Naked - [Harry/Draco] - Part 2 of 3

[hp_drizzlemod]

Title: Naked
Author: bixgirl1
Pairing(s): Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Warning(s): Oral sex, anal sex, anal fingering, rimming, semi-public sex, dirty talk, some violence.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

READ PART ONE

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Draco wipes the excess charcoal off his fingers and surveys his sketch. It’s not as good as the ones his Mother used to charm for him, so that they would breathe and blink and even smile sometimes, but it’s not bad. "Well?"

Nikolas, the dark haired man Althea had pointed out the previous day--her assessment of him stunningly correct--nods with a condescending smile. He’s incredibly patronising and entitled; twice now he’s complained about the lack of light in the corner of the room he’d chosen to set up his easel, as though someone had forced him to stand there. But the light use of Legilimency on him has revealed that he has a deep appreciation for art, and music, and harbours a loyalty so strong that it rivals that of Draco’s line. He also has almost no talent—natural or magical—for Occlumency, Draco discovered early on in the class. He probably gets headaches all the time from the sheer static of thoughts he receives from those around him; could be one of the reasons he’s such a shit.

Despite that, he’s no longer any kind of suspect. Just that he’s an arsehole who keeps glancing down at Draco’s cock in a way that makes Draco wonder if he thought orgies were included with the price of the stay here.

"It’s not bad for a beginner," Nikolas grunts. His own piece has the poser’s penis nearly reaching his knee, and obviously hard, and Draco struggles for a moment not to laugh. "Need imagination, with art," Nikolas continues. He leans in a bit closer. "Imagination is good in lots of things."

Draco wants to ask if that’s why the feet of the model in his drawing look like fish, but simply nods and shifts away. "I could use more of that. I’m going to take a look around; see what everyone else came up with."

The class has afforded him hourly breaks to check out the rest of the room while they switch out models. He’d spent the first engaged in a surprisingly interesting discussion with Althea about the differences between drawing and photography as art until her husband had begun interjecting loudly, ignoring her obvious irritation at being talked over, and spent the second looking for the person who really interested him: the red-headed woman from the pool. He’d been surprised on a routine scan to discover that she did have shields in place, though it’s entirely possible she could just be a talented, sneaky Muggle who’s learned how to separate her mind safely. He heads directly over to her and scrutinises her drawing for a moment. It’s very well done, far better than his own. Her belly and breasts are covered in a fine, dark powder from the charcoal.

She half turns, raising one ginger eyebrow at him. Her eyes are assessing; sharp. Her gaze rakes over him, up and down, in a way that might feel objectifying if he’d gotten any sense she was interested in him. Rather, it feels like she’s making up her mind about something. "Yes?"

"I’m sorry." Draco smiles sheepishly, then nods to her easel. "That’s very well done. I was wondering how you got his nose to look like that; it kept coming out too broad, in mine. Oh, I’m Daniel, by the way."

"Right." Her face relaxes, though she doesn’t offer him her hand. "I saw you here yesterday, you and your friend."

"Husband," Draco corrects, and her shoulders come down the last fraction of an inch.

"I’m Liz," she says, then gestures to her drawing with a smile. "It’s really about the shading, because his nose is wide, so—"

Draco allows the tendrils of his mind to waft over her shields as he smiles and listens to her with half an ear. When people are engaging in a pleasant, enjoyable activity, they often let their Occlumens drop, and he’s unsurprised when that happens now; just enough for a quick scan. He sees several flashes of the resort: nude people wandering, the relief of the cool pool water on her sweaty skin, which mingles with the loneliness and worry she feels as she swims laps. There’s even an image of Harry and him as they arrived. He probes a bit deeper, looking for a memory with shadows around it, and sees what seems to be a normal day for her—stopping at a local grocer, feeding her cat. She holds a wand to refill its water dish and flinches when the front door slams and a voice bellows out her name.

He gently slides away from her thoughts and clicks his tongue to pick up the thread of conversation. "So you think it’s perhaps the depth of shading I’m doing wrong?" he asks. "I tend to think of it as all one shade, really."

"I could take a look?" she offers. Something in her voice has gone wary, but her smile is tentative and continues to be friendly.

"Oh, no, I really shouldn’t have bothered you. I know this class isn’t really an instructive thing, and even if it were—you’re not the teacher."

"It’s no bother," she says, almost eagerly. She’s seems bored, and lonely. And he’s… safe.

He leads her over to his canvas, and idly watches as she examines it. She reaches up, her bare fingers stained with the remnants of charcoal, and points out the areas of the chin, the cheekbones, the nose that he could have darkened for better effect. She compliments the line of the poser’s spine, and Draco’s use of movement, which startles Draco for a moment until he looks again and realises there’s no way he could have accidentally animated the drawing.

"Would you be interested in joining me for lunch?" he asks when she’s done, smiling at her in the same charming way that so appealed to Althea before, flattering and harmless.

Her skin, as pale as Draco’s but for gold undertones and light freckles over her shoulders and torso, pinks up a bit. She seems tempted. "I—I might have somewhere to be," she says finally.

"Alright." He gives in easily; she’s somehow begun to feel skittish, and her guards are going up again. "Well, if you change your mind… My husband has decided to go hiking today." Draco sniffs a bit; rolls his eyes. "The second day of our honeymoon, too."

Liz gurgles a small, surprised laugh. "And you picked here? Why on earth?"

Draco shrugs and signs the painting with his pseudonym; he begins packing up his station, putting away the charcoals and pencils, dusting off the stand. "He keeps telling people it was my idea. If you get a real look at him, you may think he’s telling the truth, but—mostly, it was a bit of a bet between us."

"A bet?" He walks Liz back to her station and makes up a story about the challenging nature of his relationship with Harry, making her laugh again. On their way out, she snags a gauzy white shift from the rung on the door and tugs it over her head.

"I don’t feel entirely comfortable walking around naked yet," she confides. "It’s one thing at the pool, but—"

"I understand, pet," he says dryly, indicating his own boxers, left on when he’d gone to strip down for the day. "Harry’s gone gleefully starkers, but he doesn’t have a modest bone in his body."

"Apparently you get used to it." Liz stops at one of the courtesy phones and makes a call; after several rings, she seems about to hang up when her face tightens and she falls quiet. Draco can barely make out a voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes. Art class, like you said. I was going to get lunch and—wanted to invite you—" She casts Draco an apologetic look and shakes her head. "Okay, I’ll be up in a moment. Yes, straightaway."

When she hangs up, Draco doesn’t pretend not to look concerned, though perhaps he should. But fear is coming off her in waves, and he’s hit with a sudden flash of his mother the summer before sixth year, cornered by Rowle, her face snarling and vicious but flickering with great terror. His father had still been in Azkaban, and Draco had felt rather dispassionate when he’d stepped in and hexed the man into unconsciousness from behind. The Dark Lord had complimented him on it, when giving him the Mark, later that week.

"Are you all right? Would you like me to accompany you?"

She nibbles on the corner of her lip. "No, thank you. I’ll be fine. He’s had a lot of business to attend to, so he’s a bit stressed." She takes a look at his face and suddenly laughs. "Really, it’s not what you’re thinking. I appreciate it, though."

Draco nods and gives her his room number. "If you change your mind."

"It won’t be necessary," she says, and finally offers her hand. He takes it in both of his and gives her a hard look which she meets with one of her own. The fear has receded, gentled, and he thinks it may have been due to the mention of her husband. Whatever she’s afraid of, Draco isn’t sure it’s him, directly.

He watches her go thoughtfully, then glances at the clock. He’d ummon Harry with his pendant, but it seems rather pointless considering the way Harry had departed just after breakfast, as though he couldn’t get away from Draco fast enough.

After Harry’s confession about that mark on his chest the previous night, given at his realisation that Draco perhaps knew him better than he thought, Draco had assumed that it was a good thing. That Harry liked it. He feels a spike of sharp, painful mortification over ordering Harry’s standard breakfast this morning—over his supposition that he’d be allowed to do things like that after what they had done together.

Draco shakes his head of the thought; he’s managed to compartmentalise it until now, left to his own devices, and doesn’t want to change that any time soon. He orders a quick meal and sits down to observe. He has a view of the pool, and studies it carefully while he eats, detecting the faint shimmer of Disillusionment that surrounds the towel rack. The spell only works on non-muggles, apparently, but even their appearances seem to ripple as they fetch things to dry themselves, like when the sun sends down a particularly brutal wave of heat.

And then he sees Harry, naked and far more tan than he’d been a few hours prior. His body takes on the muted cast of his Glamoured persona as he steps closer to the towel rack, and Draco sits up straighter, his brows knitting. He looks blurry and indistinct, and he fumbles with something in a slot next to the towels, then pulls out a luminescent pink card, which disappears immediately. Then Harry touches his own pendant, and the one resting against Draco’s breastbone flares hot.

Draco narrows his eyes, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and heads out to the summons.

***


"If you think we’re fucking again tonight, you have another think coming," Draco says after Harry sweeps him into an elaborate kiss that he’s lucky Draco didn’t decide to bite him for.

"I missed you too!" Harry exclaims heartily. He slings an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him tight against his sun-warmed skin. "Let’s go for a walk."

They walk in silence until the shroud of trees—and blessed shade—gives them cover. Harry’s mask falls, and Draco blinks at the idea that it could ever fool anyone, though of course it does, over and over. His mouth sets.

"We have the second meet. Tonight at the hot springs," Harry clips out, rubbing his fingers as if to display the Vanished card. "During which we need to furnish proof of sufficient Galleons in our bank account to make it to the third meet. Which is an auction, apparently. The price could go much higher."

"What’s sufficient?" Draco asks.

"Two million."

Draco goggles. He has it, of course, and probably Harry as well, though he’s not sure how far the Potter wealth extends anymore. But with the influx of his Black inheritance, there’s no way he could be hurting for gold. It’s just—

"Do we have access to a wizarding account?"

Harry nods. "We have full cover, remember? Muggle, wizard. I don’t think Kingsley anticipated the amount, though; I think it’s fairly basic, in case someone wants to check up on our backgrounds."

Draco purses his lip. "I could deposit—"

"Do you have it? Liquid? Because I have about half that I can transfer immediately, if Kingsley can’t. But a lot of my assets are tied up."

"Yes. I could even supply it all, if you need." Still appalled by the amount, Draco shakes his head, horror knotting in his stomach. He can’t even bring himself to calculate what that is in pounds, and whatever is being auctioned is far worse than they’ve been suspecting.

And his suspicions have been pretty terrible.

He heads over to a tree stump and sits down as Harry fiddles with his pendant for a few moments, then looks up and says, "They’ll have a rough estimate on how much they can supply in a few hours; we’ll check the file before dinner."

"Fine," Draco says tiredly, putting a hand to his forehead. The humidity is so thick he might as well be breathing water.

"It’s good of you to offer," Harry says after a second.

Draco’s mouth pulls to the side. "Whatever is happening is bad, Potter," he says flatly.

"I know," Harry says, voice going soft. "Budge over."

"Get your own tree stump," Draco says. "In fact, when you find one, shove it up your arse as you take a seat."

Harry laughs, and when Draco looks up, he’s rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t seem bothered by the sheen of sweat covering him, or the rivulet of it that snakes its way down his chest and over his flat stomach. Draco watches it impassively, eyes sliding to Harry’s cock, which hangs heavily against his bollocks, soft but not unimpressive. As he’s looking, the goddamned thing twitches.

"So you’re not going to talk to me anymore?"

"I’ll talk to you about casework," Draco says, standing. The cutting hostility he’s been nurturing since breakfast threatens to break free, but he holds onto it tightly. A cracked piece of crystal can hold water for a long time; a shattered one is difficult to repair.

"I was a bit of a shit," Harry admits. "I’m sorry, I just—"

Draco smiles, putting every ounce of the Malfoy sneer behind it. He hasn’t used it like this in years, knows it makes him look like his father, but the unease flickering over Harry's face makes it well worth it. "I. Don’t. Care. Potter." His upper lip curls in disgust. "I’ve been wanting to shag you since I was fifteen years old, but I thought we’d actually managed to become friends and I had the decency to try not to ruin it. More fool me. But I won’t be made a fool of, again—not even by the Chosen One. I thought I made that clear, last night."

"Draco," Harry says, stepping forward.

Shaking his head, Draco wishes for the cover of some clothing. Something, anything, to hide how blatantly used he feels. Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? Because he’d walked into it with open eyes. He desperately wants to know what changed, why it was okay for him to know Harry last night but not this morning, but he refuses to ask.

"Fuck off. It’s over and done, now." Taking as deep a breath as he can in the miserable swelter, Draco fixes a level look on Harry’s face, which flickers with too many things to list. "What was the walk about? I assume you were trying to tell me something at breakfast?"

"Er, yeah," Harry says, eyeing him as if questioning whether it’s worth the attempt to press. Draco’s grateful when whatever look is on his face convinces him not to. "After I talked to Hermione, I got another communication from Kingsley, via Robards. He wanted to make sure we investigated the magical elements of the property in the file. That potions case that’s being investigated might be pertinent. So, I canvassed and found some potential hot-spots. The hot springs, themselves, have a pretty strong magical energy, and the greenhouses, for some reason."

"Certain types of nature magic facilitate growth," Draco murmurs. He slants Harry a look. "We learned that in first year Herbology."

"Right, but this is a Muggle resort," Harry points out.

"Muggles tend to automatically gravitate toward strong magical signatures, you know that." Draco runs a hand through his hair; it’s slick with sweat at the scalp. He grimaces, pondering what he must look like. "And it didn’t occur to you that the whole reason we’d been paired on this assignment—my Mark—might come in handy when determining what sort of magical energy was around these sites?"

Harry has the grace to look embarrassed. His voice is quiet. "It did, but I thought—"

"Yes, I know what you thought," Draco mutters. He stands, glancing around carefully before twitching his wand out of its holster and casting a drying charm over his damp skin, then a cooling charm for good measure. He reholsters his wand, and looks at Harry evenly. "The bartender is due on duty in the dining room in thirty minutes. Why don’t you check him out—his room, perhaps, and then see what you can get to know about him, personally—while I recanvas the spots you hit and see if this—" Draco says, with a distasteful jerk of his chin at his forearm, "can detect any Dark Magic."

"We’re supposed to be honeymooning," Harry murmurs. "We can’t spend all our time away from one another. We could do it together."

"We already did," Draco says, brushing past him. "It’s obviously as bad an idea as I thought."

"Wait a minute." Harry grabs his arm, holding him in place for a moment. Their faces are incredibly close, and for a second Draco wonders if he’s going to have to hex Harry to get away. But after a prolonged moment, Harry drops his hand and steps away. "Did you find out anything?"

"Oh. Yes." Draco relates the dropping of Nikolas from the suspect’s list, and what he knows about Liz. Afterward, he’s forced to awkwardly add, "I gave her our room number, just in case she needed—"

Harry nods, giving Draco that same, contained look from this morning while they ate. "It was the right thing to do," Harry says finally. "You don’t think she’s involved?"

"No. Not directly, at least. But it’s too coincidental that she’s a witch on top of everything else that’s happening," Draco says.

"They do exist outside of Diagon alley," Harry says mildly.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Not my point, and you know it. What time is the meet?"

"Nine."

"Fine," Draco says, shifting on his bare feet. The forest floor is covered in small leaves and twigs and stones, and he’s not best comfortable, even with the shade. "Let’s meet in the room around six and go over what we have before dinner."

Harry’s eyes flick up to his; he looks frustrated at Draco’s flat, professional tone. "Draco—"

"It’s Daniel," Draco says flatly. "Best do to remember; we are married, after all. You complete wanker," he adds furiously. He takes Harry’s stunned silence, finally, as an opportunity to stalk away.

***

"Well?" Harry asks when Draco comes into the room, hours later. He doesn’t even look up from the scroll he’s perusing.

"Magical energy, yes," Draco says, tiredly Summoning a pair of joggers and slipping them on. The air conditioning feels heavenly. "In both places. Also a copse of trees about thirty metres from the hot springs, just outside the property line." He falls silent and sits, contemplating.

"What is it?" Harry raises an eyebrow and lifts his head, alert to Draco’s mood somehow, though he hasn’t said anything to communicate his unease.

Draco shrugs. "The copse made the Mark… react. But where the greenhouse felt a potent place for Dark Magic and the hot springs had a more… healing quality, I couldn’t quite place the kind emanating from there. It was so subtle I barely noticed it until I had been standing there for a few moments. Also, I saw Tom at the greenhouse."

Harry snorts. "Just checking out the exotic flowers?"

"Apparently," Draco says, shooting him a quick smile that falls off his face almost as soon as it appears, before Harry can return it. "His presence likely affected the intensity of the reaction, but I felt it long before I noticed him; even before I entered. A surge of energy, calling out to the—" He swallows, rubbing his arm. The memory of the sensation is almost overwhelming.

Setting aside his file, Harry leans forward, face concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine." But for the pounding headache and the residual terror that threatens to rise when he feels that particular, squirming burn on the skin inside his forearm.

Harry sighs, then nods reluctantly. "And the hot springs?"

"The hots springs were…" Draco searches for the right way to say it. Harry’s powerful, but a lifetime of family training has gone into Draco’s ability to recognise magic, beyond the Mark. At last he says, "I wish I’d gone there second."

It feels too vague and he’s about to elaborate when Harry says, "So, soothing? Like, good magic?"

"All magic can be good," Draco says, covering his surprise at the ease with which Harry understood what he was trying to say. "But yes; probably the way the well springs up from the earth. Or perhaps the pools just haven’t been tainted with Dark Magic, yet. If I were to lay odds on one of them being used for nefarious purposes, it’d be the greenhouse, but the hot springs felt more… compelling. Which can be a danger in and of itself."

"Well, the meeting tonight is at the hot springs," Harry reminds him, as though Draco could forget.

"Yes. What about you?"

"The bartender vanished. His quarters were empty," Harry says. "I checked with the on-staff undercovers and found that the job was temporary, not meant to last through the summer. Today was to be his last day, but he didn’t show up for his shift."

"Finished his job or got nervous?" Draco asks.

"Either. Or said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Doesn’t matter, now," Harry says neutrally. "He didn’t wipe his room of either fingerprints or a magical signature, so we’ll find him soon enough. And I heard back from Kingsley; the bank account has been furnished."

Draco feels his eyebrows fly up and takes a moment to arrange his expression into something more composed. "Already?"

Harry nods cynically. "After all those budget meetings I’ve been forced to attend, I have to admit I’m wondering how they did it on such short notice. It’s there, too; not just a Glamoured transfer—in case we’re fortunate enough, Kingsley said, to be able to procure the item safely before making arrests."

"How indeed," Draco murmurs. He studies his knees for a moment; he tends to look skinnier than he actually is when he’s wearing clothing, and his loose sweats drape ridiculously over the jut of his kneecap, making him feel like a child. Hell, making him feel the way Harry looked as a child. He bunches the extra material under his thighs for something to do other than what it seems Harry’s waiting for. "Anything else?"

Harry makes a tiny, maddened noise. "Based on your description of her, the street her house was on in that glimpse you got of her memory, the MLE database was able to find the identity of the woman,, Liz." He pulls out another sheaf of papers. "Elizabeth Elliot, twenty-seven. Apparently, she was a hat-stall, hmmm. Took over an hour and four tries for her to be placed in Ravenclaw over Gryffindor—"

"Smart girl, that," Draco grunts. Harry shoots him a narrow look and continues.

"—Married five years ago to Roger Elliot, thirty-one, Gryffindor. She has a fairly spotless record, both legally and financially. Her husband, however, has a track record of shoddy investments and has been arrested on five different occasions: twice for being drunk and disorderly, once for picking a bar fight with another patron who’d insisted he was too drunk to Apparate, once for selling homemade potions without a license, and twice for a booking ring."

"Illegal potions?" Draco asks, his interest caught.

Harry gives a tiny, bewildered shake of his head. "No. Standard bruise-healing salves and the equivalent to Pepper-Up. I guess they have a garden with some of the ingredients, and he has a deft hand. He didn’t know he was supposed to get a license was his excuse."

"And the shoddy investments?"

"Basic stuff there, as well. A new broom seat he’d been told would revolutionise the flying industry; a line of women’s fashionwear that had," Harry checks the scroll with a small smile, "disappearing pockets. I guess that’s a thing that ruins the lines of robes."

Draco nods before he catches himself; it’d do no good to relate every conversation he’s ever had with Pansy about the disgrace that is women’s fashion. Between her, his mother, and his own damned snobbish tendencies, it’s probably a topic the less discussed, the better. "So the husband is the most likely to be involved," Draco says pointlessly.

"I suppose. Also heard something else about the parchment we copied from Tom the Businessman," Harry says.

"You’ve been occupied."

"Wasn’t exactly the honeymoon I’d envisioned," Harry returns dryly.

Draco grinds his teeth together. "Fortunate for you that all of it’s been fake, then."

"Not all of it," Harry says.

His teeth are going crack and turn to dust soon, Draco thinks, if he keeps this up. He deliberately loosens his jaw and sets an impassive gaze on Harry. "If that’s what you need to tell yourself. What did the parchment say?"

Harry’s bland expression shifts into a glower before he can mask it and Draco feels a smug twinge of satisfaction at the way Harry’s eyes glitter behind his glasses, at the way his fingers tighten on the file in his hands. "It’s only a partial spell and the handwriting shows a match, although it’s been charmed with heavy confidentiality; it should be released to us soon. There’s another piece to the spell; we should assume that it’s already been procured."

"Seems a safe bet." Draco rises, letting his limbs go tight in a satisfying stretch. Although he might be swimming in his sweats, he’s confident that the picture he makes—the muscles in his stomach clenching; the slender line of his bicep bunching up; his hipbones standing out—displays him to an advantage. He’s not sure what the point he’s making is, but he suspects he’s definitely making one.

It’s confirmed when he lowers his arms from above his head and drops them to his side, giving Harry a side-long glance. His mouth hangs open slightly; his prick is swollen, outlined against his thigh, under the fabric of his pants.

"Malfoy," he says. It’s an obvious warning and Draco almost hopes he does something; his wand hand has been itching to hex the bastard all fucking day.

"I’m taking a shower," Draco says dismissively. "I’ll be out in time for you to get ready for dinner."

"We could share," Harry says, standing. He tries for a smile but it comes out more a grimace.

Draco shakes his head, scoffing. "There’s more than enough hot water for each of—"

"Goddamn it, Malfoy!" Harry snaps. As though he has a reason to be angry. As though he was the one who was lied to. As though Draco has humiliated him.

"What." Draco stares at him; folds his arms over his bare chest.

"I—" Harry takes a deep breath. "Stop—punishing me. Some things can’t be helped. I was kind of a dick, okay? I’ll apologise. I apologise. But—come on. We’re friends."

Draco swallows hard, feeling suddenly shaky as all of his spiteful humour leaves on a rush. His throat is strangely tight as he acknowledges the truth of things. "We’re not," he refutes quietly. "We never have been. We’ve hated each other, and learned to work well together, and wanted each other. But we’ve never been friends."

Harry takes a halting step forward; stops. A flush starts creeping up his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs silently, and his hands fist at his sides.

"I wanted to be," Draco continues, and fuck if he can barely force the words out, barely force himself to keep his eyes steady on Harry’s. This whole thing was a mistake of epic proportions; just the kind he’s always made. His voice sounds odd to his own ears. "I thought we were. Even knowing last night might ruin it. But no. I’ve seen how you treat your friends, Potter." He feels a faint smile steal over his face; it hurts, for some reason. "Excuse me."

He thinks he hears his name uttered on his way to the loo, but doesn’t stop. He locks the door behind him.

***


Draco picks at his meal. It’s superb—charred swordfish with tangy vegetables and perfectly cooked chips—but he can’t seem to taste it. Harry is no better, dragging his fork around his plate in a desultory fashion; taking a bite every three minutes or so as if he can’t figure out what else to do.

Join the club, Draco thinks bitterly. He stares out the window they’re seated beside; the sky is clear enough that he can make out the pinpricks of starlight.

"This is stupid," Harry mutters at length. They’re the first words that have been exchanged between them since Draco walked away.

Draco bristles. "Which part."

"The part where we’re supposed to be madly in love and on our honeymoon, you sullen prick," Harry says under his breath. His face softens, sweetens, and he reaches across the table to take Draco’s hand. "The part where we could be discussing the case rather than—"

Barely, Draco refrains from jerking away. He forces his own face to transform, and chuckles lightly, curling his fingers around Harry’s palm. He can do this. This is the part he’s good at. He adjusts his posture so it doesn’t resemble that of a petulant teenager, and leans forward. "I found a good spot to watch from," he murmurs.

"Just make sure you Disillusion yourself well before we get there. If it’s like the pool drop, they’ll have spells in place that alert them when magic is performed," Harry says. "So you’ll need to be careful."

"Too bad you didn’t bring your Cloak. It might save me the trouble of having to do any pesky magic at all," Draco says under his breath, striving to keep—some of—the sarcasm out of his tone.

"Well, that’s the other thing." Harry smiles, smug. His thumb strokes an easy, intimate pattern over Draco’s knuckles. "I did. I thought it could act as an extra buffer, in case your Disillusionment fails. You’ll really need both; particularly on your feet. Your shoes might show when you walk."

Slightly taken aback, Draco processes this for a moment. "I-yes. Fine. I thought I should bring a phial to store the memory as well. I know it’s likely to be another dead drop, but in case anyone shows up—anyone, another buyer, perhaps—it’d be better than that quill, which leaves out details."

"Good thinking," Harry says, taking a swallow of his wine. His eyes meet Draco’s over the rim of his glass, and Draco feels hard-pressed to look away, not even sure if he should, given their cover. But the moment grows too large, and he finally swings his eyes down. Unfortunately, they land on their joined hands, which is almost as bad. Harry’s fingers are shorter and slightly more blunt than Draco’s long, tapered ones; his palm a bit more square, the sun-kissed skin standing dark against Draco’s pale hand. For all of the differences—or maybe because of them—he likes the look of it. Too much.

He casually pulls his hand away and leans back in his chair, keeping his expression light.

"Daniel," Harry says after a moment, voice back at normal conversational volume.

Draco arches one brow. "Yes, love?"

Harry seems to struggle for a minute, opening his mouth several times and closing it before finally speaking.

"Hypothetical question: have you ever been given an…" Harry casts his eyes at the ceiling for a moment; he clears his throat. "Let’s pretend you’d been given an assignment that you didn’t particularly want to do. A-a role to play, which required you to… isolate yourself."

Everything in Draco stills.

"And it wasn’t as though you could just refuse it," Harry continues. "It was part of your circumstance. But—it was dangerous."

"Yes?" Rage builds, hot, behind Draco’s breastbone. Beyond the tense apology about the incident in the bathroom after Auror training had gotten intense one night, they’ve never spoken of sixth year to each other. The war, the Dark Lord, so much of it has been mentioned in asides that never really addressed the horror of those two years. They should, he knows, but that Harry has decided to bring this up now is unforgivable.

"Well, what would you do? To protect people?" Harry asks.

"What I had to," Draco says, low. "As you very well know, and I cannot think of a worse, more inappropriate time to discuss these matters, my darling."

Harry’s eyes widen. "Jesus. That’s not what I— I wasn’t talking about—"

A hotel employee, thankfully dressed in a pair of loose-fitting boxers, interrupts them. He looks between them, curiously. "Mister Matthews?"

Draco huffs a warm laugh. "Can you be more specific?"

"Oh." The employee—Grant, his lanyard reads—smiles a little. "Harry Matthews."

"That’s me."

"You received a certified letter," Grant says, holding out an envelope.

"Mmm. Thank you," Harry says. Grant gives a modified bow and walks off. Harry turns the thing over in his hands, studying it.

"Check for curses, at least," Draco says.

"I did."

Right. Draco rolls his eyes; he holds out his hand. "Let me, as well."

Harry passes it over without complaint; it’s standard training to have messages from unknown sources checked by more than one Auror.

Draco puts it in his lap and snicks the tip of his wand out of its holster, out of view of the other patrons. He scans it quickly for poisons and curses, but it seems like it’s just… a muggle certified letter. He opens it.

"Hey," Harry objects half-heartedly.

Brows drawing down, Draco reads it in confusion.

Mr. Matthews,

My apologies for bothering you with business while you’re on holiday, but I received this email from marketing and legal that I felt you should be aware of. It read: Harry, Orders reduced, can’t replace until Xerox exempts signing.

You’ll need to be very careful when reading the contracts—apparently, the company in charge is investigating matters. The item itself is due to be processed to discover new ways of utilisation. Item may be able to make extra copies with less effort.

Will be busy with this for a bit, so just get back when you can; no rush. I shall try to take care of things on my end, to the best of my ability.

Thanks, Jean.

He looks up. "Who’s Jean?"

Harry’s mouth tightens. "Hermione." He’s left off the you daft prick from the end of the sentence, which Draco appreciates a bit, because—of course. "What’s it say?"

"It’s—odd," Draco says, eyes wandering over it again. "She obviously needed to let you know that the—company you’re doing research for is also working to find out other ways to utilise the object you’re hoping to process soon, rather than—perhaps—destroy it, as we’d been led to believe."

If anything, Harry’s face seems to grow more immobile. He gives a short nod and takes the letter Draco passes over, his mind still on the strange sentence in the middle. "What’s Xerox?"

Harry blinks. "A—a muggle company. Electronics, I think." He peruses the letter and freezes.

Draco sees it with half an eye, still pondering what kind of connection electronics might have to their case when it comes to him, the arrangement of the letters in that sentence. His heart settles, painfully, like a stone.

"Horcruxes," Draco blurts. It comes out barely a whisper—honestly, who would say something like that out loud?—but he feels as though he’s shouted it. He looks up at Harry, whose eyes are glued, unmoving, to the paper in his suddenly shaking hands. Draco leans in. "Horcruxes, Harry."

Harry doesn’t respond, and Draco’s almost glad for his silence, for the chance to absorb this on his own for a moment. They’re some of the Darkest Arts he’s ever heard of, and only twice in his life. Once from a portrait that his mother burned after Draco came to her with questions, and once more, right before the Dark Lord was vanquished with his wand. He feels his mouth draw down, and looks at Harry again.

"Is this about the—Is here a possibility that he’ll come back?" he asks hoarsely. "Horcruxes are—"

Draco’s words die on his lips as Harry finally looks up. His face is ashen, his eyes stark with shock. Draco automatically stretches out a hand to him, his heart stuttering with fear.

And all of the windows in the dining room explode.

There is one moment of complete stillness, and then chaos erupts. Someone is shouting; people are crying out in fear and perhaps pain. The tinkling-crunch of broken glass can be heard as people run out of the dining room. Draco spares a blank moment to be grateful that they require shoes in the space during dinner, and then he’s knocking the table aside to drag Harry down past the window ledge, away from curse-fire.

Harry goes with him woodenly, as if his muscles are locked up.

"An assassin," Draco clips out, slipping his wand free. His eyes sting terribly; he feels woozy. He’s never liked blood, but for some reason, seeing the tiny slices on Harry’s cheekbone, the threads of blood spilling down to his jaw, makes Draco feel like passing out.

He takes a deep breath and looks around. Everyone else has wisely evacuated, and he uses the opportunity to cast the lights off. He turns in his crouch and peeks up over the windowsill. Even knowing that he’s unlikely to see anyone, he mentally files through his repertoire of revealing spells.

"Harry, fuck," Draco snarls. "Can you give me a goddamned hand?"

Harry jerks slightly. His eyes blink up to meet Draco’s; there is window glass in his hair. "It’s not an assassin," he says, voice dull at first and then firmer. His face looks cut from stone in the dark light of the moon and stars seeping in. "It’s not an assassin."

Draco hesitates, peeking up again. The world seems to spin a bit from that angle, and he dashes the stinging water from his eyes with the heel of his hand. "What do you mean? Someone fired some sort of killing curse at you." he says breathlessly.

"It was me," Harry says simply, voice gone hard.

Draco cranes his neck to look at him again, sitting still on the floor with the disastrously ruined dining room framing him from behind. "You, no, someone—"

Harry places a hand on his arm. It burns like Draco’s eye does, like his thighs are starting to, in that position. "It was me. I did it," he says. "I— Fuck, Draco, your face."

Draco shakes his head. It feels like there’s an insect buzzing around his ear. Harry grips him from behind the neck and Draco stumbles into him, his knees buckling because of their awkward angle. Harry touches his forehead; his eyebrow. His hand comes back saturated with something dark and glistening, and it’s the last thing Draco sees before everything goes black.

***

"Hey, you’re awake."

Draco swallows, struggling up against the pillows. He turns to see a good-looking young man wearing low-slung briefs and a lanyard, sitting in the arm chair across from their hotel bed.

"I—my husband?" His head aches, and his skin burns across his temple and forehead, but when he reaches up, he feels only slightly puffy, tender flesh. "Where’s—"

"Your partner had to go make the drop," the young man explains. He nods at something to Draco’s left. "Take that; blood replenishing potion. Should make you feel a bit better. You were— You lost a lot, I guess."

Draco reaches over and uncaps the vial. After a cursory pass with his wand, he downs the contents and, moments later, begins to feel a bit steadier. "Auror?"

"Yeah. Call me Dave."

"How long has he been gone?"

"Near thirty minutes, now," Dave says.

Draco closes his eyes briefly. He can’t even Apparate there, for the noise it’ll make. "Please tell me he didn’t go alone."

"No, we had someone else tag him for surveillance," Dave tells him easily. He sits back. "She’ll warn me if something happens."

"Right." Draco pauses. "How long have you been on this assignment?"

"A while. Right out of training, actually. I think it’s something different, but—"

"Different?"

"Than what you’re doing," Dave clarifies. "We were told to cooperate with you and give you whatever you need, but we’ve actually been in place for… three months, I guess?" he says, scratching the back of his neck. "Dark artefacts have been smuggled through here for a while now. And there’s a host of illegal potions ingredients growing in a room under the greenhouse."

Vaguely amused, Draco asks, "And you’re allowed to tell me all of this?"

"Like I said, you guys take precedent," Dave says. "I was told you knew all this anyway."

They hadn’t known that the potions room was under the greenhouse, Draco thinks. It may not be relevant to their case, but it explains the heavy undulations of dark magic that emanate from it.

"Are you allowed to tell me anything?" Dave asks after a moment. "Who you guys are? What you’re looking for?"

Draco shakes his head; it throbs at the movement. "Are there any pain potions available?"

"Yeah, sorry." Dave fumbles in a small bag resting on the floor at his feet for a moment before tossing him a tiny bottle that Draco catches deftly. "That should help."

Draco takes a small sip, aware that the blood replenishing potion might lose potency with too many additional compounds in his system. His headache has started to slowly ease off when a thought occurs to him that causes it to bloom fresh. He takes another sip.

"Was anyone else injured?"

"No, not really," Dave tells him, sounding surprised. "One woman got nicked on the arm and an older man cut his hand and knee a bit when he stumbled on the way out. The hotel is chalking it up as a soundwave or something—a freak occurrence. They’re comping rooms for anyone who was dining at the time. The Ministry will have the muggle press come up with something that aligns with it; that makes it believable." He hesitates. "Your partner… He—ah, he said it was accidental magic on his part."

Draco nods with difficulty. His voice is grim. "He said that to me, too."

"P-power like that is… uncommon, right? There are only a few wizards I can think of who—"

"It’s not that uncommon," Draco says sharply. Dave shrinks back a bit under his glare.

"Right, no, I just meant—"

The door lock beeps softly, and then Harry comes striding in, closely followed by the female desk-clerk. The relief Draco feels is almost tangible. So is the fury that follows closely on its heels.

"You’re awake," Harry says, blinking stupidly.

"While I, as ever, appreciate your ability to state the obvious," Draco says flatly, "it might be more productive if you told me how it went."

"Er, yeah. Thanks, Sheila. Dave. I’ll call you if we need anything." Harry takes a moment to shake their hands; Draco notices that Dave’s eyes are a bit large and bright, and that he gazes at Harry with the beginnings of that same appalling hero-worship that makes it so difficult for Harry to keep a partner.

"Yes, thank you," Draco echoes as they’re on their way out. They both nod and Dave gives a jaunty wave before they’re gone, leaving him alone with Harry.

"So…" Draco draws out the word expectantly.

Harry flushes. He sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off his ridiculous trainers; he peels off his socks and strips out of his shirt. After having seen him naked for the last two days, it feels odd to watch him get undressed.

"I’m sorry," he says gruffly.

"For which part?" Draco wonders aloud lightly. "Leaving me to be babysat while you storm off without a real partner to watch your back? Almost killing a roomful of Muggles because you couldn’t bring yourself to tell me what’s going on? Dragging me into your oh-so-exclusive club of Scarheads?"

Harry laughs a little until he sees the look on Draco’s face, sees that Draco isn’t making a joke. His shoulders are tense. "All but the first," he grinds out. Then, "It might not scar."

Well, that’s certainly a hopeful enough thing for someone to say when they’re the one who’s maimed you. He speculates nastily that Harry must have said the same thing to himself after Sectumsempra, and the sheer, overwhelming bitterness in the thought takes Draco’s breath away. He swallows.

"It’s fine. What happened?"

There’s the barest moment of silence as Harry steps out of his trousers before he responds. "It was a dead drop, like we thought it’d be. I put in the verification of our bank funds and waited a few minutes before receiving a response. There’s to be a bidding war tomorrow night."

Harry picks up the Ministry file and jots down the information.

Draco takes a deep breath. "And the Horcruxes? Is that what we’re bidding on? Something that hosts someone’s—someone’s soul?"

"No." Harry’s voice is hollow. "I can’t be sure, but I think it’s… it’s the thing—stone, whatever—that’s necessary to make them. There could be hundreds of these objects, though I doubt it. And Hermione’s letter said something about… about copies. Extras, I think. Horcrux magic is—has been only vaguely studied, but only by those people who’ve made them. Even Dumbledore—"

He breaks off and closes the file.

"Even Dumbledore, what?" Draco asks carefully.

"Wasn’t aware, fully, of how they were made. Or maybe he was." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Kingsley is ready to replace you if you want out. We could stage a fight in the morning."

"Want out?" Draco repeats, astonished. "You think I’m not—"

"You got injured. It’s just an option." One it looks very much like Harry wants him to take.

"I’m fine," Draco mutters, watching him. Harry’s edgy, unable to stop moving around the room. "Potter, I’m fine."

Finally Harry looks at him, really looks, and then he is there, crossing the room in two strides, his mouth covering Draco’s insistently, tongue sliding in to stroke against his own. His hands tremble as they cup Draco’s jaw, lips searching, a desperate, hard press.

Draco’s hands fly up to encircle Harry’s wrists. He allows the kiss for a few more seconds than he should before pulling back. "No."

Harry follows his mouth instinctively, but at another firm denial, gives a slow nod and drops his hands from Draco’s face. He takes a step back; inhales deeply and looks away.

"You’re probably the best friend I have besides Ron and Hermione," he says so quietly that the words float past Draco’s consciousness, unheeded as his lips continue to tingle for a second, before they hit him like a Bludger to the face. "That I made you feel like we weren’t friends is—"

Draco flounders, no clue how to respond. The audacity of the statement is appalling in itself, but the truth on Harry’s face is worse. "That’s— that’s utterly pathetic, Potter," he blurts.

Harry gives a sharp, breathy laugh. "Isn’t it?" he asks sardonically, practically crumpling onto the tiny sofa against the wall. "I don’t… I don’t have drinks with anyone else from work, or grab chips with them. I don’t even have to duel these days; they don’t put me on the roster anymore because no one wants to duel with someone who has to go wandless. Except for you. I sign up when I know you’ll be training. Ron and Hermione know my secrets, but… if I could make it so they didn’t, I might."

"No, you wouldn’t."

Harry glances at him. "No, I wouldn’t," he admits. "I need—someone to know. And they were with me when it all happened," he says haltingly. "Before I died in the forest."

"Don’t be dramatic, you didn’t die," Draco scoffs automatically, then freezes at Potter’s expression. Weakly, he says it again, as if repeating it will right the world on its axis. "You didn’t die."

"What if you were given a role to play?" Harry asks, like he had at dinner, and Draco realises with slowly dawning horror that Harry’d been talking about himself. "Something dangerous. What if you walked into a situation as one thing and came out, branded, as something else?"

Draco looks down at his forearm, at the sharply defined sweep of stark black ink against his skin, then back up at Harry, at the thumbprint-sized tattoo on his chest.

"What would you do, Malfoy?" Harry persists. "To protect the people you care about?"

"What I had to," he says again, numbly. Harry nods, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. "But—if they were aware of the risk—"

Harry’s eyes search out his. "People always say that before they know what it entails. Fuck, half the time I think Ron and Hermione even wish they didn’t know. Ron, especially, he—"

Gathering a bit of much-needed control, Draco snorts. "Sometimes you have to be privy to information you don’t want."

"Right, well," Harry says vaguely. "You protect the people you love."

"You trust the people you love," Draco shoots back, the words toppling off his tongue viciously. "Enough that they could stab you in the back with the knife you’ve just gifted them; enough to know they won’t draw the blade of it across their own wrist. That’s what love is, Potter. I’m not suggesting you spread it around—fuck, you’d be stupid if you did—but saying you wish you didn’t have to trust those friends of yours is just as stupid as working a job you hate simply because you feel it’s your duty."

Draco’s ears burst with sudden heat at having said the last, at the way it slipped off his tongue with no deliberation. It’s not done to imply that The Chosen One may be unhappy in his Chosen One Career of protecting the whole goddamned world, and Draco feels appalled at himself.

But Harry just ignores it and shrugs, picking distractedly at the hem of his pants; his mind seems to be wandering, so Draco reels it back, turning his tone business-like. "And the Horcruxes? You mentioned that the Dark Lord had some, back at the—back then."

"It’s a longer story," Harry mumbles. "I won’t talk about that."

"I’m not asking for your stories,, nor for your stupid bloody secrets, you twit," Draco snaps. "I mean about the case. Are they relevant?"

Harry shakes his head. "No. Voldemort is gone, I’m sure of that much. Kingsley seemed unaware of what was being researched in the Department of Mysteries, and said he’s going to start an internal investigation."

"He’s the Minister," Draco says.

"And the D.o.M has always been given too much leeway, you know that," Harry says, jostling his glasses to crooked as he scrubs a hand over his face. "Studying the mysteries of magic…"

Which is ridiculous, of course, because they never find out much, not really. A bunch of Ravenclaws sitting in a tower discussing theory, in Draco’s opinion, releasing peer-reviewed papers every two or three years about the physics of Apparition or the lure of gold for Nifflers, even though they don’t ingest it. Never anything concrete, never anything useful.

"So then, what?" he says, and hates his voice for coming out weak and tired. The blood replenishing potion has helped that gnawing, bone-deep shakiness, but he feels as though he could sleep for days. "What are we doing tomorrow?"

"Basic recon," Harry says. "We’re supposed to go to the auction and not make waves in the meantime. The other Aurors on-site will monitor in case something goes wrong, and we’re to procure the—" He grimaces here, sucking in a breath, then moving on, "object before making arrests."

"Recon?" Draco repeats. "We’re not to do any more investigative work?"

"Not if it might scare off the people running the bid," Harry says, tipping his head. His mouth quirks up to the side in a humourless smile; he bows his head and looks down at his hands. "We might be able to take that yoga class, after all."

Draco looks at him. That usual crackle of energy that surrounds him—that burning sense of power and possibility—seems muted, somehow. Guilt over Draco’s face, perhaps, or the minor injuries he inflicted on the Muggles. Worry about the following night, or horror about what’s being bought and sold. It’s been blanketed with a dampening layer of ash, and Draco feels lost for a moment as he stares at the top of Harry’s head.

"Come to bed," he says.

Harry’s head comes up, mouth dropping open a fraction.

Draco shakes his head, nerves ruffling. "Not like— to sleep, Potter. You need to sleep. Merlin’s tits, I’m amazed they even let you stay after that little debacle. Accidental magic takes a lot of energy out of you."

Harry nods. "I am a little tired," he says quietly, as though admitting a weakness. He sighs. "I need to take a shower."

"I thought you were fine with your charms," Draco snorts.

"Bloody hell, Draco," Harry returns, but the curl of his mouth seems more genuine. "Just because I don’t shower fifteen times a day to wash off sweat or have a wank doesn’t mean I don’t shower at all. Stop pretending you don’t like the way I smell."

Draco does. Quite a lot, in fact, but he’s still smarting over what Harry did and doesn’t want to admit it. Except… Harry’s face is so hopeful that Draco will share in the joke, in the flirt, that they can pretend everything is fine, that Draco doesn’t have the heart to say any of the crushing things that come to mind.

"Your hygiene has gotten better since school, I’ll grant you," he says finally, not willing to capitulate any further.

But Harry’s smile becomes a full-fledged grin at it, just a second’s worth. "Go on, then," he says. "I can tell you’re still exhausted. I’ll try not to wake you when I get in."

***

It’s not panic or fear Draco feels at first. Just simple bewilderment as to why it’s so hard to draw a breath, why his throat and ribs ache. Then his eyes flutter open and his legs are flailing for purchase against the mattress as he reaches up to untangle the thing slowly choking the life out of him. Even that is more instinctive than fearful. But the thing is thick and sinuously smooth, like Nagini’s scales, Draco thinks, and that’s when the panic hits him, hard and fast, and he gasps out a wheezing, "Potter!" while scrambling under his pillow for his wand.

The smooth wood under his fingertips is reassuring, even as he struggles for purchase. He finally grips it and grits out a releasing spell. The thing loosens a bit but doesn’t let go; however, it’s enough that Draco can suck some much-needed air into his lungs. His thoughts are scrambled, but he glances over to see Harry in perfect repose, though his face is wet with tears; there is a fine gold mist permeating from him, sliding toward Draco in undulant waves, and Draco casts his wand with as much force as he can muster, shoving Harry’s magic back into his mind.

Harry sits up just as Draco slumps, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Harry seems to know what’s happened immediately; he reaches for Draco, eyes wide and horrified, and then halts himself and wraps his arms around his own torso. "Oh my god. Draco," he breathes.

"I’m fine, I’m fine," Draco mutters on a loop, holding one hand up while the other massages his throat. Harry backs away, as though to climb out of bed, but Draco grabs at him, stilling his escape. He narrows his eyes at Harry’s face, covered in the shadows of the hour and the ones of his own making. "I can take care of myself, Potter," he says severely. "But you really need to get that little habit under control. Let’s just go back to sleep."

"You think I’m going to sleep after almost murdering you?" Harry asks, incredulous.

Draco swallows experimentally; his throat doesn’t even pain him anymore. "Well, I at least expect you to be quiet in bed so that I can," Draco tells him shortly. He lays back down, turning his pillow to the cool side before slipping his wand back under it and resting his head. He waits, trying not to tense, for what Harry will do.

Harry makes a small sound of complaint, and for a moment Draco thinks he’s going to shove out of bed anyway. But then the mattress dips and shifts again as Harry lays down rigidly. "I didn’t mean to—" he starts in a wretched voice, and Merlin save Draco from Gryffindors and their guilt complexes.

"I know. Stop. Let me sleep," Draco mutters, tugging the sheet up a bit higher.

"Draco, I would never…" Harry tries again. It comes out thick and wet sounding, and Draco’s stomach flips with something that feels like aggravation, but somehow isn’t.

"I know, Harry," he says softly.

The mattress begins to tremble beside him. Draco ignores it for as long as the roots tightening around his heart will allow, before rolling over to face Harry again. He’s on his side, back shaking. Small, catching breathes issue from his mouth.

It’s such an obvious lie that even Draco doesn’t believe it when he tells himself that he presses himself against Harry’s back because he’ll never get back to sleep otherwise. He crooks his knees into the back of Harry’s bent ones and slides an arm over his shuddering ribcage.

"Harry… Harry, stop." It’s a new sort of panic washing through him at such an open display of Harry’s pain, something he keeps so closely guarded. Draco wonders if even his friends have seen him like this, body shaking and cracked, broken noises issuing from his lips. He wants it to end; the— the sweetness of it unsettles him. The tenderness he feels rising in his chest is something he hasn’t permitted himself to feel before, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he asks. "What can I do?"

There’s another deep, ragged inhale, and then Harry’s arm slides over Draco’s. He twists, looks at Draco. His eyes are bright with moisture in the moonlight. He’s going to ask to leave, Draco can see. To be allowed out of the bed and away from him.

So Draco kisses him before he can.

Harry’s body goes tense and tight; his mouth is unmoving and tastes like salt. But then it opens; it softens. Draco slips his tongue in and though the sound Harry makes is small and even frightened, he returns the kiss; he licks at Draco’s tongue and presses their mouths tighter together. One hand comes up, tangles in Draco’s hair, clutching tight.

It’s uncomfortable, Harry’s shoulder pressing against his collarbone, but his mouth has warmed, become hot and greedy under Draco’s, frantic for something, something. Draco catches Harry’s upper lip between his teeth; he sucks it, and when Harry whines desperately, Draco knows what to do, what Harry needs.

"Yes," he breathes into Harry’s mouth, hands shoving Harry’s boxers down, baring the firm curve of his arse to Draco’s groin. The hand in his hair releases, reaching down and back to push Draco’s pants down too, then curling around Draco’s half-hard cock and pulling on it frantically until it swells and becomes painfully stiff.

Their mouths draw away and meet, again and again and again. Draco didn’t know that a person could drown so fully in a kiss, all teeth and tongues and lips and breath. But he’s suddenly dizzy with wanting Harry, with knowing the taste of him, and can’t bring himself to stop chasing Harry’s mouth with his own whenever Harry pulls away to suck in another breath before diving back.

You won’t be able to fix yourself after this, a voice in his head tells him, and Draco knows it’s true.

He just no longer cares.

Harry moans just as he does, their voices mingling like their breath. Draco reaches to grip Harry’s cock; it’s already thick and leaking. Draco simply holds it in his fist, the pad of his thumb moving in a slow press over the crown, tracing the ridge and mapping the sensitive underside of the glans before he presses against the slit and spreads the silky bead of moisture around. Harry gasps, his own stroking hand faltering on Draco’s erection. What he’s doing to Draco’s cock feels good—delicious, perfect—but it’s almost not as good as that gasp, unrestrained and needy; a capitulation of Harry’s, an offering, when Draco feels like so much of himself is falling away.

"Please," Harry says, low and shaking. He pulls his lips away again, shiny and swollen. Draco wants them with a rush of possessiveness and so he takes them once more, his kiss hard and biting, before relinquishing Harry so he can roll over onto his stomach.

Draco swallows hard, eyes on the line of Harry’s back, lean and muscled, on the curvature of Harry’s arse cheeks, the twin dimples at the base of his spine. He ghosts his hand over it, almost unwilling to touch, but then Harry turns his head, cheek flat on his pillow. His gaze is dark and knowing, but there is something pleading in it too.

Something bright and startling flashes through Draco at that look; with a low growl, he straddles the backs of Harry’s knees and fills his hands with the globes of Harry’s arse. He massages them roughly, opening him up while his fingers knead deep into the muscle. Harry doesn’t clench away from it; simply slides his torso down a bit to lift his hips up.

Draco can barely see in the dimness of the room and he wants to, fuck, he wants to. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Harry to spell the lights on, but he catches himself, knowing—somehow—not to ask Harry to use his magic now. He stretches to reach his own wand and casts the lights on.

"Draco," Harry says, low like a warning. But the flush riding high over his cheekbones tells a different story, as does the way he pushes his hips even higher and struggles to spread the knees Draco has pinned to the bed. Draco flicks him a glance, a thoughtless twitch of his eyebrow. Harry’s eyes zero on it, and his breath leaves him in a heavy rush. It’s interesting, that he can affect Harry with a simple arch look, but before his mind can follow the thread of thought, he breaks their gaze and turns back to his task, his own exhale loud and rattling.

Harry’s arse is… Draco had known it was gorgeous, even before they arrived. But staring at his cheeks held open, golden skin surrounding the shadow of his crease, Draco feels momentarily bewildered by the sheer amount of things that cross his mind of what he could do, what he wants to do. The skin between Harry’s buttocks is pale; his hole furled and tight. Draco adjusts his seat, climbing up to knock Harry’s knees wide and settle between them; Harry’s balls hang heavily, drawn up slightly. A good portion of his swollen, bobbing prick is visible beneath.

"Have you—" Draco asks roughly.

"Shut up, Malfoy, and eat me," Harry mutters. He turns his face away. The back of his neck is bright red, shocking under his raven hair. He widens his thighs.

It wasn’t what he was asking, but since it was in his plans anyway, Draco gives a mental shrug beneath the roar of desire that pulses through him from the visual of Harry’s arse, spread wide for him, from looking at Harry’s blushing neck. Draco points his wand unsteadily and casts a subtle cleaning charm over the area, letting it zip gently into Harry’s arse, then lowers his head and licks at Harry’s balls. Unprepared for that move, Harry jerks, then groans when Draco takes one partway into his mouth, sucking gently. The soft skin of Harry’s sack responds like Harry does, writhing a bit against Draco’s tongue as he licks and kisses, traveling to the next to give it the same treatment. He lifts his head, pressing another, harder kiss to Harry’s perineum, then lapping in one long flat stroke along Harry’s crevice, up to the top of his buttocks. He repeats the gesture again, then again—harder—when Harry grits out, "Malfoy, lick my fucking arse!"

Draco laughs against him, muffled and greedy for more. The way Harry is coming apart over something as simple—though admittedly skilfully done—as having his arse teased fills him with delight. He applies his mouth to Harry’s rim, swirling his tongue over the wrinkled flesh. It contracts and relaxes as he adds pressure in tiny increments, until the clenching ring of muscle loosens so easily that his tongue is able to slip in. Harry gives a muted shout into the pillowcase, and Draco draws his mouth away.

"I think even your arse is blushing, Potter," he murmurs, turning his head to bite one cheek hard enough to leave an impression of his teeth. Harry’s hands are fisting in the sheets beneath him; his hips rock forward, then back. Draco reaches between his legs and fondles his bobbing cock, smoothing the foreskin back over the head.

Harry turns his head again, facing him. His forehead is beaded with sweat, his eyes wild and fierce. "Want you to fuck me," he gets out. "Want you to loosen me up so you can fuck me, Draco. Want your cock in me."

And however able Draco is to take Harry apart, Harry has twice the experience and skill in getting to Draco, whose cock juts, hard and heavy, away from his body. It jerks, and Draco places a tight circle of fingers around the root of it for a few precious seconds.

"Fuck, Potter," he says, baring his teeth.

"That’s the idea, I think I just said," Harry mutters. His sooty lashes flutter, obscuring the bright green, and his eyes close expectantly. His hips angle, wiggle. A noise like he’s never made before rips out of Draco’s throat, and he buries his face between Harry’s cheeks, latching his mouth over Harry’s softened sphincter and giving it a hard suck, mimicking the way he’d taken possession of Harry’s mouth before.

Harry jerks, groans. He moves as though he can’t decide how to move and so ends up holding himself very, very still instead as Draco works on him, tongue firming up and stabbing inside to coax his hole into pliability. Draco leans back, gathers his saliva and spits, hitting the flesh above Harry’s arsehole, then watches as it drips onto the twitching, deliciously responsive spot. He massages it in with the tip of one finger, two, twisting them until they’re in to the second knuckle. Harry’s stillness quite abruptly becomes something else—an alertness that wasn’t there before. But his muscles are tight around Draco’s fingers, shifting and clinging when he retracts them a touch, and so Draco presses them forward again until they’re embedded deeply.

Draco’s surprised and turned on by the way Harry whimpers a bit as he sinks his fingers deeper, opening them up against walls surrounding them. He grapples for his wand, points, and mutters a lubrication charm to ease the way a bit more, and—ah, yes—that seems to do the trick. Harry relaxes with a grunt, tense shoulders sagging forward into the mattress, as Draco’s fingers become slippery and he begins to pump them steadily. It takes a minute or two, but Harry is soon working his hips in time with the movements of Draco’s fingers, subtle little rolls that indicate he wants more, even if he’s unaware of it.

Draco dips his head back down, tastes the skin stretching around his fingers as he thrusts them, then goes lower, pressing a firmed tongue against Harry’s perineum as he rotates his wrist carefully and presses his fingertips to the swollen bud of Harry’s prostate. Harry breathes out a soft "Oh!, then a deeper one. "Oh, yes," he groans, eyes squeezed tightly shut. His jaw is like granite. "Oh, please…"

Pleased with the reaction for more reasons than Draco cares to examine, he rubs over the spot, tongue swiping and licking the soft flesh outside where his fingers tease from within. Harry’s breathing becomes shallow and Draco, quickly overcome by Harry’s desire, takes the opportunity to add another finger, which slips in with only the barest hint of resistance. His groans begin again, louder and louder, becoming hoarse cries as Draco continues to finger him open, alternating the speed of his tongue and the depth of his fingers.

"Draco," he chokes out after a few minutes, "I want you to—"

Harry’s been with men, Draco knows. He can barely go a week without seeing a new picture of Harry flirting with this wizard or that, or reading some new speculative piece on Harry’s love life. But there’s something about the way Harry whimpers as Draco strokes his fingers faster into him, something about the way Harry’s hands dig into the sheets, about the way the backs of his spread thighs tremble with want but seem unused to the angle. And Draco knows that this—whatever they’re doing—is no longer the nothing Harry seems to want it to be. He’s asking—Merlin, begging—for Draco’s cock inside him, and though his face is tense with what Draco would mistake for anxiety on someone else, his eyes are ravenous and sure.

Draco removes his fingers and rises on his knees behind Harry, one hand gripping Harry’s hip and spanning part of his arse cheek with his palm to hold it open with a single, pressing thumb. He guides his cock to Harry’s rim and rubs the dribbling tip of it against the overstimulated nerve endings there. He starts to push and grits his teeth, grabbing his wand once more to cast another slick of oil, over his cock this time. And then he’s easing in, slow and steady—one smooth glide—watching his progress covetously as his cock disappears, inch by inch, into Harry’s slickened, stretching sphincter.

Harry breathes a litany of "yes, yes, yes, oh fuck you, Malfoy, do it, yes, oh god, beneath him, voice stifled with yearning and likely riding the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain. Draco doesn’t stop to give him time, doesn’t let him adjust to the intrusion in slow increments—that’s not what this is, and not what Harry needs. Draco just continues forward until he’s bottomed out inside of Harry, his balls pressed flush with the trembling curve of Harry’s arse.

"Harry," he mutters, finally pausing to catch his own breath and steady the urge to come. Harry’s arse is so tight around him, the walls shifting close as Harry clenches his arse in response, gasping out shuddering breaths.

"Fuck, Draco, are you waiting for a formal invitation?" Harry barks. It’s not as effective as it should perhaps be, given that it breaks into a whine, but it tweaks something—some instinctive sense of rivalry—in Draco, who hasn’t heard that tone from Harry in years. He reacts like a fifteen-year-old with an angry crush, and lashes out; he withdraws his hips and snaps them forward vigorously.

"Shut your bloody mouth, Harry, or contribute to the conversation," Draco snarls in return, doing it again.

Harry’s moan vibrates through his body; Draco can feel the shiver of it in the hips his fingers are holding in place. "Contribute?" Harry taunts breathlessly. "Why should I bother when you always know everything, you shit?"

A curious sort of roiling irritation burns in Draco’s chest, distinguishing itself from the sort he felt as a teenager by the sweeping amusement that surrounds it. He pulls all the way out, then shoves in to the hilt, going lightheaded from the sudden release and constriction of Harry’s slippery hole. Harry looks over his shoulder, gaze narrow and challenging even as he bares his teeth at the sensation. Draco smiles ferally, then repeats it again and again, locking eyes with Harry as he yanks his cock back to the tip and then buries it back inside until Harry nods, letting his temple fall back to the pillow, eye-contact still caught.

Harry’s surrender is beautiful, now that he’s gotten whatever glimpse of Draco he needed for this. That confusing mix of fascination and anger that always bubbles under the surface of their snark, that neither of them have fully learned to let go of. He licks his lips and murmurs, "Yes"; an answer to a question Draco hadn’t been aware he was asking.

Draco softens his thrusts, once Harry cedes control. His hips establish a fluid pace and he rolls them smoothly, gliding his cock in and out of Harry with lovely rhythmic strokes. He slips his hand over the small of Harry’s back. It’s over-heated and slick with sweat, and Draco rests his forefinger in one of the dimples before tracing the spine up, then down. He follows it into the crease of Harry’s arse, then rubs at the skin stretched tight around his plunging cock and Harry cracks out a loud groan; he begins working his hips backward, to fuck himself on Draco’s cock.

Choking, Draco manages a broken sort of "Nngghh," that Harry seems to like, because his legs go tight, knees bending and shins coming up to hook around Draco’s calves, the tops of his toes pushing bruisingly into the muscle for leverage. His hips undulate as Draco rocks into him faster. Harry reaches down and starts pulling on his cock, his bicep bunching as he wanks himself. Draco wants to see it, but there’s something so erotic, so mesmerising, about those quick motions of Harry’s shoulder and arm that Draco realises his teeth have sunken into his lower lip only when he tastes copper.

"Harry, fuck," Draco grits out. He swoops over Harry’s back, snagging an arm around Harry’s ribcage to tug him up. It’s a horrible angle, and Draco’s sure they’re going to topple but then he feels the warm mist of Harry’s magic, almost thoughtlessly sweeping over them, and they somehow stay in place. Harry turns his head and catches Draco’s mouth with his own, licking at the small break in Draco’s lip sweetly. His lashes are lowered but his eyes are open and hazy with want, and Draco shudders, kisses him back messily, the wet squelching sound and feel of his cock pounding into Harry overwhelming his senses. He places his free hand over Harry’s frantically moving one, wanting to feel him come as the rising tide of his own orgasm causes his balls to draw up tight and all rhythm to be lost.

They grind against each other, kissing with open mouths and open eyes, and Harry issues a guttural moan, bringing up his free hand to thread possessive fingers through Draco’s hair as though Draco might pull away. The noise surprises Draco, lances through him at every pulse point.

Then Harry clenches, the walls of his arse going tight around Draco’s cock, and the wave breaks over Draco; his hips jolt forward though he can’t get any deeper, and shocks of pleasure snake down his spine as he comes. His hand grips Harry’s fist harder, helping him jerk himself, and then Harry gives a broken cry that Draco swallows. He feels warm spurts of fluid coating their fists as they keep moving, the same sort that has made Harry almost too slippery from the inside, and finally their kiss breaks as they both focus on wringing out the last of their climaxes. Draco’s head drops forward, cheek hot and sweaty against Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s head drops back against the opposite of Draco’s, and for several long, delicious moments, their bodies twitch, synchronised with one another.

***


In the aftermath, there are the mundane realities of clean-up, of the return of Harry’s guilt and regret. But the edges have been cushioned by the relief his body was given, and Draco can traverse the geography here; he knows what it’s like to carry that sort of thing with him day in and day out.

They laze together for awhile, talking quietly in little, fractured sentences that don’t often make sense, accompanied by languid laughter.

"Have you never…?"

"Not like that… for a little bit—not ‘til the end, because I couldn’t relax enough to—"

"Mmm… First rule is to relax."

"Yeah. I did."

"I noticed."

Harry plays with Draco’s hand, twiddling with his fingers and tracing his lifeline. Draco’s leg somehow winds up draping over Harry’s as he rests on his side and allows Harry’s slow perusal of his hand. It feels like too intimate a thing to slip the other into Harry’s wild, sweaty hair but Draco does it anyway, because if Harry can investigate, he can too. He curls the hair around his fingers, scrapes at Harry’s scalp with his fingertips, and Harry arches into it, smoothing his own thumb up over Draco’s wrist in a gentle brush against the veins there.

"Sorry I hurt you," Harry says finally.

"I can—"

"Take care of yourself, I know." Harry flicks his eyes up to Draco; studies him. "I can still be sorry."

"Point." Draco leans down and nips just above Harry’s collarbone, sweeping his tongue out over the skin and tasting salt. "I’d like to know what happened, though."

Harry sighs. "I should probably give up the case but—" He swallows, lifting Draco’s hand. "It’s a long story."

More alert, Draco releases Harry’s hair and props his head on his hand. "The Three Brothers?"

"That’s part of it. I can’t—Draco, I can’t tell you all of it."

"Because it’s too dangerous for me? Don’t you think I should be able to decide what—"

"No. I don’t know, maybe. But." Harry rubs his face for a second; he pinches the bridge of his nose, then turns to look at Draco squarely. "Look. I know it sounds bad, but I just can’t. I don’t talk about it. When—when I think about it, things happen like—like earlier, at dinner. Like when we were sleeping. It’s one of the reasons I had to work so hard on my Occlumency; it’s another way to… compartmentalise."

Draco understands about the need to compartmentalise thoughts of the Dark Lord, and surely Harry has more reason than any. But… "It does sound bad," Draco agrees mildly. "Like you don’t trust me with it."

"I’m not sure I do," Harry says. It stings a little, but Draco is starting to recognise when Harry is actively trying not to be a prick, and this is one of those times, so.

Draco nods. "What do you trust me with?" He opens his mouth; hesitates.…Fuck it. "Are you the Master of Death?"

Harry’s eyes skitter away. He’s silent for so long that Draco thinks he won’t get an answer. Then, "How well do you know the story?"

Heart thumping hard, Draco manages an even, "As well as any wizarding-born child, I suppose." He swallows. "Which is to say, very well."

"And the Master of Death would need… what?"

Draco barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Trust Harry to choose cagey over direct whenever Draco has the courage to ask a straight question. "The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the…" He falters. "The Invisibility Cloak."

"Yeah."

"Is that." Draco licks his lips, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Harry’s eyes have gone flat and distant again, but his hand is still gentle on Draco’s. "You said you’d died. But the Resurrection Stone isn’t supposed to bring people back to- to life," he says.

"Draco," Harry says, a touch sharper. Draco realises his mouth is hanging open slightly, and closes it with a snap. Harry’s gaze edges on a glare, and he looks away again, taking a deep breath. "I’m not talking about that part."

"Right, no." Draco’s insides feel shaky from it. He inches his hand away from Harry’s, up his flat belly and chest to the small brand, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. He strokes it with a feather-light touch. "So—if one were the Master of Death, what might they be able to do?"

"A lot, I would guess," Harry says, sounding relieved at the redirect. "It might unleash any latent magical power they had. It might make them unable to use their wand for fear of—"

"Of getting Disarmed," Draco finishes quietly. "Yes, I see. Could one… Would one be, then, immortal?"

The corner of Harry’s mouth curls up, a bit ironically. "One might not be sure, even if they thought not. But it might make them damn good at Healing Spells, even if they didn’t have enough training or finesse to ensure there were no scars." He reaches up, brushes against the swollen skin over Draco’s eyebrow and forehead. It no longer aches at all, but the light touch causes Draco to shiver and lean into it.

"Perhaps one should have gone into Healing, then, instead of a profession that requires them to use defensive and offensive magic on a daily basis," Draco mutters, pulling away—as much from the soft, affectionate look on Harry’s face as the touch of his fingers.

Harry snorts. "God, you sound like Hermione," he says, and though Draco wants to be insulted, it’s impossible when Harry kisses him, warm and sweet, then swings over onto him. Draco’s legs open, coming up to bracket Harry’s hips. "I’d like to—again," Harry says, hips rolling. His half-hard cock rubs against Draco’s in persistent—and rather convincing—entreaty.

"Really," Draco drawls, cupping the back of Harry’s neck and pulling his face down for another kiss. "I never would have guessed; you were so subtle about it."

Though Harry laughs, bright flags of red stain his cheeks. He settles on his forearms, leaning down so his breath is hot against Draco’s ear. "I’d like to do it again the way we just did," he says, low. Then, as if making a case, he adds, "I’m still… loose."

Draco’s cock swells so quickly, he makes a noise of complaint. He nods wordlessly and rolls Harry back over, kissing him again and again, and this time it’s quick and dirty; he pins Harry’s wrists to the mattress with one hand as he slides inside him, then wanks Harry efficiently with the other. Harry’s hips fly up to meet Draco’s pounding thrusts, but he wiggles his hands out of Draco’s grasp, pushing him onto his back and climbing over him. He straddles Draco’s hips, biting his lip as he guides Draco’s cock back inside; he rides him, ruddy wet prick slapping Draco’s stomach; arse bouncing against Draco’s thighs until Draco gasps and climaxes on a rush of adrenaline, grinding his cock deep. Chest still heaving, he shoves Harry off of him and presses him back against the soiled sheets to suck him off. It takes less than a minute before Harry is coming in thick pulses over his tongue, the whole second round less than fifteen.

They fall asleep and wake up to do it again, then once more, and by the time orange tones begin creeping over the edge of the horizon, Draco’s arse and cock are deliciously sore; his muscles feel as though he’s taken a Stunner to each of them. Draco feels saturated with lust, gone reckless by his ability to touch Harry whenever he wants and be touched in return. It feels like over ten years of repressed desire gushing out of him, and when Harry drags him to the shower and falls to his knees just after dawn, taking Draco’s cock in his mouth, Draco doesn’t even bother objecting that he can’t or that it might feel too sensitive?—it does a little; even that engrossed, skillful licking and gentle suction isn’t entirely comfortable—because he knows that, somehow, he can and, moreover, he wants to.

His climax pours over him like warm honey, two of Harry’s fingers against his arse massaging his swollen rim while he licks Draco’s oversensitive cock and the water pours over them both. He kisses Draco’s thigh, then rises with a jauntily exhausted smile; Draco shakes his head with a grin and lowers to his knees to return the favour.

"Well," Harry says, slipping into a thick dressing robe afterward, still a bit breathless, "I hope that’ll sate you for a while, because I think my prick might fall off."

Draco snickers, staring into the mirror to cast a careful shaving charm over his disguised face. It’s a little tricky, because he has to rely on what he knows about his own features rather than his actual reflection, and he keeps missing spots. Harry sidles over to him, catching Draco’s jaw in one hand.

"Let me," he says huskily, and Draco’s heart turns over as Harry traces the air over Draco’s cheeks and under his chin, the tingle of Harry’s magic piercing and sweet against Draco’s skin. He presses a lingering kiss to Draco’s mouth afterward, then moves to look at his own reflection and starts a vigorous cleaning charm on his teeth, as if this they share their toilette all the time.

"I don’t know that I would ever be," Draco blurts, then flushes.

Harry’s eyes meet his in the mirror. "Would be what?"

"I—uhm." Draco swallows; he tilts his chin up defiantly, despite the fact that it feels like his face is about to melt off. "Sated."

"Oh," is all Harry says. He adds a frothy mouthwash with a flick of his hand, then spits and wipes his mouth with a flannel. "Okay."

"Okay?" Draco says blankly.

Harry turns, leaning against the edge of the countertop with a small wince. "Well, yeah." He looks as though he’s striving to seem practical under his faintly embarrassed expression. He clears his throat. "I mean, I’m not proposing, but, uh. Last night was good. I’d like to have more nights like that. And we, sort of, you know—talked about the dating thing."

"But then you became a prick," Draco points out with a bit of a scowl creasing his eyebrows. He smooths them, attempting patience. "Which you didn’t explain."

"Well, I’ll try not to be a prick again," Harry says simply. "Can’t guarantee it, though; which you should know. I mean, look who I’m talking to."

Draco gives his shoulder a little shove, huffing an exasperated laugh when Harry grins. He turns back to the mirror and starts a series of drying charms on his hair while Harry simply grabs another flannel and uses it to scrub at his own, then combs through the damp strands, which curl and begin to spring up, even though they’re only half dry.

"I don’t want to get married," Draco offers after a moment.

"Really? I thought—all traditional—"

"I lost that card when I came out," Draco mutters with a small huff. He avoids Harry’s eyes in the mirror; he snorts, affecting a bored tone. "It’s just a good thing my inheritance was protected as the only heir to the Malfoy line. Which will end with me," he adds, in case it needs to be clarified.

Harry’s quiet for a long moment, blinking. Then he says, "More time for other things, right?"

Surprised, Draco nods. "You don’t want—?" Somehow, he’d always seen Potter as the type to raise a gaggle of brats.

"I used to think I did," Harry says. "But no. None of it."

"Oh." Draco absorbs that, disconcerted. "And I don’t expect you to tell me your stories until—unless— If… I don’t need you to."

Harry studies him. "Okay. Good," he says with a short nod. Draco allows the bitter sense of disappointment that stabs at him, then brushes it away, because what he’d said was true. Harry leans in and drops a kiss against the side of his neck, then wanders out of the en suite. "Want me to order room service?"

Draco abandons his hair—it feels right, anyway, even if he can’t be sure—and follows him. "Room service? Aren’t we supposed to—" He stops, confused. "What are we supposed to do today, again?"

"Basic recon. Which is pretty much nothing. We’ll scout for which area the meet might take place in, but we can do that later," Harry says blithely, looking over the room service menu. He chews on his lip for a second; his voice becomes oddly tentative. "You’re—you like sweet stuff for breakfast, right? They have waffles and that porridge with the raisins."

Draco stares at him, unsure how to respond. "I like waffles," seems the safest, given the overly-casual look on Harry’s face, though his eyes are still fastened to the menu. "If they could add whipped cream, that’d be good. And a side of bacon. And coffee. And I liked that orange juice."

Harry glances up; the smile playing around his mouth is fond. "I’ll just hope you don’t have a heart attack by the age of forty," he says dryly. "And try not to eat all of it myself."

Sniffing, Draco turns away. "We have fast metabolisms. Besides, if you’re so worried, why don’t you just spell out the fat and calories?"

"Never tastes quite the same," Harry mumbles, scratching his chin.

"Only for food already prepared with spells. Works perfectly fine on Muggle-cooked food," Draco informs him, unable to repress his grin at the way Harry’s eyes light up.

"Really?" He plucks up the phone and places Draco’s order, then adds a full fry-up for himself and two extra servings of waffles while Draco stares in astonishment. He puts the phone down, beaming. "I didn’t know that!"

Draco’s mouth quirks again at the open delight on Harry’s face. "You don’t need it, you know," he says, appraising Harry’s leanly toned body. He appreciates it, but can’t imagine that Harry would be less attractive at any size. "If you’re worried about gaining weight—"

"No. I just train so hard that I feel sort of—sick if I eat that stuff too much." He grimaces, settling on the bed and criss-crossing his legs like a child. His dressing gown gapes open, and Draco arches an eyebrow. Merlin, it can’t be good that he’s having so much trouble not smiling. Then Harry shoots him a swift, considering look and says, "I didn’t get a lot to eat, growing up, until I went to Hogwarts. I’d eat double if I could and not even worry about gaining, but with the physical stuff we end up doing…"

Draco’s shoulders knot at the way Harry slips that in there. He consciously loosens them and sits on the bed, copying Harry’s pose. When he’s sure his voice will sound casual, he asks, "You didn’t get a lot to eat, growing up?"

Another veiled look, another shake of Harry’s head. And he starts to talk.

Draco listens, only stopping him to ask the occasional question and, once, to allow their breakfast in and to spell out three-quarters of the fat and calories from Harry’s meal. They sit on the bed and eat as Harry describes his horrible upbringing, the way he sometimes went days with nothing more than a bowl of cold, tinned soup. The way his uncle used to box his ears after a bout of Harry’s accidental magic; the way his aunt used to screech that he was a freak. As Harry continues in the same dismissively light tone, Draco hates Muggles with a vengeance he’s never really felt about them before, even when he thought they were lesser. But he keeps his face bland, nodding at the right times, because—well, Harry is sharing it with him, not bothering to spare any details. He’s sharing something of his own accord. Something personal and real.

If this is the only way Harry can bare himself, Draco thinks he’ll take it—for as long as they have. Being naked seems to come easy to Harry; the rest is… more difficult.

They lapse into silence for a bit while they eat. Then Harry kisses him—he tastes like the strawberries he got to cover his waffles—and asks about Muggle/Magical theory, and why the preparation of food matters, and Draco launches into the topic to give them something else to think about for a while.

Harry has almost cleared all of his plates—and Draco is long done—when a soft knock on the door sounds. They exchange a look.

"Just a second!" Harry calls. He lowers his voice, even though their Silencing charms don’t warrant that level of caution. "Aurors would have Apparated."

"Yes… Could be another letter from Granger," Draco says, getting up. He smooths and straightens his robe, tying the sash tight, though of course no one would be put off if he answered the door naked. He gives Harry a pointed look and Harry glances down, then laughs quietly at the way his arse and prick are on display, with his legs crossed and robe open.

"You could have told me."

"I was enjoying the view," Draco says primly. He waits silently as Harry fastens his robe securely and arranges himself into a more decent pose.

Harry smiles wickedly. "And you thought eating naked would be unappetising."

Draco chuckles and opens the door. Liz stands there, wide-eyed and trembling. Draco feels his eyebrows fly up. "Liz!" He ushers her inside; notes the sudden tension in Harry’s body. "Uh, Harry, this is the woman I told you about yesterday—Liz. Liz, this is my husband—"

"You’re wizards," she interrupts flatly. Her body continues to tremble, but her voice is sure.

He and Harry look at each other again. Draco’s hand on her shoulder falls away and he takes a step back.

"We are," Harry confirms evenly, with an over-abundance of politeness in his tone. "And you’re a witch, I take it? Or are you coming here to commit some kind of hate crime against wizarding kind?"

"I think you’re here investigating my husband," she says miserably, wrapping her arms around her middle and hugging herself. "I think you’re Aurors, and I need your help— Oh."

Her eyes take in their state of undress and though she, herself is only wearing boy shorts and a sort of jogging bra, Draco and Harry’s general state of dishabille, their rumpled bedding covered with plates of food, and—fuck, Draco realises, even the smell of sex in the air—must bring her to a conclusion she hadn’t really entertained. She hunches in on herself, flushing. Her lower lip disappears between her teeth.

"I’m sorry," she says, backing away a little. "I’m so sorry—I didn’t think—when I met you, you seemed… You found that memory of my husband and—"

"Stop," Draco says. He glances at Harry, who purses his lips curiously and nods at Draco to continue. "We’re not investigating your husband. But what can we help you with?"

"N-no, I shouldn’t have come," she says. "Not when you two are—" She waves her hand vaguely, forehead creasing. "I thought you were undercover. I didn’t realise you were actually… you know."

Harry, so stoic up until this point, suddenly begins laughing. Draco shoots him an irritated look but feels it fade into something else as Harry buries his face in both hands, his shoulders shaking. Liz’s eyes are wide and shocked, and she looks at Draco as if he’ll be able to explain why Harry’s suddenly gone mad with helpless laughter.

"Harry!" Draco barks, trying to put some sting into it, but that only makes him laugh harder. "Could you not right now?"

"Sorry!" Harry huffs out raggedly, trying to get himself under control. He wipes at his eyes and sighs, breaking into little fits of surprisingly delightful giggles every few seconds as he winds down. He takes a deep, gulping breath, smooths out his face but for his twitching lips, and turns to Liz. "We are ‘you-know’ing," he tells her gravely. He looks at Draco and shrugs. "Well, we are."

Reluctantly amused, Draco rolls his eyes. He takes Liz by the arm and leads her to the small sofa, then props himself against the bed as Harry scoots to sit beside him. "What can we do for you?"

Liz glances back and forth between them. "If—if you could give me the right person to go to about this…" She sighs, and Draco reaches out tentatively with his mind. That same thick, overwhelming fear he’d felt yesterday when she’d spoken to her husband envelops her now, but her mind is blocked by a sturdy wall of Occlumency.

"Why don’t you tell us what the problem is, and we’ll see if we can help?" Draco asks gently.

"I—He’s always had these big ideas about getting wealthy quick. My husband. Roger," she clarifies. "I knew it mattered to him, but… It’s usually small stuff, but this time, I think it’s bad—I think it’s really bad."

"Bad how?" Harry asks. He presses his knee against Draco’s. "How do you know?

She looks slightly shifty, and then her face crumples. "I have a natural ability as a magical empath."

Now it’s Draco’s turn to laugh, though he has enough decorum not to fall into the helpless peals that the Saviour of the Wizarding World and apparent Master Of Death suddenly seems prone. "I see," Draco says finally, straightening his expression and elbowing Harry hard the ribs when his giggles seem about to pick up again. "And you’re aware of what a rare talent that is?"

She gives him such a narked-off look that Draco holds up both hands. "Yes, I’m aware," she mutters.

Harry scratches his forehead, eyes still crinkled at the edges. "Alright, so how does that play into what your husband may or may not be involved in?"

Liz takes a deep breath. "Well… he’s pretty good at potions," she says haltingly. "And we came here initially so he could help with a delicate batch of—it’s not illegal or anything—something really similar to Amortentia. It’s not as long-lasting, and doesn’t induce the physical components of lust or love, but—"

"So then just a potion form of the Imperious curse?" Draco says, bristling slightly. He still remembers the way his wand had trembled when casting that on Katie Bell and Madam Rosmerta; the way their eyes had glazed over to become soft and willing. "Makes someone highly—suggestible, or even… obedient?"

"I guess." She nibbles on the corner of her lip, then adds defensively, "But like I said, not illegal. I’ve checked. I always check before Roger gets involved in one of his stunts. Anyway." She shakes her head, dipping into the small bag she’d brought and pulling out a piece of parchment for them. "We’d not been here two days when the wizard who commissioned him asked about the betting pools he used to run. I found this."

Draco takes it from her. It’s blank, and he stares at it in confusion for a moment before— "Fuck!"

He drops the paper as a white-hot flare of pain shoots across the length of his Mark. Harry’s hands scramble to him; he holds Draco steady, eyes wide.

"Are you okay?" Harry turns to Liz, who looks just as shocked as Draco suspects he does. "What the fuck did you just give him?"

"I-I don’t know!" she cries, cringing back into the sofa at Harry’s fury. "I can just—I can see smoke all around it. It smells like—like brimstone. It’s Dark Magic, really Dark Magic! You can’t use magic on it!"

Harry swoops, eyes dangerously narrow, to pick up the parchment on the floor. Draco flinches away from it instinctively, then straightens his spine. Harry Accios his glasses and shoves them onto the bridge of his nose. "Names?"

"What?" Liz leans forward and Draco does too, as close as he can without coming in contact with the sheet Harry’s holding. "I didn’t see any names."

"It was covered with layer upon layer of concealment charms," Harry mumbles. "Simple enough to remove if you know what to look for."

"Where’s your wa—?" Liz starts to ask.

Draco shakes his head at her. To Harry, he says, "I still don’t see anything."

"I think you have to be holding it." He looks up finally, mouth pursed. "It’s two lists; one has the bartender’s name, and Tom’s, and—" He pauses. "One or two resort guests I can identify. The other has ours and another few resort guests. And numbers."

"Bidders and the people organising it?" Draco wonders aloud. "How high they think people will bid?"

"Probably." Harry Summons a quill and some clean parchment, scratching down the list, while Draco grabs his wand and Summons the Ministry communications file. Harry’s handwriting is atrocious, but Draco can still make out his pseudonym, and Harry’s, and, hell, Liz and Althea’s names as well, on a third list that Harry didn’t bother to mention in front of her.

After he’s done writing the information, Harry slaps his parchment into the file-folder and they watch it glow as the document is transferred. Harry takes a second, lifting up the first parchment and murmuring several more charms, then looks at Liz. "Do you still see the Dark Magic on it?"

"Yes," she says simply. "I think it’s been cursed so that anyone who tries to take a wand to it will suffer. I tapped it with mine and it was…" She gives a mournful whimper. "It was bad. Like I was about to be broken apart inside."

Harry jerks a sharp look at her. He turns to Draco slowly, mouth set in a grim line. "I hate to ask, but…"

Draco looks at him levelly, squaring his shoulders. He reaches out and slips the parchment between his thumb and forefinger. It no longer hurts but he can feel the remnants of the Dark Magic sunk deep into the threads of the parchment. "Yes," he murmurs, stroking it for a moment. "I see what she means."

Now that he’s able to focus on something other than the unpleasant, squirming discomfort of the Mark, he can sensel where the burn came from; a spot deep inside himself that feels as though it’s being exposed, peeled back layer by layer. Ready to be broken away. He pulls his hand back.

Draco clears his throat. "Yes, it feels that way," he clarifies, and exchanges a look with Liz.

"I somehow don’t think it has to do with the type of magic being used on it so much as who wants to see what’s on it," Harry informs her quietly. "Whose name is on it."

Her face is blank, and then her eyes widen with horror. "Is my— Oh, no, Roger would never hurt me."

"I wouldn’t hurt Daniel, but he feels it too," Harry points out, exceedingly gentle. "He may not know what your name is on the list for."

"But you do?"

"No," Harry admits. "I have some ideas, but— I think we should put you into protective custody for the time being."

"What?" Liz scoffs. "You’re mad if you think I’m leaving my husband all alone with these people!"

Draco stares at Harry, trying to discern where this is coming from; what his name on the list is for. That many of the names were couples didn’t escape his notice, but he can’t figure out where Harry is going with this.

Harry sighs, appealing to her with his eyes. He should look silly in his fluffy terrycloth dressing gown, but there’s a poignancy to his face that takes Draco’s breath away. "I want you to consider how much safer it’ll be for him, if you can’t be used against him during whatever’s happening here."

And then it clicks for Draco. He almost blurts it out in front of her—the word "sacrifices" heavy and noxious on his tongue like the most foul sort of potion—but he manages to bite it back at the last second.

"You need to listen," Draco says abruptly, voice hard. It takes the most desperate sort of effort to soften it. "He would want you out of the line of danger, wouldn’t he?"

"But I’m the one who keeps him safe!" Liz objects, voice growing high-pitched and hysterical. "I’m the one who watches out for him! I won’t leave him in this; you either take both of us or neither, he’s just a Gryffindor—he doesn’t ever think about keeping himself safe!"

"They never do," Draco says, and then casts a soothing sleep-spell over her. Her eyes flutter and her body slumps into the cushions.

Harry reaches over and lifts his free hand, kissing the back of the knuckles in a surprisingly sweet gesture. Draco’s heart, so heavy just seconds prior, lightens at the feel of Harry’s warm lips. Because he supects like Harry might need it too, he twists their handclasp and brings Harry’s wrist up to his own mouth, kissing the soft inside of it, over the dark blue veins that thrum with his life’s blood.

"So I’m to be sacrificed?" Draco asks lightly.

"You’re definitely to be something-ed," Harry returns in the same tone.

"Good to know in advance, at least." Draco nods consideringly.

Giving him a rueful smile, Harry shoves his free hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled than before. "Well, this took a turn."

"Yes, it did," Draco says. He regrets that they won’t be able to spend the time before nightfall doing the boring side of casework, regrets that they won’t be able to dart back to the room midday to perhaps get wrapped up in each other again. But that’s not what they’re here for, anyway. He exhales. "So let’s get to work."

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READ PART THREE