Chapter Text
Draco glanced up briefly from his accounts, and stopped short. A tall heavyset figure had just set off the bell at the entrance, dressed in the cool red robes of the Auror uniform. Draco didn’t recognise him, but there was—something off, in the way the man held himself.
And there were few Aurors Draco didn’t recognise.
“Draco Malfoy?” the man asked.
“Potter?” returned Draco.
The man tsked, side-eyeing Draco as he took in the shop. “I need to speak with you.”
“I’m in the middle of business,” said Draco, gesturing to the accounts laid out around him. “Could you return later?”
“No.” Potter drew to a stop in front of his shop desk, looking down at Draco past the bridge of an unfamiliar nose.
Draco pressed his lips together and began to gather up the books.
“You might want to close the store. This may take a while.”
Draco looked up incredulously. “It’s eleven-thirty, Potter—”
“Auror Potter,” he corrected.
For a moment Draco could only blink, amazed at the audacity of the thirty-something childhood nemesis he spent years chasing around the hallways of Hogwarts. But then again, Harry Potter had always been audacious. “Auror Potter,” Draco echoed, pulling out a drawer for the accounts. “I don’t close til seven at the earliest.”
“Offical business,” said Potter with a shrug. “It’s not as though you’ve got any customers.”
“I run a potions shop, Potter,” explained Draco with the thinnest thread of patience, “the bulk of my orders are by mail.”
“Then you don’t have to worry about losing customers,” returned Potter like it was obvious. “You’ve got five minutes,” he added, checking his watch.
“Five—“ Draco fumed, slamming the drawer closed. He flicked his wand and the lights dimmed, the curtains drew and the door locked. “Fine. The Ministry, I suppose?”
“Something like that,” Potter said, stepping around the counter and grasping Draco’s arm, who quickly wrenched it away.
“What? Ministry or nowhere, I swear Potter—”
“Don’t struggle,” said Potter in a low, soft voice, “you wouldn’t want to be seen resisting arrest.”
“Arrest?” said Draco shrilly, “You’re arresting me? On what basis—”
“That’s maybe a strong word,” agreed Potter, before he flicked his wand and sent a familiar, bright red spell hurtling towards Draco, and everything darkened.
Draco awakened to the feeling of floating, a gentle current of air stirring as he was moved, a low voice humming a tune he couldn’t place. He blinked, but found he couldn’t see anything, only hear. There was the creak of stairs, and a door opening.
“Did the apparition wake you?” asked the low voice.
Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t move.
He could still feel the world moving around him as he was carried—another door creaked, and then he found a hardwood floor press against his back. The door clicked shut and the subtle feeling of a spell washed over him.
“I know you’re awake, you can open your eyes.”
It was not.
“It was a weak stupefy, anyway. If you can get up and sit in your chair, it’ll make things easier.”
“I doubt that very much,” Draco finally replied as he opened his eyes to find Harry Potter staring down at him.
The man smirked, and stepped back to drop himself in a wooden chair. He had dropped whatever polyjuice or glamour he was wearing before. As Draco pulled himself up, he saw another chair facing Potter’s. Gingerly, he sat down. “This isn’t the ministry,” he commented, glancing around the low ceiling and dirty walls.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” dismissed Potter. “What were you doing in the Creaky Moulding on the night of the seventh?”
“The Creaking Moulding? I’ve never heard of it.”
“You were seen there,” said Potter flatly.
Draco stared at him disbelievingly. “Will you tell me what this is about? It might jog my memory, so to speak.”
“First you need to tell me what you were doing there. It was a Saturday.”
“And I truly don’t recall going to such a place,” mused Draco. “As it happens, disguising yourself as another really isn’t that uncommon.” He eyed Potter accusatorially.
“Well, then.” Potter leant back in his chair, looking Draco up and down with a strange, nearly predatory stare. Draco had been on the receiving end of that before—not from Potter. “What were you doing that night?”
“Tending my shop, I would expect,” answered Draco with a frown.
Potter tilted his head. “You can’t remember?”
Draco sighed exasperatedly. “I might have been out with my friends. I might have tended the shop. I can’t recall.”
“A shame,” said Potter, leaning back further.
And then, silence.
Potter stared at him, hardly moving a muscle. Draco would have thought he’d turned to stone except his eyes—trained on Draco, were alert, focused. Hungry.
“If you could enlighten me as to why you are so interested…” repeated Draco, trying to bury an edge of irritation in his voice.
Potter didn’t reply. He just stared.
“I really don’t know anything,” Draco explained uselessly, “If you could…” his voice trailed off, realising that he didn’t really want to be talking about anything in a room with an Auror, especially if it was Potter. “This cannot be legal,” he finished firmly.
Potter, infuriatingly, remained silent, although the corners of his mouth creased like he found the situation terribly amusing.
“The seventh was almost a month ago, how can you expect me to remember at the drop of a hat?”
“Does Occlumency not help your memory?”
Draco had, admittedly, stopped practicing it in recent years. It had been a while since anything had happened; he had gotten used to a quieter life. “It does,” he said anyway.
“So,” gestured Potter, “go for it.”
Draco’s mouth twisted distastefully. He had no interest in occluding in front of Potter. It was difficult to keep an eye on the outside as well as the inside. Even if the memories were strong on that day, he would need to retreat, so to speak, into his mind to do so. “I refuse.”
“Would you prefer privacy?” asked Potter.
“I would prefer to go home,” Draco replied.
Potter smiled, like he’d made a joke. “I can leave you to it,” he said, standing. His boots scraped against the floor as he moved towards the door and opened it. In the doorway, he turned back to Draco. “I’ll be back in a while to check up on your progress.”
The door closed behind him.
Draco sighed and buried his head in his hands. He had just wanted to finish his accounting for once.
Dragging his fingers over his face, he stood at last and checked his pockets. No wand, of course. It was unbelievable that after all this time, Potter had found a reason to fixate on him again. The man had hardly bothered with Draco at all since the war.
Draco had been quite happy to lead his secluded life in peace. He hadn’t once acted out—hadn’t done anything shady, never sold a potion that wasn’t on the books, so it was a mystery why Potter was convinced he had been spotted somewhere unseemly.
The door to the room was locked, unsurprisingly. Draco tried a wandless alohomora on it, and then a portaberto, neither of which worked. Then, a trick of Blaise’s sprung into his head.
Carefully, he pried a splinter from one of the rotting floorboards, and fit it in the gap between the door and the frame. He pushed at the latch, almost certain that Potter would have warded that, too, it was too obvious, too muggle—
The door unlocked.
It creaked open and Draco stepped out into the hallway, almost disbelieving. It had to be a trap, Merlin, he should just go back in and sit tight, but—if he could find even a window, he could get out of the property and apparate away. He could contact Blaise, who worked at the Ministry and had an idea of processes, who could appeal to the head of MLE to get him a proper interrogation, if this harebrained idea of Potter’s even warranted one.
But when Draco’s splinter broke on the next lock, he began to feel uncertain. He tried the handles on the other doors in the hallway, one after the other, until at last one sprung open. It led to a dimly lit room with a bed and a single window looking out onto a blurry landscape, distorted by grime and dust.
If the window was jammed, Draco thought, he could look for another thin piece of something that he could use to wedge more door latches open.
He stepped inside.
It was noticeably warmer inside, unlike the rest of the house which had been frigid at best. As he entered, the candles on the wall sprung to life, bathing the room in a dim, yellow cast.
It was oddly ornate, with gilded wall moulding against deep green walls, antique paintings on the wall depicting—
Draco flinched. The figures in the painting looked over towards him and giggled silently, a young man lying between two gentlemen who might be about to commit murder with their massive—
Well. Draco had seen that before.
He was in a sex room.
The sound of creaking stairs jolted him out of his disbelief, and he rushed to close the door behind him. He listened to the sound of another door opening in the corridor, and soft footfalls making their way to the interrogation room.
Draco hurried over to the window, only to find it firmly shut.
He wasn’t even sure it was meant to open—there was no latch and no hinge. He swore colourfully under his breath, pulling out the drawer of a side table to check if there were a letter-opener, anything that could be used...
There were many things in the drawer, but not of that shape. He could hear Potter swearing loudly through the wall. Draco was about to dive under the bed when the door flung open and Potter stepped in.
Draco froze, and Potter’s eyes locked on him immediately.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, striding forward and grabbing Draco by the lapels, “I knew you would try to sneak out—”
Furious, Draco retorted, shoving him back, “You detained me unlawfully!”
“No such thing,” growled Potter, and Draco felt his stomach drop.
Then, as though he had just noticed where they were, Potter’s eyes snapped around the room. His eyes flashed when they landed on the bed, and he drew a hand over his face. “You’re fucked, you know that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Potter returned to the doorway and wrenched at the handle, which rattled but made no move to open. He gestured at it. “You have any idea what sort of room this is?”
“A sex room,” said Draco, with a sinking feeling that was making his skin go cold. “Just—use your wand.”
Use your wand, Potter mouthed mockingly, pulling out a familiar hawthorn wand and casting every unlocking spell that Draco had heard of and then some.
“That’s mine,” Draco said flatly.
“It is,” Potter agreed easily, stowing it in his sleeve again. “A bit nostalgic, I’ll admit.” He shook his head as though to shake off the distraction. “I’m sure,” he continued blithely, “that I don’t have to explain 19th century consummation rooms to you, do I?”
“It’s probably seventeenth-century,” Draco couldn’t help but correct, “and… no.” He looked around the room with renewed apprehension. “Why in Merlin’s name did you bring us to a house with a consummation room?”
Potter shrugged.
“Surely you can… apparate,” Draco continued, almost desperately. “The wards, they can’t be that difficult…”
Potter stared at Draco, with the same intensity from earlier. “It won’t work.”
Draco didn’t want to ask why he knew that. He might have researched, or—
His thoughts were pulled away from him as he noticed Potter drawing closer. “What are you doing?”
Draco stepped away until his back hit the wall, his shoulder just below the frame of the dirty window he’d thought to escape by originally.
Potter leaned in, eyes nearly glowing in the candlelight. “You know what these rooms were meant for.” His voice is low, breath ghosting over Draco’s cheek. He doesn’t dare move. Potter leaned in until his lips were next to Draco’s ear: “Breeding.”
Draco gripped the edge of the side table to stop himself from flinching. He opened his mouth and for a moment could only make an awful, broken noise, before quickly clearing his throat. “There is no way—”
“There is no other way.” Potter pulled back from his ear and stared at him with that—that predatory look.
“Did you—” plan this?
Draco couldn’t ask. He really, really couldn’t.
Potter grinned like he knew what Draco was thinking anyway.
“I refuse,” Draco said, like it would make a difference. “We can wait here. Someone will come looking. There are curse breakers who can break these sorts of enchantments.”
“I have shit to do, Malfoy,” Potter said, eyebrows furrowing. “I can’t be sitting in my house for a week.”
His house? This is his house? Draco thought, bewildered. “A—a week?” he echoed, when his thoughts caught up to him. “Someone would come looking sooner than that. Don’t you have—aren’t there people—Weasley, I mean—”
Potter shook his head. “They’re used to me disappearing. For a while.” As an afterthought, he added, “Will anyone look for you?”
There was a small smile on his face that drove Draco to anger again. “Yes!” he said hotly. “I do, in fact, so—”
“Today?”
Draco hesitated. “Perhaps not, but...”
“Tomorrow, then.” Potter was still crowding his space, Draco’s back flat against the wall.
“Not… necessarily…” he said, finding it hard to breathe.
“There’s no food in here,” Potter pointed out.
Draco opened his mouth, and closed it. “I don’t want to,” he said at last.
Harry sighed, body pressing further in as he leant his forehead against the wall above Draco’s shoulder.
Draco could hardly move.
“Is it that bad?” he asked.
Draco wasn’t even breathing.
After a moment, Potter lifted his head. “You’ve really never thought about fucking me?” His eyes were like lances.
“I don’t—” Draco wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. All the time, at Hogwarts. But it had been a long time since then.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You have,” said Potter quietly, determined even though Draco hadn’t said anything, hadn’t moved.
“I haven’t,” Draco whispered.
Another hand wrapped around his waist, pulling their hips together and Draco blushed furiously.
Potter was hard, pressing into him, and Draco—Draco was hard, too. The hand on Draco’s shoulder dropped to palm his jeans. He flinched, wrenching away, but the hand around his hips was immovable. “Don’t—”
“Look at me.”
Draco couldn’t. He kept his eyes fixed on Potter’s shirt, black like the hole that Draco wanted to sink into.
“Malfoy.”
A hand touched his chin and Draco felt his gaze pulled up and towards Potter’s. It was scorching, that look of Potter’s, and Draco averted his eyes almost immediately. Anything—anything was better than that.
“Say yes.”
There was a thumb on his waist that had snuck under his shirt and was brushing against the hairs on his lower back. Draco wanted to fold into it and also very much wanted to run away.
Potter sighed and pressed his face into Draco’s neck, lips brushing against the tendon that flexed there. “Please,” he whispered.
Draco’s voice broke like a dam, “Yes. I—” But there was nothing more to say, and anyway, Potter had suddenly pressed his lips against Draco’s neck, dragging them across his pulse and up to the crook of his jaw by his ear, fingers like claws on his hips as his other hand dipped towards the button of his jeans.
Draco shivered, his own hands suddenly clutching at Potter’s shoulders, though he certainly hadn’t asked them to. “Wait, I—”
“It’s okay,” soothed Potter. “I’ll be gentle.”
“Who says—” you’re on top, was what Draco would have said, if the buttons on his clothing hadn’t suddenly all come undone at once, and Potter’s palm hadn’t found its way inside his pants.
“Can we—”
Potter shut him up by biting the lobe of his ear, turning his words to squeaks as his nails dug into the fabric at Potter’s shoulders. Potter’s hand had taken his length, already mostly stiff, and was dragging his pace, languid and easy as he stroked it.
The breath left his body as he pressed his face into Potter’s shoulder. Merlin, it had been so long.
He felt the panic that came, as it often did, with being led into sex. Like his body was running away without him, heedless of his thoughts as it sunk into the feeling of being taken by someone.
But this was not someone. When Potter swept his thumb over the tip of Draco’s cock, smearing the fluid gathered there, using it to ease the way as he pulled, Draco felt like his mind was running away, too. Merlin, but if he didn’t want to just let go. Potter’s other hand had snuck under the back of his waistband, fingers digging into his ass. Draco’s weight had shifted, hanging onto Potter’s shoulders, legs weak as Potter’s arm held him up. A knee had come to rest between his legs, fixing him in place.
Suddenly the hand around his dick closed like a vice, and Draco’s brain jerked back into reality. “Don’t come, Malfoy.”
“Why the fuck not?” growled Draco, curling his nails into Potter’s shoulders. “You were the one who said—”
“What did I say, Malfoy?” Potter asked softly, smirking widely as he stared at Draco.
“You—” Draco stopped.
The hand on his dick began to stroke it, but still too tightly and never to the full length. It was torture. “This is a breeding room, Malfoy.”
“You’re a nightmare,” Draco spat, shoving at him, wishing Potter would take his hand off of him. “Just do it, then—”
Potter pulled them closer together, smiling widely as he murmured, “If you insist.”
Potter’s arm dragged them away from the wall, spinning Draco to land flat on his back on the bed, before climbing on after him, a hand under each of Draco’s knees to push him further up the bed. Somewhere in the middle, Draco’s clothes had vanished, and he felt the cool sheets of the bed press into his back.
Potter was still in his uniform. Maybe ordinarily Draco could have managed a wandless vanishing spell, but his legs felt like molasses and he still wasn’t sure he was breathing properly. “Yours too, bastard,” he grumbled anyway, tugging at the hem of Potter’s robes.
Potter’s smirk grew as he settled between Draco’s legs. “Surely you can manage one measly spell,” he said, just as he took Draco’s cock in his hand again.
Draco shivered as he felt it, thoughts melting into the bedsheets as Potter let his other hand roam up the side of his body, leaning over him till his lapels were brushing Draco’s chest. “Or you could do it the muggle way,” he murmured.
Draco’s gaze was pulled away from the ceiling by the heat of Potter’s eyes, though he regretted meeting them almost instantly—he looked away just as fast, down to where Potter’s robes hung partially open over his body. Potter’s hand had moved from his cock—they were drawing his legs up, propping them on either side of his waist, and then slick fingers ghosted over his rim.
“I—wait, Potter—” Draco tried to grip the buttons on Potter’s robe but they slipped as soon as he felt Potter’s fingers enter him. There was a soft burn that he remembered but had not missed.
“Relax, Malfoy,” said Potter.
“You think I’m not trying?” snapped Draco, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You’re not.”
“I am—” Draco’s voice cut off with a shudder as he felt another finger enter him. “If you would just—” Potter’s fingers moved, pushing in and out, twisting inside of him. “For the love of—”
Potter shifted so that their groins pressed together, the rough fabric of his robes brushing against Draco’s dick.
“You can’t fuck me through your robes,” mumbled Draco, putting an arm over his eyes as he tried to breathe.
Potter only laughed softly. There was the rustling of fabric and then a strong arm around his waist, hoisting Draco up as a pillow slid under his hips. “How fucking kind of you.”
“I had no idea you knew how to swear,” commented Potter as he put another finger in.
Draco tried to stop the tremble that ran through him. “You’re a bastard, Potter, I’m going to—” Suddenly the fingers pulled out, and Draco felt a jolt of terror run through him. “Wait, I’m not ready, don’t you dare—”
The breath left him as the tip of Potter’s cock sunk into him.
Ah, fuck. This was real. Not a dream.
“Breathe, Draco,” said Potter, sinking further.
Draco clenched his jaw as he tried to work air through him, stuttering as their hips moved closer together. “Slower, you fucking—”
“I’m trying,” Potter said dryly, but he did slow then. Draco had no idea how far he was in, and he wasn’t about to look. Potter put a palm on Draco’s chest, fingers splayed against his skin. The other was gripping his hip. “One,” he said.
“What?”
“Two.”
“You’re joking, Potter, don’t—”
Under his arm Draco caught a glimpse of Potter’s face, tight with focus, his eyes trained on the space between them, before they flicked up and caught Draco’s glance. A wicked smile spread across his lips, and then his hips jolted, and Draco’s back arched as he gasped and flung his arm away from his face to grasp at the sheets. “Wait,” he stuttered, “don’t move, please—”
“You’re very demanding,” replied Potter, as he slowly pulled out again. “Say it again.”
“Stop moving—”
“No,” he said easily, pushing back in like it wasn’t agony to Draco’s insides. “The other thing.”
Draco’s face burned, as though it hadn’t already been red. “Fuck you.”
“Relax,” said Potter. “It’ll get easier.”
“I know that you piece of shit,” snapped Draco.
“Didn’t want to assume,” replied Potter easily, which was nice for him to say, as his cock drove its way through Draco’s ass.
“I’m gonna pick up the pace, yeah?”
“You are not.”
“I know you can handle it.”
Draco had to cover his eyes again, turning his face to the side. He felt Potter speed up, just as he’d promised, and Draco had to bite his lip to stop the sounds that were working their way up his throat.
And then, as Potter thrusted, Draco felt a jolt of pleasure rush through him, and he groaned.
“Fuck,” Potter cursed, “there, huh?”
And for ten agonising seconds Potter didn’t hit it again once.
“Can’t you just—” Draco said, nearly babbling, “there.”
Potter’s pace slowed and he leant over Draco, putting his lips by his ear, “Say it, Malfoy.”
Draco’s hands were fisted in the sheets but he felt like hitting Potter. “I can’t—”
Potter thrust, hard, once, and sat there for a moment. “You can.”
“Fuck, just—” Draco could hardly think, “—please.”
He couldn’t bear to look at the grin that had split Potter’s face, and then he physically couldn’t as Potter drove into him and hit his prostate, every time, Draco’s neck arching back into the sheets as his vision blurred. “Fuck.”
“Again.”
“Please,” he said easily, eyes still on the ceiling, unfocused, “please, merlin, fuck.”
Potter’s nails were digging into his hips, holding him in place as he fucked Draco into the mattress. One of the hands moved, and Draco felt it press into the base of his neck, not suffocating, but pinning him in place against the sheets, firm and steady. Draco felt it where he had lost track of almost everything else except for the feeling of Potter driving in and out of him. He was—so fucking close.
“I’m going to come, Draco,” murmured Potter from above him.
He might not have heard except—Potter had used his name, and when that registered, Potter swore.
“Draco,” he said again. “I can’t fucking move you’re that tight. Fuck, are you breathing?”
Draco was sure he wasn’t breathing.
The hand left his neck and Draco thought he might float away, except it closed around the base of his dick, instead, and Draco saw stars.
“Shit,” Potter said above him.
Potter fucked him through the orgasm and out the other side, and then—kept going.
“Please,” Draco said again, “please, I—”
“You’re fine,” said Potter, focused.
Draco thought he might pass out but then Potter was coming, hilted against Draco as he felt his insides flushed with warmth.
Potter sat there for a moment before he began to pull out—Draco almost whimpered, and then he did when Potter pushed back in again. “No,” mumbled Draco, “I can’t—”
“Relax,” said Potter, putting a hand on his stomach as he pulled out again only to push back in leisurely. “We can take a break.”
Draco whined as he mumbled, incoherent even to himself.
“Breathe, Draco,” said Potter, and Draco did.
He felt himself coming back into his body with agonising slowness. “The door—” he gasped finally. “It should be open by now. You can—”
“Hm?” murmured Potter, as he pushed in again to the hilt and watched Draco tremble. “What was that?”
“The fucking door,” gritted Draco, “we—you—we can leave now.”
“Ah,” said Potter. “You’re not pregnant yet, though.”
Draco’s eyes flew open. “That’s not—that can’t be necessary.”
Potter hummed. “It is.”
Draco’s stomach flipped. “No—open the door.”
Potter sighed and flicked his wand in over to it. It rattled, but did nothing.
“I don’t believe you,” Draco said, shuddering as Potter slid out again, all the way. Draco felt the absence, felt like he could breathe again, felt like he didn’t want to. “Fuck—that’s—”
Potter dragged himself out of bed and to the door. His robes were undone at the waist, but otherwise he looked infuriatingly put-together. He rattled the doorknob again, this time with his hand, as he stared dryly at Draco. “Do you want to try it yourself?”
“Fuck you,” groaned Draco, throwing a nearby pillow over his face. He could hardly sit up, let alone walk.
He heard the rustling of clothes and the sound of something soft falling to the floor. Draco peeked out the side of the pillow to see that Potter had taken off his outer robes and his shirt, leaving only his trousers on, though they were unbuttoned at the waist. His dick hung over the edge of his pants, still glistening.
Draco hid his face quickly as he felt the mattress dip where Potter climbed back on. He wrapped an arm around Draco and moved him so Potter’s chest was to his back, curled into one another.
“Don’t be sweet with me now,” warned Draco, muffled through the pillow he was still clutching.
“Who says I was?” asked Potter, and Draco gasped a shuddering breath as Potter’s cock slid back into him.
“You fucking asshole, don’t—”
“Shh,” Potter hushed, “I won’t do anything. Just keeping you ready.”
“We are not doing this,” argued Draco weakly. “It’s lunch, I’m fucking hungry.”
“So am I.”
“You are incorrigible.”
Potter wrapped a hand around him to stroke his dick once, and Draco jolted.
“You said—”
“I did,” agreed Potter, wrapping his teeth around the crook of Draco’s neck. Draco’s hands grappled at the sheets, taking a quick breath as Potter pushed himself until their hips met.
“See?” he murmured around Draco’s skin. “Not so bad.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do.”
Potter huffed a laugh. “Whatever. Just go to sleep.”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“And you aren’t tired?” Potter shifted and Draco tried not to groan as he felt Potter’s cock moving around in him. He was tired, but how the fuck was he supposed to sleep like this?
“I’m hungry.”
“Kreacher. Food.”
There was a loud snap and a tray of pasties appeared on the sheets in front of them, and it was only Potter’s arm wrapped around him that stopped Draco from bolting off the bed. “Merlin, warn me,” growled Draco, trying to wrest himself out of Potter’s grip. The arm, however, didn’t budge.
“I can’t eat like this,” Draco told him.
“Don’t be silly,” mumbled Potter, sounding suspiciously sleepy.
“Are you falling asleep?” Draco asked shrilly.
There was no reply. Draco tried to twist around to get a look at Potter’s face, but whether he was sleeping or not, his arm was locked tight around Draco, keeping their hips together.
Draco fell back to the bed uselessly. “You fucker,” he muttered.
Potter mumbled something incoherent and pulled Draco closer, his lips warm on the back of Draco’s neck.
He stared at the tray of pasties, wondering how on earth he had gotten here. Before he’d blinked, he was licking his fingers to clean the last crumbs of pasties off. The empty tray vanished. Somewhere, there was an elf who was entirely unconcerned about their predicament. Draco couldn’t bring himself to be surprised.
Potter shifted behind him again. “Sleep,” he mumbled, pulling Draco’s back to his chest.
Draco promised himself he would hex Potter a hundred times after this—but he was, for now, exhausted. Begrudgingly, he relaxed into the sheets, closed his eyes, and barely even noticed when he fell asleep.