Sighing, Draco looks conspicuously at his watch, then slouches against the doorframe and crosses his arms when that elicits no reaction. He’s not pouting, per se, but he knows he’s making some sort of face. “Are you almost done? Honestly, Potter. You know, if you actually organised your wardrobe like I’ve been begging you to do for literal years, you’d be ready to go already.”
“Fuck off, Malfoy,” comes Harry’s muffled reply from where he’s half-buried in his wardrobe, tossing trousers and shirts out behind him with abandon. Draco winces as something from Valentino’s latest line lands half-crumpled on the bed; Harry’s never known how to tend to his couture.
“If you’d hurry, I’ll gladly fuck off—you’re aware the Portkey leaves in five minutes, yes?” Draco fretfully pats over his pockets, ensuring his wand and Shrunken travel bags are all present and accounted for. It wouldn’t do for him to have left something behind after riding Harry so hard.
Poor word choice.
“Five minutes? I thought Robards said we had until half three?” Harry’s finally extracted himself from his wardrobe and is shoving everything he’s selected for the trip into a bag. Draco wrinkles his nose at the rough treatment, but at least Harry’s chosen appropriate attire for their destination.
“Yes, but I took the liberty of adjusting where we’ll be staying for this mission, and when I went to change the destination, Transport had to move the time up,” Draco replies, eyeing the tumble of neon-bright pants Harry’s now stuffing into his bag. Whoever he was dating that introduced him to those is owed a national debt of gratitude—Draco thinks it was one of the professional Quidditch players that Harry’s paraded in and out of his bedroom over the last year.
“You— Draco, you can’t keep upgrading the hotels! You heard what Finance said about our last expense report!”
Draco waves his hand impatiently, then pulls the crumpled-newspaper Portkey out of his pocket and steps closer to Harry. “Special circumstances, Potter; our target is actually staying at this location, and I’m not letting the Ministry’s tightfistedness affect the quality of our work. And also—” He pauses as the Portkey activates and they whirl their way through to the Lake District, grabbing Harry by the bicep and steadying him as they land. “—I’m paying for this myself. The Ministry won’t see an invoice for a Knut over our allotted budget, I swear it.”
Harry manages to shoot Draco a remarkably incredulous look through the deep breathing he’s doing. Draco waits patiently, and once he’s sure Harry’s not going to spew, leads them out of the copse of trees they’d landed in and gestures grandly to the manor home just ahead of them. “Behold: Linthwaite House.”
Harry straightens his glasses and raises an eyebrow. Draco hates that he learned to do that. “Alright, Malfoy, I’ll give it to you—this looks a fair step up from where they’d probably had us booked.”
Draco wrinkles his nose. “They wanted us to stay at something called a bunkhouse. There’s only so much I’m willing to endure in the name of public service.”
Harry chuckles beside him as they make their way up to the entrance. “Truly, your sacrificing nature is an example to us all. Really, though, this place is fantastic; it looks like something out of a novel.”
Draco glances down over the sweeping gardens as he tugs the door open and gestures Harry in before him. “Perfect weather for golfing,” he observes drily, just to see Harry’s nose wrinkle.
The Lake District is gorgeous in the summer, and Draco can’t help but be thankful that this illegal exports case had gotten Robards to grudgingly assign them to this particular beat; they have reason to believe the owner is directly involved, despite the distanced stance he takes to his businesses in public (Draco had been saying and saying this from the start; the wealthy always pretend they’ve no idea what’s going on with their portfolios, but he’d eat his couture hat collection if Browne-Heathcote somehow couldn’t rattle off pertinent details of every one of his companies if pressed), and he’s attending a charity golf event this weekend, and Harry and Draco are the only two Aurors who might plausibly be attending in their free time.
They were instructed to check in a full four days before the tournament starts, in order to set up surveillance along the course and in the public spaces and ensure they’re not seen arriving together by too many participants. This lead was also meant to allow them ample opportunity to figure out how to get into the hotel where most of the golfers would be staying; Draco had conveniently not mentioned that they no longer needed the extra time now that they were actually staying at Linthwaite, and Harry hadn’t seen fit to bring it up either.
Not for the first time, Draco sneaks a glance at his partner, who’s animatedly chatting with the concierge as he checks them in, and wonders.
Harry’s never been anything less than professional with him since they were paired up, and while their relationship has certainly warmed to cordiality, if not outright friendship, in the intervening years, Draco’s well aware that his inconvenient attraction is incredibly one-sided, and impossible besides; they’re Aurors, and to Harry, the mission will always come first. It always has.
Well. Sometimes Draco knows Harry’s eyes are on him (something he learned in sixth year, and he’s never quite been able to shake how it feels), and it’s not because they’re on a stakeout, and it’s not because they’re passing theories back and forth at work, and he’ll keep his head bowed as he writes up his report, or he’ll continue his laps around the training facility, or whatever it is he’s doing, and wonder why, if all Harry feels for him is a friendly professional regard and the respect he’s owed for his exemplary work, he looks at Draco so often.
He busies himself with covertly casting Inspicios throughout the lobby, noting with approval the well-maintained original Edwardian decor. He catches the shimmer of a spell off in a corner, but it ends up being a simple maintenance spell—someone in the ownership group of this manor must be a wizard.
Harry wanders over to join him, waggling two key cards and grinning. “All checked in. Malfoy, you splashed out for the Loft Suite; are you trying to tell me something?”
Draco wills the flush out of his face. “Of course not,” he snaps, snatching one of the cards and nodding minutely towards the spell in the corner before heading towards the stairs. “It comes with a telescope and looks towards the golf course, over the back gardens. It’s ideal for surveilling if our spells end up placed in the wrong location. That’s all. You prat.”
Harry, irritatingly, chuckles, and Draco can feel the sting of his magic as he lazily leaves his own Inspicio trail along the staircase and down into the dining area as they head up to their room. “Oh, of course. Did you know they use it for the bridal suite? The concierge seems convinced you’re about to propose to me; she was terribly excited.”
Draco sighs. His neck is bright red, he just knows. “Well, if that were the case, she’d have just ruined it, wouldn’t she?” he grumbles, finally reaching the top floor and frowning at the key card, then their room door, until Harry huffs and pushes him aside to let them in. “I’d be quite put out, if that’s why we were really here. All this dosh and she’s spoiled the surprise the second we arrive.”
“It might have already been spoiled, if you were really planning on proposing to me at a golf course; you know I hate golfing,” Harry says distractedly, throwing his bag on the floor and whirling his wand at the king bed, dividing it into two. Draco suppresses a sigh. “I might even have to say no.”
“You do know there’s a Michelin-star chef in charge of the restaurant here, and this is perhaps the most romantic time of year to come to Windermere? You should be so lucky,” Draco sniffs, pulling his bags out from his pocket and returning them to normal size, then spelling his clothes into the wardrobe. “And, do you hate golfing? You’ve only mentioned that about a dozen times over the last few days; I wasn’t quite sure how you felt about it.”
“Ha ha,” Harry says snottily, peering into the telescope before flopping back onto the bed furthest from the bathroom. “You take that one, I won’t be able to sleep with that window right there. Did you know it can fully retract? If we get bored before Browne-Heathcote shows up, we can play at Astronomy again. Can we see your constellation from here?”
Draco lifts the duvet and inspects the sheets, ignoring Harry’s audible huff of irritation. It doesn’t matter how many times Harry’s done this successfully; all it took was once that he’d accidentally turned the sheets on the modified bed to scratchy burlap for Draco to need to check each time. “We can always see my constellation, you idiot. Draco is circumpolar.”
“Ah—always needing to be the centre of attention, much like its namesake?” Harry says teasingly.
Draco hates him. He hates this. He knows Harry flirts with his friends; it’s a bloody annoying habit that’s gotten him into hot water more than once, if the papers are to be believed, but Draco wishes he wasn’t quite so relentless about it.
He busies himself with unpacking Harry’s clothes for him, frowning at the wrinkles before he spells them out and hangs everything up. The sight of their clothes side-by-side in the same armoire makes him close his eyes briefly before he turns back to face Harry, who’s now turned onto his stomach and has his face buried into a pillow. “Alright, Potter?”
Harry groans. “Yeah. Just tired. Ron had me out until after two last night; some fight with Hermione. I didn’t even drink, although he had more than enough for the two of us—I’m just bloody exhausted. What time is it?”
Draco glances at his watch, then wanders to the window to peer out. “Only half four. Take a nap if you’d like; there’s plenty of time before dinner, and all we have left to do here is get the spells out into the gardens and any outdoor seating areas, which we really should do tomorrow when it’s not about to get dark. We can do the golf course tomorrow as well, and then that’s it until the tournament starts and Browne-Heathcote shows up.” He frowns a bit as he stares out over the gardens and fells. “You know...there’s a painting at the Manor that I would swear has this exact view. I wonder if we used to own this?”
Harry’s response is muffled, but the mockery is crystal clear. “The Lord of the Manor, returned to his ancestral property. Why would you have sold it off?”
Draco snorts. “Hardly ancestral, Harry; this building isn’t even two hundred years old. And I had a few great-whatevers who were fond of passing out choice pieces of property as favours. It’s entirely possible this was a gift meant to cultivate a valuable acquaintance, or perhaps even for a lover. We still have a few homes scattered around up here, but I haven’t been. Father isn’t fond of holidays.” His voice is scathing; he can’t help it. “Whatever we’ve got, I likely won’t find out until he dies and I inherit the ledgers. So, really, any day now if I’m lucky.”
He doesn’t mean it, not really. Despite everything, Lucius is still his father, and Draco’s love for him is more complex now than when he was a child, but it’s still there. Lucius’ attempt to disown him when he joined the Aurors had backfired; the Malfoy magic would not allow its only direct heir to be removed from the bloodline, and the repercussions on Lucius’ health had been immediate and severe. Just one more of his father’s own failings that he laid at Draco’s feet instead. But even that could have been overlooked, if he hadn’t also turned Draco’s mother against him.
Draco’s eyes sting as he stares across the trees towards the golf course. He hates that this still sneaks up on him, even so many years later.
A bit of magic brushes across the nape of his neck, and he shivers. Harry does this, sometimes; uses his magic in place of his hands, in a way he no doubt means as comforting, but Draco can’t help but find arousing. Bloody Potter doesn’t know his own strength.
It does the trick to distract him from his wallowing, though, and he turns back to the room, pasting a smile on his face when he notices Harry’s sitting back up, watching him quietly. “Anyway. It’s a bit belated, but welcome to my home, Potter.” He spreads his arms grandly, pleased when that elicits a laugh.
“As always, your hospitality is unmatched, Draco,” Harry says fondly. His voice is scratchy with exhaustion, though, and Draco frowns at the dark circles he hadn’t noticed earlier.
“And as part of that hospitality, I’m going to insist that you take a nap. I’ll put the surveillance spells around the bar downstairs and wake you when it’s time for dinner. No, don’t argue, you look terrible—we’re here insanely early, you know that, there’s nothing you need to be doing right now.”
“Fine,” Harry mutters, but his eyes are already slipping closed as Draco steps out of the room.
He leaves behind the bloody key card, though. He’s never been able to figure them out, and an Alohomora works just as well when Harry’s not over his shoulder, frowning at his unwillingness to try harder with Muggle things.
The morning the tournament is scheduled to start, Draco’s startled awake in the early hours. The sun has just risen, and its rays are creeping around the Shading spell he’s been putting at the window each night before he falls asleep.
Draco’s a deep sleeper, normally; it’s why he didn’t mind taking the bed under the window, as light and sound don’t normally disturb him. He wakes at the exact same time every day, no alarm necessary, and once he falls asleep he’s out until his internal clock brings him back.
Last night, though, he’d had a bit too much to drink with Harry out on the terrace—he’d paid a waiter to keep bringing them bottles even though technically they weren’t supposed to be served outside the bar, and the combination of red wine and Harry’s knee pressed against his, Harry’s laugh low in his ear, had given him fractured, confusing dreams, and something had drawn him from his slumber.
He lies still for a moment, then registers the sound of the shower running.
Draco has to admit that the bathroom in this suite is clearly meant to evoke a certain type of feeling; the large soaking tub is the centrepiece, and it’s impressively gorgeous, but the shower stall with its rainfall showerhead and frosted glass is equally luxurious, and, more pertinently, visible from Draco’s bed.
Harry always showers early; Draco’s known this, vaguely, abstractly, through the damp walls of the showers in their shared rooms on missions, the partly-used toiletries, the towel already hanging to dry by the time Draco wakes. Normally, though, the bathroom is in a separate room, Harry and his wet, naked body safely tucked away, out of sight.
Not here, though. Not in the bloody Loft Suite at Linthwaite House that Draco himself booked, without a thought in his head about the bathroom situation, only thinking that the view would be helpful, and that Harry might enjoy staying somewhere a bit more posh for once.
Harry’s leaning against the shower door, and his shoulders and arse are pressed against the glass, and Draco really should not be looking, really shouldn’t be tracing his eyes like the water droplets from the showerhead over those broad shoulders, the defined back muscles, the taut globes of his arse that make Draco’s mouth water, but he is looking, and then Harry bends his left knee and plants his foot against the door, and Draco sees his toes curl against the glass, and that’s when he notices Harry’s right arm moving, and he really really should not be watching this.
Because— Well. Harry’s wanking. Draco can hear it now, over the sound of the shower; the slap of Harry’s hand on himself, his soft pants of pleasure.
Draco hasn’t seen Harry’s cock before, despite all the spaces they’ve shared over the years, and as he stares at the sole of Harry’s foot pressed up against the frosted glass, watching his toes flex, it strikes him that it’s incredibly wrong, that he’s seeing something so terribly vulnerable, something soft and normally hidden away, without having seen the rest. Without having permission to see.
Harry’s arm is moving faster now, and his head thunks back against the glass, and Draco holds his breath and strains his ears and knows exactly when he comes, hears the punched-out little sigh Harry bites out and sees his shoulders slump and the tight muscles in his back unlock.
He rolls onto his side, away from the bathroom, and closes his eyes again as Harry shuts the water off and pads around the room, drying himself and gathering the golf attire they’d gone together to purchase the week prior. He pauses near Draco’s bed, and Draco nearly bites through his tongue with the effort to keep his breathing deep and regular.
He’s not sure Harry buys it, but soon enough there’s the scratch of pen on paper over at the desk, Harry leaving his standard down at breakfast you lazy shit note no doubt, and then the quiet schick of the door opening and closing again.
Draco waits as long as he’s able to ensure Harry’s not coming back, then shoves his hands down his pyjama bottoms and brings himself off so quickly it hurts.
He showers and moves through his morning routine with a purposefully blank mind, tweaking the fit of his polo and ensuring the collar lies flat. He fusses a bit with the colour of his shorts, too, changing them from khaki to grey to pastel and back again before he finally settles on a green that does not remind him of anything, but finally he can’t delay any longer—he needs to head down to eat if they’re to make it to the course in time for the start.
Finally, he walks to the desk to grab his sunglasses, glancing at the note, but just as he’s about to turn and walk out the room he freezes and looks back down at it.
I know you were awake.
Harry doesn’t say anything at breakfast, and neither does Draco; they sit near each other, but since they’re not supposed to be here together, they nod and make polite acknowledgements and sit so that between the two of them they can see the whole room.
Browne-Heathcote is out on the terrace, drinking already (as are most of the people in the room, to be honest), laughing loudly with two men that Draco vaguely recognises from the board at Mungo’s. He files their faces away to examine via Pensieve later; it’s not worth trying to place their names now, not unless Browne-Heathcote spends more time with them.
Harry’s magic brushes against his arm, and Draco shudders a bit, but manages to fold the parchment Harry had sent over into his palm without notice. After he eats, he nods politely at the people he knows, murmurs a few polite remarks about seeing them on the course, and strides from the room, heading down to the Apparition point in the trees they’d been instructed to use to get to the golf course.
The fundraiser is Wizarding, of course, and the golf course itself has been rented out and staffed by their own for the day, but the hotel is still open to Muggle guests, so Draco keeps a tight hold of his magic, wraps it back down into his core until he’s hidden by the trees and can let it out.
A tree creaks in protest and a large rock shatters to dust as he pulls the paper crane out of his pocket. One of the surveil spells in the bar has been cancelled, the one over the far booth, it reads, and Draco lets out a shuddering breath.
They’re on the right track, then. It’s just a matter of staying focused enough that they can gather some real evidence on Browne-Heathcote without him realising who, exactly, is on to him. Surveillance spells are fairly common at larger Wizarding events like this, so it’s likely he hasn’t connected the existence of a spell with Auror presence, but they’ll need to be even more careful now.
Even as he prepares to Apparate, though, he can’t help but wonder what gave him away this morning. Is Harry that familiar with what he sounds like when he’s asleep?
The day is long, and hot, and Draco is irritable and sunburnt by the end. He’s an excellent golfer, of course—he has fond memories of his grandfather teaching him as a child—but golfing for recreation is not the same as golfing while listening to a suspect’s conversation and maintaining the bored Pureblood scion mask he’d perfected so many years ago.
He and Harry were in Browne-Heathcote’s foursome, of course, along with one of the Mungo’s board members Draco had noticed at breakfast, and a significant eyebrow raise had Harry engaging him in conversation for the duration of the course while Draco focused on Browne-Heathcote, drawling on about stocks and investments and making cutting little remarks about the accounts managed by the Ministry’s charitable arm until Browne-Heathcote had been drawn into conversation.
Around the sixth hole, Draco had casually dropped in that he was looking into diversifying into potions ingredients, and Browne-Heathcote had spent the remainder of the round doing what was no doubt his best to manipulate Draco into investing in his company. By the end of the eighteenth hole, Draco had wrangled an invitation to Browne-Heathcote’s private room in the clubhouse to discuss some particulars over drinks.
The four of them traipse back indoors, Draco discreetly itching at his neck where his skin is already tight and hot, and Browne-Heathcote (Travis he’d insisted on with a booming, entirely false laugh) takes Draco’s elbow and steers him past the main bar. Draco, under the guise of stretching out his neck, manages to catch Harry’s eye, and seconds later feels one of Harry’s Inspicios catch on his shirt.
After that, it’s a simple matter of smiling and nodding and rolling his eyes in the right spot, and acting vapid when Travis questions him on his Auror status (Draco’s become excellent at getting people to assume he’s merely skating by on his family’s money and not actually contributing anything to the corps; it drives Harry crazy, but it’s come in handy more than once), and doing his level best to stay somewhat sober despite the multiple refills Travis calls for.
Finally, though, they call it a night, and one of the caddies appears to Apparate them back to Linthwaite House. Draco endures Travis’ drunken stumblings and professions of deep, everlasting partnership and friendship, and finally manages to extricate himself and make his way slowly up the staircase when Travis is called over to the bar once they get indoors.
Draco has no doubt that Harry replaced the Inspicio over the booth, probably with several replacements as well as a heavy cloaking charm, so he focuses instead on getting up the stairs and down the hall to their suite without falling over. With any luck, Harry will be asleep already.
The lights are off and Harry’s snoring gently when Draco finally manages to get the door unlocked, and he does his best to stay quiet as he strips off his clothes and drops them on the floor. He brushes his teeth, swaying and squinting into the mirror, then curls up in bed, noticing the Hangover potions Harry left on his nightstand just before he closes his eyes.
They’d discovered a few months back that Hangover potions work even better if you take one before falling asleep and a second first thing in the morning, and Draco smiles to himself at his partner’s thoughtfulness. He downs one of the vials, sucking in over his teeth at the ice-cold mint flavour, and thinks about nothing much as he drifts off.
Draco wakes at his usual time the next day and immediately gropes for the second vial. He swallows it with a groan and lies perfectly still until it’s kicked in, then sits up gingerly and Summons a glass, filling it with water two separate times before he feels all the way back to normal.
Finally, he glances around the room, scowling when he sees Harry lounging against the green couch in the corner, smirking. “What,” he snaps, throwing the blankets aside and stalking to the closet. He certainly does not trip on the pile of clothes he’d left on the ground the night before.
“You’re certainly chipper today,” Harry sing-songs. “Did you have a nice evening?”
Draco groans, slumping against the cool, silky robes hanging in front of him. “Bloody Travis is a menace. He’s definitely guilty of having a drinking problem, if nothing else. Anything interesting come up on any of the spells?” He pulls his pyjamas off, grimacing at how grotty and sunburned he feels, and selects a new outfit. Thankfully, he and Harry plan to golf poorly enough to be dropped from the last two rounds after today, although they’ll be expected to stay at the hotel and mingle until the end of the tournament in order to avoid suspicion. At least he won’t have to be out in the sun any longer.
“No,” Harry says, voice a bit strangled. “Nothing outside the normal shite you hear at these sorts of things—affairs, some light money laundering, a few statements about voting that Kingsley might be interested in. Here, toss me your shirt from last night and I’ll strip the spell and store it, we can save that and anything we get from that booth for when we’re back at the office and can properly listen.”
Draco flings the polo over his shoulder and marches for the bathroom. “You’d better head down, then—we shouldn’t be seen arriving at breakfast together, unless you’re interested in starting rumours,” he says, fiddling with the taps until the shower is at his preferred temperature.
“Draco,” Harry sighs, sounding aggrieved. “We need to talk about it, you know.”
Draco steps into the shower and firmly shuts the door, then spells an opaque privacy barrier between the bathroom and the rest of the suite. “We’re on the job, Potter,” he says firmly, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “We can talk about it later. I can’t afford to lose focus, not with Browne-Heathcote fixated on me like he is.”
There’s silence while Draco shampoos his hair, and then Harry sighs. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. But… Promise me you won’t avoid me, after we’re done here. We do need to talk.”
Draco rinses his hair out and bows his head. “I know.”
“Alright, then. I’ll see you downstairs.”
Draco reaches for the conditioner, noting that the levels are lower than they should be, and then determinedly not thinking about it.
He doesn’t think about it to a successful, panting, knee-trembling completion.
The second day out on the links is just as interminable as the first was, but Draco remembered his sunblock spell in time today, and he’s apparently passed some sort of test in Browne-Heathcote’s eyes, because there’s a larger crowd in the back room after the round is done, including the two Mungo’s wizards from breakfast the first day—and Harry.
Draco’s not sure how Harry managed to talk himself into this gathering, but he’s grateful for his partner’s presence, no longer feeling like he has to watch his back quite so intensively.
Their partnership isn’t widely-known outside the DMLE, so when Harry bumps into Draco at some point during the night, they’re able to manufacture a convincingly polite scene that anyone who knows they’re distant coworkers would expect. Draco finds his eyes tracking to Harry all night, though, and his ears seem fine-tuned to pick up on Harry’s laugh.
His whole body is responding to Harry’s presence in a way he’s been able to avoid for years, now, and all it took to tear down his carefully-constructed facade was witnessing Harry wanking in the shower a few feet away from him. Draco’s not sure where his self-control has gone, but it’s certainly nowhere to be found right now.
It helps that Harry’s in the same state. Draco catches his eyes every time he looks over, and Harry’s body is angled towards him all night, his hand at his side in a fist as if he’s stopping himself from reaching for Draco when they’re close.
The revelry ends earlier than last night’s, when someone knocks over a lamp and scatters glass all over the floor and everyone is politely but firmly escorted out by the clubhouse staff so they can clean. Draco manages to slip the night manager a rather large tip as an apology, and he thinks he’s gotten away with it, but then he turns around and Harry’s right there, looking down at him with shiny green eyes, and for a second Draco thinks they’re about to totally blow their cover, because Harry is not supposed to look at him like that, especially not on a case, but then Harry shakes his head slightly and cuffs Draco roughly in the shoulder and shouts something about him needing to hurry so the caddies can get them all back.
They manage to slip away from the rest once they get back to the manor, and the air between them is nearly crackling with tension as they ascend the stairs.
Draco’s silent as Harry opens the door and lets them into their room. The moonlight is streaming in through the window, and Draco crosses to open it, breathing in the outdoor air and attempting to sober up a bit.
The night air is cool, and the scent from the gardens is almost overwhelming, and Draco fixes his eyes on the sky, automatically locating Polaris and, from there, the Draco constellation.
Circumpolar. Always visible.
He certainly feels exposed right now.
Harry’s magic is crackling off his skin when he steps up behind Draco. Close, but not touching; not crossing the line that’s been there for years, one that Draco put up himself the minute he realised he was looking at Harry and wanting. One that he should have realised earlier that Harry was eager to break down. Why hadn’t he seen?
“Draco,” Harry says in his ear, and Draco whirls around and stares into Harry’s eyes.
“Not tonight,” he says, a pleading edge to his voice. “We’re drunk, and— Just. We’re not golfing tomorrow. We can talk then. Not tonight, please, Harry.”
He watches Harry’s throat bob as he swallows, and they’re so close all it would take is one of them leaning forward a mere inch, but…
Harry steps back and nods once, casting his eyes down. “You’re right,” he says softly, turning and rummaging in his bag for more Hangover potions. “Here, here are yours,” he says, sending two vials spinning through the air to Draco’s bed. “Let’s go to bed.” Harry’s voice is tight, but Draco doesn’t think it’s anger, or displeasure—it sounds like the desperate edge of a man hanging onto the shreds of his self-control.
Draco slips into the bathroom to change, and by the time he’s out, Harry’s in his bed, facing the far wall.
Draco is jerked from sleep too early again the next day, and this time it takes him only seconds to notice that the shower’s going.
This time, he lies still only long enough for the second potion to take effect, and then he screws up his courage and steps toward the shower.
It’s too soon. It’s been too long. Draco’s had enough.
Harry’s under the showerhead, rinsing shampoo from his curls, and he barely starts when Draco opens the glass door and slips in. He watches as Draco gently takes the conditioner from him and pours it over his hands, then obediently turns and lets Draco rub it in.
“I wasn’t sure—” Harry starts finally, once Draco directs him under the showerhead to rinse. “I didn’t. Well. I didn’t know how our conversation would go today.”
“Not much in the mood for talking yet,” Draco murmurs, crowding Harry back into the wall. The shower stall is steamy and warm even when they’re not under the water, and Harry’s body is slick and trembling against his. “We can have our conversation later. Right now…” He trails off and cups Harry’s cheek in his hand, then leans in and kisses him.
Harry responds instantly, moaning into Draco’s mouth and winding his arms around Draco’s waist. They kiss for long minutes, hands roaming over wet skin, until Harry pulls back and rests his head on Draco’s shoulder, heaving in great gasps of air.
“Bloody fuck,” he groans, and Draco laughs, skimming his hands down Harry’s back until he gets to the arse he’d gotten an eyeful of the other morning.
He squeezes hard, and Harry groans again. “Do you like that?” Draco asks, nipping down Harry’s neck. “You have no idea how hard seeing you the other morning made me.” He nudges his hips forward until their cocks are lined up and thrusts a few times, until they both are moaning at the friction. “You’re so gorgeous, Harry. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“Ahh,” Harry sighs, leaning his head back against the wall and languidly canting his hips forward, clearly still lost in Draco’s ministrations over his arse. “I was thinking about you, you know. I usually do.”
Draco’s breath hitches, and his fingers inch closer to Harry’s crack. “You—” He swallows. “When you’re— You think of me?”
“Every time we’re sharing a room.” Harry hisses as Draco’s nails dig in. “Fuck, yes. I always think about— Well, I think about this. What if you woke up and saw me. What if you woke up and came in and joined me just as I was—” Draco swivels his hips and plasters them together, and Harry cuts himself off to moan loudly.
“Am I doing anything to you?” Draco whispers, biting just under his ear.
“Oh— Draco—you’re doing— Anything, anything you want.” Harry’s panting raggedly, thrusting forward against Draco’s hip.
“Anything,” Draco muses, but almost immediately he steps back, ignoring Harry’s whine in order to turn him so he’s pressed face-first against the wall. When he drops to his knees and parts Harry’s cheeks, he smirks a bit at Harry’s cursing.
Leaning forward, he mouths at Harry’s balls, pulling his hips back for a better angle, then licks up slowly and thoroughly until he reaches Harry’s hole.
His mouth waters, and starts taking Harry to pieces with his tongue.
The water is running down over his back, some of it dripping from his hair into his eyes, but Draco barely notices, so consumed is he with making Harry shiver and shake and moan into the arm he’s using to cushion his head against the wall. He licks around the edges, kneading his hands into Harry’s arse the whole time, and points his tongue into Harry’s arse as deep as he can go.
He keeps going well past when his knees start to ache on the tile, well past when his skin is pruning from the water. He licks and sucks at Harry, and wiggles first one, then two fingers in along with his tongue, pressing against Harry’s prostate until Harry is shouting and pounding on the shower wall, thrusting back against Draco’s face.
Draco pulls back and gasps in a breath. “Touch yourself,” he orders, and Harry’s hand flies down to his own cock. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”
“God,” Harry sobs, and Draco pushes his tongue in, and scissors his fingers, and it’s only a few minutes longer until Harry’s clenching up around him and coming with a cry onto the shower floor.
Draco sits back and takes himself in hand, but Harry crouches down and bats his hand away, diving in and kissing Draco so thoroughly his head spins. Harry’s hand over his cock is fast and brutal, the water not doing nearly enough to relieve the almost burning friction, but Draco’s so on edge it doesn’t matter, and soon he’s sobbing into Harry’s mouth as he arches his back and comes all over Harry’s fist.
Harry sits carefully next to him, and with a trembling hand reaches up and turns the water off. They sit in the steam, kissing gently, Draco’s hands on Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s on Draco’s waist, until the air clears and they both start to shiver.
Draco bundles them out of the bathroom, grabbing for his wand and casting Warming and Drying charms until they’re both comfortable again, and then, with a burst of daring he thought he’d used up entirely to go join Harry in the first place, cancels the Separating charm and turns the double beds back into one.
He sets his wand down and turns to face Harry, who’s smiling at him with a few too many teeth. “Is that why you always look so irritated when we end up in a room with just one bed?” he asks delightedly, and Draco flushes and stammers and tries to deny it until Harry shoves him onto the bed and kisses all over his face and neck.
Finally, Draco rolls over to look at his watch, still sitting on his nightstand, and groans. “We’ve missed breakfast, and the event’s long started by now.”
Harry leans over him and squints at the watch. “There’s still plenty of time, though. Surely not everyone shows up exactly on time when they’re not playing?”
“Well...no,” Draco agrees slowly, rolling onto his back and tugging Harry down on top of him. “There will be people who don’t come at all, of course, and some who show up partway through, and some who won’t bother until everyone’s back at the clubhouse for drinks. But...the two of us showing up late, together, after how drunk we were last night?”
Harry lifts himself onto his forearms and looks down seriously at Draco. “You think they’ll suspect what happened.” He doesn’t wait for Draco to speak. “Do you care?”
Draco opens his mouth, then thinks for a minute before replying. “I...thought you would, I suppose,” he says carefully, watching Harry’s face. “I. It’s not technically against the rules, but whenever I imagined that you might...return my affections, I guess I assumed you’d be opposed to it, or make us choose between being partners and being together, and...well. I didn’t want to make that choice.”
Harry leans down and kisses Draco so gently his heart breaks. “Even if it were against the rules, I don’t care,” he whispers into Draco’s ear. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I thought you knew and were just letting me down gently, but I couldn’t stop myself from…”
“From the same type of flirting you do with everyone?” Draco finishes, arching an eyebrow at him. He’s smiling, though, he can feel it; a big, stupid, obvious smile. “Forgive me for not realising it was something special with me.”
“Of course it was something special with you,” Harry replies earnestly. “Everything I want with you is special. And I want so much. I kind of...can’t believe I get to have it, actually.” Harry’s red, and he won’t quite meet Draco’s eyes, but he’s smiling, and it hits Draco all of a sudden that this is hard for Harry too; this vulnerability has them both equally exposed.
“I’m sure there will be plenty of having on both sides,” Draco says, trying for a joke, moving them to slightly less fraught terrain.
Harry looks grateful, but his smile soon turns filthy. “And when do you think that having can begin?” He starts rubbing his hands along Draco’s sides.
Draco smiles up at him, pulls him closer, and just as Harry’s leaning in for another kiss flips them, pushing Harry off the bed as he goes.
Harry lands with a thump and gapes up at him. Draco smirks and crosses his arms. “What? We’re still on the job, Potter, honestly—try for a little professionalism, won’t you? But,” he adds, standing and scooting around Harry and heading for the wardrobe, “if you play your cards right, and buy me a bottle of that disgustingly expensive champagne I know they have at the bar downstairs...well, we’ll see about later tonight, won’t we?”
He yelps when Harry pinches his arse. “I suppose since you’re paying for the room, I could buy you a few drinks,” Harry muses, joining him at the wardrobe as they pick out clothes for the day together. “After all, we’re here for a few more days, and all that’s left now is collecting the surveillance spells before we leave. It’s almost like we’re on holiday together.” He shoots Draco a shy smile.
“Yes, it almost is,” Draco agrees, mind flying ahead to the next time he and Harry have leave scheduled.
He has some planning to do.