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Chapter Text

Wednesday

“Puis-je vous aider?”

“Yes. I’m here for the committee meeting?” Harry repeats for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Ah, oui. You want the fifth floor, conference room seven.” Harry smiles his thanks and joins the morning rush of workers. This is his first time in the French Ministry and it's massive, all white marble floors and mahogany wood. If he wasn't in a rush, he’d take the time to look more closely at the details, compare it to back home.

But he can’t afford to be late to his first overseas meeting in his new job. He dashes into one of the lifts before the doors slide shut, smiling apologetically to the serious-faced witch he almost crashes into.

Technically your role will be catching transnational criminals, Potter, Craster had told him during his informal interview. But the biggest part of it will be convincing other countries to co-operate with you so you can do it. You’d be surprised how difficult it is. You’ll be more diplomat than auror.

In fact, his first real test has presented itself not in the form of international crime or precarious international relations, but the Quidditch World Cup, of all things.

After many failed bids in the last decade, England had finally been awarded the chance to host the next World Cup. The Sports and Games department had worked tirelessly for months to put forward a standout bid, and when the IQC had announced England as the next host nation, the celebrations had been wild.

But they had also been short lived. Concern around England’s ability to ensure public safety, given what happened the last time they hosted, meant a significant number of countries objected to the result, throwing the whole thing into uncertainty.

Several emotive meetings with Sports and Games, a flurry of correspondence with the IQC and Harry had managed to negotiate an agreement; England could host the World Cup as planned, provided the European Committee for Magical Law Enforcement and Co-operation is satisfied with England's proposals for tournament security and safety.

And this week, it’s Harry’s job to make sure they are. Failure is not an option.

The building gets stuffier the further into it Harry gets, his suit jacket uncomfortably warm as he traipses through the corridors of the fifth floor in search of conference room seven.

The large table in the centre of the room is over half full with delegates already. He exhales at the rise in temperature, the sun beating through the large windows making the room even hotter than the corridor.

"Name?" The man by the door barely looks up from his table of badges and binders.

“Potter,” Harry says quietly, accepting his name badge and a red folder.

At the sound of Harry's name, the man standing in front of him turns. He's tall, with smooth, dark skin - casually sophisticated in a beige linen suit, white t-shirt underneath. His eyes are warm behind square, wire rimmed glasses as he smiles at Harry.

“Mr Potter? I don't believe we’ve met before.” He speaks in perfect, accented English. A French accent, if Harry had to guess, as the man extends a hand towards him. “I’m Mathieu, Henri Casteau’s interpreter for the meeting.”

Henri Casteau is the French delegate and chair of the meeting, Harry recalls. He returns a polite smile, shifting his binder into his left hand so he can shake Mathieu’s. “Nice to meet you, Mathieu. Please, call me Harry.”

Mathieu’s smile widens. “So, are you ready for all the attention you’ll receive this week, Harry?” He gestures towards Harry’s binder. “It looks like it will be quite a spotlight on you.”

The binder contains the advance documentation for the meeting, most of which was provided by him.

Harry laughs wryly. “Luckily, I’m quite used to a spotlight.” He scans the table, just too far to be able to read the place names. “I don’t suppose you know where abouts I’m …?”

“Oh, yes. You’re there.” Mathieu points to the chair closest to them. A blonde man sits with his back to them in the seat next to Harry's, flicking through the documents. His other arm is draped casually over the back of his chair. The interpreter, Harry guesses.

He wears a pale grey linen shirt, sleeve rolled up to his forearm. His white blonde hair is sleek, a slight wave to it, ending at the nape of his neck. It's nice. In fact, there's something quite appealing about the man himself, the way he holds himself, somehow proper and casual all at once.

Harry blinks himself out of the thought, turning back to Mathieu with a smile. “But first, coffee. That way, right?” He points over to the refreshment table along the far wall.

Mathieu looks over and nods. “Oui. Henri’s ordered in the good stuff, I see.”

The man in grey doesn't glance up as Harry quickly deposits his folder and satchel onto the table with a distracted greeting before dashing off towards the coffee.

“Merlin's tits,” he mutters as he returns, setting his cup down. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and places it around his chair. “Can't they add cooling charms to these rooms? It's hotter than the devil's arsehole in here.”

The man snorts a laugh and Harry turns, extending a hand.

“I'm–”

“Good morning to you too, Potter.”

Harry's name dissolves on his tongue as he looks directly into the now older - and somehow a lot more attractive than Harry remembers it being - face of Draco Malfoy.

Harry leans back in shock at their proximity, snapping his outstretched hand back. “Malfoy? What the f–?”

Harry quickly recovers himself before he can finish his sentence. He exhales awkwardly, trying a smile, instead. “Sorry. I didn't, I mean… It's er, good to see you again, Malfoy.”

Malfoy is watching Harry, his eyes dropping to where Harry's offered hand was retracted. There's a sardonic twist to the little smile on his surprisingly nice face. Was he always this… symmetrical?

Malfoy looks away. “Now, we both know that's a lie, don't we?”

Harry frowns. It’s the posh voice he remembers from years back, but lower - carrying the experience of life in it Harry supposes - and a definite bitter edge to it now.

Harry sighs, cursing himself for his startled reaction, clearly setting them off on the wrong foot. Merlin. He did not foresee his first hurdle of the week being Draco bloody Malfoy of all things.

But Harry is here to placate. To be diplomatic. To ensure England gets the World Cup next summer. He absolutely does not have time to dick on with school boy feuds. He's nearly thirty for goodness sake. Malfoy must feel the same.

Harry shrugs, smiles and tries for a joke. “Okay, well maybe ‘good’ was a bit of a stretch.”

Malfoy hums, without looking at him. “Harry Potter getting his words wrong. Who'd have thought?”

Irritation prickles, more at Malfoy's bored drawl and refusal to look at Harry than his childish words. Over a decade since they'd last seen each other, but apparently it’s the same old shit. Harry rolls his eyes and turns to his own folder, grabbing his coffee. “Draco Malfoy. Still an arsehole. Who'd have thought?”

The coffee is excellent.

The seats around the table are filling as people take their seats.

“Are you familiar with how this works?” Malfoy sounds bored.

“Nope.” If Malfoy doesn't want friendliness, that's fine. Harry can do curt too.

“The delegates will speak in their native tongue throughout. I will simultaneously translate for you. If you're amenable, the usual practice is for me to spell my voice directly to your ear, which makes it easier for you to hear and causes less disturbance to other attendees. I assume that's all okay?”

Malfoy's tone is business-like as he flicks idly through his binder. Harry shifts slightly in his seat. It all makes sense, but, well. It's going to be strange, having to rely on Malfoy so much.

“Sure,” he replies smoothly. He sweeps his eyes around the room. Everyone seems to have an interpreter beside them too. “You speak all the languages here?”

“Yes. My Romanian is not as fluent as I’d like it to be, but it shouldn't be a problem for this. If there's any part I'm not one hundred percent on, I'll let you know. Anything else?”

Harry's reluctantly impressed. He's not stupid, himself. His childhood had not been one particularly conducive to learning, nor to fostering a love of learning anything other than how to stay alive.

But once he was out of childhood, away from hunger and adrenaline; beyond the constant surprises thrown at him by the magical world; away from the near constant peril of war and being hunted by a psychopath – once he'd finally had space to fucking breathe, in other words – Harry found he could learn and retain information just fine.

Languages, however? They are completely beyond him. He’s tried twice to take French and Spanish classes, dropping out each time in the first few weeks. He just can't grasp anything more than a few words or phrases before it all turns to gobbledegook.

He keeps his begrudging appreciation of Malfoy's skill to himself as he takes out his pens and a notebook from his satchel. “No, that's all fine.” He pauses. “Thanks,” he adds, determined to keep things cordial from his side.

He flips his notebook open and takes a last look over his notes. From the corner of his eye he watches Malfoy double take at Harry’s full page of chaotic shorthand scribbles, but ignores him as he rolls his sleeves up and casts a cooling charm over himself.

The meeting starts, and Harry nearly falls off his chair in shock as Malfoy's voice starts to pour soft and low in his ear. He hadn't even felt the spell.

“Welcome everyone to the biannual meeting of the European Committee for Magical Law Enforcement and Co-operation. You should all have received advance copies of the agenda and relevant documentation…”

It feels like Malfoy's mouth is at Harry's ear as he speaks, low and professional. As if Harry should be feeling the brush of Malfoy's lips on his earlobe, should be able to feel the warmth of his breath as well as the rich sound of his words slithering into his brain. Fucking hell, it's distracting.

Harry tenses his muscles to stop the shiver that threatens to spill over him. It's so weird. He grips his coffee mug for something to ground him, breathing deeply and focusing across the table on Casteau addressing everyone in French. He fixes his eyes on Casteau’s salt and pepper hair and impossibly deep chin dimple, carefully avoiding looking at Malfoy. And slowly but surely, he gets used to the low voice too close to his ear, enough to actually tune in to the proceedings.

“We have a list of apologies, all absent countries having indicated their agreement to whatever is decided at this meeting…”

Malfoy translates the list of countries. Of the sixteen members of the committee, Harry's unsurprised that only seven countries are in attendance. By all accounts, these meetings do tend to be rather tedious.

“You will be aware that this meeting has been extended to five working days instead of the initial three, due to the late addition to the agenda of England's successful bid to host the Quidditch World Cup.” A few eyes turn towards Harry at that and he acknowledges them with a small smile. “We hope you'll take the weekend in the middle to explore what a beautiful city we have here.”

As the meeting goes on, Harry can't help but admire the speed and apparent ease with which Malfoy interprets the languages around the room, never once stumbling over words. Every so often Harry glances sideways from his note-taking to see Malfoy doodling on his pad as he translates, arm blocking whatever he's drawing or writing from Harry's view.

At the first coffee break, Malfoy flips his binder shut and is up and out of his chair before he's even finished translating. “Coffee break for ten minutes,” he mutters and then he's heading for the door.

Harry grabs himself a strong cup of tea from the refreshment table, greeting a few delegates before returning to his seat to find Malfoy still hasn't returned. Malfoy’s binder sits on top of his open notebook, obscuring whatever he’d been scribbling all morning.

He shouldn't. He knows it's unprofessional, bloody rude in fact, but curiosity tugs at him like an impatient toddler. After a quick glance over his shoulder and a brief moment of indecision, he slides a pinky under the side of the binder and lifts it, slanting his eyes discreetly.

His eyebrows rise in surprise. Malfoy has sketched a series of hands in different positions. The largest of them sits in the middle of the page, a hand around a coffee mug, sketched in light, broad pencil strokes. And it's good. Well, to Harry's untrained eye it is, anyway; realistic and, well, quite beautiful actually. He lets the binder fall, not knowing what he was expecting but, not that.

A minute later, Malfoy drops down next to him, lazily flicking his wand at Harry's head without looking at him. Harry has to swallow his irritation at the sheer fucking rudeness of Malfoy casting a spell at him without warning again. He grits his teeth. He really needs to find a way to clear the air between them, because a week of this shit is not happening.

Casteau is speaking again, Malfoy's voice back in his ear.

“And so we move to the main item on our agenda; England, and the safety concerns for the World Cup. For those who haven’t met him yet, Mr Potter is here to present the measures England plan to implement to ensure public safety during the tournament. He will answer any specific questions or concerns as we go along, and will do so wearing a ridiculous fucking tie that looks like it came straight out of a Weasley establishment. Mr Potter?”

Harry blinks and takes a second to work out what just happened as the room goes quiet, the delegates around the table smiling expectantly at him.

Oh. What an absolute arsehole.

The garish England tie was a mistake, Harry will freely admit it. It had been thrust upon him by Marie, the formidable QWC campaign manager, who insisted all the delegates would be wearing similar ties depicting their respective countries. They were not.

All eyes are on Harry as he clears his throat and smiles at a few faces around the table. “Ah, thank you Monsieur Casteau. Please, everyone call me Harry.” He straightens his tie.

“I suppose firstly, I ought to apologise for my ridiculous tie.” There's a low ripple of laughter from around the table as he sweeps a hand down at himself. “Us English aren't exactly known for our fashion sense, are we?” Harry runs an awkward hand through his already mussed hair as there's another wave of laughter, the loudest coming from the Spanish delegate opposite.

Harry gives a self deprecating smile. “Come to think of it, I'm not sure what us English are known for. Sarcasm and bad food, perhaps?” Several people laugh genuinely at that.

“Ridiculous and badly dressed we might be. But if there's one thing we’re serious about, it’s Quidditch. And I'm hopeful that over the next few days I’ll convince you that there's no safer or better country to host the World Cup next summer than England.”

He's encouraged by the smiles around the table as the low buzz of interpreters translate his words, and he smiles to himself. Fuck you, Malfoy.

He spends the rest of the morning presenting statistics on stadium capacities, Portkeys and ticket sales. When he's interrupted with questions, Malfoy interprets them seamlessly into his ear without any further snidey additions, sketching lazily in his notebook.

“And now we'll break for lunch,” Malfoy is translating. “It's customary for lunch in France to be spent away from our workplace. We have taken the liberty of booking a table at L’Ambroisie for anyone here who would like to join us. We will reconvene at 2pm.”

Malfoy stands quickly and Harry stands with him, instinctively placing a hand on his arm before he can dart off again, determined to sort things out.

“Malfoy.”

Malfoy still has that look, bored and mocking, the slightest movement of an eyebrow the only thing conveying his question. Even looking like an arrogant dick, he’s irritatingly handsome.

Harry sighs, speaking low so no one else can hear. “Look, can we just cut the shit? You still dislike me, and that's fine. I get it.” Malfoy's eyebrow arches higher. “But we have to work together for the next week, and it will be much easier if we're not–” Harry pauses, wondering how to phrase it. “Being us.” Very diplomatic, considering Harry is not the problem here. “You know?”

Malfoy considers him with a slight tilt of his head, before heaving a sigh. He moves his arm out of Harry's grasp. “Okay. Yes, sure. Is that it?”

Harry nods warily, suspicious of his quick acquiescence. “So, we're good?” he asks slowly.

Malfoy gives him a tight smile. “We're great.”

Mathieu, Casteau’s interpreter, approaches them both and Harry watches with surprise as he presses his cheek to Malfoy's. Malfoy accepts easily, offering the other cheek.

“Draco,” Mathieu says, low in familiarity. “Are you coming to lunch?”

“Non, je dois rentrer chez moi.”

Mathieu nods in understanding. “Pierre?”

Malfoy nods, placing a hand on his arm. “Oui. À plus.” He’s already making for the door when he turns back to Harry and gives a tight nod. “Potter.”

Harry nods back, watching him as he hurries out.

Mathieu turns to Harry. “Are you coming to the restaurant?”

Harry nods, tucking his notebook into his satchel and grabbing his jacket. “You two friends?” Harry indicates towards the door.

“Me and Draco? Yes. We trained together, many years ago now. We've been friends ever since.” They begin to walk with the others. “And you? Do you know Draco from England?”

Harry reflects. “We went to school together, but I wouldn't say I know him. Not really, anyway.” Mathieu looks at him curiously as Harry struggles to think of how he'd describe his history with Malfoy. He smiles and shrugs. “It's a bit complicated.”

Mathieu’s voice is thoughtful as he nods. “Draco doesn't talk about England much. He’s never mentioned knowing you before.”

Harry laughs. “I can well believe that.”

Lunch is a trying affair as Harry's social stamina starts to flag. Between trying to negotiate a fully French menu and getting stuck discussing wizarding banking with Stefan - the Romanian delegate - he’s desperate for some peace before the afternoon's meeting. He makes his excuses as soon as he's eaten and returns to the Ministry, savouring the sunshine as he ambles back.

After making it through the various security checkpoints, there's still twenty minutes of their break left and Harry's reluctant to return to the stuffy meeting room until he absolutely has to.

He strolls aimlessly around the perimeter of the building, hands in his pockets. He's mentally running through the points he needs to present this afternoon when he looks up to see Malfoy leaning alone against the wall, smoking.

He stops short, readying to turn around when Malfoy spots him. He watches Malfoy’s eyes sweep over him with something that looks closer to curiosity than hostility. Harry lingers for a second, trapped in indecision as he looks longingly at Malfoy’s cigarette.

Fuck it. The cigarette wins.

Malfoy waits until Harry’s almost beside him to speak.

“When did you acquire charm, Potter?”

Harry smirks as he leans against the wall next to him. “Fuck off.”

Malfoy huffs a laugh. “That's more like it.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Harry indicates towards Malfoy's cigarette. “Any chance I can pinch one of those?”

Malfoy looks at him in surprise, but fishes his packet out of his pocket, flicking it open and offering it out.

“Pretty sure I undid any of this morning’s charm at lunch just now,” Harry says with a sigh as he takes one.

Malfoy flicks ash onto the ground, contemplating Harry's words. “Why, what did you do?”

Harry lights his cigarette wandlessly, enjoying the heady rush as he inhales. He waves his other hand dismissively. “Ah, you know. Schoolboy errors. Refused the offered wine and had a beer instead. Tried to change something on the menu. Used terrible French. Was very English, basically.” Malfoy snorts softly. “Do they always take such long lunches here?”

Malfoy nods once. “Yes. They don’t have any of that sandwich at your desk nonsense in France. Proper lunches only.” His voice is low and soft - pleasant, now it's lost its sarcastic edge. Harry watches as he exhales his smoke steadily, angled away from Harry. “It’s much more civilised, don’t you think?”

Harry hums and resists the urge to stare, forcing himself to look straight ahead as they smoke in silence.

“I’m going back in,” Malfoy says quietly after a couple of minutes, vanishing his cigarette.

Harry nods, lifting his hand. “Thanks for this.”

Malfoy nods back and Harry keeps his eyes on the flowerbeds, aware of Malfoy looking him over, but not giving in to the temptation to look back until he's walking away.

The afternoon goes quickly after that. Harry presents the exhaustive plans he’s devised with Sports and Games and the DMLE, from wand checkpoints, travel infrastructure to stadium staffing and crowd control.

He knows he’s doing well, can read how his answers are being received. He’s over prepared for this and anticipated all the questions so far. He answers with confidence, inserting jokes when appropriate, repeating himself with patience, referring to the documentation and leaving no room for doubts.

Malfoy interprets the delegates’ questions quickly and flawlessly into Harry’s ear. Every now and again, he watches Malfoy in his periphery, lazily sweeping his pencil around his notepad, apparently uninterested in Harry's presentation as he translates.

Towards the end of the day, Harry’s being drilled particularly enthusiastically by the Spanish delegate.

Harry had noticed the man glancing at him often during lunch, but they haven't met properly yet. He’s one of the youngest in the room, with soft brown eyes, rich, golden skin and an easy smile. His dark wavy hair is falling about his face as he looks from the paperwork to Harry, dynamic and interested as he asks yet another question.

Malfoy translates his Spanish smoothly. “You have supplied realistic numbers for predicted ticket sales, but it's unclear how you've estimated the numbers for ticketless fans. How can you be sure your plan for crowd control is sufficient without accurate estimates?”

Harry smiles at the man. “That's a good question. If you turn to page–” he spells his page to the one he needs. “Thirty four, you'll see a table with numbers I’ve extrapolated from data from the last five World Cups.”

He waits for everyone to find the page before continuing. Harry looks at each of the delegates around the table as he answers, explaining how he reached his estimates. When he turns back to the Spanish delegate, Harry notes that he's pointedly ignoring his binder and the statistics Harry is referring to. Instead he looks directly at Harry as his interpreter speaks at his side.

When Harry finishes, the man sits back with a smile, tapping his wand on the table.

“No me cuadran demasiado los números, Harry. Tal vez.” He clears his throat and looks away with a smile. “¿Los podríamos revisar mientras cenamos?”

There are a few titters around the table. Harry's confused. He has no idea what the man just said, or why it's funny, because Malfoy's simultaneous translation has paused.

“He's not convinced of your numbers,” Malfoy says after a couple of beats, and Harry immediately clocks the addition of pronouns, a change in his translation style. “He wants to discuss it with you further." Another pause. "Over dinner.”

Ah. Harry looks across the table at the man, who’s still smiling and holding Harry's gaze evenly as the rest of the table waits for Harry to reply. Harry smiles. Brazen bastard.

He clears his throat. “Ah. Sure. I’d be more than happy to go over them with you. At dinner.” Another few knowing laughs sound around the table as Antonio beams.

Casteau claps his hands together. “Excellent! À ce propos, permettez-moi de…”

“They're wrapping up for the day,” Malfoy mutters, needlessly, as the sound of binders snapping shut and people shifting in their seats has already begun.

Harry nods, scribbling a quick note to himself to grab some more up to date stats on portkey travel during previous World Cups.

“He wants to fuck you. In case that isn't clear to you.”

Harry halts his writing at the words, then starts again without looking up. “Yep. I got that, thanks.”

“Just checking.”

Harry finishes his note and sits back. He wonders if Malfoy thinks he's that much of an idiot that he didn't know he was being asked out. Or perhaps he has an issue with Harry accepting a dinner invitation from a man.

Before he can say anything further, there's a cough behind them, followed by a question in Spanish. They both stand, turning to face the Spanish delegate.

The man smiles at Harry, revealing straight white teeth as he extends a hand. “Sorry, my English is terrible,” he announces happily. “Antonio.”

His grip is warm and firm, their handshake lasting a beat longer than necessary. Harry smiles back.

“Harry. And your English is much better than my Spanish, trust me.”

Malfoy sighs, and Harry turns. “Have you met my interpreter, Mr Malfoy, before?”

“No. Mucho gusto.” Their handshake is much shorter. “Hablando de la cena. Me estaba preguntando si a Harry le gusta el marisco.”

Harry waits for Malfoy to translate the words. Malfoy looks at his nails. “He wants to know if you eat fish.”

“Ah,” Harry bites his lip and smiles apologetically at Antonio. “I'm afraid my goddaughter hounded me to become veggie last year. I'm fully converted now.”

Draco conveys Harry's words in Spanish, so effortlessly it’s both impressive and galling in equal measure. Antonio smiles and nods at Malfoy's words.

“Ah, muy bien. Un momento.” Antonio moves forward between them to the table, taking a pen out of his back pocket and leaning over to write something down. Harry discreetly runs his eye over the curve of Antonio's arse, shapely in his dark tailored trousers. He looks up to catch Malfoy doing the same.

Harry raises his brows. So, not an issue then. Malfoy notices Harry looking at him and a moment of understanding passes between them before Antonio interrupts. “¿Nos vemos allí a las siete y media?"

Antonio passes Harry a note with a name and address. Malfoy sounds put upon as he translates. “He'll meet you at the restaurant at eight.”

At eight o'clock exactly, Harry stops short outside the restaurant. He's surprised to be met with the smell of seafood, taking a moment to realise what's happened.

Then he is completely unsurprised. That fucking arsehole.

He spots Antonio through the window, sitting alone at a table with an almost finished glass of wine.

“Sorry, have you been waiting long?” Harry asks politely as he slides into the seat opposite, accepting a menu from the waiter.

Antonio's smile is tense. “Harry. I think you no come.”

Harry smiles back confusedly. “We said eight, yeah? Errr– huit?” He offers up eight fingers. Antonio's puzzled frown, seven fingers and broken English tells Harry all he needs to know. He apologises for his mistake and lateness, hiding his irritation. Fucking Malfoy.

Things go from bad to worse when Harry attempts, unsuccessfully, to order something from the menu to be adapted and served without fish.

The waiter looks at Harry like he just took a piss on his shoe. “Non. This ees a seafood restaurant. We serve seafood.” Antonio watches the whole exchange with a slightly bewildered expression.

Harry ends up ordering two side salads and leaves the restaurant dissatisfied and tipsy from the wine.

“Los demàs, this way,” Antonio motions down the busy street, lit up with bars and restaurants.

Their conversation through dinner had been nice enough, a lot of trading names of international quidditch players and miming. But the language barrier was proving quite difficult to break down. “Or. The hotel, this way?” He motions in the other direction.

Harry doesn’t miss the drop in the pitch of his voice, the pointed look on Antonio's face as he waits for Harry’s reply, and Harry’s cock gives an interested stir. Maybe. The language barrier definitely wouldn't be a problem for that. Harry points towards the bars. “Shall we have a drink first?”

They find the other delegates sitting outside a bar, their large, noisy table filled with wine bottles, scattered glasses and ashtrays. Harry spots Malfoy down at the end of the table, looking relaxed in a dark, long sleeved t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, cigarette in hand, leaning back in his chair chatting to Mathieu.

A break in their conversation allows Malfoy to glance over, his eyes alighting on Harry. His mouth curls slightly around his cigarette as he looks between Harry and Antonio, before he turns back to his conversation.

Gods, he’s galling. Harry takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. He wants to confront Malfoy about the mistranslations, or better yet, fire off a jinx at his arse.

But he's an adult and a fucking diplomat, and he is better than that - even if Malfoy is still as petty as he was at fourteen. Harry takes a deep breath and vows to ignore him instead.

After a day of talking, Harry’s content to sip his drink, soak up the atmosphere and listen to the chat around him. A few people try to draw him into conversation, but he politely cuts them short until they eventually give up. The music gets louder, spilling out to the patio as the alcohol flows and everyone relaxes into the night.

Harry accepts a cigarette from a middle aged interpreter to his right, making a note to buy himself a pack tomorrow. With his head now pleasantly woolly, it's becoming harder and harder to stick to his plan to ignore Malfoy. His wine-soothed brain is taking hold, his eyes wandering down to the other end of the table of their own accord.

The problem is, he looks good. Really good. Malfoy has looked handsome and relaxed all day, but there’s something different about him tonight. Soft cotton sleeves crinkled up, he chats easily with Mathieu and the others around him. He smiles softly, occasionally laughing or giving small, unconcerned shrugs, taking deep drags of his cigarettes and carefully exhaling away from the table with a seasoned twist of his mouth. He's quiet, but seems so assured of himself.

Harry’s mind drifts back to Hogwarts, to when he used to watch Malfoy across the hall, and he tries to chart the similarities and differences between then and now. It's tricky. He supposes Malfoy looks as artificially similar to his teenage self as anyone does at the age of thirty. His features are technically the same, yet so wholly different now they're not dominated by youthful arrogance or abject terror. Or perhaps they are exactly the same, but it’s Harry who’s seeing them differently?

Whatever the case, one fact remains certain; Malfoy is easily the most attractive man here. It's kind of annoying, actually, just how lovely he is to look at.

It's also annoying how studiously Malfoy ignores Harry, his eyes staying firmly over his side of the table, never once straying in Harry’s direction.

It shouldn't be a surprise, really. It is them after all. Their shared history was unpleasant even before the war. And even if Harry prefers to keep the past dead and buried, perhaps it's too much for Malfoy to get over.

No, it isn't surprising that Malfoy still dislikes him. But Harry finds himself aiming more than one regretful little sigh into his drink all the same. It's going to be a long week.

Harry decides to make this drink his last one. He takes a drag of his cigarette, looking around, not willing to admit to himself that he’s searching for Malfoy, whose seat has been empty for a while. He finally spots him through the full tables, standing at the bar with Mathieu.

Malfoy leans back on his elbows holding a tumbler of clear liquid in a relaxed grip. Mathieu has his arm thrown loosely around Malfoy’s shoulder. French rap blares loudly over the bar's speakers and Harry realises they aren’t talking, but rapping along to the song.

Mathieu is enthusiastic. Malfoy is much less exuberant but smiling as he joins in, rapping with him word for word in quickfire French.

Harry’s mouth goes dry. He might even stop breathing at the sight of Malfoy’s lips moving around the words with practised ease.

It must be a popular song, because at least half the people in the bar are shouting along to the chorus, but Harry doesn’t see them. All he sees is Malfoy, the way he doesn't miss a single word, even as he laughs.

He can't remember the last time he was so hungry to look at a person, to imprint every detail in his memory, unable to look away.

Thankfully the two men are too wrapped up in each other to notice Harry watching them. He smiles to himself, admiring their easy intimacy.

There's something about seeing Malfoy like this; relaxed, clever, rapping, smiling. It pushes something strange into Harry's chest.

He shakes his head. He's definitely had too much wine.

He realises belatedly that Antonio is speaking to him, holding a bottle towards him questioningly. Harry holds his glass out and nods his assent to the top up, trying, and failing, to keep his eyes from tracking back to Malfoy again.

He watches them until his cigarette burns down to the filter and he's in real danger of looking like an absolute stalker. He excuses himself to go to the loo, deciding that it really is time to leave.

He's washing his hands when Malfoy enters. Their eyes meet and they both seem to share a moment of wide-eyed indecision on how to greet one another. Malfoy recovers first, blinking into a small smile. “Potter. How was your dinner?”

Ah. Yes. Looking across the table through wine drunk eyes, Harry had almost forgotten that the fit bloke he’d been staring at all night is Malfoy. Malfoy, who deliberately sabotaged Harry's evening for his own amusement.

Harry rolls his eyes as he dries his hands on a paper towel and vanishes it with a wave. “You're a dick.”

Malfoy's lip quirks as he steps to walk past. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

Harry moves to bar his way and Malfoy stops abruptly, eyebrows raising. He's slightly taller than Harry, but Harry is broader. He widens his stance as he blocks Malfoy's path.

“I thought we were good?”

Harry's satisfied to hear his voice is cool, even as his stomach jumps at their sudden proximity.

Malfoy cocks his head, eyeing Harry with interest, and Harry makes sure his face betrays nothing even as his skin prickles under the scrutiny. Malfoy sighs and glances around, gesturing with his hand.

“Look, Potter. We’re in a bathroom together and we're not trying to kill each other. I'd say that's pretty good for us, no?”

His eyes are back on Harry, a playful smile lifting the corner of his mouth, the flicker of a challenge on his face.

Harry begrudgingly returns his smile, glancing away before he smiles too much, and then back. “I suppose it’s a start.”

“A start?” Malfoy raises his eyebrows, mouth turning smug. “What more do you want from me, exactly? Undying fealty?”

He's being a sarky bastard, obviously, but his words do something to Harry. What more do you want? His eyes drop to Malfoy's teasing smile and wildly inappropriate images of shoving Malfoy against the wall fill his mind; of licking into Malfoy's clever mouth and pressing up against his lean body and–

The door opens, Mathieu almost bumping into Malfoy, breaking Harry from his thoughts.

“Pardon, is there a queue, or…?” His voice trails off as he looks between Harry and Malfoy. “Am I interrupting?”

Harry snaps his eyes from Malfoy to Mathieu. “No, not at all. I was just–” Harry gestures towards the door. He moves past Malfoy without looking at him, giving Mathieu a polite smile as he leaves, trying to rid his mind of images of kissing Malfoy.

By the time Malfoy is back at the table, everyone is finishing their drinks, readying to leave. Mathieu and some of the younger delegates talk animatedly about going to another bar. Mathieu turns to Malfoy. “Draco? You're coming, oui?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Non, je dois rentrer.”

Mathieu laughs, flinging an arm around him with a drunken smile. “Ahh, back to Pierre,” he puts his other hand over Malfoy’s chest and turns to the others. “His true love.”

Malfoy smiles and elbows him off with muttered French, grabbing his jacket as Harry's gut twists sourly. Of course he has someone to go home to.

“And you, Harry? You'll come with us? The night is still young!”

He feels Malfoy's eyes on him. “Err, no. Thanks. I think I'll head off, too. Been a long day.”

Mathieu sighs exaggeratedly, shaking his head.

“Antonio! ¿Vienes?"

Antonio is finishing his drink. He puts his glass down and shakes his head, smiling and replying in rapid Spanish.

As they all move into the street, they sort themselves into groups of those staying out and those leaving. Some of them are doing the French pretend-kissing thing and Harry finds himself following suit, dutifully allowing people he's literally just met that day to press their cheek to his, pretending it isn't weird. Diplomacy and all that.

Two awkward air kisses in, a sudden panic starts to bubble inside him, because Malfoy is saying his goodbyes to the group as well, and looking far more comfortable with the whole hugging and kissing thing than he has any right to for a fucking Brit.

But just as they reach one another, Malfoy abruptly halts, apparently sharing Harry's uncertainty on how to navigate this situation.

Malfoy looks amused as they both stand awkwardly looking at each other, the others continuing around them.

“Harry?” Antonio's voice next to him interrupts his stand-off with Malfoy. “Hotel?”

Alcohol has loosened Antonio’s smile and worsened his English.

Harry only manages a half smile in return, exhausted from all the making nice today. “Oh. Er, yes. I'm coming.”

When he glances back at Malfoy, it's to a knowing look. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Potter.” He gives Harry a small smile as his eyes cut to Antonio.

A bizarre niggle of disappointment winds through Harry. “Er, yeah. Thanks. You too.”

Malfoy says something to Antonio in polite Spanish, switching languages effortlessly, and Harry really wishes it didn't impress him every single time.

With a final half wave, Malfoy walks off into the night. Harry watches him go, wondering what he's going back to. And who.

In the hotel lift, Antonio turns heated eyes and an unreserved, handsome smile on Harry. He steps close, his spicy, masculine scent inviting as he presses warm, drunk lips on Harry's.

It's what he'd expected, even hoped for earlier. But it takes Harry less than five seconds to realise he’s just not feeling it. His mouth is not returning Antonio's kiss, and he feels no inclination to. Not even the barest sizzle of arousal in his blood. He draws back, a gentle hand on Antonio's chest.

“Sorry.” Harry smiles apologetically and shakes his head. “This isn't going to happen.”

Antonio looks surprised, dark eyebrows rising. “No?” He reaches out and hooks a single finger into Harry's waistband, watching Harry's face. “You don't want?”

Harry gently removes Antonio’s hand, shaking his head again. “No. Let's keep things professional, yeah?”

Disappointment drifts across Antonio's face, and he frowns for a second before heaving a sigh and giving a bemused shrug. “Okay. Sure.”

Later, as he burrows into his comfortable mattress, Harry reflects on the day.

The meeting has been a success so far. He's made all the points he wanted to and is certain they’ve been accepted. It’s too early to tell, of course, but he's pretty sure he's made a good impression with the other delegates. Except Antonio, perhaps. 

Harry doesn't know why he rejected Antonio. The man's nice looking and seems like good fun. Perfect for something casual. But it just hadn’t felt right. And though he can't quite put his finger on why, he follows his intuition with these things. Even if Malfoy hadn't sabotaged their dinner, he’s not sure it would have led to anything with Antonio, anyway.

Malfoy. Gods, that’s still a bit of a shock, the whole Malfoy thing. No one back home has heard from him in years, as far as Harry's aware. He was the last person Harry had expected to bump into, much less have to work with this week.

He’s obviously done well for himself. A good job, friends and a boyfriend called Pierre, apparently (he had checked– there’s no wedding ring on Malfoy's slender finger). Still an absolute arsehole, clearly, but a bloody attractive one.

He pictures Malfoy rapping with Mathieu, his quirking mouth moving around rapid French and a pulse of arousal stirs Harry's cock. If his eyelids weren’t so heavy, he’d definitely have a cheeky wank, thinking about Malfoy’s clever mouth.

But it's been a long day. Harry keeps his hand nestled under his pillow as he shifts to get comfortable, mind settling on the image of pink lips curling seductively around a cigarette as he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Thursday

Malfoy, Antonio, Antonio's interpreter, and Mathieu stand together at the refreshment table talking quietly when Harry enters the following morning. He deposits his satchel and jacket at the table and heads over.

He grabs himself a coffee before joining them, smiling good morning. He notices Malfoy glancing at his tie and gives him a small smirk. Getting ready this morning, Harry had decided he’s going to wear his England tie every day of the meeting now, purely to spite Malfoy.

Antonio says something in Spanish and Malfoy glances between Harry and Antonio.

“Antonio is wondering how your head is this morning, Potter?”

Harry smiles politely at Antonio, trying to detect any hard feelings. “It’s fine, thanks. I’m lucky, I don’t generally suffer from hangovers.” He sips his coffee. “And you?”

Antonio’s interpreter is translating Harry's words. Antonio smiles politely back as he replies, his tone soft, but a bit more formal than previously. Fair enough.

Malfoy looks at Harry curiously as he translates. “Antonio says he has the same luck as you.”

“Are you ready for more interrogation today, Harry?” Mathieu asks. “Yesterday was pretty intense.”

Harry nods. Today he’ll be talking about the last time England hosted the World Cup, how it went wrong and hopefully convincing everybody that it won’t happen again. He smiles. “Ready as I'll ever be.”

Harry's prepared for it. Knows the information by rote, so easily it trips off his tongue robotically, almost as if it wasn't part of his lived experience but simply facts he's had to memorise. Yes, regrettably three Muggles were harmed during the tournament and required obliviation. Yes, the Statute of Secrecy was compromised. No, the Ministry had no prior warning of the attack.

As he's questioned about death eaters, about ticket restrictions and background checks, he wonders how Malfoy's feeling about it all. Malfoy continues to translate evenly into Harry’s ear, his voice never wavering, showing no sign of being affected by the questioning and rehashing of the events at England's last World Cup. As far as he's aware, they're the only ones here who actually experienced the event.

The questions eventually move on from World Cup security to Voldemort and the war in general, as he knew they would. He answers as neutrally as he can as the questions deviate from the mandated to curious. How did England allow it to happen? Was the Ministry really infiltrated?

The public details of the war have been left deliberately vague. Less than a week after the Hogwarts battle all those years ago, Harry had been approached by the Ministry. They had asked him to agree to a series of press releases that deliberately muddied the waters regarding the war and the final battle, Harry's part in particular being reshaped and heavily minimised.

The public need to regain trust in the Ministry, Kingsley had explained. Harry had agreed. And I expect you've had enough public attention to last you a lifetime. He'd more than agreed with that.

Of course, his friends and the Order had initially seethed at what they saw as the Ministry manipulating Harry, painting themselves as heroes and taking his glory.

It took firm words to convince them that he wasn't being used; or rather, he was content to let it happen that way, because it was what he wanted. He didn't want glory; he never had.

The last thing Harry had needed after the war was accolades and more unwanted fame. What he'd needed was space. To grieve, to breathe, to find his place in the world and move on. As far as he was concerned, people could believe whatever they wanted.

So yes. He had agreed to the press releases that painted him as a tiny cog in the machine that brought down Voldemort. Let the public believe that while the final spell might have come from his wand, it was actually the Order, covertly backed by the Ministry, that had been behind Voldemort’s downfall. He really didn't give a shit if people knew what he did. The public had needed trust and stability to recover, and Harry needed to be left the fuck alone.

There were still many people who knew how it really happened, of course. But the success of the Ministry's campaign to paint themselves as heroes, to bury certain information, and the lack of official accounts to the contrary, means there's always been an air of mystery surrounding the war; who the key players were and what exactly happened.

Plenty of people have tried to prise details from him over the years. And Harry senses from the tone of the questions now that the delegates are no longer questioning him for the sake of public safety, but for parts of England's war story as yet untold. A tidbit they can carry home and retell over drinks. Gossip.

He wasn’t prepared for it to bother him, but it sort of does. He tamps down his irritation and patiently gives the mandated Ministry line.

“It’s true that Voldemort and his followers managed to infiltrate the Ministry for a brief period, but there was always a significant core of Ministry employees working to bring him down from the inside.”

“They say Voldemort imperiused half the staff and tortured people in public?” Malfoy interprets the Romanian delegate’s words impassively.

Harry smiles tightly. “Many accounts are exaggerated. Nevertheless, security measures were instantly put in place following the war to ensure infiltration of any kind will never happen again.”

He runs through a summary of the additional security measures that were implemented post war.

When he's finished, the Italian delegate leans forward, her dark eyes wide.

“What did he look like?” she asks in English, apparently forgetting the agreement to speak in native languages. “They say he wasn't even human by the end.”

There’s a hush around the table as everyone waits. Harry can see Malfoy’s hand sketching rapidly next to him, left arm now by his side so Harry has an unobstructed view of his drawing.

Harry takes a sip of water as he tries to think of a diplomatic answer to her question.

He glances at Malfoy’s notepad that's now angled towards him and oh God, it's not funny. Fuck, it's not. But Malfoy has drawn a quick, lifelike sketch of Voldemort’s horrific face. Above it, he's scrawled the words: an ugly cunt.

Harry hides his snort in an elaborate cough, bringing his fist up to cover his mouth.

He needs to think of an answer quickly, one that isn't ‘well, he was a bit of an ugly cunt, actually’.

“Ermm, well. He was…” He flicks his eyes down again. Malfoy has drawn an arrow to Voldemort’s slitted nostrils and in small cursive writing has written the word noseless.

“Noseless,” Harry blurts. It’s Malfoy's turn to snort quietly next to him. Harry clears his throat, leveling out his voice as he meets the confused eyes of the Italian delegate. “He, erm. Had no nose. So.”

The table is silent but for the low buzz of interpreters.

“No…nose?” someone to Harry's left asks.

Harry keeps his face neutral as he shakes his head somberly. “None. At all.”

The table ponders Harry's words as Harry sees Malfoy's shoulders shaking in the corner of his eye. He gives him a light kick under the table.

A throat clears. “And how was he stopped, in the end? The details have always been unclear.”

Harry exhales. This one is much easier.

Malfoy's hands are rapidly sketching again, a flurry of sweeping scratches moving distractedly in the corner of Harry's vision as he answers by rote.

“Well. The Ministry, despite its infiltration, had formed a secret Order that worked undercover…”

He casts his eyes down as he speaks. Malfoy has drawn a cartoon figure with an exaggerated messy scribble for hair, holding a wand. Harry looks up again, trying to ignore the continued movement beside him.

“A carefully formulated plan was made to bring Voldemort down…”

When Harry looks again, the cartoon figure has angry eyebrows and a comically wide open mouth. Lightning bolts surround him and the words Expelliarmus motherfucker!! are encased in a speech bubble above his head.

Harry clamps around the laugh that bubbles in his throat at the ridiculous drawing, hiding it with another cough, giving Malfoy’s ankle another discreet kick.

Malfoy ignores him, eyes on his sketch as his hand keeps moving.

“There was a battle at Hogwarts, during which the Ministry’s plan was executed with precision…”

He’s loathed to look again, but he can’t help it. Malfoy has drawn a figure lying down, another looped little arrow over it, above which he scrawls Dead cunt.

“During the attack, Voldemort was taken down by…by...”

Malfoy is nonchalantly scribbling, making cartoon Harry's hair wilder and wilder, more and more ridiculous and Harry’s losing control of his voice as the hysterical laugh rattling in his chest crawls up his windpipe.

He coughs and stands abruptly, bringing a hand to his mouth again. “Excuse me,” he manages to choke out, before making a dash for the door.

He barely makes it out into the corridor before he's leaning against the wall, wild laughter ripping painfully at his ribs as he tries to keep it in, Malfoy's childish sketch of him vivid in his mind’s eye.

He hurries along the corridor, darting into the toilets before anyone can follow him, trying to find composure.

He’s leaning against the sink, breathing deeply when Malfoy's smirking face comes through the door.

“You dick!” Harry says immediately, trying to look stern.

Their eyes lock, and Harry pictures the scribbled hair again and another laugh bubbles out of him.

Malfoy's shocked smile is lovely, reaching his eyes and turning them bright as he watches Harry laugh.

Harry's breath catches in his throat and he quickly looks back down into the sink.

“Oh, relax,” Malfoy says as he lets the door swing shut behind him. “They all think you were overcome with emotion. Got a twenty minute coffee break out of it.”

Harry laughs again. “Dick,” he mutters again weakly.

Malfoy is walking past each cubicle, checking they're empty. “They just want a story,” he says over his shoulder.

“Don't they all?” Harry turns, watching as he moves along the doors. He's dressed in beige trousers and another grey linen shirt, darker than yesterday's. He looks effortlessly expensive. Effortlessly fit.

When he reaches the final cubicle he opens the door and stands to one side, gesturing with a lazy sweep of his hand for Harry to enter.

At Harry's shocked look he pulls his cigarettes from his pocket, a question on his face, and Harry inwardly laughs at himself for jumping to a different, ridiculously far-fetched scenario as he enters.

He leans against the side of the stall as Malfoy joins him, shutting them in, leaning on the opposite wall.

Harry glances around as he takes the offered cigarette. “No smoke detection charms in here?”

Malfoy lights his own with his wand and shrugs. “If there are, they're shit.” He eyes Harry with interest. “Do you never tell people what really happened?”

Harry shakes his head. “No.”

Malfoy seems to think about that as he looks at his feet. “Do you ever talk about any of it?” he asks quietly.

Harry takes a drag of his cigarette. “Not really. Well, I did to a Mind Healer years ago. Ron and Hermione, occasionally. But otherwise, no.” He looks at Malfoy. “What about you?”

Malfoy meets Harry's eyes, weighing up his answer, before shaking his head as he tips ash into the toilet bowl. “No. Never.”

They stay quiet, Harry wondering if Malfoy still has occasional flashbacks like him, or nightmares. If he ever wants someone to talk to, someone who understands the horror of it all.

“Doesn't it bother you, having to spout all that bullshit about the Ministry?” Malfoy sounds curious rather than accusatory. “That nobody knows what you did?”

“Nah. It’s made my life much easier.” Harry smiles wryly. “England is much less of the Harry Potter Show these days, you'll be pleased to hear.”

Malfoy huffs a laugh. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“No, really. I hardly get recognised at all outside of work circles these days.”

Harry's lying, a bit. He is still pretty famous, but it's nothing like what it was, or what it could have been. “Didn't even make the top ten of Witch Weekly’s most eligible bachelors this year.”

Malfoy laughs properly at that, face tilted upwards as he exhales smoke, and Harry's stomach gives a little flip as he watches it.

Malfoy glances at him, quirking a brow. “Where did you come?”

Harry hesitates. “Twelfth,” he admits.

Malfoy laughs again and Harry joins him, relaxing. “It's mostly quidditch players and rockstars with tattoos and tight trousers now. Not sure how I make the list at all, to be honest.”

Harry pretends not to notice Malfoy sweep an eye over him, body prickling as he wonders what Malfoy sees.

“I would never have pegged you for a politician.”

Harry screws up his face. “I'm not. Not in that sense anyway. But part of this new job is foreign relations, as you can see.” He sighs. “And I really can't afford to fuck this meeting up.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Let me guess, the whole of wizarding England is relying on you to be their hero once again?”

Harry ignores the sneer in his voice. “No. I mean, yes, everyone is desperate for the World Cup, obviously. But that's not it.”

He takes another pull on his cigarette, inhaling deeply as Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “There are two kids back home who will have my arse if I balls this up.”

He pulls his wallet from his back pocket, the small photograph of Teddy, Rose and little Hugo peeking from one of the folds. He slides it up with his thumb and holds it out to show Malfoy.

“My godchildren. The older two, Teddy and Rose, they're quidditch mad. I sort of promised them I'd make sure the World Cup would be in England next year.”

Malfoy looks at the photo with interest. “That was a stupid promise to make.”

Harry chuckles as he takes it back.

“Yeah, I know. I'm definitely stupid when it comes to them.”

It should be weird, smoking in the French Ministry toilets with Draco Malfoy. But what's actually weird, is that it isn't.

Things are easier in the afternoon as the questions veer away from Voldemort and back to the issue at hand. Harry fields the questions easily, making sure not to look at Malfoy’s sketches next to him, just in case.

At the second coffee break, they’re standing at the refreshment table when Malfoy gives Harry a look, a tiny jerk of his chin and a quick glance towards the door and back. Harry interprets the unspoken invitation and silently follows him from the room, a warm sense of victory enveloping him; he's not sure exactly how it happened, but it seems he's managed to befriend Malfoy, after all.

Inside the cubicle Harry accepts a cigarette with a muttered thanks.

“I’ll bring some tomorrow,” he promises.

“It’s alright Potter, I can afford to shout you a few fags.”

“I’m sure you can, but it’s the principle, isn't it? Can’t have you spreading it about that I’m a freeloader.”

Malfoy just shakes his head and they smoke in silence for a bit. “It seems to be going well?” he says eventually.

Harry nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

“You’re pretty convincing.”

Harry smiles at him. “So you have been listening?”

Malfoy scoffs. “It’s literally my job to listen.”

“To the others, it is. Not to me.” Harry takes a pull of his cigarette, watching him as he aims his smoke to the ceiling. “You’re good at drawing.”

Malfoy smirks. “You liked my cartoon? Might start a comic. The Adventures of Scarhead. What do you think?”

Ah yes, he didn’t know that Harry had seen the hands too.

He smiles. “I think you need a better hero.”

They continue to chat softly until they hear the door to the toilets open, two voices talking in French as they enter. He and Malfoy share a startled look of amusement as Malfoy flicks up a privacy charm. Harry imagines what it would look like if they were caught in here together and stifles a laugh, suddenly feeling like an errant schoolboy.

The feeling doesn’t leave him. When he's finished his cigarette, he flicks it into the air and with a elaborate twist of his wrist he vanishes it wandlessly. Showing off like a teenager, Harry. You're pathetic.

Malfoy tuts, the hint of a smile on his face. “Show off." He pauses, biting his lip. “Do mine.” He flicks his butt into the air and smiles properly as Harry vanishes it with a grin.

When he enters the restaurant that evening, Harry’s pleasantly surprised to see Malfoy has joined the delegates and other interpreters for dinner.

He resists the impulse to go straight over to him, unsure if their new truce extends to social hours or not. He hangs back with Casteau instead, taking a seat next to him when the waiter shows them to their table at the back of the restaurant.

“No ugly tie tonight, Potter?” Malfoy slides into the seat on his other side, and Harry has to bite his lip to stop himself from smiling.

“I would have kept it on if I’d known you were going to be here.” It’s true, he really would have.

With Malfoy at his side, this meal goes much more smoothly than the delegate lunches. Without making any kind of fuss, Malfoy helps him to order a vegetarian dish from the menu. And when language proves tricky at various points, he unobtrusively eases the conversation between Harry and the others. It’s nice.

He’s still Malfoy, of course, taking the piss out of him and purposely plying him with bad advice that Harry’s almost tempted to follow, just to see his reaction. But it’s lighthearted and surprisingly fun.

“Ask Casteau about politics,” Malfoy mutters in Harry’s ear. “The French love personal questions at dinner.”

Harry snorts. “And would that be before or after I offer to teach him the England quidditch chants?”

“So, Harry.” The German delegate, Gerda, is regarding him with pink cheeks and the glazed look of having consumed a bit too much wine. “You’re a handsome man. Tell me. Why are you not married yet?”

Harry laughs politely as Casteau shifts uncomfortably to his left, muttering under his breath. To his right, Malfoy ducks his head in a motion Harry's learning means he's listening. “Erm. I don't know.” He grins and shrugs. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Malfoy laughs softly as Gerda shakes her head. “Bah. You youngsters seem to wait half your life these days. The perfect person is waiting for you, you know. But you need to get out and find them.”

Harry chuckles into his drink and then gives her a wink. “Are you proposing to me, Gerda?”

He smirks when he hears Malfoy laugh. It's a different laugh to the others, a little chuckle in his throat and Harry's heart gives an odd, triumphant jolt at having pulled the sound from him.

After the meal, Harry agrees to go on to another bar with some of the others. Mathieu joins them on the way, greeting Malfoy with the standard cheek kisses, and the two of them immediately start speaking in rapid French.

A heat simmers low in Harry's groin as he listens, just as it seems to every time Malfoy shifts easily into French. Or Spanish. Or German. Shit, any language actually. Harry doesn't know why, but he likes it; likes it an indecent amount. It's the throaty noises he makes, maybe, the ones that aren’t used in English. It's the soft, musical lilt of the words as they roll easily off Malfoy's clever tongue. It's how fucking smart Malfoy is, to just carry all that language in his head. Harry drops back to walk with Antonio, safely out of range of Malfoy and his sexy French.

An hour later, Harry sits at their noisy patio table sandwiched between Antonio and Maria, the Italian delegate who’d asked about Voldemort earlier, caught up in a drinking game involving languages, of all things. He’s terrible at it, obviously, and getting steadily pissed as he entertains everyone with his attempts at foreign phrases.

“No, no wait! I can definitely do this one,” he insists. He surely can’t bungle it a second time. He clears his throat. “A ploos don le boos!”

A series of laughs erupt as one by one the thumbs around the table point downwards. Antonio cackles and shakes his head, pouring Harry more wine. Harry groans.

“Merlin, Potter, how do you manage to butcher every French word you attempt?” Malfoy's smiling at him from across the table.

Harry returns the smile tipsily. “It's a gift,” he says with a sweep of his glass, before gulping his drink down.

Malfoy looks at him tonight. Even in his drunk state, Harry notices how Malfoy's eyes keep finding his, before quickly glancing away. Every time Harry catches Malfoy’s eyes on him, his stomach flutters at finally having captured his attention, even if it is just because of his terrible language skills or inferior fashion choices.

By the time Harry’s finished making an arse out of himself linguistically, he's crossed the line from slightly pissed to really, actually drunk, his head pleasantly but irretrievably fuzzy. Inside, a live band plays a jaunty French song with a lovely keyboard riff, and several of them get up to dance. In a fit of bravery or stupidity, he's not sure which, Harry holds out a hand to Malfoy.

“Are you coming?”

Malfoy's eyebrows rise, mouth parting in surprise as he looks at Harry’s proffered hand.

He gives Harry an apologetic smile and shakes his head. “I don't dance,” he says, waving Harry's hand away.

“He's not lying, Harry,” Mathieu confirms as he stands. “Draco never dances.”

Harry hides his disappointment behind a smile and offers Mathieu his hand instead. He throws a quick smirk at Malfoy. “What's the French word for boring again?”

Malfoy's mouth curls up at the corner as he sits back in his chair, grabbing his drink and giving Harry the finger.

Harry feels Malfoy's eyes on him as he dances with Mathieu and the others. Every time he checks, it's to see Malfoy sitting, drink in hand, watching them. He wonders drunkenly what it would be like to dance with Malfoy. To have Malfoy's body up against him. He probably smells amazing. Gods, Harry really needs to stop thinking inappropriate thoughts about Malfoy.

It's far too late that Harry realises he's had too much to drink, and that is surely not an ideal situation for an important diplomat on important diplomatic business.

Most of the group are still dancing. Rather than try to shout his goodbyes over the dance floor, Harry gives a couple of gestures to show he's leaving and waves. There's no sign of Malfoy as he heads out into the evening.

He's a few steps down the road when Malfoy catches up with him.

“You're going the wrong way,” he says in Harry's ear, like a sexy bloody know it all.

Harry sighs and continues walking. “Maybe you're going the wrong way, Malfoy,” he replies haughtily, giving him a quick glance. “Ever think of that?”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. “Potter. Your hotel is literally in that direction.” He jerks his thumb backwards and then hesitantly puts a hand on Harry's arm, guiding him around the other way. Harry allows himself to be turned, the touch of Malfoy’s hand having a momentary sobering effect.

“Fine.” Harry sighs and wonders why Malfoy has to be so smart. And sober. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts walking again, concentrating on making his feet work properly.

Malfoy joins him, lighting a cigarette as they go. “Is your place this way too?” Harry asks, interested.

“No. But I think I'd better make sure England's Chosen One gets back in one piece, don’t you?”

Harry laughs. He wants to tell Malfoy that he doesn't need a babysitter. That he's an auror, or he was until recently, and if either of them is ensuring their safety, it will be Harry, thank you very much. But as he opens his mouth to speak, his feet stop following his orders and he stumbles.

Malfoy steadies him with strong arms. “Shitting hell, Potter!”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, aware of the slide of Malfoy's skin on his forearm as he straightens up. “Fucking feet.”

Malfoy laughs as Harry frowns and concentrates extra carefully on walking normally again as they continue in silence.

Outside the hotel, Harry turns to say goodnight. The light from the lamp post highlights Malfoy's cheekbones and he looks like a bloody sculpture, just standing there watching Harry with an amused little smile.

“Well, I can take it from here,” Harry reassures him, pulling his wand from his pocket. He leans closer, dropping his voice. “Any of these French folk try anything funny, they'll be sorry.”

Malfoy barks a laugh as he leans in and plucks Harry's wand from his grasp.

“Fuck’s sake, Potter. You'll cause an international incident.”

Harry wants to be indignant, but he's distracted by Malfoy's face, softened by his smile. He watches Malfoy take a last drag of his cigarette, still laughing as he exhales. He drops it and aims a casual vanishing spell at the ground. “Let’s just get you inside. What room are you in?”

Harry frowns in thought before lifting his chin. “I don't have access to that information at this time,” he sniffs, watching Malfoy’s lip quirk up again. He tuts. “Look, don’t worry about me, Malfoy. I can take care of myself.” Harry steps around him carefully. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

He enters the hotel, heading for the lifts.

“Wait, you’ve forgotten your–”

Harry presses for floor five just as Malfoy catches up. He hops agilely into the lift beside Harry, the doors sliding shut behind him. “You really don't know where your room is?” he asks, looking amused.

Harry sighs, wondering why Malfoy is so hellbent on following him, as if Harry can't look after himself. “It's on the fifth floor." He shrugs a careless shoulder. "The exact number is irrelevant.”

Malfoy runs a hand through his annoying, lovely hair, his mouth twitching irritatingly again. “On the contrary. It's actually quite vital information. You can't just guess, as amusing as that might be. Would you like me to go and check–?”

Harry rounds on him. “I'm not stupid, Malfoy.” It feels very important that Malfoy knows this. Harry gives him a hard stare, or what he hopes is a hard stare, because he's not exactly sure if his facial muscles are following his orders either.

Malfoy's eyes widen. “I know that,” he says quietly, not even a little bit sarcastically.

Harry blinks, thrown. “Oh.” He leans back, crossing his arms, trying to process the information. “Well, good." He sweeps his eyes over Malfoy. "I might not speak a million languages or have a built in compass up my arse, but– arghhhh!!”

Harry topples backwards as the door he was leaning on opens without warning. His momentum carries him into the corridor where he lands painfully on his arse.

Malfoy laughs gleefully. “You fucking tit!” he says delighedly as Harry blinks up at him from his new position on the floor.

He has a really nice laugh.

Malfoy offers Harry his hand and Harry takes it, getting to his feet and smiling embarrassedly. “Alright, maybe drunk Harry is a bit stupid,” he mumbles, dusting himself off as Malfoy hums his agreement.

Harry looks down the corridor at the double row of identical doors, no sodding idea which one is his. He pats Malfoy on the chest. “But not to worry. Sober Harry has his back.” He points his finger, maybe a tad more dramatic than necessary. “Watch.”

Harry focuses his magic and casts his revealing spell, inwardly applauding his foresight to set the charm earlier. A door halfway down the corridor on the left glows red.

He looks at Malfoy shocked face and smirks in satisfaction.

Malfoy glances from Harry's hand, to his door and back to Harry's face as he shakes his head. “You can do wandless magic pissed as a newt, but you can't put one foot in front of the other?” He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “You're absolutely ridiculous.”

As Malfoy walks towards Harry's door, trousers hugging his arrogant arse, it's suddenly immensely infuriating that Malfoy looks like a model, speaks a million languages and can walk in straight, coordinated lines like a bastard.

“Gods. Why are you such a fuckable bastard?” Harry mutters as he follows him down the corridor.

Malfoy wheels around and Harry halts abruptly, tearing his eyes from where he'd been staring at Malfoy's arse.

Malfoy's mouth is parted in shock, eyes wide, looking like Harry just slapped him.

Harry frowns, holding up his hand just to double check he hadn't accidentally shot a spell at Malfoy's backside.

Malfoy frowns back, tilting his head slightly. “What did you just say?”

Harry blinks, brows furrowing as his thoughts whir. He rubs his temple and tries to grab onto the words he just uttered as the corridor sways ominously. Why is Malfoy looking at him like that? Oh yeah, because he’s a bastard.

“I said," Harry says, with a deliberate air of impatience, "why are you such a fuckable bastard?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rise.

Oh, shit.

“Er, fuck-ing,” Harry corrects quickly. “Fucking," he repeats desperately. "I said why are you such a fucking bastard?”

Malfoy's eyes are gleaming, the smirk practically leaping out of them.

Harry grimaces, letting his shoulders sag. “Gods, I hate you,” he lies.

He turns to his door, unlocking it with a careless wave of magic, eager to get himself inside before he embarrasses himself any further.

Before he can open it, he's pulled around. Malfoy's strong hand pins Harry’s shoulder to the door as he leans in, close enough that Harry can taste obnoxious cologne on the back of his tongue. His trousers grow tight around his groin.

“Fuckable?” Malfoy asks softly, searching Harry's face, looking amused and…something else. Harry’s trousers grow tighter.

“Fucking,” Harry insists. Malfoy's eyes dart between Harry’s, his quirking mouth asking desperately to be...punched. Yes, punched. “Bastard,” Harry clarifies weakly, swallowing as his pulse quickens.

Gods, he shouldn't have had all that wine. He's hypnotised by Malfoy's teasing mouth, hovering so tantalisingly close to his face; that impossibly pillowy bottom lip right there, just begging to be bitten.

“So, not fuckable, then?” Malfoy asks quietly, lazily, enunciating each sound as he cocks his head. Harry's brain is going fuzzy as he unconsciously leans towards the words.

“Yes,” he croaks out. No, that's not right. “I mean, no,” he tries, his thoughts stuck on fuckable. Gods, Malfoy is so fucking fuckable. “You're…fuck.”

Malfoy's smirk has parted and Harry can't stop himself. He closes the gap, leaning forward and capturing Malfoy's lips in a kiss.

Malfoy's mouth is soft and warm and electric, sending a bolt of lightning through Harry as Malfoy instantly kisses him back. Properly kisses him, enthusiastically, sweeping a tongue into Harry’s mouth, the taste of him a magical blend of smoke and alcohol that sends blood instantaneously crashing into Harry’s dick.

Harry makes a surprised noise, bringing his hands around Malfoy’s neck and deepening their kiss. He’s vaguely aware of how desperate he must seem, but he’s unable to care, because Malfoy, inexplicably, is still kissing him back; dragging his tongue over Harry's in a way that’s frying Harry's brain.

Malfoy grips Harry’s shirt, crowding closer so their bodies are touching as they kiss. Heat pools in Harry’s groin. He hears a protracted, desperate groan before realising it’s coming from his own throat.

He casts around behind him until his hand finds the handle and they stumble through the door, somehow keeping their mouths together.

Once inside, Harry presses into Malfoy, pushing him back against the door so it slams shut. Fuck, he’s losing his mind as he grips Malfoy's waistband, licking hungrily into his mouth. He runs a palm over the front of Malfoy's trousers, groaning at the feel of the bulge under his hand. He’s hard.

Malfoy gasps into Harry's mouth, pushing his hips against Harry's hand and Harry needs to have him, needs it like he needs air.

He's hurriedly unbuckling Malfoy’s belt, almost vibrating with the anticipation of dropping to his knees.

Just as Harry starts to undo his buttons, Malfoy grips Harry’s wrists hard, stilling his hands.

“Wait. Shit. Stop, we can’t.”

“Wh-what?” Harry's mind is taking too long to catch up, his straining cock preventing him from processing Malfoy’s words.

Malfoy is gently pushing Harry back, breathing heavily. “Fuck. I'm sorry. I can't– I shouldn't–”

Harry’s confusion lasts a few more seconds before it clears. Shit. He’d completely forgotten. Malfoy's not single.

Harry steps back, running an awkward hand through his hair. “Oh, God. I'm so sorry.”

“No, no it was me. I shouldn't have– I’m sorry, I’d better go.” Malfoy is buckling his belt with unsteady fingers. Harry watches as he straightens his top. He picks up Harry's wand which has fallen to the floor between them, and holds it out. “Your wand.”

Embarrassment washes over Harry. “Yes. Yeah. I'm sorry,” he says again.

Malfoy looks uncomfortable, frowning as he sighs. “Goodnight, Potter.”

Harry groans as the door slams shut, dropping back onto his bed. Shit.

Chapter Text

Friday

Harry enters the conference room the next morning with a queasy stomach and jangling nerves. He still hasn't decided what he should say to Malfoy. Should he apologise again for kissing him? In Harry's admittedly slightly unreliable memory, Malfoy had kissed him back. Properly kissed him, like he wanted it, too. Which doesn't make it better, Harry supposes, but it does make him feel slightly less of a dick about it all.

He doesn't know why he’s quite so worked up. He usually handles embarrassing situations pretty well. It was just a kiss. He can definitely smooth things over with Malfoy and make this less awkward for them both, can’t he? So why is he so nervous?

He puts his bag down, looking over in time to see Malfoy making his way from the refreshment table with two steaming cups in his hands.

Malfoy stops when he sees Harry, expression unreadable. Harry isn't sure what his own face is doing as his insides twist up in a knot.

Malfoy wears a pink linen shirt that drapes casually over his lean frame. He looks ridiculously fit, and all Harry can think about is what it had felt like pressed up against him last night, the smoky sweet taste of his tongue, the feel of his clothed cock, hard under Harry's hand. Fuck, he'd felt so good.

Heat creeps over Harry's skin as Malfoy blinks into a relaxed smile, closing the rest of the distance between them and stepping around Harry to put the cups on the table and take his seat.

“How’s your head this morning?” he asks lightly as Harry sits down next to him.

“Yeah, fine. I, er, don't really get hangovers.” Harry tucks his seat in and turns towards Malfoy, lowering his voice. “Look, Malfoy. About last night.”

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow over his cup and Harry really wishes he'd planned exactly what to say. “I'm–” he pauses, grimacing. “I’m sorry. I was drunk,” he offers, lamely.

Malfoy puts his cup down. The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk. “Were you? I couldn't tell.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Fuck off. I just mean–”

“I know what you mean."

"You do?"

He smiles tightly. "Yes. You're saying you wouldn't have kissed me if you were sober.”

The words are jarring, something twisting in Harry's stomach as he swallows, taking a few seconds to think. “Well no,” he agrees slowly, “I wouldn't normally–”

“That's what I thought. It's fine, Potter. There's no need to get worked up about it. Consider it forgotten.” He takes another sip of his coffee, opening his notebook to a fresh page and running a line down it with his hand.

“Oh. Er, okay.” Harry swallows a bitter pill of disappointment. Honestly, what exactly was he hoping for? “So, we're good?”

“Of course.”

Harry reaches for his cup, unsure what else to say. “Good.”

"Good," Malfoy agrees quietly.

The morning’s meeting at least provides a distraction from Harry’s unease. They discuss processes for cross border information sharing, Harry having to push for agreements from certain delegates to his proposals, trying to convince them that co-operation and freer information sharing between all of them is necessary not just for World Cup safety, but safety in general.

By the coffee break, Harry is itching for a cig, but he's not sure if Malfoy will want to continue their illicit toilet smoking after last night, despite everything apparently being okay between them.

His question is answered when Malfoy gets up and mutters “Are you coming?”

He's not yet lifted the interpreter spell, and his voice murmurs low into Harry's ear. His flawless translations have become so familiar by now, Harry's barely affected by it any more. But Malfoy saying those particular words, just for him, has Harry's cock reacting dangerously.

He shifts in his seat as he gives a tight nod, eyes on the note he pretends to be finishing as Malfoy leaves the room. As soon as he's gone Harry grabs his wand and casts a cooling charm over himself, waiting a couple of minutes before getting up.

He sees the curl of smoke from over the cubicle door as he approaches and gives a tentative knock. The door swings open and Harry edges in, closing the door behind him and taking his place opposite Malfoy.

He pulls his own, new packet out of his pocket. “It was supposed to be my turn,” Harry says, nodding to Malfoy's already half smoked cigarette.

Malfoy looks at Harry curiously as he exhales. “Are you worried about owing me or something?”

Harry shakes his head as he slides his own cigarette out. “Nah, not at all. I just like to keep things even.” He lights it wandlessly. “Don't want to take the piss.”

Malfoy hums. Harry closes his eyes for a second, resting his head on the wall behind him as he inhales. He allows his limbs to become heavy as he relaxes, letting himself be tired for a moment.

“You've persuaded them,” Malfoy says eventually.

Harry opens his eyes to Malfoy looking at him with something akin to admiration on his face, and his heart beats a little faster. “They're going to agree to the Cup going ahead. Because of you.”

Harry nods. “I reckon so, too. Though it wasn't just me. Lots of people worked hard on these plans.” He smiles wryly. "It's going to be the safest bloody tournament in the history of public safety.” Malfoy smiles back and Harry's heart gives another pathetic flutter. “Will you come?”

Malfoy's hand stops midway to his mouth. He frowns. “To the World Cup?”

“Yeah. Do you still go to matches?”

He watches Malfoy's lips connect loosely with his cigarette, following the movement of his jaw as he inhales slowly and deeply. Harry aches to reach out and pluck it from Malfoy's elegant fingers, to replace the cigarette with his mouth instead, to press up against him and taste the smoke from between his lips.

Malfoy exhales. “Not in England, I don't.”

Harry glances away to keep his imagination in check.

“You never visit?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Harry watches Malfoy shrug in his periphery. “No reason to. My parents live in Nice. My life's here. There's nothing for me in England anymore.”

Harry imagines Malfoy and his no doubt disgustingly handsome, clever boyfriend sauntering hand in hand through trendy, beautiful Paris together, and secretly agrees with him.

“Well, that's where you're wrong. England is a lot different these days.”

Malfoy sounds disbelieving. “Oh really? How?”

Harry blows his smoke carefully up towards the ceiling. “Well for starters, they've finally added me to the chocolate frog cards.”

Malfoy snorts quietly. “They import those ridiculous things here, you know.”

“Okay, but,” Harry points his cigarette towards him. “Did you know the Leaky added not one but two new vegetarian dishes to their menu this year?”

“Riveting stuff. I wonder who was behind that. And how do they taste?”

“Absolutely disgusting. But that's beside the point. It's progressive.” Harry tips his ash into the toilet and smiles. “And Weasley's just started a new range of sex toys. Half of London is in uproar about it. I'm telling you, England's where it's at these days.”

Malfoy's smiling, the one where the corner of his mouth tips down instead of up. That one might be Harry's favourite.

“You should see sex shops here, Potter.”

And, shit. This might not be the conversation to be having with Malfoy in here right now.

Harry's voice is much lower than he intends when he replies. “Should I?”

Malfoy's eyes snap to Harry, and Harry can tell from the look on Malfoy's face, from the intensity of his gaze, that he's remembering last night as well.

The cubicle seems to shrink as Harry holds his stare. Blood fills his cock, his breath shallower as he remembers the way Malfoy had arched into his touch, the groan he'd made into Harry's mouth. He knows it's wrong, but a small part of him is reveling in the idea that Malfoy wants him back, even if he does belong to someone else. Even if it'll never happen.

Malfoy looks away first. “We better get back in,” he mutters, stubbing out his cigarette.

Malfoy disappears off at lunchtime again, and Harry decides to skip the delegate lunch in favour of fresh air, his own company and some shopping.

He wanders the bright, bustling side streets of Paris’ Wizarding Quarter, admiring the rows of boutiques, cafes and bars.

He spends too long in a large sweetshop sampling toffees and chocolate liqueurs as he fills a basket with the most tooth rotting of sweets to take back for the kids.

Further along from the sweetshop he spies a bookshop, the front painted a vivid turquoise. A magical blossom tree curls over the door, pink and inviting.

It's bigger inside than Harry expected, the rows of books reaching far back into the shop, a cafe at the very end. Harry locates the children's section easily enough, but after a good hunt through, he still can't find quite what he's looking for. He pulls his French English dictionary out of his satchel and takes a book from the shelf up to the counter.

The young woman behind the till smiles warmly at him. “Puis-je vous aider?”

Harry smiles back. “Hello, erm, oui,” he tries. “Siv-oo-play,” he remembers to add. He flicks through the dictionary before finding the right word. “Okay, I'm looking for something like this,” he holds up the book he's found. “But, more..." He has no idea how to pronounce the word he's looking at. "Jolly?” he tries.

The woman looks amused. “Jolie?”

“Yes!” Harry beams and points at her. He tries to copy her pronunciation. "Jolie! Pretty.”

“Moi?” she asks, raising her eyebrows before pointing to herself with a mischievous smile.

Harry laughs and runs a hand up through his fringe. “Oh. Well, yes, obviously you are. But I actually meant–”

“She's fucking with you, Potter.”

Harry turns around at the now familiar voice and grins. “Are you following me?”

Malfoy ignores Harry's question as he says something to the woman in French. She laughs and gestures towards Harry as she replies. Malfoy rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“It appears there isn't a single person in Paris who doesn't find you charming.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Except you, of course?”

“Well, obviously.”

Harry gives the woman another quick smile before turning back to Malfoy. “How do you say, if only I wasn't gay as fuck in French?”

The woman trills a laugh and Malfoy gives her an amused smile. “No need. Sophie's English is perfect.”

The woman - Sophie - is smirking as she reaches out and takes the book from Harry’s hands. “Someone please tell me why all the best looking men in Paris are gay?” she asks in a nice French accent as she slants her eyes towards Malfoy. She sighs and glances at the book. “You want a book of fairy tales, but with prettier drawings, yes?”

Harry nods, still glancing between Sophie and Malfoy. “Er, yes. Ideally a beautifully illustrated book, if you have one?”

“We have just the one. Give me a moment.”

“Thank you,” Harry calls after her. He turns to Malfoy. “So what are you doing here?”

Malfoy's eyes run over Harry's bags as he lifts his own white paper bag. “Same as you, it seems; shopping.”

Harry holds in the question on his tongue, unsure if he's allowed to ask what Malfoy's bought. Sometimes it feels so natural with him. Other times it's…like this. They stand looking at each other, unspoken words hanging awkwardly between them.

“Here we go.” Sophie returns with an illustrated hard-backed book. The cover is a rich, deep blue with a fancy gold title, and Harry can already tell it's perfect as he takes it from her.

He flicks through a few pages, too aware of Malfoy's eyes on him to take much of it in. He quickly snaps it shut with a smile. “It's perfect, thank you, I'll take it.”

Harry glances at Malfoy before turning to Sophie, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

“Mercy boocoop” he says in the most English accent he can. Just as he hoped, Malfoy makes a disgusted noise as Sophie laughs and Harry grins widely.

Malfoy is still grumbling about Harry's French as they step back into the fresh air, Harry chuckling beside him.

They walk a few paces together when Malfoy slows down, looking distracted.

Harry slows too, looking at him curiously. “Are you heading back to the Ministry, or…?”

Malfoy stops, searching Harry's face like he's deciding something. “I am, but I need to stop at mine quickly on the way back.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Harry gives him an understanding nod, eager to avoid making things any more awkward between them. “I’ll just see you back there then.” With a parting smile, Harry turns and quickly heads down the busy street.

He's a few metres away when he hears Malfoy’s raised voice. “Potter?”

He turns to see Malfoy still in the same spot, looking like he's trying not to laugh. Harry raises his brows in question.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

Harry gives him a pretend scowl as he marches back. “I was taking the scenic route.”

Malfoy continues to smirk. “Were you? My apologies then. If you don't mind a quick detour to mine first, maybe I can take it with you?”

He probably ought to decline, but he's too curious to see where Malfoy lives. “Alright.” Harry falls in beside him.

Malfoy lives on the fourth floor of a beautiful building that smells like old wood. Harry can tell before they even get to his flat that it's going to be nice.

Malfoy unlocks the door with a wave of his wand and disappears quickly inside.

“Do you want me to wait out–” Harry says after him, but Malfoy's already in. He dithers on the threshold for a second before following, closing the door behind him.

“Woah.”

Malfoy's flat is stylish. It's not the pretentious kind of stylish that belongs in magazines or hotels, but rather, the arty sort of stylish that's been put together by someone who just knows how to make things beautiful.

It's light, thanks to a large window on the opposite wall, with wooden floors and tasteful furniture. Nothing matches, exactly, but everything has a sense of belonging, of cosiness, of beauty. From the lingering smells of cooking and soap and cologne, to the gallery of art in mismatched frames on the walls; from the plants dotted about the surfaces to the books filling the bookshelf along one wall - everything is so…comfortable. Lovely. Charming.

Malfoy has crossed the room and put his shopping bag down on a desk in the corner. “I'll just be a minute.” He heads through a door to the right.

Harry moves closer to the desk, taking in the tall angled lamp, jars of pencils and brushes, notepads and scattered papers, sketches taped to the wall around it. Before he makes it, however, he glances out of the window and does a double take.

“Fucking hell! You've got some view here,” he calls, diverting to the window. He can see for miles over the city, the Eiffel Tower dominant above it all.

Malfoy's speaking low in the other room. Harry listens for a moment, then tenses.

He recognises the difference in Malfoy's voice; he's speaking French. Shit. He'd have thought Malfoy would have at least warned Harry before bringing him here, if his boyfriend–

Malfoy re-enters, still chattering in French and carrying a furry, black bundle.

Harry blinks in surprise at the rather serious looking black cat in Malfoy's arms. Malfoy has one arm under its bum, the other around its middle as he hugs it to his chest.

The cat’s amber eyes settle on Harry. In one half lidded stare, it manages to look bored, haughty and downright disdainful of Harry, in a way that only Malfoy's fucking cat could. Harry huffs a laugh. “And who is this?”

Malfoy smiles, catching Harry off guard with the pure joy in it. “This,” he says, lifting the cat higher and burying his nose in its fur. “Is Pierre.”

Harry knows his face must look ridiculous as his mouth falls open in shock, then closes then opens again. “That’s… Pierre?” he manages to ask.

If Malfoy notices Harry’s bewilderment, he doesn’t acknowledge it as he carries Pierre over to the sofa. He tips a velvet cushion on its side and gently sits the cat on top of it.

“Yes. He's been unwell this week, so I've been checking in on him at lunch. He's picked up now, thankfully.” Malfoy's hand is scratching behind Pierre's ears as he speaks.

Pierre sits, paws crossed, looking regal as he accepts Malfoy's pets.

Harry steps a bit closer, smiling at the very not-human Pierre, finally piecing the information together. “So he's... just a regular cat?”

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow. “There’s nothing regular about Pierre, Potter, and if you insist on insulting my friends I'm afraid I'll have to throw you out.”

Harry raises his hands, throwing a lopsided grin at Malfoy before turning back to Pierre. Harry could swear the little bastard is smirking at him. “My apologies,” he says, deepening his voice to seriousness.

He drops down to kneel in front of the sofa. Malfoy is still stroking behind his ears as Pierre’s suspicious eyes remain fixed on Harry.

“Hi Pierre. I'm Harry.” Harry smiles as the cat stares at him, unmoving. “Although you sort of look like you’d prefer to call me Potter, so I guess I'll leave it up to you.”

He hears Malfoy scoff above him as he slowly reaches out, palm up, towards Pierre's neck.

“Careful, Potter. He's very liable to…” Malfoy's voice trails off as Harry gently runs a single finger under Pierre's chin. The cat remains still, giving Harry one slow blink.

Encouraged, Harry tries a second sweep of his finger along Pierre's soft little jaw, watching for signs he doesn't like it. Pierre blinks again, slightly longer this time.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” Harry says in a low voice, and when he runs his finger under Pierre's chin for a third time, the cat raises his face, eyes closing, imperiously allowing Harry full access to pet him.

Harry grins in triumph as he runs his finger down Pierre's offered throat, looking up at Malfoy.

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy says as he shoves Harry off balance. “You're not charming my fucking cat! Come on, get up, we're leaving.” He gives Harry’s shoulder another push, and Harry is hyper aware of every contact as he gets up, laughing.

“Alright, alright! I think he likes me, though?”

Malfoy admonishes Pierre in stern French over his shoulder as he urges Harry towards the door.

“He doesn't like anyone.”

Harry's joy carries him into the sunshine as they step back into the bustling street.

“He definitely likes me,” Harry says with a grin as Malfoy scowls.

He watches Malfoy cast a spell over himself as they walk, removing strands of Pierre's fur from his pale shirt. He tries not to stare too hard at the way Malfoy runs his hand over the plane of his stomach to check it's clear.

Harry clears his throat and takes out his cigarettes to distract himself, offering one to Malfoy. He'd deliberately bought the same brand as him, and is pleased when Malfoy takes one unhesitatingly.

“How did you acquire Pierre, then?” he asks as he lights Malfoy's cigarette for him with a wave of his hand.

He watches Malfoy take a deep drag, a distant look on his face as he exhales. “I found him abandoned in a bush when I first moved here. He was just a kitten.” His mouth tips into a fond smile. “Or maybe he found me. The memory’s a bit hazy.” He slants his eyes at Harry. “I was pissed and had somehow fallen into the bush on my way home.”

Harry laughs. “I'm not the only stupid drunk then?”

As Harry listens to the story of Malfoy waking up the next morning to Pierre attacking his head, his inner thoughts take a turn.

Pierre is his cat. And Malfoy appears to be single. Which means, Malfoy didn't stop things last night because of a partner.

On the short walk between Malfoy’s flat and the Ministry, Harry's gone over last night again in his head, and can only think that Malfoy must not be attracted to him, after all. Why else would he have stopped things? It's a depressing thought. Harry was alright when he believed it was monogamy that kept them from shagging. But the idea that Malfoy just didn't want him, is...well, it's shit.

It's also at odds with the signals Harry thought he was getting, but maybe he's mistaking them.

“Everything alright?” Malfoy asks as they reach the conference room, pulling Harry from his thoughts. He nods and tries a smile. “Are you nervous about the decision?”

“Yeah,” he lies as they take their seats.

This afternoon was scheduled for final questions for Harry, but it's quickly established that the delegates don’t have any left to ask.

“In which case,” Malfoy quietly interprets Casteau's words in Harry's ear. “We'll ask Mr Potter to give us fifteen minutes to discuss the matter amongst ourselves, so we can close it today and move on to the next items on the agenda.”

Harry and Malfoy exit the room. “Another cig?” Malfoy suggests as they head down the corridor.

Harry considers. He doesn't think he can cope with being in the cubicle with Malfoy right now. “Outside?” he counters.

Malfoy shrugs and they head out, Harry wondering when it got so normal to walk beside him.

Harry forgoes another cig and instead leans against the wall, hands in his pockets and face up towards the sun. Malfoy stands opposite, smoking, looking relaxed. Looking like a fucking model, actually, with his pristine clothes and his aristocratic slouch.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” he asks Harry mildly.

Harry shrugs and makes a non-committal noise.

“I can give you some recommendations, if you tell me what sort of–”

“Pierre's a cat,” Harry interrupts, unable to keep it in any longer. He's irritated that Malfoy throws off his usual composure, making him clumsy and rude.

Malfoy gives him a puzzled smile. “An astute observation. I see why you're in law enforcement.”

Harry frowns, ignoring the remark. He looks over at the flower bed to his right, avoiding Malfoy's gaze.

“I thought the reason you didn't shag me last night was because of Pierre.” Gods, he sounds pathetic.

Malfoy makes a choked sound. “What? You thought I didn't shag you because of my cat?”

Harry still avoids his eyes. “Yeah well, I didn't know he was a cat, did I?” he mumbles.

Malfoy laughs, his full throated laugh, and Harry has to look, his mouth tugging into a smile in spite of himself.

“So you thought–?” Malfoy laughs again. “Oh, you're adorable,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Fuck off,” Harry replies instantly, but he’s still smiling at Malfoy's amused face.

Malfoy's quiet as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “I didn't shag you,” he says, finally. “Because you were blind drunk.”

Harry huffs. “I wasn't blind drunk.” Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I was a bit drunk. But I knew what I was doing.” There's a pull in his groin as he recalls the feel of Malfoy up against him. “It’d still have been alright, I reckon.”

More than alright, Harry's stirring cock corrects.

Malfoy hums and looks away from Harry, taking another pull on his cigarette.

Harry watches him exhale slowly from the corner of his mouth, the smoke drifting softly into the air as he turns back to Harry, his gaze sharp and his voice low. “Maybe. But I don't want alright.”

Harry's heart thumps an irregular beat, but he doesn't look away as Malfoy continues. “If you're ever in my bed, Potter, it's not going to be alright. It's going to be fucking spectacular.”

His words send instant heat sizzling up Harry's spine, blood flowing irretrievably south.

Harry forces himself to hold Malfoy’s gaze as he swallows, mouth suddenly bone dry. He clears his throat and tries to find his voice. “You, uh, seem pretty confident about that.”

Malfoy’s eyes travel over Harry's body and back to his face. Harry's skin prickles at the boldness of it.

Malfoy shrugs, the hint of a smirk on his face.

“I am.”

He drops his cigarette and vanishes it. Harry watches him walk away, his heart still beating too hard, brain still stuck somewhere around spectacular.

Another cooling charm later, Harry takes his seat back at the table, still trying to digest the news that Malfoy is single and wants to fuck him. Malfoy silently flicks his wand at Harry.

“Welcome back, Mr Potter,” Malfoy starts as Casteau addresses them. “We've all been very impressed with the extensive plans you've laid out for…”

Harry's only half listening, because Malfoy's elbow is casually pressed to his and all he can think about is the way Malfoy had just looked at him. If you're ever in my bed. He suppresses a shiver, forcing his mind to stay in the present.

“...a congratulations to England is in order. We all look forward to the amazing show you're going to put on for the rest of World.”

Harry smiles as the delegates clap politely, a warm sense of accomplishment stealing through him at his success, at how excited Teddy and Rose are going to be.

“And now, moving onto the next item…”

Harry spends the afternoon drifting in and out of the discussions. More than once he has to turn to his notes on the list of restricted potions ingredients in Europe. It's information he knows by rote. He should be able to recall it easily, but his brain is just not focusing as well as it should be.

Malfoy translates flawlessly in his ear, seemingly unaffected by their conversation as he sketches nonchalantly beside Harry like the brilliant bastard he is.

During the afternoon coffee break, Harry is bombarded with congratulations from the other delegates. With the heavy stuff out of the way, they all want to chat with him about the finer details of the World Cup; the opening ceremony, team selections, betting odds. Harry watches helplessly as Malfoy slips out for a cig, unable to follow him as Gerda questions him zealously about England's penalty takers.

The rest of the afternoon drags. When the meeting finally closes, Casteau approaches them before he has a chance to say anything to Malfoy.

“Harry, congratulations! You’re joining us for the meal tonight, I hope?”

Harry hadn't even thought about it. “Er, yes. Of course. Seven, isn’t it?”

Mathieu has ventured over behind Casteau and Harry overhears him asking Malfoy about dinner.

“Harry, you walking to hotel?” Antonio asks. Harry nods, grateful there's no lingering awkwardness between them, even if he's frustrated not to grab a quick word with Malfoy. They leave the conference room, everyone chatting animatedly as they merge into the crowds of Ministry workers departing for the weekend.

“I’ll see you later then?” Harry manages to say in Malfoy's direction, getting a small nod back before he’s shepherded along with Antonio and the others back to the hotel, the conversation once again back to the World Cup.

Chapter Text

Harry looks over the clothes he brought with him, wishing he could just shove on a t-shirt and jeans and relax. Instead he selects a white shirt, rolling the sleeves up his forearms to help cope with the heat. At the last minute, he grabs his England tie and puts it on with a smile, thinking of Malfoy.

Gods. Harry’s whole body is alive with anticipation thinking of him. More than anticipation. He’s nervous. His palms are clammy as he makes his way to the restaurant with Maria and Antonio, pulse so loud in his ears he can barely hold a conversation. He needs to get a grip, he tells himself as he scans the table for Malfoy and finds himself disappointed that there's no sign of him.

As they all sit down, Harry notes with quiet relief that the seat next to him remains free. It's almost as if everyone has assumed it's already taken.

He's deep in conversation with Mathieu when Malfoy slides into the chair beside him. He tries to keep his face unreactive as his stomach backflips uncontrollably.

“Nah, I’d take Jones over Conté any day,” Harry says, resisting the urge to turn around and breathe in more of the expensive, smoky scent that's reached his nostrils. “Her record speaks for itself.”

Mathieu is shaking his head. “But have you seen Conté play in the flesh? There’s never been a keeper pull off the saves he does. You have to see him to believe it.”

The waiter arrives, asking to take their orders and Harry realises he hasn’t even tried to figure out the menu, rather presumptuously waiting for Malfoy's help.

Flustered, he clutches his menu and leans in towards Malfoy just as Malfoy leans towards him. Their foreheads clash, both snapping back.

“Shit, sorry,” Harry laughs awkwardly. Malfoy looks perfect, as usual, with a charcoal linen shirt and dark trousers, his blonde hair practically glowing as he runs a hand through it.

Malfoy gives him a small smile. “I was going to suggest ordering the ratatouille. It has aubergine, onion, toma-”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees quickly. “Yes. That sounds great. Thank you.” He pours himself some water to keep his hands busy, self conscious of... everything.

“Are you on red or white, Harry?” Mathieu asks as he fills his own glass with white wine.

Harry shakes his head, aware of Malfoy’s eyes on him. “Oh, I'm just sticking with water tonight.” He feels the words sitting between them.

Mathieu nods in acknowledgement and turns to Malfoy.

“Draco?” He tips the wine bottle, poised ready to pour.

Draco raises a pale hand. “Not for me either, thank you.”

Mathieu’s eyebrows raise into his hairline as he looks at Malfoy and then Harry. “Is there something I'm missing?”

Malfoy laughs uncomfortably, replying in French as Harry glances away.

To Harry’s dismay, the meal is turning out to be…excruciating. And not in the I-can’t-wait-to-get-home-and-rip-your-clothes-off way that he might have imagined. Instead, he and Malfoy seem to have slipped into a weird, stilted awkwardness with each other, prompted mostly by Harry, he has to admit.

When Harry asks after Pierre, hoping to capture some of their earlier ease, his voice comes out all stiff and overly formal. In return, Malfoy answers politely that Pierre is much better, thanks for asking, and the conversation dies.

When Harry accidentally touches Malfoy’s hand reaching for the same spoon, he pulls back quickly and hears himself apologise thrice in quick succession. Apparently the revelation that they want to fuck each other has turned Harry into an absolute tit.

As the evening goes on and unease fills the air between them, Harry starts to wonder if they’ve missed their opportunity, after all. Perhaps last night was their one chance for hot, spontaneous sex and Malfoy stuffed it up.

Oh Gods, what if they go through with it and it’s like this? All stuffy and awkward? What if it's all fumbled sorrys and muttered thank yous and polite no, no, after yous?? What if it’s really, really shit, and Harry has to sit next to him in silent mortification for the final two days next week?

Fuck it, he needs a drink. He leans across Malfoy and picks up the nearest bottle of red, pouring himself a generous amount. He avoids Malfoy’s eyes as he tips the bottle neck questioningly towards Malfoy’s empty glass.

“Fuck, yes,” Malfoy mutters and Harry pours him a generous amount too. There, that'll definitely help.

It doesn’t help. Harry’s nerves are only slightly soothed by the smooth, fruity alcohol, but he and Malfoy might as well be sitting at opposite ends of the table for how little they interact. He knows Malfoy is listening to him as he tells the others about his initiative to ensure children have access to World Cup tickets, but he doesn't say a word, and Harry's uncertainty grows as they sit stiffly beside each other.

Meals in France take bloody forever, too. After what must be at least ten hours, it's finally over. Harry is acutely aware of Malfoy as they all gather outside the restaurant. He stands opposite Harry, relaxed as ever, chatting with Mathieu as the usual conversation about where to go next and who’s staying and leaving commences.

“I’m going to call it a night,” Malfoy says with a casual glance at Harry, and butterflies take flight in his stomach. Was that a sign? Does Malfoy want to leave with Harry? Or is he leaving early to avoid leaving with Harry? Why is he not giving Harry a proper fucking sign?

“You and that cat,” Mathieu sighs with a soft nudge of Malfoy's shoulder. “Harry, are you coming with us?”

“I think I'm going to call it a night too,” Harry says carefully, smiling politely at Mathieu. “Too much excitement for one day.”

“I’ll walk back with you, Harry,” Maria says beside him. “I’m desperate for an early night tonight.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck as he nods, ensuring his face doesn't betray his feelings. “Ahh yes, sure.”

He chances a quick glance at Malfoy, who looks on amused.

“Shall we walk some of the way together?” Malfoy suggests.

Goodbyes and pretend kisses performed, the three of them make their way down the street. Malfoy and Maria chat about Italy, speaking in English for Harry's benefit, though it might as well be Italian for how little of it he follows. He's far too lost in his jumbled thoughts about Malfoy to join in, even if he wanted to. When they reach the junction where Malfoy splits off, they all stop and look at each other.

“This is where I leave you both,” Malfoy says smoothly. Harry doesn't know what to say, so just nods. Malfoy gives him a rueful little smile before turning to Maria, offering her his cheek as they say goodbye.

Harry wants to say something coded, something that will stop Malfoy from leaving, but his brain has seized up. Perhaps this just wasn’t meant to be.

“Goodnight, then,” Harry says weakly. “Have a good weekend.” He waits for Malfoy to save the day, to give him some sign, a wink, to say actually, I have something I'd like to show you back at mine. Anything. But he doesn't.

“And you. I hope you both enjoy Paris this weekend. See you Monday, Potter.”

Harry’s heart sinks as he watches Malfoy turn and head down the street.

Back in his room, Harry wonders where it all went wrong. This isn’t like him. He’s usually confident, grabbing opportunities for sex and fun whenever they present themselves. He hasn’t been awkward about sex for a decade. Trust it to be Malfoy who’s turned him into a nervous, bumbling idiot.

He takes his tie off and flings it onto the bed, wondering what Malfoy is doing right now. Wondering if he's as frustrated as Harry. Or perhaps he's secretly relieved nothing happened.

As Harry unbuttons his shirt, he pictures Malfoy in his beautiful, comfortable flat doing the same. No doubt changing into poncey, silk pyjamas or something. Or maybe he doesn’t wear anything at all in bed. Harry grabs a t-shirt and pulls it over his head.

Shit. He drops down onto the bed and runs his hands through his hair, trying to stop imagining Malfoy naked.

But he can’t. He desperately wants to know what Malfoy feels like under his expensive clothes. He wants to know what Malfoy's skin tastes like. What his cock feels like in Harry’s mouth. What he sounds like when he comes. Fuck.

He thinks about the way Malfoy looks at him sometimes. The way Malfoy had kissed him back. I didn't shag you because you were blind drunk.

Well, he's not blind drunk now. Harry jams his feet into his shoes and picks up his wand.

The three D’s have never been clearer in his mind as he turns on the spot.

He lands outside Malfoy’s door with the noisy crack of apparition. Tucking his wand into his back pocket, he lifts a fist to knock then pauses, realising he has no idea what he's going to say.

His hand still hovers indecisively in the air as the door is pulled open.

Malfoy stands in front of him, fully clothed and as handsome as Harry left him half an hour ago. His face is unreadable as he takes Harry in.

Harry ought to apologise or something, but once again Malfoy's face robs him of any sense. He blinks at Malfoy, opening his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

He's not sure how long they stand there, just looking at each other, before Malfoy smoothly reaches out, curling a fist in Harry's t-shirt. Harry's stomach jolts as he's pulled over the threshold.

The first sweep of Malfoy’s tongue in Harry's mouth is enough to send all of his blood racing to his cock. Malfoy tastes just how Harry remembers, the taste he's been craving all day, and his whole body floods with need. He moans softly, raising his hands into Malfoy’s fine hair, kissing him back.

The door slams at his back as Malfoy presses him into it, leg instantly sliding between Harry’s thighs. The teasing friction against Harry's cock pulls a deeper groan from his throat. He runs his hands down Malfoy's back and cups his arse, pulling their bodies flush.

Malfoy groans low as his tongue searches Harry’s mouth. He runs his hands up underneath Harry’s t-shirt, palming back down over Harry’s stomach, and this– Christ, this is the opposite of awkward.

The slide of Malfoy’s hands on Harry's skin sends another needy pulse to his cock and Harry surges forward, an explosion of want in his veins. He pushes Malfoy against the wall, finally breaking their kiss so he can nip along Malfoy’s jaw and taste the skin of his throat. He tastes so fucking good. Addictively good.

Malfoy groans again, arching into Harry, tilting his head to allow Harry access as he runs a hand through Harry’s hair, the other hand sliding up Harry’s back.

“Fuck,” Malfoy gasps as Harry sucks at his pulse. Harry loves the sound of it vibrating on his lips and sucks harder, wanting it again.

He works on Malfoy's shirt buttons, needing more access to his skin.

Malfoy breathes heavily as he runs a hand down to cup Harry's arse. Harry can feel Malfoy's cock straining in his trousers as he pulls Harry closer.

“How are we going to do this?” Malfoy asks, sounding stretched, fucked already.

The question stills Harry’s impatient hands as he looks up from the button he was undoing. Malfoy's face is flushed a pale pink, his lips slick and dark and parted and gorgeous, and Gods, Harry wants him so badly.

Harry tries to think. He really should have some idea of how this will go. But in all his fantasising about Malfoy, he's never actually pictured the how of it. What does he even want?

Image after image races through his mind of all the ways they could do this. And shit, he wants them all.

“You in me?” Harry returns to Malfoy's buttons with renewed vigour. Christ, there's a fucking million of them. “Or me in you? Or I can suck you off? Just, fuck,” he gives an impatient growl and flicks his wrist, vanishing the shirt. “Whatever you want, we'll do it.”

Malfoy's bare skin is luxurious under Harry's hands, just as he knew it would be. Malfoy tips his head back against the wall, exhaling loudly as Harry is finally able to mouth freely down his neck, over his shoulders, nipping gently. He lets his hands rove greedily over Malfoy’s stomach, chest, down his sides, exploring every inch of hot skin he can get his hands on.

Malfoy seems content to let Harry taste him, feel him, as Harry mouths back up his throat and along his jaw. He leans into Harry's mouth, arches beautifully into Harry’s hands, eyes closed, mouth parted. Harry makes his way back to Malfoy's wonderfully soft lips and Malfoy kisses him eagerly again, his mouth intuitively receiving Harry's. He can't remember when kissing someone has ever felt so promising before. Every swipe of Malfoy's tongue makes him needier. Greedier.

When Harry pulls back for an answer, Malfoy looks at him with excited, darkened eyes. “I can fuck you?”

Harry smiles into another kiss, sliding their tongues together again. He's surprised. For some reason, he thought Malfoy was going to ask for the other way around, the way he'd been responding to Harry's touches. But Gods, Harry's more than happy with the idea of Malfoy inside him, as long as it happens soon. “Yeah, if you want. Reckon you can make it spectacular?”

Malfoy's eyes flash as he grins back, his unguarded smile lovely. He captures Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down gently.

“I know I can.”

Anticipation floods Harry's cock as Malfoy lifts Harry’s t-shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. Harry's glasses are knocked in the process and he flings them onto the nearest surface. They only get in the way, anyway. He reaches for Malfoy’s trousers.

Malfoy captures his wrist. “Are you in a rush, Potter?”

Harry laughs. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about doing this for fucking hours.”

Days, actually.

Harry starts to undo his trousers, but Malfoy’s hand remains on his wrist. His grip is gentle, his smirk playful, but the soft pressure says stop, so Harry does. He tilts his head questioningly.

Malfoy's eyes are full of heat, setting Harry's stomach fluttering. “Me too,” he says softly.

He splays a hand on Harry's chest, guiding him backwards, eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “I’ve been thinking about fucking you for days.” Harry inhales sharply at his words as Malfoy guides him through an open door and into his bedroom. “Thinking about what you'd look like, here, like this.”

He halts their progress as his eyes sweep slowly over Harry, like he's taking in every detail. Harry swallows nervously under the scrutiny.

Malfoy reaches around Harry’s neck and pulls him into a kiss, his tongue leisurely fucking Harry’s mouth with smooth strokes, like promises of what's to come. Harry runs his hands smoothly up Malfoy’s back, growing needier by the second.

Malfoy pulls back, his hand loosely gripping Harry's hair as he keeps their faces close. He speaks softly against Harry's lips. “There’s no rush."

Harry kind of disagrees, but stays quiet as Malfoy runs his tongue along Harry’s shoulder, brushing fingertips down Harry’s chest, curling them into the hair there. He places kisses along Harry’s throat as Harry tips his head back to enjoy the sensation, trying to rein in his urge to speed things up. He’d not expected this maddening softness from Malfoy.

Malfoy licks gently up the side of Harry's bared neck. “Tell me what you like,” he says low and syrupy in Harry's ear, and Harry's whole body contracts in need.

“Fuck,” Harry chokes out, automatically pulling their hips together, seeking friction. “That.” Harry closes his eyes. “Your fucking voice. In my ear.” He turns his mouth into Malfoy's neck, nipping gently with a soft growl. “Do your spell. The interpreter one.”

Malfoy makes a surprised noise, followed by a soft chuckle. “Really?”

Harry hears the smirk in his question and reacts, trying to kiss it off his face.

“Really,” Harry confirms between kisses. He grinds his clothed cock against Malfoy's. “Do your spell,” he sweeps his tongue into Malfoy's mouth, “and talk to me in French.” He rolls his hips again to press their cocks together, cupping Malfoy's arse encouragingly. “Do it while you fuck me.”

Malfoy hums needily, then leans back to look at him. “Fuck. Really?”

Harry looks back at him just as incredulously. “Fuck off. You must know how hot it is when you speak French?” It comes out kind of accusatory, because the idea that Malfoy doesn't know how hot it is, is absolute bullshit, quite frankly.

Malfoy's delighted smile suggests maybe he doesn't.

"Oh, est-ce que t'aimes ma façon de parler?” Malfoy says teasingly.

Harry can't control his pleased hum at the throaty lilt. “The spell,” Harry reminds him.

Malfoy's smug smile is lovely. “T'es adorable. Can I borrow your wand?”

He slides Harry's wand from his back pocket with deliberate slowness, looking at him for permission.

Seeing Malfoy's long fingers curl around his wand shouldn't be so bloody erotic, but it is. Harry watches the precise flick of his wrist raptly, the flit of concentration as he casts wordlessly.

“C'est mieux? Is this better?”

Malfoy's voice is at his ear, deep and low and hot and yes. Better doesn't begin to cover it. Harry squeezes Malfoy's arse. “Yes. Now please fuck me before I die.”

Malfoy huffs a quiet breath and pushes Harry back onto the bed, straddling him. His pale chest is almost luminescent in the dim light of the room.

“Merlin, Potter. Are you always so impatient? Les bonnes choses méritent d’être savourées, tu ne crois pas?”

Harry has no idea what he says, but Malfoy might just be the hottest thing he's ever heard. When Malfoy speaks English, his posh voice is liquid, teasing, oozing wickedly into Harry's veins. When he switches to French, it's lower, softer, his breath skating erotically around the guttural words. It's enchanting. With Malfoy's teasing English and breathy French in his ear, Harry feels like he's being fucked from the inside out, and it might just kill him off.

He runs his hands along Malfoy's thighs, arching up into him. “Yes. Yes to whatever you're saying.”

Malfoy laughs and bends down to kiss him, hair falling around Harry's face, and all of Harry's senses are gloriously flooded by him. Harry caresses Malfoy's back, holds his neck, trying to touch him everywhere at once.

Malfoy kisses at Harry's throat, taking his time, sliding slowly down Harry's chest. He reaches Harry's nipple and sucks, his satisfied moan pouring into Harry's ear. Harry closes his eyes, giving himself up to Malfoy's attentions.

“T'es joli dans mon lit, Potter," Malfoy whispers.

Harry hums his approval, arching up into Malfoy's mouth, reaching a hand down to stroke Malfoy's hair. “Hell, yes.”

“Si j'avais su qu'il suffisait de si peu pour te motiver," Malfoy licks a circle around Harry's bellybutton. "Je l'aurais fait à l'école.”

Malfoy speaks into the skin on Harry's stomach, but his voice is a steady purr in Harry's ear and Harry's cock throbs eagerly as he groans.

“I've no idea what you're saying but it sounds so fucking hot, it should be illegal.”

Malfoy laughs softly as he tongues lower. He works Harry's trousers open, Harry's cock straining for his touch.

When Harry’s fully naked, Malfoy settles on his knees between Harry's legs. He runs his palms along the inside of Harry’s thighs, muttering more hushed words Harry doesn't understand, eyes on Harry's cock.

Harry sits up. “Oh my God, are you speaking French to my dick?” he asks with mock outrage, smile giving him away. Malfoy returns it with a sly smile of his own, one Harry hasn't seen before but instantly falls a bit in love with.

“That is between me and your dick, Potter,” he says imperiously as he raises up on his knees and pushes Harry back down with a firm shove.

Harry has a few seconds to appreciate how much he likes this side of Malfoy, before Malfoy is swallowing him down, and Harry's eyes roll back into his head as searing pleasure overtakes him. Fuck. He can't believe they almost didn't do this.

“Holyfuckingshit,” Harry grinds out in one long breath, unable, as always, to hold back. Malfoy rumbles his pleasure as he licks and sucks, his noises vibrating through Harry's body.

Harry buries his hands in Malfoy's soft hair. “My fucking God,” he pants, losing his senses as his cock is caressed by Malfoy's clever mouth. “That feels so good. You feel so good. Jesus. Yes.”

Harry continues to babble as pleasure coils tight, intensifying when Malfoy takes him deeper, the head of Harry's cock hitting Malfoy's contracting throat.

“Fuck, ahh, I'm close,” Harry warns as Malfoy runs his hands over Harry's thighs. Harry's rocking his hips up lightly into Malfoy's mouth, hands still buried in his impossibly soft hair, chasing the pleasure that's zipping through his veins and building to a crescendo.

Malfoy keeps his mouth still, giving moaning grunts of encouragement as Harry thrusts into him. “That's so– ahh, so fucking, ahh, fuck, I'm going to–”

Harry feels the familiar tightening of his muscles as Malfoy lifts off, squeezing Harry's cock at the base and holding still. Harry cries out in confusion as the flood of expected pleasure doesn't come.

“Hold that thought,” Malfoy rasps. Harry moans again, his cock still tingling confusedly with anticipation as Malfoy keeps hold at the base.

When he lets go, he moves up Harry's body, planting his hands either side of Harry's face and bringing them nose to nose. His voice is gravelly as he smiles. “I knew you'd taste good.” He kisses Harry.

Harry accepts his kiss, the urgency of his almost-orgasm subsiding, though his cock still throbs, hard and wet against his stomach.

“If you didn't want me to finish in your mouth, you could have just said.” He tries not to sound put out by it.

Malfoy traces fingers along Harry's jaw, then into his hair, saying something soothing in French before giving Harry another lingering kiss.

“I want you to finish with me,” he says simply, and Harry makes an embarrassing noise of surprise. Okay, he really likes that. Malfoy looks at him. “Is that alright?”

Harry nods as Malfoy gives one more stroke through Harry's hair before rolling off him.

Harry clears his throat. “May I respectfully suggest removing your trousers as a vital step towards achieving that goal?”

Though actually, Malfoy topless, with his nice trousers hugging his arse, is a rather lovely sight. He tracks Malfoy's graceful movements as he moves towards a door inside the room.

“I'll take your suggestion into consideration, Delegate Potter,” Malfoy says haughtily over his shoulder, and Harry can't see him any more but he hears the smug smile in his voice. Harry huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he drops back onto the pillow. Malfoy wasn't lying about not wanting to rush.

He returns to the bed carrying three small bottles of what Harry initially thinks is perfume.

“I don't know if you have a preference, but I have more if you don't like any of these.” Malfoy holds the bottles out and Harry sits up, raising his eyebrows with interest. “There’s chocolate, watermelon or vanilla.”

Harry takes one, turning it over in his hand. “Is this lube?”

“Yes. What did you think it was?”

Harry uncaps the pretentious little bottle and sniffs. It smells like melted chocolate. “Bloody hell.” He puts the cap back on. “You know you can just conjure this stuff for free, right?”

Malfoy snatches the bottle back. “This stuff is a high end product, Potter. It's superior to conjured lube in every way.”

Harry snorts. “You know, I'm pretty sure Weasley's sell a range of flavoured–”

“I swear, if you mention that name again while either of us is naked, this will end very quickly.”

The sudden bite in Malfoy's voice draws a surprised laugh from Harry.

“Alright,” he says, amused. “Objection noted.” He mimes zipping his mouth shut.

Malfoy looks slightly mollified as he turns back to the bottles. “Any objection to chocolate?”

Harry smirks. “None at all.” He reaches for Malfoy's waistband, aiming to finally get him out of his clothes, but Malfoy steps away from the bed and out of his grasp, dropping the bottles onto a side table.

“Un peu de patience,” Malfoy murmurs. He locks eyes with Harry, gaze heated as he begins to unbutton his trousers. He pulls them down slowly, taking his underwear with them, watching Harry's face with a smirk as he takes them off.

Harry's pulse quickens. He's instantly aflame at the sight of Malfoy finally naked, his miles of creamy skin the most edible thing Harry has ever seen. No, scratch that. Malfoy's cock is definitely the most edible thing Harry’s ever seen.

Harry moves swiftly. In one movement he's off the bed and standing in front of Malfoy, unable to stop the growl in his throat.

“Fuck.” Harry's voice is deep and hoarse. “You look...” Harry's words fail him. Malfoy looks far too good for any words he can come up with.

Malfoy saves him the trouble of trying as he pulls Harry into a kiss, a kiss that turns hungry within seconds now that all of Malfoy's hot, bare skin is pressed against Harry, Malfoy's hard cock resting on Harry's hip.

“Let me suck you,” Harry says urgently into Malfoy’s lips, his mouth already watering at the thought as he runs his palms down to Malfoy's arse.

“No. Not this time.” Malfoy reaches for one of the bottles on the side table, pushing Harry gently back onto the bed.

This time. Harry clamps around the thought before he can get too excited.

It appears that unlike Harry, Malfoy does have an idea of how this is going to go. He urges Harry up the bed and onto his back with murmured instructions and firm hands. He spreads the clear, chocolate scented liquid onto his palms before sliding a hand around Harry's cock. Harry has to admit, it does feel much silkier than the lube he normally conjures, and smells delicious.

Malfoy takes Harry back into his mouth and Harry's immediately losing himself again as his cock sinks into the wet heat. Malfoy slips an oiled finger into Harry's arse at the same time, Harry groaning as his hole accepts the intrusion.

When Malfoy slides a second finger in beside the first, Harry moans louder at the satisfying stretch.

Malfoy sits up, watching Harry as he unhurriedly fucks his fingers in and out of Harry. His cheeks are flushed, his hair still falling stylishly around his handsome face.

“T'es magnifique. Tell me how it feels." His voice is low and satin smooth. As he speaks, his fingers curl over the spot that has Harry bucking up, unexpected pleasure bolting through him.

“Shit. So good,” Harry answers breathlessly, honestly. “So fucking good.”

Malfoy lowers himself back between Harry's legs and Harry can't see his face but his voice is still low in Harry's ear.

“Parfait. Keep telling me,” he murmurs. Harry arches off the bed when Malfoy replaces his fingers with a probing tongue.

“Jesusfuckingshit.” Harry tilts his hips so Malfoy can keep his tongue right there as his cock throbs. “Oh my God.”

He can't stop the babbled curses falling from his mouth. “You brilliant, fucking, ahhh–" He writhes, clawing at the sheets as jolts of pleasure fire off around his body with each push of Malfoy's searching tongue. "Brilliant– fucking– bastard. Fuck.”

Malfoy slips a finger back inside Harry alongside his tongue, then another, working Harry open.

Malfoy keeps his fingers moving as he wraps his mouth back around Harry's aching cock, taking him down again. When Malfoy’s fingers rub over that spot in Harry's arse at the same time he sucks, Harry bucks helplessly. His pleasure winds dangerously tight, pulsing through his veins, aching for release.

“OhmyfuckingGod,” Harry whines. “Yes, fuck, yes. I'm–” He closes his eyes as heat flushes through him, all of his muscles pulling deliciously taut.

As Harry's about to explode, Malfoy's fingers leave his arse. He once again lifts off, squeezing around Harry's cock, preventing his ascent to what promised to be the orgasm of his fucking life.

“Jesusfucking– arghhhh,” Harry shouts a loud, frustrated groan as he realises what's happening. Malfoy is sitting up, one hand still on Harry's cock, rubbing soothingly down Harry's thigh with his other hand as he watches Harry with unconcealed lust.

“Parfait. That's it. You're absolutely perfect,” his voice whispers in Harry's ear.

“And you’re an absolute cunt,” Harry moans, hands gripping hard to the sheet to stop himself from grabbing his dick and finishing himself off. “You're,” he groans again, arching his body, “you're fucking torturing me.”

His almost-climax sizzles softly under his skin as Malfoy lets go of his cock. He watches Malfoy with mounting need as he slicks his own with more lube.

“It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Malfoy looks at Harry with gleaming eyes, mouth hooked up in a tilted smile. “I'm going to fuck you so well, Potter. You're going to see stars. Trust me.”

Anticipation strums through Harry at Malfoy's words, at Malfoy's self assurance as he lines himself up against Harry's arse and presses in.

Harry hisses as Malfoy breaches his body. Even with the prep, Malfoy's cock is stretching him, the burning friction magnificent. Malfoy croons nonsense French words into Harry's ear, his intense eyes watching Harry’s every reaction.

Harry hears himself babbling breathlessly about how fucking good it feels as Malfoy slowly fills him. He has no thought to spare for the words, all of his awareness on the cock pushing deliciously inside him. He wraps his thighs around Malfoy's waist, sighing his satisfaction when Malfoy sinks all the way in.

Harry doesn't know what he must look like to Malfoy, except, well, fucked. Properly fucked, as Malfoy’s cock fills his arse to perfection, sending pleasure thundering through his body. Absolutely fucked, as Malfoy croons in his ear, his silky voice snaking through Harry's veins, driving him mad. Well and truly fucked as Harry realises, even before they've finished, that he already wants more. More of this. More of him.

Malfoy keeps his eyes on Harry as he starts to move, slow and deep, setting a steady pace as he kneels up against Harry’s arse.

“Tu es si bon,” he breathes. “Tell me how it feels.”

Sparks fire around Harry's body with every thrust as Malfoy grips his hips, maintaining the same satisfying rhythm.

“Good,” Harry replies instantly. “S'good.”

Malfoy smiles. Their bodies slap noisily together as Harry lifts his hips to meet him. Malfoy changes angle every now and again, pace never faltering as the sparks start to gather momentum under Harry's skin. Malfoy adjusts Harry's hips with strong hands and with his next thrust, Harry’s shouting out and cursing again at the bolt of pleasure.

“Merlinfuck!” He's panting, breathless, as tension coils deliciously at the base of his spine. “Don't stop, ahh, Jesus, fuck– so good.”

With his body thrumming and Malfoy’s pace picking up, Harry grabs his cock. He needs to come. He's not sure he can stand Malfoy stopping him a third time without going insane.

Malfoy’s breathing has grown ragged in Harry’s ear, voice sounding more and more stretched and Harry knows he must be close now too. “Fuck, Potter,” he moans breathlessly as he watches Harry fisting his cock.

Malfoy stills his hips, fingers digging into Harry's skin, cock buried deep in Harry’s arse.

Harry slows his hand, watching him.

Malfoy's head is tipped back, rosy-flushed neck on full display as he bites his lip, chest heaving.

When he tips his head forward again, his eyes are closed and he’s frowning in concentration.

Merlin. He’s not coming, as Harry'd first thought. He’s stopping himself from coming. And he looks so fucking good.

A small, fucked out smile plays on Malfoy's lips as he takes a deep breath, then another, slowly opening his eyes.

As his gaze meets Harry’s, his smile turns devious; definitely Harry's favourite. He drags his cock back, almost to Harry's rim and slides back in, starting up a slow, grinding fuck into Harry's arse - much slower than before.

Harry’s groan is more like a whimper as Malfoy's cock is once more sending teasing jolts of pleasure through him. His balls are heavy with need, whole body hovering close to a promising precipice as Malfoy deliberately fucks him too slow, keeping Harry at the end of his wits.

Harry tries to increase their rhythm as his body demands the faster pace of before, but Malfoy holds his hips still, murmuring lilting words in French as he watches Harry with bright eyes. He continues his maddening, controlled thrusts until Harry can’t take it any more.

With a noise of frustration Harry pulls back until Malfoy's cock sliding out of him. He ignores the dismaying emptiness in his arse as he surges up, making it to his knees as he flips Malfoy onto his back in one motion, watching Malfoy’s eyes flash in shock and amusement as Harry lifts a leg over to straddle him, knees bracketing Malfoy's hips.

Malfoy's smile is smug as he palms slowly over Harry's stomach and down his thighs, not saying anything. He watches raptly as Harry reaches behind himself for Malfoy's cock.

Harry lines himself up and sinks down with a groan of satisfaction, the hard length feeling so fucking good back inside him, filling him completely. Malfoy’s pleased growl sears hot in his ear.

Harry leans forward to brace on his hands, hovering above Malfoy as he starts to ride him in a deep, satisfying rhythm. Malfoy groans, head sinking back onto the pillow, his hands on Harry’s thighs, smile still playing around his mouth.

“I wondered how long you’d let me go on.”

Harry huffs in surprise. “You fucking bastard.” He tries to hide his smile, wishing Malfoy's smirking face wasn’t quite so lovely.

Harry rolls his hips on the next drag up Malfoy's cock and the sharp inhale it elicits is intoxicating.

“Fuck, yes, like that,” Malfoy groans in Harry’s ear, and Harry instantly loves it, having Malfoy's pleasure in his hands.

“Yeah?” he smirks, because he can see how much Malfoy's enjoying it, can hear it in his stuttering breaths when Harry’s hips roll forward again. All Harry wants is to keep pulling those noises from him.

“Mmm, yes. Fuck.” Malfoy doesn't try to hide his enjoyment. He pulls Harry’s neck down for a kiss, tongue licking eagerly into Harry's mouth. “Merde, don't stop, Potter. Ahh, fuck. Don't stop.” Harry keeps rolling his hips as he rides, liquid pleasure spiralling in deep his groin.

“I should stop,” Harry grumbles as he keeps his pace, “see how you like it.”

Malfoy reaches up a hand to stroke into Harry’s hair, his teasing grin crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“You're adorable when you pout.”

“Fuck off,” Harry breathes, riding him harder, delighted at the helpless groan it pulls into his ear. Malfoy guides Harry’s hips with firm hands, ensuring Harry sticks to his new, punishing rhythm.

“Fuck, yes. Like that. You're going to come so hard, Potter,” Malfoy croons. "Trust me.”

Harry's moan is almost a sob, the tightness low in his stomach unbearable and glorious in equal measure with Malfoy’s wicked voice in his ear and the hard cock filling his arse.

“Fuck," Harry pants. "I need to come,” he whines. “Please,” he whimpers, as if he isn’t the one riding Malfoy. “Fuck.”

Malfoy curls a hand around Harry’s cock. Harry speeds up, orgasm threatening to claim him as Malfoy strokes him hard and sure.

“Do it,” Malfoy breathes low in Harry's ear. “Let me see you.”

And that's all it takes. Harry comes with a shout which quickly dissolves into a long, drawn out groan as his whole body convulses.

He arches back as a wave of pleasure radiates from his pulsing cock - still being worked by Malfoy - and out to every part of his shuddering body.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears himself cry as another deeper, more intense wave hits, and it's so good– so good it's almost unbearable.

He cries out again as Malfoy flips him onto his back and fucks into him, fast and frenzied as Harry’s orgasm stretches on, his sparking muscles contracting over and over.

“Fuck,” Harry moans on repeat, writhing as each new pulse of pleasure reaches deep into his bones, sending him higher.

Malfoy is shuddering above Harry, his protracted groan mirroring Harry's feelings as his cock still throbs endlessly between them. Malfoy's cock is pulsing hot inside Harry's arse as Malfoy joins Harry in his climax.

Malfoy grinds into him, making soft ahh, ahh, ahh noises that make him dizzy with lust. This is what he sounds like when he comes, Harry thinks wonderingly, pushing up to meet Malfoy's juddering hips.

“Ahhh,” Malfoy’s low, desperate, fucked out moan is enough to keep Harry riding his high, clenching around Malfoy's cock until it's fully spent.

Malfoy collapses on top of him, hot and sweaty, and Harry immediately wraps his arms around Malfoy's back to keep the satisfying weight on top of him. His body still buzzes weakly with the remnants of his orgasm, mind drifting happily. He wonders idly if he'll ever come back down.

Too soon for Harry's liking, Malfoy rolls off to lie beside him and Harry becomes aware of his heavy, fucked out limbs once more.

He summons his wand from the floor without getting up. Malfoy looks over as he accios his glasses from the next room with a casual flick. He throws a quick cleaning spell over himself then turns on his side to face Malfoy, wondering if he ought to be self conscious of his nakedness, of his now flaccid cock, but he isn’t.

Malfoy turns onto his side too, resting his head on his hand, silently watching Harry.

Aiming his wand carefully at Malfoy, Harry casts a cleaning charm over him, concentrating to ensure it’s not too rough on his skin. It gives him an excuse to look over Malfoy’s naked body some more, to commit it to memory in case he never sees it again.

As he looks over Malfoy's pale chest, Harry notices white, barely-there scars criss-crossing over his torso and realises with a jolt what they must be.

He sucks in a breath and reaches out a hand to trace one. Malfoy grabs Harry's hand gently, giving it a squeeze. Harry meets his eyes, unable to read what's in his expression as Malfoy shakes his head.

Harry regards him for a moment and then nods, pulling his hand back. He'd rather not talk about it, either.

Malfoy takes Harry’s wand from his grasp and aims it at Harry.

“Finite,” he says quietly, releasing Harry from his interpreter spell, and places the wand down between them.

His lip curls up to one side, amused. “I must admit, I’m surprised you’re here,” he says softly. “I thought you only wanted to shag me when you were pissed.”

Harry makes a shocked noise. “Why would you think that?”

Malfoy laughs. “You didn’t seem to want anything to do with me at dinner.”

“Oh.” Harry’s smile is sheepish. He doesn’t want to admit it’s because he was nervous. “Well for the record, I did want to do something to you.” He looks over Malfoy’s body appreciatively. “Lots of things.”

Malfoy’s answering smile is lovely as he gives a mock salute. “Understood.” He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at Harry's soft cock. “How long before you can go again?”

Harry blinks as a surprised laugh escapes him. “Erm, probably not long to be honest.” He’s always been able to get hard again quickly. “About ten, fifteen minutes?”

Malfoy tips back, crossing his legs and stretching out in satisfaction, bringing his hand up behind his head. His smile turns cheeky and delicious. “Music to my dick, Potter. Music to my dick.”

Harry’s laugh is more of a giggle when it leaves his mouth. He can’t help it, he’s never seen Malfoy so loose and jokey.

“At one time, I could go again straight away.” Harry sighs wistfully. “To be a teen again.”

Malfoy slants his eyes towards Harry, his smile faltering. “I would say if only we knew each other back then. But.”

Harry hums as they regard one another. He feels the air growing serious between them.

“Do we need to talk about it?” Malfoy asks, propping his head up to look at Harry.

Harry grimaces. He desperately doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is, but he supposes the question deserves proper consideration. He tamps down his urge to reply fuck no and considers if they really should have a conversation about their past.

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry answers carefully. “I mean, we can, if you want. But I’m not holding onto anything, not where you’re concerned.” He frowns, chewing his lip, thinking about Malfoy's initial reaction to him the other day. “What about you?”

Malfoy looks at him seriously before his mouth twists into a grin. “Well, that’s a relief. Part of me was wondering if this wasn’t all a ruse to murder me in my bed.”

Harry laughs. “That would be a very elaborate plan.”

“You're right. That's giving you far too much credit.”

Harry smiles, also relieved that the past’s remaining in the past, for tonight at least. “I mean, I am beginning to wonder what lengths a man has to go to to get a brew around here. I thought you posh twats were all about good manners?”

Malfoy scoffs, dropping his head back onto his pillow. “You can suck my dick, Potter. I just shagged you for two hours straight.” He flicks a hand towards the door. “You know what a kettle looks like. Knock yourself out.”

Harry laughs. “Erm, exaggeration. That was an hour, tops.”

Malfoy closes his eyes, allowing Harry a free pass to drink in the sight of him, naked and soft and gorgeous.

“Bollocks. An hour and a half, minimum.” He shifts to get comfortable. “I’ll have an Earl Grey.”

Harry hides his smile as he sighs and rolls out of bed.

When he reenters the room levitating a tea tray, he's delighted to find Malfoy still naked where Harry had left him on the bed.

He directs the tray over to a table and chair that sits opposite the bed, picking up his boxers from the floor on the way. He feels Malfoy's eyes on him as he puts them back on.

“Milk? Sugar?” Harry asks.

“Just milk.”

Harry pours the milk, smiling as he hands the mug over.

He takes a seat in the chair. The ache in his arse feels good as he brings a foot up to rest on his knees and picks up his own steaming mug.

“Do you always fuck like that?” he asks Malfoy conversationally.

Malfoy is sitting up straight, one leg off the bed, the other up under him as he grips his tea. He smirks and gives a half shrug. “I fuck a lot of ways.”

Harry inclines his head. He takes a sip of tea, glancing around the room. It’s simply decorated, light and airy even in the dim light. The wooden bed takes up most of the space. The wall to Harry’s right is covered with floor length pale linen curtains, currently closed.

Malfoy's still watching him, head tilted. “Did you like it?” he asks, voice casual.

Harry raises an amused eyebrow. “Are you fishing for compliments, Malfoy?”

Malfoy purses his lips.

Harry shrugs. “I thought it was pretty obvious I did.” Like is an understatement. His body tingles at the memory of that orgasm. Fucking hell, he’s never had one so intense before.

Malfoy narrows his eyes, smirk sliding back onto his face. “Call all of your partners absolute cunts do you?”

Harry chuckles, raising his mug slightly in acknowledgement of his point. “Okay that one was a first, I must admit.”

Malfoy hums. “Very unbecoming of a diplomat.”

Harry nods his agreement. “Luckily, I'm not here to charm you.” Malfoy raises a brow as Harry sits back in the chair. “You've made it pretty clear you're immune to my charms anyway.”

“I am,” Malfoy readily agrees. He scoots carefully back up the bed carrying his tea, resting his back against the headboard, crossing his long legs at the ankle. “I actually thought you'd be off shagging that Spanish chap this week. He seems very taken with your charms.” He takes a sip of tea. “Nice arse, too.”

He watches Harry for a reaction. Harry keeps his face neutral as he taps his mug, softly humming agreement.

“Antonio? He's alright. We had a few communication issues though.” He gives Malfoy a pointed look.

Malfoy blinks back innocently, as if he doesn’t know what Harry’s talking about. “Did you?”

Harry hums and takes a sip of his tea, not replying, waiting to see what Malfoy really wants to say.

When Malfoy speaks again, his tone is still casual, his face giving nothing away. “So, you’re here because I speak English?”

Harry's tempted to tell the truth. To admit that he's here because he's wanted to fuck Malfoy since he first laid eyes on him on Wednesday. That he can't think of anyone else for whom he'd throw over the chance to do it again - not Antonio, not anyone. That he's here not just because he wants to shag Malfoy, but because he kind of likes him, too.

But he decides to play it safe. “I'm here because I really want to suck your dick.”

He's rewarded with the sight of Malfoy's rounded eyes, his mouth parting in surprise. It's only a fraction of a second before Malfoy regains his composure and turns his expression back to a smirk, but it's enough. Malfoy takes another slow sip of his drink before putting his mug down on the bedside.

“Well then.”

“Well then,” Harry agrees, putting his own mug down. He pulls off his glasses and climbs onto the bed.

As Harry crawls towards him, Malfoy leans back, dropping his thighs open, allowing Harry to settle between his legs. Malfoy’s pale cock has already started to fill and Harry’s mouth waters at the sight.

He looks up at Malfoy, who's watching him with curiosity.

“Can I?” Harry asks.

With the hint of a smirk, Malfoy spreads an elegant hand as if to say all yours, and Harry grins at how very Malfoy it is.

He leans down and licks Malfoy full hardness in two long stripes. Gripping his invitingly hard cock at the base, Harry explores the head with his tongue, the salty taste zinging straight to Harry’s balls. The instant Malfoy's cock is inside his mouth, he loves it. Loves the feel of it, the weight of it, the taste of it, just as he knew he would.

Malfoy’s fingers slide into Harry’s hair, his soft gasps filling the quiet room.

In his eagerness to get his mouth on Malfoy, Harry had forgotten to ask for the spell that would bring Malfoy’s voice to his ear. But Malfoy’s sharp exhales and low groans grow steadily louder, making it unnecessary.

Harry’s sucked a lot of dick in his life and he pays attention to Malfoy’s responses. Malfoy moans loudest when Harry sucks hard on his way back up, fist following his mouth. Dragging the back of his tongue over the head of Malfoy's cock pulls many delicious ‘fuck’s and Harry’s own cock leaks from the sound of his voice, at the growing lack of control in it.

“Fuck, Potter.” Malfoy sounds accusatory as his hips jerk forwards, driving into Harry’s mouth. Harry groans, looking up through his lashes to see Malfoy watching him. When their eyes meet, Malfoy closes his eyes and groans. “Shit. Shit.”

Malfoy’s hands leave Harry’s hair and move to his chest, urging him up and off. Harry sits back on his heels, blinking in question as he breathes heavily. Malfoy moves forward, a flush high on his cheeks.

He pulls Harry into a messy kiss, his hands back in Harry’s hair, and Harry’s dizzy from the switch from Malfoy’s cock in his mouth, to his tongue.

“Let me fuck you again,” Malfoy says breathlessly as he runs his hands down Harry’s face to his chest, and the urgency in his voice makes Harry’s balls ache.

Malfoy has hooked his fingers in the waistband of Harry’s boxers, his eyes searching Harry’s face for permission. “I need to fuck you again.”

He asks firmly, but the almost frantic plea in his voice. Fuck. Harry would probably give him the contents of his Gringotts vault if he asked for it like that.

“Yes,” Harry says, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free between them. “Yeah.”

As Harry works his boxers off, Malfoy grabs a bottle of lube from the bedside table, slicking his cock.

He runs his eyes over Harry's naked, kneeling body, taking him in. Harry watches him exhale, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly.

“What?” Harry's suddenly self-conscious under the scrutiny.

Malfoy meets his eyes again. “You,” he says softly.

Harry cocks his head at the strange reply, waiting for him to elaborate, but Malfoy doesn’t say anything else, just urges him up the bed. Harry kneels up, thighs parted, holding onto the headboard as Malfoy kneels behind him.

This close, he can hear Malfoy’s shallow breaths in his ear as he pushes two slicked fingers into Harry, the sound of his uneven breathing driving Harry mad with need, an aching heat simmering low in his stomach, his cock heavy with anticipation.

“You don’t–” Harry groans at the feel of Malfoy's fingers sliding in and out of him. “You don't need to do that,” he says firmly. “Just give me your cock.”

Malfoy huffs a laugh as he removes his fingers, pressing his bare chest to Harry’s back, thighs bracketing Harry's. Harry’s relieved to feel the head of Malfoy's cock nudging against his hole. “You sound a bit desperate for it.”

Harry laughs at the hypocrisy. “Just fuck me, Malfoy.” He smiles. “And make it good.”

Malfoy makes a whiny, definitely desperate sound at that, and Harry wants to tease him about it, but can't, because his breath is being forced out of his lungs by the sudden fullness in his arse. Malfoy pushes into Harry in one long slide, not stopping until their skin is pressing together, lighting every nerve ending as pleasure dances up Harry's spine.

Malfoy keeps his hips still as he stays fully seated in Harry, dropping a flurry of kisses on Harry’s shoulders. His hands slide around Harry’s hips, thumbs stroking lightly over Harry’s stomach in a soft caress, breathing deeply. One hand finds Harry’s cock and he gives it a leisurely stroke, muttering softly in French. Gods, it's all so fucking good.

Harry rests his head back on Malfoy's shoulder, closing his eyes, enjoying Malfoy's caressing hand on his cock and the satisfying fullness back in his arse for a few blissful moments. With a smile, Harry forces his voice to sound bored. “Any day now would be nice, you know.”

Malfoy's shocked laugh is lovely in his ear. His hands move back to Harry’s hips. “Now who’s being a cunt?”

Harry laughs as Malfoy starts to fuck him, and they quickly find a rhythm, Harry using the headboard as leverage to meet Malfoy’s thrusts. The room fills with the sound of their slapping skin, stuttering breaths and occasional groans. Harry loses himself in the rhythmic pounding, in the pleasure pulsing around his body and into his aching cock. Malfoy fucks Harry like he can't get enough, and it feels fucking fantastic.

Malfoy increases his pace and Harry’s skin is flushing hot, orgasm gathering low in his groin.

“Ahhh, fuck,” Harry grinds out. “Yes.” He moans loudly as Malfoy keeps slamming into his arse.

Keeping his rhythm, Malfoy curls a hand around Harry’s cock and Harry is groaning louder as every thrust now brings Malfoy’s hand sliding firmly down from tip to base. He's so close, climax building like tidal wave at a dam, ready to crash over and consume him.

“Fuckyes,” Harry gasps out. “If you stop this–” he manages to breathe warningly through the pleasure overtaking him, holding the headboard in a white knuckled grip. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Malfoy’s sweat-damp skin presses fully against Harry’s back, mouthing Harry’s neck as he drives in hard. “Understood,” he huffs in Harry’s ear.

Harry tips his head back, leaning back against the solid heat of Malfoy's chest, trusting Malfoy to fuck him to his finish.

With a few more punishing thrusts of Malfoy's hips and simultaneous fists of Harry's cock, Harry comes, swearing incoherently. He arches back, toes curling, every muscle singing in delight. His arse contracts around Malfoy's cock as Malfoy’s teeth scrape gently along his neck, and it feels so good, so fucking good, he never wants it to end.

When Harry’s cock is spent, body still tingling, Malfoy grips Harry’s hips with both hands again and fucks him hard and fast. And Harry loves that too, as he braces on the headboard with shaky arms. He loves Malfoy losing control in his sensitive body. Loves hearing Malfoy’s stretched growl of need, his fucked out groan when his stuttering hips grind into Harry one final time. Loves Malfoy’s cock pulsing hot inside him again. Loves the way Malfoy's arms snake around his chest to hold him tight as Malfoy shudders to a finish, rolling his hips to bury himself as deeply as possible inside Harry. Harry loves every breathless second.

A few minutes and a cleaning charm later, they lie naked, sated, passing a cigarette between them.

“Are you staying?” Malfoy asks, exhaling smoke and holding the cigarette out between two long fingers.

Harry takes it without looking at him and inhales, using the deep breath to keep his composure. To pretend his insides aren’t wriggling with delight. He exhales. “How else am I going to murder you in your sleep?”

Malfoy doesn’t reply, and Harry doesn’t turn to check his reaction, but he imagines he can hear Malfoy's smile.

As they ready for bed, Malfoy casts a purifying spell to dispel the smoke and slips from the room. Harry hears him speaking French in a low, soothing voice and smiles to himself as he retrieves his boxers.

In the bathroom Harry hunts for a spare toothbrush, or something he can transfigure into one. He pulls open the cabinet door over the sink.

“Fucking hell.”

There's a double shelf filled with at least thirty fussy little bottles of lube, all lined up in neat rows. He lifts one out to read the label but it’s in French. He opens it and sniffs; something citrussy.

“What?” Malfoy appears at the door in nothing but green, silk boxers, looking impossibly, distractingly fit.

Harry tears his eyes away from Malfoy's abs and holds up the bottle, motioning to the cabinet. “This.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “I'm not following?”

“Malfoy. You've got the Bertie fucking Botts of lube in here.”

Malfoy laughs. “And? I like having options.”

Harry puts the bottle back and shakes his head with a chuckle.

“And, you're ridiculous.”

“There’s a spare toothbrush on the bottom shelf, if that’s what you’re after.”

As Harry closes the cabinet, he’s met with the sight of both of them in the mirror, smiling. Their eyes meet, and it’s… surreal, seeing them like this. The whole situation, really. Harry blinks and busies himself with the toothpaste, shaking his head again.

In bed, Harry yawns, the day catching up with him. “Where does Pierre sleep?” His voice is small and sleepy.

“Mmm? Oh, usually in here, but he won’t come in if there’s someone else here. He has a bed in the other room too. Or the sofa.”

Harry hums. “I think he likes me.”

Malfoy snorts. “Highly unlikely.”

“I like him.”

Malfoy’s sigh is barely there. “Of course you do.”

I like you too.

Chapter Text

Saturday

Harry wakes slowly to warm sunlight kissing his skin. The smell of coffee fills his nostrils, a pleasant ache fills his arse and a groggy contentment fills his chest.

He reaches for his glasses and slides them on with a yawn. The long curtains in Malfoy's room are open, revealing not a window but a balcony, edged with small flower boxes atop white railings.

The doors are wide open, framing a bistro table and chairs that take up most of the space. And sitting at the table, cigarette in hand, is Malfoy.

His profile is thoughtful as he looks at something Harry can't see. He wears a thin shirt, mostly undone, and loose, cotton trousers. His lean frame is relaxed with one leg propped up on the chair opposite him.

Harry carefully settles his head back onto the pillow behind him, slow and quiet so as not to draw Malfoy's attention. He wants a few minutes just to look. Another image to squirrel away in his memories.

His quiet observation is interrupted by movement against his leg and he looks down to see Pierre spread out at the bottom of the bed, eyes closed, paws stretching into Harry.

Harry cautiously leans over, giving Pierre’s fur a few strokes behind his ears. Pierre doesn't open his eyes, but a low, contented purr tells Harry he's good to continue.

“I don't care what he says,” Harry murmurs. “I think we should be friends.” Pierre doesn’t react, other than to stretch his long body further.

Malfoy calls something through the door in French and Harry looks up with a smile, loving the sound of it, even if it’s directed at Pierre and not to him.

Malfoy sweeps an appraising look over Harry before sitting back in his chair again, looking out.

Harry dresses hastily in last night’s clothes. He whistles when he reaches the balcony door, taking in the view. “Jesus. I don’t know how you ever leave your bedroom.”

Malfoy moves his foot from the second chair and gestures for Harry to sit. He pours Harry coffee from a press, and Harry’s warmed as he realises that Malfoy had it ready for him.

“It’s not quite so nice if I take the sound dampening charm down.”

Harry just hums in reply. As far as he can tell, it’s all nice. His flat, his cat, his bed, him. Pierre has followed Harry to the balcony and hops up onto Malfoy’s lap, instantly curling into a ball.

Harry adds milk to his coffee and takes a sip. Of course the coffee's nice, too.

“What do you have planned for today?” Malfoy asks mildly, and Harry wonders uncomfortably if he’s waiting for Harry to leave. “Any parts of Paris particularly take your fancy?”

Harry takes another sip of coffee. “Actually, I was hoping to go see the Mona Lisa this morning. You know, in the Louvre.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, taking a pull of his cigarette with an amused smirk. “Yes, I know where the Mona Lisa is. Merlin, Potter, you’re a walking cliché. The whole of wizarding Paris is your oyster, and you choose a tourist hellhole and the Mona Lisa?”

Harry tuts. “Piss off. You don’t have to come.”

Harry really wants him to come. After spending so much time together this week - after last night - the idea of spending the rest of the weekend apart feels almost unbearable. Not that he can admit that.

Malfoy sips his coffee, running a hand absently through Pierre’s fur.

Harry clears his throat. “Remind me how you say ticket again? Bill-ett?” He blinks innocently, keeping his face straight as Malfoy looks at him aghast.

“Billet,” Malfoy corrects, sternly.

“Be-yay,” Harry repeats. He pretends to think. “Okay, so it's Jay. Uh, voodray. A. Beyay. Sivoo–”

“Oh Gods, stop. Fine. I’ll go with you, if only to spare the ears of the poor fucker that has to listen to that. Honestly.”

Malfoy pulls another disgusted face and Harry hides his triumphant smile in his cup.

It's a bit awkward, at first, going to the Louvre with Malfoy. Out in public, Malfoy becomes more reserved. It's a subtle change. He's still outwardly relaxed, but there’s something guarded about him that isn’t there when it’s just the two of them.

Harry notices that Malfoy takes care not to stand too close to him, either, and he has to hide his disappointment at the disappearance of their newfound intimacy. Whatever the reason for it, Harry respects Malfoy's wishes and maintains the distance Malfoy clearly wants between them today.

He decides to make up for it by trying to make Malfoy laugh, instead, making a point of using his bad French to buy their tickets before Malfoy can stop him. The man behind the counter gamely teaches Harry the correct pronunciation of billets as Malfoy cringes beside him.

“I thought I was here to save us from that mortification,” Malfoy grouses, but Harry just smirks, pleased at the amusement he detects in Malfoy’s eyeroll.

When they enter the museum, Malfoy hangs back, allowing Harry to steer them through the early exhibitions, saying very little. So little, in fact, Harry starts to wonder if he shouldn't have come alone, after all, so he could freely enjoy himself.

But Harry quickly loses himself in the place, and automatically treats Malfoy as he would any friend he's dragged along with him, forcing him into conversation whether he wants it or not.

“Come and look at this,” Harry says over his shoulder as he reads the exhibition text. “It's so old.”

Malfoy hums. “Yes. About nine thousand years.”

Harry does the maths, slanting his eyes at Malfoy. He's right, but he couldn’t have read that information from where he’s standing.

“Yeah. Why do you think it was made?”

Malfoy steps next to him, looking at the statue thoughtfully.

Harry takes in his profile. The lean lines of his body, hugged by his soft, long sleeved t-shirt. The drape of the beige linen trousers that perfectly outline the curve of his arse as he stands with his hands in his pockets. His straight nose and the sweep of his hair, pushed from his face by the sunglasses on the top of his head. His soft lips, tipped down in contemplation. He's a fucking piece of art himself.

“We’ll never know.”

“Well yes, I know that. Why do you think, though?”

Malfoy continues to look at the statue, then at Harry, assessing, then back to the statue. “It was buried almost straight after it was made, so it wasn't for display. I think it was created to remember someone. A tribute to a loved one, would be my guess.”

Harry smiles, nodding. “I was thinking the same thing.”

They walk on. “You're not what I expected."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "In what way?"

Malfoy frowns. "I wouldn't have guessed you'd be into art, for one thing.”

Harry shrugs. “I'm not, really. Well, I do like looking at it, but I don't know anything about composition or styles or whatever. It's the history that interests me. The stories behind the art. Like, I like to look at a piece and wonder about the person who made it, and why.” Malfoy's ducking his head, listening quietly as they make their way into the next section. “I like to imagine what an artist felt, or hoped, when they created something, you know? And who the people are in their pictures or sculptures. I guess I find the people behind the art as interesting than the art itself.”

Malfoy stops walking, turning to face Harry, and Harry can't read the strange expression on his face.

Malfoy’s mouth tugs up into a smile. “And what do you think about the person who made this one?”

Harry hadn't been paying attention to where they were heading. He follows Malfoy's hand gesture to look at the painting in front of them.

“Fuck me,” Harry blurts as he takes it in, and a man across the room gives him an audible tut. Malfoy laughs quietly as Harry calls an apology over to the affronted bloke.

He turns back to the painting. “I'd say they were obviously very talented, and captured the essence of a glorious arse perfectly.”

Malfoy’s lip twitches. “Insightful critique, Potter.”

Harry ignores him and leans closer. “A glorious body, in fact. What’s it called?”

“Étude d’homme,” Malfoy replies, eyes still on Harry. “Study of a man.”

Harry continues to look at the painting - an oil on canvas - admiring the colours, the brush strokes, the stunning beauty of the piece. “It's really lovely, isn't it? I wonder who he was.”

“The painter or the subject?”

“Both. I wonder if they knew each other.” Harry chews his lip thoughtfully, looking at the name and date below it. “I wonder if they ever thought this painting would be hanging in a gallery, still being appreciated nearly two hundred years later.”

He loses himself in the awe he always feels when he contemplates such things. When he looks up, Malfoy is looking at him, an odd smile hovering on his lips. Harry smiles back.

Malfoy takes charge of where they go after that, chatting more freely as they stop in front of various works, Malfoy watching Harry for his reactions far more than he looks at the art.

“Don't try and tell me they aren't going to fuck later,” Harry whispers with a smirk as they stand in front of The Wrestlers, watching Malfoy's mouth tip down in a smile.

“I thought you might say that,” he murmurs back.

They have to queue to see the Mona Lisa, packed tightly amongst excited tourists. Harry laughs when they finally reach the front.

“Wow. It's pretty…small, isn't it?”

Malfoy hums, looking at him, his back to the painting. “Does it have to be big to impress you, Potter?”

Harry glances at him wryly before looking back at the gold-framed portrait and its surroundings. “No. But it helps, sometimes, doesn’t it?” He cocks his head. “It's not very… attention-grabbing, is it?”

Malfoy turns around and tilts his head, too. “I think that might be part of the charm. Enigmatic, some people say.”

A museum staff member waves for them to move along, their viewing time up. “A bit shit, is what many people used to say,” Harry says as they walk away. “Before it got nicked and became famous.”

Malfoy stops. “What do you mean?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Do you not know about the Mona Lisa heist?” Harry’s pleased to see Malfoy’s puzzled look in answer.

Harry's stomach gives a hungry growl. “I’ll tell you the story at lunch. Do you think there’s somewhere to eat in here? Or should we go elsewhere?”

“There are better places I can take you to eat, if there’s nothing else you want to see here first?”

Harry likes the sound of being taken somewhere by Malfoy, and happily confirms he’s ready to leave. As Malfoy walks them towards the exit, Harry just can't stop himself.

“So, do you come to this tourist hellhole often, Malfoy?” he asks, casually, looking innocently at him.

Malfoy glances at him, then quickly away. “I’ve been once or twice,” he says carefully.

Harry laughs at the obvious lie. “I think you’ve been more than that.”

Malfoy sniffs and ignores him.

“You come here all the time, don’t you?” Harry presses.

Malfoy still doesn’t say anything, so Harry nudges him. “Just admit it, Mister Potter you’re a walking cliché.” Harry makes sure to mimic Malfoy’s posh accent.

Malfoy huffs, the corner of his mouth unsteady as he tries to keep his face neutral. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Harry exhales loudly. “Okay, fine. If you won't tell me, I’ll just have to find out for myself.” He looks around and spots a member of staff. “Excuse me?” he calls loudly.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Malfoy hisses. Harry ignores him, walking towards the uniformed man.

“Excuse me, do you recognise this man?” Harry gestures towards Malfoy, smirking at his scandalised face. “He’s a regular here, and I was just wondering–”

Malfoy swiftly brings an arm around Harry and places his hand over Harry’s moving mouth. He says something in French to the confused staff member before adding “Stupid Englishman,” loudly, tugging Harry away.

Harry laughs and licks Malfoy’s hand, earning him an outraged squawk as Malfoy snatches his hand back and gives Harry a hard shove. “I can’t fucking believe you, Potter,” Malfoy says in an angry whisper, but there’s no real bite in it.

Harry laughs. “I’m going to ask every staff member in here if they recognise you until you admit it,” he promises, having to quicken his pace to keep up with Malfoy, who's dashing away.

“You’re a dick,” Malfoy says and Harry laughs again.

Malfoy spins around, looking petulant. “Fine. I visit here regularly. Alone. Which is how it will stay from now on. Happy?”

Harry smirks as they head towards the exit. He gives Malfoy a bump with his arm. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Piss off.”

“Cliché,” Harry chuckles to himself.

When they’re out in the warm street, Malfoy lights himself a cigarette, pointedly not offering one to Harry.

“Now who’s pouting?” Harry asks happily. He grabs Malfoy’s arm and Malfoy freezes, looking surprised at the touch. Holding his gaze, Harry reaches down and slowly takes the cigarette from Malfoy’s fingers.

He can’t tell if Malfoy’s relieved or disappointed when Harry lets go of his arm and starts to walk again, taking a long drag of the claimed cigarette.

“You’re annoying,” Malfoy says, as if it’s only just occurred to him.

Harry grins. The sun is shining, tourists buzz excitedly around them and Malfoy is about to take him to lunch. Life feels good as he hands the cigarette back.

“So, there was no security back then,” Harry tells Malfoy as they walk a path along the river. Malfoy looks at his feet, hands in his pockets as he listens. “If photographers wanted to take photos of a piece, they were allowed to just take it off the wall and drag it up to the roof. You know, for the light.”

Malfoy scoffs. “You’re joking?”

“I’m not. Literally allowed to yank a Carravaggio down off the wall and hoof it up to the roof, can you believe it?” Harry chuckles as Malfoy shakes his head, face incredulous.

“No, I can’t.”

“I know. But it's true. So when this bloke nicks off with the Mona Lisa, a staff member actually holds the door open for him. And then, because it’s so normal for paintings to go AWOL, no one actually realises the painting’s been stolen for over twenty four hours.”

Malfoy laughs. “You’re having me on.”

“‘Where’s ze Mona Lisa?’” Harry asks in an exaggerated French accent. “No idea. ’Ave you checked ze roof?” He waves a hand. “Meh, who cares? It’s a piece of shit anyway!”

Malfoy snorts a laugh at Harry's impression.

“So anyway,” Harry continues, switching back to his normal voice. “No one gave a shit about the painting up to then, right? But once it was stolen, the world press had an absolute field day, taking the piss out of the French and their crappy security. People started coming from all over the world just to queue up and see the empty spot where the Mona Lisa used to be."

Malfoy huffs another laugh. "Really?"

“Yeah. And the French were proper embarrassed, obviously. They offered a reward for the return of the painting and everything. It became a massive investigation. A matter of French pride.”

Harry keeps turning to face Malfoy as he tells his story, sometimes fully walking backwards just to take in his face. Malfoy watches Harry eagerly in return, and Harry loves it, because Malfoy is interested.

“How did they catch the thief? I’m assuming they did, unless you're about to tell me that’s a replica hanging in there today.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah they got it back, but only after two years.”

“Two years?”

“Yeah. The poor fella thought he was stealing a shitty little painting that no one would even care about. But then it all blew up, and it was so famous I guess it was impossible for him to sell it. So he had to hang onto it for two years.”

Harry turns forwards again to walk next to Malfoy, sliding his hands in his pockets. “He eventually tried to sell it in Italy to some art dealers, under the code name Leo.”

Malfoy hums. “But let me guess, they called the cops?”

Harry arches an eyebrow at him. “Cops?”

Malfoy gives an embarrassed smile. “That's what they’re called in all the Muggle films. Is that not right?”

Harry wonders who Malfoy has been watching Muggle films with.

“In America, yes. In England it’s police. In Italy it’s…let me think. Carabinieri.”

“That’ll be pronounced carabinieri,” Malfoy interjects.

“That’s what I said, carabinieri,” Harry says, deliberately mispronouncing it again to watch Malfoy’s pained reaction. Malfoy is onto him now, he can tell, but he must be too interested in the story to question it.

“So what happened? Did he go to prison?”

“He did, but only for a few months. Because, get this. When he got caught, he told everyone that he didn’t steal the painting for money. Said he stole it for Italy.”

Malfoy laughs quietly. “Okay, that’s genius.”

“Exactly. Everyone loves a bit of patriotism. So even though everyone previously agreed that the Mona Lisa belonged in France, and no one really gave a shit about it, suddenly the Italians were like ‘damn right this absolute masterpiece is Italian’. The Italian authorities didn’t even give the painting back when they seized it.”

“They held onto it? The French would have been spitting feathers, surely?”

Harry chuckles, loving that Malfoy's as into this story as he was. “There were! But the Italians were like ‘fuck off, you can have it back when we say you can have it back’ and they fucking toured it around the country first." Harry laughs at the thought. “They toured it for two fucking months before they gave it back. Can you imagine how pissed off the French were?”

Malfoy laughs delightedly. “Yes, I can! Is that really true?”

They’ve reached a quiet path veering away from the river. “Every word. I shit you not, that's how it got so famous.” Harry might have embellished a couple of bits, but it’s essentially true.

Malfoy looks amused. “And how do you know so much about it, Potter? Do you moonlight as an art thief in your spare time or something?”

Harry glances at him, raising an eyebrow. “Is that more believable than I just read about it because it interests me?”

Malfoy doesn’t reply, but Harry catches his assessing, sideward glance.

They reach a square surrounded by restaurants, and Malfoy steers them to a table under an umbrella outside a busy café. When a waiter approaches, Harry refrains from attempting to order, allowing Malfoy to do it for them, marvelling at how he manages to make ordering omelettes and tea so fucking sexy.

They sip their drinks in companionable silence as they wait for their food. Harry sits back contentedly, tipping his face out of the shade of the umbrella towards the sunshine. He closes his eyes, listening to the distant strains of music, the clinking of cutlery and loud chatter of people in the warm air, enjoying a brief moment of shut eyed serenity.

When he opens his eyes, Malfoy’s watching him with a thoughtful expression. “What are you thinking about?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m thinking it’s nice here. I like it.” I like being with you. He lifts his cup to his lips. “What are you thinking about?”

Malfoy shrugs. “That I’d quite like to suck your cock later.”

Harry splutters, almost choking on his tea, an undignified noise issuing from his throat. He laughs, trying to catch his breath as he brings a hand up to wipe his chin. “Fucking hell, some warning please.”

Malfoy’s eyes gleam and Harry’s cock is responding to the sexy smirk on his face just as their food arrives.

“Well, you’ll have to hold that thought,” Harry says pointedly when he regains his composure. “I still have the, uh,” he pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and reads it. “Jardin du Luxembourg on my list for this afternoon.” He smirks at Malfoy’s wince at his hard ‘j’.

Malfoy sighs. “I suppose it's a good day for it, weather wise. It's not usually like this in early June. ”

Harry nods. “And I do have to go back to Casteau on Monday having seen something of Paris beyond my interpreter's impressive lube collection.”

Malfoy hums as he unwraps his cutlery from its napkin and starts to cut his omelette. “Why did you move into the international side of things?”

Harry takes a bite of his own and thinks about it as he chews.

“I desperately needed the change.” He takes another bite as Malfoy watches him, waiting for more. He sits back. “Don’t get me wrong, my life was good. Is good. But. I don’t know. I’m thirty next month and I just need…more. You know? To see more of the world. To live a bit more. I dunno. It just feels l like I need something.”

Malfoy’s nodding slowly, like he gets it, and Harry wonders if he does.

“And do you think you've found it, with this job?”

Harry gives him a smile as he picks up his tea. “Who knows? It's not going too badly at the moment.”

As they finish up their food, they watch a handsome busker with a guitar and microphone set up in the square in front of them. Once the microphone is up, the man speaks into it in French as he pulls his guitar strap over his head. When his words get no response, he looks questioningly around at the busy tables.

“Okay, I’ll try again in English.” His English is heavily accented. “I need some people to come and dance to my new song. I wrote it for dancing.”

Cheers go up from the table next to them. A group of middle aged men and women start to get up.

“English?” the busker asks.

“American!” one of the group calls back. Harry glances at Malfoy, who’s watching the group with bemusement.

“Ah. I can always rely on Americans!”

As the first few lines of the song are sung, it solidifies what Harry had hoped from the first pretty plucks of his guitar strings; it’s a really lovely song.

He looks at Malfoy, raising his eyebrows in a hopeful question.

Malfoy immediately realises what Harry's asking and shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

Harry sighs his disappointment, shoulders slumping as he looks around. He spots two of the American women still sitting at the mostly vacated table, watching the rest of their group dance in the square. “Fine. If you won’t dance with me, I’ll find someone who will.”

He heads towards the women and clears his throat. “Hello. Sorry to disturb you. My date is refusing to dance with me,” he says loudly, shooting a look back at Malfoy, who’s watching him with incredulity. “I don’t suppose either of you will take pity on me and do me the honour?”

The women look at each other, smiling, and one of them immediately stands up. “Of course I will! How can anyone resist you?”

Harry beams. “Harry,” he says, taking her hand.

She beams back. “Janet.”

Harry leads Janet into the square, urging her to twirl under his arm, which she does with enthusiasm. His dancing has improved somewhat since the Yule Ball of his youth, and he enjoys leading Janet amongst the other dancers in time with the busker's strumming guitar.

Harry gives Malfoy a tilted smile over Janet’s shoulder whenever he can. Malfoy is watching him, chin in hand, cigarette between his fingers, his smile almost indulgent. Harry wonders if there's any part of him that wants to dance, or if he just finds Harry utterly ridiculous.

Toi et moi. The words in the chorus repeat, romantic and sweet. You and me, Harry recognises. As it has a tendency to do, the music pulls emotion from deep within him, and with a nervous pang, Harry realises just how much he wishes it was Malfoy in his arms.

The Jardin du Luxembourg is beautiful, made even more beautiful by wandering around it with Malfoy. Harry regales him with stories from home and uses plenty of bad French, trying to pull more smiles from him. Every sideways cut of amused eyes, every upwards curl of Malfoy's mouth feels like a victory on Harry's own private scoreboard.

He also manages to coax Malfoy into talking about his life, as well. He tells Harry about how he moved to France with his mother straight after the war, about studying languages and meeting Mathieu.

“He got me my first interpreter job,” Malfoy says as they stroll through vibrant rhododendrons still in bloom. “We studied and worked together and at some point along the way he became my best– oh, shit.” Malfoy halts his feet. “I forgot, I'm actually meant to be meeting him for dinner tonight.”

Harry hides his disappointment behind an understanding smile as Malfoy glances around, casting a quick tempus.

“Ah. Do you need to leave?”

“Oh, not for a couple of hours yet. I just…thought…” he trails off as Harry waits to hear what he thought, exactly.

Malfoy slides his hands in his pockets as they start to walk again. “Would you like to join us?” His voice is neutral.

Harry knows he ought to say no. His British sensibilities are warning him not to overstay his welcome; that he shouldn't impose himself on Malfoy, who’s probably only inviting him out of politeness. He knows he really should give Malfoy space to enjoy the rest of his weekend away from Harry.

“I, erm, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says instead.

“You wouldn't be,” Malfoy says quickly. “Mathieu would love the chance to cook for someone else, trust me.”

Harry smiles. “Alright, if you’re sure he won’t mind.”

He's probably imagining the look of relief that appears to flit across Malfoy’s face as he nods. “He won't. I'll patronus him now.”

They walk leisurely through the gardens for the next hour, their conversation meandering the same way as their feet. They touch on their past, teasing each other about the lighter stuff, talking around the heavier stuff with a few wry comments. Several times, Harry's overcome with a giddy sense of romance as they stroll past fragrant lavender and blooming roses, and the urge to grab Malfoy’s hand is so overwhelming he has to stuff his hand in his pocket to resist. It's official. Something about Malfoy turns Harry into a complete and absolute idiot.

“You’re definitely misremembering,” Malfoy is saying, all loose limbed and beautiful in the afternoon sun as they make their way across the grass.

“I am not,” Harry says indignantly. “You must have made hundreds of those fucking little badges.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Exaggeration, as usual.” He coughs. “But yes, I do know I was a twat back then, thanks. I didn't mean to be. I had a lot of feelings I didn’t quite understand at the time.”

Harry snorts as he turns to face him, raising a teasing eyebrow. “You saying you fancied me?”

“That’s not what I said at all.”

Harry turns fully, walking backwards to get a proper look at Malfoy's face. “Oh my God, you did! You fancied me at school!” Harry laughs gleefully at Malfoy’s discomposure, knowing he's right. “All that time, I thought you hated me. You were such a little shit to me, I can't believe that actually–”

“Harry!”

It's the fucking Harry that does it, falling brand new from Malfoy's mouth and moving the ground beneath Harry’s feet, probably. Gods, how much softer it sounds than Potter. How much nicer. Harry instantly wants to get him to repeat it, to swallow it from his lips.

If it wasn’t for that Harry, he would definitely have turned around in time to notice the stupid little wall, too low to be anything other than a deliberate trip hazard.

But as it is, Harry’s still wrapping his head around his name on Malfoy's lips as Malfoy’s eyes are widening and Harry’s leg is connecting with the tiny wall. He feels his body lift from the ground, suspended in the air for a split second before he’s landing painfully on his arse with a splash. He sits spluttering in the cold, murky water of a stupid fucking fountain, all thoughts of names and lips forgotten.

Malfoy’s laugh is loud and free as he leans in and offers Harry his hand. “Fucking hell, Potter, that’s the second time you’ve fallen on your arse in two days.”

Harry smiles reluctantly and takes his hand, drenched and a bit embarrassed. He’s not even pissed this time. He's not usually such an uncoordinated idiot. Just around him.

“You could’ve cast an impedimenta to stop my fall,” Harry complains as he squelches around a stone monument in search of somewhere safe to cast a drying charm.

“In front of how many Muggles?” Malfoy asks as he follows, mouth still annoyingly twitching at the corners.

“Or a cushioning charm,” Harry continues, rubbing his sore arse. “Or done anything other than just watch me trip. I'd have saved you,” Harry says pointedly.

Malfoy has turned away and Harry can see the telltale shake of his shoulders. “Oi, stop laughing, you absolute bastard!”

“I'm not.” Malfoy's voice is strained and Harry knows he's laughing his stupid head off.

He finishes his drying charm, but the stench of stagnant water still clings to his clothes. “Merlin, these stink. I need to go back to the hotel and get changed.”

He wants to pretend to be pissed off at Malfoy for a bit longer, but Malfoy's smile is too nice. “You coming?” he asks, his mouth reluctantly tugging into a smile.

“I think I'd better. You're a hazard. I don't know how you're still alive, frankly.”

Harry gives him a wry smile before holding out his hand. After a quick glance to check they can't be seen, he apparates them back to the hotel.

They land directly in Harry’s room, but Harry's confused when his usual smooth landing is thrown off. He’s immediately staggering backwards, Malfoy pressing into him.

He feels Malfoy’s lips on his at the same time his back hits the wall. Malfoy's hands are running all over him, kissing with an urgency that steals Harry's breath, all tongue and teeth and hot, panting breaths.

Harry kisses him back, of course, eagerly wrapping his arms around Malfoy. He’s instantly straining in his trousers, the whole day of looking but not touching finally catching up with him.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, brain still not quite processing the transition from the gardens to this.

Malfoy presses his chest flush against Harry, aligning their hips. He brings their faces close as he rolls his hips and Harry groans at the slide over his cock.

“I need you,” Malfoy breathes into Harry’s mouth as he grinds against Harry's cock again. “Fuck, I need you,” he repeats, more desperately, lips catching Harry’s in another kiss. “Now.”

Harry’s arching up into him, sliding his hands under Malfoy's top and smoothing over his hot skin, his own buzzing need pushing static into his head as his aching cock strains in his pants.

“Yes.” He doesn’t even know what he's agreeing to, but Malfoy can have it, whatever it is.

Malfoy has undone Harry’s trousers and is tugging them down in quick, jerky movements. In a blink, he’s on his knees and taking Harry into his mouth.

“Jesus, Malfoy.” Harry slides his hands into Malfoy's hair as Malfoy tongues the head of Harry's cock, the bolt of pleasure encouraging another groan from Harry's throat. He can’t believe how much Malfoy seems to want him, even smelling of stagnant fountain water.

It’s as if Malfoy remembers everything Harry likes from last night, because every swipe of Malfoy's tongue, every suck, every saliva-slicked slide down Harry's shaft is exactly what he needs. He cries out in agonised pleasure, unable to keep it in as he winds his fingers into Malfoy's sleek hair, shouting curses up to the ceiling. “Merlin's fucking tits, yourfuckingmouth!”

Malfoy finds a rhythm, and it can only have been a few minutes max, but Harry's right on the brink. His muscles are stretched and ready to snap, hips rocking into that wonderful wet heat, breath stuttering as a flush scorches his skin. “That’s so– fucking– ahh, I’m coming,” Harry groans hard as he spills into Malfoy’s mouth, orgasm slamming into him and raging around his body, the release of hours of want. “Holyfucking fu-uck.”

Malfoy keeps his mouth around Harry as Harry trembles through his climax, pleasure strumming through his veins.

When Malfoy stands, Harry pulls him in eagerly for a kiss. He can taste himself on Malfoy's tongue and the idea gallops through his mind. That's me, on him. In him.

Malfoy is smirking at him with reddened lips and lightly flushed cheeks, undoing his trousers. “You're so loud,” he says, eyes searching Harry's face as he hurriedly unzips. “The whole hotel must have heard your ridiculous mouth.”

Harry feels too good to care. He tips his head back, smiling. “S'your mouth that's to blame, not mine. Fuck, that was good.”

Malfoy is shoving his trousers and boxers down as he leans forward and licks a stripe up Harry’s throat. A surge of blood makes Harry's soft cock jerk hopefully as Malfoy starts to wank. “Tell me how good,” he says hoarsely.

Harry smiles and hums. “So fucking good. Never had my cock sucked so well. I came so hard.” He'd say those things anyway, just to see Malfoy's smirk like that as he strips his cock; but it's no lie. Harry can't remember a blowjob he enjoyed more.

“Can I help?” Harry asks, slipping one hand around Malfoy's neck, bringing the other down to slide around Malfoy's pumping fist.

Malfoy smiles through his shallow breaths. “You can conjure me some lube, Mr Wandless Magic Is Easy.”

Harry smirks, readily concentrating his magic. “Sure you want to slum it with such a substandard product?”

Malfoy smirks as he stops, removing his hand and allowing Harry to wrap his now oiled palm slowly around Malfoy's leaking cock.

“Fuck,” Malfoy groans. Harry agrees, loving the feel of him. He strokes firmly down Malfoy's length, tip to base, repeating it, trying for same pace Malfoy set before.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, as Malfoy tips his head back, balling a fist in Harry’s t-shirt. “Like that?”

Malfoy groans low in his throat, breath shaky. He looks at Harry with dark, heavy lidded eyes, before leaning in and kissing him. The feel of Malfoy in his hand, Malfoy's enthusiastic tongue in Harry's mouth, all of it has Harry hard again already, lust burning in his veins.

He opens his hand and takes them both in his fist, pressing their cocks together.

Malfoy gasps, rolling his hips so his cock slides against Harry’s, the friction sending heat racing around Harry’s groin.

“Fuck, yes,” Malfoy growls. He wraps his fingers around Harry’s hand, taking control of their movements. Harry loses himself in the feel of Malfoy rocking against him as he pumps Harry’s fist rhythmically over both of them.

Malfoy’s pale skin is flushing rosy, a sign he’s almost there as he pants into Harry’s neck and increases the pace of their hands, still thrusting his hips up, pressing Harry into the wall.

Harry’s almost ready to come again himself, tension mounting at the base of his spine just as Malfoy cries out, his cock pulsing hot over their fingers. He keeps Harry’s hand moving, working himself through his climax, and Harry's shocked to be falling into his own. Pleasure shoots through every muscle, his toes curling in delight as he comes over both of them with a shout.

Malfoy keeps their hands moving until Harry's cock has stopped pulsing and his body is boneless, sagging against the wall.

As they come down, Malfoy rests his forehead on Harry's shoulder, and Harry automatically brings a hand up to cup his neck. His fingers bury themselves in Malfoy's hair - Gods, he has such lovely hair.

“Come.” Harry blinks at him confusedly as Malfoy lifts his head. “You're getting come in my hair,” Malfoy says tiredly.

Harry laughs. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” He tries to rub it out, but only succeeds in trailing more in until Malfoy bats his hand away.

“Fucking hell, Potter. Stop.” But he's smiling fondly at Harry, and Harry's smiling back. It's probably the orgasm still floating around his body, but Harry is flooded with happiness. He impulsively leans forward to kiss Malfoy, heart swelling when Malfoy anticipates it and meets him halfway.

“Right,” Malfoy says decisively when he pulls back. “I'm taking the first shower.”

Harry nods dazedly, too fucked out to object even if he wanted to. He pulls his trousers back up and with a hasty cleaning charm, he collapses onto the bed.

His eyes grow heavy as he listens to the sound of the shower. He doesn't know how much time has passed when the sound of the floo fills the room and his eyes snap open. The only people with his hotel details are work and Ron. He hastily attempts to flatten his unruly hair and checks himself over before perching on the end of the bed, accepting the call.

“Uncle Harry! You took ages!”

He grins at the crazy red hair in the fire. “Sorry Ro, I was taking a nap.”

Rose frowns. “You're not a toddler. You don't need naps.”

Harry laughs. “You know, it's good to take a nap if your body’s feeling tired, even if you’re–”

“I lost my tooth, can I show you?”

“What? No way?!” Harry immediately scoots to the floor as she opens her mouth and pulls her lip down. Sure enough, there's an empty space where her middle bottom tooth used to be. A lump rises in Harry's throat as he looks at the gappy grin on her delighted, freckly face. “You're growing up too quickly.”

Her face folds into her familiar frown again. “You always say that. I grow exactly one day older every day.”

“Yeah. I know.” He sighs. “Uncle Harry's just being silly. I'm sad I missed your tooth falling out. Did it hurt?”

“No, but there was blood. There's still some left on it, look–”

Rose’s arm shoots out of the fire, holding out a tiny, square tooth in her palm. Harry takes it, holding it up. “Woah, yeah I can see it. That's so cool.” Harry marvels at how tiny the tooth is. “So what are you…I mean, are you going to put it…” he trails off, realising he doesn't actually know what the Granger-Weasley’s tooth-losing tradition is.

As usual, Rose is five steps ahead of him. “I haven't decided what I'm going to do with it yet. I have a book.” Harry grins, fondness wedging that stone straight back into his throat. “It's got all the different things Muggles do when their teeth fall out, from all over the world. It's called Throw Your Tooth On The Roof.”

“Wow, that sounds like a cool book.”

“It is. But mama says I can't put my tooth in bread and feed it to a dog, because the dog wouldn't like it. Do you think the dog wouldn’t like it?”

“Erm. I think mama’s probably right. What other options are there?”

“Loads!” Her eyes sparkle. “But daddy says we can't put gold around it either, because it–”

“Rosie! You've had your five minutes. You need to say goodbye to Uncle Harry now.”

She frowns, but automatically reaches her arms out to Harry for a hug. “Goodbye, Uncle Harry.”

“Oh, wait, you're not–” Harry bends forward to stop her from completely tipping forward, gripping her in an awkward, kneeling hug.

“Why do you smell like smoke?” she demands, wrinkling her nose as she lets go. “This isn't a real fire, you know.”

“Yeah Uncle Harry, why do you smell of smoke?” Ron's smirking face appears in the fire and Harry shoots him a discreet finger. “Upstairs for teeth and stories now,” Ron calls as Rose's head disappears.

He turns back to Harry as Harry drops back onto the edge of the bed with a bounce. “I thought you'd quit.”

“Piss off will you? I'm quitting after my birthday.” He pauses. “Don't tell Hermione.”

He can tell Ron's not listening. “So come on then, we've been waiting! Did you convince them or not?”

Harry grins. “Yeah. We've got it.”

“Get in! I fucking knew you'd do it, you smooth fucking bastard!” Ron laughs. “Told you you'd be good at this arse licking job. Who'd have thought it, eh?”

“Firstly, strike one. I’ve told you, it's not about arse licking, it's about security and–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Seriously, mate. Well done. Merlin, the kids are gonna lose their minds.”

Harry smiles excitedly. “I know. I can't wait to see Teddy’s face.”

“And Rose's. That's what she wanted to call for, but she must have forgotten because it's all about the tooth here right now.”

Harry hums. “I can't believe she's losing teeth already. Seems only five minutes since she was getting them.”

“Tell me about it." Harry remembers when Rose tiny, how they'd all peered at that same tooth wonderingly when it first appeared in her gummy smile. "So, how's Paris?”

Harry recalls his surroundings and Malfoy with a jolt. “Er, yeah. It's been good so far.”

He listens for sounds behind him, realising with a growing unease that the shower isn't going any more. He needs to hurry this up if he's going to avoid an awkward encounter. He’s missed Ron's question. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked who you've been shagging.”

“What?” Harry blinks nervously. How does he always fucking know?

“Don't what me, mate. You're shagging someone French, aren't you? Just like I said you would. Written all over your mug.”

“Fuck off. That's strike two,” he says, lowering his voice. "You know a hex works through the floo."

Ron shakes his head with a smile. “Can't strike me for being right, though. Come on, who is it? Anyone I might–”

“It's no one, alright?” Harry’s panicking at the silence behind him. “It’s just a fling. It's nothing. Look mate, I really need to go.”

“Alright. But you know I'll want details–”

“Uncle Harry!” Rose’s head appears beside Ron's again. “You still have my tooth!”

Harry realises he's been clutching the tooth in his fist the whole time. He opens his hand and holds it out for her to take. “Oh. Sorry, Ro. Let me know what you decide to do with it.”

She nods seriously. “I will.”

“Come on Rosie Posie, bedtime. We'll see Uncle Harry in a few days. See you soon, mate. Happy flinging.”

Harry scowls, watching Ron's smirking face disappear.

“Night, night Uncle Harry. Love you.”

Harry’s scowl melts as he looks at her.

“Night, night, Ro,” he says softly. “Love you too.”

He waits for the familiar lump in his throat to go down before he gets up from the floor and turns, stomach flipping at the sight of the bathroom door sitting ajar, silence behind it.

“Malfoy?” he says softly as he pushes the door open.

Malfoy's sitting fully dressed on the toilet, seat down, one leg crossed over the other. His hair is half dry, damp at the ends as he studies his nails, face impassive. He looks up at Harry as he enters. Harry's stuck for what to say, unsure if Malfoy heard anything.

“I, er, got a floo call.”

Malfoy smiles. “Hence I'm sitting on your loo, giving you some privacy.” He stands. “You need to be quick, Mathieu gets his knickers in a twist if I'm late.”

He sweeps past Harry, the scent of Harry's soap and shampoo on him doing odd things to Harry’s stomach.

Harry emerges from the shower as quickly as possible, hurrying to get dressed to ensure he doesn’t make Malfoy late. Malfoy watches him from the wingback chair in the corner of the room, his expression unreadable.

“Are you staying at mine again tonight?” he asks, when Harry is halfway through putting his jeans on. Harry hops on the spot, almost falling before he regains his balance, yanking his jeans up and looking at Malfoy.

“I, uh, yeah. If you– yeah.” He smiles, relief and excitement stealing through him at the confirmation they'll be spending another night together.

Malfoy stands, his answering smile distracted. “I didn’t know if you wanted to pack a few things, is all. I’ll just wait outside.”

Harry watches him go before grabbing his overnight bag. He hurriedly stuffs a change of clothes and underwear in, fetching his toothbrush from the bathroom, excited for what the night will bring.

Chapter Text

Malfoy apparates them to Mathieu’s door, entering without knocking as soon as they land, Harry following him inside.

Mathieu's flat is much smaller than Malfoy's, but no less charming. The white walls are decorated with vibrant prints, his shelves filled with books and ornaments. All the furnishings are bright and bold. Harry spots a record player in the corner, and a vast collection of vinyl along one wall.

Mathieu is shouting in angry French as he stalks into the living room clutching a red-stained wooden spoon, a harassed expression on his handsome face. He wears a pale pink t-shirt and grey linen trousers, the pink a beautiful contrast to his dark skin.

As soon as his eyes land on Harry he stops shouting and blinks.

“Harry! Sorry, I didn't know you two would arrive together.” He turns to Malfoy and holds the spoon out. “The sauce is a fucking disaster. You better sort it out.”

“We're your guests!” Malfoy says in mock outrage, taking a step back from the sauce-covered spoon.

Mathieu smirks and tips a head towards Harry. “He's a guest. You are the dickhead who had me change my menu at the last minute. You know cooking stresses me out.”

Harry laughs at the dickhead, wondering if Malfoy taught him that one.

He watches Malfoy take the spoon with an exaggerated sigh, leaning in to rub cheeks with Mathieu and mutter something Harry can't hear.

Mathieu turns to Harry with a smile. “Can I get you some wine, Harry? I've opened a red, but I have white if you prefer?”

“Red’s fine, thank you.” He follows them into the kitchen, the scent of tomato and garlic filling his nose. Mathieu ushers him towards a round dining table as Malfoy heads to the hob, rolling up his sleeves.

“I'm sorry you had to change your menu,” Harry says as he takes a seat, watching Malfoy's back as he stirs a pot in the small, colourful kitchen.

Mathieu waves a hand as he brings the wine over. “It's no bother.” He pours Harry a generous amount. “The sauce is absolutely fine,” he says quietly with a conspiratorial grin. “I just can't be bothered to finish it. I hate cooking.” He raises his voice. “Can you put the pasta on while you're there, Draco? The bread is in the oven, salad in the fridge. You know where the salad bowl is.”

“Want me to stick a broom up my arse so I can sweep your floor while I'm at it?” Malfoy calls over his shoulder.

“Stick whatever you like up there, mon glaçon, I don't need to hear about it.” Harry snickers as Mathieu turns back to him. “So tell me what you've been doing in Paris.”

Harry starts to tell him about their morning at the Louvre. He can tell from the subtle lift of Mathieu’s eyebrows that he's surprised to learn that he went with Malfoy.

Malfoy levitates their plates to the table, placing the salad bowl and bread in the middle. He directs various utensils to the table, his magic smooth and precise, looking as comfortable in Mathieu’s home as he is in his own.

“The sauce is fine, as you fucking well know,” he says as he drops into his seat at the table. He picks up the wine Mathieu has ready for him and lifts it in salute. “To Roberto the Wanker’s Mother,” he says.

“Bien dit.” Mathieu raises his glass and clinks it against Malfoy's.

Harry raises his too. “To Roberto the Wanker's Mother, whoever she may be." He clinking his glass against Malfoy's and then Mathieu's. “It all looks great.”

“I never met his mother,” Mathieu says conversationally as he tongs salad onto his plate.

“Roberto,” Malfoy explains as he picks up his fork. “Was this absolute tosser Mathieu slept with back in Italy for, how long was it? Two months? Just so he could get his hands on his mother’s secret recipe for this sauce.”

Mathieu smirks before shaking his head around a mouthful of food. He swallows and points a fork at Malfoy. “Firstly, that is not why I slept with Roberto.” He looks at Harry. “I slept with him because he had the body of a Roman God.”

"A fine reason," Harry agrees. He takes a forkful of pasta, savouring the rich flavour. It's good.

Malfoy snorts. “Body? I think you mean ego, ma pute.”

Mathieu smirks at Harry. “You should have seen his ass. Hot enough to fry an egg on. I'd have an ego too, with an ass like that.”

“Ass,” Malfoy hisses softly.

“Oh sorry, arse." Mathieu enunciates the word dramatically before rolling his eyes at Harry. “Draco hates the way I pronounce your words.”

Malfoy replies snippily in French as Harry eats, quietly watching their exchange as Mathieu shoots something back.

“And you hate my French, so we're even,” Malfoy says, switching back to English. He looks at Harry. “Mathieu worries we're being rude by speaking French in front of you, but I said not to worry about it. I told him how much you like it.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. He doesn't know exactly how Malfoy has described what Harry likes, but he does detect a slight edge to his voice. Only when you speak it, Harry wants to say, but he just smiles instead.

“It's a nice language,” he says noncommittally, looking down at his plate before turning to Mathieu. “So you two studied languages together?”

Mathieu watches them both with intelligent eyes, Harry notes, like he's trying to work out what's going on between them.

“We did. Studied, worked, travelled. Didn’t we, mon glaçon?” He gives Malfoy an affectionate smile. “For immersion in the languages, you know. You can't become fluent without it. We went all over Europe.” He sighs wistfully, resting his fork on his plate. “We were quite the trio back then, weren’t we? So carefree. Now it’s all work, work, work.”

Harry looks between them, swallowing a mouthful. “Trio?”

“Pierre,” Malfoy clarifies.

“The little bastard,” Mathieu says at the same time.

Harry laughs. “You took Pierre travelling with you?”

Malfoy breaks off a piece of bread and looks at Harry with a frown. “Of course I did. I could hardly leave him behind, could I?”

Mathieu mutters something in French, wincing when Malfoy kicks him under the table. Malfoy looks at Harry with a wry smile. “Of course my two best friends hate each other.”

Mathieu shakes his head, taking another forkful of food.

“That little shit hates everyone. He’s crankier than a fucking hippogriff. Do you know how many scars I have on my feet from when–”

“Well, if you refuse to wear the slippers I buy you–”

“I shouldn’t have to wear footwear in my own home! Tell him, Harry!” Mathieu gestures exasperatedly towards Malfoy. “Would you keep a cat you need to wear armour around?”

“It was our home, and if you ignore his need for personal space you can expect him to react.”

Harry laughs quietly as he watches the two of them, sipping his wine, enjoying the warm affection that clearly underlies their bickering.

“I assume you’ve met Pierre?” Mathieu asks him with a raised brow. “What do you think of his behaviour?”

Harry looks to Malfoy, noting his uncomfortable shift, the awkward tension on his face. Is he reluctant for Mathieu to know that Harry was at his flat? Or that Pierre didn’t attack him? Malfoy looks down at his plate, moving pasta around with his fork, waiting for Harry’s reply.

“I liked him,” Harry says carefully. “But, I mean, I was always going to like him, I reckon, on account of him being a cat. And you know, not Malfoy’s boyfriend.”

Malfoy raises his eyes slowly to meet Harry’s again, his mouth creeping up into a smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, the way Draco fawns over him.” Mathieu’s eyes are lively as he leans forward. “But why did that make you like him?”

Harry smiles as he tells Mathieu about his misunderstanding, Mathieu throwing his head back and laughing loudly at his part in it.

“That’s excellent. I wasn’t lying though, Pierre is his true love.” He gives Harry a knowing look. “And you were jealous, of course?”

“Of course,” Harry says easily with a glance at Malfoy, who appears unaffected by the whole exchange, taking the last few bites of his meal.

“I knew it. I knew there was something.” Mathieu sits back with a smug grin on his face.

Harry gives him a self conscious smile, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Subtlety isn’t always my strongpoint.”

Mathieu laughs and Harry catches Malfoy's trying-not-to-smile smile.

“So what is your verdict on the sauce, Harry? Was it worth my two month sacrifice in the bed of the most selfish man alive?”

Harry gestures to his empty plate. “Are you kidding? I'd have shagged Roberto and his mother for that.”

Mathieu laughs loudly as he stands. “I like you. Do you have room for dessert? I have chocolate torte.”

“That sounds lovely.”

They move to the living room once they’ve finished, Mathieu waving away Harry’s offer to help clear away.

Mathieu tops up their drinks and aims his wand at a sound system, French rap starting to play softly. Harry wanders over to look over his vinyl collection.

“Muggleborn,” Mathieu calls over by way of explanation and Harry nods. He'd wondered. That explains Malfoy’s Muggle films and rap music.

When Harry joins Malfoy on the sofa, he’s careful not to sit too close, unsure what Malfoy wants. Mathieu lounges on an armchair opposite them. He holds an open packet of cigarettes towards them and Harry leans over, plucking two from the packet with thanks.

He holds one out to Malfoy, who takes it, his fingers deliberately sliding over Harry’s as he does, the touch sending an excited tremor through him. Harry meets his eyes as he wandlessly lights it for him, wishing they were alone again. His eyes wander to Malfoy’s lips as they wrap around his cigarette. He looks away before he’s caught staring.

Mathieu observes them quietly, lighting his own cigarette and taking a thoughtful drag. "So how’s this going to work between you two?” he asks casually.

Harry’s stomach swoops unexpectedly. Thankfully, Mathieu is looking at Malfoy, enabling Harry to keep his face carefully neutral as he too glances over at Malfoy, waiting for his answer.

Malfoy takes a slow drag of his cigarette, a puzzled frown pulling his brows down. He exhales.

“What do you mean, work?”

Mathieu gestures between Harry and Malfoy. “I mean, what happens when Harry goes back to England? Will–”

Malfoy cuts him off with a laugh, a shake of his head. “Oh! No, nothing. It's not like that, is it Potter?” He gives Harry a cursory glance before waving his cigarette dismissively. “We're just having a bit of fun while he’s here, that’s all.”

Everything in Harry’s rib cage seems to compress at once as Harry meets Malfoy’s gaze.

Malfoy's watching him with a challenging smirk, and there's definitely a message behind his look.

Harry swallows and forces his mouth into a smile. “Yeah,” he manages to agree. He clears his throat. “Course. Just a bit of fun.” His voice almost gets stuck on the last word as his stomach churns, but he keeps his soft smile in place.

Malfoy smiles back and inclines his head, bringing his cigarette back to his lips before looking away. Harry looks back to Mathieu, arranging his features into something that hopefully still looks relaxed as his insides writhe.

Mathieu looks like he wants to say more, but must decide against it as he changes the subject.

By the time they apparate back to Malfoy’s flat, Harry’s got his feelings back under control.

It’s a good thing, really, to have it said out loud like that, so it’s settled between them.

Just a bit of fun.

Now there’s no risk of awkward conversations when Harry leaves. No risk that they aren’t both on the same page, or anything like that.

And it is. Fun, that is. Being with Malfoy is the most fun Harry’s had since, he doesn’t even know when. But this was never going to be more than that. And the hopeful little feeling that had been brewing in Harry’s chest since last night…well, that was just Harry being Harry; being ridiculous. He always did feel too much.

When they land, Malfoy immediately goes in search of Pierre, having been away from him all day.

Harry stands by the front door, watching as Malfoy gently picks Pierre up from the sofa, checking him over and speaking soft French into his fur.

Harry laughs softly.

“What's funny?” Malfoy asks as he glances over.

Harry shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Nothing. Just wondering how I'm still finding myself jealous of a cat.”

Malfoy’s smile is slow as he turns to Pierre. “Poor Potter, hasn’t been given enough attention tonight.”

Harry inwardly sighs at the Potter. Malfoy’s accidental Harry has yet to resurface, and likely never will. Granted, Harry hasn’t attempted, or been invited to call him Draco either. Perhaps if they were ever–

No. Harry pushes the thought down. He will not let his feelings run away with him.

An excited quiver runs through him at the way Malfoy is looking at him, eyes heated as he puts Pierre down.

Harry stands his ground as Malfoy advances, his thudding heartbeat pushing blood steadily towards his cock.

“And what attention were you hoping for tonight, exactly?” Malfoy's voice is teasing as he closes the gap between them, his face so close to Harry’s they’re sharing breath.

Harry brings his arms around Malfoy’s waist automatically, his whole body coming to life at the feel of him. He presses his lips to Malfoy’s and Malfoy instantly kisses him back. They kiss slow and deep, Harry savouring his smoky tongue, forcing himself not to rush things; remembering that they have all night.

Malfoy runs a hand into Harry’s hair, his other hand caressing Harry’s stomach with soft fingertips.

“Well?” Malfoy asks when Harry’s cock is fully hard and their kiss has turned breathless, hips straining towards each other. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” Harry murmurs, pulling Malfoy back for another kiss, unable to get enough. He wants anything that's on offer.

When Harry reaches to undo Malfoy’s trousers, Malfoy pulls back.

“Bedroom,” he says quietly.

Harry nods. He picks up his bag and follows Malfoy into his room, anticipation flowing through him.

When they enter, Malfoy heads for the bathroom. Harry watches through the open door as he pulls open his cabinet.

“I was thinking, you in me tonight?” Malfoy's voice is slightly raised as he rifles through his different bottles of lube.

Harry takes a moment to process the words as he watches Malfoy select a bottle. Malfoy turns around, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Potter? You in me? Or do you not like to–?”

“Yes,” Harry says quickly, finally making sense of the words, shocked excitement exploding through him. He moves closer, smiling. “Gods, yes.”

Malfoy’s return smile at Harry’s eagerness is the kind that steals Harry’s breath, and he has to halt his feet for a moment as they look at each other.

“Are you…Do you often do it that way?”

Malfoy grins wider. “Yep. You know what they say about variety.”

“Spice of life.”

“Exactly.” Malfoy throws the bottle to Harry with a smirk. “Think you're up to it?”

Harry’s fucked enough people in his life to know it’s down to both of them to satisfy each other, no matter how they do it. But a nervous anticipation runs through him nevertheless at the prospect of trying to satisfy Malfoy with his cock.

He catches the bottle easily. “Fuck, yes.”

Malfoy's voice is low. “Well then.”

In one move, he sweeps his t-shirt up and off. Harry copies, nerves simmering in his stomach as Malfoy watches keenly.

Harry drops the lube onto the bed so he can undo his trousers.

Gods, he loves the way Malfoy looks at him. Malfoy's eyes seem to sparkle as they roam across Harry's skin, watching closely as Harry slides his trousers and boxers down and steps out of them. He looks at Harry's body as if it's special, like it's something to be beheld. It isn't - particularly special, that is - but Malfoy’s appreciation is so clearly written on his face, Harry can't help but be lifted by it. There's anticipation too, in the way Malfoy bites his lip, the way his eyes meet and hold Harry's gaze. Harry wonders if Malfoy looks at everyone he takes to bed like this. Lucky bastards, every one of them.

Harry takes his cock in his hand, enjoying the way Malfoy's eyes are glued to the movement, lips parting as Harry gives himself a lazy stroke.

“Can't fuck you with those on,” Harry reminds him, jerking his chin.

Malfoy blinks, coming back to himself before smiling slowly and starting to unbutton his trousers.

Harry drinks in the sight of Malfoy getting naked. The smooth curves of his wiry muscle, the trail of pale hair leading down to his half hard cock as he edges his underwear down. The graceful, controlled movement of his limbs as he climbs onto the bed.

Harry’s mouth floods as he runs his eyes over every inch of him. Malfoy lies back, propped up on his elbows. He parts his thighs as Harry advances, and Harry settles between them.

He's magnificent, Harry thinks, as he runs both hands up Malfoy’s calves, up to his pale thighs. He lowers himself down so he can follow the same path with his tongue. He licks up one side, then turns his head to do the same on the other side, hearing Malfoy sigh above him.

He doesn't know where it comes from, but the need to put his mouth on as much of Malfoy as possible is suddenly overwhelming. He licks to the top of Malfoy's thigh, into the warm crease at the top of his leg. Malfoy parts his legs wider, a pleased hum issuing from his throat as Harry takes one of his balls into his mouth and sucks.

Malfoy's hands are carding Harry's hair, encouraging him higher. Harry obliges, mouthing up into the neat hair at the base of his hard cock, kissing up the length of him and swallowing him down, remembering the way he likes it, loving that he can pull instant moans from Malfoy's lips.

Harry immerses himself in sucking Malfoy’s cock, doing everything he can to coax those noises from him until Malfoy is panting hard, hands gripping Harry’s hair. “Potter,” he gasps warningly, and Harry pulls off.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” Harry says, firmly. “Fuck my throat until you come.” He wraps his mouth back around Malfoy’s cock, flicking his tongue encouragingly over the head and waiting. After a brief moment, Malfoy growls and thrusts his hips up.

Harry relaxes his throat as Malfoy’s fingers curl a fist in his hair and he starts to rock up into Harry’s mouth. “Fucking hell,” Malfoy whispers, and Harry’s cock throbs. He runs his hands up and down Malfoy's thighs, signalling his pleasure. “Fucking hell.”

Harry’s eyes are watering, his throat contracting as Malfoy thrusts faster and harder as Harry holds himself over Malfoy’s cock. He cups Malfoy's balls in his palms, feels them as they tighten, hears Malfoy’s guttural groan before he bucks up, gripping Harry's hair, holding Harry still as he comes down his throat.

Harry can’t breathe, but he would choose Malfoy’s cock over air any day. His whole body pulses with arousal at the feeling of Malfoy coming in his mouth, at the pleasured ah, ahh, ahh he’s moaning as his cock pulses on Harry’s tongue.

Malfoy’s still panting hard when Harry pulls off.

“Fucking hell, Potter,” he says again, seemingly unable to say anything else as he slumps back onto the pillow. Harry quickly swipes at the saliva on his chin and the tear tracks on his cheeks as he lowers his mouth to Malfoy’s stomach, kissing gently. He still wants to taste every part while he has him here, like this.

Harry takes his time, mouthing along Malfoy's ribs, licking around his nipples, along the old, pale scars. Malfoy lays a gentle hand on the back of Harry's neck, resting it there as Harry moves over his body.

By the time Harry reaches Malfoy's throat, Malfoy’s breathing is fully under control and he hums languidly, running a hand through Harry’s hair.

“I thought you were meant to be fucking me."

Harry covers Malfoy’s mouth with his own. “I am. We have all night, don’t we?” Harry's voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. “I thought you didn’t like to rush.”

Malfoy hums again, eyes closing. Harry props his head up to look at him, lying there, gorgeous and fucked out. He reaches out to trace a finger along Malfoy's collarbone.

“I could get you ready with my fingers now, if you're–”

Malfoy is already turning over with a soft groan, settling himself down into the pillows as Harry admires the curve of his pert arse. “Yes. Do it.”

Harry swallows his excitement as he runs his palms over the hot skin. He urges Malfoy up onto his knees, delighting at the boneless way Malfoy allows himself to be directed as Harry kneels behind him. He parts Malfoy’s cheeks, taking a moment to admire the small, furled hole before running his tongue across it. He smiles as Malfoy bucks, moaning softly into the pillow.

Harry gives a few more swipes of his tongue, watching it flutter. Gods, he has to reel in his eagerness, to ignore the urgent throbbing in his cock, force himself not to rush this. To savour it. He reaches over to grab the bottle of lube, coating his fingers in the silky liquid.

Running his middle finger down Malfoy's crease, he traces around Malfoy's rim before gently inserting the tip. He watches it disappear, gripped tight by the strong muscle. He keeps going, pressing further each time until the smooth muscles are encouraging him in as Malfoy hums, gently rocking back.

When Malfoy raises himself onto all fours to push himself back fully onto Harry’s finger, Harry slips it out so he can replace it with his tongue, eager to taste him.

He parts Malfoy’s cheeks, pressing his tongue inside Malfoy hole and Malfoy groans loudly. Harry withdraws and pushes in again, Malfoy pushing back onto him with another needy noise. And Harry wants to enjoy it, he really does. But the taste of the lube on his tongue is intense, distracting. It's like licking a warm, boiled sweet. He continues with a few more thrusts of his tongue before pulling away.

“Jesus. That’s…Malfoy, your arse tastes like a piece of fruit.”

Malfoy glances around with a frown. “What?”

“Your lube. It tastes like…like actual fruit.”

“Yes, Potter. It’s meant to.” His voice is stretched, impatient.

Harry laughs and shakes his head. “I'm sorry, but that's not what an arsehole is meant to taste like.”

“Oh?” Malfoy says haughtily, and Harry tries to soothe him with a gentle rub down his thigh. “And what is an arsehole meant to taste like, exactly?”

“I don’t know! But not like,” Harry picks up the bottle, scanning the label for a pictorial clue. “Not like a fucking pineapple!” he finishes as he finds it, brandishing it in Malfoy's direction. He knew it was something tropical.

Malfoy huffs and sits up, his hard cock bobbing in front of him. He snatches the bottle from Harry, flicking his hair out of his face as he looks at it. “I've never had any complaints before now.”

Harry can’t prevent his giggle. “Well, that's probably because you sleep with people like you.”

Malfoy gives him a withering look. “You mean, people with taste?”

“No, I mean…” Harry glances at the bottle and stifles another laugh. “Fruity.”

Malfoy looks unamused. “Well.” He lets the bottle drop onto the bed. “Excellent job, Potter. If you were looking to kill the mood, you've well and truly succeeded.” He throws himself back on the pillow, crossing his legs and pursing his lips, his now softened cock wedging itself between his legs.

“Have I?” Harry crawls forward, coaxing Malfoy to uncross his legs with gentle, insistent hands. Malfoy resists for half a second. When his legs uncross, Harry immediately settles himself down onto his stomach between them.

“Yes,” Malfoy sniffs. “I knew you were too annoying to fuck.” Harry mouths softly at the smooth muscle of his inner thigh until Malfoy shifts slightly to allow Harry more access.

“Am I?” Harry asks quietly as he continues his kisses higher, licking circles over Malfoy's sensitive skin.

“Yes.” Malfoy draws his knees up, thighs spreading fully open. “We're clearly incompatible.”

Harry licks his way to Malfoy’s balls. He taps Malfoy's arse to encourage him to lift his hips, giving a satisfied hum when Malfoy complies, arsehole on display.

“Are we?” Harry replies into that smooth skin behind his balls, slowly running his tongue over it.

“Ahhhh - yes,” Malfoy says with feeling as he tilts further back. Harry licks another wet stripe and Malfoy growls softly. “We are.”

Harry hums as he licks one more stripe from Malfoy’s hole to his balls, enjoying the reluctant groan it pulls from him. Harry summons his wand and props himself on his elbows to look at Malfoy.

“Can I…” he lifts his wand and Malfoy rolls his eyes.

“Just get on with it, will you? This is shaping up to be the worst shag of my life, by the way.”

Harry chuckles as he casts a cleaning spell towards Malfoy’s hole, gentle, but hopefully enough to rid it of the pineapple flavour.

When Harry delves in to taste him again, it's blessedly free of the fruity liquid. Now it's just clean skin and whatever Malfoy naturally tastes like. Which is absolutely, fucking wonderful.

Harry holds Malfoy's cheeks apart as he fucks his tongue enthusiastically into Malfoy's arse. He keeps going until Malfoy’s heels are slipping and digging into the bed as he's swearing uncontrollably at the ceiling.

“Merlin fuck, yes– ahh, merde– Potter– fuckyes,” Malfoy pants, arching himself off the bed to push onto Harry's mouth. Gods, Harry loves it. Loves how much Malfoy is loving it. How loudly and incoherently he's loving it, the sounds travelling straight to Harry’s balls.

Harry withdraws his tongue, looking at Malfoy from between his legs. “I have a question.”

Malfoy drops his hips down with a groan. “Fuck, why are you talking right now?”

Harry grins, pleased to see Malfoy's cock is fully hard again, flushed against his pale stomach. “If we're so incompatible, why do I like the taste of your arsehole so much?’

Malfoy makes a noise that's part laugh, part groan as he looks away from Harry. “You’re insufferable.”

Harry laughs, ducking his head back down, triumph in his chest as Malfoy lifts his hips automatically to give him access again. Harry lazily licks into him, enough to draw out another throaty moan.

“Gods, more,” Malfoy demands. “And no more talking.”

Harry smiles as he conjures mercifully tasteless lube onto his fingers and slides one into Malfoy alongside his tongue. He alternates between his fingers and his tongue, slowly teasing him open, enjoying every second as he listens to Malfoy's moans, sharp breaths and orders not to fucking stop.

Harry’s mind is full of him; the way he looks, the way he feels, the way he tastes. Their compatibility. How despite his words, Malfoy wants Harry as much as Harry wants him - physically, at least. He thinks about the revelation that even back in school, Malfoy used to fancy him.

He's three fingers deep, watching hungrily as they disappear into Malfoy's arse, when he sits up again. The pink hue of Malfoy's skin, the wet trail on his stomach from his leaking cock, his fists in the fabric of his duvet; they all send a needy pump of blood down into Harry's own cock as he meets Malfoy's lust-glazed eyes.

“You know what I think?” Harry says, as he slides his fingers out, surprised at how composed his voice sounds. Chatty, almost.

Malfoy makes a frustrated noise at the loss of Harry’s fingers. His chest rises and falls, fringe falling over one eye as he looks at Harry with an impatient, questioning brow.

Harry summons his overnight bag, unzipping and rummaging through with his slicked hand. He's going to have to clean the clothes in here tomorrow, but he quickly finds what he's looking for.

He doesn't know what possessed him to chuck the tie in with his other clothes earlier, but he's glad he did. He tosses the bag onto the floor.

“I think,” he starts, as he flings the tie around his neck. In the absence of a mirror, and preferring to watch Malfoy's surprised, slightly aghast face below him, Harry relies on muscle memory to knot it. “That you like me, like this." He smirks as he pulls the end down through the knot. He's almost certain it's wonky, but he doesn't check, keeping his eyes on Malfoy.

Malfoy replies quickly, shaking his head. “Definitely not.”

Harry smiles, watching Malfoy's eyes skating all over him.

“I think,” Harry says again as he bends down to lick the enticing smear of precome from Malfoy’s stomach, the tie falling onto Malfoy’s cock. He hums loudly at the taste as Malfoy makes a strangled noise. “You like my ridiculous, English arse, in this ridiculous English tie.”

“No,” Malfoy says hoarsely. “I absolutely do not.”

Harry conjures more lube, coating his cock thoroughly and resisting the urge to wank himself. He notices Malfoy's hungry look, the way his eyes follow Harry's hand, and it buoys him. He's right.

“You like my shitty lube,” Harry continues confidently, holding in his smile.

Malfoy just shakes his head, apparently transfixed by Harry's hand, moving slowly up and down his dick.

Harry moves forward on his knees, gripping himself at the base as he lines himself up against Malfoy's hole.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers knowingly. He smiles a half smile. “You do.”

He runs his thumb over the groove next to Malfoy's hip. Had he licked that part earlier? He needs to. He presses into Malfoy's entrance.

“Fuck. Stop talking, will you?” Malfoy says through gritted teeth as he fists the sheet, but Harry catches the corner of his mouth twitching.

Harry does stop talking as all of his awareness narrows to the smooth walls squeezing around the head of his cock. He draws back, then edges in further, the tight heat dangerously good. Malfoy's face is flushed and frowning as he bites his lower lip. Harry stares at that pillowy lip as he keeps going, wanting to bite it himself.

Malfoy’s lips part when Harry sinks all the way in and they groan in unison. Harry takes a deep breath as he tries to hold onto his sanity, the grip of Malfoy’s arse on his cock enough to make him mad.

“Fuck,” Harry says when he can talk again. He takes another breath, meeting Malfoy’s glazed eyes. He smiles again as he watches Malfoy's eyes travel over him. “I bet,” he says as he slowly drags his cock back. “You like my terrible French too.”

Harry rocks forward and Malfoy gasps. Harry starts to move his hips in slow, shallow thrusts. It feels spectacular as Malfoy reaches up, smoothing his hands down Harry’s abs, shaking his head.

“You’re ridiculous,” Malfoy says with the hint of a smile, moving his hips up, nudging Harry with the back of his ankle to encourage more movement.

Harry returns his smile and starts to fuck him harder, sparks skittering through his body.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “You want more?”

“Fuck, yes,” Malfoy says, breathless, and Harry glories in the way his cock is making Malfoy gasp and writhe, making him grope at Harry's skin.

“Fuck, harder, Potter,” Malfoy says on a groan, and Harry's tempted to comply, but keeps to the controlled rhythm that has them both panting.

He tips forward, hands either side of Malfoy so he hovers above him, tie dropping onto Malfoy’s stomach. The change in position pulls a fresh groan from Malfoy.

“You want more of my ridiculous cock?” Harry murmurs, lowering to nip at Malfoy's jaw as he drives into him.

Malfoy captures Harry's lips in a messy kiss, a hand on the back of his head to keep him there.

The new, deeper thrusts have Malfoy bucking, and a slow build of pleasure is pulsing from Harry's cock, tingling at the base of his spine, running down into his thighs.

“Want me to speak bad French to you?” Harry smirks.

Malfoy laughs a choked laugh. “Potter. Don't you dare.”

Harry changes the angle of his hips, trying to find the position that hits Malfoy best. He knows he’s found it by the way Malfoy cries out, melting into the mattress; by the way his fingers dig into Harry’s skin, by the desperate growls that follow when Harry hits it again, and again.

“What was that? Did you say sivooplay, Harry?” Harry delights in Malfoy's expression of shock mingling with pleasure.

“Fuck– you bastard, no,” he groans on a laugh. “Shit. Yes, there– shit,” Malfoy gasps, closing his eyes, hands lowering to the top of Harry’s arse, frantically trying to urge him on.

Harry fucks him harder, pistoning his hips and thrilling as he watches the flush creeping up Malfoy's neck, his own orgasm drawing achingly close.

“Jay voodray your cock, Harry,” Harry teases breathily, and Malfoy's stuttering laugh is so delicious Harry wants to drink it.

“Fucking, fuck,” Malfoy groans, winding Harry's tie around his fist as he clamps his legs tighter around Harry's waist.

“Sivooplay, I voodray your ridic–”

“Fuck, Harry,” Malfoy whines. “Shut up! Please, fuck.”

Harry freezes as the words seep into his awareness, holding himself still on shaky arms just as Malfoy expects another thrust.

Malfoy whines again. His breathing is laboured as his eyes snap open in dismay. “What’s– why–?”

Harry pitches down onto his forearms, bringing their faces close.

“Say that again,” he demands.

Malfoy is rocking his hips impatiently, unable to keep still, looking up at Harry in confusion. “You want me to tell you to shut up–”

“No, not that,” Harry interrupts, keeping his body stubbornly still, even as his cock cries out to be moving again with Malfoy writhing beneath him. “My name.”

Malfoy's confusion is replaced with shock, eyes widening. His expression turns wary as Harry waits, panting, his heart thundering because shit, he really needs to hear it again. Desperately needs it.

“Harry?” Malfoy says tentatively, and Harry’s whole body reacts, jolted into action by the deliciousness of Malfoy’s voice carrying his name.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Harry says with a grin as he starts to thrust again with renewed purpose.

Malfoy moans loudly, snaking his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Harry keeps his hips moving rhythmically, pleasure shooting like lightning up his spine.

“Harry,” Malfoy breathes in Harry’s ear, as if he knows its effect, knows how it’s fanning the flames and driving Harry into a haze of lust.

Harry moans. “Yeah.”

Harry fucks him harder. He can’t get enough, not of Malfoy’s arse around his cock, not of Malfoy’s legs around his waist, not of his name of those fucking lips.

“Faster. Don't stop,” Malfoy pleads. And Harry doesn't stop, driving in deep as sweat beads on his temple. He keeps his mouth hovering near Malfoy’s, just in case.

“Harry.” It’s barely more than a whisper when it’s released, but Harry's ready for it. He swallows it whole, breathing it in and playing it on repeat in his head as he presses his lips to Malfoy’s and pistons his hips.

It’s not really a kiss, just their lips pressing together as Harry fucks him with abandon, pressure in his groin gathering like a tsunami now, picking up momentum as Malfoy's moans vibrate against his mouth and he couldn't stop if he wanted to.

Harry’s so lost in the heat of it, he almost doesn’t register Malfoy’s words.

“Fuck, I'm coming,” Malfoy pants as his fingers dig into Harry's shoulders. Malfoy’s arching body clamps around Harry’s cock as his face goes slack with pleasure, and suddenly Harry's tumbling into his own orgasm.

“Shit,” is all he manages to whisper before it hits. He drops his head to Malfoy's shoulder as the first wave of pleasure rips through him, grinding his hips into Malfoy’s arse as his cock pulses gloriously.

“Merlinfuckingshit,” Harry shouts into Malfoy's skin, because he can never stop the nonsense curses from spilling out when an orgasm like this takes him. Malfoy groans again as Harry’s hips grind down with each surge of his climax, Malfoy’s body encouraging him, clenching tightly around his cock.

Harry stays buried inside him, panting into his neck, lost in pleasure. He stays until there’s only sizzling aftershocks left, hips twitching as Malfoy holds onto him, arms and legs wrapped fiercely around Harry's body.

When they've both stopped moving, Harry drops his mouth to Malfoy's shoulder and sucks gently on his salty skin. He wants to eke it out, to linger just a few seconds more, even as his cock softens and Malfoy's legs drop from his waist onto the mattress.

Harry eventually slips out of him, rolling to the side and collapsing onto his back, limp and sated. He looks dazedly up at the ceiling.

“Worst shag you’ve ever had, yeah?” he says tiredly.

Malfoy hums. “Absolutely.” His voice sounds as fucked as Harry feels. “Tu es l'homme le plus agaçant que j'aie jamais connu.”

Harry hums back at the words he doesn't understand, but loves to hear anyway, a smile on his face.

“Do I at least get points for my French? I think it's coming along quite nicely.”

Malfoy turns slowly to look at him. He's still flushed, eyes bright and smile easy. “Are you fishing for compliments, Potter?”

Harry chuckles. He's quiet for a moment, running a hand through his hair as Malfoy watches him with warm eyes.

“Can I be Harry?” he asks, softly.

He watches the smile slide uncertainly from Malfoy's face. “Just in here, at least,” he adds quickly, gesturing vaguely to the bedroom. “Call me Harry when it’s us, in here?”

Malfoy smiles softly, not as bright as before, but he's nodding, and that feels like a victory. “Alright.”

Harry waits to see if there’s a reciprocal request forthcoming, but there isn't. He wonders why Malfoy wants to stay Malfoy with him.

Twenty minutes later, Harry stands in his boxers brushing his teeth, still reeling from their shag. From how good it felt to be inside Malfoy. How they just seem to fit together.

Who would have thought the best sex of his life would come in the form of Draco Malfoy? He spits and rinses his toothbrush, dropping it into the cup next to Malfoy's. A weak pulse of arousal makes its way to his cock and he’s already thinking about more as he enters the bedroom.

Malfoy is picking up their strewn clothes from the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice Harry as he retrieves Harry’s come-stained tie from the bed and looks at it. Harry watches him take it to the bedside table, grabbing his wand and muttering a cleaning spell with a frown. He looks up and catches Harry watching him.

Harry raises a questioning brow.

Malfoy raises his own in return. “What? You’d prefer to keep my come all over it?”

Yes, is Harry’s first thought, almost leaping to his lips. He manages not to say it, thankfully, just smiles and shrugs instead.

The room is dark as Harry slips under the soft covers. He wonders if spooning Malfoy falls within the boundaries of what they're doing here; under the term fun. He can make out Malfoy's profile in the dark, lying on his back, one arm up behind his head.

Harry lies indecisively for a few seconds, chewing on his lip. In the end, Malfoy is too inviting, the pull towards him too strong to ignore. Harry shuffles forward, sliding an arm over Malfoy's bare stomach, feeling the warm muscles quiver under his touch.

Without saying anything, Harry pulls them together, manoeuvring Malfoy onto his side so Harry can press into his back. And Malfoy just goes with it, making himself pliable; it's intoxicating, the idea that he's willing to let Harry take control like this. Harry can't decide if he enjoys Malfoy most when he's stubborn and unyielding, controlling and dictating, or soft and pliable like this.

All of it, he decides. Harry likes all of him.

He keeps his arm draped over Malfoy’s waist, his heart giving a little flutter at how well their bodies fit together. He nestles his hips flush against Malfoy's arse as they both shift to get comfortable, and there's no way Harry's not going to wake up with a raging hard-on at some point if they fall asleep like this.

Harry sighs happily as he buries his nose in Malfoy’s hair; hair that smells like Harry’s shampoo. As they lie together in the darkness, he reflects on their evening.

“I like Mathieu,” he says quietly into Malfoy's neck.

“Merlin, Potter. Are you telling me you fancy my best friend while you're in my bed?” Malfoy sounds sleepy and amused.

Harry rolls his eyes, smiling into Malfoy's skin. “Shut up. I don't mean like that.” He pauses. “And it's Harry,” he adds softly.

Malfoy hums.

Harry swallows.

“Do you like him, like that?” He hopes his voice is as casual as he's trying for.

Malfoy laughs. “Gods, no.”

Harry knows he has no right to be relieved, but Malfoy can't see his smile, so he allows it to tug his mouth up, safely hidden. He rolls his hips suggestively into the curve of Malfoy's arse, his cock starting to fill from the contact.

“I don't suppose…”

“Yes,” Malfoy says quickly and Harry can hear the smile in his voice, too. “You can suppose.”

Harry chuckles. “Excellent.”

Chapter Text

Sunday

For the second morning in a row, Harry wakes to bright sunshine on his skin. He blinks his eyes open, memories of yesterday tumbling into his head: the Louvre, lunch, the gardens, his call with Rose, dinner, fucking. He smiles as it all comes back to him.

They had fucked again last night before sleeping; a slow, luxuriously paced fuck as they lay on their sides. It was a far cry from the passion of their previous fuck, but no less satisfying. In fact, it had been amazing. And then afterwards, Malfoy had stayed pressed against Harry, their bodies slotting together as naturally as a lid on a jam jar. It had taken Harry less than a minute to fall asleep like that, suffused with contentment. The perfect end to the day.

The curtains are open, but there’s no sign of Malfoy in the bedroom or on the balcony. Pierre sleeps at the bottom of the bed again, and Harry reaches down to pet him, marvelling at the warmth of his fur as it absorbs the sun’s heat. Pierre purrs loudly at the attention, stretching languorously.

Malfoy enters carrying a tray of food and drink, wearing only black, silk boxers. He pauses to look at Harry and Pierre before continuing, placing the tray on the table opposite the bed.

“You’re awake.”

Harry watches him cross the room, his thoughts pinging between food, coffee and sex.

He shakes himself, stretching into a yawn. “Yeah, just about. What time is it?”

Malfoy drops into the chair, crossing his legs. The appraising look Malfoy gives him as he stretches travels straight to his cock. It’s really something, being looked at like that, especially when Harry’s pretty sure he looks a right state with his sleep mussed hair and overnight stubble.

“Nine thirty. I thought you were going to sleep all morning. I was about to hex you awake.” He picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

Harry drops back down onto the pillows. “Can’t think of a better way to wake me than a hex?”

Malfoy hums. “I thought you might require some energy first.”

Harry sits up again, eyeing the extra cup waiting for him and the pile of pastries on the tray.

“Do you have plans for today?” He needs to know how much time they have left together, if he’s going to be asked to leave soon.

Malfoy tuts. “I would have thought you’d be familiar with the law about Sundays in France, Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrects and frowns. “What law? Do they have Muggle Sunday trading here too?”

Malfoy shakes his head with a sigh. “It’s much stricter, I'm afraid.”

“Stricter?” Harry raises disbelieving eyebrows.

Malfoy's lip curls up. “I can't believe you don't know. In France, Sundays are reserved for the sole purpose of shagging and pastries. It's monumentally offensive to do anything else.”

Warmth blooms in Harry’s chest that has nothing to do with the sun beating through the glass doors. He tries to hold in his smile as he quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

Malfoy nods, breaking off a piece of an almond croissant and chewing it slowly.

“It is.” He flicks stray crumbs from his fingertips onto his plate. “The French are horny bastards. Everyone knows that. If you want to be a good diplomat and adhere to the laws of the land, it’s strictly sex only today.”

Harry can’t stop the grin from spreading on his face, there’s no point in trying. “Well,” he says, getting up to grab his coffee and a pastry. “To quote this particularly annoying person I once shagged; that information is music to my dick.”

If Harry could describe his perfect Sunday, this one might just be it. They spend it mostly naked in Malfoy’s bedroom, only donning trousers to go out onto the balcony for tea and cigarettes. The sex, to Harry's continued astonishment, keeps getting better as they learn each other’s bodies, leaning into the fun of it all. Any question mark over their compatibility is long gone as they seem unable to get enough of each other.

And fun is exactly what it is. It’s fun when Harry is mashing together all the curse words he knows as Malfoy tongues his strawberry flavoured arsehole, pausing only to teach Harry a few swear words in French.

It's fun when Harry fucks Malfoy so enthusiastically they topple off the side of the bed.

It’s fun when Harry declares he needs to sample all of Malfoy's lube to find one he likes, and Malfoy is surprisingly on board. Harry scoops the whole collection from the cabinet, directing Malfoy to lay himself out on the bed like a sacrificial offering. He turns Malfoy's delectable skin into a smorgasbord, swiping lines of liquid everywhere he can, narrating like a mad scientist as he goes. Only once Malfoy is basted from head to toe and complaining loudly, does Harry set about licking it all off with gusto. He tongues peach from Malfoy's ankles, kiwi from his balls and something called yuzu - whatever the fuck that is - from his bellybutton. He pauses frequently to share the flavours by sticking his tongue into Malfoy's mouth, and they both giggle like idiots into the messy kisses.

With an oily coated mouth, slightly nauseous stomach and a very hard cock, Harry had eventually declared salted caramel the winner and proceeded to suck Malfoy’s caramel flavoured dick so enthusiastically, they were both coming in minutes.

The time in between the sex is pretty perfect too, actually. Perhaps it’s because they have no skin in the game, no need for nerves about what comes next, that there’s no awkwardness between them at all. When Harry thinks back to his roiling nerves of dinner the other night, it feels like a whole different version of them than the one that lies tangled and sated together in Malfoy’s bedsheets, passing a cigarette back and forth and chatting softly.

At some point in the early afternoon - he really has lost all concept of time - Harry requests a proper look around Malfoy’s flat. He doesn’t say it, but he wants to take a complete picture of Malfoy and his life back home with him, wants all the tiny details in his head.

They tour around the flat in the same way they would a museum or gallery, stopping to look at each piece of art, each interesting ornament. Except this tour couldn't be more different from their trip to the Louvre yesterday. For one thing, they’re topless. And for another, the art on Malfoy’s walls is personal, which makes it much more interesting to Harry. They move from piece to piece, Malfoy explaining what he likes about each one and how it ended up on his wall, listening to Harry’s thoughts on his choices.

Malfoy spends much of it with his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist, his bare chest pressed to Harry’s back, his chin resting on Harry’s shoulder, a hand carding Harry’s hair. His touches are so casual they seem almost unconscious, and Harry tries unsuccessfully to quash the rush of elation he gets when he closes his eyes and leans into them.

Malfoy’s own sketches are around his desk in the living room. There are loads; in sketchbooks, taped to the walls, some lying free. When Harry moves towards them, Malfoy hangs back, apparently not as eager to discuss his own art.

Harry takes his time looking. Malfoy sketches everything; landscapes, plants, humans, animals. Harry recognises several pictures of Pierre and Mathieu. There's a striking one of Mathieu's face in profile taped to the wall. Some of the sketches are charcoal, there are some watercolour, but the majority are in pencil.

When Harry finally turns to ask Malfoy a question, his lips are instantly captured by Malfoy’s insistent kisses and the words fly straight out of his head. Malfoy doesn't stop kissing him, leading Harry to the sofa, Pierre miaowing his annoyance and running from the room as Malfoy proceeds to suck Harry so thoroughly Harry can barely remember his name, let alone what he was going to ask.

Afterwards, they return to the bedroom, resting side by side in their underwear. The afternoon sun drenches the bed and Harry basks in it like a reptile, brimming with sated contentment.

He feels Malfoy moving next to him, but doesn’t open his eyes as the now familiar weight slides onto his legs. He automatically lets his hands run encouragingly over Malfoy's thighs, smiling.

When he opens his eyes, Malfoy is holding Harry's tie, the hint of a smirk on his face. Harry raises a questioning brow.

"Sit up."

Harry does, bringing them face to face. He wonders if Malfoy is about to suggest some bondage, using the hated tie to bind him, or perhaps gag him. That definitely seems like something Malfoy would enjoy doing. But to his surprise, Malfoy only puts it around Harry’s neck and begins to tie it.

Harry leans back on his arms, intrigued. As Malfoy concentrates on tying the knot, an image of a different reality careens unbidden into Harry’s mind; one in which there's a shirt under the tie, and Malfoy sometimes knots it for him before work. One in which Malfoy is there in the evenings when Harry finishes work, ready to take it off, or fuck him with it on. Where they have days like today, many times over.

Harry closes his eyes, banishing the images from his head.

When he opens them again, Malfoy is straightening the tie, his face surprisingly serious as he avoids Harry's eyes.

“I'm sorry I was a prick to you,” he says quietly as he finishes and drops his hands. “That first day.”

Harry blinks in surprise. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I’m sorry, is this Draco Malfoy, apologising?”

Malfoy huffs, the corner of his mouth lifting too. He rocks his hips once.

“Ta bouche. I won't say it again.”

This close, Harry can see each pale chest hair clearly. He reaches a hand up to stroke absently over them.

“And why were you a prick, exactly?”

Malfoy frowns thoughtfully and Harry can feel his discomfort.

“I didn't know how you'd be with me,” he says eventually. “And when we met again, I suppose…well, I just assumed we would go back to–”

He stops abruptly with a sigh, searching Harry's face. Harry leans back on both hands again, urging him on with a questioning look.

“And you looked so–” Malfoy's eyebrows knit together and he sweeps a hand downwards in reference to Harry. “Like that. You.”

Harry's eyebrows rise higher and Malfoy drops his hand as if he's made a point. “It’s–” He purses his lips as he searches for the word. “Annoying.”

Harry laughs. “Merlin, this is a really shit apology.”

Malfoy tuts and wraps a hand around Harry’s tie, pulling him in for a kiss.

Harry wakes slowly from his doze, warm and comfortable, the room bright in late afternoon sun. Everything is quiet but for a soft scratching. As he stirs, Malfoy clears his throat.

“You’re awake. You nap more than Pierre.”

His voice is not coming from beside Harry on the bed, but from the chair opposite. Harry blinks sleepily at him. He’s wearing his loose linen trousers and no top, one leg crossed over the other.

Harry smiles, running a hand through his hair and stifling a yawn. “You watching me sleep? That’s stalker territory, that.”

It was a joke. But instead of laughing, denial, scoffing or firing something back, Malfoy looks almost sheepish, and Harry is instantly alert.

He sits up, looking more closely at Malfoy. Something's off. He's sitting...doing nothing.

Harry’s eyes travel to the table beside him, eyes alighting on the closed sketchbook that hadn't been there earlier, scattered pencils around it. He looks back to Malfoy, their eyes widening at the same time.

“Were you–?” Harry sees Malfoy glance towards the sketchbook at the same time Harry is scrabbling across the bed to make a lunge for it.

Malfoy is quicker, being nearer, and he manages to snatch it up just before Harry gets to it.

“No.” He holds it protectively to his chest, contradicting his lie.

“Malfoy.” Harry puts his hands to his hips and looks sternly at him. Or as stern as he can hope to look in his boxers and a tie.

“Potter,” Malfoy answers in the same tone, quirking an eyebrow, still holding the sketchbook tightly.

Harry exhales. “Alright, fine. It's fine. If you don't want me to see it, that’s–” he starts to turn away, watching Malfoy relaxing his grip on the sketchbook in his periphery.

Harry makes as if to return to the bed before whipping around and snatching the book from Malfoy's grasp, jumping up quickly to the bed with his prize.

“Potter!” Malfoy growls, but Harry is across the bed, standing on the mattress and holding the sketchbook as far away as possible. Malfoy follows him, jumping onto the bed.

Harry prepares to have to fight him off, which he'd definitely have to do if this was Ron, but Malfoy just stands with his hand out. “I'll have that back.”

Harry huffs, thinking. "Alright. But if it’s of me, I think it's only fair I get to see first?”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, Harry still holding the sketchbook out of reach, Malfoy holding his hand out. Harry knows he can stave Malfoy off if he needs to. He also knows he'll give it back if Malfoy pushes.

Malfoy exhales, shoulders lowering. “Fine.” He steps off the bed and drops into the chair again. “But don't go reading anything into it. I just draw whatever's in front of me, which just happened to be you.”

Harry doesn’t reply. He starts to flip through the pages, suddenly nervous. He skips over various sketches of birds, plants, a pair of crossed paws, until he finds the last one. The beginnings of a sketch of Harry, sleeping, his bottom half tangled in the duvet.

A strange, vulnerable, excited sort of feeling creeps into his chest as he looks at himself in Malfoy's pencil strokes.

“You, ah.” Harry pauses, still looking at the sketch, feelings tangling up inside him. “You should have asked first.”

He looks up at Malfoy’s furrowed brow. Malfoy sighs, his frown deepening, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He shakes his head, looking embarrassed. “You're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–”

“Yes,” Harry interrupts quickly, needing to get rid of that horrible, troubled look from Malfoy's face. Harry hops down from the bed and moves towards him with a smile. “Yes. You have my permission. In fact,” he thrusts the sketchbook into Malfoy's hands, “I insist.”

He enjoys watching Malfoy's expression turn from serious to shocked to suspicious in a matter of seconds as he slowly accepts the sketchbook back.

“What are you talking about?” He sounds nervous.

“I’m talking about you. Drawing me.” Harry picks up a pencil from the table and holds it out with a grin. “Like one of your French girls.”

“Potter, I don't know what the fuck you're on about.”

Malfoy’s puzzled face is lovely and Harry laughs, unable to resist bending down to kiss his pursed lips. Malfoy seems to relax under Harry's kiss. He tosses the sketchbook onto the table, sliding to the edge of his seat and reaching for Harry.

Harry pulls back. “Oh no, you don't. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to have my fantasy fulfilled, and you’re going to make it happen.”

Harry picks up the sketchbook and pencil again and presses them to Malfoy's bare chest, forcing him to take them.

Harry heads back to the bed. “Have you really never seen Titanic? I thought you watched Muggle films?”

He starts to rearrange the pillows as he talks, building them up.

“I do,” Malfoy replies. “They're awful. Full of Muggles trying to kill or kick the shit out of each other.”

Harry laughs, wondering what he’s been watching. “Well, this one isn't like that.”

“Really? What’s it about?”

Harry thinks as he hooks his fingers into his boxers and pulls them down. He kicks them away as he faces Malfoy. “A sinking ship.”

Malfoy snorts, eyes gliding down to Harry’s soft cock with interest. “Sounds delightful.”

Harry smiles and climbs onto the bed. “So, okay. We're on a big passenger ship heading to America, right? 1912, if I remember rightly.” He settles back onto the pillows he’s just arranged, facing Malfoy. “And you're Jack; a sexy but impoverished artist. You’ve not got a pot to piss in.”

Malfoy raises a brow, looking pointedly around his opulent flat.

Harry ignores him. “And I’m Rose. I'm rich, but trapped in a boring life and engaged to a proper twat." He smirks. "I'm also way out of your league. Socially speaking." Malfoy's eyebrows climb higher. "And we’re having a secret, whirlwind romance aboard the ship.”

Malfoy sighs, resting his cheek on his fist and trying to look bored, but Harry can see the corners of his mouth turning up as he rakes his eyes over Harry's body.

Harry has no idea how to pose for a drawing. He was half joking when he’d had the idea, but now he’s suggested it, it’s kind of thrilling, the idea of Malfoy sketching him properly. He crosses his legs at the ankle, more aware than usual of his cock resting down over his thigh.

“And now you draw me, like this. It's all very scandalous.” Harry reclines back on the pillows and gives a little tug on the tie around his neck. “It's not a diamond, but I think this is more me anyway, don’t you?”

Malfoy still looks dubious, but Harry can see his mind working. “Are you…you really want me to sketch you? Like this?”

“Heck, yes. It’s not about the drawing. I don’t even have to see it if you don’t want me to. It's about the…experience.”

Malfoy smiles crookedly, still unsure. “The experience?”

“Yeah. It’s hot. You should watch the film, then you’d get it. Come on, before my arm goes to sleep. Leo would be half finished by now.”

Malfoy's flipping to a new page in his book. “Leo? I thought you said I was called Jack?”

Harry smiles delightedly, because Malfoy's actually going to do this. He's going to do it because Harry asked him to.

Before Harry can answer, Malfoy has put the pad down and is heading to the bed. “You'll have to stop fidgeting. I don’t know who the fuck Leo is, but if I’m going to do this, it’ll be done properly. And put your arm down, you look like a right tit.”

Harry laughs, letting his body go dramatically limp. Malfoy looks him over, expression far away, like he's picturing something else, then starts adjusting Harry's pose. He nudges Harry's knee, tugs his arm, moves his tie. Harry allows himself to be manipulated, skin tingling in anticipation.

He tries to stay still and allow himself be arranged as Malfoy keeps shifting him, but Malfoy's proximity is distracting; his delicious skin is so close Harry wants to grab him; he wants to pull them together, run his hands over–

“You're going to have to get rid of that, too,” Malfoy says with a smirk, jerking his chin towards Harry's groin as he tilts Harry's face and adjusts the tie again.

Harry smirks back. “That is entirely your fault.”

“Well, unless you can sustain it at the same angle for the next hour or so, you need to find a way to get rid of it. I always found picturing Argus Filch naked a good way of getting rid of an unwanted erection.”

Harry snorts. He actually thinks looking at Malfoy like this, barefoot, trousers hanging casually on his narrow hips, hair soft and mussed, could keep his cock interested for well over an hour, no problem. But he closes his eyes and dutifully thinks about the old caretaker - not even naked - and it's enough.

Being drawn by Malfoy is an experience unlike Harry has ever had.

They’ve always looked at each other, him and Malfoy. He realises that now. This, though. Doing this gives unfettered permission to drink each other in with long and greedy stares. To look their fill, as much as they want, with no need for explanation and no need for restraint.

It’s exhilarating. To have Malfoy’s eyes sweeping over Harry's body, lingering in one place for whole minutes at a time, sometimes without even moving his pencil. To be studied so intensely by those pale grey eyes. More than once, Harry’s heart randomly speeds up, heat searing across his skin and he has to focus on the wall behind Malfoy until it's safe to look directly at him again.

It's thrilling to watch him. To stare at his face, tracking his different expressions. The way he bites the side of his lip when he stares at Harry, or the crease that forms between his brows in concentration, the faraway look in his eyes when he stares at his drawing.

Their eyes meet often, and whenever they do, Harry’s lips tug up in a smile at the situation. Harry is lying stark bollock naked, save for a tie, on Draco Malfoy's bed, re-enacting a scene from Titanic; it’s fucking ludicrous, is what it is. Or at least, it should be.

Malfoy’s answering smile is smaller, almost shy, and Harry can tell that he keeps trying to stop it from coming altogether, but he can't.

“Can I ask you a question?” Harry asks, voice low after watching him silently for a while.

Malfoy cuts his eyes to Harry’s face before looking back at Harry's legs, pencil stroking the page. “Sure.”

“Why don’t you dance?”

Malfoy freezes for a few moments, keeping his eyes on Harry’s legs before sketching again.

“How do you feel when you dance?” he asks as he squints at Harry's ankles, then back at his drawing.

Harry huffs a small laugh. “Erm. Like a bit of a pillock?”

Malfoy shakes his head, eyes still darting between Harry's ankles and his page as he draws. “No. You're talking about how you feel when you think about it. How do you feel when you're actually dancing?”

Harry’s mind immediately goes to Hermione. The way she'd looked in her wedding dress; the way they'd smiled at each other as they waltzed around the marquee that afternoon, not speaking a word, his heart full for his best friends.

He thinks about all the times he's twirled Teddy and Ro and Hugo in his arms, music blaring, their little hands clinging to him, their laughs free and loud.

He almost laughs aloud as he thinks of last Christmas, when he and Fred got absolutely bladdered and annoyed everyone as they tangoed around the Burrow.

Or the other night with Mathieu, when he was wine-drunk and revelling in Malfoy's attention. Or yesterday in the square with Janet.

“Light,” Harry answers, decisively. “Sounds stupid, but I feel lighter, inside.”

Malfoy hums, a small smile on his face. He'd been watching Harry as he was thinking. “Exactement,” he murmurs. He reaches for a different pencil and resumes sketching.

Harry waits for Malfoy to say more, but he doesn’t.

“Exactly, what?” he asks, eventually.

Malfoy shoots him a quick look. “Well. I don’t get that feeling, the lightness you describe. You need that feeling to want to dance in the first place.” He's sketching again. “And that's why I don't dance, and why you do.”

Harry frowns. “What, never, though? You never feel like dancing?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Since when?”

He shrugs. “Since a long time.” Malfoy looks up. “Oh, no need for your puppy dog eyes, Potter. Harry.” His smile turns wry. “I'm perfectly fine. I'm not depressed or troubled, just because I don't get the urge to dance.”

Harry erases the frown from his face. “No, of course not.”

But Harry doesn’t stop thinking about Malfoy’s words. He’s been told many times over the years that he has a hero complex. That he always wants to fix problems that aren’t his to solve, and he’s worked hard on recognising that, on pulling himself back from the impulse.

Malfoy isn’t broken, and certainly doesn’t need Harry to fix anything. He's ridiculously smart and successful and talented, not to mention beautiful. He’s made a full life for himself here, with his lovely flat and his lovelier cat. He has Mathieu, and a steady stream of bed partners if his lube cabinet is anything to go by. He could have his pick of anyone. Malfoy doesn’t need saving, especially not by Harry.

But Harry still wonders. He can't help it. He wonders if Malfoy is happy. Or if he is, could he be happier? If Malfoy was happier, would he feel like dancing?

And Gods, Harry's such a presumptuous arse for even thinking it, but he wonders…could he make Malfoy happy?

Harry and his arrogant bloody hero complex.

It's a short silence later that Malfoy's eyes snap to Harry's.

“I'm done.”

Harry groans and collapses his body, stretching his limbs. “Thank fuck for that,” he says, as if it wasn't one of the most erotic, intimate experiences of his life. “Only took two minutes in the movie.”

Malfoy stands, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Do you want to see?”

Harry sits up. “Fuck, yes. If you want me to, that is.”

Malfoy looks down at the sketchbook, thinking, before carefully tearing the sheet from the book and holding it out. “Why not? It’s your fantasy, after all.”

Harry takes it with a curious excitement, lowering his eyes slowly to the page.

“Fucking hell.”

It’s him. Obviously. Harry recognises his body, his face. Malfoy has captured him faultlessly, as far as he can tell. And yet, Harry’s sure he’s never seen himself like…this before.

He's never been vain about his looks. He’s fine. Just an ordinary man, with okay features and a fit enough physique. He has his imperfections; untameable hair, a few too many scars and probably slightly too much body hair, if he's being picky. All of which Malfoy has added faithfully.

But the way Malfoy has drawn him, it's…Harry looks…well. He looks good. Even with his cock out, a ridiculous tie knotted loosely around his neck; even with his scars and his body hair, he looks good.

And more than that, even, Malfoy has somehow managed to encapsulate Harry’s feelings perfectly; they look out at him from the page, clear as day. The barest hint of a smile - the one Malfoy kept ordering him to wipe from his face - that’s saying look at us, doing this; his expression, showing so glaringly how much he loved having the undivided attention of the artist.

“You’re brilliant,” Harry says, shaking his head, wonderingly. “I can’t believe you just drew this. With your hands. In that time. I’m– you’re so good.” Harry laughs. “You’ve made me look good.”

Malfoy huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head too. “Fantasy fulfilled then?”

Harry nods. “Definitely.”

He continues to look at the sketch, studying every pencil stroke.

“What are you thinking?” Malfoy asks curiously.

Harry answers without looking up. “I'm thinking…that I look like a dream, a bit. The way the edges around here are blurry, it’s like I’m not quite real. Or, I don’t know. Like a memory, maybe. Did you do that on purpose?”

He looks up for clarification to see Malfoy's eyes widen in surprise. Malfoy smiles, but it’s not one of his usual smiles, Harry notes. It’s heavier at the corners. He shrugs. “I told you, I just draw what’s in front me.”

Harry doesn’t know how to reply to that. He takes one last look at the drawing before handing it back.

“Thank you for indulging me, Jack. You’ll have to send me your bill.”

Malfoy smiles, one of the ones Harry’s familiar with, one that sets his pulse racing and his blood flowing south.

Malfoy drops the sketch onto the table behind him, turning back to Harry.

“Keep your money, love. It’s your cock I’m after.”

Harry gives him a shove. “This is supposed to be romantic, you arse. Not a porno.”

But Malfoy is pulling him in by his tie, looking like he wants to devour Harry, and Harry can’t even pretend to be annoyed about it.

After dinner, Harry sits cross legged on the sofa next to Pierre, the room hot enough for him to be sitting in just his boxers. Malfoy’s given him a sketchpad and pencils and shown him a soft erasing charm, and he’s now quietly sketching.

He’s always been crap at drawing, but being around Malfoy has inspired him to create something, if only for the fun of how shit it’ll probably be.

Malfoy sits reading in his armchair, wearing dark boxers and a dark t-shirt and looking fit, as usual. Harry keeps getting distracted by Malfoy's long, bare legs; by the way he lights a cigarette without lifting his eyes from the page of his book; by him just generally being a sexy bastard.

“This can be an idea for your comic series,” Harry says as he erases the hand for the hundredth time. “Why are hands so hard?”

Malfoy hums. “Took me ages to get the hang of hands, too.”

Harry’s still arsing around, drawing and redrawing the fingers when Malfoy pads across the room, stopping behind the sofa to lean down and look over Harry’s shoulder.

“Oh. It’s us.” He sounds surprised.

Harry stops drawing and holds it up, pleased that Malfoy's recognised them. “Yeah.”

Malfoy leans closer and Harry inhales his smoky loveliness. “Another fantasy of yours, is it?”

Harry hums. “Yeah, I reckon so.” He hadn’t wanted to suggest it, not knowing if it was a possibility or not.

Malfoy reaches out and takes it from him. He straightens, still studying the drawing as he takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales thoughtfully.

“I'm sure it can be arranged.”

Harry looks up, surprised. “Really? Before I go?”

Malfoy shrugs. “I don't see why not. Is it a contest, or just for fun?”

Harry snorts. “This is us, I don’t see how it won’t turn into a competition.”

Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “Alright,” he says slowly. “Count me in. I’ve never had a wanking contest before.”

“Wha–” Harry splutters, drawing up to his knees on the sofa to look at his picture. “We're not– that’s– they're brooms, you twat!”

Malfoy's eyes widen and Harry can tell he's holding in a laugh.

“Oh.” He bites his quivering lip. “I did think you were being rather generous with your proportions.”

Harry snatches it back with a scowl. “They are very clearly brooms,” he mutters.

Malfoy has reached a hand into Harry's hair and given it an affectionate rake through as he looks at the paper. “Of course they are. I see it now,” he says soothingly.

Harry keeps his eyes on his sketch as the casual fingers in his hair set off a hundred butterflies in his stomach. It means nothing, of course, that they touch like this now. One night stands are full of intimate touches, after all. As are holiday flings, apparently. He knows that, even if his heart doesn't.

Malfoy heads back to his chair. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint, but I haven't flown in years. I don’t even own a broom.”

With the moment over, Harry can draw breath again, and he lets himself look at Malfoy as he places the drawing down beside him. “Why not?”

Malfoy shrugs as he picks up his book.

Harry frowns. He remembers how good Malfoy was on his broom, and can't quite believe he doesn't fly for fun, at least sometimes. “So you don't dance. You don't fly. What do you do for fun, other than draw?”

Malfoy snaps his book shut and looks at Harry, exasperated. “Wank.”

Harry laughs, happy to have Malfoy's full attention again. “I'm being serious.”

“So am I. Why do you think I have so much lube?”

Harry doesn't think before he replies. “Because you have a lot of sex?”

Malfoy laughs. “I wouldn't say a lot. An average amount, probably.”

Harry knows he shouldn't ask. He's circling a dragon, asking to be burned, for absolutely no good reason.

“And what's average, when it's at home?”

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow, shifting slightly in his chair. “What, you want a number?”

No. Fuck, no. Harry doesn't want a number. “Yeah, go on then.”

Malfoy’s eyes linger on Harry's face before he shrugs. “Usually once or twice a week, I'd say. It depends how busy I am with work.” He gives Harry a half smile. “You know how it is.”

Harry can't return the smile because he's immediately imagining Malfoy with different men, the images awful and wrong. He picks up his mug of cold tea from the coffee table for something to focus on. Once or twice a week.

“You sleep with the same person, usually, or…?”

Gods, why is he asking this stuff? It's like picking a scab, the compulsion too strong to stop.

Malfoy cocks his head. “Why do you ask?”

Harry forces himself to shrug. “Just curious.”

He reaches out a hand to stroke Pierre's fur, the silky warmth soothing Harry's roiling stomach.

“Usually the same people, yes,” Malfoy says slowly. “Just regular sex, no strings. It saves the bother of having to go out and pull all the time.”

Jealousy claws at Harry. He wants to vomit. He manages to nod, to keep his face neutral.

“You don’t like any strings,” Harry says, glancing down at his hand in Pierre's fur.

Malfoy hums. “Makes things much less awkward, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.” Harry forces a small smile to his mouth; to give Malfoy what he’s looking for. “Much easier.”

Malfoy smiles back as he opens his book again, shifting in his chair. “And you? You’re the same?”

He's giving Harry the same intense, sharp look that he had at Mathieu's, as if in warning; making sure they're both on the same page.

“Er, yeah,” Harry agrees. “Yep. The same.”

He stands, gathering up his mug and picking up his sketch from the sofa. He crumples the paper in his fist, dropping it into the bin by Malfoy's desk as he heads into the kitchen.

Standing next to the sink, he takes a calming breath. Then another, closing his eyes.

Just a bit of fun, right Potter?

He turns on the tap and lets the water run hot.

Just sex. No strings.

Malfoy’s made it all very clear; there’s no room for anything more between them. Harry doesn’t know if it’s the idea of something more in general, or something more with Harry in particular, that Malfoy objects to, but it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, he’s been perfectly clear, and Harry has no right to feel upset or jealous or whatever the fuck is causing his chest to ache right now.

And if it’s too late to stop his pathetic heart from feeling those things, he’s just going to have to hide it better.

He washes his mug by hand, scrubbing it under the scorching water.

Of course Malfoy is going to fuck other people after Harry. But Harry doesn’t need to torture himself with those thoughts right now. Tonight, he has Malfoy to himself, and he’s going to make the most of that. He puts the mug on the drainer and dries his hands.

“Right then,” Harry says cheerfully as he reenters the living room. “What about that wanking contest?”

Chapter Text

Monday

Time has become as fluctuating as Harry's feelings, it seems. In Monday morning's meeting, he could swear the discussions about unregistered Portkeys and counterfeit gold last for fifteen hours straight. Nevertheless, he came determined to make a good impression, and he makes sure to contribute fully to all aspects of the agenda; every wretched, tedious hour it takes.

He and Malfoy maintain their professionalism at work. Mostly. The only discernible difference between last week's meetings and Monday’s is the continuous press of their legs together under the table; the occasional, intentional brush of hands when Malfoy's pale skin is too tempting not to touch, just for a second.

But it’s excruciating, being so close to him, having his slick voice interpreting at Harry's ear but being unable to properly talk or touch.

So excruciating, in fact, that at the first coffee break, Harry excuses himself abruptly from a conversation with Casteau to go and find him.

He checks for the curl of smoke over their cubicle door before wandlessly unlocking it. He locks it behind him and, without saying a word, drops to his knees.

Malfoy swears softly in French, twining a hand in Harry's hair as Harry swallows his cock. Harry doesn't stop for breath, doing all the things he knows drive Malfoy wild; drags the back of his tongue across Malfoy's slit to hear him hiss; runs his fingers up behind Malfoy's balls to feel his grip tighten in Harry's hair; sucks with just the right pressure to draw frantic, whispered French from his mouth. Harry loves it, loves it so much it feels like only seconds have passed before Malfoy’s hips are jerking, thighs trembling as he’s coming beautifully down Harry's throat.

Satisfied, Harry tucks him away carefully and stands. Malfoy holds his almost finished cigarette out for Harry to wrap his lips around and Harry takes a slow drag, enjoying Malfoy's languid, fucked out look. He wishes they were back at his flat so Harry could keep it on his face for hours.

Malfoy looks down. “I don't fancy kneeling on this floor.”

Harry smiles as he exhales. “I don't want you to.”

Malfoy returns his smile languidly and cups Harry through his trousers. “Reckon you can come like this?”

Harry groans quietly, grinding against Malfoy’s palm, the friction both a relief and an enticement. “Looking at you? Fuck, yes.” He leans forward, opening his mouth to accept Malfoy's exhaled smoke, the taste of it even better for having been in Malfoy’s lungs first. He breathes a reluctant, smoky sigh. “But we need to get back.”

A freshening charm to banish the smoke, a strong cooling charm for his dick and Harry steels himself for more torturous hours of work.

Time outside of the meeting - time with Malfoy - is different, of course. They barely make it through the door of his flat before they're on each other, making up for the hours of restraint.

Monday night passes in blissful nakedness, and much too quickly.

Harry hides his intermittent pangs of alarm at their dwindling time together. The moments where he almost can't breathe, thinking about saying goodbye.

Malfoy seems fine about it all. He’s started to casually reference Harry's leaving as if it's just another date in his diary. Once this job is over, I've got another one translating for an American philanthropist that actually looks quite interesting. And you can take the salted caramel home with you, it's far too sweet for me, anyway.

Harry forces himself to reply impassively, to seem as indifferent to their upcoming separation as Malfoy. Of course Malfoy is fine. He isn't the one whose feelings have grown out of control without permission.

It's just…it seems too good to just stop, this thing they have. But Malfoy seems perfectly content for Harry to go. Perhaps he has something similar with those other men, too. Men who live closer and speak French and fit in with his life here. He doesn't want more with you, Harry keeps reminding himself.

Tuesday

Harry stands in front of his hotel mirror on Tuesday evening, running a critical eye over his suit. It's a Muggle style tuxedo, black and perfectly tailored to his body. It looks decent, he thinks. He points his wand at the self-tying bow tie, pleased he doesn’t have to faff with it while his mind is elsewhere.

Tonight is the French Ministry gala, and he desperately doesn't want to go. He'd been excited about it before he arrived; his first event in France, the first in this new role. But tonight is Harry's last night in Paris, and he'd much rather be spending it naked, being edged in Malfoy's bed until they're both seeing stars.

The only saving grace is that Malfoy will be there tonight, along with the other delegates and interpreters from their meeting. If he's lucky, he might even persuade Malfoy to dance with him.

He supposes it’s all very impressive; the grand, marble-floored ballroom with twinkling lights floating on the ceiling; the golden candelabras with pearls draping from the arms. The room is filled with witches and wizards, glamorous in their finery, the low hum of their chatter and clinking glasses joining the music from the band playing in the corner.

It's all resplendent, but Harry can only mutedly appreciate the grandeur of it all as he nervously sweeps the room, looking for Malfoy. Why is he so nervous?

His eyes find Mathieu first, standing holding a drink amongst the crowd some distance away. And standing next to him - Malfoy.

Harry’s mouth goes dry, heart skipping several beats. Because Malfoy is, of course, a vision.

Not because of the well tailored, grey three-piece suit that fits his tall frame down to the last inch. And not because of his handsome face or stylish hair, though Merlin knows all of those are enough to make anyone weak.

It's just him. The wry curl of his lip as he listens to Mathieu. His clever eyes that notice everything, that feel like dragon fire whenever they're trained on Harry, now twinkling with amusement at whatever Mathieu is saying. It's the way he stands, his elegant slouch, the confidence with which he carries his body. Gods, it’s the way his lips are moving around the French Harry can tell he's speaking now, the same French he speaks into Harry's skin when they're alone. It's the man behind those lips that most people don't get to see, loose limbed and jokey, with a hundred different smiles.

Harry's staring, unaware of all the people around him and completely uncaring, because Malfoy is so fucking lovely, Harry wants to cry.

“Champagne?”

Harry pulls himself back from his thoughts as he's presented with a tray of champagne flutes, the bubbly drinks changing colours from gold to pink to pastel blue every few seconds. He grabs two, downing one to calm his rampaging nerves before making his way towards Malfoy clutching the other.

He’s halfway across the floor when Malfoy spots him. Harry sees the exact moment, Malfoy's eyes widening, lips parting slightly. Harry’s breath hitches as he watches Malfoy’s eyes sweep over him.

Mathieu smiles as Harry approaches. Malfoy’s voice is just within earshot when he speaks, looking at Harry but leaning in to speak to Mathieu. “À ce rythme-là, il va finir par me tuer.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

Harry's pulse quickens as Malfoy looks at him in the same way he looks at Harry when they're in bed together.

Malfoy smirks. “I was just saying thank fuck you finally lost the tie.” Mathieu snaps his head towards Malfoy, looking at him for a moment before shaking it softly.

Harry doesn’t take his eyes off Malfoy as he gives him a half smile.

“Well, I know how distracting you find that tie. I'm glad you approve of this.” He runs his eyes over Malfoy’s impeccable suit. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

They smile at each other, Harry wondering if Malfoy knows just how devastating he looks, if he can see exactly what he does to Harry.

“You look great, Mathieu,” Mathieu says wryly. “Oh, why thank you friends. I bought this suit especially. I'm so glad you noticed.”

Harry finally tears his eyes from Malfoy to smile at Mathieu. Malfoy pats Mathieu’s cheek, muttering affectionately in French. Mathieu bats it away, laughing.

“Fuck you both,” he sniffs with a smile as Gerda joins them, her usually straight hair curled in large waves about her face. Casteau is just behind her, exchanging greetings with Mathieu and Malfoy.

“Gerda, you look beautiful,” Harry says, reaching out a hand and placing a kiss on her cheek.

“Danke, young man. You look very handsome yourself. As does everyone. It's good to see people dressed up.” She turns to Casteau. “Henri! I was looking for you. Why on earth is the whole buffet vegetarian? I asked a waiter, but he just shrugged.”

Casteau laughs. “Ahh, yes. There was a last minute change. Apparently one of the attendees had some very strong opinions on the matter. Convinced the events manager to use an alternative caterer. I hear it's excellent, no?”

Gerda sniffs. “I haven't tried it yet. What is tofu anyway?”

Harry glances at Malfoy, whose face is suspiciously blank as he listens to the conversation, eyebrows politely raised, avoiding Harry’s attempt to catch his eye.

The buffet is excellent, a highlight in a mostly dull evening. Harry tries to stick with Malfoy and Mathieu as much as possible, but he keeps being drawn away into conversation after conversation of polite small talk with people he should probably care more about making a good impression with than he does.

Knowing it's unwise to get pissed, Harry seeks temporary reprieve from the dullness in dancing. He lures first Gerda, and then Maria to the dancefloor as the band plays a never-ending stream of romantic French songs. He feels Malfoy's eyes on him as he dances, and after a final dance with Gerda, he can’t take it any more. As soon as it finishes he approaches Malfoy, stomach a bubbling cauldron of nerves.

Malfoy stands with a group of interpreters, but Harry focuses only on him. The group quiets when Harry draws near, watching him expectantly. Harry gives an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry to butt in. I’m just here to beg a dance.”

Their heads swivel to Malfoy, who looks comically horrified as Harry extends his hand. Malfoy stares at Harry’s hand like it might bite him, then up to Harry’s amused eyes. Harry can feel his fond exasperation as he takes it with a resigned sigh.

Harry’s smile widens as he excuses them and leads Malfoy towards the dancefloor.

“You don’t have to dance with me,” he says as they walk. “We can go for a smoke if you prefer. I just really needed an excuse to touch you for a bit.”

Malfoy turns to him, looking charmingly confused. “Do you not care that people are watching? That they’ll see you dancing with me?”

Harry looks at him in surprise. “No. Why would I?”

Malfoy frowns, slowing down. “I don’t know, because of my past? Because of your job? People will talk, you know. Word will get around. I just thought it might bother you if people think– if they see.”

Harry smiles in bafflement. “Well you thought wrong. I don't care about any of that." He cocks his head. "Do you?”

Malfoy shakes his head slowly. “Well, no. But–”

“Then, that’s that.” Harry tugs him into the array of dancers. The band is singing something slow and French and lovely, and on impulse Harry forces Malfoy to twirl under his arm with an abrupt push. Malfoy's outraged look has Harry barking a laugh. He quickly presses them together and brings his arms around Malfoy's waist before he can change his mind and storm off.

“You absolute idiot!” Malfoy hisses. But Harry can see he’s hiding a smile. Malfoy slides an arm around Harry’s back. “You’re so annoying. I don't know why everyone finds you so charming.”

“Me either,” Harry replies honestly.

They start to sway, Harry bringing their bodies closer than is probably seemly at an event like this, but he doesn't care; he’s dancing with the most attractive man in the room and he smells delicious.

He takes one of Malfoy's hands in his, holding it between their chests. Malfoy's fingers curl into his palm and Harry's heart expands, because Malfoy is dancing with him.

Malfoy’s eyes reflect the floating lights as he gives Harry a questioning look. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry gives him a small smile. “Because you're dancing.”

Malfoy laughs quietly. “You didn't leave me much choice. It was either accept, or look like the world's most callous bastard by refusing you.”

“So that's why you agreed?”

“Obviously.”

“Hmm.” Harry searches his face. “Someone made the whole buffet vegetarian.”

Malfoy’s lip twitches. “So I heard. What a twat.”

Harry smiles wider and sighs, closing his eyes and resting his chin on Malfoy's shoulder. The song changes; it’s another slow one. A duet. Harry loses himself in the moment, breathing Malfoy in and letting their bodies move gently together as the music enfolds them.

“What do the words mean?” Harry asks after a time.

Malfoy takes a moment to reply. “Avant toi, je n'avais rien means before you, I had nothing.” His voice is soft in Harry's ear. “The song is about finding someone and realising you weren’t properly living until you met them.”

Harry feels the threat of emotion trying to seize him and he grips Malfoy's hand tighter.

“Ah.”

“Romantic idiots, the French,” Malfoy says with a sniff.

Harry exhales, humming in agreement. “Yeah. Soft as shite. I've always said it.”

“Be sure to mention it in your next speech, won't you? I think it'll go down well.”

“Can I kiss you?” Harry blurts.

They've never kissed in public before, but Harry feels like he might actually die if he doesn't kiss Malfoy right now.

Malfoy sighs, pulling back and shaking his head. “It's probably not the thing,” he says gently. “You're pushing it already by doing this. You’re supposed to be a diplomat, and there are a lot of eyes in here.”

Harry swallows his disappointment as he nods. Malfoy's right, of course. Harry should act professionally. He leans in, brushing his lips discreetly into the crook of Malfoy's neck, needing the tiny taste of his skin at least.

“Will you take me home later?” Harry murmurs in his ear.

He watches Malfoy swallow, the bob of his Adam's apple before he nods.

“Of course.”

Avant toi

je n'avais rien

Malfoy starts to move away before the song ends and Harry can't stop himself from reaching around his waist and tugging him back. He puts a hand around Malfoy's neck and pulls their faces close.

“Fuck diplomacy,” Harry says with a smile, and kisses him.

As soon as Malfoy's shocked smile is pressed against Harry's lips, Harry's whole body sighs, the room fuzzing out so it's just the two of them. Malfoy's arm slips around Harry's back, and all Harry can feel is him, as Malfoy gently kisses him back.

It's a chaste kiss, really, considering all the things they've done together, all the things Harry would like to do to him right now. But something twists painfully sharp in Harry's chest all the same, both wonderful and awful at the same time.

He smiles as he pulls back, his voice thick. “Later, yeah?”

Malfoy looks at him with exasperated fondness and rolls his eyes. “Yes. Now fuck off before you get yourself sacked.”

Malfoy keeps his distance from Harry for the rest of the evening, perhaps fearful that Harry’s going to drag him back to the dance floor, though Harry feels Malfoy's eyes on him wherever he is. As the evening goes on, Harry grows restless as he exchanges pleasantries with what feels like a thousand forgettable people.

Probably earlier than he ought to, he decides he’s had enough. This is his last night, and all he can think is how much of their time is wasting away.

Harry finds him standing alone at the bar, an almost empty drink in hand.

“You ready?” Harry asks, a hand at his back. Malfoy immediately puts his glass down.

“Yes.”

When the quiet of the empty street hits, Harry breathes a sigh of relief as he turns to Malfoy.

“Do you mind if–”

“What do you–”

They both stop and smile. “Go ahead,” Malfoy gestures with his hand.

“I was just going to ask. Do you mind if I collect my things from the hotel and stay at yours? My Portkey’s early, so I thought maybe I could go straight from yours?”

Malfoy's smile falters a little as he nods.

“Sure. Are you okay to apparate or should we walk?”

“No, I'm good. I didn't drink much.”

They say very little as Harry gathers up his belongings at the hotel before apparating directly to Malfoy's flat.

Tonight is different. Harry feels it in the way they don't rip at each other's clothes the moment they enter his flat. The way there's no teasing, no question of how. The way Malfoy bats Harry's hands away so he can undo Harry's buttons himself with determined efficiency. The seriousness with which he kisses down Harry’s chest, runs his tongue over Harry’s nipples, into the dip of his hip, his hands caressing Harry everywhere they touch. He's gentle, but there are no jokes, no smiles as Malfoy sucks marks into Harry's skin.

Harry tries to meet him halfway, to return his kisses, to give back the attentions, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to want it. Harry eventually gives himself up to Malfoy's insistent need. He buries his hands in silky hair as Malfoy swallows him down and sucks Harry like it's the last time.

Malfoy breaks his own rules and conjures lube with his wand while his mouth is still wrapped around Harry's cock. He slides slicked fingers into Harry in time with his mouth until Harry’s writhing with pleasure. He brings Harry right to the brink before backing off, and Harry moans at the denial, even knowing the ecstasy that waits for him at the end.

“Let me fuck you,” Malfoy says pleadingly, as Harry’s already spreading himself open in invitation.

Perhaps Harry is imagining the edge to the way Malfoy fucks him tonight, but he doesn’t think so. It's not desperate, but purposeful. Malfoy fucks him hard and precise, the way he's learned Harry likes it, panting and determined - finding Harry's prostate and hitting it until Harry is encouraging him with incoherent curses, meeting his thrusts.

Harry tries to focus on Malfoy's cock as it hits the right spot, on the blissful tension building in his core, the promise of another spectacular orgasm ahead. He tries not to listen to the distant voice in his head, telling him that Malfoy is fucking him goodbye. Wondering if Malfoy will miss him when he’s gone; wondering how long it will be before there’s someone else beneath him instead of Harry.

Harry stands on the balcony in the cool night air, not yet ready to call it a night.

Malfoy joins him, pressing his chest to Harry's back. He wraps an arm around Harry's waist, bringing the other arm around to offer a pull on his cigarette.

Harry leans and accepts and they stand silently, looking out over the tiring city.

After a while, Harry jerks his head towards the twinkling Eiffel tower.

“You ever go up to the top?”

“Not any more. The last time I went up at night, I stumbled on a couple of young men enjoying the view a bit too much.” He laughs quietly. “I just look from here now.”

Harry grunts his amusement. So many things he wants to say. Maybe we could do the same some time?

Maybe this doesn’t have to be it.

He stays quiet.

Harry opens his eyes blearily to see Malfoy looking at him, lying on his side, the soft, grey light suggesting early morning. “Is it time?” Harry croaks groggily, eyes still heavy.

“Not yet,” Malfoy whispers.

Harry hums contentedly and lets his eyes drift shut. He shifts onto his front, keeping his face turned towards Malfoy. “Good.”

Malfoy moves closer, and closer still, until he's sliding naked on top of Harry, covering Harry's body with his own, moulding himself along the contours of Harry's body like a blanket. His arms bracket Harry's, his head settling behind Harry's on the pillow.

Yes. He wishes Malfoy could keep him here, like this. Pin him to the bed and prevent the day from reaching them; wishes he could have the warm, unequivocal weight of Malfoy draped on top of him forever.

When Malfoy drops kisses like questions onto Harry's shoulder, Harry speaks his thought aloud.

“Yes.”

Harry feels Malfoy’s body responding, his cock dragging hard and hot against Harry's arse as Malfoy mouths around Harry’s neck.

“Yes,” Harry repeats.

He keeps his eyes closed as Malfoy fucks him slow and deep, the unhurried pace almost convincing Harry that he doesn't have to leave soon, that they can do this forever. Their soft groans punctuate the still morning air. Every thrust, every grind of Malfoy's hips down into Harry builds an aching pleasure at the base of his spine and pushes something even fiercer into his chest.

When Malfoy’s hips start to speed up, thrusts becoming shallow and erratic, Harry opens his eyes to stare at their entwined fingers gripping the sheets. He savours the moment Malfoy's body shudders and seizes above him, a long groan followed by a hot pulsing in Harry's arse. The heat of it spreads through him, luxurious and sweet, satiating even as his own release hovers just out of reach.

Malfoy slips out and turns him over with strong hands. The moment Malfoy wraps his mouth around him, Harry arches up, crying out, coming so hard the world trips away.

He’s still wrapped in bliss as he eventually comes down from his climax. He breathes deeply as Malfoy moves back up his body and settles at his side. Malfoy rests his mouth in the crook of Harry's neck as Harry pulls him in tighter.

Sleep presses in from all directions, heavying Harry's limbs. He hears a muttered cleaning charm from far away, feels the soft press of lips back on his neck as he hums contentedly and drifts off.

Yes.

Wednesday

Harry’s wand alarm wakes him to the smell of fresh coffee and the breeze of the open balcony doors across his bare skin.

Malfoy is up, dressed in loose trousers and a grey t-shirt. He’s reading on the balcony, long legs stretched onto the empty chair opposite him.

He turns at the sound of Harry’s alarm.

“Coffee’s on the table if you want it,” he says with a smile, but not a real one. Harry knows them all now.

Harry doubts he can keep anything down with the heavy pit that's settled in his stomach. He dresses in silence, trying to work out what to say. Why hadn’t he thought this through before? He needs to say something. Would a casual invitation for Malfoy to come and visit feel too awkward? Awkward is exactly what Malfoy wants to avoid. His insides twist up, unsure.

When he's ready to leave, he looks at Malfoy, chewing on his lip.

Malfoy looks up from his book and smiles softly. “No need for a scene, Harry,” he says gently.

Harry frowns as Malfoy lowers his book into his lap. He studies Harry’s face and sighs.

“Still such a Gryffindor, I see. Absolve yourself of any–” he sweeps a hand, “whatever it is you're worrying about. You don’t need to say anything sentimental on my account. It’s been fun, hasn't it?”

That word again. Harry has never hated a word so much. He nods, not trusting himself to speak as nausea churns in his stomach. He needs to leave before he embarrasses them both. He clears his throat, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable stone that’s made its way there.

“Okay.” He nods again and forces his limbs to work as he gathers his bag and wand, not trusting his magic to summon them right now.

He takes one last look at Malfoy, now engrossed in his book. It all feels wrong.

“I'll be off then.”

Malfoy looks up, face guarded as his eyes track over Harry. He nods, giving Harry the barest hint of a true smile.

“I’ll see you around, Harry.”

He goes back to his book, and it's all wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Yeah. I– I’ll see you, Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

One week later

Harry's miserable. He's the kind of miserable that makes everything look grey and food taste bland. The kind that makes his muscles feel heavy and makes smiling difficult.

He hides it, of course, with fake smiles and enthusiasm as he rides the high of his success. Everyone's ecstatic about the World Cup, colleagues and strangers alike endlessly stopping him to shake his hand and thank him. And it's nice. Or it would be, if he wasn't so bloody miserable.

He throws himself into work and tries to keep his thoughts away from Malfoy. But it's no use. Whenever Harry closes his eyes, he sees Malfoy’s teasing mouth, soft and kissable; his intelligent eyes; he sees Malfoy rapping with Mathieu, pressing his nose into Pierre's fur, sees him looking at Harry with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

If he thought distance would cool his feelings, he couldn't have been more wrong. Malfoy has somehow worked his way into the lonely crevices of Harry's soul - the bits he didn’t even know were empty until he filled them with someone who didn't feel the same way back.

Harry misses him. His smell, his taste. Some days, he craves Malfoy so much it leaves his magic churning and his lungs breathless. It doesn’t help that everything reminds him of Paris. Of him.

“Earth to Harry? You there?”

Marie is waving a hand in front of Harry’s face as he blinks himself back into the canteen where his barely touched sandwich stares forlornly back at him.

He looks up and smiles apologetically. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, I forgot to ask you about the tie. Did you wear it? Were all the others wearing them?”

“Oh, erm– I did, yeah. And no, actually. No one else had one. It was just me.”

Marie’s face falls. “Oh. Bloody hell. Sorry, Harry. You must have looked a right prick.”

Harry thinks about everything that happened with that tie, heart constricting painfully.

He forces a laugh. “Yeah. S’alright, though. I made it work.”

“Yeah you did!” Marie slaps him on the arm three times in quick succession, unable to contain her excitement. “It's coming home, Harry!”

Three weeks later

“Harry, are you listening?”

He sighs. Why does everyone keep asking him that?

“Yeah,” he lies, taking the offered magazine from Hermione. “What am I looking at?”

“One of my trainees was asking about researching more into this. I wondered if you knew the source? Voldemort hasn't come up in ages.”

Harry scans the page until he finds the title of the article she must be referring to.

Beware your fingers, your toes and the tip of your nose! The effects of dark magic on the body’s extremities

Hermione laughs. “Apparently an unknown source from England has been quoted as saying they witnessed Voldemort’s nose fall off.”

Harry snorts and tosses the magazine onto the table, recalling Malfoy’s quick, sketching hands; their shared distaste at the prying questions of the delegates. His heart gives an aching pang.

“Uncle Harry, are you doing bedtime stories tonight?” Rose is standing in the doorway clutching the book Harry had brought back.

“Yes." He stands quickly, glad of the excuse to remove himself from the conversation.

Upstairs on Rose's bed, they look at the illustrations together, making up their own stories since Harry’s unable to read the French. Harry can hear Hugo's splashes and squeals as Ron baths him down the hall.

“And then that princess married the giant hairy spider!” Rose giggles.

Harry manages a weak laugh. “I’m sure they will be very happy together. Do you think they will eat fly soup for dinner?”

She thinks about it. “No. Giant spiders are like Acromantula, aren’t they? So I think the spider would eat the princess for dinner.”

Harry makes a face. “Hmm. Not very romantic.”

“What's romantic?”

“Oh. It's, erm–” Harry pauses.

He's saved from answering by Ron's shout. “Teeth now, Rosie!”

Harry watches Rose race into the bathroom with a wistful smile, idly pondering the meaning of romance. He tries desperately not to think about art galleries and river walks and Parisian cafés and gardens and sketching and dancing, about laughing in bed and intense grey eyes.

A few minutes later, Rose emerges with a heavy eyed Hugo in tow, polka dot pyjamas stretched over his rounded toddler-tummy and hair still wet from his bath.

“You seem like you need a Hugo hug, Uncle Harry,” Rose says casually. Hugo raises his arms up for Harry to lift him.

“Do I? Why?” Harry scoops Hugo up. Hugo wraps his body around Harry, rubbing his tired face into Harry’s shoulder without saying anything.

Rose hops onto her bed and starts to bounce. “Because you feel sad.”

Harry wants to deny it, but an uncomfortable lump in his throat halts his reply.

Ron pops his head around the door.

“Say goodnight to Uncle Harry. Mama's coming up to put you both to bed.”

“Why aren't you doing it?” Rose demands, bouncing harder.

“Because me and Uncle Harry are going to the pub. I'll do it tomorrow.”

Harry sits in the beer garden, picking listlessly at a splinter in the wood of the table, thoughts - as ever - on Malfoy.

It's been three weeks now, and Harry's still not heard a peep from him.

A foolish part of him had really thought Malfoy would stop him from leaving on that last day. That he’d make some bold declaration of love for Harry and they could just stay in his flat, eating pastries and shagging happily ever after.

Alright, he hadn't really expected that. But he hadn't expected nothing.

And yet, not only had he let Harry walk away, but three weeks of total silence have gone by. Which is surely incontrovertible proof that Malfoy doesn't want him. Has forgotten him already, probably.

Which is devastating. Not least because after three weeks of total and abject misery, Harry heavily suspects that he’s in love with the bastard.

He watches Ron navigate his way through the picnic tables holding two pints, two bags of crisps between his teeth. He spits a bag into Harry’s lap as he sets their pints down.

“So, you gonna tell me who broke your heart in Paris, or what?” He drops into his seat and picks up his glass.

Harry nearly chokes on his beer, spluttering. He wipes his mouth. “What?”

“Fuck off, mate. You’ve had a face like a slapped arse since you got back.” He shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth and crunches, watching Harry carefully.

Harry looks down unseeingly into his beer to avoid Ron’s sharp gaze.

“Mione said to let you tell us in your own time. But it’s been weeks now. So.”

Gods. Has he really been so obvious?

Ron crunches some more. “Do you need my hitwizard to off him? Just say the word. They won’t trace a thing back to you.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Maybe.” He takes a drink. “There was someone.”

Ron grunts. “No shit.”

“I just don’t know if I'm ready to talk about it.” Harry’s alarmed to feel another lump forming in his throat. He takes a gulp of his beer to get a fucking grip.

“Fair enough.”

“It was Malfoy,” Harry blurts.

Ron’s glass freezes halfway to his mouth. He frowns. “Malfoy? What, Draco Malfoy?”

Harry bites his lip, the sound of Malfoy’s name tugging on the corners of his mouth despite himself. “Yeah. He, er, he was my interpreter over there. And we…hooked up, I guess you’d say. They say. As the youths of today say.”

“Hmph.” Ron ponders Harry’s words as he tips the last of his crisps into his mouth.

“So. You shagged Malfoy,” he says eventually, tongue rolling over his teeth as he vanishes his empty packet.

“A lot,” Harry agrees with a nod. “We shagged a lot.” Now that he's finally telling Ron, that detail seems important.

“Alright. You shagged him a lot. And?”

Harry’s chest constricts as he thinks about Malfoy reading his book so bloody nonchalantly. “And nothing. It's over. He didn’t want to carry it on.”

“Oh. Well that’s shit. Did he say why?”

“Why what?”

“Why he didn’t want to carry it on. Was he just not that into you?” Ron takes a swig of beer. “Oh Gods, you didn't get pissed and sing at him, did you?”

“Piss off! No, I didn’t. And, yeah. He wasn’t that into me, I guess.”

“You guess? You mean you didn’t ask him?”

Harry stares at him, incredulous. “Of course I didn’t ask him! Fucking hell, how awkward would that have been?”

Ron hums. “Yeah, I suppose.” They sit in silence for a bit. “It’s just…” He screws up his nose in thought, cocking his head. “How do you know he didn’t want to carry things on, if you didn't actually ask him?”

Harry sighs. “I didn’t have to ask. He made it very clear.”

“Ah, okay.” Ron nods and takes another sip of his pint. He smacks his lips, drops his chin in his hand and looks at Harry. “How?”

Harry blinks at him. “What do you mean, how?”

“How did he make it clear, if he didn’t say it?”

Harry gives a frustrated groan. He doesn’t really want to talk about how Malfoy's rejected him. “He just did,” he tries, knowing Ron won’t accept that as an explanation.

Ron waits.

Harry sighs. “He said we were just a bit of fun.”

Ron winces. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“Well, I agreed. Obviously. He said it right in front of his mate.”

Ron hums.

“And he told me he just likes no strings shagging.”

Ron's eyebrows creep up. “Did he say he wanted no strings shagging with you?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. Then he thinks about it. Perhaps that isn't quite accurate. “I mean. He definitely implied it, yeah.”

Ron nods slowly, thinking it over. He tilts his head again. “How?”

Harry huffs. Sometimes his best mate is so fucking annoying. “How does anyone imply anything, Ron? I could just tell. It was the way he said it. His tone of voice. The way he looked. His eyes.”

“He told you he wanted no strings sex with his eyes?”

“Yes!” Harry snaps. He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Plus he was all relaxed when I left. Reading his book and being…relaxed.”

Ron blinks at Harry, waiting patiently for him to continue.

Harry shifts. “He never said it meant anything more to him, okay? He never asked me to stay, or to see me again, or anything like that.”

“Mmhmm. But, you didn’t say anything like that to him, either?”

“Gods, no. That would have been mortifying.”

Ron nods. “Yeah. But clearly it did mean more to you? More than just shagging? Or you wouldn't have been doing the Moaning Myrtle act for the last three weeks.”

Harry swallows and nods slowly. So much more. “Well…yeah.” He exhales. “Yeah, it did,” he says softly.

“So, in theory,” Ron starts, and Harry cringes. He hates Ron’s theories. Especially because more often than not they’re bang on the fucking money. “Malfoy could be feeling the same as you. He could be saying the exact same things about you right now.”

Harry frowns as Ron throws back his head and cackles loudly. “Could be sitting in a pub in Paris, crying into his beer with a face like a slapped arse, just like yours.” He laughs delightedly again and Harry gives him a swift kick under the table.

“Fuck off. And no, he’s definitely not.” Harry downs the last of his pint, flat and warm and disgusting. He thinks of Malfoy, probably out having fun in a trendy bar somewhere, steadfastly ignoring the flicker of hope that Ron’s words are trying to ignite. “Anyway, he doesn’t drink beer.”

Ron snorts. “Still a pretentious wanker, is he?”

Harry smiles. “A bit.”

Ron’s smile falters. “He’s not still…into all that pureblood shit, is he?”

“Fuck, no,” Harry says indignantly. “Give me some credit, mate. And him.”

Ron raises his hands placatingly. “Alright, sorry. Just checking. Can’t blame me for double checking he’s not a complete wanker, not after–”

“Strike one,” Harry says angrily.

“I haven’t said it yet.”

“Well, don't.” Harry does not need reminding of the time he lost his head and dated Zacharias fucking Smith.

“Alright, alright. But seriously. Seems to me like you should tell Malfoy how you feel. Cards on the table. What's the worst that can happen?”

Harry quickly shakes his head. Only someone who's been with the love of their life since fucking school could be so cavalier about navigating this stuff as an adult. “I can’t just fucking tell him, Ron. What would I even say?”

Ron looks amused. “Just use your words, mate.”

Harry grimaces. “I’m not six, you dick. And anyway. Even if he did want to see me again, how could it work? He lives there, I live here.”

“Portkeys exist, Harry. If you both want it, you’ll work something out. You’re making excuses. Because you're scared.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue but then thinks better of it and purses his lips. The smug bastard is right, as usual.

Ron smiles and shakes his head with a smirk. “Defeated Voldemort, but scared to tell a boy he likes him.”

Harry flicks his wand and vanishes the last bit of Ron's pint before it rolls onto his mouth.

“Oi! Strike one. You owe me a pint for that.”

Two hours and an inadvisable number of pints later, Harry and Ron stumble back to Harry’s.

Harry trips over the doorstep and topples into his hallway.

He winces as he gets to his feet. “Fucking step.”

Ron follows in behind him. “Bastards. The lot of them,” he agrees.

“You staying or flooing?” Harry asks as they make their way into the living room.

“Gotta floo back, mate. Rosie will have my arse if I’m not there in the morning.”

Harry nods, flopping down onto his sofa. “Right.”

“Hey.” Ron’s hands are on Harry’s cheeks, tilting Harry's head up. His vision follows three seconds later and he squints at Ron’s frowning face. “I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this over a bloke before.”

Oh, shit. Harry’s eyes are stinging.

“Oh, shit. If you’re gonna cry, I need a sobering potion first.”

Harry swallows around the clog in his throat, blinking rapidly. “I’m not.”

Ron slumps down onto the sofa next to him. “Better out than in, mate. You should acknowledge all of your emotions, you know. And let yourself–”

“I love him, I think.”

Ron stops his sermon, his pontificating pointer finger freezing in midair before it drops to the sofa.

“Well, fuck.”

Harry hums his sad agreement.

They sit in silence, Harry’s misery slowly filling the room.

“You gonna tell him?”

Harry sighs. “I don’t think so. It's pointless. And...I’m scared to.”

He watches Ron nod from the corner of his eye as they both stare into Harry’s empty fireplace.

“Want me to do it for you?”

“Fuck, no.”

“Because I would, you know. I’d do anything for you.”

“I know.” Harry reaches over and pats Ron’s leg. “But still no.”

“Draco Malfoy, you pointy wanker,” Ron calls into the empty living room, cupping his mouth. He turns to Harry. “Is he still pointy?”

“No.”

“Draco Malfoy, you shaggable, pretentious wanker! Do you fancy my best mate or what?”

“Not helping.”

“He's in love with your blonde, French speaking arse!” He turns. “He’s still blonde, right?”

Harry reluctantly laughs. “You need to go home now.”

Ron laughs as he stands, then frowns again. “I’ll hire the hitwizard if you need, mate.”

“I know. Now fuck off please. I’m going to bed.”

Harry’s conversation with Ron roams around his head for the next few days. Life continues to feel like he’s wading through treacle, but every so often the question pops unbidden into his head:

What if Ron’s right?

The question gnaws at him, though he does nothing about it. He won't allow himself to believe it. There's just absolutely nothing to indicate Malfoy's even thought about him since he left.

It’s three weeks and three miserable days from the day Harry left Paris when he’s pulled from another crappy night’s sleep by insistent pecking at his window.

His stomach somersaults when a large envelope is dropped into his hands by the delivery owl. He knows who it’s from without looking at the return address, can tell from the handwriting alone.

He instantly tries to tear it open with an unsteady hand, only to find it’s magically sealed. Of course Malfoy added a security charm to it. Harry turns it over and sure enough, in the bottom corner is the charm notification sticker, completed in small, precise lettering.

Security and Privacy Charms:

1. This letter can only be opened by the named recipient
2. The recipient must speak the following words aloud accurately to unlock the sealing charm: “s’il vous plaît”

Harry's laugh tumbles out of him; his first proper laugh in weeks. “You fucking bastard,” he mutters as he drops back into bed. “I know how to pronounce that, you shit.”

He clears his throat and attempts his best French accent.

“Siv-oo-play.”

He tries the envelope, unsurprised that it remains impenetrable.

“See-voo-play,” he tries again, giggling softly when it still doesn’t open, aware of how ridiculous he looks right now. He pictures Malfoy's smug face, how amused he would be at Harry's failure and begrudgingly laughs again. Bastard.

“Sil-voo-fucking-play-you-absolute-knobhead!” he shouts at the envelope, tipping back onto his pillow, laughing around a frustrated groan.

Harry spends the next thirty minutes intermittently shouting and swearing at the envelope as he makes breakfast, before finally admitting defeat.

He floo-calls Hermione and she and Rose patiently correct his pronunciation. Apparently he was getting the last bit wrong. Harry evades their questions about why he's requesting a French lesson on a random Saturday morning. Hermione raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't push because she's wonderful like that.

“Seel-voo-pleh,” he whispers to the envelope as he sits at his kitchen table, and this time he knows it’s worked by the brief hum of magic that vibrates in his hands. He carefully opens it, holding his breath as he slides out a single piece of paper.

It’s the sketch Malfoy drew of him, looking exactly the same as the day it was created. Harry's cheeks warm as he looks at it, a flutter in his stomach at the memory.

He turns it over to see neat handwriting.

To Harry,

I watched your sinking ship film. You could have warned me. Fucking horrifying.

I hope you are well.

With love,

DLM

PS Congratulations on pronouncing your first French word correctly.

Harry reads the words again, then again. Then again, until he has them memorised, his stomach flipping wildly, the painful longing to see Malfoy flaring in his bones.

There's nothing in Malfoy's note about wanting to see Harry again - nothing to indicate...well, anything, really. But he had written. And he'd watched the film. All three hours of it, it seems. And he'd signed off ‘with love’. He hasn't completely forgotten Harry. There's hope.

Harry’s conversation with Ron replays in his head, thoughts circling around and around until he’s sure he’s going to go mad from it. Fuck it. He’s going to have to use his words, after all.

Diplomatic privileges, Harry finds out, entitle him to take any scheduled Portkey without having to complete the usual cumbersome paperwork, provided there's space.

There technically isn't space on the next Portkey to Paris, but the man on the desk is so taken with Harry's mission to go tell a man he's in love with him, he squeezes Harry in.

Which means Harry is landing in the Portkey Arrival Room in the Wizarding Quarter of Paris early Saturday afternoon, his heart in his mouth as he walks hurriedly through the streets. And perhaps Harry does have a built in compass up his arse, after all, because his feet manage to find their way to Malfoy’s front door without any conscious thought.

He knocks, his palm sweaty and heart pounding.

He knocks again.

By the third knock, he's pretty sure Malfoy's not in. He can hear Pierre’s answering miaow from the other side of the door.

Or maybe he’s dead.

The absurd thought takes hold of him. What if he’s dead in there? Or dying? What if that's why Pierre is crying? What if something is wrong?

All the horrible shit Harry has ever seen - and there's a lot - goes through his mind as he draws his wand. He unlocks Malfoy’s door, ignoring the rational part of his brain advising him against breaking and entering into Malfoy’s flat without reasonable grounds for suspicion. Or any grounds at all, let's be honest.

When he gets inside, everything is quiet and just as Harry remembers it.

Pierre is sitting on Malfoy’s desk, looking at Harry with knowing, amber eyes.

“Hey, little fella,” Harry says casually. “Just, erm. Checking on you both.”

Pierre blinks in a pitying kind of way. Harry quickly pokes his head into Malfoy’s bedroom, heart clenching at the memories it brings.

“Malfoy?”

A quick survey of the place establishes that Malfoy is neither dead nor dying anywhere in the flat.

Pierre miaows loudly again and Harry crosses the room to stroke him. “I’m sorry. I should have said hello properly.” He gives Pierre a few swipes under his chin. “I shouldn't be here. I’ll come back later,” he says absently. “When he's…”

Harry’s voice trails off as the notepad under Pierre’s paw catches his attention.

Rather than sketches, this one has Malfoy's neat handwriting.

Pierre hops down from the desk, jumping onto the sofa and curling into a ball.

Harry quickly recognises the DLM on the page and realises the pad is open on a letter. One Harry has absolutely no business reading. Except, his eyes travel to the top of the page and he sees his name. It's a letter to him.

Curious, Harry flicks back to the beginning of the pad. There are multiple letters, some only one or two lines long before they look to have been abandoned.

He reads the first one even as his conscience prickles at the invasion of privacy. It's only two lines, one scribbled out.

Dear Potter,

How are you?

He flips over to the next one.

Potter,

How's things? I was thinking

Harry swallows, imagining Malfoy sitting at his desk trying to write to him. What exactly had he been thinking?

To Harry,

How are you? I don't suppose

To Harry,

I can't stop thinking about you.

Fuck.

I can't send this.

Harry inhales sharply at the words. He hurriedly turns to the next page with an unsteady hand.

To Harry,

Do you remember that song we danced to?

Avant toi, je n'avais rien. Before you, I had nothing.

Merlin's arsehole. Look what you've done to me. I'm writing fucking song lyrics in a letter I have no intention of sending. You make me utterly ridiculous.

Always have, I think.

Pathetic.

To Harry,

Gods, I miss you in my bed.

To Harry,

Mathieu is threatening to contact you if I don't write to you, but I'm not quite sure what to say.

I hope you're

Do you think

I speak seven languages, but I can't find any words that feel right.

To Harry,

I miss you.

I'm still not going to send this.

To Harry,

Well, this is embarrassing. I think I might be in love with you.

Any chance you find yourself in the same predicament?

With me, I mean.

No? Thought not.

DLM

“You know, it’s rude to snoop.”

Harry spins around, heart plunging into his bollocks. He'd been too swept up in Malfoy's letters to hear the door.

Malfoy kicks the door shut behind him, his expression guarded as he drops a shopping bag onto the floor.

Harry’s rooted to the spot, the words he just read echoing around his head.

I think I might be in love with you.

Even with an emotional tornado tearing through him, he makes space to inhale the sight of Malfoy in the flesh after three long weeks of only memories. His coffee coloured shirt; his casual beige trousers on his perfect, lean frame, every inch of him meticulous. Beautiful.

Harry swallows. “I thought you were dead.”

A solid opener.

Malfoy's eyebrows raise.

“I mean, probably not dead. Dying.”

Malfoy frowns and cocks his head. “Dying?”

“It was Pierre,” Harry tries again, distracted as he replays the words he just read.

I think I might be in love with you.

Harry holds up the notepad, his heart now back in his chest but threatening to beat its way out.

“You…you love me?”

It comes out stilted as Harry struggles to know where to put the emphasis.

Malfoy's frown deepens as he blushes a beautiful pink. Harry's seen him flushed and panting and gorgeous, but he's never seen him blush before. It's lovely.

“Well. I don't think I'd put it quite like that.” Malfoy lifts his chin, defiant.

“No but you did, though.” Harry's voice is wobbly as he indicates the notepad with a nod of his head. “You– you put it just like that.” He resists the urge to quote it back to him, interrogation-style.

Malfoy exhales through his nose, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Okay, yes, alright. I might have accidentally said– written that. To myself.”

They regard each other silently, Malfoy's face remaining closed off and stubborn.

“But you–” Harry struggles to keep his voice even as he searches for the right words. He takes a deep breath. “You said it was just a bit of fun. Between us.”

Malfoy's mouth pinches in at the side. “I was respecting your wishes. You didn't want anything more than that.”

Harry shakes his head, bewildered. “I never said that.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “Yes, you did. I heard it perfectly clearly.”

Harry’s confused. “I think I would remember if–”

“You said it to Weasley."

Harry's mouth is dry. "What?"

"You said we were just a fling. That it meant nothing.” His voice is controlled, betraying nothing.

“To–?” Harry realises what he’s talking about and recoils. “You mean in the–? Bloody hell, I didn't mean that. I was just saying it to get Ron out of the floo, you twat!”

Confusion flits across Malfoy's face and his guarded expression opens, just a fraction.

“Besides,” Harry's thoughts are whirring, “you were the one who said you didn’t want any strings.”

“I never said that.”

“You did! You definitely did.”

“I said I like no strings with other people. I remember it quite well.”

“But–”

“And you said you were the same. With everyone. That included me.”

“Yeah, but I didn't mean it, Malfoy! I only said it because you said it first. Merlin. I fucking love strings!”

Harry's aware he sounds a little unhinged, but his heart is hammering in his chest and his mouth seems to be speaking of its own accord. “I wanted strings. I want strings, with you. Jesus, I want so many strings with you, I should be a fucking– whatsit, you know, one of those–” he shakes his hand impatiently, “you know, the fucking sewing thingies–?”

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. “Haberdasher?”

“Yes! A fucking haberdasher! I should be one of those.” Harry huffs a breath. “For you.”

Malfoy's lips twitch. “You want to sell me sewing supplies?”

“I love you.”

The words fall out of Harry’s mouth. They're foreign on his tongue, but he instantly feels their truth with a startling clarity.

Malfoy’s eyes widen, his smirk disappearing. “What?”

Harry swallows and tries again. “I know it’s mental. I know we’ve barely even–” Harry exhales. “I know it’s us, and there’s probably a million reasons why it shouldn’t work, but I don’t care. I really fucking love you. So.”

Malfoy’s staring at Harry, lips parted in shock and Harry feels very vulnerable all of a sudden, his heart still attempting to leave his body, now climbing up his throat.

“And you love me, too,” Harry says defensively, voice climbing higher as he brandishes the notebook once more.

But doubt is creeping in at the way Malfoy is looking at him. What if Malfoy hadn’t meant what he’d written? What if it was all just a joke? What if he’d changed his mind?

“Unless…you don’t?” Harry says uncertainly, dropping his arm back to his side with a frown. “Which. Would be.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “Well. It would be pretty reasonable, I suppose. Considering we only really spent a week together. I know you find me irritating as fu–”

Malfoy closes the distance between them, putting his mouth over Harry’s, swallowing his jumbled words.

The noise in Harry’s head clears at the press of Malfoy’s warm, soft lips. He slides an arm around Malfoy’s waist, kissing him back as relief and joy surge through his veins. Malfoy’s fingers curl into his hair, and Harry can't stop the groan issuing from deep in his throat. Finally.

Malfoy kisses him harder, tugging the notepad from Harry's hand and tossing it onto the floor. The familiar current of electricity is surging through Harry’s body at Malfoy’s tongue caressing his.

Malfoy starts to guide him over to the sofa.

“Wait.” Harry's breathless, trying to pull back. “We're,” he kisses Malfoy again, unable to part their lips for more than a second. “This is,” another desperate kiss. “Strings, right?”

“Yes." Malfoy's reply is almost instantaneous, equally breathless. “Yes, strings.”

Harry’s calves hit the sofa and he sinks down as Malfoy follows, straddling him. Harry automatically reaches for Malfoy's waist as Malfoy grabs his face, pulling him into another kiss.

“I thought you didn’t–” Harry says between the intoxicating swipes of Malfoy’s tongue into his mouth. “Want me.” He pulls Malfoy closer to him, the friction of it teasing his cock. “Thought you–” Malfoy's hand is in Harry’s hair as he slowly grinds on Harry’s lap in time with his kisses. “Didn't feel the same–” Harry runs a hand up into Malfoy’s hair, still disbelieving that he’s here, that this is happening, that Malfoy is loves him back. “Do you really–”

“Tais toi, Harry!” Malfoy pulls back, exasperated but warm, running his palms down Harry's chest. “Of course I fucking do, you arse. Merlin. You're the most annoying man I've ever met, but yes. Of course I do. How could I not?”

Euphoria hits Harry at the words and he rises up, grabbing Malfoy and flipping him onto his back. He settles on Malfoy’s hips and starts to unbutton his shirt.

“I’m going to be so annoying, Malfoy. You have no idea. You're going to love it.”

Malfoy is looking at him in that hungry, disbelieving way, the way that strikes something deep inside Harry. His breath catches as Malfoy's eyes gleam. “I know.”

Harry's worked his shirt open, creamy skin exposed and ready to be devoured as emotion barrels once more into Harry's chest. His smile wobbles as he meets Malfoy's eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

Malfoy regards him carefully before sitting up slowly, bringing their faces close, sliding a hand up into Harry's hair once more.

“You left,” he says, his voice low. Not really accusatory, just…sad.

Harry nods, resting his forehead on Malfoy’s. “I really thought you didn’t care.”

Malfoy makes an impatient sound, his hand slipping down to cup Harry's neck. “Fuck, how could you think that? I couldn't have been more obvious about how much I wanted you, short of hexing that Spanish bastard every time he went near you. Which did cross my mind. Several times.”

Harry huffs, smiling in surprise at the words. He rolls his hips. “You were jealous?!”

Malfoy smiles back, his devious one. “Of course I was. I wanted to hex his dick off.” His face turns serious again. “You make me…not myself, you know. You make me ridiculous.” He searches Harry's face, considering. “But…”

Harry waits, lightheaded.

“But I also feel more myself than I ever have, with you.” He shakes his head. “It doesn't make sense.”

Harry didn't think it was possible to feel lighter, but Malfoy's words send him soaring so high he’s surprised he’s not on the ceiling. Because that's exactly how he feels, too.

He nods, his grin wide. “You make me do some right stupid shit, too.”

Malfoy laughs, eyes crinkling and Harry’s heart is in danger of bursting.

“You’re blaming me for that?”

“Yes,” Harry says quickly. “It's definitely you.”

Malfoy cards through Harry's hair, frowning in thought. “And you really want…this? Me?” His voice is quiet; unsure.

Harry looks at him in surprise. The idea that Malfoy can doubt that is ludicrous. Unacceptable.

Harry kisses him. Kisses with his whole body, toppling Malfoy backwards and descending on him, spurred on by the fierceness in his chest.

He strips Malfoy of his clothes; takes his time reacquainting himself with every last inch of his glorious body. Gods, how he’s missed it. He coaxes back Malfoy’s flushed cheeks and gasping sighs, luxuriating in the feel of Malfoy’s cock back in his mouth.

He keeps going until Malfoy has a fist in Harry’s hair, panting and trembling.

“Fuck, Harry.”

Harry groans in pure joy as Malfoy comes hot in his mouth, with Harry's name on his lips. Harry's going to keep doing this; they're going to keep doing this, until there's no room left for any doubt between them.

An hour later, they lie naked, tangled and sweaty in Malfoy's bedsheets, Harry's head on Malfoy's shoulder, his heart impossibly full.

He traces lazy patterns on Malfoy's skin. “Gareth at the Portkey office says he can get me a space on any one I want.”

Malfoy’s fingertips are stroking Harry's arm. “Does he now? And why is Gareth at the Portkey office falling over himself to do that for you?”

Harry chuckles. “Because he's nice?”

Malfoy hums dubiously.

“I just need to convince someone on this side to do the same.” He's already imagining their weekends here, giddy at the thought. “You fancy coming to England sometimes, too?”

“I suppose I could be persuaded. I hear it's much improved since I was last there.”

“It was pissing rain when I left.”

“Lovely.”

Harry sighs. “I’ll make sure you love it, Malfoy. I promise.”

Malfoy's quiet, still lightly running his fingers along Harry’s bicep.

“You know, if you’re going to be sticking around, you could try calling me Draco.”

Harry lifts his head to look at him, stomach fluttering.

“Draco,” Harry tries solemnly, in Malfoy's posh accent. He laughs. “That sounds so weird.”

“It does if you say it like that, you tit.”

“Draco,” Harry tries again more normally, rolling it around his mouth as he rests his head back down. “Gods, it’ll be strange calling you that.” He laughs. “I know, what if I say it with a French accent? Drrraco. Is that better? Drra–”

Malfoy covers Harry's mouth with his hand. “Fucking hell, ta bouche. I take it back. Trust you to ruin my fucking name, Potter.”

Harry licks at Malfoy’s palm sloppily until he removes it. “You sure you don't prefer Jack?”

Malfoy rolls on top of him, his eyes bright with amusement. “Tu es l'homme le plus agaçant que j'aie jamais connu.”

Harry groans, the soft French shooting straight to his dick as he grabs a greedy handful of Malfoy’s arse.

“You’ve said that one before.” He arches up into Malfoy’s hips. “Do I want to know what it means?”

Malfoy laughs, nipping along Harry’s jaw. “No.”

Harry moans again as Malfoy’s cock is hardening against his skin. “I love when you speak French to me,” he sighs.

“I know,” Malfoy whispers, sweeping his tongue into Harry's mouth.

Harry wraps himself around Malfoy - Draco, he supposes, overwhelmed at the thought. Overwhelmed by all of it. That they can have this; that they're really going to do this. It’s almost too much, the potential of it all - he’s not sure how his heart hasn’t exploded yet.

“Je suis désespérément amoureux de toi, Harry,” Draco whispers into Harry’s neck.

Harry closes his eyes, smiling contentedly. “Yeah, that one. Say that one again.”

Chapter Text

“Harry, you’ve been staring at the floo for twenty minutes now. He’s not due until after four you said?”

Harry drags his eyes to Hermione’s knowing smile as she stands. “No I haven’t.”

“You bloody have, mate,” Ron pipes up from the floor, distracting Hugo with a train to prevent him from destroying the track covering half the room.

“That’s a swear, daddy!” Rose is next to the fireplace, busy placing track pieces down, brow furrowed in concentration. She looks at Harry. “You have been looking at the fire a lot, Uncle Harry.”

“Bloody hell guys, give me a break. It’s my birthday, you know.”

Rose continues placing tracks. “That’s another swear. Isn’t it mama?”

Hermione smirks. “Yes, it is. Daddy and Uncle Harry will add their sickles to the jar later, won’t you?”

“Oi, oi. Where’s the birthday boy at then?”

“Watch the track!” Ron warns.

“Bloody hell, Harry, you didn’t have to get so dressed up for us!”

The twins enter the lounge, bringing a whirlwind of noise and chaos as the kids react and Ginny follows in behind them. They all wend their way through the maze of floor tracks.

“Uncle Fred, that’s a swear. You need to put a sickle in the–”

Fred sweeps Rose off the floor, making her squeal as George shoves Harry’s head affectionately.

"Looking old!"

“Alright, dickhead,” Ginny says quietly to Harry as she follows George, wisely out of Rose’s earshot. She gives Harry a hug. “Happy birthday.”

“Cheers, Gin.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He had to work, but he should be here soon to say hello to everyone. Then we’re heading back to Paris for dinner.”

“Nice.” Her eyes flick over Harry. “He taking you somewhere fancy?”

“Oh yeah, look at him. He's too fancy for us now.” George winks at Harry.

Harry looks down at his navy, perfectly un-fancy shirt. “Merlin, it's just a bloody shirt! Yeah, I know, Ro. Two sickles.”

“You look lovely, Harry dear, pay them no heed.” Molly's levitating a tray of snacks from the kitchen.

“Thanks, Molly.” Harry follows Hermione into the kitchen before any more discussion about his clothes or Draco can ensue.

He looks over the quidditch pitch cake that Hermione’s adding candles to. The cake looks…well, it looks like a six year old made it. Which is to say, it looks perfect. “Do we really need thirty?”

“You know Rosie will count.”

Harry laughs as he starts to help. “True.”

“Did you apply for the sabbatical yet?”

“No, not yet. But I've got the forms. Craster says there won't be any issues with it.”

Hermione nods. “You never did take a break, after everything. You ought to have. I did–”

Harry nudges her with his shoulder to stop the words. “Yeah, yeah. You were right. Better late than never, though, right?”

She smiles. “You seem really happy, Harry,” she says quietly.

He pauses. “I am.”

She gives his wrist a squeeze and Harry inserts another candle into his birthday cake, heart full of joy.

“Six by five!” Hermione's voice is jarringly shrill as he jumps, looking around to see what's caused her outburst. “Bloody hell, what’s wrong with you?” She plucks out the candle Harry just put in, placing it half a centimeter, if that, to the right. “It's a grid. Why would you put it there?”

Harry stares incredulously at the candle, then Hermione. “It’s my bloody cake!”

“Mama, Uncle Harry, you did another swear!” floats in from the other room.

“It’s irrelevant whose cake it is. You can't just stick it in willy nilly, Harry.”

“That's what I keep telling him.” The smirking voice cuts into Harry's mind, his insides liquifying as his mouth automatically lifts into a grin.

He deliberately adds another candle out of place before turning, chest expanding at the sight of him. He's wearing Harry's favourite grey linen shirt. Gods, he wishes he could rip it off him right now.

Hermione's voice is warm. “Draco. You made it. Ça va?”

“Oui.” Draco's response is distracted as Harry quickly crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Draco's waist, politely waiting for their conversation to finish so he can plant the kiss that's ready on his lips. “Et toi?”

Hermione’s voice is amused. “I'm very well, thank you. Can I get you a drink?”

Draco's eyes flick from Hermione to Harry and back. “Erm–”

“I'll get him a drink,” Harry says impatiently.

“Okay.” Hermione gives them a knowing smile. “I'll just give you two a moment, then.”

Harry doesn't wait for her to leave before he runs his hands up into Draco's hair and pulls him in for a kiss. It's been three long days since he's had his mouth on Draco’s soft, willing lips and Harry kisses him greedily.

Draco holds himself stiffly, as he often does here, but he puts a hand on Harry’s back and returns his kiss, and that's enough.

“Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs in Harry's ear and Harry beams. He'd forgotten it was his birthday for a moment.

Harry casually runs his hands down Draco's soft shirt. “So I was thinking…”

“Why are you doing puppy eyes at me?” Draco asks warily.

“Just listen for a sec. Andy and Teddy are due in an hour, Charlie's popping in after work and– what?”

Draco has tipped his head back. “And you want to stay longer?” he asks the ceiling.

“Yes. Our reservations aren't ’til seven. We can.”

Draco looks at him, trying for exasperation but failing. “Sure. Why wouldn't I want to stay longer with your friends who hate me?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “They don't hate you.”

“No, he's right,” Ron calls through. The man has the hearing of a sodding owl. “We do.”

“We definitely do,” calls Fred.

“And me!” Ginny's merry voice adds.

“Thanks everyone. Very helpful.”

Harry keeps his eyes on Draco as he stays wrapped around him.

Draco gestures to the door and smiles. “See?”

But Harry knows it's an act.

The first couple of meetings between them all had been awkward. He'd watched Ron and Draco circle each other warily with stiff Weasleys and muttered Malfoys. Harry had been filled with trepidation, no idea how to ensure the people he loves the most like each other.

But in the end, Harry hadn't had to do anything but watch. It hadn't taken long at all really, for Hermione to be practising French with Draco, or for Ron to be challenging him to games of chess and calling him a dickhead. Mathieu had visited with Draco the second time, and that had somehow eased everything considerably.

Rose runs into the kitchen, smiling shyly at Draco, looking expectant.

Draco takes a step away from Harry and points a finger at her. “Ferme ta bouche,” he says warningly as Harry looks at him in shock.

Rose giggles and points a finger back. “Ta bouche!”

“Tais toi” Draco shoots back with a smile.

“Hang on,” Harry's looking between the two of them.

“Ta gueule!” Rose says loudly, laughing and pointing from Draco to Harry.

“What are you two doing?”

“Practising French!” Rose declares with a gappy smile, having lost another tooth last week.

“Practising French,” Draco agrees.

“Draco's teaching me all the ways you can say shut up.” Rose makes her way over to stand beside Harry.

He puts an arm around her as he gives Draco a pointed look. Draco blinks back, all innocence.

“Yeah. I'm pretty familiar with all of them. My question is why.”

“It’s educational,” Draco says, as if it's obvious.

“Educational,” Rose parrots. “And,” she whispers, cupping her mouth and tipping her face up towards Harry's. “I can say it to daddy, and he doesn't understand what I'm saying, and he says ‘well done Rosie Posie!'” She dissolves into mischievous giggles as Harry squeezes her shoulders again.

Harry tries to give Draco a disapproving look, but it's difficult when he loves that self satisfied smirk so fucking much.

And he loves that Draco and Rose have hit it off so well. He suspects it's because Draco doesn't talk down to her, something she's always appreciated.

“I have a new book about animals,” Rose says to Draco as she leans on Harry's hip. “You like animals, don't you?”

“Well, it depends on the animal.”

“Ask him about hippogriffs, Rosie!”

“Thank you, Weasley,” Draco calls through the door.

“You're welcome, Malfoy.”

“There is a bit about hippogriffs! Would you like to read it to me?” She asks him in that open, direct way that gets Harry every time, and Harry's set to offer his reading services if Draco doesn't want to.

“Actually,” Draco crouches so he's level with her. He indicates his throat. “My voice is a little bit sore from talking non-stop today. Do you think you might be able to read some to me, instead?”

Rose’s eyes are wide with excitement. “Yes! Mama says I'm an excellent reader. You wait here, I'll fetch it.” She runs towards the door before skidding to a halt. She turns back. “I can do magic, you know.” Draco stands and raises his eyebrows as Rose draws herself up, lifting her chin proudly. “I've already done a Lumos with mama's wand. But you can't tell anyone. Children aren't supposed to do magic until they go to Hogwarts, but mama says if we are discreet then–”

“Telling everyone you meet is not being discreet, Rosie Posie!” Ron calls.

“Mama said I can tell family!” she shoots back. She turns to Harry. “Daddy says Draco is your partner. Which means he is family, isn't he?”

Harry laughs, glancing at Draco's widening eyes then back at Rose. “Yeah, I suppose he is.” He nods. “You're right, Ro. As usual.”

Rose’s shoulders sag in relief at being right as she smiles then takes off for the stairs.

Harry slips an arm around Draco's waist again, surprised to see his cheeks flushed a soft pink.

“So we're staying for a bit, yeah?”

“Last one, yeah?”

They stand outside, Draco leaning against the wall. He swipes the unlit cigarette from Harry and puts it between his lips.

“I don't see why I have to quit, just because you are,” he mutters around the cig.

“We agreed,” Harry says, simply. He presses himself along the delicious planes of Draco's body, craving the closeness he's missed for days.

Draco removes the cigarette from his mouth to accept a kiss from Harry, this one much more languorous now they have a minute to themselves. Harry sighs happily around the rightness of Draco's tongue in his mouth, losing himself in their wonderful, relaxed kiss until he's in danger of getting carried away, and he reluctantly pulls back.

He lights the cigarette for Draco and stands beside him, looking out over the large garden and the rolling fields beyond.

“Hermione explained it all, didn't she?” he continues. “You saw the pictures. It's bad for everyone’s lungs. Think of Pierre and his lungs, if you won't think of yourself.”

Draco passes their cigarette to Harry wordlessly. Harry accepts, taking a deep, grateful pull.

“I’ve got a perfectly good workaround for Pierre.”

Harry laughs on his exhale. “The bubblehead is not a good workaround, Draco. He fucking hates it.”

“He does not.”

“Do you not see his face when you do it?”

“He always looks like that.”

“Draco.”

He huffs. “Alright, alright.” He takes the cigarette back from Harry, putting it to his lips and inhaling. Harry watches him, wondering if there will ever be a day in his life that he isn't obsessed with this man.

“Alright dickheads.” Ron's head appears around the back door. “Pick up Quidditch in five. Everyone's about to come out, so you'll need to get rid of that.” He nods towards the cigarette before looking between them. “Malfoy’s on my team.”

“Hey, why weren’t we there for team selection?” Harry asks indignantly.

“Because you weren’t there.”

“We were literally right here, you dick.”

Ron shrugs. “You know the rules.”

Harry eyes him suspiciously. “Your turn for captain tonight, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, why didn’t you pick me?” Ron always picks Harry.

Ron shrugs again, an enigmatic smile on his face. “Reasons.”

Ron’s saved from saying more by everyone filing out into the garden.

Harry hastily vanishes their cigarette and looks at Draco. “What reasons? Is something going on? Why did he choose you?”

Draco looks genuinely perplexed. “I’m as clueless as you, for once. I didn’t even agree to play.”

Harry waves his comment away. He knows Draco will play. They've been flying together four times this past month alone; the last time was even at Draco's suggestion. He’s as good as Harry remembers, and just as eager to beat Harry if there's a race to be had or a snitch to be caught. Not that he's managed, yet.

“Harry, you're with me, Charlie and Teddy,” Fred says enthusiastically as Harry catches the broom being spelled his way.

They huddle around Fred for his team talk. “Reckon you can play in your fancy clothes Harry?”

“It's just a shirt! I wear them every day, you arsehole.”

Fred smirks as Charlie chuckles. Fred lowers his voice. “Okay, you all know the drill. Teddy, you’re defensive Chaser, so no bludgers directed at you. We know Ron will be theirs.”

Teddy frowns. “I can dodge bludgers, you know. I was on the reserves at school last year.”

Harry puts a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “We know you can, Ted. And you'll still have to watch for them. But there's a difference between a rogue one coming towards you and one being belted at you by George.” Harry leans closer, lowering his voice. “We can practise dodging beater-struck bludgers another time, when your grandma isn’t sitting right there.” He slants his eyes towards the patio where Andy, Hermione, Molly, Arthur, Rose and Hugo are sitting, ready to watch the match.

Teddy sighs and nods, and Harry takes a moment to appreciate how much he’s grown. This time last year he would definitely have made more of a fuss about being coddled.

The goalposts are enlarged and erected by Ron and George, and they all get into position ready to kick off.

“No Percy to ref today, so everyone play nice. First to a hundred, yeah?” Ron has an extra confidence about him today as they all kick into the air.

Harry only has a few seconds to wonder about it, appreciating the wind in his face, the familiar, euphoric weightlessness of being on a broom, then he launches into action. There are no Seekers today, just three Chasers per team, and he needs to be on his game.

The clang of bludger on bat has Harry immediately turning, looping in the air to dodge the dark ball pelting towards him.

He gives George a smug grin. “Oi, what happened to playing nice?” he calls.

The bludger circles around and George whacks it towards Harry again. “In it to win it, mate.”

Harry laughs as he pulls his broom right, dodging again.

“That’s some sexy flying right there, Potter.”

Draco’s voice slithers into Harry's ear, sending him off balance as he immediately pulls his broom around.

He catches sight of Draco flying past, quaffle in hand. He throws it to Ginny, who catches it easily, flying towards the goalposts.

Ginny scores as Draco loops back around.

“Did you…?” Harry shouts to him.

“I don’t know what you're talking about.”

He had. Draco’s across the pitch, but his velvety voice is right in Harry's ear, the cheating bastard. This must have been part of some team plan to distract Harry.

“You prick!” Harry laughs.

“Language!” From someone below.

Well, it’s not going to work. Harry will not be distracted by their cheating tactics.

Fred smacks a precisely-aimed bludger towards Ginny and she has to pull up so quickly she drops the quaffle. It falls to Teddy, who races up the pitch. Harry tears after him, managing to collect his slightly overshot pass. Harry one-twos with Charlie, both of them dodging George's bludgers like pros, and Harry scores easily past Ron.

Adrenaline pumps through Harry as he celebrates, knocking shoulders with Charlie and Teddy.

In the midst of Harry and Charlie’s celebration, Draco already has the quaffle and Fred's shouting for them to get back into position.

Ginny flies below Draco, and just as Fred aims a bludger at Draco’s head, Draco drops the quaffle into Ginny’s waiting hands and pulls up into a backwards loop and fuck, it's impressive.

Harry’s seen him fly, both as a teen and recently. But there’s something about him today. His smart casual clothes; his confidence as he moves with graceful ease. He's mesmerising. His sleek hair is windswept, cheeks slightly pink; his grey eyes are bright and determined. He’s so–

“Harry, stop mooning after your fucking boyfriend and move!”

Harry’s knocked from his thoughts by Fred’s angry shouts. He blinks and realises Ginny just scored.

“Language!”

Harry pelts after Charlie, too late to save him from dropping the quaffle as he dodges a bludger.

Ron’s team score again, Harry watching Draco fist bump Ginny and hearing him murmur nice one. He shakes his head, wondering what the fuck’s happening.

It's thirty-ten, and it’s time to get serious. Harry ignores Draco’s tactical whispering in his ear. You're so fucking fit, Harry, when Harry’s flying in support of Charlie. Can't wait to suck your cock later, when Harry has the quaffle. And because he's still a Slytherin bastard, Draco also whispers breathy French that pools hot and syrupy in Harry's groin whenever Harry nears their goalposts.

But Draco obviously doesn't remember the extent of Harry's determination when it comes to quidditch, especially against such underhand tactics. Harry will not be beaten, especially not by scheming best mates and sexy bastards with sly French tongues. He manages to keep his head and score twice more, even if he is clutching his broom too tightly, his cheeks hot, sweat dampening his brow. This is the kind of shit he lives for.

Back level at thirty apiece, the pace of the game ramps up. The quaffle is dropped more and more as outlandish moves are made to seize the advantage.

When Harry’s team is up sixty-forty, and Teddy's pulled off two excellent saves, George calls a time out for a team talk.

They land, and Fred coaxes their team into a huddle as they all catch their breath.

Fred starts a pep talk, but Harry can’t focus on his words because he keeps glancing over at Ron, George, Ginny and Draco with their heads together on the other side of the pitch. Draco's blonde head is conspicuous among the sea of red, and Ron is patting Draco on the back, and Harry’s heart is swelling dangerously.

“Harry, are you listening?”

Harry blinks. “Yeah,” he lies.

“You need to pull your head out of your arse.”

Harry wants to be indignant, but, well. Yeah. He gives a tight nod. “Right. Will do.”

“I didn’t know he was that good,” Teddy says, indicating Draco with a tilt of his head. “He’s as good as you two.” He points between Harry and Charlie.

“No he isn’t!” Harry says indignantly.

Charlie laughs. “He’s decent. But when Harry’s on top form, he’s a league ahead of us all. When he's not distracted, that is.”

“I’m not distracted,” Harry lies, watching out of the corner of his eye as George puts an arm around Draco, saying something in his ear. “C’mon, let’s wipe the smirks off their stupid faces.”

“That's more like it,” Fred says approvingly.

The game continues, and Harry does his absolute best to stick to their game plan. It's bloody tough. Draco’s pert arse is literally in Harry’s face as their new tactic to phase Harry out of the game becomes clear. Harry laughingly ducks and weaves past him.

“Oi, man marking is against the rules!” Harry complains loudly, but his words fall into the wind. He takes a rare moment to miss Percy.

“Having trouble, Potter?” Draco smirks.

“You wish, you cheating bastard.” Harry laughs as he drops into a dive, swooping up underneath Charlie.

Charlie intuitively drops the quaffle into Harry's hands as Ginny tries to muscle him to the left. Harry puts on a burst of speed, watching Charlie in his periphery.

Harry moves his body as if he's heading for the right goalpost, Ron and Draco both turning the same way just as Harry pulls a hard left. He launches the quaffle into Charlie's waiting hands and Charlie hurls it cleanly through the goalpost.

“Get in!” Fred roars as Harry whoops and flies over to celebrate.

“I'm going to man mark the cheating twat right back,” he tells Fred and Charlie. “Tell Teddy to support Charlie for a bit.”

Draco, Ron and Ginny look steely as they fly back to centre.

Harry flies close to Draco, deliberately blocking his path. Draco laughs, his eyes flashing as he sweeps around Harry. They swoop over and around each other until Harry isn't sure who's distracting who any more, or what's happening in the game.

When Draco and his perfect arse and skilful flying prove a bit too much, Harry pushes his broom to edge alongside Draco’s, leans over and grabs his shirt. He laughs at Draco's surprised face as he slows them down and pulls him into a rough, midair kiss. Their teeth clack horribly, but Harry smiles as he silences Draco's shocked protests with his mouth.

Draco pulls away as soon as possible with flaming cheeks, looking outraged and flustered as his broom wobbles.

“You bloody maniac, Potter–” he's spluttering. Fred and George are both shouting furiously at them as Harry races away with a triumphant grin, dodging an angry bludger from his own teammate.

Harry’s team are winning ninety-seventy, mostly thanks to Charlie and Fred, with Teddy now flagging and Harry’s form up and down. They just need one more for the win.

Ginny has the quaffle, Ron tearing up the left side in support.

“If you do it like this, you’ll get more power and be able to turn quicker. You'll also use less energy. Look.”

At the sound of Draco's soft voice still spelled into Harry's ear, Harry scans the pitch. He spots him over by the goalpost with Teddy. Harry watches, quickly realising that Draco’s showing Teddy how to direct his broom from his shoulder. Harry had noticed how Teddy relies on his wrist too much to turn his broom, too.

Teddy is watching intently, concentration pulling his brows together. He copies Draco's move, turning a dipped circle in the air.

“Yes, that’s it. You’re a natural. Just like your godfather.”

Draco’s smiling at Teddy, whose face is shining triumphantly, and Harry’s chest is dangerously tight. Much too full. It makes it hard to draw breath, being so full.

Draco glances across and catches Harry staring at him. A confused smile crosses his face at Harry's expression.

Harry smiles back at him, so in love he wants to cry.

“Harry!”

It rings out in a chorus of voices, Harry unable to identify a single one as something crashes full force into the side of his face, knocking him sideways.

The pain he’ll no doubt feel in a moment hasn’t reached him yet, and Harry’s in freefall, bracing for impact.

When he lands, it’s like falling onto the world’s softest trampoline, his body dropping into a frankly excessive number of cushioning charms, springing up, and then back down again into the feathery softness.

He smiles, unbearably, heart-squeezingly grateful for his family, who always seem to catch him, and promptly passes out.

“We didn’t have to cancel dinner,” Harry says as they sit on Malfoy’s bed in their pants, sharing ice-cream from a carton. “I’m absolutely fine.”

“Hermione said you should rest. You might have a concussion.”

“She’s not in charge of me.” He hears the peevishness in his voice as he takes another scoop.

“Tais toi. She’s one of the top healers in the UK. If she says rest, then you rest.”

Harry fingers his face. It’s slightly tender around the eye socket where she’d healed his black eye, and along his now mended cheekbone. But other than that, he feels absolutely fine. Fantastic, even. He smiles. “We need a rematch. And you’re not allowed to spell me next time.”

Draco smiles back. “Your Weasley twin already demanded a rematch.”

Harry chuckles. “They like you," he says, swallowing a last creamy mouthful. Just in case he doesn't know it.

Draco doesn’t reply, just hums as he slides his spoon slowly from his mouth.

“As long as you still like me, I can forego the rest of your clan.”

They do this sometimes, too. Seeking reassurance that this is it, for both of them.

It's unnecessary.

Harry is all in. If he's perfectly honest, he's been all in since that first night in June, watching Draco from across the table as he ignored Harry; watching him rapping in French and being the brilliant bastard he is.

He knows this is it for both of them. He can just feel it; in the way they talk about next year and Christmas and travelling; the way their flats are no longer yours and mine but London or Paris this weekend? When he asks Harry what time will you be home? The way Harry’s bedroom smells like fruity lube and expensive cologne and their toothbrushes look lonely when they aren’t together. It’s early and it’s new, but Harry feels the certainty of Draco in the marrow of his bones.

He puts the empty carton and their spoons on the bedside and lies on his side, head propped on his hand. Draco follows suit, reaching out a hand to stroke Harry’s tender cheek.

Harry winces and Draco pulls back. “Do you need a pain relief potion?”

Harry shakes his head, edging closer to Draco’s almost-naked body, his cock stirring already.

“I can think of better ways to relieve pain.”

Draco purses his lips, trying not to smile. “Shagging is not rest. Your family will kill me if I accidentally shag you to death.”

“But it’s my birthday,” Harry says with a whine in his voice. He reaches out and palms down Draco’s stomach, nestling his fingers in the waistband of his boxers. He’s going to convince him, no matter what it takes.

Draco wraps a hand around Harry’s wrist, stilling his questing hand. He shifts closer, eyes lively as he ghosts his lips over Harry’s mouth.

“You have no self control, do you, Potter?”

“No self control?” Harry says incredulously, tipping his chin up to allow Draco to mouth along his jaw. “I haven’t seen you in three days. You’re lucky I didn’t drop right to my knees and blow you right there in the Granger-Weasley kitchen. I’d say that’s excellent fucking control.”

Draco smiles against his skin. He still has hold of Harry’s wrist, tightening it when Harry tries once again to get to his cock.

“Shall we test just how much you have?” Draco’s voice is low and suggestive, breath tickling Harry’s ear.

Harry shivers, anticipation throbbing hot in his groin.

“I’m not sure I can take you edging me tonight. I think you might kill me off.”

Draco smirks. “That’s why you’re going to do it yourself.” He moves Harry’s hand to his own straining boxers. “Then it’s not my fault if you wank yourself to death.”

Harry huffs as he grips himself through the fabric. “So let me get this straight. It’s my thirtieth birthday and even though my boyfriend is right here in bed with me, I have to wank myself off?”

Draco’s smile is devious as he pulls back, propped up on his elbow. “You’re adorable when you pout, love. I’ve always said it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Let’s see how many times we can manage, yes? I promise it’ll be fun.”

Harry’s already palming himself, the coaxing tone of Draco’s voice enough to fill him to hardness.

“I don’t know how long I’ll last.” He reaches into his boxers to wrap his fingers around his shaft, tugging lazily. “You sure you can't just…?

Draco rolls over and stands next to the bed. “No, I can't just. Healer's orders, Harry.”

Hooking two thumbs into his emerald silk boxers, he slides them down and off.

Harry’s eyes fix on his lovely, pale cock, half hard and begging to be swallowed. He makes an undignified noise in the back of his throat at the thought, looking up to see Draco smirking.

Harry sits up, removing his own underwear and kneeling on his side of the bed.

Draco grabs his wand and Harry holds out his hand, accepting the conjured lube. Even using the exact same spell as Harry, Draco’s lube is lighter and slicker than Harry’s. Posh-twat magic, he assumes.

They mirror each other on the bed, Draco kneeling opposite, now fully hard as his eyes rake hungrily over Harry’s body. He grips his cock in his right hand, gently playing with the foreskin.

“Tell me what you’re thinking." His voice is commanding in that way that makes Harry’s knees weak.

Harry tightens his fist as he watches Draco’s elegant fingers playing with his cock. “That I really want to fuck you.”

He wishes he could be more eloquent, more poetic. But it’s impossible now Draco is sliding his hand luxuriously up and down his cock, making it shiny with lube. Harry slows his own hand, twisting his fist on the down stroke.

“Yeah? How do you want to fuck me, Harry?” His voice is deep and measured, lazy.

Harry stalls at the question as all the ways they’ve fucked pour into his mind. Draco on his back, on all fours, on the floor, against the wall, on the sofa…

Yes. Harry speeds up his fist, canting his hips up into the tight circle, eyes on Draco’s hand moving slowly and rhythmically up and down. “You on top,” he manages to say with a grunt. “Riding me.” His skin tingles at the thought.

Draco exhales, a smile tugging half his mouth up. “Like on the sofa last week.” He hums approvingly. “You couldn’t get enough. I think the neighbours down the street heard your filthy mouth.”

Harry watches Draco’s hand speeding up. He grips himself tighter, remembering the way it had felt as Draco had lowered himself onto Harry’s dick and rode him hard and fast. Draco’s breathing is getting louder, his voice still teasing and wicked. “Mm. You came so far up my arse, I could taste it.”

Jesus, Harry’s whole body is buzzing as he remembers the velvety squeeze of Draco’s arse around his cock. He pumps his cock harder, lost in the memory of pulling Draco as far down onto his dick as humanly possible, Draco clenching around him as he came.

“Fuck, Draco.” Harry’s balls are drawing up already, his muscles tensing. “I’m going to–”

“Not yet, sweetheart.” His voice is firm, giving Harry the nudge he needs to squeeze himself just in time.

“Shittingfuck,” Harry cries out on a frustrated groan.

“Yes, Harry, yes, you’re so good. You look so fucking good.”

Harry takes a deep breath, focusing on the rhythmic slapping of Draco’s hand.

With the urgency seeping from his body, Harry takes a moment to drink Draco in.

Draco is looking at Harry with lust-blown eyes as he wanks himself in earnest, biting the side of lower lip as his lean chest rises and falls in time with his panting breaths.

“You’re gorgeous,” Harry says hoarsely.

Draco tips his head back, the ghost of a smile on his mouth as he pants, his fringe falling away from his eyes.

“Want to know what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah.” Harry starts to stroke himself again. “Tell me.”

“About the Louvre.”

Harry moans, tightening his grip as his cock throbs in his hand.

“About you choking on my cock. Trying not to– nngh, not to make a noise as I fucked your pretty mouth.”

Fuck, yeah. The toilets in the Louvre. That had been hot.

“Christ,” Harry moans. He edges forward. “Let me suck you now?”

Draco splays a firm, sweaty hand on Harry’s chest as he continues to wank himself with the other, shaking his head.

The skin contact sends another surge of blood racing to Harry's cock, but Draco’s hand keeps Harry from bending forward. “No, love. No death by blowjob tonight.”

Harry growls his frustration. He grabs the hand on his chest and brings it to his mouth. Keeping his eyes locked with Draco’s, he takes two fingers into his mouth and sucks hard. He moans, eyes automatically rolling back into his head as he almost tricks his brain into believing the salty sweet taste is Draco’s cock.

Draco’s groan is guttural as he drags his fingers over Harry's tongue, then pushes them back in. “Fuck,” he says hoarsely. Harry opens his eyes again. “Fuck, yes– like that.”

Draco thrusts his fingers faster into Harry’s mouth and Harry pumps his fist in time with them, orgasm brewing tantalisingly at the base of his cock.

He can tell Draco is close, his creamy neck flushed, mouth slack as he wanks furiously, eyes transfixed on Harry's mouth and the fingers he’s fucking into it.

“Harry,” he whispers urgently, and Harry moans the way he always does when he hears Draco say his name like that, lustful and needy. “Fuck, Harry.”

Draco’s fingers leave Harry’s mouth and the hand on his cock stills.

Draco never swears or cries out when he pulls himself back, just frowns in concentration. Harry could almost come just watching him, witnessing his cast iron control.

He waits as Draco breathes through it. When Draco slowly opens his eyes, he smiles lazily at Harry. Harry leans forward to kiss him.

Draco accepts intuitively, cupping Harry’s neck. He runs his fingers down the bumps of Harry’s spine, heading teasingly towards Harry’s arse.

“Gods,” Harry pants into Draco's neck, wanking himself between them, the rhythmic drag on his cock drawing that delicious pressure back to his groin. “Really– wanna– fuck you.”

Draco hums as he pulls back, mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Tell me,” he says as Harry huffs. He doesn’t know how Draco can be so controlled when Harry feels so riled up, on edge. “Tell me how you’re going to fuck me tomorrow.”

Harry growls low in his throat at the reminder he’s not getting any of it tonight.

“Gonna fuck you with my tongue,” Harry says roughly, thumbing the head of his cock and bucking at the zing of pleasure.

Draco moans softly.

“You’re so good with your tongue,” he whispers.

Harry closes his eyes, the wet sounds of them both filling his ears, heating his simmering blood.

“Because you taste so fucking good.” Harry’s voice is stretched as his body rides the edge of orgasm again. “I could fuck you for hours with my tongue.”

Draco groans, the mattress bouncing beneath them as Draco wanks himself harder.

“I could, ahh, I could come from just that, Harry. Just–nng, fuck, just your tongue in my arse,” he says, breathing ragged and Harry knows he's remembering all the times Harry's tongue has brought him off.

Harry imagines it, too. Imagines Draco writhing and bucking, coming with Harry's tongue still inside of him. The thought sends precome dribbling from his cock as he wanks faster, pressure winding tight.

“Want you to fuck me like in the kitchen,” Harry blurts.

He doesn’t know why his fantasy has changed so abruptly, except now it has, it’s stuck, and now it’s Draco’s cock in his arse that he’s imagining as he fucks his fist.

Draco is quiet and still.

Harry opens his eyes.

Draco’s looking at him from under hooded lids, two spots of red high on his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his brow, his fringe fallen over one eye. His hand is squeezing his cock, bringing himself back again.

Fuck, Harry wants him so badly. He squeezes his own cock to slow things down, but the frantic pulse of desire is still brewing in his body, urging his hand to stroke himself, to fuck into the circle of his fist, and he starts moving it again almost instantly, unable to let the sensations go.

“You liked that?” Draco asks softly. “You liked me fucking you against the wall?”

“Yeah,” Harry says eagerly, licking his lips. He exhales a shuddery breath. “I liked it.”

And fuck is that an understatement.

It was two weeks ago. They hadn’t seen each other for a couple of days and Harry had let himself in. He’d changed into comfy clothes and had been making tea in the kitchen, waiting for Draco to get home from work. Nothing out of their new ordinary.

He’d turned to see Draco standing in the doorway, watching him with fiery eyes. With seemingly no inducement that Harry could tell, Draco had thrown himself at Harry with the same neediness as that day in the hotel, kissing him hungrily without uttering a single word.

Except, instead of dropping to his knees as he’d done before, he’d pulled Harry’s trousers down and spelled him loose with his wand, all while kissing him messily. It had been intense and needy and so fucking hot. Harry rolls his hips into the tunnel of his fingers, remembering the way Draco had mouthed at the back of his neck, teeth scraping deliciously over Harry’s skin as Harry had braced against the kitchen wall. Remembers Draco’s frantic thrusts into his arse, fucking Harry like he couldn’t get enough.

“You like when I can’t help myself,” Draco’s voice is smooth, despite how his chest is heaving, his cock now a flushed, angry pink as he strokes it firmly from head to base.

“Yes,” Harry agrees, groaning.

That's the crux of it. Harry loves fucking him in every way. But that. When something snaps, and Draco is needy and desperate and panting Harry's name, unable to find his usual control, like he can’t bear to not be fucking Harry. That.

“Love you, uhh, fucking me hard like that.”

Draco's hum stretches into a low growl. “Gods, you looked so fit, your arse just in my kitchen. You make me– fuck,” Harry can see the precome glistening at the head of Draco’s cock as he pumps it faster. He wants so badly to taste it, his mouth waters. “J’adore ton cul, Harry.”

Harry moans, closing his eyes as pleasure winds through his body.

“You belong in my kitchen.”

“Yes.”

Harry curls his fist tighter, speeding up.

“In my bed.”

“Yes.”

His climax is gathering, his blood humming in anticipation as he fists frantically, cupping his balls with his other hand.

“You belong inside me.”

“Yes, fuck,” Harry’s muscles are tensing in readiness as he arches his back, imagining his cock in Draco's tight arse.

“And me inside you.”

“Fuck, please,” Harry whines, imagining Draco fucking him, fucking him hard and furious. He can't stop this one. He feels his balls contracting, the release waiting for him so close he can taste it on his tongue as fire rages up his spine. “Please.”

Draco’s hand slides around Harry’s neck, pulling him close, his mouth at Harry's ear. “Go on. I've got you.”

Harry comes, choking a sob into Draco’s neck as his orgasm tears through him.

Draco holds him through it, whispering encouragement; that's it, fuck yes, Harry. So good. Harry moans curses into Draco’s skin, waves of pleasure surging through him as his cock pulses between them, all of his muscles trembling in delight.

When he's finally worked himself through it, he leans against Draco, boneless.

Draco eases Harry down onto his back and Harry automatically parts his thighs to allow Draco to move forward on his knees, gripping his flushed cock.

He starts to wank over Harry, his heavy lidded eyes roving over Harry's body as Harry’s come drips down his chest and onto his stomach. Harry wishes he had the energy to lick it off.

He props himself up onto his elbows. “On my face,” he instructs, as authoritatively as he can manage.

Draco's eyebrows raise. “Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.” He watches as Draco's hand moves quicker, focusing on the head of his cock. He's close, biting his lip in that way he sometimes does before he comes. “On my face,” Harry says again. “Like I'm yours.”

Draco's flush deepens; he grips his cock tighter, wanking faster as he exhales a stuttering breath. He likes that. Harry loves finding the things that turn him on.

“Yes,” Draco says breathlessly, edging closer. “Mine.”

The possessive word sends a surprising thrill through Harry, the idea of being his. Harry licks his lips, holding Draco’s gaze. He can tell Draco’s falling over the edge, hips jerking, back arching and jaw going slack.

“Yours,” Harry confirms as the first ropes of come hit his mouth. He parts his lips as Draco groans, the warm splatter landing across Harry’s cheeks, shooting into his mouth. They look at each other, Harry’s cock twitching at the sight of Draco's eyes trained on him.

“Fuck,” Draco groans as he fists his cock again, another spurt of hot liquid spattering over Harry's face.

Harry closes his eyes, humming in satisfaction as he licks his coated lips, swallowing the salty bitterness on his tongue. His cock gives another appreciative throb as more come spills onto his chin, down onto his chest, Draco’s fucked out moans filling his head. He likes me being his.

Then Draco is on him, toppling Harry backwards, kissing him messily, fingers running down Harry’s come-streaked cheeks. Harry runs his palms up Draco’s smooth back, enjoying the weight of him; the warm, sticky press of their skin together.

“Never mind me killing you. You’re going to kill me,” Draco mutters against Harry’s lips.

Harry laughs, wrapping his legs around Draco’s waist and locking his ankles, pulling them as close together as possible. He’s never craved anyone so much in his life.

“Definitely not in my plan.” Harry kisses him back, feeling filthy; feeling incredible.

“I love you,” Draco murmurs into his ear, the words sending a giddy thrill through Harry. Words he still can’t believe they can say to each other.

Harry smiles and holds him tighter. “I love you too.”

The following day is Saturday. Harry sits naked on the sofa, one arm draped across the top, his hand hanging down, one knee drawn up.

“How’s it looking?”

Draco continues sketching, biting the side of his lip in concentration. “Hmm?”

“I asked how it’s looking.”

“You’ll see it when it’s finished. Then you can tell me.”

“It’ll be good. You always make me look good.”

“I just draw you, Harry. Just as you are.”

They’ve had this discussion before. Harry is convinced Draco adds something to his drawings, something that only he sees, that makes Harry look better, somehow. And Draco swears Harry is just a moron who doesn’t realise how good he looks naked.

“If you become famous some day, they might hang me in a gallery.”

Draco hums, his pencil scratch-scratching in the soothing way Harry loves.

Harry chuckles softly. “Two hundred years from now, there could be people looking at your sketch and wondering about us. About who you and I were. Imagining what we were to each other.”

“There’s not much being left to the imagination here, love,” Draco says with a smirk. “Stop smiling, Harry. I can’t draw your mouth when you’re grinning like a Cheshire Cat.”

“Can't,” Harry says. “You're going to have to draw me like this.” He smiles wider. “You can do it. I believe in you, Jack.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Ta bouche. If you don't stop with that mouth, I'm going to have to find a better use for it.”

“Is that a promise?”

Draco shoots him a look that Harry knows well now, fond and long suffering and full of love.

Harry doesn't stop smiling. He can't. He's far too in love.

End