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London is cold. The breeze drifting up from the river is sharp enough to numb the nose, and as Harry leans against his car and takes a long drag of his cigarette, he shivers, quietly enjoying it. They haven’t had snow yet, but there’s something about the frozen peace of the city in early December that he loves. The way everything slows down and brightens.
The lights in the phone box across the road flicker, a warm, sparkling yellow only found in magic, and out walks Draco, all herringbone coat and neatly buffed oxfords and briefcase full of important papers.
Draco shuts the door with a quick thrust of his elbow. The lights wink out and it’s an ordinary, unremarkable Muggle phone box once more, scuffed windows and all.
“Got one of those for me?”
Harry straightens and pats down his pockets. “Smoking?” His breath clouds around him, white and fluffy. “Must be bad.”
He tosses his Marlboros in the air as soon as Draco is close enough to catch them one-handed. Draco hums in a noncommittal, distinctly Draco-ish way, tucking his briefcase under his arm. Harry gives him his cheap plastic lighter, and after he watches him struggle with the dodgy flint wheel for the third time, he pops his cigarette between his teeth and cups his hands around the flame to shield it from the wind.
The fine ends of Draco’s fringe brush gently against his fingertips; he smells like parchment and coffee and musky cologne. Harry smiles.
“Delicious,” Draco says after his first inhale. He steps back, blowing the smoke sideways, turning his hand to admire the glowing tip. “Why don’t I do this more often?” He takes another quick drag.
Harry rocks on his heels. “Because it’s horrible and it’ll probably kill us?”
“Ah,” says Draco. “Yes. That. Feels lovely, though, doesn’t it?” He points at Harry’s car. “Can we get in now? It’s so cold.”
Harry cranks up the under seat heating as soon as they’re inside. His playlist stutters to life together with the engine; he catches Draco’s gaze falling to the stereo before ticking up quickly to meet Harry’s.
Harry grins. He turns the volume down.
“Atmospheric,” Draco says with a baiting little twist of his mouth.
“Don’t you dare insult Robert Smith under my roof,” Harry says, laughing at Draco’s mean chuckle. He checks the mirrors. “Where to, m’lord?”
Draco cracks his window, flicking the ash building up on the end of his cigarette. “Oh,” he says. “Anywhere?”
“Anywhere.” Harry hums. “Anywhere, anywhere, anywhere… that’s so specific…”
“Just drive, you twat,” Draco says fondly.
Harry can probably count on one hand the amount of times Draco has been in his car; can count fewer times Draco has explicitly asked him for a lift.
Are you busy? Draco’s message said earlier, when Harry was, indeed, busy hanging film in his studio. When Draco quickly followed it up with can you bring that car of yours to the Ministry? and Can we go for a drive? and I need to clear my head, Harry wasted no time rinsing his hands, tugging on his boots, and grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. He forgot to turn off the lights on his way out, something he only noticed when he pulled out of his space on the street outside.
Underneath his jacket, Harry is still wearing the raggedy old t-shirt he does all of his dirty work in; it’s tinged with the faint, vinegary scent of developer. He buries his chin into the soft black wool of his scarf and hopes Draco can’t smell it.
He drives east, in the opposite direction of both of their homes, and turns onto the Embankment, following the steady, buzzing flow of nighttime traffic. The entire time, he feels Draco’s eyes on him, and when Harry allows himself to look back, he catches the glitter of Christmas lights reflecting in the pale sheen of Draco’s skin, his hair.
Something warm and achy and just a bit shameful tugs deep at the centre of Harry’s chest.
It’s a feeling he’s used to, a feeling that has become easier to push down as the years stretch on between them. Occasionally, it’ll rear its awful head, usually during passing, quiet moments that take Harry off guard: when Draco looks particularly good in a waistcoat, when he makes a distinctively biting observation, when he laughs too generously at one of Harry’s stupid jokes but then follows it up by calling him a silly twat.
Sometimes, it’s simply when Draco looks at him—just like that.
Push.
Push, push, push it down.
“Late one tonight, then?” says Harry, dragging his gaze to the twisting line of cars and buses on the road ahead. The clock on his dashboard flashes 20:09.
Draco pinches the bridge of his nose.
“We’re still working on this Merlinforsaken Geneva agreement,” he says unhappily. “It’s had three passes through the Wizengamot because the Chief fucking Witch can’t make her mind up about clauses she passed aeons ago.” He tosses his cigarette out the window and closes it, shutting out the whirr of city noise. “Bloody cow.”
Harry sighs. “I’m sorry.” He switches lanes. A lone cyclist zips down between the lines of cars, flashing green lights attached to her basket. “Was Hermione still working when you left?”
“Oh. No. I made her go home at six.”
Only someone like Draco would ‘make’ his own boss do something. Harry grins.
“You coming to the kids’ nativity play next week?”
Dryly, “Cold Muggle school hall, Lidl mince pies and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?”
“You and Ernie were invited.”
Saying Ernie’s name, even after all these years, pokes dully at a sore spot Harry hasn’t quite managed to let scab over.
They’d been so young when they got engaged. Barely six months out of Hogwarts.
“It feels right,” Draco tipsily told Harry the night of their engagement party in that horrible, lavish bar in Kensington Ernie loved so much, looking hopeful, looking scared. Harry had just started seeing Terry Boot at the time. They’d had a big drunken argument when they got back to Harry’s in the wee hours; Terry bitterly complaining that Harry had barely looked at him all night, Harry grumpily going to bed with a spinning head and an emptiness swelling in the darkest part of his chest. That particular relationship had only survived a few months; Draco and Ernie’s, though, had lasted.
The air shifts. Draco clears his throat. When Harry chances another glance at him, he’s staring at his lap, pushing out a crinkle in the thigh of his tweed trousers.
“Yes, well,” Draco says, and then—nothing for a while.
“We were,” he adds finally, nodding.
Harry frowns, his fingers twitching against the steering wheel. “I know Ron and Hermione would love to see you there. And Rosie and Hugo.”
“Twist my arm.” Draco sighs. “Wait. We’re stopping.” He sits up and looks around. “Why are we stopping?”
Harry has taken them over London Bridge and is currently parking the car up in a tight lane between a gym and a shopping centre behind the waterfront. “I thought it’d be nice to get out and stretch our legs for a bit,” he says, unclipping his seatbelt.
“This is not driving, Potter,” Draco grumbles, but he follows suit and gets out of the car when Harry does. He slides a pair of leather gloves from the pockets of his lovely, expensive coat and tugs them on.
“Come on, I’ve got something in mind,” says Harry. He points ahead.
Stringed baubles of white light shine between each old lamp post along London Bridge Pier; Harry leads them onward, through the arches along the Queen’s Walk, past the first smattering of faux-cabin market stalls selling handmade jewellery, ceramic tree decorations and gingerbread houses, mounds of artisan fudge and chocolates.
“We’re not going in there, are we?” Draco hesitates at the entrance to the Muggle Christmas market, but before he can protest further, a young couple intercept them, the man thrusting his phone into Draco’s hands.
Amused, Harry hangs back as Draco is asked in excitable, halting English if he can take the couple’s photo next to the large star sculpture on the Walk. Harry nods encouragingly at Draco when Draco glances at him for help, for an escape—panic and annoyance writ large in the wideness of his eyes—and when it becomes clear Harry is simply going to watch him struggle, he presses his lips together, resigned. He pulls off a glove with his teeth, holds the man’s phone at arm’s length, and frowns at the setup on the screen, fingers tapping away at the fiddly settings while the man and woman cheese, arm in arm, in front of the water.
“Potter, you mannerless cad,” he mutters afterwards. He loops his arm through Harry’s, tugging him close by his side, walking them in a hurried clip towards the market gates.
Harry cackles. He squeezes Draco’s arm, because he can. “You’d have done the same to me.”
“I’d’ve done worse.” Draco presses the words to Harry’s ear, the curl of his smile brushing through Harry’s hair. Harry feels his face grow hot, feels every hair on the back of his neck shiver and stand to attention; feels empty again when Draco lets go of him with a grin then a sigh as he suddenly seems to remember exactly where they are.
“Come on, it’ll be good,” Harry insists, knowing full well the wobbly precipice on which he stands: Draco is prone to tetchy overstimulation in crowds like these, but he also thrives in bustling bars where his glass is kept full and he’s given permission to loosen his tie a bit, to vent, to gossip, to peacock. Without Ernie around to police his behaviour, Harry is hopeful he’ll relax and embrace it and maybe talk to Harry a bit more about what’s really bothering him.
They reach the galleria gates, under the glazed, arched roof where stalls run along each side of the old Victorian building. In the middle, a huge Christmas tree, its lights and ornaments twinkling, its base surrounded by a mound of boxes neatly wrapped in tartan paper and tied with big red velvet bows.
Everywhere Harry looks, there are queues: queues for mushroom and chestnut pies, queues for bratwurst, queues for sugar-dusted crepes. Festive revellers wrapped in branded blankets, clutching mugs of steaming mulled wine and cider, huddle around water-stained picnic tables.
Harry takes Draco by the back of his arms and marches him towards it all.
He orders a mulled wine for Draco, a non-alcoholic spicy winter punch for himself. The red-cheeked man behind the stall pours their drinks into two round, brown mugs patterned with snowy houses and grinning gingerbread men.
“I think we get to keep these,” Harry says, warming his fingers against the ceramic.
“They’re darling,” Draco murmurs, blowing steam from his. “We should give them to Rose and Hugo.”
They wander through the busy market with the ebb and flow of the crowd. Some vendors are packing up for the night, swaddling their wares in bubble wrap, filling teetering stacks of cardboard boxes behind them. Draco drinks his wine, sniffs a few fir and vanilla-scented candles on display, looks at woolly hats with bats on them—for Teddy, Harry realises with a fond smile. Bats are his current obsession. Everything he owns has to have bats on it.
So far, so good.
When it becomes obvious that there is little else to browse—the stalls are getting sparser and sparser the further they walk through the galleria—they turn back. Harry buys them another round, and instead of perching on the cluttered benches with everyone else, he guides them to the pier where they can lean over the rails, their arms pressed together as they gaze down at the sparkling, watery reflections of the buildings and bridges in the dark surface of the Thames.
Somewhere on the other end of the Walk, a group of carolers sing, their voices drifting through the crowds.
—Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia
Christ the Saviour is born—
Harry clears his throat. The moment is still; it feels like a good time to broach it.
“Is it just work that’s stressing you out?”
Draco tilts his mug and peers into its contents. He shifts. His arm presses more snugly, more intently, Harry thinks, against Harry’s; the heat of his body seeps through the layers of their clothes. Harry leans into it. He watches Draco’s hair as it lifts in the wind, fine ends pushing into his eyes. Draco brushes it back with one twitchy, gloved hand.
When Draco turns his face to Harry’s, Harry can feel the warmth of his breath carry in the space between them. He forces himself to not look at Draco’s mouth.
“Ernie and I are getting a divorce,” Draco says. A stone drops heavily in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He startles. Draco nods. He lifts his mug to his lips and sinks the contents. “Yes,” he says, his voice tight.
“You’re—”
“Getting a divorce,” Draco repeats, dabbing his lips with his gloved fingers. He smiles, lines sinking into his cheeks. His eyes tell a different story: mild panic, a touch of fret. “Only—well. He doesn’t exactly know it yet. Unless he’s been rifling through my office drawers, which, you and I both know, we can’t ever put such behaviours past him—”
“Draco,” Harry says, searching his face. He clutches Draco’s arm over the railing. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Draco’s voice has gone quiet. He looks at Harry’s fingers wrapped around the fabric of his coat. “It wasn’t—one thing, that pushed me over the edge. Rather, an amalgamation of—minor and moderate grievances. Over the years. What do they call it?” He smiles again, strained. “‘Death by a thousand cuts’?”
Harry lets go of Draco’s arm and runs a hand over his mouth. The film of hot winter punch on his tongue suddenly tastes sour.
“A little failing to stick up for me in public here,” Draco is saying, “a little shushing me at a friend’s dinner party there. Throw in some ‘I’m too tired tonight, darling’s and ‘do we really have to celebrate your mother’s birthday anymore’ there and, well. It weighs down on a man, you know? Oh, Harry. Don’t look at me like that.” Harry swallows thickly. His nails are biting into the meat of his palms. He forces himself to slowly relax his fists. “You can’t be surprised? I know how you feel about him. I know how you get around him. You’ve never liked him.”
“Draco,” Harry says hastily, but Draco tips his head to the side, confirming with a single look that he knows Harry, and of course he knows Harry, Harry doesn’t think there’s anyone who knows him as well as Draco does at this point, but— “That’s not—”
“Bollocks.” Draco casts his gaze around, then shrinks his cup small enough to fit into his pocket. He picks off his gloves, stuffing them away, too. His wedding band catches the light. He wriggles it off, and for a horrifying second, Harry thinks he’s going to chuck it in the water. He lunges, closing his hand around Draco’s.
“Don’t do that,” he says, low and measured.
“Don’t throw my ring, or don’t divorce my husband?” Draco pulls their hands off the railing slowly. He brushes his thumb, once, across the back of Harry’s knuckles. Harry carefully untangles their fingers and swallows.
“Don’t throw your ring,” he whispers.
“I’m not that dramatic,” Draco says, and Harry snorts, a weak sound that erupts from the highest part of his throat. “That’s perfect goblin gold, Potter. I’m keeping it. I was just taking it off.” He opens his coat and slides it into the internal pocket. He holds up his hands. Nips his buttons closed.
“Right, well,” Harry breathes, because he doesn’t know what to say, how to act; Draco’s never said as much, but Harry knows he’s never appreciated Harry taking swipes at Ernie in the past. How does he feel now? Does he want to hear Harry call Ernie a useless cunt? Does he want to know how much Harry truly hates him?
Why didn’t you tell me before? he imagines Draco saying, despairing, angry.
I couldn’t, Harry will say. I couldn’t say anything. He was yours.
“Fuck, Draco, does he really not know?”
Draco’s mouth thins. He shakes his head. “The papers are in my bag. I want to serve them before Christmas.”
Happy Christmas to Ernie, Harry thinks darkly.
Draco shivers. The carolers have moved closer—about twenty of them, carrying buckets for a local children’s charity.
—God rest ye merry gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember Christ our saviour
Was born on Christmas day—
Harry digs out some shrapnel from his pocket. “Come on. It’s getting too cold, I should take you home.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Draco says, but he falls into step with Harry anyway. Harry drops his change into the closest bucket, nodding shortly at the caroler holding it. Draco loops his arm through Harry’s.
Home is the last place Harry wants to take Draco. He looks at him. “My studio’s twenty minutes in the car. I’ve got the pictures from Andy’s birthday. You’d be the first to see them.”
“Have you got alcohol?” Draco asks him. The tips of his fingers slip up the sleeve of Harry’s jacket, tickling at his wrist. Without his gloves, they’re cold.
Dizzily, Harry nods.
“Then let’s go,” says Draco.
-
“Here we are,” says Harry, pushing the heavy door open. He flicks off the main light switch he forgot to turn off earlier—the overhead lighting is too harsh, is always too harsh—and runs inside to turn some lamps on instead, picking up bits of rubbish on his way: a discarded cardigan, a spare lens, a packet of half-eaten custard creams. He drops it all on the granite worktop.
“Beer?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Draco is just standing there in his entryway, backdropped by the grubby, white-wash brick behind him, pristine and smart in his coat, the tip of his nose pink from the cold. “It’s all I’ve got. Sorry.”
Draco picks off his gloves and unwinds his scarf. He hangs everything on the hooks by the door and—there they are, his shirtsleeves, and, Merlin have mercy, a pair of neat black trouser braces.
Harry swallows. He busies himself with his own scarf, pulling it off, rolling it up in a ball with his jacket. He tosses both onto the nearest armchair, the green and mustard one he and Dean found in the tip in Lambeth last summer.
“Sure,” Draco says. When Harry looks at him again, he’s pushing his hair back with both hands. Most of it tumbles right back onto his forehead. Harry turns to his tiny kitchenette, sips a single breath, and crouches to route through the fridge for a couple of bottles of Corona.
“No lime, either,” he says.
Draco clicks his tongue. “What kind of hospitality do you call this, Potter?”
Harry stands. He uses the bottle opener from the drawer, flipping the caps into the sink to deal with later. When he passes Draco his beer, their fingers brush, Harry’s wet with condensation. He wipes his hand on the thigh of his jeans.
Draco takes a sip of beer, clutches his bottle to his chest, and turns to lean against the counter. He points at the wall where Harry’s latest developed output is strung on clothes wire, and in their closeness and under the warm orange lamp light, Harry can just about make out the indent on Draco’s finger where his ring usually is.
“Are those from…?”
“The Quidditch League ball, yeah,” Harry says, mirroring Draco’s pose, putting the fridge between them. He crosses his ankles.
“Marceau Descoteaux looks good.”
Harry follows Draco’s gaze to the photo he knows Draco is looking at: Descoteaux, France’s favourite Chaser both on and off the field, crossing the ballroom, staring down Harry’s lens with a curled little grin.
“Yeah, he does,” Harry says around the rim of his bottle. His breath whispers against the glass. “He knows his angles. I think Witch Weekly’ll buy that one.”
They drink quietly. Draco picks at the label on his bottle. And then he says, light and apropos of nothing, “I almost slept with a prostitute in May. On that work trip to the Hague?” Harry’s heart slips onto the back of his tongue. He clutches the edge of the counter. “He looked like Descoteaux. Thinner, though.” Draco sips. Smacks his lips. “Darker hair.”
“Almost?” Harry hears himself say. He really doesn’t want to know the details, but also, he sort of does. It’s like being asked if he wants to see the picture of a corpse; the fear, the revulsion, the morbid curiosity that he will give into, that he will regret and turn over in his mind until it’s imprinted there forever, and it’ll be entirely his fault because he asked for it.
“Hm,” hums Draco. “I found him on an app I heard one of our Muggle liaison officers talking about when they thought I wasn’t listening. We texted each other all night. It was filthy.” The tips of Draco’s ears are pink. He waves a hand through the air. “Just inside the app. I didn’t give him my real number. Or name. But we almost met. I almost gave him the hotel address. I almost—gave him money. But in the end, I panicked. I didn’t go through with it. It was tempting, though. He—was tempting.” Harry watches his Adam’s apple glide up and down his flushed throat. “Almost. I thought… I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” His gaze flicks to Harry. “I didn’t even really want him. I just wanted—”
The words hang in mid-air, thought unfinished.
“Can I see those pictures now? Aunt Andromeda’s birthday?” he asks suddenly, pushing himself off the counter. He sips his beer. His lips make a soft sucking noise against the rim of the bottle, like a kiss.
Harry scrubs a hand through his hair. He nods. “Yeah, come on.”
His darkroom is on the other side of the studio. It’s long and narrow, warmer and cosier than the larger, starker space outside it. Harry flicks on the safelight. Under it, Draco’s skin and hair are impossibly pale, but his eyes and mouth are darker than Harry’s ever seen them. Draco takes another drink and squeezes past Harry to look at the photographs hanging from the ceiling.
“They’re all dry now. I should take them outside,” Harry says. “Get them boxed up for Andy.” He clears his throat; Draco is looking at a picture of himself, one he obviously didn’t realise was being taken. In it, he’s chatting to Hermione, his face splitting into an easy, toothy grin. Harry had stared at that loop for a long time after it had developed.
“I love that one,” he says, hanging back against the door.
Draco moves onto the next—Teddy and Victoire stealing glances across the dinner table, set up in Andy’s back garden amongst warm fairy lights and under the green shade of ivy.
“Draco,” says Harry. “You didn’t use your real picture, did you? When you were on that app?”
“Not of my face,” Draco murmurs without looking at him.
Oh. “Christ.” Curiosity twists its way up Harry’s spine, hot and shameful. He slides his hand over the doorknob, rubbing his thumb across the chrome. “Alright. Good. It’s good you didn’t share your picture. I mean, it’s probably not that risky if it was a Muggle app, anyway, but—”
Draco hums. “Ruin my marriage and my career in one fell swoop? Let me tell you, after a few Jenevers, it didn’t seem to matter that I could.”
“What did you talk about?” Harry blurts. “You and the… guy, I mean.”
Harry can’t tell if Draco’s eyes turn darker, or if it’s just the flat red light of the room they’re in. “Curious, are you?”
Harry’s face heats. “No, I mean—”
Yes.
Draco steps closer. Harry is suddenly very aware of the solidness of the door behind his back. “We talked about having sex, Potter. Because that was what I was going to pay him for.” He slides the rim of his bottle back and forth across his lips, slow and thoughtful, and sets it down on the nearest surface. Harry should really tell him not to do that, because if it spills and gets into the trays he’s fucked, but he doesn’t say anything. He just clutches his own bottle harder. “Ernie hasn’t touched me in almost a year, do you know that?”
“He’s an idiot,” Harry whispers helplessly.
“Do you really think so?” Draco asks quietly.
“I do,” Harry says, frowning. “I really fucking do.”
Draco stares at him. He puts a hand on the door, right by Harry’s head. Harry lets go of the doorknob, placing his palm over the centre of Draco’s chest where his heart beats, solid and warm and perhaps a tick fast, under the smart fabric of his Bengal stripe work shirt. His gaze flicks to the mother of pearl buttons. He thumbs at the one that sits flat against Draco’s breastbone.
He feels the heat of Draco’s face first, the brush of his hair as Draco dips forward to press their foreheads together.
Harry breathes out slow, still rubbing that damn button. He lifts his fingers and traces under Draco’s jaw instead, feeling the tremble of Draco’s throat as he swallows. Harry follows the movement with his eyes, watching Draco’s mouth part, a flash of tongue, tip darting out to lick his bottom lip.
Harry hooks his thumb over Draco’s chin and kisses him.
It’s soft. Tentative. Draco’s mouth is warm and fuller than it looks.
When Harry leans back to look at it after the fact, he imagines he can see an imprint of his own lips there, the tiniest sheen of wetness. He can’t. The red light is too dim, but what he can see is the coiled-up want written all over Draco’s face: the pinch of his brows, the downward swoop of lashes, the slackness of his jaw. He’s holding Harry’s shoulders tight, and when Harry slides his hand more firmly around the back of Draco’s neck, Draco makes a tiny noise low in his throat and unravels. He gathers Harry closer and kisses him hard.
Oh, God.
It’s all Draco, everywhere. His lips, his tongue, his teeth scraping Harry’s mouth. Every hard line of his body pressed against every line of Harry’s, and it’s exactly how he—
Exactly what he’d—
Heat swells fast in Harry’s belly. He groans, turns them, shoving Draco against the door, bottle still in fist. Behind them, glass rattles, startling them out of it. Harry twists away from the kiss just in time to see Draco’s Corona topple onto its side and roll off the worktop, glugging foamy beer everywhere.
“Fuck,” Draco says, fumbling for his wand. Harry is faster, despite his foggy mind, zipping his magic through the air to send the bottle, with his own, to the top of the filing cabinet. He’ll worry about the mess tomorrow.
The air settles, cools, giving Harry time to catch his breath, to clear his head.
When Draco slackens against the door and uses a hand against Harry’s face to turn Harry back towards him, a hungry look in his eyes, Harry falters.
“Draco,” he whispers. He presses his palm to Draco’s chest again. It’s still so hot. Hotter. His heart is beating faster, too. Harry slides his hand up and down, up and down, soothing and wanting all at once. “We shouldn’t.”
Draco pushes his fingers through Harry’s curls.
“What do you think I came here for?” Draco mutters against Harry’s lips as they find themselves tangled in another kiss.
Harry twists the doorknob free from the latch. They stumble into the cooler air of the studio, dodging a room divider, bypassing Harry’s kitchenette. There’s a sofa in this space too, a green three-seater speckled with coffee stains, piled with throws; Harry sometimes kips in it when he spends too long at the studio and can’t be bothered Apparating to his flat in Notting Hill. He breaks the kiss to look at it, assessing, his arms looped tight around Draco’s waist. Draco’s breath is hot against his skin as he smears his lips feverishly over Harry’s jaw.
“Fuck,” Harry gasps. He steals another searing kiss. Nudges Draco closer to the sofa. “Sit,” he says.
For a moment, Harry thinks he’s miscalculated the situation; Draco looks like he might argue, but his slightly affronted expression melts away with a blink, with a heated look of understanding. He lets go of Harry’s shoulders and drops onto the sofa, his cheeks lovely and flushed. He scoots to the edge, cups Harry’s hips, spreads his palm over the bulge in Harry’s jeans. Harry sinks to his knees on the grubby linoleum and runs his hands up Draco’s thighs.
“Ha—” Draco begins to say, but Harry cuts him off.
“When’s the last time Ernie”—God, Harry hates his stupid fucking name—“did this for you?”
Draco huffs. He pets his fingers through Harry’s hair.
“Almost a year, is it?” Harry goes on. “He really is the worst person I know.”
“Don’t—let’s not,” Draco whispers. He tilts his head against the sofa, looks down at Harry through his lashes, bites his lip as Harry starts working open his trousers. “I don’t want to think about him.”
I don’t want you to think about him, either, Harry thinks, plunging his fingers into the placket of Draco’s underwear, pulling him out. He stares at Draco’s cock: hard and rosy, wet at the tip.
“I only want to think about you,” Draco mutters, skimming his fingers across Harry’s forehead.
“I’m here,” Harry says, and then bends forward and swipes his tongue over the head of Draco’s cock.
“Oh, God,” Draco sighs.
Slowly, Harry sucks and kisses the tip of Draco’s cock; his fingers flutter down the length to pet at the base where the fabric of his underwear is all bunched. He pushes in further, cupping Draco’s balls, and moans when Draco shifts against the sofa and runs his hand encouragingly over the back of Harry’s head.
Harry drapes himself over Draco’s lap. He takes him deeper, slides a hand up Draco’s chest, feeling out the rapid rise and fall of his breaths. He presses his face into Draco’s crotch and breathes him in. Nuzzles him there, fingers dipping to brush, dry, over the puckered skin behind Draco’s balls. Draco whimpers, tightening his fist in Harry’s hair.
“I adore you,” Draco whispers. “You must know that. You must know.”
Harry pulls back enough to mouth at Draco’s length. He swallows, sitting on his heels, wiping his wet chin with the back of his hand. “I—”
“Will you fuck me?” Draco breathes, and it’s probably for the best that he interrupts Harry before Harry declares something stronger than Draco had. Draco licks his lips, shifting further onto the sofa. He pulls his arms out of each of his trouser braces and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Harry tips forward, bracing a hand on the sofa above Draco’s head. He looks around. “I haven’t got—”
Draco tilts his chin, gesturing to the entryway, his fingers flying over his mother of pearl buttons. “My coat,” he says, peeling off his shirt.
“Accio Draco’s coat,” Harry says, wandless, catching Draco’s coat mid-air. “You—”
“Inside pocket. No, the other one,” Draco says.
Harry slips his fingers into the satiny fabric. He hears the crinkle of plastic before he feels it. Feels the weight of Draco’s ring at the very bottom.
Draco is staring at him, one hand braced on the top of the sofa, the other draped over his bare, flat stomach.
Heat pulses low in Harry’s gut. His chest twinges; that Draco had been planning this. That he couldn’t wait until his divorce. Hell, that he couldn’t wait until he’d served Ernie his papers.
Harry closes his fingers around the packets inside Draco’s coat pocket. There are three condoms, a sachet of lube.
He tosses them onto the couch and stretches over Draco to kiss him.
Draco’s mouth is pliant beneath Harry’s, his returning kiss open, sensual. He lifts his hips willingly as Harry pushes his hands under his arse to tug off his trousers, his pants, and he moans as Harry breaks the kiss to pick open the fussy laces of his oxfords, tugging them off one by one.
Draco stretches his arms above his head, bites his lip. Harry peels off his socks, kisses the inside of one ankle, and stretches and presses a knee on the sofa between Draco’s legs. He tugs off his t-shirt, letting his glasses clatter to the floor with it. Draco smooths his hands over Harry’s chest, picks open the button of Harry’s jeans, and when Harry stands to push them down and tug his boots off with them, Draco scoots up further until he’s on his back.
“Like this,” Harry says, hitching Draco’s knee. He feels around on the sofa for the packets, grabs the lube first, and opens it with his teeth. It goes everywhere, splashing onto Draco’s chest and stomach, getting all over Harry’s hand. “Fuck,” Harry says, and Draco laughs, giddy and lovely.
“Shut up,” Harry grumbles, grinning, leaning down to kiss him.
I adore you. You must know.
Harry palms at Draco’s chest. He circles a nipple, grasps Draco’s cock in fist and strokes him languidly. He slides his fingers lower and preps Draco slowly, using his thumb first, then two fingers, kissing Draco all the while, rutting his cock against the sharp cant of Draco’s hip. He rips a condom free and rolls it on with trembling fingers.
When Draco starts pleading, when he finds Harry’s cock and strokes it, guiding it between his thighs, Harry rearranges himself so he’s kneeling between Draco’s splayed legs. He places a hand on Draco’s chest. Pulls Draco’s leg in the air and lines up.
Fuck, they’re doing this.
Harry blinks, staring at Draco, all pale limbs spread out over dark green fabric. His chest is mottled pink. His hair is sticking to his temples, curled and darkened gold from sweat.
He’s so beautiful. All of the air feels punched out from Harry’s lungs.
“Harry,” Draco says roughly.
Harry nods. He grips Draco’s hips, bends forward to kiss him, and pushes in.
“Fuck.” The word is whispered hotly against Harry’s mouth. Harry shudders. He pulls back an inch. Presses in and swears at the heated clutch of Draco’s body. Draco gasps and arches his hips, flopping an arm across his eyes. “Oh my god,” he says, and, “that way—yes, just—right there, a little harder—yes—”
Harry buries his face into Draco’s neck, letting Draco’s knee fall into the crook of his elbow as the world around them narrows. He pushes and pushes and pushes into Draco, mouthing at his throat, kissing him, open and sloppy, when Draco lifts his arm away from his face to grab Harry’s hair in his fist and pull him closer.
“Draco,” Harry says helplessly.
“I’m so close, Harry,” Draco pants. He’s stroking himself in time with Harry’s thrusts. Harry presses their foreheads together, looks down at the scant space between their bodies. Draco circles his thumb over and over the head of his cock. His stomach muscles quiver.
Harry can feel himself tumbling towards his own orgasm, but he holds back as best as he can, keeping his thrusts hard and grinding and tight. He wraps his fist around Draco’s, squeezing, rubbing some of that excess lube around his length, and that’s what does it, that’s what has Draco arcing and seizing beneath him, coming with a rough cry that sounds like pleasure and relief.
Draco clutches at Harry’s back, dragging him closer, biting his shoulder. Harry hisses and comes with a stutter of hips, a roll of his eyes into the back of his head. He pushes harder through it, listening to the obscene slap of skin against skin until his knees give in. He sags forward, panting into Draco’s neck.
They lie like that for a while. Draco slips his hands over Harry’s sweaty back, and Harry turns his head, watching his fingers as he traces meaningless patterns across Draco’s broad chest.
When Draco starts to shiver, Harry shifts. He’s stopped by a pair of hands on his shoulders.
“No,” Draco says. “Don’t. Just—stay. Like this. Just for one more minute.”
So, Harry does.
A minute goes by, maybe two, and Draco shivers again, harder this time; Harry pulls out slowly. He carefully removes the condom, Vanishing it. He casts a warming charm, which lands over them like a light blanket.
“I didn’t realise you had a skylight,” Draco says, his eyes pointed to the ceiling.
“Oh,” Harry says. He grabs a throw and shakes it out. It smells a little musty. “Yeah.” He tucks it over them. He brushes his fingers across Draco’s shoulder and follows Draco’s gaze to the ceiling. He can just about make out the little flecks of snow swirling through the air, landing to gather in the corners of the window. He can see their ghostly reflection too, pale and barely there.
“Thank you for agreeing to pick me up tonight,” Draco murmurs after what feels like an hour, but has probably only been a few minutes.
“I didn’t even have to think twice,” Harry says.
“I know,” Draco says. He turns his head on the battered old throw cushion to look at Harry, his damp hair spread out, his neck curved and long. “So, where do we go from here?”
Harry presses his mouth to Draco’s. He brushes his nose over Draco’s heated cheek. Breathes in the mingled scent of their sweat and, underneath that, Draco’s skin. “We go to mine? You sleep in my bed with me?”
Draco’s brows pinch. “And tomorrow? The day after? Next week?”
“I don’t know,” says Harry, his heart beating somewhere on the back of his throat. He searches Draco’s face. “Why did you call me tonight?”
“Because I wanted to.”
Harry lets out a slow breath. “Yeah, but, because you wanted my company—”
“Because I wanted you,” Draco says, frowning. “Must I spell it out for you?”
Harry closes his eyes and laughs. “Yeah.”
Draco shifts. When Harry opens his eyes, Draco is propped up on one elbow.
“I called you because I wanted to see you.” He swallows. “I have wanted—” He shakes his head. “I was tired of telling myself I must wait.”
“Oh,” Harry breathes. Warmth spills in his stomach, slow and syrupy. He cups Draco’s cheek. Brushes his thumb over Draco’s bottom lip. Draco parts his mouth, dipping the tip of his tongue out to lick.
Draco hums.
“What else do you want?” Harry asks, tracing Draco’s lips with his fingertips, mesmerised and already a little turned on again.
“I want to go to that damned Muggle nativity play.” Draco inches the blanket down. “With you.”
Harry’s fingers still. “But—that’s next week.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have just handed Ernie his papers. I mean. I want to—I do—but don’t you think it’s a little… soon?”
What would Ron and Hermione say? The rest of their friends? How would they explain it to Rosie and Hugo? Teddy and Andromeda?
“I don’t care,” Draco says firmly, cutting through the building tangle of ‘what ifs’ webbing their way through Harry’s mind. He leans down and kisses Harry until Harry’s breathless from it. “Like I said, Potter. I’m not waiting anymore.”
Then neither will I, Harry thinks, pulling Draco on top of him, closing his eyes against the blurry outlines of their reflections in the skylight above and digging his fingers firmly into the solid, real lines of Draco’s back.