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“Quit whining, Malfoy,” Potter grins, raising wards around the cave they’ve found shelter in. Outside, rogue Death Eaters start flinging counter-spells. “Like we’ve never been stuck in a hopeless situation before.”

Draco curls up on damp rock, cradling a broken arm. “Well, no,” he snarls. “But it’s never looked quite so likely I’d die on my fucking birthday.”

Potter looms over him suddenly, all wide-eyed concern. “Your birthday?”

Draco looks away even as Potter casts a healing spell. “Fuck off. Are those wards done?”

“Yes.” Potter’s damp lips take him by surprise. “Draco-“

“Fuck off, Potter” he hisses, kissing back.