies.
It says so… in silvery scars of messy handwriting etched onto the back of his fucking hand. Draco can see it clearly—the hand has wrapped itself around the bars of his cell.
“I’m not going to let them keep you locked up in here,” he says, green eyes blazing in that way they have… when he is chasing a snitch. Or evading a dragon.
Or in those last moments of life and death and life when the Dark Lord crumpled and Harry Potter remained standing.
They are standing only a few feet apart… separated by cold iron bars and seven years of animosity… hexes… cruel words… by hands not shaken….
Of course, Harry Potter had taken his hand the one time it had really mattered, hadn’t he? He had flown out of the fire and death like an avenging angel, his eyes blazing through the sea of smoke and flame, his hand stretched out… for Draco.
“They’re treating you well?” he asks.
All Draco can do is nod.
“I’ve seen your mother,” he says. “She saved my life in the forest… did you know that? Anyway, I gave evidence and she was pardoned. Completely. She didn’t want to go back to the Manor, though, so she’s in a little cottage out in Cornwall. Right by the sea. She sends her love.”
“I… thank you.”
Draco is most definitely not going to cry.
That’s also a lie as it turns out, and a moment later, Harry Potter is reaching through the bars of his cell to wipe a tear from his cheek.
“Hey… Draco…” He says his name like an experiment… one that turns out rather well, apparently. “Draco, it’s going to be all right.” His words are soft… warm. “It’s not for much longer. That’s why I came; your trial’s scheduled for tomorrow.”
Trial. Draco shudders. Tomorrow.
“It’s going to be okay.” He is cupping Draco’s cheek, ever so gently… his fingers tracing his jaw. And Draco finds that he doesn’t mind the touch. He leans into it. “I promise.”
A chime rings in the distance and Harry Potter looks over his shoulder, his hand falling away. “Here,” he says, and something drops into Draco’s palm. “I have to go… I’m only allowed five minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
For a moment his eyes blaze again, then Harry Potter disappears down the hall, and Draco looks at what he has given him. It is a peach.
It fits comfortably in the palm of his hand, slightly fuzzy, and warm. Incongruously warm; it might be the only warm thing in the whole prison. And it’s like holding his own little bit of sunshine.
~*~*~*~
Harry Potter does not tell lies.
He stands up before the Wizengamot and a courtroom packed full of observers, most of whom would wish to see Draco locked up forever in Azkaban, and explains how Draco was forced to take the Dark Mark… that he is not an evil wizard. He talks about how he lowered his wand on the Astronomy Tower and how he didn’t betray them at Malfoy Manor. He reminds the court that he used Draco’s wand to defeat Lord Voldemort.
He insists in a loud, clear voice, his eyes blazing, that Draco Malfoy doesn’t deserve Azkaban.
Draco isn’t entirely sure that it’s true—except that it must be, because Harry Potter is saying it.
And he was telling the truth when he promised Draco that everything would be all right. Draco is cleared of most charges and pardoned of the rest. He is to spend the summer with his mother and return to Hogwarts for Eighth Year.
Harry Potter has spoken for him, and for his mother, but Harry Potter does not tell lies… and Lucius Malfoy is left to the mercy of the Wizengamot… where there isn’t any to be had. His father will spend the rest of his days in Azkaban. Draco tells himself that he’s heartbroken—it’s a lie. He also tells himself that he’s relieved—that’s a lie, too.
Draco’s guards release his bindings. And he slowly makes his way over to where Harry Potter is standing.
“I… thank you…,” Draco says. Harry.
He wants to say it… he’s wanted to say it… for as long as he can remember.
Not a lie.
~*~*~*~
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have buried their animosity. They can say “good morning” and “may I borrow your quill” and “do you think these frog spleens are chopped finely enough” without resorting to hexes.
Or lies.
Draco can play chess with Weasley, or check an Arithmancy proof with Granger, or even just sit, reading, on one end of the couch while Potter flips through a Quidditch magazine on the other.
Draco is in the back corner of the library looking for, and not finding, a very specific Arithmancy book. When he looks up, Harry Potter is standing beside him.
Technically, Draco is trapped. Shelves rise up on either side of him; his back is to the thick stone of the castle wall. There isn’t even a window.
And he finds that doesn’t mind at all.
“Hey… um… Draco…?” Potter-Harry-Potter is stuttering. But his eyes are doing that blazing thing again.
Draco’s heart is pounding, but the frantic rhythm seems to be the exact opposite of terror. “Yes?” Draco hears himself say.
“I… um… IwaswonderingifyouwouldliketogointoHogsmeadewithme?"
“I… what?”
“Oh.” Harry Potter is bright red. “It’s okay… I mean, I thought you might want to… but it’s not a big deal… if you don’t… want to, I mean. I was just wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“I was wondering if you would like to go into Hogsmeade? With me?”
“Oh. I… yes… I would like that.” The moment lengthens. “Harry,” he whispers.
Draco finds his eyes cannot seem to let go of Harry’s… or Harry’s cannot seem to let go of his.
Draco’s hand is in Harry’s. Or Harry’s hand is in his. Their fingers are laced, palm to palm, and Draco has no idea who reached for whom, or even when it happened. They might have been standing there all afternoon, just staring and holding hands.
“Harry? Was there something else you wanted?” Draco asks. It comes out breathy.
“I… yeah… I just really want to kiss you right now.”
Draco can feel Harry’s heart beating through their joined hands. He can feel the barest whisper of his breath, brushing against his own. It occurs to him… as slowly and as suddenly as the moment when night becomes day: Harry is not going to touch him without his permission.
Draco leans forward… brushing his lips softly against Harry’s. Once… then again. Draco runs his tongue across Harry’s lips, and Harry makes the smallest, most endearing sound, as he opens his mouth, allowing Draco to taste and be tasted.
“I’ve wanted that for a really long time,” Harry says at last, his voice a caress.
“Me too,” Draco says. It is the truth.
~*~*~*~
Draco lies when he tells Harry he is a virgin.
He doesn’t exactly mean to. But the truth is too hard to face… and far far too hard to explain. The lie lies heavy on his tongue, coating it like rancid oil… a film that cannot be swallowed away.
“Well, so am I,” Harry says, almost laughs. “I mean… when would I have found the time?”
“You have been kind of busy,” Draco says, running his fingers down Harry’s chest. They are both barefoot and bare chested, together on Harry’s bed, but Harry’s ratty jeans and Draco’s tailored trousers have remained firmly in place. They are alone in the room, and probably in the whole dormitory; most people have gone home for the weekend—an Eighth Year privilege.
“I’m not busy now,” Harry says, the laugh still running through his voice.
Draco stills. Freezes. His hand resting on the wall of muscle that is Harry’s stomach.
Harry picks up his hand and kisses the palm.
“Do you want to? Now?” Draco hears his voice, and it is tiny.
Harry kisses his palm again before he answers. “A bit. Maybe more than a bit. But I think you don’t… not right now, anyway. Am I right?”
Draco lets out the breath he has been holding. He’s not sure what he would have done if Harry had said yes. “I… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Not for that. Besides…” Harry works tiny kisses up his wrist... up the inside of his arm. “We’ve got time. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Harry’s tongue touches the inside of his elbow, and Draco shivers, arching his whole body into the touch.
“You know,” Harry says, “I wasn’t even sure I liked blokes until… I guess I don’t know when. But it seems like it should be something I’ve just always known… you know? But I didn’t.”
“I’m not sure it always works like that,” Draco says. “And you really have been busy. Saving the world and all that.”
Harry snorts and continues his kisses, up Draco’s arm, running his tongue along the edge of his bicep, nibbling along his collarbone.
He stops, almost suddenly. “I don’t think I could have even thought it when I was living with my aunt and uncle. They were really always against anything different, you know? Magic, of course. But also gay people, people with messy hair, motorbikes… I’ve always wanted one.”
“Sounds like they didn’t much care for you.”
“They hated me.” Harry doesn’t sound particularly bitter, though Draco certainly thinks he should. He decides to let it go.
“Why would you want a motorbike?” he asks instead. “Those things are death traps.” He rolls over, pinning Harry underneath him. “You’ll get killed.”
“Nope.” Harry’s change of position doesn’t seem to alter his determination to kiss every inch of Draco, and he trails little bites up his neck. “I’m gonna wear my helmet.” He kisses along Draco’s jaw. “And my leather jacket. And boots. And tight leather pants.”
Draco makes a small noise. He is completely unsure if it is due to Harry’s tongue hitting the particularly sensitive spot just under his jaw… or the mental image of Harry in tight leather pants that his imagination threw, almost violently, forth.
“And a good cushioning charm, just in case,” Harry says, sweeping his tongue across Draco’s mouth… demanding… no begging to be invited in.
“Will you ride with me?”
“Oh, gods, yes!”
“Good. ‘Cause I want to feel your arms wrapped tight around me, and this…” Harry raises his hips into Draco’s, “…pressed tight up against me.”
“You’ll crash,” Draco says, sounding hoarse.
“Cushioning charm.”
Draco takes control of the kiss then, stroking Harry’s tongue with his own, wishing with all his heart that the more he knows Harry wants so badly was something he is able to give.
~*~*~*~
Draco tries. He imagines.
Harry’s hands are clever and gentle. He imagines them touching him… everywhere… in all of the places he hasn’t allowed anyone to touch him.
Since.
Where he hasn’t allowed anyone to touch him. Ever.
He imagines the feel of himself inside Harry, or Harry inside him… tender, adoring, exquisite.
He imagines kneeling before Harry, taking him into his mouth, watching him come undone before him. For him.
When they are together, and Harry’s hands are there, really ready to touch him, he imagines pain.
It’s ridiculous. Harry won’t hurt him… he knows this… and it doesn’t matter.
Harry’s hands are on the waistband of his trousers, the tips of his fingers barely slipped inside. “There’s something I want to try. Will you let me?” he asks.
Harry always asks.
Something stirs in Draco’s stomach… butterflies… or fire-breathing dragons? Or fire-breathing dragons devouring butterflies?
Draco finds that he can’t lie to Harry Potter. But neither can he tell him the truth. He pulls Harry’s hands away. He loses track of one, but the other he brings to his lips, pressing a kiss into his palm… trailing tongue and teeth up his fingers, until he sucks one of Harry’s fingers into his mouth, then another, tongue swirling.
“Fuck, Draco,” Harry says. Harry’s other hand is in his hair, caressing him with trembling fingers.
“I… just want to kiss you right now,” Draco whispers.
Not a lie. But, perhaps, not the truth either.
~*~*~*~
In a surge of barely-controlled wandless magic, Draco bursts through the door to Harry’s room… their room, really; Draco hasn’t set foot in the room he was assigned in weeks.
He slams his books down on the desk. “I… I have had sex,” he all but shouts. A few lights flicker.
Harry is sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, his Potions notes spread out before him. He looks up and blinks twice.
“Oh,” he says, blinking again.
Draco watches the shock and hurt writing themselves across Harry’s face.
“Is… this a… recent… thing?” he asks at last.
“No!” It’s Draco’s turn to be shocked. “Gods, no. It… it was a long time ago.”
Harry’s expression softens, though he still looks hurt. “Hey… Draco… it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I lied to you! I didn’t mean to, but I did.” He picks up his books, turning towards the door. “That’s not okay.”
“Where are you going?”
His hand is on the doorknob. “I… I don’t know. Back to my own room, I guess.”
“Wait… Draco…” Harry waves his wand, vanishing the papers. “Come here. Come here and sit with me. Please.”
Draco does wait. Harry’s voice sounds… fragile. And it is all Draco’s fault. He turns, setting his books back on the desk. “Harry, you idiot. You still haven’t figured out how to undo that spell.”
“Do you think I care about that? Right now you think I care about… a bunch of papers?”
“You will care when you fail Potions.” Draco is standing next to the bed now. “Give me your wand.”
With a swish of Harry’s wand, Draco conjures the papers and stacks them as neatly as possible on the desk. Beside his own books. They sit there, together, crumpled papers and immaculate textbooks… a perfect sort of balance. Or things that have no business sharing the same space.
He hands back the wand, still feeling like, maybe, he should just go.
It must be visible on his face, or in the fact that he can’t help but lean towards the door.
“Draco, please.” Harry is holding out his hand.
Draco can do nothing but climb into the bed. He allows Harry to take his hand… to interlace their fingers. He doesn’t know how long they sit there, Harry’s thumb making small movements across the back of his own hand. Silent. Except for the rain that is falling in a steady dripping sound off the roof and past their window.
“Harry… I… I didn’t mean to lie to you… I just…” The truth was too hard.
“It’s okay, Draco.” Harry’s thumb is still making its gentle half-circles.
“There’s nothing about it… nothing about any of it… that’s okay!” The words burst from Draco causing them both to jump. The lights flicker again.
“Hey… I only meant that you… Obviously if you’ve been with someone… and you don’t want to tell me… I only meant that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
“What if I do want to tell you?” Draco is looking at their joined hands. “What if I want to tell you… have been wanting to tell you… and it’s just too fucking hard?”
“I will hear anything you want to tell me.” Harry’s fingers tighten on his. “Now… or later. Whenever you want.”
“I do want to tell you…” And then Draco says nothing. Harry’s hand is steady, but Draco can feel his own trembling.
After a few long moments, Harry squeezes gently. “Did he—or she, I suppose—did they…”
“He.” Draco’s voice cracks.
“Did he die, then… in the War?”
The question takes Draco by surprise. Did he?
“Or… erm…?” Harry’s voice drops off. He’s too polite to ask if Draco’s former lover is a Death Eater now serving a life sentence in Azkaban.
Is he?
Not since that first morning has Draco spent any time imagining who he might have been. He is pain and fear… like a monster under the bed… or an illness. He isn’t a person that’s dead or in Azkaban… or even someone who’s still walking free. He doesn’t have a face… or a name. Draco isn’t sure he wants him to.
“I don’t know,” he says. He feels lost. “I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t know…? But…? Oh. Do you want to… I don’t know… try to find out? Look it up somewhere? I’m sure that Mr. Weas--”
“Harry!”
Harry stops talking rather abruptly.
Draco pulls his hand free, turning his arm over. The Dark Mark hasn’t faded. Obvious black lines, a symbol of hate, are etched forever into his arm. Draco drags a finger across it.
“It was the summer… right before I got this… So many people were staying at the Manor that summer…”
Draco can’t bring himself to look anywhere but the Mark.
“I didn’t see who… It was dark… the hallway was so dark… I just wanted to be in my room… away from the Dark… Vol-… Him… and I’d gone up the back stairs… I just wanted to be in my room… but they grabbed me… Harry, it hurt... so much... And it was so dark. I couldn’t see… I don’t know if they’re dead… or in Azkaban… I want them to be… but I don’t know. I couldn’t see! I don’t know who they are!
Draco can feel himself shaking. “I got this a week later. No one ever touched me again.”
He forces himself to look up… to look at Harry… afraid of what he’s going to see.
Harry is going to hate him now. For lying. For letting that Death Eater touch him. For being a Death Eater… because Harry will know. That Draco chose it… because the alternative was worse.
Instead, Harry looks like he’s been gutted.
“Draco…,” Harry begins, but the words fall away… For a moment he says nothing, does nothing, and the next thing Harry’s eyes blaze green and Harry’s mouth is descending on his.
The kiss is demanding. Almost violent. Harry is both giving something and taking something away… like waves on a beach; old things are swept away, new things are left behind… leaving the beach different, but still the same.
Draco’s cheeks are wet, but he is not the one crying.
“I… I’m sorry,” Harry says, pulling back a little. “That, maybe, wasn’t the best thing to do.”
Draco thinks it might have been exactly the best thing to do. “Do it again.”
Harry does… and he doesn’t. His mouth descends slowly this time, but with no less intensity, his eyes blazing green. It starts slowly, a brush of the lips, then a taste and a nibble, while Harry’s hand… his fingers… make gentle love to Draco’s own hand, while Harry’s other hand caresses Draco’s cheek, until Draco can no longer tell where his body stops and Harry’s begins.
Harry is offering absolute, wordless proof that every endearment, every touch, has been the truth.
And still is. Even now.
“You didn’t lie to me,” Harry says at last, his lips still against Draco’s. “You’ve never lied to me. I didn’t… I didn’t ask the right question.”
Something inside Draco bursts. Harry pulls him tight and doesn’t say anything.