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Raveled Sleeve

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"Look," Harry said finally. "We're not going to get through this all tonight. We'd better go home and get some sleep."

Draco set a stack of paper down on the already-overflowing desk and made an inarticulate sound somewhere between scorn and amusement. He picked up another stack.

"Didn't you hear me?" Harry said, thrusting his hand between Draco's face and the papers.

"I heard an ill-bred boor talking to himself," Draco said, not stooping to attempting to read around Harry's hand.

"Right," Harry said, and plucked the papers from Draco's grasp. "Get your coat. You're coming with me."

"This is absurd!" Draco said, but allowed himself to be led, protesting all the way back to Harry's flat. "I'll have you know I have a perfectly good bed of my own."

Lights blazed up as they entered.

"Which you avoid sleeping in as much as possible," Harry said, and bolted the door behind them and re-did the security spells with a single, practiced flick of his wand. Another flick dimmed the lights, and there was the heavy whump of sudden flame in a fireplace from another room. "If you don't sleep, someone has to make you, or you wind up face-down drooling tea on the Minister's reports."

"I fail to see how that's any improvement," Draco sniffed, holding out an imperious hand with his coat for Harry to take. "Some barbaric people think it reasonable to wake before noon."

Harry surrendered both their coats to the closet, which tucked them away in its cedar-scented depths. "Make yourself comfortable," he said wryly, following Draco into the sitting room, to find Draco already lounging on the sofa. The little room was perfectly clean, in that slightly-too-fussy way that hinted of automatic cleaning charms and not enough time spent simply inhabiting one's own home. Harry settled himself at the other end, lifting Draco's feet out of the way. He Summoned items from the kitchen, and an assortment of breads and cheeses lined themselves up on plates.

They ate: Red Dragon on black bread, Shropshire Blue on white, with olive oil and balsamic vinegar in a little dish, and cold meats. Harry sipped water. Draco Summoned wine. They dined in companionable near-silence, Draco's feet still on Harry's lap. Harry yawned first. Draco followed suit, and glared at Harry like an offended cat. Harry chuckled, and sent the dishes flying back to the kitchen. He dimmed the fire down to a warm smoulder. "This way," he said, and led Draco down a cheerfully-lit little hall that had more in common in its decorating taste with the Weasley sweaters than either Harry's scatter of desk baubles or his careful, sober robes.

Draco took first turn cleaning up, and Harry was unsurprised to hear the rattle of the hot water pipes and hiss of the shower. He smiled and made a private bet with himself about how long it would take Draco to emerge.

Draco came out nearly half an hour later, scrubbed pink and still faintly steaming from the Drying Charm he'd used, wearing a nightshirt that was clearly Transfigured out of one of Harry's washcloths, from the pattern of cabbage roses all over it. (The rosebud motif did not resize well.)

Harry's shower was quicker, but he didn't rush. Once he, too, was steaming slightly and wearing a clean pair of pyjamas, he ambled out into his bedroom. Draco had sprawled catlike over far more than half of the bed, already asleep for all his posturing. Harry grinned and tucked himself up into the other side, and doused the lights.

Next morning, he knew, he would wake up to find Draco had wrapped around him while they slept. He would pry Draco from between the sheets, prop him upright, and feed him strong tea until he could dress himself. Then they would go back to the Ministry and continue drudging through the paperwork hoping to crack the case.

For tonight, they slept.