June 2002

They don't mention the kiss the next morning as they kick moss over the imprints of the night  and move on to the next glade.

Instead, Draco's keen that they keep busy, keep moving, keep talking about anything else, just to fill the odd hollow need between them.

"Do you play much Quidditch these days?" he asks, grabbing a tall stick to walk with as a cane, stripping its bark with slender fingers as he does so. "Since school, I mean."

"Quidditch?" Harry frowns. "I suppose I did, a little. Mainly Ron's family when I was still dating Gin. But not so much these days."

"You aren't with her any more?"

Harry wonders whether that's real curiosity on Draco's face or just polite interest. "No," he replies simply. "Why did you ask about Quidditch, anyway? Do you miss it?"

"More than anything," Draco nods. He sighs. "I miss the freedom so much. It was the only thing that made me happy sometimes, when we were at school."

"Those were good days," Harry agrees. "Reckon we could've been friends back then, you know."

Draco frowns. "Maybe," he shrugs. "I don't like to dwell on what might have been."

Especially when it relates to Potter, adds a little voice in his head which he fights to silence. You know what you might have been with him....

"I think about you all the time," Harry admits suddenly, in an odd hot rush of vulnerability. It's as if he's read Draco's mind, uncomfortably close.

In response, there's a silence; the words hang in the air like bees trapped in their own honey. Harry's gaze is fixed straight ahead, not so much as a glance in Draco's direction.

"There's not exactly a lot else to think about, is there?" replies Draco awkwardly. He spreads an arm wide to emphasise the barren scene around them; tree after tree after brook after bush.

"No, but I thought about you before, too," Harry continues. "At school."

"Did you have a thing for me at school?" Draco asks incredulously. "God, what a waste of your youth."

"I don't know how much of it I understood at the time," Harry frowns thoughtfully. "But it could've been... it could've been love if things had been different."

Draco grimaces. "Don't say shit like that," he says. "Tossing that word about. It wasn't different, was it? It was how it was. No point dwelling."

"If you believe in the parallel universe theory," Harry says, ignoring him and snatching idly at a long blade of grass as they walk, "Then there are infinite universes where you and I are getting married right now."

"I'm not sure I believe in marriage," Draco replies, thinking of his parents' turbulent relationship.

"In some universes you would."

"In some universes maybe you wouldn't be an annoying little tosspiece," Draco throws back.

The whole conversation is making him increasingly hot under the collar. Why's Potter brought up marriage, of all things?

"If this is because of last night-" he starts, but Harry cuts him off.

"You did kiss me."

There's no denying that. Draco's blood flares hot, close to the surface of his skin. Should he say it was an accident? A calamitous slip in the night as he was falling asleep, which happened before it even began?

He doesn't want to lie. He doesn't want to talk about it much either, but sooner or later he'll have to face facts.

"Yeah," he says. "Once."

It seems like they've found a clearing now. It's a good one, too - sheltered nicely by an arched bow of pine branches, the ground below softly shrouded in finely scented green needles. The river is still audible too, just about, which is a good sign. It's a good spot.

And standing there, in the clearing, something incredible began to happen.

Whether it was a sort of Stockholm syndrome, the result of an unaddressed schoolboy crush, or just the way the light fell in his eyes, Harry James began to fall properly in love with Draco Lucius, with the battered and hostile soul stood before him.

It's rich and huge and solid, and all this new emotion is suddenly uncontainable in one body so Harry transfers it to Draco's in the only way he knows how. With his mouth, his hands, his chest on Draco's chest. his eyes screwed up with the pain of it all.

And Draco doesn't stop him. His eyes shut too, his hands clench against the fabric of Harry's shirt, which is roughened by so many weeks of smoke and effort and sleeping in the dirt.

And there, and then.... his mouth opens in response to the contact, Potter's tongue washes over his so slowly and softly that time becomes liquid, and fear drips away into it until it's gone altogether.

Draco marvels at the skill and ease of Harry's movements, those slouchy, careless, hands, and the way they hold him so completely.

He's watched those hands silently for months now, strimming leaves from branches and cracking the wood for the fire, stoking the embers, washing cupfuls of water over his skin in the river, sucking the grease off them after another fried fish dinner - and yet it hasn't occurred to Draco to wonder how they'd feel until now, when they're already there.

"What are we doing?" he murmurs against Harry's mouth, confusion and unexpected bliss rolling through him like the tide.

"Does it matter?" is Harry's response. "We're stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere, basically waiting to be hunted down by people I used to call my colleagues - and you know they're going to destroy us when they do, right?"

"Yeah, I do, because they did it to my fucking dad," Draco snarls, sudden anger surging in his veins. "Filth, the lot of them! The only decent Auror is an ex-Auror."

He pushes Harry away from him - not hard enough to hurt his body, but it certainly doesn't leave his feelings intact.

And like that, the mood is killed. Draco's hands are shaking and Harry's heart drags down into his stomach like an anchor at the sight.

But, "Love me," he says. Low, possessive. He takes Draco's jaw in his hand to force intense eye contact. "Love me. No one's here. Nothing matters - we might not even have tomorrow, let alone forever. Please love me."

There's so much history in the way he looks at him.

It's the way lovers have looked at one another for centuries, the way two people who have known each other's souls since before birth look at one another. Between them are epic poems and storybooks and fables, and they've written every single one.

And Draco knows love's a strong word, but death is inevitable, especially for these two souls in the woods. One's a traitor to the name of the Law and to everything he ever stood for, and the other's a barely-reformed terrorist, the icon of the Dark Wizards' Revolution. Even if all of those things are against their will.

So he doesn't resist. Each new thought of Harry is better than any other thought he's ever had, and so he decides maybe he could love him, here and now, in the middle of nowhere, with no one here. Or at least nearly love him. Or try to.

"Alright, Potter," he whispers, letting Harry fold an arm round the back of his neck to pull his head gently down again. "Alright."

And like two asteroids on a course determined centuries before their birth, they collide.

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a/n: so the slow burn is over!! after writing scent of malice i decided i couldn't drag this one out haha so hopefully it's easier reading 🥰

hope you enjoy ! pls vote and comment if you read this ❤️❤️

~ paradisedraco