There is only the radiating heat of skin contained by too much clothing. Only the rustle of robes and the jagged line of their breathing. Only the smell of sweat and sex and dirt. Only Potter, holding onto him, pushing into him, fucking him through his clothes as the sky changes from black to purple to white.
There is only now, here, but it feels like forever, everywhere.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes"
Potter grasps Draco's shoulder again, and lighting flashes above him and through him and inside of him, white to white to white, and Draco howls in pain, in pleasure, in love and hatred and surprise and-and-and- he's coming, going, comingcomingcoming.
He bites down on his lip to keep from crying out, but it doesn't work, and Potter's name is bloody when he cries it into the night.