Prompt: # 86
Summary: It's been three weeks since Harry and Draco broke up. Clearly, they should want nothing to do with each other, but being Auror partners makes that just a tad bit difficult.
Word Count: 5064
Author's Notes: Thanks to S. for the beta, and to mods for their everlasting patience; you have all my love ♥. drarryxlover, I loved your prompt and I hope you enjoy this!
Harry clenches his fist around his quill. Distantly, he knows Kingsley’s still speaking about integration of the Unspeakable memo system or something, but they’re already two hours into the weekly departmental meeting and he doesn’t think he can quite maintain his stoic façade much longer.
Penny’s diligently taking notes to his right and the scratching of her quill is like a constant aggravation to his head. He likes her, really, but he wishes that she’d stop channelling Hermione, especially at the worst possible moments. His chest is tight and his head hurts.
“You all right, Harry?” Finch-Fletchley leans over, concerned. Harry realizes he’s also fisting his notes rather tightly, and attempts to smooth out the permanent wrinkles.
“I’m fine,” he lies. He’s not, not when Finch-Fletchley’s sitting on his other side, when he’s so used to another lithe male body he keeps unconsciously angling his body to the left, when he can still feel his presence, despite being all the way across the table. He’d wager that Malfoy hasn’t looked his way once, but he’s not going to check.
“Dismissed,” says Kingsley, finally. Harry gathers his things, eager to get out of the room, but he stops when Kingsley says, “Potter and Malfoy, Chang and Finch-Fletchley, Clearwater and Williams, your new assignments are on your desks.”
Shit. Harry had hoped that there wouldn’t be anything in as of yet – and for as long as possible – reports had been slow in the past few days, after all, and it was mostly paperwork for the lot of them. Ordinarily, Harry hated paperwork – he still hates it, but now instead of being mind-numbingly dull it just gives him space to think about other things, things he shouldn’t be thinking about. It’s still better than the other option, however, which is to actually go on a mission with his partner. The last couple times they’d worked a case together hadn’t gone over so well, to say the least.
At least the meeting had run later than usual, which means Harry can go home. He’s at once relieved and dreading it, because he’d stupidly refused Ron and Hermione’s offer to move into Grimmauld Place with them, and instead chose to suffer alone in the flat he once shared. It’s probably mostly stubbornness and anger, not to let anyone run him out, and though he’d never admit it, some sort of wishful thinking. Ron had once joked, ‘once a martyr, always a martyr,’ in response to a case where Harry had gotten banged up quite a bit, but he’s never thought it more apt than now.
In any case, he might as well grab the memo first, have something to read in his empty home. He heads to his desk, grabs the thing, nods perfunctory good-byes at whoever’s still left in the office, and readies to leave – where the fuck did he leave his coinpurse? His head’s still down when he walks out the door and bumps into someone.
“Shit, sorry,” he starts, then be realizes who it is and his blood turns cold. “Malfoy.”
“Potter,” sneers Malfoy, grey eyes hard and his lips curled in that disgusted expression he’s always had in grade school, but now there’s something feral in the motion, like a wounded animal moving to strike back. “Watch where you’re going. Maybe if you came down from your high pedestal sometime you wouldn’t trip over us mere mortals so often.”
Harry grits his teeth. He cannot believe Malfoy wants do this now, here, but he isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a fight. His heart is pounding and his throat is tight. He clenches his fists and says, “Maybe if you weren’t so slow on your feet, you’d stop bumping into people, and maybe then you wouldn’t impede our investigations all the time.”
Draco's eyes narrow and two spots of red appear on his pale cheeks. Harry feels a stab of guilt, because he doesn’t like hurting Draco, even now, and it’s not like he never made mistakes sometimes, but Draco’s always cared more about their jobs than anything else. He doesn’t falter often, which makes it all the worse, Harry thinks, that last case they had – they’re awkward around together now, no longer reading each other’s body movements, shoring each other’s during chases – Draco had hesitated too much, had misstepped, and the perp had gotten away, firing a hex that Harry just barely dodged in time. They’d caught him in the end, but it was a longer battle than necessary, both of them ending up exhausted and battered – and not all of injuries was a result of the criminal.
Draco’s wand hand is shaking now and he opens his mouth – probably to say something scathing and incisive, because he always knew how to make Harry hurt, to make him lose it and give him the fight he wants. Harry needs to get out of there before that happens. He interrupts him, says, lamely, “Keep up the good work,” with a passable sneer and leaves before Malfoy can reply.
He takes the lift down to the Atrium, casting a tempus charm along the way. It’s nearly 5 pm, which means it’s nearly time to meet Ron and Hermione for dinner. He takes the Floo to his flat, and drops off his stuff – he stops in front of the mirror for a moment, checking his appearance. He looks haggard and aged many years beyond twenty-three, but his clean t-shirt and jeans look presentable enough.
“All right, dearie?” asks his mirror sympathetically.
“Yeah,” he says, “Just, you know. Tired.”
He doesn’t want to stay here any longer, so he Apparates to the restaurant where they’re having dinner, despite being early. It’s an Italian Muggle restaurant, classy enough that his wardrobe is slightly out of place, but he doesn’t care that much, especially since no one knows who he is. He orders veal marsala and after some deliberation the eggplant parmesan as well as a large bottle of chardonnay because Hermione likes red wine and Ron doesn’t care. Harry just wants to get drunk.
His friends arrive soon after, Ron looking a little worse for the wear. Hermione looks neat and crisp in her business suit, as always.
“Hello, Harry,” she says, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. He hugs her, breathing in her light floral scent. The three of them have dinner together every week if they’re not at the pub with a larger circle of their friends. Eating out is nice and Harry usually enjoys it, but he hasn’t wanted to do anything these past few weeks besides what Hermione would call ‘moping’. He can’t keep cancelling on them, however, so he’s put his best mask on and is prepared to pretend enjoying things again. It’s high time he started.
“What happened to you?” he asks Ron as Hermione orders.
“Mishap at the shop,” says Ron. “We were testing a new Dungbomb formula – stinkless, supposed to burst into confetti for parties and such.” The waiter comes by to give them their food, which Ron digs into with gusto.
“I dunno why George insists on testing them on me – well I do, because he’s a bastard – but at any rate the explosion was too forceful and now the backroom’s a bit mangled.”
Harry laughs, and eats his own food with much less fervour. He’s missed his friends, he realizes, because he’d had to split his time between seeing Draco and seeing Ron and Hermione, and it’s good to do something like this again. If only he didn’t realize what was missing.
“– and then it turned his hair bright pink,” says Ron, guffawing at the latest prank he’s pulled on his brother. Harry doesn’t know why he bothers, George is more creative and more unstoppable, but he supposes it’s the way they bond. Probably.
Hermione rolls her eyes and turns to Harry. “And how’s the MLE treating you, Harry?”
“Good, I think,” says Harry. He doesn’t say anything about Malfoy, but he it’s not like he has a choice.
“Can’t believe you haven’t killed the ferret by now,” says Ron, who’s still amazed at what he calls ‘the stupidest decision Kingsley’s ever made.’
“Well,” says Harry, who really doesn’t want to talk about this. “It’s all right.” The hurt in his chest hasn’t subsided, and being reminded of it just makes his heart ache. Despite all the fighting they’ve done when they were together, all the curses and hexes and insults, he hasn’t moved on. He doesn’t know if he can.
He changes the subject. “So, how’s Ginny and Dean?”
Ron gives him a curious look, but she’s not at all who he’s hung up, even though Ron has these vague hopes once in a while. He shrugs, and Ron seems to take it for an answer.
“They broke up, actually.”
“Yeah, she said she wanted to keep flying Quidditch but he wanted to settle down somewhere. I guess some things don’t change, huh?”
It’s ironic, actually, because when he was with Ginny she used to talk about their future together, and it wasn’t something Harry ever put much thought into – he’d always assumed they’d be together, like Ron and Hermione, with children and a nice house. In the end their relationship didn’t work out – they didn’t love each other like they used to, but the image of their perfect future had been so ingrained in Harry it was hard to let it go. They had a huge row, but eventually their friendship had been mended, and now Harry knows that it was the right thing to do.
Ron excuses himself to the loo and Hermione turns to look at him, an odd expression on her face.
“What,” says Harry, who’s suddenly wary.
“It’s just,” she begins slowly, “I’ve heard that you’ve been having troubles with Malfoy.”
Harry’s eyes narrow, but Hermione is an Unspeakable so he supposes he should be used to the fact that she knows everything. Well, even if she wasn’t, she’d probably still know everything, something that Harry’s beginning to dread.
“So?” he says, stalling. “He’s always been a bastard.”
“Oh, Harry,” says Hermione, reaching forward for his hand. “You really don’t think I didn’t know?”
Harry looks away. His face is burning and his eyes are beginning to sting. He doesn’t want to know how or when she figured out, but another part of him is glad that someone else knows.
“Ron doesn’t,” she continues gently, because she knows Harry. She holds his hand, waiting.
He takes a breath. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway, because we – he – we’re not together. Anymore.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“What choice do I have? We’re not right for each other.”
He expects Hermione to agree, to let it go, but instead she frowns. “I don’t know, Harry,” she says. “You were happier these past few months than you’ve been ever since you broke up with Ginny. Are you sure it wasn’t something worth fighting for?”
Harry was sure, he was so sure that it was over when Draco slammed the door to their flat, both their voices hoarse and the living room strewn with broken furniture. He was sure when Draco hissed, “Fuck you, Potter,” and threw his keys in Harry’s face. But now that Hermione is questioning his decision, Hermione, whom Draco had been awful to in school, he feels wrong-footed, his heart clenching painfully.
“I don’t know,” he says at last. “I’ve got to go. Tell Ron I said good-bye, thanks for the lovely dinner.”
Hermione looks at him, eyes worried, but she doesn’t try to stop him from leaving, and he is grateful.
He wants to tell himself they were only fucking, but it sure felt like dating, especially near the end. He opens his door and throws his cloak on the couch, heading to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He never used to drink this stuff, but Draco did and now he can’t stop. It’s awful, and as the bitter taste first hits his tongue unbidden memories, things he usually keeps locked away, start arising.
He remembers Draco waking up beside him, skin pale in the sunlight and eyes full of warmth as they indulged in each other. Draco dismissing his wardrobe as unsuitable, eyeing the outfits he chose for Harry with a critical eye at Twilfit and Tattings, then stripping him as soon as they got home and sucking him off. Draco drinking coffee, Draco fascinated with the television, Draco laughing and teasing and being himself. They fought a lot, yeah, but when things were good, they were really good.
He clenches his fist on the counter, because he can’t stop missing Draco. They were both so proud, too stubborn to admit their own feelings, just tentatively fumbling their way through. He should’ve known something was up when Draco was acting restless, brushing off Harry and working more overtime hours than he used to. They were fighting a lot more, too, Draco suddenly more vicious, more spiteful than he’d been in a long time, and Harry couldn’t understand why. But when he had seen that reddish bruise on Draco’s neck, unmistakeable as anything but a love bite, his hair messy and his breath stinking of alcohol, Harry had lost it.
Get the fuck out, he’d told him, barely able to control his rage. The windows had already shattered. I knew you were nothing but a fucking spineless piece of shit.
Harry opens a bottle of Firewhiskey and drinks half of it before stumbling into his bedroom and collapsing into a mindless, numbing sleep.
The next day he wakes up groggily, mouth dry and crusted and his eyelids heavy. He gropes for his wand and clumsily casts a tempus charm – fuck, he’ll be late for work. He peels off yesterday’s clothes and hops into the shower, downing a hangover potion in the process. Merlin, he feels like shit. He barely has time to dress before he has to Apparate into the Atrium, and by the time he gets to his office Malfoy’s not there anymore.
He takes out the assignment sheet, tucked into his robes from yesterday and scans it for details – nothing majorly high-profile; there’d been reports of a wizarding drug trafficking operation and they were to go investigate an anonymous tip about an apothecary working in Knockturn alley. It’s a fairly recent case and leads have been slow-coming.
He scowls. “Where the fuck is Malfoy?” he mumbles aloud.
Penny hears him and looks up. “He left a note on your desk.”
Harry looks around and indeed sees a piece of sticky-note – Malfoy had become obsessed with Muggle stationery and had gotten into the habit of using them in place of anything else. Harry wants to smile, but he just feels sad.
At the apothecary, reads the note. They didn’t use to leave without each other, but nothing for it now. Harry Apparates to the destination, outside Vertbam’s Herbs. He panics a little when doesn’t see him at first, but then he realizes Malfoy’s inside, already interrogating the apothecary. He nods and the apothecary disappears to the back.
Malfoy looks up at the sound of the chime for the door opening. For a moment, he looks relieved, but then his face grows cold. “Good of you to finally make time to do your job.”
Harry grits his teeth. “Shut up, Malfoy. Found anything useful?”
Malfoy sneers but shakes his head. “I’m not detecting any foreign magical signatures and besides, Vertbam’s not talking.”
Harry sighs and half-heartedly casts his own detection spells just in case Malfoy’s missed anything, and also because he knows it’s going to piss Malfoy off.
A few minutes pass with just the soft sound of his wand drawing patterns throughout the air. His back is turned so he doesn’t know what Malfoy is doing.
“So,” Malfoy says, his drawl elongated and his posh accent sharpening. Harry tenses, because Malfoy only talks like that when he’s spoiling for a fight. “I heard the Weaslette’s single again.”
Harry exhales, because it wasn’t in the Prophet, so he can only assume that Draco’s just talking shit. “It doesn’t really matter to me even if she were.”
“Really?” says Malfoy, voice lilting and suddenly very close to his ear, “What, is she too good for you now? Have you been sullied by a Death Eater? Or are you too much of a slut for cock, can’t even get it up for that freckled bint –”
Harry turns around and punches him in the face. Draco stumbles back, eyes glittering and a bruise already forming on his pale cheeks. His wand is out. “Shut up,” says Harry, whipping out his own wand – what the fuck is wrong with Malfoy, when he has to dig the knife in deeper? Isn’t it enough that they broke up, that it kills Harry to have to see him everyday and know that they’re no longer together?
“Don’t talk about her that way,” he says, voice tightly controlled. “She’s better than you in every possible way–”
“Oh yes, because your breakup was so much more amicable than ours –
“At least she didn’t cheat on me,” yells Harry, and he’s so angry he tries to punch him again, pushing Malfoy into the wall of the store and knocking several potions to the ground, but Malfoy twists his wrist and hits him back, and then they’re rolling on the floor like a bunch of five year old boys.
Vaguely, Harry can hear the apothecary shouting at them, but it’s just a blur of violence and anger and hurt, their wands forgotten in a corner – there’s a roaring in his ears as he slams his fist down on any part of Malfoy he can reach. He doesn’t bother controlling his magic, and jars with organs and slimy stuff start shattering around them, and then Penny and Finch-Fletchley are pulling them apart and Kingsley’s shouting at them.
“Potter, Malfoy,” he booms, “In my office! Now!”
Breathing heavily, Harry is spitefully glad to notice that Malfoy has bruises all over his face and a cut lip. His own nose feels like it’s cocked at an unnatural angle and his joints are throbbing, but he’s feeling cathartic like he hasn’t in a long time.
Kingsley Side-Along’s them to the Head Auror’s Office, not even bothering to stop in the Atrium.
“Sit,” he says – Harry opens his mouth to protest his case, but one look at his thunderous face and he sits.
Kingsley sits down at his own desk and sighs. “Look, this is ridiculous. I don’t want to know who started it or why, but I’m telling you to get your shit together before I kick you both off the team. Two grown Aurors, brawling like school children!”
Harry’s face is hot.
“When I refused your requests to change partners,” says Kingsley, and Harry’s surprised – he’d thought it was only him, that Malfoy obviously enjoyed torturing him too much to let it go – “I wasn’t expecting this to happen. Your reports have been sloppy, your performance on cases have been abysmal, and now this. You’re both suspended for a week.”
Harry and Malfoy both immediately protest, but Kingsley holds up his hand.
“You’re my best team,” he says in a softer tone. “The both of you work together better than any partners I’ve seen before, and I don’t know what’s happened, but it’s got to change. Take leave, fix it, then come back. Dismissed.”
Harry nods and limps out of the room. He doesn’t know if he should go home or talk to Malfoy or what, but when he turns around, Malfoy is already gone, so the choice is made for him.
He goes home, to their empty flat, and considers Fire-calling Ron and Hermione, but then he’d have to explain why he’s home from work so early, and he’s not close enough to any of his other friends to want to explain what happened.
“Episkey,” he says for his injuries, then collapses on the sofa, exhausted. He leaves his bruises because he can’t do much for them, but also because it reminds him of the last time Draco left his hands on him, when they were together. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to quit the Aurors, because he loves his job, but he doesn’t think he can handle this anymore, especially with Malfoy at his apparent worst. He might have to resort to talking to Kingsley about what happened between them, and that’s something he’s never ever wanted to consider.
Instead, he Accios the bottle of Firewhiskey and downs the rest of it. He naps fitfully, drunk and heartbroken, sometimes opening his eyes to gaze at the dancing shadows on the ceiling created by the fireplace, until there’s a soft ‘whoosh’, his fire flares green, and Draco Malfoy steps out.
Instantly, Harry’s up, his wand out and pointed straight at Malfoy. If he wants another fight, then Harry will give him one. But then he realizes that Malfoy's pupils are blown wide and he’s holding himself very gingerly, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
“You’re drunk,” he says finally, and lowers his wand.
“Astute observation, Potter,” spits Malfoy, who’s an arse even when inebriated. He sways slightly, comes forward until he’s standing in front of Harry – he’s still beautiful, even this dishevelled and dirty, apparently not having changed out of the clothes he brawled in – and then he moves and collapses into the love seat to Harry’s left.
Cautious, Harry sits down on his couch. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looking into the fireplace. The firelight casts odd shadows on his face, making it seem more angular, more sombre. More tired.
“I didn’t think the wards would let me in here,” he says, his voice quiet, surprised.
Harry flushes, because he can’t help it, and he repeats, “Why are you here?”
“I’m drunk,” says Draco, and when Harry sighs, “No, shut up. Let me talk, or I’ll lose my nerve. I’m drunk because otherwise I can’t work up the courage to actually talk to you. I’ll just say shit and then we’ll fight again.”
Harry can feel his heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t know what this is, he doesn’t want to let himself hope. His throat is tight and looking at Draco, sprawled elegantly across the loveseat, he’s filled with regret and longing. Merlin, why was he always such a maudlin drunk?
“I didn’t cheat on you,” Draco continues, finally. “I went to a club and got pissed and let some twink suck on my neck just to see the look on your face.”
Harry clenches his fist, his knuckles white. “Why?” he manages. “I thought we were – I thought.” He doesn’t want to finish his sentence, too scared of it being thrown back in his face. But he has to try. “That we were good together.”
“I was tired of being your fucktoy,” sneers Draco, his voice rising. “All we do is live a secret life in this flat; no one comes over, we don’t go out. You’re so careful not to touch me or be seen with me in public; don’t think I don’t notice. You fucker.” He tips the glass to his lips and takes another swallow.
Harry’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. “I thought that was what you wanted,” he says. “You’re always talking about how your parents would disapprove, how your friends would be disgusted to see me with you. I thought you didn’t want to lose your job.”
Draco winces, his eyes wide. There’s a nameless emotion in his face, but then steels his expression. “Hardly,” he scoffs loftily. “I may have mentioned it once or twice in a fit of pique, but I may also have been exaggerating. It doesn’t matter. The entire wizarding world would disapprove of you fucking a Death Eater, anyway. It’s good this thing ended, we never liked each other much anyway. I just wanted –” he takes a breath, then looks directly at Harry. “I wanted to apologize. I won’t say we should be friends, because what a fucking cliché, but we should be partners, at least.”
Harry stares at him, incomprehensible, and then he’s furious. He stands up, grabs Draco by his shirt and throws him onto the ground, falling with him.
“You’re a selfish, arrogant prick,” says Harry heatedly; Draco opens his mouth but he barrels on, “You talk shit all the time, you drink more than you can handle and you piss me off like no one else. And I love you anyway, you giant arse.” He’s breathing hard.
“It was never just fucking to me,” says Harry quietly. He releases his white knuckled grip on Draco’s shirt, who’s just staring at him in shock. At least now Draco knows what Harry should have told him ages ago; maybe they’ll never be friendly with each other but at least now he knows.
Harry makes to get up when strong hands wrap around his wrist. He turns his head to see Draco staring at him, eyes shining.
“You unremittable bastard,” he breathes then leans forward to kiss Harry.
It’s been a long time, but it seems like Harry’s never forgotten the movement of Draco’s lips against his, the taste of Firewhiskey sharp on his tongue, winding his hands in Draco’s hair like they belong there.
Draco pulls away first, then rests their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know if you’d want me like that. I don’t give a fuck about our jobs, if I could have you.”
He laughs bitterly. “It was driving me crazy, when Shacklebolt wouldn’t let me change partners, and then I had to see you everyday… At least when we’re fighting you would still look at me.”
Harry’s heart hurts, for the pain they caused each other, but he’s so glad that Draco’s here now.
“I was going to ask,” says Harry softly, tucking a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear. “You know, if you wanted to be together. I was just waiting for the right time.”
Draco rolls his eyes at that, but then he looks uncharacteristically nervous. “Do you still – I mean, do you want –”
Harry interrupts him with a kiss. “What do you think, prat? I never closed my wards.”
Draco answers with a roll of his hips, and Harry suddenly realizes that he’s achingly hard. His heart is hammering and he can’t seem to stop smiling.
“Let’s take this to bedroom,” he says, and Draco nods.
“Wait,” he says, and Harry stops, worried, but Draco only casts a sobering charm on himself before reaching for him once more.
They can’t keep their hands off each other, Draco making quick work of Harry’s clothes as they kiss along the way. By the time they finally tumble into bed they’re both naked, delicious friction making Harry groan. He’s missed this.
Draco’s pinned him to the bed with one hand, sucking on his neck and palming his cock with the other. Harry can’t help but whine and Draco laughs, slinks downwards. He looks up mischievously as he licks the area around Harry’s cock, his balls, his inner thighs, not touching where he wants the most.
“Draco,” moans Harry, and he complies, sucking down his cock in one smooth motion, tonguing the spot just below the cockhead.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and Draco pulls off, licking his lips as a string of pre-come follows the movement. He moves up to kiss Harry, rummaging in the nightstand for something. Draco pulls off, delighted, as he shows Harry the lube in his hand.
“Still in the same place, I see,” he says, quirking an eyebrow.
“Well, obviously,” says Harry, rolling his eyes. “There’s only been you. Now shut up and fuck me.”
Draco grins at him, a blinding smile. He must be close as well since he’s not choosing to tease. He slides a slick finger into Harry, the burn and stretch a welcoming feeling. He squirms a little.
“Hurry up,” says Harry.
Draco slides in another finger. “Impatient,” he remarks, then licks a stripe up Harry’s cock before he can open his mouth again. He twists his fingers just right and it’s like a shock goes up his spine. When his brain comes back online, Draco’s got three fingers in him and is pressing in deeply.
“I’m ready, I’m ready,” says Harry, trying to push back onto Draco’s fingers, but his thighs are pinned. Draco licks his lips, his pupils blown so wide his grey irises are nearly invisible. He slicks up his cock then presses the tip to Harry’s arsehole. Harry gasps as he slowly pushes in, a seemingly endless movement until he can feel Draco’s hips resting on his arse. He feels so full, so right.
“You’re so tight,” groans Draco and Harry laughs breathlessly. He folds his legs around Draco wait and says, “Move,” and Draco does, pulling out and pushing in, gaining speed as he moves. He’s only grazing across Harry’s prostrate, which still sends little shocks of pleasure up his spine, when he pauses. Draco frowns, says, “Wait – let me –” and hitches Harry’s legs up a little higher and then –
“Holy fuck,” says Harry as Draco thrusts intently, his bones liquefying with the intense pleasure that Draco’s driving into him with his cock. His orgasm is suddenly cresting alarmingly fast, and then Draco curls a hand around his cock and he’s gone, coming like there’s no tomorrow.
Vaguely, he hears Draco choke out, “Oh – fuck –” and then his hips stutter, pumping out a few more punishing strokes before he stills and comes deep inside him.
Draco collapses onto Harry, breathing hard. Harry looks at the top of his blond head, giddy, content. He strokes Draco’s damp hair and kisses his temple.
Draco suddenly laughs, pushing off Harry and landing beside him.
“What?” says Harry, amused.
“I was just thinking that Shacklebolt would be delighted to hear about the manner in which we reconciled,” says Draco, smirking, and Harry can’t help but kiss him.
“You’re a prat,” he says fondly. He yawns. “Hey, you don’t… you don’t mind if we tell our friends, yeah?”
Draco looks at him, grey eyes warm. “No,” he says, pulling Harry close, stroking a hand down his sweaty back.
“I don’t mind at all.”