Harry woke, blearily, to a faint touch on his wrist, but he didn't move and the pressure vanished so quickly that he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. He didn't want to move, wasn't sure he could move. His back ached, his neck ached, his whole him ached. The sofa, he decided, was not a comfortable place to sleep. After a minute or so, though, the discomfort of his cramped position forced him up, and he stretched, wincing, and surveyed the empty room. He thought he could hear far-off clattering, but he ignored it, feeling discomfort twist in his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to seeing Malfoy again. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could avoid it for a very long time.
The very long time lasted a further four minutes, give or take. Malfoy slouched into the room, shoving the door open with his backside, his hands occupied by two mugs. "Here," he said, and unceremoniously shoved one at Harry, nearly spilling it into his lap.
Harry took it, and Malfoy set his own mug down on the coffee table, reaching out again to briefly touch Harry's hand and wave his wand in the direction of the kitchen. "If you smell fire, you'll know I didn't manage to turn the hob off again," he said, and then picked up his mug again and blew across its steaming surface. He still hadn't looked Harry in the eye.
Harry took a ginger sip of his drink. It was coffee, so strong it made him sigh with pleasure. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.
Malfoy shrugged, still not looking at Harry, and took a sip of his own drink.
"We should talk about it," Harry suggested, because even though he didn't want to – there was nothing he wanted to do less – he'd learned it was usually better to get things over with than let them fester.
"No," Malfoy said. He didn't say it in a horrible way, but it was very firm. "Not now," he added, more awkward, and Harry decided to let it go.
They drank their drinks in silence, and then Harry stood up, stretching. "I'm going to go and have a wash," he said, and Malfoy nodded, staring into his empty mug. Malfoy was already neatly dressed, his hair well-brushed and bullied behind his ears. Harry didn't wait for a response, because that would be stupid, so he went straight to the bathroom, and once inside, the door shut, he halted, surprised by what he could see.
There, on the surface next to the sink, where Harry kept his toothbrush, was a black velvet bag, flat and empty. Next to it was a silver stand of vials. They, too, were empty, their tops removed and strewn carelessly across the surface. Malfoy had, Harry realised, poured all of the Dreamless Sleep away.
Harry wasn't sure what to make of this, exactly, while he brushed his teeth, and he still wasn't sure what to make of it while he padded back to his bedroom and quickly got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, pulling on a hoodie and shoving his feet into a pair of battered trainers. He wasn't sure if he should say something when he got back downstairs – something like why did you do that? would be a good start – but Malfoy clearly expected this revolutionary and insightful question, because he said, very quickly: "So, I thought today we could clean your disgrace of a house."
Of all the things that Harry had expected to come out of Malfoy's mouth, cleaning his house wasn't on the list. "It's not that dirty!" he objected. "It's only a bit of dust."
Malfoy gave him a level look. "It's so dusty, scarhead, that I'm surprised the dust hasn't evolved into a new and terrifying lifeform. Well, shall we?" He tugged off his outer-robe and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "Or are you too high and mighty, famous Harry Potter, to do a bit of household magic with me?" He wrinkled his nose as he looked Harry up and down. "You're already dressed for cleaning, I see."
Well, Harry wasn't having that. He couldn't roll up his sleeves, because he was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, but he straightened up and tried to look determined. "Yes, fine," he said, and tried to prepare himself for another long, hard day of not killing Malfoy.
^^^^^^
It turned out it wasn't just dust they had to deal with, after all. The attics, once they'd managed to find them, were infested by Bundimun – small green creatures which looked like tiny patches of grass until they were disturbed, when they sprouted eyes and spat out horrible-smelling liquid. And while Harry hadn't been looking, his half-sized basement Quidditch pitch had become the happy home of thousands of Chizpurfles – tiny fanged crabs, which didn't look too dangerous until Harry waded out into the over-long grass and they remembered they were hungry.
The less said about what been lurking at the bottom of his swimming pool the better, Harry thought, trying not to shudder. It had been a good job he hadn't fancied a midnight swim at any point in the last forever.
All in all, it was a longer day than Harry had expected. More tiring, and yet more satisfying, in a strange way. The hard, physical work made things less awkward between him and Malfoy, although admittedly they were still pretty fucking awkward. Harry was almost glad that when it got dark, and they finally admitted defeat, there was still a lot of work to do. It would give them something to distract themselves with tomorrow as well, he reasoned. Even so. There was still tonight to get through. The night ahead loomed at him, with depressing inevitability.
After some food, however, Malfoy rose from his chair and went to walk out of the room. Harry presumed he was just going to the loo, or something, but when he got to the door he turned and said, very firmly, and equally firmly not looking at Harry's face, "I'll take the guest room tonight. Don't come in."
"Oh," Harry said.
"Promise," Malfoy insisted, and he finally turned his face to look at Harry, his eyes steely.
Harry promised. And then regretted it, with everything he had, when he woke later that night to the house ringing with screams. He leapt out of bed like a shot, dashed into the hallway, his heart jumping out of his chest, and then . . . stopped. He'd promised, hadn't he? Malfoy didn't want him there, he told himself firmly. Malfoy thought his presence, after a nightmare, was worse than the nightmare itself.
Still, Harry's whole body burned with the urge to just storm into Malfoy's room anyway, sod whatever he'd said, and help him. Except . . . was that a selfish urge, he wondered, dithering in the hallway as Malfoy's yells subsided into nothing. Putting his urge to help above Malfoy's feelings about being helped. And . . . how would Harry be able to help, anyway? He was just presuming that his presence would be comforting, in some way, and that was patently not the case. How big-headed was he? Harry felt, for the first time in his life, as if he'd bought into his own fame, that 'Harry Potter' could just swoop into any situation and save the day.
Harry could hear Malfoy crying.
He turned on his heel, walked away from the sound and went back to bed.
^^^^^^
The next morning, Harry felt like he'd wrestled a Hungarian Horntail in the night and come out the loser. He hadn't slept very well, and he'd had dreams he couldn't remember, which had left him feeling disturbed and anxious, as if there was something ominous looming over him he couldn't see, and therefore couldn't fight.
Malfoy didn't look great either, Harry thought as he handed him a glass of juice, even though he was as neatly dressed as ever. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his face was drawn.
"You look worse than I do," Malfoy said, voice flat and unamused as he accepted the juice and sat down, giving a glare at the pile of post still swamping the ground. It had only grown larger in recent days, as mail had poured through the Floo. Congratulatory notes on his marriage, Harry presumed. It made him all the more determined to never, ever open them and take a look.
"I . . . we need to sort this," Harry said to his own juice, realising that it was selfish, his burning need to help someone who didn't want to be helped, but unable to stop himself. He just couldn't cope with listening to Malfoy suffer, night after night. If that was a personal failing, sod it, he thought crossly. He wanted to have it as a personal failing. It seemed pretty reasonable to him.
"We need to sort this?" Malfoy repeated. "It's my problem, not yours." He didn't sound as tetchy as he sometimes did, though; he just sounded tired.
"I . . . I really want to help though," Harry said in a rush. "I know you don't want my help! And I don't know how I can help, anyway, but . . . I just want to help," he finished, trailing off miserably, feeling like he was making an idiot of himself. He was nothing to Malfoy, and Malfoy was nothing to him. This whole situation was just a temporary thing, a blip, an illusion of closeness, and he shouldn't let himself forget it. They were going to get out of this bond soon enough, and go back to being – not exactly strangers, exactly, but distant acquaintances, who'd never liked each other very much and never would.
Malfoy was staring into his glass of juice as intently as if he was scrying with tealeaves. He was probably seeing a Grim, Harry thought gloomily. "I don't know how you could help," Malfoy said to his juice, and shot Harry a sidelong glance, before the juice regained his full attention. "Stop the nightmares, I mean," Malfoy clarified to the juice, which wasn't really a clarification at all. Did . . . he mean that he did find Harry's presence a comfort, after all? It certainly hadn't seemed that way.
Harry wondered, as he looked at Malfoy, if Malfoy'd ever actually talked to anyone – properly, out loud – about the war and the part he'd played in it. The terror, the guilt, the stress of it all . . . even Harry could see it was festering in him, bursting out whenever he closed his eyes at night. He'd talked about the war until he was bloody sick of it, even though he wasn't always entirely convinced it helped. But then he'd had Ron and Hermione, and Ginny, and Luna, and Neville, and Kingsley, and what now seemed like too many other friends to name who'd been beside him, supporting him as he tried, in turn, to support them back.
Maybe Malfoy deserved a bit of festering guilt, Harry thought uncomfortably. But screaming nightmares, two years on, seemed to be taking things a step too far.
"Have you talked about it to anyone?" Harry asked bluntly. "The whole Death Eater business, I mean. What you did during the war."
Malfoy's hand jerked, and he knocked over his juice. The liquid spread across the table, and they both watched it as it dripped on the floor. "Yes, I have lots of jolly chats about it all the time," Malfoy said unpleasantly. "Like now, for example! I can see we're gearing up to a lovely one. Do we really have to?"
Harry folded his arms. He wasn't really surprised by what Malfoy had said. Who would he have talked to who could have made him feel better? His father? Pansy? Blaise arsing Zabini? "Well, no, we don't have to talk about it. But . . . bottling it up's been working so well for you, I see."
Malfoy's mouth was a straight, set line, his whole face tense. "You're the last person I'd want to talk to about this stuff, Potter," he forced out.
Potter. He'd called him Potter again. It felt like a slap in the face. "Yes, I know I'm last the person you'd want to talk to," Harry said, and reached out to briefly touch Malfoy's hand, Vanishing the spilt juice. He shrugged. "So maybe that's a good enough reason for me to be the first."
Malfoy was staring at the table, where the liquid had been, and a muscle in his cheek jumped. Then he seemed to pull himself together, turning a determinedly bright smile on Harry. "Well then, ready for more cleaning?"
What a mature reaction, Harry thought, trying not to clench his jaw. He was trying really, really hard here! Did Malfoy think he wanted to talk about the war with him? Harry thought he'd rather pull out his own teeth, or – or – or regrow all his bones with Skele-Gro. It would be decidedly more comfortable, and his teeth and bones wouldn't argue back while he did it. But since this was Malfoy, and he couldn't force him to be a grown-up, and why did he fucking care anyway, he just nodded. "Fine!" he said, and tried not to notice how Malfoy didn't look bright any more, just worn out.
^^^^^^
Harry wasn't sure what to expect when bedtime came round, as it always did, at the end of the day. It was the second day of their 'honeymoon', he thought, and tried not to feel hideously depressed about the whole business. Would Malfoy want to sleep in the guest room again? Probably. They'd had another tiring day of cleaning, combined with not talking about anything other than cleaning, and Harry's whole house now shone. He thought he could sleep for a week, he was so worn out. So he tried not to stress out and just went upstairs to clean his teeth as usual, shoving on his pyjamas and getting into bed. Malfoy wasn't there, so he was either in the guest room or back where Harry had left him, sitting on the sofa and staring at nothing.
Harry heard the creak of the stairs, and then the bathroom door, and he buried himself deep in the covers and tried not to care.
The door to his room opened, light creaking in, and then closed, plunging the room back into darkness. Harry felt the mattress shift as Malfoy got in beside him.
"I thought we could suffer together, tonight!" Malfoy said cheerily, from close by Harry's head. "Maybe if you're lucky, I'll punch you again. It'll be something for us both to look forward to."
Harry snorted, finding this old, arsey Malfoy strangely reassuring, and had an idea. Before he could lose his nerve, he carried it out: he stretched his arm out, under the covers, throwing it over Malfoy. Malfoy was on his back, Harry found, and wearing something thin and soft. Probably another T-shirt, he thought sleepily, glad that Malfoy hadn't risen up to punch him yet.
"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked, a note of caution in his voice. He hadn't moved.
"Stretching out," Harry said. "It is my bed. Suck it up, Draco." He'd nearly called him Malfoy, but swerved it at the last minute, remembering how Malfoy calling him 'Potter' earlier had made him feel. He supposed he should make an effort to call him Draco, he thought muzzily, even though it felt weird and wrong. Draco, Draco, Draco he repeated in his head, trying to make it sink in.
Malfoy – Draco – let out a breath that could have been a laugh, or could have been relief, and wiggled a bit to get comfortable, reaching up to wrap one hand around Harry's arm. The magical link between them was warm and comforting, somehow, and it made the half-hug feel almost natural.
"Can I ask you something?" Malfoy asked, his voice half-serious and half-teasing.
Harry braced himself for something terrible. "Yes?"
"What would you do with me if you arrested me?"
Harry let the question hang for a moment, struck dumb. "Um, what? Why?"
Malfoy snorted out a laugh. "Humour me."
Harry tried to reason through this. "What am I arresting you for?"
Harry felt Malfoy shrug. "I don't know. Crimes against wizard-kind. Crimes against laundry. I'm sure you can think of something appropriate."
Harry felt like Malfoy – no, Draco, it was Draco – was saying one thing and meaning something entirely different. "I . . . don't know where you're going with this," he said honestly, not wanting to step on a landmine.
Malfoy laughed derisively – he would always be Malfoy when he made a noise like that, Harry thought – and said, "Fine. Don't play along. God, you're so tedious, sometimes. Didn't you ever want to arrest me? Make sure I suffered, properly, for my crimes?" His voice had gone odd, flat.
Harry felt deeply uncomfortable. "I spoke up for you at your trial," he reminded Draco.
Draco sighed. "Yes, I know. You're so heroic, you deserve a medal. Did they give you one?"
Harry couldn't remember. He'd had awards, and engraved cups, and he'd tried to say no, but really, it would have been rude to reject people's kindnesses. Had he had a medal, though? He bloody well hoped not. "Um, no?" he tried, hoping Draco wasn't going to prove him wrong.
"Goodness, what an oversight," Draco – Malfoy – no, Draco sneered. "Next you'll be telling me there's not a statue planned."
There'd been a statue planned. A massive one, to put in the Atrium of the Ministry. Harry had said he'd resign if they went through with it, and so they'd shelved the plans. For now. "No," he said firmly. "Don't be a dick, Draco."
Draco was quiet for a bit, his chest rising and falling beneath Harry's arm. "You're calling me Draco," he said, voice also quiet. "I . . ." He didn't continue his sentence.
"Well, it is your name," Harry offered, with a strange sense of déjà vu.
"Yes," Draco said, and then didn't say anything else for such a long time that Harry wondered if he'd actually fallen asleep. "Well, goodnight then, Harry," he murmured, into the darkness. "I look forward to punching you in the face later."
Harry yawned and snuggled in a bit closer to Draco. "G'night," he said, and quickly fell asleep.
The nightmare, when it came, was just as bad as ever. Draco screaming, flailing, and Harry trying very hard not to get hit as he tried to calm him down. Except . . . this time, Draco's yells subsided more quickly into choking sobs, and those in turn mellowed out to ragged, unhappy breaths. It might have been Harry's wishful thinking, but Draco didn't seem so inconsolable with rage this time. He just seemed flat, and unhappy, and Harry felt like shit that this was an improvement.
Harry still had to hold on to Draco for a good while before he calmed down enough to go back to sleep. But this time, rather than telling Harry he hated him, he just didn't say anything at all.
^^^^^^
The next few days passed uneasily, Draco very obviously trying not to hate Harry for seeing him at his weakest, and Harry trying very hard not to mind.
Harry was almost at the stage where he could reliably think of Malfoy as 'Draco', although it still felt unnatural and overfriendly. Was Draco his friend? Harry wasn't sure what he'd define him as, precisely. No existing term seemed to fit. He supposed it didn't really matter, though. When they returned from this, their odd fake 'honeymoon', Zabini would have sorted out that temporary magical link he'd spoken of. And then, he thought, trying to be bright and optimistic, they could return to something more like normal. Before long, anyway, the Unspeakables would have found a way to reverse the incomplete bond, and then it really would be over. Harry found that idea made him feel complicated, and he tried not to dwell on it. He had quite enough to dwell on as it was.
The house was clean now, so that didn't provide any further useful distractions. Draco seemed spikily amused that Harry had no idea how to entertain himself without a clear structure to his day. He seemed to be content to sit around and read, and even though he sneered at Harry's collection of books, he'd pulled out quite a stack to work his way through. He still spent significant time flicking through the book with no title on the spine, going back and re-reading sections with concentration, occasionally pausing to scribble something in the margins with a quill. Harry still wondered what it was that absorbed him so much, and was too scared to ask in case he didn't like the answer.
Harry began to wonder, too, if there was something wrong with him. He itched to go back to work, and he wasn't even sure why. Life had felt flat for months, now he came to think of it. It baffled him that, now the dark shadow Voldemort had cast over his life was gone, he felt, if anything, less happy than before.
And if the days were uncomfortable, with Draco absorbed in his reading, and Harry trying not to brood, the nights had quickly become an unnerving routine: Harry cuddling up to Draco in the darkness as they both tried to fall asleep, knowing that a tiring emotional scene would later follow. Cuddling, though. Harry had never, ever thought he'd cuddle Draco Malfoy, even if it was in a vague, ineffective attempt to calm him down enough to get him to fall asleep and dream of nothing.
They still hadn't talked much about the war. Not since Draco's odd question about what Harry would do if he arrested him. Did . . . Draco want to be arrested? The question lingered in Harry's mind, going round and round in circles, particularly in the dark when he had his arm around Draco, a warm, solid lump beside him. Maybe Draco wanted to be punished for what he'd done, couldn't forgive himself if he hadn't suffered for his crimes. Harry could feel sympathy for that – it had niggled at him that Draco had walked away from his trial without a backward glance, even though he'd spoken in his defence – but now he thought Draco's own mind was casting up quite enough unpleasantness to punish himself with. Any more would be overkill.
By Friday evening, Harry was sick to death of his house, sick to death of Draco, and sick to death of himself. Draco, who'd been reading another book again since dinner, a couple of hours ago now, shut the book with a thud and gave Harry an unamused glare. "All right, Harry, for Merlin's sake," he said, standing up. "Come on."
"Where?" Harry said listlessly, but he got up anyway. Anything was better than sitting on his arse for another minute, brooding about nothing. He was driving himself mad.
"You've got a sodding Quidditch pitch in your basement. Let's go and use it."
A spark of interest flared in Harry's chest. Was it a good idea, though, to play against Draco, he wondered uneasily. There were times when they'd been on the Quidditch pitch together at Hogwarts that he could have happily killed him.
Draco snorted. "Chicken?" he suggested.
"No!" Harry snapped, and then subsided when he saw Draco roll his eyes. He'd been trying to wind him up, and he'd succeeded. "How are we going to actually fly though?" he asked as they walked down towards the pitch, realising it was going to be bloody difficult without consistent access to their magic.
Draco's eyes shone with challenge. "I have no idea!" he said airily, and strode off so quickly that Harry almost had to run to keep up.
It was bloody difficult. At first, they tried to fly holding hands, which required so much concentration and skill that it made all of Harry's muscles shake. Harry wasn't entirely certain what would happen if they let go. The brooms were magical objects, after all, so, cheeringly, there was always the possibility that they wouldn't plummet straight to the ground. Instead, they might continue on for a bit and smash into the wall, before then plummeting into the ground. Who knew?
Draco took them higher and higher, until Harry's heart was pounding with it – the danger, the intensity, the sheer difficulty. For a heart-lurching moment they almost lost their grip, near the ceiling, and by unspoken mutual agreement they zoomed back to the ground, grinning and breathing heavily. After that, they tried riding one broom together. The broom wasn't happy, trying to buck them off, but they clung on to it, and each other, and managed a few lurching, ridiculous circles around the pitch, before they had to give up, they were laughing too much.
It was just what Harry hadn't needed. He hadn't expected he'd ever have such fun with Draco, but there it was: fun. With Draco.
They lay on the grass for a while, until Draco sat up and made a hearty 'ugh' sound. "I need a drink and a shower," he said.
Harry was too lazy to move more than an arm. He reached out to Draco and Accioed a bottle of Firewhisky. In hindsight, he was lucky it didn't smash on the way, but it zipped into the room at top speed, nearly braining Harry as it zoomed at his head.
Draco reached out and snatched it, unscrewing the top and taking a long swallow. "I meant water," he said, and took another glug, making a sound of satisfaction and passing it over to Harry.
Harry had meant water too. Possibly. He half sat up and took a swig himself, the alcohol burning down his throat in a very satisfactory way. They passed the bottle back and forth for a while in companionable silence as they got their breath back.
"Thanks," Harry said eventually, and took another swallow. He felt warm and relaxed, and sore, and like he could lie there, in that exact same spot, forever.
Draco shot him an amused look. "You're welcome," he said, and waved his hand impatiently. "Don't hog the booze," he said, and grinned when Harry passed it over, tipping it to his mouth. A drop of liquid hung on his lip when he pulled the bottle away, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. "What?" he asked, not seeming at all self-conscious, when he caught Harry staring at him.
"Nothing," Harry said immediately, and looked away.
"Mm," Draco said, and took another drink, frowning into the middle distance. He seemed to be mulling something over. Harry wasn't sure if that was a good development. "Right," he said, "hold tight," and there was an unpleasant squeeze as Draco Side-Alonged him somewhere.
It probably wasn't a good idea to Apparate while drinking, Harry wanted to say, except he found he couldn't say anything. They were still in the house, so at least Draco hadn't gone mad, but they were in the bathroom, so maybe he'd gone a bit mad. Draco was still holding the Firewhisky, and he took another thoughtful swig, before passing it over to Harry.
"I was tired," Draco said smugly, "and I didn't want to use my legs."
"Right," Harry said, thinking that that didn't explain why they were in the bathroom rather than, say, the hallway.
"I want a shower," Draco said.
"It doesn't work without magic," Harry said stupidly, and then realised why he was in the bathroom with Draco.
Draco wrinkled his nose at Harry and said, tone thoughtful, "You need one too, Harry. You stink."
"Thanks!" Harry said, needled.
Draco rolled his eyes and then started to unbutton his shirt. Harry took another hasty drink, because . . . was Draco really going to take his clothes off in front of him?
"Are you planning on showering in your clothes?" Draco said, slipping his shirt off his shoulders and reaching for his belt.
Harry gaped at him.
"The magic won't work without you," Draco said levelly, eyes locked on Harry's as he undid his top trouser button and unzipped his fly, shoving his trousers down his legs and stepping out of them.
Harry wondered if he should point out that they'd only need to touch to turn the shower on and off. All right, the temperature and flow wouldn't adjust automatically if they showered solo, but it would still be hot running water. But . . . "All right," he said, because it wouldn't be a very nice shower if it was simply hot running water, would it? Really, he was . . . helping Draco out here. It was an act of charity.
Harry tugged off his clothes before he could lose his nerve, pausing with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his boxers. It seemed pretty embarrassing to just pull them off and be naked, even though Draco had already seen what he'd got. He hadn't seen what Draco'd got, he remembered, and glanced over at Draco in embarrassed anticipation.
Draco had already stripped off and was stepping into the large shower compartment. Harry watched his bottom helplessly as he walked, only looking away when Draco glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "Come on, then," he said.
Harry, burning under Draco's amused stare, tugged first his boxers off and then his glasses, and walked over and into the shower, sliding the door shut behind him. The large shower seemed pretty small with two of them in there.
"Don't blush, Harry, we're just showering," Draco said sweetly, and reached behind him to pinch Harry's cheek. As he did so, the water turned on, a gentle mist of warm water that flowed over and around them, making Harry's aching muscles relax with a glorious ahhhh of bliss.
"Mmm," Draco said happily, raising his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes. The water poured from the whole surface, raining down in waves, and Harry copied his movement.
When Harry opened his eyes again, wiping the water off his face, Draco was reaching for the shampoo. He lathered up his hair and passed the bottle over. Harry gave his hair a leisurely scrub and let the water wash the soap out. When he turned towards Draco again, Draco had his back to him still and was rubbing at an arm with one of Harry's self-soaping washcloths.
Draco seemed to be able to feel Harry's stare. "Will you do my back?" he asked, and offered up the washcloth over his shoulder, turning his face to give Harry a mischievous look through the steam.
Harry couldn't trust himself to speak, but he took the cloth and rubbed it over Draco's shoulders in circles, moving down slowly. The water was falling softly now, sending soap flowing in rivulets down Draco's back. Harry watched it stream down his spine, and along the curve of his backside, and had to take a half-step away to make sure he didn't nudge Draco with his erection.
Harry wasn't sure what to do when he reached Draco's lower back. Should he go . . . lower? Draco, seeming to sense his hesitation, leaned forward a fraction, bracing his hands on the wall, and shifted on the spot, as if he was getting comfortable. If Harry looked down lower – which he did, he was only human – he could see the swell of Draco's testicles hanging between his legs.
Harry moved the washcloth in small, gentle circles at the base of Draco's spine, then, gaining courage, slid it lightly over the crack of Draco's arse, pushing it down towards his swollen balls and then sliding it back.
Draco shuddered as Harry moved the cloth, and spread his legs wider, arching his back. Harry sucked on his bottom lip and did it again, wrapping his left hand round Draco's left hip to stabilise him as Draco pushed his arse against Harry's hand and almost slipped on the wet, soapy floor.
When Harry looked down, Draco's arse was slick with foam, and when he slid the cloth again, guiding it with a finger, it slipped further in between Draco's cheeks, and Draco let out a groan that was audible above the gushing of the shower. When Harry slid the cloth up again, pressing more firmly, his finger hit skin, beneath the cloth, and Draco moaned, softly, when Harry's cloth-covered finger slipped over the dimple of his twitching arsehole.
Harry, feeling very, very hot, wanted to make sure that that particular part of Draco was properly washed. He left his finger there, rubbing the pucker through the soapy cloth, enjoying the way it twitched and flexed under his ministrations, and enjoying even more the way Draco pushed his hips back towards Harry, hands braced hard against the wall, as if he couldn't stop himself. As if he wanted Harry to push further in.
Draco reached round blindly, grabbing Harry's wrist, and for a moment Harry went hot with anxiety – was it too much? But Draco was pulling Harry's hand, with the cloth, round to his right hip. He let go and braced himself against the wall again, the back of his neck very red.
Harry let go, briefly, to let the falling water run over the cloth and lather it up some more, before reaching back to rub a soapy circle on Draco's hip, and then pushing his hand round blindly to soap up his lower stomach. His own hard-on was an aching, dripping mess, but he tried to ignore it, to focus on Draco, who was trembling in front of him.
The urgency of his own need made the need to touch Draco all the more intense, though. Gripping more tightly on to Draco's left hip, he slid the washcloth in his right hand down even lower, slicking up pubes and knocking his knuckles against Draco's bobbing erection. Draco swore, and threw his head back as Harry dragged the cloth round the base of his cock and, making a fist, drew the soapy cloth up the shaft, swirling it round the head and then dragging it down again.
"Fuck, fuck," Draco said as Harry repeated the movement, "fucking God."
Harry carried on stroking, sliding the washcloth up and down Draco's increasingly slippery cock. Draco shuddered and twitched as Harry worked his cock, making noises that made Harry's mouth go dry. And suddenly, Harry really, really wanted to see his face, even through the water and the steam. Wanted to finally get a good look at the cock he had his hand on. Wanted . . . he just wanted.
Harry removed his hand from Draco's cock and gently tugged at his shoulder. Draco turned without protest, leaning back against the shower wall and panting heavily. His mouth was slack, and his gaze, even though Harry could only see him as a blur, was burning hot.
Harry's eyes dropped down, to take in Draco's penis. The water was already washing away its covering of foam. It was red, and hard, and thick, jutting up very stiffly from a tangle of blond curls.
Harry reached forward with the washcloth, and Draco pressed his lips together, swallowing hard, and reached out, tugging gently at the cloth. Harry took the hint, nearly coming on the spot, and let the cloth fall to the shower floor. He reached out again and took Draco's cock in his hand. It felt different, without the barrier between them – he could almost feel Draco's thrumming pulse beneath the hot, soft skin.
"Can I?" Draco asked, and then groaned as Harry slid his hand up and down. "Merlin," he said, and reached out to take Harry's own cock in hand.
Harry felt all the blood in his body drop to his cock. The feel of Draco's hand, the knowledge that it was Draco, the way Draco was moaning as Harry jerked his cock. It all threatened to have him coming in under a minute. Harry could feel the sensations start to build as Draco stroked, and he jerked the cock in his own hand more firmly, speeding up.
Draco's hand on Harry's cock slackened, his movements becoming more irregular. He was breathing hard, and making such noises. The water was a barely-there mist now, barely washing off their sweat, and Harry leaned forward and fastened his mouth on Draco's throat, sucking and licking a line up his neck as his hand worked.
Draco groaned, and bucked hard into Harry's hand, and then again. Harry felt his hand grow wetter, and slicker, and he slowed down his movements, pulling shudders and jerks out of Draco as his cock grew too sensitive, drawing out every last drop of his orgasm.
Draco took in a great, shuddering breath and then resumed his firm grip on Harry's own cock, starting to stroke again. Harry felt his balls tighten, his cock throb, and he pushed against Draco's hand, urging him to go faster, faster, he was going to come, he was close, he was—
Harry came hard and fast, with Draco watching him intently. Draco didn't slow his hand, his pace, until Harry was swearing and shivering beneath him. Finally, he let him go, and patted him on the cheek, eyes bright and filled with fire. "You're such a good boy," Draco said approvingly. "Good job, Saviour."
"Fuck off," Harry said, but he felt warm and content, and Draco laughed and turned his face towards the water, which was now flowing in torrents, washing away the evidence of what they'd done.