They take back alleyways, shivering from the nighttime chill but unable to warm themselves with magic, relying on Potter's sense of direction to lead them to the Leaky Cauldron because Draco has never spent time in Muggle London before. They don't look at each other and the walk is entirely silent save for the odd rumble of thunder overhead, the scuffing of their shoes against the pavement, and the distant sounds of traffic on the main roads.

They make it to the shabby old establishment before it begins raining and before Draco can go mad from the razor-sharp tension between them, thank fuck. But although the wizened old innkeeper greets Potter like an old friend, he also tells them that his owl is out hunting, that all the apothecaries in Diagon Alley are closed, and that he has only one room to spare for the night.

And that is how Draco finds himself lying on an uncomfortable single bed, in complete darkness, not three feet away from Potter, unable to sleep, listening to the sheets of rain lashing the crumbling façade of the building, trying desperately to think of anything but what Potter had revealed to him earlier on the train.

"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"

He can't help it though.

With the ridges of his spine pressed uncomfortably against the headboard, his mind returns to those words, again and again. The more he dwells on it, the more the spiraling panic in his stomach builds. His nerves feel scraped raw and the skin of his face feels hot and almost painfully tight.

Fuck, it hadn't even been sex. Not really.

So how?

How can it fucking be that having Potter touch him can turn him inside out like this, make him fucking well ache with the need to be touched again, make him flinch against what Potter had said about the contents of Trelawney's prophecy.

Potter is going to die, he is sure of it. How can he expect to defeat one of the most powerful wizards of all time? He is sixteen years old, for fuck's sake! And the Dark Lord has a legion of Death Eaters at his side. What has Potter got? A rag-tag rabble of Weasleys and werewolves and maybe some rogue Aurors and Snape, who is a spying and selling the Order's secrets, and Dumbledore, who Draco has been instructed to murder anyway.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Potter is going to die, and it doesn't matter that Draco might not have to actually cast the curses himself, or even watch it happen necessarily, because whatever he does for the Dark Lord, whether it be getting rid of the Headmaster or letting the others into the school, it will all have to be for the eventuality that Potter is going to die.

And he'd been fine with that idea not twelve months ago. Would have been glad to contemplate it, even.

But now?

Now, Potter, with his stupid mouth and his stupid beauty and his stupid need to be such a fucking Gryffindor about everything has, in one fell swoop, killed that dead.

He's fucking demolished it.

Now, Draco doesn't want Potter to die.

Now, he wants…he wants…

Merlin help him, what he wants is Potter.

And that's never going to happen, it can't, because the boy lying in the bed next to his, breathing gently in his sleep, isn't going to survive this war. And he's going to have a hand in that, he knows. Before the Dark Lord's eventual kill, he's going to have to be responsible for robbing Potter of yet another person he loves.

"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"

His heart turns over in its chest cavity.

It's breaking, he's sure of it.

And all of a sudden, the tears that he'd tried so hard to bank in the train carriage are rushing up from nowhere. There's wetness flowing freely down his nose and cheeks as he draws his knees up to his chest and rests his forehead against his folded forearms. The sleeves of his shirt are soaked through in seconds but now that he's started, it seems he can't stop, because the twisting aching gutted feeling in his stomach just won't die down.

He presses his fingers to his eyes, trying to wipe away the salty moisture, but a large, warm hand encloses his.

He swallows convulsively in the darkness, head spinning uncomfortably, heartbeat speeding up. "Potter, what -"

"You cry very loudly."

Oh.

His spine straightens instinctively. "It's not what you're thinking."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it's exactly what I'm thinking, Malfoy. No one has sex with someone they hate."

"It wasn't sex," he mutters, but his voice is still watery and he's sure that Potter knows that it doesn't matter if what they'd done hadn't technically been sex. It had been enough to leave Draco feeling…

Potter slides under the blankets, pulls at Draco's arm, rolls them both onto the softness of the pillows Draco had just been sitting on.

"What are you doing?" Draco's voice comes out sharp and startled.

"I don't know." The line of Potter's body is just barely brushing against Draco now, but he hasn't moved his hand away. "I just…before today, I'd only ever even kissed one person, you know?"

Draco raises a confused eyebrow, even though he knows that Potter can't see it. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He feels the body next to his move into a slight shrug. "It means that…I'm fascinated by you."

"Fascinated?" Draco repeats, an odd sort of dread creeping up on him.

"Yep." Potter pops the "p" sound loudly, his voice too light, at odds with the tension hovering between them. "Because I definitely liked what we did. Which means that you've made me consider the idea that I might actually be bent without ever having known it."

Draco half-raises himself off the bed, his vision blackening at the edges. "Which means what?" he demands, voice rising. "That you want to experiment with me while we're stuck together in this god forsaken inn? That you want to see how far I'll let you go because clearly I'm so besotted with you right? Because I almost gave in to your stupid plan. Because I sucked you off. Because I'm crying over what I have to do, and the fucking prophecy, and the thought of you -"

He breaks off, breathing hard.

The downpour outside intensifies, and when Potter doesn't reply instantly, all they can hear is the water beating down hard against the rooftop.

For a moment, Draco worries that he's going to walk back over to his own bed. But then his grip tightens on Draco's left forearm and he murmurs, "No, Malfoy. It means that I'm going to try and help you no matter what you say."

And it's ridiculous - absolutely ludicrous - that that is exactly the right thing for Potter to have said…but somehow, it just is, because without even being aware of it, that had been exactly what Draco had wanted to hear. The knowledge that he has that, has someone who's going to take care of everything, take care of him, means more than he can wrap his head around, and then the sting behind his eyes has returned, and he's shaking like a mad thing under the blankets.

But then -

"Hey, shhhhhh, it's going to be okay - we'll work it out. I'll make sure you and your parents are safe. It's going to be okay. Shhhhhhhh."

Potter has drawn him close and is whispering soothing gentle nonsense against his ear, his fingers have knotted themselves in Potter's hair and he's clinging against the hard body beside him, hanging on for dear life like some kind of limpet, and that's okay, it is, because there are strong arms wrapped around him too and a cheek resting against the top of his head, and the boy beside him isn't judging or pushing him away, is just letting him continue with the breakdown without a single recriminating word.

Every inch of his body is flush against Potter's, and eventually the relief-tears and the shivering give way to the realization that Potter isn't wearing a shirt, and his chest feels wonderfully firm, and his hands are really low on Draco's back, and his entire body is just so incredibly hot, almost feverishly so.

For a moment, Draco's breath catches, and then he laughs lightly. The sound is low and liquid against the skin of Potter's shoulder. "You're much better at this now."

Potter murmurs softly in confusion.

Draco tightens his arms, tucking his head further into the space between Potter's chin and collarbone. "At this whole comforting thing, I mean. Better than you were with Chang, at any rate."

Potter gently reaches up to loosen his hold, and a wild panic seizes him momentarily, but then the lamp on the bedside table flickers to life and Potter hasn't left the bed. He is looking down at Draco with his hair even messier than usual and his green eyes too-big and just the tiniest bit unfocused without his glasses.

"Does this mean you're actually saying yes? You'll join the Order? You'll convince your parents to go into hiding?"

Draco feels a tentative smile form on his face, doesn't try to hide the hope that is building inside him again. "I thought you'd planned on carrying out your plan with or without my consent."

Potter smiles, and Draco notices that it's slightly lopsided, the right corner of his mouth hitched just higher than the other. It's…strangely sweet.

"I would have," he affirms, "but it's easier with your consent. I mean, don't get me wrong or anything, it's not that I don't enjoy the idea of you bound and gagged for me." His grin deepens mischievously. "But I don't imagine the Aurors would think much of me kidnapping you, then trying to convince them that it was all a mad ploy to save you."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "First of all, Potter, this doesn't classify as you saving me, as such. You are just…assisting me with a very difficult situation."

He ignores the way Potter bites his lip, as though trying to choke back a laugh, and then lets his own mouth curve teasingly. "And secondly, handcuffs and gags? Are you certain you're as woefully inexperienced as you claim to be?"

Potter laughs, the sound bright and happy, and Draco can almost feel his heart skip a beat in his chest.

"Yes, Malfoy, to answer your horribly transparent question, Cho is the only other person I've ever kissed. And even that," - Potter shudders slightly - "was terrible."

"Why?" Draco says archly, ignoring the rush of heat that seems to course through him, the satisfied possessiveness. "Did you manage to make her cry then too?"

He'd only asked to be facetious, but the way Potter flushes darkly and ducks his head has horrified laughter bubbling out of his throat. "Oh Merlin, tell me you didn't!"

"It wasn't my fault! She was upset about some personal problems," Potter replies hotly.

Draco can't stop snickering though, and eventually Potter's put-upon embarrassment turns into a small grin and he pulls Draco back in to his chest.

"And what about you? How much…experience have you had?" he asks after a few seconds, clearing his throat slightly.

"And I'm horribly transparent." Draco draws back, amused. "Merlin, Potter, you're about as subtle as a bludger to the head."

Potter tilts his head, a grin playing at the edges of his mouth. "You know, Draco, seeing as how I am saving your arse and everything, and considering that I have recently seen you in the all-together and plan on doing so again soon, as often as you allow it actually, I think it's about time you started calling me 'Harry'." He smirks at Draco's surprised intake of breath. "And answer the question."

Draco regrets pulling back now. He knows that the heat quickly stealing across his cheeks must be plain as day under the lamplight. He lowers his eyes.

"I've never…I mean, I…" He takes a deep breath. "I've only ever kissed one other person too. Pansy, last year."

"Are you joking?" He looks up hesitantly to see that Potter looks completely flummoxed, his lips falling open in surprise.

He really does have a very pretty mouth, Draco has time to think, just before Potter breaks out into a wide smile and all but lunges forward to drag Draco into a breathless kiss and then of course he can't think at all anymore. All he knows is that, somehow, this is even better than before. On the train, it'd been hard and rough and rushed and frenzied between them, they'd been so caught up in moving together, frantic with the need to bring each other off.

This…this is different. Slower and deeper and somehow much, much more breathtaking. One of Potter's hands is creeping under the back of his shirt, drawing lazy circles onto his back, the other is cupping his jaw, thumb dragging over his cheekbone every time Potter angles his head and moves deeper into his mouth. At some point, he pulls Potter on top of him, spreading his legs on either side of that lean body and arching up into the searing kiss, Potter's breath hot and heavy and growing steadily more ragged against his mouth.

There's a heady warmth settling low in Draco's stomach that has nothing to do with the hardness in his trousers or the answering heat he feels when he slides his hands into Potter's pants again. No, it's because he's never had this with anyone before, this easy playfulness and warm intimacy, and he's mystified that even in the midst of much uncertainty about everything, he can have it with Potter of all people, Potter whom he'd never so much as spoken a single kind word to up until a few hours ago.

"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"

He knows that his mother should be simple enough to bring round (she'd made Snape take the Vow to keep him safe after all), but he has no clue about how he'll go about convincing his father. And when he thinks about how the Dark Lord will react when the Death Eaters catch on to what they've done, or when he tries to imagine how the Weasleys and Granger and Dumbledore will react to his induction to the Order, panic simmers again in his stomach. It gets worse still if he attempts to guess how Potter's friends and surrogate family will react to the two of them being...whatever they are.

He doesn't know how good he's going to be at being brave.

But, for Potter - no, for Harry…

Harry, with his vanilla and citrus flavored mouth and his warm skin and his electrifying kisses…

Well.

For Harry, Draco is going to try.

Hope you all had as much fun reading this as I had writing it! :)