Trysts happen in dirty, forgotten storage rooms, illuminated only by the glow at the end of their wands. The light doesn't improve the rooms any, serving only to highlight the grimy walls and dust- caked storage bins, and to cast eerie shadows across the stone floor. But Harry makes it beautiful, with his body sleek against Draco's back, his mouth hot on Draco's shoulder blades, his palms like silk on Draco's stomach. Draco has to brace himself, elbows locked to keep distance from the walls, and tilts his head back on Harry's narrow chest. He lets his vulnerability come through in these moments, hoping that if he opens himself to Harry, he'll finally understand.
Harry is rough with him, and his breath is ragged against Draco's skin, and sometimes he's just cruel, but he's never, before now, breathed, "I hate you," and forced his mouth against Draco's. Draco twists, and Harry's nails rake up his back, and Draco makes small, desperate noises in the back of his throat. Harry's teeth are sharp and grating against Draco's lips, and Draco is sure blood is being drawn, and that's when he understands.
He touches Harry's hip, delicately, with a dirt-covered hand. Into Harry's mouth he murmurs, "I love you," but it sounds a lot more like, "fuck you," and he gets it, he really fucking gets it that he's never had a choice in any of this.