Harry absolutely enticed by how willingly Draco gave in to both touch and pleads. To Harry, it was distinctly different from how he had perceived Draco in the study, how often Harry had been the one to back away from a point Draco refused to compromise on. It was hard to judge how much was deprivation rather than sincere interest, but Harry couldn’t get himself to care; it had made his pulse spike regardless.<br/>In lieu of a response, Harry just nodded; nothing he could say could compare to the way Draco’s /please/ made his heart flip.<br/>Capitalizing on the fact that Draco’s hand was still in his, Harry stepped away, urging Draco to follow him.<br/><br/>For the first time, the intricate maze of hallways and corridors had disappeared in a haze; truth be told, Harry’s mind was completely elsewhere, and wouldn’t actually be able to tell whether or not Draco had apparated their walk shorter. Harry was feeling that sense of vertigo regardless, a pull in the pit of his stomach.<br/>Harry’s room was still dark when they reached the bed, moonlight cascading through the windows. Even against white sheets, Draco was illuminated, reflecting the light in a way the crisp cotton could never replicate. Harry would have lit the oil lamps, the blue light of the moon dulling the blush on Draco’s cheeks, but his wand was stored far from his reach and, but as he kneeled onto the mattress, Harry hadn’t even considered that Coote could light them for him.<br/>They had yet to let go of each other’s hands, the most persistent point of contact in a series of fleeting rushed touches; it drew Harry closer, perfectly fitting a knee between Draco’s thighs as he crossed the last distance to meet Draco’s lips in a starved kiss.