If you find FiercelyProtective!Harry adorable and ToppishYetEmoish!Draco yummy, this might be just the right fic for you, dear reader.

Schmoopy snuggling and naughty bondage? Nuanced emotional dynamics and crazy hot face-melting sex? Sure. They go great together, like chocolate and peanut butter. Or naked Harry and naked Draco.

A cleaner layout of this fic, and one with a nice pretty Drarry pic, can be found over on my LJ, clickable via my profile.

Warnings: A wee and quickly passing moment of what could be interpreted as non-con, and some very rough play. I wouldn't call it at all 'extreme,' but if anything in even a BDSMish category squicks you, better safe than sorry. NC-17, mature content; readers of age of majority only, please. (Seriously, it's filthy. *Facepalm* The muses keep sending me the pervy kind of plot bunnies.)

Disclaimerage: I don't own the characters, no copyright infringement intended blahblah, and slashy goodness of the M/M variety - if you don't like that, don't read this. Simples. And of course we all know that even though Harry's "no" really meant "yes," out here in the real world, No means No. Period.

Still need a regular beta! If you read & like this fic, and might be interested in betaing for me in future, please drop me a message. Feedback, collabs, story requests also welcome. I write mostly for the enjoyment of other Drarry fans, so I hope you enjoy this fic!

I've fudged the timeline here - let's just pretend that the smexy-crying in Myrtle's bathroom takes place in February, 'kay?

I.

It's illogical, but as he stares at it, he's certain it hurts Draco even as he sleeps.

A tiny furrow creases the expanse of blonde-fringed forehead despite the even breathing, and Harry wants to reach over, run his finger soothingly over the black stain standing out in sharp relief against white skin and white sheet, both more the pale for the watery moonlight streaming in. But he knows better, knows not to, and his stomach lurches heavily at the remembered lesson.

The first time he ever saw it. Their first time - that frantic, messy, still half-dressed frenzy in the Room of Requirement - and Harry had dared, in the blissful haze afterwards, when Draco had seemed so– accessible, to reach toward it in caress, in sympathy, where a tiny part of it peeked out from below the sleeve of the disheveled cashmere jumper. Even now, two months later, tears still ghost his eyes replaying the expression on Draco's face, the cutting spite in his voice as he snatched his arm away, snatched himself away, and disappeared down the empty hallway. The unhinged week during which he refused to even look at Harry across classrooms, at meals. How uncertainty and despair had gnawed him raw until Draco finally let him hold his gaze once, twice. Then a few awkward words, Harry sweating out of every pore, the few delicate exchanges, and the moment when Draco finally smiled, just a little, just enough to let him know he could come back: To his bed, to his rough embraces, to whatever this was between them. As if in response to Harry's thoughts, the slumbering sprawl of milky flesh next to him rustles with the slow movements of dreaming, turns over. Turns back toward Harry and curls warmly against him, slipping a possessive arm snugly around his chest.

Grateful, Harry sighs at the feeling, quietly as he can. It's only in his sleep that Draco holds him like this.