Chapter Text
“He’s still a twat then?” Ron asks, words turned sickly sweet with sympathy.
“What?” replies Harry, distracted, patting down his pockets for his wand. “Uh, yeah, guess so. I mean, he’s not…”
“You ready to go, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice is too loud, too bright, and he’s already more than halfway down the stairs, shoving his potions book back into his satchel. His chin’s held high, thin lips pressed tightly together, and his eyes… Merlin, are those tears?
Guilty, Harry looks away. “I’ll see you later, alright?” he mutters, clapping Ron on the shoulder. “Congratulations again, mate.”
“Cheers,” says Ron, “Floo you later, yeah?”
“Right.”
“Oh, Weasley?” says Malfoy, sharp enough that the few stragglers left in the hall fall silent to listen. “I just remembered. That old desk in, hmm, that tiny cupboard… I want to call it your office?”
“Hermione’s,” Ron said, frowning.
“Right, yes, of course. Silly of me. Anyway, that desk could do with a reinforcing charm or two. Longbottom and Lovegood are fucking on it, and I doubt it’s going to hold much longer.”
Right on cue, there's a cracking noise from above, and Ron turns comically pale under the flickering fairy lights. “Oh, Merlin,” he says, turning on the spot, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind Harry, Malfoy tugs the front door open so hard the stained-glass pane rattles. He sweeps outside, not looking back, as one by one, giggling voices break through the hush in their wake.
It’s right in the university district, Ron and Hermione’s place, this strange, otherworldly suburb comprised of endless rows of tall, gloomy Victorian houses, unkempt front lawns full of liberated traffic cones and empty beer bottles. George and Angelina are sitting cross legged on the stone wall out front, sharing a spliff. A cloud of sweet smoke lingers above them in the still, high-summer air, and they nod at Harry as he passes, but it’s that awkward, apologetic look he still finds hard to stomach.
A puppet on an invisible string, he jogs a few steps to catch up with Malfoy. “Did you, uh. Was it alright?”
“Oh yes, Potter,” Malfoy mutters, without looking up. “Had the time of my life, in fact. You know how much I love spending my Saturday nights surrounded by people who’d gladly see me locked up. People who think I’m such a twat.” His voice is full of scorn. “Really makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Harry sighs, loudly. “Look, Malfoy. I mean, I know it was my thing, but you said you were alright with it. You said…”
“I said you could go to your best friends’ engagement party, yes, because despite what everyone thinks, I’m not actually a heartless dick.”
Loud rap music crescendos, echoing along the narrow street, the bass setting Harry’s teeth on edge as they pass yet another house party. A group of girls are teetering around on the pavement outside; they giggle and jump aside at the sight of Malfoy flouncing along in his floor-length cloak. His disdainful sniff is the only indication that he’s even seen them, and Harry, foreseeing yet another long Sunday spent slamming doors and snapping at each other, tries again.
“Did you at least get some of your, erm, work done? Your rune stuff… what’s it called again, Calligromancy?”
Malfoy’s head snaps round at that, eyes narrowed. “How did you…?”
“You left your book on the kitchen table. I wasn’t prying, I…”
“Whatever, Potter.” Malfoy says, steps slowing slightly as they approach the end of the street. He shrugs, defeated. “Not like you’d understand it anyway.”
“No,” concedes Harry quietly. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“I did get a bit done tonight,” he says primly, “although nowhere near enough. This ridiculous bond business has put me so far behind, I’ll be lucky if I’ve even still got a job at the end of it.” He stops abruptly, turning back to face Harry. “Left or right here, d’you remember?”
“Left, I think,” offers Harry - a total guess, if he's honest. “ Merlin,” he sighs, “I miss the Floo.”
***
“ Potter.”
Harry jumps, head swivelling around towards what appears to be a dozen empty tables. Their occupants are all up on their feet, the front of the hall a chaos of noise and movement, swishing robes and joyful shouts. This is the first time that Harry’s managed to slip away from the seemingly endless queue of witches desperate for a dance, hoping to grab a quick pumpkin juice, get his energy up before he’s forced back into the fray. To be honest, he’s almost forgotten about Draco entirely for the first time in weeks, and he can’t help feeling strangely guilty.
“ Potter!” calls the disembodied voice again, apparently originating from an abandoned cluster of chairs. “Get over here.”
“Draco?” Harry hisses, but typically receives no reply, and he wonders if this is some kind of game designed to make him look insane. He can tell Draco’s nearby, but finds no clues on closer inspection of the area, so he reaches deep inside himself for the bond and… chooses a chair.
“Hey!” yells Draco, panicked, just as Harry’s arse makes contact with… something, and Harry leaps back up to his feet as fast as he can, wobbling and tugging at the tablecloth. A few heads turn towards him, frowning, and Harry smiles at them reassuringly. Insane, then. Brilliant.
Draco laughs, long and raucous, so that Harry can tell for certain he’s in the seat opposite. “Merlin, that was good.”
“You’re having fun, then?” says Harry, rolling his eyes and settling back into the chair. He can’t help but notice that they’re in pretty much the exact spot where Draco’s Slytherin gang used to sit, and he wonders if it was a conscious choice.
“Been amusing myself, certainly. This cloak really is quite incredible. My old Hogwarts self hates you even more now that I’ve tried it. You have to wonder what the hell Dumbledore was thinking though, letting some horny fifteen-year-old loose around the castle with a sodding invisibility cloak.”
Harry chuckles, mock-offended, as though those kind of thoughts hadn’t crossed his mind at least once a day at the time. “Speak for yourself, Draco.”
“Oh, trust me, I am. I’ve spent practically the whole night trying to stop myself from…”
There’s a sudden flash of light, which illuminates the entire Great Hall in neon green. The music crashes to a halt, and Harry frowns as a familiar snicker comes from the vacant chair opposite him. Half a second later, outraged shouts erupt amongst the crowd, and several people storm across the room.
“Draco?”
“Yes?” says Draco innocently, sounding suspiciously pleased with himself.
“How exactly have you been amusing yourself? You haven’t been setting calligromancy traps by any chance, have you? Because that spell looked an awful lot like the forced truth-telling curse you were practicing drawing last night.”
“Pure coincidence, I assure you." His voice is jubilant, and Harry can imagine his ridiculous, irritating grin. “You’ve got to admit that my spellwork’s improving though. I must have hit about a hundred people with that one.”
He falls suddenly silent as Kingsley strides past them, resplendent in plum-coloured robes. Behind him, Percy Weasley’s scrambling to catch up. “Oh yes, Minister,” he’s saying, earnestly. “The things I’ve thought of doing to you…”
“Cheers, Draco,” hisses Harry, horrified, once they’re out of earshot. “My god.”
“Yeah,” says Draco slowly, “could definitely have done without hearing that. Anyway, Potter, before I forget: lean forwards, would you?”
“What?”
Before Harry can move, an invisible force has hold of Harry’s collar; straightens it and adjusts his tie, the fabric-covered hand seeming to linger ever so slightly, cloth brushing over the skin of Harry’s throat. Harry swallows, and Draco moves back, and suddenly he can breathe again.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
“Don’t mention it, Potter. After all, we can’t have you looking scruffy for the cameras, can we? Not when you’re handing out the Harry Potter Award for Reckless Stupidity, or whatever it’s called.”
“Fuck off, Draco.” Harry mumbles, hating the fact he doesn’t know where to look. “None of this stuff’s my idea, you know that, right? I’d give anything just to be sitting at home in jeans and a t-shirt right now. No idea why on earth you bothered getting dressed up all nice and fancy when no-one was going to see you anyway.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Draco’s voice grows lower, thoughtful. “Nice and fancy, though, eh? Thank you, I suppose, Potter.”
“Harry.”
Draco snorts at that.
“I’ll wear you down eventually,” says Harry, seriously.
“You can try, Potter .” He pops the P, and Harry turns away before Draco can see his smile.
***
This time, it’s Harry who’s left completely out of his depth. Every single room on the first three floors of Pansy’s enormous, gaudy townhouse is crammed to the brim with society wix; floating silver trays of champagne and canapes, It’s A Girl! banners and presents all over the place, and candyfloss pink glitter raining down from the high ceilings, vanishing just overhead.
Everyone knows Harry, and Harry knows no-one. It’s exhausting, and relentless, and Draco’s disappeared off, dragged upstairs immediately by his old schoolfriends – Harry can feel him, the gentle squeeze around Harry’s chest, just on the wrong side of uncomfortable, a belt done up a single notch too tight. Harry dithers around for a bit: oh go on then, Mrs Selwyn, just one more beef crostini, why not? before giving in, tugging at the thread and letting it lead him up the winding staircase – and fuck, how many floors does this place even have? – until he spots Draco over by the window, standing in the middle of an excited group of Slytherins. Draco glances up involuntarily as Harry enters the room, and their eyes meet for a second before he turns back to his friends, a wide smile on his face, the kind that no longer takes Harry by surprise.
Harry tugs at his collar, all at once uncomfortably warm, stifled, and he can see more heads turning towards him, so, before he’s cornered once more, he slips outside onto the shallow curved stone balcony. Flattens his back and his palms against the cold, buttery yellow stone wall. Takes one deep breath, and then another, letting the night air fill his lungs.
He’s just closed his eyes for a second when a warmth sparks in his chest, and a familiar hand curls loosely around his forearm.
“Harry.” It’s said lightly, genially, the vowel slurred, but there’s no mistaking the concern behind it.
“I’m fine,” says Harry, stepping forward to plant his hands firmly atop the stone balustrade. It’s covered in vines, thick stems wrapping around and around the balusters, smothering them. Harry shivers, carefully avoiding the green tendrils which have crept up onto the rail as he looks out at the guests milling around the lower lawn. “Really, I am.”
“Really?”
“Of course.” Harry sighs, indicates the party behind them. “It’s just so…”
“Pink?”
Harry chuckles, surprised.
“Slytherin? Pureblood? Stuffy?” says Draco innocently, a mischievous grin on his face.
“Yes, yes and… well, yes, I suppose” concedes Harry. “Not just that, either. I… I also… I might be wrong, but it felt strangely like Blaise was trying to chat me up earlier.”
“He probably was,” says Draco, rueful. “That’s Blaise for you.”
“But he must know, right? That you and I are…”
“What? Living together under a forced proximity bond?” says Draco, a little too lightly. “Oh, he knows.”
“No, I… you know that’s not what I…” Harry trails off, frowning. Does he know, though? More than that – what’s to know, really? Harry certainly couldn’t put it into words, this slow shift inside.
Draco hums – and what does that mean, anyway? – then comes to stand next to Harry. The bond flutters happily, a tiny frisson of joy behind Harry’s breastbone as they admire the view: the harsh encroaching shadows of the Avon hills, and below, the twinkling lights of the city, nestled peacefully in its little enclave.
“I always thought…” begins Harry. Draco turns towards him, his breath little whiskey-scented puffs of condensation, and Harry swallows. Begins again. “At school, I always thought that… that you and Pansy would…”
“Yes,” says Draco, cutting him off with a sharp laugh. “My mother thought – or rather, she hoped – that we would as well.” To Harry’s surprise, he yawns, drops his head to rest against Harry’s shoulder. Draco’s still just a little too bony, despite Harry’s best efforts to feed him up, and it’s awkward, and uncomfortable, but Harry wills himself not to move anyway. When Draco speaks again, the angle of his jaw working against the knob of Harry’s shoulder, his words are barely a murmur, so soft it’s as though he’s forgotten Harry’s there, and he’s spilling his secrets to the night air instead. “You understand why… why Pansy and I could never have worked, don’t you, Harry?”
Harry inhales deeply, remembering a nervous knock on his bedroom door, a whispered can I come in? I’ve brought your coffee. He thinks of the light brush of Draco’s thumb against his own as they both reach for the marmalade at the breakfast table. Of Draco’s joyful, unrestrained laugh as Harry opens yet another one of his mined cupboards and his hair turns electric blue. Of a casual hand pressed against the small of Harry’s back on Draco’s way to the bathroom.
He nods.
***
“Hang on. What are the rules?”
There’s a pause, and Ron looks at George, eyebrows raised, and George whispers something sarcastic-sounding to Angelina, and then all at once everyone’s giggling, and Draco’s shifting uncomfortably beside Harry, and Harry practically itches to reach out for him.
“Rules? What rules?” Ginny’s mocking tone cuts through the cacophony. “It’s a snowball fight, not a bloody courtship ritual.” She affects a plummy voice. “I suppose Little Lord Malfoy never dreamt he’d be doing something so plebeian as throwing snow at other people.”
“Cut it out, Gin,” mutters Harry. There’s a clink and then an enormous crash inside the Burrow, chased by the sound of laughter and mock-cheering from the guests.
“I only meant,” says Draco, indignantly, as the dull background thud of music fades slightly, is replaced by Molly’s stern, reproachful voice, “do you have teams, or anything?”
“Well, no,” says Ron. “Traditionally it’s really more of a… free-for-all sort of thing.”
“Although,” says George, thoughtfully, “the man does have a point. I mean, let’s be honest, we always just end up piling on Perce, anyway. Why don’t we… spice things up a bit this year?”
“Mmm. I like it,” says Bill, renewing the Impervius on his gloves. “What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking,” George says slowly, grin wicked, “Gryffindor versus Slytherin.”
“Pfft, that’s ridiculous,” Draco scoffs, looking around the group. “There are what, seven of you? And one of…”
His words falter and die out, his expression shifting from scornful through slow dawning comprehension, finally landing on horror. “No. No, you can’t.”
“Oh, but we can,” says Ginny, eyes flicking towards the enormous mound of fresh snow heaped atop the bird bath.
“Harry?” says Draco, pleading. “Come on! My hair! You know what it’s like…”
Harry absolutely knows what Draco’s hair’s like – or more to the point, what Draco’s like about his hair. Harry thinks of the myriad bottles and funny-smelling creams which now occupy every flat surface in his entire sodding bathroom, of the strange hour-long ritual which steams up the entire house and sets off the smoke alarm every morning without fail. Harry thinks of all these things, and his face breaks into a wide smile.
“Get him!”
The Gryffindors whoop with glee, as Draco’s eyes widen and then – he’s gone, a loud crack echoing in his wake. “Malfoy, that’s fucking cheating,” hollers Ron at the space where only Draco’s footprints remain.
“Alright there, Weasleys?” comes a voice from across the garden. Draco’s over behind the shed, expression positively gleeful. He wiggles his second and third fingers, and straightaway Harry knows what that means, can tell he’s got his wand secreted in his palm. Harry hangs back, bending down to scoop up some snow as Ron, George, Ginny and Angelina begin a slow, lumbering charge across the lawn towards Draco, their battle cries echoing through the air.
Harry watches as Draco shakes his head in disbelief, flicking his wrist lazily in the direction of the approaching group. The earth beneath them trembles, and they all slow down, confused, just in time for the ear-splitting crack Harry had suspected might be coming as with a huge spray of snow, they all disappear into a large trench opens up in the ground beneath them.
“What? You asked for Gryffindor versus Slytherin, didn’t you?” Draco yells wildly, disappearing once more behind the shed, as the four of them clamber out of the hole. Ron shakes off his soaking hair, and Angelina giggles as Ginny and George both spit out mouthfuls of dirty snow, eyes blazing.
“He’s alright really, isn’t he?” says Bill from beside Harry, watching as Ron approaches the shed, cautiously, his wand drawn. He peers around the side, activating the sigil Harry had watched Draco scribble in the air, and lets out a howl as a pile of snow flings itself off the roof, burying him up to the neck.
Percy’s hanging back, glasses wonky and wand out shakily in front of him, looking for all the world as though he were facing a dragon rather than a single, determined Slytherin. The kitchen window’s open, warm light spilling out from within, and Molly’s pointing her wooden spoon threateningly in Draco’s direction, while Hermione, one hand perched lightly over the faint swell of her abdomen, tries (and fails) to look disapproving, and little Victoire giggles and shouts instructions from Fleur’s hip. Ron’s still yelling, arms flailing as he struggles to break free of the snow, while the other three charge around the opposite side of the shed. There are screams, and shrieks of laughter, and Harry can hear Draco’s muffled, amused-sounding how dare you!
They’ve been sleeping in the same bed for a month now.
“Yeah,” replies Harry, fondly. “He’s alright.”
***
“You’re really not dancing, Harry?” says Draco, spinning off the dancefloor, wild-eyed and breathless, reaching out to steady himself against Harry’s shoulder.
“Fuck, no,” laughs Harry, empty champagne glass pressed against his lips. “You saw me up at Hogwarts, you know I can’t dance for shit.”
“But it’s New Year’s . You’re at a ball.”
Harry glances over Draco’s shoulder at the dancefloor, where several hopeful witches nudge one another and giggle. He ducks back to hide behind Draco. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “I reckon I’m still going to give it a miss. Thanks anyway, though.”
“Spoilsport.”
Harry smiles faintly, indicates his drink. “Hey, I’m happy over here, watching and drinking. But you should go ahead. Dance for the both of us.” He lowers his voice, confidingly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ali Shafiq’s been eyeing you up all evening.”
Draco glances across the hall, and Harry wishes he could take the words and stuff them straight back into his stupid mouth. Ali’s tall and dark and fit, and exactly Draco’s type, and Harry’s felt ill all evening with the way he stares at Draco, and now Harry’s gone and practically given them his fucking blessing? Overcome with nausea and self-loathing, Harry turns away, looking around for – what? A drink, perhaps; something to occupy his hands. And maybe a place to hide.
“Harry.” Draco’s hand is squeezing his arm, tugging him back around, and instead of smiling at Ali, Draco’s looking up at Harry, his brow furrowed in some mix of bewilderment and dismay. Harry doesn’t know what to do, his focus narrowing to Draco’s hand on him, Draco’s hand, Draco’s hand, and his mouth is dry, and he’d love to pretend it’s the bond except he knows for certain that it isn’t.
“You really won’t dance?”
Harry blinks. “Not this again, Draco. I’ve told you already…”
“Not even with me?”
The words rattle around and around in Harry’s head, but he can’t make head or tail of them. “What?” he chokes out, voice distant, ears ringing as though someone’s set off a Bombarda in the room.
“I said, would you dance then? If it was with me?” Draco cocks his head to one side. His fists are clenched by his side, and he’s watching Harry closely, expression carefully neutral, as Harry’s heart thunders hard and fast against his ribcage.
“I…” Harry pauses, turned slow and stupid with wanting. A sudden movement catches his eye – one of the witches waving frantically at him over Draco’s shoulder – and he must have paused a second too long, because Draco’s face tightens, and his eyes narrow, and oh, god, Harry wants nothing more than to turn on his heel and run, except he can’t , can he? The bloody Manor ballroom is so big they can’t even stand at different ends, and he’s trapped, and hurting, and Draco’s teasing him and it’s all gone too far this time.
“What are you on about, Draco?” Harry demands, hands on hips. “Stop… stop saying things like that, alright? Stop trying to mess with my head. I know it’s been a crap year for you, okay? But you heard what Hermione said; they’ve almost figured out how to break the bond, so it’ll all be over soon, and… what?”
For Draco’s taken hold of his sleeve, gripping the fabric so tightly it’s at risk of tearing, and he doesn’t say anything but just starts pulling Harry across the dancefloor as Harry, nerves alight with confusion and fury, lets himself be led. Everyone’s watching, it feels like, as Draco guides him between two columns and over to the wall behind the orchestra, where the outline of a door blends seamlessly with the surrounding wall. Draco spells it open, and unceremoniously shoves Harry through.
“Draco. Where…?”
“Shut up,” snaps Draco. “Just shut up, okay? Lumos!”
It’s a storage cupboard, from the look of things; old music stands and instrument cases littering the floor. The orchestra starts up outside once more, and the door closes behind them, and before Harry can even speak, Draco’s got him pressed up against it. Harry thinks of shoving him back, thinks of squirming away, but the proximity is just too overwhelming. He suspects Draco knows it too. “I asked,” Draco hisses slowly, against the shell of Harry’s ear, “if you wanted to dance with me.”
Harry shivers. “I…”
“Yes or no, Harry?”
“I don’t… I…”
“Oh,” says Draco, pulling back, nose barely an inch from Harry’s own, “but I think you do. Yes or no?” His eyes are fierce, unsmiling; self-defence as always, Harry thinks, his heart aching with knowing Draco; the familiar smile lines beneath his eyes, the dear soft curve of his cheek, the asymmetrical quirk of his lips. Harry can hum the songs Draco sings in the shower, knows exactly how he takes his tea, recognises the way his breathing deepens as he drifts off sleep. And yet there’s so much more still to know. So much more Harry wants to find out.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I’ll dance with you,” and he sinks into Draco’s waiting arms.
***
Harry’s sweating. He’s sweating, and it’s dripping down into the sink, and he’s fucking naked, and it’s got to be at least quarter-to-eight, and Draco’s not showing any signs of letting up, damn him, and –
“ Fuck , Draco,” he moans, legs shaking. “Could you go any slower?”
Draco slants him a wicked, toothy grin in the mirror, pretending to consider the question. “Hmm, I don’t know. What do you think? Could I?” He pulls back slowly, deliberately, holding eye contact. Teeters on the edge for just long enough for Harry to lose his damn mind , before slamming forwards with so much force the whole wall shakes.
“Arsehole!” growls Harry.
“Mmm, yes, I know,” whispers Draco into Harry’s ear. He’s still barely moving, and Harry grips the edge of the cabinet, trying to hold back from literally shoving himself onto Draco’s cock. “You love it though, don’t you?”
“Uhhhh…”
“Oh, but I think you do. What was it you said earlier? Oh no, Draco, please don’t move out. I simply cannot live without you, your sparkling wit, and especially your massive cock. Something like that, wasn’t it?”
It had been nothing like that. Frankly, as Harry recalls it, if anyone had been pleading it was Draco, but they’ve been living together for long enough now that Harry knows just how stubborn the bastard really is. And more to the point, it’s probably ten-to-eight by now, which means in ten minutes their little flat’s going to be chock-full of all their friends, and fuck, if Draco didn’t let Harry come before that he’d never get through this damn party.
“Wasn’t it?” Draco prompts, beginning yet another torturously slow thrust.
“ For Merlin’s sake, yes, Draco, yes!”
“Yes…?”
“Yes I love your cock, yes I love you, you ridiculous, irritating, smug bastard, now just fucking hurry the fuck up… oh, god…”
They both freeze, hearing it at the same time: voices in the living room, several of them, people calling out for Harry and Draco, footsteps moving closer and closer. Draco clasps a dramatic but unnecessary hand over Harry’s mouth, and finally, finally begins to move at a reasonable pace, reaching round to take Harry’s neglected cock in hand.
“…you again, Granger.”
“You too, Parkinson. And who’s this little bundle…?”
There’s some squealing outside, the words completely incomprehensible. Harry watches in the mirror as Draco’s face curves up into a mischievous grin. Flushed with embarrassment, Harry can do little else but let his head loll back onto Draco’s shoulder, biting back the little grunts which threaten to escape as Draco picks up the pace.
“Hey, guys,” comes Ron’s deep voice. “Anyone got any ideas where Harry and Malfoy are?”
“Not a clue,” says Theo. “Enjoying their freedom, perhaps.”
Ron laughs. “Merlin, they must be relieved that it’s over. Bonded to Malfoy for nine months – god, I can’t even imagine.”
“Can you imagine?” purrs Draco, breath coming in little pants, fast and shallow against Harry’s ear.
“Fucking – mmmm – fucking nightmare, I reckon,” gasps Harry, and Draco huffs, adding a cruel twist to his strokes that has Harry’s eyes rolling back in his head.
“I was expecting to find the place half-empty, you know?” adds Ron. “Really thought Malfoy’d be all packed by now.”
“Right?” says Pansy. “I’m pretty sure he’ll want to be a million miles from here after all this.”
“A million miles.” whispers Draco, hips slamming forwards wickedly as he licks a hot stripe up Harry’s cheek.
“You’re not getting… fuck… rid of me that – uhhhh – easily…” Harry’s babbling, he knows he is, and moaning too, and their friends are right outside, and all Draco’s tiny lined-up hair potion bottles are wobbling alarmingly, and they’re going to be discovered, and… and…
"Draco! Fuck!"
“Did you hear that?” asks Ron, loudly, and Harry freezes. Draco, still thrusting shallowly, riding out the last of his orgasm, looks up at Harry, winking at him in the mirror from beneath sweat-damp hair.
There’s silence outside, as they all strain to listen, and then, mercifully, “Perhaps they’re in the kitchen?” suggests Hermione, and their voices grow quieter as they move on past.
“You did that on purpose,” says Harry, drunken and dazed and stupid with love.
“I most certainly did not,” Draco replies, indignantly, tugging his shirt back on. “As I recall, it was you who initiated that, anyway. Just had to check, didn't you?”
“I didn't exactly hear you complaining." Harry grins. He tugs his t-shirt over his head, then shrugs, awkwardly. “You... uh, you were right, though. It didn’t feel any different.”
Draco rolls his eyes, smooths his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Course it didn’t,” says Draco, rolling his eyes fondly. He smooths his fingers through Harry’s hair, moving wayward strands this way and that until he’s satisfied. “You know as well as I do it was just a proximity bond. Our feelings,” he taps the centre of Harry’s chest, “were always our own.”
Harry smiles. He drops a quick kiss on Draco’s lips, just because he can.
“So I guess this is going to be one hell of a party.”