For @drarrymicrofic prompt: River 500wc
Malfoy’s house is by the river.
Harry is not supposed to know that.
The forbidden fruit lies in the glass box on Harry's stupid Unspeakable desk. Just a week ago, the fruit caused Harry's close encounter with death. No one else could know. Not even the Ministry. So, that night, Malfoy took Harry home.
It still feels like a dream to Harry. And Malfoy never talks about it.
That night, Harry's—Malfoy's room—faced the river. On the calm water, the moon rested all night and the sun danced in the early morning. Harry was half conscious. Oh, how pretty, to have dawns in this charming home with Draco fucking Malfoy. Malfoy sat on the left side of the bed, crumpled in his pyjamas. He put another bitter potion down Harry's throat, all the while cradling Harry's jaw as if he was holding a fallen star. And before Malfoy sent him home, he'd cooked Harry a bowl of soup.
It was good, which was weird.
But Harry can still picture it all. The lawn, overgrown, where Malfoy might lay down with a book, pale hair spread on the warm lap of his lover. Or him running around with his lover, pale feet bare, laughing.
Harry heard Malfoy has someone. It’s mentioned somewhere. They don't really talk much about that.
Time is suspended on level nine.
But, it's good. Because in this enclosed room with no windows, Malfoy is not anyone's.
He is soft here. Unguarded.
But still, Harry knows about the house by the river. He knows about Malfoy's midnight-blue flower pot and tomato-shaped bowl. He knows Malfoy’s knitted duvet and his cat Lyra. And about the second toothbrush in the mug. And the Muggle Magazines which could not be Malfoy's.
The visit starved Harry more than sated his hunger.
“It was a bad idea, tasting it.” Malfoy passes by Harry's desk. His hand somehow rests on Harry's back, finger fiddling with Harry's nape like it's nothing. “It was a bad idea, not following the protocol.”
“And I trusted your calculation.” Harry looks at Malfoy's face the way he look at their specimens in the labs: closely. As close as humanly possible. Malfoy looks back. With the same intensity. It's maddening, because he always looks back. Sweltering grey, dreadfully cold.
Harry catches the hand on his nape and rubs his face with it. Long fingers on Harry's cheek. Pink nails on Harry's nose.
Malfoy sighs. “We've been studying the bloody fruit for years, and you can't even resist it.”
“It's the name, you know. Come up with something better,” Harry says, but how can Harry? When Malfoy might as well grow the forbidden fruit in his home, with its warm sun and tranquil river. Harry will simply eat the fruit over again, jump to the river, and risk death.
A fleck of turquoise in grey eyes.
Golden river sparkling in early morning.
