not your typical annihilatrix (furiosity) wrote,
not your typical annihilatrix
furiosity

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Fic: Interregnum - Chapter 30 [PG-13/R] [WiP]

Ack, sorry about the delay -- cons do that! One of the scenes in this chapter was written specifically because of a picture reallycorking drew for me at Terminus. It only took a slight tweak to insert it, and I'm actually even happier with the flow after having added it. However, I am a failure and I have not yet had a chance to scan the art, so I've linked to a photo inside the text. :>

Title: Interregnum [Chapter 30]
Author: furiosity
Rating: R-ish
Pairing[s]: Harry/Draco and others.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 5000 words
Summary: If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. [William Blake]
Beta: None.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.

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Interregnum - Chapter 30



Patrick raised his wand, keenly aware that there was very little time to plan a defence. He couldn't Disapparate from this position; he had to be at least somewhat upright to turn properly, but he did not dare sit up. If only he knew how many of them there were.

And that's when it came to him: the Fog. The last resort, when there were too many Muggles and too few Obliviators. For times when the Muggles found out who the Obliviators were and what they were doing. The final solution.

"This spell is never to be used against wizards. It's too dangerous, and its usage against has unpredictable results. Obliviators found employing the Fog against magic users face a lifetime in Azkaban..."

Patrick hears this, and the quill in his already-cramped hand is copying it down, but he's too distracted by the inappropriate joke Millicent is relaying in hand-speak. When he reviews these notes later, he'll see he spelled "Muggles" as "Moogles" and wrote "sexy" instead of "unpredictable". In the weeks during exam revision, Millicent will whisper, "sexy results", sending them both into conniptions of laughter.

Patrick Vaisey was not yet a fighter, not yet an Auror. He was still an Obliviator, and he knew his trade. Memoria Nebulosa. He had not cast the Fog since training, but his wand completed the required complicated squiggle just the same. He knew his trade. The thick column of dark vapour issuing from the tip of his wand swirled upwards and suffused the air above him, leaden as a thunderhead.

"What the--" said the intruder's voice -- bewildered. "M-m-mother? MOTHER!" The voice of a lost child, not a Death Eater.

There were more people coming through the front door now, and Patrick needed to get away before anyone managed to skirt past the Fog and see him. Every Obliviator in the area -- if the Daily Prophet was to be believed, there was a veritable infestation of them these days -- would be on his way here now. To Obliviators, the Fog cast anywhere within fifty miles was the equivalent of setting off the world's biggest air raid siren.

Patrick sat up, preparing to Disapparate--

the Fog I was too far down when I cast it now it's too low oh no Millicent MILLICENT

*

Harry was twenty Galleons poorer, but his perspective hadn't returned. He hadn't known what to expect before heading into Philomena's, but a part of him had assumed that once he had sex with a woman, everything would go back to normal. It hadn't. He'd enjoyed the experience -- he'd even asked her to tie him up. But that hadn't chased Malfoy from his brain. It hadn't erased the secret thrill that spiked through him every time he thought about Zabini and Malfoy fucking, about Malfoy's mouth around his cock, about the last kiss at the Boulder safe-house.

This made being in the London safe-house close to unbearable: Sean and Jake seemed to have decided that since Harry knew they were married, this made it okay for them to be all over each other at every opportunity. He spent most of his time staring at a cupboard door mounted into the wall next to the stairs, only barely listening to Jake's account of watching the Diagon Alley entrance whilst playing his guitar on the corner.

"Why didn't you just wear an invisibility cloak?" asked Harry. "Was it raining?"

Sean slapped his forehead. "Oh, shit, that reminds me," he said, and reached underneath the coffee table, lifting out a rectangular black box. "Someone knocked on our door today and left this."

Harry glanced at the box. A piece of parchment was stuck to the lid, with the words Harry Potter upon it. "Strange," he said. "I don't live here."

"Whoever sent it must've seen you come in here," suggested Jake. "Anyway, it's fine. We opened it first to make sure it wasn't anything nasty."

Harry lifted the lid. Inside lay his Invisibility Cloak, folded precisely. Another piece of parchment, stuck into the collar, read Keep the deposit. Harry flushed, and his fingers twitched towards the pocket with Malfoy's photograph in it. Deposit? "Malfoy," he breathed. "How did he know...?" Harry rounded on Sean. "Did you see him?"

Sean cocked an eyebrow. "I told you, this was left outside the door. Special Training is great, but it doesn't give us superhuman vision."

"But this changes everything," said Harry, heart racing. "If Malfoy knows you're here, anyone might. If Kingsley finds out--"

"Relax, Potter," said Jake, laying a hand on Harry's arm. Harry jerked away, dismayed. Childish, maybe, but he didn't want these men touching him. Jake didn't seem to have noticed Harry's discomfort and continued, "Malfoy had this cloak of yours, and from what you've told us, he knows better than to surface. He's probably been following you around hoping you'll lead him to the people responsible for his boy's death."

"Why would he return the Cloak, then?" demanded Harry. "If he hasn't got the Cloak, I'll spot him and arrest him."

"Arrest him for what, exactly?" asked Sean quietly. "What has he done?"

"He stole my-- oh." Harry blinked. "He needs to be in a safe-house." They didn't need to know why. Let them think Harry was simply concerned for Malfoy's well-being.

Jake nodded. "But you don't have any reasonable grounds to keep him locked up, do you?"

"I think I do," said Harry. "If he's seen by the wrong people, he's dead. It's my responsibility to protect him." He was barely paying attention to what he was saying; his mind raced -- Malfoy had been following him all this time? How?

Keep the deposit. Fucker.

"Look, we're not here to interfere with you," said Sean. "Lock him up for having blond hair, if you like. I just think you're better off asking nicely."

"Malfoy doesn't understand being asked nicely," muttered Harry. "Listen, I need to report this to Robards. I haven't got men to post a watch, but if you spot Malfoy, can you at least try to keep him from running until I can talk to him?"

"Sure," said Jake. "We can try."

Harry went out through the back garden and crept around the side of the house, watching the street carefully. No sign of Malfoy. He Apparated home and used the Floo to get to the Ministry. It was well past seven o'clock, but Robards would still be there -- working on two fronts had forced him to spend more time at the office lately. Sure enough, Headquarters was silent and deserted, but the door to Robards's office was ajar. Robards sat at his desk like a monolith, poring over a field report.

Harry placed the box with the cloak in it on top of Robards's desk. He had put Malfoy's snide little note away with the photograph. "Malfoy returned my Invisibility Cloak to the Americans."

Robards dropped the report. "How does he know about them?"

"I don't know," said Harry. "They said it was left outside the safe-house today."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not," said Harry. He'd been turning the earlier conversation over in his mind, and he was almost certain that Jake and Sean hadn't been honest. It seemed likelier that the Americans in Wiltshire had managed to capture Malfoy but, for whatever reason, didn't want to hand him over. "But what was I supposed to do? Tell them to stop lying? They're not the enemy."

Robards rubbed his forehead. "No. But they must have an agenda. It's getting out of control, Potter. No sightings of Eva Kay today?"

"None," said Harry. "Cook and Aldworth have heard nothing of use from Hogsmeade, either, aside from Vaisey getting caught amongst those Death Eaters last night."

"Fat lot of good he'll do anyone in his current state," growled Robards. "Thinks he's a squirrel. The Death Eaters are not much better off."

"Still, it was a good haul," said Harry. "Selwyn, Avery, Crabbe, and Mulciber all at once? We couldn't have been luckier."

"Fat lot of good they'll do. None of them can be questioned about Kay's whereabouts, not where they are in St. Mungo's."

Harry glanced up sharply. "What? There's a standing order for immediate imprisonment--"

"Kingsley suspended the order," said Robards, poking at the report he'd dropped. "Says they can't be punished for crimes they don't remember committing, so they should be cured first, and then sent to Azkaban."

"Oh, for fuck's-- sorry, boss. But that's rubbish."

"Don't I know it. But even the Prophet is more excited about the crackpot theory that the Fog was intended for the Muggles in neighbouring villages." Robards nodded at a copy of the newspaper.

MENDING THE BREACH: MINISTRY PLAN FOR A FINAL SOLUTION

"Oh, great," said Harry. "Widespread hysteria. Just what we need."

"We're running out of time," said Robards. "I thought we would have until the new year, but with four of the six Death Eaters on her team out of commission, Kay might move sooner."

"What's Hermione saying?"

"They've managed to intercept communications between the Ministry and someone in New York."

Harry scowled. "The Lestrange brothers."

"Yes. But they don't know what the conferences were about."

"Yet."

Robards shrugged. "We may not have time enough for that."

Harry took his Invisibility Cloak out of the box and stuffed it into his pocket. "I've got business in Knockturn Alley. Afterwards, I will stop by the shop and see if I can help."

Robards dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Harry set off towards the fireplaces. He decided his disguise would be enough today; he wasn't after smugglers, after all. An Invisibility Cloak would be useless at Philomena's.

"Ah, Mr Lloyd," said the doorkeeper, moving past to let him in. "Back so soon."

Inside, women lounged in prim black chairs just like on his previous visit. He spotted the woman he'd been with before and tried to wave, but she turned her back to him.

"Master Lloyd has returned," whispered a voice from the floor. "It means Mistress Athena failed."

Harry jumped, startled despite knowing that a house-elf ran this brothel. The original owners' family had perished over the years; only the house-elves remained. It worked only because no one was ever forced to come to Philomena's, not even the whores. The elves were merely facilitators and housekeepers, and no one knew where the house's cut of the profits went.

"Can't I see her again?" he asked. He didn't really want to, but he didn't want to offend her, either.

"One chance only," croaked the elf. "The selection is not good enough for Master?"

Selection. "I-- is it possible..." Harry took a deep, deep breath. "Is it only women here?"

The elf's wide mouth constricted into a grotesque pucker. "Ah. It is as Frisky thought. Master Lloyd has been looking for his desires in the wrong place... Master Lloyd must go to the Seventh Son."

The Seventh Son was on the opposite side of the lower eight and it was-- Harry realised he'd never been inside. He'd only seen the sign. As if hearing his thoughts, Frisky spoke again. "The Seventh Son admits no one without invitation or referral. Frisky will give Master Lloyd his referral--"

"No," said Harry hastily, "It was just a question. I don't want to go there."

Frisky blinked at him. A milky white age-haze obscured its pupils. "Philomena's business is fulfilment. If Master Lloyd is asking for a man after Mistress Athena, he will find no fulfilment here. Bad for business."

All the women inside suddenly vanished, as though a curtain had fallen over everything but the greeting floor.

"Master Lloyd has the referral. Master Lloyd must leave."

Harry went back out into the night, wondering what on earth had possessed him to ask such a thing. Why, he hadn't failed with Athena; it had been no different from how it was with Ginny, except he also loved Ginny. That had made sex special. This ridiculous scene with the Philomena's house-elf simply meant that Harry wasn't the kind of man who'd pay for sex. That was all. He'd only asked about men out of idle curiosity. Frisky probably just wanted him gone because he knew Harry wouldn't be a faithful customer anyway.

she doesn't know what it feels like

"Huh?" Harry's pace slowed and he turned around. "Who's there?" His voice in disguise was deeper than usual, and he'd been so lost in thought that it startled him. There was no one around save for a rat scurrying across the cobblestones. Life in Knockturn Alley wouldn't begin for another hour or so. Must have been someone talking in one of the upstairs dwellings.

his teeth he knows how far he can go she doesn't

It was a whisper, Harry realised. A whisper inside his mind much like the one he'd felt upon passing Philomena's for the first time. A sign glowed further ahead, on his right. The Seventh Son. As Harry approached it, the door swung inwards to darkness and the distant sound of drums.

he knows exactly what that feels like that's why you love it so much

This wasn't the same as Philomena's -- images accompanied these stray-thought whispers. The whore's eyes tilted up to study him turned into Ginny's, then Malfoy's, and Harry felt like his robe's collar was too tight to breathe. The intensity of Malfoy's gaze all those weeks ago -- the bad blood between them had stopped Harry from realising what had really happened -- he'd felt a connection, because as a man, Malfoy knew exactly what it was like for Harry. He wanted that again.

Harry went inside. The thumping rhythm he'd heard earlier greeted him, but it faded before the sight of dozens of men in various states of undress. There was no privacy in the Seventh Son, no rooms behind velvet curtains. It was much like the gay club in Berlin, except these men were not merely pretending to have sex. Grunts and gasps filled the air around him, overwhelming, tugging at desires long-suppressed.

what would ron do if i watched him soap himself down there

did cedric want me in here was that why he gave me the password

i bet krum's really big what if he tries something in the maze will i run away

snape's eyes why does he look at me like that what does he want

oh no it's hermione she'll see us both half-naked she'll guess she'll know

But those hadn't been important. Every boy had those idle thoughts. Every boy in the world.

There was a sharp gasp right next to him, and Harry had just enough time to see a figure barrelling towards the door. Blond hair. Malfoy. Of course Malfoy would come to a place like this. Harry raced after him, heart pounding, all thoughts of forgotten wants gone. But when he got to the street, Malfoy was gone. Disapparated.

And the whispers began again. "Don't be afraid," murmured someone, and there were hands on Harry now, hands tugging him back to the entrance, which looked more like a cave's mouth than an empty doorframe, but the images in his head flickered with insistence, and Harry went back inside the Seventh Son, walking as though asleep.

He was pushed gently against a wall and let his eyes fall shut. The other one was barely twenty, but he undid Harry's jeans with skill uncommon for a wizard, and Harry found he didn't even need to look at him; that fierce bond he'd felt with Malfoy was back, and he felt both relief that it wasn't just Malfoy and fear -- for the same reason. It wasn't just Malfoy. A giant black question mark now hung over his future, but Harry was too far gone to worry about that. His hands found the rent boy's hair, soft and dark like his eyes, and he lasted only a few more moments after that.

The rent boy grinned up at him with something like pride. Harry grinned back, hesitant. "Um, how much--"

The rent boy shook his head vehemently. "Are you joking? I can't make you pay. You're Harry Potter!"

What? Harry glanced down and realised he was himself once again. His arms were back to their regular length. "How--?"

There was a flash of bright light. Harry looked up and saw the blond wizard he'd chased earlier -- except it wasn't Malfoy. It was Zacharias Smith, and he held a camera. "The Seventh Son's entrance strips away all magical concealment, Potter," drawled Smith. "Thanks ever so much for the show."

*

Breakfast with Sean and Jake was interesting, because instead of discussing weather and Quidditch rankings, they got a briefing on American events from Biggs, the two-way mirror propped against a pile of books.

"Four of the bad guys here walked into a Fog charm," Sean was saying.

"Impressive work. Who was it?"

"Uh, I forgot his name. Patrick something. Trainee Auror, but he ran away from training, or something. It's not really clear yet."

"Patrick Vaisey," said Draco, buttering a scone. "He was an Obliviator, not an Auror."

"You know him?" asked Biggs.

"I was at his wedding this summer. Pity he's not going to know his wife when he sees her."

"Oh damn," said Jake, scratching his nose. "Poor guy."

"I'm sure they'll be able to do something for him," said Biggs. "Anyway, as I was saying, we've convinced the 'Ciegos to stand down."

"Oh, thank fuck," said Sean. "They were pretty pissed when we picked up and left like that."

"'Ciegos?" asked Draco, not really expecting an answer.

But Biggs turned to him. "A gang," he said. "One of the Death Eaters had infiltrated it prior to the nuclear strike."

"Fucker got Buck Fallon killed," muttered Jake. "Gonna fry his ass."

"We haven't negotiated that far yet," said Biggs in cautionary tones. "But I don't see why Shacklebolt wouldn't let us have him -- this Nott committed no crimes in England."

"I hate to break it to you," said Draco, "But he committed lots of crimes. They were just never proven. He had too much on the other families, and we all kept quiet." This informant business was sort of fun, Draco decided.

"That makes no sense," said Biggs. "He's about your age. Can't be that much of a criminal."

Draco dropped the scone. "What?"

"Yeah," said Sean. "We've been on the 'Ciegos since we got the lead from Potter, and this was a younger kid, though he was never around much. I talked to him a couple of times, but I think he could tell I was trying to hit on him."

Jake cuffed Sean across the back of his head. "Hey!"

Theodore? Theodore was a part of this? But Theodore was a useless little music freak, he--

You'd wondered all this time why even an oaf like Crabbe would kill another pure-blood, and here's your answer. It wasn't Crabbe. Crabbe had probably forgotten you existed even before he walked into a Fog charm. It was Theodore, skinny Theodore who had no friends in Slytherin and whom you had befriended in Berlin out of duty. He always thought you and Blaise were disgusting, and he didn't even hide it. He didn't murder your father, but he left the Garrotting Gas for you. For both of you. He knew you would be at the club that night.

Draco, looking for something to do, something to hide his dismay, unrolled the Daily Prophet. Quidditch scores. Weather. Anything. He couldn't let Sean, Jake, and Biggs see him, or they might find out and try to stop him from doing what he had to do. As he scanned the headline, however, thoughts of Theodore departed rather swiftly.

DISGRACED HERO

This exclusive photograph came to us from an anonymous source inside an unnamed Knockturn Alley homosexual brothel. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was literally caught with his pants down late last night. In a shocking development, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, has told the Daily Prophet that as the Auror force does not tolerate homosexuals within its ranks, Potter is hereby dismissed from his position. Tempers were running high at the audience as several angry Ministry employees demanded to know why Minister Shacklebolt was honouring such an archaic regulation and depriving wizarding England of her best fighting chance. Harry Potter, otherwise known as the Boy Who Lived, had defeated Lord Voldemort in single combat five years ago; he is seen by many as the only hope for the country's survival during this time of turmoil. Other members of the wizarding community have applauded Minister Shacklebolt's adherence to the laws. Head Auror Gawain Robards could not be reached for comment...

Draco shoved the newspaper aside with too much force, upending the coffee pot. The dark brown stain spread across the page, stopping just short of the photograph. Potter, his trousers around his ankles, crotch obscured by an artful inkblot, looking down at a barely-legal rent boy with lust and confusion, then looking up to face the camera, over and over. "Fuck you," Draco told Potter's face.

Sean reached over the breakfast table and lifted the Daily Prophet from the coffee puddle. "Harry Potter caught with his pants down inside a gay brothel? And they fired him for it? So much for Potter not liking the gays."

"He doesn't," Draco said. "He told me Blaise and I were disgusting. He told me."

Jake peered at him. "He isn't lying. Might be just that Potter picked a really bad time for self-discovery."

In the two-way mirror, Biggs chuckled. "Not to mention a bad place. This changes nothing, boys. You'll still answer to Potter, even if Robards tells you not to."

"They'll take the brand off him," Sean pointed out.

"All the better for you, considering your guest," said Biggs.

Draco scowled and stabbed the eggs on the plate with his fork. He didn't understand why he was so angry. Potter disgraced like this -- it was supposed to feel like an early Christmas. Instead, Draco felt like he'd been lied to. He felt like Blaise had gone home with somebody else. Jealous. Jealous of the skinny little twerp kneeling in front of Potter, wasn't that just precious? "I hate him," he spat. He meant Theodore. He meant Potter. He meant everyone who'd ever done him wrong.

"Always twilight in another's soul, as the Russians say," murmured Biggs.

"Fuck the Russians," snapped Draco. "I'm going out for a walk. Will one of you let me out?"

He felt better as soon as he stepped outside, away from that dreadful photograph. Jake shut the door, and Draco pulled his jacket tighter round himself. Autumn was already shunting summer's warmth aside. He would go to the coast, someplace deserted, where he could think in peace. As he turned in Apparition, arms encircled his shoulders, and Draco panicked as he tried to twist out of their grasp. The pressure of Apparition made his ears roar, and he flailed, unable to make a sound. He couldn't see his attacker, but he fumbled for his wand, knowing he had little chance.

He landed heavily on wet, slippery grass, and rolled down an embankment towards a body of water of some sort. There was mud everywhere now, and Draco dug into the ground helplessly with his hands and feet, slowing and finally stopping. He needed his wand before his pursuer -- who had let go for the moment -- caught up with him. But his wand had slipped out of his fingers with his fall, and he watched with horror as it rose into the air unaided.

Potter emerged from the thin air atop the hill and began to walk down to the water. Not the Death Eaters, then. At least that was something. Draco's wand hung from Potter's left hand, and Draco knew he only had surprise on his side. Potter wouldn't expect him to fight. Potter thought he was gutless.

He lunged up and forward, reaching out for his wand. Potter moved swiftly away but lost his footing and fell to one knee, splattering mud into Draco's face. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and spluttered, reaching out blindly for Potter, hoping to wrestle his wand away somehow. Potter seized his arm and then rolled on top of him, sitting up, his muddy hands sliding across Draco's neck as he tried to restrain him. "Malfoy," he panted. "Stop it."

With a yell, Draco bucked upwards, trying to throw Potter off, and began to slide downwards once again, down to the water, dragging Potter with him. The mud was everywhere; its marshy smell filled Draco's nostrils, making him want to splutter and choke. Next to him, Potter grunted and cursed under his breath as they rolled to a stop. Draco scrambled from him and began to move away in a half-crawl; there was mud on his face and a fresh cut on the back of his hand smarted in the wind. Potter caught up to him again and down they went, Potter's arms snug around Draco's waist. Draco lurched forward, slid out of his grasp, and fell to his knees. He began to clamber away once again, towards a blue-and-white building in the distance.

"Malfoy, stop!" cried Potter.

"Stay away," Draco shouted back. For a moment, he thought Potter would actually listen, but then he felt Potter's arms around him again, and the unmistakable press of Apparition. "You bastard!" His voice was lost in the wind, and then he was no longer in the mud but on a thick carpet, staring up into the accusing face of a really ugly house-elf.

"Master Harry should ask his guests to wipe their... clothing before they come inside the drawing room," opined the elf.

"Sorry, Kreacher," panted Potter. "It was an emergency."

Kreacher? Draco's great-aunt's house-elf? So this was the house of Black. Potter's house, now. Why had Potter brought them here? "Give me my wand," demanded Draco. "You've got no authority to keep me here."

"I know," said Potter glumly. "I just wanted to talk -- why were you running?"

"Because I don't want to talk to you, obviously," said Draco, propping himself up. Potter was no longer sitting on him, which was rather a relief. Or not.

"I'm sorry about what I said last time, okay. I'm sorry. I was angry and I wanted-- I don't know what I wanted," said Potter. "But this isn't about--"

"So what do you want?" asked Draco. The picture of Potter from the morning's Daily Prophet loomed in his mind's eye. "Have you worked it out yet?"

"Look, I know I hurt you, but this isn't--"

"Hurt me, Potter?" snarled Draco. "You couldn't hurt me if you tried, because I don't care what you think and I don't care what you say. Fuck you." It felt good to say it to Potter's face instead of just his photograph. He didn't know what Potter wanted with him, but he was fairly sure it wasn't what Draco wanted. Despite all the rage and ill-treatment, Draco still wanted Potter's cock in him, and wasn't that even more precious than feeling jealous of some ugly rent boy? "Give me my wand. Now."

Potter sighed. "I haven't got it. I dropped it in the mud."

"What?" Draco sat up. "How dare you--?"

"Really, Kreacher must insist that Master Harry and his pure-blood guest please stop getting mud on the drawing room carpet," croaked Kreacher.

Draco rounded on the elf, but Potter seized his arm before he could strike. "Sure, Kreacher. Sorry for the mess; we'll get out of your way now." Draco felt Apparition again, indignation and anger mixing with unbidden amusement at watching Potter get pushed around by a house-elf.

"This is a spare bedroom," said Potter. "Get yourself cleaned up, then we'll go and look for your wand. If we can't find it, I'll buy you a new one. But you will talk to me. After that, you can go wherever you want. Deal?"

Draco blinked at him. "You mean you won't lock me in a cage?"

Potter shrugged. "You're better off in the safe-house."

"I-- all right," said Draco. Potter probably wanted to know about the King of Kings, anyway, and now that Draco had been found out, he couldn't very well refuse the information. Besides, his place was in Germany. He'd humour Potter, and he'd help the Americans with their little quest to save the Minister. Then he'd have his revenge. Quietly. "All right," he repeated.

Potter just stood there, staring at him.

Draco reached for the top button on his Muggle shirt. "You didn't say you were going to supervise my shower," he muttered. Sensation exploded in his mind: his face was squashed against cold, wet tile, and Potter's hands were on his shoulders, Potter's cock rubbing against his arse. But that kind of thinking wouldn't do, would it.

"Sorry," said Potter and shuffled out, a muddy handprint stark against his denim-clad arse. The illegal jeans Potter insisted on wearing. The same jeans he'd worn last night. Hell, Potter probably hadn't slept since last night. Draco shook the thought off and headed into the shower. This changed nothing.

After the shower, which had taken longer than Draco had expected, he returned to the bedroom to find his clothes clean and folded neatly on the bed. Harry Potter, champion of freedom and equality, using a house-elf. How quaint. Draco wasn't going to complain, though. He was halfway into his shirt when the door creaked open.

"Haven't you heard of knocking?" asked Draco without looking up. "I could've been less than decent."

"Wouldn't be anything new," retorted Potter. "Hurry up, would you?"

Draco did look up then, but Potter had already shut the door. Draco left his shirt unbuttoned and walked over, swinging the door open. Potter stood in the corridor, leaning against the wall opposite, his illegal jeans clean once again. "You've got some nerve," said Draco. "Stop ordering me around, or I won't help you. How's that?"

"Fine," said Potter. He was breathing heavily for some reason. "Just hurry up. Please."

"What's the rush?" asked Draco. He hadn't meant to go any closer, but here he was, practically in Potter's face, unable to ignore the image of Potter's jeans pooled on the floor around his legs. I can't resist him. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"I can't-- oh fuck." Potter's eyes fell shut as Draco pressed their bodies together. He wanted this. Whether it changed nothing or everything didn't matter. Potter would be his before Draco let anyone else have him.

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