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Chapter 1: Enforced Holiday

Title: Holiday

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or Draco Malfoy; much as I would like to.

Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, other assorted canon pairings, past Sirius/Remus, and Remus/Tonks.

Rating: M, NC-17; though not until much, much later in the story.

Warnings: Slash, sex or implied sex, language, character death (not Harry or Draco), and past canonical child abuse.

Summary: Harry is forced to take a vacation before becoming a full Auror, for his own health. He is less than pleased about that fact. Adding to his displeasure? The fact that in order to ensure he used the allotted vacation time to relax and not continue to work himself to death he was assigned an escort - none other than his Auror partner, Draco Malfoy. Creature fic.



Chapter One

Hear the sound of the falling rain
Coming down like an Armageddon flame
The shame

The ones who died without a name

Hear the dogs howling out of key
To a hymn called "Faith and Misery"

And bleed, the company lost the war today

I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies
This is the dawning of the rest of our lives
On holiday.

Green Day - Holiday


Harry threw his bag down on the hotel bed and scowled. He glared around the large suite as if offended by the luxury. He wanted to scream in frustration, but that would certainly bring his guard - for that was how he thought of the "escort" who had been assigned to him to make sure he relaxed and made non-productive use of his time off - running. He had locked the door, but he didn't trust that the guard wouldn't hex it down if he thought Harry was in danger.

Stupid room.

Stupid holiday.

Stupid guard.

Stupid Kingsley.

At that moment, he hated the Minister of Magic. He didn't need a vacation, whatever Kingsley thought about it. Damn him.

And assigning him a guard to make sure he spent his holiday relaxing instead of working! His scowl deepened as Harry thought about his guard.



Fucking damn him to hell.

Harry had not taken any time off after the war. He had thrown himself into studying for his NEWTs, which he passed with flying colours - all except potions, which he passed with just a high enough grade to make it into the Aurors.

From there he threw himself into Auror training, and worked like a man possessed. He spent hours after training in the practice room; firing hex after hex, jinx after jinx, spell after spell. He duelled with anyone who would face him, and won more and more often, until he was nearly unbeatable – even for some of the senior Aurors. Staying until the ministry closed each night, he even came in on his days off.

When he got home to Number 12, Grimmauld Place each night, he threw himself into research; scouring the Black library, borrowing tomes from the ministry, and even venturing into Knockturn Alley in search of reading materials. He read book after book on Dark Arts and the defenses against them, outstripping even Hermione in his passion.

His friends were worried about him. He had no social life; never going on outings with them - not even to the Weasley's - or on dates. When Ginny approached him about picking up where they had left off, he told her kindly but firmly that she needed to move on. Her tears failed to move him.

He flew through Auror training, his dedication rocketing him to the top of the class and speeding him through training faster than was supposed to be possible. Ron was left far behind, along with all their other fellow trainees. His obsession made him untouchable. No one could match him; no one could catch up to him.

No one except Draco Malfoy.

How Malfoy had gotten into Auror training was a mystery to Harry. The slimy git had had a meeting with Kingsley that lasted hours, and no one knew what they'd talked about. Afterwards, Malfoy had joined the ranks of the Auror trainees.

Harry was incensed. Of course, anger was Harry's primary emotion after the war, and few things didn't make him angry these days; but still. He had spoken for Narcissa and Malfoy at their trials. He explained how Narcissa had saved him in the Forbidden Forest. He explained Malfoy's inability to kill Dumbledore, his desire to protect his parents, his reluctance to obey Voldemort and to torture prisoners, and his refusal to identify Harry and his friends at Malfoy Manor. He didn't want to see Malfoy punished for things that had been out of his control. That did not mean he agreed that the Slytherin should be allowed to become an Auror.

What made it even worse was that rather than partnering him with Ron, like they'd both requested, the instructors assigned him to Malfoy.

"You need a partner who's on the same skill level as you are, Harry. Someone who can challenge you. Right now, Draco's the only one," Instructor Fillmore told him calmly, when he burst into her office, outraged.

Malfoy had accepted it calmly, simply smirking at Harry and saying, "Guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other, then, Potter." Harry had walked away to keep from punching him in the face.

Fillmore was right about one thing - he and Malfoy certainly did challenge each other. Everything between them was a competition. It was all Harry could do to stay on top. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, Malfoy was always mere steps behind him. If he slacked for even a moment, Malfoy might overtake him.

He and Malfoy weren't supposed to finish Auror training for another two years, but in one year they had surpassed several of their instructors and the remaining instructors had found there was nothing more they could teach them.

They met with the minister to discuss becoming Aurors now, rather than waiting, and Kingsley eyed Harry with growing concern. Harry's eyes were shadowed with deep purple bruises, and his face was pale. He jumped at small noises. He was thin; his face looked almost gaunt, making his muscled body seem almost disproportionate, though not quite. There was a faint twitch to the muscles of his mouth.

Quite simply, he looked like a man on the edge of a breakdown.

Kingsley met with Harry's instructors, and firecalled Ron and Hermione. The next day he called Harry back into his office and informed him in a tone that brooked no argument that Harry was taking a paid vacation, effective immediately. Harry tried to argue anyway.

That was what got him assigned his guard. That, and the fact that Kingsley was angling for the position of Harry's most-hated-person.

Harry flopped face-down on the bed, shoving the bag aside and barely registering the soft thud as it hit the floor. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He was tired; so tired. Deciding he would try to go to sleep now, he closed his eyes and began his nightly ritual. Raising his wand, he 'Nox'ed the lights, and spoke quietly but clearly into the darkness, slowly and carefully enunciating each word. As he said each name, the faces and memories of his friends flashed behind his eyelids.

"Sirius." Wild hair; an untamed laugh; kind grey eyes; a big black dog.

"Dumbledore." Twinkling blue eyes; a long white beard; a phoenix; lemon drops.

"Dobby." Floppy ears; mismatched socks; "Master Harry Potter, sir!"; a free elf.

"Hedwig." Snow white feathers; soft hoots; letters; a listening ear and constant companionship.

There was a vague knocking sound, but Harry ignored it.

"Moody." "Constant vigilance!"; a swiveling, all-seeing magical blue eye; a stump; a man tied up at the bottom of a trunk.

"Snape." "10 Points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter!"; potions and the Halfblood Prince; billowing black robes; a hook-nosed sneer.

"Remus." Patronuses and Dementors; chocolate; the full moon; the howl of a wolf.

"Tonks." Clumsiness; pink hair; "Wotcher, Harry!"; a laughing baby.

"Colin." A camera flashing; a high, excited voice calling, "Harry!"; blond hair; adoration and hero-worship.

"Fred." Weasley's Wizard Wheezes; fireworks that defied imagination; a portable swamp; two identical, inseparable freckled redheads forever parted.

"What are you doing, Potter?" His guard spoke quietly, a soft reproach in his voice.

"Remembering," said Harry shortly, without opening his eyes.

"How often do you remember?"

"Every minute of every day. Every night, before I go to bed."

"Merlin, Potter; no wonder you don't sleep!" His guard swore under his breath.

Harry's eyes snapped open, and they glittered dangerously as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up in one swift, fluid motion. He faced the bedroom doorway, where his guard lounged.

"I may have been forced to take this vacation," he hissed. "You may have been assigned to watch me and report about me like some kind of jailer," he raised a hand to stave off the protests as the guard opened his mouth. "And I may be forced to relax. That does not, however, give you the right to analyze me, or judge me, or the way I live my life and the things I choose to do with my time. Unless it's something that's included in your orders and mine, I don't want to hear about it." He glared defiantly. "Are we clear, Malfoy?"

That was the other thing Harry was so upset about. When he had, as part of a last-ditch effort to worm his way out of the vacation by protesting that the time away would give Malfoy an unfair advantage and Harry might lose his number one spot, Kingsley had called Malfoy into his office right then and there, and ordered him, as his first job as a full Auror, to escort Harry on vacation. Harry was informed that unless he wanted to stay in training for the requisite additional two years, that he would go quietly.

He was given enough time to pack his bags, then portkeyed along with Malfoy to a rather posh wizarding resort, which they had arrived at and checked into merely fifteen minutes before he'd entered the room and flung his bag onto the bed.

He shot Malfoy a look that could have turned the blood in his veins to ice, without the aid of a freezing charm. "How the hell did you get in here, anyway?"

"The door, Potter. Obviously." Malfoy rolled his eyes. Harry couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but he knew Malfoy well enough that he could hear the eye roll in his voice. Harry hadn't taken off his glasses yet, and he could see Malfoy's silhouette in the darkness. He was leaning against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest, and his pose was a study in casual, graceful indifference.

"I locked it," Harry ground out.

"The adjoining door, Potter?" He heard rather than saw the raised brow.


They had adjoining rooms. Just when this vacation couldn't get any better, he thought to himself, railing mentally against Kingsley and adjoining doors in general and against Malfoy in particular.

"So there's an adjoining door. What," he bit out. "Gave you the right to use it?"

"I knocked," said Malfoy mildly. "You didn't answer."

"And that gave you the right to waltz in like you owned the place?" snapped Harry.

"As a matter of fact, Potter," the raised eyebrow voice said again. "This establishment happens to be one of the Malfoy holdings, and these rooms the private Malfoy suites. That's how we got such good rooms on such short notice. These rooms are kept available should a Malfoy choose to come on the spur of the moment. So in fact; I do, as you so eloquently put it, own the pl-"

"Shut up!" Harry growled. "You know what I meant, Malfoy."

Malfoy straightened. "I was checking to see if you'd run off," he snapped, a bite of sharpness returning to his tone. "After your behaviour and attitude thus far you can hardly blame me for thinking it."

Harry was tempted to snap back mulishly that, yes, in fact he could; that there were a lot of things he could blame Malfoy for, but he found he had no will to fight. "Well, obviously I haven't," he said tiredly, running his fingers through his hair. "So if you don't mind, Malfoy, I'll thank you to head back the way you came and let me get back to preparing to go to sleep."

"My orders," said Malfoy stiffly. "Were to go with you, see to it you relaxed, and not do anything that would stress you out. And Potter?" He leaned forwards. "Chanting the names of the dead to yourself is a form of stressing yourself out."

Harry gave Malfoy a look that was as good as an Incendio, only far less effective, because Malfoy couldn't see it.

"What do you plan to do about it?" he demanded. "You can't stop me!"

"Yes, Potter," Malfoy said calmly. "I can."

"Soporificus!" he shouted, raising his wand before Harry could react.

Harry fell back, sleep overtaking him at last.

When Harry woke, the sunlight streaming through the window was tinted pink. For a moment he thought it was the sunrise, before remembering the window faced west. He was shocked to realise he had slept for an entire night and day.

He couldn't blame the spell; he recognised it. Rather than an enchanted sleep, it caused the victim to fall into a natural sleep, which would end when the victim was sufficiently rested. It was a healer's spell, used to treat insomnia in patients with potions allergies.

He had to grudgingly admit he'd needed the sleep.

He stared at the ground. Now that he was rested, he could logically admit that Kingsley had had a point about him needing to rest more. He still felt a full vacation was unnecessary, but he resigned himself to it with less bitterness than before.

He looked up and glanced around the room. It was opulent; the furnishings done in gold and light wood, the walls a rich cream colour. Everything in the room was done in those colours; with accents of royal blue woven into curtains and bedding.

There was a hot tub on the left hand side of the room. It bubbled silently; no doubt charmed to be noiseless and run by magical charms rather than electricity.

The room itself was huge; with a king sized canopy bed, a chaise, a fireplace, and several large wing-backed chairs. There was a massive wardrobe beside the bed, and another against the wall near the hot tub.

On the right was a door that led to a study. It was a dark room, rich chocolate browns, royal blue, and forest green being the colour scheme. Harry's eyes gleamed as he examined the rows of books. Perhaps this vacation might not be a total loss. He could study, and learn, and continue to improve. It was with some difficulty that he tore himself from the room to return to the bedroom and continue his exploration.

Straight ahead were two doors. Continuing forward, he discovered the one on the left led to the bathroom; a lovely room done in varying shades of blue, accented with white. There was an enormous shower in the center of the room; like communal showers it had no curtains - it was large enough not to need them. Instead there were walls that curved around in s perfect half circle, with multiple showerheads all aimed at the center of the basin. That was what it looked like - a giant stone basin, with walls curving round one side and open air on the other. It looked decadent. Harry had the sudden desire to try it out, but refrained in favour of continuing his exploration.

The other door led to the entrance to the suite, which he had seen the night before, coming in, thought he hadn't paid attention to it then.

It was a lovely little room, done in pastel green and blue. There was a coat rack, umbrella stand, and a papasan chair on either side. Ahead was the door to the hallway, he remembered. On the left was another door; it must have been the door to Malfoy's room, as it was the only door left.

After a moment's indecision, he opened it. After all, Malfoy hadn't given any thought to his privacy the night before. He stepped inside.

It was an entrance room similar to his, in muted pastels, portraits of landscapes on the walls, vases in alcoves, and comfortable chairs casually arranged. He strode in and opened the door to Malfoy's bedroom. It was again, much the same as Harry's, only the colour scheme was cream, silver, and - to his shock - red. Well, burgundy. But still. He would have thought it too Gryffindor for Malfoy's taste.

He heard the sound of water running and realised that Malfoy must be in the shower. He also heard something else; something that made his breath catch and his feet move unbidden, taking him closer, to hear better.

Malfoy was singing.

His voice was soaring, transporting Harry to another plane of audible delights. It was soothing, healing. Harry felt peace for the first time he could remember.

He didn't recognise the song but he eagerly strained his ears as he wandered closer, intending to listen at the bathroom door.

The door was open. Harry didn't mean to look; he really didn't. He was just so caught up in the song that he moved to stand in the open doorway without thinking.

His jaw dropped. There stood Malfoy in all his glory; pale skin like porcelain with water streaming over it, the contours of his slender, lithe body were well defined, his muscles prominent, hair falling almost to his shoulders, with water running through it and turning the silvery-white strands into spun gold. He was facing Harry. His face was serene, eyes closed, head thrown back. His hands massaged his scalp. The spray danced and glimmered around him as droplets caught the light, making him look ethereal. Fey. Gorgeous.

Harry's mouth went dry, very dry. His groin stirred and he felt a deep-rooted urge to move forward, to seize Malfoy and kiss and bite and suck every part of his gorgeous body until the blond screamed his name in ecstasy.

Harry had never been sexually attracted to anyone before. He'd found Cho attractive, and Ginny, but in a superficial, non-physical way. He'd attributed his lack of sexual interest in girls to the stress of Voldemort and the war and later on to his need to do his duty, to a part of his penance for the deaths he was responsible for. The deaths he could have prevented; should have prevented. The deaths he thought of constantly.

Only he wasn't thinking of them now. What shot through his mind like lightning in that moment were all the things over the years that should have turned him on and didn't, all the little things he couldn't explain - provocatively dressed girls who he didn't notice, except to wonder if they were cold. The wank mags Seamus had showed him and Ron that hadn't appealed to him. The wet dreams and wank fantasies that stared a faceless, shapeless figure who just might have had strong arms, defined abs, and a flat chest. The way he felt so uncomfortable in group showers, carefully avoiding looking at anyone because the toned bodies made him feel so strange. Then there was the beautiful male body on display before him, the perfect Adonis who made him crave things he'd never wanted before.

Against his will his eyes were drawn down from Malfoy's face, down the thin column of Malfoy's throat, across the lines of his wide shoulders and up his strong arms. His mouth watered as he eyes the chiselled chest that stood out above his flat, hard abs; and Harry's gaze swept across them, travelling further south as he took in Malfoy's limp cock which hung proudly between his legs. His legs, which looked a mile long and firm and muscular, were planted about a foot apart. Harry barely noticed them, though; all his attention was riveted between them, at the cock which looked so mouth-watering he found himself wondering how it would taste; how it would feel in his mouth.

Realisation hit him like a thunderclap, and he understood. Gay! his mind shrieked. Gay, so gay; oh so very, very gay!

He was gay.

He felt he should have been more shocked at the revelation, only it made so much sense; and with Malfoy's perfect body before him, it was hard to care. Yes, with Malfoy's unholy beauty and delicious masculinity on display for his viewing pleasure, it was awfully hard for a bloke to wish he was straight; rather than thanking Merlin, God, Buddha, Allah, and every other deity he could think of that he was gay and he was there and Malfoy was there, naked and wet, a few feet away.

His breathing had gone ragged and he struggled to bring it under control while he listened to Malfoy's song.


"Come to me,

Come to me,

My love, my heart,

My only.

Will you come to me,

Come to me?


Let us be,

Let us be,

For I am alone,

And I am lonely.

So let us be,

Just let us be."


His voice was haunting, the melody sweet and sad. Abruptly, he stopped singing. With a jolt, Harry realised the blond was going to get out of the shower, and he would find Harry there watching him, noticeably aroused, and he would have a lot of explaining to do.

Malfoy opened his eyes, and Harry fled. He rushed to his room for a furious wank, locking the door behind himself, hoping desperately that his partner hadn't seen him through the steam.

After a wank that resulted in the most intense orgasm of his life thus far, the panic set in. Part of it was that he was gay, part of it was that he had not only wanked over Draco Malfoy but that he had enjoyed it so very much, and part of it was the fear that he might not have made a clean getaway.

Upon some reflection, Harry decided that it must have been some unknown side effect of the Soporificus spell. Yes, that had to be it. He wasn't gay, and he certainly wasn't in lust with Draco Malfoy – no, the spell had simply made him confused, and his confusion had centered on Malfoy in the absence of anyone else – or perhaps because he had been the caster.

Ignoring the little voice inside him that warned him that his explanation was weak, and that he knew it wasn't true, Harry resolved to scour the library in search of anything that might prove his theory. In the absence of such proof, he would find a way to contact Hermione; though that left him with the uncomfortable issue of finding a way to word his request without either revealing the reason for it, or risking a refusal on the grounds that he was meant to be on vacation.

One thing was certain, there was no way he would be getting much relaxing done around Malfoy until whatever it was Malfoy had done to him wore off.

Harry spent the next hour on edge. He was waiting for Malfoy to come in and confront him; demand to know what the hell he was doing, what he was playing at. It was what he would have done. But an hour passed, and no Malfoy. He was just beginning to breathe easier, to believe that Malfoy hadn't seen him, when there came a knock at the adjoining door, and Malfoy Alohamora-ed it and breezed in.

"Morning, Potter," he smirked.

He knows. Harry's heart sank. Oh, Merlin, he knows. He was certain Malfoy intended, if not to rail at him, then to humiliate him. He steeled himself for the blow. It didn't come.

"I say morning, but it's evening now. I'll have to cast Soporificus on you again tonight – and don't you dare say that I won't, because I'll be doing it every night until you give up that ridiculous ritual of yours." Malfoy shot him a warning look, and Harry blinked in bafflement.

"Err, wha-?" he said intelligently. His mind was still on the shower debacle.

"The time, Potter?" Malfoy looked amused. "Soporificus? Your ridiculous self-flagellating?"

"Oh." Harry nodded. "That." He frowned. "It isn't ridiculous, Malfoy. And it isn't self-flagellating." He attempted to glare at the Slytherin, but that required looking at him from more than out of the corner of his eyes and Harry found when he did that all he could picture was the vision from the shower. He looked away quickly, blushing furiously.

"It is, Potter, as anyone you know or even those you don't know would tell you." Malfoy frowned at him. "Until you learn that, you're not going to get any better. And until you get better, you won't be able to become a full Auror."

"Kingsley – the minister – said two weeks," said Harry stiffly.

"He also told me to report on your condition, and make any recommendations I think will help. To start with, I think you need to see a mind-healer about your grief."

Harry opened his mouth to protest that he didn't need help with his grief; there were lots of people who had lost loved ones, and most of them hadn't needed mind-healers, and mind-healers shouldn't have their time taken up by people like Harry when there were so many people who actually needed them, but thought better of it. If Malfoy's recommendations were being taken into account, he needed to change the git's opinion, and quickly.

"I also think you may need more than two weeks to recover from everything you've been doing to yourself," frowned Malfoy. He gave Harry an appraising look. "You really haven't been taking care of yourself. A good night – and day's – sleep has done wonders for you, Potter, but it's also highlighted just how sick you are. Merlin, you look like shite."

Harry glowered. "Well we can't all be bloody gorgeous, can we, Malfoy?"

Malfoy blinked. He looked taken aback. "Merlin, Potter, was that a compliment?"

Harry glared at the carpet and wouldn't meet Malfoy's eyes.

Malfoy whistled. "I think it was. Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana; you really are sick, aren't you?"

Harry chose not to dignify that with a response.

"Well, come along then," said Malfoy brightly.

Harry looked up in confusion, though once again he blushed and looked away quickly. "Where are we going?"

""To the spa, Potter," replied Malfoy as though it was obvious. "Come on, then."

They walked over to a special Apparition point, which Malfoy had explained would allow them to apparate to any other apparition point at any other level inside the resort. There was a special anti-apparition field around the resort that prevented anyone from apparating in or out of it, but allowed for apparition within it, between certain points.

They wanted the third floor, Malfoy had explained, motioning to the picture of the third-floor apparition point on the wall. Judging from the number of pictures on the wall, Harry deduced that there much be twelve floors altogether. He thought that that didn't seem nearly as exclusive as Malfoy had made the resort sound; but then Malfoy had explained that the entire third floor was a spa, and Harry realised that several of the other floors were likely taken up by amenities. He wondered just how many, and just what amenities they contained.

Harry had never been to a spa. He'd never been pampered in his life before and it made him rather uncomfortable. He felt like he was doing something wrong; every time he started to relax and enjoy himself he thought of his friends, the ones he lost, and he was overwhelmed with guilt and self-loathing. Normally, he would just throw himself into work, striving with every bone in his body to make something of himself, to prove that he could somehow earn their sacrifice.

That he could be redeemed for having exacted such a heavy price from them.

Malfoy didn't understand that. He couldn't understand.

And now he was attempting to show Harry the wonders of facials, manicures, pedicures, and steam rooms.

Harry bore it all with as much patience as he could muster, and kept attempting to assuage his guilty conscience by reminding himself that this was necessary to become a full Auror, to make all the work he'd been doing worthwhile. To save others the way he hadn't saved his friends.

It wasn't until they had been exfoliated, scrubbed, plucked, and heated within an inch of their lives that Malfoy allowed him to escape back to his rooms.

Malfoy spoke to the woman at the desk in a flurry of French – Harry had deduced that they were somewhere in France, based on the fact that everyone there except him spoke French – although he was learning; it had seemed an important skill to have as an Auror, multiple languages – and based on the appearances, mannerisms, and language of the other guests they saw, as well as the staff.

"Dites à Jacques et à Philippe de venir jusqu'à notre chambre, dites-leur que c'est la chambre deux mille cinq cents," Malfoy said, and Harry cocked his head. It sounded like Malfoy was asking for two men to come up to his room; although why Malfoy might do that was beyond Harry's ability to guess. In light of Harry's new-found revelation, his brain helpfully supplied a few answers, the thought of which made him blush furiously and shake his head vigorously to clear it.

When they got back to their rooms, Malfoy followed him inside. He still couldn't meet the blond's eyes, so chose not to get confrontational about it. He walked into his bedroom and Malfoy followed him again.

"Gonna follow me into the shower, Malfoy?" he asked bitingly, trying hard not to blush again.

"Not unless you want me to," Malfoy grinned, and Harry's jaw dropped. He stared at the blond in shock. He must have looked as panicked as he felt, because Malfoy burst out laughing.

"Merlin's beard," Malfoy chuckled. "You should see your face! It was a joke, Potter." He rolled his eyes. "Gryffindors."

"Well, I want a shower, Malfoy. In case you hadn't noticed, we were sweating an awful lot in that steam room." In which he not only hadn't been able to look at Malfoy, but not even in his general direction. He had been mercifully grateful that his red face did not look out of place in the heat, though Malfoy had ribbed him good-naturedly about looking like a lobster.

His conscience had been pretty quiet during that part of the pampering, most likely due to being drowned out by hormones. After all, Harry was a nineteen year old maybe-gay-though-it-was-probably-just-spell-damage-ed male; and Malfoy had, he had just discovered, the body of a Greek god. He'd spent the bulk of the time in the steam rooms picturing Delores Umbridge doing a strip tease in order to keep his body under control.

"You could have showered off down there, like I did," pointed out Malfoy.

"I don't like communal showers," Harry said stiffly. "I prefer to take a private shower when it's an option."

"However did you survive at Hogwarts, Potter?" Malfoy shook his head. "Well it probably would have been better than waiting for me and acting all impatient."

Harry's temper flared. "That's because somebody takes a bloody hour to primp after he has a shower, and I didn't know how to get back to my rooms without you!"

Malfoy schooled his features into a mask of contrition, but his eyes twinkled merrily. "Well, Potter, being, as you so eloquently put it, 'bloody gorgeous', takes time."

Harry took off his shoe and threw it at Malfoy's head.

"Out!" he barked.

"The bathroom has a door, Potter. I need to wait for Jacques and Philippe."

Harry debated asking what they were coming up for, then decided it could wait. He needed to get away from Malfoy. And he could definitely use a good wank.

After his shower – during which he had wanked furiously for the second time that evening, picturing Malfoy for the second time and coming harder than he ever remembered doing in his life – he had realised to his dismay that he had forgotten to grab a change of clothes before heading into the bathroom. Supposing it would be too much to ask for Malfoy to be gone when he went back into his bedroom, he dried off, and wrapped one towel around his waist, and, using another to towel off his hair, headed out.

He had expected to see Malfoy in his bedroom. He hadn't expected to open the door and find Malfoy with his back to the door, taking off his clothes.

"Harglph," Harry garbled.

"Oi, Potter," said Malfoy as he laid down his robes and pulled his jumper above his head. "Strip."

"Hrrglugh," Harry gurgled. Don't look at his back, don't look at his bac- oh. OH. Harry stared. He goggled. The pale white back before him caught and held his interest like nothing ever had before. They could have been in the midst of battle; hexes could have been firing left and right – hell, a blasting charm could have been aimed in his face, and Harry doubted he would have noticed.

He thought he'd gotten a good look at Malfoy in the shower. He may have seen more of Malfoy – considerably more – but he hadn't really gotten a good look, thanks to all the steam. He got a good one now.

The slight form of the blond belied his build. His shoulders were narrower than Harry's, but they were still broad and well-muscled. His back tapered into a firm, slender waist, and his hips were perfectly shaped. He was the perfect balance of slender and muscle, curves and pointiness.

Harry tried to look away and found himself nearly cross-eyed with the effort. But he couldn't let Malfoy catch him looking.

He tore his gaze away and pretended to be fascinated by the carpet. He still didn't trust himself to speak, so he didn't ask why the blond was undressing. Maybe this was all a dream. A very surreal, very bad dream from which he would wake up soon and everything would be back to normal. Or maybe a very surreal, very good dream, in which he was about to get laid. In either case he hoped Malfoy would speak soon and let him know which it was so that he didn't make a fool of himself.

"Are you stripping, Potter? Oh- no need to strip, I see."

"Why-" Harry squeaked in a very high pitched voice. "Why?" he tried again, his voice thankfully regaining some semblance of normalcy. If it shook a little, he could try blaming that on having a man stripping in his room and demanding that he do the same. Surely, that was justifiable cause for having one's voice shake?

He ventured a look at the blond, careful to keep his eyes on Malfoy's face and not any other part of him.

"Don't worry, Potter, I'm not going to ravish you." Malfoy grinned lopsidedly at him as he began to unbuckle his trousers. Harry paled.

His mind screamed, yes; yes, please, ravish me! Harry told his mind to go to hell. It went, happily, paving the way with visions of Malfoy ravishing him. Merlin, I need help!

"Up on the table, Potter," said Malfoy. It was then that Harry noticed that there were two long, cloth-covered white tables in the room that hadn't been there before. In fact, there were also two men in the room who hadn't been there before. How Harry had been oblivious to their presence he wasn't sure. Though, you know. Malfoy's back and all.


"Merlin, Potter, you're verbose tonight, aren't you?"

"Go to hell, Malfoy," Harry squeaked threateningly.

Malfoy chuckled. "Go on; up on the table with you. Jacques is going to take care of you."

Harry spoke in a desperate bid to regain the illusion of heterosexuality. "What? No! I don't- I'm not-" He tried to draw in a deep breath, as the hyperventilating he was doing was not making things any easier for him. "Whatever you guys are going to be doing, I'll thank you to do it in your room; not mine!"

"Oh," said Malfoy, a trifle gleefully. "I'm afraid it just wouldn't be the same with you, Potter."

At that, Harry "Eep'ed" and, clinging to the tattered remains of his self-control, fled to the bathroom. Spying his wand lying on top of his pile of sweaty clothing, he snatched it up and cast several powerful locking and warding charms at the door in quick succession. He then flattened himself against the far wall, holding his wand out at the door with trembling fingers, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

There was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of someone attempting to open it.


Harry shuddered.

"Potter, open the door. No one's going to hurt you; I promise."

Harry closed his eyes. That's exactly what I'm afraid of. He heard Malfoy attempting to undo his wards, followed by a frustrated growl that made his cock give an enthusiastic twitch.

"Potter, come on out. Merlin, I was just teasing you; I swear no one is going to do anything untoward."

Harry trembled.

"Harry." Harry stifled a groan at hearing his name spoken in Malfoy's voice. Especially in that wheedling, coaxing tone of voice.

"Jacques and Philippe are masseuses. They're here to give us each a massage. So you can relax and stop panicking. I'm sorry I teased you. I found your misreading of the situation and subsequent panic amusing; but I should have just told you. I didn't realise you would react so badly." There was a note of hurt in Malfoy's voice, though Harry barely noticed it through his combined anger and embarrassment. His anger was greater than it would have been if not for the note of disappointment that had coloured his relief at knowing no one there had plans to ravish him. Malfoy had done this to him. He was sure of it.

He stalked over to the door, took down his wards and threw it open. Malfoy almost fell into his arms at having the door so suddenly removed, and Harry used his anger as fuel to shove Malfoy away rather than pulling him closer.

"Somehow," he snapped. "I'm really, really not in the mood for a massage. Or to have anyone in my room but me. So, if you don't want me to start hexing, you lot will clear out. Now." He shot Malfoy a glare that could have frozen the Sahara, and brandished his wand threateningly. Malfoy, he noticed now, was attired similarly to how he was himself, and had paled in response to his threat.

Malfoy might be able to defeat him in the duelling chamber on occasion, but Harry won most of the time, and this time he had a good night's sleep, fury, and pent-up sexual frustration on his side. If Malfoy knew what was good for him, he'd get himself and the masseuses out.

It seemed that since their Hogwarts days, Malfoy had learned to pick his battles, because he picked himself up, spoke a few rapid phrases in French, and began gathering up his clothes. The two other men in the room waved their wands and the two long tables and the cloths that had laid on them folded themselves up and shrank, becoming quite portable, and flew overhead towards the waiting wizards. They spoke a few words to Malfoy in French, bowed, and left.

Malfoy finished grabbing his belongings, and turned to Harry. His face was flushed and he looked rather miserable. "I really am sorry, Potter," he said, rather earnestly. "I didn't mean to-"

"Malfoy," Harry cut in. "Just get the hell out."

Malfoy nodded and left quickly, through the adjoining door - which Harry now noticed was on the other side of his hottub.

Harry stalked over to his bag. He suddenly felt very tired and confused. He decided that what he needed to do, more than anything else, was to get dressed, and scour the library to see if he could find anything to help with his situation. But first, he really needed a headache potion, and hoped desperately that there was some way of getting one without speaking to Malfoy again.