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There’s no one at Percy’s.
At least, Draco doesn’t think there is, though he can’t know for sure without casting a Homenum Revelio as he approaches, which is out of the question, obviously. But the place has the air of emptiness, something quiet and lonely and damaged, which makes sense once he gets to the front door to find it blasted off its hinges, a careless Bombarda far too strong for the job at hand, like whoever cast it had wanted it left like this—a gaping hole, a toothless mouth, profoundly dark in the gathering early twilight.
The lights don’t work when he flicks the switches—fusebox fried along with the front door, probably—and anyway, this is a house built to be lit by Lumos. Draco hates the dark, forces himself to check the place anyway, ignoring the cold sweat creeping and sticking at the base of his spine. He had hoped that Potter would be here—had believed it, in fact, all the while he was waiting on the side of the road outside Inverness with his thumb out to passing traffic. A lorry, churned up slush in its tyres, had stopped for him and taken him all the way to Coldstream, and then the whole time on the bus to Berwick and the train to York he had kept hoping—hoping and believing—that Potter would be there, and Percy, and they could come up with a fucking plan. And then the last exhausting leg of an exhausting journey, the Muggle taxi that Draco had to pay for with a fistful of pound coins he fumbled to even count, only to get to Percy’s house on Marygate and find it like this.
Draco walks the halls, up and down the stairs, in and out of every room, and catalogues the destruction as he goes—blast damage, and the systematic search techniques that denote a professional job, and the almost-cruelty of the mess they left behind them, too ostentatious to be anything but deliberate, every box of cereal emptied over the floor, taps left on to flood the bathroom, gouges in the walls. The stink of dark magic lingers in the air, and in the living room there’s a distressed-sounding whirring: Percy’s clock lies on the floor, its face smashed to dust, its many hands spinning and spinning, every single one of them returning over and over again to point to mortal peril. Still alive, then, at least.
Draco stops in the master bedroom. It’s at the front of the house, catching the last of the light, so Draco can make out the mess more clearly—upended bedside tables, feathers strewn from shredded pillows. Draco had fucked Percy on that bed once, memorably enough that he’d thought for a while of maybe giving him a Firecall sometime for a second go, perhaps even asking him out to dinner. Pointless long term, of course, so he hadn’t bothered in the end. Probably for the best.
Outside, there’s a noise, just a scrape of metal on stone that Draco’s brain registers as the sound of the gate opening before he realises what it is he’s hearing, so he’s already looking towards the end of the garden when he sees the light, a bobbing pale beam moving down the path from the road.
He doesn’t have much time to look for a weapon, though if it comes to it he does at least have his old potions knife strapped to his boot, sharper than it ever was at school. But it’s small, and even using a charmed blade is probably too much of a risk right now, though it’s just some minor protection runes, a true-aim inscription worked in elvish along the honed edge.
Percy, though—Percy likes to cook.
Draco finds the knife drawer dumped upside down on the kitchen table, and he just has time to grab the deadliest-looking blade from the pile before he hears the faint shuffling sound of someone coming through the front. Draco presses himself against the wall beside the kitchen door; he can see the bounce of the torchlight as the person comes down the hall. Draco holds his breath, the better to hear the footsteps, and either he’s just lucky or the person isn’t being careful enough because before they even get into the room he has them up against the wall, his knife to their throat, the torch clattering to the ground and rolling, its beam spearing the dark.
“Malfoy?” It’s him, his familiar voice, his careless hand reaching up to push Draco’s hand away, the point of the knife leaving its mark behind in a pinprick of red just under his jaw that gleams where the torchlight catches it. He’s fearless; he’s here. Potter.
Draco finds he can breathe again; he exhales with a sagging whoosh of relief and drops the knife.
“What took you so long?” he manages, and the shadows on Potter’s face shift in the weak torchlight as he smiles.
“I got here ages ago, went for supplies.” He plucks at the straps that lie over his shoulders; on his back he’s got some sort of canvas bag, a Muggle thing, only as big as it looks, no doubt. “Food, change of clothes, you know. I even got us toothbrushes.” He grins, bends to pick up the torch again. Draco blinks into the waver of its light.
“How did you even know I was coming?” Draco asks. Potter’s already crunching through the broken glass on the kitchen floor towards the back door.
“Oh, come on, Malfoy.” Potter throws the words over his shoulder, manhandles the door open so frigid outside air shivers through the kitchen. Draco follows him, helpless. “I knew you’d try here first, I just wasn’t sure how long it’d take you, without being able to Apparate. Come on, we need—”
“The car,” Draco finishes, and Potter nods, satisfied, and makes for the garage.
The car is… well, it’s ridiculous, really, a sporty-looking thing, its nose low to the ground at the front, some sort of fin at the back, curved and dangerous. Draco might have said it’s a compensatory kind of car, except that he's seen Percy’s cock. Maybe Percy just likes Muggle motors.
When Potter sits in and turns the key, the thing roars and splutters like an animal; there’s a smell in the air like Fiendfyre as it catches. Draco shivers and drags the passenger door open. He barely fits in, knees knocking against the dashboard, and there’s a hideous moment of awkwardness when Potter leans over him to adjust some lever, too close, but then the seat glides back and Draco can stretch his legs out into the footwell. Potter settles into his own seat, snaps his seatbelt into place and turns a button for some hot air, and they’re off.
Potter’s bag takes up most of the back seat, and he puts a sweating can of Coca Cola between them in a little circular compartment that seems designed to fit it. They take it in turns to drink straight from the can; it’s Draco’s favourite of all the Muggle drinks—the unfamiliar, uncomplicated sweetness of it, the buzz of the caffeine kicking in. It’s hot in the car by the time they hit the motorway—we’re trying to get onto the A1, Potter says, and Draco watches the road signs out the window and tells Potter left or right or straight on until they sweep around a big well-lit roundabout and onto the big three-lane motorway, with the thunder of passing lorries and a solid line of red lights ahead of them, unblinking.
Draco opens a bag of wine gums he finds in Potter’s bag, more for something to do than anything else. He takes a handful for himself then gingerly tucks the bag between Potter’s thighs so Potter can reach in one-handed as he drives. Draco feels calmer now they’re on the move.
“Where were you when you heard?” he asks Potter. Last time they’d seen each other, Potter was off to Cardiff for a conference, but that was weeks ago.
“Manchester,” Potter says. “That gala thing I was telling you about, you know.”
Draco remembers Potter mentioning it to him over the back-to-school feast. Another work thing, formal robes, ten course meal. There’d be dancing, Potter had said. Hadn’t seemed like Potter’s sort of thing, really, but it was lucky he’d been there, otherwise he might have been in London when—
“Have you heard any more from Weasley?” Draco asks.
“No.” Potter rustles in the bag of wine gums, pops a few sweets into his mouth so his reply is indistinct. He keeps his eyes on the road. “Not since the Patronus, you know…”
Draco does, because Weasley had sent his Patronus to Hogwarts too; the little terrier Patronus, frantic and leaping down the Great Hall, threading through the tables until it reached the Headmistress, panting, tongue lolling. Even the children knew there was something very wrong; Edward Lupin sitting up straight at the Hufflepuff table as the Patronus began to convey its message. Attack on the Ministry… wards falling… act of terrorism… magical traces…. Weasley’s voice rang out, calm as anything, nothing but the essential information. And then, as the charm began to waver and flicker, its sound distorted like a Wireless going out of tune, his final warning. No magic, no brooms, stay where you are. I repeat, no magic—
It was like a light had gone out, the charmed ceiling flickering then dying away to stone and timber, the tables suddenly bare of food. Minerva at the dais, her voice clear and commanding even without a charm, telling the children to surrender their wands.
Draco had left, of course. There were enough teachers there to keep the place in order, and anyway, he couldn’t have just sat around waiting. He’d brought his wand, though it was holstered to his chest under his warm wool jumper, to avoid temptation. He’d hoped against hope that maybe it was just London, right up until the moment he’d walked up Percy’s garden path in the wizarding district of York and smelled cursefire on the cold air.
“Hogwarts is okay, though, right?” Potter asked, eyes fixed on the road.
“So far. What about Granger?” She’d have been at work, probably, trying to wrap things up before the Wizengamot recess.
“I heard from her too,” Potter says, “just after Ron. I couldn’t make her out very well. There were people, I think… in the Ministry. Fighting, I don’t know. It sounded like chaos. She was…” He pauses, swallows, oncoming headlights sliding over him as the car surges onwards into the night. “She was trying to get to the kids.”
The small Granger-Weasleys, two of them—one of them still only a baby, really. And the Ministry nursery that had been set up only last year on Level 4, the first of its kind in any wizarding workplace, with its charmed windows, and its focus on magical integration and child development, and its nutritious lunches, the whole project much feted in the Prophet.
“Fucking hell,” Draco says, and Potter’s fingers clench around the gearstick, so close the tips nearly graze Draco’s knee.
“I know,” Potter says, wretched. “Malfoy, I know. We need to get to London.”
They’re past Wakefield when they see the signs for the Peak District. Potter slides a sideways look at Draco. He’s thinking about it; Draco is too.
“Should we?” Potter asks. “I don’t think it’s that far out of our way. And it might be useful, to be able to report on it once we get to London.”
Determinedly optimistic, even now; Draco goes along with it.
“Yes, I think so,” he says. “They’ll want to know exactly what’s going on around the country, so they can get a sense of how far the attacks have spread.”
If whoever is doing this made it to York, then they’ve probably already hit every Wizarding district in the country by now, but Potter’s right—when they’re this close, there’s no harm in checking. And so at the next big roundabout, Potter indicates to go off at the junction and they follow the signs for Buxton. The weather’s getting even worse, their headlights catching and illuminating lines of sleet against the dark.
Draco hasn’t been here in years, not since he used to come to Poole’s Cavern as a child for summer holidays, but the town is mostly unchanged. Traffic is still bad, and Bakewell Road is almost at a standstill, but once they’re past the big Morrisons and out the other side of town it’s a clear run, the signs for Poole’s Cavern leading them through the sleet.
They park in the Muggle car park, which is a sorry sight at this time of night; totally deserted, some sad picnic tables rocking slightly in the wind.
They’re too late, they both know it just from the smell in the air, but they unstrap their seatbelts and get out anyway, Potter jumping the low stone wall, Draco at his heels. The Cavern is ablaze. Smoke curls poisonous out of the gaping entrance; the trees that overhang are lit up like beacons, radiating dangerous heat. It’s lucky that the weather is so bad, otherwise the rest of the vegetation might have gone up too.
It’s the waste that seems so hard to tolerate, and the cruelty of the destruction—all that wizarding space underground, the city built into the caves, the ornate buildings, the statuary, the miles of steps carved into rock, the charmed candles twinkling in many thousands of windows, bringing light to the darkness. It had been a triumph of magical engineering, a home to the largest magical settlement outside of London and Hogsmeade. And now it’s gone.
“Do we—” Potter shifts from foot to foot, turning his collar up against the rain. His hair is plastered to his head, his glasses dripping and fogged; he takes them off and slides them into an inside pocket. Without them, his eyes look tired, his lashes clumped and sticking as he blinks the rain out of his eyes. He’s staring at the burning mouth of the Cavern, wand hand hanging helpless and empty at his side. “Should we—”
“No point.” Draco pulls his own coat close around his body. His socks and shoes are already soaking, feet icy with winter slush. “If they didn’t get out in time, we’re too late anyway. And there’s no way of stopping the fire without magic.” He hopes, wretchedly, that everyone did get out.
“What should we do?” Potter asks, his voice rising. He turns to Draco, grabs the lapels of his coat in his wet fists. He’s freezing when Draco touches him—his hands, his wrists, his soaked cuffs—and it makes Draco shiver too. “Malfoy, I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s alright, Potter,” Draco tells him, and he quiets at the words, tremors running through him that Draco can feel where they’re still touching, his own hands wrapped tight around Potter’s wrists. They look up at the fire again, which is already starting to subside, coils of black smoke veiling the night sky. “I mean, it’s probably bad. But we can deal with it.”
“What if they’re all— when we get there, you know?” His eyes are wild in the reflected firelight, shadows climbing and jumping over his face. “Ron and Hermione, the kids. Everyone.”
“Don’t think about that until we know for certain,” Draco tells him, hating the reasonable tone of his own voice. He’s not allowing himself to think about it, either. If he gives into that line of thought, he might as well just turn around and go back to Hogwarts and hide away, for all the use he’ll be. “I’m sure they’ll be alright, though. Once we get to London we’ll work out what to do. But for now—”
“We just keep driving,” Potter says. His breath smells sweet, like the wine gums.
“We’re quite near Manchester,” Draco says, very seriously. “I bet we could get a plane out tonight if we go straight to the airport. Head to Belfast or Dublin or France, even… get in touch with other Ministries, see what they know, get them to help.”
“Would you do that?” Potter’s dripping, hair in his eyes, rain catching and glittering in his two-day beard. “If I went, would you really come with me?” His fists tighten again in Draco’s coat; Draco can feel the shift of muscles under the thin skin of his wrists where they're still touching.
Draco thinks of the airport, bright and dry and still festive this soon after Christmas, a stiff drink in the airside bar and a fast plane ride to somewhere safe—safer than here. Potter with him, and being able to use their magic again. Handing the problem over to someone else to solve, taking the official channels.
But then he thinks of London—the deep magic of it, the city within a city, the wards of Diagon falling. Granger and Weasley will be almost certainly be alright. If anyone’s likely to come out of something like this, it’s them. Probably.
“No,” Draco answers, wincing as he says the word. He has rain in his mouth; he’s never been so drenched. “I don’t think I could. They’ll need Healers and they'll need Potioneers, and I can do a bit of both. And they might need someone who knows about…” He doesn't finish, knows Potter understands. The Mark is still there, uselessly covered by his sleeve as though Draco, or Potter—or anyone, for that matter—could ever forget it's there just because they can't see it. Whoever’s behind these attacks probably has nothing to do with Voldemort. But the intention behind the magic is the same sort of thing, and Draco knows that sort of magic. Potter does too, which is why they’re still standing here in the rain, their clothes stinking of curse residue, rather than driving to the airport to catch that plane to somewhere better.
“Yeah,” Potter says, sounding more cheerful now he knows for certain that the worst is yet to come, the weirdo. “You’re right. I think we just need to stick to the original plan. Thanks, Malfoy.”
He hugs Draco then, and obviously they’ve touched before, they’ve even hugged, probably, on nights out or after Quidditch or something, in the normal way of two people who spend time together—who are what you might even call friends. But it’s never been like this, not touching, all of Potter against all of Draco, their arms tight around each other, clinging, drips from Potter’s hair running down Draco’s face. Draco can’t enjoy it, of course, but he knows from just the bare bones of it how this would feel if things were normal. In a way, he’s glad they’re not; this way, the hug doesn’t have to be anything bigger than it is.
“Alright,” Potter says, though he’s lingering. Then with one last squeeze of his arms he steps away and the cold rushes in between them again. “We had better get going.”
They admit defeat three hours in, just after Leicester, a journey that according to Potter should only have taken about an hour and a half. The petrol gauge is dipping dangerously low, the arrow lurching ever sideways even as they inch along the motorway, red lights blazing all around them. Snow had begun in earnest about an hour ago, and it’s actually settling here, churned-up filthy clumps lining the hard shoulder. Potter’s forearms are tight with effort as he steers the car; its back end sways with every touch on the accelerator. Rear-wheel drive, Potter mutters, whatever that means. It’s a relief when they finally see the lights of the services up ahead, though it still takes them a good twenty minutes to get to the slip road. It feels like sheer force of will that gets them up and off the motorway, the gears crunching, engine roaring with every sideways shudder of the car’s back wheels.
“Fucking hell,” Potter says, wringing out his hands after he manhandles the car into a slot next to a petrol pump. “Couldn’t Percy have bought a nice sensible four by four instead of this penis extension of a car?”
Draco bites his tongue on that particular topic; instead he gets out of the car and shivers his way over to the service station, which is at least mercifully warm. He’s still mostly wet through, despite Potter blasting the car heater all the way from Buxton, and his coat is hopelessly saturated. He stares at the deeply unappetising rows of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, then just grabs them a couple of coffees from one of those machines where you press a button and hope the cup you shove under the spout will catch all the scalding liquid. He looks out the window; Potter’s still at the car, one hip cocked as he leans against the rear wing. He looks exhausted. By the time Draco reaches the till he’s on his way across the forecourt, half-jogging. Draco pays for the petrol and their coffees with his Muggle bank card, which makes a satisfying beeping sound when he touches it to the payment machine.
“Traffic’s not moving,” Potter says in lieu of a greeting, and they walk back to the car together. He blows into his hands, which are chapped and raw from the wind and the soaking of earlier, and takes his coffee gratefully. He’s in just a t-shirt, hair drying in peaks, curling around his ears and at the nape of his neck. “I’m freezing.”
“Big accident just after 21A,” says a woman parked at the petrol pump behind them. She’s got a pair of sparkly glasses on that say 2009, the two zeros forming the eyepieces. Her dress is very sparkly too. “Nothing moving at all. They’ve closed part of the motorway off until the snow stops, the radio said.” As though to add to the conversation, a little flurry of flakes dances across the forecourt. The woman sighs, stamping her high heels against the cold.
There’s no point in getting back on the motorway, it’s obvious even from here as they watch the line of unmoving traffic, the furious unrelenting rows of brake lights. The car that was in front of them before they pulled off at the junction is basically where they left it, not even two cars’ lengths further on than it had been.
“Christ,” Potter says tiredly, and rubs at his eyes under his glasses. He has goosebumps all over his arms. “Why tonight, of all nights?”
“We need to dry off, get warm,” Draco says. Potter would probably try to keep going anyway, just get back in the car and sit in his lane until things started moving again. He’s dogged like that. Draco at least can make this decision for them both; it’s easier that way. He herds Potter into the driver’s seat, shuts the door behind him, and goes round to get into the passenger side. “Come on.”
Potter eases the car into gear and uncomplainingly follows Draco’s directions around the back of the service station. There’s a hotel there—it looks shit, to be quite honest, but it’s open at least, the glass frontage to the reception area cheerfully lit up, still sporting tinsel garlands and a half-hearted Christmas tree with flashing lights.
The guy behind the desk looks about fifteen; he clearly would like to be anywhere but here, and he looks at Draco in disbelief when Draco asks for a couple of rooms for the night.
“It’s New Year’s Eve, mate,” he says, as though Draco is an irredeemable idiot. He taps at his computer keyboard, squinting at the screen, before saying with an air of bestowing a great favour upon them, “I have got one double, actually. Late cancellation because of the weather. It’s a premium room though.” He eyes them sceptically; Draco takes out his black bank card again. The room costs less than he usually spends on lunch.
“We’ll just have a quick rest,” Potter says as they make for their floor. “But we need to get back on the road as soon as the weather clears up.” He yawns hugely, the sound big in the little box of the lift, Draco’s own face reflected back at himself in the yellowish mirrored wall.
The room is exactly as Draco might have expected.
“What’s premium about this?” Potter says, scratching at his unshaven chin as he inspects the economical bed, the shiny fabric of the curtains that don’t quite meet across the window, the view of the car park, rows of delivery lorries arranged in neat diagonal rows directly below them. Their own car—Percy’s car—sits by itself on the far side of the car park, under a convenient street light.
“Teas and coffees, maybe?” Draco pokes at the little basket containing sachets of Nescafe, some individually wrapped teabags, pots of longlife milk. There’s even a tiny kettle.
“Towels!” Potter sounds marginally more cheerful. He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him, his voice barely muffled by the thin barrier. “I’ll grab a shower to warm up, if that’s alright with you? I’ll make it quick.” There’s the sound of a toilet lid squeaking and then the too-intimate unmistakable sound of Potter having a piss.
He is quick, though from the looks of him when he steps out of the bathroom, he’s been thorough, his hair dripping, skin flushed with heat. The towel is economical too, nothing premium about it where Potter clutches it, the ends barely meeting around his waist. When Draco squeezes past him to use the bathroom he smells artificial, almost medicinal, like cheap shampoo.
And indeed, in the bathroom, with the door shut and the steam from Potter’s shower still obscuring the mirror, Draco sees the little hotel bottle of combined shampoo and body wash. He’s going to have to use it himself; they’re going to smell the same. He runs the tap before he goes for a piss himself, because otherwise he wouldn’t even be able to, he’d just end up standing there thinking about Potter on the other side of the door.
The shower is blissfully hot with a strong spray, the first really satisfying thing about the hotel. Draco closes his eyes under the water, gives himself a perfunctory rub down, the gel bubbling pleasantly over his skin. It’s better than a Scourgify, at least. He can smell himself as he washes the hair under his arms, the sweetish cling of nervous sweat. He rinses it all away. He lathers himself up again, does his legs this time, calves and thighs and arse. It’s just a quick soap-up really, but as he rinses he holds himself open under the spray and then touches his hole, running his fingers over his rim, just to check the soap is all gone. It feels good though, pressing gently, feeling the slightest give, and he thinks of Potter in his towel, runnels of water still making a path through the hair on his arms and chest and stomach, all the way down to where the towel was spongy and damp at his hips.
It feels wrong to get hard when everything is gone to shit, when who-knows-what’s going on in London and Percy is missing and the Ministry is— well, Draco doesn’t know what the Ministry is. But Draco’s getting hard anyway, and when he grasps himself and massages his foreskin back from the head of his cock with his thumb, it feels too good to waste. Maybe it’s because of the adrenaline, or the water pressure, or, realistically, as though anyone would be immune, Harry Potter in his stupid hotel towel. Draco soaps up his cock and then leans himself against the cold tiles so he can press his face into the pillow of his own arm, bite down a bit, not hard, just enough to keep himself perfectly quiet. He has the most efficient wank of his life, nothing to tease, just a tight fist, the slick almost-squelch of the bubbles, his calves tensing as he strains to fuck himself over the edge, feeling briefly like he’s not going to get there and then the tightening, clenching wave of it hitting almost too fast. It’s simple, nothing but sheer release; there isn’t even any proper rinsing to do, the fine mist of the big showerhead taking care of the slide of come down the wall while Draco tries to get his breathing under control.
The room is dim when he emerges from the steamy depths of the bathroom, switching the light off behind him. Potter is lying on the bed, still hot and damp from his shower, though he’s dressed in soft, very Muggle clothes, slouchy trousers and a jumper, another similar set waiting folded on one side of the bed.
“For you.” Potter motions at the pile of clothing with his foot. “It’s just a trackie, but it’s warm.”
“No underwear?” Draco asks, prodding at the garments, and Potter raises an eyebrow at him from across the bed. His feet are bare, finely arched, dusted with more dark hair. Draco’s never seen his feet before, he would have remembered.
“I just grabbed whatever came to hand,” Potter says. “Feel free to put your own wet clothes back on, though.” He smirks. While Draco was showering, he’s hung all their wet things along the radiator and over the back of the chair. What Draco wouldn’t give for a stiff Drying Charm, and a drink.
Draco wrinkles his nose at him and wrestles the trousers on under his towel. They’re fine, a bit low on the hips, maybe, and sticking a bit to his skin where Draco’s not dried himself off fully. But they’re comfortable, at least, and once he gets the jumper on he feels warm through for the first time in hours, and he scrubs the wet out of his hair and combs it with his fingers until it looks passable. Potter’s even brought some toiletries; a chalky, floral deodorant stick, some toothbrushes still in their wrappers, a little blue pot of face cream.
The television is on, sound low, and Potter’s watching it from the bed, face cast in moving light when Draco next looks over at him.
“You alright?” Draco asks him.
“Just…” He sighs, stretches. “You know.”
Draco does.
“Are you tired?” Draco had thought he was, but now he feels restless, alert to the night. He doesn’t think he could sleep, even if he tried.
“No,” Potter says. “Not in the least.” He sits up, swings his legs off the bed. “Want to go for a stroll?”
Their shoes are still damp, but at least they’re warm from being upside down on the radiator, and the snow has stopped. And so they stroll, in their ridiculous matching Muggle clothes, hands in pockets against the cold. They stroll and they stroll, around the carpark of the shitty hotel, and around the petrol pumps, and along the grassy bit at the top of the sliproad that’s still jammed up with cars. They stagger in the snow, and then they get to the road and they start back again. Draco isn’t quite shivering, but he’s getting there.
“I’m sorry about Percy,” Potter says as they pass the automatic doors to the garage forecourt shop, which slide open noisily and then bing at them. A snatch of music wafts out through the doors—Are you weary, darling? Lay your head on me, Though you can barely speak—and then the door shuts again and there’s just the wind and the hum of the floodlights overhead.
“Sorry?” Draco’s half distracted by Potter’s face, the way artificial light sets him off somehow. Draco is so used to seeing him under Charmed light, which has a movement and energy all its own. But Potter’s face still holds all its appeal, even in the stark unsubtle overhead illumination.
“I’m sorry about Percy,” Potter says again. Draco hears him properly this time, sees the way Potter’s hands go deeper into his pockets, the bulge of his fists through the fabric. “I know you two were…”
He shrugs, eloquent as always in what he’s not saying.
“Friends?” Draco prompts him, disbelieving.
“Fucking,” Potter says. “A couple? Whatever.”
It’s so much not what Draco was expecting that his startled movement sets the door to opening again.
“We weren’t— We’re not—”
“Percy told me.” Potter looks confused, possibly irritated, but Draco’s still too surprised to work it out fully. “I told him I had asked you to that Quidditch fundraiser thing, you know, and Percy said he was going to ask you…”
“Hang on,” Draco says, and he pulls Potter into the shop, hustles him around the drinks fridge and over to the small household section, where they’re secluded by rows of toilet paper and sad-looking sliced loaves of bread, and it’s warm, at least.
“You didn’t ask me,” Draco says, because he would have remembered that, he remembers anything Potter asks him, despite the fact that all the years of knowing each other and being almost, sort of, nearly friends should have rendered their interactions less supercharged in Draco’s brain. And yet. “You didn’t ask me to that thing. Percy did ask me, but I said no.”
“You were there with him,” Potter says. “I saw you, I was talking to you.”
“All evening,” Draco says, and maybe he raises his voice a little, because Potter looks around the shop guiltily. “You spent the whole evening talking to me. Did you really think I was there on a date with Percy Weasley? And yet you monopolised me for the entire time?” He starts to grin, can’t help himself, and it must be catching because Potter’s smiling too.
Percy had asked Draco to that Quidditch gala, very seriously, and Draco had very solemnly but gently declined, and Percy, of all people, was pragmatic like that, appreciated a firm and unequivocal no. But Draco had to go to the thrice-damned gala anyway, he’d already bought a table before Percy’s suggestion of a date. He had been very careful not to drink too much, lest he take the path of least resistance, Percy-wise, but it had been a relief to find that he didn’t have to worry about that, since on the night, Percy was very much otherwise engaged with the guest speaker, that insufferable ex-Gryffindor player who coaches Puddlemere. And Draco spent the evening with Potter, who had indeed said he’d be there, but who certainly hadn’t said anything about them going together.
“You didn’t ask me to go with you,” Draco says. “Because I’d have said yes if you did.”
“I did ask you,” Potter says. He takes his hands out of his pockets. “I said, there’s this Quidditch fundraiser, if you want to go, and you said ‘Yes, the blasted thing’s been looming on my calendar all month, more’s the pity’.” He did a weird thing with his voice that Draco realised was meant to be Draco’s accent.
“You said, ‘Are you going to that thing on Friday?’,” Draco said, outraged. “That’s not an invitation! That’s barely even a conversation.”
“And then I ran into Percy,” Potter said, “and he was being all smug and sort of coy about you, you know the way he gets. So I just assumed, you know… since Hermione’s birthday, maybe you two were...”
Granger’s birthday party, which Potter had to miss because of work. The night Draco had gone home with Percy—the one time he’d ever gone home with Percy. Draco had only meant to go for one drink, but there were so many unsubtle Weasley glares when he arrived that he ended up sitting at the bar and drinking three whiskeys very slowly, just out of spite. Percy was the only one there who had made any effort to talk to him; Draco had been grateful. Not grateful enough to fuck him as a result—that was all down to the air of general competence and the beautiful suit Draco had happily divested him of later that night, in the bedroom of the house in York. The boring part was, he actually liked Percy; since that night they’d had lunch semi-regularly and (after Draco declined the offer of a second go) entirely platonically. They were, dare Draco say it, becoming friends.
Draco sags against a shelf stacked with boxes of breakfast cereals, tries to explain himself.
“I had sex with him one time,” Draco tells Potter patiently. “I like him. I don’t want him to be dead. But we’re not together. And you didn’t ask me to go to that gala with you, because like I say—”
“You would have said yes,” Potter says, and then he crowds Draco back against the shelf, kicks at his foot until Draco shuffles his legs apart and Potter slots in between them, puts warm hands on Draco’s hips.
“Let’s go back to the room,” Draco says, and kisses him, because they’re probably going to die tomorrow. No point wasting time. He’s almost expecting rejection, even now—instead, Potter makes a greedy sound and kisses him back, tongue hot, sliding a hand down the back of Draco’s terrible trousers, which easily stretch to accommodate.
“We’re literally touching the bread,” Draco hisses. “This is unhygienic.” Potter ignores him, cups a hand around one of Draco’s arse cheeks and kisses him again, fingers digging in.
“We don’t have much time,” Potter says, actually speaking into Draco’s mouth rather than giving them a few inches of airspace. “God, I’ve wanted to do this for ages.”
“Let’s do it, then,” Draco says, and manages to manoeuvre Potter sideways, towards the exit. “We need to be on the road in a few hours, and we’ll have to get at least a bit of sleep before that.”
They almost hit a rack of car fresheners on their way towards the exit; Draco’s worried he’s visibly half-hard in the trousers that have no structural integrity.
“Hang on,” Potter says, and he touches Draco again, lightly, on his wrist. Draco’s alight with it; he can feel his own pulse picking up under the flat of Potter’s fingers, it’s pathetic. “Do you— I mean, do you want to…”
“I think we’ve already established that I do,” Draco tells him.
“Yeah, but the charms,” Potter says, incoherently, and puts his hand back on Draco’s arse, over the clothes this time. “You know. For— We can’t use any charms.” He whispers the last word. “Maybe we should get some Muggle stuff, condoms and things.”
“Protection charms?” Draco hadn’t even considered it before Potter mentioned it, but he’s never had sex without magic before. “What do Muggles use, then?”
“Here.” Potter moves towards a shelf near the till, gestures at the boxes. There isn’t a huge selection.
“How do they work?” Draco’s mildly amused by the novelty. He picks up a squeezy plastic bottle. “Strawberry?”
“That stuff’s not great,” Potter says, but he plucks it out of Draco’s hand anyway. “But we’ll probably need something. And condoms… these things, they’re like stretchy sheaths, you put one on your knob before you start, and it sort of contains things.”
“Contains… things.” Draco picks up one of the little boxes. “Sounds hot.”
“It's just…” Potter says off-handedly. He’s concentrating. “You use them so you don’t, you know, get jizz everywhere, or if you want to come inside someone. And then afterwards you just sort of roll it off you and tie it up like a balloon.”
He’s not even looking at Draco when he says it, when he’s talking about coming inside someone, as though that someone isn’t going to be Draco himself, hopefully in about the next ten minutes. Instead, he’s frowning at the display, his lower lip jutting slightly. Draco’s mouth is dry. Potter’s going to buy these Muggle sheaths and then he’s going to put one on himself, or on Draco—who knows, or even cares how it happens, as long as it happens—and then they’re going to fuck until someone comes very neatly into the little rubber bag and they have to roll it off. Potter’s hands, the ones that pulled Draco out of Fiendfyre and then duelled the Dark Lord and won, are going to be performing manual Muggle sex techniques on Draco. He feels hyper-sensitive all of a sudden, like even the prospect of fucking Potter is wringing every drop of sensation out of him.
“Strawberry will do,” Draco says decisively, trying very hard to stay on the right side of desperate-sounding. “And these condom things, just pick some and let’s go, come on.” Potter frowns harder at the boxes then picks up two, adds them to the bottle of lube in his arms. He looks towards the till, and down again at the products.
“Oh for—” Draco says impatiently, and grabs everything from him. He puts it on the cash desk and then gets his Muggle money card out again. It takes about ten seconds to scan them, and the whole time Draco’s still thinking about Potter’s fingers, Potter’s dick, Potter coming inside, containing his mess. It’s like a fever dream, the beeping of the scanner, the hiss of the automatic doors, the hollow sound of car doors slamming, and all the while Potter at his back, waiting.
“Have a nice evening,” the cashier says.
“I intend to,” Draco tells him. Potter snorts.
“Thank you,” he says politely, then he grabs Draco by the wrist and makes for the door.
“Hurry up,” he says, as though Draco wouldn’t be already up in their room fucking him bare without even a second thought, if the option was that or nothing.
He’s handsome, Draco’s always thought so, even here under the unflattering lights as Draco follows him through the shop. And Draco likes him so much. And he’s Harry Potter, which, if Draco’s being really honest, is a pretty compelling bonus. Draco doesn’t want to think about it too deeply, but he rather suspects that even if he didn’t fancy Potter rotten anyway, or even if he only liked him a quarter as much, he’d still want to fuck him, just to be able to say he had. That’s fine; Potter’s a war hero, for fuck’s sake, and Draco’s not a complicated man.
They kiss up against the mirrored wall of the elevator the whole way up to their floor. It’s hard to believe it’s really happening, even when Draco opens his eyes to look at them reflected back at him, Potter’s arse with the soft clinging fabric pulled taut under Draco’s grip, the slight fog that’s creeping up the mirror from their panted breaths, and the best proof of all, Potter in his arms, Draco unable to stop grinning at his mirror self, his mouth visibly red from stubbleburn even in this awful lighting. This is happening. And there’ll be an after, even if only for a little while, and during that time, this will have happened. It’s enough.
Potter fumbles the keycard when he tries to get the door open. The back of his neck is cool under Draco’s tongue.
“Come on,” Potter mutters at the door, and then the lock lights up green and he shoves the door open, pulling Draco after him. It’s even better inside the room, in the half-light of the shitty little bedside lamp. Even their clothes draped and steaming, the horrible decor, the bed that’s not as luxuriously sized as would befit getting to fuck Harry Potter—none of it really matters, when Draco’s wanted this for so long, and they might die tomorrow.
It’s the work of seconds for Draco to strip off the Muggle leisure wear, and he spares a moment of disdain for whatever private amusement Potter seems to feel as Draco’s head emerges from the staticky drag of the fabric.
“Fuck off,” he tells Potter, and then gives lie to the words and reaches out for him.
“God, you’re so naked,” Potter says, and he shoves Draco, not roughly but firmly, so that he ends up half-lying on the bed with Potter looking down on him. It’s positively undignified; Draco preens. The revolting striped bedcover is scratchy under the stretch of his spine, so he pushes himself back up the bed to kick the covers down and off entirely.
“Come on, Potter, chop chop,” he says. Potter puts his glasses on the bedside table and fumbles out of his own jumper, nothing on under it—he must have been freezing outside, not that you’d know it to touch him. It’s not the first time Draco has seen him unclothed, as such, but it’s the first time he’s been able to look.
This is the time when they should stop this, if they’re going to; Draco isn’t considering anything of the sort, but Potter’s still at the end of the bed, bare-chested, trousers sagging at his hips, still clutching his jumper in both hands, awkwardly. Draco might have expected the lack of finesse—it might even have been part of Potter's charm—but the general hesitance isn’t exactly flattering.
“Shall we?” Draco gestures at the other side of the bed, encompassing the wafer-thin pillow, the unruffled stretch of crisp sheet that looks clean, at least, and would look even better with Harry Potter on it.
“Alright, look.” Potter visibly struggles with himself for a moment, then decisively drops his jumper to the ground and clambers onto the bed, crawling up towards Draco until he’s on him, heavy and hot, chest hair rasping against Draco’s own, mouth warm and faintly toothpastey. He kisses Draco like he did in the lift—all in, grasping. He doesn’t kiss like he thinks they should stop. But then he does stop. “Before we start,” he says, still half-against Draco’s mouth where Draco is chasing the kiss, “I just want to manage expectations.”
“Just the sort of thing I’m into,” Draco tells him, and then he wriggles his hand between them and strokes his own cock, because that at least might remind Potter what they’re meant to be doing. “Come on, then. Out with it. What are we managing?”
Potter looks down at him. He might be blushing, it’s hard to tell in the dim light.
“Okay,” he says finally, and then he kneels up. “But don’t be a shit about it, alright?”
“No promises,” Draco says.
“It’s just,” Potter starts, then pauses thoughtfully, leaning his weight back on Draco’s thighs. “I’m not very—” He gestures, widely, non-specifically, at himself in general.
Draco makes an agreeable sound, runs his hands up Potter’s thighs and along his sides where he’s solid and fleshy, grabs at the globes of his hips. Potter’s still talking; Draco strains upwards to suck on one of Potter’s nipples, which makes his voice go stuttery.
“Listen.” Potter puts a hand to Draco's cheek, almost a caress, but then he pushes Draco off him firmly. “Malfoy, look, I'm— I’m… not very big.”
He’s still got his hand on Draco’s cheek, thumb stroking. Draco’s distracted by it. He wants Potter’s fingers in his mouth, he wants to get them wet; he opens his mouth, anticipatory.
“Malfoy,” Potter says, and then he does stick his thumb in Draco’s mouth, plucking at his lower lip and nudging over his teeth, pausing along the ridge of them as though testing their edges. Draco barely has a moment to suck before Potter pulls his thumb away again, though he looks regretful about it. “Sorry.”
Draco’s about to tell him he should be, but then he joins up what Potter’s actually saying sorry for.
“Are you seriously apologising for your dick before we’ve even got started?” he asks, because really, how small is small.
“It’s just—” Potter looks almost angry now, blushing hard all the way down to his chest. “I’ve never—”
“You’ve never had sex? I know that’s not true.” Draco flips them. Potter doesn't resist, just goes down easy and fast and sighing as he relaxes back onto the bed. Draco gets a knee between his legs and grabs at his waistband.
“No, I have, obviously. I just—” Potter lifts his hips obligingly for Draco to ease his trousers down “—haven't ever done it without…” He waves a hand over his groin area, fingers following a flourish that makes Draco pause, distracted, before he recognises, after a beat, the pattern of a wand movement.
“Engorgio?” He resumes stripping Potter. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Potter stares up at the ceiling. His jaw looks tight, but it could just be the angle from where Draco’s down between his legs, tugging his trousers down as far as he can get them. There’s so much hair, starting dark and soft on his chest and stomach, spreading thicker the lower it gets. And then Potter’s dick is there, nestled at his open thighs, soft and plump. Draco doesn’t think Potter has anything to worry about, but he obviously is worrying, because when Draco bends to mouth at him, Potter makes a small involuntary motion, almost a flinch.
“Sorry,” Draco says, and lifts off it, though his mouth is watering for more.
“It doesn’t get much bigger,” Potter says tightly. “If that’s what you’re trying to do.”
“Oh, shut up,” Draco tells him. “If you’re upset about your dick, that’s your business. But don’t put that on me. I’m not complaining.” He touches Potter again, just one finger this time, nudging at the wrinkled foreskin, stroking it back. He hears Potter swallow. “Is this okay?” Draco asks him, though he already knows the answer. Potter’s getting hard. He’s right, it’s not big. Draco could probably fit the whole thing in his mouth.
“It’s good,” Potter says. “But we don’t have to—”
“Do you get many complaints?”
“I told you, I usually just, you know. Size up a bit.” Potter’s hand rests lightly on his stomach. His fingers twitch when Draco kisses the soft slope below his fingers. It’s sort of hot, the idea of Potter magicking his cock bigger. Of Draco getting to be the one who sees the real thing.
“You know you’re just being stupid, don’t you? You don’t need magic to get people into bed. You’re Harry Potter. ”
“That’s pretty much the whole problem,” Potter says. He shifts a little on the bed, and his thighs fall open further. Maybe he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but Draco notices. And he’s fully hard now, at least—that’s saying something. Draco’s still hard from earlier, never wavered for a second. Take that, Potter. “With the saviour thing, you know. People expect something more impressive.”
“Did you kill Voldemort with your penis, Potter?” Draco asks the question with what he considers remarkable patience.
“With my—?” Potter is usually better with his words than this. “Sorry, what?”
“Did you—” Draco punctuates the sentence with another kiss, this time to the shaft of Potter’s cock, which is really straining now, twitching a little at the touch of his lips “—kill Voldemort—” He pauses over the words, takes his time “—with your penis?”
“I—” Potter breathes the syllable out, shaky. “I don’t get it.”
“You defeated the Dark Lord when you were seventeen, Potter.” Draco licks this time, a light teasing trail. Potter’s fingers clench and twist the sheets. “I don’t see that your dick size had anything to do with that. And just for the record—” Another lick, lingering at the tightened ridge of the head of Potter’s cock. “—I don’t think you need to change a single thing.”
Potter stifles whatever noise he wants to make, and at his slit a pearl of precome blooms. Draco gives in, finally, and sinks down on him, fingers pressing into the skin of his thighs, shoulders wedged between his legs to keep them open wide. He lets his tongue drop so he can suck properly. He was right; he can fit the whole thing in his mouth, just about; spit pools and he swallows, thickly, throat flexing uncomfortably as the tip of Potter’s cock nudges at the back of his mouth.
“Jesus christ,” Potter says, through his teeth. Draco doesn’t need to use his hand but he does it anyway, elbow on Potter’s hip for leverage, thumb and forefinger circled tight, thumping off his own lips as he meets his hand on the upstroke. Potter tries to fuck up into his mouth so Draco presses down, keeping it almost mean, the notch of his elbow locked around Potter’s hipbone, pinning him to the bed. He sucks off Potter’s dick, wipes his mouth.
“Don’t come yet,” he tells Potter, who just groans, and covers his eyes with the back of his hand. The other hand moves indecisively over his own stomach, scratching through the hair there, and then comes to rest almost tentatively at the base of Draco's skull, fingertips splayed as though ready to clench.
“You like it,” Potter says, looking down his own body as though he’s seeing it for the first time, and Draco obligingly, agreeably, sucks again, sliding down so his nose is pressed into Potter’s stomach and Potter has to smooth his hair back from his face in order to watch. He’s right, Draco does like it; he likes the look in Potter’s eyes, disbelieving and somehow fond as though he’s not sure what’s happening but he wants it anyway. Potter’s fingers do tighten in his hair then, and he pulls Draco off him then directs him back down, trying to set a rhythm, eyes shutting tight as his cock presses against the inside of Draco’s cheek, accidentally—bu t then Potter makes him do it again, as though he likes it. His breathing has picked up, stomach dipping and shuddering.
Draco pushes up against the slight resistance of Potter’s grasp until Potter releases him. He blows on the wet head of Potter’s cock before he scrambles up to kneeling, still in the vee of Potter’s legs.
“I was—” Potter says, dazed. “I was almost—”
“I know,” Draco says, and pats around for the strawberry stuff that Potter chucked somewhere on the bed. “Wait until you’re fucking me. Find those condom things.”
His fingers scrabble at the packaging; he has to rip it with the edge of a fingernail to get to the lid of the bottle. The substance, when he squirts it into his hand, is cool and faintly sticky, and the strawberry smell is strong. It’s not like real strawberries, more like something from Honeydukes, sugary and concocted, edible. He’s poured too much, it squelches a bit when he smears it, and he arches up a little on the bed so he can reach behind and push a finger into himself.
Potter disentangles himself from Draco, rolls onto his stomach to rummage around in the bedclothes. Draco can see the flexing muscles of his arse as he rubs against the mattress. It might not even be deliberate, but Draco taps him smartly on the back of his thigh anyway and makes a disapproving sound. It comes out breathier than he had hoped for, with his other arm braced awkwardly around himself, the almost-painful angle of his hand as he fucks himself, the clenching tight interior of his own body working itself around his finger so closely that instead of narrowing down, the feeling becomes diffuse, a spreading charge as he crooks his finger inside.
“Hang on,” Potter says, wincing as he rolls back again, his cock bobbing, straining hard, the tip not clearing the patch of his pubic hair which is laced with a string of precome where’s he’s dribbling on himself. He chucks the two boxes of condoms down on the bed near Draco’s knee, swipes the bottle of lube instead. “Let me… I want to…”
“It’s fine,”Draco tells him, working himself back onto his fingers, sinking deeper onto his haunches. “I’m ready.”
“Absolutely not,” Potter says, and spurts strawberry goo all over his fingers. He sits up so he can reach around Draco and then his fingers are easing close to Draco’s, probing, as though he intends to push in next to him. Then Potter slaps at his hand, lightly, almost playful. Draco can feel the movement inside his body. “Come on,” Potter says. “Let me.”
“We don’t have time,” Draco tells him, but he eases his fingers out so Potter can touch him, his other hand clenching at his hip to pull him closer. He’s not hesitant, pushing what feels likes two fingers in past the knuckle, barely pausing to kiss over Draco’s open mouth before he fucks in further, as deep as he can.
“Potter—” Draco says, then stops to press back against Potter’s hand, clenching around him. It’s heady, just having him near enough to smell, getting to taste his mouth and his skin, grinding down senselessly on his hand and against his little dick where it’s shoved up against Draco’s balls. It’s not what Draco had imagined fucking Potter would be like; he doesn’t ever want to stop, chases the pressure of Potter’s fingers.
“Alright,” Potter says, sounding a bit choked. He licks at the corner of Draco’s mouth as he says it, eyes closed, tries to bite at the edge of his jaw and skids off his stubble where Draco had rubbed in the face cream. He’s a mess. “Up, get up, come on.”
“Fuck off,” Draco tells him, and thrusts so his dick rubs off Potter’s stomach. “I’m fine like this.”
“No,” Potter says meanly. “On your knees, Malfoy, come on, I want to see you properly.” He lets go of Draco’s hip and smacks at his arse. The crack of it echoes in the room; it wasn’t even hard, but it judders through Draco so he feels it in his teeth, the spreading heat of it crawling over all his skin. He’s obeying before he even knows it, moving so fast that Potter’s fingers squelch out of him, and he scrambles to kneel so swiftly that his cock bobs almost painfully.
“Ah,” Potter says, an insinuating, delighted outbreath, and Draco shakes his head, which is low and bowed, hair in his eyes, sweat prickling at his scalp.
“Don’t read anything into that,” Draco says, and Potter laughs at him then, kneeling up, stroking along Draco's back peremptorily like he might soothe a shivering dog.
“You're a bloody awful liar, Malfoy,” Potter says fondly, and then he slaps Draco again, full-handed, designed to chasten, and Draco gives shape to the words with the beginning of a moan that he only just has the presence of mind to stifle.
“We can revisit this next time,” Potter says, and then he pushes his fingers into Draco's arse again, relentless. Next time, Draco thinks, like maybe they’re not going to die wandless on the cobbles of Diagon tomorrow. After all, Potter killed Voldemort; historically, he’s been lucky in the face of adversity. And he’s here now, breath hot against Draco’s lower spine, the fingers of his wand hand fucking Draco ‘til he can feel the strawberry syrup running down and pooling at his balls, like Potter wants him slidey and wet. If Draco wasn’t on his hands and knees on the bed, he could touch Potter’s skin, feel his beating heart, the tick of his pulse at his neck. Potter probably never expected to be alive now; maybe he can be Draco’s good luck charm, the fingers that used the Elder Wand and pulled Draco from Fiendfyre now nudging at his prostate so Draco almost flinches, upper arms shaking with the effort of not collapsing into the bed.
“Come on,” Draco manages, through his teeth.
“Are you sure you want—” Potter says from behind him, face so close that his teeth scrape off Draco’s hip. He kisses Draco there too; it feels absent-minded. He’s still working his fingers, but now Draco thinks he might also be touching himself. Draco can hear it, the almost-slap of skin on skin, the fast panted breaths. “I can just—”
“Not this again,” Draco says. “Fuck me or don’t fuck me, Potter. I can come on your fingers just as well.” Which is true, at least tonight, though Draco doesn’t always get off on having something in him, the weird almost-pain of it, the overintimacy. Tonight, though, he wants it.
“You like it.” Potter must let go of himself, because he reaches under Draco to grab his cock as though to check he’s right. His palm is hot and still wet from touching his own dick, fingers tightening reflexively when Draco bucks into his grip. “I like it too. I like feeling you—” he slows, fingers pressing, seeking inside Draco “—in here. I’ve got you all wet.”
“If you fuck me now you’ll just slide right in,” Draco says, and the pause that follows feels airless, as though they’ve both stopped breathing. It might even have been too much—Draco hadn’t even meant it like that, but if Potter’s already sensitive, if he takes it the wrong way…
Then Potter shudders in a breath, folding himself over Draco to mouth along his spine, fumbling under him, cupping his balls then scrabbling up to pinch a nipple, nails too blunt to scratch but the threat of it is there anyway in the dig of his fingertips.
“Yeah?” Potter sighs it out. “I could just—” He pushes, thighs tight to the back of Draco's thighs, knees pressed to the inside of Draco’s calves. When he thrusts, Draco feels the head of his dick sliding through the mess of lube. Potter’s still got his fingers inside, like he’s going to— But he doesn’t do anything, just rubs the tip over Draco’s rim, bumping off his own fingers, then stops moving, holding himself close as Draco squirms in frustration at the sudden stillness.
“You don’t even need to wear one of those condom things,” Draco says. He sounds—he can’t really bring himself to think of how he sounds. Needy. “You could just fuck me without one.”
“And without the charms?” Potter pulls his fingers out, right out, with a small regretful groan as they slip free. Now it’s just the head of his cock barely touching Draco’s rim, and Draco bearing down on nothing, and the flutter of cool air.
“I’ve never done it without before,” Draco tells him, arches lower. “Neither have you, I’m guessing. So I can assume we’re both, ah—safe. You could fuck me, come inside me, I want you to.” He’s talking himself halfway to coming already at just the thought of it, feels the weird almost-pulse of fresh precome pooling at his slit.
“Draco,” Potter says, and Draco answers over him—yes he says, it’s so easy—then Potter’s pushing inside, his cock sliding then catching then opening Draco up. He’s going slow, slower than he was with his fingers. He says Draco’s name again, muffled, and Draco gives up on dignity and lets himself drop forward onto his forearm so he can get his other hand to his dick, wanking himself almost too-fast, scared of losing the helpless tipping-over feeling that has him so close, wanting to stay firmly out of his own head. Sometimes when he comes it’s not so much pleasure as relief, the build too intense, the release lacking the potency of the anticipation. He doesn’t want that tonight.
“Jesus,” Potter’s saying, fucking him properly now like he can’t help himself, fast and demanding. “God. Merlin, fuck.” Muggle words mixed in like he doesn’t even know the difference between them all, though really, everything sounds the same when he says it like that. “Draco, please.”
Draco comes; he can’t stop himself, it’s like a whole-body thing, the tops of his feet pressing into the sheet, the pillow wet under his mouth where he’s breathing too hard. He’s splattering the mattress, coming and coming, wringing himself out, sweat-wet behind his knees, under his arms, all down his back where Potter’s on top of him now, practically silent except for the effortful force of his breaths as he grinds into Draco.
“Did you just—” Potter slides a hand under Draco, pets at him, at the wet patch, then clutches at his stomach almost tenderly. “Oh thank god, I need to—”
“Yeah,” Draco answers, his voice cracking on the word, lips dry. “Do it, come on.”
But Potter’s slow about it even now, fucking Draco in short efficient thrusts, holding him so tightly, kissing sloppy open-mouthed kisses over his shoulders.
“I wanted—” he says, voice dreamy with pleasure. “I thought… But then, when I heard about you and Percy… bloody Percy.” His cock is angled so it drags inside Draco, too much of that focused sparking pressure so soon after he’s come. He needs a piss, or maybe he’s starting to get hard again—he can’t quite chase the feeling down, lying in his own wet patch with his eyes shut and his face in the anonymous-smelling pillow.
“Percy talked about you,” Draco tells him, turning his face to the side so when he opens his eyes he can see the edge of Potter in the mirror over the dressing table—not all of him, just some moving parts, the falling lock of hair that drops from behind his ear, one flexing shoulderblade, the long muscle of one thigh, taut with effort. “I think he might be interested. You know.”
“Fuck off,” Potter says distractedly, losing his rhythm for a second. “In me? No.”
“Maybe it was just the idea of it,” Draco concedes. “Harry Potter, you know. Not you, as such. You know what he’s like when it comes to power. He’s utterly shameless, or he would be if he knew what he was doing.”
Potter wriggles even nearer, manhandling Draco with a hand on each hipbone, setting a pace again. “Is this okay?” he asks. “I’m close, I am. I just… Percy, you know? I hope he’s not dead.”
“Don’t rush on my account,” Draco says. “And please do keep talking about death, it’s really setting the mood.”
“Sorry.” Potter sounds like he’s smiling. “I also do a good line in childhood trauma, if you’re interested.”
“Potter,” Draco says, and Potter understands, because he slips out of Draco, presses him down and rolls him gently in the bed until he’s on his back.
“Hello,” Potter says, and he guides the head of his cock back against Draco and fucks into him again. Draco feels swollen and hot and clinging; it’s almost too much, but then Potter is kissing him properly, tongue in his mouth, hand in his hair.
“This is good,” Potter says against his lips. “God, this is so good.”
“I’m going to feel this fuck all the way to London,” Draco says, and Potter laughs like it’s shocked out of him, hips jerking.
“Yeah,” he says, tightly, “that’ll do it, fuck.” And then he buries his face in Draco’s neck and drives into him, and goes still, gasping around a mouthful of Draco’s hair.
Maybe Draco sleeps; he’s not sure. He definitely has his eyes closed, and when he opens them again, the room looks just the same, like no time has passed since Potter came inside him, with the same low yellowish light from the little bedside lamps, and the rumpled bed, and the smell of sex in the air. Draco’s stomach hair is a mat of flaking dried come; he’s wet and leaking between his legs, really needs a flannel or maybe even another shower. Potter’s sprawled half-on him, not-quite-snoring, arm holding him greedily.
The tap, when it comes, is so delicate as to be almost inaudible. Given another minute, Draco might have missed it entirely, had he been up and running the water. Draco holds his breath; the noise comes again, tap-tap-tap from behind the curtain.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, and shakes him gently, feels his arm tighten in reflexive movement. He lands a lazy kiss just above Draco’s nipple before he looks up and sees Draco’s face and realises it’s something, and then he’s moving, already fully alert, the softness of sleep gone from his face.
“The window,” Draco says, feeling ill. He clambers out of the bed himself, because he can’t just let Potter go alone, not that it’ll do much good if the two of them die immediately—and horribly naked—rather than first one and then the other. He switches off the lights.
Potter’s at the window already; Draco would hardly be able to see him if it weren’t for the ill-fitting curtains, the solid block of light from the big carpark lamps outside. Potter tweaks the edge of the curtain.
“Oh, thank god,” Draco hears him whisper, and then he’s wrestling with the window, pushing at the handle until he gets the window open as far as he can, which isn’t much.
Outside, hovering wearily, is an owl. She’s very small, but the scroll that’s tied to her leg is too, barely more than a scrap of paper, if Draco’s any judge. Even as small as she is, she won’t fit in the small gap of the window, so Potter carefully reaches a hand through and unties the parchment from her leg. She hoots mournfully then flaps away with an effort. Her tail feathers look stringy and damaged.
Draco and Potter stand very close together in the light from the window and read the note together. It is short, just two lines. Safe. At Grimmauld. The handwriting clear and decisive, though clearly written in a hurry. Granger, no doubt, unless Weasley’s quillmanship has drastically improved since school. Underneath, in the elegant script Draco recognises as Percy’s, there’s a second sentence. Premium diesel only, Harry—get her here in one piece, please. The word “only” is underlined twice. Percy and his fucking car.
Potter folds the note tidily. He’s—well, he’s not crying, obviously, but his shoulders are shaking as he takes in big shuddery breaths, and he puts one hand over his eyes.
“They’re safe,” he says, voice almost unrecognisable, and Draco realises all of a sudden just how very much Potter must have been expecting the opposite. Draco’s mildly put out, in fact; he’d been fooled, he’d thought Potter was holding it all together, when in fact Potter was just one handwritten note away from total breakdown this whole time. Draco puts a hand on his back, rubs carefully between Potter’s shoulderblades while he gathers himself. Beyond the carpark he can just see the line of the motorway, red lights moving busily along in the distance. The road must be open again.
“You’re alright,” Draco says, still rubbing Potter’s back. “And they’re alright.”
Potter stares down at the note again for a quiet moment.
“Thanks,” he says, and he looks up at Draco and smiles. It’s not his best effort, but it’s something.
“Look,” Draco says, and gestures towards the motorway. “Traffic’s moving. Shall we just—”
“Yeah,” Potter says, and then he kisses Draco right there in the frigid air from the open window. “Let’s get back on the road.”
There’s an explosion of sound then, that filters up from below and makes them both jump.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
It’s Muggles, Draco realises, probably in the grotty little bar he’d seen through big glass windows at the side of the hotel. Counting down to the new year. Midnight already, then. They really should get moving.
“Three, two, one!” The noise gets louder, cheering and feet-stamping then singing, boisterous and out-of-sync—more like shouting, really.
The noise must cover the first crack of Apparition—it’s only because Draco is looking towards the carpark that he notices the person appearing, a dark form standing where a second before, there was empty air. And then horribly and soundlessly, drowned out by the gleeful party noises from below, more people Apparate in. There’s six of them, Draco thinks, though they’re huddled together against the light, so it’s tricky to make them out.
“They’re here,” Potter says. Whoever they are.
The owl, Draco realises. They must have tracked the fucking owl. He spares a second to think of the tired little thing with its ruined tail, and hopes it got away.
Potter keeps the lights off, begins picking up his clothes by feel and pulling them on.
“Wands out,” he says. “We might as well at least try to fight our way out of this.”
Draco goes to the radiator; his own clothes are mostly dry. Thank Merlin for that—he absolutely refuses to die in a tracksuit. He dresses swiftly—no time now for that shower. He’s glad, in a way. Once he’s got his shoes on, he goes to the window again, looks out carefully. The group is much closer now, fanned out across the car park, almost at the hotel. He can see their wands, held carelessly by their sides. They’ll make short work of the poor young man at the desk, and then they’ll know exactly which room to come to. Over in the far corner of the car park sits Percy’s car, sleek and gleaming against the night.
“Potter,” Draco says. He’s still whispering, not out of fear but more a sort of reverence, as though he needs to acknowledge the gravity of the situation. “Potter, the car.”
“The car?”
Potter joins him at the window. He’s got his rucksack on, and his face is ashen.
“If we can get to the car, maybe… They probably don’t know we have it, they won’t be looking out for a Muggle motor. Once they’re in the hotel, if we could get out without them seeing us…”
“The fire escape.” Potter’s whispering too. “At the side, remember? The big stairs.”
Draco does remember, now Potter says it. Ugly, unremarkable, a metal structure crawling up the side of the building furthest from the front door. He leans, carefully, presses his forehead against the glass so he can look down. The group is just below them, on the path two storeys down, moving in swift formation. It’s now or never.
“Let’s go,” Draco says, and Potter reaches for his hand.