Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hermione’s voice was terse and unforgiving. “How long has it been?”

She was frowning that ‘you stupid boy’ frown of hers… Harry thought, at least. He wasn’t quite sure. Everything after nine o’clock got rather blurry. He winced just in case, so she would know he was taking her seriously.

“It’s not as long as you’re thinking,” Harry mumbled. “Earlier, I got almost two hours.”

She snorted and pulled her wand from her lime green Healer-trainee robes. Began casting over him with quick, sharp flicks. “When’s ‘earlier,’ I wonder,” she asked rhetorically. “Last month? Last year?”

Harry let his eyes fall shut. Diagnostic magic wasn’t hugely soothing, but he always found Hermione’s to be quite nice. Like smelling Molly’s cooking, or waking up at Hogwarts on Christmas morning. He felt the snap of it against his skin, felt his breath begin to slow and steady. It was really very lovely, he thought, managing to relax fractionally.

Until she poked him hard in the sternum with her wand. “Harry!”

Harry jerked, suddenly aware that he’d let himself slide backward onto the sofa and was lying prone. He scowled a little and straightened, righting his glasses on his face. “What? You want me to sleep and then you bloody wake me up! What kind of sense does that make?”

Hermione sighed, sitting down opposite him in a swirl of oddly-fitting wool. “What does your mind healer say?”

“She’s on holiday for a month. And you know what she’s said.” Harry looked away. “I need to sleep; she says I need to talk about my trauma and the things that bug me. Which I do! But I’ve been at my limit for sleeping draughts for a few months, and—” He quirked smile at her. “I just don’t sleep.”

“Your magical core can’t take it,” Hermione said flatly. Her voice softened at whatever she saw in his expression. “Sleeping in one-to-two-hour snatches, I mean. It’s a confluence of events; it drains itself trying to keep you awake through the day when you resist sleep at night, and the way it drains makes you more tired and affects your perception. I’m betting you’re seeing things even now, aren’t you?”

Harry ignored the tiny, glowing green fairy buzzing around her thick, brown hair. “No. I’m relaxing,” he announced, with a grin, though his voice came out sounding kind of slurred and fuzzy. “Which was the main point. That other thing is stupid.”

“What other thing?” Hermione said sharply.

Fuck. Harry frowned.

“The sleep cuddle thing.” He knit his brow. “Cuddler. Touch therapy. Whatever. You know—” He waved a hand in her general direction. “About having someone with me to sleep. Because of the…” The word was right there, somewhere, but Harry couldn’t find it. “That thing that happened? With the guy. And about being alone and night. Like in my cupboard. And the fucking camera. Always those fucking cameras, remember?”

There was a long silence. He batted at a fairy that flew straight at his face.

When Hermione spoke again, it was much quieter, almost sad, and it worried him a bit. “Right, that’s right. I remember now. Because sleeping with someone could be… comforting, right? Knowing you’re not alone.”

“Right.” He nodded, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He’d be fine-ish once the sun rose, he knew, but the later it got, the more his body clamped down on the idea of rest, and the weirder he ended up feeling. “That. That number she gave me?”

“Yes?” Hermione prompted when he fell silent.

Harry blinked. “You look weird when you’re Bill,” he told her.

“I know, just something I’m trying out,” she said after a second. “I’ll stop soon. What about the number, Harry?”

“Well, so I called them. It’s dumb, okay, I know. But I’m— I mean, I do get pretty tired so I thought it couldn’t hurt and… They have a wait list. That thing that happened, you know the thing,” he explained. One of the plants behind her was sparkling, and blooming into the shape of a chicken. He chuckled. He loved magic. “The one where people had trouble sleeping after. Anyway.”

“They had no openings?” she asked. He blinked again, and she looked like herself. “Not even for you?”

“I should have given them my name?” he countered, snapping to attention when her question penetrated.

“Right, okay, yes.” Hermione exhaled deeply, chewing on the corner of her lip. “You know, you could always—with Ron and me? We did all the time in the Forest.”

“Four years ago,” he pointed out. “And it was cold.”

“I think you’re sort of cold now, Harry,” Hermione told him. He flushed, looking down at his hands, then wondered where his pinky fingers had gone to. “And we’d be happy to—”

At his most cogent, Harry wouldn’t be able to explain why that wouldn’t be a good idea. He loved them, was happy for them. He wanted the best for them. But there was a part of him that looked at them together and felt… lonely. Jealous. Small. Sleeping next to them again—when they weren’t on the run for their lives—probably wasn’t the best solution to that.

He shook his head. “No. Thanks, but—no.”

“What about money?” she asked abruptly.

“I have plenty of money,” Harry told her, confused. “A lot. Like, a lot. I wish you’d let me buy you guys a house. Can I? There’s a nice one I saw, just over in—”

She made a little ‘tsk’ sound under her breath. “Did you offer extra money to the agency?” she interrupted. Harry pondered how rude she was for just a second.

“Should I have?”

“Harry,” she said, looking exasperated. Quite an accomplishment for someone suddenly wearing bananas on her head. “Yes. As repellent as it is, sometimes that sort of thing will bump you ahead of the line. Which you certainly need.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll call them back in a few days. And offer them lots of money. Buying-a-house money? Or more?”

Hermione suddenly reached over and cupped his cheek. Her palm was soft, a contrast to the wand callouses on her thumb and forefinger moving over his cheekbone. He leaned into it. “I’ll take care of it,” she told him gently. She was so nice. He loved her so much. “I’ll have someone to you tomorrow, okay? We’ll get someone here.”

“Okay,” he sighed. His eyes drifted shut again, opening only when she rose, still smoothing her hand against his face, then bent to drop a kiss against his forehead. He wondered how long they’d been sitting together like that; he already felt a little steadier, and she had pale purple smudges under her eyes.

“Will you be okay? You could come home with me,” she offered.

“No. I’m fine. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” he assured her. At the dubious tightening of her lips, he smiled. “Really. I promise.”

“Floo over if you change your mind. I’ll keep it open for you.”

“I will,” he said, then watched as she disappeared in a flare of green.

He stared at the wall for a bit—it undulated hypnotically—then got up to fix himself a sandwich.

Daytime was better. He still felt tired, of course, knew his magic was on the fritz a bit, but he was better able to process what Hermione had said the previous night once he’d dozed for near an hour and woken up with sunlight pouring over his face. Though his mind-healer, Abby, had explained about sleep-deprivation and hallucinations for a wizard, he’d not paid too much attention because at that point it hadn’t gotten so bad. Some floating sparkles, or Dobby suddenly appearing to chat with him for a minute. So Harry hadn’t thought much about it until she’d gone on holiday. She'd suggested he see a colleague of hers in the meantime, that he'd benefit from a steady presence that he could talk to, but it hadn't occurred to him that those possible “repercussions” she'd mentioned might manifest in any real way.

Still, he was disturbed enough by how quickly he’d devolved into such a confused state when everything had seemed so simple—if unsettling—a few days ago. He owled Hermione for a rundown of the previous night to make sure he’d gotten it right, from her mention of his disoriented imagination to the magical core thing. Her response, received early in the evening, wasn’t quite as comforting as she'd been before she left:

Harry,
Yes. The unconscious overuse of magic can drain your core and effect your perception. I booked you a professional sleep cuddler who will be there promptly at nine. Try, at least, or I’ll hustle you over to St. Mungo’s so fast you’ll likely get Splinched. (At least then they might put you in a medically-induced coma!)
Hermione

Grimacing, he recalled telling her about that. Sort of.

Harry stared down at the parchment for a long while, then shrugged. His body was already beginning to wind down, becoming sluggish. He was just glad he’d remembered to do some laundry while he had a little bit of energy. Probably wouldn’t be polite to be wearing his dirty flannels when whoever-she-was arrived.

He ordered some takeaway curry, then spent a couple of hours straightening his house, not exactly sure how this cuddling thing worked. Would she stay the whole night? Or just until he got into a deep sleep? Would they have to actually—cuddle? Or was it more of a sleeping side-by-side thing? Would they talk first? Did he want to?

By the time nine o’clock rolled around, Harry felt generally listless and even more uncomfortable with the whole thing. The lassitude had started to encroach upon him, making it more difficult to accomplish anything; he couldn’t even make sense out of whatever was playing on the television, really. The colours on it were somehow too colourful, the actions too exuberant. It was fucking unnerving, especially when one long-haired actress turned to him and told him she liked his shoes.

He wasn’t even wearing any shoes.

Nine fifteen hit, and Harry didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that his cuddler hadn't shown up. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, and it felt like his heart wanted to pound out of his throat. He had to stay alert. Had to stay awake. So many things could happen while he slept. So many things he didn’t want to—

A soft knock sounded, interrupting his train of thought and Harry opened his eyes, irrationally grateful to hear it. He stumbled over to the door and stared at the man waiting here. The light from his flat poured out into the night and the man's pale cap glinted oddly in it. His face took on a wobbly, undefined shape, but Harry was pretty sure he was biting his lip.

“You’re late,” he grumbled. He left the door open and staggered back to the living room, throwing himself on the sofa. A moment later, the man joined him in the living room, slipping off his gloves and slowly unwrapping his scarf. Harry glared at him, and after another second, he shrugged out of his cloak, but for some reason chose to keep his cap on.

“Uh, yes. When I realised who the address belonged to, I—”

“Oh, god, you’re not going to make this worse than it has to be, right?” Harry sighed, shoulders tensing. “It was years ago. Call me Harry, okay? Just— I’m just Harry. And I thought you’d be a girl.”

There was a pause. The man gingerly sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. “I think my mother was hoping for one, but she seems perfectly satisfied. You’ll get over it. Unless I should leave?”

“No,” Harry said, ignoring the small voice in his head that whispered it’d be nicer this way. The cuddling. The sleep. It didn’t matter, that other bit. That man at the club—the club itself; just because he wanted things didn’t mean he expected them, or was allowed to have them. He shook his head to clear it, then sucked in a quick, startled breath. The man looked just like Malfoy. Sounded like him too—that biting tone he’d used when mentioning his mum, like the last time Harry’d seen him, just a few weeks back. Harry’s face warmed; he swallowed and decided to ignore the similarity just as dutifully as he was ignoring the way the fire in his hearth suddenly flared. “I’m—uh… I’m not sure what to do here,” he admitted, peering closely at his… Cuddler? Who seemed as ill-at-ease as Harry was. “Have you done this before?”

“Of course, I have,” Malfoy-cuddler said, straightening haughtily. Harry almost laughed. “I’m a professional.”

“Right, okay,” Harry said sardonically. “Then tell me what to do? Do we just go to bed? To sleep, I mean, to sleep.”

Curious grey eyes studied him for a minute. “We could talk for a few minutes, if you’re really— if you’d actually like me to stay? I usually talk with my clients first. Helps them relax… There are a few other things we could do.”

“Like what?” Harry asked, only slightly interested. Harry took a deep breath; a faint scent tickled his nose, and he realised that it was Malfoy-cuddler—who smelled surprisingly nice, like cool apples and something spicy—cinnamon, maybe. Cider, that was it; he smelled like cider, with just a dash of whisky.

“Sometimes we eat. Watch the muggle-box a bit, if they’re muggle-born. Play games. I can—” He hesitated, running a hand through his cap. Harry snorted.

“You can what?”

“I give, um. Foot rubs. Shoulder rubs.” Malfoy-cuddler sniffed, looking away. A bright red flag appeared over his sharp cheekbones. “For well-behaved clients who have trouble feeling soothed.” He pursed his lips. “You’ve paid for the full night, so I’m required offer them to you, since you haven’t… been inappropriate.”

Harry looked at him and Malfoy-cuddler looked steadily back, that bloom of colour over his cheeks brightening as Harry watched. Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve never— I'd probably just get more… nervous.”

“Well, if you change your mind, P— Harry. I’m a professional,” the Cuddler said again.

They lapsed into an awkward silence. Malfoy-cuddler’s features slipped periodically from undefined to as pointy as Malfoy’s face had ever been, only slightly wider and more… adult, Harry thought. Malfoy had filled into it in previous years; was unavoidably handsome now, in an aristocratic way— sharp-edged and hard-jawed, pale and steady-eyed—and it was a bit unnerving to be sitting on his sofa with someone who looked so much like him. Suddenly Malfoy, as young as he’d been back at Hogwarts, appeared behind Malfoy-cuddler’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Harry said; it was impolite not to greet someone. He knew that much, at least.

Malfoy-cuddler started; he looked behind himself, then back to Harry, who sealed his lips and glared at Malfoy resentfully for getting him into trouble. “Who’s here? If your flat is haunted and you didn’t tell us when booking…”

“No. My friend booked it for me. It’s just… I’m having a thing. It’s hard to sleep, so sometimes I—” He shook his head at Malfoy, who was unbuttoning his shirt. The bright pink slash of a scar was revealed, the tip of it widening as Malfoy undid his third button. Harry grimaced, wondering how far down it went. “There’s no one here. I think. Sorry. Go away,” he hissed, then smiled innocently at his Cuddler, who was gaping at him. “Not you.”

“Are you having visions?” Malfoy-cuddler blurted, aghast. “That’s extremely… Let’s get you into bed. Which way?”

Harry pointed, then took the hand that was slowly offered and let himself be heaved up from the relative comfort of the sofa. His cuddler led him down his hallway, peeking first into the closed door that led to Harry’s office, then to the door that led to his room. He guided Harry to the bed, face set, then pushed him to a sit on the edge of it, eyes flicking around. “Your loo?”

Harry pointed again, and Malfoy-cuddler removed a small leather pouch from his pocket. “Pyjamas,” he explained, when he saw Harry glancing at it. “It’s more comfortable for both parties, generally. I can keep on my regular attire if you’re more—”

“No!” Harry said, alarmingly fast. His face felt hot. It surely had more to do with the way his wardrobe in the corner was setting off thick waves of steam into his normally freezing room than the lightning-fast thought that he'd like to see what his brain put Malfoy-cuddler in to sleep. He cleared his throat when Malfoy-cuddler’s eyes widened. “I just mean, it’s better to be comfortable. It’s a good idea, is all.”

“Shall I, then?” Malfoy-cuddler made a gesture to the en suite, and Harry nodded. “I won’t be long. You should change as well. Normal sleep attire would be best.”

“If only I slept normally,” Harry joked. Malfoy-cuddler cracked a smile that felt a bit pitying, then he disappeared into the bathroom. Harry listlessly Accio-d his clean pair of cotton pyjama bottoms, then wiggled out of his jeans, tossing them to the floor. He kept his t-shirt on—it was one of his older ones, soft and comfortable—and scooted over, feeling the pit in his stomach tighten and get heavy.

He heard the sounds of the faucet, the flush of the toilet. A few minutes lapsed, drawn out elastically, until every one of Harry’s muscles was protesting with tension, shaking even. The whole thing suddenly felt intimidating; his first time in bed with a man he didn't know, someone who was… attractive, and smelled nice, and had offered to rub his shoulders. Harry kept his eyes trained on the door, waiting. And waiting.

He was about to fire the man through the door of the loo when it finally opened. Malfoy-cuddler stepped out, wearing a set of soft black pyjamas, slippery like satin. His feet were bare and pale, with high arches and bony toes; his collarbone—angular, jutting attractively—was exposed where he’d left the top button of his shirt open, just below his Adam’s apple, which bobbed as he padded closer on near-silent feet. Harry thought it was odd he’d chosen to keep his cap on, but perhaps Malfoy-cuddler had anticipated how cold his room would get. Either way, Harry decided it wasn’t his place to ask, so he simply watched as Malfoy-cuddler stopped at the edge of the bed, fingers straying to the duvet. “May I?”

Harry nodded wordlessly.

Malfoy-cuddler climbed atop the mattress, eschewing getting in under the covers the way Harry had. Harry’s room was still hot, anyway, but he found himself regretting that he’d chosen to forego the heavy press of blankets atop him; to not being able to huddle close to someone and be cocooned by them. Harry took off his glasses, dropping them onto his nightstand, then scooted over slightly to allow for more room and turned his head to look at the man in his bed. Veiled grey eyes blinked at him. “Were you looking for more of a sleep partner than a professional cuddler?” Malfoy-cuddler asked, voice low and serious. “Or is it just that it’s me?”

“Oh. No,” Harry said, feeling slow and stupid, “I was just… being polite. I’d forgot that part.”

“Any positions you prefer?”

“What?” Harry blurted. His cock, half-hard—and dutifully ignored since Harry’d first smelled the man—twitched. He rolled slightly, pulling his thigh up to disguise the way it was starting to tent his pyjama bottoms. He Accioed the throw blanket from the bottom of the bed and draped it over himself, then turned back to Malfoy-cuddler, whose cheeks were tinged with pink again.

“Sleeping positions,” he clarified after clearing his throat. His eyes gleamed oddly at Harry, his nostrils flaring. He broke his gaze and tugged on part of the blanket. “If I could...”

“Sure. I, uhm… I sleep on my side,” Harry said lamely as Malfoy-cuddler took a portion of the blanket and spread it over himself. “I mean, I wake up on my stomach usually, but I fall asleep on my side.”

“Stomach sleepers often prefer to be held against the chest,” Malfoy-cuddler murmured, almost too low for Harry to hear. “It satisfies both positions; the press of your front against something, while lying on your side. We could try that?”

“I guess,” Harry said cautiously, scooting closer. Malfoy-cuddler spread his arm out along Harry’s pillow, expectantly, as if it were just that easy for Harry to press against him, to nestle into him and let a man’s arm wrap around his shoulders, to bury his nose in the heat of Malfoy-cuddler’s throat. His cock throbbed again. He rolled abruptly, facing away. “I mean, no. Like this is fine.”

“Alright.”

Harry felt the man fit himself gently against Harry’s back, knees crooking inside his own bent ones, the lanky line of his body pressed flush. One arm disappeared—under his head, maybe—while the other slid over the cotton of Harry’s shirt. Harry’s stomach muscles jumped at the touch of those long fingers, warmer than they looked considering how pale they were. The hand settled on his stomach as the man curled around him, and Harry let go of a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. He could even feel the man’s cock, soft, against his buttocks. “Oh,” he said, a little wonderingly. The ball of nerves in his chest began to unravel with the protective press behind him.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. “You… You smell good.”

There was a pause. Then, “Thank you; you do too. Like,” Malfoy-cuddler’s voice grew bemused, “treacle tart. Really… Harry?”

“What?” Harry said defensively. “I like it.”

“I hope it wasn’t all you had for dinner.” The hand on his stomach flattened, pinky skimming Harry’s far hipbone. Harry jerked, then forced himself to settle.

“Curry,” Harry said on a yawn. His body felt heavy, but the strange stupor that had followed him around lately, like the drizzliest, most depressing of London’s rains, seemed to have dissipated just a touch. “Then treacle tart.”

“I prefer biscuits,” the man said, voice low and even in Harry’s ear.

“What kind?” Harry asked, nestling deeper into the man’s arms. His eyes were heavy.

“Sugar. They’re nice with a cup of tea in the morning.”

“At least I don’t eat biscuits for breakfast,” Harry said. He felt the rumble of soft laughter against his back, and smiled drowsily. His eyes drooped closed and his mind began to feed him odd images. He tensed slightly; rather than letting the lethargy overtake him, the sensation of being on the precipice of sleep wound him up. “Why—why were you in the loo for so long? I heard the toilet flush almost right away,” he added, then felt like a right berk for bringing up pissing habits while in bed with a stranger.

“You should try not to fight it. You’ve got someone with you. I’ve signed a binding contract and you’re safe. You’ve got me with you, and you’re safe, Harry,” Malfoy-cuddler said, then cuddled him closer. He rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder; his hair brushed against Harry’s ear, and his voice was warm and deep and quiet. “Also, rest assured I’m not the sort to take a shit in your restroom without flushing.”

Harry barked a surprised laugh. He let himself press into the deceptively lean body behind him; the man hummed approvingly. “I wasn’t asking that,” Harry said, mouth curled up.

“Oh.” A beat passed. “I wasn’t doing anything untoward in there, either,” he said, and Harry’s face flamed hot. “Just a series of charms and meditations; things to regulate my body and get me into the right mind-state. It’s important to not let your own—issues, thoughts, et. cetera, get in the way of your first priority, which is to help soothe your client.”

“Is it distasteful?” Harry asked when Malfoy-cuddler made no other reference to what Harry hadn’t realised he’d been asking. “Sleeping with strangers?”

There was a huff of warm breath against the back of Harry’s neck; he tried not to shiver. “Sometimes it’s… more pleasant than others,” the man said diplomatically after a moment. “Sometimes not as fraught with other implications.”

Harry’s shoulders went tight again. He started to scoot away, but Malfoy-cuddler stayed him, flat palm a sturdy, stubborn press against Harry’s midsection. “What?” His lips ghosted coolly against the back of Harry’s ear, then away as he sighed. “I apologise, Potter. I shouldn’t have made reference.”

“How’d you know?” Harry said. His voice came out raw and unattractive. “Did something show up in the papers? I haven’t been reading them, and Ron and Hermione wouldn’t bring it up if it did. I keep waiting for the reporters to start camping outside again.”

The pause seemed thoughtful this time; loaded. Slowly, the hand on his stomach came up, skimming over his ribcage then moving along his arm lightly, cupping his bicep as it kept going. Then long fingers were kneading his shoulder, a firm thumb digging into the muscle. Harry groaned involuntarily.

“I don’t read the papers, either,” Malfoy-cuddler said conversationally, tone still modulated. There was a bit of a rustle, a shift and dip in the mattress. Then two hands were rubbing him, pushing deep into tissues that felt like they’d been kinked up for months.

“That—that feels good,” Harry managed. His eyes slipped shut again.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“To make me feel good?” Harry mumbled.

A scoff sounded, but it didn’t seem unkind. “I suppose. To make you feel like you’re not alone. Not an assurance I would have expected that you—of all people—would need.”

“Yeah. S’hard to get… to meet new… to even… when you’re me. That feels really good,” Harry said again. He twisted a little, caught a glimpse of Malfoy-cuddler’s face, screwed up with concentration, the corner of his lower lip trapped between his teeth. His eyes, still doing that glint-y thing, flicked up to Harry’s face, and he gave a rather self-conscious, awkward shrug, then looked back to his hands—which were sort of heavenly on Harry’s shoulders, he had to admit. Harry turned again, resting his cheek against the pillow. “You called me Potter,” he said sleepily.

“Oh. Yeah.” Malfoy-cuddler chuckled a little as his thumb found a spot that had Harry groaning again. “Frankly, I’m having trouble enough coping with the idea that I’m not allowed to hex you. Not that I want to, anymore,” he said, then obliquely added, “Usually.”

“What?”

“Relax, Potter. Harry. I’m joking,” Malfoy-cuddler said. “That contract. Surely whoever booked my services—Granger, I’m guessing?—was careful enough to look over the clause about physical harm.”

“Fuck, you sound so much like him,” Harry whispered as he absorbed the posh, clipped tones of Malfoy-cuddler’s voice.

“Like who?” Malfoy-cuddler asked softly.

Harry shook his head, as much as he was able. There were warm, strong fingers massaging his shoulders, and the length of another body pressed against him, curled around him, tight, like sometimes in the Forest with his friends, and nothing at all like when he would wake up as a boy alone in his cupboard. “He would never,” Harry got out on a long breath, and then he fell asleep.

Malfoy smirked at him, mouth curling, one pale brow arched. “It’s not healthy, Potter,” he drawled, so much like Snape that Harry scowled.

“It is if I want it to be,” Harry insisted. He brandished his wand, and it was just like Hogwarts; it felt good to have that magical energy gathering in his wrist, felt good to have Malfoy shift against him, eyes flickering with fear. He poked Malfoy in the hip with his wand, and that felt even better, so he did it again.

“It’ll hurt you if you go too long; that kind of depletion of your energy needs to be built up again slowly,” Malfoy told him imperiously. He didn’t even move away from Harry’s wand, instead reaching out with one finger to prod Harry in the chest. Harry’s scowl deepened. “I’m serious, Potter. Come on, now.”

“And I’m supposed to listen to you, why now?” Harry demanded, glaring. He rubbed his wand against Malfoy’s hip again, for good measure. “You never even talk to me for more than five minutes before rushing away.”

“Potter!” Malfoy growled. “Wank up!”

“I’m not wanking in front of you,” Harry snapped after only considering for an hour or two. He wondered what Malfoy’s cock looked like, so he rubbed his wand against him again, staring at Malfoy’s crotch. Malfoy made a pained sound. The thick line of his cock could be seen clearly through his satin pyjamas.

“You bloody idiot! Wake! Up!” Malfoy said, gasping a little as Harry reached for him curiously. He’d never actually touched another cock, but Malfoy’s looked pretty nice, even if Malfoy himself was being a giant tosser. Malfoy’s hand snapped out; it caught around his wrist, halting him. “Harry,” he said plaintively.

Well, that was weird, Malfoy calling him that, Harry thought. He frowned; he really needed to pee.

Harry blinked his eyes open. It took a couple of tries, grainy as they were from sleep. Everything looked soft-edged without his glasses, but bright sunlight flooded in through the window in his room, spilling as far as his bed even, which meant it must be—

“Merlin,” he muttered, voice rusty. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Malfoy said, sounding relieved. Harry was facing him and he snuggled closer, one arm thrown tight around Malfoy’s middle, his body held against his side, a leg thrown over his two. One of Malfoy’s arms was under his neck, and Harry thought idly that he should have just accepted Malfoy’s offer the previous night to start out in this position; it was a good one. He rocked a little, biting his lip as his cock rubbed against the bone of Malfoy’s narrow hip. Malfoy made a small, high sound, and Harry blinked again, suddenly aware that his eyes had drifted back shut.

“Oh. I never sleep that late. In fact, I never even…” Harry trailed off, then looked up and froze.

Malfoy—Draco Malfoy, the real Draco Malfoy, his brain supplied—stared back at him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, mouth soft and parted. His white-blond hair was tousled and as Harry watched, he dragged an agitated hand through it, ruffling it further. “I know,” Malfoy told him shortly. “It’s a dangerous side effect for wizards. It took me near an hour to coax you out of it; I hadn’t realised you were that far gone last night. Have you even heard of a magical coma? I was considering Apparating you to Mungo’s,” he said resentfully.

“What are you doing here?” Harry demanded, finding his voice. His hands automatically slid up, leg dragging over Malfoy’s stomach as he straddled him, rolling atop him in a swift move to detain him. His hands clamped over Malfoy’s wrists, and Malfoy’s mouth sagged open.

“What the bloody fuck, Potter!” He squirmed beneath Harry indignantly, just enough to make Harry aware of another problem. Harry blinked and lifted himself into a higher straddle, away from Malfoy’s body.

“How’d you get in here?” Harry repeated. “What’d you do to my— to the—” He stopped. Malfoy’s astonished, angry expression melted away into a sneer.

“You are kidding me,” he spat. “Just how deep have your delusions gotten? Get the fuck off me!”

Blood roaring in his ears, Harry released Malfoy’s wrists and climbed off him, scooting back and reaching for his wand, tucked safely beneath his pillow. “That was you last night?” he checked, unable to keep the shock out of his tone. “Why in the name of Merlin would you even want to— to—”

Malfoy sat up, rubbing at his wrists. “Some of us,” he said sourly, “take pride in being able to perform our jobs well. Even when they’re unpalatable.”

Harry stared at him uncomprehendingly. At length, he asked, “What happened last night?”

Malfoy stood up, grabbing his wand from the nightstand and Summoning the little leather pouch. “You were about two sleepless nights away from turning squib, apparently,” he bit out. “I’m under obligation of contract to inform you that you—obviously—need at least another week of decent sleep. Minimum six hours in a row per every twenty-four, else you risk irreparable damage to your magical core.” He stalked to the bathroom, then turned and faced Harry again. “And now I’d say we’re as even as we’re ever going to get.”

Malfoy slammed the door.

Gaping, Harry stared at it for a few moments before his bladder urgently reminded him he needed to move. He grabbed his glasses and gingerly stood up, body still uncoordinated from such a heavy sleep, then hobbled across the hall and took a few precious moments in the guest loo to relieve himself and rinse his mouth out. He looked in the mirror when he was done; the wan, greyish pallor of his face had faded, as had the dullness of his eyes. He still had shadows under them, and there was a deep pillow crease across one cheek, but he looked… better. He felt better.

Thoughtfully, he made his way down the hall to the kitchen, automatically setting a kettle on and sending periodic glances in the direction of his bedroom. He just didn’t… get it. That Malfoy would stay the night, would hold him while he slept.

He’d thought about Malfoy occasionally over the last few years. Until they’d begun running into each other with increasing regularity— then he’d thought about him a lot. Far more than was entirely comfortable, really, Harry admitted. He pondered the change in Malfoy’s hairstyle—falling naturally rather than being slicked back, slightly shorter; it even had a bit of a wave—the new way he’d held himself, far more controlled than before the war, chin up and eyes darting warily. Considered the aspects about him that made Harry unable to look away when they found themselves in the same place.

The first time had been at the apothecary six months back, when Malfoy had joined him in the queue, nodding like he didn’t expect to get acknowledged. When Harry had smiled and nodded back—too stunned by the attraction spiking through him to assume Malfoy would behave as he always had—Malfoy had relaxed fractionally; enough, at least, to ask what Harry was buying that day. It gave Harry leave to ask after Malfoy’s mum, and they’d parted amicably, only to run into each other two weeks later at a Quidditch game.

Harry had been sure he’d been seated next to someone else, but at the end of the match he’d turned and been surprised to see Malfoy there, looking after the players as they walked off the pitch. Malfoy had been surprised to see him too, and they’d talked for almost an hour about the game—Falcons versus Harpies—and other things before Malfoy had abruptly taken his leave, barely saying goodbye before he’d Apparated away.

And each subsequent interaction was like that, too: Malfoy showing cautious interest and warmth, even smiling a few times—laughing once—before he would get a shifty look on his face and Apparate or scurry to the nearest Floo. They saw each other with amazing regularity, particularly as Harry didn’t go out all that often these days, at least not to places he was likely to run into the crowds. But four-to-one odds were that when he did, he’d see Malfoy and share a few moments of conversation before Malfoy would disappear and leave Harry contemplating their interaction for the rest of the day. The most recent had been at a new pub in Diagon, where Malfoy had approached him at the bar while the bartender’s back was turned and offered the name of a new drink that had—after Harry’d ordered it—sat heavy and sticky-sweet on his tongue, but had gotten him pissed in record time.

Still, none of that compared to sleeping in someone’s arms after they’d tried to cast an Unforgivable at you. None of it compared to them holding you close and telling you that you were safe, when you’d onced slashed them to ribbons with your wand.

The kettle whistled and Harry got up as he heard the soft tread of footsteps. Malfoy paused outside the kitchen, probably to gather his things, which Harry had seen draped over one of the chairs in the sitting room. He finished preparing the tea then sat, just in time for Malfoy to go walking past the entrance to the kitchen.

“Malfoy,” he blurted.

Malfoy hesitated, one hand on the door. He turned his head in Harry’s direction, but didn’t look at him. “What.”

“I—I fixed some tea,” Harry said with a swallow. He nudged the other cup across the table. “I don’t have any sugar biscuits, but—” When Malfoy didn’t move, Harry sighed. “I’m sorry, alright? I’ve been out of it, as you could tell. I thought we could talk for a minute. I wanted to ask about—” Harry shifted uncomfortably, “—about the squib thing you mentioned. About what you do.”

Looking as though he’d rather drink blended Flobberworm than Harry’s tea, Malfoy let out a small breath that made his white-blond fringe fan up like a snow flurry before it settled. He took two long strides into the room and pulled out the chair opposite Harry, lowering himself onto the edge of it in a weird, inflexible, I’m-about-to-bolt perch. “I’m not on the clock anymore, Potter.”

“Oh?” Harry leaned back, studying him. He was wearing light grey trousers and a soft green jumper over a white button-down with a perfectly-knotted tie at the collar. His hair was no longer the sleep-tangled mess it had been several minutes prior, and he seemed completely composed but for the fact that he still wasn’t looking directly at Harry. “How long did Hermione, er, contract you for?”

“Ten hours,” Malfoy said, picking up the cup of tea and giving it a dubious sniff. He blew on it gently, steam wafting away from him, then took a sip and gave a grudging nod, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “It’s not horrible.”

“I’m handy in the kitchen,” Harry said. He took a sip of his own, then Summoned some sugar and added a bit more, offering it to Malfoy and putting it down between them when Malfoy shook his head. “So you stayed an extra four hours? Why?”

Malfoy paused. “Like I said, I wasn’t about to get blamed for the Saviour,” he said, with just a touch of his former sneer, “going Squib, even if the contract had been fulfilled. Besides which,” he added, voice tight, “I did owe you.”

“So that’s what it was?” For something to do Harry took another gulp of the tea, wincing as it burned the roof of his mouth. He set down his cup and looked at Malfoy squarely. “A fear of getting blamed, and debt?”

“And professionalism,” Malfoy said with a nod. “Yes.”

“I sort of thought… Whenever we see each other lately, things haven’t been... like this,” Harry admitted unhappily. “You seemed nicer than this last night.”

Malfoy snorted. “So did you. But I was on the clock and you were seeing imaginary men behind me and apparently didn’t even recognise me, so…”

“I did,” Harry said awkwardly. “Recognise you, that is.” Malfoy’s gaze met his again, then swerved away. “I just didn’t realise that it was you, you. I’ve been—with my friends, even—I’ve been… They don’t always look like themselves when I see them lately.”

“Merlin, Potter.”

“Yeah.” Harry thought for a moment, eyes on the warm scarred wood of his kitchen table. “Why’d you— How’d you— How’d you start doing this? How does your father feel about it?”

Malfoy observed him over the rim of his cup for a couple of beats, then lowered it and smirked. “He loathes it,” he offered, with such a rich sense of satisfaction that Harry couldn’t help his stunned little laugh. “I’ll be billing you for the extra time,” he added.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make a complaint, or make this public” Malfoy said. “I generally Glamour my appearance with clients.” He swallowed, looking away. “The agency knows my identity, of course, but I… I prefer privacy.”

“I won’t make a complaint,” Harry told him. “I, uh, prefer privacy, too.”

“Yes, well yours is assured by means of the contract. Which you should have read,” Malfoy returned, sniffing. “Don’t you know better than to let a stranger—or someone you thought was a stranger—into your house? Into your bed?” He smirked. “Or is that something you do all the time?”

“Fuck off, I was—” Harry blushed and sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted when I woke up. It was… decent of you. To stay. To help.”

“I’m a wonderful person,” Malfoy said flatly.

Harry tried to bite back another laugh but really, he reasoned as he began snickering, why bother. Malfoy’s mouth ticked up to one side, as he watched Harry. Harry managed to get control of himself and rubbed a hand over his face. “So Hermione only booked the one night then?”

“What?” Malfoy blinked. “Yes. I could find you someone if you’d like another—”

“You’re not free again?” Harry blurted, then promptly shut his mouth with a click of teeth. Heat rose in his cheeks.

“I— I—” Looking mystified, Malfoy shook his head so vigorously his carefully-styled blond hair flew up, dishevelling it once more. It was a better look on him, Harry thought, then blushed deeper. “I don’t usually take overnight calls.”

“Oh.” Unsure why he was so disappointed, Harry nodded. “Then why last night?”

“It was a last-minute booking, for a high-paying client,” Malfoy said slowly. “They knew I was free. And I’m—good at my job.”

“What kind of appointments do you usually take?” Harry asked. “I mean, maybe I could book you for those six hours you said I need, earlier.” At Malfoy’s stunned expression, Harry hastily added, “It’s just—you already know who I am, and, and.” He pursed his lips. “I mean, I did get some sleep.”

“My appointments are sporadic,” Malfoy said. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Throughout the day, I mean. Usually one to two hours apiece. I have steady clients, so I wouldn’t be able to spare a solid six hours—seven would be better, to allow you time to fall asleep—during the day.”

Harry grimaced; it occurred to him that he was basically begging Malfoy to— to cuddle him. He lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “Right. That’s fine. I just wondered. Discretion and stuff, you know. I already know you, so it wouldn’t be like… I mean, I wouldn’t have to worry that—”

“Know me?” Malfoy asked incredulously. “Potter, are you forgetting we hate each other?”

“We don’t hate each other,” Harry said, surprised. He cleared his throat. “I mean, we manage to get on well enough when we run into each other. You’re not the person I’d ever ask if I needed help moving, but… I got over that stuff, with us, a long time ago,” he said. Fairness made him add, somewhat stiffly, “For the most part. I’m sorry if you haven’t.”

Malfoy seemed at a loss for words. One shoulder hitched up. “I have, I suppose,” he said, sucking his upper lip between his teeth before releasing it. Harry’s throat tightened. “For the most part. But running into someone at the pub and recommending a drink is a lot different than—”

Harry grinned. “I thought of that, too.”

“I mean, I could—” Malfoy broke off. His eyes were trained on his hands, fiddling with his cup of tea. Though they were perfectly clean, he wiped them studiously on a napkin. At length, he exhaled hard and looked back up. “It’s a short-term appointment, right? You’d just be needing someone in the interim while you reset your magical core?”

“I guess. Yeah, sure,” Harry said.

“I could make an exception, then. For a f— for an acquaintance, though it’s not the most...” Malfoy frowned slightly, then gave a tiny shake of his head. “I’d be able to book you for the full ten,” he added. “Until your sleep routine steadies.”

Harry started to object, an automatic, you don’t have to coming to his lips at Malfoy’s grudging tone, but he held it back. He didn’t know why it felt so important for it to be Malfoy, but he’d since he’d already manoeuvred him into agreeing, it’d be ridiculous to turn down the offer. And he was clear-headed enough—at the moment, at least—to know that he felt better after having slept.

Harry cleared his throat. “Thanks. Er, anything I need to know?”

“I’ll send over a contract for a week,” Malfoy said, taking what sounded to be the last sip of his tea. “You’ll want to stay away from draining magic—difficult spells, defensive or offensive magic—during the day, and try not to doze or cat-nap, as well, because that could hinder your ability to fall asleep. If your sleep hasn’t stabilised within that time—”

“Got it,” Harry interjected. “I’ll get someone new.”

Malfoy looked at him strangely. “Have you always been this…”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“No, what?” Harry prodded. “Have I always been this, what?”

“Annoying,” Malfoy snapped. “I was going to say ‘annoying,’ but then I remembered you always have been, so.” He glowered for a moment and swiveled in his chair as though he were about to launch off it. “I can’t be here before ten tonight.”

“Okay. So ten to eight?”

“Yes.” Malfoy stood up, looking around for a second. “Have—whoever does your reading for you read the contract through and owl it back before six. Will you be fine in the meantime? You said something about the later it gets…”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry assured him, though he wasn’t entirely positive. But at least this time if he decided to top spaghetti with melted peanut butter as a sauce, he’d have someone there to tell him it was daft. He stood up too. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

Malfoy looked at him, at the outstretched hand Harry offered. He gave Harry a strained smile—or what looked like was meant to be a smile—and took it, giving it two short, sterile pumps before pulling away. “I’ll see you tonight, then,” Malfoy said, voice low and just a touch inquisitive.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Harry said, then winced. “Here. I’ll be here.”

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, snorted, then gathered his scarf from the table and wound it around his neck. Without another word, he turned and left. The kitchen continued to smell like warm cider for a long while after.

“Shhh!”

Harry halted in place, automatically bringing his wand up and looking around. But there was no one save Ron, sitting on his sofa with a palm held up.

“I wasn’t making any noise,” Harry objected, lowering his voice when Ron shushed him again.

“’Mione’s asleep,” Ron whispered. Harry walked over and sat down next to him. “She’s working the late training rotation lately, you know, not sleeping enough.”

“Wonder what that’s like,” Harry said sarcastically, and Ron huffed a laugh. Harry smiled. “When’s she supposed to be up?”

“Soon. Why? What do you need?” Ron tilted his head, mouth relaxing as he studied Harry. “You look better,” he said, surprised. “The cuddler thing worked, then?”

Sheepish, Harry nodded. “Yeah. And—” His mouth twisted; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or frown, so he did neither. Or both. “It was Malfoy.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “Draco Malfoy?” he shouted.

“No; Lucius,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Morning, Hermione.”

Ron spun around, face falling. He gave Hermione an apologetic look as she padded out to the living room in a fluffy dressing gown and picked up the cup of coffee on the table, which was sitting under a stasis charm. “Sorry,” Ron murmured, accepting her sleepy cheek kiss. “I was going to give you another thirty.”

“It’s fine, I was already awake.” She yawned, directing sleepy brown eyes at Harry. “Did I hear you right? Your cuddler was Malfoy? I didn't know he was doing that.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, me neither. I actually—don't know much about what he's doing at all, lately. I've never even asked,” he added sheepishly, feeling like a bastard. He held out the scroll that contained the contract. “I looked at this, but was hoping you could double-check it for me? My solicitor isn’t answering his Floo.”

“You realise I’m in Healer training, not legal, right?” Hermione asked, taking it from him.

Harry paused. “And?”

Hermione laughed, nodding. “Alright then.”

“So, wait, did you…” Ron directed a glance to Hermione as she perused the document, then turned back to Harry. “Are you saying you cuddled with Malfoy?”

Harry nodded self-consciously. “Yeah. He—from what I can remember, he seemed pretty good at his job. Even when I wasn’t, uh, pleasant with him in the morning when I realised who he was.” He decided to leave out the bit about the way Malfoy smelled. “It worked.” He shrugged. “I slept.”

“But he’s— Malfoy,” Ron said.

Cringing a bit, Harry gave another, more helpless shrug. “So?” He met Ron’s eyes, which widened after a moment, then blinked several times in succession.

Ron looked at Hermione, who glanced up and between them for a moment, then began scanning the parchment again. He spread his hands. “So nothing, Harry. But, mate…” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “D’you feel safe? He might try to… hurt you or something. I know he's kept clean and you see him, but....”

Harry smiled crookedly and started to respond, but was interrupted by Hermione, voice absent as she continued to read. “He can’t. While he’s under contract, he can’t cause any physical harm to his client; it was one of the first things I checked for when I booked someone for Harry.” She looked up. “This all looks fine, really.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. I just wanted another set of eyes,” Harry said, taking it back from her. He looked at Ron. “I’m not seeing him,” he said defensively. “We run into each other. Occasionally. Like normal people. Friendly.”

“Nobody else is running into him,” Ron said under his breath.

“What?” Harry stared at him, trying to figure out what Ron meant, but Ron suddenly wouldn't meet his eyes.

“It’s fairly standard,” Hermione said, bringing the topic back. “Follows along with the contract for yesterday, only it’s set for a week. Ten-hour bookings, all-inclusive.”

“I wondered about that part,” Harry admitted, flushing. “He said something about—” He waved a vague hand. “Dinner and watching television and—and other stuff.”

“Pretty much everything except for violence of any sort is allowed. Or making intentional sexual advances; that’s grounds for immediate dismissal as a client. But you can talk and be held all night without sleeping, if that’s what you want. Don’t not sleep,” she added with a severe look, “but you could.

She waited, seeming to expect some sort of response, but Harry was still caught on the word “intentional.” He hadn’t been so far gone as to not remember what had happened when he woke up, which was compounded into awfulness by the sheer grace with which Malfoy hadn’t even alluded to it. Maybe being half-asleep was what made unintentional sexual advances okay. Although—

“I, er… I did sort of pin him down this morning,” Harry admitted, wincing.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, dismayed. She shared a look with Ron that Harry couldn’t quite interpret, and then didn’t need to when she continued, “Why couldn’t it have been the other?”

“You want me to intentionally touch him?” Harry asked, gaping.

Ron ran a hand over his face and he sighed. “Not Malfoy,” he muttered. His face had gone pale, his freckles stood out starkly. “Unless you wanted to— Just… I mean…” He looked at Hermione again, and Harry did too; she gave Ron an encouraging little nod, her mouth set in a soft frown. “We’re worried you’re… lonely. You haven't gone anywhere since you tried that club,” Ron muttered, face going red, “and saw the reporter there. Maybe that's one of the reasons this whole thing has gotten so bad.”

Harry glared at him—then, for good measure, Hermione too. “I’m not a total moron,” he said defensively. After a third look between his best friends, he threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! There’s probably a connection, is that what I should say? But not being lonely isn’t going to make my dreams go away,” he added, throat suddenly dry.

“We know, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes had softened. She inhaled slowly; a tiny crinkle appeared between her eyes. “We just want you to be happy.”

Harry wondered if they, inexplicably, thought he didn’t want to be happy, but the concern on their faces was too much to bear, and he didn’t ask. He stood, clutching the furled contract tightly in his hand. “Thanks for looking this over for me,” he said. “I’ll owl you guys in a couple of days, okay?”

“Harry,” Hermione said helplessly. Harry saw Ron touch her knee lightly, his blue eyes steady on Harry’s face, and Harry felt a flash of gratitude as she fell silent.

He waved goodbye at the Floo and forced a smile as the flash of green carried him back to his own flat. Then he Summoned a quill and signed the contract with a flourish before attaching it to Allegra, his somber-eyed barn owl. She gave him a soft hoot and nipped his fingertip affectionately before flying out. Harry watched her go and wondered exactly what the fuck he was doing.

Chapter Text

It started about two hours after sunset. Though Harry had known he wasn't cured, obviously, he still felt a sharp pang of disappointment when the first dizzy spell hit. He was doing some research when the book we was holding suddenly seemed to flapped at him, its pages fluttering in his hands. With a sigh, he set it aside and looked around for something else to do; usually he was able to forestall the worst of the effects by intently focusing on other tasks until he… well, he wasn't sure how to phrase it. Became too exhausted? Ran down his magical core to its last dregs?

He checked the clock on his mantle—it was just before eight, which meant he still had over two hours before Malfoy came through his floo. He ticked his eyes to it automatically; he had sent another note to Malfoy with his floo address shortly after his owl had returned, and received a Yes, Potter, thank you. Am heading to an appointment; please have your owl harass someone else for a while in return. Incredibly, Malfoy's tetchiness had made him smile rather than regret following this through.

Malfoy’s arrival in his mind, Harry spent a bit of time adjusting his floo and ward settings. He was getting hungry, but had an idea that he and Malfoy should maybe try the whole sharing-of-dinner thing; there were probably things they should discuss before they got in any deeper. Anyway, the dinner he’d prepared would just go to waste if he tried to eat it by himself. Even now, the rich scent of roasted beef and caramelized onions and carrots, kept hot by a stasis charm, was permeating his flat. The sweeter smell of freshly baked bread made it worse.

To better resist temptation, Harry went to his room, narrowly dodging a row of sharp-toothed baby dragons on the way. He looked around for a minute, noting his sheets were the same boring, red cotton he'd had for years. He Summoned the few other sets he had, then—when he couldn't find any he liked—spent a while transfiguring his nicest set, with the highest thread count; they’d been a gift from Hermione, who insisted he needed “adult sheets” but still clearly thought him too unimaginative to do justice to anything other than plain white. Running through options, he finally worked them into the soft grey he decided would look good in his room. To spite Hermione, Harry even added little curlicues of silver threading at the fold-down. He then got to work on his duvet, softening and fluffing it, ridding it of the tiny golden snitches that fluttered around the edges and changing it to grey as well, darkening the shade a bit.

He glanced up, noticed the lack of bed hangings for the first time in six years, and swished his wand until a white gauzy material draped from bedpost to bedpost and curtained the top, sagging in the middle and giving his bed a relaxing, dreamy quality. Satisfied, he turned and began cleaning up in more depth than he had the previous night, clearing books and aligning them on his bookshelf, filing away stacks of paper and scrolls, dusting.

He'd long since stopped trying to organize himself in a way other people could understand, which meant his personal spaces tended to get far… messier than the rest of the house. Still, it wasn’t too bad, just bits of parchment and quills, the stray ink stain needing to be Vanished. Harry walked around when it was finished, smiling at the gleam of his floors and desktop, casting freshening charms to make the room feel less musty overall. It still didn’t feel quite right, so Harry Summoned the candles that lived under the sink in the kitchen; the ones Ginny had insisted on buying him. They’d seemed too feminine for him at the time, scented like an apple orchard, with glittery gold and silver swirls decorating the wax. With another flick of his wand, the wicks lit up, flames dancing merrily, and Harry stepped back into his doorway to examine his bedroom with satisfaction.

It finally looked—felt—like a room that was suitable for company.

Harry wandered to the loo and made sure it was clean as well. Harry couldn’t recall having heard the shower the previous night or in the morning when Malfoy’d shut himself in there in a huff, but that didn’t mean that the situation might not arise in which he’d want to shower, and though there was a perfectly suitable bathroom across the hall, Harry’s attached en suite had a larger shower stall, and a separate… bath. Harry bit his lip, studying it for a moment, thinking of Malfoy pulling off those slippery pyjamas and lifting one long, pale leg over the rim as he—

Swallowing hard, Harry turned back toward his bedroom. It no longer looked—satisfactory. The picture of Malfoy’s lanky, naked form getting into his tub had changed Harry’s vision of the bedroom from a room clean enough to be polite for company to a room designed with fucking in mind. He stared at it in consternation, eyeing the lowered lights—when the bloody fuck had he done that?—and the sheer bed hangings, and the— Shit, had he spelled jazz music on?

Harry cast a quick charm to check the time then hurriedly began removing some of the more obvious elements from the room; the candles, the gauze. The room still smelled like an orchard, but he raised the lighting until he had to squint if he didn’t want to get a headache. Then, satisfied, he changed into his pyjamas and went back to his sitting room to wait.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of being attracted to Malfoy, Harry thought, twirling his wand between his fingers. Malfoy’d always been rather—fit; tall and slender, the way Harry preferred, with all that silky blond hair the colour of buttermilk. And Malfoy had changed over the years, from the vicious bully he’d been, though Harry had seen first-hand that most people were unaware of it. He couldn’t not notice the subtle uncertainty Malfoy held himself with now, as though on constant guard. He couldn’t help but notice the ease with which Malfoy seemed to smile, like it was something he got to do so rarely that he would take any opportunity offered. But beyond their tangled history, there was something so guarded about Malfoy, so… untouchable. It was ironic, Harry mused, that Malfoy seemed so adept at giving comfort through simple touch.

The chime of his wards alerted him, and Harry looked over to see Malfoy stepping out of the floo, ducking slightly to clear the low hanging of Harry’s mantle. Sparks went off around him, the burst of green from the fireplace flaring wide and hot, and Harry blurted, “Malfoy, watch out,” even as he stretched his wand, half-rising.

Malfoy stepped in front of him, covering Harry’s view of the fireplace so quickly, Harry blinked. “No defensive magic,” he cautioned again, as he had that morning, glancing behind himself. He sighed, giving Harry a narrow look. “Nothing there. Not feeling any better, then?”

Frowning, Harry cast another suspicious peek behind Malfoy. The fireplace looked cold and empty. “Better, yeah,” he said distractedly. “But it’s not gone.”

Malfoy simply nodded and lowered himself onto the sofa. He rubbed at his brow for a moment and muttered something under his breath, then looked up with a remarkably gentle smile. Harry blinked again.

“I didn’t expect it would be,” Malfoy said calmly. “I’d appreciate it if you put your wand away, Potter. I’d prefer not to be on the accidental end of a hex because you think I’ve turned into a Hippogriff.”

“I was never the one afraid of them,” Harry said, mouth twitching when Malfoy chuckled. Harry ticked a glance to Malfoy, then set his wand on the coffee table, within easy reach. Malfoy pulled his and set it down as well.

“I wasn’t afraid of them either,” he admitted. “Not until that beast knocked me down and tried to eat my arm.”

“You were rude to it,” Harry said lowly, remembering the trouble Malfoy’s little stunt had caused.

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Yes. I was trying to show you up.”

Surprised, Harry sat back. “I thought so, back then.”

“Well, your suspicions tended to be disturbingly accurate, where I was concerned,” Malfoy said grimly.

“Are they still?” Harry asked, lungs tight.

“I suppose… I suppose it depends on what they are, now,” Malfoy said slowly.

“What if I don't know?” Harry asked. “You don't—I've seen the way people look at you; the way you look at them. But when we see each other—” he cleared his throat, “you don't look at me that way anymore.”

“You don't look at me the way you used to, either,” Malfoy returned, eyes unreadable. Harry nodded, puppet-like, because he could do nothing else. Their meetings had left an indelible mark on his mind, becoming something to look forward to; Malfoy's wary smiles and his halting hello’s, as if he was surprised whenever Harry responded without hexing him. It hurt, somewhere deep that Harry couldn't access when he consciously pondered it.

“Well, so, we look at each other differently,” Harry said lamely. He felt like he was asking a question, but Malfoy didn't answer, instead giving him a sidelong glance, that infuriatingly small smile on his face, completely at odds with the challenge in his gaze.

Malfoy broke eye contact with him suddenly, then swooped down and plucked Harry’s legs up from the floor, settling his feet in his lap.

“What are you—?”

“Part of the job,” Malfoy told him. The tension around his mouth diminished, and he trained his gaze on the far wall as his fingers wrapped, warm, around Harry’s cold foot. One thumb slid up the arch of it, then dug into the ball under his big toe, and Harry tried not to groan with how good it felt.

“I thought that was only if I asked for it,” Harry managed. “You don’t have to.”

“Might as well; you don’t seem ready to sleep yet,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “Unless you'd rather go to bed?”

Merlin, yes. The words tasted good on his tongue and for a moment he savoured the idea of saying them out loud, thinking they'd be just as nice to hear. Wishing that Malfoy was asking him for a reason other than Harry's fucked up sleep cycle, his fucked-up history, his fucked-up dreams.

“I—uh, I thought we’d eat,” Harry said quietly, watching Malfoy’s hands massage him. He had long fingers; tapered, but sturdy too. Strong. “Do you play piano?” he blurted.

“Do I—yes. My mother made sure I took lessons in the arts,” Malfoy said. His fingers slid over Harry’s toes, bending them back to the point of slight discomfort, then releasing them. “Why?”

“No reason,” Harry said, head falling back. He wanted to scoot into a lying down position, to drape his legs completely over Malfoy’s thighs and get comfortable, but restrained himself. “Are you hungry? I waited for dinner.”

“It’s after ten—” Malfoy sucked in another breath, then bared his teeth at Harry in what he thought was supposed to be a grin. “Of course. It smells good.”

Abruptly irritated, Harry pulled his feet away. “Don’t, okay?” He got up and headed into the kitchen, pausing at the counter when a wave of dizziness hit, and his kitchen blinked into a beach around him. He heard Malfoy come up behind him and hesitate in the doorway. Harry stared into his sink drain, trying to reorient himself. “You can leave, if you want,” he muttered. “I’d rather not have you here if you’re going to be like—” He waved a hand.

There was a pause. “I eat at seven, like a civilised person,” Malfoy informed him. Harry nodded.

“Okay. I’m hungry, though. Do you mind watching me eat?” he asked his sink.

Malfoy made a huffy sound. “Only if your table manners haven’t gotten any better than they were at Hogwarts,” he said, and Harry grinned, turning around. Malfoy looked a little startled at his smile, but drew himself up and indicated Harry’s table. Harry nodded again and Malfoy sat while Harry carried over the plates of food.

“If you’re not hungry it’s fine, but just in case,” he said quietly, taking a seat.

“It’s not that I’m not; it’s just… not the done thing,” Malfoy explained, seeming to struggle for a second. His nostrils flared, looking down at the plate of roast beef and potatoes, then he shook himself slightly and plucked up his fork, stabbing into a carrot and taking a bite, almost defiantly. He chewed and swallowed quickly, took a gulp of the water Harry had already placed on the table, then pinned Harry with a hard look. “You’re not eating.”

Malfoy’s lower lip was shiny with sauce, and Harry felt his cheeks heat. “I—you’re right, sorry.” He gamely picked up his own fork and began eating, and after a few minutes in silence, Malfoy pushed his plate away. Harry looked up to see him patting his mouth with a napkin, his plate more than half-full.

“You’re finished?”

“I already ate, I said, but you go ahead and finish,” Malfoy told him. The corner of his mouth came up in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but didn’t look fake, either. “It’s good, though. Did you make it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, irrationally pleased. “Are you done being a wanker now?”

Malfoy smirked. “Well, I’ll stop treating you like you’re a regular client, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“Why the display, though? Dinner, I mean,” Malfoy asked, taking another sip of water. “Do you usually eat this late?”

Baffled, Harry looked down at his own dwindling food. “No, actually. I just—you mentioned dinner and I thought we should talk. You said—about having dinner together, so I thought…”

“Look, Potter, if you want to feed me, that’s fine. It’s your knut; what you choose to do with me here is up to you,” Malfoy said in sort of a languid, thoughtful way, setting down his water glass. “We can talk about Quidditch scores, or cooking, or the fact that I play the piano. I can massage your feet or your shoulders, or we can proceed to bed so you can get to sleep—which is really what I would suggest.” He fiddled with his napkin for another moment. “I’ll try to call you Harry if it makes you comfortable, or smile and not argue. Or even do the opposite if that’s what gets you o—” Malfoy broke off, a pale pink tinge spreading across his cheekbones. He cleared his throat. “If that’s what makes you most comfortable. But you are a client. So despite the fact that we… know each other... It’s okay to just tell me what you’d like.”

“Malfoy—” Harry stopped, frowning. “I'm more than a client,” he finally said. “And you're more than my… Professional cuddler.”

He didn't even know why it mattered, really, that Malfoy acknowledge there was something different between them now, even if if he wasn't affected by the same charge of energy that Harry was when they saw each other. But too much had passed between them, rushing like a river breaking free of a dam, and Harry refused to let Malfoy get away with hedging like that. Harry didn’t quite know what they were—not friends maybe, not...more, but Malfoy knew him a damn sight better than most people.

“I know.” The capitulation, softly spoken, threw Harry. Malfoy's mouth drew down in a little moue of displeasure. “You don't need to remind me what we are, Potter. But that doesn't make what I said any less true.”

Strangely embarrassed, Harry shook his head. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, and he regretted having eaten so quickly. “Why do you do it?”

Malfoy sucked in a breath. “I wanted to help people,” he said. “After the war, there was a need, and I help fill that need. Call it being of service to do what I can to make up for my misdeeds,” he said lightly.

Harry gazed at him. It sounded honest, but—empty. “Why else?” he asked, recalling the way Malfoy had avoided the question that morning.

Malfoy’s fingers stilled where they were absently tracing the rim of his water glass, and he looked up. His jaw ticked, eyes glinting with a sudden controlled ferocity that made Harry lean away. “The confidentially portion of the contract makes it impossible for me to share your secrets, though I can’t imagine you’d want to confide in me, anyhow.” His throat worked for a moment; Harry’s eyes were drawn to it. “But it doesn’t protect my privacy in the same way. So I’d appreciate you not questioning my motives; I’ve already answered you.”

“Oh.” Flustered, Harry considered a dozen different responses, but the unsettling twinkles of light over Malfoy’s left shoulder kept distracting him. “I guess we can just go to sleep, then.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said emphatically, looking relieved. “I’ll just head to the loo and get changed, alright?”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry,” he added belatedly.

Malfoy stood and headed out.

Harry sat for a minute, then cleared the plates before following. He stopped to use the second bath, and by the time he’d reached his bedroom, Malfoy was just coming out of the loo. Malfoy must have turned off the lights because the room was mostly dark, but for a small lamp in the corner, which glowed dimly and cast strange shadows on the wall. Without letting himself think too much about it, Harry crawled into bed and turned on his side. He pulled the blankets up high around him, just under his armpits. He felt Malfoy climb in a moment later, scooting up behind him and wrapping an arm around his midsection.

“It’s fine that it feels strange, Potter. It's that way for a lot of people,” Malfoy told him softly, after a moment. “It’s not as if it's something you'd considered before...”

Harry breathed a laugh. Malfoy still smelled of that comforting smoky blend of apples and spice, and Harry wanted to roll over and inhale him. “That one day I’d be paying you to hug me? Not in a million years. You?”

Malfoy went quiet for a minute. His hand idly stroked Harry’s stomach, and Harry shifted, trying not to notice—or not to let his body notice, at least. It wasn’t working.

“No,” Malfoy said at last. “I never thought you’d be paying me to hug you. Even recently, it’s not something I ever would have imagined.”

Harry twisted around, caught by something in Malfoy’s tone. Malfoy didn’t lift his head from the pillow; his eyes were closed, and though he must’ve sensed Harry’s movement, his stare, he didn’t open them to acknowledge it. Harry resettled, brow knit.

“You said—this morning you said you Glamour for clients,” Harry murmured. Malfoy’s hand came up and pressed, flat, against Harry’s chest, between his nipples. He could undoubtedly feel the thud of Harry’s heart getting faster, but Harry refused to move again, refused to let himself feel embarrassed just because Malfoy’s legs were tucked into his and he was pressing Harry closer against his chest. He was so bloody tired of feeling embarrassed about what people were thinking. “Why not for me? …Or is that too personal?” Harry asked, not bothering to hide the challenge.

“I didn’t think it was fair,” Malfoy admitted. “I don’t have a—a history with any of my other clients. I don't know any of them personally. If they found out about me… At the most it would be unpleasant, and I’d lose a job. With you—”

Vaguely offended, Harry started to turn again, but Malfoy kept his hand where it was, holding him in place. “You thought I’d what? Get you in trouble?”

He felt a shrug. “No. It just seemed unfair,” he repeated. Then, in an obvious bid to change the subject, “Would you like a shoulder rub, like last night?”

“No,” Harry said, though it sounded rather lovely. But his eyes were heavy, and the unhurried way Malfoy was moving his hand from his chest to his stomach—up and down—was doing more to wake him up than it was to relax him. “I think I’ll go to sleep.”

“You should,” Malfoy said, encouragingly, those posh, clipped tones going low and almost melodic. Harry jerked a little when he felt Malfoy’s hand move to give his waist a little squeeze, as if he approved. He left it there, open, fingers splayed, the heat of them bleeding through the thin cotton of Harry's shirt. “These are good sheets,” he complimented. His breath puffed, warm, over the back of Harry’s neck.

“Got them, uh, recently,” Harry said. He wiggled his hips a little, seeking more heat, then froze as he realised what he was doing. Harry didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Malfoy seemed entirely unbothered by his movements—he couldn’t even feel the slightest twitch of physical awareness. Malfoy slipped his hand down a couple of inches to Harry’s hip and tugged him in tighter, wedging their bodies together. “I like them,” Harry added inanely.

“You cleaned your room, too,” Malfoy observed. “All those papers on your desk.”

“Are now in my office,” Harry said.

“Which is where you store your mess?” Malfoy said mockingly.

“Which is where I work,” Harry said with a smile.

“Last I heard, you were a layabout,” Malfoy said.

“You heard wrong,” Harry said, but didn’t elaborate, though Malfoy’s expectant silence seemed to be asking him to. He brought the topic back. “I don’t know what you think went on in the Gryffindor tower, but we all had to make our beds the same as everyone else.”

“I never made my bed,” Malfoy said. “But trust me, whatever went on in your dorms couldn’t be nearly as interesting as I’d imagined.”

“You should have roomed with Seamus and Dean,” Harry mumbled.

“Really? And here I thought you would be the disruptive one,” Malfoy said. “Although, Finnigan…”

Harry twisted suddenly, heart catching in his throat. He turned in the nest of Malfoy’s arms, under the heavy weight of his blankets, and lay on his opposite side, keeping his hips carefully angled away. Malfoy gave a small grunt, eyes fluttering open, and situated the arm under his own head to fit beneath Harry’s shoulders, automatically dragging him closer. “Better?”

Rattled by Malfoy’s blasé attitude, Harry simply looked at him for a long moment until Malfoy’s eyes settled on his. His face was very close, still narrow after all these years, with high cheekbones and a patrician nose that pointed down at the tip. His jaw had gotten a bit wider, squaring off a touch, and when he wasn’t sneering, his lips were surprisingly shapely, though thin. As Harry watched, one side curled up curiously.

“Potter?” Malfoy sounded uncertainly amused.

Harry swallowed, letting his own hand skate up Malfoy’s ribcage—he could feel the slight ridges under the smooth material of his pyjamas—and rest there. Malfoy tensed under his hand; relaxed. Harry’s breath caught at the sudden urge he had to close the distance between them. He wondered if pressing his mouth to someone’s throat could be considered an intentional sexual advance.

“They were a couple,” he blurted.

Malfoy blinked. “Finnigan and Thomas?”

“Yeah.” Harry cleared his throat. “They still are. They just adopted a little girl.”

“Oh.” Malfoy hesitated. He snorted out of nowhere. “So you’ve been missing sleep for years, then.”

Reassured, Harry nodded. “And—” Harry took a breath, bracing himself and drawing away slightly. Malfoy’s brow creased. “You can’t say anything?”

This time Malfoy’s pause was noticeably lengthier. A muscle near his eye jumped. “Assured confidentiality doesn’t make me a Mind Healer, Potter. And I wouldn’t want to be yours, if I was one. But no. I can’t. Not without potentially—probably—losing my own tongue in a very unpleasant nondisclosure curse. Whatever you decide to tell me,” he said, stressing it as though he wished Harry wouldn’t tell him anything, “will remain between us.”

“It’s the same, you know,” Harry said. “I mean, I wouldn’t—”

“But we’re not talking about me,” Malfoy reminded him, chin tucked in so he could look at Harry squarely. “I can’t say anything. You should have read the contract.”

“I did. I just wanted to hear you say it again,” Harry said. He chewed the corner of his lip, then shook his head because—what purpose would it serve? But then Malfoy’s words flit through his head again—I didn’t think it was fair—and though Harry wondered if it was the lack of sleep that was sending him out of his right mind or if he’d always been like this, he muttered, “I am, too.”

Malfoy grinned, bemused and startling. It softened his whole face when he did that, and Harry’s stomach pitched; without conscious thought, his fingers tightened against Malfoy’s ribs. “You are what?” Malfoy asked. “A little girl? You know, Potter, I’ve always said—”

“Like them,” Harry said. Malfoy looked just as alarmed as Harry felt, and Harry’s surge of confidence faded. Maybe it only didn’t seem to matter to Malfoy because Malfoy wasn’t in bed with Seamus or Dean. He remembered all of Malfoy’s former pureblood crap with a sudden tightness in his chest, the mudbloods he’d thrown at Hermione over the years when they were young. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Potter.” Malfoy’s eyes slid to the side and he rolled partway onto his back, pulling slightly away but curling the arm under Harry’s neck into a loose, supportive headlock that didn’t connect around the front. His other hand, the one that had been on Harry’s hip, came up to rub his own eyes. After a long moment, he smiled again, but it looked rueful and—something else Harry couldn’t put his finger on. “Are you trying to tell me you had orgies in the Gryffindor dorms?” Malfoy finally asked archly.

Harry gusted out a laugh. Out of the million things Malfoy could have said, Harry wasn’t prepared for a joke. With a sense of faint astonishment, Harry realised that he liked this Malfoy. That he had, for quite a while. “All the time. With Neville, too. And Ron.”

“Ugh, I do not need that image in my head,” Malfoy muttered, pulling his hand away from his eyes. “I know Weasleys breed like rabbits, but if I’m never forced to picture the act of it, it’ll be too soon.”

Malfoy rewarded him with another smile when Harry shoved his shoulder lightly, rocking him backward.

“So then…” Harry trailed off, not quite sure what he was asking. From the look on Malfoy’s face, he wasn’t either.

“So…” Malfoy faltered, jaw moving to one side as he considered. “Thank you for telling me, I suppose.”

“Uh, sure.” Harry sighed. The problem with not knowing where something was going was that you could never be prepared for being disappointed with the outcome. “I just thought, since we’re in bed together… Like you said, it’s only fair.”

Fascinated, Harry watched as Malfoy began to blush again; this time it started in his throat, colour climbing steadily up over his face like ivy over a wall, spreading thick and vibrant. Malfoy cleared his throat again, sounding slightly strained. “Most of my clients are women—straight women,” Malfoy elaborated. “And I have no problem sharing a couch or a bed with them. I don’t see the difference, really. Attraction doesn’t play into it. It’s all incidental, because nothing would ever happen, anyhow.”

“It wouldn—?” Harry broke off, looking away from Malfoy’s gaze, which zeroed in on his face and stayed there. “Of course not. I’m glad,” he revised.

“Right. Me too,” Malfoy said, voice gone raspy with sleep. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he looked at Harry. Harry noticed his eyelashes for the first time, the tips more golden than the rest of his hair; tiny fans fluttering when he blinked and finally closed his eyes.

Harry nodded, feeling more alert than he had in days, and forced himself to close his eyes too. Malfoy’s breath smelled like spearmint, cool and sweet as it gusted softly over Harry’s face, and Harry made himself relax. He thought of the words Malfoy had said the previous night—those things he’d murmured before Harry had slipped off. You’ve got me with you, he’d said. You’re safe.

Harry was dancing. The heavy beat of lights pressed in around him, like the undulating bodies packing the dance floor, like the bass of music vibrating against the walls. A slender man wearing a light shirt, sweat coating it sheer, sidled up behind him, rocking his hips hard into Harry’s. Harry could feel the length of his erection grind against his buttocks and he leaned into it, pushed his shoulders into the man’s chest. He let his head fall back, let his neck turn so his mouth brushed the moist skin at the crook of his neck. An arm came up to circle his waist as they moved together, less dancing than writhing, and Harry turned in that embrace, tongue flicking out to taste the salty beads against the man’s collarbone. He looked up.

Malfoy smiled down at him, feral and sharp. A long muscular thigh came up between Harry’s knees; a hand cupped one side of his arse, pulling him closer. Harry gasped as their cocks came into contact. Malfoy was thick and hard against him, white blond hair in disarray and damply matted to his temples. A knot of painful hunger roared through Harry and his slid his hand up, fisting it in those strands, tugging Malfoy’s mouth to his as they danced.

“Potter,” Malfoy groaned. It was husky and sweet and Harry wanted to swallow the sound, wanted to come; he was so close already. But Malfoy was guiding his hips back, though the cutting, predatory look on his face hadn’t eased, and when he said Harry’s name again it sounded different, regretful even.

Harry tried to get closer again, wanted to rut, wanted to feel Malfoy’s cock pulse against his, but Malfoy kept moving him back whenever Harry touched him, and Harry woke with a frustrated, “Goddamn it, Malfoy!”

Malfoy looked at him, face inches away as it had been in Harry’s dream, only sleep softened, and bathed in sunlight, and slightly afraid. They were both lying on their sides, pressed flush, Harry’s leg slung over the outside of Malfoy’s thigh, and Harry stared at him as he tried to dust the cobwebs from his brain, tried to overrule his body’s instinctive press forward. They stayed that way for a long, tense moment, Malfoy’s pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. Harry had one hand at the small of Malfoy’s back, and it would be so easy to drag him forward… if Malfoy gave him any indication he wanted that.

Which he wasn’t doing.

Harry jerked away, rolling onto his back. He flung his forearm up over his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Dreaming.”

“It’s normal, Potter,” Malfoy said after a moment. He sounded troubled, but not cruel. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” Harry interrupted.

“You said my name,” Malfoy said faintly.

Harry grimaced. “You were waking me from a really good dream. I got mad.”

“No, b—”

Harry shot him a quick glance, but Malfoy went quiet. His face smoothed out, became bland, and he drew his arm up to comb his fingers through his rumpled hair. His chest rose and fell lightly.

“You got almost eight hours this time,” Malfoy finally said. “Which is ideal for repairing a magical depletion. And it wasn’t too hard—too difficult to wake you this morning, either.”

“That’s good,” Harry said. His throat felt raw and tight.

“I’m still on for another hour, I think,” Malfoy said hesitantly.

Harry rubbed at his face. Malfoy’s cider-smell lingered on his palm. “That’s okay. I’m just going to take a shower and—have breakfast, I guess.”

“Do you mind if I do, as well?”

Surprised, Harry looked at him. “Breakfast? Or… you want to shower?”

“It’s what one generally does upon waking,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes.

“I usually shower before bed,” Harry told him inanely.

“You didn’t last night. I'd wondered what that odour was,” Malfoy said with a smirk. Harry did his best to ignore the insult, but his mouth finally tugged up at the corners. “Anyway, I’d go back to my flat but I have an appointment in ninety minutes.”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll use the one across the hall,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked him. There was something sharp about that look, piercing, as though he were asking a question that he couldn’t voice. Harry found he wasn’t able to maintain eye contact. It was a challenge, of sorts, that look, and for the first time since meeting him, Harry let Malfoy win. He broke their gaze, looking anywhere but Malfoy’s steady grey eyes with their stupidly pale, arched brows. Malfoy gave a little hmph and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair again.

“Christ, you’re still as vain as ever, I see” Harry muttered, needing something to complain about. He sat up as well, grabbing his pillow to put over his lap, as though it could have possibly escaped Malfoy’s notice that he had a raging erection. It hadn’t escaped Harry’s that Malfoy didn’t.

Snickering, Malfoy stood and stretched. His pyjama top rode up, exposing a sliver of pale skin just above his buttocks where the waistband of his bottoms sat. His arse was surprisingly round, for someone so lean.

“Just because some of us don’t care about our appearances does not make the rest of us vain,” Malfoy said snidely. He grabbed his small leather bag off the desk and headed into the bathroom. “Ta, Potter. I’ll be out of your disastrous hair soon.”

“Nice, Malfoy,” Harry said with a snort as Malfoy closed the door with a firm click.

Harry sat for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of Malfoy moving around in his bathroom, the shower coming on and the noise of the spray interrupted by a body ducking underneath. He felt immobile with temptation and looked down at his erection—which hadn’t subsided in the least—with no small amount of regret.

Uncomfortably, Harry made his way to the bathroom across the hall. He turned on the shower, then used the facilities quickly before stepping under the spray of water with a shudder of relief. He wondered, as he wrapped a fist around around his cock and began to stroke, how long he’d been hard in his sleep. It had been so long since he’d woken up with any sort of basic biological response, as though his body was too tired to remind him that anything other than sleep could potentially feel good.

But this… this did.

Harry smoothed his foreskin back and flicked a light touch across the leaking head of his cock, rubbing under the glans with the firm pad of his thumb before gliding his foreskin down again. He leaned his back against the tile, letting the water hit his chest and stomach, letting the warmth run over him as he thought of the club, of being able to dance with another man like that, close, without being afraid that the press would come crashing through his door. He thought of the hard press of another body as his hand continued to move, tighter and faster. Then Harry had a flash of white-blond hair tangling in his fingers, and a posh, clipped voice whispering filthy nothings in his ear, and he came with a soft cry, cock pulsing in his hand, hips jerking weakly into his tight grip as his come spurted onto the floor and was washed away.

Slowly, he released himself and bit his lip, stepping fully back under the water, limbs shaking. It didn’t feel right to do that, thinking about Malfoy, especially since he’d been so unexpectedly decent about Harry’s revelation the previous night. About Harry rubbing against him in his sleep.

Harry finished the rest of his shower quickly and stepped out, grabbing a towel and giving himself a brisk dry-off with it before glancing around for his glasses. Which he’d left on his fucking nightstand. He hesitated, looking at his pyjamas in a rumpled pile on the floor, then wrapped his towel snugly around his waist and padded to his bedroom.

He paused at the threshold, listening. The bathroom door was cracked open a few inches, so Malfoy was either waiting downstairs or had already left. Harry headed to his nightstand to pluck up his glasses, then unwrapped his towel and began rubbing his hair with it again as he wandered over to his wardrobe and picked out a clean set of clothing for the day.

“What the bloody fuck—”

Harry spun around, a set of black pants in one hand and his towel in the other. His whole body flashed hot as he stared at Malfoy, who was staring back at him, equally stunned, eyes focused on Harry’s cock, which hung full and soft from his recent orgasm.

“Why are you still here?” Harry squawked.

Malfoy didn’t look up; the hinge of his jaw seemed broken. “I took a bloody shower!”

“It’s been twenty minutes!” Harry yelled, belatedly remembering to bring his towel down to cover his groin. Malfoy finally blinked. He glanced up, still gaping.

“I take twenty minute showers!” he yelled back.

“Of course you do!” Harry roared. Malfoy’s eyes were wide as he started blinking again, rapidly, at Harry’s ire. Then, unbelievably, Harry saw Malfoy’s lips twitch. A quiet huff of amusement escaped him, followed by another and another, until Malfoy’s face was lit up, and he was laughing openly. All of the sharp edges, all of the shadows and snobbery Harry had always associated with him, vanished with that laugh. His eyes were so bright—he looked so bloody uncomplicated—that Harry found himself struggling to cling to his annoyance over the whole matter.

“What,” he demanded, “is so bloody funny about this?”

“Just—oh dear Merlin,” Malfoy wheezed, holding onto his stomach. His laughter settled, and he reached up to brush at his eyes with his palm. “I’m—I genuinely didn’t think this could get any worse,” he said, remarkably cheerful for the sentiment.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward,” Harry insisted, turning slightly to wrap his towel around his waist again. Malfoy’s eyes didn’t leave him, for his own modesty’s sake, or for Harry’s. “We’re both—just because I’m—we lived in dormitories with other boys for years.” A horrible thought hit him, humiliated rage on its tail. “Or—were you laughing at me? At my—”

“Fuck,” Malfoy muttered, finally dragging his gaze elsewhere. His mouth still held that infuriating little smile. “You have a— a perfectly fine cock, Potter. You’d think your paramours—” he waved a bored hand, “would have told you that, and you wouldn’t need your ex-worst enemy to say so.”

“You weren’t my worst enemy,” Harry returned, only partly mollified. It was on the tip of his tongue to let Malfoy know that he didn’t have “paramours,” but then Malfoy shifted, the smile from his face dropping, and Harry cleared his throat. “Why was the door open?”

“Steam. My wand couldn’t clear all of it,” Malfoy said.

“Right. Wait, wasn’t it on the coffee table?” Harry asked, as he realised. “With mine?” He stopped, disconcerted; he never went anywhere without his wand these days, and especially not to bed, not when he so often—of late—had to cast a panicked Lumos when he managed to doze, only to wake up feeling boxed in and alone.

“I brought it with me last night,” Malfoy gave him an uncertain glance. His eyes flicked down to the towel draped around Harry, and Harry sighed, jerking his chin up and refusing to be embarrassed about it anymore. He gave his own pointed look to Malfoy’s cock and froze.

Because Malfoy was hard.

Though his posture was as rigidly controlled as before he’d begun laughing, spine straight and narrow shoulders held high and square, Malfoy was so fucking hard that his cock’s length was clearly outlined as it pressed against the front of his soft grey trousers, just to the left of the zip. It angled down, toward his thigh, continuing to lengthen infinitesimally even as Harry watched in astonishment. And then Malfoy turned abruptly on the ball of his foot, facing away and fumbling with something on Harry’s desk.

“Malfoy,” Harry said. It came out choked. His recently satisfied prick gave a warning jerk under his towel.

“I need to go; I’m going to be late,” Malfoy muttered.

“You still have thirty minutes on the clock,” Harry said blankly, not sure why he was objecting. Malfoy’s hands were balled into fists at his side.

“I’ll make up the time,” Malfoy said evenly, glancing over his shoulder. He made a small production of pocketing his Shrunken leather bag and gave Harry a clipped nod before turning and striding out of the room.

Harry stared after him, contemplating following before dismissing the thought. Malfoy’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in Harry—with his unresponsive body while they slept, as well as the boundaries he’d set in place. And Harry, for the first time in well over a month, actually felt good, capable of getting something done, maybe; felt capable of enjoying some of the things his exhaustion had stolen from him when he’d no longer been able to focus

Still, Harry sat down heavily on the bed, knees gone weak. He put a hand over his eyes and let himself breathe for a moment, the warmth of Malfoy’s surprising laughter still lingering in his mind like a tune he couldn’t place.

Finding himself attracted to Malfoy—after all these years, after everything—had strange enough. Even the coming to terms with liking him was something Harry could handle.

Really wanting him was another thing, entirely.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about it.

When Malfoy stepped out of Harry’s floo at promptly nine o’clock, his face looked carved out of stone; one supercilious eyebrow up, chin tilted so he was able to properly look down his pointed nose at Harry, who was sitting on his sofa, reading. Harry opened his mouth to ask him to sit so they could discuss what had happened, to see if he needed to apologise, though Malfoy had been just as culpable for whatever bizarre thing had happened as Harry—in his opinion—but the expression on Malfoy’s face stopped him.

“Hey,” he said instead, trying to ease the tension that had been building up in his shoulders in the hour before Malfoy’s arrival. He held up his book. “Do you ever read muggle things?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it, blinking. Harry wondered if he’d had a retort planned, and bit back a smile.

“I read a lot of things,” Malfoy said, finally coming forward. He lowered onto the sofa beside Harry, over a cushion of space between them. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you might like this one,” Harry improvised.

“Because you have any real concept of the things I might like,” Malfoy snapped, then snatched the book out of Harry’s hand, narrowing his eyes before looking down at it, as though he expected the title to be insulting. The lines around his mouth softened, and when he looked up at Harry a moment later, he was almost smiling. “This is a Victorian romance.”

“It’s a Victorian thriller,” Harry corrected defensively.

Malfoy’s eyes scanned the back cover for another second. “‘Orphaned at a young age, Lady Louisa Billingsly has spent most of her life in preparation to enter the convent,’” Malfoy read aloud, gleefully, “as it’s the only life that can overcome the shame of her father’s treason to the throne. But fate has another plan for her in the form of the dangerous and tempting Count Wynthrope, who—”

“I know what’s in it,” Harry said, annoyed. “It’s a thriller.”

“I never would have thought you the type,” Malfoy murmured under his breath, still reading. He turned the book over in his hands and flipped to the first page.

“If you think it’s so funny, stop looking at it,” Harry said, leaning over to get the book back.

Malfoy ticked him an amused glance, turning to block him so that Harry would either have to yank him into a hug from behind to reach the book or settle for not getting it back at all. Harry sat back sullenly, irritated for bringing it up at all.

“So the Count has a score to settle with her father, who may not be dead, after all?” Malfoy asked after a moment.

Harry, picking a loose thread from the knee of his denims, looked up. Malfoy’s eyes were still fastened to the book; he was already on the third page. “Right. And she has a long lost brother, who works for the Queen; he’s in disguise as page. There’s a whole political backstory,” Harry said.

“That’s not generally why people read these,” Malfoy mumbled. He closed the book and set it aside, then looked at Harry and gave a casual shrug. “I’ll take it home and read it, if it might be something you want to talk about while I’m here,” he said.

“Don’t sprain yourself being nice to me,” Harry said caustically. Malfoy’s lips twitched and he leaned into the couch, draping one arm over the back of it. He looked—loose, Harry thought. At ease in his own skin, now that he knew Harry wasn’t going to force an awkward discussion about what had happened that morning. He thought he should mention that it was Lady Billingsly’s brother who ended up with the Count, but Malfoy looked entirely too smug over the whole thing, so he kept his mouth shut.

“As if I’d bother,” Malfoy said. He crossed his legs, glanced around, then looked at Harry in surprise. “You’re not seeing things,” he said.

Harry reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “I am, actually,” he admitted, studiously ignoring the luminescent bird that was building a giant twig nest in his fireplace. “But it’s not as bad. Not as—distracting,” Harry said, searching for the right word.

“And what did you do today?”

“What I do most days,” Harry said, repressing a smile. “Work.”

“You mentioned that you work last night, but you retired from the Auror force almost three years ago,” Malfoy argued. He shut his mouth, looking mortified.

Irrationally pleased, Harry grinned. “I don’t work in the wizarding world,” he said. “But I—er, I have a job.”

“Really? What? I haven’t seen any evidence of you being anything other than a shut-in who lives off his inherited vaults,” Malfoy said.

Harry blinked. “Actually, I rarely touch them.” Malfoy smirked, and Harry mimicked it. “And anyway, I’m well paid.”

“Do you want me to do that for you?” Malfoy asked suddenly.

“Pay me?” Harry blurted, bewildered.

Malfoy snickered. He gestured to Harry’s neck, which Harry was still rubbing, absently. “I’m well paid, too,” he said.

“I know,” Harry said wryly. He studied Malfoy for the barest of seconds, acknowledging to himself what a bad idea it probably was to accept a neck massage from him, then nodded. Malfoy indicated the floor in front of him, widening his thighs a bit. Harry swallowed, then moved slowly off the couch and sat between them, facing away. For something to do, he Summoned the remote and pointed it at the television. “D’you mind?”

“I don’t like things with too many muggle jokes,” Malfoy warned simply. “They never make much sense,” he added, then began kneading Harry’s neck the way he had on that first night, warm fingers slipping over Harry’s skin and into the back of his t-shirt. Harry shakily raised the remote and turned on the television, flipping past several bland comedies before finding a spy movie he could stare at without paying too much attention. The floor was hard and uncomfortable beneath him, and Harry sat tensely, trying not to relax too much into the feel of Malfoy’s steady, sure fingers as they stroked deep into his tissues, almost absently. “Try to loosen up,” Malfoy said after a few minutes. “Your muscles are like stones.”

Harry shrugged, rolling his shoulders a bit, and Malfoy’s thumbs slid back into the collar of his t-shirt, slightly calloused and pressing deep. Harry wondered where he’d gotten the callouses from, wondered why they felt so good against his skin—better, even, than the massage. It felt illicit to let Malfoy touch him like this, to let Malfoy make him feel so good by simply kneading his shoulders and the base of his neck, and Harry finally let his shoulders go slack; he leaned into the sofa and sighed, eyes trained on the television as he studiously ignored his half-hard cock.

Then Malfoy stroked a hand up; his fingers slid through Harry’s hair, twisting through the strands, and he scratched Harry’s scalp with short, blunt fingernails. The groan caught in Harry’s throat finally burst out, low and raw and hedonistic, and Malfoy paused his ministrations for only a moment before resuming.

He leaned down, voice barely more than a warm breath against the back of Harry’s ear. “I’ve seen this one before; I like this bloke. Imagine what he could do with a wand.”

Imagine what I could do with yours. Harry bit back the rejoinder just in time. “James Bond,” he said instead. “Yeah, he’s… He’d make a good wizard.”

Malfoy hummed a bit; his head moved away as he leaned back; his thighs widened a bit more, then tightened, bracketing Harry’s arms just enough that Harry could feel Malfoy’s knees against his biceps. He wanted to press back, wanted to let his head fall into Malfoy’s lap to see if Malfoy was possibly having the same problem Harry was, to see if he’d been imagining things that morning.

“Do you do this, ah, often?” Harry asked after a few more minutes of torture. It was far worse than what Bond was enduring on-screen; at least Bond had been trained for that sort of thing. “You’re good at it,” he managed.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, sounding surprised. “It’s part of the process. Sometimes people just need to be touched.”

“Is that— Do they tell you why?”

“Not usually,” Malfoy said. “And it’s not my business, so I wouldn’t ask.” He paused. “Not even if I was curious…” There was a question in his voice, and Harry debated letting it go, but took a deep breath instead.

“I have a mind healer,” he said at last. “She suggested it. I— uhm. I have dreams, and she thought the contact might be useful.”

Malfoy paused again. Then, “The war?”

“Sometimes,” Harry said awkwardly. “Not usually, though. It’s more to do with— with the way I was raised before Hogwarts. So I wake up and… I guess she thinks I’ve sort of trained my body to hate sleep or something.”

There was a long silence. “Oh.”

Oh?

Harry stifled a snort. He half-turned, draping one elbow over Malfoy’s knee to look behind himself. “Really, Malfoy?”

“Well, I told you I’m not a mind-healer,” Malfoy huffed irritably. “I just do this.” He dug his thumbs deeper between Harry’s shoulder blades and spine. Harry whimpered as the pleasure swamped him. He turned back around and faced the television, and Malfoy gave a put-upon sigh. “Why is it happening now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It just happens like that sometimes. Remembered ‘trauma,’” Harry said. “Probably has something to do with me quitting the force and being a little isolated.”

“I thought you had a job,” Malfoy taunted lightly.

“I do.” Harry smiled for the first time in several minutes. “It’s an isolating one.”

“So you hired a cuddler.”

“Hermione did that for me,” Harry said.

“Yes, well…” Malfoy trailed off, and they sat in silence together until Bond had killed dozens of criminals. As the credits rolled, Harry jerked a little, realising that Malfoy had stopped massaging him at some point and was now, rather distractedly, stroking his hair. He slipped his fingers through it, twisting the strands idly around his fingertips, then petting over it smoothly, as though Harry were a cat. Harry was starting to understand the smug satisfaction on Crookshank’s face whenever Hermione nuzzled him for an extended period of time.

He cleared his throat. “I’m pretty tired,” he said.

“Oh.” The hand on his head jerked away, and Malfoy’s knees tightened against him again for a single second. “Right. Yes. You, um, said you usually shower before bed?”

“I did before you showed up,” Harry said, levering himself up with a grunt. His bones felt like melty wax. He extended a hand toward Malfoy and pulled him up as well. Malfoy stumbled a bit, coming closer to Harry than Harry thought he’d intended, and they looked at each other for a long moment.

“I need a few minutes,” Malfoy said, moving away.

“Okay.”

Walking together down the hall felt different than it had the first night, now that Harry was fully aware of it. Aware of Malfoy, tall and stoic beside him, their shoulders brushing as they made their way to Harry’s room.

Malfoy slanted him a little smile, then disappeared into the loo. Harry changed into his pyjamas quickly, giving his erection a press and futilely hoping it would go down on its own. He sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his cock through his bottoms with a discouraging hand and not allowing himself to stroke it— though it would be so easy, and even quick, and he did have his wand right there, to clean up any potential mess, and Malfoy always took forever in the bathroom, so—

“Potter?”

Harry jerked his hand off himself. “I wasn’t!” he blurted. Malfoy lingered in the doorway of the bathroom, face pink and eyes trained on the floor.

“I know,” Malfoy said smoothly. Then, less smoothly, “I mean, I don’t. Weren’t what?”

Harry flushed. “Neverm— let’s just go to sleep,” he mumbled. He climbed into bed and rolled on his side. Malfoy didn’t move, and after a second Harry glanced up over his shoulder. “What?”

“I just— I forgot to do something,” Malfoy muttered, one foot out of the bathroom, one foot in. He bit his lip.

Embarrassed, Harry flopped back on his side to avoid having to look at Malfoy any longer. “You can—” he broke off, fumbling. “If you’re not… I mean, I think I’ll be fine, now. I’ve had a couple of good nights of sleep, and I’ll probably fall asleep tonight with no problem,” he said. The lie came out thinly and Harry coughed. He forced a smile and glanced back. “Really, it’s not a problem.”

“No, it’s not…” He heard Malfoy sigh, a plaintive sound, and a moment later he climbed into the bed as well. He got under the covers quickly, the mattress dipping and shifting next to Harry, but he didn’t wrap around Harry the way he had the previous two nights. “Some clients like to be the ones who do the— cuddling,” he offered hesitantly after a brief moment.

Harry swallowed. He wasn’t sure he could manage that, really, though it sounded nice and his erection had fled alarmingly fast in the wake of his frustrated humiliation. “And you let them?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said condescendingly. “Whatever they prefer.” He breathed quietly for a moment. “You could, if you wanted.”

Slowly turning when Malfoy made no move to press against him, Harry rolled to his opposite side. Malfoy looked at him for a second then rolled too, facing away and curling up slightly, into himself; innocently. Harry carefully fit himself against Malfoy, dragging the thick blanket between them as the only buffer he could think of, and wound his arm around Malfoy’s waist. “Okay?”

“However you want, Potter,” Malfoy said softly, shoulders against Harry’s chest. Harry scooted up a little, higher against his pillow, and inhaled the scent of Malfoy’s hair, silky in his face. Malfoy made a small sound like that felt good, Harry’s nose against his hair, so Harry ventured closer, the hand on Malfoy’s stomach slipping further to slide between Malfoy’s ribs and the mattress. Malfoy pressed back against him, arse firm and curved against Harry’s groin through the covers, and Harry’s breath stuttered; even with the buffer, he felt the tingle of desire, the twitch of his cock beginning to fill again.

But more than that, this felt— felt safe, like on those nights in the forest when he and Hermione and Ron would be so fucking cold and scared, and they would wake up tangled, Ron against his back or chest, or Hermione, or both of them, depending on how they’d fallen asleep. He’d never had this reaction of want back then, but he hadn’t felt alone for those few moments, either. He hadn’t felt scared, because his arms around his best friends had chased the shadows away. His chest expanded against Malfoy’s bony shoulder blades, and he released the gust of breath slowly, feeling slightly drunk with pleasant familiarity, with the feeling that, in the morning, there would be more than a freezing tent and a hopeless search; more than a barren mattress beneath a single, hanging lightbulb that had been out for three days.

“This is good,” Harry murmured. Malfoy shifted, and made a low sound of affirmation. “I like this.”

“I— I’m glad,” Malfoy said. “You should go to sleep, if you can.”

“I can,” Harry slurred. He smelled Malfoy’s hair again, and nestled in closer, thoughtless of the way his cock, fully plump, was pressing against Malfoy’s backside. Maybe Malfoy couldn’t even feel it. Either way, Malfoy wasn’t moving away, so Harry let the heaviness steal over him, let his eyes drift shut, and let sleep come.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, rocking his hips in time with the gentle roll against them. Draco flashed him a knowing smile, eyes dark and hooded, hands gripping Harry’s back through his heavy robes.

“Harry,” he said, quiet and husky. “I want to fuck you.”

His words were a white-hot streak of arousal through Harry, who moaned and canted his hips into Draco’s harder, pressing their cocks flush through the tangle of clothing. He reached down and cupped the curve of Draco’s arse, fingers biting into it as he pulled Draco tighter against him. Draco dipped his head and kissed him, tongue invading Harry’s mouth. Harry peeled Draco’s shirt off with his free hand, skating it between the silky skin of his shoulders, down the supple, leanly muscled line of his back. His fingers hooked into the back of Draco’s trousers and Draco groaned.

Harry blinked, mind flooded with desire as he woke up and opened his grainy eyes to the soft, muted sunlight of the morning. Pale like Draco’s hair, which was soft, in Harry’s face. Draco breathed with light pants against Harry’s neck as Harry’s hips continued to undulate. His cock throbbed and, blankly, he realised that Draco was hard, too, was rocking his hips into Harry’s repeated thrusts, making small, stifled sounds of pleasure.

Heart thudding terribly in his chest, Harry pulled back slightly. Draco lifted his head from where it was pressed against the curve of Harry’s throat, eyes wide and stunned and confused; they were needy with something more than lust, but that was there too, pupils blown wide.

“Potter,” he stuttered out. “I’m— I—”

“Draco,” Harry countered, voice grainy. Using his given name felt just right, and Harry wondered why he hadn’t before. “I don’t care.”

Draco kissed him.

Far more tentative than it had been in the dream, Draco’s lips were soft and dry, moving against Harry’s searchingly. Harry heard himself make a distant, startled noise, and then he was clutching Draco tighter, opening his mouth to the hesitant press of Draco’s tongue. He tasted slightly sour from the morning, but after a moment he just tasted warm and soft. Harry opened his eyes a bit and saw Draco’s gaze on him as they kissed, tongues moving slowly against each as their bodies were and without thinking, Harry rolled onto his back, pulling Draco atop him.

Draco grunted quietly into the kiss as he situated himself between Harry’s spread legs, which came up to hook around the backs of Draco’s thighs. Draco pulled his mouth away; it was slick and swollen, and he was breathing hard. He planted his hands on either side of Harry, alleviating some of his weight but keeping their bodies tight together. Sometime in the middle of the night, the blankets had been kicked down and there was nothing between them but their clothing. Draco’s cock was long and hard against Harry’s pelvis, and he gave a small pump with his hips, looking at Harry almost questioningly. Harry swallowed, nodding, and mimicked the motion, feeling his cock rub against Draco’s, a not-quite-graceful slide where they came into contact then moved away. “That feels— fuck,” Harry muttered, lifting his head to catch Draco’s softened, open mouth in another kiss.

The rocking continued, sweet and halting, and Harry thrust upward against Draco, tightening his legs around the backs of Draco’s to draw him even closer. Draco’s chest heaved against his; his fingers clenched against the sheets as Harry reached down to guide his hips into a smoother motion, so they could move together. The drag of it was unbelievably good; Harry’s balls throbbed with impending release. His body grew taut as they rubbed against each other, and he insinuated his hands under the elastic of Draco’s waistband, brushing his fingertips against the top of Draco’s arse.

Then Draco gave a sharp, pained cry, shoulders rigid and shaking, his hips jerking weakly; the cords of his throat stood out sharply as he arched his neck, and Harry felt dampness spread against the front of his flannel bottoms. He yanked Draco into another kiss, harder, nipping at Draco’s lip. Draco responded, instinctively enthusiastic, licking into Harry’s mouth feverishly. Harry groaned his name and began moving again, and Draco stilled.

The sudden loss of warmth was disorienting, and Harry sat up, shocked as Draco backed away, eyes wide and panicked, face still flushed from his climax. He skittered back like a crab, almost falling out of the bed.

“What— Wait,” Harry said, muddled from the frustration that roared through him like Fiendfyre, from the unthinking cruelty of Draco’s abandonment.

Draco watched him, stark and wary, standing three feet from the bed. His hands were positioned strangely at his sides, like he couldn’t figure out what to do with them. “I— I can’t.”

“You just did,” Harry said, voice higher and louder than he’d intended. His cock ached and he slipped a hand into his pyjama bottoms to circle the base tightly with his fingers. “Malfoy— Draco,” he said softly. He swallowed. “Come back.”

Draco drew a shaky hand through his hair. His eyes were on Harry’s hand in his bottoms. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, then fled to the bathroom.

Harry watched him go in disbelief. He waited a moment, hoping that Draco would come back—considered, even, pounding on the door and demanding an explanation—but finally got up and stalked across the hall to stroke himself off with rough, quick pulls, angry and disappointed even as he shuddered and came.

He cleaned himself up bleakly, then returned to his bedroom and sat on the bed, trying to stay calm though his heart felt about to rattle out of his chest. He didn’t hear the shower, nor the sink faucets, nor the flush of the toilet, and after several minutes, he started to get concerned. “Malfoy?”

Finally, a noise; a shift.

“Can you come out, please? I think we should t—”

A sudden, loud crack sounded, and Harry jumped. His mouth sagged open, and he marched to the bathroom and shoved the door open. It was empty.

The bastard had Apparated.

Harry spent the day in a foul mood. He was unable to focus on anything, for one, and after having felt that way for over a month, he was sodding pissed that he’d barely gotten a day to work before having his attention so splintered that he couldn’t think straight—let alone get anything done. It was made worse when Ron visited after lunch.

“How’s sleeping with the ferret going?” he asked, ducking his head into Harry’s fridge to hunt for something to snack on.

Harry glared at him, sitting down. “It was fine, but it’s over,” he clipped out.

Ron glanced up, surprised. “Why? Don’t you need a week or so?” He straightened; let the fridge fall shut. “Did Malfoy do something? Try to hurt you? I thought it might not be—”

“Shut up,” Harry said irritably, rubbing his face with one hand. His eyes felt dry and hot. “No. As if I couldn’t take Malfoy in a fight, anyway.”

The problem with Ron, Harry felt, was that he always acted like he didn’t get what was going on until you really wanted him not to know what was going on. But Ron had that shrewd look on his face, the one he wore when they played chess together, and it was just like Hermione’s bossy look; it meant that he’d scented blood and was going in for the kill.

“But that’s not how you want to take Malfoy, is it?” he guessed, not bothering to equivocate. He didn’t even grimace.

“Shut up,” Harry insisted again. Ron smiled faintly, and Harry yanked off his glasses, letting his head fall forward onto the kitchen table with a dismal thunk. “Something happened,” he muttered.

He heard the soft scrape of a chair being pulled out, and then Ron sat down next to him. “I figured that,” Ron said mildly, only the vaguest wisp of amusement audible in his tone. “Faster than I expected, but you never get out lately, so.”

Harry lifted his head. “I woke up and he— we— I don’t know.” He fell silent for a moment, thinking. “Something happened,” he repeated lamely, ears burning.

“You slept with him?”

“No!” Harry glowered at him, feeling the same rush of betrayed fury he’d felt when he’d opened the bathroom door to find Draco gone. “We— almost. He did,” Harry added resentfully, not caring if Ron was confused. “But then he— panicked. Left.”

Ron whistled, long and low. He scratched behind his ear, thinking. “Are you going to hire someone new?” he finally asked. “He dismissed you as a client?”

Harry stopped glowering and frowned. It hadn’t even occurred to him that they were still under contract with one another. It had all started to feel so intensely… personal, in just the last few days. “I think so,” he said uneasily.

“Well, he’d probably get in a lot of trouble for that kind of thing, right?” Ron pointed out, logical to the bone. “I mean, that’s basically you paying him for—”

Harry held up a hand. “I get it,” he said. “Fuck.”

“Well, no,” Ron said, snorting. “That’s the point, right? But you’ll need someone else, won’t you? Are you going to tell his agency what happened? ...Whatever it was?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

“Of course not,” Harry said automatically. “He could lose his… oh.”

He winced, thinking it over. He needed to apologise; whatever Draco had done that morning had to have come as a result of the last few days of Harry… doing things, in his sleep. He didn’t know what Draco’s breaking point had been, but Harry had been so agitated by Draco’s abrupt departure that he’d barely thought about the reasons for it. Which was unfair; no matter what Harry thought of him—no matter how attracted he found himself, how much he’d ended up liking Draco—it was selfish to expect Draco to drop all of his hard-learned professionalism, when his job was obviously so important to him.

“When you fuck up, you do it right,” Ron said, sounding gleeful. “First dropping out of the Aurors, then becoming a—”

“Why are you here again?” Harry asked, exasperated.

“Dunno. You said you’d owl in a couple of days.” Ron shrugged. “We hadn’t heard from you. Wanted to check. Do you have any of Mum’s treacle tart left?” he asked, getting up and heading to Harry’s fridge again.

Harry looked at him. “In the back,” he said, sounding fonder than he intended. Ron reached in and pulled out a plate. Harry paused. “I don’t know where Draco lives,” he said.

“I can get that for you,” Ron said around a mouthful of tart. He plucked a crumb, pointedly, off his Auror uniform. And grinned.

When Draco finally got home around six, Harry recognised him immediately, though he looked nothing like himself. His face was broader, his hair a nondescript brown. But it was his body—tall and rangy—and his posture was the same: careful, fluid. A dancer, off-stage. He was carrying a paper bag of groceries and halted when he saw Harry; he darted a look around them to see if they’d been observed.

“You’re not using your Cloak to stalk me this time, at least,” he huffed, pulling a key out of his pocket to unlock the door as Harry waited. He opened the door, jerking his chin in the direction of his flat when Harry didn’t move. “Get in before anyone sees you.”

“Before anyone sees me?” Harry asked, moving past him. “We’re in a muggle neighborhood.”

“On the fringes of wizarding London,” Draco corrected. He spelled on the lights, setting down his purchases, then marched down his hallway and disappeared off to the left. Harry followed him warily, looking around.

Draco’s flat was… nice. Neither modest nor entirely posh, his sunken living room had gleaming, dark wood floors, covered in a thick rug, and a low-slung sofa, richly upholstered in blue and cream stripes. There was a book shelf along the far wall, stuffed with wizarding texts and novels, and the room was filled with plants that had obviously been magicked into blooming in the colder weather. A mix of stuffy portraits and landscapes decorated the walls and on his mantle there were two photographs— one of Draco, sitting stoically in a plush chair with his parents, unsmiling, behind him, and another that looked to have been taken in fourth or fifth year; he was laughing with Pansy Parkinson. She was tucked against him, and Draco glanced up to wink at the camera, confident and unbearably charming— nothing like Harry had ever seen while they were in school. The whole room reeked of Draco— it looked like him; that odd blend of fastidiousness and comfort that Harry had come to associate with his presence, from the leather kid gloves dropped carelessly on an end table, to the open book—Harry’s; when had he swiped that?—on a sofa cushion. He even had a television on a small stand in the corner, opposite his sofa, and a liquor cabinet— at which he stood, currently, pouring an unhealthy amount of glowing amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He caught Harry watching him, sniffed disdainfully, and poured another, levitating it over.

The glass felt cool in his hands, heavy, and Harry took a sip for something to do. It burned, a strange contrast to the chill of the glass, and Harry coughed a little as it seared a path down his throat.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Draco finally asked levelly.

“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. He hesitated. “Apologising, I suppose.”

Draco took another, longer, swallow of his drink; he nodded to the sofa. Harry sat down obediently. Draco followed suit, draping one leg over the other on the opposite end of the sofa, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world; shoulders loose, tongue swiping out— deliberate, suggestive—to catch a droplet of whiskey off his lower lip. Which was why it was so astonishing when he inhaled quietly and said, voice taut, “There’s a charm they give us. To control our bodily responses to clients we may be attracted to.”

Harry raised his glass again and took another gulp of the burning liquor.

“I’ve never had reason to perform it before,” Draco went on. “As I said, most of my clients are women.”

Finding his voice, Harry said, “So then— you’re not…”

“Straight?” Draco laughed— strained, humourless. “Merlin, no. You thought I was?”

“I guess so,” Harry admitted. “You never said, at least; not when I told you about me.” Then the other part of what Draco had said slammed into his mind. Harry’s eyes shot up, from where they were investigating the swirling whisky in his glass, to find a clear, gray gaze on him. “You’re attracted to me.”

One shouldered, Draco gave a diffident shrug. He sighed deeply and set down his empty tumbler. “So it’s me who should be apologising, you see. Again. Which I do. Genuinely. I took advantage, and I—” Here, his cheeks pinked up. “I knew better.”

“Better than what?” Harry said hoarsely. From the whisky or the conversation, he couldn’t be sure. “I wanted to kiss you, Draco. I’d been wanting to kiss you for— Jesus, has it only been a few days?” He rubbed his forehead for a moment to forestall the headache that was sure to come if he contemplated that for too long. Then he looked back up at Draco squarely, determined to be as honest. “Before that, even. I thought you were— were attractive when we saw each other at the apothecary, months ago.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I also thought you were straight. Though maybe the next time someone tells me about a drink called Lust Potion, I’ll re-evaluate my assumptions.”

“It’s a good drink,” Draco said carefully.

Harry nodded; it had been. “Why do you Glamour yourself on your street?”

“Ah. Good question,” Draco said, one eyebrow going up.

“Are you going to answer it?”

“I already have.” Draco blew out a long breath, brows drawn down as if weighing his words. “My clients… this Mark. I’m not Muggle enough to live as one, but— the wizarding world has a long memory,” he explained, sounding awkward.

“But—” Harry fell silent. It wasn’t fair, the expectations settled on either of them. The way Harry had gotten so damned harassed, he couldn’t be arsed to leave his own house most days. The way Draco apparently had to hide his own face before leaving his. “You were exonerated.”

“Legally,” Draco agreed with a dip of his head.

“Right. Fine.” The corners of Harry’s mouth pulled down, almost of their own accord. “So… I’m not sure what happens next. I still need a—”

“I didn’t quit on you, Potter,” Draco said. “I just left.”

“You didn’t quit?” Harry snorted softly into his drink. “Good thing I didn’t send that owl to the agency, then.”

“Good thing,” Draco echoed. “I should have, but no. I thought— I thought you still needed someone and I— I can do that.”

“You’ve been doing it well,” Harry said in a low voice.

Draco sat up abruptly, shoulders coming in tight. “I’m not a fucking—”

“God, no!” Harry yelped. “Not what I meant. Fuck.” Draco’s expression smoothed out some, but his eyes still shot uncertain sparks, like he was figuring out whether he should stay offended. Harry swallowed hard and took a last, fortifying sip of his whisky. “But you’re not—”

“Not what?” Draco asked warily, when Harry gulped in a lungful of air.

Harry put his glass down on the floor. Draco watched his movements, then gazed at him impassively as Harry slid across the empty middle of the sofa until his knees were brushing Draco’s.

“Not on duty now?” Harry said, heart thundering in his throat. His nerves were wound so tight he had the sudden fear he would sick up— and wouldn’t that be a bloody turn-on. He made himself breath slowly—in, out—and watch Draco for cues, not wanting to presume anything.

“I’m not...” Draco said. It sounded like there was a but coming, but the tension of the unsaid word lingered in the air, like the final strains of a musical note, vibrating and finally disappearing as something solidified between them, thick and anticipatory. Draco’s eyes slipped from Harry’s to look at his mouth and back up, gaze hazy and unsettled all at once. Harry reached out resolutely, touching Draco’s stiff jaw with two fingers.

Draco shuddered at the light contact, hard and surprising; he immediately leaned into it as Harry cupped his jaw, fanning his fingers out over the hinge of it. Draco’s throat worked silently but Harry felt it in the way Draco’s muscles shifted under his hand, and he wanted to— “Can I kiss you?”

“You shouldn’t,” Draco said, but his eyes were on Harry’s mouth. Harry leaned forward, eyes open, and brushed his mouth over Draco’s. Draco sighed into it, lashes dipping almost shut, head tilted into Harry’s touch. Harry moved away a fraction, and Draco growled, quiet and sharp. “Potter—”

Harry slid his hand back, through Draco’s fine silk hair, and fisted it. He pulled Draco’s head closer, simultaneously slanting it to the side, and kissed him again— hard and fast, tongue insistently pressing into Draco’s mouth when Draco gasped. His hands came up to clutch at Harry’s biceps, and then Harry knew that his earlier growl had been a precursor to… to something, something that had been knotted up inside Draco, because Draco used his teeth, his tongue, as hungry as he’d been that morning but three times as demanding, mouth as burning as the whisky when he sucked Harry’s lower lip into his mouth, when he slid his tongue feverishly inside.

“Draco— fuck.” Harry’s cock, neglected since that morning—and angry at him ever since—pressed tight against the inside of his jeans.

“I’d like to—” It came out raspy, hard, and Harry thought Draco’s voice like that, coarse and confused with want, was the hottest bloody thing he’d ever heard. Harry caught him under the armpits, yanking him closer until Draco swung a leg over his lap in a straddle, body pressed tight against Harry’s, hips working over him, hands gripping the back of his neck and his hair.

“Do it,” Harry muttered into the kiss. “Whatever you want.”

“I am” Draco said, drawing back slightly, chest heaving. Harry could feel the length of his cock pressed against his belly, just above his own groin. “What, this isn’t impressive enough for you?” he said snidely, then gave a indecent roll that made Harry swear—in several languages he hadn’t been aware he knew. Maybe he’d just made them up, not that it mattered when Draco’s cock had come into contact with Harry’s, when Harry’s hands were sliding up under Draco’s soft cashmere jumper over smooth warm skin. Draco’s stomach muscles jumped when Harry dragged his knuckles over them, up and up, then down, rubbing over the soft feathering of hair below his navel. Draco jerked, then plastered himself against Harry so enthusiastically Harry’s hand got caught between them. Draco’s eyes were laser-sharp, riveted on Harry’s face as he moved over him, thighs tensing and releasing on every rough, tiny slide up and back down.

“I’m gonna come if you keep doing that,” Harry gasped, feeling the heat pool in his cock as Draco rutted on top of him. He pulled his hand from between them; cupped Draco’s arse cheeks and yanked him forward as Draco continued the fast, filthy grind, and it was so fucking perfect— the thick shaft of Draco’s prick pressing against his briefly before sliding away. He wanted to strip Draco down, wanted to feel their cocks pressed together, naked and hard, wanted to see Draco come. Wondered breathlessly if it looked the same as when he did it, long ropes of pearly white fluid. Wondered what it would taste like.

As if reading his mind, Draco gave a slow, curling smile, eyes gone as smoky as the taste of liquor on his tongue.

“Come, Harry,” he said— an argument that seemed wildly persuasive to Harry, considering how tight his balls were, how they tingled so hard they ached. “I owe you one, I think,” he said, low and serious, smile growing, though all humour had been wiped away by his intense stare, by the speed with which he rocked against Harry. “I’d like to see your face when I make you come in your pants like a teenager,” he murmured bluntly, and the thought of that—of Draco watching him come—was finally enough.

Harry gave a choked cry and spilled hard, the inside of his pants going sticky and wet as his cock pulsed with such force that the edges of his vision whited out. Pleasure washed over him and Draco continued moving for a few more glorious moments, then suddenly went rigid like he had that morning, not clinging to Harry nor pushing him away, almost trembling with strain as he started to come. Harry groaned, then pulled Draco’s mouth down for another biting kiss and Draco nodded frantically against him, like that was what he’d needed, and all of Harry’s thoughts went quiet— everything did, except for the heavy catching sounds of their breaths, and the bare whisper of rain, just starting, on the window.

His pulse still skittering frantically, Harry clutched at Draco, holding him close against his own body as Draco’s trembling slowed and finally stopped. Draco lifted his head as though it weighed a thousand pounds. His face was flushed, blotchy, and his hair clung damply to his temples. Harry’s prick gave a twitch inside his jeans at that, at the disorientation on Draco’s face, the… sexy-as-fuck mess of him. Draco groaned, face twisting as he took stock of himself. He tried to draw away, but Harry pulled him back, kissed him again— slower and softer this time, pleased when Draco’s breath stuttered, when he fucking purred. He hadn’t been expecting it, this kiss, Harry could tell. But he leaned into it all the same, kissing Harry back, tongue sliding against his own, the loosened hands in his hair turning gripping again. Draco pulled away at length, breathless, eyes wide and confused.

“Potter—”

“Have dinner with me,” Harry said. It felt— impulsive, rash to want to take Draco out when he usually avoided going out at all lately, hating the attention he drew. Taking Draco out would increase that attention tenfold, and would make a-a statement, besides, but—

Draco drew off him, clumsy. He sat on the cushion next to Harry, then grabbed his wand and spelled himself clean with a grimace. As an afterthought, he cast a cleaning spell over Harry, too.

“Just what do you think this is, Potter?”

“I was hoping a date,” Harry said, not letting himself think too much about it.

“I— can’t.”

“You keep saying that,” Harry said.

Draco breathed for a moment, eyes distant with some internal battle. “It’s not a date,” he said. “It’s dinner. And I’m on the clock.”

“It’s dinner and not a date,” Harry parried, “so long as you’re not on the clock.”

“Hurting for the gold?” Draco said sarcastically.

“Are you?” Harry returned, and was pleased when Draco snorted. “Just come,” he said, feeling a bend in the air, a quiver of acquiescence in the shift of Draco’s torso, leaning toward him again minutely. Harry spontaneously brought his thumb up to graze Draco’s swollen mouth, wanting to touch him again, and Draco’s eyes swept to his, startled. He jerked away, breathing hard.

“No,” Draco said shakily. He stood, raking a hand through his hair, then looked down at Harry, all softness gone, face implacable as stone. “You should go.” His eyes fell to the floor. “I’ll be there at nine, but you should go now.”

Helplessly, Harry did.

“Are you using your, er, charms?” Harry asked as they slipped into bed later that evening.

The hours between seven and nine had moved with syrup-like slowness. Harry tried to get a bit of work in but, unable to focus, had showered instead. He’d curled his hand around his half hard cock, stroking it until it was stiff and ruddy in his grip, the spray coming down on him as he watched the head poke out of his fist on every glide back and thought of touching Draco that way, thought of the way Draco’s breath had turned light and shallow as he’d come, the way his eyes had gone blank and then shy. Harry had come for the third time that day, groaning out Draco’s name as he’d finished.

When Draco had shown up at last, he’d already been wearing his pyjamas, and instead of making Harry press him for answers, he’d pinned Harry with a narrow look and said, “Not while I’m working,” so unequivocally that Harry had simply nodded and scooted over on the sofa, tossing the remote to Draco. Draco had assessed him for a moment, commenting only that it was good Harry's hallucinations were on the wane, then picked out a bizarre magical-fantasy feature that’d had him taunting the muggle idea of the magical world in under five minutes, loosening up enough to pull his legs under himself on the couch and throw Harry the odd grin. It had felt like it did with Ron, with Hermione—comfortable, fun—only with the added hum of tension in the air, his exhausted cock perking up each time Draco’s mouth had curled up, each time his gaze had ticked over to look at Harry’s.

“My what?” Draco said now, situating himself under the sheets.

“Charms,” Harry said with a small cough. “The ones that make you not—” he gave a wave of his hand towards the region of Draco’s groin.

Draco raised a single eyebrow and smirked. “I told you, Potter— not on the clock.”

“Is that a no?” Harry asked, confused and hopeful.

“How do you want to sleep tonight?” Draco asked, instead of answering. “You seemed to like last night, cuddling me rather than vice versa.”

Harry sighed. He thought about it for a moment. “How do you usually sleep?” he asked.

Draco blinked. “On my side.”

“I mean— with someone,” Harry clarified, blushing. “How’s it comfortable for you? Because I’ve liked all of it.”

“It’s not about me, not while I’m—”

“On the clock,” Harry finished for him tersely. “Yeah, I got that. Still, I’m asking. Maybe I’ll like it; maybe it’ll help me fall asleep quicker.”

Reluctantly, Draco said, “I told you, I don’t usually do overnight calls.”

“I wasn’t talking about overnight calls,” Harry started. Draco threw him a harassed glance, fluffing the blanket out over his torso; the gesture was nervous, avoidant. “Oh.”

“Can you just pick a position?” Draco snapped.

“Behind you,” Harry blurted. Draco’s eyes flew up to his again, wide, and a small noise escaped Harry’s throat. “I meant— like last night,” he said hastily.

Draco rolled, curling himself in the way he had the previous night, into a loose foetal position. Harry slipped behind him, one arm sliding across Draco’s stomach, tucking his body close. He put the other arm under his head on the pillow to elevate it enough that Draco’s hair wasn’t blinding him. “Is this okay?”

“That’s fine,” Draco said, rough and fast.

“I don’t have any charms,” Harry murmured.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Draco wiggled back into him, just enough. Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “I hope you’re not too uncomfortable,” Draco snarked.

“I’ll be fine. I wanked in the shower,” Harry said.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco said, breathless and low. His arse, round and muscled, flexed and moved tighter against Harry’s groin in such a small movement Harry thought he might have imagined it. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, swallowing hard. With a surge of boldness, he slipped the hand on Draco’s waist up; let it rest on his chest, his thumb brushing against Draco’s nipple, which was beaded tight enough that Harry could feel it through through the silk of Draco’s pyjama top. “You won’t let me talk to you about anything else… I thought about you while I was doing it,” he said, and there was no way he was imagining the way Draco’s arse was moving now, twitching in a slow grind for several seconds before pulling away.

“I’m not a fucking rentboy,” Draco hissed, but there was a smile lingering somewhere in his voice, smug and aroused, and Harry didn’t even know that tone was familiar to him—that anger overlying desire when Draco spoke—until he heard it while his body was pressed against Draco’s back. Draco’s arm came back around behind him to clamp against Harry’s waist and keep him in place. “Stop it. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“I’m getting hard,” Harry said. After never saying that to anyone, ever, the words came shockingly easy. He barely even blushed. “Are you?”

“I know,” Draco said emphatically. “And no, I’m not. I used the bloody charm, alright? Do we have to talk about this?”

“No.” Harry plucked at the buttons of Draco’s top, ignoring Draco’s quick intake of breath. He slid a hand inside, palm rasping over the light smattering of hair and smooth skin there, unerringly finding the nipple he’d skimmed before. Curiously, he tweaked it.

Draco moaned— a rough, needy sound. “P-p-potter,” he got out, shaky even as he arched in two directions, chest into Harry’s hand and arse against his plumping cock. His hand clamped tight around Harry’s wrist, stilling it. Harry continued to roll Draco’s nipple between his forefinger and thumb, breath coming faster as he moved against him. “Really, we can’t. You can’t.”

Harry paused. “Why? I know you don’t think I’m paying you for this.”

“They have— there are spells to ensure our safety, and to make sure we maintain an appropriate distance,” Draco said. “ And do you know how uncomfortable this charm is when you— when you want your cock to get hard but it can’t?” he added tersely, pushing his arse into Harry’s cock once more. “I’m on duty for the next—”

“Seven and a half hours,” Harry supplied with a sigh, releasing Draco’s nipple and slipping his hand out of his shirt. He eased his prick away. “That’s why you left this morning?”

There was a pause. “Yes.” Harry felt the urge to laugh at how unconvincing he was, though he felt certain Draco was telling the truth.

“Draco?”

“What.” Draco sounded entirely unamused now, and nearly as frustrated as Harry felt.

“Do you really not read the papers?”

Draco turned, eyes glittering in the low light of the room. “I tend not to read anything in which I’m likely to find something uncomplimentary about myself or my family,” he said at last.

Diverted, Harry examined him. Draco’s lip was curled, defensive. Harry impulsively leaned forward and fluttered a kiss across his tight jaw, just under his ear. When he pulled back, Draco was looking at him strangely.

“Will we get in trouble for that?”

“No, but don’t do it again,” Draco said, voice taking on that shaky quality again.

“Why do you care what they write? You laughed before, when I asked about your dad,” Harry pointed out. Draco gave a heavy sigh and turned onto his back.

“I can hate my father and still love him,” he said briskly, looking up at the ceiling. “You should probably know that about me. And— and he can hate me and still love me, too.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” Harry said practically.

Draco darted a sharp look at him, mouth going flat and tight. “Try not to pretend you know what family dynamics are like, Potter.”

Stung, Harry pulled away, rolling onto his back as well. He found a crack running through his ceiling that he’d never noticed before, right in the middle, jagged and short, and probably the result of Harry’s use of magic while delirious from lack of sleep. He used it as a focal point, and wondered if it was what Draco staring at as well. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said after a moment of tense silence. “Mine were basically trying to get out of the way before my uncle came after me with his belt. Or to figure out how to smuggle some food into my cupboard with me when I knew I was in trouble for something my cousin had done, and figured they might lock me in for a couple of days. Family dynamics,” he said, voice heavy with irony, “didn’t really figure into my way of life until I was twelve or so and I went to Ron’s house for the first ti—”

He broke off with a sudden, strangled wheeze as he remembered that—the way Arthur had looked at him askance when Harry mentioned that he could do the cooking for everyone after Molly’d snipped about being tired. The way Molly had laughed and hugged him to her side, but looked at Arthur over the top of his head, only a day after he’d been stolen away from his tiny bedroom prison—so grateful to be in a warm house filled with warm food smells and warm people who loved each other and didn’t hit. Harry’s eyes were hot and wet and he blinked hard against the sudden blur in his vision, trying to breathe normally, his ribcage growing tight against his lungs.

“Potter,” Draco said, sounding far away, like he was under water. Hands crept over him and Harry flinched, then relaxed when they simply touched his face and turned his head so he could look into serious grey eyes. He gulped in some air as Draco nodded at him encouragingly. “Harry. It’s fine. Just breathe,” he said. “Just breathe.”

Harry listened to Draco repeat that until he didn’t feel as though he were sipping air through a straw anymore, his hands clutching at Draco’s forearms hard lest that touch disappear from his face. The blurriness cleared and returned, and with a start Harry realised that it was tears mucking up his vision as Draco’s face swam in front of his gaze.

“Oh, sod it,” Draco muttered abruptly and kissed him hard, teeth banging into Harry’s lips almost cuttingly before he found the right angle and the kiss became soft. His mouth was partway open, breath damp and hot against Harry’s, and the sudden onslaught of good sensation in the middle of not being able to think or breathe was so shocking that Harry snapped back into himself, disoriented but fully aware. He pulled away, licking the taste of Draco off his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Nevermind,” Draco said, impatient. “That’s what you meant about how you were raised? Your dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“That was a panic attack, Po— Harry,” Draco said.

Unexpectedly, Harry smiled. “I know. I’ve— er, had them before.”

“Your relatives really hit you?” Draco asked uncertainly.

“Yeah,” Harry said again, hoarse. He looked away.

“My father didn’t,” Draco offered into the void. “Not once. He just— made clear he didn’t approve. And when I made it clear back that I didn’t approve of the things he’d been saying my whole life—after the war, mind you—he became disinclined to approve of me ever again.” He said it all fast, as though it would be easier that way— or maybe he’d just never said it before, Harry thought. “Especially when I told him there would be no new Malfoy heir.” He swallowed audibly. “But he never touched me in anger.” Draco smiled, faint and sardonically. “Purebloods aren’t physically demonstrative in any way, really. Or, we’re not supposed to be.”

Harry sighed, feeling unaccountably exhausted. “I see.” He laid back down, idly wondering when they had sat up. The sheets were tangled around Harry’s thighs and he smoothed them up, reaching over to drape them across Draco too.

“Why did you ask if I read the newspapers?” Draco continued after a moment.

Harry turned, away this time. There was a beat of stillness, and then Draco shifted, curling around him again. It felt good; warm. Draco’s forearm pressed against Harry’s torso, his wrist bone jutting uncomfortably against Harry’s ribs, but Harry found himself disinclined to move. “I was at a club,” Harry said under his breath. He didn’t even know if Draco could hear him; if he wanted Draco to. “There was a man.”

One long leg slid between Harry’s, and the position felt more natural than it had the previous nights, like Draco had been holding something back before and Harry hadn’t realised until now. Draco’s thigh pressed firmly between Harry’s legs, and Harry slid his leg back so they were entwined.

“What happened?” Draco asked, just as softly as Harry had spoken.

“We danced,” Harry said simply. “He kissed me.”

“Good club,” Draco said, mild and on the edge of a yawn.

“It’s Muggle,” Harry told him. “He offered to— He wanted to go to the—”

“To the…” Draco prompted, sounding a bit sharper.

“The loo,” Harry got out, flushing. “I’d never—”

“Well, no, of course not,” Draco mumbled. “Saint Potter’s too honourable to have a one-off in a dirty loo stall.”

“I was going,” Harry said defensively. “I was going to go, because I’d never—”

“Wait, never?” Draco said, coming up slightly on his elbow. He pulled the hand that was gripping Harry; forced him to turn. “Even I’ve...”

“What do you mean ‘even you?’” Harry whispered, looking into the disbelieving gray gleam of Draco’s eyes.

“I’ve— gone,” Draco said. He shook his head, laid back down. His hand came up to rest over Harry’s heart. “What stopped you?”

“I saw a reporter from the Prophet.” It sounded so cowardly, and Harry broke off, not wanting to finish. Not wanting to explain how he—so celebrated for his bravery, the quintessential Gryffindor and defeater of Voldemort—had been suddenly overwhelmed by the image of a single photograph showing the world who he really is when he’d barely begun to explore it himself. Not wanting to explain his horror at the idea of hearing himself get called a freak. “I-I hate reporters. Publicity,” he said lamely. Draco simply looked at him, wry and kind, as though he understood exactly what Harry was saying. “So I left.”

Draco snorted softly, surprising him. Then he leaned in, close to Harry’s ear and said, “I bet he’s still waiting for you in the loo.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he said.

“No,” Draco said instantly, breath hot against Harry’s skin. “But I’ll do this with you. For another three nights.”

“Haha,” Harry said, feeling exposed and raw. But then he felt Draco’s lips curve up in a smirk against the back of his neck; a light touch, a balm. He relaxed. “We should go to sleep.”

“Goodnight Harry.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

His stomach was hollow; it ached. Harry took another sip from the jug of water he had, looking longingly at the empty package of crackers that he’d eaten too quickly, not realising that his aunt and uncle would be gone all day.

He huddled tight on his mattress, knees tucked close to his chest and arms wrapped around himself. A tiny spider in the corner looked at him. “Just use your wand to get out.”

That he’d forgotten he was a wizard seemed immaterial, even as his wand appeared in his hand. “I can’t— they’ll know,” Harry whispered, shivering. “I have to stay here.”

“You didn’t, once,” the spider reminded him. Harry thought of being five, and finding himself suddenly in the kitchen after having been shut in his cupboard all day. Of being so hungry that he’d binged on Petunia’s cold stew in the refrigerator, dunking thick chunks of bread into it; he thought of feeling sick afterward, but managing keeping it all down as he’d wandered into the sitting room and looked blankly at the padlock on the door to his cupboard. He thought of the way Petunia had squawked at him when she’d come down the stairs and found him there, fear in her eyes even as she’d cuffed the side of his head and set his ear to ringing, then slapped him outright when she’d seen the mess he’d left in the kitchen.

“I can’t,” Harry said again.

“You can, you know. You can get out of here,” the spider told him, all of its eyes shiny and serious. “You can be who you are and no one will punish you.”

“What if they do?” Harry asked it, then woke with a start. He reached for Draco and sat up, alarmed to find himself alone, hand scrambling for his wand to charm the lights on, heart hammering in his chest. “Draco?”

He heard the flush of the toilet just as he spelled the lights on, overbright, causing him to blink. Draco opened the door to the bathroom, eyes widening as he spotted Harry. Harry wondered if he looked as crazed as he felt; sweat prickled uncomfortably on his brow; his limbs were shaking. He licked his lips and stared at Draco, who paused for only a moment before moving back to the bed swiftly, climbing in and pulling Harry flush against his side.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments, when Harry’s breathing had finally steadied. “I had to—”

“I assume you’re allowed to piss when you’re here,” Harry mumbled, burrowing into him instinctively. Draco chuckled, sounding relieved, and Harry felt a soft, surprising kiss drop onto his temple.

“I would hope so,” Draco said wryly. “That level of kink doesn’t appeal to me.”

Harry’s lips tugged up. He felt calm again; sated.

“Was it a dream?”

Nodding, Harry closed his eyes.

“They’ll start to come back,” Draco warned, “now that your system is realigning itself.”

“They don’t happen every night,” Harry said. He yawned. “Though it’s— better to have someone here when I wake up, I guess.”

“Right,” Draco said softly. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Is it?” Harry lifted his head and looked at Draco searchingly; the bow of Draco’s mouth drew down, and his eyes were shuttered.

“Isn’t it?” Draco returned vaguely. “You’ll be back to normal in a few days.”

“My ‘normal’ is not sleeping and almost going squib from exhaustion,” Harry said, wry. When Draco didn’t respond, he added, “Maybe I’d— maybe I should hire a cuddler full-time.”

The chest under his hand stilled for such a long moment that Harry began to worry, until the rise and fall of it resumed. “Maybe part-time,” Draco allowed. “Though most of them aren’t… trained as well as I am.”

“Are you ever going to tell me how you got into it?” Harry asked. “Why?”

“I’d think you were a Ravenclaw for all the questions you ask,” Draco murmured under his breath, dryly, “if you were any smarter than you are.”

Harry snorted. “No, but I was almost Sorted into Slytherin, so I’m not incapable of getting the things I want.”

“Very funny,” Draco said. His hand crept up and began stroking Harry’s hair the way he had before; sliding through its strands and curling it around his fingertips; pulling gently here and there. Little tugs that made Harry’s eyelids droop with pleasure as the last dregs of his dream faded away and his exhaustion returned. “Go to sleep,” Draco murmured.

“I like you, Draco,” Harry mumbled. He felt, in the shadowy, obscure corner of his mind that was still working, that he should feel embarrassed by saying it like that; he wondered if he should have said it sooner.

“Ah, a twelve-year dream fulfilled,” Draco said, snide and gentle, both. “I like you too, Potter. Now shut up.”

Harry did. He thought it might mean something—something significant—that he was so easily able to relax after one of his dreams, just because Draco was there with him. But he was too tired to examine it, his brain too fried, and without much effort, he let himself fall back to sleep.

Chapter Text

The owls came after lunch.

Harry forced himself to put down the note he’d been carrying around, half-crumpled from his fist, which Draco had left on the pillow explaining that his time had run over and he’d needed to leave for another appointment. He wanted to Incendio the damn thing, because Merlin knew he didn’t have a lot of experience with dating, but even he knew it wasn’t done to keep running off without saying goodbye. At least he knew that something was happening between them that warranted a— a discussion, if not more of what they had had gotten up to on Draco’s sofa. Or some real indication of whether Draco wanted that.

He kept the note, though, unable to burn it—to throw it away, even—because Draco had also written that he’d be back tonight at nine. And so Harry had spent an appalling amount of time staring at the precise, flowing cursive of Draco’s handwriting, puzzling over it in his mind.

The first owl was a Snowy, and a lump in his throat formed as she swooped into his window. Her speckles were more pronounced, and she seemed far less aware of herself than Hedwig had been—probably just younger, Harry thought as he searched for a breaded grasshopper for her to crunch on. She was friendly, hooting loudly at him and nuzzling his fingertips as he untied the scroll from her leg,l and proceeded to take the treat from Harry’s fingers with a playful nip. She flew away, and Harry surprised himself by smiling. He’d just started to open the scroll when another owl—a standard barn owl, a more common courier—flew in, landing right on his shoulder in an inelegant perch.

Confused, he hunted up another treat and tugged the sealed parchment from it, too. The owl stayed for another moment, refusing to leave his shoulder until Harry rolled his eyes and gave it another grasshopper, relieved when the talons digging into his shoulder drew out and the owl flew away.

Slightly disturbed, Harry looked down at the missives. It wasn’t as if his address was unknown, but his wards usually didn’t allow in unwanted mail, and he wasn’t expecting anything from anyone.

Chewing on his lip for a moment, he peeled the wax open on the first one and scanned it.

Mr Potter,
We at Magical Touch appreciate your patronage. Regarding the accidental transfer of gold from your Gringott’s account, we have fully refunded the balance left on the contract. We hope you’ll consider us in the future if you ever have need of our services, and…

Harry set down the letter, brow furrowing. He picked up the other one, which turned out to be a notice from Gringotts alerting him to the redeposit of five hundred Galleons into his vault. Confused, he picked up the first letter again, hoping for more clues, but it was nothing more than a simple, polite refund letter and subtle entreaty that Harry might still use their business someday. He glanced at Draco’s note, mouth tightening as he worked out the math: five hundred Galleons was five nights worth of his contract, which meant that Draco hadn’t been working for him since the second bloody night.

More bewildered than angry, Harry set all three missives carefully away from himself and stood. He walked over to the Floo and headed to the MLE offices, dusting himself off even as his strides lengthened on the way to Ron’s tiny office.

Ron looked up in surprise, an automatic smile caught on his face. “What are you doing here? Not afraid to be seen in the public now?”

Harry hadn’t even thought of that, nor of the whispers that had started as he’d passed through the halls. He gawked at Ron for a second, then shook his head. “What did you mean about Malfoy running into me a lot?”

“What?” Ron blurted as Harry shut the door behind him.

“Well?” Harry flopped into the small visitor’s chair in front of Ron’s desk. “What did that mean? How he only runs into me or something.”

Ron’s mouth opened, then shut. He looked over Harry’s shoulder as though hoping someone would come in and rescue thim, then back to Harry’s face and sighed. He ran a hand through his hair; it had grown longer in recent years, and was getting pretty shaggy, but it suited Ron’s face, Harry noticed dispassionately as he gave Ron a flat, expectant stare.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Ron muttered. “I swear. Just—” He huffed; shrugged. “Oi, it’s true, alright? Malfoy’s been Glamouring for the last few years, since he got off house arrest. It was right after you quit. I think I mentioned that— that little…” Ron coughed, clearly uncomfortable. “That incident where he got hexed in the middle of Diagon?”

Harry nodded slowly as the memory came back. “He had to spend a couple of days at Mungo’s, right?”

“Yeah,” Ron said with a grimace. “And we never caught who did it, but his injuries came from three different spells—and three different wands. That sort of vigilantism has dwindled a lot since then—it was already decreasing—but there are still people out there who are… sore, Harry.”

“No, I know,” Harry said blankly. He frowned, thinking of Draco walking down his own street, with a different face on to protect himself. “What does that have to do with me, though?”

“Well, no one sees him,” Ron said, looking put-out. “But… you do.”

“Well, yeah, we run into each other,” Harry said. Ron rolled his eyes and Harry glared at him. “Could you spell it out, then?”

“I just— I asked around.” Ron’s cheeks reddened. “When you saw him at the pub. I got a bit curious, and asked if Nev had seen him—you know, he visits Diagon pretty often, way more than you—and Luna, too. Hannah, Hermione; I even mentioned it to George. No one sees him. Only you.”

“You think he’s stalking me?” Harry shook his head, unable to believe it.

Ron barked out a laugh. “Fuck no; Malfoy’s not... as stealthy as you pretended you were, back in school. I just think he likes you,” he said bluntly. “I think he drops his Glamour when he sees you out in public, and… that’s why you see him when nobody else does. That’s all.”

Harry thought about their conversations over the last several months, a few minutes of cautious friendliness before a randomly-timed escape; the sun breaking free before cloud coverage claimed it once more.

“Why not just— say so?” Harry asked. “We’re… I mean, I’ve asked him. I told him I like him,” he added, face warming, “and he said it too.”

“Sweet,” Ron said, smirking.

“Shut up. I just mean— why the subterfuge? If he was—” Harry broke off, struggling for the right word; interested, confused, attracted? None of them seemed to fit, and he shrugged helplessly.

Ron mimicked him, shoulders lifting apologetically. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Thanks,” Harry said grimly, standing. “I plan to.”

At precisely nine, Harry’s floo flared to life. Draco stepped out with a fluid little duck so as to not catch his head on the mantle, and gave Harry a haughty look. “I’m not going to argue with you while I’m on duty, Potter.”

“Wouldn’t dream of arguing with you at all,” Harry lied cheerfully, tossing Draco the remote. Draco plucked it out of the air, his reflexes still swift, and gave him a narrow look before proceeding to the sofa and sitting down. He relaxed, shooting Harry a small smile.

“What’s it to be tonight?” he asked. He set his wand between them and patted the top of his thigh and Harry lifted his feet the way he had the previous night. Draco began massaging them one-handed while flipping through the channels. “I have one,” he said conversationally. “The muggle-box. Television.”

“I noticed,” Harry said, eyes not even straying to the screen for a second. “What do you normally watch?”

“I like those information adverts,” Draco admitted. “The muggle inventions?”

“Those are usually on pretty late,” Harry said, then allowed a soft groan to break free. “Right there.”

Obligingly, Draco dug his knuckle deeper into the arch of Harry’s foot. “Sometimes you can find them earlier.”

“Can you?” Harry leaned forward casually; he tucked Draco’s wand into the sofa cushions, out of his reach. “How do you even find the time?”

“I don’t work all the time,” Draco said, laughing a little. “But it’s one of the reasons I don’t usually take overnights. I’d rarely have time to myself, if I did.”

“And the reason you took mine?” Harry asked. “The reason you take any?”

Slowly, Draco’s channel-surfing ceased. His head turned slowly, and he pinned Harry with an indecipherable look. “I’ve already said.”

“Right, but this time you could tell the truth,” Harry pointed out. He grinned, flashing his teeth in just-this-side of a snarl.

“I said I didn’t want to argue,” Draco said stiffly. “I’m on duty, and—”

“Oh, are you?” Harry arched his eyebrows; he grabbed his own wand and Summoned the letters, passing them over wordlessly.

Draco took them, countenance pinched and tight; his face whitened as he read, and the look he gave Harry when he lifted his head was nothing short of stricken. Harry pulled his feet out of Draco’s lap and Draco’s hands fell, curling together loosely. “What?” he said, voice dull. His gaze skittered around. “I’ll just go. Where’s my wand?”

“I want to know what’s going on,” Harry said instead of answering him. “I want to know why you’ve been lying about working for me, especially after last night! Why you’ve been— been showing up around me when nobody else sees you! Why you hide, except when I’m around! Why we— last night, why you let us— and then just left!”

“Where is my fucking wand, Potter?” Draco demanded, voice gone as rough as it had been flat. His eyes sparked at Harry furiously, and he stood up to hunt for it. “Just because you stole one from me when we were seventeen doesn’t give you the right to—”

“You’ll get it back when you answer me, Draco,” Harry said evenly, watching as Draco stalked around the room.

“Fuck you,” Draco spat. He turned, chest heaving, and then turned and headed toward the floo. Harry brought up his wand and closed it, meeting Draco’s outraged stare. “Holding me hostage now?”

“Stalking me to get into bed with me now?” Harry countered, tone as nasty as Draco’s. “You know, for someone who claims to be such a professional, your bedside manner needs work.”

“How long did it take you to come up with that one?” Draco sneered. “All day? Salazar knows you have the time.”

“I have a job,” Harry said, trying to keep his temper. “And this isn’t about me.”

“Considering the way you’ve avoided telling me what your job is, I find that hard to believe,” Draco said. He looked absolutely furious, seething with impotent rage, and Harry swallowed, because he also looked— amazing like this, cheeks flushed and mouth sneering, white-blond hair falling, tousled, over his forehead. He was panting lightly, and his hands were clenched into fists. Harry stared at him, open-mouthed, his cock thickening rapidly in his jeans, even as Draco narrowed his eyes. “And isn’t everything about you?”

“I’m a trashy romance novelist,” Harry snapped. “And no more than you seem to have made it.” He stood abruptly, stalking over to where Draco was and catching him by the arms. He smelled so fucking good, warm like cider, and felt warm too, and Harry couldn’t decide if he wanted to shake him or shag him. “Just fucking tell me what’s going on. You— you wanted me, I thought.” His throat felt tight. “And I wanted you. After what happened, I don’t know why you can’t just tell me what’s going—”

Draco cut off his rant, grabbing his face in both hands and slanting his mouth feverishly against Harry’s. Harry’s mind went blank, dazed with the sudden swamp of desire—of sensation—as Draco’s lips moved against his, as he swept his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, slick and hot. Harry slid his arm around Draco’s ribcage to pull him closer, and Draco wrenched his mouth away.

“Are you actually a romance novelist?” he asked breathlessly, pupils blown wide. His mouth was swollen; slick. He rotated his hips against Harry’s lightly.

“Yeah,” Harry said, panting. He closed his eyes when Draco’s cock pressed against his with more intent. “Why are you a cuddler?”

“People don’t touch me,” Draco said. His voice shook, but his hands slid down to cup Harry’s arse, to wedge them together as he continued to grind his hips. “I hired one once. I went to a mind-healer; two years of house arrest with my parents nearly drove me mad, and Pansy had moved away—Blaise gone with her—wanting nothing to do with the reminder of what had happened here— and I—” he swallowed, eyes on Harry’s mouth, “—I needed to be touched. But people were— were different. I knew they would be. I just thought… And then I went to a cuddler and things were better. I thought—why not have people pay me for it? Then I get the regular contact as well.”

Harry’s chest ached with sympathy, but he couldn’t repress a smile. “You fucking Slytherin…” He grabbed Draco around the wrist and turned, striding down the hall with Draco in tow. When they got to his bedroom, he spelled on the lights and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t even think about using charms,” he warned, in case Draco knew any wandless magic.

Draco licked his lips; he shook his head, eyes wide.

Harry sat him on the bed and sucked in a fortifying breath. “You said you’d— done this,” he got out. Before he lost his nerve, he yanked his t-shirt up and off, peeling away his glasses as he did to drop them on the nightstand.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. “I said I’d— been to the loo with someone,” he said lowly, eyes on Harry’s hands as they worked his flies open.

“Yeah?” Harry shoved his jeans down; his cock jutted away from his body, tenting his boxers obscenely. He kicked them away, and nodded to Draco, who seemed to know what he was asking; Draco’s hands came up and he swiftly began unbuttoning his pyjama top. With relief, Harry noted no scars— just a slender, pale torso, covered with lean muscle and a light furring of golden hair, and coppery nipples that were already pebbled tight. “What’d you do in there?”

“Blow jobs,” Draco muttered. “There’ve been a few handjobs, too. But they were muggles, and it’s too—”

“Complicated,” Harry finished for him. “Yeah. D’you want to— do more?” he asked, covering his cock with his palm when it jerked at the thought.

Draco looked up at him, and Harry looked back, swallowing hard. Draco’s body was pearly in the low light of the room, almost luminescent with a pale glow that seemed to emanate from underneath his skin. Harry stepped forward and Draco opened his knees to allow Harry to invade his space. His throat worked silently, and he reached out, covering Harry’s hand with his own. Harry hissed at the increased pressure, at the way Draco’s fingers moved around his own to brush against the sides of his cock through his pants. He gulped in another breath, then touched Draco’s nipple lightly, light he had the previous night, catching it between his fore and middle fingers and squeezing. Draco made a soft choking sound, and finally nodded.

“Yeah, I think—” he broke off with a whimper when Harry tweaked his nipple again, then released it to rub with his thumb in tiny little flicks, the nail catching over the peak. “I think that’d be— I want to,” he gritted out.

“I’ve never…” Harry said hoarsely. “Not— not any of it.”

“Nothing?” Draco asked. Harry dragged his hand up to Draco’s mouth and rubbed his finger over Draco’s moist lower lip, then brought it back to his nipple, fascinated with the way he shuddered.

“Nothing,” Harry said, drifting closer. “I’ll… I’ll do whichever you think would be best. I think I’d be okay with either.”

“I do too.”

They stared at each other in consternation for a moment, and then Draco broke into a rueful smile. He caught Harry’s hand, shaking his head, and pulled Harry closer, leaning his chin up as Harry bent to catch his mouth in a kiss that started slow and exploratory but soon heated up. Then Harry’s hands were threaded tight in Draco’s hair, and Draco was digging his fingers into the muscles of Harry’s back, plastering Harry against him and pulling him down as he laid back against the mattress.

And oh, Merlin it felt so good. Everything about it did, from Draco’s hands, slipping into the back of his boxers, his fingers haltingly sliding between Harry’s arse cheeks before pulling away to palm at them roughly, to the way he pulled out of their kiss to mouth at Harry’s jaw, his neck—rough, sucking little kisses—to the small sounds issuing from his throat, low, soft groans that went directly to Harry’s cock like zings of electricity. Harry straddled him, moving his hands frantically over all that pale skin and kissed every part of Draco he could reach without giving up the amazing touch of Draco’s lips and tongue and teeth against his neck. He licked at the shell of Draco’s ear, at his throat too, pulling mottled bruises to the surface with his mouth as he ground his hips down over Draco’s, their cocks moving against each other in a slow rub that had Harry’s toes curling.

“We’ll, um, figure it out, okay?” Harry asked huskily.

“Yeah, I’m— I’m okay with that,” Draco said. He let his head fall back against the mattress and Harry ducked his head lower, wiggling down Draco’s body to pepper kisses across his chest, to take a nipple in his mouth, and lave it with his tongue, sucking gently at first—then harder—when Draco moaned brokenly and fastened his hand over Harry’s head, holding him in place. Harry’s cock throbbed, damp in his pants; he skimmed his teeth against Draco’s nipple when he pulled off it, then moved on to the other while Draco started to twist and arch against him, hand firm on the back of Harry’s neck, on his head, hips bucking up against Harry’s thigh. “Please,” he said unsteadily. “Please, I want to—”

“You taste good,” Harry mumbled, and it was true. Like soap and spice and sweat; masculine and clean. He took a final nip and moved lower, biting Draco’s taut, trembling stomach as he went, licking along the line of hair from his bellybutton to his groin. He looked up when he reached the waistband of Draco’s bottoms, saw Draco watching him with dark eyes, fists clenching in the duvet. “Can I—”

“Just fucking get on with it, Potter,” Draco said, sounding tortured.

Harry grinned, rolling his hips against the mattress for a moment before he pulled back to peel Draco’s bottoms off, carefully tugging them down. Draco lifted his hips to aid him and they slipped down, his cock catching on the waistband for a moment, bobbing as it was cleared. It settled in an arc against his belly, and Harry sucked in a breath as he tossed Draco’s bottoms to the floor.

Crouching between Draco’s spread thighs, Harry looked—really looked—at Draco’s cock, overwhelmed with the here and now and real of it, nothing like in those wizarding magazines he’d furtively bought and wanked to, watching models smoulder at the camera and jerk themselves roughly. Harry leaned in closer, biting his lip, fascinated.

“It’s not going to hex you if you give it a rub,” Draco said irritably, and Harry laughed with surprise. He took it in his hand, marveling at the weight, the heat. It was longer than his, slightly curved upward, and flushed a deep pink everywhere but the crown, which was almost red. The foreskin was stretched tight over the head to reveal the slit, which glistened wetly. Harry smoothed back the skin, velvety under his palm, to uncover it more. Draco’s breath hitched; his legs shifted restlessly.

“I like it,” Harry said, delighted, and Draco gave a soft huff of choked laughter, lifting his head again. His eyes shone, pleased and open and warm, and Harry almost moaned just from that look, from the way it speared through him to every single pulse point and settled hotly behind his breastbone. He lowered his head, and gave the tip of Draco’s cock a tentative lick, hand still curled around the shaft.

“Harry—” Draco keened quietly, falling silent but for the loud rattling breaths he took as Harry wrapped his lips around the head and began to lower his mouth. It tasted faintly of bitter, faintly of salt, and Harry tried to pay attention to the sounds Draco was making as he moved his tongue and bobbed his head, tried to focus on the way Draco bumped his hips to get deeper when Harry paused to catch a breath. He drew back slowly, fluttering his tongue against the vein that pulsed along the shaft and licking around the flat underside of glans. He explored the ridge of it with his tongue, sucking hard and moving his hand in faster strokes down to the root and back, reaching in between Draco’s spread thighs to cup his balls.

“Oh, Harry, oh, f-f-fuck, I’m—” Draco hissed. His cock jerked in Harry’s hand, in his mouth, and a sudden spurt of fluid startled Harry; he coughed but started swallowing what he could, letting the rest drip out the sides of his mouth. It wasn’t a pleasant taste, exactly, but he found himself… even more turned on by it; or maybe it was just the way Draco continued to gasp; the way his hand was so tight in Harry’s hair; the way his balls were so tight in Harry’s hand. Harry finally pulled off, breathing heavily, and rose up higher onto his knees, wiping his chin with his wrist and meeting Draco’s hazy eyes.

“Was that okay?”

Draco smirked, but there was something raw about it, something elementally satisfied, and that felt so fucking good, too. “Yeah,” he said roughly. Then, “You’ve never done that before?”

“I’ve done research, but not that,” Harry said. “You couldn’t tell?” he asked, smiling. He crawled over Draco again and hesitated, but Draco kissed him like it didn’t matter that Harry had just been swallowing his come, so Harry gave himself up to it and licked into Draco’s mouth until Draco pulled away. He smiled at Harry in a predatory way.

“Less teeth, next time,” he instructed. Harry snorted. “But no, I couldn’t tell.”

Then he twisted until he was the one hovering over Harry, and efficiently stripped Harry of his pants, waiting until Harry kicked them from where they dangled off his left foot before looking at his cock. Harry reached down to circle the base of it with his hand when Draco’s smile widened; when he licked his lips. “I was hoping I hadn’t imagined this,” he murmured softly.

“Imagined?” Harry’s mouth went dry at the way Draco’s eyes flicked up to his, at the promise in them, before he looked back at Harry’s cock.

“When you—every morning, pressed so tight against me,” Draco breathed, bending his neck. His tongue swiped hotly over Harry’s prick, one long flat lick from base to tip, and then Draco placed his lips around Harry’s cockhead—just—and swirled his tongue in circles over it, making a low sound of approval as he licked over Harry’s slit. He lifted his head and looked at Harry, who was quite sure by this point that the whole sleep thing really had driven him ‘round the twist, and he was dreaming, because holy fuck, he’d never imagined anything could feel so good. Draco cleared his throat lightly. “It felt good, waking up like that.” He smiled faintly. “Trying not to move, to see what you’d do next.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked hoarsely. “What’d I do?”

“You kept saying my name,” Draco said, lowering his head again. He sucked Harry’s cock into his mouth—one long, swift slide of slick—then cruelly pulled off with a smack and a devious raise of his eyebrow. “You kept rubbing against me, and saying, Malfoy, and you’d be so hard, I thought if I just let you keep going you’d come all over my hip, and fuck— I wanted you to, except they’d have—” He opened his mouth again, stretched his lips over Harry’s cock and kept going, more and more, until Harry could feel the warm huffs of breath from Draco’s nose, stirring his pubic hair.

Harry’s moan cracked in the middle; helplessly, he lifted up, waiting for the hands on his hips that would still him, but Draco just made that fucking noise again, the sound of it vibrating so deliciously that Harry writhed, and then Draco began moving. He wound his fingers around the base of Harry’s prick and dragged his mouth back, tonguing over Harry’s foreskin with devastating ease. Harry gasped, letting his hand find Draco’s head, letting it cup the taut muscles at the back of his neck, feeling relieved by it almost—that other point of contact—as Draco toyed with his ability to focus on anything but the suction and heat and slick being lavished on his cock. Harry lifted his head, watching Draco’s curving lips take him in then slide him out, and it was so— so generous the way Draco smiled around his prick, the almost affectionate glances he kept throwing to Harry’s face as Harry felt the crown of his cock butt up against Draco’s throat.

Draco’s eyes drifted shut and Harry let his eyes fall closed too, let his head fall back against the softness of the mattress. He felt a hand cup his balls, already tight and buzzing with sensation as Draco’s fingers rasped over them lightly. Draco rolled them in his palm, then slid his hand lower and slipped his fingers into the crease of Harry’s arse, sliding—sliding—until he found Harry’s hole.

Harry swallowed; his stomach flipped with nerves; he’d only ever done that to himself a few times—curiously reaching between his legs and using a monstrous amount of lube to work one finger inside while he fucked into his fist. And it always felt good, but Draco touching him there seemed brighter; indicative of what might be about to happen. But Draco’s mouth was still wet and heady over his cock, and all he did was rub Harry’s rim gently, the pad of his fingers tentative against the wrinkled flesh. Surprised at how good it felt, Harry’s breath burst explosively out of him; he instinctively drew his legs up and opened them.

Draco pulled his mouth off for a moment, and Harry lifted his head to look down, dizzy and accusatory. “Why’d you—”

“Wait, fucking—wait,” Draco muttered, reaching down to where Harry couldn’t see. Harry caught a glimpse of his own wand, then Draco was pointing and murmuring something. Harry twitched at the cool heat of a cleaning spell, and then again at the warm wetness coating him.

“That’s— that’s a lot of lube,” he managed.

Draco didn’t respond except to take one of Harry’s balls in his mouth, sucking— lighter than before. Harry’s cock bobbed off his stomach, smearing saliva and precome, and he tangled his hands in Draco’s hair again with a savage gasp. Then Draco’s fingers were back again, prodding this time instead of rubbing, and the tip of one slid inside, no trouble at all. Harry opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling as the room spun around him while Draco wriggled it deeper, slowly, almost to the knuckle.

Shaking, Harry realised he’d automatically begun to close his legs at the burn of it, the foreign stretch. He forced them open, groaning when Draco twisted his hand to a palm-up position and began pumping his finger in and out. His mouth continued to work over Harry’s balls teasingly, and then another finger joined the first. Too shocked to do anything but moan “Unnggghhh,” Harry planted one foot on the bed and arched up into it, feeling the fingers rotate inside him, deep and uncompromising, then brush over the spot Harry’d read about—researched—but hadn’t been able to reach on his own.

“Fuck!” he yelped, hips flying up, white hot pleasure pulsing from his arse to his cock only to pool in his spine, where tension was gathering. Draco gave a warm chuckle, breath hot against him as he nuzzled Harry’s groin, licking at the crease of it, lowering his head further to give a stinging nip to the underside of his arse cheek with his teeth. Harry panted raggedly as Draco touched the spot inside him again, fingers sliding over it and then back as he fucked them into Harry as deep as they would go. He drew them out to the tips and added a third.

“It’s oka—” Draco huffed against him as Harry went tense, the edge of real discomfort threatening. Draco worked his fingers inside about halfway, then stilled. “D’you want me to stop?”

Harry bit his lip. “No,” he whispered. His cock throbbed in time with his heart, both aching for release from the tension that had coiled itself around him. “I want—I think I want—” He groaned; Draco had pressed his fingers deeper, twisting them back and forth to facilitate entry, and Harry’s walls clenched around them instinctively. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” Draco said thickly, taking another swift bite of Harry’s bum. Somehow that felt almost more intimate than the rest, like a tiny claim he was placing on Harry, a fond intimacy he hadn’t asked for. Harry sought balance by staring at the crack in his ceiling and focusing on his breath for a minute as Draco continued to pump his fingers.

“Do you want to?” Harry finally got out after another moan escaped him. He didn’t even know how much longer he’d last, not with Draco’s fingers pressing so deep and rubbing over his prostate determinedly, not with his cock leaking liberally against his stomach, foreskin pulled back over its flushed, swollen head. “I— I want you to.”

“Okay,” Draco said. He dropped his forehead to the inside of Harry’s thigh; it was hot and sweaty, and he left it there while he slid his fingers out. “Are you sure?” he asked, not moving.

“Yeah,” Harry said. The hand in Draco’s hair pulled, and Draco got up obediently. His cock had filled out again as he’d gone down on Harry, and it jutted out intimidatingly from his groin, surrounded by golden curls. He looked like some sort of a greek god—disturbingly lean, muscles lightly defined, tall and pale—and Harry sucked in a breath as Draco settled on his knees above him, propping himself on one forearm next to Harry’s head. Their faces were so close; Draco looked just as nervous as Harry felt.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop,” he ground out, reaching between them to line himself up. “I think I’ll stop,” he added, with a faint, self-deprecating smile.

Harry felt the round, blunt head of Draco’s cock press against his loosened hole, and he nodded wordlessly. Then Draco was pushing gently, sinking his teeth hard into his lower lip and screwing his eyes shut when nothing happened.

“You can do it,” Harry breathed. “Harder. I think you have to. I mean—”

Draco’s eyes opened, clear and sharp. He inhaled through his nose, mouth drawing down into a flat line as his teeth released his lip, and he gave a real push this time, shoving his hips inexorably forward until the head of his prick popped into Harry’s arse. Harry groaned, turning his head to the side as the blur of pleasure-pain tore through him. And more, as Draco sank further—unable, apparently, not to—jerking himself to a halt after he’d slid about halfway inside.

“Okay?” he asked.

Harry sucked in air with short, fast pulls. His erection had wilted a little, but not enough to deter him. Even the slick slide of Draco’s belly against it felt good. “Yeah. Just—just wait a second, okay?”

Draco nodded, eyes serious. He held himself motionless above Harry, chewing on his lip again. Then, thoughtfully, lowered his head and kissed him, mouth warm and gentle and coaxing. His tongue slipped inside, curling against Harry’s, but the kiss remained soft, and without thinking Harry pressed one foot into the mattress and hooked the other around Draco’s hip, pulling himself up to persuade Draco deeper inside. Draco’s hips jerked like he was trying to stay in place, but he let go when Harry did it again, hand gripping the coverlet, body pressing flush to Harry’s as he plunged deeper, bottoming out inside of Harry. He paused again, lodged deeply in Harry’s arse, and Harry took stock.

Draco’s cock… throbbed, and Harry could feel it, the spongy head swollen and thick, the way his own walls stretched around the intrusion. The pain diminished as he became aware of other sensations, like how Draco’s breath was tight and controlled, how good his body felt pressed against Harry’s own. Harry’s prick jerked warningly, fully hard again as Draco twitched and the ridged head of his cock rubbed against Harry’s prostate.

“Yes?” Draco asked, voice thready and strained.

“Yes,” Harry said, overly-emphatic. He pressed his foot into the mattress again, toes curling under as he sought leverage, and fucked Draco deeper into him.

Draco groaned, head falling onto Harry’s shoulder as he pulled back a bit and nudged his hips forward experimentally, then again—lifting further away and pressing in with more force. Harry hooked his arms around Draco’s neck, letting his back drag against the mattress—back, forth—with the increasing speed of Draco’s shuddering thrusts. The slide of his cock between them—their stomachs sweaty and pressed tight—reminded Harry that he’d been riding the knife-edge of orgasm for merlin-knew-how-long, and his balls drew up against his body, even as he felt the slap of Draco’s against the curve of his arse.

“Feels good,” he gasped, pressing his heel into the small of Draco’s back. Draco was crying out— spontaneous, involuntary noises against Harry’s throat. “Gonna— gonna come soon.”

“Yeah,” Draco said breathlessly, lifting his head to kiss Harry, sloppy-sweet. “Do it, yeah.”

“L-lift up,” Harry said. His cock was stiff and hot between them, and he could probably come from the friction alone, from the feeling of Draco’s cock, thick and hard inside him, but— Draco obeyed him after a beat and Harry slipped a hand between them, curling it tight around his cock and working it with short, fast pulls. Draco’s eyes were glazed as he watched, the overwhelming slide of his cock making Harry tremble as he plunged into him over and over, splitting him wide.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, eyes laser-focused on the ruthless way Harry was tugging his cock. Then he looked back up with an expression of such open longing that Harry’s heart stuttered.

Their eyes caught and Harry had a flash of Draco laughing with him in the Quidditch stands, tentatively at first and then freer, face a bright beacon of enjoyment; he thought of the way Draco had stood close to him at the pub, whispering the name of the drink in his ear with a cautious, curling smile, grey eyes warm. He thought of Draco entwined around him, a buffer against the pain of his dreams that he hadn’t known he’d needed, and thought of the way Draco had held him early that morning, before the sun rose, saying, I like you too. And Harry cried out and came on a rush, cock pulsing long stripes of fluid over his hand, neck arching as his shoulders pressed into the mattress, body flying up. Draco said his name again, soft and broken, rutting faster, and Harry felt his arse clamp tight around the length of Draco’s shaft, felt Draco’s drawn-out groan and looked up to see his jaw clench, eyes tense as the waves crashing over Harry finally eased and he was able to breathe again, his prick twitching against his palm, releasing a last dribble of spunk.

He sank into the mattress, boneless, eyes coming open as Draco rutted into him harder. “You didn’t?”

“Fuck— no, but I’m—” Draco’s face was intent, hungry, pained. Harry drew him down and skimmed his teeth over the cords of Draco’s neck, biting and sucking and lifting his hips in time with Draco’s thrusts. Everything was almost too sensitive now—the rim of his arse dragging around the girth of Draco’s prick on every plunge and pull, his foreskin sliding over his cock as their bellies pressed flat together again, spunk smearing between them. But he liked it anyway, somehow, the opposite end of the spectrum of pleasure-pain from where they’d started, and he fucked himself on Draco’s cock smoothly, murmuring encouragements under his breath.

“That’s it,” he said. “Fuck, Draco, your cock feels so— you feel so good in me. Want you to come, yeah? Want you to fill me up with it. Can you?”

“P-Potter,” Draco whined, hips working faster.

Harry grinned wickedly; he let himself take another nip out of Draco’s throat, tasting the salt-tang of sweat on his skin, his foot dropping to the back of Draco’s tense thigh. “Do it, Draco. I came so hard— so hard from your cock—” his shoulders slid against his duvet as Draco’s juddering thrusts got faster, “—and I want to feel you come, want to feel your spunk get me wet. Yeah?” Draco made a garbled noise, one hand coming in to grip Harry’s wrist and pin it flat to the mattress, his eyes vague and wild, so Harry kept going, “Do it, you fucking bastard, fuck me, come in me if you can—”

Draco keened, sharp and loud, his body going rigid over Harry’s. His cock seemed to grow impossibly harder, hips grinding deep, and then Harry felt a rush of wet warmth, felt the leak of fluids as Draco continued to pound into him, making the way even silkier with his own release. His hips twitched, weak and involuntary, and he slumped over Harry, chest heaving and breath loud in Harry’s ear.

“Fuck, Potter—” Draco groaned after a few moments in which Harry started to wonder if he’d died; Draco had absolutely no body tension, and he was suffocatingly heavy. He pried himself up, disengaging—Harry winced at the sudden emptiness—and rolled himself off, swiping the sweaty mess of his hair away from his forehead. “Where’d you learn to talk that way? I thought you hadn’t—”

“Trashy romance novelist,” Harry reminded him with a tired smirk.

Draco groaned. “Never stop writing.” He twisted onto his side and reached back to massage his arse. “I got a cramp from trying to get deeper inside you, you fuck.”

Harry chuckled, rising up onto his elbow. Draco stopped massaging his backside and looked up at him, smile fading into something wary, guarded.

“What?” he asked after a moment.

“Why did you give up the commission with me?” Harry asked bluntly. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d canceled the contract? Why am I the only one who ever sees you out and about? Ron thinks it’s because you want me too.”

“Fucking hell, you talked to Weasley about this?” Draco said, low and annoyed. “And do you plan to check my flat for hidden curses before I go back to it?”

“Ron doesn’t hate you,” Harry said, surprised. “I mean— he doesn’t like you,” he added fairly, a snort escaping him at the disbelieving gape on Draco’s face. “But he— he likes me, you know? And I like you, so he’s… good with it.”

“People don’t like me,” Draco said, cold and flat, as though it were a unarguable point. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I do,” he said again. He nudged Draco’s bare shin with his toes. “So can you just tell me what the bloody fuck is going on?”

“I’m filthy,” Draco muttered, looking down at himself with a sigh. He sat up and retrieved Harry’s wand from the bedcovers, ticking Harry an uncertain glance. Harry looked back at him calmly; Draco shrugged and cast a series of cleaning charms over them— and an extra one between Harry’s thighs. Harry wondered why he wasn’t more embarrassed by it— his first time naked with a man, the intimacy of being cleaned by him. But it felt nice, simple; Harry sighed as Draco’s magic tingled over his skin, leaving him cool and dry and blissfully unsticky.

He waited until Draco stopped, obviously trying to think of another way to stall, then grasped him around the forearm, thumb squarely pressed against the coil of the snake on Draco’s Mark, and dragged him back. Draco lay down with a sigh, handing Harry’s wand over silently.

“I don’t know what it was, that first time, at the apothecary,” he said, so quiet Harry was forced to lean in. “Though I go out a lot, I hadn’t appeared as myself in public for a while, and— when we’d seen each other at the trials, you were remarkably decent for someone who’d been such a stone in my shoe.”

Harry rolled his eyes, deciding not to remind Draco that maybe he’d seemed so ‘decent’ because he’d been there to testify for him.

“And— and you shook my hand that day,” Draco added haltingly. Harry bit his lip, remembering Draco’s startled gaze after his sentencing, the way he’d blinked and licked his lips, and hesitated before sliding his hand into Harry’s. His palm had been damp— surprising when Harry had thought about it later; he’d always assumed Draco’s handshake would be cool and clean and dry; sterile. Then again, if he’d been on trial with a risk of going to Azkaban, maybe his hands would have been sweating too. “Anyway,” Draco said, “I unglamoured myself, even though I knew I might get thrown out. And you— you talked to me. So when we kept running into each other—”

“You kept doing it,” Harry said softly. He swallowed. “...You liked that I—that someone—could see you?”

“I don’t need you judging me, Potter,” Draco said, eyes darting away. “We do what we have to, to protect ourselves.”

“I don’t judge you for that,” Harry said. “I feel like it’s maybe something you should rethink, but I don’t judge you for it.”

“Because you’re a testament to giving fuck-all what people think about you?” Draco sneered. But it seemed more tired than anything else, and Harry shrugged.

“I’m working on it. Mind-healer, remember?”

“Fuck,” Draco said plaintively, ruffling his hair again. He gave Harry a hard look, then dragged him forward into a long, filthy kiss before releasing him and scowling. “After you told me you were gay, I couldn’t remain objective and detached.”

“You’re saying you could before?” Harry challenged, grinning.

“Shut it. I canceled your contract, but—” His chin jerked up arrogantly. “I knew you still needed help, and your reasons for choosing me were sound, so I decided to keep coming back— without pay. You could thank me, you know.”

Harry stared at him blankly, then laughed. Draco grimaced, mouth pulling up to the side ruefully, as though he’d known that wouldn’t work but had been determined to try it anyway.

“Th-th-thank you,” Harry got out, still chuckling, unsure if he was showing gratitude for the sore arse, the pleasant heavy feeling in his cock, or the few nights of good sleep he’d gotten in months. All of it really.

“You can stuff it, Potter,” Draco said, but he sounded more relaxed—fond, even.

“I think you did that already,” Harry snickered, then sighed. He hesitated. “D’you want to stay over?”

Grudgingly, Draco nodded. “I haven’t given you time to find a replacement cuddler; it’s only fair I fulf—”

“Oh stop it,” Harry said, yawning. He winced at the twinge in his arse as he climbed under the covers, and after a minute Draco joined him. “How?” Harry asked.

“You behind me,” Draco said instantly, catching his yawn.

“Okay.”

Harry curled around him, sliding a leg up over both of Draco’s and pressing his cock against his backside. Draco’s skin was warm and soft, and he hummed a bit when Harry reached around to rub his hand over the flat of his stomach, then lower to fondle his softened cock before pulling him closer and letting his eyes drift shut.

“Potter?” Draco said a few minutes later, just as Harry was about to drop into sleep.

“What?” Harry slurred out.

A long-finger hand slid up and back to curl around his hip. Draco pressed his shoulders into Harry’s chest and sighed.

“Nothing,” he said softly, and they fell asleep.

For the first time in a long time—perhaps ever—Harry remembered no dreams upon waking.

It was likely to do with the fact that Draco’s mouth was on his cock.

Harry lifted his head and arched into the slow suction, mouth going dry as he watched Draco's slow progression down the length of his cock, watched his shaft disappear little by little.

“Draco,” he said, voice eager and sleep-husky. He felt the ache in his arse, fainter than it had been when he fell asleep, like a reminder of something good and wanted. “Come up here.”

Draco’s eyes ticked to his, heavy-lidded and devious, and he slid back, releasing Harry’s cock from his mouth with a wet pop. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, feeling unaccountably shy in a way he hadn’t the night before. He’d thought the reasoning would be obvious. “You could kiss me, or something.”

“I am,” Draco said, lazily stroking his cock with one hand. As if to reiterate the point, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of Harry’s prick, licking over the bead of moisture in the slit that had collected when he’d pulled off. Harry groaned, legs shifting.

“Just get up here,” he said, sleepy and irritated. “You can—we can—again,” he added, licking his lips.

“Can we?” Draco sounded amused, fingers dancing up the length of Harry’s prick to ply the foreskin back. Harry made a sound that most people would probably categorize as a whine—he, himself, would not—and boldly crooked his knees, opening himself up. Draco sucked in a hard breath and let go of Harry’s cock immediately, slithering up his body to kiss him; it was warm and nipping and included the most delicious rasp of stubble against Harry’s mouth, and Harry let himself fall a little bit in love as he kissed Draco back, hands sliding down to Draco’s hips. Draco rolled them sinuously between his spread thighs. Harry’s cock was wet with spit, with precome, and Draco’s was damp too at the crown; Harry moaned as they kissed, cocks slipping against one another, and worked up a rhythm for a few delicious minutes.

Then Draco broke the kiss to bend down next to his ear. Harry’s heart skipped, and Draco began whispering.

“Or we could do it the other way,” he breathed. “I already got myself ready. I want to.”

“You— what?” Harry asked blankly. The remnants of sleep fled his system, and the meltingly sweet anticipation of another good shagging was replaced with a feral zing of excitement, a tensing he hadn’t been aware of until Draco spoke. “I— yeah. You did?”

“You sleep astoundingly deeply for someone with sleep problems, Potter,” Draco said wryly, one brow arching. He slid off Harry, onto his stomach and looked over expectantly. “Unless you don’t want to?”

Harry’s mouth opened. He’d somehow thought that something had been… established last night, a pattern of behavior that they’d explore fully before trying something else. He’d somehow thought that Draco hadn’t been telling the truth when he’d said that he, too, would be okay with both.

“No, I do,” Harry said slowly, still processing. If possible, he’d claim that single waiting eyebrow lifted even higher, disappearing under the sweep of Draco’s hair. “You really—”

“Yes, I ‘really,’” Draco said. Then, snidely, “If Count Wynthrope has no problems taking it from Lord Billingsly, in disguise as a page, I don’t see why I should. You’re at least as decent an option as a page, Potter.”

Harry stared at him, cracking an unwilling smile. He rolled to his side, kissing the sneer off of Draco’s mouth. Draco kissed him back readily enough, groaning softly, tongue sinking fast into Harry’s mouth.

“I wrote that, you know,” Harry said when he pulled away. He stroked the line of Draco’s spine, pausing when he reached the cleft of his buttocks. Draco blinked at him slowly, eyes dark, and swallowed. Harry slid his hand lower, fingers slipping between his cheeks, tentatively exploring. They delved slowly into the shadow of Draco’s arse, and Harry couldn’t help prying his eyes from his progress to watch Draco’s reaction as his fingertip found that wrinkled bit of flesh, slickened already and slightly swollen to the touch.

Draco’s lips parted slightly as Harry pressed his finger inside; it slid in smoothly, down to the second knuckle. His breath caught. “It was a good scene,” Draco said finally, breathless, forehead dropping slightly as Harry added another finger, then worked them in and out. Draco’s sphincter clenched around them, shockingly tight for all the ease with which Harry was able to manoeuvre his fingers. Draco canted his hips up and back, knees spreading beneath him; a silent entreaty.

“And the rest of the book?” Harry prompted hoarsely.

“A good thriller,” Draco gasped, muffled, his face against the sheets. “Thrilling enough that I wanked to it twice. Do it now, Potter. I already said I’m ready.”

Harry swallowed. He looked at his fingers, at the way Draco’s skin stretched around them, allowing him access. “Lube?” he asked.

“I spelled it,” Draco mumbled.

Harry groped haphazardly for his wand, finding it in the rumpled mess of bedsheets. He aimed it at himself and muttered the lubrication spell, feeling the warm, oily slick cover his cock, dripping off the tip. For good measure he removed his fingers to the tips and pointed his wand at Draco’s twitching hole, muttering the spell again. The tips of his fingers began dripping as the lubricant washing through Draco slid out, and Draco yelped.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, only half truthful. It was hypnotic, that glisten, and he pressed his fingers inward again, glancing up when Draco groaned and tossed a half aroused, half impatient look over his shoulder.

Draco’s gaze was adamant; determined; feral. “Do it now; I want to know what it’s like.”

Draco’d never done this either, Harry remembered with a start; the rush of blood to his cock at that thought made the world swoop around him for a long moment. He had a flash, like the night before, when everything had gone bright and sharp in his mind before he’d come. He thought of a young boy smirking as he’d thrown a Remembrall in the air, thought of a young man’s broken face, in a broken mirror. Thought of hands in his hair and breath in his ear, warming him just enough to make him realise how cold he’d been. Harry’s mind twirled in dizzy loops, all of them like lights on a dark road, showing him what he’d missed every time he’d traveled it before.

Harry took a deep breath, screwing his fingers out—a slow, twisting slide—and got up on his knees. The small, encouraging noises from Draco became muted, slower, and then stopped altogether as the tension gathered in the air between them, and Harry lined up his cock, rubbing it over Draco’s rim. Draco shifted, knees opening wider, and then one of his arms came back; he gripped one arse cheek and pried it open; he’d fallen completely silent but for the low, ragged breaths tearing out of him.

Harry’s mouth ran dry when he looked down, when he saw the tip of his prick coast over Draco’s pink whorl, which was surrounded by the lightest ring of golden hair. Draco panted below him, the hand still pressed down for balance curled and clutching at the sheets. Harry exhaled the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, steadied his cock, and pushed.

He moaned as the head of his cock slid in, surrounded suddenly by the constricted heat of Draco’s arsehole. It was almost too much, that focused pressure, that wet squeeze around the crown of his cock. Harry released a sharp cry and shoved in deeper, stilling abruptly when Draco groaned.

“Need me to—?” A thin trickle of sweat worked its way down Harry's temple. Draco shook his head fast, blond hair flying.

“It's good,” he gasped out. “More.” He pushed his hips back fractionally, dipping the small of his back down. He moaned.

Harry's mouth curled up; he pressed in deeper, slow and steady, until his cock was fully embedded, the walls of Draco's arse clinging tightly around him. He paused, catching his breath, then pulled out a bit and shoved back in, unable to quite believe that this intimacy was allowed, that Draco—of all people—wanted this from him.

Draco cursed softly into the sheets, too quietly for Harry to make out what he was saying, but he rocked his hips forward and back again, fucking himself on Harry’s cock. The backs of his legs were tense and trembling, the light furring of hair there rasping against the tops of Harry’s thighs as Harry started to thrust, first gently then harder. His hands found Draco’s hips and gripped them tight as he widened his own knees for better leverage. He picked up a rhythm, a slow-quick slide for long minutes, pumping into Draco, who made the most satisfying, incoherent sounds in response.

At length, Draco lifted his head, the hand on his arse cheek falling away to disappear beneath him, and he groaned out, “Up, Potter, faster,” so Harry obeyed as much as he was able, near out of his mind with lust, with the heat encasing him, with the low, demanding growls tearing from Draco’s throat. He angled his hips low and brought them up on each instroke, and Draco hissed, nodding frantically this time. Harry did it again and Draco cursed again, loudly and inventively, his shoulder working fast as he wanked himself—Harry could hear the slap, slap of his hand on his cock—chasing after his orgasm. Harry moaned as they rocked furiously together, and then Draco bucked against him, arching with a startling throw of his head and curve of his back. His arse spasmed brutally tight, a clench and release of such swamping sensation that Harry felt his climax hit him and could do nothing—wanted to do nothing—to stop himself from the fall. It spiraled around him, a sucking force of pleasure, and he came hard, gasping and shuddering over Draco as his cock throbbed and pulsed out his release, and the world around them disappeared into a muted background of soft, hazy colours.

Breathing heavily, Harry rested for a few moments. When his dizziness eased and he could recall his own name, he eased out of Draco and fell loosely to the mattress, beside him. He looked over; at some point Draco had allowed himself to slide forward so that he was pressed against the bed from cheek to chest; only his arse remained in the air. With a small smile, Harry placed a gentle hand atop it and pushed. Draco allowed his knees to unlock, to slide down too.

“Thanks,” Draco croaked. His face was stunned, those odd grey eyes of his catching the sunlight coming in the window and reflecting it as he and Harry rested together. Harry nodded; he sifted an idle hand through Draco’s sweat-messy hair.

“Thanks,” he echoed, just as quiet. Draco blinked at him, slow, as though trying to figure something out. He wore a little smile-frown on his face, a curious expression that Harry didn’t understand. “What?”

Draco’s mouth drew down deeper. “It’s half-ten.”

Surprised, Harry cast a look at the sunlight spreading like honey over his room. “I didn’t realise. Do you have another appointment, or something?” He frowned, not really liking the idea of that; he considered saying so, but something in Draco’s face stopped him.

“No.” Draco shifted onto his side and propped his head onto his hand. He bit his lip. “I used your owl this morning.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “For what?”

“I booked you another cuddler.” Draco said it evenly, but there was a slightly disturbed look on his face. Harry’s heart flipped unpleasantly; though his muscles protested, he sat up, tugging the sheet over his lap as Draco continued, talking a little faster. “She’s the best of us—very discreet; would be even without the nondisclosure curse in the contract. And she knows all the—everything to help someone relax. She was my cuddler,” he said, with a tiny clear of his throat. “She’s good; she’ll get you what you need.”

“And what is it I need?” Harry asked him, struggling to match Draco’s level tone.

Draco sighed; he sat up too, rubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin, Potter, I don’t know. Am I expected to?” His body had that glow to it Harry had noticed before, blended this time with the faintest tinge of pink. Harry looked away, jaw tight.

“You seemed to have no problem guessing it last night and this morning,” he ground out. Draco made a low sound of irritation, and Harry shook his head. “Don’t even try to pretend that was nothing,” he said. “That it was just curiosity or— or fantasy fulfilment or something.”

“No, I know it was more,” Draco said after a beat, strained; a coerced confession. He sighed again. “I just— I think…” he trailed off, looking weary.

Confused, Harry looked at him again. “I don’t see the problem here.”

“The problem is your fucking dinner invitation. Which—against all sound reasoning—I’d like to take you up on some time,” Draco said. “The problem is that I’ve done what I can to be invisible, and now the most famous bloody wizard in the world wants to throw me back into the spotlight.” He swallowed, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “The problem is that I’m fucked up, and—frankly—you are too, Potter. More than I’d originally thought.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” Harry felt a sickening twist in his stomach at the idea of losing this before it really got started, at the idea of no foot rubs and absent teasing, no scowlss or warm press against him while he slept. At the idea that Draco was going to leave—again. “What are you doing, Draco?”

Draco looked at him, then, eyes steady and serious. There was something so— so unwavering about his gaze, a resoluteness that Harry had never seen before, had rarely seen in anyone; Harry felt chilled by it.

“What did you think, Potter?” he asked quietly, clearly not expecting an answer. “That once this happened, we’d waltz out of here and get breakfast? I’m not the… You’re not ready to…” He sighed, shaking his head. “As much as we might want to, you’re not ready to be seen with me, not now, and I have my own issues in that regard. I’m trying to be smart,” Draco added with a remarkably gentle smile. It was somehow worse than his sneer. “You should try it, too. I know you’re lauded for your magical brawn but there’s got to be a brain in there, somewhere. This has been—” Here, he took a shuddering breath, “—good, but you’ve got to know that it’s not... This isn’t the right way to—”

Court someone, danced through Harry’s writer’s mind, and he had a strong suspicion that though Draco hadn’t been about to say those exact words, whatever he had been going to say was close enough. The jut of his narrow chin drew Harry’s gaze— the aristocratic line of it; haughty, yet somehow scared. It occurred to Harry that Draco had perhaps never stood up for anything he’d wanted before. That this whole thing—which sounded like the most blatant sort of rejection—might be his way of saying that Harry was important to him; that he wanted to wait until the two of them might actually work, together. Harry wanted to kiss him for it; wanted to press him into the mattress and have him all over again, until Draco dropped the idea of leaving, dropped the idea of smart.

He could do it, he saw. Could force the issue; he saw now that Draco wanted him and maybe had for a long time. Yet Draco simply looked at him and didn’t move, as though he were perfectly aware of what Harry was thinking, but trusted him not to follow through.

Harry let his objection die, unvoiced, on his lips. He reached up and brushed his knuckles over Draco’s cheekbone. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t have coming,” Draco said, rolling his eyes a bit like it was a favour he was granting to let Harry paw at his face. Maybe it was, but he still leaned into it. His lips quirked. “But I’ve let it go on long enough. I’m the Count, not the page. I should bloody well start acting like it.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh; he let his hand fall. “So you’re telling me…”

Draco shrugged. “Whatever it is, you’re taking it well.”

“I don’t know how else to,” Harry admitted. “It’s not like— It’s not as if you’re wrong. But I don’t know what it means for—” For us, he wanted to say. “For dinner.”

Another shrug. Draco looked at him intently and said, “I eat every night. I’m sure I’ll still be in the habit in the future.” He went quiet for a second, then said, “Besides, I was mainly curious about shagging you. Old Quidditch locker-room fantasy, you know.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t be a dick.”

“It’s the other thing you shouldn’t get used to,” Draco said with a smooth arch of his brow. “The part where I’m responsible and likable.”

“I like you unlikable,” Harry said. Draco’s quicksilver eyes flashed to his and Harry cleared his throat. “So if you keep this up, I’ll shag you again and then where will your plans be?” he asked lightly. His heart felt caught in his throat, like the bitter stone of a fruit, falling when Draco gave him a rueful smile and swung his legs off the bed to stand. He hesitated, then bent and kissed Harry on the mouth; swift; hard.

“Where’s my wand?”

“In the couch,” Harry said after a moment. He paused. “Why didn't you just tell me you'd quit? We could have—” had another day he wanted to say. He didn’t. It only would have ended sooner, then.

Draco nodded, eyes serious on Harry’s. “You know why,” he said. He swooped to retrieve his discarded pyjamas and cast Harry another look before padding, naked, out of his room. And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Harry nodded and sipped his drink, hating his mind-healer and Seamus in equal measure, with a burning sensation that exceeded that of the firewhiskey snaking its way down his throat. Justin edged even closer to him in the booth.

“So I’m glad Seamus set this up,” Justin continued from whatever he’d been saying, eyes over-bright and expression disturbingly intense, as though he were about to torture Harry for information rather than possibly kiss him. Harry wasn’t sure which option he’d be least enthusiastic about. “I didn’t realise how much we still had in common.”

“I didn’t realise we ever did,” Harry said, looking down at Justin’s hand disbelievingly. He’d placed it on Harry’s thigh, and was inching it upward very slowly. Harry shifted away. “Just—”

“The D.A.,” Justin started.

“Was eight years ago,” Harry said with a blink.

“We’re both hard-working—”

“I’m unemployed,” Harry lied flatly.

“Muggle-born,” Justin said, invading his space.

“My dad was a pureblood,” Harry said with a snort. He looked at Justin and tried to soften a little; it wasn’t his fault that Seamus had a horrible sense of humour and that Harry’s mind-healer had insisted that ‘it wouldn’t hurt to start socialising more.’ It wasn’t his fault that Harry was trying to learn to navigate being open about himself in public, or that the few dates he’d gone on felt like placeholders because Harry was waiting for something else. It might beJustin’s fault the date was going so badly within the first twenty minutes, but that was only because he’d spent the first ten talking about how he’d framed Harry’s picture from the Prophet interview where he’d come out as gay.

It wasn’t that Harry wasn’t flattered but... Well, no, he decided as Justin’s hand landed on his knee again. He wasn’t that flattered.

Had Justin been this annoying in school? Harry had a strong suspicion that he had been. “So, you’re in a Quidditch weekend league with Seamus and Dean, right?”

“Yeah,” Justin breathed. He was practically plastered against Harry at this point, and Harry cast a half-panicked look around for help. “I polish the balls.”

Harry was going to kill Seamus.

“You don’t actually play?” he managed. Twenty goddamned minutes into a date and if he tried to get any further away he’d fall out of the booth.

“Merlin, no,” Justin scoffed with a delighted smile. “I got over that after Hogwarts. I’m in it more for the socialisation aspect now.”

“Right,” Harry said blankly.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t admire a man on a broom,” Justin continued suggestively.

“Um.” Harry swallowed, wondering if Justin thought that he was suddenly the sort to be fine with getting a blowjob under the table of a crowded pub just because he’d come out. Or maybe Justin was just looking for the publicity; he kept glancing at the badly-disguised Prophetreporter in the corner.

“Potter.”

Harry looked up, eyes widening in relief when he saw Draco standing there. His hand was curled loosely around his drink, and he wore a look of lazy amusement on his face. Harry would have thought he was about to start laughing if not for the tension with which Draco was holding his neck. Harry scampered out of the booth, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Malfoy!” he practically bellowed. “Has my quick drink run over? Sorry; Justin’s just— really interesting here.”

“Quick drink?” Justin said, just as Draco’s lips curled down at the corners. Harry shot him a pleading look and Draco blinked.

“Five minutes, Potter,” Draco sneered. “I’ve been waiting for five minutes at the bar for you.”

“Quick drink?” Justin said again. “Harry, I thought we were— what’s Malfoy doing here?” he asked, interrupting himself, sounding appalled.

Harry glared at him. “We had plans.”

“I thought we had plans,” Justin said.

“Right, for a quick drink.” Harry let Draco take him by the arm and begin wordlessly steering him away. “See you later, Justin. Good catching up.”

Justin opened his mouth to respond, but with relief Harry turned to Draco, who was tossing back the rest of his drink. He licked his lips and gave Harry a pinched look. “What was that all about?”

“I thought you’d figured it out when you came over there to rescue me,” Harry said with a sigh. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t be absurd; I was merely saying hello,” Draco murmured, not looking at him; a faint smile teased his mouth.

“Hello, then.” Harry dragged a hand through his hair again and took a moment to really look at Draco. He looked… good, Harry realised with some surprise. He was wearing dark grey trousers and a crisp white button-down, loosened at the throat; he seemed steady and calm and more assured than he’d been at the pub a few months prior. His eyes locked onto Harry’s rather than darting wary glances around the way they once did, like a deer in the middle of a clearing. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. If you’re… not alone.”

“And what if I’m here with someone else?”

“Are you?” Harry asked. He gestured to the bartender to order two more of whatever Draco had been drinking. From the corner of his eye, he saw Justin scoot out of the booth and stalk off. Seamus had more than one Howler coming at him, it seemed. Harry turned back to Draco. “And are you here as yourself?” he continued. “Or is this just for me?”

“Yes, as myself,” Draco muttered irritably. “I’ve been watching that debacle of a date for twenty minutes now. It’s actually rather unfortunate I’m not with someone— it’s so much more fun laughing when you’ve got someone to share it with. I thought he was going to blow you under the table. It was appalling.”

Harry rolled his eyes, refraining from outright agreeing. Mostly because now, standing with Draco, the idea of a semi-public blowjob didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

He felt a little thrill zip through him as the bartender delivered their drinks. “So,” he said when Draco swirled his around in his glass without taking a sip. “Third time this month you’ve gone unglamoured.”

“Presumptuous as always, Potter; it’s just the third time I’ve seen you,” Draco said, looking away. He watched the crowd, glaring daggers at a reporter who—unless Harry was mistaken—had managed to snap a photo. “I do go out pretty frequently, you know.”

“So why’d you pick now to come up to me?” Harry asked idly.

“Because you,” Draco said pointedly, “haven’t come up to me. That, and I rather felt you deserved some saving, for once.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “A lot of people don’t seem to think so,” he said, subtly flipping two fingers in the direction of the reporter just in time for another flash to go off. Draco snorted. “And I didn’t know I was allowed to,” Harry continued. “I was being smart.”

“There’s a fine line between smart and oblivious with you, apparently,” Draco said.

“Hey,” Harry objected. “I’m not the one who—”

Draco rolled his eyes. He took a breath then abruptly said, “How are things going with Elise? Sleeping any better?”

“I, er, haven’t seen her in about a month,” Harry admitted. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Discretion,” Draco said after a moment. “She wouldn’t have… even if I was still working there.”

Harry reached out; he brushed his fingertips over Draco’s knuckles, which had gone white around his glass. “You’re not?”

Draco huffed as another flash went off at their periphery. He tossed his drink back, draining it in one gulp, and lifted his coat from the barstool where it rested. “Would you like to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Harry said immediately. He went for his pocket, but Draco waved a hand at him.

“My tab,” he said, voice rough. He put a few Galleons on the bar, then shrugged his coat on. “Come on.”

Harry followed him out into dwindling light of early evening; though no snow had fallen yet, the chill was brisk and immediate once they cleared the pub. Harry shivered a bit and pulled out his wand to cast a warming charm.

“Merlin, Harry, what are you wearing?” Draco asked, noticing. Harry looked down at his t-shirt and jeans and tried to ignore the warmth—no charm needed—that had flashed through him when Draco said his given name. He rather liked the sound of ‘Potter’ on Draco’s tongue now, but there was something about that slip of ‘Harry,’ that tugged at his heart.

“I didn’t intend on being outside much,” Harry said, keeping pace with Draco’s long strides. “I flooed over to the pub and was planning on going home the same way. Where are we going?”

“Have you eaten yet?” Draco turned at the corner, clearing the fringes of the wizarding neighborhood.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “No.”

“Then we’re going to eat,” Draco said, throwing him a sidelong glance before looking deliberately forward. Harry smiled.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, just long enough for Harry’s charm to start to wear off. He’d barely begun to shiver again when Draco muttered something under his breath, wrapped a hand around his elbow, and guided him into a restaurant Harry hadn’t noticed, as though it had just popped into existence.

He looked around; the establishment was just-this-side-of kitschy, with checkered tablecloths and sconces fitted with melty wax candles. But there was also a series of paintings on each wall, filled with scenes of friendly, dark-eyed Italians at a picnic, luscious vineyards tucked behind them in the distance. They smiled at the patrons as they moved to fill their plates from a community-style table. Harry studied one, watching as the chubby, olive-skinned toddler wearing a cloth diaper in it scampered away from his mother’s skirts, only to be picked up and settled on the forearm of a laughing man with curly hair. In another, a tall man bent his head to whisper into another man’s ear, their bodies pressed close as they sat on a long bench.

“Like them?” Draco said in his ear. Harry jumped.

“They’re amazing,” he said, dragging his eyes away from the painting. “I’ve never seen wizarding art like this.” The heavy scent of garlic and butter floating in the air penetrated Harry’s senses. “What is this place?”

Draco opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a rotund man who looked like an older version of the father in the mural— with far less hair.

“Ah, Draco!” He held out his hand and Draco clasped it.

“Piero,” Draco greeted with far more warmth than Harry had ever seen him show outside of the bedroom. “This is is my— this is Harry Potter. I was hoping you had a table for us?”

“Harry Potter, did you say?” Piero looked at Harry, but it didn’t feel like the rapacious sort of speculation Harry had become adept at fielding; more like he was sizing Harry up, for some reason. Harry automatically straightened, darting a glance at Draco, who remained silent. “Very nice to meet you.” Piero turned to Draco again, his worn face creasing in a broad smile. “And for you, always, of course. Best table in the house!” he declared.

They followed him to a quiet booth where Piero handed them menus, then promptly plucked them out of their hands. “No, no. I will pick for you!”

Draco smiled, as if he knew it was coming, and Harry, bemused, simply nodded.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

Piero beamed at him. “You’re a nice boy,” he announced, pulling out his wand. He tapped the empty wine glasses on the table twice, and they filled halfway with a richly-coloured burgundy. Draco shot Harry a rueful grin as Piero gave the same treatment to the empty bread basket in the middle of the table before bowing, clapping on Draco on the shoulder, and scurrying off.

“Did he just conjure food and drink?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Of course not, Potter.” Draco plucked a piece of crusty bread from the basket and broke it into two pieces, as if he needed to do something with his hands; they were quick and nervous, despite his relaxed posture. “He simply transferred it from the kitchen; it’s just a charm.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Draco took a bite of the bread, jaw working. There was a smear of butter on his lower lip, and Harry wanted to taste it.

“So how’d you find this place?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s been here forever. A bit of a pureblood secret,” he admitted, somewhat uneasily. “Piero’s father was… Well, he knew my father. He died in the war, and Piero finally had the chance to take over. He’s been opening it up to more and more of wizardkind, but it’s Glamoured and requires an incantation to see and enter, so… I thought it’d shake your tail.”

“My tail?”

“The reporter following us,” Draco said, frowning. “You didn’t notice him?”

Harry couldn’t remember having noticed anything but Draco on their short walk— the sharp angles of his face; the way he held his shoulders; the looseness of his limbs as he strode down the street at Harry’s side. He shook his head wordlessly.

“Well, he’s wondering where we hell we got off to now,” Draco said with no small amount of satisfaction.

“So… how have you been?” Harry asked, feeling awkward for the first time. “You said you’d quit being a cuddler?”

Draco tensed slightly. “Yes, a bit ago.”

“Why?”

“Why aren’t you still seeing Elise?” Draco shot back.

“I started sleeping better,” Harry said immediately. He had no desire to prevaricate; his blood felt hot under his skin, and he wanted to get this part out of the way as quickly as he could. Wanted to get to the next part, whatever that was.

“Really?” Draco asked, eyeing him sceptically. “I’d have thought it would have gotten worse after the… after the article.”

“It did, for a bit,” Harry allowed. “The reporters… It was bad.”

“I know,” Draco said.

Harry gave him a look. “Been reading the papers?”

Draco glared at him. “Occasionally.” He took a sip of his wine, and Harry followed suit; he didn’t know much about wines, but it was good— warm and rich and vaguely peppery.

“Anyway,” Harry said, “fuck them.”

Draco gave a startled little laugh. “Not too much trouble, then?”

“Enough,” Harry said, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone. He fiddled with his fork, then set it back down and looked at Draco levelly. “But I’m working on myself.”

“I am too,” Draco said, looking taken aback at his own admission. He took a breath. “I— I’ve never liked Glamouring.” Then, with a wry smile, “I’m far too good-looking to do it on such a regular basis.”

“Yes, you are,” Harry mumbled. Draco’s cheeks darkened in the low light from the candles, and Harry felt his prick take notice of the conversation, swelling against his thigh. He swallowed hard.

“So, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t do it as much,” Draco continued lightly, after a beat.

“There hasn’t been anything about you in the papers,” Harry said.

“Been reading the papers?” Draco echoed, smirking. Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t worry; there will be after tonight. I think that reporter got at least five pictures. ‘No Heirs For the Malfoy Heir,’ maybe? Or perhaps, ‘Death Eater Homosexual Kidnaps Our Saviour.’”

“Are you prepared for that?” Harry asked quietly.

“I wouldn’t have rescued you from Finch-Fletchley’s tentacles if I wasn’t,” Draco said. His face went flat. “If I can take my father’s reaction… Well. It’s as you said,” he murmured. “Fuck them.”

“And yet you’ve taken me to what has to be the most secret wizarding restaurant in London,” Harry said sardonically.

“Shut it, Potter,” Draco said, smiling slightly. He gestured languidly at the other patrons; the room was more than two-thirds full. “If I’d wanted to really hide you, I’d have invited you back to my flat.”

Harry shifted, cock growing fully hard in his jeans. He looked at Draco, and Draco’s smile faded; his face grew heated.

“Is that on offer?” Harry asked lowly. Draco’s eyes darkened.

Piero came back over. He opened his mouth to talk, took a look between them, and promptly closed it. He tapped their plates with his wand; food appeared, and with a knowing look at Harry, he turned and left them. Harry exhaled hard and turned back to Draco, who had a bright pink flag over his cheekbones as he studied his plate. Harry looked down.

“What is this?” Lightly breaded chicken rested in a rich sauce that had—oh, Merlin—huge, whole mushrooms floating in it. His stomach growled again.

Draco glanced up. “Chicken Marsala,” he said briefly. His own plate was covered in a giant serving of pasta topped with clams and other shellfish. He stabbed into the pasta, twirling his fork for a moment, and took a bite.

Harry watched him, forgetting the reason his mouth had started watering only moments before. Draco chewed carefully; his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, and Harry’s jeans officially became two sizes too small in the crotch. He shifted again, discreetly adjusting himself below the table.

“Eat, Potter,” Draco ordered him. Whether from the wine or the food or the sudden burn of energy between them, his voice had gone raspy, and he wouldn’t look up from his plate.

Dutifully, Harry picked up his cutlery and cut into his chicken. He took a bite and groaned.

“Eat quietly,” Draco said, sounding breathless. Ticking him a glance, Harry did, biting back another sound that tried to escape when he speared a mushroom and popped it into his mouth. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“What have you been doing?” Harry finally asked, feeling more steady. “If not cuddling?”

“This and that,” Draco said, patting his lips with a linen napkin. He took a sip of wine, looking at Harry over the rim of his glass.

“I mean…” Harry searched for an inoffensive way to phrase it. “Without—without being touched. Has it been hard?”

“It’s a funny thing,” Draco mused. “How, when you find the right kind of touch, others no longer seem like an acceptable substitute.”

“The right kind?” Harry asked, voice hoarse. Draco looked at him searchingly.

“When it feels real,” he said, then lifted his shoulders as if to dismiss the sentiment.

Harry looked away to give himself a second to gather his thoughts; he gazed the painting of a coquettish, long-haired girl, who smiled up at a young man as she leaned against an olive tree. She touched his jaw and lowered her eyelashes. “Elise only stayed the night twice,” he said. “Until the end of the original week. After that she came in two-hour segments a few times a week—during the day—until my routine had steadied.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t know how to explain that it felt the same for him; that he’d… that he’d found something in those few, brief nights he’d shared with Draco shared. That sharing it with someone else felt off-putting as soon as it was no longer necessary. “My mind healer said I shouldn’t rely on that to get to sleep, anyway.”

“You shouldn’t,” Draco agreed.

“I don’t.” Harry bit his lip. “But it’d be nice for—for other reasons.”

“I wasn’t sure you didn’t already have it,” Draco said after a momentary hesitation. Harry looked at him, confused, and Draco elaborated, “The pictures in the paper? You were coming out of a muggle club. And tonight, with Justin—”

Harry laughed. “The club was just— to blow off steam. And fuck, can you imagine Justin—”

“Stop right now,” Draco said with a look of extreme distaste. Harry snickered. “So then, you didn’t—”

“What, visit the loo?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. Draco pursed his lips, but nodded stiffly. “I had to piss once.”

Draco snorted. “Nice manners, Potter.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry said softly.

“I don’t mean to— imply anything,” Draco said, swallowing. He took another, slightly more frantic gulp of his wine. “I left that day, so—”

“I know. You said.” Harry reached across the table on instinct and placed his hand over Draco’s. Draco stilled, looking down at Harry’s hand over his. “You know, we haven’t even dated,” Harry said thoughtfully. “It could be a disaster.”

“Of course it’s going to be a disaster,” Draco said, looking up. He flipped his hand under Harry’s, curling his fingers around it. “And what do you think we’re doing now, if not going on a date?” he added, annoyed.

“This is a date?” Harry pretended to look around. “I thought we were just escaping the press.”

“This is dinner, Potter,” Draco said furiously. His jaw was tight, a muscle in it jumping. Amused, Harry contemplated that dichotomy: Draco’s air of bored sophistication; his underlying bashfulness and longing to be clear.

“Could it be kink negotiation too?” Harry asked mischievously, grinning. Draco shot him an exasperated look.

“What kind of kinks do you imagine you could have,” he muttered. “If you’re telling the truth, you’ve had sex twice in your life—and just two months ago, at that.”

“Maybe I don’t have any,” Harry agreed. “Or maybe I have a lot and just haven’t explored them yet. But I guess that part depends, on—on whether we’re… unfucked-up enough now to… to see each other,” he fumbled out.

Something softened in Draco’s features. He breathed in and out for a long moment—quiet; thoughtful. He slipped his hand away from Harry’s, brushing his hair back. “Are you finished?”

“I don’t know.” Harry paused, frowning. “I guess I should say that I like you? I never expected to, really. But I do. I’ve… I’ve thought about you a lot. Thought about owling, even, but I figured you might not want the complication. I mean, I think we have some shit to work out in terms of logistics and press and… everything that happened before, with us. And this all sounds really serious, I know, especially since— we never talked before. About where this could go, not like this, not like it could be something. And I could stand to know you better. There’s that, too. We know stuff about each other; we’re… attracted to each other,” he added, colouring, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get to know each other more. Like, I still have nightmares sometimes. They’re getting better; the article helped some, actually. My mind healer says they’re related. And the protagonist in my new book is an infuriating blond aristocrat who never knows when to shut up, so you should know that too— get as pissed as you like, I’m not changing it. And Ron and Hermione— well, I see them a lot, and I know you haven’t got on with them pretty much ever, and—”

Draco shook his head slowly, meeting Harry’s eyes, and Harry fell quiet. His heart was pounding wildly and he was breathing fast.

“I meant,” Draco said significantly, looking at Harry’s plate, “are you finished?”

Harry stared at him, humiliation roaring through him like a brushfire. He nodded mutely, cheeks burning. Draco’s mouth ticked up to one side. “Then we should go.” He waved a hand behind Harry. “They have a floo here. It’ll take us back to my flat,” he said simply, as though the words didn’t detonate a series of nerves in Harry’s brain that left his jaw hanging open. “Or yours, I don’t care.”

“Why?” Harry blurted.

“Because I’ve been hard since I saw you in the pub,” Draco said unsteadily. “And if I don’t fuck you soon, I suspect I’m going to have to hex you just so you’ll shut up. I’d prefer the first.” He unfolded himself from the booth and stood, brushing the pleat of his trousers lightly. He extended an elegant hand with a smooth upsweep of one eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

“Probably,” Harry ground out. Draco’s pupils dilated in response, and he twitched his hand again at Harry, who finally took it and allowed himself to be pulled to standing. Harry inhaled the familiar spicy-sweet scent of Draco; they were close enough that he could feel Draco’s breath. Without letting himself think about it, Harry leaned in and kissed him.

He meant it to be light, chaste, a promise of something to come. But Draco opened his mouth with a soft hum of delight, and Harry slid an arm around his back, hauling him closer as Draco’s tongue slipped against his. The other patrons—the restaurant, the world—disappeared as Harry kissed him, hungry and fervent, and Draco’s hands knotted, perfect and greedy, in his hair.

The quiet sound of a throat clearing caused Harry to wrench away, panting. Draco swayed, face a hard cast of lust so sharp it almost looked like anger.

“Perhaps you might make use of the floo?” Piero suggested pointedly, but when Harry dragged his eyes away from Draco’s face, Piero looked pleased.

“Right. Sorry.” Harry reached into his pocket. “Yes. Let me just—”

“No, Harry—” Draco got out huskily. He, too, cleared his throat.

“No, you got the drinks,” Harry muttered. His hands shook.

“No, Signor Potter,” Piero said, smiling. “He means that he doesn’t pay here; he has invested Galleons in us, and has contributed his art, besides.”

“He’s an investor? And what art?” Harry asked, mind still caught on the deliciousness of Draco’s mouth opening against his, of Draco’s cock, rigid and stiff against his hip. He glanced back at Draco, whose eyes flicked off to the side, then back. “You painted those?” he blurted.

Draco wound a hand around his wrist. “Thank you for having us, Piero,” he said, then pulled Harry in the direction of the floo. Harry barely had time to process the room, to notice the askance looks from from the other patrons, and to give one more glance to Draco’s paintings before he was tugged inside and closing his eyes against the flare of green.

They stepped out into Draco’s flat, and Harry dusted himself off, mind still spinning fast. “That’s what you’re doing now? Draco, those are really goo—”

Draco spun and pressed him up against the wall near his mantle. Harry’s eyes popped open wide, then shut tight as Draco kissed him again. His body was flush against Harry’s, tall and lanky, and Harry tilted up his chin for a better angle as Draco licked into his mouth insistently. He ground his hips into Harry’s, cock thick and hard and pressing. It felt brilliant; just right and not enough and too much, the way things always seemed to feel with Draco. Harry kissed back feverishly with a low moan, which Draco echoed into his mouth, hands coming up to frame Harry’s face possessively. For long minutes they stood there and snogged like teenagers and Harry was able to form no coherent thought beyond fuck, yes, wishing they had done this when they were younger— it would have beat the hell out of the hating each other.

Draco finally pulled away, chest heaving, hands still on Harry’s jaw to hold him in place. Arousal was etched over his sharp features, which had gone tense with want. Harry leaned in again to capture Draco’s mouth—slick and swollen, and already surrounded by faint stubble burn—but Draco jerked back. “I want you,” he said rawly, eyes flashing. He licked his lips and waited.

“Yeah,” Harry rasped out. “I—I figured you did.” He rotated his hips, brushing his cock against Draco’s. Draco closed his eyes and shuddered lightly, then fixed them on Harry again.

“Harry, can I—”

“Yeah,” Harry said again, clearing his throat. “Yeah, you can, yes.”

His knees felt weak; his heart hammered in every pulse point as he found his flies and undid them, hands shaking. He locked his eyes onto Draco, who stepped back to watch his progress with an almost dispassionate eye, but for the way they smouldered. Draco’s throat worked silently, and every few seconds—when Harry toed off his shoes and socks, when he peeled off his shirt and placed his glasses on the mantle—his tongue swiped out over his lips. Draco’s hands came up to pluck at the buttons on the collar of his own shirt, following the line of them down. Draco tugged his shirt loose from the waistband of his trousers and leaft it hanging open, flashing a narrow strip of pale skin from his waist to his throat, as Harry shoved his jeans and pants off and kicked them away. Then Harry stood naked, Draco’s eyes hot on him, warming him against the draught that came from the cold fireplace. For a long moment they stared at each other, then Draco pressed his hand to his groin with curling fingers and gave the outline of his cock a squeeze through his trousers. He jerked his chin in the direction of his couch.

“Over there,” Draco said, but before Harry could respond—to argue or acquiesce—Draco grabbed his wrist and pulled him close again, one hand sliding down to grip his arse, the other holding tight and perfect around Harry’s waist. Harry’s cock was pressed against Draco’s thigh and he moaned, felt it leaking as Draco walked him over to the couch, then spun him around in one quick motion so that his chest was pressed against Harry’s back. There was something about the rasp of fabric and Draco’s smooth skin, the undone buttons of Draco’s shirt pressing into Harry, that made his breath stutter. Or maybe it was the way Draco began to mouth at his throat, teeth grazing hard over his carotid, then clamping down as he licked the skin between them. Harry shuddered, mind going blurry, Draco’s hand reaching around to find his cock and stroke it, Draco’s thigh between his to nudge them apart. And then he put his hand between Harry’s shoulders, pressing, so Harry bent with it, too mindless with desire to do anything else. He sank to his knees, Draco’s thick carpet soft against them, bracing his forearms over the couch cushions, body shaking with anticipation.

He spared a moment to wonder how it could be possible to want someone so much that their palm on his spine could make his cock leak, could make all the nerves in his brain lance sensation through his entire body. He wondered, as Draco pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses down the length of his back, how they had come to this from the what they’d been before—Potter, Draco had sneered once, when he was still nothing but Malfoy, do you really imagine yourself to be special? How that boy who had taunted him so, had come to mean so much in ways he still couldn’t define.

But then Draco murmured something under his breath, hands kneading Harry’s arse, and Harry’s mind went blank as the charm zipped through him. He let his head drop forward onto the soft upholstery and then Draco’s tongue was on him, was licking him—thorough, lapping strokes against his hole. Harry’s moan sounded just as broken as he felt, cracked in two by that soft insistent touch, the slick wetness of Draco’s tongue pushing against his rim and lighting his nerves on fire. Harry’s cock throbbed and he fucked into the air, wanting something to rut against, but Draco’s hands were firm on the cheeks of his arse, thumbs opening him up wide and fingers curled around his hips, and all Harry could do to get the more his body sought was to buck back. His spine arched, dipped, and Draco’s breath was warm against his crease as he finally forced his tongue past Harry’s clenching muscle and worked it inside him.

Harry spread his knees wider, ragged, animalistic sounds breaking free in a voice he did not recognize. The words, he did—Please and Yes and Draco—but they slid through his mind like a duck through a pond, barely breaking the surface tension of the water. Then Draco was adding a finger, then two, his tongue still moving in and out of him, and around his rim, and over the soft skin of his crease, his voice soothing and rough and demanding all at once. Harry wanted to grab his prick, was sure a single stroke would have him coming all over the front of Draco’s expensive, striped couch, but he was frozen—it seemed impossible for him to move anything but his hips, which rocked back against Draco’s face, undulating wildly while his toes dug into the carpet. Draco’s tongue curled inside him, fingers pulling away, and Harry felt blind with need, felt his cock jerk and his balls tighten just moments before Draco lifted his head with a loud gasp.

“No,” Harry said, and that it came out a sob didn’t bother him, couldn’t, because he heard the soft metallic clink of Draco’s belt, the zip of his flies and the rustle of his clothing. Draco crawled close again, cock sliding easily between Harry’s buttocks, his mouth a hard and demanding nip over the muscle at the top of Harry’s shoulder. He said another charm, and Harry felt the silky coating of lube slicking him just before Draco pressed forward, the firm round head of his cock sliding into him. He grunted behind Harry, hips moving with short, shallow pumps, pulling away and then going deeper until Harry could feel the coarse, curling hair at Draco’s groin brush against his arse. Draco’s fingers moved up, dancing light over Harry’s skin and then digging into his ribcage on a hard rock forward from his hips.

Harry arched into it, pinpoints of light dotting behind his closed eyelids, the burning stretch of being impaled—of being filled—wringing a low groan from him. Draco did it again, body bowing forward to cover Harry’s; Harry felt the warm press of Draco’s chest on his back again, like those nights he’d fallen asleep held, and safe, and not alone, and his cock got even harder, smacking into his belly with every one of Draco’s thrusts. Draco wound one of his arms around Harry’s torso, the other around his throat—lightly, elbow crooked away—and Harry allowed himself to be hauled up, to be pulled tight against Draco’s body. Harry felt covered by him, enveloped, as Draco continued to roll his hips with devastating precision, the ridge of his cock aimed perfectly to brush over Harry’s prostate. Then Draco whispered, hot against the back of his ear, “I’ve wanted to touch you for years, Potter. One night was not enough.”

“Then touch me,” Harry gasped out, twisting his head to see Draco’s face. He was flushed, his hair bright and messy, his eyes storm-dark with restraint. Their lips met in the middle without intention—Draco’s neck bending as Harry lifted his mouth—and they kissed, messy and desperate, as Draco fucked into him. Harry unpeeled his fingers from where they were clinging to the sofa and grasped the outsides of Draco’s thighs, warm damp flesh and a soft rasp of hair under his palms. His fingers bit into Draco’s legs to steady himself, and Draco moaned into their kiss, one hand splaying over Harry’s ribs as if trying to cover as much area as possible.

“You feel so good,” he panted, pulling away. He huffed shaky breaths against Harry’s mouth, faster in time with his hips, and they rocked together, Harry meeting Draco’s thrusts, the thick slide of Draco’s cock drowning out all other sensation. His balls were tight against his body, aching deliciously, and his prick jutted out, and Harry felt the tide of his orgasm rise, unstoppable, but he wanted— he wanted—

“I— please, your hand, I need—” he groaned. Draco’s face took on a hard cast, lips set almost cruelly. The arm around Harry’s neck came down, hand sliding over his stomach until it reached his cock, fingers folding tight around it. Harry shuddered, the contact a relief that somehow simultaneously managed to make the building tension so much worse. Draco started stroking, grinding his own hips deep, a soft moan ragged in Harry’s ear. It took almost nothing, four firm strokes; Draco twisted his wrist as his fist coasted down over Harry’s glans, thumb slipping against the slit of Harry’s cock, and Harry came with a startled shout, cock pulsing as he shivered in Draco’s arms.

“Harry,” Draco choked out. He abruptly pressed Harry forward again and Harry weakly braced himself against the edge of the sofa, still dazed and twitching as Draco started slamming into him heavily, a desperate whine sounding like it was half-caught in his throatt. He came, gripping Harry’s waist and gasping, for several long seconds, then he fell over Harry’s back, pressing his forehead against Harry’s shoulder blade as he drew in great gusts of air.

Draco finally pried himself off Harry, sitting on the floor. Harry missed his warmth, but he simply looked at Draco as he let himself slide down too, grimacing and adjusting until the floor was no longer painful under his arse.

“That,” Draco said, still wheezing a little, “was good.” He threw Harry a smugly satisfied look, a little grin. Harry smiled back, feeling sore and exhausted and bloody fantastic; he studied Draco for a moment, then snickered. At some point Draco’s shirt had been cast aside—he was naked from his thighs up—but he still wore his shoes, and his trousers and pants were bunched around his knees. He didn’t seem bothered by it.

“You didn’t even take off your fucking trousers.”

“Do you care?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Harry shook his head.

“Art?” Harry prompted after a pause. His mind had gone languid, filled with little half-thoughts, like ribbons he thought he should untie at but couldn’t quite bring himself to.

“So?” Draco said defensively. “You write. Am I not allowed to—”

“Relax, I didn’t say that,” Harry said, throwing him a smile. “I just didn’t know.”

“Yes, well, that’s one of those things that dating ought to reveal, don’t you agree?” Draco muttered. He sighed, then got his shoes off wriggled his trousers the rest of the way down, tossing them to cover his discarded shirt, which was lying in a heap a few feet away. Harry found himself inexplicably pleased by it, that Draco’s fastidiousness only extended so far.

“You’re good.”

“I’m not bad.” Draco grinned again, lazy, and Harry’s heart turned over. “Piero hung them a few weeks ago. I’d come in as an investor after I’d quit cuddling, so of course he wanted to reciprocate by displaying them. As I said, it can be difficult to maintain a wizarding business while trying to adapt to—”

“No,” Harry said insistently. His eyes sought Draco’s, and he knew he must be wearing his most earnest look—he felt earnest, Merlin knew why—because Draco started to pay attention; he examined Harry seriously, brows drawing down. “That’s not why he put them up. You’re really, really good,” Harry told him. “You should be doing that full-time.”

“Not all of us have the same opportunities,” Draco finally said, but his cheeks were pink with pleasure. “Not all of us get what we want, Potter.”

He sounded overly-practical, resigned to it. Harry considered what that must be like, having a lifetime to prepare for getting everything you ever wanted and having to adapt to new expectations; he’d only experienced the opposite end of the spectrum. He reached out to lace his fingers through Draco’s.

“Sometimes we do,” Harry said. Glinting grey eyes came up to meet his, wide and wondering; Draco’s fingers tightened against his and Harry smiled. Other than that half hand-clasp at the restaurant, they’d never touched like this, really. The intimacy of it felt shocking, more personal than a handshake or a hug, different than fucking or a kiss. Like something you only did with someone you really cared about. “You’re working on yourself, yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco said. He chewed the corner of his lip for a moment. “You too,” he said. There was something questioning in his eyes, and Harry responded to it with a nod.

“I’m not there yet,” he admitted. His sleep was still uneasy sometimes, like he’d mentioned—he still had bad dreams about his cupboard, about the cameras, about walking through the Forest. He hadn’t yet learned how to ignore the people who called him a freak, and didn’t know if he’d ever be able to. “But yeah. I’m working on myself.”

“I paint the things I see,” Draco said, looking cautious and oddly vulnerable. “They’re not all family-style Italian luncheons.”

“Sometime I’ll show you the things I write that I hope to be brave enough to try to get published someday,” Harry returned. “I don’t plan on spending the rest of my life writing smutty Victorian intrigue.”

“Oh don’t you dare stop writing that,” Draco said, uncertain expression melting into something wicked and amused. He gave a swift nod to the direction of his book case. Harry glanced over; stacked on the front of one stuffed shelf were his first three books. He grinned and Draco said, “They’re far too valuable for someone who… needs to utilise their own personal sense of touch.”

“And do you? Now?” Harry asked. Draco took a deep breath and smirked, gaze sharpening with renewed interest.

“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “Perhaps not even in the shower in about three minutes.” He pushed off the floor and stood, cock at Harry’s eye level. Harry licked his lips deliberately, and Draco’s smirk grew into a genuine smile.

Harry woke up, legs tangled with Draco’s, one arm thrown over Draco’s midsection. Draco breathed evenly, deeply; his lips were parted slightly, and his face was flushed pink with sleep. His hair was in disarray, and no wonder—Harry recalled, with a sudden thrilling shot of lust, his hands in Draco’s hair in the middle of the night, pulling his head back as he’d thrust into him, savouring each gasp from Draco’s mouth. He thought of his hands in Draco’s hair in the shower when Draco had gone down on him. Thought of every time he’d reached for Draco and how Draco had gone to him willingly, as though Harry’s touch was the sustenance he’d been so hungry for.

He slid his hand up, tentatively threading his fingers in Draco’s hair to comb through it, and thought of the way Draco had woken him from an unsettling dream—half asleep, himself—to mumble that it was okay, Harry wasn’t alone; to curl around him protectively, yawning in Harry’s ear until Harry had fallen asleep again. As he was reflecting, Draco’s hand came up and caught his wrist, bringing it down and pressing a sleepy kiss to Harry’s knuckles. His eyes blinked open, then widened as if realising that Harry wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He blushed— beautifully, Harry thought.

“You’re still here,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Did you expect me to run off?” Harry asked, only half-joking. “That’s more your modus operandi. ‘You’re welcome for the unbearable mixed signals and the shag; I’ve got to to go now.’”

“Still sore about that are you?” The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched. He rolled to his side and Harry felt Draco’s cock, half hard, press against his stomach.

“Not the only reason I’m sore,” Harry muttered, wanting to discount it completely. He felt a sudden knot of nerves in his stomach, but it was temporarily dispelled when Draco slipped a hand between them and wrapped it around Harry’s swelling erection.

“Not too sore for this?”

“No,” Harry said, kissing him. They wanked each other leisurely—Harry liked that he was learning what Draco liked best, how Draco would shudder and shut his eyes when Harry rubbed the underside of his prick, how he bit his lip when Harry worked his foreskin back and forth slowly—and came messily together. Draco sighed and pressed his forehead to Harry’s when they were done, replete. He turned and grabbed his wand off the nightstand to cast perfunctory cleaning spells over them both. Then Draco brought his eyes up to meet Harry’s.

“What then,” he said matter-of-factly, almost bored. The pink on his face from his climax was fading.

“Well, do you need me to leave?” Harry asked. “Or—want me to?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Do you want to?”

“No,” Harry admitted; he felt disoriented from the long night, not really sure what kind of arrangement they’d agreed to despite the massive amounts of brilliant sex and the quieter intervals of talking in between. “But I’m not quite sure what we’ve agreed to.”

“Well, you certainly can’t stay forever,” Draco said with a sniff. “You’re not moving in.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly.

“But I suppose you could make us breakfast,” Draco continued, looking pleased with how off-balance Harry was.

“This is your flat!” Harry objected.

Draco grinned and shrugged. “I don’t like to cook. It’s either that or you starve, unfortunately.”

“Or we could go out,” Harry said. He swallowed. “To some place not hidden away, even. Do the normal breakfast date thing.”

Draco stilled. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wouldn’t you rather shag in secret for several weeks and avoid the constant attention?” he asked hopefully. “Cuddle in bed for a while? I’m quite good at that, you know.”

“We could always shag after breakfast,” Harry said, rolling out of bed. He stood in front of Draco, waiting. “For several weeks, even.”

Sitting up, Draco gave him a look like Harry was daft. But that exasperation was inextricably blended with a fondness, a yearning, that made Harry’s heart skip a beat.

“Why?” Draco asked.

Because you touch me, Harry wanted to say. Because I touch you. It was true, in ways that had nothing to do with the arrangement that had gotten them here. For no reason Harry could understand, something about the two of them fit, after twelve years, and several months, and five strange nights.

“Because I’m hungry, and I really don’t want to cook,” Harry said with a smile. He held out his hand, and Draco looked at it for a moment.

“I’m hungry too,” Draco said, a smile breaking over his features. He took Harry’s hand, and allowed himself to be pulled into a new day.