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Draco never fancied himself as a particularly creative type. That was more of a Ravenclaw thing, and he was a Slytherin through and through; his father had liked to joke that if you sliced a Malfoy’s skin lengthways, they would bleed green.

‘Creativity’ wasn’t an exact thing, sure. He did like mixing different fabrics and coming up with fancy new outfits to turn heads at Diagon’s hottest bars, but he didn’t see that as being quite the same as Padma Patil’s abominable attempts at poetry or Michael Corner’s prolonged photography phase. Seriously, how many pictures could one person take of cloaks swishing aesthetically down dimly lit corridors? It had bordered on obsession and went on for far too long until Pansy did everyone a favour and smacked the camera out of his hands when he’d taken a shot of her feet. Said feet had been safely concealed inside a pair of tightly laced boots, sure, but it was still wildly odd behaviour from the bloke. Snape hadn’t seen fit to punish her for it, regardless, so she must’ve been in the right.

The classics had always eluded Draco, both Muggle and wizarding. He didn’t much care for sculptures of long dead emperors or sappy poems written from one star-crossed lover to another. He didn’t like the way authors from hundreds of years ago strung sentences together, and he couldn’t get around sketches of fruit done in anything but bright neon crayons, which he was unlikely to find at any self-respecting art gallery.

Much to his surprise, painting turned out to be his medium.

It was Pansy’s fault, as most things tended to be.

It had been her idea to get sloshed on her mother’s prized stash of Italian pinot, a good and proper level of drunk not seen since the Nott Yuletide Dinner Party during Christmas hols of their sixth year, on one balmy evening after they’d stumbled home from the bar.

They’d made a game out of nabbing the wine, fancying themselves as criminals conducting some kind of mid-tier art heist. They’d giggled as they tiptoed about the house, peeking around corners and referring to each other only by codenames. It was rather concerning being able to note the house’s lack of security in real time as they ran, bottles tucked up under their shirts, down the seemingly never-ending maze of hallways connecting Pansy’s lavishly decorated bedroom and the old cellar that smelled distinctly of mold and stale water. They’d nearly been caught by Pansy’s father as they ran on the balls of their feet through one of the sitting rooms, his shouts about propriety and the youth bouncing off the exposed floorboards.

More than one ancestor had shaken their fist at the two of them from inside a gilded frame as they darted by, no doubt under the impression that Draco was about to sully Pansy’s reputation in one of the nearby coat closets. He hadn’t the heart to tell them that said innocence was long gone by that point and that she’d well and truly sullied herself six ways from Sunday by the end of their final school year. Not that he’d been much better.

The shouting from Pansy’s father had only served to make them run faster, nearly losing one of the bottles of pinot in the process when Pansy knocked her shoulder on a doorframe. Draco hadn’t much fancied being thrown out on his arse on the pebbled path leading up to the front door, particularly given that he was wearing designer trousers that cost multiple hundreds of pounds, so he shot an army of locking and silencing spells at Pansy’s bright pink bedroom door when she slammed it shut behind herself. He’d nearly hit her with a particularly enthusiastic Silencio, making her scowl and purse her lips disapprovingly at him until he popped the cork on one of the bottles.

She’d pulled out a stack of old copies of Witch Weekly from under her bed once they were a good few glasses in and had already run through a comprehensive list of gossip about their entire post-school social circle. Scissors had been produced from somewhere and Pansy had directed Draco to cut up the magazines until he made some sort of poem out of the words. The poems were incredibly naff, but Draco was also fairly drunk and had lost the ability to care about anything that existed more than half a foot in front of his face.

It had been more difficult than he had expected it to be, yet another piece of evidence to prove his lack of creativity. He hadn’t gotten further than ‘is roast chicken the object of your desire’, combined from a recipe page, a sexual advice column, and some op-ed about the Muggle stock market, when Pansy let out a loud shriek. She had abandoned her creation a good five minutes before, scattering the bits of magazine paper on the plush carpet of her bedroom without a care for who was going to be cleaning it up (her house elf) and who would inevitably end up with it stuck to their cheek when they passed out on the floor (Draco). From what Draco could see through his steadily blurring vision, her poem seemed to revolve around hair potions and shame. Very telling, a great window into the inner workings of her psyche, he thought.

She’d moved on from her crap poem to the ads page at the back of The Prophet, which Draco hadn’t even seen her pull out of the stack. The rag featured Potter on the front page, as was typical. Draco saw more than enough of that particular face at Friday pub nights, he didn’t need to see Potter’s ridiculous grin staring back at him from the comfort of Pansy’s garishly pink bedroom as well. He’d spent more than enough nights in her lace covered, thickly perfumed room lamenting that very man and his numerous shortcomings; surely he was owed a break at some point. Had he not atoned enough?

“Draco,” Pansy gasped, clapping a hand down on Draco’s shoulder. It made him jump, sending clipped words fluttering to the floor. “Oh, darling, you’re an artiste.”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. “You’re clearly not.”

“Don’t say hurtful things. I’ll have you know that I tried.”

“You didn’t.”

Pansy ignored him in favour of shoving the newspaper against his shoulder. “Look at this, it’s perfect. I’m signing us up.”

He barely got a chance to flip to the back page before she was summoning an owl.

“What are you signing us up for?”

He’d half expected it to be some kind of singles event, a mixer for only the top tier of highbrow wizarding society. They’d done it before, an awful speed dating event for Purebloods that her mother had encouraged them to go along to. They’d ended up being the youngest people in the room by a good fifteen years, aside from a recently graduated Ravenclaw who looked about five seconds away from shitting himself out of sheer nervousness. Pansy had left to get off with him in the bathrooms after not even half an hour, abandoning Draco to the clutches of a group of elderly witches who all insisted that their days weren’t yet numbered and oh, did Draco’s father happen to be around for them to chat up? They were senile, clearly.

So yes, Pansy was prone to that type of ill-thought-out nonsense, but she certainly wasn’t the type to attend art classes.

Draco hadn’t expected that she was serious about signing up for them, though her face was serious enough as she drunkenly filled in the form that she ripped from the back page of The Prophet. He’d not thought to stop her as there was no way they’d actually go.

They did in fact go.

Well, Draco went. Pansy sometimes went when she could be bothered to.

It was highly intimidating stepping over the threshold into the studio for the first time. The space was unlike any that Draco had encountered before; he wasn’t sure why, but he’d expected something closer to the Divination classrooms at Hogwarts. What he got were rough wooden floors that needed a good sanding, exposed brick walls, big windows that let in a draft, and white sheets covered with paint splotches tossed over various surfaces. The whole room smelled vaguely chemically in a way that made his nose wrinkle.

He’d turned to Pansy, ready to shove her out the door and straight back down to Diagon where they could find a fancy cocktail bar and have a nice drink in peace. Before he could enact that thought she’d shoved him bodily through the door and plastered on a wide smile, greeting a woman in paint-splattered overalls with an overly cheery voice. He’d wanted to kill her, particularly when he’d been handed a musty smelling apron to protect his clothes while he worked.

In Pansy’s defence, he ended up absolutely loving it, though it had taken a few sessions before he’d properly gotten the hang of it and learned what the fuck he was supposed to be doing. He wasn’t used to the hands-on aspect of painting, nor the creative freedom that seemed to be expected of him, even when everyone in the small class was painting the same thing. Who knew there were a hundred different ways to interpret an apple sitting on a stool? Certainly not Draco, but he’d learnt.

It was a foreign feeling, flexing his newly developed creative muscles after denying for so long that they existed. There hadn’t exactly been room for creative endeavours in the Hogwarts curriculum, unless you counted picking the colour of your chosen plant in a Herbology assignment or sketching a cross-section of an ingredient in Potions.

In a twist that shocked Draco and Pansy both, Draco found his stride in painting. He was awfully good at it, everyone in the class said so. Draco had grown accustomed to praise whenever he finished a piece, and usually as he actively worked on it. Maribel, their art instructor, seemed to love everything he did, showering him with compliments on his technique, his ideas, and his execution. She said that he had a natural talent, an opinion that had him sticking his tongue out at Pansy as she glared at him, paint dripping down her arm. His fingers flicked the brush to produce expert waves of colour that others in the class first had to plan out, lest they ruin their entire piece. He was able to mix colours perfectly without any spellwork and he never smeared the watercolours with the side of his hand as Pansy tended to do. He had an eye for it, Maribel said. She called him one of her star pupils, someone for the class to watch and look to for inspiration.

Draco knew that he probably shouldn’t preen under the praise of an authority figure quite as much as he did, given how his life had turned out thus far, but he couldn’t help it. It had been a fair while since someone had told him that he was properly talented at something that he hadn’t had to fight tooth and nail for. It was a nice change of pace, something coming easily to him in a way that nothing had since the end of the war all those years ago.

Pansy stopped regularly coming to the art classes, though it hadn’t coincided with Draco becoming a teacher’s pet, despite his ribbing her about it. She’d let her attendance trail off when she started dating Neville a year or so ago, usually sending Draco an owl or calling him on the Floo right as he was about to walk out the door to head to the studio. He didn’t mind too much as he tended to be more focused on whatever they were painting that day than on Pansy, though he did lament not getting her to himself as he used to most nights.

Instead of being in the studio mixing paints with Draco on a Tuesday evening, she was off galivanting across a field picking flowers or some rot. She’d insisted many times, both drunk and sober, that she and Nev didn’t do that, but Draco didn’t believe her one iota. There was no way the two of them were spending a lovely Tuesday evening going out for a meal at one of Diagon’s poshest restaurants or going to see Neville’s wealthy extended family for a catchup or jetting off to Spain for a week, as she so claimed; Draco knew she was full of it. He knew Neville, had met the man many times, had even drunkenly cried on his shoulder in a park one ghastly Saturday night after a few too many shots. Thus, he felt that he was enough of an authority to declare that there was no form of fine dining or expensive spontaneous trips abroad in Pansy’s relationship. They definitely spent date nights frolicking through a field of plants, Neville reciting each of their medicinal properties and optimal growing conditions while Pansy batted her eyelashes.

If Draco had to spend romantic evenings picking mushrooms in the Forbidden Forest, he would pitch himself out a window. He didn’t know how Pansy did it.

Well, Neville was quite fit and awfully nice, so he supposed that was how she did it.

So, Draco found himself without Pansy in the studio most weeks. Instead, he was often forced into conversations with the other regulars, usually through activities that required some type of partner work. Thankfully those were few and far between, but the awkward silences that stretched out between him and Jim, the middle-aged man who had taken up the course as some sort of mid-life crisis, were certainly not. Draco had taken to getting to the studio a few minutes late in order to avoid said awkward silences as they waited for Maribel to let them inside. There were only so many conversations that Draco could have about the weather before he felt justified in declaring himself certifiably insane.

Pansy, unprompted and unwelcome, had previously stated that he had reached that exact point when he stared mooning after Potter in school, but Draco chose not to listen to her as a form of self-care.

The other regulars were no better than Jim; one of them was an older woman named Rose who Jim had been making eyes at over the top of his easel for months now. Jim had asked Draco one evening if he had an opinion on the state of Rose’s bum and Draco had fled the studio and owled in sick for the following week, too traumatised to make a return. She’d finally started to return the interested looks that Jim had been shooting her way, though neither of them had made a move as of yet.

Draco dreaded the moment that they did, because then he would be left without Jim for partner work. He’d rather deal with awkward small talk and being forcefully reminded of women’s bums than sit with one of the three tittering witches in their thirties that always came as a group. The trio spent the entire class giggling behind their hands and batting their eyelashes at him, all but falling over themselves whenever he so much as looked in their general direction. He’d heard an honest to Merlin scream when he’d rolled up the sleeves of his button-up one evening. It was ridiculous. Not to mention, the group always painted the exact same thing, not a creative bone in their bodies or a single crumb of inspiration between them.

One of the women had recently started winking at Draco over the top of her canvas; the first time she’d done it he’d been so taken aback that he’d fallen off his stool and collided with Jim. He’d ended up with fuchsia paint all over his white shirt and cheeks that had refused to go back to their normal colour for hours after. It was tragic.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that Pansy deigned to show up the week that the cosmos decided to make a joke at Draco’s expense, as though he hadn’t had a hundred of those already in his relatively short life.

Draco rounded the corner of Diagon Alley and Hemlock Close to see Pansy leaning against the stone wall, tapping the toe of her black ankle boot against the cobblestones. He tried not to let his surprise show, though he was fairly sure that he’d failed, given the roll of her eyes that she directed his way.

“Finally managed to extricate yourself from Neville, have you?” Draco leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek, letting her do the same to him. Pansy’s perfume smelt of jasmine, a pleasant scent that never failed to send a rush of nostalgia through him. One day she’d change the perfume that she’d worn since their third year and swap it for some stodgy old thing that grandmothers wore and that would be the day that Draco would finally have to acknowledge that they’d grown up. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to it.

“Oh, don’t be difficult, darling.” Pansy flicked her hair over her shoulder and fixed Draco with a look. “Just because I happen to have gotten my act together with regards to my love life doesn’t mean that you need to be a troll about it.”

“Shagging a Gryffindor is nothing to brag about.” Draco pushed open the door that led to the lobby, stepping aside so that Pansy could enter first.

“On the contrary, they’re very enthusiastic.” She winked at him, red lips stretching into a smirk that made him shudder.

“Like you have such a large scope of experience to draw on in the shagging Gryffindors area.”

“More than you do, darling. How is the denial these days? Still there, I take it?”

Draco stomped up the rickety wooden steps that led to the top floor. He didn’t know why he didn’t just Apparate straight up there, it would certainly have saved him some trouble.

The door to the studio swung open as they ascended the stairs, Maribel smiling down at them.

“Hello, Draco. Pansy, how lovely! We weren’t expecting you!” Maribel’s demeanour was sunny as always. It was something that Draco had grown to appreciate, though he doubted the same could be said for Pansy.

Draco glanced at Maribel’s outfit as he walked into the studio, dutifully ignoring the giggles that erupted from the group of women as he stepped into view. Maribel had yellow streaked down her arm and splattered across one of the pockets of her dungarees, right across the little smiling moon that was stitched there.

“Have you been working on that sunrise again?” Draco grabbed one of the stools by the door and carried it over to the easel by the window, the one that he always preferred to use because the lighting was just right in the evenings.

“Good eye. Was it the yellows?” Maribel carried a stool over for Pansy, setting it down at the easel next to Draco. Jim would apparently need to find a new spot for today.

“Yes. Have you decided on pinks or oranges for the rest of it?”

“Oranges, definitely.” Maribel shot Draco a smile before moving towards the door to open it for someone who Draco couldn’t yet hear approaching.

“Really, Draco,” Pansy said, shaking her head at him. She smiled, brushing the back of her skirt down as she perched on the stool. “If I didn’t know you were gay-“

“Yes, yes,” Draco said, flipping her off. He heard a burst of giggles from the other side of the room, but he managed to avoid looking over.

They started a few minutes later, Jim and Rose walking in only moments apart, apparently having met on the stairs.

Draco was happy to hear that they would be continuing on with their work on magical body paints. They’d been at it for a few weeks already, testing out different styles and techniques. He’d quite enjoyed painting lines up his wrists, following the path of his veins to the inside of his elbow where vibrant shades of purple and blue rose to the surface in. It was different, using your own skin as a canvas. It presented new challenges, different things to learn. He’d needed to alter his usual hold on the paintbrush as he swirled blacks and silvers across his skin to the back of his arm. He’d watched as his magical essence seeped back into his skin through the paint, the colours reacting differently on the canvas of his skin versus one sitting propped up on an easel.

Magical painting had been his favourite style to learn thus far, thanks in no small part to the increased level of difficulty. It gave him a smug sense of satisfaction when Maribel needed to give his palette only a cursory glance before she sat with the others for multiple minutes at a time, correcting their errors and steering them back in the right direction.

The ingredients in the magical paints resisted typical colour mixing techniques; blues and reds combining to make green, silvers and blacks turning to yellow. You needed to use magic to take control or else it would all go tits up. Draco’s never went tits up because he never let it.

There was a photograph stuck to one of the exposed brick walls documenting Draco’s work from a few weeks before. The picture was nearly swallowed up by the others on the wall, hundreds of them all crammed in together, but Draco knew exactly where to look. He’d been so proud that a photo of his work was being displayed in the studio that he’d chanced a look at it every few minutes in the weeks since Maribel had put it there.

They’d been testing out the magical paints after colour mixing by themselves for the first time, working out how to adapt their ideas to the canvases of their own bodies. The paint had thrummed with his pulse as Draco swirled it across the pale expanse of his skin, the magic in it sizzling, hot to the touch. He’d chosen to draw a series of flowers, each connected by a central stalk. He’d painted a silver stem that followed his vein from his wrist and up his forearm, tiny pink flowers blooming along the sides of it. The root system had begun at the inside of his elbow, picking up where the silver stem had left off. The roots had curled up his bicep and petered out at his armpit, following his veins and the curvature of his limb. The flowers bloomed and folded along with the thrum of his pulse, the central stem fluttering as though pushed by an errant breeze whenever he breathed in or out.

It had looked brilliant; a real proper piece of art. Draco had thought so, and Maribel had readily agreed. Jim and Rose had both offered him encouraging pats on the shoulder when he showed off his work, and the group of women had giggled in a tone that sounded less breathy and more genuinely impressed.

He’d tried to ignore the pink and white scarring that marred his forearm, the paint not sitting quite right on the shiny parts of it. He was surprised that the magic had worked there at all, that the pretty pink flowers hadn’t turned black and rotted over the spot where his Mark had once been, before he’d had it removed. He’d sat in front of a Curse Breaker for eight hours as the colour was slowly leeched from his pores, the skin patched up but not fully healed afterwards. Thankfully it wasn’t visible in Maribel’s photo, at least from where he sat in the studio.

“So, what did you do last week?” Pansy asked. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned towards him, flicking a bit of dust off of his trousers.

“I told you this on Friday, I’m sure I did.”

“Ah, yes, you fulfilled your greatest fantasies and painted a man.”

Draco’s eyes flicked sideways, hoping that Jim wasn’t listening. The last thing he needed was Jim thinking that Draco thought he was fit. The ensuing chaos would genuinely send Draco round the bend.

It had been a mildly awkward session the week before. Lacey, one of the giggling women, had nearly leapt over her easel to get at Draco when Maribel announced they would be partnering up to continue testing their magical paints on the other members of the group. Draco had all but thrown himself into Jim’s lap at the unwelcome sight, shooting the man an apologetic grimace as he drew his hands back into his own personal space. He suspected that he’d delayed Jim and Rose’s budding relationship by at least a few weeks by getting between them, but he had his own self-preservation to think of.

He wouldn’t mind painting Pansy so much. That would be alright, he thought. At least he didn’t have to worry about wandering hands or misconstrued details with her.

“What’s their problem?” Pansy jerked her head towards the group of women who were shooting her increasingly dirty looks.

“I suspect they think you’re my girlfriend,” Draco said, rolling up his sleeves. He ignored the shriek that sounded from across the room.

Pansy raised her eyebrows so high they disappeared under her bangs. “Oh dear.”

“Quite. Though I can’t say I’m particularly wanting to dispel that myth right now.”

She reached out to pat at his arm in what Draco assumed was supposed to be a gesture of comfort.

“As long as we don’t have to snog.”

Draco shuddered, squawking when Pansy slapped him on the shoulder. “Bloody hell, that hurt.”

“I’m a good snog, I’ll have you know. Neville certainly doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Yes, well, Neville isn’t partial to cock, so I’d wager that helps a great deal.”

“There’s no cock involved in snogging, Draco.”

“Maybe not in your case. Neville has my greatest sympathies.”

She hit him again, leaving him no choice but to throw a paintbrush at her.

Draco’s enthusiasm gradually waned as the session came to a close some two hours later. They’d spent the majority of the time mixing different paint colours for a larger piece they would be completing over the following two weeks. Draco had picked out mostly blues, greens, and silvers, wanting to do some type of flora/celestial combination that he hadn’t fully decided on yet. That part was alright, but Maribel’s announcement of the cancellation of their class time the next week was not.

“There’s a sheet on the wall by the door for each of you to reserve a time to use the studio. Tap your wand to it as you leave and you’ll be able to book yourselves in remotely without owling me about it at all hours.” Maribel crossed her arms over her chest and shot a sunny smile at the group as they began to gather their things together. “I’m so looking forward to seeing what each of you create. And one last thing: you won’t be needing to take any canvases with you.”

Draco’s smile faltered as he listened to Maribel explain that they would have the task of painting another person with their magical paints. They would need to choose carefully as said other person would have to sit there for quite a while, as the magical painting needed to cover a full section of their body. The task was far beyond anything they’d done so far in complexity, much more than a few delicate lines trailing up wrists like intricacies in wrought iron.

“Don’t forget to keep in mind the properties of magical paints when selecting your partner.” Maribel clapped her hands together as though it was all going to be such good fun. “Be sure to take a photo once your painting is complete so that we can review them all in our next class. And most of all, have fun!”

Draco exhaled as the front door of the building banged shut behind him, cutting him off from the lobby. He stepped towards Pansy, tucking his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t much looking forward to getting her to stay still long enough for him to paint a large section of her body; she had the tendency to wriggle, and there was only so much he could do with a canvas that refused to cooperate.

“Baxter’s now?” Draco asked.

Pansy nodded, slipping an arm through his and leading the way towards the cocktail bar. She had a streak of pink paint on her hand, reaching from the base of her thumb to her wrist.

“So, when are you free to get this out of the way?” With any luck it would be soon, and Draco wouldn’t be left to fuss over his plans, making constant alterations to them until he drove himself insane.

“What do you mean?”

“Were you not listening? We need to sort out a time since it’ll probably take a few hours to do a whole big piece.”

Pansy snorted, shaking her head as they walked. “I’m not getting my tits out in front of you, darling, this isn’t fifth year.”

Draco rolled his eyes, nearly pitching himself into the gutter when they took a moment to refocus on the street in front of him. “Oi, we swore never to bring that up. And you don’t need to; I can paint your back. That’ll probably work better anyway, what with the flatter area.”

“Now I can tell that you weren’t listening.” Pansy shot him a look through her bangs as they walked. “Didn’t Maribel say something about magical compatibility? We’ve not got that; I know you haven’t forgotten.”

Maribel had indeed said that, but Draco had been doing his darndest to block out that particular bit of information.

He already knew that paints infused with magical essence required some level of magical compatibility to work when used on another person. It was exactly the reason why Draco’s magical paintings looked better on his own skin than when he’d painted the same designs on Jim’s arm. The other person’s magic needed to accept his or the colours would look dull and washed out, the lines not as sharp as they should be. In drastic cases the paint would just slide straight off and not stick to the skin at all.

Pansy was also, unfortunately, very correct about their lack of magical compatibility.

They’d been banned from partnering up in Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration in school because their magic tended to wreak havoc with their creations when they both cast at the same object at the same time. Once, Draco had accidentally grabbed Pansy’s wand instead of his own in the common room, intending to spell the fire a little hotter on a particularly frigid winter night, and had somehow simultaneously turned his own hair pink and shot a blasting curse at the roof. The First Years had refused to sleep in their rooms for a week, crying that the ceiling would cave in and bury them alive.

“It’s a right tragedy that our magic hates each other,” Draco sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Pansy giggled. “Can you imagine what would have happened if our parents had married us off? We’d have created the most Squib child to ever walk the earth. That or we’d have had a baby with three heads and only one toe or something.”

“Who the hell am I supposed to pick then?” Draco huffed, dropping Pansy’s arm as they approached the doorway of Baxter’s.

“Theo? He’d do it if you asked.”

Draco couldn’t help the shudder that rippled through him. “I’m certainly not going back there.”

“Well, you need to find someone or you won’t be the best in the class anymore, bloody swot that you are.”

“Who will you do it with then?”

Pansy winked at him, a comical thing that couldn’t have looked less cool if she’d tried. “Well, I’ll be doing it with Nev, that’s for sure.”

Draco rolled his eyes as he opened the door of Baxter’s for her to step through. “Don’t be crass.”

“Darling, you love it when I’m crass. I’ll paint him and give you a nice eyeful when I take the picture, shall I? That should help you out on your cold, lonely nights at home.”

The tortured groan that pulled its way from his chest was far too loud to be uttered in polite company. The doorman shot Draco a suspicious look, likely weighing up whether or not to insist on casting a sobering spell on him before he let the two of them go up the stairs.

“There’s nothing else for it then,” Draco sighed. “I’ll have to hire a model or a bloody man of the night and pay them to sit there and let me do it.”

Pansy steered them toward the bar when they reached the top of the stairs, the heels of her boots clicking on the shiny floorboards. “You’ll have to test their magical compatibility first, regardless. You might as well just get it over with and ask Theo.”

“I’m not asking Theo. I need a better option.”

He didn’t much like the smirk that Pansy shot him, her bright red lips stretching comically wide. “Potter, perhaps?”

Draco sneered, looking down his nose at her as she leaned against the bar. “I think not.”

“Darling, be serious. You wouldn’t even need to test your compatibility; you could just go for it.”

“If you’re referring to the attraction that doesn’t exist and that I refuse to verbally acknowledge-“

“Actually, I was referring to the fact that he used your borrowed wand to defeat one of the most powerful Dark wizards of all time. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” She raised a hand, signalling to the bartender. “If that situation doesn’t indicate magical compatibility, I don’t know what does.”

Draco groaned again, letting his eyes slip shut so that he didn’t have to see the satisfied smirk on her face.

*

Over the next few days, Draco decided to continue on in his preferred manner of living: in a state of blissful denial.

It wasn’t an option to simply proposition Potter about Draco’s need to use him as a canvas. The whole thing sounded mildly obscene, whether context was supplied or not. Next thing he’d be asking Potter to step on him or something equally insane, and Draco forced his brain to move away from any and everything concerning that train of thought.

He decided that the best course of action was being incredibly prepared and aiming to avoid needing to use Potter at all. The odds were that, out of everyone he knew, Potter wouldn’t be the most magically compatible with him. Theo had carried an increasingly one-sided torch for Draco for years after all; surely affection of that level had to mean something with regards to magical compatibility? Draco decided that it must. Despite his insistence of not wanting to approach Theo due to the inevitable fallout that would occur, it was still preferable to embarrassing himself in front of Potter. Quite frankly, he’d done that far too many times over the years.

When Friday rolled around Draco found himself at Dragon’s Den, as was typical. It was a fairly trendy establishment, falling somewhere between the Leaky Cauldron and an average cocktail bar on the acceptability scale in a way that the Gryffindors seemed to love.

He received more than a few raised eyebrows and questioning looks from the other patrons when he placed a rather large trunk on the table right in front of Blaise, having lugged it all the way there from the Apparition point. Blaise, to his credit, didn’t visibly appear to think anything was out of the ordinary, evidently more than a little used to Draco’s antics after so many years of friendship.

“Moving house, are we?” Blaise raised an eyebrow, inclining his head in the direction of the trunk.

“Something like that. What are you drinking?”

“Firewhisky,” Blaise replied. “Sit down, Theo will get you one. No doubt he’s already noticed that you’re here. Not that it could be avoided with that supremely ugly thing you’ve brought with you.”

Draco slid into the seat opposite Blaise, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve a problem and I need you all to help me with it.”

“Merlin help us all,” Blaise muttered. “Go on then.”

Draco waved his wand over the top of the trunk, watching as the latches unclipped themselves and the lid swung open. “I need to swab you.”

“Uh…” Theo said, pausing next to Blaise, a glass of Firewhisky in each hand. He looked between the two of them, his eyes wide. “Should I go?”

“No,” Draco sighed, pulling a handful of vials out of the trunk. “I’ll need to swab you as well.”

Blaise blinked at him, a slow, calculating thing. “I take it this is another one of your pet projects?”

“Something like that, yes. I need Pansy as well, though.”

“She’s over there with the Gryffindors.” Blaise nodded his head at a spot over Draco’s shoulder.

“Delightful,” Draco said through slightly gritted teeth.

“What are the swabs for?” Theo seemed to have gotten over his initial bout of shock, sinking down into the chair next to Draco.

Draco took the Firewhisky that Theo handed him, closing his eyes at the burn in his throat as he swallowed. He loved the smell of it, mixed spices and the cloying scent of alcohol. It reminded him of Christmas. “I’m testing the level of magical compatibility that everyone has with me. I’ve got an art project that I need a partner for.”

“Well that’s far less scandalous than what I was thinking,” Blaise said. “Are you sure you don’t want to invent a better cover story? An urgent need for an heir or assisted transcontinental Apparition to fake your own death, perhaps?”

“No thank you,” Draco replied. He pulled one of the cotton swabs from the pouch and uncorked one of the vials. “Which one of you wants to go first?”

“I suppose I will,” Theo said, turning to face Draco. His cheeks coloured pink when Blaise let out a snort of laughter.

“Open up,” Draco said. He felt his own cheeks heat at Blaise’s next much louder bark of laughter. “Shut up, Blaise, nobody asked for your insipid commentary.”

“Surely an art project isn’t worth going to this much trouble?” Blaise looked absolutely delighted when Theo opened his mouth and flattened his tongue, waiting for Draco to come closer.

“You’d think so, but alas,” Draco muttered. He pressed the swab to the inside of Theo’s cheek, rubbing it around. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Neither can I,” Blaise said. “We’re in the middle of a pub, it’s positively scandalous. I mean, the visuals alone.”

“Was that alright?” Theo asked when Draco pulled the swab from his mouth. “Was I good?”

“Sweet fucking Merlin,” Blaise muttered, attempting to hide his smirk with his hand. “Quick, do mine so I can drink away the memories of this evening.”

Draco popped the swab into one of the vials, swirling the tip around in the clear liquid inside before re-stoppering it. It would need to soak in the solution for at least ten hours before being poured into a mixture of honey, rosewater, and diced Lacefly wings that he had ready in a cauldron back at home.

Blaise was far less eager, though he somehow managed to smirk using only his eyes as Draco swabbed the inside of his cheek.

“Shut it,” Draco hissed, storing Blaise’s vial away and marking the outside with his initials.

“You have quite literally brought this on yourself,” Blaise replied.

Pansy was next, but she was in the one area of the room that Draco had been hoping to avoid. She tended to spend Friday pub nights with Neville and his mates, occasionally dragging Draco, Blaise, and Theo over to suffer alongside her. Going to a table where Neville was almost certainly meant that Potter would be there too, which Draco was not exactly thrilled about. He was perfectly, absolutely fine with picking between Blaise and Theo for his painting project partner, but he needed Pansy’s swab to use as a control. That way he would have a negative baseline to work upwards from.

Theo reached out to pat his shoulder in a way that Draco supposed was meant to be comforting.

“Right, wish me luck,” Draco said. He grabbed the remaining vials and the pouch with the unused swabs.

“Good luck,” Theo said, shooting Draco a sunny smile.

“I’m not sure who has less dignity, you or Draco,” Blaise said, rather unhelpfully.

Draco chose to ignore Blaise in favour of making his way to the table filled with old classmates, his shoulders back and his spine straight.

Pansy was sitting nearly all the way in Neville’s lap when Draco reached her. She had her legs crossed over his own, leaning her head against his shoulder. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust as he saw that she was playing with Neville’s fingers as they rested in her lap. There was only so much casual affection he could take, and he was rapidly approaching his limit. He didn’t know how the others could stand it.

“Pansy, darling.” Draco tapped her on the shoulder.

She raised an eyebrow at him when she turned her head. “I was wondering when you’d come over here to say hello. We all saw your interesting little display with Theo; I never took you for a cocktease.”

“And Blaise,” Draco said weakly. “Don’t forget that Blaise was involved as well.”

Pansy waved her hand. “How could I forget.”

“What were you doing?” Neville asked. Draco’s eyes were drawn to his bulging bicep as he adjusted the placement of his arm around Pansy’s shoulders. He didn’t much like being reminded that Neville had grown uncomfortably fit since school, it always made him feel wrongfooted.

“Draco’s testing for magical compatibility,” Pansy answered for him. “He’s doing a project for our art class.”

“’Our’ isn’t accurate since you’re barely ever there.” Draco sat down heavily in the vacant chair next to Pansy, dropping his pouch of swabs and handful of vials onto the table. “And if you haven’t asked him to help you yet then he’s still fair game.”

Neville seemed particularly interested after that, asking Draco a million and one questions about his experiment, the class, what he’d worked on in previous weeks at the studio, and his ideas for the upcoming project. He then began a discussion on the properties of different plants in testing magical compatibility. Draco’s head began to spin as he fired off answers, his eyes drifting to Neville’s bicep in a way that was likely not very subtle, if the increasing intensity of Pansy’s glare was any indication. It wasn’t his fault that Potter wasn’t there yet; if he was than Draco certainly wouldn’t be staring at Neville.

“Get it over with, Draco,” Pansy said, poking Draco in the centre of his chest with a very pointy fingernail. “Test me so you can slink off back to the other table and stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

“I’m not flirting with him,” Draco lied. He swabbed the inside of Pansy’s cheek quickly before she could bite his fingers.

“You could test me as well,” Neville offered, an easy smile spreading across his face. “I’d be interested in seeing the results. Experiments are so much fun, don’t you think? We never really get to do them now that we’re out of school.”

“Certainly,” Draco said. He shot a smirk at Pansy, who glared back at him. “I reserve the right to whisk you away if you’re more compatible with me than Blaise or Theo.”

“Not likely,” Pansy muttered.

Weasley and Granger, closely followed by Thomas and Finnegan, returned from the bar as Draco began swabbing the inside of Neville’s cheek. They all looked mildly dumbfounded at the sight of Draco manhandling Neville at the table, but all except for Weasley recovered quickly.

Thankfully, Neville seemed so excited at the prospect of being involved in an experiment that he did all the heavy lifting for Draco, rattling off the minute details of why he was sticking his fingers in people’s mouths in the middle of a pub.

“It does sound rather interesting,” Granger said. “You can test me as well, if you like.”

Draco did just that because he couldn’t exactly refuse, or it would look bad. Swabbing the inside of Granger’s cheek had the added benefit of turning Weasley’s entire face red, which Draco also quite enjoyed.

“You’re barking for even trying it with her,” Weasley muttered as Draco withdrew his fingers. He threw his hands up in the air as he spoke. “It’s going to come back so negatively compatible that it’ll set a new record.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow in Weasley’s direction. “Scared to have a go? Reckon we might be too compatible, Weasley?”

Granger did the rest of the legwork for him then, ribbing Weasley, Thomas, and Finnegan until they all agreed to let Draco test them too, purely for academic purposes. Thomas and Finnegan were alright about it, but Weasley very clearly hated every second of it, white knuckling his pint glass as Draco’s hand inched towards his mouth.

It was a given that Potter would walk in right at that moment.

Draco had been taking his time swabbing the inside of Weasley’s cheek, basking in the embarrassment that was coming off him in waves. He pressed the swab down firmly against Weasley’s tongue, smirking when he received a smack to the arm in response, Weasley’s entire face turning red.

“Well then,” Potter said. “Alright, Ron? Malfoy?”

Draco paused with his hand raised in the air, the swab still in Weasley’s mouth.

Potter lifted an eyebrow as he sat down with his pint. He didn’t say anything else, just stared at Draco, his mouth turned up at the corners.

Draco felt his composure start to fall apart under Potter’s stare, his movements growing twitchy and his cheeks heating. It wasn’t a new reaction, but he didn’t usually have his fingers in Potter’s best mate’s mouth while he experienced it.

He jerked the swab back off Weasley’s tongue, getting an indignant squawk in response to the sudden movement. He nearly forgot to put the swab in a vial in his haste to get away from the table but was stopped by the firm press of Neville’s hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Potter asked, still staring at Draco.

“Oh, Harry, you must let Draco test you too,” Pansy simpered. Her grin turned absolutely feral as she narrowed her eyes at Draco. “The results will be so enlightening.”

“It’s quite alright, I think I’ve got enough samples.” Draco kept his eyes on the tabletop, not wanting to look directly at Potter lest he say something mind-numbingly stupid, as he tended to do in Potter’s presence.

“Nonsense,” Pansy said. She leaned forward conspiratorially, turning her smirk in Potter’s direction. “Draco’s such a swot, did you know that, Harry?” She barrelled ahead, not waiting for Potter to answer. “He’s obsessed with being the best at everything he does, even utterly useless shite. He once practised for four hours straight until he could skip a rock further than me across the Black Lake.”

Draco groaned. “Is this going somewhere? Could you just get on with whatever unhinged thing you’re planning on saying so that I can go?”

“I just think that we should all help Draco do his best since it clearly means so much to him,” Pansy said. “Just admit that you’re a swot.”

“I just don’t want to waste my time making a piece of artwork that’ll come out subpar if I’m not compatible with the person. That’s not being a swot, that’s called taking pride in your hobbies.”

“Draco,” Pansy said. “You brought swabs to the pub.”

“Fuck off,” Draco replied.

“I’d like to help,” Potter said. Very unhelpfully, in Draco’s opinion. “Test me before you go back to the other table. Not that you have to go, you could stay here, if you wanted.”

“Yes, Draco, do stay,” Granger said.

Weasley had no comment, for which Draco was grateful.

Draco had to focus incredibly hard on a bit of paint that was peeling off the wall just behind Potter’s shoulder as he stuck the swab in Potter’s mouth and rubbed it around. He was sure that everyone at the table was staring at him, could probably see how he was keeping his cock soft in his trousers by sheer force of will alone. It was more than a little embarrassing, though Potter didn’t seem entirely unaffected by the theatrics of it all. His cheeks were flushed when Draco was finally able to look him in the eye again, long after the swab had been retracted. His eyes kept darting around, pinging between the table, Draco, and his half-full pint. It was oddly silent, a layer of tension hanging over everything. Draco had half a mind to request that the entire group be Obliviated.

He fled back to the other, far safer table with his vials clasped to his chest. He rested his forehead against the sticky tabletop and tried to ignore Blaise’s laughter ringing in his ears.

*

Draco would have thought that Potter had experienced enough of Draco’s presence for one evening after the swab debacle, but evidently not.

The night was starting to wind down, people peeling off home as the hours wore on. It was just Draco and Blaise left at the table; Theo had long since left, having a morning Portkey to Croatia to catch.

Draco was finally beginning to enjoy the awful evening, Blaise regaling him with tales of his latest sexual conquests, somehow managing to bag the Reserve Seekers of both the Harpies and the Tornados in one night. He’d just started to describe in startling detail the appearance of the Tornados Seekers’ cock when Potter slid into the empty seat next to Draco, crossing one leg over the other.

“I didn’t know you painted,” he said, looking at Draco intently. He had either not heard Blaise waxing poetic about some bloke’s cock, or he’d actively chosen to ignore it.

Draco waved his hand in the air, looking forlornly at his empty Firewhisky glass. He’d need something to do with his hands to keep them away from Potter. “Here and there. I’m rather good at it.”

“So I hear.” Potter smiled at him then, properly smiled in a way that made Draco’s legs feel a bit weak even though he was already sitting down. “Look, I was wondering if you could help me with something. You can think of it as an exchange since I let you test me, if it makes you feel better about not owing favours.”

Draco didn’t want to admit that he’d happily owe Potter a thousand and one favours if he could get away with not being teased about it by his mates. “What do you need help with?”

“I’ve been working on a present for Teddy; it’s his birthday next month. I’m sure you know that I do a bit of woodwork?”

Draco swallowed as he stared at Potter’s hands, his fingers splayed wide on the tabletop. There were a few scrapes on them, pink lines that were healing, tiny white calluses. He did, funnily enough, know that Potter worked with wood. The jokes wrote themselves, according to Blaise. Draco had indulged in more than one fantasy involving Potter, an axe, and wood that needed to be split. He’d take that fact to his grave, however; not even Veritaserum could pull it out of him.

“Malfoy?” Potter tapped a finger against Draco’s hand. “Are you still with me?”

“What’s the present?” Draco’s voice sounded more than a little strangled, but he hoped that Potter hadn’t noticed.

“It’s a bookshelf. Swotty, I know, but he absolutely loves books at the moment. Obsessed with dragons too, so that’s what the bookshelf is. A dragon.”

Draco nodded. Potter’s hands were beginning to flit about the space in front of him, grabbing then releasing Draco’s abandoned glass, tapping against the side of the table, yanking at the end of his own sleeve. He looked mildly nervous, though Draco couldn’t imagine why.

“I was going to use magic to paint it but that never comes out quite right when you do it that way, you know?”

He wasn’t wrong; the colours tended to come out dull but somehow also offensively in your face when long term colour changing spells were used. Those spells were due for a bit of innovation; Draco had half a mind to pick up a book on magical theory and do it himself.

“It would mean a lot to me if you came over and had a go at it. We can call it a joint present if you like?” Potter smiled at Draco then, all lopsided and genuine and Draco started nodding without realising he was doing it. Potter seemed to brighten at that, sitting up straighter in his chair, his hands finally stilling in his lap. “Brilliant. That’s brilliant. Shall we say Sunday?”

Blaise sat down across from Draco then – when the fuck had he even left? – and slid a large glass of Firewhisky across the table in Draco’s direction. It looked to be a double serving, amber liquid nearly sloshing over the rim as the glass came to an abrupt stop against Draco’s forearm. The cool press of the glass shocked Draco back to himself, his eyes widening as he realised what he’d just agreed to.

“Uh, actually I’m not sure I could do Sunday,” Draco said. His brain spun in circles, rapidly flipping through an approved list of excuses to find one that fit. He couldn’t see Potter on Sunday, there wasn’t enough time to prepare. He needed to plan out what he’d wear, what he’d say and do, what topics were safe to talk about, what bloody ways of standing were acceptable, and which were not. Sunday was a day and a half away, given the late hour. No, far too soon.

“Oh,” Potter said. “Well how about-“

“What’s on Sunday, Draco?” Blaise asked. He raised an eyebrow at Draco as he sipped at his own glass of Firewhisky, his expression calculating.

“We’ve got a lunch, don’t you remember?” Draco shot Blaise a pleading look.

“Oh, no bother,” Blaise said. “I needed to cancel anyway.” Either Blaise was too stupid to read the cry for help in Draco’s eyes, or he just simply didn’t care. It was almost certainly the latter. “You must have forgotten about the owl I sent you the other day. No bother, you’re certainly free now. How well this has all turned out.”

Draco knocked back his glass of Firewhisky then, swallowing until he felt his stomach begin to roll. Both Potter and Blaise were staring at him when he put the glass down, their expressions a mixture of amusement on Blaise’s part and concern on Potter’s.

“So … Sunday?” Potter asked.

“Yes,” Draco said, having no way of saying no after Blaise had completely thrown him in it. “After lunch, perhaps?”

“Let’s say three.” Potter stood up, a wide grin having returned to his face. “I need to get Ron home, but it was great to see you, Malfoy. You too, Zabini.” He turned away from them and then straight back around again, his fingers tapping against the outside of his thighs. “I’ll owl you my address tomorrow, Malfoy. In the morning, uh, maybe eleven or so? I suppose the time doesn’t matter, does it? Since the owl will just stick around if you’re not up yet. Yes, right. Well, I’ll see you Sunday.” He turned around again and set off for his original table, his cheeks bright pink.

“Good Merlin,” Blaise muttered, staring at Potter’s retreating back.

“Good Merlin indeed,” Draco echoed. He finished off the last of his Firewhisky, his stomach churning.

*

The tests of the samples he’d collected added further evidence to Draco’s assumption that the universe was out to get him.

He spent a good hour preparing the swabs, noting down exactly how much solution was in each and ensuring that they had all been allowed sufficient time to soak. He held each vial up to the light to examine the quality of the samples, then cast a series of spells at them to determine that they did indeed contain enough of the magical essence that he was after. He was not, under any circumstances, going to fuck the test up. The repercussions would be far too dire if he were to get the results wrong.

He pondered, as he poured the solution into separate mixtures extracted from the cauldron, just how strange his life had become. A mere ten years beforehand it would have been unthinkable for Weasley, Granger, or Potter to just hand over bits of their magic to him, trusting that he was being honest in his claim of conducting an innocent experiment. Them doing it enthusiastically, as in the case of Granger and Potter, was even more insane.

The tests mostly confirmed what Draco had already suspected; he had a tragic level of compatibility with Pansy – truly, just awful – and an only marginally better level with Neville and Finnegan. His magic showed negligible levels of compatibility with both Granger and her ginger boyfriend, although somewhat stronger with Weasley, which was a fact that made his skin crawl. Blaise was much the same. Theo – good Merlin, save him – and Thomas were magically compatible enough with him to raise his eyebrows as he analysed the results.

He nearly threw the last vial clean across the room when he tested his sample with Potter’s, the mixture turning a yellow so bright that it burned white spots into his eyes after he spent too long gaping at it.

He allowed himself a brief moment of reprieve and blissful denial, then proceeded to lob one of the vials directly at the nearest wall. He immediately cleaned it up, waving his wand to Vanish the tiny shards of glass, but it did make him feel a little bit better about everything.

The last thing he’d needed was to see that brilliant yellow colour staring him in the face, but there was nothing else for it; he’d need to use Potter for the project. If he didn’t, he’d know that he was completing the task to a subpar standard, which was something that he just couldn’t bring himself to do. It wasn’t in his nature; he needed to be the best at everything, and he needed to keep his spot at the top of the class. Unfortunately, it was Potter or nothing.

*

Potter’s house was fairly unassuming from the outside, a red brick building with two floors that sat on the outer roads of a small village in Hampshire. Draco Apparated right to the front doorstep, casting a hasty Disillusionment Charm on himself as he appeared. There didn’t seem to be anybody about, although Draco could hear the buzzing of something off in one of the fields in the distance, likely a tractor of some sort. Muggles had the oddest vehicles that they moved about in; he still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around them all.

The door opened before Draco had even knocked, leaving him standing on the stoop with a raised fist and a shocked expression.

Potter looked slightly abashed, his cheeks darkening as Draco stared at him.

“I felt the wards let you in,” he explained, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I wasn’t waiting by the door, I swear.”

Draco straightened his shoulders and gave Potter a sharp nod. “It’s alright if you were, although I’d take offense to you thinking I was coming to steal something.”

“More like dithering around on the porch,” Potter replied, which had Draco’s cheeks heating even more. He had indeed been doing that very thing for a good five minutes before gathering up the courage to make himself known. “Come on through, my workshop’s down the bottom of the garden.”

Draco followed Potter through the ground floor of the house, which consisted of a series of generously sized rooms following one after the other. It wasn’t a particularly direct route through the building, which made Draco think that perhaps Potter was showing off a bit. Surely there was no need to walk Draco past a marble bust of Godric Gryffindor in order to get to the back door, nor was there a requirement to point out a garish tapestry that was apparently sewn by a group of elves in the thirteenth century.

“The bookshelf is down the back,” Potter said once they’d finally gotten through the house and down to the bottom of the garden. He shoved open the door of the workshop, sliding it to the side on a series of metal tracks. The muscles in his arms bulged as he did it, making Draco’s mouth water. He averted his eyes just as Potter looked back at him, managing to plaster a polite smile across his face.

The workshop smelled strongly of sawdust, which was no great surprise. There was also a lingering scent of paint alongside dust, varnish, and a hint of ozone. Bits and pieces of wood dotted the room, apparently items in various stages of completion. There was a table with rather intricate legs, the wood seeming to curve around itself like the roots of a tree. Next to it was a stool turned on its side, a closed tin of varnish and a dirty rag sat beside it. There were wooden toys of all sorts in a pile on the floor, little trucks and horses and a few blobs that Draco couldn’t yet make out.

“Wow,” Draco said, spinning around on his heels. He was fairly impressed, which surprised him a bit. Men doing things with their hands had never really done it for him before he’d taken up his art classes; he much preferred to appreciate the state of a muscled body after the physical labour had been done, rather than taking note of the process. Now that he had inside knowledge about how long such projects took, how much concentration and thought went into them, he was far more appreciative.

“It’s not much, but it keeps me busy.” Potter shot him a lopsided grin.

Draco’s knees went a little weak at the sight, but he managed to cover it by grabbing onto the back of a rocking chair. He gave it a tiny push, acting as though he’d just wanted to see if it moved. It certainly did, smoothly rocking back and forth in its spot.

“I set everything up over there,” Potter said. He gestured to an area of the workshop which had sheets spread out on the floor, as well as a few brightly coloured pillows tossed about the place. “I have paints, but I wasn’t sure if you would prefer to use your own.”

“Of course I’m using my own; yours will no doubt be of inferior quality,” Draco replied. He let the bag he was carrying slide down his arm and drop on top of one of the cushions. “Oh, wow. That’s … quite impressive actually.”

“Do you like it? I think it’s pretty alright.” Potter was grinning again, but Draco wasn’t looking at him. He was more focused on the bookshelf in front of him.

When Potter had mentioned that he’d made a bookshelf, Draco had pictured something that was more of a box than anything else, a few wooden shelves spanning the width of it, maybe a decorative carving or two, Teddy’s name etched into the side. He expected to come in and use a roller to get the paint on, rather than something that would quite obviously need delicate brush strokes. The piece that was in front of him certainly wasn’t a box.

The wooden dragon stood tall, nearly reaching Draco’s own height. It had an open mouth, teeth bared at some invisible intruder, flames waiting to burst out from behind its teeth. Despite the incisors, the thing looked quite kind, all raised eyebrows and a slight smile on its lips. There were shelves running down the front of it, each a different width to accommodate the curved shape of the body. Right at the base of its stomach there was a box with a lid that flipped up and down, the hinges somehow invisible. The dragon was ridiculously detailed, even without any paint on it.

Draco felt a sudden rush of anxiety that he might fuck it up somehow, that he might ruin the incredible thing that Potter had created with his own two hands. He certainly hadn’t expected to feel that way, although it wasn’t an unwelcome change of thought when it came to Potter. He didn’t mind knowing that the man was talented at something; if anything, it only increased his already ridiculous level of attractiveness.

Potter opened the door of one of the cabinets that lined the back wall of the workshop, pulling out a tray with various tiny paint tins crammed onto it. Draco raised his eyebrows when he noticed that the paints weren’t subpar at all; they were actually the same brand that Draco himself used when he was doing a bit of casual painting at home. He’d gone a bit mental when decking out his home studio – which was actually just painting stuff set up in the corner of his living room, over by the balcony doors – but he'd been determined to have the best. Evidently, Potter had been too.

“Not bad, Potter,” Draco said, reaching out to grab one of the tins.

“Thanks.” Potter set the tray down on the floor at the corner of the large white sheet. “I got a few extra, wasn’t sure what colours you’d want to use. Reckon there’s nearly every bloody shade here now.”

“Is there a theme?” Draco began pulling a few of the tins off the tray and arranging them on the sheet, an idea coming together in his mind.

“For the birthday party, or…?”

“For his room,” Draco said. He raised an eyebrow at Potter, delighting when he began to dither a bit, his feet shifting and his fingers tapping. “Or for the bookshelf?”

“I don’t think so. He likes green though. And yellow, a bit of pink as well.”

“Lovely,” Draco said. He knew Teddy Lupin, but he’d never been in the boy’s bedroom before. He and his grandmother tended to come to the Manor for lunches, rather than Draco and his mother going to visit them at their cottage in Wales.

“I was worried that it might be a bit too scary, that it might give him nightmares. That’s why I added the eyebrows. It looked a bit, uh, bitey before.” Potter nudged the edge of the sheet with the toe of his shoe, straightening it out where the tray of paints had bunched it up a bit. “But Ron said wizarding children don’t tend to think that way, since they’ve grown up with real dragons roaming about the place.”

“He’s right,” Draco said. “When I was young my favourite bedtime story was about a troll under a bridge that ripped someone’s arm off and ate it when they didn’t answer his riddle fast enough.”

“Ah,” Potter said, his face screwing up slightly. “That explains quite a lot, actually.”

Draco shook his head, attempting to hide his smile in his shoulder. “Did you have any requests as to what I might do with this? You did build it, after all.”

“No, do what you like. You’ve got free reign.” His eyes flicked to Draco then, his expression thoughtful. “I trust you.”

“Splendid.” Draco nodded to himself. He ran a finger up a claw on the dragon’s left hand. The wood was softer than he’d expected; he’d definitely need to cast an Impervious on the dragon after he put the paint on. It was doubtlessly impressive, made doubly so by the fact that Potter didn’t appear to have used any magic to make it.

Potter left him to it after that, returning to the pile of wooden toys on the floor while Draco cracked open a few of the paint tins. He was working on sanding down one of the blobs using a bit of rough looking paper, before going at it with something that looked like an oddly shaped knife. His hands flexed as he did worked, the bones on the back standing out. The sight of it made Draco feel a little hot under the collar. He wondered what else Potter was good at doing with his hands. There were rumours, of course, but nothing concrete; Potter was a notoriously private person, despite the absolute drivel that The Prophet published.

Draco allowed himself a few long seconds of gazing before tearing his eyes away, lest Potter catch him staring. His cheeks felt warm, though there was a good chance that Potter wouldn’t notice, wrapped up in his wood as he was.

After a bit of mild nagging about needing to paint every bit of the dragon, Potter had shown Draco the inside of the box on the front of the dragon’s belly. He demonstrated how the box retracted behind one of the shelves to become a secret compartment with the tap of a hidden lever, though Draco was more focused on the bulge of Potter’s arm muscles than where the bloody box had disappeared to. He was just glad that Potter waved his wand and called the thing back out before he retreated, since Draco hadn’t been paying a lick of attention to what he’d said and wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of getting the thing back out himself.

Potter left the workshop after a bit, returning to the house for an extended period of time. He stuck his head in through the sliding door periodically, although Draco suspected that he’d been too wrapped up in painting to hear Potter speak the few times he’d come back.

Time tended to get away from Draco when he painted. He got so focused on the task at hand that everything else seemed to fade into the background, any existing noises or movements turning into a steady thrum that couldn’t make it into his ears. Many afternoons had disappeared in the blink of an eye as he sat at his easel, a breeze filtering in from the balcony doors that he’d left thrown open. He often didn’t notice the passage of time until it started to get too dark for him to see properly, the colours on the canvas becoming dull under the dim light of the setting sun.

It shouldn’t have been a large shock that the same thing would happen to him in Potter’s workshop, yet he hadn’t expected to feel comfortable enough there to truly lose himself in his work. His wrist twisted and curved as he painted colours across the body of the dragon in broad strokes. He’d decided to go with a bright green body, using yellow and pink as accent colours on the wings and the underbelly. He stopped after what seemed like no time at all to shoot a series of drying spells at the dragon, not wanting to wait for a few hours until he could do the next layer. After that, he turned to the scales. There was more delicate brushwork involved in painting on each separate little arched shape, but Draco loved the intricacy of it. There was skill in that style of painting, and it gave him the opportunity to show off a little more.

It was dark when Draco finally set his brush down on the sheet and stretched out his fingers in front of himself. His wrist was cramping from the angle he’d had to bend it at while painting the underside of the dragon’s tail, not wanting to miss any details. There were streaks of paint down his arms from where he’d tested different colours on himself and he was fairly sure he had pink smeared across his cheek, but he didn’t mind one bit. Surprisingly, he’d been having a rather nice time. Potter had stayed fairly silent as they both worked, but he’d jumped in to offer a bit of commentary here and there when prompted, before he’d gone back up to the house.

It was one of the nicest evenings that Draco had ever spent in Potter’s presence; not worrying that he was going to say the wrong thing or struggle to keep the conversation going without awkwardness was rather nice. The Wireless had been on for a while and Potter had rolled his sleeves up and hummed as he worked and Draco had liked it more than he probably should, sitting in a room with Potter that smelt of paint and sawdust.

“Oh, wow, it’s done.” Draco glanced over his shoulder to see Potter stepping through the doorway, his mouth hanging open. “It’s brilliant, Malfoy.”

“Just like the real thing?” Draco asked, teasingly. He stood up and brushed his trousers off, little bits of sawdust falling to rest on the sheet below him.

“It’s pretty close, I’d say. As someone who’s been up close and personal with dragons, I feel like I’ve got some amount of authority on them.” Potter tapped a finger against one of the dragon’s teeth, the incisors painted a glittering cream colour.

“Don’t touch the scales, they’re still wet.” Draco pulled out his wand and cast the last few drying spells at the dragon, watching as the paint hardened under his eyes, the shimmer of the lines fading to a matte black.

“Did you want to stay for dinner?” Potter asked, his eyes still locked on the dragon as he tilted his head from side to side, admiring Draco’s work. “I’ve got lasagne in the oven.”

Draco wanted to say yes, he very much did. Any time spent with Potter was a plus, but he didn’t want to fuck it up by saying or doing the wrong thing. He needed to calm his nerves with alcohol before attempting a proper prolonged conversation with the man.

“Please,” Potter said when Draco took a beat too long to respond. He turned to face him, offering up one of those lopsided grins that made Draco a little weak at the knees. “I’ve made way more than enough for one person. Plus, it’ll be my way of saying thank you for doing this.”

“You don’t need to thank me, it’s a joint present. Unless you’ve decided to go back on that.” Draco intended for his words to be the lead up to a well-crafted excuse about why he needed to miss dinner; perhaps his house elves were already cooking up a roast, or he was expecting guests, or had a ribbon cutting ceremony at a home for sick orphans.

Potter, as usual, ploughed ahead anyway without letting him finish. “Good. Yes, I’d like that, for it to be a joint present from the both of us. And it’s great that you’re staying, that’s … great.” He looked down at his shoes and then back up at Draco, that bloody lopsided grin still on his face.

Draco’s mouth went dry as he looked at him, Potter looking right back. He couldn’t very well say no now, he’d been completely disarmed. He could do nothing else but follow Potter back up the path to his little brick house, the smell of woodsmoke wafting through the air.

The lasagne was delicious, because apparently there was nothing that Potter couldn’t do. It was ridiculous and Draco would hate him for it if he wasn’t completely arse over tit for the bloke. Cooking was a good, safe topic of conversation, Potter nattering on about different recipes and the farmers markets that he went to and how he’d learned to cook, Draco throwing in a few leading questions to send him off on another tangent whenever it seemed that he was finishing up his train of thought.

It had been going alright, for the most part. Draco felt decently comfortable and like he was appearing in some way cool, and not at all like the wreck that he was inside whenever he was in Potter’s presence. It was alright, until Potter asked him about the swabs.

“Did you do your experiment then? With the little sticks and the vials?” Potter asked. He was on his last bite of lasagne, Draco’s plate long having been cleaned from both his first and his second serving.

Draco’s first instinct was to lie. Who said he had to be truthful about the results? It wasn’t a legally binding agreement that he had with his test subjects, and he wasn’t conducting the experiment in an official work capacity. He was well within his rights to twist the information how he saw fit, to his own benefit. Case in point, it would benefit him not to tell Potter that they were disgustingly compatible, in a magical sense. Rather, he should say that they were mildly compatible, just as he was mildly compatible with Weasley, Granger, Thomas, and Blaise. That would be the safest option.

Unfortunately for Draco, Potter was an Auror who detected lies for a living.

Equally unfortunately for Draco, he was a supremely shit liar.

He’d tried to lie to Potter only a few times since school. One such incident was burned into his mind, a time in which he’d attempted to twist the truth about an incident that Potter had been called to investigate a few years back. Draco and Pansy had attempted to steal a bottle of top shelf Ogden’s from behind the bar at the Leaky, both completely sloshed. They’d gotten caught when Pansy somehow managed to tip herself over the bar entirely, skirt hiked up round her waist, feet kicking wildly in the air. Draco had jumped in to save her, but they’d managed to catch the attention of damn near every patron in the place in the process. Pansy had made things worse by attempting to tuck the bottle up the back of her shirt, leading to Auror Potter being called in to give them both a talking to.

Draco had tried to say that barman Tom was barking mad and Pansy certainly didn’t have the Ogden’s still up her shirt, nor had she taken anything from behind the bar in the past, but it was no such luck. Potter had fixed Draco with an intense stare that had him crumbling in mere seconds and confessing to things that were completely unrelated, like the time he’d swiped a few chocolate sauce packets from Fortescue’s or when he’d stolen Greg’s toy train as a five year old.

Potter had looked fairly disappointed at the start of the conversation, as though he’d expected better of Draco, which was laughable in itself. His expression had shifted to one of amusement as Draco spewed confession after confession, leading to Potter patting Draco on the hand and letting him know that it was alright, he wasn’t going to Azkaban, he’d just been banned from the Leaky. It was all rather embarrassing; Draco hoped that Potter had both forgotten it altogether and also not ever told a single soul about it under pain of death.

If lying wouldn’t work, twisting the truth wasn’t likely to either. Draco decided that honesty might as well be the best policy, and he could just insinuate that he’d fucked up the test if it came to it. Or he could up and disappear to the continent and live out his days in some French nudist commune; whatever worked, really.

“Well,” Draco said, twirling his fork around on his empty plate, “I did, yes. The results were … somewhat interesting.”

“Go on.” Potter certainly looked interested, setting his fork down and folding his arms on the tabletop, leaning towards Draco as he gave him his full attention.

“I’m not a match at all with Pansy, but that was to be expected. Hence why I chose her as a baseline to work upwards from.” Draco chewed at the inside of his cheek, wincing when he bit down a little too hard. “Weasley was a surprise - I might have to steal him away from Granger.”

“And what about us? Our magical compatibility?” Potter looked almost eager to hear the answer, though Draco couldn’t imagine why. There wasn’t exactly an upside to either extreme.

“It’s … strong,” Draco said. He certainly wasn’t going to say that the mixture damn near blinded him when he’d looked at it.

Potter’s grin stretched across his face, an incredibly pleased thing that made Draco’s stomach clench. “So we should meet up then? To do the painting?”

“Uh, yes, I suppose so.” Draco’s throat was dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. He gulped down some of the beer Potter had poured for him, something Muggle with a funny name he’d never heard of before.

“When do you need it done by?” Potter was still looking at him earnestly, bare forearms crossed on the tabletop, bicep muscles bulging as he leaned forward.

“Tuesday next week,” Draco replied, clearing his throat. “It’ll take a bit of time though, likely a good few hours to complete.”

“We could do this Saturday?” Potter asked. “Does the afternoon work for you?”

“It’ll probably go into the night,” Draco said, his brain happily supplying him with images of the two of them engaging in specific activities after the sun had gone down that he’d rather not think about while Potter was watching him so intently.

“That’s fine,” Potter said. “I don’t mind.”

There was a twinkle in his eye that set off Draco’s fight or flight response, leaving him gripping the table as he rose from his chair, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He needed to leave before he did something completely insane like crawl under the table and push Potter’s thighs apart. He was far too close to doing exactly that after just a few short minutes of Potter’s full, direct attention.

“Great,” Draco said, the words coming out choked. “I’ll owl you to arrange a time.”

Potter shrugged, getting up to mirror Draco’s standing position. “Fine by me.”

“And, uh,” Draco said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He could feel his cheeks heating with embarrassment because of what he had to say next. “Just make sure that you, uh, shower beforehand. Because of the magic in the paints, otherwise it might interfere and go all…” He waved his hand in the air, not able to meet Potter’s eyes. He needed to leave before he properly lost his head.

“Sure,” Potter said, grin still on his face. “I’ll make sure to shower good and proper before I come and see you.”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered under his breath. “Yes, good. Lovely.”

He hurried out of the room, waving at Potter over his shoulder as he thanked him for dinner and told him not to worry, he could most certainly see himself out. He nearly walked into a coat closet instead of out the front door, mind preoccupied with images of Potter thoroughly washing his body in the shower before heading out to meet Draco.

The cool night air washed over his flushed cheeks, a welcome reprieve from the heat that had been coursing through his body since he had Apparated onto the property and crossed Potter’s wards.

“I can do this,” Draco said to himself as he walked down Potter’s garden path. “I can paint Potter. It will be fine; I’ll be very professional.”

He glanced back over his shoulder towards the house, stopping right at the little white gate that led to the road. Potter was visible through the window, his curtains not yet drawn against the darkness of the night. He was pulling his jumper up over his head, his toned stomach bared to Draco’s prying eyes.

Draco was more than a little surprised that he didn’t Splinch himself when he Apparated back to his flat, cheeks hot, trousers tight, and mind fully elsewhere.

*

Draco allocated himself a few moments during the week to dither about the situation, pencilling them in around work, meetings with friends, and other commitments. Oftentimes those moments happened when he was in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling as anxiety coursed through him.

He very nearly didn’t owl Maribel to book a time to use the studio the following weekend. He managed to talk himself into it after sitting and staring at one of his paintings for a while, a large piece that hung over his fireplace. It showed a field in full summer bloom, tiny flowers in all shades dotted across the landscape. It had taken hours to complete, the longest of any piece he’d done so far. He still felt a surge of pride whenever he looked at it. He could do that again, feel that same sense of accomplishment; he just had to stop overthinking the situation.

It took only two hours after selecting a time for him to summon another owl, parchment in hand that detailed his want to cancel the studio time that he’d booked that morning. The owl was none too pleased when it was sent away empty handed after nothing more than a disinterested pat. Draco had needed to hold his finger under running water for a good ten minutes after it flew off back to its perch; it had bitten him so viciously that he’d considered buying his own owl for the first time in ten years.

It was times like that that he wished he didn’t have such a need for validation. If he didn’t care so much, he wouldn’t have worked himself into such a proper state about the whole thing. His desire to be told that he’d done a good job, that he was the best at something, that someone was proud of him, was so strong that he was willing to torture himself by spending an entire afternoon and most of an evening around a shirtless Potter who was effectively beholden to his whims.

Eventually he threw up his hands, poured himself an inadvisably large glass of Firewhisky, and owled Potter to confirm that the time he’d booked the studio for was still fine.

As expected, Potter did not owl back to say that something urgent had come up and he needed to jet off to the Lesser Antilles, or something equally pressing. Instead, Potter’s response was so prompt that Draco suspected he must have written it as soon as he’d seen the bird arrive, dropping whatever he was doing at that moment to prioritise it. His swift response was cheery to a fault, displaying no hint of the anxiety that Draco himself was wracked with. He’d even included a little smiley face at the end of his note, drawn in the bottom right corner of the parchment.

Draco’s anxieties hadn’t eased by the time Friday pub night rolled around, though he had become somewhat accustomed to them. That didn’t mean that he was thrilled or in any way more prepared to be teased about the whole debacle by his so-called mates.

“How is your little project going?” Pansy asked, smiling lecherously at Draco. “I hear you’ve finally grown a set of bollocks and picked a partner.”

“Who is it?” Theo asked, sitting up a little straighter. “Is it Blaise?”

“He wishes,” Blaise said. “Should I guess?”

“Yes,” Pansy said.

“No,” Draco groaned.

“Oh, I do so love this game.” Blaise fixed Draco with a stare that seemed to bore right through him. “You’re so obviously stewing about this, so it must be good.” He paused for a moment to glance around the pub, no doubt taking stock of the Gryffindors at the next table over. “Is it Weasley?”

“No,” Draco said, the word coming out garbled. He wanted to spend an afternoon around a shirtless Weasley even less than he did a shirtless Potter, though for drastically different reasons.

“Hmm,” Blaise said, tapping a finger against his jaw. “Potter then, I suppose?”

Draco groaned again, letting his head drop down against the tabletop. “Yes,” he said, the sound muffled by the wood.

“Oh, good,” Blaise said. “Perhaps you’ll finally do something about your abominable crush then.”

Draco groaned again.

“You haven’t heard the best part,” Pansy said, incredibly unhelpfully, in Draco’s opinion.

“Stop talking,” Draco pleaded.

“Potter will have to be shirtless the entire time. For hours.” Her smugness was fully audible in her tone, not easing Draco’s worries in any way.

Blaise chuckled incredibly loudly, making Draco sink lower in his chair.

Pansy leaned forward, her chair creaking. “That or he’ll need to have his trousers off. One of the two.”

“Oh my,” Theo said, sounding far more scandalised than he should, given he’d pulled down at the pub damn near every weekend since leaving school.

Draco’s groans increased in volume and intensity the longer Pansy talked about the situation, detailing exactly how it felt to have someone’s magical essence painted across your skin, and how, when Draco had done it to her as part of an exercise, she’d nearly –

“Fuck off and leave me to die here in peace, I beg,” Draco muttered against the tabletop.

“Are they teasing you, Draco?”

“Hello, Neville,” Theo said brightly.

“He deserves it,” Blaise said. He laughed when Draco flipped him two fingers without looking up.

“He’s just nervous about spending an entire afternoon with a barely clothed Harry,” Pansy said. She winked at Draco when he lifted his head to glare at her.

“Oh?” Neville said, a disturbing level of interest evident in his tone.

“Yes, we’re hoping it’ll finally push him to-“ Pansy swore when Draco lobbed a balled up napkin at her head.

“I suggest you shut your gob,” Draco hissed, “before Neville gets any ideas.”

Pansy turned her devious smile on Draco then; the sight of it had sweat springing up around his collar. “Oh, don’t worry, Draco. Nev won’t get any more ideas outside of what I’ve already told him. Or that he’s figured out from your ridiculously obvious pining.”

Draco mentally calculated just how much trouble he’d be in with the owners of the Dragon’s Den if he Apparated out from the middle of the room. Doing so was generally considered to be bad manners and usually an indicator of needing to make a quick getaway after stealing something, but surely he could bribe them to forget about it. He didn’t much want to be banned from the place; it was a rather nice establishment, and they did proper pours, unlike some of the other bars along Diagon.

Pansy’s hand came down on Draco’s head then, stroking his hair. “There, there, pet.”

Draco groaned, sitting up properly and fixing Pansy with a glare. “What have you told him?”

“Nothing that isn’t true,” Pansy replied.

Draco saw red for a moment, embarrassment and anger seeping in at the edges of his vision. He managed not to take it out on Pansy by lobbing Theo’s full drink at her, and instead used his teeth to mangle the red straw in his cocktail glass to an unrecognisable degree.

“Well,” Neville said. He’d never sat down, Draco realised, still hovering somewhere behind Pansy and Theo’s chairs. “This has certainly been interesting. More than a little enlightening, as well.”

“Forget everything Pansy’s said. She’s a liar and a grade A bint.”

Neville rolled his eyes at Draco, leaning down to press a kiss to Pansy’s cheek. He began to head back to the table full of Gryffindors with an unwarranted level of speed.

Draco pushed his chair away from the table, letting it hit the wall with a clatter.

“Oh dear,” Theo said.

“Right then,” Draco started. “I suppose I’ll see you all next week unless I spontaneously combust at some point tomorrow, which is fairly likely.” He glanced over to see Neville sliding into his chair at the other table. He was reaching over to tap Harry on the shoulder, a sly grin on his face.

Draco managed to hold his Apparition jump until he was out the front door, but only just. He saw Potter’s eyes flick to him as Neville began to speak, right before Draco ducked his head as he left. He certainly didn’t need to stick around for that conversation, not if there was going to be a comment made to Potter about Draco being off his tits attracted to him.

That he could certainly do without, particularly if it made things awkward in the studio the next day.

Draco nearly fell into his pot plant when he Apparated into his flat, his head spinning in circles of confusion, anxiety, and immense sexual frustration.

*

Saturday brought with it unseasonably warm weather, blue peeking out through the thick grey clouds that had blanketed London for the previous week. Draco spent the morning out on the balcony of his flat, eating oranges straight from the fruit bowl that he lugged outside with him. The streets were teeming with people, though they weren’t often quiet. It was the price of living in Covent Garden; a cost that Draco was happy to pay.

There weren’t too many other wizards living in the area, from what he could tell. That fact had been made obvious by the absolute rigmarole that it had been to set up a Floo connection to the fireplace in his living room. The company he had contracted to hook it all up hadn’t even wanted to take his money at first, the job apparently being more work than it was worth.

Draco didn’t much mind the element of solitude that came from living in an almost entirely Muggle neighbourhood. It was nice to separate himself from magical life every now and again, in a public sense. His neighbours didn’t bother him at all, and he’d never had any complaints about strange goings on, even when Greg and Blaise thought it would be a right laugh to send a flock of owls through the Floo at four in the morning. Nor had he heard a peep from anyone across the hall when he'd misjudged the mount of wormwood he was adding to an Invisibility Draught after a night of getting on the piss, nearly blowing out a few walls in his flat when he stirred it in. They all tended to keep to themselves, which suited Draco just fine.

His insolent mates could take a leaf out of his neighbours’ books.

The sun seemed to mock Draco, shining bright and happy in the blue and grey patchwork sky.

“Bugger off,” Draco muttered, throwing it a glare.

It stared back at him, shining away.

Draco frowned and bit down on a slice of orange, his lips and fingers sticky with juice.

The afternoon was approaching far too quickly, but Draco was as prepared as he possibly could be, given the circumstances.

After returning home from Dragon’s Den, he’d stayed up late into the night finalising the plan for his painting. He’d sat at the dining table with the lamp turned on sketching out what he would paint, which layers would need to be done first, which fiddly bits would require a brush with a sharper tip. He felt quite happy with it, though the design was likely to change when he actually got in there and had Potter spread out in front of him.

Maribel had stressed time and time again, drilling it into the head of every person in the class, that when completing a living painting, the piece should change with the canvas. Draco had encountered it during one of the classes, needing to lengthen the roots of his flower from his original plan, thanks to the intensity of the veins running up his own bicep. He’d needed to change the style of the petals too, in order to accommodate a series of freckles on his forearm.

A few beads of sweat began to pop up on Draco’s brow line at the thought of doing that very thing as he painted Potter’s skin, of being close enough to him to see every distinct mole, freckle, and scar. It was making him feel a little lightheaded, the thought of looking at Potter’s body intently enough to properly incorporate every part of him into the piece. The mental image of running a brush over a smattering of moles on Potter’s lower back damn near sent Draco into a fit, leaving his stomach churning as he gripped the arm of his chair, the streets of London mockingly serene down below.

He dithered by the front door of his flat for a good ten minutes, not wanting to be too early to the studio but also not wanting to be late. He didn’t want to have to meet Potter out the front and walk up the stairs together, as though they’d been out drinking at a bar and he was bringing Potter up to his flat. He didn’t want to have to worry about who would walk up the stairs first and if he would be able to school his face into a neutral expression if Potter was the one ahead of him, his plump arse level with Draco’s face.

There was much to think about, and Draco’s head was in a state of chaos. He was very close to spiralling, though he managed to hold it back somewhat.

Potter hadn’t arrived yet when Draco got to the studio. He let himself in using the password that Maribel had given him a few days before, when he’d booked the space. Someone else had been there in the morning, as evidenced by the easels that had been moved around, the chair positioned in the centre of the room.

Draco moved the chair back to the corner of the studio, the feet dragging against the already scuffed floorboards. He returned to the middle of the room, spinning around in a circle as he debated where to set everything up. The light was better over by the window where he usually sat, so that would be a good option. Alternatively, perhaps near the door would be better since his piece wasn’t going to be bright; would he be able to get an accurate sense of the darker colours if they were in bright lighting, or would they get washed out? Perhaps he should Transfigure one of the canvas sheets into a set of lace curtains and hang them across the window to break up the rays of light, soften them a little?

“Uh, hello?”

Draco whirled around to see Potter standing in the open doorway, his hands tucked in his pockets. He had on a white shirt that looked at least two sizes too big; it was absolutely hanging off his frame. Was it his own or had he borrowed it from someone else? The thought of Potter wearing the clothes of some big burly man, an old boyfriend or a current flame, sent a flare of jealousy streaking through Draco’s gut.

Potter reached up to run a hand through his hair as he waited for Draco to invite him in, fingers tangling in his messy curls. He offered Draco that easy lopsided grin when Draco waved him through and walked over to close the door behind him. His hair was wet, Draco noticed. Strands of it lay plastered to his forehead, the ends beginning to curl as they dried. Draco’s mouth watered at the sight of it, Potter’s hand stopping in his hair, fingers buried deep in his curls. His grip tightened, hand stilling on the back of his head as he waited for Draco to speak.

Draco cleared his throat, the sound loud and abrasive in the too-soft quietness of the room. “You showered, I take it?”

Potter nodded. “As requested. Hopefully I got everywhere, and it won’t mess up your paints.” He looked around, eyes settling on Draco’s bag that was propped up against the base of one of the easels. “Have you decided what you’re going to do yet or are you just going to wing it?”

“I have an idea. I’ll likely need to adapt it as I go, but the concept will remain the same.” It was quite hard to form words with Potter standing in front of him, hair damp and cheeks still slightly flushed from his warm shower. The shower that he’d taken because Draco had requested it. Fuck.

Potter’s answering grin was devastating, a slow thing that crept across his face as Draco watched, brain practically melting out through his skin. “Can I see it?”

For a moment Draco thought that Potter was talking about his cock. Said cock was rapidly hardening and was only being prevented from going full mast by sheer force of will alone, but no; Potter’s eyes were still firmly fixed on the bag that held both Draco’s paints and his sketchbook. It wasn’t presumptuous, not really, asking what was about to be plastered onto your skin, but it still felt that way, if only a little. It snapped Draco back to himself, at least.

He directed a frown at Potter, crossing his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Why not? You’re painting me, I should be able to see it.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t want to be locked into anything because you decide that you do or don’t like something.” He didn’t want to say that it would make him nervous to see Potter’s reaction to his rough sketches. He didn’t want him to disapprove or offer a suggestion about what Draco could do better; it was best to leave it until it was done so that Potter could only focus on the things he liked, could praise Draco on his level of skill. “Besides,” Draco continued. “I don’t want to get performance anxiety if I know you’re focusing on each element a little too hard.”

Potter raised an eyebrow, fixing Draco with an amused look. “Do you usually get performance anxiety, then?”

“Uh,” Draco said, very eloquently. He felt his cheeks go red as he and Potter watched each other. “No.”

“Good,” Potter said, nodding to himself as though Draco had given him an answer of merit that needed to be filed away for later. “Where do you want me?”

“I was thinking in the middle of the room,” Draco said, turning around to survey the studio again. “The lighting will be best there, a little bit of everything.” His words trailed off as he turned back around to see Potter pulling his shirt over his head. He balled it up in his hands and tossed it onto one of the stools, toeing out of his shoes as well.

“Um,” Draco said, staring at Potter’s now bare chest.

“I figured you’d want to paint here,” Potter said, gesturing at his chest and stomach. “That’s what Neville said Pansy’s using; I assumed you’d be the same. I don’t mind either way.”

“I…” Draco’s tone was more than a little garbled, the words coming out so strangled that he wasn’t sure Potter could actually understand him. “I was thinking your, um, your back.” He ran a hand down his face, taking a deep breath to centre himself. “Your back would be better; it’s a flatter expanse and I’ll have a better range of movement, I think. Less distracting, too.”

“Is my face distracting?” Potter had that cheeky grin again, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“No,” Draco said, biting back a comment about his face being distractingly ugly, not entirely sure that he’d have the gusto to pull off a half decent ribbing in his current state. “I just don’t want you staring at me while I’m trying to work.”

“Noted,” Potter said, nodding to himself again. “No staring. So just on the floor then?”

Draco bit down on his bottom lip, glancing at the cleared space in the middle of the room. “Let me put down a sheet first.”

Potter stood off to the side and watched as Draco spread out one of the big white sheets on the floor of the studio. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his toes slightly curled against the scuffed floorboards. His expression was unreadable, though an undercurrent of amusement broke through as he watched Draco try to wrangle the bits of the sheet that didn’t want to lay flat, having previously been stuck together in spots with old, dried bits of paint. Draco went a little overboard casting Cushioning Charms at the sheet and the floorboards beneath it, his cheeks heating when Potter asked him if he was planning on spending a fair bit of time rolling around on the floor that afternoon.

“I’ve not got you in mind at all, just so we’re clear. I’m just trying to save my knees,” Draco said, not daring to look at Potter directly. “I couldn’t give two flying fucks about what you do on the floor, so long as you stay still.”

Potter gave him a mock salute, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans as he leaned shirtless against the wall, looking so effortlessly fucking cool.

“There,” Draco said, looking down triumphantly at his makeshift workstation a few minutes later. “Sit down so I can check that the lighting works here.”

The lighting did indeed work there, although Draco privately suspected that there wouldn’t be many places where the lighting wouldn’t work perfectly with Potter’s olive toned skin.

He left Potter sitting there while he set about mixing up the last few of the paints, the ingredients in the colours making them volatile enough that he hadn’t wanted to do them the night before. The magic levels in the paints were strong, giving them all a soft, shiny quality. Little wisps of magic rose up into the air when he popped the lids off each tin, tendrils curling upwards and folding in on themselves, as delicate as bits of fairy floss. All the colours looked perfect, shiny and bright.

“Hmm,” Draco said, glancing over at Potter. Potter was watching him, knees tucked up against his bare chest, his chin resting on one of the caps. The ridge of his spine was pronounced, a curve that Draco ached to run his tongue down. Those were dangerous fantasies to have with Potter’s eyes fixed on him so intently. Regardless, he certainly wouldn’t be doing that now, Potter’s own feelings about the matter aside; it would fuck with the paints if he introduced new ingredients and differing levels of magic after he’d mixed them. No licking the canvas of Potter’s skin for Draco, as sad as it was. Skin that would be quite difficult for Potter to reach, now that Draco thought of it.

“All good?” Potter asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Draco replied. “I’m just going to … do something. Don’t jump or hex me or whatever.”

He grabbed one of the cleaning cloths from the unused pile, casting an Aguamenti and a Warming Charm at the fabric. Potter watched him with interest as he approached, eyes fixed on the flannel.

“I’m just going to…” Draco pointed at Potter’s back.

“Do what you need to do,” Potter said, sitting up a little straighter.

Draco ran the warm, damp cloth up the line of Potter’s back, rubbing it over each curve and dip of his spine. It was a necessity, really; nothing self-indulgent about it at all. Certainly not a way for Draco to get his hands on Potter’s bare skin before his brush traced the same path, swirling his magical essence there.

“I did have a shower before coming here,” Potter reminded him. He didn’t sound bothered, though there was certainly an undercurrent of something in his tone. It sounded almost heated, as though if Draco turned his head with a finger on his chin, he would find Potter’s pupils blown wide.

“I’m aware,” Draco said, swiping the flannel across the tops of Potter’s shoulders, “but there’s no way you can reach back here well enough to scrub it properly. I’m just looking out for the paining, really.”

“The painting, right,” Potter said, sounding wholly unconvinced. He shot Draco a grin when he got up to toss the flannel into the basket of used cloths.

It was simple enough to bring the paints over, taking the lids off and arranging them on the floor where Potter was sat. It was fine until Potter laid down, stretching out on his stomach on the white sheet.

Draco felt his brain go offline, a whooshing sound ringing in his ears as he took in the sight in front of him. The lean, elongated line of Potter’s back was on full display, his head pillowed on his crossed forearms. His feet were bare and his jeans hung low on his hips, making the dip at the base of his spine all the more pronounced. The muscles in his back rippled as he adjusted his position, turning his head to glance at Draco out of the corner of his eye, a smirk clearly visible on his face.

He had to be keenly aware of how ridiculously hot he was. He had to be.

Draco’s mouth went dry. Potter was stretched out in front of him on the floor with his shirt off, ready and willing to let Draco use him as a canvas. The idea of it was sensual in a way that Draco hadn’t anticipated, the visuals threatening to bring him to his knees. He wasn’t entirely sure that he would survive the afternoon, but he had to get the piece finished. Even if he locked himself in his bedroom for the remainder of the weekend and wanked himself raw, he needed to complete the piece first. Anything after that was fair game.

He knelt down beside his canvas and got to work.

Potter shivered at the first touch of the brush on his skin, the paint warmer than the air around them. The muscles in his back and shoulders rippled as he shifted. He smiled when Draco flicked him with a finger, silently chastising him for moving.

Draco set about completing the outline of the main elements of the middle of the piece: a series of reeds that would eventually move and sway when he cast an animation spell at the completed work. He chose green for the outlines, using a few different shades to create depth and complexity. He glanced at his sketches every few minutes, checking to make sure he had the spacing right. He’d placed the sketchbook down on the side that Potter wasn’t facing, so that he wouldn’t be able to take a peek at the design. It required Draco to rise up on his knees and sit back down whenever he needed to check it, but the burn in his thighs was a small price to pay to keep the idea a secret.

To his credit, Potter kept very still as Draco painted lines up and down his back. He didn’t even shiver when Draco let paint pool on the skin at the base of his spine, in the shallow dip there. The colours mixed together, creating distinct splotches of lilac and cerulean and silver, and forming new, delicate shades, just as Draco wanted.

The paint began to inch toward the waistband of Potter’s jeans as it dried. Draco’s wrist kept bumping into the band of it as well, the handle of his brush catching on the belt loops a few times too many. He frowned down at the jeans, wishing he could Vanish them right then and there to get them out of the way.

“I can take them off?” Potter suggested. His voice was gravelly, the tone much lower than when he had last spoken some time ago.

“Uh,” Draco said, more than a little embarrassed at having been caught staring at Potter’s clothed arse.

He ran a swift cost/benefit analysis in his head, mentally listing the pros and cons of Potter taking off his jeans. The biggest con would be the erection that Draco would no doubt immediately begin sporting the very moment that Potter stripped off the offending material. There would be no hiding it; Draco was constantly leaning over Potter’s back or pressing himself against his hip when he shifted sideways to check the sketches or to get at a Potter’s shoulder blades. There would be humiliation to follow, and all the teasing that came along with it.

The largest and most important benefit would be that Draco’s panting would get what it deserved: elegance and perfection. He would have a greater range of movement in his wrist, and he could taper off the bottom of the painting in a smudged watercolour style, rather than ending it abruptly at the waistband of the irritating jeans. His hard work would pay off and there would be an increased level of skill visible. All thoughts of his art aside, Draco certainly wouldn’t mind seeing Potter in just his pants. It would be somewhat of a reward for his hard work, if you will.

In the end ambition won, as it so often did for Draco.

“Yes, take them off.”

He shuffled to the side, giving Potter room to sit up. The paint at the small of his back had dried just enough not to run, though it did start to bead a little at the waistband of his jeans. Draco watched as the tiny splotches disappeared from view as Potter shifted his hips, wiggling them a little from side to side. He didn’t move any more than that, didn’t use the space that Draco had vacated to flip himself over or stand up.

“Did you not hear me?” Draco asked. He wanted to poke Potter to make sure he hadn’t somehow fallen asleep, but he didn’t think touching his bare skin was the best move, considering he’d just directed the bloke to take his jeans off and all.

“Yeah,” Potter said. His face was still pressed against his crossed forearms, but Draco could see the hint of a smile dragging the corner of his mouth upwards. “But I was also told by a certain someone that I wasn’t to move under any circumstances, so I’m following that.”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you expect your jeans to come off then. You realise that if they’re Vanished, you’ll have to leave here later in just your pants.”

“Well,” Potter said, a smirk clearly audible in his tone, “you could take them off for me, you know.”

Draco damn near swallowed his tongue. His eyes widened as he stared at the back of Potter’s head, trying to stop his eyes from dragging down the pronounced curve of Potter’s spine. Seconds ticked by and Potter didn’t move, nor did he burst into laughter and assure Draco that he was joking; he just laid there.

Fuck it, Draco thought to himself, setting his brush down on the sheet. The painting needs it, so I’ll do it. I’ll take Potter’s stupid fucking jeans off myself, Merlin help me.

Undoing the jeans was the largest and most hazardous obstacle. Draco shuffled closer to Potter, his knees brushing the denim covering Potter’s hip. He swallowed as he took stock of the situation, trying to work out exactly how he was going to go about tackling the task ahead of him.

In a completely unexpected turn of events, Potter chose that moment to be somewhat helpful. He pushed his body upwards ever so slightly, going into a position that was not dissimilar to a plank, like Blaise sometimes did at the gym. He’d tried to get Draco to do that type of stuff with him, but sweating and puffing on a foul, sticky mat in a roomful of equally foul, sweaty people wasn’t exactly Draco’s idea of a good friendly time. It was a brisk walk around the block or nothing, for him.

Draco slid his hands under Potter’s raised hips, his knuckles brushing against the white sheet covering the floor. The denim of the jeans was rough under Draco’s fingers as he pressed them against Potter, using his sense of touch to figure out where he was, given that he couldn’t actually see the button or the zipper. He tried not to think about what exactly he was touching, concentrating on sliding his fingers along various seams until he reached a rounded metal button. He popped it through the hole before sliding down the zipper that sat just below it. His fingers brushed against the front of Potter’s pants, and he let out a strangled gasp that Potter was all but certain to have heard. He couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed, focused as he was about sliding the jeans down over the curve of Potter’s bloody fantastic arse.

The jeans ended up somewhere in the room, but Draco couldn’t have said where, even with a wand to his throat; he’d lobbed them clean over his shoulder, not really caring where they landed. They could have ended up in an open paint bucket for all the fucks that he gave; he wasn’t paying a modicum of attention. He was far, far more preoccupied with how Potter’s arse looked in the tight black pants he was wearing. He wanted to run his hands over that curve, dig his fingers into the meat of the cheeks and pull them apart, then roll them back together. He wanted to inch the tight material down Potter’s thick thighs until he could really see what he was working with, see all of the man laid out in front of him.

He wanted to make Potter scream. But, alas, the painting was more important than Draco’s baser desires.

Potter shifted his hips when Draco returned the brush to his back, a sharp movement that was paired with a quiet gasp muffled against his forearm. Tiny goosebumps rose on his golden skin as he shivered, following the path of the brush and clustering around the stroke of indigo paint. The paint wasn’t cold as typical paints were – it was actually rather warm now that Draco had mixed his magic through the tubs. The soft touch of the brush had to be the cause of Potter’s reaction, there was little other explanation. It made Draco’s blood heat to think of it, to picture the delicate press of his fingers tracing a path up Potter’s spine, of the shiver and the gasp that he would receive in response.

The goosebumps stayed as Draco lifted the brush from his canvas, dipping it back into the indigo pot to collect more paint on the tip. Draco watched them rise, tiny peaks against the otherwise flat expanse of Potter’s skin. He wanted to run his tongue over them to feel the bumps. More than that, he wanted to know what Potter’s skin tasted like.

Despite the severely reduced brainpower, the piece was starting to come together in front of Draco’s eyes. Almost all of the linework was done, along with the swaths of background that didn’t require any additional colour mixing.

Draco turned his attention then to the larger scars on Potter’s back that were raised and pink, healed but not expertly so. He wondered where Potter had received them, if they were from back in school, a missed step on the stairs leading to a scrape, a tussle with one of his friends out on the grass, a nail dug in just a little too hard. Were they perhaps from his time running from the Dark Lord, holed up in secret locations away from trained Healers, only Granger’s wand to knit his skin back together. Or were they from Auror missions out in the wild landscapes of Russia or Romania or Mongolia, blemishes caused by attractive manly things like wrestling bears or throwing boulders off cliffs, or something liked that. Draco certainly wouldn’t object to seeing such events play out in front of him; he was rather fond of the idea of Potter exerting himself, getting all hot and sweaty for Draco’s benefit.

A larger pink scar towards the middle of Potter’s back was incorporated into a reed, forming the stem and tapering off at the base, down by the kaleidoscope of colours that would soon become water. Another scar, higher up than the first, sat too far up for it to become part of the reeds and the vegetation that was clustered around the edges of the pond. Draco ran a finger over pink ridge of the scar, lips turning up at the corners when Potter sighed, a soft thing that he tried to muffle in the bend of his arm. It would need to be turned into a constellation or a galaxy, that scar. He’d decide exactly what when he reached that point, depending on how he felt about the section.

After a bit, Draco’s back began to ache something awful. He’d been leaning over Potter for hours, kneeling next to his hip, propped up on the caps of his knees. His back had been locked into a severe curve as he hunched over to get a full range of movement across the span of Potter’s back, not able to reach it any other way. He shifted on his knees, a sound of discomfort slipping from between his lips as a muscle in the small of his back spasmed in protest of the awkward angle.

Potter’s eyes flew open, blinking a few times behind the lenses of his glasses. Draco had thought he was asleep considering he hadn’t moved at all for a good half an hour or so. It was delightfully warm in the studio, the air wrapping around their bodies like a caress. He wouldn’t have put it past Potter to seize the opportunity and have a kip. Hell, he probably would have, in Potter’s position.

Potter cleared his throat, swallowing as he turned his head to look back at Draco. “You can move, you know.”

“I am,” Draco said, sitting back on his bent legs. “It’s just the angle that’s annoying. It’s fine, I can deal with it.”

Potter frowned, his brows drawing inwards. “You’ll hurt your back.”

“Really,” Draco said, smiling softly, unable to help himself. Potter’s earnestness was oddly endearing. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“I meant that you could move further back there if you wanted to.” Potter jerked his head to the side, towards his back and legs. “Sit on me if you like. It’ll probably make it easier to reach.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat as he ran his eyes up the length of Potter’s legs, stopping on the round of his arse once again. He’d been trying to put the aforementioned arse out of his mind as he painted, though it had proven very difficult, distracting as it was. He needed all the focus he could get; the piece was getting increasingly complicated, what with the number of colours needing to be mixed and a gradient created as part of the background. He didn’t need Potter’s ridiculously pert arse taking up his sorely needed brain space.

However, if he sat on said arse than he wouldn’t be able to see it. That fact should certainly be taken into consideration.

Another cost/benefit analysis was quickly run through Draco’s brain. Cost: an erection. There was no point in pretending like it wouldn’t happen. Draco was a strong man who could compartmentalise with the best of them; what he couldn’t reasonably be expected to do was reign in his cock after being invited to sit atop Harry Potter’s fantastically shaped arse. No, he knew himself better than that. He wouldn’t give credit where it certainly wasn’t due. Potter would then no doubt notice Draco’s erect cock pressing against him, get annoyed or embarrassed, and storm off in a fully justified huff, leaving Draco with no painting, hours wasted, and an erection that he would need to take care of himself.

However, the benefit of taking up Potter’s offer would be that his painting would be improved, and his back wouldn’t give out before he turned thirty, which it was rapidly on its way to doing.

It took mere seconds for Draco to toss the analysis out the window and throw a leg over Potter’s thighs.

He was still too far back for the change to have any real impact, kneeling over the back of Potter’s calves as he was. He shuffled up further, the hair on Potter’s thighs tickling the inside of his legs and his knees as he moved. It was still a little too far down. Draco’s arms were long, but he’d need to stretch his back and arms to be able to get at Potter’s shoulders and the nape of his neck, which continued to be disappointingly paint-free.

Draco bit his lip, closed his eyes, and sent a wish to Merlin to take pity on him for what he was going to have to do. He shuffled up Potter’s body a little more until he was straddling his arse. He stayed risen up on his knees, putting a bit of distance between his crotch and Potter. It was only polite, after all. If there was one thing he had in spades, it was decorum.

It was immediately apparent that his adjustments put him in a far superior position in more ways than one; Draco’s back no longer hurt, and he got a proper range of motion without straining his wrist. He got to work immediately, dipping his brush into the pot of violet paint and spreading the colour across Potter’s right shoulder blade. The shades swirled together, indigo, violet, and navy blue, on the canvas of Potter’s body. Draco narrowed his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip as he focused on mixing the colours together, dragging out bits to form trails against the gradient backdrop.

Potter shifted his hips underneath Draco, wriggling between his legs. Draco barely noticed at first, too focused on the task at hand. Another shift of Potter’s hips caused Draco to jump, the hair on the outside of Potter’s legs tickling Draco’s inner thighs. He gave Potter a firm flick on the top of the arse with his free hand, right where the waistband of his tight black pants ended.

It worked, given that Potter immediately stopped his wriggling. He froze in place for a moment as Draco worked, rolling the tip of the paintbrush around a knob at the top of Potter’s spine. He let out an extended shuddering breath at the touch, one that made Draco’s stomach muscles clench.

Draco bent over Potter as he reached out to run the brush over the back of his neck, indigo coating the tip. Potter moved right as Draco lowered the brush, tilting his head to the side.

“Stop moving,” Draco hissed, his voice gravelly after not speaking properly for what had to be a few hours now, given the changing light conditions in the studio.

He placed a hand on the back of Potter’s neck, right at the nape where there was no paint yet. He didn’t squeeze, just pressed with a firm hand, his fingers splayed over Potter’s skin. He left his hand there for a few seconds until Potter groaned, a long, low thing that had Draco’s hips twitching forwards into empty air. Heat curled in his stomach as he watched Potter’s eyes slip closed, his lips parting slightly.

It was no surprise that his cock began to harden. It wasn’t his fault, really. It shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, though it did. He’d become so unaware of his body since he’d gotten into a comfortable position atop Potter’s arse, more focused on the task at hand than what his dick was doing. His eyes widened as he looked down at himself, his hard cock tenting the front of his shorts. He rose up higher on his knees, keeping some much-needed distance between his cock and Potter’s arse.

It took less than a minute for his legs to start shaking from the effort of holding himself up like that. He cursed his past self for not taking Blaise up on his weekly gym offers; if there was one time that some extra strength would have come in handy, it was then. Draco’s thighs quickly began to cramp up, his body shaking enough that his hold on the paintbrush wasn’t as steady as it needed to be, given the level of detail he was about to move on to. There was nothing for it, really; he’d need to sit down.

Resigned to his fate, Draco lowered himself down onto the round of Potter’s arse. The burn in his thighs eased almost immediately, though the heat in his stomach increased tenfold. He paused for a moment, concentrating on not rolling his hips the second his hard cock pressed against the cleft of Potter’s arse. He suspected that it was a losing battle, but he was prepared to give it his best shot. He just hoped that Potter was either oblivious enough not to notice the erection stabbing him in the cleft, or that he’d be kind enough to ignore it until Draco finished his painting. Anything other than running out of the room screaming would do.

Potter didn’t do either of those things. Instead, he made a whining sound deep in his throat that Draco felt in his groin, as though there were a string of nerve endings connecting their bodies. The muscles in Potter’s thighs tensed and released, but he didn’t move again. He lay underneath Draco, breath puffing from between his parted lips.

Despite more blood rushing through his groin than his head, Draco was able to refocus on the artwork in front of him. It was so close to being done. Only an hour or so more until he could fling himself away from Potter and lock himself in his bedroom at home with a bottle of wine and his own right hand. He was counting the minutes.

After what seemed like a bloody eternity, Draco finally placed the last silver dot on his canvas and sat back to take stock of his work. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that was beading at his hairline.

“Wow,” he whispered, looking down at the artwork in front of him.

“What?” Potter breathed against his crossed forearms, his voice more than a little ragged. “Is it good?”

“It’s…” Draco started, trailing off. “Fuck. Yes, it’s good.”

It was. The painting was an absolute masterpiece, anyone could see it.

It was split into three sections, each with a dominant colour bleeding through. The bottom third of the piece was a pond, encompassing the area of Potter’s lower back and down to the waistband of his pants, pulled down just so that the top of his arse was visible. There were lily pads scattered throughout the pond and a few ripples painted on the surface of the water, darker and lighter lines next to each other for effect. The water seemed to pool in the dip of Potter’s lower back, right at the base of his spine. Draco had mixed blues and silvers there so that it shined, the water looking alive even without the animation spell being cast.

Above the pond grew a thicket of reeds, strands clustered together at the edge of the waterline. They were parted in places as though a breeze had come through, or some small animal had brushed past in search of a drink. Draco had incorporated one of Potter’s larger scars into the piece there, turning it into a thick stem that was ready to sway with the breeze.

Draco’s favourite part of the piece spanned the area from the middle of Potter’s spine all the way up to the nape of his neck. It stretched across his shoulder blades and melted down the sides of his torso in long, rich lines of colour. It had been by far the most challenging section to paint, lots of tiny details that needed to be perfect, colours that needed to be mixed so they would pop.

Above the thicket of reeds was the cosmos, a wide expanse of violet and indigo and navy, dotted with twinkling stars in silver and gold and shiny galaxies that burst off the canvas in swirls of colour. One of Potter’s biggest scars was there too, contained within Draco’s rendition of the Milky Way, right in the centre. The freckles and moles that dotted Potter’s back had each been turned into shimmering stars that stood out starkly against the dark backdrop. Others were clustered together to form gleaming constellations on his skin, each more intricate than the next. One of the constellations was Draco; he hadn’t been able to help himself. It gave him a perverse level of joy, seeing his namesake splashed across Potter’s skin, the largest one in Draco’s own personal version of the night sky. There were more there too – Orion and Cassiopeia, Scorpius and Eridanus, Gemini and Leo.

It was masterful, a perfect showcase of Draco’s skill. It was exactly what he’d wanted, what he’d planned for. Hell, it was better than that. It was absolutely beautiful, each element working together perfectly on Potter’s skin.

The piece, Draco thought, was gorgeous, yes. But Potter’s back had been that too, before he’d laid still and let Draco splash paint all over it. It wasn’t difficult to make spellbinding art when one had such a brilliant canvas to work with.

Draco sat back on his heels, smiling widely as he admired his work. He placed his thumb at the dip of Potter’s neck where it met the base of his skull. There wasn’t any paint that far up, where the tips of Potter’s curls might smudge it.

“Stay there,” Draco said. “Don’t move yet.” He waited to get up until Potter nodded in response, a movement that was slow as molasses, like Potter wasn’t sure if he was allowed to move while Draco’s fingers were pressed to his neck.

Draco’s knees cracked as he stood, his muscles stiff after sitting in the same position for hours. He angled his body away from Potter as he stepped over him, walking towards his bag that sat abandoned at the base of his usual easel. With any luck, Potter wouldn’t have been able to see just how hard he’d gotten over the course of the evening, if he hadn’t felt it already.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder to see Potter watching him, his green eyes dark despite the bright studio lighting. His lips were still parted, seemingly not having closed since Draco had moved to straddle him properly. The reddened flesh was dark and bitten, as though Potter had been worrying his lip between his teeth as he lay there, hips bracketed by Draco’s thighs.

Draco faltered on his next step, much too focused on Potter’s face, the faraway look in his eyes, to pay attention to where he was going. He tripped, catching himself on a stool. Potter snorted, his lips turning up at the corners.

Draco retrieved his wand from inside his bag, clasping the handle against his palm. With it, he pulled out the camera that he had purchased at the start of their unit on living paintings. There was one in the studio that was available for everyone in the class to borrow, but Draco preferred to use his own. Maribel called him superstitious, but she’d smiled when she said it, so Draco thought it was perhaps more of a fond comment than a teasing one. The magical camera had come in handy when he’d wanted to practise the painting style at home, as he tended to do between classes. Without it there was no point in casting the spell to animate the painting; it might as well have been a standard piece of art with no magical essence included. His camera would turn the image from a Muggle one into a magical one, showcasing the movement of the painting after the spells were cast.

Draco placed the camera on the ground next to his bag, just within Potter’s eyeline. He walked back over to his canvas before crouching down and swinging a leg over Potter’s hips, settling back down into his previous position atop Potter’s arse. He didn’t put his full weight down, sitting up just enough so that he could reach the entire span of Potter’s back when he cast the spell.

“I’m going to animate the painting now,” Draco said, his voice rough. He rested his hand on Potter’s hip for a moment to steady himself, though he felt perfectly stable. Potter made one of those breathy whines again when he did it, the sound rocketing through Draco’s core.

His hand shook slightly as he lifted his wand, the other braced on the floor next to Potter’s hip. He began at the base of Potter’s spine, right where the water of the pond appeared deepest. He muttered the incantation, rotating the tip of his wand to mimic the pattern of the pooling water.

Potter gasped, his thighs tensing between Draco’s legs. Draco tried to ignore him, moving his wand up and down the lines of paint. He rolled his wand against his palm as he pointed the tip of it at the knobs of Potter’s spine, making sure his magic touched each part of the canvas, every stray fleck of paint. The spell activated his magic that had been mixed into the paints, letting it form a layer over Potter’s skin, sinking in and mixing with his own magic that spilled from his pores.

Again, Potter gasped. The sound turned into a groan, long and low. He pressed his face into his forearm, panting into the skin there.

Draco swallowed heavily, not pausing in his incantation. He remembered what it felt like, having the magical paints activated on his own skin. He’d felt the same sizzle of magic when he’d painted the flower with roots curling down the path of his veins, had experienced it again when Jim had painted a swirling design on his wrist, though it hadn’t been as strong. There was a heat to it, a slow burning ember that moved through each layer of skin until it reached your core, curling and simmering there under the surface. It was decidedly intimate, that feeling of someone else’s magic on your skin, mixing with your own. There was a reason that living paintings could only be successfully completed with a partner that the artist was magically compatible with.

When Jim had painted Draco’s skin with his magic during an exercise in class, Draco had felt little more than a popping sensation, like he was in a bubble bath. His own magic on his skin had given him a stronger reaction not unlike the feeling of sherbet lemons fizzing on his tongue.

Evidently, Potter was on the receiving end of the full brunt of it. He’d begun to roll his hips down into the ground, the muscles of his arse clenching and releasing as he moved. Draco wasn’t sure that he even knew he was doing it, was likely more preoccupied with the painless inferno rippling across the skin of his back.

Draco tried to ignore Potter’s reaction as best he could. He attempted to focus on repeating the incantation over and over, making sure that his wand followed the lines of paint as it was supposed to, but there was only so much he could do. Potter was practically writhing underneath him, groaning and whining as he rolled his hips against the floor again and again. It sent damn near all the blood in Draco’s body to his groin, his cock harder than it had ever been before. It pressed against Potter’s arse as Draco leaned forward, his wand travelling up the expanse of Potter’s back. The tip of his wand brushed against the nape of Potter’s neck, stopping at the dip there.

He sat back, breath catching in his throat as he watched the painting come to life before him. Potter’s movements appeared to be helping the spell rather than hindering it, encouraging the magic in the paints to animate. Draco’s magic washed across Potter’s body as he shifted, sticking to his skin and settling there, pooling, as though it was always meant to be so.

The water in the pond undulated with the movements of Potter’s hips; the surface tension breaking, tiny waves forming and rippling as Potter rolled his hips again and again against the sheet covering the scuffed floorboards of the studio. The reeds swayed to-and-fro as though blown by some invisible breeze. They parted and came together as the surface of the water rippled, influenced by Potter’s reactions. The stars twinkled against the backdrop of the night sky, coruscating in time with his pulse. The galaxies gleamed, shimmering as they rotated gently, as though drawn by some invisible force. A comet streaked across the sky as Draco watched, darting from one side of Potter’s back to the other.

Draco shifted his weight to one side, bracing himself with a palm pressed to the floor by Potter’s torso. He leaned sideways, trying to get a look at Potter’s face. There wasn’t much to see, given that Potter had buried his head in his crossed arms, his face hidden from view. Despite that, Draco could clearly see that Potter was biting down on his lower lip. He felt his cheeks heat as he watched, warmth curling in his groin.

He stood up then, a roaring sound filling his ears. He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded; the air in the room was stiflingly hot, magic absolutely everywhere. There was a layer of tension that had settled on seemingly every surface, coating Draco’s skin where he had touched Potter.  He rushed across the room, taking large strides, to grab the camera sitting next to his bag. He didn’t want to cast an Accio lest it mess with the magic in the paints, volatile as they were. He didn’t want everything he’d done that afternoon to go to waste, particularly now that he’d seen the breathtaking finished product.

Potter lifted his head then, looking right at Draco. His lips were bitten and oh so red, the bottom one still clasped between his teeth. His eyes were dark and glassy as he watched Draco move across the room, his breath coming from his mouth in heavy pants.

Draco felt the sudden urge to drop to his knees in front of Potter’s prone form, to slide a hand into those wild curls and tug. He wanted to pull Potter’s head back and bite at his lips, leaving his own teeth marks in the reddened flesh.

He stopped halfway across the room, camera in hand, his eyes fixed on Potter. Potter stared right back, not breaking Draco’s gaze, the air between them charged. A flash of movement caught Draco’s eye; another comet rocketing across the expanse of Potter’s back, disappearing when it reached the hollow of his armpit. Draco’s breath caught in his throat as he watched his own magic dance across Potter’s skin. The bottom of his stomach felt as though it was ready to drop out, like he was about to take a sharp dive on his broom. He couldn’t avert his eyes, couldn’t stop staring at the man before him.

Potter had always been attractive, of course; Draco wouldn’t be nearly as arse over tit for him if he wasn’t. But the thing was, Draco usually thought of Potter as hot. He was hot like the burning fucking sun in mid-July, so attractive that the sight of him made Draco’s mouth go dry. Potter was hot, but Draco didn’t often see him as beautiful. Yet, that was exactly what he was right then. Potter was gorgeous, an Adonis carved out of stone, lying there on the floor in the middle of the studio at Draco’s request, letting Draco do what he wanted with him. He’d offered his body up to Draco, allowed him to imbue him with his magic.

Green swirled in Potter’s eyes as Draco watched, transfixed. It was as though his irises too had been impacted by Draco’s incantations, the colour coming alive. Red beaded on his bottom lip where his teeth had cut into the soft flesh there, breaking through the skin as he visibly fought to keep control over his body’s reactions.

He was cut from the stars, Draco thought, that fact more apparent than ever as he lay there on the scuffed studio floorboards. Potter’s entire being matched the image on his skin, right down to his magical core. His power was obvious, it always had been. Draco could feel it, Potter’s magic crackling in the air with his own, despite Potter not having intentionally released it. It seeped out of Potter’s skin and poured into the air, curling and twisting around every bit of Draco that it could reach.

Draco knew he was possibly going a little mental, was soliloquising as he stared down at Potter, but he didn’t much care. Draco thought that when the stars first twinkled to life and colour bloomed in the darkness between them, the cosmos bursting into existence, that it must have created Potter first. There was little other explanation for how he could be as he was, powerful and intense, charming yet kind, seemingly so perfectly crafted to fulfill each of Draco’s fantasies. Draco could taste Potter’s magic on his tongue, at the corners of his mouth, settling in the space between his lips. It tasted like ozone and something sweet, like spun sugar.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, finally tearing his eyes away from Potter’s. He grabbed the camera with shaky hands, slowly walking back towards where Potter was lying. He stood over him, looking down on the living, breathing piece of art that was stretched out before him.

Potter stayed quiet as Draco snapped a few pictures, the only sound the whirring of the camera and the little gasps that Potter was making as he continued to roll his hips. It was only necessary to take one photo; that was all Maribel had asked for. Draco took a few extra anyway, holding them in his hand as they developed, colours bleeding across the charmed paper to form shapes, details coming to life in front of Draco’s eyes. He wanted to slip a few of them into his pocket to take home with him. He’d revisit them in the privacy of his own bedroom once he managed to drag himself away from the studio and away from Potter’s writhing form.

The pictures began to move as they developed, the image of Potter blooming across the paper. Draco could see Potter shifting his hips in each of them, a slow, steady roll against the floor again and again.

“Fucking hell,” Draco muttered, running a hand down his face. His cock ached; he’d been hard for what felt like hours and the sight of Potter lying there, so very obviously turned on, wasn’t getting any less appealing.

“Is it done?” Potter asked, his words broken by a gasp. “Fuck, is it?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, his tongue thick in his mouth. “It’s done.”

“Oh, thank god,” Potter gasped. He rolled over then, covering his face with his hands. He groaned against his palms, his hard cock visibly twitching in his pants. He was so fucking hard that Draco swore he could see the tip of Potter’s cock peeking out of the top of his waistband, pants pulled down low on his hips. The head of it was stained purple, angry and wanting, Potter having been on the edge for hours. Draco didn’t know how he’d been able to stand it; he couldn’t imagine he would have had the strength to do so, had he been in Potter’s position.

Draco managed to hold in a whimper as he watched Potter’s cock twitch, but only barely.

“I need,” Potter said, letting his hands drop from his face, “to get this off. Now.”

“Yes,” Draco said, nodding. “It won’t feel like that after you wash it off, the heat.”

Potter’s eyes were so very dark, his pupils blown wide. He swallowed, gaze fixed firmly on Draco’s face. “Come back to mine.”

“I…” Draco trailed off. “I don’t-“

“I won’t be able to wash the paint off of the middle of my back. You said so earlier, remember?”

Draco had indeed said that. He had nobody but himself to blame, really. He swallowed, trying and failing to get his throat to work.

“Come to mine instead,” he finally said. He wanted Potter in his space, among his things. He wanted to be able to remember him there after he left, something to picture when he finally got his hand on his cock. “I, uh, I owe you dinner after last weekend.” He glanced over his shoulder at the large window, night sky now visible instead of afternoon sunshine. “Well, a late dinner, but still.”

“Alright,” Potter said. His eyes were intense as he stared at Draco. “I’ll come back to yours.”

Draco bumbled around the studio as Potter got ready to leave, slipping that ill-fitting shirt over his head and pulling his jeans back on. The darker sections of the painting were visible through the white cotton, the twinkling of the stars bright even with the additional layer covering them. The paint tins were easily gathered and tucked back into Draco’s bag, though he suspected that he would have to throw them out when he got back home. That or use them within the week; they wouldn’t last much longer, having been sitting open for so long, his magical essence steadily weakening as it stayed separated from his magical core.

“Coming?” Potter asked, opening the door of the studio.

Draco nodded, grabbing his bag and his wand, and stalking towards the door with what he hoped was a modicum of grace. Potter let him walk through first, stepping aside so that Draco could lock up the studio using the password that Maribel had owled him.

They made their way down to the lobby, stopping in front of the dusty old Floo there. Draco went through first, speaking his address loudly and clearly to make sure that Potter caught it. The last thing he wanted was for Potter to mishear him and end up in some random bloke’s living room, hard and wanting and covered in Draco’s magic. He didn’t much want anyone else to see Potter that way; it was for his eyes only.

He stepped into his living room with shaky hands and heat curling in his gut, the smell of his and Potter’s combined magic filling his nose. His flat looked annoyingly normal, as though it were any standard evening and not the scene of something earth shattering, the universe completely tilting on its axis. The fruit bowl was still sitting on the table outside, a few stray oranges left there from earlier. Draco’s battered copy of Little Women was resting on the couch, a shiny red bookmark marking his last page. There were a few stray dishes sitting in the sink, Draco’s mug from that morning still on the coffee table. It was all shockingly normal.

What wasn’t normal was the Floo whirring to life behind him. Draco had been allowed only seconds of reprieve from the thick layer of tension that had coated the studio, before Potter stepped through into Draco’s flat. The room seemed to shrink all of a sudden, growing smaller until the corners poked at Draco’s elbows, the wall fitting to his back.

Potter looked around, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes seemed to rest on certain things, elements that he was no doubt cataloguing in his mind as parts of Draco, things from his life that were noteworthy in some way. Draco assumed, anyway, because he couldn’t actually see; he was too busy openly staring at Potter.

“So…” Potter said after a moment, shuffling his feet. “Should I … should I shower?”

“Fuck, yes, right,” Draco muttered. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, though it didn’t quite work. Potter’s cock was tenting the front of his jeans not three feet away from Draco; of course his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “The bathroom’s through here.”

Draco supposed that he could have led Potter to the guest bathroom, the one that was tucked in between the two bedrooms that were never used for sleeping. One held Draco’s Potions workstation, rows of shelving installed along every wall, large benches and cabinets filling the remainder of the space. The other he had turned into a study, though he did keep a very comfy couch in there for when Pansy stayed over and looked like she might be liable to sick up on the Persian rug if Draco let her sleep it off in the living room.

He could have ushered Potter into that bathroom, pointing out all of the products that he and Pansy had stocked there together, free for him to use.

He could have done that, but instead he walked Potter to the door of his own bedroom. He heard Potter’s breath catch in his throat when Draco flicked the light on. He exhaled against the back of Draco’s neck, warm and damp. Draco shivered, closing his eyes for a moment at the sensation.

“It’s through here,” he said, nodding towards one of the doors on the opposite wall.

“Your room is very … you,” Potter said. He was looking around, head turning this way and that as he took everything in.

Draco wanted to ask what he meant by that, but his brain melted a little bit at the sight of Potter standing next to his bed. He hadn’t felt the need to make it that morning, not anticipating company. The sheets were rumpled, the bedcovers thrown back, the pillows off centre. It probably smelled like him. He wondered if Potter noticed.

The lights in the ensuite were bright, making Draco’s eyes water. He turned the little dial to dim them, giving the room a vibe akin to mood lighting at an expensive restaurant, one that had little candles on every table. Draco quite liked those restaurants, was always partial to going to them on dates. They made his hair look better, the candlelight dancing across his jawline and highlighting the rise of his cheekbones. It wouldn’t do him any harm to have similar lighting conditions as Potter looked at him, he was sure.

Despite his ulterior motives, his personal bathroom was indeed the objectively superior choice to offer up to Potter. There were better things in the ensuite bathroom; a bigger shower with multiple jets, fluffy white towels that were large enough to cover your entire body, more expensive products that Draco considered to be the best. If he showered in there, Potter would use Draco’s coconut body wash and his vanilla shampoo and maybe even his aftershave, the one with the hint of sage. He’d walk out of there smelling like Draco and Draco would be able to live inside one of his darkest, dirtiest fantasies, if only for a few moments.

The shower water came out of the wall warm, as it always did. Blaise had told him once that Muggle showers didn’t do that, that they needed time to heat up first. Blaise had found that out the hard way when he’d stepped straight into his Muggle boyfriend’s shower on a winter evening and got a jet of ice-cold water to the face. He’d nearly broken up with the bloke on the spot, apparently.

It wasn’t strictly necessary for Draco to turn the shower on for Potter, but he wanted to. It made warmth creep through his chest and settle under his ribs. The same feeling bloomed when he set one of his fluffy towels on the counter for Potter to use when he was finished.

“Don’t go too far,” Potter said, suddenly very close behind Draco. “Don’t forget that I need help washing the paint off my back. You were very thorough in putting it there, from what I could tell.”

Draco left the bathroom in a hurry. He’d been mere moments away from snapping, from pushing Potter against the wall and yanking his jeans down. He’d been damn close to doing it, his last nerve severely frayed. Instead, he closed the door to the bathroom behind himself and sat on the edge of his rumpled bed. He wasn’t sure what else to do aside from sit and wait, although that seemed somewhat of an odd thing to do, listening to another bloke shower. He knew the moment that Potter stepped into the shower thanks to his eavesdropping, the sound of the water hitting the tiles diminishing.

Potter groaned when he stepped under the warm spray and Draco tried very hard not to think about what he probably looked like right in that moment, only a single door separating the two of them. He tried not to think about Potter wrapping a hand around his aching prick, taking the opportunity to jerk himself off before he called Draco in. Draco wondered if Potter’s come would still be splattered across the tiles when he entered the room, if he’d have to pretend that he didn’t see it, that he didn’t wish that it had been his cheekbones that Potter had painted white instead.

It was a torturous few minutes of sitting there listening to the water crashing down onto Potter’s naked body, of sitting on the side of his bed wanting nothing more than to drag Potter out of the shower and into the soft sheets.

“Malfoy,” Potter called out. “Come in when you’re ready.”

It was at that moment that Draco realised that he was still painfully, obviously hard, and that he should have taken the opportunity to wank just as Potter likely had. He couldn’t very well go in there with his cock bobbing in front of him, pointing to Potter’s arse like a compass indicating magnetic north. It wouldn’t be polite, to say the least.

“Malfoy, you git. Hurry up,” Potter shouted.

Draco could hear the smile in his voice. It made his cock twitch in his shorts. He glared down at it, frown intensifying when it twitched again.

For a moment he debated not going in there at all. He could walk back down the hall to the kitchen and turn the hob on, pretend that he couldn’t hear Potter over the sounds of pots and pans banging together as he cooked. He could do that, but he wouldn’t. He wasn’t about to let the opportunity of a lifetime – a very wet, very naked, very horny Harry Potter inviting him into a shower – go to waste. The very idea was nonsensical.

Draco pulled his shirt over his head as he walked into the bathroom, nudging the door closed with his hip. There was a thick layer of steam hanging in the air, mixed with the smell of coconut and vanilla. It was intoxicating, heady.

Draco unbuttoned his shorts and slipped them off, folding them and placing them on the counter next to the spare towel. Potter’s clothes were crumpled in a pile on the floor, tossed there without much thought. Draco spared them a brief glance before doing a double-take, his eyes widening.

Potter’s tight black pants were sitting on top of the pile, standing out starkly against his white shirt.

Eyes wide, Draco turned his head to glance at Potter in the shower for the first time since he’d entered the room. The figure inside was a little blurry, but visible enough that Draco could see that he was completely naked, no pants to speak of.

If Draco had been asked before he entered the room if his cock could have gotten any harder than it was when he’d been sat on the edge of his bed, he would have said no. Evidently, he would have been wrong.

Draco’s head spun, every bit of blood in his body pooling in his groin. He’d expected Potter to keep his pants on, well, because … he didn’t know. Propriety perhaps? One last final sliver of denial? Potter had invited him into the bloody shower, he was quite possibly still hard, and he’d been grinding against the floor as Draco straddled him for a good length of time that evening. If there was ever going to be a chance for Draco to take exactly what he wanted from Potter, it was then. It had practically been handed to him on a silver platter by Potter himself. He might as fucking well go for it, he concluded, as he slipped off his own pants and tossed them on top of the pile of Potter’s discarded clothes.

A fresh cloud of steam emerged from the shower when Draco cracked the door open, now sans any clothing himself. Potter stood facing the wall, letting the water from the overhead spout run down his back. The stream of fast-moving water had begun to wash away the paint on his skin, colours bleeding and mixing. They ran down his back and over the curve of his arse in tiny rivers, colours slipping down the insides of his thighs. He looked like a watercolour, his whole body a canvas. Trails of paint swirled around the drain, shiny and bright. Draco watched the colours pool in the water around his feet as he breathed loudly, the sound laboured though he hadn’t done anything more than stand there and stare at Potter’s naked arse.

Potter glanced over his shoulder then, his eyes slightly narrowed. He smiled at Draco and pointed at his eyes, water running down the side of his face. “Fair warning, I can’t see much.”

“How have you not gotten your eyes fixed yet?” Draco said. He let the door to the shower close behind him, encasing him in with Potter, steam pressing against their bodies on all sides. “I mean, really, what kind of wizard are you?”

Potter shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me all that much. Not like I have naked blokes in the shower with me often enough for it to be an issue.”

“Did you not want help then?” Draco quirked an eyebrow at Potter. His hair was starting to get damp from the steam, hanging heavy over his forehead.

Potter’s answering chuckle was low and gravelly. It sent heat coursing through Draco’s body, his cock perking up though his erection had never actually waned. “No, I do. I very much do.”

Draco took the opportunity to step forward, joining Potter under the spray. Potter’s shoulders tensed but he didn’t move away at all; if anything, he leaned in closer. He shivered at the first touch of Draco’s hands on his shoulders, his muscles immediately loosening as though commanded to by magic. Draco pressed his thumbs to the skin, working at the border of the painting until it smudged and began to run, navy and purple and little flecks of gold spilling over the jut of Potter’s collarbone and down his front.

Hands were good, but there was quite a bit of ground to cover. Draco reached around Potter to grab at the flannel that was spelled to stay on the little hook next to the hot water tap. He chanced a look at Potter’s cock when he leaned around him, wanting to see if he was still hard. He damn near swallowed his tongue at the sight of it, dark and dripping, so hard that it bobbed against his stomach.

Potter’s eyes met Draco’s as he dragged them up the body in front of him, stained with colour and flushed red with arousal. Potter didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. Draco supposed that meant that he shouldn’t be either.

Draco straightened up behind Potter, flannel in hand. He ran the damp cloth across Potter’s shoulders, nodding to himself when the paint came off far easier than before. He stepped closer, let his hips rock forward to press his cock against the cleft of Potter’s arse.

“Shit,” Potter muttered. His shoulders flexed as he moved his arms, though Draco couldn’t see what he was doing to himself. The paint came off easily as Draco ran the flannel across Potter’s back, the colours mixing in the water that pooled at their feet.

The muscles in Potter’s shoulders were still rippling; Draco suspected that he was jerking himself off, but that couldn’t possibly be the case. He’d have come already if he were, given how long he’d been hard that evening.

“Is it done yet?” Potter asked, his voice rough and low.

“Almost,” Draco replied. He tossed the flannel onto the floor, away from their feet. Potter shivered when Draco ran his hands down his back, pressing his fingertips to the knobs of Potter’s spine. He kneaded the small of Potter’s back, splaying his fingers across Potter’s hips as he worked his thumbs into the skin. He let his hands slip further down, caressing the sides of Potter’s hips, the top of his arse. He ran a finger down the length of Potter’s arse cheek, slipping his thumb between them.

“Oh fuck,” Potter muttered, arching his back. He moaned when Draco did it again, shoving his arse back towards Draco.

“Do you…” Draco asked, trailing off as he stared at his hands cupping the roundness of Potter’s arse. “I mean-“

“Yes,” Potter gasped. He reached a hand back to grab at Draco’s wrist, tugging him closer. “Whatever the fuck you’re trying to say, the answer is yes.”

Blanket consent was as good as any. Draco watched as a stream of violet ran down Potter’s back, slipping between his arse cheeks. He dropped to his knees, Potter’s moan bouncing off the tiles and echoing in his ears.

Potter was just as colourful down there as his back had been, colour pooling at the small of his back, trapped against the underside of his pert arse. Draco ran his thumb along the bottom of one of the cheeks, the pad of it coming away dark green. He groaned and spread Potter open, listening to the sounds of pants and groans mixing with the crashing of the water.

Draco paused, his face inches away from Potter’s skin. “Is this alright?” he asked. Potter’s arsehole clenched when Draco’s warm breath washed over it.

A hand was sliding through Draco’s hair then, fingers slipping between the damp strands. Draco had barely a moment to breath in before Potter was pulling Draco’s face towards him, pressing Draco’s mouth right where he wanted him.

Draco groaned against Potter’s arse, opening his mouth and thrusting his tongue. He used his thumbs to spread Potter wide, fingers gripping Potter’s hips tightly.

“Oh my god,” Potter muttered, rocking his hips against Draco’s face. “Oh my fucking god.” He whimpered, thighs shaking.

Draco closed his eyes and pointed his tongue, tracing the tip around the outside of Potter’s hole. It made Potter squirm and tighten his fingers in Draco’s hair, rolling his hips as though he could force Draco’s tongue inside himself by doing so.

Potter tasted phenomenal, all musky and male in a way that made Draco’s mouth water. It was exactly what he’d dreamed of alone at night in his bed, fingers wrapped around his spurting cock. The taste lingered on the point of his tongue as he flattened it and licked over Potter’s hole again and again. The sounds that Potter made had Draco wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and squeezing, warding off his own orgasm. There were whimpers and moans, swears said under his breath as he pulled Draco’s face against him, Draco’s name as a prayer uttered again and again.

“I’m … fucking hell,” Potter gasped. He laughed, a breathless thing that sounded more than a little strained.

Draco pointed his tongue and pressed it into Potter, licking inside as he spread him wide with his thumbs. He let go of one of Potter’s arse cheeks, running his finger down over the back of Potter’s bollocks. They were drawn up tight, barely moving even as he rolled his hips. Potter’s hand was clamped firmly around his own cock, squeezing at the base. Draco ran his fingers down Potter’s wrist and across the head of his cock. Despite the pressure that Potter was putting on it, it was still beading at the tip, rivulets running down the length of it and dripping onto the alabaster tiles.

He didn’t know how Potter was still going, how he was still making noises that sounded like he loved it, like he could stand there and let Draco lick him open all day, when he was so hard, so obviously close to the edge.

Draco gave one last thrust of his tongue, twisting his face to run the point of it across Potter’s hole before he leaned back. Potter’s fingers clenched tight in his hair, trying to pull him back in. Draco grabbed at his wrist, gently tugging it away from his hair and towards his face. Potter let him, allowed Draco to move his hand.

The kiss that Draco pressed to Potter’s palm was painfully intimate and no doubt betrayed the feelings that he’d attempted to keep hidden, showcased how bloody arse over tit he was for Potter, but he didn’t much care. He tilted his chin up to see Potter watching him. His eyes were wide and his lips red, his mouth dropped open.

“You … fuck,” Potter said.

“Eloquent as ever,” Draco replied, rising to stand.

Potter ran his thumb over Draco’s chin looking awestruck; the pad of it was green when he pulled it away. Draco wiped his chin with the back of his hand, though it didn’t do much; his wrist and arm were already streaked with colour, as was his chest. He suspected that the lower half of his face looked much the same, paint transferred from Potter’s body to his.

A hand slapped against Draco’s own, Potter’s fingers unnaturally slick. He looked down to see Potter wiping a handful of lubricant across his palm, somehow conjured without a wand or any verbal commands. If Draco hadn’t already sunk to his knees for Potter, he would have done it right then.

Potter swallowed heavily as he stared at Draco, his eyes dark, the pupils blown. “Fuck me,” he said. “I need it so fucking badly that it hurts.” He looked deadly serious despite the bawdy line, a little crease between his brows.

“Yeah,” Draco said, staring at Potter’s reddened mouth. “I’m going to fuck you right here in my shower with my magic all over your skin. I’ll do it hard and you’re just going to take it, aren’t you, Potter? You’ll take what I give you because you love it.”

Potter groaned at that, his head tipping back against Draco’s shoulder. Draco took the opportunity to press their lips together in a messy kiss, licking into Potter’s mouth and curling his tongue.

He could tell the exact moment that Potter felt his fingers pressing against his arse; Potter’s mouth slackened and his head tipped back further, his fingers tightening around Draco’s wrist. He was loose and a little wet inside, as though he’d been fingering himself before he’d invited Draco into the shower. Perhaps he had been. With any luck, he’d pictured Draco as he was doing it, on his knees behind him as he’d been in reality.

Potter keened when Draco finally slipped his fingers inside, a rough sound that echoed off the tiles. Draco curled his fingers and pressed down, holding on to Potter as he arched his back and rolled his hips.

“You don’t need much more, do you?” Draco barely recognised his own voice, the tone was so low. “You’re so wet and loose already, practically dripping down my fingers.”

“Nope,” Potter gasped, shaking his head. “I won’t, I’m – fuck.” He shivered against Draco, shoving his hips back onto Draco’s fingers as he thrust them in and out.

Draco thought that he might actually die when he finally pressed his cock against Potter’s arse and began to sink inside. Potter’s face was pressed against the wall, his breath creating clouds on the damp tiles. His spine was arched, his arse pushed back towards Draco as he rolled his hips, attempting to pull Draco into his body quicker than Draco would allow. He was so warm inside, his silky muscles clinging to Draco’s cock as he pushed in.

“Oh my god,” Potter muttered, fingers squabbling on the tiles. “Oh my god, fuck me, Malfoy, come on.”

Draco did, not seeing any reason to deny either of them what they wanted any longer. Potter’s body was tight, muscles clenching and releasing around Draco’s cock as he began to thrust. Potter made sounds that had Draco’s toes curling against the floor of the shower, keens and whimpers and Draco’s name said with so much praise that he was sure he’d died and ascended to the next plane of existence.

He slipped a hand into Potter’s unruly curls and gently pulled his head back, just as he’d wanted to do in the studio with Potter lying prone beneath him. He mouthed at the side of Potter’s throat as he pumped in and out of his body in short, sharp thrusts. He traced the tendons on the side of Potter’s neck with the point of his tongue, curling it around his earlobe and nipping at the skin there.

Potter hadn’t moved his hand, still gripping his weeping cock tight around the base. Draco flicked at the back of his wrist, trying to get him to release his hold.

“I can’t,” Potter laughed. The sound was breathless. He turned his face towards Draco, pressed it against Draco’s neck. “I’ll come if I let go.”

“Is that not the goal here?” Draco asked. He rubbed his thumb over Potter’s wrist, increasing the speed of his thrusts, his hips snapping. Heat built rapidly in his groin, a warm squeeze that took his breath away and made him shudder.

“Yeah, but not yet.” Potter sounded almost embarrassed, hiding his face in Draco’s neck. “I want to come with you.”

Draco laughed then, shuddering as Potter clenched around his cock. “You will, trust me. I’m so fucking close, it won’t take much.”

Potter whimpered, his grip on his cock relaxing enough for Draco to replace the hand there with his own.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of Potter’s chin. He tightened his grip on Potter’s length, palm slick with lube and the paint that was running down both of their bodies in bright, colourful streams.

“I’m going to come,” Potter moaned, his thigh muscles tightening and spasming. “Draco, fucking hell, keep touching me, please.”

Draco felt his eyes nearly roll back in his head when Potter’s arse began to clench around him, as though trying to hold his cock deep inside and keep it there. His fist moved rapidly up and down Potter’s length as it twitched and beaded at the tip, precome hitting the tiled wall.

Potter was still talking, though most of what he was saying was garbled and didn’t make any sense. He had a firm grip on Draco’s wrist, his other hand splayed against the wall of the shower to brace himself. His body locked up when he started to come, spurting hot and white over Draco’s rapidly moving fist. His moans bounced off the tiles, echoing in Draco’s ears. He’d never forget the sound of Potter coming; he’d lock it away in a Pensieve if he needed to. Potter’s body went boneless against Draco’s, barely able to hold himself up as he shivered, coming back down from his high.

Draco guided him towards the wall, pressing his chest against it to take some of his weight. He held Potter there with a hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped around his hip. He continued to thrust in and out of Potter’s body, his orgasm building quickly. Potter’s hole was loose around him, the muscles inside silky smooth and so very warm along the length of his cock. Potter had the side of his face pressed against the cool tiles of the wall, his eyes heavy lidded as he glanced back at Draco, watching his face as he pumped his cock in and out of Potter’s body.

Draco’s orgasm shot through him as soon as he looked down at where they were joined, at where his cock disappeared inside Potter. Paint was smeared across the base of his cock, the telltale shininess of magic evident there. The visual was too much for Draco to handle, his magic fucked into Harry alongside his cock, buried deep in there with his come. Draco’s eyes slipped closed as his hips rolled, heat exploding through his groin. He gasped as his thrusts stuttered, his cock twitching and his balls drawing up as he came deep inside Potter’s body.

Potter began to roll his hips when Draco’s movements stuttered, fucking himself back onto Draco’s softening cock as he came down. He only stopped when Draco stilled him with hands on his hips, dragging him upright to press their bodies firmly together, his chest to Potter’s back. His soft cock slipped out of Potter’s body in a warm rush, drops of come hitting the floor and mixing with the streaks of paint and Draco’s magical essence, glittering against the white tiles.

“Dinner,” Potter said then, clearing his throat. “I need dinner or I’m going to collapse.”

Draco snorted against the back of his neck, tracing his hairline with the tip of his nose. Potter’s hair curled there, even though it was heavy and wet. “Who am I to deny you what you want?” he replied, only half joking.

Potter turned in his arms, pressing their chests together. “What I want is to eat something, sit down for a bit, then suck you off in your dining room. Or your living room, whichever you’d prefer. I’m not picky.” He leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a heated kiss, lips slick and tongues curling.

They washed the remainder of the paint off quickly, Potter stealing hungry glances at Draco’s soft cock, his eyes still dark.

“I don’t have much,” Draco said once they were in the kitchen, standing in front of his cooling cupboard. “I haven’t been to the shop this week, but I could do a pasta?”

Potter flashed him a smile, sunny and bright. He was wearing one of Draco’s shirts with a picture of Big Ben on it, bought from one of those shite tourist booths on the street when he and Pansy had been out day drinking in a Muggle area of London one afternoon. “Brilliant. Need any help?”

“Sit. You’ve done enough today.”

It wasn’t a lie; Potter had arguably had a more demanding day than Draco had, despite just lying there for most of it. The length of time that his erection had hung about qualified him for that title without any other evidence for or against.

“What did it look like, anyway?” Potter asked. He snagged a bit of tomato from the cutting board as Draco tipped the lot of it into the saucepan.

“What? The painting?”

Potter nodded, chewing voraciously on the slice of tomato. Draco wondered when he’d last eaten, if he perhaps should have packed a lunch for the two of them and brought it to the studio along with the paints.

“Did you not see it?” Draco frowned, setting the cutting board down and stirring the diced tomato in with the softened onion.

“No,” Potter said. “Couldn’t exactly turn my head enough to see my back properly. I was going to look in the mirror before I got in the shower, but I wasn’t, uh, thinking all that much. More important things, you know?” He smirked at Draco, so very obviously running his eyes up Draco’s front. Draco was wearing one of his fluffy white bathrobes with his initials on the pocket, sash tied loosely at the front.

Draco jerked his head in the direction of the living room. “There are pictures in my bag, go take a look.”

Potter did, though not before giving Draco’s arse a quick squeeze through his bathrobe. He returned with the bag, setting it on the dining table and sifting through it until he found the stack of pictures. His mouth dropped open as he stared at them, his eyes widening.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. He looked up at Draco, gaping. “You did this? On me?”

“Yes,” Draco said, ducking his head as his cheeks began to heat. It was nice to hear that Potter liked the look of the painting, but he wasn’t used to such unrestrained enthusiasm. He stirred the diced garlic in with the rest of the sauce, trying to push down his smile.

A grin spread across Potter’s face, his mouth stretching wide. “It’s incredible. Really fucking incredible, Draco.”

“Good.” Draco turned the hob off on the pasta and gave the sauce one final stir. “Grab some bowls, would you? They’re in that top cupboard.”

Potter’s arms came around him then, locking around his waist. He rested his forehead against the back of Draco’s neck, pressing a soft kiss there.

“You can paint me anytime you like,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “If you want to.”

“I do,” Draco said after a moment. “I want that quite a lot.”

“Brilliant.” There was an audible smile in Potter’s voice that made an answering one spread across Draco’s face. He forced his expression into a scowl as he turned in Potter’s grip, fixing him with a look.

“Get the bloody bowls out, you tosser. Making me come my brains out doesn’t get you off the hook, you know.”

Potter pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, smiling against his lips. He pulled back, eyes bright as he looked at Draco. “Course not,” he said, slightly breathless. He set two bowls down on the counter next to the stovetop, one blue and one white. He tugged at Draco’s hand when he went to serve the food, smiling when Draco quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve still got paint on your face,” he said, running a finger over Draco’s chin.

“Do I?” Draco asked, sliding a hand into Potter’s hair and tugging. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” Potter gasped. His fingers went slack, his eyes slipping closed. “Definitely yours.”

Draco pressed his lips to a spot of indigo at the hollow of Potter’s throat, swiping his tongue across the warm skin there.

“Surely the pasta can wait,” Potter said. He tugged at the knot on the front of Draco’s bathrobe, loosening it until it fell open.

There was a speck of silver under Potter’s left eye. His eyelids fluttered when Draco kissed the spot, his breath coming out in a rush.

“Yeah,” Draco breathed, right against Harry’s skin. “Yeah, it can wait.”