(Drarry) Faking My Own Death

(This chapter contains light NSFW / sexual content.)

"I'm hungry for something...
Just the touch of your flesh
To soothe and refresh..."

During dessert, Draco felt restless, barely being able to contain himself with the thought of what he was about to ask of Harry. Ever since the news that morning, Draco had felt like everything was pointless, but Harry was currently the only thing keeping him going. His only light at the end of the tunnel, at least for the next day or so. 

He left his dessert half-eaten, his stomach making too many nervous twists and turns to be able to eat. It was the good kind of nervous, like taking off into the air on your broom for the first time, like buying your first real wand, like waiting for your house to be called out on your first night at Hogwarts.

Draco realised he hadn't felt a 'good kind of nervous' since his childhood. Since then, it hadn't taken long for Draco to start to feel the bad type of nervosity pop up, like before a presentation or telling your teacher you hadn't finished the homework. Or whatever type of anxiety is associated with having to commit a murder. No, the type of nervous he felt right now was closer to feeling giddy; stupid, light-hearted, and harmless.

When supper was over, Draco observed Harry from a distance as hundreds of students went out the Great Hall. He saw Harry part ways with Hermione and Ron, and soon after he went into a bathroom. Draco waited about a minute and then followed him inside. He checked the stalls quickly to see if anybody would be listening in. Then he spotted Harry washing his hands, looking up at himself in the mirror. Through the mirror, they made eye contact.

Harry dried his hands and turned around. "What is it, Draco?" His voice ringed through the empty bathroom, sounding beyond annoyed.

Draco tried to channel all his genuine emotion through his next word: "Harry." He let his eyes do the talking, hoping Harry would pick up on his desperation.

"What?" Harry asked, still looking very irritated.

Okay, so that didn't work. Body language was apparently overrated. Draco sighed and stepped towards him, not knowing what words would convey what he was really asking. He didn't know how to ask for what he wanted, because what he wanted was rather vague: comfort in any capacity. He would be fine with whatever Harry would offer him, if anything at all. He didn't need this to be some sort of booty-call. In his current mental state, a hug would be just as appreciated. Still, he aimed high.

He approached Harry, letting his eyes roam over Harry, as his thoughts sped a million kilometres per hour. Standing close enough to whisper, letting out a nervous sigh first, Draco said: "I want you." He held eye contact with Harry, wishing that his determination would mask his jittery hands as his nervosity seeped out his fingertips.

Deep down, he hoped Harry wasn't going to be difficult about this and make Draco spell it out for him. Harry wasn't above pretending to not understand things on purpose, just so Draco would have to stutter out what it was he meant.

Meanwhile, Harry stared back silently, his eyes somewhat narrowed, although he didn't seem as irritated as before. More so, he looked suspicious, as if he expected this to be a trick. He took his time before he responded, which left Draco a nervous mess, although he tried to look like was put together and sane. Draco knew there was no reason for Harry to agree to this, and considering their history, there was only a marginally small chance this would work, but he had to try.

Miraculously, Harry's answer was: "Okay."

Donning a nervous grin Draco moved closer, almost leaning in, but Harry pushed him away, hissing: "Not here! You crazy?"