Archive of Our Own ^beta

Then.

When Draco is ten, he knows he's a princeling. He's rich, he's handsome, he's perfect; his mother tells him so every day, his father doesn't say much but he buys Draco everything he wants. That's love, or whatever. It must be, Draco has heaps of stuff. Draco's special, above all. He's from The Good Stock, the right sort, from the circles that are worth moving in. He's of Pure Blood. He hears this from the grown-ups around him, and he knows it's true.

He's bloody great, and all his friends agree.

When Draco is eleven he gets accepted to Hogwarts (of course) and gets sorted into Slytherin (obviously) and Harry Potter snubs him on the Hogwarts Express which is unacceptable on a number of levels but mainly on the one where Draco feels embarrassed. He shoves it aside (badly; he thinks about it every day for a month, shut up) and decides Potter is a knob, and Draco is still bloody great—look, his two best mates vehemently agree.

And his blood is still pure.

When Draco is fifteen, his world feels precarious but he knows he's on the right side. He's doing things that feel wrong, but in the end they will be right, and he doesn't sleep well anymore but he feels secure in the beliefs he always grew up in: he's from the right stock, old family, good lineage and he's got pure blood, clean blood, good blood.

And then his mother tells him.

Draco listens through cotton-wool ears as she explains in hurried whispers it's from your father's side and you mustn't breathe a word of this to anyone, anyone Draco and never talk to him about it, please, promise me. Veela, mixed blood, creature. His mother doesn't say it, tiptoes around the words, and repeats again and again, don't talk to your father about this, don't bring this up. It's from his side, Draco thinks. Our lineage is old, but it's unclean. His mother talks about biology, hormones, changes he can expect, and it's awkward and bizarre and Draco feels numb. How many generations of his family have done this, furtive whispers of their unique needs and management, darling, please focus as they stand in crowds with their heads held high looking down on the non-wizarding folks? He can't be part creature. He can't, but he nods along like he's listening, tries to because she looks so serious, and for the first time in his life he feels special in all the wrong ways.

And then.

And then.

Draco still does what he's told. Draco still tries to be proud, to feel like he's pure, but the creeping knowledge that it's all based on nothing slithers up within and rots him from the inside out. Potter slices him open in a wet bathroom stall and Draco watches the blood seep down the drain and thinks, it's okay, it wasn't that pure after all. He thinks about telling Potter, you know what, funny story, I've realised this is meaningless, but he lets the Death Eaters into the castle instead, watches good men die, and does nothing.

Funny story.

Snakes slither the hallways of his childhood home, and fugitives are captured, and Draco lies to his aunt for himself as much as for Potter, the same way his mother lies to Voldemort to save all of their skins. Consummate liars, the Malfoys, Draco thinks, and good ones, too. Maybe they at least told some worthwhile lies there, at the end.

And when the rubble settles, and the Fiendfyre flames die down, Potter sets Draco's feet on castle stones and lets him walk away. Draco knows then, as a solid fact, that his blood was never pure, nor were his family's intentions, and most of all none of it ever mattered.

And that Potter probably wasn't the one who was an arsehole after all.

Now.

Draco fucks up his dates.

He's quite a precise person, usually. He puts this down to nerves, anxiety. He's new to the team, the last recruit, and he knows he's got respect to earn and colleagues to impress. He's been feeling off for weeks, days, even before Mäkinen announces that he wants to send Draco as the team rep for the yearly International Quidditch Conference at Durmstrang. His stomach hasn't stopped rolling queasily since then. It's a huge honour. It's a pain in the arse.

Draco could say no, and also can't; he's lucky the Helsinki Haltijas have taken him on. His money's not worth shit these days, and so he's getting by on hard work and talent alone. He has middling amounts of both, so he knows he's both earned his place here as their Seeker and also needs to bust arse to keep it. He's willing to put up with a bit of physical discomfort to get that. It's a small price to pay, and while Draco's meticulous with the management of his creature-y little problem, he's also used to just ignoring what his body is trying to tell him. It's a hard habit to break.

And that's why he's now considering throwing up in a bin at a train station, in front of several reporters, an army of international Quidditch players, and Harry stupid-fuck Potter. And a horrible creeping feeling that he knows what is happening: the hot flush, the pain between his hips and heating his thighs, the dizzy spell when he got up to use the loo on the train ride over. That's…not nerves. It's not just nerves.

He hasn't been sick yet, but it's feeling precarious. The train ride overall wasn't too bad, given Draco has been living in Helsinki for the past season, training as the Haltijas' Seeker. It was quite pleasant, barring the moment when Draco realised Potter was on the same platform and had to hide behind a woman and her shopping. Luckily the shopping was immense, and Draco wasn't spotted. At least, Potter didn't look like he'd seen Draco pretending to be a shopping bag, so he'll take it.

There's no such luck now. Potter is staring at him properly, with something that looks like targeted concern on his face. And incredulity. He looks like Draco has sprouted horns, and done it deliberately, to make a mess of everyone's day, and Potter cannot believe anyone would be so stupid. Draco blinks. He hasn't sprouted horns. He's just…casually leaning against a bin, with his luggage, waiting for the next carriage to his registered quarters and trying not to throw up on passersby.

And almost certainly, definitely, going into heat. Fuck and shit and fuck.

That's none of Potter's business, and he can put his big-weird eyeballs back in his spectacled head any time now, thanks.

Draco takes a deep breath, and keeps letting people mill around him. He's stuck in the awkward position of wanting to wait until the platform quiets down and worrying that if he moves too much he'll draw attention to himself and end up on the cover of the Prophet. He's probably going to be there anyway ('Disgraced Death Eater's son spotted at Annual Durmstrang Quidditch Conference, looking vommy. Is evil afoot?') but he'd like to keep it as benign and boring as possible. Tripping over in front of a train because of a hot flush is not the kind of front page Draco would like to make. Least of all because he's not exactly out about his…status, and mostly because, well, the train bit.

Draco takes another deep breath and starts to think he really needs a sit down. He's sweating through his top, not visibly so far (heavy robes, made of black velvet and silver brocade, will thankfully show nothing) but other things might start to show soon enough. He's been through this enough times now to know he's going to be uncomfortable at first, and then downright antisocially horny by later tonight. He feels paralysed, though: by the crowd, the cameras, the wait for the next carriage. He could Apparate, but he'd Splinch himself, and where would he go? His flat is too far. The station bathroom is not far enough. He's…stuck.

Potter keeps staring.

Draco shuffles his feet, and clenches the handle of his luggage. He's sure no one can tell. He's not sure at all. He tries to breathe deeply, normally, like regular humans do, and to will his face not to look too green. There's a barrage of scents around him, all intoxicating and nauseating; everything amplified, awful and erotic. He really is going to be sick. In a crowd this big, the chances of another Veela being around are…actually, Draco has no fucking idea. He never knew his own family had that ancestry until he was fifteen. He doesn't think anyone can tell what's going on, is the point.

"What's wrong with you?"

Draco startles, dropping the handle of his luggage. He inhales sharply through his nose, and immediately regrets it. Potter's standing so fucking close Draco can see the freckles across his nose, the flecks of hazel in his green eyes behind those glass bottle lenses.

"Nice to see you, too," Draco grits out, plastering on a smile. Cameras flash, and of course, they'll be wanting to catch this. Vultures on the outskirts, wondering if there's a fight brewing. Draco concentrates on looking polite, on not falling over, on not bursting into laughter. He's fucked.

"Seriously." Potter swallows, looking him over again. More flashes over his shoulder. "Are you sick? Are you…" Potter shakes his head, cuts himself off. Doesn't finish. "You don't look good."

"Rude," Draco mumbles, looking away. "I'm fine." He picks up his luggage handle again, something solid to wrap his fingers around. They're shaking. There's sweat at his temples. "Just motion sickness."

Potter frowns. "We're not moving anymore. "

More camera flashes. Draco swallows. "Nerves, then. Ate a bad prawn sandwich."

"Which is it, then?" Potter scoffs.

"All three," Draco mutters, dizziness rising. There's a tingle in his shoulder blades, goosebumps rising over the plateaus of bone where wings would sprout, if he had any. God, how could he get the timing so wrong. How could his body do this to him here, of all places.

Potter's brow creases in concern, annoyance. Draco can't tell. His scent is everywhere, smothering out the others, stifling and sweet and good and nauseating. Like swallowing perfume. "Malfoy―"

"Potter." Draco cuts him off sharply. "I'm fine, I―" Draco presses the back of his hand over his mouth as bile rises in his throat, coats the back of his tongue. His mouth floods with saliva, and not in a good way. "God, you smell like a bakery," he grits out, almost laughing at the look on Harry's face.

"I what? Are you drunk?"

The view changes abruptly when Draco gives in and finally throws up his lunch in the dingy train station bin. Lights go off, cameras flashing in delight. Draco didn't even get his hair out of the way, shoulder length strands sticking to his lips. This is a new low, even for him. His hands grip the metal edges of the bin when he's done.

A heavy warm palm settles on his back, fitting between his aching shoulders. It stills, and then rubs, once, twice. "Shit, maybe you did have a bad prawn…" Potter says, almost to himself.

Draco laughs, thick and wet and pathetic. He spits. He shudders, trying not to breathe in at all, just quick gulps of air through his mouth when he needs it. He can hear carriages pulling up around them, see the flashes of cameras still and murmurs of people around them. This is definitely going to be in the papers.

"Better out than in, I guess, yeah?" Potter soothes, oddly sweet. His palm is warm against Draco's back, a burning brand against Draco's oversensitive skin. Draco's thighs feel…wet, the back of his pants damp. Fuck. He tries to straighten up; the only other option is to crawl into the bin and live there, which. Draco would if he thought he could fit.

Strong hands fit around his shoulders, helping him stand up fully. Harry leaves his hand on Draco's elbow, holding him up. Humiliation floods through him, and gratefulness too. It's a familiar combination when it comes to Harry Potter saving his skin. His face heats as Harry grimaces and then pushes Draco's hair out of his face. It sticks to his chin, wet with sweat and empty-stomach bile. Disgusting. Harry politely wipes his hand on his own thigh, smiles apologetically. Draco wants to cry. He wants to punch Potter in the face. He needs a sit down.

"Okay." Harry sounds decisive, then clears his throat. His eyes don't leave Draco's. "Okay, here is the plan. Or just, a plan," Harry corrects. "You're sick, you're… You're something." Harry shakes his own hair out of his face. "There's cameras everywhere. Just ignore them and keep looking at me." Harry looks apologetic again. "Sorry. That's my fault, I think. Shouldn't have come over." Harry sighs, shutting his eyes as if annoyed with himself and spares a quick glance at the direction of the reporters, the other people at the station milling around and pretending they aren't watching out of the curious corners of their eyes. "Can you handle a Side-Along?"

Draco shrugs, woozy and drunk on their proximity. "Can you handle being thrown up on?" he mumbles. Cameras, cameras, embarrassment and bile, and Harry Potter, warm and friendly and saving the day. It's too much. It's a fever dream. Draco has the temperature to prove it, too.

Harry laughs and Draco feels bowled over by it. "I've had worse." Harry tightens his grip on Draco's arm. Draco imagines fingerprint dents on his skin, five little marks in a tidy row, bruising into his hot traitorous skin. Draco does what he's told and keeps his eyes on Potter. It's not a hardship. Potter stares steadily back, comforting and in control. Good in a crisis, still, Draco thinks.

"Okay. On the count of three, yeah? One. Two."

Lights flash. Harry tightens his grip on Draco's arm. Draco clutches his elbow back and braces.

"Three."

And they're gone.

Hotel room, and Draco's overheating.

He's already kicked his luggage across the floor before he realises this is…not his room. No way did his team spring for something this nice for a weekend Quidditch convention.

"Big," he mumbles, pulling his outer robes off. Heavy velvet, god, who let him dress himself this morning? It's so fucking hot. "The Catapults treat their star players right." Draco throws his robes on the floor, rude, thoughtless. He's too hot to care, too fidgety and amped up. Stage two, he thinks distractedly. Lucky him.

By the door, Harry manoeuvres his own luggage more carefully, steering it on squeaky wheels past the detritus of Draco's shed clothes. "I booked it myself. Prefer to handle my own accommodation," he says, watching Draco uncertainly as Draco strips off his jumper too, and throws it on the ground. "Um." Harry visibly swallows.

"Sorry," Draco says, shifting his weight from foot to foot and feeling the cool air on his bare arms. His white vest clings to his skin, see-through in patches from the sweat. He pushes his hair back from his face, holds it back in a ponytail at the base of his neck before he realises he doesn't have a hair band. He lets it drop, breathing hard. "Sorry, I'll tidy up in a minute." He leans forward, hair shielding his face from view and palms braced on his knees. He tries to breathe, head bowed.

"Don't worry about it," Harry mutters, distracted. "Draco, are you―"

"Mmhmm," Draco manages through closed lips. "Fine." He breathes out again, making his hair poof forward. His belt feels too tight on his stomach, digging into his abs. His trousers are…wet. "Just hot." He laughs at himself, stands upright and rolls his shoulders. At his full height, he's just taller than Potter, about as broad too. Potter's got stronger arms, better thighs. Draco wants to bite them, rub his face against Potter's jeans and leave spit in his wake. He shuts his eyes and turns away, mortification running through him as hot as the hormones his biology is pumping out. "Just really, really hot," he repeats, turning away and pushing his forehead against the wall.

Behind him, Harry makes a muffled noise. "Your back," Harry says, quiet. Surprise. Recognition. The wall feels nice against Draco's cheek. What about my back, he thinks for a moment, then cringes as he feels more slick run down the inside of his thigh, sticking to the seam of his trousers. They're black. Potter can't see. He hopes Potter can't see.

"Can I have a shower?" he asks the expensive wallpaper, and behind him Harry agrees, his voice as distracted as Draco's own.

Draco runs the water hot, and then cold, and then back to hot. He pinks his skin up like a boiled lobster. He's got the door closed tight, knowing a hotel as posh as this will have automatic Silencing Charms. He scrubs the puke out of his hair, the sweat off of his skin and groans at the pleasure-discomfort of it. Cleaning Charms are small miracles but there's something to be said for the tactile pleasure of scrubbing himself clean, removing the day's grime and leaving nothing but sleek water and plump skin in its wake.

At least, today there is.

Draco washes his hair twice. His face once. His calves and his chest and his aching, aching shoulders. Eventually, he can't put it off any longer; he lathers body wash between his hands (mandarin, pomegranate, undertones of vanilla) and then slips them down between his legs.

He's hard, and that's nothing interesting. His body's not his own right now, or he thinks of it this way. Not entirely his own, anyway. There's biological imperatives, my darling love, his mother had said all those years ago. Things that your ancestry inclines you to. You'll learn to track it, follow the dates and be prepared. There are things the beast in you will make you want, and things it will make you loathe, and―oh! Don't cry, little one! My darling boy. I'll teach you what to do. No will ever need to know.

Draco shudders, bile rising. He spits and watches it vanish down the drain, one hand braced against the expensive white and silver tiles as the other slips back, and back until ah. Draco cringes, his fingers slick under the soap.

He doesn't know why his body does this. What purpose it serves, what cross-wired genes in him fire every three months and yell, yes, get slick. Bed down, find a mate. Nest with them, hide, arch your back for them and howl. Roll your shoulders and fly. Scream at the night until it knows what you are, and so do they, and so do you.

Draco knows what he is. As much as he cares to. He shutters again, rubbing carelessly over his arsehole and washing the slick away. Down the drain, with his spit, and every other traitorous body fluid. His forehead thumps on the tiles next to his shaking hand. He groans, pitiful, as another wave of nausea crests from his guts to his throat, this time more anxious than physical.

He's fucked the weekend up. The conference. There's no way Mäkinen won't have heard about this by now, and if by some fancy of Felix Felicis he hasn't, then Draco needs to be the one to break it to him. Draco can't participate as team rep, the only one they've sent; their money's down the toilet, wasted on a bad bet. Draco's let them down. He breathes in deeply, steamy air filling his lungs, and fights a sob. Hormones, he tells himself, this is hormones, making it all feel like too much, lighting him up inside. It's not though. He's upset, and that's real. He smothers another sob into the back of his hand, lets himself feel it for a moment. Rides it out, along with another throb of nausea, of wet down the back of his thighs. One. Two.

Three.

He pulls himself together and shuts the water off.

Towel around his waist and hair dripping, he finds the main room empty. There's his ornate black and silver luggage, where he left it by the door. There's Potter's, leant up against the opulent dresser. There's Potter, nowhere to be seen.

Draco thinks he ought to panic, but instead, he stands in the bedroom doorway like an idiot, and drips water onto the expensive plush carpet. He tries to think of a plan; he's stuck here, that much is clear. He isn't sure which hotel this is, nor how to get safely to his own accommodation, and after the anxiety and bodily shift of his heat coming on in public, he can feel the bone deep exhaustion creeping up on him. He wants to sleep, suddenly and urgently, to burrow into sheets and switch off.

He decides that's exactly what he'll do.

In his luggage he finds a fresh vest, soft cotton against his sensitive skin, and boxer briefs. He'll soak through them, but there is nothing he can do to stop that. He digs out his toiletries, his cologne and hair bands and skincare, and finds what he's looking for―pain potion, an anti-inflammatory, and, ah yes there, right down the bottom: the dregs of a vial of concentrated valerian. The pain meds are not as strong as he would usually take during a heat, but they'll at least get his temperature down and help him keep his senses for a little longer. The valerian is from his last heat, not enough to tide him over for the full twenty-four hours, but again. Better than nothing. Better to throw a little bit of water on the flames than to just watch them burn the whole house down.

He downs the vials in three quick, foul-tasting mouthfuls, then sucks on a mint he finds in the bottom of the toiletries satchel to wash the flavour away.

Draco feels his skin flush as he picks his towel up from where he hung up on the end of the bed frame, then peels the bedsheets back. He could set the towel down, lie on it, but something in him can't bear the thought of Potter seeing that, of finding Draco curled up in his posh bed like an incontinent toddler. Some dignity, he thinks, as he Levitates the towel back to the bathroom and lets it rest folded against the brass rack. After a moment, he dims the lights too. The clock on the bedside tells him in elegant numbers that it's only ten past seven. He crawls gingerly into the bed.

He's not sure if it's the lingering adrenaline of the afternoon, the unfamiliar setting or the fact that he's crept into Harry Potter's bed uninvited, but the desired crash into slumber eludes him. He tosses and turns fitfully, wrapping the soft coverlet around himself and then pushing it away. Slowly, slowly, he becomes aware of what he wants, what he's craving. Bit by bit it becomes more persistent than the throb in his guts, more pressing than the gnawing horniness that makes him want to hump the mattress, keeps his cock half-mast and yet makes him want to cry at the futility of it all at the same time. After another twenty minutes of uncomfortable restlessness, the drugs have kicked in, but he also relents and puts a name to what he's feeling.

He wants to nest.

It's happened before, in the heat of…well, his heat. It's not every time, but frequent enough that he knows what it is: the desire to make a mound, burrow down, have something that smells of him and bed down in it. He's almost too tired to be embarrassed about it happening here and now, with Potter just down the hallway calling the Aurors for all Draco knows. At the mercy of blind animal instinct, Draco gets up and does it anyway.

Pillows, pillows―the plush hotel bed was adorned with several decorative throw pillows as well as those a person would sleep on, in the manner of all expensive beds. Draco grabs them from where he carelessly tossed them onto the floor, and begins making a burrow, a cave. Fluffy den. He pulls the blankets and sheets and thick coverlet back, untucks it all from the expertly done tight corners, and adds that to his pile, moulding it around the foundations he's laid. Once done, he crawls inside, pulls the heavy bed things up to his ears and shuts his eyes.

It's dark. It's heavy. Warm, almost stifling. His body aches, a wet patch spreading on the back of his underwear while his drying hair imprints damp tendrils against his cheek.

Cocooned, Draco sleeps.

Draco dreams he's falling.

His ears are full of the sound of rushing air, booming velocity and thunderous vibrations in his head.

He scrabbles at the air with clawed fingers, catching nothing as the ground rushes up underneath. His feet dangle, his legs loose. He thinks he sees clouds, and imagines tiny raindrops evaporating on his overheating cheeks and sizzling on his jaw.

His shoulders ache. He rolls them, phantom limb pain racing through his nerves as he arches his back, flaps leathery wings he doesn't have. Gravity keeps pulling him down, down.

Draco dreams he's falling, and it feels good.

Draco wakes and remembers nothing of his dream. Outside, it gently rains, drops pitter-pattering on the glass panes of the high windows. He turns, stretching, revelling in the glorious waking moments before realisation fully settles and all he is is a pile of warm and contented limbs. His nest of pillows and blankets has toppled slightly, but remains comforting and safe in its presence. He rolls, hums, presses his cock against the mattress in a contented daze. It feels good, vibrating under his skin like an itch he needs to scratch, and so he does it again. Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement. A flash of dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses.

Realisation comes crashing over him like a bucket of ice.

"Hey," Harry clears his throat, sitting further upright in the parlour chair he's perched on, feet underneath him and arse resting on his haunches. He's in grey pyjama bottoms and a white long-sleeved top. He's reading, or he was. He aims a fragile, hopeful smile in Draco's direction.

Draco stares back like a mute fish, mortification crawling back through him. He catalogues his situation, scrabbling at control as he equally scrabbles to get out of his sheets den and sit back against the headboard. He's in Harry's bed. He's in heat. He's…fucked his Quidditch career.

Oh god, he's fucked his Quidditch career.

Draco tries a shaky breath, stuffing air down into his lungs against their will. "What time is it?" he croaks.

"Only like, ten," Potter answers, quick and reassuring. "You weren't out long." He smiles again, sweet and helpful, and Draco can barely look at him. Panic, nausea. He doesn't want Potter helpfully telling him the time after Draco has commandeered his bed, taken over his room and made a fucking humilating specatacle of himself on a train platform. After Potter left him to it, alone in the room, potentially equally as embarrassed with Draco's mad behaviour. He forces himself to keep sitting up, shoulders back against the ornate headrest and to not let the traitorous flush of his skin and the heat in his eyes escalate into actual tears.

Draco doesn't cry. It's just hormones. And humiliation.

He clears his throat, terse apology ready in his mouth when Potter beats him to it.

"I went out earlier," he says, pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger and changing his pose, so he's leaning one elbow more heavily onto the arm rest yet still awkwardly resting on his haunches like a strange bird. "While you were showering," he adds, like Draco will have forgotten. "Sorry I didn't let you know. I planned to be quick, but it took longer than I thought and then when I got back you were…" He gestures at the bed, another polite smile on his face. "Glad you got some sleep."

Draco blinks back at him, shoulders tight. He nods and tries to think of something relevant to say, something sensible, as his insides squirm, his bare pits damp with sweat. His thighs feel hot. His head pounds, a headache surfacing to add to the cacophony of confusing information from his body that his brain has to try and parse out. The pain-killing potion is still doing its job, and the valerian the best it can, but they'll be wearing off soon. He can feel it.

"Apologies for taking over your bed," Draco croaks, pushing his hair out of his face. It's tangled and kinked, his punishment for not drying it before he went to sleep.

Potter waves a hand. "Oh, I don't care. You're sick, you…" His voice trails away, suddenly awkward. "Um, about that, actually. I've spoken to your captain, while I was out. Don't panic"―Draco doesn't know what his face is doing to elicit that response but the lurch in his gut says it's warranted―"he already knew you were sick." Harry grimaces. "Word…got around that you vommed on the platform."

"Fuck," Draco groans emphatically, dropping his head back against the headboard with a hair-muted clunk.

"Yeah, there's photos. Sorry." Potter genuinely does look apologetic.

"Fuck," Draco repeats. He swallows. "On a scale of one to ten, how furious is Mäkinen?" He doesn't want to know, but he has to know. Internally, he's already catastrophised this to where he's fired.

"Like, ten being very angry?" Potter makes a confused face. "He's a…one?"

Draco whips his head up. "Bullshit."

Harry laughs, surprised. His wayward and uneven fringe covers one lens of his glasses, before he shakes it out of his face. "Bulltrue? He's not pissed at all, he's worried about you and hopes you're feeling better soon. That's verbatim." Potter pauses and licks his lips. "So, I said it was gastro? And that I saw something was up at the station and brought you here, because I just, well."

"Can't help yourself," Draco mutters. "Perpetual hero."

"I was gonna say because I went on autopilot," Harry retorts. "He seemed satisfied with that, at least. He was going to send a Healer but I talked him out of it, distracted him with suggestions of finding a replacement for you for the weekend conference. Err." Potter pauses, shifting again in his odd perch. "And then talking to my captain about a replacement for me," he adds, sotto voce.

Draco frowns, slow on the uptake and still trying to take in that his captain was not baying for his blood. "What, why you too?" That seems the easiest of the nonsensical statements Potter was throwing in his direction to query.

"I panicked." Potter sighs, makes a face at himself. "And when the Medi-crew person asked about what symptoms you had, I just said yes to about…" He makes a face like he's counting in his head and then gives up. He waves a hand. "I dunno, a lot of them. I was lying anyway, I wanted to make it convincing! Anyway, based on me talking out my absolute arse they said you probably had the Nordic Skrewt gastro strain, which is highly contagious and not hugely treatable." Harry runs a hand through his messy hair. "So, on the bright side, no one is going to come here and check on you for about forty-eight hours while you're still 'contagious'." Potter makes air quotes with his hands. "But on the downside―"

"We're quantatined," Draco mutters, information slotting into place in his mind.

"Just until Sunday," Potter quickly qualifies, before nevertheless adding, "but yeah. They strongly advised I stay here with you and sit the events out, in case I'm sick too."

Draco scoffs. "You're not―you're not going to catch this off me."

"I know," Harry replies confidently. "But they don't know that. It's precautionary."

Draco feels irrationally annoyed―by Harry's surety he can't catch anything off Draco when he doesn't have the foggiest what Draco is dealing with here, and by Harry taking control of the situation, even if it is to Draco's benefit. He fumes quietly for a few moments before acknowledging what he's really worried about: he's stuck here with Harry, handsome Harry who's being helpful and friendly, and Draco is going to lose his mind. He clenches down on nothing, feeling the wet still present between his cheeks. A mouthful of valerian will only stave this off for so long.

"Why are you sitting on that chair like it's made of rocks?" he snaps, instead of giving the mess in his head further thought.

"Oh." Harry clears his throat. "Because there's no cushion on it?" He makes a face. "It wasn't too bad at first, but it started to get really uncomfy after a while. My arse went completely numb."

Draco cringes, mortified. He knows where the chair cushion is―it's on his left, half buried in the blankets. He opens his mouth and flounders for an explanation as to why he buried himself under all of the haberdashery he could get his hands on. I was cold, I sleep better under my own body weight of material, I have a rare, reverse princess-and-the-pea condition. They all sound as stupid as Draco feels.

In the end he says nothing, just sits in his misery and embarrassment and Harry Potter's bed linens.

Harry breaks the horrifically charged silence first. "Okay, so, actually about that." Harry pauses, his own cheeks darkening as he flushes. "I knew I was lying when I said you had gastro. Like, not just about what kind of gastro it was. I know you don't have that, 'cos I know…" Harry swallows. "I know what you do have?"

"No you don't," Draco snaps automatically. His chest feels tight, his vision locked on Harry. His mind is white, wiped blank by sudden panic. All he's sure of is: Harry cannot know. He cannot.

"I know, Draco," Harry repeats.

"Shut up." Draco gets his hands under himself as if he needs to spring out of bed. He has nowhere to go. He's dressed in a vest and boxer briefs. "You can't. You―" Draco Inhales through his nose, balls his hands into fists in the sheets. They're shaking. "How?" he whispers.

Harry waits a moment. Giving Draco verbal space, even though he can't leave the room. "The, uh. When you took your top off before." Harry gestures behind himself, taps himself on the back. "On your back. There's marks." Harry leaves his hand on his own shoulder, drops his elbow against his chest. Draco knows what he's talking about; he thought it was a rash the first time he saw it himself, a reddening of the sharp blades on his back, spiralling out in tendrils of angry skin. The place wings would be―leathery, strong, ancient―if he had them. The place his body wants them to be.

"It's not very noticeable," Potter goes on. "I've seen it before, though. On someone who…had the same other symptoms you have."

"Symptoms." Draco's voice is flat. His mind reels.

"Yeah. Someone I dated," Harry goes on, tentatively. "Not dated, more like, hooked up with sometimes. That isn't important," Harry cuts himself off, shakes his head then clears his throat. "He had, things. Episodes, he called them? Like this. He got sick, got those marks, got um…got, other stuff." Harry doesn't go on, embarrassed. Draco, having previously thought he could not feel more mortified at this whole situation, brings his knees up uncomfortably. Harry knows, he thinks, almost hysterical. Harry knows that I'm hard, that I'm―wet. Draco swallows, cheeks burning.

He can't fucking know that, though. He can't put these things together, he can't―it's forbidden. No one knows this about Draco. Potter isn't allowed to just stumble into this knowledge through Draco's bad luck and Harry's own past bedfellows. Fuck.

"What." Draco clears his throat, tries again with a steadier voice that feels dragged up from his toes. "What did he say it was." It's a question, but somehow it doesn't come out like one.

Harry looks uncomfortable, shifting on his bird-perch, and dropping his book on the floor.
It lands half open, one page bent under it in a precarious curl. Harry rubs his palm on his tracksuit-clad knee.

"He said it was a family thing," Harry starts, slowly. Picking out his words with care. "He was…French. I met him through a friend. He was my friend's cousin, actually." Harry bites his lip, then pulls at it with his thumb and forefinger. "He was Fleur Delacour's cousin." He says it in a rush, blurts it out. "If you remember her. She married Ron's brother," he trails off lamely.

Delacour. Draco lets the name sit in his mind for a moment, then nods. There it is then. Harry knows all of it.

Of course Draco remembers Fleur, the beautiful French girl who visited Hogwarts and dazzled half the school's population, and probably more that daren't admit it. No one who was at school that year would forget the girl from Beauxbatons whose name was pulled out of the Goblet of Fire―and whose grandmother was a Veela.

Harry knows all of it, then.

Draco chews the inside of his cheek, he looks around the room, to his discarded clothes and then up to the window. The curtains are still half drawn, and while it's dark outside Draco can make out the hit and run spill patterns of cascading rain drops. He wishes he could hear them, could bury himself under the blankets and let the sound of the rain drown out his thoughts.

"Well," he says, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. "This is fucking awkward then," he tells the blanket-covered bumps of his legs.

Harry snorts. The noise sounds almost relieved. "It's not―"

"Do not say it's not that bad, Potter, even you can't be that obtuse."

"―how I thought I would spend the weekend," Harry finishes pointedly. "Is what I was going to say."

"Ah." Draco lifts his head, then rests his chin on his shoulder. He keeps his arms on his knees like some kind of barrier. There's a tremble setting up in his limbs again, a warmth crawling up his spine. He can smell Potter's cologne, what's left of it after a day's activity, anyway. Under that, he can smell sweat, fresh and old, and soft skin. Just Potter.

Round two, he thinks dully. After the reprieve of a nap, of rest, the medicinal potions have worn off. His heat is gearing up. It'll keep him up most of the night, now, skin crawling with itchy need that won't satisfy.

Which begs the question: "Where am I going to sleep?"

Potter frowns, finally standing. His knees crack, joints stiff. His joggers have twisted, off centre. Draco doesn't stare―not outright. Out of the corner of his eyes, he drinks his fill. His mouth floods with saliva, and he presses his hand against his lips.

"You'll sleep there," Potter says, like it's obvious. "I'll take the floor. They sent up a cot and I can…" A pause, oddly loaded. "I can sleep anywhere."

"This is your room, Potter―"

"So by that logic this is my floor, and I'll sleep there if I want." Potter's tone is determined, stubborn. "It's fine, you need the rest more than I do." Draco starts to protest, but a soft knock on the door, followed by the appearance of a large tray covered in a silver cloche atop the sleek ebony table by the window, interrupts him. Potter follows Draco's gaze then walks over and lifts the lid. Sandwiches, sparkling water, fruit.

"You're a healthy eater," Draco mumbles, taking the opportunity of Potter's distraction to Summon his pyjama bottoms and slip them on, and finally exit the bed. It feels wrong, his anxiety immediately rising as he leaves his pillow nest, but his anxiety can get fucked.

"I've eaten," Potter says distractedly, making an appraising face as he looks at the display. Blueberries and cantaloupe slices regard him back. "This is for you."

Draco stares at Potter, confused.

"I thought you'd be hungry," Potter explains. "I just got something plain, in case you puked again." He shrugs. "Always fancy fruit, myself, when I'm poorly. Bit of a treat," he says to the plate, soft smile dancing on his lips.

A flush steals up Draco's skin from the sides of his neck to his temples, insidious, comforting, familiar. It reminds him of Fiendfyre licking at his heels, of a retreating broomstick and messy black hair coming back into view. Coming back for him, when he didn't deserve it but desperately, desperately wanted it. It's too much now, as it was then, the scale of the kindness greatly reduced but its effect on Draco the same.

Draco blinks. Oh no, he thinks. Oh no.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asks, almost accusatory. Don't be nice to me! he wants to yell. He feels a burgeoning hysteria, the combination of a derailed weekend, his body going haywire and his old school rival knowing―knowing―his most guarded secret, and just…not caring.

Making up a cover story for him and ordering him supper.

Potter's staring, something in his expression almost calculating―knowing, but not unkind. He places the silver cloche down on the table and raps his fingers against it, choosing his words. Crafting his reply. Deciding what to give up, maybe.

Draco tries not to fidget, to shuffle his feet. He wants back in his bed. He wants a hug, human contact against his fevered skin.

Potter presses his lips together. "You looked like you needed help. On the platform, earlier today," he explains, softly. "You looked like you could do with…someone in your corner." Potter swallows, looking down and talking to the neat apple slices, their edges gently oxidising brown. "I've thought that before and. I haven't always done anything about it." He waits, seemingly letting that information sit in the room. More likely he's just picking over his words, still; for all Draco had decreed Potter a fool for all of their Hogwarts years, he's far more measured and aware than many appreciate.

"Anyway." Potter raps his knuckles on the silver cloche with an air of finality. "It's not hard to be nice to you. I'm…generally a pleasant person to people I like." Potter smiles, something hard yet fragile in his expression, like he's laying his cards on the table. Draco can't take it in, the words glancing off him like spells against a warded window. He says nothing, frown etched in place. He'll have new wrinkles from this conversation alone.

He's nice to people he likes.

Potter doesn't react to Draco's lack of reaction, Gryffindor bravery applying here as well as it ever did in any battle. Maybe it's not bravery at all, and he just never expected a response to his quiet bombshell declaration. Draco still isn't used to people not expecting anything from him.

"Eat," Potter instructs. "Before you feel shit again. I'm gonna shower and use the bathroom."

He's plucked out his toiletries, Muggle toothbrush and fresh pyjamas, by the time Draco feels grounded enough to croak out a response. "Thank you."

It's paltry, a pleasantry, but he means it. He feels like there are a hundred things he could add here. What did you mean by that? And shut up, you don't like me, you've never liked me at all, you just didn't want my death on your conscience. Right? And above all, how can you just say that, so easily and to my face, after I've been choking on how much I've wanted your affection since I was eleven, fuck! In the end he just mumbles, "That means a lot."

"Don't mention it. Really, you don't…have to." Harry sighs, swinging the bathroom door open and pausing in the open passageway. He waits a beat. And then another. "Really. I don't expect anything from you. I just…wanted to help out. I like helping you out," he says, meeting Draco's eyes. "If you think of anything I can do to make this easier, let me know."

Draco blinks, stunned.

Potter just smiles. He closes the door gently behind him.

Potter showers for ages, and Draco can't hear it at all.

He sits on the messed up bed, sheets and blankets still piled up in his makeshift nest, and has a staring contest with the patterns on the luxe wallpaper while his temperature rises and his toes squirm. The carpet feels exquisite beneath his feet, pressed up against the soft pads of his toes and nestled against his tender soles.

He thinks he can smell the mandarin body wash, the soft scent of vanilla tumbling after. He isn't sure if he's imagining it, or if he really can smell Potter washing himself just a room over, in the adjoining ensuite.

It isn't surprising to him that his heat has returned with a vengeance, but with Potter so close it feels―different. Smothering, but not overwhelming. Intoxicating, but in a way that Draco wants to get drunk on over and over again, like a bug sticking his head in a Venus fly trap and loving every moment.

Draco wonders if Harry knew what he was saying, when he asked if there was anything he could do to make Draco feel better. If he knew how that sounded. If he meant for it to sound like that.

Draco wonders what Delacour's cousin looked like, and what Harry sounded like when they fucked.

The cot arrives, its appearance as silent and unobtrusive as the supper Potter ordered earlier and which Draco has ignored. It sits by the left wall, ready to be set up, neatly folded with extra bedding. Unexpectedly, Draco notices a gold-wrapped box of chocolates on the pillow. There are white rose petals too, the scent from them fake and nauseating to Draco's overactive olfactory senses. He smothers a gag, and then laughs despite himself. Rose petals, chocolate. The pseudo romance of it all is hilarious, in the context. They've asked for an extra bed and the hotel staff have still deemed it a possible tryst, unaware of the weekend quarantine cover and of the circumstances of their arrival.

Or maybe they are aware, and they always send chocolates and remnants of roses when someone asks for a spare guest bed. It's not like Draco's done this before.

He clenches his toes in the carpet, gripping onto it and then letting it go. He can feel sweat pooling in his pits again, and at his temples. His vest hangs forward as he tilts slightly, breathing in deeply through his mouth and feeling colour bloom anew on his cheeks. Mad thoughts bloom in his mind, too―thoughts about things he could ask for, things Harry has offered. Things he never lets himself consider but might, might, just be on the other side of an expensive hotel doorway.

The bathroom is silent when it opens, letting Potter out in only a towel robe and a billow of muted steam. Draco was right; he could smell the body wash, with everything amplified the way it is. The citrus and vanilla notes tangle around him, dizzying him up.

Potter pads barefoot into the room, his hair damp and towel-mussed. Curls tickle at his cheeks, and Draco's mouth waters. He watches as Harry places his clothes on top of his luggage, unexpectedly neatly folded. Potter makes an approving noise when he sees the cot, wandering over to it and tucking his hair behind his ears as he goes. Draco stares at his hands, the shape of his long fingers in the messy curls.

"Bed's smaller than I expected," Harry says, almost to the room, and Draco replies croakily, "What was his name?"

Harry's head whips up. He regards Draco, surprise writ across his face. He swallows, Adam's apple visibly bobbing. He tucks his hair behind his ears again, redundantly. A nervous gesture, Draco thinks. He wonders if Harry's fingers will taste of shampoo.

"Jack," Harry answers, voice carefully steady. Draco blinks.

"That's not very French." His own voice sounds off to himself, rough. Scratchy.

Potter tilts his head, watching him like a curious bird. Draco wonders what he sees. "English names are fashionable over there." He smiles, stepping closer to Draco. He leans against the wall across from him. "That's what Fleur says, anyway."

Draco nods, distracted by the dip of Harry's throat, and not really interested in names, English or fashionable or otherwise.

"How are you feeling?" Harry folds his arms across his chest. The gap in his robe shows a peek of his chest, soft skin and scant hair. Tight muscles. Draco's brain feels foggy, and sharply focussed at the same time.

"Hot," he replies simply. "Weird." He waits a beat. "Everything smells off."

It's a lie; things don't smell off as much as they smell just more. Too much.

Harry laughs, self-conscious. "You did say that I smelled like a bakery." He scratches at his elbow, and the sound feels loud in the still room, punctuated only by the hum of the air-conditioning. "At the station."

"Yeah," Draco croaks. "Like I want to eat you."

The air-conditioning switches off, leaving the room in silence. Draco hasn't moved from his perch on the end of the bed.

"Eat me," Harry repeats, without inflection. He hasn't moved either, stock-still against the wall, hip cocked and position ostensibly casual but his body held taut and surprised.

Draco drops his head between his knees and groans. His belly swoops, and his insides throb. He's wet again, the sensation humiliating and arousing in equal amounts. His back burns and he wants to hide, crawl back in his nest, drag Harry in there with him this time and tie him up in the bed sheets so he can never leave. Draco does want to eat him, bite and mouth at every inch of his skin, harmless but desperate and needy.

He tries to breathe, and not inhale Harry's scent, but it's all around him, maddening but still soft, comforting, warm. Just nice.

The scent gets stronger as he Harry steps closer, his feet almost silent against the expensive carpet. He pauses, before kneeling down in front of Daco. His knees crack as he bends.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

Draco suppresses another groan. "Yep," he lies, giddy and drunk on proximity. On Harry's kindness, as always. It's something he's experienced in such fleeting glimpses in his life, and now there's a veritable deluge. Draco's drowning in it.

"Did you manage to eat anything?" Harry waits a beat then places his hand on the back of Draco's neck, cradling his bent head. Draco bites his lip on the noise he wants to make. "Shit, you're burning up."

Draco grunts his agreement. He is burning up, from the inside and out. He has been since he was seventeen, since Fiendfyre flames caught his heels and licked inside him―since Potter pulled him out.

"Can I get you something?" Harry's fingers press against Draco's hot neck, surprisingly cool. Surprisingly tender. "How can I help?"

Draco mumbles an answer.

"What?" Harry's fingers tighten, and he leans closer.

"Tell―" Draco tries to make himself speak louder, but the words catch in his throat. He clears it and tries again. "Tell me what you did with him?" There's a pause. Harry's fingers don't move from his neck. Draco feels their presence down to his core.

"With him," Harry repeats softly.

"Jack. "

"Yeah." Harry squeezes his neck. Draco looks up, just as Harry licks his lips, wetting them with his tongue. "I would…make him feel better." Harry's voice is soft. Draco draws in a shaking breath. "Do things he liked."

Draco smothers another, shuts his eyes. "Sex," he mutters.

"Yeah." Harry still hasn't moved his hand. Draco's heart races.

"I want that," he says, bold, and he means it. He does want it, deeply, and more than just as a means to soothe his racing insides. Closeness, skin, kindness. Harry. He wants that, in every way―craves it as a Veela in heat, and as a twenty-one-year-old who always, always wanted Harry Potter to look at him the way he's looking right now. "I want that," he says again.

Harry sucks in a breath. "Really?" Harry's brow creases in the smallest frown. Draco wants to put his lips there, to kiss his temples and down to his chin. He wants to crack open Harry's chest and build a nest between his rib cage. He's sure.

"Would you be thinking of him?" he asks, leaning closer without meaning to. He tries to sit up, but he feels pinned in place by Harry's gentle hand on the back of his neck. Pinned, and happily so.

"No," Harry answers quickly, and easily. His voice is steady. Draco searches his face, unsure what he's looking for. A trace of a lie, of deception. All he sees is Harry, his eyes clear and green behind his glasses and focussed entirely on Draco. "It wasn't like that," Harry continues. "This isn't like that. But." Harry licks his lips. The frown hasn't left his face. "Do you want this? Like, you don't―I wasn't asking… I didn't tell you about him just so that you would think you had to―"

Draco kisses him.

There's more that he should say, that they should talk about. He should tell Harry, no, you're wrong, I don't owe you. I'm not doing this for you, you idiot. He can't talk anymore, though, can't put words around his thoughts. He pours it all in the kiss instead, his selfish need and desire, his feverish wants and that primal hereditary core of him that is not human, that never was, but that has always wanted Harry in an all-too-human way.

Draco sighs out a high-pitched sound when Harry kisses him back.

It's so soft at first, Harry's hand on the back of Draco's neck, and the other tentative on his knee. Draco can feel himself shaking with bottled need. His stomach lurches as he sucks on Harry's lip, pulls it between his teeth but doesn't bite down. He pulls again, gentle, gentle, like he's savouring it. He just wants to feel Harry between his teeth, not to hurt him. Just to have all of him.

"Shit," Harry says, pulling back but not far. His breath gusts softly over Draco's wet lips. "You're in there, right?" he asks with a shaky laugh.

"Yeah." Draco kisses over his jaw, sneaks his hands inside Potter's robe. He can't reach far, the angle awkward with Potter crouched in front of him and Draco sat on the edge of the bed, and he slips down to his knees until he's sitting half in Harry's lap. Harry laughs again, incredulous, sweet. Draco likees the sound. "Where else would I be?" he says, distracted by the taste of Harry's skin. It's just skin, clean from the shower and with the faintest smell of fresh sweat. It tastes so good, like nothing ever has before.

"I just want you to want this," Harry says, voice hitching as Draco kneads over his stomach, grabs at his sides. Draco's skin is so hot, and Harry's feels so cool, so calming. So perfect.

"Idiot," Draco mumbles. He kisses Harry, tries to make it soft and sincere. Reassuring. "Idiot," he says again, in lieu of every other useful thing he could conjure. Harry groans, his chest vibrating against Draco's hands as the sound rumbles through him and over his lips, spilling into Draco's open mouth.

He pulls Draco further into his lap.

They kiss, and Draco sighs into it, again and again. His hands tremble, and his cock hangs thick and hard between his legs, against Harry's stomach. Draco ruts up against him, feels himself making the inside of the front of his boxer briefs wet. He can feel the back is wet too, can even smell it, faintly. He's too focussed on Potter, on chasing the colour that rises over his skin with his tongue. Potter holds him place, hands on his hips, as he shifts, wobbles, and sits back on his arse.

"We should get on the bed," Harry says, and Draco nods and grabs Harry's hand, shoving it down the back of his pants and replying, "You should fuck me."

Harry laughs and groans, pushing his hips up against Draco's arse. His fingers clutch at bare skin. "Fuck."

"Yes."

"You want that?"

"Obviously." Draco makes a sound of frustration, pushing Potter down onto his back. The bed behind them means Harry has to keep his legs bent, knees pressed against the end. Draco sits on his stomach, ridiculous and demanding. Fast, he knows this is going so fast, but his pulse is a furious beat in his head and he just. Wants. "Do you?" he belatedly asks. Behind him, Potter's fingers creep closer to his hole, where he's wet and aching.

"Yeah," he says, adding, "obviously," the little shit. His glasses bump against Draco's nose when he pulls him down for a kiss with his free hand. He pulls them away, sets them above his head, neatly folded on the carpet. He smiles into Draco's mouth, "We should still get on the bed…"

"Fuck the bed." Draco smiles back, manic. His grin turns wider when Harry laughs. "Here is fine."

"Carpet burn." Harry sucks on his lip, wiggling his hips and jostling Draco. Draco groans, spreads his legs wider until he can rut against Harry's stomach. Draco's clothes are in the way, material soaking up precome when Draco wants to leave slick all over skin, but he can't stop moving, stop grinding down against Harry.

"Fuck," Harry says, inching his fingers closer. Draco can feel when the tips get wet, as they ghost over his hole. He clenches down reflexively. "You're so w―"

"Don't say it," Draco cuts him off with a kiss, a plea. Embarrassment throbs through him, makes his cock spurt and his thighs tremble.

Harry groans, and does as he's told. He kisses Draco harder, moving his hand from Draco's neck to his side, keeping him close as he tucks his middle finger inside him. Draco chokes on his breath.

Draco's done this before. It's fine; he's always enjoyed getting fucked even if it's not his favourite. Fingers, tongue, cock. It just feels good, usually. Right now, it feels…desperate. Like he'll burn up if he doesn't get it, doesn't get more. He grinds back on Harry's hand, sighs out in relief when Harry draws his finger back and returns with two. There's a burn, a press; his body wants this, but he still needs to accommodate. Draco moves back and forth on Harry's fingers, stretching himself out as Harry kisses him again and again. He moves his hand to Draco's hip, pushes him back until Draco is sitting over the length of Harry's hard cock. Draco sighs again, pushing back and grinding down and feeling pinned, again, and everywhere he wants to be. He feels Harry's breath hitching underneath him, little sighs and sounds creeping out of him. He wonders if Potter is always quiet, or if he's trying to be for Draco. He wants to find out.

"Enough," he says, when it probably hasn't been. He doesn't care, impatient and needy and so close to getting what he wants. He tugs the sides of Harry's robe fully open, lets them fall like terry cloth wings around him, and tries to slide his own pants down without moving from where he's sat on Harry's groin. Harry groans as Draco jostles his cock, pulling his fingers free and rubbing them over Draco's hole once, twice, before pulling them away. He leaves a trail of slick over Draco's arse cheek as he goes.

Between them, they get Draco's lower half uncovered, pants tossed to the side. It's ridiculous, Potter lying on his back in an open robe and Draco in his vest, and nothing more. Draco doesn't think about the sight they must make; he grabs Potter's cock, feels it stiff and warm in his hand and revels in the intake of breath from Harry as he does so. "Fuck," Harry mutters, his cheeks a hectic red and his hair a mess behind him. It'll be as bad as mine, worse even, Draco thinks hysterically, if he goes to sleep with it wet. He grins, hiccups a laugh, and Harry frowns but smiles back. He holds his cock steady when Draco leans up onto his knees and then fits the head snug up against his hole, rubs it over the slick there. He does it again, just to see Harry's eyes close, see him bite his lip―to drive them both mad. Slowly, slowly, he bears down.

It burns, but the slick makes it easy all the same. Beneath him, Harry trembles and sighs, clutching at Draco's hips and the meat of his love-handles as Draco holds onto the pole of his cock and slowly pumps it inside himself, inch by laboured inch. Potter feels big, nicely so; nothing excessive. The drag of his cock on Draco's insides feels incredible, electric, soothing an itch inside him and sending shivers out over his spine. Draco lifts up, then bears down again over and over until he feels loose and good and Potter is wet down to his pubic hair, down to his taint, with the excess of Draco's slick.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck," Draco mutters quietly as he sets a rhythm. It's like coming up from underwater, coming up for air after being under for just, just too long. He gulps down a breath, closes his eyes and smiles as Harry digs his fingers into Draco's sides, starts to move back. With his feet planted on the floor, his knees against the end of the bed, he has leverage. He can push back. Draco sets his hands on Potter's chest, and takes what he wants from him.

Draco's never fucked someone during his heat before. There's never been…someone there. Anyone he wanted there. If asked, though, he would have thought it would be frantic, clothes ripped and Draco on his back, begging. That's how it's felt, when he's been alone and fingering himself, fucking down against his own pillow in his dark bedroom and waiting for the ride to end.

Here, now, with Harry underneath him and his cock driving up into Draco, Draco doesn't feel frantic. He feels calm, controlled, like his mind is swimming back into focus. Like everything is becoming his again, little by little, his body sighing with relief and agreeing to stop fighting Draco. Giving it what it wants, Draco thinks, hysterical again. Feeding the beast and taming it. He palms his cock, moving his hand from Potter's chest to grip at the carpet next to his shoulder. His knuckles bump against his glasses, and Harry's breath comes faster, and faster still, shorter intakes as he fucks up into Draco and makes Draco keen, bite his lips and spread his legs wider. Harry's right; Draco probably is going to have carpet burn on his knees after this.

"I'm," Harry says after what could be minutes, or half an hour, or half the night for all Draco can tell. "Gonna come." Harry's fingers clutch at Draco's sides, sliding under his vest and up to his ribs.

"Yeah." Draco hums back. He kisses him, soft, and then again, deep and filthy. He clenches down, and Harry gasps into his mouth, the sound starting on a breath and ending in a moan and Draco rolls his hips. Open-mouthed and sharing a breath, Harry starts to come, his body taut and his shoulders lifting off the ground. Draco kisses him, deeply, and doesn't let him catch his breath. He greedily sucks down Harry's moans and gasps, then mouths over his cheeks, his jaws. He works his hand over his own cock, soft sounds creeping out of his own lips and onto Harry's skin.

"Here. Hang on, let me." Harry gasps on a breath, tries to sit up. Draco clenches down against his cock, wanting to keep it inside, and Harry makes a sound. "Let me," Harry says again, slipping his hand down between them and around Draco's cock. Draco jerks, a jolt running through his body. He feels his balls tighten, jerking in their sac as Harry fists the wet head of his cock. Draco fights to keep still, arching his back and clenching down on Harry's softening cock to keep it inside him. Harry frowns, pained, flushed and like nothing Draco has ever seen before. He doesn't push Draco away though, doesn't try to slip out, and Draco wonders, euphorically, how he's ever going to settle for sex with anyone else after this.

He comes on Potter's stomach with a grunt, bites his own lip as he works his cock into Harry's tight fist. "There you go," Harry says, his voice echoing into Draco's ears like it's coming up from underwater. Draco gasps and grinds, and comes so much, a mess on Harry's skin. He looks down at it, breathing hard and feeling the sweat trickle down his back, the hair on the back of his neck wet with it.

"Fuck," he mumbles, still pushing his cock through Harry's fist and chasing the aftershocks. Already, he can feel his skin getting hot again, his fever trying to start up again. More than that, his body feels heavy, leaden and tired, but mostly just―good. He feels just good, in a way he hasn't in so long. Since before the war, since before Draco found out what he was, back when he was a child and thought he was special just for being himself.

"Thank you," he mumbles, and Harry laughs, surprised and breathless.

"What? You don't have to―" Harry swallows, still smiling. His cheeks are pink, his lips bitten red, and Draco kisses him before he can start talking again.

"Just say you're welcome, Potter," Draco insists. He doesn't let him bat Draco's words back at him; he wants Harry to know it, to feel his gratitude. Tomorrow, in the morning when his heat's broken and the world has righted on its axis again, Draco will keep this gratefulness to himself, keep it inside his chest like a private, treasured secret. For this moment, though, he wants Harry to have it too, even if he doesn't quite know what Draco's giving him or why.

"Okay." Harry licks his lips. "Okay, Draco," he says, kind as ever, and Draco buries his face in Harry's neck. Harry runs his hands over Draco's back, up and down, rucking up the soft sweaty material of his vest.

Draco shuts his eyes. He smiles and breathes Harry in deeply and lets himself drift.

Draco doesn't remember getting onto the bed, but that's where he wakes up, Potter pressed up against his side and sleeping soundly. Three am, the bedside clock tells him, and Draco blinks at it, presses his half hard cock against the mattress. He remembers, distantly, Harry cleaning them both up, remembers falling asleep on Harry's chest. He remembers Harry fucking him, every second of it. His arse aches in a gentle, insistent reminder of what they did.

His heat hasn't completely broken but it feels different. Dissipating, ebbing away. He watches Potter through one bleary eye, the sheets pulled half way up his torso and his mouth parted in sleep. He can't smell him, Draco realises, not as strongly as before.

He still wants to kiss him, he thinks dimly. Doesn't want to bury inside him anymore, doesn't need to make a nest in him and fight off anyone who comes near. That feeling has ebbed away, the dregs lingering at Draco's periphery but nothing more than what will be an embarrassing memory. Everything else, the affection, the gratitude, the attraction―that's still there.

Draco sighs, contented and warm and blessedly unfazed. He clenches down on nothing, sighs and presses his face into Harry's bare shoulder. He imagines it's still raining outside, and they're in here, cocooned and warm and safe. He lets it lull him back to sleep, and it doesn't take long at all.

This time, he doesn't dream a thing.

The sun is up, trying its best to beat down on him through thick curtains, when Draco wakes again. The clock tells him it's eleven this time―not quite afternoon, not really still morning. Face down, Draco stretches, pushing his arms out in front of himself and yawing into his pillow. His body aches and twinges and cracks and the stretch feels better than it ever has before.

Beneath him, his cock stirs with interest, but Draco can't tell if it's just regular morning wood or the heat still. He shrugs it aside, adjusting himself before he Summons his luggage. Bare naked, he stumbles out of bed and pulls out clean clothes―a t-shirt, and a pair of soft joggers, black and cuffed at the ankle.

Harry's not in the bed beside him, and Draco thinks he should panic, but the bathroom door is open and all too quickly the worry subsides. He can hear the shower running, the sound easily audible through the open door and without the closed-door Silencing Charms doing their usual work. Draco smiles; considerate fucking Potter. He's surprised by the thoughtfulness, even though he thinks he really shouldn't be by now.

Draco stands, and his legs protest. He ignores them and stretches his arms up above himself, tries to touch the ceiling (metaphorically, of course; he's tall, but not that tall). He twists his back, bending his arms in front of him and moving from side to side, slowly.

It dawns on him fully that he feels fine. Sore, and tired, and utterly, utterly…normal.

And really fucking hungry.

He spies the remnants of the supper tray, the lid left to the side where it was. The sliced apple is a no go, brown and sad, and Draco wrinkles his nose. The orange slices look dry, and the melon is likely to be a health risk; he has a vague memory of someone telling him cantaloupe is a high risk for food poisoning. It would make the remaining day of quarantine worth it at least, would justify keeping them cooped up in here, but Draco's not feeling like being that much of a method actor. He goes for the grapes, picks a few off and eats them, and then grabs up the whole bunch. He cradles it in his hands, against his sternum, as he pulls grape after grape off and shoves them in his mouth. He's fuckng famished. He leans against the wall, tilts his head and sighs as he chews, open-mouthed and demolishing grapes.

He's famished, and that's all he is. He's not in heat anymore.

Focussed on his grapes, Draco misses the sound of the shower turning off.

"Hey," Harry says, clearing his throat. Draco opens his eyes, and tilts his head back up.

Harry's dressed, a yellow jumper and dark boxers, with his bare legs sticking out from underneath. They're not scrawny anymore, not like when they were boys and Draco used to daydream about snapping them like twigs. He wants to do other things to them now.

They regard each other from across the room, but it's not awkward. Draco quietly chews, and Harry looks at his hands, then back at his face.

"You look better," he says, walking closer. Draco thinks about saying something pithy, but just nods instead. He pulls another grape off the vine, and pops it in his mouth. It bursts in his mouth, a flood of sweet juice. "You're eating."

"Amazing," Draco says, grinning now. "Nothing gets past you, does it?" He gives in to the need to be pithy, but Harry doesn't look affronted by it. His mouth twists, a quick roll of his eyes.

"Yeah, you're feeling better," he repeats dryly.

Draco makes a pleased noise, and offers him a grape. Harry shakes his head.

"Nah. They've been out in the air all night, right? I didn't put the lid back on, so the Preserving Charms wouldn't have worked for shit." He wrinkles his nose, stepping closer still.

Draco shrugs. "True, but they're grapes. They're hardy, and"—he waves a hand, looking for the word—"enclosed. Encased. Whatever," he adds, when Harry tilts his head at him in confusion. "They're still good, is what I'm saying." Draco sighs, talking through his mouthful like he was taught to never do. He doesn't correct himself. Most of what he was taught to do as a kid was bullshit, anyway; he isn't in the mood to care. "I'm so fucking hungry," he says plainly.

Harry nods, still smiling. He rubs his finger over one eye, then pushes his glasses higher up his nose after. Draco thinks about his glasses on the floor of the hotel room, folded neatly as Draco sat on Harry's cock. His insides squirm. Regular, normal attraction. Regular, normal, proximity to Harry Potter.

"We can get you some proper food," Harry says, shifting his weight. He settles his hands on his hips, fingers tilted back. He shuffles forward minutely, under the guise of shifting his weight again. Draco clocks what he's doing, and suppresses a smile, forcing the kick in his heart down, too. Inching closer, testing the water. Draco presses his shoulder blades back against the wall, tilts his hips out a fraction. He knows this dance. He can pick up the cues.

"I'm meant to be sick," he mutters around another grape, picking one more right off the bunch. He's going to eat these until he's sick, and then he's going to eat bread, and pasta, and anything that holds still long enough for him to get his teeth into it. He'd chew on a chair leg right now.

"I'm not," Harry says nonchalantly. "We can order, like, soup for you, and then a mountain of breakfast for me."

"And then we immediately swap." Draco smiles around his mouthful. "And I eat the mountain, you subsist on soup."

"Sure, if you like," Harry agrees amenably. I was thinking we could share it, but I'm easy."

Draco kicks his heel against the wall. "We could share," he concedes. He can feel the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Quite romantic, that."

There. He's said it; the ball is in Harry's court. Draco holds his breath, watches to see how Harry plays it. In the light of day, in the aftermath of pheromones and revelations and kindness from old rivals-turned-helping-hands, they haven't spoken about anything they did last night. The ache in Draco's arse, the pleasant remaining burn, means he hasn't forgotten it for a second―let alone the constant thrum of butterflies in his stomach, flapping up a storm as the remnants of grape drop down onto them. Draco doesn't know how Harry wants to play this though. They're stuck here for another day, but if he really wants out he can say he's fine, insist on a separate room―and he wouldn't be standing this close, all but flirting out right with Draco. Draco's not got the highest self-esteem on the planet, but he's no fool either.

There's the chance Harry will remain pleasant as he's been this whole, let the joke wash over him, and not let this go any further―that's the worst outcome, Draco thinks. A rejection, a pitying, "thanks, but no thanks, my work here is done." Again, Draco hasn't got the highest self-esteem on the planet, and it's definitely not high enough to spend another night in the room with Harry after that.

And again, Draco thinks if Harry wanted to do that, he wouldn't be standing so close. Draco slips another grape into his mouth, and lets his fingers linger near his lips. He holds Harry's eye contact, and recognises the smile on Harry's lips for what it is: warm, and genuine.

"It might be, yeah," Harry says. He licks his lips, then sucks one cheek in as he considers his next words. "Could be like a date, even."

Draco pauses in his chewing, then swallows before he chokes. Inside his chest, his heart flutters, fireworks go off. His face is turning pink again, this time from pure adrenaline, from pure excited rush. He licks his fingers, and makes a considering face as he stands upright, then lets the smile spread right across his face.

He dumps the grapes on the table, and grabs the front of Harry's jumper instead.

He pulls Harry forward, giving him time to back out before the kiss. Harry doesn't hesitate; he slips his hands around Draco's sides and pulls him just as close. For all that last night felt dizzying, intoxicating, this feels deeper, hotter. With the lack of heat pressing at his periphery, Draco can let himself enjoy it, can card his fingers into Harry's tangling curls and kiss him open-mouthed and wet―and know it's all him, and nothing more. Nothing animal that wants this, nothing impure or out of his control.

It's a terrible idea. It's the best idea. They have history that can never be just water under the bridge, and chemistry that seems to override that all regardless. They've already fucked, already saved each other's lives, already lied for each other―big lies, and small lies, and all of them important. Draco grips onto Harry's hair and thnks, this is really stupid, and knows that he's going to ride this out for as long as it goes anyway. Wherever it takes them. Harry kisses him back, wet smacks of lips and soft huffs of breaths, and doesn't show any sign of wanting to pull back either.

Draco comes up for air, and kisses him again.