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It was Potter.
Of course it was fucking Potter.
Draco stared down at the memo with a mix of horror and resignation. The little lavender plane had shot through the office, over the flimsy wall of his cubicle, straight into his forehead before falling straight into his morning tea. And not twenty minutes before, on his way into the cubicle, he’d gotten his brand new loafers soaked in a puddle. And an hour before all this, he’d woken up late with a raging headache, hungover from a late night spent sipping firewhiskey and brooding. it really wasn’t surprising that he was now being sent on an assignment with Auror Potter. It seemed like everything this morning was fated to be as terrible as possible.
Jack, a lanky man with a dry wit that Draco usually appreciated glanced at him from the neighboring cubicle. “You look delighted. Fun assignment?”
Draco sneered down at the soggy, tea-stained paper. “Oh yes. Splendid. Fantastic.” He tossed the thing onto his desk, gathering up the folders of paperwork he’d just fucking pulled out and shoving them back in their filing cabinet.
“I can see how excited you are.”
“Fucking estatic.” Draco snatched up his black leather satchel and stalked off, throwing Jack the bird as he stalked toward the office exit. Pansy had taught him that muggle gesture last month, and he’d been putting it to good use since.
The slick black stone and cool lighting of the Ministry halls always filled Draco with an odd sense of nostalgia for the Slytherin common room. He was never quite sure if he liked this feeling or not. Paired with the fact of being placed with Potter, brought back an uncomfortably familiar feeling of excitement and dread. Draco had always had a morbid addiction to the mix of dizzying hatred and fascination that seeing Potter produced. Luckily, the briefing room wasn’t far, so he didn’t need to dwell on that feeling for long.
He pushed open the heavy mahogany door and found Potter already sitting at a long meeting table. A manila folder stuffed to the brim with paper sat unopened before him, ignored in favor of the small, rectangular object casting a glow that reflected in Potter’s glasses. He’d never seen Potter with one of those intelligent telephones, but he supposed it made sense for the halfblood. Blaise had procured Draco one for his thirty-second birthday just a few months before, and he was still struggling to figure out how to use the blasted thing. Draco still didn’t quite understand what to do with it—aside from call Pansy —so he was painfully curious as to what in Merlin’s name Potter could be so fixated on.
Potter glanced up. His green eyes were just as piercing as when they were eleven. “Looking chipper as ever, Malfoy.”
“Thank you. Lovely outfit, by the way. Find it in the gutter?”
The outfit in question was a pair of nicely ironed jeans that hugged strong thighs; a well-fitted black shirt stretched across a pair of gloriously muscled pecs, and a deep red flannel jacket. To top it all off, he wore a golden chain with a small pendant and simple black studs in each ear. The arsehole looked like a sexy lumberjack, which made Draco want to smash his head through a wall.
The lumberjack glared. “My outfit’s more functional for fieldwork than the ball gown you’ve got on. You late for a funeral or the club?”
Draco looked down at his three piece, an inky black suit accentuated with panels of fabric that shimmered in the low light. It was all pieced together with intricately designed silver cuffs, shirt buttons, and a statement piece belt. His pants had a slight flare at the bottom, and the waist-coat he wore brought his waist in just so.
Draco bristled. “We are in a professional work environment. Excuse me for dressing appropriately.”
Potter was saved the labor of coming up with something witty to say back by the arrival of Head Auror Robards. The man strode into the room without a greeting to either wizard, his simple cloak swaying with every step. Wordlessly he waved his wand, his magic tugging on a string dangling at the front of the room and pulling down a map of what looked to be the Cotswolds. Robards smacked the tip of his wand to a large red “X” on the map.
“Your mission will be tedious, but important. You both are familiar with the Greenwood Grifter case that Brown and Camington are assigned to, yes? There's been some unexplained magical frequencies emanating from this area here. It could be nothing, but we need someone to monitor the area while those two follow a bigger lead.”
Surely there were more glamorous missions they could give to the great and powerful Potter, Draco thought. But the man across from him didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the headbangingly boring mission they’d been presented with.
“Monitoring charms, a couple diagnostic spells, perimeter checks…” Potter read from the file. “Seems simple enough.”
Robards nodded. “Normally we’d only send one auror, but on the off chance it is the Grifter, well, better safe than sorry.”
“How long will we be monitoring the area? Is it an area he frequents?” Draco asked.
Robards turned his narrowed eyes on him. “What does it matter to you? Got something more important to do than your job?”
The implication was not lost on Draco, who was accused at least once a week of still engaging in illegal activities. He'd been acquitted after the war, but that didn’t mean he was innocent in the eyes of his colleagues—or most of the wizarding world, for that matter.
“I’ve been reading the file, he hasn’t gotten a chance yet,” Potter snapped, surprising Draco. He tossed the thing in Draco’s direction, papers askew from not being placed back properly. “We’ll be there for about three weeks. We leave this Wednesday.”
Even Robards seemed perplexed by the outburst. “Well…right then. You’ll both have the next day to pack and put any affairs in order. Come Wednesday morning, meet back here at 8 AM sharp. We’ll have one last debrief before your portkey leaves.”
Oh joy. What a day. Potter defending his honor and the news that he’ll be stuck with him for nearly a month. Halle-fucking-lujah.
Picking up the file with a sigh, Draco did his best to appear professional and poise, and to avoid meeting the striking emerald eyes he felt across from him.
“Three weeks? Alone?” Pansy asked.
Draco took another swig of firewhiskey before setting the glass down on the bar with a hard clink. “Unfortunately.”
Pansy’s nose wrinkled with disgust—always so sweet and supportive. When he’d texted her about the assignment that morning, she’d immediately insisted they go for drinks so that he could tell her all the details and hopefully get drunk before being cooped up with Potter. “What on earth are you two meant to do for that long?”
“The usual. Check frequency readings and listen to the radio while trying not to strangle each other. And try not to blow my brains out from boredom, I suppose. Typical stakeout activities.”
“Three weeks with no booze or sex does sound like torture.” Pansy took another sip of her own drink,an espresso martini,then turned back to Draco with a devious glint in her eye. “Well, perhaps you won’t have to forgo the sex part. Potter’s nice and single now, isn’t he?”
Draco curled his lip, feigning disgust as if that exact idea hadn’t been his biggest wet dream for the last fifteen years. “As if. I wouldn’t touch Potter even if he was begging.”
“Sure, sure,” she teased. “Say, you could give that app a try. The one Blaise was talking about. Get one last lay.”
“You make it sound as if I’m dying.”
“Oh, babe, you nearly went mad just being in the same castle as him. I’d be surprised if one of you doesn’t kill the other by the end of the first week.”
“I’ll manage. And no, I’m not going to proposition a muggle on Blaise’s bloody telephone app. The whole thing feels…salacious.”
“Well, yes. It’s literally for finding partners. Usually of the sexual nature, silly.”
After Pansy had strong-armed him into buying the telephone, Blaise quickly downloaded something called a “Grinder” onto it, and showed him how to match with single, horny muggles. He’d used it sparingly, salivating and blushing like a teenager over shirtless pictures but too overwhelmed to actually attempt a meetup. He’d only ever spoken with one person—a golden skinned man who went only by J.P. The man had never shown his face, similar to Draco’s anonymously shot photos. However, J.P.’s profile boasted a number of mouthwatering shots of soft abs, flexing shoulders, and random landscape photos. Something about the man had enticed Draco—other than the muscles and inky black hair, which certainly didn’t remind him of anyone else. No sir, not at all.
Their chats had certainly been suggestive—near tantalizing—but Draco preferred the idea of hiding himself away with Pansy and as much whiskey as he pleased, rather than socialize with someone new before he needed to leave.
“Well, the only thing I’m interested in swallowing tonight is more firewhiskey. Now, enough about me, Pan. Tell me how it's going with that new girl.”
The house they’d been stationed in turned out to be rather nice, all things considered.
Perhaps that was the privilege of being put on assignment with the Harry Potter—no sitting in muddy ravines or ramshackle hovels for days, waiting for something to happen. Draco’s family name and the scarred-over mark on his arm seemed to land him with the worst assignments—they had no problem sending the former Death Eater to a ditch, just as the golden boy couldn’t seem to tire out his privilege.
Instead, the portkey—a rather ornate fountain pen—dropped them off on the outskirts of an idyllic little village. Cottage-lined cobblestoned streets rested against the backdrop of a pale morning sky. Garlands of pine and holly berries lined open windows and doors. The streets and roofs were clean, but a sharp chill in the air promised a coming snow. They’d been instructed to follow the roads outside the town, as the base they’d been given was stationed just a ways away from the muggles.
They came upon a small, plain-looking cottage and opened the door to find a sleek, modern entry way. The hallway led to a fully furnished kitchen with modern appliances, a simple but cozy looking living room, and—
“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
Potter stood at the very end of the hall, looking through one of the remaining doorways with horror. Draco joined him to see a single bed, outfitted with mossy green sheets and a number of pillows.
“You’re taking the couch,” Draco announced.
Potter turned, face red and eyes narrowed in a glare. “How chivalrous.”
The rest of the house was nice, if unremarkable. Much sleeker than anywhere Draco had ever seen the Ministry produce. The bathroom was equipped with a few thin towels, the pantry with a loaf of bread under a preservation charm, and most miraculously, wifi.
They set their things down in their respective sleeping areas then headed outside to set up the necessary charms and enchantments. Starting on opposite sides of the house, they slowly wound their way to the top of the grassy hill before ending up next to each other.
“So we just…come check to see if the detection charms have picked up on any spells being cast nearby?” Draco asked
“Specifically dark magic, but yes. File says it could just be some magical creature, or perhaps a muggle with a magical artifact. We just need to monitor and confirm it's nothing illegal.”
“Seems easy enough.”
“Too easy. They don’t even want us to find the thing emanating magic? Even if it's not dark? This almost feels like a paid vacation.”
A dark cloud seemed to pass over Potter’s face, his brows furrowing. He only hummed, then became very interested in the last bit of spell work.
They decided on a schedule for checking the diagnostic charms and doing perimeter checks around the hill. Aside from the painfully awkward interactions with Potter, the whole experience was rather peaceful. Their first few days were spent with relatively little talking, stiffly polite greetings, and absolutely nothing interesting happening outside. Maybe Pansy was wrong. Draco was a fully grown man, almost in his 30’s, he can so do this job without ripping Potter’s head off.
These were his thoughts until the third day.
“Why the fuck is your towel on the ground?”
Potter looked up from where he stood in front of the coffee pot. Turning it on the bloody muggle way. “Because you so kindly decided my bedroom would be in the living room.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to trip on your wet, disgusting towels every time I want tea.”
“Well, if they’re wet, that implies I’ve washed, hasn’t it? So probably not that disgusting.”
“Wet, and on the floor, getting all—all—”
Draco immediately realizes picking this fight was a mistake when Potter leans back against the kitchen counter. He picked up the mug he’d just filled, shirt riding up just enough to show a tantalizing strip of skin as he lifted it to his lips.
“All…?” Potter quirks a brow, smirking over his mug.
“It's not hygienic!” Draco snarls. He’s so red. He can feel his cheeks burning. “Just clean up after yourself!”
Potter nods, obviously still amused, if slightly annoyed. “Of course, your majesty.”
After that, it's easy to snip and snap at Potter, and for Potter to do the same in turn. A mug left out, a plate unwashed. Potter gets pissy when Draco takes too long in the bathroom, and Draco huffs when Potter insists on playing strange muggle records all through the afternoon. In a way, it's almost comforting. Familiar. A thrill he hasn’t felt in years. The way they fight now nearly feels like the way they did when they were younger—passive annoyance, a battle of wits, fun competition. Fun, the way it was before everything went bad.
Near the end of the first week, Harry leaves the house to visit the little town at the foot of the hills. He passes through the living area, mumbling something about “groceries” and Draco waves him off without looking up from the book in his lap. The absence allows him more time to go through those delectable photos on J.P’s profile. They hadn’t spoken much since Draco had arrived at the cottage—a few flirtatious texts, and even a new shot of that abdomen and its lovely, tantalizing happy trail just for Draco. J.P. was on a business trip apparently, but the implication of something when he got back leaves Draco buzzing. He’s still unsure if he wants to meet with the muggle, but the somewhat peaceful time he’d been having this past week leaves him feeling bold.
While Potter is still gone, Draco lays himself out on the bed, and sends a similarly positioned photo of his chest, all the way down to the low riding waistline of his black jeans. The scars from his sixth year have faded but never disappeared. He keeps the light dim so they’re barely visible. He sent the photo off, then slapped the device down on his bedside table, shaking with adrenaline. Pansy and Blaise right—this was fun, if not fucking terrifying.
He’s too nervous to look at his intelligent telephone again, so he goes back out into the living room to read, trying not to think of J.P. or Potter and those forearms, those thighs—
The devil himself appears sometime in the middle of this mini spiral, muttering a greeting before heading into the kitchen. A short time later, he re-emerges wearing a white apron over his blue jeans and flannel.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Draco blinks up from the book he’d been struggling to focus on. “Excuse me?”
“Dinner. The meal. Is ready to eat.”
“And?”
“And? Come eat?”
Draco blinks again. And again. “What.”
Potter rolls his eyes. “Oh forget it, you bastard.”
“Oi! Don’t call me bastard, you arse.”
Draco follows him back into the kitchen only to be hit with the fragrant scent of roast vegetables floating through the air. On the table sat two plates, plated with fettuccine pasta in what looked to be a rich, golden sauce, a pile of beautifully roasted vegetables, and a red wine to top it all off.
“You…made all this?”
Potter scoffed. “I said I was going to make dinner earlier when I left to get ingredients. Weren’t you listening?”
Draco was in fact, not listening. Hesitating, he opened his mouth.
Potter put a hand up. “Don’t answer that. Just eat. I figured we could both do with a meal that wasn’t just toasties again.”
Draco tentatively satat the table, eyeing the meal suspiciously. Is there a catch? A trick? He and Potter hadn’t had any particularly bad spats over the last few days, so he doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant revenge…
“Merlin’s tits, Malfoy. It's not poisoned. If you don’t like it just have something else.”
Draco looked up to see Potter flushing. His face had gone a sweet, cherry red, making those emerald eyes sparkle even more as he shot a pointed look at Draco, and shoved a forkfull of pasta into his mouth.
Unsure if this was a test and feeling oddly beaten, Draco took a bite of his own pasta and—
“This is fantastic,” Draco took another bite of pasta, then speared a roasted carrot. He moaned when the savory, smokey flavor hit his tongue. “Where on earth did you learn to cook like this?”
Potter swirled the wine in his glass, watching the ruby liquid dance in the warm, fluorescent lighting. “I was…struggling a bit. After the war. Hermione basically manhandled me into eating more than just takeout and junk. She was a bit manic about health and trying to help us heal for a while.”
“That's…very nice of her, actually.”
Potter raised a brow. It was the only time during this entire assignment he’d seen something dangerous in Potter’s face. “She is nice.”
“Please,” Draco speared a baby potato. “No need to get defensive. I’m not a stupid teenager anymore. We may not get along, but Granger’s made the ministry protocols a hell of a lot better since becoming a deputy. I respect her”
Potter was clearly expecting more of a fight, staring at Draco a mixture of surprise and approval. “Ah. Well. Good, then. Uhm. How do you like the wine?”
The conversation moved onto lighter things for a while. Potter seemed eager to share his cooking processes. Cooking didn’t seem to only be a healthy habit forced onto him, but something that had turned into a passion. He talked about the meals he’d cooked for Weasley, Granger, and Lovegood, and little Teddy Lupin.
“Rather ironic, isn’t it?”
“What?”
Draco gestured to the steaming meal before him lazily. “Making sure your enemy is well fed. That the wine pairs with the pasta you’ve made for him.”
Green eyes stared at him from across the table. He’d spent so many years studying what Potter looked like—what hatred, joy, confusion all looked like on his face—but now he’s unreadable.
“You’re not my enemy, Draco. I’m not sure you ever were.”
The kitchen went still and silent at that. The breath caught in Draco’s throat, his fork hovering above the plate. It didn’t feel real, it didn’t feel right, for Harry Potter to say those words to him.
As much as Draco tried to ignore his own sins, tried to laugh and glare and pretend he was above everything that had happened, he knew he didn’t deserve such kindness. Especially not from Harry.
“That’s a nice thought,” Draco whispered into the quiet space between them, staring at the nearly finished plate before him.
The rest of dinner passed with only the light clinking of cutlery. Draco gathered their plates, casting cleaning charms over them and dirty pans in the sink. He needed something to do with his hands to keep them busy, to keep himself from turning and looking at Potter and saying or doing something stupid. He felt the man staring at him, still sitting at the table behind him.
“Thank you for dinner, Potter.” Draco shoves his wand back into his pocket, moving what he hopes is gracefully out of the kitchen and off to bed.
“I hope you liked it,” came Potter’s low voice from behind him.
Draco froze, one foot out into the hallway. An almost escape from the terrible mess of tension and heady scents he’d found himself in. “It was amazing, Potter.”
Potter nodded. Still holding that same wine glass. “I’ll have to cook for you again sometime, then.”
The Incident in the kitchen the previous night leftDraco frustratingly confused and turned on. When he woke hard and throbbing, he turned over and over in bed, growling and muttering into his pillow. He will not get off to the sight of Harry Potter’s forearms and odd, tender displays of affection. He simply will not.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and jerked off to the photos of golden skin and a tantalizing happy trail sitting in his direct messages with J.P. And sure, maybe J.P’s gorgeous forearms, chiseled biceps, and beautifully carved waist looked a bit like Potter’s. Maybe even a lot. But he wasn’t not Potter, so it’s fine. This wank is definitely, completely unrelated to the deep green eyes and tousled waves he’d stared at last night—the plush lips, red with wine and speaking such lovely, confusing words.
He comes, muffling a low groan into his pillow, and allows himself to wallow in the loneliness of the empty bed around him, and waves away the mess with his wand.
When he emerged from the bedroom a short time later, dressed and groomed and pretending he doesn’t feel like a disgusting teenager, it's far later in the morning than he usually rises. A sliver of light from beneath the bathroom door and the hiss of the shower toldDraco that Potter likely went on a morning run. With the living area and kitchen to himself, he started a pot of tea.
Just as the tea is about to boil, three things happened in very quick succession—first, his telephone dings with a message. He pulls it from his pocket, opens it and is met with the borderline nudes he and J.P. had been sharing, and an alarm sounds from outside.
Draco dropped the phone on the kitchen table and ran out the front door without a second thought, drawing his wand and adopting a defensive stance as he moved toward the back of the house where he could hear the alarm blaring. Something had messed with the spellwork, perhaps even tried to break inside—a dark creature? The Greenwood Grifter? Muggles would have been repelled from this place, so what—
Draco rounded the corner, wand held high with a spell on the tip of his tongue just to see…nothing. He frowned, wand faltering, when movement caught his eye. He looked down to see something small, black, and furry wiggling in the grass, caught in the trapping mechanism they’d woven into the barrier. Two beady eyes meet his, and its platypus-like beak opens in an almost-smile. A niffler.
“Oh, bugger,” Draco turned the alarm off with a wave of his wand, then walked over and picked the thing up. It must have been trying to get into the house and gotten trapped. He walks a few steps out of the barrier, and set it down in the grass. “We’ve got no trinkets for you, now go! Shoo! Shoo!”
Draco flailed his arms a bit to get the message across. With a dejected look, the niffler scampered off down the hill. Draco wondered if it will go in the direction of the town, then promptly decided he didn’t care and he’s got more important things to think about, like his tea.
When he walks back into the house, Potter is standing in the kitchen in only a T-shirt, low slung sweatpants, and a towel thrown around the back of his neck to catch the droplets from his still-wet hair. Bloody lazy bastard hadn’t even come to check if everything was alright.
Potter looked up from where he’d been standing over the kitchen table. There's a shocked, almost manic glint in his eye. “Is this yours?”
Draco shrugged his cardigan off, still panting from running and tripping about outside. “Who’s else would it be? False alarm, just a bloody niffler poking about—”
“Is this you?”
“What are you bloody on about? The barriers—”
Potter picks up a small object off the table, showing its screen to Draco. “This! It's been you the whole time?!”
“The whole—the what? Oh—oh, fuck.”
Cold realization washed over Draco. He must have left his telephone open with the Grinder app still showing when he ran outside. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Merlin, how embarrassing. Draco swept up and snatched the phone from Potter’s hand. “This is none of your business. I’m an adult, I can do what I please—and besides that! Snooping! Through my—”
“Drake Maberry is you? This has been you the whole time?”
Draco flushed. “Whole time? What are you—”
A second wave of realization, more violent and startling than the last one, crashed over him. “Oh, Merlin. You’re—you’re—”
“J.P. Which are at least my initials, by the way. Drake Maberry sounds ridiculous.”
Draco nearly started screeching. “Ridiculous? I couldn’t bloody well use my real name! And I wasn’t meant to match with another wizard!”
“Well, I wasn’t either. That was my whole reason for using a muggle app on a muggle phone. Who taught you to use one of these?”
“Pansy and B—no! None of your business! That doesn’t matter—what matters is—”
“That you’ve been begging for more pictures of my bare chest and implying you’d like me to bend you over.”
Like a switch had been flipped, the air turned a different kind of tense. Draco froze, hand still hovering by his side with the damning little box clutched tightly in his fingers. The breath caught in his throat as the look in Potter’s eyes turned hungry.
“I swear, if I’d have known it was you I’d have never—”
“Really?” Potter took a step forward. “Because I’ve seen the way you look at me. When you think I’m not watching.”
Draco felt bolted to the floor, his head screaming at him to run. His mind struggled to catch up, unable to believe this was really happening. Potter moved in closer like he’s trying not to spook an animal, until he stood just within reach.
“Tell me I’m wrong, If I’ve misinterpreted something, I'll stop. We’ll never speak of this again.”
“No,” Draco’s mouth moved without permission. “I—”
He felt the blood rushing through his body, his heart still beating rabbit quick from the false alarm with the barrier. His head felt too fuzzy to think, heady with proximity. He felt the soft brush of Potter’s breath against his own lips.
“We don’t… have to stop.”
A smile tugs at Potter’s mouth. “No?” A large, scarred hand reaches out, gently wrapping around his wrist. “You want this?”
He’s barely been touched, but Draco nearly whimpers. “Yes.”
Draco expected something harder, quicker, but the kiss that Potter pulled him into is tender. His touch is greedy, hands finding their way to his back and running along his sides, but his mouth wasslow and sweet as he pried open Draco’s lips with his own. He could smell lemon soap and woody cologne, the warm scent of fresh laundry, an intoxicating mix. The barest hint of stubble scraped over his cheeks, and the barely-there sensation made Draco’s knees buckle.
Desperation filled him, and he moved them back toward the couch. When he sat, Potter was barely a hair away, following him down, down, down until they’re both laying on the couch. Draco squirmed.
“P-Potter—”
Harry moved back up his body, nipping at his earlobe. “Harry. Call me Harry.”
Draco groaned, throwing his head back as Harry moved back down, attacking his neck.
An indeterminable time later, when Harry’s mouth wrapped around Draco’s cock after teasing him nearly to madness, he sees stars. He’s so pent up after weeks of skirting around the object of his desires that he comes far harder and faster than he has in a while. He’d be more embarrassed about it, if Potter—Harry—didn’t look up from between his legs with a devious smile, swiping a tongue over the pearlescent beads on his lips.
They remained there on the couch, wringing pleasure from each other until the afternoon’s grown honey gold with late-day sun. Draco returned the favor on his knees, taking him inch by inch until Potter is the one squirming and moaning, until they’re both panting and exhausted and giddy with endorphins.
“This,” Draco panted, falling beside Harry and snuggling into his side. “Is not how I imagined this mission would go.”
Harry hummed. There was a bit of sweat on his brow. His glasses had miraculously stayed on, but they sat crooked on his nose. “Far better than I anticipated, for sure.”
It was a tight fit on the couch, meaning there wasn’t an inch between them. Draco laid his head on Harry’s shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall. “Oh?”
“I… may have asked Hermione to pull some strings. Get me placed on some lighter missions. I’m rethinking the whole auror thing and don’t want to get roped into a giant case until I figure it out.”
Draco hummed. “I was always a bit surprised you didn’t go into playing quidditch professionally. Seemed more like your goal when we were at school.”
“Yeah. I think I got so wrapped up in being the ‘Chosen One’ I just…let it fall to the side.”
Draco propped himself up, looking down at Harry. “I’ll come watch your games if you do that thing with your mouth again.”
Harry grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Few months ago, I matched with this muggle athlete. Apparently a big deal on the muggle rugby scene.”
Draco raised a brow.
“Sent the poor fellow off to his next match with a limp. Didn’t see much of him after that. Oh, don’t give me that look—” Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and pulled him impossibly closer.
“Do you always talk about your past exploits while in bed? Or just to me?”
Harry pulled him in for another tender kiss, lingering until Draco’s body melted. “Just you. I hope for it to just be you for a long while, if you’ll have me.”
Draco shuddered, and dove back in for another kiss. “That can be arranged,” he pressed the words to Harry’s lips, then kissed them over and over until the house that had once been filled with stilted silence and nasty jabs was now filled with the laughs and whispers of two men who’d denied themselves for far too long.