There is thunder rocking the very foundations of Azkaban, but Draco doesn’t care a whit.
He can feel the gritty stone walls shuddering beneath where he has splayed his palms against them and a feral grin paints his face. They say that going to prison can send you mad, Draco’s not sure what happens if you already are.
There comes a loud crack of thunder and Draco runs over to the window, a small square of light, barred by three, thick steel beams. He grips them as he peers through the cracks between.
Nothing yet, only dark clouds and angry winds, the rain is dashing against the rocky ground surrounding the prison aggressively, and Draco is, for once, glad of the protective measures that prevent anything from entering the premise. Soon it won’t matter.
Then he hears it, a guard is yelling somewhere down the hall, there comes a loud bang, and then whoever it was sounding the alarm is silenced.
“Malfoy?” he hears suddenly. “Malfoy?”
The voice echoes down the dank hallway, and bounces disconcertingly from wall to wall, but Draco would know it anywhere.
He jumps away from the window and quickly reaches his hand through the bars on the opposite side.
“Yes, Potter, I’m waving my arm at you! Over here, moron.”
He can barely see into the darkness of the hall, but there is movement in the still air and soon a warm hand grasps his own.
He is hauled forwards suddenly, and they come face to face, so close that even in the darkness he can see the depths of Potter’s eyes. They kiss for a moment, and it’s all teeth, before Potter pulls back and grins. They are still holding hands through the bars.
“Alright,” comes Potter’s voice. “Time to go.”
Draco steps back, ready for the blast that will destroy the steel columns that keep him so confined, but he hears a laugh.
“I’m hardly going to blow it up, come over here.”
Draco, trusting fool that he is, does so promptly.
Which is how he finds himself shrunk to the height of roughly twelve centimeters and carried out of Azkaban in Harry Potter’s breast-pocket.
As he passes his Father’s cell, he makes sure to avoid eye contact, it’s not so difficult, his father is asleep, and Draco thinks that he wouldn’t have been able to see Draco anyway. He’s sorry for leaving him, but not sorry for leaving.
Once outside, Harry climbs them down a small rocky cliff to their awaiting vehicle. He un-shrinks Draco and chucks him a helmet. They are flying away into the storm on a charmed motor-cycle before anyone realises that he is gone.
“Where are we?” Draco asks when they land on what appears to be a typical London street.
It seems that Potter doesn’t know a lot about jail-breaking if he has taken them straight to the capitol city, or in Draco’s mind, auror central.
“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place.” Potter says as he takes off his helmet.
“I don’t see a number twelve.”
“Wizard housing Draco, you’re more familiar with it than I am.”
Oh. Of course.
Draco too, removes his helmet and looks up at the stately buildings.
“Well Potter, let me in.” he says, in as snooty a tone as one dressed in a raggedy prison gown can muster.
Potter complies, whispering a few secret words in his ear and then stepping back proudly.
Draco watches as another building appears between eleven and thirteen. It’ll do.
Once they’re inside Potter works the wards, strengthening the layers and tightening up any mouse-cracks between them. He’s gotten more powerful, Draco thinks.
“Say Potter, where’d you learn how to do those.”
Potter turns to eye him steadily, green eyes intense. “Auror training.”
Comprehension dawns. “Merlin,” Draco breathes. “You are going to be in some trouble.”
“I don’t care. They’re not going to find us. The wards on this house are so strong that no one remembers where it is except for Ron and Hermione, and I don’t think either of them could get within ten metres of the door without my permission.”
“But the good kind. Here’s a towel, shower’s upstairs, first door on your right.”
Draco takes the towel gratefully. “Clothes?” he asks.
“Second door on your right, I set up a room.”
He’s probably fallen in love with me, is what Draco thinks as he trudges up the stairs and into the bathroom. It’s elegant and stylish even if it has fallen into disrepair and out of fashion. The claw foot tub is spacious and the nouveau, patterned tiles are designer.
It’s a damn sight better than the knee high tap with the thin trickle he had been using to bathe himself in his weekly recreational hour.
He strips nude, pulling the prison gown over his head and bundling it up. He shoves it in the corner of the room, determined not to look at it. Pants are a luxury, so naturally he’s not wearing any.
He steps into the bath and sits down on the edge. He starts off with his feet, he runs the tap and scrubs them until they are pink and clean, he watches as clean water turns to filth and then runs, brown and dirty, down the drain.
This done, he turns on the over head nozzle and stand for a shower. The hot water is heaven on his back, soothing woes and knots he hadn’t realised were there to begin with.
He should be worried really, but the thing is, even if he does get caught, they can’t do anything to him. He already has a life sentence and isn’t afforded any privileges, they cannot take anything from him except for Potter. And that’s only if they can find him.
No one knows about their relationship. But its likely that the aurors will connect the dots when they see the security ledgers, Potter had signed in afterall, left behind him a trail of unconscious guards, and then neglected to sign out. All on the same night notorious death eater Draco Malfoy had escaped. It didn’t take a genius.
He remembers when it started, this thing they had, it had been during the trials, and it had been forbidden and it had been oh. so. good.
Stolen snogs between hearings and hallways, untoward gropings during occasions on which they had both, coincidentally, been excused to use the bathroom. When the wizengamot had announced his father’s sentence, he had been in the elevator.
Harry Potter had somehow stuck’d it, and Harry Potter had knelt down, and Harry Potter had taken Draco into his mouth between floors four and five like he was drinking wine in a holy communion, a gritty, spiritual experience that had bound them both to each other in body and in soul. It wasn’t exactly love, but it wasn’t exactly not.
He lathered his body with soap that smelt like coconuts and cleaned away the sweat, the dirt and the grime that had built up on his skin. He knew before, that he had stunk, despite his best efforts to keep clean, being kept like an animal in a cage had not been precisely beneficial to his own standards of hygiene.
As he rubbed shampoo and conditioner through the tangled knots of his hair he imagined that the water was washing away any danger that they might face tomorrow. And after that, he simply stood there and soaked.
It was an hour before he could bring himself to get out of the shower, and even then he moved slowly, enjoyed the leisurely pace that for now, he had the freedom to appreciate. He dried off with the fluffy white towel he had been given by Potter, and enjoyed the feeling of it’s softness on his newly sensitive skin.
It was then that he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He had always been handsome, it was something he had taken pride in always. His appearance was a point of great import to him and it was something that as a younger man he had put a lot of thought and effort into. The person who stood peering out at him in his reflection did not resemble that man in the slightest.
There were similarities of course, a certain something in the jawline and the bone structure, perhaps a look in the eyes, a hint. But otherwise, the man was gone, destroyed completely by sunken purple pools beneath the eyes, straggly hair and an unkempt beard. His pale golden hair had prematurely greyed by the temples, and he wondered, briefly, how Potter could possibly want him like this. Then he remembered that Potter had set him up an extra bedroom ‘second door to the right’, and had never felt so close to weeping.
Perhaps he was a mad man, that was fine, but he refused to be an unattractive one. Always, always, always, his parents had drilled into him the importance of looking one’s best, of presenting one’s most attractive self. People didn’t respect or adore you otherwise.
He rummages around in the cupboard beneath the sink and comes up with a silver set of shavers. Then he gets to work.
Soon his face and neck is soft to touch, without the beard he looks younger, a little more like a self he can recognise. Next is the hair. He ends up cropping it short around the back and sides, but leaves the top longish and choppy. It’s a new look, less familiar than the shaven face, and less comforting, but then again; it’s also a new him. A him who has broken out of prison with his boyfriend in a fit of daring and become a fugitive.
“Draco? Are you okay?” he hears Harry call from outside.
“I’m fine Potter.” he replies, his stomach rumbles suddenly. “But you’d better have something I can eat”
“Please.” Potter patronises.
“Piss off.” Draco snaps, promptly.
He hears Potter laugh and plod back down the stairs, presumably in the pursuit of sustenance. Well good.
He leaves the bathroom then, towel wrapped around his hips and preserving his modesty like the muggleborns used to do in his dormitory.
He locates the bedroom that Potter has apparently set up for him and notes the clothes laid out on the bed. They are Potter’s clothes. He can just tell. He pulls on the pair of denim pants quickly, the fit well, because even though Draco is slim from his time away, Potter is a thin bugger, always has been. There is a clean t-shirt too, a cosy looking cotton thing with long sleeves and a little hole by the neck with a print on the front. It says ‘Nirvana’, and has a picture of a face with it’s eyes crossed out. It’s fitting somehow. He puts it on and heads downstairs.
It smells good, whatever it is that Potter is making. And so he follows his nose into a large looking kitchen and watches for a moment as Potter, with his back to him, putters about the room between various pots and pans.
“What’re you making?” he asks suddenly. Potter doesn’t jump.
“A few things.” he says. “For the road.”
“The road we will be leaving on tomorrow.”
“We’re going by road?” he asks.
“We will be, eventually, the aurors will be focusing on magical channels since you’re a wizard and I have a distinctive magical trace. It’s our best bet.”
Draco thinks about this for a moment. “Can we eat now?” he asks simply.
Potter nods, and points towards a covered plate he has set on the table. “Don’t eat too much or too quickly, because you could get sick.”
Draco sits down and uncovers the dish. It’s a breakfast meal, and there are several options; Baked beans, bacon, eggs, a sausage and some plain toast.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked.” Potter says, a little nervously. “There’s some salad in the fridge if you want something lighter.”
Draco doesn’t know what a fridge is, but he doesn’t want a salad either, so he stays quiet and tucks in, making sure his appreciation is clear by moaning around mouthfuls wantonly.
It’s a bit of a display, but so what? Draco has always enjoyed attention, and if Potter’s pink cheeks are any indication, he likes to give it.
The eggs and bacon are really good, he thinks as he eats, and the flavour seems amazing to him.
Once he might have turned his nose up at such a meal, especially considering who created it for him, but now, it seems a little like a blessing.
“You shaved.” Potter says, grazing a thumb lightly across his cheek and coming to stand behind him. The warmth of hims seeps into Draco’s shoulders He doesn’t shudder, but it’s a close thing. “Looks good.”
“Mmmm.” Draco hums in response. He’s too content to start an argument about whether or not Potter only likes him for his looks.
He finishes his meal slowly, and they talk about what tomorrow will bring.
Potter has a train trip planned across the channel to France, and from there he wants to rent a car and drive across the border into Spain, when they arrive in Madrid a plane will be waiting for them, and they will escape to Costa Rica.
Potter is hoping that the trip will be confusing enough that they can’t be directly tracked, and that by the time the aurors can catch up with them they will have settled in to new, untraceable lives in a city that has amnesty from the jurisdiction of Britain's law enforcement. It’s a little convoluted, but Draco decides that it’s a good plan.
One that might just work. One they might get away with.
“I know a guy in Quepos, we’ll stay with him for a while until we get our own place, I would have organised somewhere now except I didn’t want anyone to find any records of it accidentally.” Potter says, he sounds a little worried, like maybe Draco won’t like what he has planned, or will be unimpressed with his efforts.
It makes Draco want to do silly things, like ruffle the mans hair, or cuddle.
“You’ve done well Potter,” he replies, rubbing a hand on his shoulder in a more restrained gesture of comfort instead. “We will be fine.”
Potter smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees with a quirk in his lips. “We will be.”
“I do have one question however.” Draco says. “How are we going to get money?”
“Well, I took a lot out of the bank the other day, I’ve got a bag full of it, and some heirlooms, enough to get us by for maybe a year or two if we spend it wisely. But my guy in Quepos said he might have some work for me too.”
“Oh?” inquires Draco, interest piqued. “What kind of work?”
Potter blushes slightly. “Mostly farm-work. I’m good with animals and all that, he has a property, and he’s getting on a bit, so it’d also be like, fixing fences, picking fruit and that sort of stuff.”
“My god, I’ve made you into a pauper!” Draco exclaims, though strangely he isn’t unhappy.
He feels like his life has become one of those romance novels his mother used to be so fond of, the one’s he had secretly read under his covers late at night because his father didn’t approve of romance, fiction, or anything else that fed the soul.
He wonders if Potter is in it just to be a hero, but no, he wouldn’t have given up his life as an auror in that case. Fighting crime and saving kittens from trees is far more suited to that kind of taste than harbouring dangerous war criminals.
“Not really. We’ll make do. Besides, we’ll be rich in other things.”
Draco looks him dead in the eyes for a second. They’re ever so pretty.
Pull yourself together Draco, he thinks to himself.
“That is the sappiest piece of bullshit I have ever had the misfortune of hearing you utter. Never flirt with me where my ears can hear you again.” he says.
Potter rolls his eyes. “No. I should think I’ll be flirting with you as much as I please, you can get over it Malfoy.” he says, an amused smile plays at his mouth teasingly. “And I’ll mean it too.”
Draco doesn’t blush, but there are massive winged creatures wreaking havoc around his stomach area. Damn Potter. “But seriously,” Draco says, as sternly as he can manage. “What after that? We can’t be farmers for the rest of our lives, and I don’t know about you, but I find the idea of permanent residency in Costa Rica a little unpleasant.”
“Really?” replies Potter, seeming genuinely shocked. “The beaches are so nice though, and it’s warm.”
“Yes.” Draco says. “I’m quite sure my skin will just love that. It and the sun are bosom buddies you know.”
“Well, we have to spend a few years there at least. It’s the only country where we’ll be easily able to hide for a while and with an income.” Potter replies, sensibly.
Truth be told, Draco is not all that bothered, he’s sure Potter knows a sun protection charm anyway. It’s just that he’s never liked making things simple for people. He’s always been prickly by nature. Akin to a cactus, his mother had called it. And it seems as though Potter has caught on because he doesn’t seem as worried as he was before.
“Where do you want go then Draco? I’ll take you anywhere, give me a few years and we’ll go.” his tone is light, but Draco detects an underlying earnestness.
It seems that Potter, dumb sod, probably would take him anywhere. It’s a good thing Draco came along when he did, he imagines that a lesser person would take advantage of that kind of selflessness, as it is Draco plans to be appreciative. Very appreciative.
“Well...” he muses. “I’ve visited most of Europe you know, Malfoy summer houses and whatnot. But I would like to see the Japanese countryside, hmm, or maybe Barbados-”
“Barbados.” he assures solemnly.
“Draco,” says Potter. “You would be just as likely to get a sunburn in Barbados as you would be in Costa Rica!”
“I suppose,” replies Draco sadly, making a casual gesture of defeat with his left hand. “But in Barbados we could become pirates!” he finishes with a wicked grin.
“Pirates!?” Potter seems scandalised.
“You’ve literally just stolen a human being from a high-security jail, I’m sure you can handle a high sea adventure, searching for gold and ravishing young virgins!” Draco replies, slamming a fist against the table with growing enthusiasm.
“You’re completely barking. And I think your admittedly vivid imagination has run away with you, life isn’t like a trashy bodice ripper.”
“I don’t know,” Draco says. “It can be quite similar at times.”
He eyes Potter across the table. Heatedly.
Two rosy spots rise on the top of the mans cheeks.
Fuck it, Draco thinks as he grabs Potter by the front of the shirt and hauls him in for a kiss.
Despite getting off to a passive aggressive start, it soon turns lazy. Less of an ‘I’m going to burn alive from all of this passion’ and more of a ‘hi, do you remember me? I remember you.”
It’s slow, and it’s nice. Potter tastes the same as he always did, but Draco is startled to realise that he had forgotten just how that was. The thought fills him with a little grief and a lot of fervour, the kiss, though slow, deepens noticeably.
They pull apart a little breathless, and Potter steps around the table, Draco moves to stand up from his chair but Potter pushes him back down and straddles his lap.
Then they keep kissing.
A sudden thought pops into Draco’s head. “Mmmph!” he says, trying to disengage.
“What?” Potter asks, pulling back straight away with messy hair and glazed eyes.
“Antarctica.” he says victoriously.
“What?” Potter replies, still a little dazed.
Draco looks at him sternly. “Potter, if you persist in getting this silly over every tiny little kiss we shan’t do it anymore, please be sensible and listen to my words.”
Potter, with what appears to be great concentration, blinks a bit, and nods.
“Well what?” he asks.
“Antarctica.” Draco replies.
“Well yes, but what about it?” Potter’s eyebrows are doing a squiggly little confused thing. It’s adorable.
He sighs frustratedly. “We can go live in Antarctica! It’s brilliant, I like the cold, we won’t run in to many people, and we can befriend the penguins.”
“Befriend the penguins?” Potter repeats with some alarm, and a question mark.
“Yes Potter, they are magnificent creatures, I saw them in a book once, but I’ve never met one. We can work there doing whatever it is that people who work there do.”
“To be completely honest Antarctica doesn’t sound all that appealing Draco.”
“You said we could go anywhere.” he pouts, just a little.
“Yes,” agrees Potter, sounding pained. “That was when I thought you might choose a country that has sunlight more than a few weeks a year.”
“I like Antarctica.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Yes, I suppose we will.” Draco says, and sits back slightly.
“Oh my god, fine. We’ll go, and we’ll befriend the penguins, and the seals, and the fucking albatross for all I care, just shut up kiss me you wanker.” he declares with some heat.
And then more quietly. “I missed you.”
“With pleasure.” Draco replies smugly.
He leans forward and closes his eyes. Potter’s mouth does not return to his lips. Instead, there comes a whisper by his ear. “That won’t work every time.”
There is a singular puff of hot breath on his neck, and he shivers a little.
“Just try me Potter.” he says. “Just try me-”
Draco moans. Outrageously. As Potter, ignoring him totally, sucks into that spot in the juncture between his neck and jaw.
Turnabout, however, is fair play, and that’s how Draco ends up bracing him with his hands wrapped tightly around the small of Potter’s back, and begins pressing his groin, rhythmically, against Potters. The pressure is intense, and Potter groans, arching his back and looking briefly to the roof with eyes shut in pleasure.
They keep going like that for a while, with one of Potter’s hands coming up to grip the back of Draco’s neck and the other fisting in his hair. They rut against each other hopelessly, and Draco’s food goes cold, completely forgotten, because he is in raptures. It’s more than slightly ridiculous, this hot pressure that is building between them, while they’re still in their clothes no less!
Potter it seems, agrees with him, because he tugs at the hem of Draco’s shirt, and after waiting for Draco’s nod, he pulls it up and off. Draco lifts his arms up for ease, but then quickly grabs at Potters shirt and tries to do the same. He very nearly topples the chair in his enthusiasm. Potter laughs, and does it himself. Draco hardly even has time to be disgruntled, because Potter is straight back at it, he licks at Draco’s lips until he opens them again, and then it’s all just hot, hot, hot.
An orgastic experience of push, and pull, give, and take. Potter’s hand carelessly drags up against the length of his spine. Draco lifts his groin a little higher, the muscles in his thighs clenching, and that’s wonderful, and dirty and oh god, Potter digs his nails very suddenly into Draco’s shoulder and that’s enough.
When Draco comes, his senses are consummately overwrought, the room seems suddenly full of Potter; of Potter’s hands on him, of Potter’s legs wrapped around him, of Potter’s cock pressed flush against him, of Potters red lips panting by him, and of Potter coming, gasping, ecstatic, because of him.
It is the best thing that has ever happened, and also maybe the worst, because there is no quitting each other now. If Potter breaking him out of jail hadn’t sealed their fates together already, then this moment has most certainly been enough to do it. Irrevocably.
Afterwards, Potter stands up and clears their plates away. Draco is at a bit of a loss, so he remains seated, and his shirt stays off.
“Time for bed?” Harry asks.
“Right.” replies Draco. “Of course. I’ll be seeing you. Tomorrow then?”
Harry looks bemused. Draco can’t imagine why.
“I didn’t think I would have to ask you directly, but my bed is open to you Draco, always. The one I made up was more of a courtesy, just in case... you know.”
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case... well, if you didn’t want to be with me I guess. You don’t have to you know, I don’t want you to feel obligated or anything simply because I got you out.”
Draco sniggers, but there is relief running through his veins so strong he is half convinced he might collapse with it. “Honestly Potter, are you even real?"
Potter blinks at him.
"Come on,” Draco says. “Let’s go to bed.”
It’s warm under the covers, a lovely kind of heat that has him ever so glad he’s free and in the arms of Harry Potter. He falls asleep quickly.
Potter wakes him early the next morning, so early that it’s still dark.
“Draco,” he says. “Time to go.”
He gets up quickly, dresses in some more of Potter’s clothes and tries not to cringe when he looks at the terrible colour charm Potter has sent at his hair, he’s brunette, it’s atrocious.
He says as much to Potter.
“It’s not that bad Draco, I think you look dashing.” he replies.
The issue is decidedly not more important than their freedom, so Draco grins and bears it.
They pack as much as they can into some magical suitcases Harry had found in the attic and then the make the short walk down to the train station. Getting to St. Pancras is not difficult, but Draco doesn’t stop silently stressing until they have made it through the muggle border security and onto the eurostar. Draco grips Potter’s hand for most of the way there, but Potter doesn’t seem to mind at all.
They’re claiming their baggage when it happens, Potter sees them first, a group of aurors have just arrived in a group. Their muggle disguises are terrible, even Draco can see that, they stand out simply because the other muggles are looking at them funny and giving them all a wide berth.
Draco does recognise a few of them from the trials, it’s one of the bad things about being a wizard he supposes, there’s not all that many of them left in Britain, so, much like those who reside in small towns, everyone knows everyone.
It’s lucky that their bags are first out, because Potter looks ready to bolt off without them.
Before he can, Draco grabs them quickly, and then follows Potter into the mens bathroom.
There is an old man by the urinal who looks at them oddly when they lock themselves into one cubicle, but there is a younger man with red hair who smirks and says something in french. Draco hears the old man huff an agitated sounding reply before they lock the door.
Potter pulls out his wand quickly. “Muffliato,” he incants. “Okay, we won’t be able to go pick up the rental car, maybe they’re only here on routine, but I don’t want to take the risk if they definitely know we’re here. We’ll have to apparate. Ready?”
Draco nods, and grips the bags tight, Harry grabs him by the waist and with a muted pop they disappear.
“Where are we?” Draco asks when they land. They have arrived in a grassy field of some sort, it is overrun by wild-flowers but still very beautiful, if Draco had to guess, he would say that they were probably in the south of France somewhere.
“Another Black property, I made sure I knew where all of them were as back-up before I came to get you, just in case. The documentation said it’s quite large, so I guess we’ll see.”
Quite large turns out to be an understatement, it’s positively gargantuan.
After a long trek down an overgrown driveway, lined by some of the loveliest oaks Draco has ever seen, they reach a large wrought iron gate in the gothic style. One of the doors hangs precariously from the stone pillar that it is now only halfway attached to.
Potter makes short work of it, pushing it to the side and clearing their way.
Upon entering, Draco is rendered speechless. It’s not as big as Hogwarts, nothing ever is, but it is difficult to fathom the riches that must have gone into the creation of this building. The architecture is astounding, the gargoyles that line the topmost stories and turrets peer down at them with something like doom in their eyes, and the stone tiles have been carved into with intricate depictions of biblical scenes and stories about the old magic.
In the end they have to climb through a window to get in, and they land in a beautiful ballroom. There are dead leaves on the floor, but the crystal chandeliers that swing above their heads send shards of scattered light around the room. It’s a little like standing inside a kaleidoscope.
Draco spends half an hour trying to teach Potter the correct way to waltz before they both give up and keep exploring.
“This one.” Draco says when they come across an empty bedroom.
“But there’s no furniture in it.”
“I know, that’s the point.”
“I don’t particularly want to sleep on the floor when there is a perfectly good bed just next door.” Potter replies.
“Yes, and I don’t want to be cursed by some random artifact masquerading as a pillow. We’ll stay in here and transfigure our own furniture from clothes.”
Harry nods. “Alright, but I’ve got to warn you, I’m not the best at those domestic type spells, I can transfigure a knife real quick, but a blanket? Forget it.”
“Well,” Draco sighs. “It’s a very good thing I’m well versed in the art, I’ll instruct you okay? We’ll be fine.”
“Do you want to just do it?” Potter says, handing Draco his wand nonchalantly.
Draco splutters. “Potter! You can’t just hand other wizards your wand like that! What if they want to do the wrong thing?”
“Are you going to do the wrong thing?” Potter asks him seriously, his eyes are curious but don’t seem to hold any judgement.
“No,” Draco replies. “Of course not, but you don’t know that, so you need to be more careful.”
“It’s fine.” Potter says, still a tad to carelessly for Draco’s liking. “I trust you.”
“Well fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” says Draco snootily in an effort to hide how much those words really mean to him. “Now get me something to transfigure.”
Potter produces three soft looking garments from their clothes bag.
Draco grabs the first, a black leather jacket, and lays it upon the floor carefully.
He grips Potter’s wand a little harder and concentrates. The incantation is simple, but Draco hasn’t done it for a long time, his wand was snapped before the wizengamot when his sentence was finalised.
He concentrates, and remembers carefully how McGonagall had used to stress the importance of the correct wand movements. He carefully flourishes the wand with a quick snap back at the last moment, then enjoys the warm rush of magic as it runs through his blood.
The jacket transforms into a lovely king sized bed with a cherry-wood head board.
On a roll, he turns the next garment into a soft looking mattress and the final one into some sheets.
“Nice.” says Potter when he’s finished. “It even looks good.”
Draco quickly removes the brunette charm from his hair before handing the wand back.
They spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the grounds, the gardens are extensive and it’s easy to get lost in them, chatting about this and that. They talk a lot about silly things. Favourite colours and school crushes mostly, Draco laughs for a solid minute when Potter explains how he asked Cho Chang out to the Yule Ball, and by the time it starts to get dark, they are both knackered.
Neither of them is hungry, and so they head to bed straight away. Potter has a book to read, and Draco amuses himself thinking up good scenarios for the romance novel he will one day write. He’s thinking about possible sex scenes when he starts to wonder.
“Do you think perhaps we should properly fuck?” Draco asks eventually.
“What? Why?” Potter replies, still focused on his book.
“I don’t know, we’ve done all the other things, like, with our mouths and our hands, and they were all good, why should the whole shebang be any different?”
“The whole shebang?” Potter repeats.
“Potter that’s a nasty habit.”
“What is?” he says, finally looking away from the book.
“Repeating what people say.”
“Oh.” replies Potter.
“Yes, and as I was saying; sex. I think we should have it.”
He turns to face Potter properly, the man is lying on his back with one arm behind his head, his hair is a mess of curls, and their is a splatter of moles across his neck and cheeks, and Draco doesn’t think he has ever seen anything so chaotically appealing. Yes, sex would be good.
But Potter is frowning. His brows are screwed together in consternation.
“Draco, we’re both virgins. It’s probably not going to be very good, and is now really the best time?”
“We’re both nineteen years old Potter, the best time is yesterday. Put me out of my misery will you?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Potter begins thoughtfully. “Or that I haven’t thought about it-”
“You’ve thought about it then, with me?” Draco asks smugly.
This bodes well for his agenda.
Potter looks at him like he’s insane for a moment, before propping himself up on an elbow.
“Of course I’ve thought about it, with you, I’d be mad not to have-”
“Okay, that’s reassuring.”
“Potter.” Draco replies pointedly.
“Sorry.” he says, not sounding the least bit apologetic.
“What are you worried about, if you want to do it that is?” Draco asks. He’s not a fan of discussing it as directly as all this, but they both have their pride, and he thinks that they can’t really afford to miscommunicate.
“Just, where things go I guess, and afterwards, I don’t want it to make things different between us, and god I sound like a girl.”
“Don’t insult women like that Potter. Anyway, in regards to where things go-”
“I know where things go, I’m not a total green-horn, more to the point is who does what?” replies Potter, sounding slightly affronted. He is staring very intently at Draco, who is trying manfully not to pinch his flushed cheeks.
“Well, that’s simple Potter, I want you in me, but I suppose we can switch it up if you fancy.”
Potter has abandoned the book completely by now, and Draco notes gleefully that he hasn’t even marked the page he was at, he’s simply let the book slide somewhere onto the bed.
“And I don’t think it will be too different afterwards, it never has been when we’ve done the other things.”
Potter nods like this is the most sensible logic in the world. “But aren’t you worried it might hurt, isn’t it awful the first time for the- the bottom?”
“Well Potter, that’s why I’m trusting you to be careful.” he says, reaching a hand down to trace Potters hip and dip underneath his shirt to brush his belly lightly.
“Oh.” Potter says. A little because he understands, but mostly because Draco has reached even further down to cup his cock and then squeeze a little.
“Are we doing it then?” Draco asks excitedly.
Potter rolls his eyes, grabs him by the jaw and pulls him in for a kiss. For something that they have so pointedly discussed, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. They move at a leisurely pace, and it’s almost languid, the way they remove each others clothing.
Soon, he has Potter panting beneath him, his lovely dusky nipples are standing to attention and Draco can see the movement in his ribs with every inhale.
Morbidly, he thinks of how easy it would be to kill Harry Potter in this moment. To grab the wand that is sitting on the nightstand and simply AK him.
Draco does grab the wand, but only because he needs to do some protection charms, there is zero chance of passing anything on between them, but it’s good practice.
Draco rolls off Potter, and kneels with his bum in the air. It’s times like these that he’s sort of glad he’s a mite shameless.
“Lubrication charm Potter.” he says, handing over the wand.
Potter takes it and puts it down on the dresser. “Ha! If you think you’re going in dry think again, because I have heard some horror stories that would-”
“Shut up Malfoy- you’re always goddamn talking. I’m going to take care of you, so just be quiet for a minute.”
Draco sits up, more than ready to give a little lip, but Potter gets up from the bed. It’s a nice view, and there are little dimples at the bottom of Potter’s back that he hasn’t noticed before. Potter rummages in one of the bags a little bit, before pulling out a small vial of clear liquid.
He turns back around and notices Draco watching him. “I’m serious Draco. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d thought about it. Just let me look after you on this, please?”
Draco complies, turning back around and looking at pillow, but only because Potter evidently has been thinking about this, if he’s gone and bought lube for them.
He feels the mattress sink as Potter get’s back into the bed, and warm hands come to massage the back of his thighs. He may or may not tremble slightly.
Potter doesn’t say anything, Draco has discovered that he is not exactly a man of many words.
Potter continues rubbing his legs down, and even though it’s not exactly erotic, god damn it if he isn’t getting hard. He can feel the blood rushing down to his cock, and he is sorely tempted to take himself in hand.
“Patience.” Harry mutters, as if he has sensed Draco’s thought.
Then the hands come up to lightly knead the muscles on Draco’s bum. He groans, in pleasure or frustration, he is not quite sure.
“Get on with it.” He snaps.
Potter doesn’t reply, but Draco hears the cork pop on the vial, and soon a slippery finger is wiggling it’s way in and working him open. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, nothing at all like the excruciating pain he had been told about in whispers, but it’s not all that fantastic either. Just strange, alien to his body.
“Add another finger.” He demands.
Potter complies. It’s still not all that good, but for some reason, his cock likes it. He’s incredibly hard, but when he does give in to his most base urges and reach down to stroke, Potter notices almost immediately and bats his hand away.
He hears Potter sigh and mutter something from behind him.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Can I try something.”
“Sure, just so long as it’s not painf-” he is interrupted by his own gasp.
Potter, in one movement, has spread his cheeks apart and licked one long stripe up and around his hole.
“Potter!” Draco exclaims, legs quaking. His eyes have gone glassy and he’s sure that if he had a mirror he would be able to see himself blushing from his forehead down to his chest.
There is no reply, and so instead, Draco falls apart under Harry Potter’s tongue as it circles and thrusts, and kisses him into loose compliance. When he puts his fingers back in, Draco hardly even notices, there’s three of them, or maybe four, whatever, he’s too hot and blissed out to care.
“Ready?” Potter asks after some time.
“Mmm.” Draco agrees, or gurgles.
The fingers are gone, but Draco doesn’t have time to complain, because then he is fuller than he ever has been, Potter’s cock is stuffed tight inside his hole and he can feel the man struggling to keep still behind him.
“Can I move?” Potter grits out.
“Yes!” Draco exclaims. “Move, god damn it.”
The rhythm starts out shaky, and Draco’s erection actually flags a little, but then Potter lays a few wet kisses on his back and neck, starts going a little deeper, a little more steadily, and hits that spot.
It’s like an explosion, there is no other word for it, a sensory bomb that he had not realised had been ticking away in him, just waiting for someone to light a match.
“Draco.” Potter chants like a prayer. “Draco. Draco.”
It builds up inside him quickly, and it’s only few more thrusts before they both come. Potter grabs a hold of Draco’s cock in those last moments, and it’s the combination that sets him off. They are both left panting as Potter pulls out, but Draco rolls Potter underneath him and lays a few openmouthed kisses across his throat and neck, just because he can.
“That was fun.” Draco says when he’s finished.
Potter grins up at him, and it’s gorgeous. His hair is a ruin though.
“We should do it again some time.” he says.
“Yeah.” Potter replies. “We should.”
As it turns out, Potter is a recreational smoker, not addicted or anything, but likely to carry a pack of cigarettes around on him. He pulls out a smoke whilst they lie there enjoying the languid mood that has taken over the room. Potter banishes the wet patch so that Draco can go to sleep on his side.
They don’t talk a lot after that, by unspoken agreement they have decided that this is quiet time. And so Draco closes his eyes and breathes in the second-hand smoke, he likes the smell. He’s thinking about what it would be like to actually try one as he drifts off. But too soon he is asleep, and his mind if blissfully vacant.
Draco wakes up first. He has always been a light sleeper, and so he notices quickly a shift in the room. When he sits up hurriedly and opens his eyes, he recognises those subtle ripples in the air that indicate disillusionment.
“You might as well show yourselves.” he says.
There is a slight commotion, and Draco suspects that underneath whatever silencing charms they have up, they are debating wether or not they should do as he says.
Eventually, five or six figures emerge from thin air.
He sees Ronald Weasley standing in the corner, he looks as though he wishes the ground would swallow him up. Draco imagines it must be difficult to be told you need to arrest your best friend and his fugitive lover.
Draco sighs, he should have known it would be too good to be true really.
“Alright, how did you find us? I can tell you’re all dying to gloat.”
“Ahh,” says one, confirming his suspicions. “Little criminals should learn not to use magic when they have a trace on them. Amateur really.”
Of course, Draco thinks, remembering how he had transfigured the bed the night before. How could they have been so stupid? To think, they had been so meticulous in regards to the more complex aspects of the escape, but had been ultimately thwarted by something that most first years knew? It was humiliating.
“Do you want to wake up Potter, or shall we do the honours?” asks the same one, smirking something terrible.
“No,” he says, doing his best to sound defeated. “I’ll do it.”
If he can just communicate to Harry in time, that they need to leave, then maybe he can apparate them, he sleeps with his wand and everything. It was something Draco had ribbed him about, but now it seemed like a god send.
“Hang on.” says one of the older aurors. “You should know we’ve got your trace warded now. You can’t apparate from this room. So no funny business.”
“Naturally.” he replies, rolling his eyes. Cool as cucumber.
“Potter.” he says, turning around to face him and shake his shoulder. “Potter, wake up, you actual twat.”
He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears an auror snort. He maybe even recognises the snort as something that might come from Weasley’s mouth.
Potter opens his eyes, very clearly. Too clearly.
Oh, of course, Potter had been through a war too, it was incredibly unlikely that he would have been able to sleep through any sort of commotion. Draco had been foolish for thinking that he could have.
As he stares at Potter he can see the apology coming, and the regret that fills his lover’s eyes is almost physically painful to him.
“Sorry.” Potter says. “I’ll come back for you. I swear.”
And then he disappears.
The second time it happens, there isn’t a storm.
His cell is quiet and so is the weather.
Draco is sleeping restlessly because he isn’t awake enough to remove the stone that is digging into his back, but he is awake enough just to feel it. It is annoying, but his half-consciousness hasn’t yet become so aggravated as to convince him to be bothered to move it.
That is what shocks him into stirring really, the absence of that painful irritant. One moment it is being a casual nuisance, and the next moment it is gone.
Draco sits up, and plunges his hands into sand. Opening his eyes he realises that he is either having an incredibly vivid dream, or his cell has vanished. When he turns to see Harry Potter sitting further up the beach, trying to smoke a cigarette that seems limp from the damp, he discovers that neither of these things is the case.
He runs, euphoric, down the beach. He is aware of the salty wind in his face, and the ocean fresh on his tongue, and the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore, everything is beautiful to him in this moment, and he can feel the universe in every grain of sand clinging to his feet, he sees it too, when Potter smiles.
Potter has just stood up when they crash into each other. They embrace messily and Draco jumps up into his arms. Potter, completely unprepared, overbalances, and they fall over.
In a flurry of limbs and heated kisses they strip each other, it’s quick for Draco, who has once again been forced into the monstrosity that is a regulation prison gown. But they still make short work of Potter’s broody leather jacket, band shirt and denims. In no time at all it seems, they are skin to skin.
Then Draco remembers that he probably smells like shit.
“Potter.” he says, pulling away for a moment. “Have you ever been skinny-dipping?”
Potter shakes his head, and so Draco takes his hand and drags him into the water. When he submerges himself fully, and opens his eyes underwater, it stings something fierce. Further to this, he has a few cuts on his back from giving one of the guards a tiny bit of lip that all hurt like a bitch. When he comes back up, Potter is eyeing them.
“Who did that?” Potter asks, gesturing at them casually.
“Dumb guard.” he replies.
“Well,” Draco smirks. “He made some personal remarks about my father, and so I may or may not have saw fit to imply that I had been having intimate relations with his mother, whom I definitely suggested was the solely responsible party for the man’s resemblance to a warty foot.”
Potter tries very valiantly to keep a straight face, but his lips twitch a little and he ends up snorting. “You’re despicable.” he says, before turning more serious. “But that’s still against protocol, he’s not supposed to hurt you, it’s against the-”
“Law?” Draco suggests, raising an eyebrow pointedly.
“That’s different Malfoy,” Potter replies. “I don’t hurt anyone, and besides, some would argue that love is a noble enough intention to justify crime.”
“Ahh, that old classic. The end justifies the means?”
“You are such a sod, you make it sound terrible when I know for a fact that it doesn’t bother you, you just enjoy being a terrible stir.”
“Whatever.” Draco says, and flicks some water at Potter’s face.
“Oh, it’s on Malfoy.”
Potter cups his hand and splashes an enormous amount back at him. They muck around like that for a while, playing naked in the water like children until Potter takes a massive mouthful of water into his mouth and then squirts it, Draco ducks just in time.
“Oh my gods, Potter you aberration!” he squawks when he comes back up for air. “That’s disgusting!”
Potter however, doesn’t seem to care, and Draco smiles when the man let’s out an enormous belly laugh and falls back on his backside. Draco hadn’t noticed they had come so close to the shore again.
“Your face!” Potter exclaims, still giggling.
Draco, quite put out, at this point, stands up and folds his arms.
Potter stops laughing. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist Malfoy, I still think your hot.”
Draco makes a sound of disgust, and begins to march off to god-knows-where. When a hand grabs at his wrist and pulls him back down.
“Draco.” Potter whines. “Don’t go off on a strop. You could get lost and die.”
“Sod off, Potter.” Draco snarks back.
“No.” Potter says, still holding his wrist. “Come on Malfoy, even you’re not this sensitive, what is it?”
He’s technically right. Draco’s more peeved by the fact that he has suddenly remembered some of his old insecurities, about Potter’s enjoyment of him being directly proportional to his appearance; and his frustration that he not be able to maintain it, even when he knows Potter doesn’t care, than he is about Potter having a laugh with him.
Draco sighs. “Don’t you worry that we have too much sex.” he says.
“Too much sex?” Potter replies, sounding slightly incredulous.
“Oh do shut up,” says Draco, knocking Potter’s shoulder. “I realise that I am behind bars the vast majority of the time, and that it may be hard for you to keep your grabby hands away from this aesthetic delight-” he pauses to gesture at his body. “-but, I feel as though we should do more of other things, like talking, and I don’t know, dating.”
“You want to date?” Potter asks slowly, like he is trying to understand something terribly complex.
“Yes.” Draco replies.
Potter does not react the way Draco had expected he might. His face breaks out into a grin and he actually looks quite excited. “I didn’t know you wanted to date me Draco.” he says.
“Well, now you do.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, fantastic.” Potter corrects. “It’s simply a question of where we might go.”
“Hmm.” Draco replies. “We’ll figure it out later.”
“Later?” Potter asks, confused.
“Yes,” Draco replies. “Later”
Then he attaches himself to Potter once more and they have sex right there on the beach.
There is a small, abandoned shack nearby that Harry has apparently scoped out, and deemed safe for squatting. It’s absolutely low-class, and Draco still isn’t sure if he is more shocked by the idea of sneaking into someones house, or that there are houses with only two rooms in them.
It’s funny, in Azkaban, he rarely finds cause to complain, and the living conditions there are not exactly anything to write home about, in all honesty, they’re dreadful.
But the second he’s outside, old thoughts, and habits, and snobberies come creeping back in, he supposes it’s something to do with the way he was raised. Even though he now realises that certain things aren’t necessary, that doesn’t mean that he has stopped enjoying them.
In any case they make it a lovely four weeks this time, they laze a month of the summer away fishing, and eating, and fucking. It’s wonderful.
“There is one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Draco says one day whilst they are down on the beach.
Harry is lying on a towel with a book in his hands, and Draco has been sketching the water with some charcoals he found in the shack.
Harry makes a sound of acknowledgement.
“It’s just that it’s kept on slipping my mind.”
“What is it?” Harry asks, putting down his book.
“However did you get me out this time?”
“Don’t you know?” asks Harry, eyebrows furrowing. “I sent you a message.”
“I didn’t get it." Draco replies.
“Oh, well I had a guy-”
“Another one of these infamous ‘guys’, my Potter, how do you know these people?!”
Potter ignores him. “He only did half then? He got the portkey into your food, but he didn’t warn you it was coming?”
Oh. Of course.
“Was it Tidaman? Was Tidaman your guy?”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
“Well, he got rostered onto a different ward a few days ago. He still would’ve been able to access the kitchens and fix that part up, but he isn’t allowed in the death eater section any more.”
“Death eater section?”
“Technically they call it war crimes, but we all know what it really is.”
“I just realised I must have swallowed a port-key by the way.”
“You swallowed a rock?” Harry asks skeptically.
“Oh my god! The rock, how did I not realise!? Actually, it’s incredibly lucky that I decided to sleep on the floor then, otherwise I never would have rolled onto it, or have been touching it at the right time.”
“It’s fate Draco, destiny!” Potter says, using a dumb spooky tone and wiggling his fingers spastically.
“I have no idea why I put up with you.” Draco says, unimpressed. “These are rather uncreative jailbreak methods by the way, and I’m kind of surprised that Azkaban has such shite security, is this really what the wizarding community want their hard-earned tax galleon fucking up?”
“Well, it’s because it’s designed to keep people in isn’t it? They haven’t really had much of a history of people doing rescues, only people trying to leave from the inside, it’s just that their unprepared I think.”
Draco thinks about this carefully.
“They’ll be raising their guard now I suspect, seeing as you’ve managed to get me out twice now.”
“And never again if I can help it.” Potter vows.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Draco warns.
“Fine,” Potter replies. “Then I promise that if you do get caught again, I’ll find another way to steal you back. Every time. Until we’re ancient.”
Draco puts down his sketch and looks at Potter, who is already staring at him intently.
“Why?” he asks.
“Don’t you know?” Potter counters.
“Funnily enough, I don’t.”
Potter sighs, and sounds greatly put upon.
“Because I love you, you massive dolt, now can I return to my book. This chapter is really heating up.”
Draco must make some strangled noise of affirmation, because Potter goes back to reading as calm as you please, and Draco is left wondering if the whole thing happened at all.
It all goes wrong when Draco has the wise idea of visiting a local chippy. He’s never been to one before, and so when Harry mentions that there is one about a half hour walk away, he is determined that they go.
They argue about it for a few days, Harry is convinced that it would be safer for them to wait. Draco wants to try some soggy food. It comes to a head when Draco forces the situation.
“Well,” he says. “I’m going right now, you can choose to come and fight off the bad guys, or you can stay here.”
Potter, unsurprisingly, decides to come.
It’s a silent walk. Potter, for the first time in a while, is stroppy with him, and Draco knows full well that it’s not exactly undeserved. This does not stop him from excitedly anticipating the joys of fried potato and fish.
When they arrive, there are a lot of people in the shop, which is strange for a small town. They find out from a passing stranger that there has been some sort of language convention that has drawn in the masses. Potter, the paranoid bugger, insists that he wait outside the shop, just in case.
As it turns out this was the worst decision they could have made. Draco is out looking at the water from a small pier about twenty metres away when it happens.
He hears footsteps from behind him, and he doesn’t even turn around until a mans voice asks him if he has a lighter on him.
He turns to respond in the negative, and quickly finds himself face to face with chief auror Robards. To say that he has terrible luck would be putting it mildly.
Robards’ face lights in recognition before Draco even has a chance to make a move, and that thing digging painfully into his neck is a wand.
“One wrong decision and I’ll stun you.” growls Robards.
Draco nods slowly.
“Is Potter with you? Nod for yes, shake for no.”
Draco thinks about it quickly. Then shakes his head.
“Are you lying?”
Draco shakes his head again.
And then Potter comes out of the chippy with two plastic bags and looking for all the world like peace on earth. Draco can track the changes on his expression as he goes from happy, to confused when he can’t see Draco, and to furious when he does.
There must be something in Draco’s eyes however, that plead for him to stay still, because for once in his life, Potter doesn’t run forward guns blazing.
Robards, as it turns out, is no idiot. And he quickly flips them around so he can see where Draco is looking.
“Why you lying, little rat! I should-”
Draco never finds out what Robards should do, because he quickly stands on the mans foot with as much force as he can muster and begins sprinting towards Harry, who drops the bags he’s holding, pulls out his wand and is reaching out a hand to-
“Tardus Autem!” Robards voice cries out from behind him, and suddenly Draco is moving in slow motion. Each stride seems to take a millennia. Robards has him at wand-point again in moments.
“I said, no wrong decisions.”
Draco nods. Potter is frozen, arm still outstretched, hand waiting.
“Now, we’re off to the ministry, and you and boyfriend both will be headed to Azkaban if I have anything to do with it.”
Draco thinks about it. Robards is not in his uniform. He is in his civvies, and he appears to be off-duty, it is incredibly likely that he does not have back-up.
“As if.” Draco scoffs. Then he decides to really risk it. “Oii Potter!”
The man in question stares at him, alarmed. Robards grips him a little tighter, but they both know that he won’t be able to take on Potter without letting go of Draco.
“I love you too, you fool!” he yells, putting as much force and feeling into the words as possible.
Hopefully they will worm their way into Potter’s dumb, warm heart and stay there, keep him company in the coming weeks.
Robards growls, and in the very next second, Draco is being apparated away, they land in auror headquarters, and even though this means he’s going back to Azkaban, he smiles, because he is quite certain that he saw Potter grin delightedly and mouth the words ‘see you soon.’
The third time Harry Potter breaks in to Azkaban, he arrives with a bang. Literally.
There are fireworks going off outside. Draco can see them, their ephemeral fluorescence shines bright colours through the window and into his cell, the walls are lit briefly with pinks, purples, and more vibrant hues than Draco can name.
They are the most colourful thing he has seen since he was returned not two months ago.
And yes, Draco is so ready to go. He can hear the guards shouting at each other to do something. There’s not technically a protocol for this kind of situation, but when several of the guards come and unlock his door, drag him into a different cell and stay with him, he realises that it’s not so outlandish that they haven't realised that it’s likely Potter.
Draco is undeniably stressed. Potter’s plan, whatever it is, can’t possibly work if he doesn’t know where Draco is located.
Suddenly, an alarm goes off. Another guard bursts into the room, he is stocky and has neat, light brown hair. Draco has never seen this one before.
“There’s been an escape!” he huffs.
The guards look at each other. “Which prisoner?” one asks.
“Digby, his brother’s are the one’s responsible for the fireworks. They’re getting away, towards the north, on broomsticks now!”
“Alright, Jameson, I know you’ve only been here a few weeks, but can you watch over this one?” replies one of the elder guards, gesturing towards Draco.
The young guard nods. “Of course sir.” he says with a respectful salute.
The rest of the guards hurry away, leaving him in the company of the newcomer.
“Draco,” the man says.
At that, Draco’s head snaps up, how dare this imbecile presume to address him by his first name!
“It’s me! It’s Harry. The Digby Brothers have been planning an escape for a while now, I figured I could use it as a distraction. You ready?”
Draco looks carefully at the unfamiliar man. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
“It’s just a polyjuice,” he says. “But you’ll be happy to know that we’re going to Antarctica.”
“Oh,” replies Draco. “You should’ve said so.”
They run down the halls like the devil himself is chasing them, it’s so incredibly dark that Draco isn’t sure how Potter can know where they are going half the time.
Then he remembers that Potter had somehow swung himself the clearance to work as a guard for several weeks. He’d be familiar with the layout of the prison by now, and how the guards are supposed to react to certain situations.
“Through here.” Potter says as they come to a crossroads. They take the left fork and come to a round room with a large spiral staircase that is directed, impossibly far, up.
They’re only about a third of the way up the staircase and Draco is growing tired, his heart is pounding and he’s short of breathe.
“Come on Draco, just a little while longer.” says Potter.
Easy for him to say, Draco thinks sourly, bugger had barely even broken a sweat.
He’s considering mentioning just that when another loud siren begins to ring out across the prison.
“Shit.” he hears Harry curse. “They’re bringing in the aurors, we need to hurry.”
Draco finds some last reserve of his energy and keeps running behind Harry.
And then he hears the shouts.
There are aurors at the bottom of the staircase, and he can hear the older guard who had given Harry the responsibility of supervising him yelling orders. They must have come back then, and realised he was missing.
“Up there!” he hears one shout.
A jet of red light shoots up the length of the tower and hits the thin bannister by his hand, it crumbles into dust.
“Shit fuck. Draco come on!” Harry calls desperately, already a few steps above him.
Come on Draco, he thinks to himself. You’re going to do wonderfully, you need to escape so that you can write your novel.
Harry casts a shield at him, and the curses start bouncing back down, Draco keeps running.
Up, and up, and up. Seemingly hundreds of stairs. He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, but he thinks for a moment that he can hear footsteps behind him, and with one final burst of adrenalin, he makes it to the final flight. He’s wheezing, but Harry helps pull him up the last few and hands him a broom.
“I don’t think I can!” he says. “I’m too tired.”
“You can Draco! I know you can. We need to leave now.”
Harry has already mounted his own broom and is waiting by the window.
The light of the dawn illuminates him beautifully. Like some kind of avenging angel.
“Just leave me.” he says pitifully.
Harry lets out an almost animal sound of frustration.
The footsteps on the stairs grow impossibly closer.
“Come here. And get on.” Harry says.
Draco stumbles wearily over. And gets onto the broom behind Harry. Harry quickly hands him a ball of silvery fabric. “I’m going to take off, and you’re going to cover yourself with that.”
Draco puts the cloak on, and gasps when he realises that he has been rendered invisible.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Selective disillusionment.” Harry replies.
Then he takes off. Draco grips his waist tightly as Harry flings them out of the window and into the pale morning sky.
Just in time, he looks back and he can see aurors and guards hanging out of the windows, staring at the empty sky in confusion.
By the time they land on the closest shore of the mainland, he can feel that Potter has changed back, the waist he has been holding has grown a little thinner, and a little more toned.
There are large white rocks that stand, poking out of the sand as though it is their duty to watch over the ocean, they are white, and eroded, battered by the very force they stand their vigil for.
Draco lets go of Potter’s waist and they dismount.
“We still need to hurry.” Potter says, running a hand through his hair, “Portkey will be leaving soon.”
“You really have a thing for port-keys don’t you?” Draco asks.
“They’re convenient, and immune to tracking.” Potter replies defensively.
“Well, if I had to plan a daring rescue, I dare say I’d be a sight more fashionable about it.”
“Who cares about fashion?” Potter asks.
“Oh Potter, my Potter.” Draco replies. “You don’t need to certainly. There’s a certain kind of je nais se quoi in not caring at all for style. But the rest of us...”
“Okay.” Potter replies absent mindedly. He is digging around in the scrub and Draco supposes that a dilapidated looking bush is as a good a hiding place as any for a port key.
“Here!” Potter exclaims excitedly, holding up a cylindrical tin can with the words ‘coca-cola’ written across it in fancy type.
He places it down in the sand carefully, and resumes looking about the bush. He pulls out a tiny purple bag. “You’ll need to get changed, I hear it’s cold down there.” he says with an impish grin.
“Are we actually going to Antarctica?” asks Draco. “I thought you were just saying that.”
“Well, yes. We are going. We have to befriend the penguins and whatnot don’t we?” he asks, looking a little unsure of himself.
“Yes, of course. Good thinking Potter. Gimme the clothes.”
Potter smiles again and pulls out some thick looking trousers for both of them, and jackets to go with.
Harry pulls his straight over the top of his guard’s uniform, but Draco can’t stand being in his ghastly prison gown any longer, so he ditches it and then dons the warm clothing.
Next, Potter pulls out very fluffy scarves and thick woolen hats that will protect them from the wind.
He rummages around a little more and finds a few pairs of sock for Draco, and some chunky, chill resistant boots.
“Those ones are charmed.” Potter says proudly. “They’ll be the perfect temperature no matter where you are.”
Then the coca-cola can starts to shudder a little. “Potter!” he exclaims. “Time to go.”
The both reach for the can, and then they are off. Draco’s stomach twists a little unpleasantly because he hasn’t eaten for a while, but even as the world is spinning, Potter stays with him.
“Ooomph!” Potter exhales loudly as he lands on his arse in the snow.
Draco hardly hears him, he’s too busy looking delightedly around at the wonderland before him. They have landed on a pristine continent. The snow and the ice are completely pure, their perfection absolute. Much to Draco’s joy, there are also hundreds and hundreds of penguins dotting the icy landscape below.
“Potter!” he whoops. “Look!”
Potter stands and looks down at the icy valley beneath them. They are similar in their awe.
“It’s amazing.” Potter whispers.
They are lucky enough to have arrived in a daylight hour. The sun is sitting low on the sea, but there is enough light for them to appreciate the majesty of this wild place.
The spend a few hours simply watching the animals. Potter somehow produces hot chocolate from that bag of wonders and they sit and sip their warm drinks as the penguins get into crazy shenanigans. Waddling around curiously and falling off bergs.
“Where are we going to stay?” he asks eventually.
Harry points at the purple bag. “Believe it or not, there is a tent the size of a small house inside this bag. I don’t know how it works. Fuck physics.”
Draco doesn’t know what physics are exactly, but that’s fine. “I’ve always wanted to go camping you know, it’s sort of rustic isn’t it?”
Harry smiles easily enough, and pulls out the tent.
They spend the next hour arguing about which tent pole goes where, and how best to pitch it. Draco doesn’t understand why Potter thinks he can get by without instructions.
“Didn’t you bring a manual?” he asks, frustratedly.
“We don’t need one,” Harry grouses. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”
Draco grumbles under his breath a little, but eventually they work it out, and there they have it. A lovely, temporary home, a home that they can carry with them wherever they go.
“We can be great nomads,” Draco suggests later, when they are lying snuggled up in the cramped single bed. It’s a little uncomfortable, but it’s cosy enough that he doesn’t mind. Harry can expand it later anyway.
“What, like travel about and stuff?” Potter asks.
“Yes, we’ll see all of the most wonderful places in the world except for Britain. Spend only a few weeks in each spot and then move on.”
“Won’t you get sick of it though? Potter replies, brushing a warm hand across Draco’s cheek.
“Well, not until we’re old and crotchety. Then we can settle down in a forest somewhere and have a vegetable garden and be entirely self sufficient and never have to associate with another living soul.”
“We’ll have each other.”
Harry smiles. “That’s true.”
They talk a little more about the future, and Draco’s great romance novel, and Harry’s career as a jack of all trades, but it devolves very slowly into kissing, one here, one there, one on the nose, one on the cheek, and on the lips, the lips, the lips, and more very please Potter.
It’s a nice night outside, to watch the stars in the sky and the comets as they fly by, but Draco finds that he is far better off in Potter’s arms.
They spend the next few days going on long walks, there is one memorable occasion in which Potter transfigures their boots into ice-skates, and Draco spends a good while laughing at his clumsiness before taking pity on him and guiding him about carefully until he gets the full reckless hang of it and becomes better at it than Draco.
Potter has brought a camera with him this time, and Draco takes to it quickly, lining Potter up in shots whether he likes it or not.
“Potter, come stand over here.” he’ll say bossily.
Potter will huff, but do it anyway.
Draco’s favourite photo is from one night where he was playing around with the film when Harry spontaneously decided to kiss him. Draco spontaneously held the camera up loosely and took a snap.
It looks utterly candid, and utterly lovely. He shows Harry when it’s developed, and even though Harry acts a little grumpy about it, Draco knows him well enough to recognise that happy uptilt in the corner of his mouth.
“We should move on.” Draco says one day.
“Okay.” Harry replies. “Somewhere warm please.”
“You choose.” Draco replies, gripping his wrist lightly and drawing little swirls here and there.
“Hmm, India? I always liked the take-away.”
“You pleb. There’s also the temples, and the architecture, and the festivals and the great natural wonders, and also the other various cultural delights.” Draco snarks, half appalled and all endeared.
“Well, they sound good too. You can show me them.” Potter replies.
“Alright, I will.”
The spend only one more week in Antarctica, and it’s a good thing they decided to leave because they are running decidedly low on food. They will need to go somewhere and stock up again soon.
Harry makes another unregistered portkey out of a twig, and they land in a small country town in China.
“This is the closest I could get us, I haven't been to India before.”
“That’s alright.” replies Draco. “I have.”
Draco apparates them to an area he had visited as a child, and is struck by the strange cosmic coincidence of them always landing by the sea or on a beach.
There is enough forest land nearby that they can set up their tent again and a few wards to prevent anyone from coming too close. It’s strange, but everything is starting to feel a little like home.
“I love you.” Harry says again one morning while he’s shelling the peas.
“I love you too.” Draco replies, he’s going for careless, but if the way Harry is looking at him is any indication, he’s given rather a lot away.
That’s okay, he doesn’t mind at all, he thinks as Harry pulls him in for a searing kiss, accidentally knocking some grated carrot off the bench.
They’ll clean it up later he supposes. Or, Potter will clean it up later and Draco will supervise. Potter puts a hand on his arse then, and Draco doesn’t suppose much for a while.
In the end they catch Harry.
He isn’t sure how, because he isn’t there when it happens.
It’s their second day in Goa, India, and Harry is gone.
It’s essentially uneventful. All that happens is Draco wakes up to a note from Harry saying how he won’t be back for a few hours, he’s gone to get some food.
Harry never comes back.
Draco panics of course. Is briefly furious that maybe Harry has left him, but no. They are past that. Draco doesn’t irrationally pander to those insecurities anymore, Harry has beyond proved himself. Even when he didn’t have to, even when he didn’t know that’s what he was doing.
He is almost relieved when he gets his hands on a daily prophet. It’s a week old, which makes sense, but it has a large photo of Harry scowling on the front as they drag him into the ministry holding cells. He’s been sentenced six years for aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal.
It sounds like a challenge. Or maybe even a trap, but when Draco thinks of Harry Potter he realises that he doesn’t care a whit, in fact, he’s always been rather fond of a challenge.
Besides, it’s definitely his turn to try his hand at a daring rescue.
One with some creative flair.
I’ll see you soon, he thinks, as he runs a hand across the photo.
Somewhere, Harry Potter grins.